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reach Hampton Court, and then the great city of London with its thousands of people. She saw the russet sails of the wherryboats glowing orange in the sun, and the herons standing sentry around the nearest river ait, just visible amongst the reeds. Mallards paddled by, honking; swallows skimmed over the shining water; and above a skyline broken by a distant church steeple and the hatched stripes of open fields, clouds seemed to hang in a stupor, fat, puffy and white, while her mind span in anguish, conscious of the hurt to her maidenhood afresh. What should she do? What
could
she do?
    Then she heard the faint sound of music: sackbuts, shawms and flutes, and, from around a large willow-covered island, a glittering barge slid majestically into view. It was rowed by a score or more oarsmen all dressed in red livery; from poles behind its canopy flew pennants in Tudor green and white, the standard at its stern bore the cross of St George, and amongst the heraldic shields that adorned its gilded upper-works she recognised the white waves on black with two stars of Sir Francis Drake. He was here. She must get back. As she hurried towards the watergate, a fanfare resounded from atop the tower.
    Rushing through the long gallery in the Privy Lodgings, she made for the north gate to cross the bridge, and so through Fountain Court to reach the Great Hall where the visitors would be received. But her skirts hindered her steps, and her corsets meant she could barely breathe; she slowed every time she passed a guard, and her dash came to a standstill once she entered the courtyard beyond the moat. There, in the shadow of the fountain, she saw Lord Hertford stoop to refresh himself from one of the fountain’s beasts and roses. He straightened, wiped his mouth and looked towards her in a ray of light. She shrank into the nearest doorway as he blinked, his leathery face twisting into a sardonic smile, eyes narrowed, lipspulled back from his yellowing teeth. She opened the door and stepped inside, closing it behind her fast. She glanced at him from a window and saw him sauntering towards the Hall’s entrance. If she went that way she would risk encountering him, yet the visitors were approaching; she could hear music and cheering, trumpets and drums. Her only sure hope of reaching the Hall in time lay in dashing across the courtyard and entering behind the Earl. She would not do it.
    She reached the Chapel cloister and almost ran to the far end, then turned left into a passage and left again by the Great Court. She looked out towards the Gate House and thought about dashing for freedom, leaving by the Richmond Road and escaping the palace completely. But of course she would be stopped dressed in the finery she was. Instead she hurried down a stone staircase and entered the cellars beneath the Hall, rushed between barrels stacked almost to the vaulted ceiling, her steps too loud, slowing when she saw a kitchen boy and dodging behind a pillar, emerging once the coast was clear and making for a staircase that would take her back up. Then she took the servants’ way to the little door which led into the Hall near the dais.
    Her hand found the latch and the door opened onto a crowd. She slipped in behind the ladies-in-waiting just at the moment they all bobbed down to curtsey. She followed suit, head bowed, bending almost to kneeling in the hope she would not be noticed. Only slowly did she raise her eyes, heart pounding, trying in vain to calm her breathing, as the herald’s words rang out.
    ‘Sir Francis Drake, General of Her Majesty’s West Indies Fleet …’
    She glimpsed the Queen almost directly before her, clothed as
Gloriana
in the colours of the rising sun. Turning her head in thedirection of all the other ladies, she saw the stocky man with reddish hair who proudly advanced to kneel before the throne. Behind him were two men, and there her eyes locked. One of them was very tall and clothed like an Englishman in doublet and breeches,