Elizabeth drew her furred mantle about herself, for the month was December and the vast log fire in the hearth could never quite shake off the cold at Nonsuch, for all that her father’s grand palace was impressive to look upon.For a moment she gazed upon Sir Robert Cecil, youngest son of Lord Burghley and his successor in terms of political ability. She felt no inclination to speak to the young man, who looked shorter and more deformed than ever on his knees. However distressing his looks though, there was no doubting either his loyalty or his wits. She did not know how the Privy Council would have managed if he had not tacitly taken on most of his elderly father’s duties as secretary of state.‘Very well, you may get up now,’ she told Cecil impatiently. ‘How is your father?’The young man rose to his feet with apparent difficulty. His face was sombre. ‘Still in much pain, Your Majesty, and likely to be confined to his bed until the end of the month at least. My father sends his deepest apologies and begs to be excused a short while longer from his duties at court.’‘I suppose we can make do without Lord Burghley this Christmastide,’ she agreed reluctantly, then caught a flash of something in Cecil’s face.
