Free Just a Queen by Jane Caro Page A

grey-bearded men with degrees from universities asked me to make decisions. I tried hard to make good ones, but always feared that I knew nothing and that many mocked me quietly behind my back. Perhaps that is why I felt so compelled to prove my virtues to my cousin’s representative.
    In the grip of my idea and the wine, I got up from the banqueting table, feigning tiredness, but as I left the room, I signalled for my cousin, Lord Hunsdon, to follow me. ‘In a few minutes’ time, contrive to bring Sir James Melville to the gallery near my virginals. I will be playing upon them. I want you to tell Sir James this because I will be behind the tapestry so he will not be able to see me. Will you do this?’
    â€˜Of course, Your Grace.’
    â€˜Give me a few moments to begin, and then bring him hither.’
    Of course, I played out my little charade and my song. Sir James professed surprise upon discovering me and I simpered with maidenly modesty at being so discovered. (I suspect I was about as convincing as one of Master Shakespeare’s boy actors playing the heroine.) I bade him kneel on a cushion and listen as I went through my repertoire and then, of course, I asked him which queen played the better. He showered me with compliments, yet, although it was precisely what I had wanted, I found it all a little hollow. When I woke the next morning, despite my pounding head and the foul taste in my mouth, I only turned truly sick when I remembered my desperate showing off to the Scottish ambassador. Then, I groaned aloud and pulled the covers over my head.
    My foolishness was not cured by my shame, however. A few nights hence I contrived to have Sir James surprise me again as I danced a particularly athletic and demanding figure. Once again, I asked him which queen was the lightest on her feet and he again awarded the prize to me. And even as I kept relentlessly pushing the poor man to measure two queens against one another, part of me felt embarrassed and humiliated. I hated revealing myself so nakedly and yet I felt compelled to do so.
    Fortunately my humiliations were as nothing compared with the self-inflicted disasters that were about to befall my cousin.
    â€˜Henry Darnley has applied for a passport.’ Cecil and I were going through the list of tasks for the day.
    â€˜Good riddance,’ I said without looking up from my quill.
    â€˜He wishes to travel to Scotland.’
    Now I did raise my eyes. Henry Darnley was the son of Margaret Lennox, the daughter of my father’s older sister, Margaret, and so a cousin of the Queen of Scots and, of course, also of mine.
    â€˜What say you, Sir Spirit?’ I stretched my ink-stained fingers to loosen the knotted and cramped muscles in my hands.
    He is a quick-witted man, but a slow and cautious speaker. ‘He is a drunkard and a wastrel, too full of his own importance. He will not be missed at this court, but he could cause trouble in Scotland.’
    â€˜Aye, my lord, but trouble for whom? He is a good-looking young man and I remember his fair face towering above the courtiers when they stood in a cluster. He must be taller by half a hand than the Queen of Scots.’ I knew, as only another woman could, that the Queen of Scots would not willingly marry a man of lesser stature than she was herself.
    â€˜He will, of course, pay his respects to his cousin on his arrival.’
    â€˜Indeed, Your Grace. In fact, I have been informed that his mother has filled his head with ideas that he should seek the hand of the royal lady.’
    â€˜No doubt, for they say he inherited his wits from his addle-headed mother. He is a Catholic, of course.’
    â€˜Of course.’
    â€˜Should we be troubled by this possible alliance, my Spirit? Or would it be politic to let my cousin go to the devil in her own way?’
    Cecil scratched at his chin with the feather of his quill as he often did when deep in thought. ‘There is no good reason to