Free Queen Elizabeth's Daughter by Anne Clinard Barnhill Page A

spend with him these days,” said Mary.
    “I can understand his feelings of envy. I would feel that way, too, if you were my mistress,” said Oxford. There was no mistaking his meaning.
    Mary straightened up and faced him.
    “You flatter yourself, sir. For I shall be no man’s mistress. God’s teeth, I should rather remain a maid!” Mary said.
    “ God’s teeth. You sound exactly like our esteemed queen—I do believe she has forced her unnatural ways onto you! Surely you know a woman’s best use is as a wife and mother, to be subject to her lord, her husband,” said Oxford.
    “I know that is preached from the pulpit, but I have also noticed that is not the true way of things—at least, not at Elizabeth’s court. As I am her ward, it is only right I should reflect those ways she has taught by her example,” said Mary. She turned from him and strode over to Tom . She opened the gate and Tom jumped on her. She went to her knees and hugged him around the neck, accepting his canine kisses with smiles and sweet words. She noticed Oxford still standing near the puppies.
    “I shall take my dog walking now, milord. Thank you for showing me your pups,” she said flatly.
    “Perhaps I shall see you this evening after we sup. I should enjoy very much dancing with you again,” he said.
    “I do not think so, milord. I have much work to do on the queen’s behalf this evening,” said Mary as she tied the leash around Tom and sauntered out of the kennels.
    *   *   *
    A fortnight later, Mary had joined the queen to listen and observe as Her Majesty met with her councillors. That particular afternoon, Master Cecil was going on and on about how Parliament had given the queen permission to marry whomever she pleased, whenever she pleased years ago, and still the queen remained unwed. Mary sat on cushions at the queen’s feet and stifled a yawn. The afternoon was hot, though the windows were open and a slight breeze drifted in and out. Cecil continued to prate about the unhappy Catholics in the north and the one beacon who drew them to her, Mary, Queen of Scots. Mary watched as his face grew more and more red, up to the very hairs of his head. She glanced up at the queen, who was also pinkish, the familiar look of a rage about to erupt on her features.
    Ever since the queen had hinted she might make Mary a noble marriage, the girl had felt the weight of the world on her shoulders. Her appetite had left her and she had grown pale. At times, she felt haughty and proud; then, quickly, terrified. Now, the queen insisted she meet with these men of import and listen as the problems of the realm were discussed. Even Sweet Robin seemed more solemn than usual—he didn’t wink his eye at her or even smile. The one consolation was that Mary had noticed a new young man among those gathered around the queen. He was incredibly handsome with yellow hair that hung rakishly over his forehead, almost into his eyes. And those eyes—the same shade as the aquamarine jewels in one of the queen’s necklaces. He did not seem to notice Mary at all, but kept his gaze on the queen and her councillors. Mary began to imagine speaking to him, but her reverie was quickly ended when the queen erupted in anger.
    “God’s breath! You continue to plague me about getting an heir. And how has getting an heir helped the Scottish queen? She sits at Tutbury all but in prison while her babe sits on her throne,” shouted the queen.
    Her Majesty rose and pounded the table in front of her with the palm of her hand.
    “I shall seek to marry at the time God chooses—God and no other!” said the queen.
    “Your Grace, if you wait for God, you will be past the time for childbearing,” said Sir James Croft, a longtime supporter of the queen. An older man with thick gray hair on his head and a full, white beard, Sir James spoke in a voice that sounded like one of the desert prophets—low, deep, and resonant. And behind Sir James stood Mary’s mysterious