Elizabeth: The Golden Age

by Tasha Alexander

  I grieve and dare not show my discontent,

  I love and yet am forced to seem to hate.

  Her heart may have hurt, but she had never regretted the decision to keep the crown hers alone.

  It was the right thing to have done, the best for England. And, by definition, what was best for England was best for her. She sighed, wishing that best didn’t have to correlate with lonely.

  “I feel alone tonight, Bess,” she said.

  “I’m here with you, Majesty. And you had the entire court enchanted when you danced tonight.”

  “They’ve no choice but to be enchanted. I would allow nothing else.”

  “They’d be enchanted regardless,” Bess said, leaning close. “You’re exquisite.”

  Elizabeth stared into the mirror. “I was, once.” She touched fine lines next to her eyes. “There ought to be a magic way to erase these.”

  “You don’t need any such thing.”

  “You’re so young, Bess. You can’t yet imagine time etching itself on your perfect face. You still think yourself immune.” She reached for the girl’s cheek and started to laugh. “Be glad, my friend.”

  “Whatever I am, it’s nothing compared to all you are,” Bess said.

  “True,” Elizabeth said. “But that is perhaps why you will find more happy contentment than I ever have.” She walked to her bed and slipped between the smooth sheets; Bess pulled closed the bed’s painted silk panels, and the queen listened as the girl left the room, the door shutting with a soft click. She was left in silence, a comforting, perfect sound after the chaotic energy of the court. There were benefits to being alone, undisturbed.

  She fell asleep quickly, but the easy warmth that came with the remembrance of old loves was short-lived. Nightmares stalked her, and she awoke in the middle of the night, panting, horrified by the images in her head—half-broken bodies, death, and an ocean red with blood. She opened her eyes but couldn’t focus. The immensity of her ornate bed engulfed her, and the voice from her hideous dream seemed to echo through her chamber:

  Elizabeth! The angels weep for you, Elizabeth!

  It was Philip, her former brother-in-law, her sister’s husband. She had always hated the sound of his voice. Beads of sweat covered her forehead, and her shift was tangled and twisted between her legs. She sat up, panting, and whipped the curtains of her bed open, half-expecting to see her Spanish nemesis waiting for her. There was no one, of course, but she hardly trusted her eyes.

  Her bare feet sank into the thick carpet as she started to pace the room, pausing only to look out the window at a forlorn sliver of moon. Thoughts bombarded her, but she could make no sense of them and retreated into a state of detached consciousness, vague pictures of Spain polluting her mind. She’d never visited the country but tried to imagine the geography, the people and their houses. Most of all, though, she imagined the army, and a fleet of ships that could bring it to England.

  Tugging at her hair, she considered the motivation behind these visions. There was no question that Spain was a threat to the prosperity of her realm—it had been this way for years. So, why nightmares now? Why now, when she’d begun to feel as if a hole was gaping in her heart and wasn’t sure how to fill it? She opened the window and held her hand in the night air, the cold breeze like a salve on her too-hot skin.

  She would speak to the Spanish ambassador tomorrow, consult with her Privy Council, make sure that she was doing everything possible to strengthen her position. Her mind began to clear and the shards of unsettling fear that had come with her nightmare dissipated. She felt the calm that came from being in control and tipped back her head.

  She would not tolerate Spanish threats, even in dreams.

  

  Far south of England, light fought for passage through a dense forest, ancient trees blocking its progress. The sun the trees could stop, but they had no defense against the rhythmic motion of axe and saw wielded by an army of foresters. The hum of blades and the crash of falling limbs sent birds and animals scattering, until the only living creatures to be found were the men wreaking this havoc. A dark carriage, royal insignia on its sides, surrounded by a mounted entourage of well-armed knights, flew down a narrow road cut into the woods.

  “‘Elizabeth, you are leading the souls of your people to hell. Turn back. Marry me and save England.’ I spoke to her just as I speak to you now.” Philip smiled at his daughter. The Infanta, Isabella Clara Eugenia, only twelve years old, smiled back at the father who, despite a reputation for coldness, had always rained affection on her.

