Mary’s pretty face is twisted with malicious giggles. “Because she’s afraid,” she whispers. “Terrified. Half the country would prefer Mary Queen of Scots as Queen of England because they’re papists, and the other half, the Protestant half, would prefer you now that you’re married to an Englishman and have a son and heir. Nobody really wants her, a barren queen, especially one who is in love with a wife murderer.”

I give a little gasp at Mary’s bitter description of Elizabeth and her lover, Robert Dudley.

“Well, they don’t,” she says bluntly. “And who can blame them? There’s no more prosperity for the country than when Mary was on the throne; there’s no greater peace. Now we’re threatened by both France and Spain and our queen won’t marry to get us an ally. Everyone has their own preference for the heir, and all Elizabeth has said is that we can’t inherit because our father was executed for treason, and our cousin Margaret Douglas can’t inherit because her parents weren’t married. That leaves only Mary Queen of Scots, and she won’t name her! What the people want is to know where they are, and who will be the next king, and if she won’t tell them, then they’ll decide for themselves.”

I glance towards the cradle. “Teddy,” I say simply. “It has to be Teddy. I come after Elizabeth, and Teddy is my son.”

“Of course,” Mary says. “Everyone knows that. Which is why the Privy Council can’t bring themselves to agree that she can keep you in prison for nothing. For all they know you’re the mother of the next King of England. D’you remember what it was like as Queen Mary came towards London and all of Jane’s court ran off towards her to tell her they were mistaken?” She laughs harshly. “How very, very sorry they were?”

“I ran, too,” I tell her. “Or at any rate, my father-in-law and husband did.”

“Mother ran. Father ran. Everyone begged her pardon. I was dragged along to make my curtsey. That’s what Elizabeth fears. Everyone has to be friends with the heir, it stands to reason. So nobody dares to move against you until they are certain that you will never be the heir, and she won’t say that either.” She puts her head on one side. “Equally, no one dares to speak for you for fear of her bad temper.”

“She can’t disinherit me,” I say.

“She doesn’t even dare to try. She speaks against us privately, but she would never bring it before parliament or even before the Privy Council. But Teddy...”

“The only way to disinherit Teddy would be to say that he was a bastard,” I say slowly.