The Virgin’s Lover. Philippa Gregory

that they have seen a good show. They will go away knowing that the country is wealthy and secure. That is what we need to do. We need to give them the show of the throne. The queen need not always be there herself, as long as everyone can feel her presence.’

      ‘Serve her dinner to an empty throne?’ Cecil demanded quizzically.

      ‘Yes,’ Dudley replied. ‘And why not? It’s been done before. When the young King Edward was sick they served his dinner on gold plates every night to an empty throne and the people came to watch and went away satisfied. My father ruled it so. We gave them a great show of grandeur, of wealth. And when they do see her, she has to be beloved, reachable, touchable. She has to be a queen for the people.’

      Cecil shook his head but Sir Francis was persuaded.

      ‘I shall speak with her about it,’ he said, glancing back at the throne. The Spanish ambassador was taking his leave, he was handing over a letter sealed ostentatiously with the royal coat of arms of the Spanish emperor. With the eyes of the court upon her, Elizabeth took it and – apparently unaware that everyone was watching her – held it against her heart.

      ‘I think you will find that Elizabeth understands how to put on a show,’ Robert said drily. ‘She has never disappointed an audience in her life.’

      Robert Dudley’s own steward came himself from London to escort Amy for the short journey to Bury St Edmunds, and to bring her a purse of gold, a length of warm red velvet for a new dress, and her husband’s affectionate compliments.

      He also brought a lady companion with him: Mrs Elizabeth Oddingsell, the widowed sister of one of Robert Dudley’s old and faithful friends, who had been with Amy at Gravesend and then went with her to Chichester. Amy was glad to see the little dark-haired, brisk woman again.

      ‘How your fortunes do rise,’ Mrs Oddingsell said cheerfully. ‘When I heard from my brother that Sir Robert had been appointed Master of Horse I thought I would write to you, but I did not want to seem to be pushing myself forward. I thought you must have many friends seeking your acquaintanceship now.’

      ‘I expect my lord has many new friends,’ Amy said. ‘But I am still very secluded in the country here.’

      ‘Of course, you must be.’ Mrs Oddingsell cast a quick glance around the small, chilly hall which formed the main body of the square stone-built house. ‘Well, I hear we are to make a round of visits. That will be pleasant. We shall be on progress like a queen.’

      ‘Yes,’ Amy said quietly.

      ‘Oh! And I was forgetting!’ Mrs Oddingsell unwound a warm scarf from her throat. ‘He has sent you a lovely little black mare. You are to name her as you please. That will make our journey merry, won’t it?’

      Amy ran to the window and looked out into the yard. There was a small escort loading Amy’s few trunks into a cart, and at the back of the troop was a sweet-faced black mare, standing quite still.

      ‘Oh! She is so pretty!’ Amy exclaimed. For the first time since Elizabeth’s coming to the throne she felt her spirits lift.

      ‘And he sent a purse of gold for you to settle his debts here, and to buy yourself anything you might like,’ Mrs Oddingsell said, delving into the pocket of her cape and pulling out the money.

      Amy took the heavy purse into her hand. ‘For me,’ she said. It was the most money she had held for years.

      ‘Your hard times are over,’ Mrs Oddingsell said gently. ‘Thank God. For all of us, the good times have come at last.’

      Amy and Mrs Oddingsell started their journey a little after dawn on a cold winter morning. They broke their journey at New-borough, and rested two nights, then they went on. It was an uneventful journey marred only by the cold, the wintry darkness and the state of the roads. But Amy enjoyed her new horse, and Mrs Oddingsell kept her spirits up as they rode down the muddy lanes and splashed through icy puddles.

      Mr and Mrs Woods at Bury St Edmunds greeted Amy kindly, and with every appearance of pleasure. They assured her that she was welcome to stay as long as she liked; Sir Robert had mentioned in his letter that she would be with them until April.

      ‘Did he send a letter for me?’ Amy demanded. The brightness drained from her face when they said ‘No’. It was just a brief note to tell them when to expect her and the duration of her stay.

      ‘Did he say that he was coming here?’ she asked.

      ‘No,’ Mrs Woods said again, feeling uncomfortable at the shadow that passed over Amy’s face. ‘I expect he’s very busy at court,’ she continued, trying to gloss over the awkward moment. ‘I doubt he’ll be able to get home for weeks.’

      She could have bitten off her tongue in irritation at her own clumsiness as she realised that there was no home for this young woman and her husband. She fell back on the good manners of hospitality. Would Amy like to rest after her journey? Would she like to wash? Would she like to take her supper at once?

      Amy said abruptly that she was sorry, that she was very tired, and she would rest in her room. She went quickly from the hall, leaving Mrs Woods and Mrs Oddingsell alone.

      ‘She is tired,’ Mrs Oddingsell said. ‘I am afraid she is not strong.’

      ‘Shall I send for our physician at Cambridge?’ Mr Woods suggested. ‘He’s very good, he would come at once. He’s very much in favour of cupping the patient to adjust the humours. She is very pale, is she of a watery humour, d’you think?’

      Elizabeth Oddingsell shook her head. ‘She is in much discomfort,’ she said.

      Mr Woods thought that she meant indigestion, and was about to offer arrowroot and milk, but Mrs Woods, remembering the glimpse she had seen of Robert Dudley, dark-eyed on a black horse at the coronation procession, riding behind the queen as if he were prince consort himself, suddenly understood.

      It was Cecil, not Dudley, who was at the queen’s side after dinner. She had been served with all the grandeur of the Tudor tradition, great plates passed down the long dining hall of Whitehall Palace, checked by the taster for poison, and presented to her on bent knee. Three of the servers were new and clumsy. They were Cecil’s men, spies put in place to watch and guard her, learning how to serve on bended knee at the same time.

      Elizabeth took a very little from each plate and then sent them to her favourites, seated in the body of the hall. Sharp eyes watched where the best dishes went, and when a dish of stewed venison was sent to Dudley there were a few muttered complaints. The loud, joyful rumble of the court at dinner filled the great hall, the servants cleared the tables and then Cecil was beckoned up to the dais and stood before the queen.

      She gestured that the musicians should play; no-one could hear their quiet conversation. ‘Any news of any hired killers?’ she asked.

      He saw the strain on her face. ‘You are safe,’ he said steadily, though he knew he could never truly say that to her again. ‘The ports are watched, your gates are guarded. A mouse cannot come in without us knowing.’

      She found a weak smile. ‘Good. Tell them to stay alert.’

      He nodded.

      ‘And as to Scotland: I read your note this afternoon. We cannot do what you propose,’ she said. ‘We cannot support rebels against a queen, that is to subvert the rule of law. We have to wait and see what happens.’

      It was as Cecil had expected. She had a mortal terror of making a mistake. It was as if she had lived on the brink of disaster for so long that she could bear to step neither forward nor back. And she was right to be cautious. Every decision in England had a hundred opponents,