Philippa Gregory 3-Book Tudor Collection 2: The Queen’s Fool, The Virgin’s Lover, The Other Queen. Philippa Gregory

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      She let me go the next day though her resentment was as powerful as that of a child excluded from a treat. I did not know what upset her more: the gravity of her situation as the only Protestant princess in Roman Catholic England, or not being invited to the greatest event in Christendom since the Field of the Cloth of Gold. When she waved me away without a word and with a sulky turn of her head I thought that missing the party was probably the worst thing for her that morning.

      If Sir Henry’s men had not known the road to Winchester we could have found it by following the crowds. It seemed that every man, woman and child wanted to see the queen take her husband at last, and the roads were crowded with farmers bringing their produce into the greatest market in the country, entertainers setting up their pitches all along the way, whores and mountebanks and pedlars with cures, goose girls and washerwomen, carters and riders leading strings of spare horses. Then there was all the panoply and organisation of the royal court on the move: the messengers coming and going, the men in livery, the men at arms, the outriders and those galloping desperately to catch up.

      Sir Henry’s men carried reports of Elizabeth for the queen’s council, so we parted at the entrance of Wolvesey Palace, the bishop’s great house where the queen was staying. I went straight to the queen’s rooms and found a crowd of people at every doorway pushing their way forward with petitions that she might grant. I slid under elbows, between shoulders, sneaking between panelled walls and bulky squires till I reached the guards on the door and stood before their crossed halberds.

      ‘The queen’s fool,’ I announced myself. One man recognised me. He and his fellow stepped forward and let me dart in behind them and open the door while they held back the weight of the crowd.

      Inside the presence chamber it was scarcely less crowded but the clothes were more silks and embroidered leather, and the altercations were taking place in French and Spanish as well as English. Here were the ambitious and rising men and women of the kingdom jockeying for a place and anxious to be seen by the new king who would be creating a court which must – surely to God! – include at least some true-born Englishmen as well as the hundreds of Spaniards he had insisted on bringing over as his personal retinue.

      I skirted the perimeter of the hall, overhearing the snatches of conversation, which was mostly scandalous, often speculating on what the handsome young prince would make of the old queen, and I found that my cheeks were blazing with temper and my teeth gritted by the time I got to the door of her private rooms.

      The guard let me through with a nod of recognition but even inside the queen’s privy chamber there was no peace. There were more ladies and attendants, musicians, singers, escorts and general hangers-on than I had ever seen with her before. I looked around for her, still she was not there, the chair which served as her throne by the fireside was empty. Jane Dormer was in the window-seat sewing, looking as determinedly unimpressed as she had been on the day I had first met her when the queen had been a sick woman, in a court of shadows with no chance of the throne.

      ‘I have come to the queen,’ I said to her with a little bow.

      ‘You’re among many,’ she said dourly.

      ‘I’ve seen them,’ I said. ‘Has it been like this since you came from London?’

      ‘Every day there are more people,’ she said. ‘They must think her soft in the head as well as the heart. If she gave her kingdom away three times over she would not be able to satisfy their demands.’

      ‘Shall I go in?’

      ‘She’s praying,’ she said. ‘But she’ll want to see you.’

      She rose from the window-seat and I saw that she had positioned herself so that no-one could enter the queen’s narrow doorway without first going past Jane. She opened the door and peeped in, then she waved me through.

      The queen had been praying before an exquisite gold and mother-of-pearl icon, but now she was sitting back on her heels, her face calm and shining. She radiated joy as she knelt there, so calm and sweet in her happiness that anyone looking at her would have known her for a bride on her wedding day; a woman preparing herself for love.

      When she heard the door close behind me she slowly turned her head and smiled. ‘Ah, Hannah! How glad I am you have come, you are just in time.’

      I crossed the room and knelt before her. ‘God bless Your Grace on this most fortunate day.’

      She put her hand on my head in blessing in that affectionate familiar gesture. ‘It is a fortunate day, isn’t it?’

      I looked up, the glow around her was shining as brightly as sunshine. ‘It is, Your Grace,’ I said. I had no doubt of it at all. ‘I can see that it is a wonderful day for you.’

      ‘This is the start of my new life,’ she said gently. ‘The start of my life as a married woman, as a queen with a prince at my side, with my country at peace and the greatest nation in Christendom, my mother’s home, as our ally.’

      I looked up smiling, I was still on my knees before her.

      ‘And shall I have a child?’ she asked in a soft whisper. ‘Can you see that for me, Hannah?’

      ‘I am sure of it,’ I said in a voice as quiet as her own.

      Joy leaped into her face. ‘From your heart or from your gift?’ she asked me quickly.

      ‘From both,’ I said simply. ‘I am sure of it, Your Grace.’

      She closed her eyes for a moment and I knew she was thanking God for my certainty and for the promise of a future for England where there would be peace and an end to religious faction.

      ‘Now I must get ready,’ she said, rising to her feet. ‘Ask Jane to send my maids to me, Hannah. I want to get dressed.’