memory of that long-ago summer’s day. Her grey eyes glowed with unshed tears.
She forced them away, clasping her hands tightly before her waist as she followed the major-domo into the inner sanctum of the privy chamber. It was also crowded there, but the atmosphere was lighter, the conversation free of the strained quality outside. Ladies-in-waiting in their pale silks sat on cushions and low stools scattered over the floor and around the marble fireplace, whispering and laughing over their embroidery. Handsome young courtiers played cards in the corner, casting flirtatious glances at the ladies.
But the Queen’s most favourite of all, Robert Dudley, was nowhere to be seen. Everyone said that after the alarming events of the Christmas season, the attempts on the Queen’s life, he worked day and night to ensure the security of the palace. Nor was the Queen’s chief secretary, Lord Burghley, who so rarely left her side, in evidence.
Queen Elizabeth sat by herself next to the window, a table covered with the scrolls of petitions beside her. The pale grey sunlight filtered through the thick glass, turning her red-gold hair into a fiery halo and making her fair ivory skin glow. She wore a splendourous robe of crimson velvet trimmed with white fur over a gold silk gown, rubies on her fingers and in her ears, and a band of pearls holding back her hair.
She looked every inch the young Sun Queen, but her dark eyes were shadowed and the set of her mouth was grim, as if the events of the last few days had taken their toll on her.
Celia had heard that those strange occurrences were not the Queen’s only worries. Parties from Austria and Sweden were at Whitehall to press their marriage suits. Spain and France were constant threats. And the Queen’s cousin to the north, Mary Queen of Scots, was always a thorn in Elizabeth’s side.
It was almost enough to make Celia feel her own troubles were tiny in comparison! No one was trying to kill her or marry her.
“Mistress Sutton,” Queen Elizabeth said. “You have had a long wait, I fear.”
Celia curtsied low and made her way to the Queen’s desk. Elizabeth tapped her long pale fingers on the papers, her rings sparkling. “I’m just grateful Your Grace has the time to meet with me.”
Elizabeth waved her words away. “You may not be so grateful when you hear what I have to say, Mistress Sutton. Please sit.”
A footman leaped forward with a stool, and Celia sank onto it gratefully. She had a terrible feeling this interview would not go as she so fervently wished. “Briony Manor, Your Grace?”
“Aye.” Elizabeth held up a scroll. “It seems clear to us that your grandfather’s wish was for the estate to go to Master Gustavson’s mother and then to him. We feel we cannot go against this.”
Celia felt that chill wash over her again—the cold of disappointment, of an anger she had to suppress. If she could not go to Briony, where could she go? What would be her home? “Yes, Your Grace.”
“I am sorry,” Elizabeth said, and there was a tinge of true regret in her voice. She even used “I” instead of the official “we”. “When I was a girl, I had no true place of my own. No place where I could be assured of my own security. Everything I had was dependent on others—my father, my brother, my sister. Even my life depended on their whims.”
Celia glanced at the Queen in surprise. Elizabeth so seldom spoke of the difficult past. Why would she now, and to Celia of all people? “Your Grace?”
“I know how you must feel, Mistress Sutton. We are alike in some ways, I think. And that is why I sense that I can ask a great favour of you.”
Ask? Or demand? “I will do anything I can to serve Your Grace, of course.”
Elizabeth tapped at the papers again. “You have heard the recent rumours surrounding my cousin Queen Mary, I am sure. She always seems of such acute interest to my courtiers.”
“I—well, aye, Your Grace. I sometimes hear tales of Queen Mary. Is there a specific rumour you refer to?”
Elizabeth laughed. “Oh, yes, there are many. But I refer to the fact that she intends to marry again. They say she has hopes of a union equal to her first with the King of France. I hear she has her sights set on Don Carlos of Spain—King Phillip’s son.”
“I have heard such rumours as well, Your Grace,” Celia said. She had also heard Don Carlos was a violent lunatic, but even a reputed great beauty like Queen Mary seemed willing to overlook that for the chance to be Queen of Spain.
Elizabeth suddenly slammed her fist down on the desk, sending an inkwell clattering to the floor. “That cannot be! My cousin cannot make such a powerful alliance. She is menace enough as it is. I have suggested she should marry an English nobleman. I must have someone I can trust in her Court.”
“Your Grace?” Celia said in confusion. How could she assist in such a task?
Elizabeth lowered her voice to a whisper. “I have a plan, you see, Mistress Sutton. But I will need help to see it carried off.”
“How can I help, Your Grace? I know of no candidates for Queen Mary’s hand.”
“Oh, I will take care of that, Mistress Sutton. I have the perfect candidate in mind—someone I can trust completely. I cannot say who just yet, but I promise you will know all you need to soon.” The Queen sat back in her chair and reached for one of the papers on her desk. “In the meantime my cousin, the Countess of Lennox, who is Mary’s cousin as well, petitions for her son Lord Darnley to be given a passport to visit his father who is now resident in Edinburgh.”
Celia nodded. She knew well of the Countess’s petition, as Lady Lennox had made certain indiscreet confidences to her in the last few days. Lady Lennox hoped that once Queen Mary met Lord Darnley, who was tall, blond and angelically handsome, she would marry him and make him King of Scotland. His own royal lineage would strengthen Mary’s claim to be Elizabeth’s heir.
Celia was not so sure such a plan could work, hinging as it did on Lord Darnley. Even she could see, from her brief time at Court, that he was a drunken braggart under his pretty exterior, and rather too fond of men.
“Yes, Your Grace,” she said.
“It appears Lady Lennox has made a friend of you in these last few days.”
“Lady Lennox has been welcoming to me. But she tells me little except that she misses her husband.”
“I have been reluctant to let Lord Darnley travel north,” Elizabeth said. “He seems the sort it is best to keep an eye on. But Lord Burghley counsels, and I concur, that we should allow him this passport now. He will depart for Scotland in a week’s time.”
“So soon, Your Grace?” Celia was surprised anyone could travel now. It was the coldest winter anyone could remember, with the Thames frozen through. Sensible people stayed home by their fires.
“I think time is imperative in this matter,” the Queen said. “And Lord Darnley seems eager to go. I wish for you, Mistress Sutton, to be one of the travel party.”
Celia tried not to gape at the Queen like a country lackwit. She had no idea what to say or even how to calm her jumbled thoughts. She—go to Scotland? “I fear I do not quite understand how I could help you in Edinburgh, Your Grace.”
Elizabeth gave
