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“That the subscriber recognizes the Princess Elizabeth as the rightful and sole heir to the throne. That is all.”

“And, by implication, that Mary is illegitimate, because your marriage to her mother was no marriage, because it was founded on a dispensation that was false, because the party granting it had not the power to do so, because he had no power at all?”

“The implications—they are not worded! One swears only to the words as stated, not implied!”

“A lawyer’s answer. Well, then, your former Chancellor More should be able to take it readily.”

“More will take it. He is a sensible man, he will not quibble over ‘implications.’ But your ... concerned parties . . . will not be able to, as what is stated in the Oath is what is odious to them, not what is implied.”

“God will have to sustain them.” He smiled smugly. “And God’s agents,” he added.

“So you threaten me? Of course. I thank you for your honesty.” I dismissed him as easily as in a palace audience. He understood the rules.

I rode by myself in silence. All around me the February afternoon was piercingly bright and seemingly benign. The same winter that had sought to kill me two days ago now wooed me with all her skill. She displayed the pure blue sky that was her trademark, and all the play of light peculiar to herself: the shadows that were blue, not black; the yellow-red syrup of sun lying in little pools and cups of snow-formed landscape; the dazzling glow of a mound of snow, seemingly pulsating from within. Then London appeared on the horizon.

It was time for yet another audience. I motioned Henry Howard to come to me. He galloped up to my side, his pretty face seeming even more fresh than the snow.

“You are of an age with my son,” I said. Mary was lost to me, but not Henry Fitzroy. I must not neglect one for the heartbreak of the other. “You were born in 1517, am I correct?” I knew I was. I was master of just such minutiae.

“Yes.” He was surprised, then flattered, as we all are when someone remembers a personal fact about us.

“Seventeen. My son, Henry Fitzroy, is two years your junior. I would give him a companion to share tutors and pastimes with. Would you find that to your liking? I would treat you as princes together, at Windsor. What say you?”

“I say—I say yes,” he said. “Oh, yes!”

Two not-quite-princes, but both having princely blood. “Good. My son needs a noble friend. And you, I think, need to be with others of your age and station. Both of you have been too long confined with women and old men.”

His laugh told me I was right. “In the spring you shall come to Windsor,” I said. “Directly after the Order of the Garter ceremony, in which both you and he shall take your places in that noble company.” In one offhanded phrase I had elevated him to the highest order of knighthood in thme tds attention and affection. As does Henry Howard. They are both sorely neglected.”

“Henry the Good Samaritan,” she mocked—or did she? “That is not as others perceive you.”

“If you are to be Queen,” I reminded her, “you must cease to be concerned with how ignorant people perceive you. Only be concerned with how God, who sees all, perceives you.”

We finished our stew—it was delicious, seasoned with herbs I could not identify—in silence. Then I said, “Parliament opens two days from now. They will be enacting the bills concerning our marriage and Elizabeth’s primacy of succession.”

This is the moment, I wanted to say. The moment that makes my love for you a matter of law. And treason. My private passion had become a concern of lawmaking bodies.

“This Oath that will be required . . . it will first be administered in Parliament.”

“And then to everyone.” Her voice was calm.

“All it will require is that . . . that the person swears that Elizabeth is the heir to the throne, excepting any sons we may have.”

“So simple. How many words?”

“Twenty, thirty. But . . . there are meanings behind the words. We know what those meanings are. There will be some, perhaps many”—how many?—“who may find it difficult to