had enthralled her then left without sending any word. He was gone from her life just like all the fine hot-blooded men she had ever met – fleeting shadows passing through echoing palaces – and she sang out her heart while the Queen covered her eyes.
Then all at once, sharp and loud, the Queen clapped her hands and broke the spell. She sat up straight, eyes glistening as she spoke.
‘The sun beckons; let us enjoy it! A diversion on the river would suit very well – no ceremony or fuss. I shall travel like an ordinary citizen and pay one of my gentlemen a visit. Mistress Fifield, you may accompany me; you, too, Mistress Throckmorton. Good Sir Christopher, you shall be my guard.’
Excitement about the prospect shot through Emme like a dart. Who would they see?
One of my gentlemen
, the Queen had said. Emme thought of all the magnificent prodigy houses with gardens along the Thames and river gates: those along the Strand between Whitehall and the Temple, the houses of Leicester, Arundel, Suffolk and Salisbury. Perhaps the Queen meant to call on Robert Cecil, but more likely she planned to catch Sir Walter Raleigh at home in Durham Place.
‘You may well see him now,’ she whispered to Bess, sliding her arm round her friend’s waist as they hurried to the jetty.
‘
Him?
’ Bess raised her brows with an air of naïve perplexity, though Emme saw through it to the hope in her eyes.
‘Your dream dancing partner,’ Emme answered with a quiet smile.
‘Tush!’ Bess looked back to their maids who were following in a gaggle, pulled up the hood of her cloak and trotted after the Queen.
Emme hummed the tune of the galliard Bess had danced to and linked arms with her friend. She wanted to keep the mood light, not brood on her own unhappiness or the Queen’s changes in behaviour. Whatever troubled Her Majesty was beyond her power to remedy, and shouldn’t she be rejoicing along with everyone else? The sound of peeling bells reminded her of one reason to be glad: Anthony Babington had been apprehended, found in an outhouse north of London with his hair cut short and his skin stained with walnut juice. His threat to the Queen’s life was over, and another plot had been thwarted that involved Spain and Mary of Scots.
As the royal household barge drifted gently downstream, bonfires on the river banks sent plumes of smoke into the sky, the peeling of bells rang out, and cheering rose from the winding river’s edge wherever people were gathered in the villages they passed: Chiswick, Hammersmith, Putney and Chelsea. Once the barge reached the city, the noise became louder, and when the glory of Westminster Abbey came into view, Westminster Palace and Whitehall, then Emme could make out one phrase repeated over and over: ‘God save the Queen!’
The Queen seemed not to notice. She sat, head bowed, deep in conversation with Sir Christopher Hatton.
‘She denies it?’ Emme overheard her ask him.
‘She does,’ Sir Christopher said in a low voice. ‘But her letter is proof of her complicity. She is guilty,’ he added with an edge enough for Emme to hear the word clearly. ‘
Guilty
.’
The Queen shook her head, and Emme’s heart went out to her. They must have been talking about Mary of Scots, who was sucha treacherous danger even in captivity. Mary had plotted to kill her, not once but several times, and now she was proven guilty in Anthony Babington’s conspiracy. What could the Queen do? If she showed mercy she would never be safe – Spain would never stop scheming to have a Catholic on the throne. But if she had Mary executed then Spain would surely declare war, and could she pronounce the death sentence on a queen of her own blood?
Emme watched the great mansions as they came into view, with their lions rampant guarding elegant river steps, and clipped lawns beyond graceful willows rising to patterned knots of box and yew. She found it hard to believe that in the midst of such tranquil grandeur there were
Then all at once, sharp and loud, the Queen clapped her hands and broke the spell. She sat up straight, eyes glistening as she spoke.
‘The sun beckons; let us enjoy it! A diversion on the river would suit very well – no ceremony or fuss. I shall travel like an ordinary citizen and pay one of my gentlemen a visit. Mistress Fifield, you may accompany me; you, too, Mistress Throckmorton. Good Sir Christopher, you shall be my guard.’
Excitement about the prospect shot through Emme like a dart. Who would they see?
One of my gentlemen
, the Queen had said. Emme thought of all the magnificent prodigy houses with gardens along the Thames and river gates: those along the Strand between Whitehall and the Temple, the houses of Leicester, Arundel, Suffolk and Salisbury. Perhaps the Queen meant to call on Robert Cecil, but more likely she planned to catch Sir Walter Raleigh at home in Durham Place.
‘You may well see him now,’ she whispered to Bess, sliding her arm round her friend’s waist as they hurried to the jetty.
‘
Him?
’ Bess raised her brows with an air of naïve perplexity, though Emme saw through it to the hope in her eyes.
‘Your dream dancing partner,’ Emme answered with a quiet smile.
‘Tush!’ Bess looked back to their maids who were following in a gaggle, pulled up the hood of her cloak and trotted after the Queen.
Emme hummed the tune of the galliard Bess had danced to and linked arms with her friend. She wanted to keep the mood light, not brood on her own unhappiness or the Queen’s changes in behaviour. Whatever troubled Her Majesty was beyond her power to remedy, and shouldn’t she be rejoicing along with everyone else? The sound of peeling bells reminded her of one reason to be glad: Anthony Babington had been apprehended, found in an outhouse north of London with his hair cut short and his skin stained with walnut juice. His threat to the Queen’s life was over, and another plot had been thwarted that involved Spain and Mary of Scots.
As the royal household barge drifted gently downstream, bonfires on the river banks sent plumes of smoke into the sky, the peeling of bells rang out, and cheering rose from the winding river’s edge wherever people were gathered in the villages they passed: Chiswick, Hammersmith, Putney and Chelsea. Once the barge reached the city, the noise became louder, and when the glory of Westminster Abbey came into view, Westminster Palace and Whitehall, then Emme could make out one phrase repeated over and over: ‘God save the Queen!’
The Queen seemed not to notice. She sat, head bowed, deep in conversation with Sir Christopher Hatton.
‘She denies it?’ Emme overheard her ask him.
‘She does,’ Sir Christopher said in a low voice. ‘But her letter is proof of her complicity. She is guilty,’ he added with an edge enough for Emme to hear the word clearly. ‘
Guilty
.’
The Queen shook her head, and Emme’s heart went out to her. They must have been talking about Mary of Scots, who was sucha treacherous danger even in captivity. Mary had plotted to kill her, not once but several times, and now she was proven guilty in Anthony Babington’s conspiracy. What could the Queen do? If she showed mercy she would never be safe – Spain would never stop scheming to have a Catholic on the throne. But if she had Mary executed then Spain would surely declare war, and could she pronounce the death sentence on a queen of her own blood?
Emme watched the great mansions as they came into view, with their lions rampant guarding elegant river steps, and clipped lawns beyond graceful willows rising to patterned knots of box and yew. She found it hard to believe that in the midst of such tranquil grandeur there were
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