The heat of the fire barely reached me at my desk. Its glow gave only an illusion of warmth. Instead of thinking of Robert I turned my mind to his son, to little Robbie. That hardened my resolve to put an end to this for good, so that the plot could be foiled and Robert would return home to Ashby and his son. I finished my prayer, begging God to ensure that Robert’s plot is foiled, that lives are saved, and that no one will be caught and blamed for this treason.

My quill scuttered across the paper, spreading blots. Truly there had been no need to try to disguise my writing. It was almost unrecognizable even to me.

Byram was waiting outside the door. I had already given him the instruction; to go disguised, not to approach the house but to wait and accost Lord Monteagle’s man in the street. He must make clear how urgent the letter is, and how important. He is to tell no one.

Byram asked no questions. I gave him the letter and heard the door close behind him and his footsteps die away. Suddenly I was possessed by a terrible fear, as though the world hung by a thread in the dark realms of space. I groped for the chair and sat down again. I placed the quill in the glowing embers of the fire and watched it curl in on itself and die.

My hope that once Robert heard that his plot was known he would call it off was quickly dashed.

Hours after I had sent him, Byram returned to me as I sat silent and cold in my parlor.

“Did you deliver the letter?” I could not contain myself.

“Aye, milady,” Byram said. “Lord Monteagle read it aloud at dinner to his noble guests and then took it to Sir Robert Cecil.”

I felt an enormous wash of relief. “Then the treason will be stopped,” I said, “and the plot will be foiled.”

Byram said nothing.

“Does Robert know?” I pressed. “Does he know that Cecil is aware of the plot?”

“Aye, madam,” Byram said. “I made sure that word was carried to Mr. Catesby directly, just as you asked.”

I slumped back in the chair. “Then all may yet be well,” I said. I looked at him sharply, for I could tell that there was more. “What is it?” I questioned. “Does he realize that I was the one who betrayed them?”

“No, madam,” Byram said. “He thinks it was his cousin. He accused Sir Francis Tresham of writing the letter.”

I nodded. This was logical; Lord Monteagle was Francis’s brother-in-law after all. He might well warn him of danger.

“There was a terrible argument,” Byram said. “It was very violent. Sir Francis denied it, and he was so sincere he convinced the others of his honesty.”

I thought about this. It was unfortunate and it seemed Francis had sustained some hurt as well as the rupturing of family ties, but that was a small price to pay.