Watch the Lady by Elizabeth Fremantle

dead for years. I refuse to be cowed by a few rumors.”
    â€œI beg of you, madam, be prudent and avoid the gardens until we can ensure your safety.” Burghley was crouched beside her, wringing his hands.
    It was only then that Penelope began to see the realities of the Queen’s life. She had merely seen the court as a place of benign glamour and romance, with the Queen at its core, like a bee in a hive, encircled by those who sought her favor, making honey. But she was beginning to understand the way each and every one of those bees was grappling for survival, even the Queen herself, and that the glamour and romance were little more than distractions. The threat hanging in the air of the privy chamber on that morning must have always been there. She thought of that time she had blurted out “I hate her. I hate the Queen”; how shocked she had been to hear herself articulate such a wicked thing, like saying she hated God. But how could she not feel such a thing in the face of her mother’s degradation, her father’s untimely death, and her own miserable marriage with its royal seal of approval? But now she understood that things were so much more intricate than she had ever imagined, and her feelings had become a muddle of contradictions. That simple childish hatred had been infiltrated by a kind of admiration, and fear too—always fear—though she would never show it.
    It was a sobering thought that the Queen had to live each day in the knowledge that the whole of the Holy Roman Empire and Spain, the greatest powers in the world, as well as many of her own Catholic subjects, wished her dead. She was made ruthless by necessity. But still Penelope couldn’t push the thought of the tortured Catholic from her mind, imagining his screams as his body was stretched a farther notch on the rack.
    She waited by the entrance for her cue to approach, looking towards the window, wondering if a pistol shot could be fired with any accuracy through glass, imagining the chaos that would ensue. Her mind drifted to her husband—the thought of that term, husband , a prison of a word, made her heart feel like a stone. He would be halfway to Leighs.
    She headed the thought of Rich off, gazing beyond the privy-chamber window. The sky was heavy with dark clouds and slowly it began to rain; just a few specks at first, building to a downpour that rattled angrily at the panes. She could hear people in the courtyard below running for cover, shouting to one another to move things under the arcades so they wouldn’t be ruined.
    â€œAh, Burghley, it would seem God is on your side,” said the Queen, laughing. “I will not be going out in this weather. Neither will my assassins, I suspect.”
    Burghley made an attempt at lighthearted laughter in response but his face was distorted with the effort. His son also managed to contort himself into a polite titter but no one else laughed, they all busied themselves with whatever it was they’d been pretending to do: their sewing or reading or letter writing.
    The Queen cast her eyes about, eventually alighting on Penelope. “My songbird is back,” she said. “I am glad to see you; none of these girls can sing as you do and I’ve had to listen to them ruining my favorite tunes for days. How do you find married life?”
    Penelope was unsure how to respond, afraid her true feelings would display themselves on her face. “It is different, Highness,” she said eventually, immediately aware of how inadequate her statement was, and noticed Peg Carey roll her eyes.
    â€œDifferent?” replied the Queen. “I have never heard a bride describe marriage thus.”
    â€œWhat I meant, Highness, was—”
    â€œNo, no,” she interrupted with a wry smile. “Different will do.” Penelope was impressed at the Queen’s poise; nothing in her expression or posture hinted at fear, though the guards outside and