Mother’s mind had already moved on to more practical matters, however. “Wear your blue gown,” she instructed, “the one that matches your eyes. Since you and I are to be present we shall at least make your father proud even if we will be bored to distraction by talk of military strategy.”

“Yes, Mother,” I said dutifully.

“I’ll send Joan to you,” Mother said. “And don’t lean out of the window to see what goes on outside whilst you dress.” Seeing my blank look, she said with a hint of irritation: “Did I not mention but a moment ago that there is an army coming? There will be nigh on ten thousand men encamped in the fields beyond the orchard. I do not want you to become their entertainment.”

“No, Mother,” I said. I thought it would be easy enough to steal a look without being seen. The encampments, the fires, the horses, the food cooking, the scents and the noise... Stanfield Manor would be abuzz and it was impossible not to feel the expectancy in the air.

“Remember that soldiers are dangerous, Amy,” Mother added sharply, “commoner or nobleman alike.”

It seemed excessive to say “yes, Mother” again, so I nodded obediently and hurried away to the stairs, aware that her watchful gaze was pinned upon my back. There was nothing to dispute in what she had said, nor in those things that she had not put into words. I might be young but I knew what she meant about soldiers and the way in which they snatched at pleasure with both hands in case it was their last chance. I did not want to be that prize, seized for a moment’s gratification then cast aside.

Even so, I thought about Robert Dudley whilst Joan helped me to dress and started to plait my long fair hair. She was slow and methodical, her tongue sticking from the corner of her mouth as her fingers worked. My thoughts, my dreams were the opposite of slow, skipping lightly from one place to the next. My memories of Robert were vague but that did not stop me from pinning my dreams on him. What sort of a man had he become? Was he handsome? Would he like me? Even as I counselled myself to hold fast to my common sense, I could feel excitement bubbling through me.

“Keep still, Mistress Amy,” Joan tutted as the braids slid from her fingers. “You are hopping about like a hen on a thorn.”

It seemed to take her an age of pinning and smoothing and straightening but finally she was done and I flew down the stairs. Yet when I reached the door of the hall I hesitated, stung by a sudden shyness at the sound of voices within. I smoothed my skirts, patted my coif, took a deep breath, but my feet seemed fixed to the flagstones. I could not move.

“Amy!” Mother appeared in the doorway, voice as sharp as a needle. “Why are you loitering there?” Her gaze darted past me, looking for trouble. When she found none, it did not seem to appease her.