Elizabeth: The Golden Age (16 page)

There was one final piece still missing. He knew the conspirators were going to act—that Elizabeth was in grave danger—but he knew not when they would strike. He’d already ordered protective measures. More soldiers were on their way to Whitehall, and the number of soldiers guarding the queen herself had doubled. He hoped it would be enough.

A knock sounded on his door. “Enter,” he said but did not look up from his papers.

“It’s me. William.”

Still he did not look up. “Where have you been?” Walsingham said. “We haven’t seen you for days.”

“I met up with some old friends.” William stepped forward, one smooth, well-groomed hand reaching for the back of a chair, the other concealed under his cloak.

“From Paris, no doubt.”

“Yes.”

“And now you’ve come back.” He looked up at last. “Do you know, I can still remember the day you were born?” The smile on Walsingham’s lips was at odds with the sadness in his eyes. “I was eleven years old. And you, this helpless bundle. I looked at you in your crib, with your little wrinkled face, and I loved you from the first. I vowed then to look after you. But I’ve failed you, haven’t I? Forgive me if I haven’t loved you enough.”

The brothers looked at each other for a long moment, a matched recognition reflecting between their eyes. With a clatter, something fell from William’s hand. His face had gone gray.

“Did you really think I didn’t know?” Walsingham looked at the dagger on the floor, then rapped twice on his desk, bringing two of his agents into the room. “Was it for money? At least tell me you got a good price.”

William shook his head. The inconspicuous-looking men wrenched his arms behind him, moving with a fluidity that told how often they restrained prisoners.

“What then? What would you murder your own brother for?” No trace of anger mixed with Walsingham’s sadness.

“Eternal life.”

“Eternal life,” Walsingham repeated. Pain distorted his features, his eyes closed, mouth twisted, cheeks sunken.

“The bribe no man can refuse.”

Whose God would be happy tonight?



From the instant morning had dawned, it had been as if Whitehall had been warmed by a divine smile. Sunshine danced between clouds and bounced off the jewels covering the courtiers’ bright clothing, an ocean of reds, purples, and blues. Supplicants swarmed to line the path from the Presence Chamber to the Chapel Royal, eager as always to catch a glimpse of the queen in the midst of her magnificent procession.

Babington and Ramsay were immune to the charms of the scene. They didn’t notice any beauty, only the stench of too many bodies too close together in the summer heat.

Babington’s stomach burned as he watched his new partner and remembered Savage’s fate, but he pushed away the feelings of guilt. He had done what was necessary. Ramsay was more stable than Savage had ever been, more dependable. There was no doubt their mission would succeed. Babington could hear his blood moving through his ears and his heart pounded, but he steadied his nerves and flashed a discreet hand signal to Ramsay, who returned it with the slightest nod. At once, they forced their way swiftly to the front of the crowd, just as Elizabeth disappeared from view into the dark safety of the church.

“The queen is at her prayers!” a servant in livery announced as the doors began to shut.

“Now!” Babington cried, and Ramsay hurled himself forward, shouting.

“God for Mary! England’s true queen!”

There were more guards than he’d seen before, and they ran to seize Ramsay, opening a momentary space in the crush of confusion, a space through which Babington sprinted, bursting through the closing doors and into the chapel. In the dim light, he saw a line of ladies kneeling, masking the figure in front of the altar.

He pulled out his pistol. “Elizabeth!”

She turned around, tall, exuding a composed confidence, rising to confront the assassin’s gun, no sign of fear on her proud face. Babington stared, hypnotized for an instant, then pulled the trigger.



Elizabeth did not move, not even at the sound of the shot, holding herself steady as relief rushed through her when she realized she felt no pain, had not been wounded. She watched her assailant cry out in anguish and crumple to the ground, wounded but not dead. A bullet had flown but not from his gun, and a strong smell of gunpowder filled the chapel.

Never before had she felt more regal, untouchable, magnificent. Strength filled her veins till they felt as if they would burst. No one else in the chapel had remained standing. First, they’d dropped to the ground, afraid of the gun. Now they stayed down, supplicants abasing themselves before their glorious leader.

God had protected His queen.



