I am summoned to the Queen’s presence. That causes a little prickle to the hair at the back of my neck because usually I am told that the queen has requested my attendance. If she is angry about something, I must always have my wits about me for her bad temper and occasional rages are in direct opposition to her usually quiet and relatively placid demeanour. Since the dreadful business of Wyatt’s uprising, though, she has not been her usual self. I hurry to her. Her ladies in waiting are busily sewing or weaving and one or two look up and give me a look or a provocative smile.
“Really, Francis, we are most unhappy,” she greets me and some of the ladies put hands in front of their mouths to hide their amusement. The queen shakes her head in annoyance.
“Come into the anteroom,” she snarls,
