I am about to say that he cannot wake the queen, that no one can enter her bedroom in the morning until she orders it. But then I remember the interconnecting door and I see that Robert Dudley can come and go as he pleases.

“Will you tell her that I am very, very sorry?” I say quietly. “Ned and I fell in love. I love him still. I will never love anyone but him. I did not do it to offend her. I thought of nothing but how much I love him.”

“I’ll do my best to explain,” Robert says shortly. “But I can tell you now, she’ll never understand. Go now.”

* * *

All morning I wait in my room for the summons to Elizabeth. I am sick with fear. I have been sick in the morning for months from the baby; now I am sick with fear of the queen. I wonder if I am ever going to feel well again, if I am ever going to be happy again. I think of my poor sister and how she waited to hear from this queen’s sister whether she was to live or die, and I think that it is odd, and cruel, and incomprehensible that Jane should have died for her faith and that I should be scared to death for love, and that we will never be able to talk about this. I will give birth to her nephew, and he will never know her.

At midday one of the ladies, Peggy, puts her head round the door and says: “She’s asking for you. We’re going on the river. You picked a bad day to take off!”

“She wants me?” I am out of my chair and on my feet in a moment, ignoring the swimming sensation in my head.

“She just wants to know where you are. I said you had overslept. But you’d better show your face.”

I take a glance at myself in my little beaten-silver looking glass. The gentle tones of the reflection show me a beauty: creamy skin, golden hair, dark eyes.

“Come on,” says Peggy disagreeably. “They’re getting into the boats now.”

“She wants me to come out on the river?”

“Didn’t I just say?”