She rose to her feet. ‘Walk with me,’ she commanded.

We went through the ramshackle palace and through the door which hung, half off its hinges, into the garden, she leaned on me and I felt her weakness. The grass was sprawled over the path, there were nettles thrusting up in all the ditches. Elizabeth and I made our way through the ruin of the garden like two old women, clinging to each other. For a moment I thought that her fears were true: that this imprisonment would be the death of her, even if the queen did not send for the executioner and his axe. We went through the swinging gate and into the orchard. The petals from the blossom were spilled over the grass like snow, the boughs leaned down with their creamy weight. Elizabeth looked around the orchard before she put her hand in my arm and drew me to her.

‘I am ruined,’ she said softly. ‘If she bears a son to him, I am ruined.’ She turned from me and walked across the grass, her shabby black gown brushing the damp petals which clung to the hem. ‘A son,’ she muttered, cautious even in her chagrin to keep her voice low. ‘A damned Spanish son. A damned Catholic Spanish son. And England an outpost of the Spanish empire, England, my England, a cat’s-paw of Spanish policy. And the priests back, and the burnings beginning, and my father’s faith and my father’s legacy torn out of English earth before it has time to flower. Damn her. Damn her to hell and her misconceived child with her.’

‘Lady Elizabeth!’ I exclaimed. ‘Don’t say that!’

She rounded on me, her hands up, her fists clenched. If I had been closer, she would have hit me. She was in such a passion she was beyond knowing what she was doing. ‘Damn her, and damn you too for standing her friend.’

‘You must have thought it might happen,’ I started. ‘The marriage was agreed, he would not delay for ever . . .’

‘Why would I think that she would marry?’ she snapped. ‘Who would have her? Old and plain, named as a bastard for half her life, half the princes of Europe have refused her already. If it was not for her damned Spanish blood, Philip would never have had her. He must have begged to be excused. He must have gone down on his knees and prayed for any fate rather than to be forced to stick it up that old dried-up virgin.’

‘Elizabeth!’ I exclaimed, I was genuinely shocked.

‘What?’ Her eyes were blazing with temper. For a moment I believed that she did not know what she was saying. ‘What’s wrong with telling the truth? He is a young handsome man who will inherit half of Europe, she is a woman old before her time and old enough anyway. It is disgusting to think of them rutting together like a young piglet on an old sow. It is an abomination. And if she is like her mother she will bear nothing but dead babies.’