The queen is listless in her privy chamber at Whitehall. I hand her papers that she signs quickly, automatically, without even glancing at the contents. She is well attired indeed, dressed in her finest with an array of jewels that would brighten and gleam in the lowest dungeon. Only her face betrays her mood, lined and world-weary as she continues to grieve deeply for the baby that never was. But mostly for Philip, the king whom she misses, it would seem, every moment of every day.
“Do you go to see my Lord Chancellor on his sickbed?” she asks, quietly turning over a vessel of colourful venetian glass in her hands.
“I do,” I respond. “I had not realised he was so ill.”
“Nearing death, I am reliably informed,” she replies, voice little more than a sad whisper.
“Surely not?”
“I spoke t
