I pack for him, throwing his things into saddlebags in a cold fury, and I send a manservant on a carthorse with food for the first day so he is not reliant on the poor fare of the Derbyshire inns. I see that he has his new hose and a change of linen in his bag, some good soap and a small traveling looking glass so he can shave on the road. I give him a sheet of paper with the latest accounts in case anyone at court chooses to see that we have been ruined by our care of the Scots queen. I curtsy to him and I kiss him goodbye as a good wife should, and all the time the words he wanted me to say to the queen, the tone of his voice when he spoke of her, and the warmth in his eyes when he thought of her eat away inside me as if I had worms.

I never knew that I was a passionate woman, a jealous woman. I have been married four times, twice to men who clearly adored me: older men who made me their pet, men who prized me above all others. I have never in my life before seen my husband’s gaze go past me to another, and I cannot reconcile myself to it.

We part coldly and in public, for he sets off from the courtyard, and though they were forbidden to see each other privately, the queen arrives as if by accident, as the guard is mounting. Devereux and Hastings come to see the little party off through the gates. But even if we had been quite alone I think it would have been no better. I could cry out at the thought that this was my darling husband, the man I loved to call “my husband the earl” only two years ago, and now he may be riding to his death and we part with a dry kiss and a chilly farewell.

I am a simple woman, not a trained clerk or a scholar. But whatever wrong they say Elizabeth has done to England, I can attest that these years of her reign have taken the very heart out of me.

TUTBURY CASTLE: MARY

JANUARY, 1570

I see from my window that Shrewsbury’s big horse is saddled for a journey, and then I see there is an armed guard waiting for him. I throw a shawl over my head and go downstairs, not even changing my shoes.

I see at once that he is going alone. Bess is white and looks sick; Hastings and Devereux are not dressed for traveling; they are clearly to stay here. I am very afraid that he is summoned to court, perhaps even arrested.

“Are you going on a journey, my lord?” I ask, trying to sound easy and unconcerned.