I helped old Maggie get the children out, then sat on the stairs, letting my head drop into my hands as thoughts of Ingram’s veined nose forced themselves into my mind. I would have caught the pox from him; his cheeks were scarred, there was no doubt he carried it. He might not have been generous after he had fornicated with me, valuing me as low as he had tried to value Frankie’s necklace. As low as did Arthur. The little flame of anger always within me since he had left suddenly leaped into a great torch of indignation. What power would I have had over Ingram once he had taken me? None at all.

I stomped upstairs. What man would marry me if I caught the pox? Not a one. I reached the top of the stairs and for the first time in weeks relief warmed my stomach. Fighting off Ingram had been the right choice. If only all my unthinking actions were worthy.

Mary’s eyes opened as I peered around the door to the bed chamber.

“You were not long in bed last night, Mother, or did I dream that?” she whispered as I sat beside her and lit a candle.

“Open wide,” I said. I held the candle as close as I dared. Mary’s throat was deep crimson, pustulated and swollen.

“You did not dream it, sweetling,” I said quietly, blowing out the candle, for the light hurt Mary’s eyes. I placed a hand on my daughter’s burning forehead. “I was with our Countess.”

As Mary smiled a little split opened in her bottom lip. I wrung out the cloth that sat in a bowl beside the bed and wiped her hot face and the blood from her lip. I gently patted a balsam on to it. Since Mary had fallen ill, I would wake up every morning beside her and straightaway feel her forehead. Every day, my heart sank along with any hope that the fever had broken. I would encourage Mary to drink, despite the pain, and kiss her all over her face. Sometimes it was an hour before I could leave the room.

My daughter slipped into a restless doze and I sat stroking her small hand. I was proud of the little girl’s fighting spirit and, in that moment, proud of my own too.

PART THREE

Christmas, 1613

21

The tremendous chatter in the bedchamber flew up like starlings as quiet washed in from the doorway. The crowd yielded, their bodies bent low; even Frankie and Robin seated in bed did their best to bow. As the sighing of silken skirts subsided, I could hear a light tapping. It was the King’s Italian greyhound, picking its way between the obeisant rows, stopping frequently to look back at its master. Brutus trotted up to sniff the King’s dog, but the little creature cowered away, its skin shivering.