It is not until the next day, three full days since Elizabeth first told the Spanish ambassador that Amy Dudley was dead of a canker, that the news is released. Elizabeth sits on her throne in the chapel posed in that sacred space with the honored banners of the knights of the garter hanging from the walls, and announces, loud enough for everyone to hear, that sadly, Amy Dudley has died. Those few people who had heard only that she was heartbroken at being abandoned by her husband, or complaining of ill health, gasp at the news of her death. Only Mary and I, and presumably William Cecil and the Spanish ambassador, must wonder why it has taken them so long to make the announcement.

Elizabeth exchanges a glance with Cecil that shows, in their carefully expressionless faces, that they are fully prepared for this. She inclines her head to listen to her lover. Her face is like stone. Dudley finishes speaking, bows, and steps backwards, away from the queen, his head down, as if he is grieving for his abandoned wife.

“We are very sorry for your loss,” Elizabeth says regally. “The court will go into mourning for Lady Dudley.”

A little gesture of her ringed hand tells everyone that they may talk, and there is a buzz of chatter, far more excitement than sorrow. Few people knew Amy Dudley: Robert, like other favored husbands, always made sure that his wife was kept from court. Now he is free, suddenly, amazingly free. People approach Robert, offering their condolences but really congratulating him on his extraordinary good luck. That an unloved wife should die at such a moment! No one doubts that he is the new king consort. Everyone assumes that they will marry at once. Ned comes towards me. Behind him, I see Cecil and Dudley and Elizabeth, heads together, like plotters. Robert Dudley looks sick, the other two blankly determined.

“What luck for Dudley!” Ned says. “They are certain to marry now.”

“They are,” I say, but he does not hear the emphasis.

“How strange that the queen said that she was dead before Robert announced it to the court,” Janey says, joining us. “You heard her, didn’t you, Katherine? She said that she was sick of a canker, but then the poor woman goes and falls downstairs.”

“Did she?” Ned asks.

“I heard Cecil say something very different.” Mary joins us and speaks so quietly that we all have to bend to hear her.

“What did Cecil say?” Janey asks Ned.

“Ned didn’t hear, for he was walking with Frances Mewtas and not with us. He had eyes only for her,” I say sharply. “I was walking with Mary. Ned did not choose to be with me.”

Janey looks from my pale face to his. “Katherine, we have been friends with the Mewtas family for ages. Frances’s mother served our kinswoman Queen Jane Seymour. She’s a good friend to us both.”