Elizabeth: The Golden Age

Elizabeth

The Golden Age

Tasha Alexander

Author’s Note

This book is very fictional.
Although I hope it accurately portrays the characters of Elizabeth and the people who surrounded her, it should not be mistaken for a history of the period. For example, Sir Walter Raleigh was not, in fact, at the battle with the Spanish Armada, and while he and Bess did elope, it was not until after England had defeated Spain.

The following books are excellent non-fiction resources:

Elizabeth the Queen
, Alison Weir

The Men Who Would Be King: Suitors to Queen Elizabeth I
, Josephine Ross

Elizabeth I
, Alison Plowden

The First Elizabeth
, Carolly Erickson

Elizabeth I
, Christopher Haigh

Queen Elizabeth I
, Susan Doran

• • • • • •

TASHA ALEXANDER is the critically acclaimed author of And Only to Deceive and A Poisoned Season. After graduating from Notre Dame, she played nomad for several years, eventually settling with her family in Tennessee.

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Also by Tasha Alexander / Fiction:

And Only to Deceive

A Poisoned Season

Credits

Designed by Nancy Singer Olaguera, ISPN Publishing Services

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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• • • • • •

1585
—Spain is the most powerful empire in the world. Philip of Spain, a devout Catholic, has plunged Europe into holy war. Only England stands against him, ruled by a Protestant queen.

Prologue

He did not look like a king
. More like an ascetic, swathed in black, but perhaps this was fitting for a man who had just accepted such a grave and holy mission, who’d sworn to put the Lord’s will above human concerns. He abased himself before God, bowing low in the palace chapel—a lavish space, its opulence worthy of a cathedral, a perfect contrast to the utilitarian rooms of his private apartment. Art was for the glorification of God, not a pretty amusement. Full of the satisfying confidence that comes with divine direction, he rose, eager to begin.

The Spanish empire was the most powerful in Europe. Its
conquistadores
, men like Cortés and DeSoto, had no qualms about destroying the primitive natives they found in the New World, people foolish enough to trade gold for
feathers, beads, any worthless trinket. They rejoiced as they melted into coins the false idols of these heretics. Yet as great as their desire was for wealth, it paled when compared to something of far greater significance. These warriors were also meant to be crusaders, and their king, Philip, put great value on the conversion of souls.

And it was souls that consumed his thoughts as he limped through lengthy corridors beneath gracefully curved ceilings—servants darting out of his way, pressing themselves against the walls—and into a salon, where courtiers bowed, silent at the sight of their ruler, instantly aware that something of great significance had come to pass. Philip did not acknowledge them, only increased his awkward pace.

The core of the Escorial Palace near Madrid may have been monastic, but its state rooms were suitably royal, full of ornate decoration: spectacular tapestries depicting religious scenes, paintings by Titian, Bosch, and El Greco. The furniture was elaborately carved from rare woods, and gilded plaster and frescos covered the vaulted ceiling, at the base of which religious statues sat, looking as if they were contemplating the holy work conducted below them on the floor.

Ministers and members of the court fell to their knees as Philip entered his most magnificent salon, his eyes searching for one person, uttering not a word until he’d found the priest. The Jesuits were a powerful order, known for their superior schools and missionary work, and their political influence was growing, not only in Spain but in Germany and France as well, their well-educated members natural leaders of the counter-reformation. The English, a heretic nation led by an excommunicated queen, feared them, for although the Superiors of the Order had hesitated to go into Britain, once they’d begun their mission, they would stop at nothing to protect Catholic souls.

“God has made His will known to me,” Philip said, his voice full, authoritative. “The time for our great enterprise has come.”

Robert Reston, clad in his holy robes, met the king’s stare. “At last,” he murmured, gratified and determined, but too disciplined to show any emotion. He was more radical than others in his order, a person unlikely to obey the mandate of his superiors, who insisted that Jesuits in England avoid all discussion of politics and never speak against the queen. Reston remembered all too well the brutal execution of one of his holy brothers, Edmund Campion, who’d met his death in England. There were moments when he envied his friend’s martyrdom and other moments in which he longed to avenge his death. Hours of prayer did not take away the desire for revenge, confirming Reston’s belief that it must not be wrong, not in these circumstances—instead, this marriage of personal satisfaction and holy work was a divine gift. All he had been waiting for was his king’s order to begin.

From outside, the sound of cathedral bells rang, their rich tones competing with the cheers from the crowd in the plaza to fill the halls of the palace. Philip moved, instinctively regal, through open doors to a balcony, the cries of his subjects rising as he stood above them.

He did not wave.

He did not speak.

Only breathed and drank deeply the adoration flung before him.

