The Fyre Mirror Read Free Page A

she seemed not only agitated but angry.
    As the queen stepped into the corridor, she saw William Cecil, with several others in his wake, bearing down on her, waving a parchment. Cecil always had queen’s business on his person, sometimes literally up his sleeve. But this paper was crushed in his fist, and that meant a show of temper her brilliant chief secretary of state seldom demonstrated.
    “Bad news, my lord?” she threw over her shoulder as she proceeded him into her privy chamber. Meg was still on the floor, doling out rose petals.
    “Hell’s teeth! Queen Mary of Scots’ envoy Lord Maitland is in Berwick and will be here in a day or so,” Cecil said so loudly that Elizabeth knew he meant his words for others. He took care not to close the door completely. “But, Your Grace,” he raged on, “this paper from a well-placed informant says she’s determined to wed Lord Darnley, no matter how much you promote the Earl of Leicester! Ah, Mistress Milligrew, I didn’t see you,” he went on in a more subdued tone. “Could you step out?”
    “Oh, of course, my lord.” Meg darted out and closed the door behind herself.
    “Did I look vexed enough?” Cecil asked the minute they were alone.
    The queen smiled grimly. Cecil had said he might put on a show for any Scottish informants who had infiltrated the court. This winter they’d had a bellyful of them lurking about and reporting every word and move to Mary, Queen of Scots.
    “’S blood, it was a fine performance, Cecil, one I warrant even my clever master of revels Ned Topside and his former Queen’s Country Players would cheer. I’ve been feeling low, but this perks me up indeed. Of course, we must still publicly ‘promote’ the Earl of Leicester with the Scots queen so that the defiant, headstrong schemer will be sure to wed that sot Darnley and be weakened from within, so to speak.”
    “But from without, we must yet fear her Scots lords and what they and our own northern Catholics could do. Those damned English papists near the Scottish border have been hoarding arms and conducting masses in secret for years.”
    “And in secret they champion my cousin Mary, who covets my country and my crown. At any cost, I cannot allow her that victory.”
    “Your plan to refuse her Darnley to make her want him all the more is brilliant, my queen. And now, your removal to the country will mean Ambassador Maitland must come to seek you there, only to be told you still will not sanction her wedding the man. The only risk in all this, of course, is that we may soon have not only Mary to fear as a magnet for Catholic rebellion, but a legal child of her body.”
    “Yes,” Elizabeth said, and turned away to the window to gaze out over the privy gardens. She pressed her flat belly hard into the jutting windowsill. “But pray do not preach to me about my own need to wed and bear a child, my lord. England,” she whispered to herself, “shall ever be both my husband and my child.”
    “What’s that about a child, Your Grace?” Cecil asked, stepping closer.
    “I said,” she added as she spun back to face him, “Gil Sharpe is no longer a child, and I’m including him with the three other artists going to Nonsuch. I cannot wait to hear his report of all things Italian.”
    “Which reminds me, the artists have asked to see you, though I put them off.”
    She heaved a sigh. “I am in need of a walk outside, so send to them that they may join me in the privy garden forthwith.”
    As Cecil bowed and left her, Elizabeth gazed out again at the greening grass and tiny buds popping on the bare limbs of trees. This winter had been a bitter one, but now that spring was here—and Gil had come home early—better times were surely soon to come.
    “Is there some concern about accompanying me to Nonsuch, or painting there al fresco?” the queen asked her three artists as they joined her in the privy gardens. “The background of the portraits must, of course, be a rich