“Stories of your courage have entirely overshadowed all other gossip in court,” Raleigh said. Elizabeth had perfectly maintained her composure after the attack, shown no weakness. She’d insisted on finishing her prayers as if nothing had happened and had processed back to the palace holding her head high. But when she’d disappeared into the safe darkness of her bedchamber, she’d broken down, scared and overwhelmed. Raleigh had come to her even before she’d sent for him.

“I’m not so brave, Water.”

“I think you are.”

“Not anymore,” she said, her voice rough.

“If you did not give in to private moments of terror after such an occurrence, you would not be human.”

“Should a queen dare to be human?” she asked. Tears were starting again, and she turned so he would not see them.

“Not even a queen has a choice in the matter. You are human, Elizabeth.”

He’d not called her by her name before, and the sound of his voice saying it was like the song of angels. “Thank you for coming to me. Thank you for not making me ask for you.”

He took her hands. “I would like nothing more than to ensure you never need ask for another thing.”

“Would that it were even possible.”

He smiled. “You are the queen. You can make anything possible.”

And just then, she almost believed him.

Chapter 12

Mary was pacing impatiently, Geddon trailing behind her, the walls of her room pressing with unbearable force on her soul. She’d memorized every thread of every tapestry on the walls and counted the squares on the gleaming parquet floor, and still the clock’s handmade small progress. It was as if time had stopped passing. She could not focus her thoughts, could not calm her nerves, could not bear to wait another moment.

Fantasy had grown exhausting. She had envisioned her freedom, pondered being made a queen again, wondered what the English throne would feel like—these thoughts had consumed her for weeks, and she could no longer stand the agony of waiting. She moved her lips, praying silently, hands on her rosary, fingering first the golden crucifix, then the beads, and then—finally—the sound of bells floated in through the window, carrying with it a flood of joy. She heard footsteps and pulled herself up straight, regal, serene. Sir Amyas hurried through the open door toward her.

“You bring news?” she asked. Her ladies had come to her side, faces shining with hope.

“The queen has been attacked—”

Her heart was pounding violently as she opened her eyes wide. She had to look surprised. “Elizabeth? Not my cousin? No!”

“The assassin seized—”

It was unbearable. “Yes?”

“The queen unharmed—”

“Unharmed?” There was an unmistakable edge in Mary’s voice, anger, disbelief, and at last, genuine surprise.

“And you, ma’am,” Paulet said with a smile, “are under arrest.”

“Me? What has any of this to do with me?” she asked, doing her best to lure him with her soft voice and suggestive eyes while fear filled every cell of her body.

Paulet made a sign and Burton, the brewer, came into the room. Mary gasped when she saw him. Tears stung in her eyes, but she held them back.

“That’s the trouble with intrigue, isn’t it?” Paulet asked. “With so many secrets, you can never quite tell who’s on whose side, until the game ends.” He pulled from his pocket the hollow bung used to hide her letters in the beer caskets and admired it. “My own invention. Theatrical but effective. My master has every letter you’ve written.”

“Your master?” Her voice was rapidly losing confidence.

“Walsingham.”

Now she let herself weep. “Traitors. I’m surrounded by traitors. Who am I to trust?” Geddon stood below her, wagging his tail earnestly. “Only my little one.” Crying bitterly, she picked him up, held him to her face, and wondered how long she would have to prepare for the end.



Water splashed Walsingham’s shoes as he climbed out of the boat and stepped onto the cool stone of the walk. The yeoman warder admitted him to the Tower without a word, giving him a sharp, respectful nod as he passed through Traitor’s Gate. He crossed Tower Green, untroubled by shadows and stories of ghosts—though as always, he could not help but glance at the spot where Elizabeth’s mother had been executed—a grim reminder of how far even a queen could fall.

He walked on, then stopped at a half-timbered building between Beauchamp Tower and the Queen’s House to speak with the gentleman gaoler who supervised the prisoners and their guards. They drank dark, bitter beer as they discussed state business, Walsingham in no rush to continue on his way. As the moon rose high in the dark sky, he could delay no longer. He accepted a lamp from the gaoler and descended into the bowels of the Tower.

