Philippa Gregory - The Virgin's Lover

“I feel better.” She smiled. “I feel as if I am not alone anymore.”

“You are not alone,” he promised her. “You have a husband to take the burden for you. You will never be alone again.”

She gave a little sigh of relief and let him draw her to a seat before the fire, and accepted a glass of wine that he poured for her. I will not be alone, she thought. And Mary, Queen of Scots, will be an orphan.

Cecil and Monsieur Randan could apparently agree on nothing, not even on the arrangements for their journey to Edinburgh from Newcastle. Thomas Howard demanded that Monsieur Randan’s train be reduced before he travel through the borders, but the French emissary bore himself like a man who knew he was negotiating a victory for his country, and would compromise on nothing.

Although Mary of Guise was under siege in a largely hostile country, it was taking the might of the entire English army to hold her in Leith Castle, and the entire English navy was at anchor in the Firth of Forth supplying the troops. The French, however, had massive reserves and a massive treasury that could be deployed against England. The possibility of an attack on the southern ports while all the English manpower was tied up in Scotland woke Cecil most nights and sent him prowling around the battlements of Newcastle, certain that the siege must be ended, and ended soon.

For all his urbane calm in front of the French emissary, Cecil knew that he was playing for the very survival of England against near-impossible odds.

As soon as they were ready to leave for Edinburgh Monsieur Randan sent to Leith Castle to announce that they would call upon the regent for instructions within the week. The messenger reported back that Mary of Guise was ill with dropsy, but she would see the French commissioner, and she would give him his instructions as to the settlement.

“I think you will find that you have a hard negotiator to deal with,” Monsieur Randan said, smiling at Cecil. “She is a Guise herself, you know, born and bred. She will not be disposed to hand over her daughter’s kingdom to invaders.”

“All we require is an agreement that French troops will not occupy Scotland,” Cecil said levelly. “We are not the invaders here. On the contrary. We are defending the Scots against invasion.”

Monsieur Randan shrugged his shoulders. “Ah, bah! What can I say? The Queen of Scotland is the Queen of France. I suppose she can send her servants wherever she wishes in her two kingdoms. France and Scotland are one and the same to our queen. Your queen commands her servants to do as she wishes, does she not?” He broke off with an affected laugh. “Oh! Except her Master of Horse, we hear, who seems to command her.”

Cecil’s pleasant smile did not falter at the insult. “We have to secure an agreement that the French troops will leave Scotland,” he repeated quietly. “Or nothing can prevent the continuation of a war which will be damaging to both England and France.”

“Whatever Her Majesty desires of me,” Monsieur Randan declared. “I am commanded to see her tomorrow when we reach Edinburgh and she will tell me what is to be done, and I think you will find that you have to do it.”

Cecil bowed his agreement as a man forced into a position that he could not defend, by an enemy with the upper hand.

But Monsieur Randan never met the regent, never received his instructions, never came back to Cecil with a refusal. For that night, Mary of Guise died.

In the middle of June came the news from Scotland that Elizabeth had been expecting for a sennight. Every day she had dressed in an ornate gown, seated herself under the cloth of estate, and waited for someone to tell her that a travel-stained messenger from Cecil had just now ridden into court. Finally, it happened. Robert Dudley escorted the man into her presence through a buzz of courtiers.

Elizabeth opened the letter and read it; casually, Dudley stood behind her, like a second monarch, and read it over her shoulder as of right.

“Good God,” he said, when he reached the part where Cecil told the queen that Mary of Guise had suddenly died. “Good God, Elizabeth. You have the luck of the devil.”

The color flooded into her face. She raised her head and smiled at her court. “See how we are blessed,” she announced. “Mary of Guise has died of dropsy; the French are in disarray. Cecil writes to me that he has started work on a treaty to bring peace between our two nations.”

There was a little scream from one of the ladies whose brother was serving with Lord Grey, and a ripple of applause that spread through the court. Elizabeth rose to her feet. “We have defeated the French,” she announced. “God himself has struck down our enemy Mary of Guise. Let others be warned. God is on our side.”

Aye, said Robert to himself, drawing close to the victorious queen and taking her hand so the two of them faced the court at this moment of triumph. But who would have thought that God’s chosen instrument would be a little weasel like William Cecil?

Elizabeth turned to him, her eyes shining. “Is it not a miracle?” she whispered.

“I see the hand of man, I see the hand of an assassin, more than the hand of God,” he said, narrowly watching her.

She did not flicker, and in that moment he understood that she had known everything. She had been waiting for the news of the regent’s death, waiting with foreknowledge, probably since their wedding day when she had begun to look at peace again. And she could only have been prepared by Cecil.

“No, Robert,” she said steadily. “Cecil writes to me that she died of her illness. It is a miracle indeed that her death should be so timely. God save her soul.”

“Oh, amen,” he said.

The warmer weather in July agreed with Amy and she made the effort to walk in the garden at Denchworth, every day. Still she did not hear from Robert as to where she should go next, still the puzzle as to what she should do continued to haunt her.

One of Alice Hyde’s children had come back from the wet nurse and the toddler took a liking to her. He held up his little chubby arms to her to be lifted up, and shouted “Me-me!” whenever he saw her.

“Amy,” she said with a little smile. “Can you say Amy?”

“Me-me,” he repeated seriously.

Amy, childless and lonely, responded to the warmth of the boy, carried him on her hip, sang into his warm little ear, told him stories, and let him sleep on her bed during the day.

“She has taken to him,” Alice said approvingly to her husband. “She would have been such a good mother if she had been blessed with children; it does seem a shame that she will never have a child of her own.”

“Aye,” he said dourly.

“And little Thomas likes her,” she said. “He asks for her all the time. He prefers her to any other.”

He nodded. “Then that child is the only person in England who does so.”

“Now,” Robert said with pleasure, walking with Elizabeth in the cool of the July morning beside the river. “I have some news for you. Better news from Scotland than you have heard for a long time.”

“What news?” At once she was on the alert. Cecil’s man said that no one could get news quicker than me. What news can Robert have that I do not know?

“I keep a couple of servants in Newcastle and Edinburgh,” he said casually. “One of them came to my house this afternoon and told me that Cecil is confident of bringing the French to an agreement. His servant told my servant that Cecil wrote to his wife to expect him home in the middle of this month. Given that Cecil would never leave his work unfinished, we can be sure that he is confident of completing the treaty very soon.”

“Why has he not written to me?” she demanded, instantly jealous.