outbursts and harsh accusations. Walsingham scurried through the halls, his beadlike eyes darting back and forth, and Robert Dudley was often in the queen’s privy chamber. When an ashen-faced Earl of Shrewsbury was called in, we knew the furtive business concerned the Scottish queen. Then Shrewsbury’s former page, one Anthony Babington, was arrested for plotting to assassinate Elizabeth and put Mary on her throne. After being hanged, Babington—still alive—was disemboweled, then quartered and beheaded. Balladeers sang the news of the gruesome death, which made me sick to think about. The damning piece of evidence against Mary was a letter written in her hand, approving the plot. The wily queen smuggled out her correspondence in a box hidden in a cask of beer, but the wilier Walsingham discovered it.
I ran to the chest where my own letters were hidden. They were still there, resting beside a pair of too-small shoes atop a hornbook from my childhood. Usually I placed the bundle beneath the hornbook. And the knot in the handkerchief seemed looser. Had I tied it carelessly? I undid the knot, thumbed through the letters, and assured myself nothing was missing. I folded the handkerchief and placed it in the toe of a shoe. I tied a ribbon around the letters and hid them inside my mattress. I determined to burn them at the earliest opportunity, for the Babington affair had frightened me.
The Scottish queen stood trial for her treason, which upset my royal mistress so much one would have thought she, not Mary, was to be judged. She could not eat. I set a platter of stew before her, but she pushed it away so violently it spilled all over my skirt before hitting the floor, where the dogs fell upon it.
“She sought every opportunity to betray me. She must die,” Elizabeth said to the dogs. “But she is my cousin, my own flesh and blood!” She slammed her palms onto the table and stood up, shouting for Lord Burghley, her secretary of state.
I stood in the shadows, holding my breath, while the queen argued with Burghley.
“Mary is an anointed queen. If I consent to her execution, I am guilty of regicide. What will stop my own people from granting me that same death?” she said, her voice shrill.
The dogs crept to my feet, cringing there.
“She must die,” Burghley insisted. “As long as she lives to give hope to papists and other disgruntled subjects, your life will be in danger.”
But Elizabeth would not consent, and the matter remained unresolved.
That fall, Sir Walter and I used such caution in our courtship that our letters were few and brief, carried by his valet or another of his trusted servants. One or two came by way of Emme, though I forbade her to take any risk for my sake. Meanwhile I lived in anticipation of Accession Day, the November holiday when all the realm celebrated the anniversary of the queen’s coronation. I knew I would see Sir Walter at the jousting and feasting. For days on end bells pealed, fireworks exploded, and the glow of bonfires lit the sky. In the streets hawkers sang ballads and psalms celebrating the queen’s deliverance from the evil conspirators.
Awaiting the start of the tournament, I stood in the tilt gallery at Whitehall with Elizabeth and all her ladies. The gallery overlooked the tiltyard, on the far side of which stood a colorful pavilion hung with banners. Spectators filled the galleries surrounding the yard. I watched as the knights arrived—some in glittering chariots and artful disguises—to greet the queen before riding to the tiltyard. I tried to guess which one was Ralegh. My gaze was drawn to a knight in burnished armor engraved with twining leaves. He carried a bow and arrow in one hand and a leafy branch in the other. When he removed his helm with a flourish, I saw that it was Sir Walter.
A cry of delight escaped me but no one marked it. Everyone’s attention was on the splendid figure climbing the stairs to greet the queen on Ralegh’s behalf. He wore
I ran to the chest where my own letters were hidden. They were still there, resting beside a pair of too-small shoes atop a hornbook from my childhood. Usually I placed the bundle beneath the hornbook. And the knot in the handkerchief seemed looser. Had I tied it carelessly? I undid the knot, thumbed through the letters, and assured myself nothing was missing. I folded the handkerchief and placed it in the toe of a shoe. I tied a ribbon around the letters and hid them inside my mattress. I determined to burn them at the earliest opportunity, for the Babington affair had frightened me.
The Scottish queen stood trial for her treason, which upset my royal mistress so much one would have thought she, not Mary, was to be judged. She could not eat. I set a platter of stew before her, but she pushed it away so violently it spilled all over my skirt before hitting the floor, where the dogs fell upon it.
“She sought every opportunity to betray me. She must die,” Elizabeth said to the dogs. “But she is my cousin, my own flesh and blood!” She slammed her palms onto the table and stood up, shouting for Lord Burghley, her secretary of state.
I stood in the shadows, holding my breath, while the queen argued with Burghley.
“Mary is an anointed queen. If I consent to her execution, I am guilty of regicide. What will stop my own people from granting me that same death?” she said, her voice shrill.
The dogs crept to my feet, cringing there.
“She must die,” Burghley insisted. “As long as she lives to give hope to papists and other disgruntled subjects, your life will be in danger.”
But Elizabeth would not consent, and the matter remained unresolved.
That fall, Sir Walter and I used such caution in our courtship that our letters were few and brief, carried by his valet or another of his trusted servants. One or two came by way of Emme, though I forbade her to take any risk for my sake. Meanwhile I lived in anticipation of Accession Day, the November holiday when all the realm celebrated the anniversary of the queen’s coronation. I knew I would see Sir Walter at the jousting and feasting. For days on end bells pealed, fireworks exploded, and the glow of bonfires lit the sky. In the streets hawkers sang ballads and psalms celebrating the queen’s deliverance from the evil conspirators.
Awaiting the start of the tournament, I stood in the tilt gallery at Whitehall with Elizabeth and all her ladies. The gallery overlooked the tiltyard, on the far side of which stood a colorful pavilion hung with banners. Spectators filled the galleries surrounding the yard. I watched as the knights arrived—some in glittering chariots and artful disguises—to greet the queen before riding to the tiltyard. I tried to guess which one was Ralegh. My gaze was drawn to a knight in burnished armor engraved with twining leaves. He carried a bow and arrow in one hand and a leafy branch in the other. When he removed his helm with a flourish, I saw that it was Sir Walter.
A cry of delight escaped me but no one marked it. Everyone’s attention was on the splendid figure climbing the stairs to greet the queen on Ralegh’s behalf. He wore
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