  His first son, Don Carlos, was deformed, with a hunched back and scores of physical and mental problems. His mother, Maria of Portugal, died soon after the child was born, and was spared the heartbreak of the boy’s madness. Philip never despised Carlos, tried to train him to be a king, but to little avail. Stories of the prince’s cruelty to animals and women circulated through court, as did rumors that he would not be able to have children. In the end, raging mad, he’d plotted against his father and was put in prison, where he died, only twenty-three years old.

  Philip’s second wife, Mary, Queen of England, gave him no child, and he scowled thinking about her, how he’d been led to believe she was a great beauty. How his first sight of her had taught him that portraits lie. She might have saved him from this Enterprise entirely had she done her duty and provided an heir. After Mary’s death, he married Elisabeth of Valois, sister of the king of France. She was the mother of Isabella and her younger sister, Catalina Michaela. A fourth wife—his niece, Anna—provided a son, also named Philip, who so far had proven himself nothing but lazy and uninterested.

  Isabella was his bright star, a smart, engaging, beautiful girl. She had with her today a favorite doll, more like a dressmaker’s model than a toy, fashioned to resemble England’s queen. Philip met the child’s smile, then looked away, out the window, a faint shudder rippling through him at the sight of the ravaged landscape, immense piles of timber. “Every tree that falls hurts me.” He squeezed his hands together. “I lose a part of myself. I am cursed with sensitivity. I feel too much.” Across from the king, Father Robert Reston’s expression beamed beatific pleasure as he watched the progress. “Your Majesty has a merciful soul.”

  “I sacrifice my country’s forests to save the souls of a lost nation. That is true mercy. England is lost to darkness, Father. I bring light.” The smell of smoke seeped into the carriage, coming from the fires raging as branches, now useless, burned in clearings that were rapidly replacing forest.

  He would build ships with these trees, ships that would carry an army to England and rescue the subjects he’d left behind when his late wife, Mary, queen of that country, had died. Elizabeth, the princess, now queen, had always tended toward the heretical. It was a disappointment that he’d not been able to convince her to marry him after her sister’s death. There would have been none of this nationalizing of Protestantism, no putting at risk the eternal fate of so many souls. He mouthed a quick prayer of thanks, feeling blessed that God had shown him how they could still be saved.

  The carriage passed close to the fires, the orange light of the flames reflecting on Reston’s face at the window. “The light of purifying fire,” he said, half to himself, then fixed his stare on the king. “My time has come, Majesty. Send me home.”

  Philip nodded, silent. Reston would go home and a new queen—a Catholic queen—would sit on England’s throne.

  

  Mary Stuart and her ladies had arrived at their latest prison on Christmas Eve, six months ago. Another house more like a castle—this one protected by a moat—another cell. Mary had spent her first four weeks at Chartley Hall ill, confined to bed. But now, summer had arrived, and with it, hope. One of her ladies, Annette, waited in the garden, a tiny Skye terrier yapping at her feet, his barking growing more excited when the laundress arrived, looking anxious, her eyes pinched. She handed Annette a letter, folded small, then curtsie
d and left. Annette wasted no time. She returned to the house, the dog scampering ahead of her, both eager to find their mistress.

  Inside, locked in a well-furnished room, the former queen of Scotland sat embroidering a pink satin petticoat, around her a retinue too small for a woman who had been queen: three ladies-in-waiting and a chaplain. Mary was still beautiful—auburn hair and mesmerizing blue eyes, dignified and regal. She lacked only a crown and a throne and authority. Not small points, but points she believed could be overcome. Especially now.

  “This is so pretty I’m inclined to send it as a present to my dear cousin Elizabeth.” It would not be the first gift she’d sent the English queen: elaborately embroidered petticoats and kirtles, wigs, any lovely thing Elizabeth might like. Elizabeth had sent presents in return but, despite Mary’s repeated requests, would not agree to see her cousin, who had now been in England for eighteen years.

