Queen Mary’s face is as open as a child’s. “I have never lied to you, Chowsbewwy,” she says sweetly. “You know I have always insisted that I be allowed to write privately to my friends and to my family. You know I have admitted that they are forced to write to me secretly and I to reply. But I have never plotted against the Queen of England, and I have never encouraged rebellion of her subjects. You can ask me what you wish. My conscience is clear.”

“Do you know a Florentine named Roberto Ridolfi?” Sir Peter says quietly.

“I have heard of him, but I have never met him nor had any correspondence with him.”

“How have you heard of him?”

“I have heard that he lent the Duke of Norfolk some money,” she says readily.

“D’you know what the money was for?”

“For his private use, I think,” she says. She turns to me. “My lord, you know I do not have letters from the duke anymore. You know he has abandoned our betrothal and sworn allegiance to the queen. He broke his betrothal to me and deserted me, on the command of his queen.”

I nod. “That’s true,” I say aside to Sir Peter.

“You have had no letters from him?”

“Not since he broke his promise to me. I would not receive a letter from him if he wrote it, not since he rejected me,” she says proudly.

“And when did you last hear from the Bishop of Ross?” Sir Peter asks her.

She frowns, trying to remember. “Lord Chowsbewwy would recall, perhaps. His letters are always delivered to me by Lord Chowsbewwy.” She turns to me. “He wrote to say he was safely back in London after visiting us at Chatsworth, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” I confirm.

“And you have not heard from him since?”

Again she turns to me. “I don’t think so. Have we? No.”

Sir Peter gets to his feet and puts his hand against the warm stone wall as if to steady himself. “Have you had any letters from the Pope or from Philip of Spain or any of their servants?”

“Do you mean ever?” she asks, a little puzzled.

“I mean this summer. I mean in the past few months.”

She shakes her head. “Nothing. Have they written to me and their letters gone astray? I think Lord Burghley spies upon me and steals my messages, and you can tell him from me that it is wrong to do so.”

Sir Peter bows to her. “Thank you for your courtesy in talking with me, Your Grace. I will leave you now.”

“I have a question for you,” she tells him.

“Yes?”