I look down. I am no fool. I know that he is my friend, but I also know that he is first for his faith and then for England, and then for the queen, and everyone else comes after that. I have seen him triumph over the French in Edinburgh, and I have seen him triumph over Robert Dudley at court, and I swear I shall never make the mistake of underrating William Cecil. Only God and William Cecil know what he will do to keep a Protestant queen on the throne of England.

“Ah, my lord, you know I have no wish to go to Spain or anywhere,” I say. “My heart is in England.”

“Is it safe in your keeping, though?” he teases me gently, as a favored uncle will joke with a pretty niece.

“Certainly I would never throw it away,” I reply.

“Well, he’s a handsome young man and you’re very well suited,” he says with a knowing smile.

I stifle a gasp. The quiet advisor, who apparently goes around the court ignoring the foolish young people, thinking of nothing but statecraft, has spotted what no one else but Janey and Mary know.

“I may be old but I’m not quite blind,” he says gently. “But as her heir, you must have the queen’s permission to marry, remember.”

Too late for that! I think gleefully. “I know,” I say obediently. “Will you speak up for me, Sir William? Should I ask her now?”

“All in good time,” he says, as if he has forgotten the urgency of young desire. “Now, at last, she understands that she has to marry for the good of the country, now at last she sees that it has to be a marriage and an alliance—not a private matter. When she is betrothed, she will be more tolerant of marriage for you, and for the other ladies of her court.”

“It is hard for us all to wait until she is ready, when she is so slow,” I remark.

He gives me a discreet smile. “It is hard for us all to serve a queen who is slow to do her duty,” he says. “But she will do her duty and marry the right man, and you will do yours.”

“She can never marry Robert Dudley now.”

I can tell nothing of what he is thinking by the gentle smile on his face. “Indeed no,” he says almost regretfully. “And now, thanks be to God, he knows it as well as all the rest of us. And so she will marry a prince of Spain or France or even Sweden or Germany, and you, and I, and all of England will sleep better at nights.”

“Is the court going hunting?” I ask, thinking of the nights.

“Oh, yes, to Eltham Palace, tomorrow.”

“I think I may ask to be excused,” I say. “I have toothache.”