Elizabeth: The Golden Age Read Free

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.
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    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