The Other Queen. Philippa Gregory

good to me and I have six still living. My oldest daughter, Frances, has a babe in arms, they called her Bessie for me. I am a grandmother as well as a mother. And I expect to have more grandchildren.’

      She nods. ‘Then you must think as I do, that a woman who makes herself a barren spinster is flying in the face of God and her own nature, and cannot prosper.’

      I do think this; but I am damned if I would say it to her. ‘I think the Queen of England must do as she prefers,’ I declare boldly. ‘And not all husbands are good husbands.’

      I am speaking at random, but I score such a hit at her that she falls silent and then to my horror I see that she has looked away from her sewing and there are tears in her eyes.

      ‘I did not mean to offend you,’ she says quietly. ‘I know full well that not all husbands are good husbands. Of all the women in the world I would know that.’

      ‘Your Grace, forgive me!’ I cry out, horrified by her tears. ‘I did not mean to distress you! I was not thinking of you! I did not mean to refer to you or your husbands. I know nothing of your circumstances.’

      ‘You must be unique then, for every ale house in England and Scotland seems to know everything about my circumstances,’ she snaps, brushing the back of her hand across her eyes. Her lashes are wet. ‘You will have heard terrible things about me,’ she says steadily. ‘You will have heard that I was an adulteress against my husband with the Earl of Bothwell, that I urged him to murder my poor husband, Lord Darnley. But these are lies. I am utterly innocent, I beg you to believe me. You can watch me and observe me. Ask yourself if you think I am a woman that would dishonour herself for lust?’ She turns her tear-stained beautiful face to me. ‘Do I look like such a monster? Am I such a fool as to throw honour, reputation and my throne away for the pleasure of a moment? For a sin?’

      ‘Your life has been much troubled,’ I say weakly.

      ‘I was married as a child to the Prince of France,’ she tells me. ‘It was the only way to keep me safe from the ambitions of King Henry of England, he would have kidnapped me, and enslaved my country. I was brought up as a French princess, you cannot imagine anything more beautiful than the French court – the houses and the gowns and the wealth that was all around me. It was like a fairytale. When my husband died it all ended for me in a moment, and then they came to me with the news that my mother had died too; and I knew then that I would have to go home to Scotland and claim my throne. No folly in that, I think. No-one can reproach me for that.’

      I shake my head. My women are frozen with curiosity, all their needles suspended and their mouths open to hear this history.

      ‘Scotland is not a country that can be ruled by a woman alone,’ she says, her voice low but emphatic. ‘Anyone who knows it knows that to be true. It is riven with faction and rivalry and petty alliances that last for the length of a murder and then end. It is barely a kingdom, it is a scatter of tribes. I was under threat of kidnap or abduction from the first moment that I landed. One of the worst of the noblemen thought to kidnap me and marry me to his son. He would have shamed me into marriage. I had to arrest him and execute him to prove my honour. Nothing less would satisfy the court. I had to watch his beheading to prove my innocence. They are like wild men, they respect only power. Scotland has to have a merciless king, in command of an army, to hold it together.’

      ‘You cannot have thought that Darnley …’

      She chokes on an irresistible giggle. ‘No! Not now! I should have known at once. But he had a claim to the English throne, he swore that Elizabeth would support him if we ever needed help. Our children would be undeniable heirs of England from both his side and mine; they would unify England and Scotland. And once I was married I would be safe from attack. I could not see otherwise how to protect my own honour. He had supporters at my court when he first arrived, though later, they turned against him and hated him. My own half-brother urged the marriage on me. And yes – I was foolishly mistaken in him. He was handsome and young and everyone liked him. He was charming and pretty-mannered. He treated me with such courtesy that for a moment it was like being back in France. I thought he would make a good king. I judged, like a girl, on appearances. He was such a fine-looking young man, he was a prince in his bearing. There was no-one else I would have considered. He was practically the only man I met who washed!’ She laughs and I laugh too. The women breathe an awed giggle.

      ‘I knew him. He was a charming young man when he wanted to be.’

      She shrugs her shoulders, a gesture completely French. ‘Well, you know. You know how it is. You know from your own life. I fell in love with him, un coup de foudre, I was mad for him.’

      Silently, I shake my head. I have been married four times and never yet been in love. For me, marriage has always been a carefully considered business contract, and I don’t know what coup de foudre even means, and I don’t like the sound of it.

      ‘Well, voilà