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who so held her aunt's affections when others seemed to dislike her. She decided to speak with her before she
    left, no matter what.
    She ate an early supper with her aunt and Harry in Mary's bedchamber, dreading the coming entertainment, then her departure, and the long ride back to Hatfield. Though Mary drank a good deal of what she called mead, which Harry later said was hard cider sweetened with honey, she ate only a few small saffron cakes.
    "No wonder you are thin, aunt," Elizabeth said, leaning toward her chair where she reclined against plumped cushions. "Cannot you take a bit of this meat pie to build your strength?"
    "No appetite anymore, my dearest," she replied with a tiny shake of her head that was almost imperceptible from her constant trembling. "Not for food, not for much but my happy memories."
    Harry put his goblet down a bit too hard and wine slopped out. He reached to clasp one of their hands in each of his. "Three of Boleyn blood gathered together," he intoned as if in prayer. "That is a memory to cherish." He cleared his throat and frowned. "And that would make the queen choke on her own bile, eh? Pray, don't tell your sister I said so, Your Grace," he added, his serious face almost gone playful for a moment. He loosed her hand and lifted his goblet. "To the next queen of England!"
    He saluted her and drank, but Elizabeth read despair in his voice and eyes. Mary tried to lift her tankard of mead, but again, Elizabeth had to help her get it to her trembling lips.
     
    "Fresh-come from the streets of fashionable London," Ned Topside announced with a flourish of his short cape and a graceful sweep of his feathered hat after he had introduced himself, "our band of players oft does histories and tragedies. But tonight we shall play mostly trifles and tomfooleries to lift hearts and light smiles, especially for the Lady Stafford."
    By rushlight and sconce, the five men who dubbed themselves The Queen's Country Players had swept into the center of the great hall to present themselves before their scenes and speeches. Mary Boleyn, Lady Stafford, had loved such pleasantries in her day and often, as the fairest lady at court, Harry told her, played the parts of Diana or even Venus. Tonight she
    segued between smiles and stupor, her head tipped back on her chair cushions.
    Elizabeth sat on her right and Harry on her left while manor folk, including Jenks, crowded two benches along the side.
    Elizabeth scanned the women's faces for someone who could be Meg Milligrew, but there was nonesuch. Besides, Harry had said she was still puking and he hadn't talked to her yet. The gardeners had denied any knowledge of seeing or taking the arrows, and he said he believed them.
    "We hope to amuse and amaze," the older man named Wat Thompson intoned with his deep bow as he introduced himself.
    "And to sweep you away from this place to other sites in this world, though none so grand as our fair England," Randall Greene announced, with entirely too much gesturing and posturing for such a simple sentence, Elizabeth thought.
    Lastly, the costumed and wigged lads who would play the women's parts curtsied and lay small, ribboned boughs of sharp-scented pine at the Lady Mary's feet. "So keep your spirits evergreen, e'en as these fond fantasies we strew at your feet for your favor."
    Elizabeth was surprised to see that Ned, who had supposedly saved Harry's life, was not the senior member of the troupe. That position was apparently taken by the one called Wat, and the almost effeminate Randall held a loftier place too. Still, as the hour flew by, she thought the young, rugged-faced Ned the most glib and clever. He knew, as they used to say, which side his bread was buttered on, for he played directly to her cousin and aunt with only an occasional glance her way and never a look at the benches. 'So blood, she'd been used to being overlooked like that for years during her brief stays at court. But someday, God willing, all the players in