for trouble. When she found none, it did not seem to appease her.
‘Come in.’ She flapped at me to go ahead of her.
The hall was hot. We did not need a fire in August but Father had ordered one lit anyway, all the better to show off the richness of his glass and silver. I wondered how the table bore the weight of so much food and spared a thought for the kitchen staff; cook’s sweat must have been liberally mixed in with the sauces. The servants were sweating too as they attended us, heat and nervousness making their faces redden and their hands shake. Father, never the most patient master, was snapping orders as though he were a general in the field.
‘There is a space for you there, Amy—’ Mother pushed me towards the centre of the table where there was an empty place laid. I sat. She sat opposite me, watching me like a cat with a mouse.
I felt like telling her that there was no need for her vigilance. On the one side of me was an old man who looked as though he had last ridden to war alongside the late King Henry at the Battle of the Spurs. On the other was a younger man who was so fat I wondered at the horse that had to bear his weight and whether he had to be winched into the saddle. A swift search of the room, conducted surreptitiously as I took my seat, had told me that neither Robert Dudley nor his brother Ambrose was present. I felt disproportionately disappointed. The old soldier ignored me, sucking noisily on chicken bones and throwing the scraps to the dogs. The younger smiled shyly and poured wine for me.
At the head of the table Father was deep in discussion with Lord Warwick. The King’s general was a fine-looking man, all the more so in his armour. He had presence and grace; I watched him as he talked, animated and at times fierce. I caught an echo of Robert in the proud lift of his head and directness of his gaze.
I picked at my food. The chicken was drenched in a sauce that was too rich and heavy. I wondered if cook was a rebel sympathiser and wanted to give the King’s men a stomach ache. Not that they were complaining. They looked half starved and only the presence of ladies prevented them from falling on each dish like dogs as it came out.
There was little conversation. The weather, the poor quality of the roads, the availability of horses and the fine taste of Stanfield-grown apples sustained us through several courses whilst I sat and sweated and reflected bitterly that I had wasted my hopes and dreams on a fantasy.
I escaped to my chamber as soon as I was able. Mother had no need to chivvy me out whilst the men sat late over their wine and their strategy. I took off my pretty dress and released my hair and lay down but of course I could not sleep. I was too irritated; with Robert, who had asked for me and then forgotten me, with myself for building something out of nothing. Outside there was a cacophony of noise: shouting, hammering, horses, footsteps, sounds of urgency that now rather than exciting me only served to annoy me. After a while I realised that I was not going to sleep. That irritated me even more. I threw back the covers and strode to the window, pushing wide the leaded pane.
Outside there was full moonlight, bright as day and yet casting the world in only black and white. It was the moon that preceded the harvest, except that the rebellion had thrown the harvest into disarray this year. The crops lay trampled in the fields and there would be no festival of celebration though there could well be a reaping of souls if not of corn. Instead of mummers and music, shadow men walked amongst the trees of the orchard. Smoke rose white against the bleached night sky and the air was rich with the smell of cooking and dung, a curious combination that caught at my throat.
There was sudden movement below my window. A man swung down from his horse, tethered it to a tree. I saw him in flashes of silver and black; the moonlight on his armour, his long shadow. He took off his helmet and took a deep breath of air, head back, shaking himself like a dog coming out of water. He was dark; the moon lit shades of blue in his hair like a raven’s wing. Then he looked up and the light fell full on his face.
I must have made some involuntary movement that caught his eye for he turned his head sharply to look at me. The gesture was so familiar even though I had not seen him for so many years. Recognition tugged deep within me. He raised a hand in greeting. I saw the flash of his smile. He knew me too.
I pushed the window frame wider. ‘Robert Dudley,’ I said. ‘You missed dinner.’
He laughed. ‘I am here now.’ He set his foot to the climbing rose that grew beneath my window. The whole delicate structure shivered as he put his weight on it, the last petals of summer drifting down, and I leaned out further to stop him.
‘You’ll fall!’ I had no care for propriety, only for his safety. I did not see the ranks of grinning soldiers pausing in their drinking and their gaming to watch us. I saw only him. Already I was swept away.
‘Never,’ he said. ‘You won’t lose me, Amy Robsart. I’ll not fall.’
A cloud passed over the moon, red like blood from the fire on the heath.
Despite the cumbersome weight of the armour he climbed fast, sure-footed, like a cat. He reached the window ledge and swung himself over and then he was in my room. A ragged cheer went up from the men below and he reached across me to close the window and banish them so that there was only the two of us there in the candlelight. He smelled of sweat and horses and smoke and the night air; it was exciting and my head swam.
We stood and stared at one another. His armour was dented and blackened by smoke. His face likewise was filthy with dirt and sweat. I put a hand up to touch his chest but could feel nothing but the coldness of hard steel beneath my palm so I raised it to his cheek and touched warm flesh. He was vital and vivid and all the things that my life lacked. His eyes blazed as he bent his head to kiss me.
That was how I met Robert Dudley again. By the morning we had pledged our troth and the seeds of our mutual destruction were already sown.
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