All the conspirators, save Mary, were now in the Tower. Mary, they had decided, would be kept separate from the men who had worked on her behalf. Walsingham had succeeded in protecting his queen, but he moved through the dank passage with no joy, instead bowed down by a sense of failure. He held up the lamp to look through cell bars at the prisoner inside.

“Ready to die, I see, Jesuit,” he said.

No fear showed on Reston’s face. He was calm, arrogant. “I have done what I was sent to do.”

“Why was the gun not loaded?” Walsingham asked, but received no reply. Reston had fallen to his knees and was praying. He stood, watching the priest for a moment longer, then moved the lamp and saw the pale faces of Babington and Ramsay. He studied them but said nothing, steeling himself for what he would find in the next cell. The man inside it lay in chains, huddled on the floor. As the light Walsingham carried illuminated the space, William raised his head.

Walsingham tasted bile. “What was the Jesuit sent to do?” he asked.

“To kill the queen. You know it. You know everything,” his brother answered.

“Not quite everything.”

“I’ve told you all I know. Go ahead and kill me. Take what’s left of me. I don’t care anymore. All my life you’ve had everything and I’ve had nothing. So finish it. There’s a better world waiting for me. We’ll all be judged in the end, brother. Even you.”

“You’re no martyr,” Walsingham said, unmoved by this show of pride. “You weren’t even much of a murderer. Go back to France. Never let me hear of you again.” He turned his back to the man on the floor, not wanting him to see the hurt of a betrayal almost too much to bear painted over his face. He went back up the passage, looking no more at the prisoners, not pausing even when Reston called out to him in a soft voice almost like a song:

“Send me home.”



The Infanta paid scant attention to the booming voices of the men around her as she played in the throne room at the Escorial Palace. She’d slid off her small throne onto the polished marble floor, liking the way her heavy skirts billowed around her when she plopped down, dolls in her hands. She pushed against the richly embroidered fabric, smoothing it against her stiff whalebone farthingale, then lined up her dolls. The tallest of them, the one that looked like the queen of England, was her favorite. They told her the queen was called Elizabeth and that her hair blazed like fire, a red the child thought better suited to a doll than a real woman. Queens should have dark hair, like hers.

Her father, Philip, was behind her, talking to Don Guerau de Spes, a man the Infanta didn’t much like. His breath was sour and he stood too close when he talked to her. But her father seemed to like him. He squinted his eyes, and his ringed fingers rested still on the arm of his golden throne, all signs that he was listening intently. They were talking about England, something about it being saved. She made her Elizabeth doll walk over to another and knock it to the floor.

“They have letters in Mary Stuart’s own hand,” Don Guerau was saying. “All England cries out for her death.”

The girl perked at the sound of the name. Mary. She was a queen, too. Now she not only disliked Don Guerau, she knew he was foolish. A queen could not be killed. She looked toward her father, expecting him to say just that, but he only reached down, stroked her hair, and asked her a simple question:

“My dearest, how would you like to be Queen of England?”

Chapter 13

“Read me another,” Bess said, stretching out on the enormous bed, pulling the sheet up to her chin, burying her head in a stack of downy pillows.

“You’re insatiable,” Raleigh said.

“Yes. For your poems.”

“Nothing else?”

“That remains to be seen,” she said. “Read!”

“Passion are liken’d best to floods and streams:

The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb;

So, when affection yields discourse, it seems

The bottom is but shallow whence they come.

They that are rich in words, in words discover

That they are poor in that which makes a lover.”

“You, my dear, are rich both in words and those things that make a lover.” She rolled closer to him and put her head on his chest. “Your poem is a lie. Write me a better one.”

“I will, but not this afternoon, when there are so many better occupations before me.”

“I must be back at the palace before dark.”

“We’ve time enough.” He kissed her. “And you wouldn’t dare rush me.”



Elizabeth let the chamber grow dark around her, refused to admit the maid who wanted to light the lamps. Someone had brought a tray of food that sat, untouched, congealing, on a table. Outside in the atrium, courtiers hovered, taking turns listening at the door, hearing only silence. Not even the sound of pacing steps to break the monotony. Bess pushed through them and burst into the room.