The little Secretary eased his aching, misshapen shoulder into the specially padded rear cushion of his chair, laid the heavy book across his lap and turned over the front cover.
     'To my lord Essex, from his loving friend, Robert Cecil,' he read.
     He had written those words almost three decades before, when he had sought the attention of a boy, younger than him that had come to his father's household as one of the many Wards of Court.  The young Lord Essex had been the most splendid of all those boys, for despite penury and well-worn attire, he managed with his beautiful face and effortless charm to win the affection of many, including the stunted son of the famous Lord Burghley.  There had been a part of Cecil that was envious, for of course he knew he was a pitiful creature to look at and no woman would ever sigh over him nor praise his prowess in the tiltyard.  And yet, he had loved the boy with a fierceness that had surprised him.  And though some would scoff, he loved him still.
He turned some pages at random.  His breath caught in his throat.  Essex's handwriting, there in the margins.  It had not been written recently; the letters were almost clumsy, lacking the style of the adult.  Essex had probably written them soon after Cecil made him a present of the book.  Comments such as wonderful, heroic, foolish and the little Secretary thought how aptly they could be used to describe the Earl.
      No, he would not allow himself to feel this way.  He snapped the book shut and threw it across the desk.  Why should he feel so?  Essex had rebelled and tried to remove him from office with accusations of treason.  They were ridiculous claims and had never been taken seriously, just as another of the earl's ravings.  And after all, it was not him who had signed the death warrant.  If it were up to him, he would leave the Earl in prison, in the Tower probably.  But it wasn't up to him.  The Queen had signed.  It was she who would not relent, she who would not forgive.
     He saw the latch on the door lift.  It opened.
Elizabeth Tudor stood in the doorway. Her wig, unnaturally red and impossibly coiled, sat askew on her head.  White strands of thin hair showed beneath, webbing over a liver-spotted scalp.  The white lead makeup she used to mask the signs of advancing age, was streaked and patchy, and the red dye on her lips bled over their boundaries to stain her chin.  One of a pair of pearl earrings was missing, possibly lost in the folds of her bodice, hanging open, revealing a stained and creased shift.  The shock of her appearance passed and he realised he was still seated.  He moved to get up, but she waved him to be still and entered his room.
      'You're here early, Pygmy,' she said, shuffling past him to the window and pressing her forehead to the glass.
      'I have a lot of work, madam.'
      'You always have work.  Always working.  Is that work?'  She turned and pointed to the book.
      He laid his fingers over the silk cover.  'No.  It's Malory.  The Earl's copy.'
      'Huh,' she snorted softly.  'That's his favourite book.  Many a night he read -'.  She broke off and turned back to the window.  'What time is it?'
      Cecil glanced at the clock on his desk, given to his father by the Queen ten years earlier.  'Not quite the hour.'  She nodded.  'Madam, if I may, you are not minded to rescind the order?'
      She looked at him, a plucked eyebrow arching.  'Would you have me do that?'
      He shrugged, as if it was a matter of little importance.  'By law, he is rightfully condemned.  I merely thought your fondness for the Earl-'
      'My fondness ended when he tried to depose me,' she snarled.  'Would you have me free such a traitor?'
      'Not free, no,' he protested, getting to his feet, 'but imprisonment.  Would that not be punishment enough?'
      'Have you turned lawyer now, Pygmy?' Elizabeth grinned horribly.  'Are you playing the advocate for your old friend?'
      Church bells across London began to chime the eighth hour.
      'You're too late, Pygmy.  Those bells are his death knell.'
      He fell back into his chair, wincing as his shoulder jarred against the wood.  Elizabeth knocked a quick tattoo on the windowsill, cast a long, wondering look at the silent Cecil, and left, closing the door behind her.  He heard the rustle and scrape of her dress on the floorboards, the slapping of her slippers as she made her way to her music room, a few doors along the corridor.  Moments later, he heard her playing a merry tune upon the virginals.
      The little Secretary buried his face in his hands and wept.