The Boleyn Deceit by Laura Andersen Page A

his clothing balanced nicely between the Earl of Oxford’s peacock extravagance and Dominic’s restrained simplicity.
    Both Northumberland and Surrey sat quietly while other council members discussed the early items, which centered on the treasury and the unpleasant fact that William was rapidly running out of money. Though not himself so much as England, a point he was quick to make when William Cecil, Lord Burghley, began listing personal expenses as examples of items that might be scaled back.
    Burghley’s voice was as inflectionless as his numbers. “In the last year, Your Majesty, you have spent two hundred pounds on books, five hundred pounds on fabrics, and more than eight thousand pounds on property …”
    “All of which came from my own purse, not England’s coffers,” William interrupted, allowing a hint of displeasure to creep in. He was not going to permit Burghley to accuse him of plundering England’s treasury for his own pleasures.
    But Burghley was not easily cowed. “And none of which would matter if your spending confined itself to such trifles. But the treasury is nearly depleted after the French campaign. There have been too many years of drought and bad harvests. Retrenchments will have to be made in public expenditures.”
    “Then why are you troubling me with figures about books and fabric?”
    Rochford intervened, his steady voice still holding more than a trace of authority. “Because your personal life should set the example for the people. You cannot cut back government posts and servants, not to mention increase taxes, while flaunting private wealth in a most public manner.”
    Piqued by his uncle’s intervention, let alone the fact that he was correct, William ignored him and said to Burghley, “What is it you recommend?”
    The treasurer’s answer was prompt. “A commission to study court expenditures and make recommendations for eliminating unnecessary spending. Now that we are at peace with France, there are certainly cuts that can be made. The sooner the better.”
    “Fine.” William bit the word off to underscore his reluctance, though he knew it was a sensible plan and he was already turning over possible commission members in his mind. His father and Cromwell had proposed the Eltham Ordinances years ago and been lauded for their good sense. This was a chance to show himself as practical and civic-minded as they had been.
    After finances, they arrived at the most common, and most rancorous, subject—religious discontent. Although it had been muted for the last four months by his betrothal to Elisabeth de France, Catholic resentment at Norfolk’s death and Mary’s house arrest ran deep, and they never knew when it might flare into something ugly.
    Two weeks earlier, a prosperous family in York had been burned out of their home by a mob claiming they had sheltered a Jesuit priest some months before. If that were all, it would never have come to William’s attention, but the mob had been less than careful and, in their haste, neglected to ensure that the house was completely empty before they fired it. A twelve-year-old housemaid had died in the blaze—a girl with no ties to the CatholicChurch, save working for a family who possibly sympathized with Rome.
    Tensions had been running high in the North ever since—from the justifiably angry Catholics, who accused the mob of not caring whom they hurt, to the local cleric who had preached a sermon that as good as said the dead girl got what she deserved and anyone even speaking to Catholics was damned by association.
    “The Lady Mary’s household has remained quiet on the matter?” William asked. The last thing he needed in this overheated climate was any kind of public statement from the half sister who most of Europe still considered England’s rightful ruler.
    “It has,” Rochford said. “Your Majesty, do you mean to continue her house arrest indefinitely? Or is the Princess Elizabeth’s visit to her a sign that