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knew to be false. It was the Protestants who were dangerous, who spread these lies.
    The armorer handed the pistol, now loaded, to Savage, who reached for it with trembling hands. “Afraid of the Papists, are you?”
    “I fear no man,” Savage said. “Let others fear.”
    “Right, right. That’s the attitude.”
    “The truth eventually comes out. It can’t be hidden forever. Their day may come sooner than they know.”
    “ Their day? Who do you mean?” The armorer, muscles clenching as he looked at his customer, reached for the gun. “Give me the piece.”
    “I must have it.” Savage’s voice was steady, but his body betrayed him, refusing to remain calm, shaking as he clutched the pistol to his chest.
    “I’ll see you hang first,” the armorer said. Trembling, Savage raised the weapon to its maker. His finger, slick with sweat, pulsed on the trigger. He pictured the stooped form of his father—evidence of the end result of violent hatred— and unexpectedly found that he could not bring himself to fire. He felt like he would choke, and ran out the door.
    Outside, he crossed the street, still running, feeling guilt, but not pausing to meet the eyes of a familiar figure, a Jesuit priest. Reston gave no indication that he recognized the fleeing man, just started for the shop, where the proprietor, trembling, was sitting, eyes closed, drawing a long breath.
    “Who are you?” the armorer asked, looking up at the sound of footsteps.
    “I ask your forgiveness.” Robert Reston stepped forward and without hesitation twisted the man’s neck, not flinching at the hideous sound of snapping bones, the sight of the armorer’s head hanging limp.
    The souls of England’s faithful would soon be released from the grip of their heretic queen.
    His king would be pleased.
    His God would be pleased.
     
    Chapter 3
    Elizabeth walked every Sunday, processing from the Presence Chamber to the Chapel Royal, crowds gathering to watch, standing in deep rows, the mood jubilant. She always appreciated the adoration of her subjects. Sometimes they were at Whitehall, sometimes St. James’ Palace; the location did not matter. The Chapel Royal was not merely a building but also the priests and choir who attended to her spiritual needs, and they served her wherever she might be.
    A young courtier pushed forward, stepping close to her.
    “Majesty, you are breathtaking today,” he said, bowing with a flourish. As always, she’d selected her clothing carefully, choosing gowns and jewelry that would shine through the crowd and draw all eyes to her. She’d been particularly satisfied with today’s combination, a stunning cream-colored gown with the heavy gold and jeweled chains hanging from her neck.
    “We thank you,” she said, hardly looking at him until she realized it was the Earl of Essex, Robert Dudley’s step-son, who could not have been a day over eighteen.
    “Every man in England weeps not to be at your side,” he said.
    She gave him a smile, liking the enthusiasm in his voice. It sounded sincere and boosted her mood considerably. When she spotted a little girl holding a bouquet of flo wers in her hands, held back by a crush of people, she stopped and pulled the child forward, bending down to hear her speak. Around her, the crowd cheered, making it impossible to decipher the girl’s words. Elizabeth stood at her full height and motioned for silence.
    Her subjects responded at once, falling quiet. Perfect gratification.
    
    Two of Walsingham’s agents, covert, watched the spectators as they moved for a better view. They were careful, but so was someone else. A man keen to draw no attention to the bag he carried, a bag heavy for its size.
    God bless Your Majesty!
    God love you!
    See her sweet face!
    Her people fell to their knees, reached out to touch her as she neared them. Babington hung back, unobtrusive, taking note of the wall of well-armed bodyguards surrounding their royal charge. He knew exactly what to