It takes us all day to ride from Windsor, over the river and through the Chiltern Hills, and my happiness comes back to me as soon as I am on horseback and looking around at the green horizon, the stooks of straw in the fields, and the neat little villages where people come out to stare at the guards and at me, and my groom who rides beside me, and my maid who rides pillion behind one of the guards.

We carry no standard, so nobody knows that I am a prisoner of the queen. This is another sign of Elizabeth’s fears. She does not want the country to know that she has arrested yet another of her cousins for no good reason. From the very start of Katherine’s imprisonment people have demanded that she should be free, and complained that Margaret Douglas cannot be held because her son has married the queen’s rival. But I don’t expect anyone to call my name as they called for Katherine or called for Jane. There is no one who will ride to my rescue: my friends are all at Elizabeth’s court, in her power. My family is lost to me. My dearest and most trustworthy ally is my husband, and I don’t know where he is, nor how to get a letter to him.

Sir William Hawtrey, a good old man of nearly forty-five years, with his wealthy young wife standing behind him, greets me at the doorway of his handsome house of Chequers and takes me by the hand to lead me inside. He treats me with an odd mixture of deference—for I am sister to the only heir to the throne—and anxiety—for he has been forced to agree to keep me as his prisoner.

“This way,” he says pleasantly, leading me up the stairs to the northeast wing. He opens a door to a tiny room, big enough for a bed and a table and chair. At once, I recoil.

“Where are my rooms?” I ask him. “I cannot stay here.”

“The queen commanded it,” he says uncomfortably. “I think you are just staying for a night or two. There was no other room that was secure...” His voice trails away.

“Sir William,” I say earnestly, “I have done nothing wrong.”

“I am sure,” he says gently. “And so you are certain to be pardoned and recalled to court. This is just for a little while, a night or two.”

I look round. My maid hovers on the threshold; there is hardly room for her to serve me.

“Your maid will be housed nearby, and she will sit with you during the day, and serve your meals,” Sir William says. “You are to walk in the garden as you wish, for your health.”

“I cannot live like this,” I say.