Dudley’s voice was frayed, high-pitched. “No! It was nothing to do with me! I don’t know anything about it.” He stopped again. Lizzie waited, aware of the fear building inside her, of a sense of impending doom, of dark shadows gathering. For a moment all she could hear was the rising sound of the crowd in the marquee, all she could feel was the heat trapped beneath the canvas, pressing down on her, making her light-headed. She steadied herself with one hand on the back of Kat’s chair and realised that she was shaking.

“Amelia’s dead, Lizzie,” Dudley repeated, and he sounded so lost that Lizzie felt the huge horrible weight of sickness settle hard in her stomach. “She fell down the stairs at Oakhangar Hall and broke her neck.”

4

Amy: Stansfield Manor, Norfolk, April 1550

Throughout my childhood, whenever I had needed wise counsel, I had sought out my half-brother Arthur. He had always been the one to cajole me out of ill temper or soothe my tears when my mother and I disagreed. She and I were close; she taught me everything from how to run a large household to how to make herbal ointments, but she was brisk and too busy for my tantrums. My sister Anna and I scrapped like cats; John was a studious boy who grew into a distant young man. There was only Arthur who had the patience for me.

That day I found him in the stables. This was no surprise; he was seldom anywhere but on the farm. Our father had tried to educate him as a gentleman for he was his elder son, illegitimate or not, but whilst Arthur had done well enough at Oxford, he had shown no desire to enter either the law or the church. It seemed he had no ambition. Father did not understand that, though when Arthur expressed a wish to run Father’s estates, he did not demur and respected Arthur for his skills, particularly with the animals.

I sat on a bale of straw, inhaling the scent of warm horses, hay and hot oil from the lantern, listening to the chink of the rope in the metal ring as the mare shifted beneath the curry comb. Arthur talked to her as he worked, soft words, affectionate, soothing, moving the comb in efficient circles over her coat. She seemed to like it, nudging him when he stopped for a moment. I knew better than to interrupt him and it was only when he laid the comb aside and picked up the dandy brush that he paused, shaking the hair out of his eyes, and looked at me.

“You will spoil your gown sitting there,” he said. “The straw is still damp.”

I shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”

He raised his brows. “I thought there was something wrong. Now I know there must be. When were you so careless of your attire?”

“I am crossed in love,” I said. “I care nothing for how I look.”