A Traitor's Tears Read Free

placed, I saw, in an equivalent position to ourselves, someone I knew. It was Anthony Cobbold’s friend Roland Wyse, who was now one of Cecil’s assistants, though I didn’t know why, since he had originally been attached to Francis Walsingham. It puzzled me that he was not in France, where Walsingham now was.
    I knew Wyse fairly well, since we had met last year during the process of unravelling the plot which tomorrow would bring Norfolk to the block. He had errands in Surrey sometimes and he usually seized the chance of calling both on Anthony Cobbold and myself. I rather wished he wouldn’t for he was much given to boastful accounts of life at court, and would talk at length about his ambitions and his hopes for future advancement, and I found this tedious.
    He was capable of charity; I had seen him giving alms to somebody in need which was a point in his favour, yet I could not like him and neither could Brockley. Wyse had sandy hair and a snub-nosed face that at first sight looked boyish, until you noticed his pugnacious jawline and the coldness of his stone-coloured eyes. Brockley had once said that Wyse looked like an assassin. He noticed me and bowed in my direction. I bowed back.
    Seated at the top table were a number of dignitaries, and among them, to my surprise, was Sir Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, who I knew usually took meals in his own apartments. He was a man for rich and colourful clothing but today, though his velvet doublet was rich enough, if rather too hot for a June evening, it was dark blue.
    I realized suddenly how muted was the atmosphere in the dining hall. It was usually lively with talk and very often musicians would play while the diners ate, but not this evening. Voices were quiet and not only Leicester had chosen a sombre outfit. I myself had instinctively chosen a dark brown dress, lightened only by a cream kirtle, while Sybil was in black and white. The impending execution was affecting everyone, I thought, and perhaps Dudley was here because in such circumstances, people draw together.
    I could understand it. Norfolk was in his prime, and he had been popular. He had been married three times, though none of his wives were long-lived. His marriages had brought him three sons and two daughters, and three stepdaughters to whom I knew he had been a conscientious guardian. His third wife had died five years ago and it was after that that his romantic fantasies about Mary Stuart had begun. John Ryder had been right, I thought, to call him foolish rather than wicked.
    His death was timed for the morrow, at eight o’clock in the morning. We rose shortly after daybreak. John Ryder was coming to escort me, but as I had said, back in Hawkswood, Brockley would come with me as well. Dale and Sybil would stay in our lodgings.
    As I prepared to set out, I looked at myself in a mirror and noticed how the years were changing me. My hair was still dark and glossy, but my eyes, which were hazel, had little lines round them and a wary expression. This morning, they also looked large and dark, and my face – it was triangular, not unlike the queen’s in shape – was pale. Sybil, coming into the room to see if I were ready to go to breakfast, said: ‘Ursula, you look tired. Did you sleep badly?’
    â€˜Not too well,’ I admitted, ‘though I wanted to sleep. The long ride yesterday was tiring. I don’t think I’ve quite regained my strength after having Harry, even though it was much easier than I expected.’ I had had trouble in childbirth on previous occasions, and until Harry arrived, my married daughter Meg was my only surviving offspring.
    â€˜You hate all this,’ Sybil said. ‘We all do. But one
can’t
refuse the queen.’
    â€˜No, I know. I hate being back at court, too,’ I told her.
    Sybil, who rather enjoyed the contact with glamour that such visits brought, looked surprised. ‘You hate being at court? But