“That is why I have come to you, my lord,” he says uncomfortably. “There are insufficient funds in the treasure house here at Wingfield.”

“Well, send to one of the other houses,” I say. “They must have coin.”

He shakes his head.

“They don’t?”

“It has been an expensive year,” he says tactfully. He says nothing more but this is the same old song that Bess sings to me—the expenditure on the queen and the fact that the court never reimburses us.

“Can we extend the debt for another year? Just to tide us over?” I ask. “Till we get back to normal again?”

He hesitates. “I have tried. The terms are worse, we would pay more interest, but it can be done. They want the woods on the south side of the river as security.”

“Do it then.” I decide quickly. I cannot be troubled with business, and this is a temporary difficulty until the queen repays us what she owes. “Extend the debt for another year.”

WINGFIELD MANOR: BESS

SEPTEMBER, 1569

I have a letter from my son Henry, an astute observer who reports to me. The court is on summer progress, which seems to have become a nightmare journey of suspicion and entrapment. The summers used to be the high point of the court year when we were all young and happy and in love and went hunting every day and dancing every night. Our fears have spoiled everything: we have destroyed our own joys ourselves, our enemies need do nothing. Nobody from beyond our borders needs to threaten us with destruction, we are already terrified of our own shadows.