“I cannot see that there is anything you can do, madam,” Byram said, “other than return home like the other wives and mothers, and wait to see what transpires.”

It had been the traditional role for women since time immemorial in battle or conflict or rebellion. Watch and wait, suffer and grieve. My mind ran feverishly over alternatives. It was out of the question to betray Robert directly to the queen’s ministers. That way the plot would be stopped, but Robert would surely die. I could not do such a thing. Yet perhaps I could give a warning, anonymously, privately, to those I loved.

So here I was. “My Lord, out of the love I bear to some of your friends...” A faint scent of syrup rose from the ink, catching in my throat.

My nephew by marriage, William Parker, Lord Monteagle, was one such who would perish in the parliament along with his king if Robert’s plan succeeded. I shuddered at the vision of explosion and fire, men’s bodies torn apart, the indiscriminate slaughter. His wife, Elizabeth, and their children would be left unprotected and alone. There would be many more like them, widowed, orphaned.

“...The danger is passed as soon as you have burnt this letter. And I hope God will give you the grace to make good use of it...”

I reflected that William Parker was not a clever man, but he was a self-important one. He would see the threat and would send word immediately to the king’s advisors, to Lord Cecil, whose mind was sharper than a whetted knife. Robert would get wind that the plot had been uncovered and would call off his plans.

I got up to put another log on the fire. I felt old and my bones ached. The damp of London autumn seeped into the chill heart of me. The firewood was damp too; it hissed and belched acrid smoke into the room. I shivered, tucking my hands into the wide sleeves of my gown to try to warm them and stop the shaking. A vivid image flashed across my mind’s eye: Robert as a child in his baptismal robes, so warm, rounded and smiling, a happy boy who had grown into the charming young man who could draw all others to him. Robert, the dark star, intense and passionate. How many times had I wondered how that burning fervor of his had changed into a destructive force that threatened us all? I had lost count and I understood him no better now than I had at the beginning.

Would Robert Cecil unmask the plotters?

It was the greatest risk and I heard my late husband’s voice reproach me:

“How can you place our son in such danger, Nan?”

I knew it was dangerous. That was why I was trembling. I was also praying: “Dear God, you know my reasons are pure. Save Robert from himself and the rest of us from his recklessness. See into my heart and know I am true...”