The Virgin’s Lover. Philippa Gregory

and Captain of the Guard,’ Elizabeth continued, naming two plum jobs that would bring with them a small fortune in bribes from people wanting access to the queen.

      Robert Dudley’s smile never wavered; he seemed delighted at the shower of good fortune on the new arrival. Sir Francis bowed his obedience and Dudley and Cecil made their way over to him.

      ‘Welcome home!’ Cecil said warmly. ‘And welcome to the queen’s service.’

      ‘Indeed!’ Robert Dudley agreed. ‘A warm welcome for you indeed! You too will be making your own enemies, I see.’

      Catherine, who had been in rapid conversation with her cousin, wanted to introduce her daughter who was to be Elizabeth’s maid of honour. ‘And may I present my daughter Laetitia?’ she asked. She beckoned towards the doorway and the girl, who had been standing back, half-hidden by the arras, came forward.

      William Cecil, not a man to be overwhelmed by female charms, took a sharp breath at the beauty of the seventeen-year-old girl and shot an astounded look at Sir Francis. The older man was smiling, a quirky corner upturned at his mouth as if he knew exactly what Cecil was thinking.

      ‘By God, this is a girl in the very image of the queen,’ Cecil whispered to him. ‘Except …’ He broke off before he made the mistake of saying ‘finer’, or ‘prettier’. ‘You might as well declare your wife to be Henry VIII’s bastard, and have done with it.’

      ‘She has never claimed it, I have never claimed it, and we don’t do so now,’ Sir Francis said limpidly, as if the whole court were not nudging each other and whispering, as the young girl’s colour steadily rose but the dark eyes fixed on the queen never wavered. ‘Indeed, I find her very like my side of the family.’

      ‘Your side!’ Cecil choked on a laugh. ‘She is a Tudor through and through, except she has all the allure of the Howard women.’

      ‘I do not claim it,’ Sir Francis repeated. ‘And I imagine, in this court and at these times, it would be better for her if no-one remarked on it.’

      Dudley, who had seen the likeness at once, was watching Elizabeth intently. Firstly she held out her hand for the girl to kiss, with her usual pleasant manners, hardly seeing her as the girl’s head was bent in her curtsey, her bright copper hair hidden by her hood. But then, as the girl rose up and Elizabeth took her in, Robert saw the queen’s smile slowly die away. Laetitia was like a younger, more delicate copy of the queen, as if a piece of Chinese porcelain had been refined from an earthenware mould. Beside her, Elizabeth’s face was too broad, her nose, the horsy Boleyn nose, too long, her eyes too protruding, her mouth narrow. Laetitia, seven years her junior, was rounded like a child, her nose a perfect tilt, her hair a darker copper to the queen’s bronze.

      Robert Dudley, looking at the girl, thought that a younger man, a more foolish man than himself, might have thought that the odd sensation he was feeling in his chest was his heart turning over.

      ‘You are welcome to my court, Cousin Laetitia,’ the queen said coolly. She threw a quick, irritated glance at Catherine as if she should somehow be blamed for raising such a piece of perfection.

      ‘She is very glad to be in your service,’ Catherine interposed smoothly. ‘And you will find she is a good girl. A little rough and ready as yet, Your Grace, but she will learn your elegance very quickly. She reminds me very much of the portraits of my father, William Carey. There is a striking similarity.’

      William Cecil, who knew that William Carey was as dark as Henry VIII and this girl were matching copper, concealed another indrawn breath by clearing his throat.

      ‘And now you shall sit, and you can take a glass of wine and tell me all about your travels.’ Elizabeth turned from the young beauty before her. Catherine took a stool beside her cousin’s throne, and gestured that her daughter should retire. The first difficult step had been achieved; Elizabeth had faced a younger, far prettier version of her own striking looks, and managed to smile pleasantly enough. Catherine set about telling her traveller’s tales and thought that her family had managed their return to England rather well, considering all the circumstances.

      Amy was waiting for a reply from Robert, telling her what she should do. Every midday she walked from the house half a mile down the drive to the road to Norwich, where a messenger would ride, if he was coming at all that day. She waited for a few minutes, looking over the cold landscape, her cloak gathered around her against the achingly cold February wind.

      ‘It is too bad of him,’ Lady Robsart complained at dinner. ‘He sent me some money for your keep with a note from his clerk, not even a word from himself. A fine way to treat your stepmother.’

      ‘He knows you don’t like him,’ Amy returned spiritedly. ‘Since you never wanted a word from him when he was out of favour, why should he honour you with his attention now that half the world wants to be his friend?’

      ‘Well enough,’ the older woman said, ‘if you are contented to be neglected too?’

      ‘I am not neglected,’ Amy maintained staunchly. ‘Because it is for me and for us that he is working all this time.’

      ‘Dancing attendance on the queen is work, is it? And her a young woman as lustful as her mother? With a Boleyn conscience to match? Well, you surprise me, Amy. There are not many women who would be happy being left at home while their husbands wait on the word of such a woman.’

      ‘Every wife in England would be delighted,’ Amy said bluntly. ‘Because every woman in England knows that it is only at court that there is money to be made, offices to be won and positions to be granted. As soon as Robert has his fortune he will come home and we will buy our house.’

      ‘Syderstone will not be good enough for you then,’ her stepmother taunted her.

      ‘I will always love it as my home, and admire my father for the work he did there, and I will always be grateful to him for leaving it to me in his will,’ Amy said with restraint. ‘But no, Syderstone will not be good enough for Robert now he is high at court, and it will not be good enough for me.’

      ‘And don’t you mind?’ her stepmother suggested slyly. ‘Don’t you mind that he dashed off to Elizabeth at her accession and you have not seen him since? And everyone says that she favours him above all other men, and that he is never out of her company?’

      ‘He is a courtier,’ Amy replied stoutly. ‘He was always at King Edward’s side, his father was always beside King Henry. He is supposed to be at her side. That is what a courtier does.’

      ‘You are not afraid that he will fall in love with her?’ the older woman tormented her, knowing that she was pressing Amy at the very sorest point.

      ‘He is my husband,’ Amy said steadily. ‘And she is the Queen of England. She knows that as well as he does. She was a guest at my wedding. We all know what can be and what cannot be. I will be happy to see him when he comes, but until that day I shall wait for him patiently.’

      ‘Then you are a saint!’ her stepmother declared light-heartedly. ‘For I would be so jealous that I would go to London and demand that he take a house for me there and then.’

      Amy raised her eyebrows, the very picture of scorn. ‘Then you would be much mistaken in how a courtier’s wife behaves,’ she said coldly. ‘Dozens of women are in just such a situation as mine and they know how they must behave if they want their husband to further his fortune at court.’

      Lady Robsart left the argument there, but later that night, when Amy was in bed asleep, she took up her pen and wrote to her unsatisfactory stepson-in-law.

       Sir Robert,

       If you are now indeed as great a man as I hear, it is not suitable that your wife should be left at home without good horses or new clothes. Also, she needs diversion and company and a genteel lady to bear her company. If you will not bid her to court,