Elizabeth: The Golden Age (2 page)

“It is necessary, Majesty,” Walsingham said. “But there is another matter—”

She saw the papers in his hands and cut him off. “Not now, Moor. We’ll discuss it later. Much later.” He had brought her another petition begging her to choose a husband—she’d recognized it at once. Marriage and religion, the two favorite topics of her ministers, the least favorite of hers. She liked to say that her father, who’d taken six wives, had married enough for both of them, but she alone appreciated the humor of this statement. “Let me deal with Howard and his concerns.”

Walsingham bowed and stood to the side, watching as the queen joined her other advisors seated around a long refractory table beneath an enormous portrait of Henry VIII, the painted image staring at them through small eyes.

“The Catholic faction grows bolder every day, Majesty,” Lord Howard said.

“Bolder how?” Elizabeth asked. This was Howard’s typical stance, and she anticipated he would next bring up lingering memories of a Catholic uprising among the earls in northern England—a rebellion Howard had helped to quell—as a beacon of warning.

“The Spanish speak openly of Mary Stuart as Queen of England in waiting,” Howard continued.

William Cecil, Lord Burghley, who’d been at her side from the time of her coronation, nodded. “She is dangerous, Majesty.”

This was not the direction she’d expected the conversation to move, and she did not like it. The beginnings of anger crept into her stomach and she slapped her hand on the table. “Mary Stuart is a queen cast out by her own ungrateful nation.” A revolt in Scotland years ago had delivered Mary from her third husband, James Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell, a brutal and abusive man, but left her a prisoner, forced to abdicate her throne to her young son, James. Escape to England had provided little respite.

“Mary Stuart is the arch-plotter at the heart of every Papist plot,” Sir Christopher Hatton—whom she called Lids—said.

Elizabeth closed her eyes, stopped listening. She could recite his litany herself. The previous year, the former Scottish queen had accused him of being Elizabeth’s lover, but she knew his opinion of Mary was not formed simply out of bias or desired revenge. Mary provided Catholics in England with a potential Papist queen, one ready to act, primed for sedition. Elizabeth should tread very carefully and take heed of the warnings her ministers brought. She was so tired of all of it.

“Mary is my cousin. She is our guest. You will pay her the respect due to her rank.” Guest. It was, perhaps, an extraordinary choice of word to describe a woman who for nearly twenty years had been shuffled from prison to prison. Her cells may have been in castles and country estates, yet they nonetheless held her against her will. But as exhausted as Elizabeth was by all this, she was no fool. She recognized the dangers posed by Mary. It was unfortunate, though, that her advisors refused to see the inherent difficulties caused by holding a sovereign queen prisoner.

“All Catholics are traitors,” Hatton said. “Why do we leave them free to practice their Papist religion? They should all hang.” Free. Elizabeth smiled at realizing that she was not the only one using ill-chosen words.

The public celebration of the Catholic mass was illegal, and though she tacitly tolerated its practice in private, this was a long leap from religious freedom, and she knew it. Furthermore, she’d let herself be persuaded to change the recusancy laws. Now, instead of being fined a shilling per week, those who did not attend Anglican services on Sundays were fined twenty pounds per month. It did not please her to do such things, but they were necessary. Still, she would not be pressured when she did not want to be.

“How many Catholics are there in England, sir?” she asked. Her face, the beginnings of wrinkles showing her age, was serious, her blue eyes rimmed by lashes so pale they were nearly white.

“Immense numbers, Majesty. Some say half the nation clings to the old superstitions.” Hatton met her stare with an even calm.

“What would you have me do? Hang half the people of England, or just imprison them?” she asked. Walsingham still hung back, not entering the conversation, and Burghley had risen from the table to stand next to him.

Half the nation. A nation that remembered all too well the brutal religious persecution ordered by Elizabeth’s predecessor and Papist half-sister, Mary I: burnings, torture, all hideous justice in the name of God. The Catholics had their turn at bloody power during Mary’s reign, and the proud woman seated in the Privy Chamber had no intention of letting the Protestants follow, unchecked, the same ugly course. But spectacular executions were still far from uncommon, like those, four years earlier, when three Catholic priests—Edmund Campion, Alexander Bryant, and Ralph Sherwin—had suffered unspeakable torture in the dungeons of the Tower of London before they were hanged, drawn, and quartered.

