“It opens with Pallas on a unicorn,” she says. “Elizabeth, I suppose. Followed by two women on horseback, Prudence and Temperance. Next day: Peace. Last day: Malice is thrown down and we all sing.”

I can’t help but laugh at her gloomy expression and dour description. “I am sure it will be beautiful.”

“Oh, yes, there are to be lions and elephants and all sorts. But the point of it is two women united, the friendship between two women. And the other message is that British kings inherit by blood, they’re not chosen.”

“What does she mean? Is she sending a message to Mary Queen of Scots?”

“She’s trying to. Elizabeth is telling Queen Mary that they are monarchs of Britain together, they can rule together: Mary in the north, Elizabeth in the south, and that Mary will be a sister queen and heir. She’s practically promising her the throne. She says it is passed by inheritance to the closest heir. Not by choice, not by religion, not by will.”

I take three strides across the little room till I am brought up short by the table. “Finally, she dares to openly deny me.”

“Still not open, still not denial,” Mary says angrily. “The masque is not to be performed before the people. Nobody would understand it unless they had a classical education—I’ve had to explain it to half the ladies. She doesn’t have the courage to declare herself. She is putting you aside by getting that spaniel Archbishop Parker to do her work for her; she is announcing it in a masque. She wants the court to know that you are not her heir, that you are shamed, that your son is a bastard; but she does not dare tell the country.”

“Oh dear God, Mary, has the archbishop declared that my marriage is invalid?”

“He has. And called that poor baby a bastard.” Mary nods grimly towards the cradle, where my innocent son sleeps quietly, not knowing that he is being robbed of his name. “God forgive him. She hopes that nobody will speak in support of a woman taken in lust, and nobody will turn out for a bastard baby. You are ruined, and he is disinherited. Ned, of course, is shown to be dishonorable.”

I pick up one of the puppies, and hold it under my chin for comfort. “The archbishop is a liar” is all I say.

Mary nods. “Everyone knows it.”

For a moment we sit in grim silence.

“And I have to dance in her rotten masque,” she spits. “I am in the train of Pallas on the first day, and I sit on my swing and then dance for Peace on the last. She knows what she is doing when she makes my dancing send a message to that papist Mary. Me! Jane Grey’s sister sending a message of hope to a papist heir of England.”