Elizabeth: The Golden Age Read Online Free PDF

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 curtsied 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,