  Annette entered the room and knelt before her mistress, holding out the letter. “My queen.”

  Mary took the paper, her hand steady as she deciphered the note. “Our friends write to give us hope.” She was used to her supporters scheming for her release, expected that loyal Catholics would do what they could to put her on the throne. But this latest plan brought hope far greater than any other: these men had gained the support of Spain.

  Stepping forward, Annette spoke in a low voice, heavy with a French accent. “Soon England’s true believers will rise up against the bastard usurper Elizabeth and slit her throat and throw her down to hell.”

  “That’s enough, Annette.” Mary sounded serious, but her eyes danced and there was laughter on her lips. “Slit her throat? Please.”

  “And when the bastard usurper is dead, my lady will be queen.” Annette’s smile was more than a little gruesome in its exuberance, but Mary relished the show of loyalty, knowing that if Elizabeth were gone, she would have a stronger claim to the English throne than anyone. She opened her mouth to reply and was silenced by a sharp, warning cough from her chaplain. The warden of Chartley Hall entered the room. Knowing full well that he appreciated his captive’s beauty, Mary gave him a teasing smile.

  “Here’s my scholarly jailer. How bored you must be, sir, by such dull company.” She held out a soft hand for him to kiss, putting the other, holding the letter, behind her back for Annette to take and hide. Sir Amyas Paulet opened the book he was carrying. “Beauty is never boring, ma’am. In the words of the poet”—he started to read—

  “Her cheeks like apples which

  the sun hath rudded

  Her lips like cherries charming

  men to bite

  Her breast like to a bowl of

  cream uncrudded—”

  “Enough!” She was careful to imbue her tone with a deliberate harshness, leaving only the smallest hint of flirtation in her voice. “You take liberties.”

  “The poet Spenser, ma’am. Not I.”

  She dropped her eyes, paused for a calculated instant, then looked up at him. “But you allow me no liberties.”

  “Command me. I am your servant.”

  “I suspect you of being determined to keep me for yourself.” Seeing that he was about to speak, she put a finger to his lips, silencing him. “Speak to Elizabeth again. Tell her my heart aches to see her.” She held up the petticoat she’d been embroidering. “Tell her how I pass my time in my lonely prison.”

  “Charming, ma’am.” Now it was his turn to pause, but there was nothing deliberate about it. He was flustered. “Distractingly charming.”

  Enjoying his response, Mary ran her hand over the cool silk, caressing it, then pressed it against her body. “Such a pretty undergarment. But for whose eyes?” Sir Amyas only stuttered, incoherent as his prisoner watched him, wicked mischief behind her smile. She could afford to play now that men of action had begun their plan.

  

  On a small back street in London, the pistol weighed heavy in John Savage’s hands as he examined it in detail, its smooth wooden curves and cool metal barrel elaborately decorated, artful beauty at odds with deadly purpose. “Show me how to load it,” he said. He’d never held such a weapon before—he’d grown up in the country, the son of a gentleman, but a poor one. A poor one who had not the sense to hide his faith, who’d been arrested and released, but not after first having suffered a brutal interrogation. A man whose complacent forgiveness of those who’d harmed him had spurred his son to action.

  The armorer took the gun in his rough hands, knuckles swollen with arthritis, skin discolored, and began the fiddly process of loading it. He measured powder from a horn, pouring it without spilling even one grain. “So what’s it for, my young friend? Not for shooting rabbits, I’m guessing,” he said, pushing the wadding and an iron ball the size of a hazelnut into the barrel.

  “We live in dangerous times,” Savage said, studying each of the armorer’s actions, memorizing what he would need to do to arm the weapon on his own.

  “We do that. They say the Papists are getting ready to murder us all, like the Pope tells them.” No one in England was ignorant of the violence Protestants had suffered in Europe. Thousands were killed in France during the St. Bartholomew’s Day massacre, and the Pope, Gregory XIII, had rejoiced. Gregory and his successor, Sixtus V, were both strong supporters of the king of Spain, whose brutality gossips painted as legendary.

