‘I have another task for you,’ she said when she could speak again. ‘I want you to go with Jane Dormer to Hatfield.’

I waited.

‘Ask Elizabeth to swear on her immortal soul that if she inherits the kingdom she will keep the true faith,’ she said, her voice a tiny thread but the conviction behind the words as strong as ever.

I hesitated. ‘She will not swear,’ I said, knowing Elizabeth.

‘Then I will not name her my heir,’ she said flatly. ‘Mary Stuart in France would claim the throne with French blessing. Elizabeth has the choice. She can fight her way to the throne if she can find enough fools to follow her, or she can come to it with my blessing. But she has to swear to uphold the faith. And she has to mean it.’

‘How will I know that she means it?’ I asked.

She was too weary to turn her head to me. ‘Look at her with your gift, Hannah,’ she said. ‘This is the last time I will ask you to see for me. Look at her with your gift and tell me what is the best thing for my England.’

I would have argued but simple pity for her made me hold my tongue. This was a woman clinging on to life by the thinnest thread. Only her desire to do her duty to God, to her mother’s God, and to her father’s country was keeping her alive. If she could secure Elizabeth’s promise then she could die knowing that she had done the best she could to keep England safe inside the Holy See.

I bowed and went from the room.

* * *

Jane Dormer, still recovering from her own fever and exhausted from nursing the queen, riding in a litter, and I, with Danny astride before me, made our way north to Hatfield and noted sourly the number of fine horses who were going in the same direction as us, from the ailing queen to the thriving heir.

The old palace was ablaze with lights. There was some sort of banquet in progress as we arrived. ‘I cannot break bread with her,’ Jane said shortly. ‘Let us ask to see her, and leave.’

‘Of course we can dine,’ I said practically. ‘You must be starving, I am, and Danny needs to eat.’

She was white-faced and trembling with emotion. ‘I will not eat with that woman,’ she hissed. ‘Who d’you think is in there? Half the nobility of England clamouring for a place, her greatest friends now, the very ones who sneered at her and despised her and named her as a bastard when our queen was in her power.’

‘Yes,’ I said flatly. ‘And the man you love, Count Feria, the Spanish ambassador, who once demanded her death, among them. Now he brings love letters from the queen’s own husband. Betrayal is no new thing in England. If you won’t break bread with men with false hearts you will starve to death, Jane.’