“I am saying that we would not want Mary Queen of Scots to marry a strong power and have him on our doorstep,” Cecil says cleverly. “Not if he was an ally that we wanted for ourselves. We have to make sure that if she comes to Scotland, it is not as a princess of France or Spain or even Sweden. If she does come to Scotland, it would suit us best if it were as a widow without friends.”

“Is that possible?”

Cecil shakes his head. “It’s not likely. But you should at least have first choice of the greatest men of Christendom. She should not snap someone up before you, because she was quicker than you to choose.”

“Perhaps she will not marry again,” Elizabeth observes.

“Not her! She knows well enough that she has to have an heir for the throne of Scotland,” Cecil says steadily. “She was raised up knowing that she has to do it, whatever her personal preference. She is eighteen, she is said to be healthy and beautiful, so she is likely to be fertile. Every queen knows that she must give her country an heir. It is the duty of a monarch, a God-given duty.”

“I have an heir,” Elizabeth says, smiling over her shoulder at me. “A young and beautiful heir to a young and beautiful queen.”

I curtsey and smile back.

“No one can deny the rightful position of Lady Katherine,” Cecil says with his infinite patience. “But the country would like a boy.”

WHITEHALL PALACE, LONDON,

SPRING 1561

As the weather gets warmer I can meet my husband out of doors, and every day we walk together in the little patchwork gardens that are dotted around the palace. The birds are so tame here that they sit in the budding branches above our heads and sing as if they were as happy as we are. I put a bell on Ribbon the cat to safeguard the nestlings that will come soon in orchard and hedge and tree.

Sometimes Ned slips up to my rooms and my servants vanish, leaving us alone. Sometimes Janey walks with me to the little house in Cannon Row and dozes in the sunny presence room while Ned and I spend the whole afternoon in his bed. I cannot think beyond our next meeting; I dream of him when I am asleep. All the day I find I am feeling the silky texture of my linen, the exquisite delicacy of my lace, the shine of my brocade gown, as if the whole world is more intense because of my passion for Ned.

“It is the same for me,” he tells me as we walk by the river and smell the salt behind the cool wind from the sea. “I am writing more than I have ever done, and with a greater fluency and understanding. It is as if everything is more vivid. The world is brighter, the light more golden.”