  Rumor said that as Philip sat, gleeful, watching heretics burned at the stake, he’d taken no small dose of pleasure in the bloody work of the Inquisition. And rumor said that he was ready to bring what he considered the true faith to England, and with it, his fires to burn those who would not accept conversion. Rumors. Rumors that Savage knew to be false. It was the Protestants who were dangerous, who spread these lies.

  The armorer handed the pistol, now loaded, to Savage, who reached for it with trembling hands. “Afraid of the Papists, are you?”

  “I fear no man,” Savage said. “Let others fear.”

  “Right, right. That’s the attitude.”

  “The truth eventually comes out. It can’t be hidden forever. Their day may come sooner than they know.”

  “Their day? Who do you mean?” The armorer, muscles clenching as he looked at his customer, reached for the gun. “Give me the piece.”

  “I must have it.” Savage’s voice was steady, but his body betrayed him, refusing to remain calm, shaking as he clutched the pistol to his chest.

  “I’ll see you hang first,” the armorer said. Trembling, Savage raised the weapon to its maker. His finger, slick with sweat, pulsed on the trigger. He pictured the stooped form of his father—evidence of the end result of violent hatred— and unexpectedly found that he could not bring himself to fire. He felt like he would choke, and ran out the door.

  Outside, he crossed the street, still running, feeling guilt, but not pausing to meet the eyes of a familiar figure, a Jesuit priest. Reston gave no indication that he recognized the fleeing man, just started for the shop, where the proprietor, trembling, was sitting, eyes closed, drawing a long breath.

  “Who are you?” the armorer asked, looking up at the sound of footsteps.

  “I ask your forgiveness.” Robert Reston stepped forward and without hesitation twisted the man’s neck, not flinching at the hideous sound of snapping bones, the sight of the armorer’s head hanging limp.

  The souls of England’s faithful would soon be released from the grip of their heretic queen.

  His king would be pleased.

  His God would be pleased.

  Chapter 3

  Elizabeth walked every Sunday, processing from the Presence Chamber to the Chapel Royal, crowds gathering to watch, standing in deep rows, the mood jubilant. She always appreciated the adoration of her subjects. Sometimes they were at Whitehall, sometimes St. James’ Palace; the location did not matter. The Chapel Royal was not merely a building but also the priests and choir who attended to her spiritual needs, and they served her wherever sh
e might be.

  A young courtier pushed forward, stepping close to her.

  “Majesty, you are breathtaking today,” he said, bowing with a flourish. As always, she’d selected her clothing carefully, choosing gowns and jewelry that would shine through the crowd and draw all eyes to her. She’d been particularly satisfied with today’s combination, a stunning cream-colored gown with the heavy gold and jeweled chains hanging from her neck.

  “We thank you,” she said, hardly looking at him until she realized it was the Earl of Essex, Robert Dudley’s step-son, who could not have been a day over eighteen.

  “Every man in England weeps not to be at your side,” he said.

  She gave him a smile, liking the enthusiasm in his voice. It sounded sincere and boosted her mood considerably. When she spotted a little girl holding a bouquet of flowers in her hands, held back by a crush of people, she stopped and pulled the child forward, bending down to hear her speak. Around her, the crowd cheered, making it impossible to decipher the girl’s words. Elizabeth stood at her full height and motioned for silence.

  Her subjects responded at once, falling quiet. Perfect gratification.

  

  Two of Walsingham’s agents, covert, watched the spectators as they moved for a better view. They were careful, but so was someone else. A man keen to draw no attention to the bag he carried, a bag heavy for its size.

  God bless Your Majesty!

  God love you!

  See her sweet face!

  Her people fell to their knees, reached out to touch her as she neared them. Babington hung back, unobtrusive, taking note of the wall of well-armed bodyguards surrounding their royal charge. He knew exactly what to expect—he and Savage had monitored the scene for weeks, planned their course of action. But Reston, without explanation, had sent him alone today, forced him to leave Savage behind.