to displease her. Strong enough to imprison someone in the Tower of London, or sign a death warrant with her delicate but still imperious, all-powerful hand. Above all she was strong enough to resist naming a successor to her Crown of England.
When Patrick finished his wine, he stood up to leave. Many courtiers hovered below the dais waiting their turn to pay homage to their sovereign queen.
She eyed his great height and breadth with approval. “I admire a man who is both big and bold. I should like to see you perform in the joust. We always have a grand tournament to celebrate my Accession Day. I invite you to take part, Lord Stewart.”
“It will be my honor, Your Majesty, to return in November.” As he bowed before her he wondered if she would be alive in November.
Patrick found the Presence Chamber stifling hot, and the heavy perfume of the courtiers, both male and female, was cloying. Without seeming to hurry, he walked a direct path to the end of the chamber. His dark eyes sought out Lady Catherine’s silvery costume before he went outside. She was dancing with a young noble named William Herbert, who was heir to the great earldom of Pembroke. The moment Patrick’s glance touched her, she made a great show of deliberately turning her back upon him. He smiled with satisfaction. It was obvious the little hellcat’s eyes had been following him for some time.
Outside Whitehall Palace, Patrick found the air cool and fresh, yet still nothing like the air of Scotland, which was as pure and heady as fine wine. He strolled down to the river and stood watching the lights on the barges as his mind went over every detail of what he had learned about the Queen of England tonight. His vision had shown him her funeral yet had not revealed when that fateful and momentous event would take place.
Psychic abilities aside, what do your gut instinct and plain common sense tell you? he asked himself. Less than a year—nine or ten months, but no longer. He shook his head and smiled at her courage and her stubborn spirit. He could not help but admire her and admitted he would not be surprised in the least to see her celebrate her November Accession Day one last time.
With reluctant steps he returned to the festivities. Courtesy demanded that he dance with the ladies he had met in Richmond.
Just as he was about to ask Liz Widdrington, she was whisked off on the arm of a fashionably garbed courtier. “Who’s the dandy?” Patrick asked with a grimace.
“That’s William Seymour, a dissolute young opportunist, like most here at Court,” Robert replied. “My sister Kate presented me to Elizabeth, who immediately asked why I’d deserted my post. I told her I could not bear to be away from her sight. My answer must have pleased her. She assented to a private audience tomorrow after chapel. The queen may be my cousin, but she sometimes puts the fear of God in me. I think it would be in my best interest to attend the church service.”
“Better you than me,” Patrick said with a grin. He turned to find Arbella Stuart at his elbow and knew she wanted him to partner her in the dance to make William Seymour jealous. He bowed gallantly. “Would you do me the honor, Lady Arbella?”
As they moved together in the sprightly galliard, Arbella puzzled, “My lord, if we are both related to King James of Scotland, why are our names spelled differently?”
“Stewart was the ancient spelling of Scottish rulers since 1371. When King James’s mother, Mary, married the Dauphin, she discovered that the French pronounce the letter w as a v, so she changed the spelling to Stuart so it would sound the same.”
“How clever she was!”
“She married a Hepburn,” he said wryly. “How clever was that?”
“Mary managed to catch three husbands, so I would call her exceedingly clever, Lord Stewart.”
Patrick suddenly sensed her overwhelming fear of becoming an old maid. “Elizabeth never lost her head over a man.” It was a subtle
When Patrick finished his wine, he stood up to leave. Many courtiers hovered below the dais waiting their turn to pay homage to their sovereign queen.
She eyed his great height and breadth with approval. “I admire a man who is both big and bold. I should like to see you perform in the joust. We always have a grand tournament to celebrate my Accession Day. I invite you to take part, Lord Stewart.”
“It will be my honor, Your Majesty, to return in November.” As he bowed before her he wondered if she would be alive in November.
Patrick found the Presence Chamber stifling hot, and the heavy perfume of the courtiers, both male and female, was cloying. Without seeming to hurry, he walked a direct path to the end of the chamber. His dark eyes sought out Lady Catherine’s silvery costume before he went outside. She was dancing with a young noble named William Herbert, who was heir to the great earldom of Pembroke. The moment Patrick’s glance touched her, she made a great show of deliberately turning her back upon him. He smiled with satisfaction. It was obvious the little hellcat’s eyes had been following him for some time.
Outside Whitehall Palace, Patrick found the air cool and fresh, yet still nothing like the air of Scotland, which was as pure and heady as fine wine. He strolled down to the river and stood watching the lights on the barges as his mind went over every detail of what he had learned about the Queen of England tonight. His vision had shown him her funeral yet had not revealed when that fateful and momentous event would take place.
Psychic abilities aside, what do your gut instinct and plain common sense tell you? he asked himself. Less than a year—nine or ten months, but no longer. He shook his head and smiled at her courage and her stubborn spirit. He could not help but admire her and admitted he would not be surprised in the least to see her celebrate her November Accession Day one last time.
With reluctant steps he returned to the festivities. Courtesy demanded that he dance with the ladies he had met in Richmond.
Just as he was about to ask Liz Widdrington, she was whisked off on the arm of a fashionably garbed courtier. “Who’s the dandy?” Patrick asked with a grimace.
“That’s William Seymour, a dissolute young opportunist, like most here at Court,” Robert replied. “My sister Kate presented me to Elizabeth, who immediately asked why I’d deserted my post. I told her I could not bear to be away from her sight. My answer must have pleased her. She assented to a private audience tomorrow after chapel. The queen may be my cousin, but she sometimes puts the fear of God in me. I think it would be in my best interest to attend the church service.”
“Better you than me,” Patrick said with a grin. He turned to find Arbella Stuart at his elbow and knew she wanted him to partner her in the dance to make William Seymour jealous. He bowed gallantly. “Would you do me the honor, Lady Arbella?”
As they moved together in the sprightly galliard, Arbella puzzled, “My lord, if we are both related to King James of Scotland, why are our names spelled differently?”
“Stewart was the ancient spelling of Scottish rulers since 1371. When King James’s mother, Mary, married the Dauphin, she discovered that the French pronounce the letter w as a v, so she changed the spelling to Stuart so it would sound the same.”
“How clever she was!”
“She married a Hepburn,” he said wryly. “How clever was that?”
“Mary managed to catch three husbands, so I would call her exceedingly clever, Lord Stewart.”
Patrick suddenly sensed her overwhelming fear of becoming an old maid. “Elizabeth never lost her head over a man.” It was a subtle
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