Right, that's it. Come on. Lights out. You've got a test tomorrow. Just two minutes. I'm about to reach the next level. It's going off now. Yeah, whatever. Let's see. Where's the app? Oh, here it is. What? How? Oh, no. You're out. Better look next time. Mom! It's game over for late nights on school nights. EE Wi-Fi controls help you get them off the Wi-Fi and into bed.

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In the first week of 1611, a small boat waited on the Thames at the kind of hour when London is awake, but not fully paying attention. One of the figures headed toward the river looked like a young

man on urgent business. Hat pulled low, a cloak that could hide most of the face, a rapier worn

the way a gentleman would wear it, not like a costume, but like a habit. Under that, men's clothing

chosen for movement rather than display.

It was Arbella Stewart. She had cut her hair. She had added a wig to finish the illusion.

She was dressed for the kind of travel that a noble woman was never meant to attempt alone

because a noble woman on the road draws eyes. A young gentleman does not. The plan was not

for her to run by herself. This was meant to be a paired escape, the sort of thing that only works

if timing holds. Her husband had his own exit to manage from inside the Tower of London. She was escaping from house arrest.

They were supposed to meet, get out fast, and be out of reach before anyone could react properly.

This is the part that people miss when they tell this story like a one-woman stunt.

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