Chapter 1

England had never before had a queen like her. Elizabeth was striking in appearance—fine red hair fell down her back and her pale complexion glowed—but it was her sharp intellect and quick wit that made her a queen worthy of her country. Her subjects were well-versed in the story of her tumultuous journey to the throne and admired her tenacity and her straightforward manner, never for a moment suspecting she was presenting them with a carefully crafted image of enduring strength.

“It’s not safe.” Lord Howard, second Baron of Effingham and cousin of the queen, spoke in a low, insistent tone as the royal barge glided along the Thames toward Whitehall Palace, a sprawling thousand-room castle that served as Elizabeth’s official home in London. Concern chiseled deep in the creases of Howard’s face, skin weathered by a youth spent at sea. “I tell you plainly, you will be murdered.”

“You would have me stay always in the palace, protected by an ocean of guards,” Elizabeth said. She hated the very idea of it. It would be like a paralyzing death. “Never come among my people. I will not do that. They must see me.”

“Every Catholic in England is a potential assassin,” he said. “And I will not be held hostage by imagined threats of violence.”

“If your stance on the Catholic threat were harder—”

“I have said it before: I refuse to make windows into men’s souls,” she replied, watching the boat’s bright silk canopy flutter as her rowers pulled, their oars rising and falling in perfect time. “There is only one Jesus Christ, and the rest is a dispute over trifles.”



The banks of the river were teeming with people, most of them smiling, waving, delighted to find themselves in such close proximity to their queen. Even the lower classes, living in poverty, adored her. To the wealthy and the new merchant class her policies brought more tangible benefits, not only monetary but intellectual, as education spread and new schools were built. And as English explorers set off for the New World, the boundaries of the beginnings of what might become an empire grew along with a heightened sense of excitement and possibility. London itself was a city brimming with opportunity.

Among the throngs of devoted subjects cheering the royal party no one took notice of two men—Anthony Babington and John Savage—who looked more intently than the rest, who stared with no admiration but hid their malice carefully as they faded into the crowd with little effort.

“Do you ever feel nervous?” Savage asked, watching the crowd. “About what we’ll face if anyone discovers us?”

“It’s quite a policy, isn’t it?” Babington kicked at the dirt beneath his shoes. “Stay quiet and let the Protestant fools mislead the people and we won’t kill you.” The Catholic minority had been warned against irritating the queen lest she turn the sword of justice on them. Those who stayed out of politics and drew no attention to themselves were safe. The rest faced torture and the scaffold. “We’re doing God’s work. It is the queen who puts herself in a dangerous position by adopting heretical views.”

“Yes. She must die.” Savage hoped his companion did not detect the fear in his voice.

“And if it is God’s will that she die, why should I be scared of the consequences for myself?” Babington asked. “If we are caught, the heretics will make us glorious martyrs. That is something I could never fear.”

Savage swallowed hard. He agreed, in theory, with everything Babington said, but was finding the reality of it slightly harder to accept. He’d heard too many stories of joints dislocated by the rack, men crushed by the scavenger’s daughter. And he’d seen firsthand what hours of hanging by the wrists did to his father. There was no mercy to be found in the Tower of London. These thoughts scared him, so he prayed, and God restored his focus, and they continued along the river, planning the details of the attack they hoped would change their world.



The boat had reached Whitehall, north of Westminster Palace. Elizabeth’s father, Henry VIII, had extensively renovated the medieval palace, adding tiltyards for tournaments and tennis courts, creating for himself a perfect royal playground. The waters of the Thames lapped against the Privy Stairs as the queen’s party disembarked to walk through mazes of courtyards and buildings whose very structure was designed to reflect the hierarchy of the court. Public rooms came first, but the farther one delved into the palace, the fewer people were admitted through the guarded doors. At the end were the queen’s private apartments, where only a select few were ever allowed.

Elizabeth stalked into the Privy Chamber, within whose stone walls the business of the realm was conducted, where her most trusted advisors, her Privy Council, surrounded her. Sir Francis Walsingham had been ambassador to France before his appointment as principal secretary over foreign and domestic concerns, but he was also her spymaster, coordinating all covert operations. She’d given him the nickname Moor because of the dark tone of his olive skin, and he’d become a friend.

“Is this what I’m to expect today?” Elizabeth asked him as she entered the room. “Endless talk of religious discord?” She knew it was unavoidable, that the fervent beliefs of her subjects, both Protestant and Catholic, could tear England apart. It was the same bloody battle raging across Europe, a battle set in motion when Martin Luther posted his 95 Theses on the door of Castle Church in Wittenberg, Germany, and hardly slowed even by the implacable violence of the Spanish Inquisition.