They’d met a traitor’s death, witnessed by faithful supporters who collected drops of the martyrs’ blood and any other grisly relics they could. Supporters who would not soon forget how the law acted against holy men wearing the wrong robes. Religious persecution was far from finished.

“I would not have you hang all of them, Majesty,” Howard said. “But we must show our resolution. We must act against the more extreme elements.”

Skepticism leached through the heavy, white lead paint on the queen’s face. “And how are we to know these extreme elements?”

“By their actions. By their plots and treacheries.” There was an urgency in Howard’s voice, an urgency that irritated the queen.

“Do we not have laws already against plots and treacheries?” She spoke forcefully, wanting no one to doubt her authority. “If they break the law, let them be punished. Until that day, let them alone.”

“Until the day they rise in rebellion. Majesty, we have proven reason to fear every Catholic in the land—” Elizabeth did not let Hatton fin
ish. “Fear begets fear, sir. I will not punish my people for their beliefs. Only for their deeds. I am assured that the
people of England love their queen. My constant endeavor is to earn that love.”

She rose from the table, a swish of blazing brocade, exquisite lace and jewels, the air around her heavy with rosewater and musk. The gentlemen leapt to their feet, bowed. The conversation was over, the queen unmoved.



Again, the royal barge slid through the waters of the Thames. Again, Londoners on the riverbanks cheered at the sight of their queen, and she watched, giving at periodic intervals the slightest nod of her head, a slim acknowledgment of the pleasure she took at the devotion of her subjects. Traveling by river, particularly in a boat full of luxurious seats and fine silk cushions, was far preferable to subjecting oneself to the dirty misery of London’s roads, whose dreadful condition made riding in a coach uncomfortable, if not impossible.

Bess Throckmorton, possessor of a captivating beauty that surpassed the exuberant glow of youth, had quickly risen through the ranks of the Ladies of the Privy Chamber to become the queen’s favorite. Her full lips and delicate nose, flawless skin and blue eyes would tempt the most dedicated celibate, but it was her sharp mind that drew the queen to her.

Walsingham, across from the ladies, leaned forward. “You can’t put it off forever. The people have presented a petition with over a thousand signatures.”

Elizabeth could think of nothing she’d better prefer to put off forever than this petition. She had even hoped that he’d left the dreaded document in the Privy Chamber. She tried—and failed—to remember how many times she’d been given similar papers demanding that she marry. Once, Parliament had done it, saying that by marrying and having children, she would give herself immortality. The Speaker of the Commons had assured her that this was the single— the only—prayer of all Englishmen. But all that had done was make her wonder at the lack of imagination necessary to be able to think of nothing better to beg from God.

She disdained demands that she take a husband, whether they came in the form of a petition or were couched as thoughtful advice from her ministers. There had been moments— some long, some brief—in which she’d nearly succumbed to the charms of her favorite gentlemen, but she’d reigned alone for too long. She had no desire to share her power, wanted no master in her house, and she turned her attention back to Bess, brushing aside a soft lock of hair that had fallen over the girl’s smooth forehead. “Don’t hide your face.”

“The bishops of Ely and Wells are saying that the continued sterility of Your Majesty signifies God’s displeasure with us all,” Walsingham said.

She did not reply, watching her Moor in silence before looking back to her companion. “We shall have to look out for a husband for you soon, Bess.”

“Not too soon, my lady.” Porcelain cheeks stained red.

“Don’t you want to be married?” the queen asked. “I’ll want the marriage if I want the man.”

She could tell Walsingham was trying to stifle all signs of frustration. His eyes bulged, but he was not slipping into the sarcasm to which he was prone. “You’ll do as you please, of course. But at least look as if you’ve read their petition,” he said.

“What sort of man do you want, Bess?” Elizabeth asked, continuing to ignore him.

Bess smiled, musical laughter escaping from her rose-colored lips. “A fine gentleman-like appearance.”

“What does that mean? Tall?”

“Tall.” The girl paused, thought. “An open face. Friendly eyes.”

“Personally,” Walsingham began, “I would advise you to keep the possibility open. Maintain uncertainty.”

A vibrant spark filled the queen’s eyes. “And good legs. You’ll want good legs.” The two women moved closer together, pleasure brightening both their complexions.

“And he’s not to eat with his mouth open, or tell the same joke over and over,” Bess said.

Walsingham spoke with more force. “At least enter negotiations for a contract with a foreign prince. Just to show the world that England still has friends.”

A smile spread the queen’s painted lips. “And sweet breath, Bess. So that you can kiss him without choking.”

Walsingham’s voice rose again. “To show the world that you may yet have issue—” This got her attention. Elizabeth struck him, her sharp hand delivering a solid blow. She relished the stinging sensation on her skin.

“Child. Say ‘child.’ You are talking like a bishop now, Moor. ‘
Issue
,’ indeed!”

“Child, then. I was being delicate.”

Her voice fell as she grew serious. “There’s nothing delicate about having a child. It kills women every day.”

All lighthearted joking and lusty pleasure flew from the barge and a tense silence settled on the party. Uncaring, sunlight continued its dance on the rippling water. Elizabeth watched it, untroubled by tension. Anything was better than discussing marriage.

When at last they’d reached their destination—no one having enjoyed the awkward remainder of the trip—they climbed off the boat and headed toward St. Paul’s Cathedral. Elizabeth turned to Walsingham with a calculated smile, ready to reconcile with him. “If I did marry, you’d do well to remember it would not necessarily solve the problem of succession. A child of mine might not make a good heir. It could grow out of kind and become perhaps ungracious.”

Walsingham opened his mouth to reply, but Elizabeth silenced him with a shake of her head and continued toward the steps of the cathedral. The long Gothic building loomed above them, taller than the other buildings of the city despite the fact that its spire had been destroyed by a lightning strike. Scaffolding surrounded the church as renovations, funded in part by the queen, were underway. Inside, the nave’s Norman triforium and vaulted ceiling soared, though much of the splendid medieval decoration had been removed. No signs of Papist superstition and idolatry were welcome in an Anglican church.

But the reformists had left the stained glass, and Elizabeth looked up at the rose window as she entered, sent Bess back to her place among the other ladies-in-waiting, and then spoke, her voice hard but quiet, to Walsingham.

“I have darker concerns than marriage. Shipbuilders are being recruited in Spanish ports at double wages. The seawall at Dover is cracking. There’s no money to rebuild our defenses. I don’t need advisors to tell me my business.”

“They care for your safety, Majesty. The threats to your person are real.”

“And they know very well that if I fall, they all come tumbling down after me.” She had reached the steps at the foot of the altar, lowered herself to her knees, and began to pray. Without turning around, she held a hand out behind her. Bess stepped forward, taking it at once, and knelt to join her queen in prayer. The warmth of the girl’s hand brought a smile to Elizabeth’s face. Surely friendship was a more reliable cure for loneliness than marriage.



Far from London, a ship drew into view of Dover’s white cliffs. Birds dipped and soared, black streaks against the bright chalk, their sharp cries carrying far over the open water, and the slim green strip of land atop the high ridge called out to sailors elated at the sight of England. The weariness that had set in during their long journey home evaporated in an instant. Already they could imagine their homes, their wives, food that hadn’t been stored in brine or dried until it was barely edible. Comfort was long overdue these men, and now that it was so close, they worked with an energy they’d not had in months.

They pulled ropes, unfurled the dingy canvas sails of their square-rigged ship. Every inch of the
Tyger
was battered and worn, its wood bleached from long hours in the sun, paint beginning to peel. But the ship was solid and returned from the New World carrying treasure and stories of endless adventure.

They’d skirmished with Spanish vessels and plundered more than a few. But they’d spent most of their time scouting out locations for future English colonies, because their captain’s primary mission was to find a place suitable for permanent settlement—a city that would start the English empire, bringing glory to his country but also to himself. He’d decided on the island of Roanoke, a place where crops grew at astonishing speeds in the fertile soil and the natives they’d encountered were gentle and faithful, greeting strangers with no aggression.