Elizabeth I Read online

  “I am here to commend, not to command,” I said.

  Leicester raised his goblet. “French wine. May we drink it in security, trusting that the French maintain their neutrality in this war.”

  We all sipped. “The Armada has anchored near Calais,” said Walsingham. He was wearing the lower part of his armor but had left off the upper for comfort’s sake. “Some fifty miles from Dunkirk where Parma is waiting. Or is he?”

  “No one knows,” Leicester admitted. “It is entirely possible that he does not even know the Armada has sailed.”

  “My reports say there is a great deal of activity in the Calais harbor,” said Walsingham. “Many boats going to and from the Armada, which cannot anchor there without violating the French neutrality. But rather too much exchange going on. I think the Armada is refitting and repairing itself, with French help.” He banged his goblet down, pushed it aside. “Plain English ale for me, please!” he called out.

  The Norris men chimed in. “Our job isn’t to worry about the French but to be ready for whoever lands here,” said Sir Henry, Marjorie’s husband. He had a wide face and youthful wheat-colored hair—in spite of his sixty-plus years—that made him seem open and guileless even when he was not.

  “Father, an army is only as good as its weapons and training,” said Black Jack. He came by the name because of his saturnine coloring, inherited from his mother. “You know what the local militias are made of.”

  “A lot of boys, carousers, and old dreamers,” said a strapping, dark-eyed man at Leicester’s left.

  “ ‘Your old men shall dream dreams and your young men see visions,’ ” murmured Walsingham.

  “Forget the Bible,” growled Black Jack. “The Spanish sail with a papal-blessed standard. That won’t win the war for them, and quoting Scripture verses won’t for us.”

  I turned to the man who had mentioned the carousers. “You, sir,” I said. “Do you claim that the local militias and trained bands are made up of incompetents?”

  He looked startled to be singled out, as if he were used to being ignored. “I meant only, Majesty, that we have no professional army, nothing but citizens roused out of their homes and hastily trained. Not like Parma and his German, Italian, and Walloon mercenaries. We do the best we can with the material at hand. I meant no disrespect.”

  “I told you my master of the horse was an up-and-coming young man,” said Leicester hastily. “Someone to watch. May I present Sir Christopher Blount?”

  A winsome young man. Drowsy eyes and a shapely mouth. Wide shoulders. Muscular arms visible by the swelling seams of his coat. “Are you related to Charles Blount?” I asked—one of my favorites at court, now commanding the Rainbow under Sir Henry Seymour.

  “A distant cousin, Your Majesty.”

  “Looks run in the family, then,” I said.

  Others would have blushed and demurred. He just looked calmly back at me. Not a poseur, then, nor a pleaser.

  Robert Devereux had been uncharacteristically quiet. He was drawing circles on the table with spilled wine.

  “Robert.” Two heads jerked around—Robert Dudley’s and Robert Devereux’s. “A lovely name, ‘Robert,’ ” I said. “But I was calling for the younger one. Cousin.” Robert Devereux and I were second cousins; he was the great-great-grandson of Thomas Boleyn, and I the granddaughter.

  “Yes, Your Majesty?”

  “You are quiet today.”

  “Forgive me. All this weighs on my mind.” His gaze was as wide and clear as an angel’s. And indeed, his features were like those in a delicate painting of Italian angels—limpid blue eyes, gold-brushed curls.

  “Indeed, as it does on us all. Let us finish our meal and return to the business of the day.”

  Quietly we ate, speaking softly to the people on either side of us. I asked Marjorie how the father and the son differed in their military philosophy.

  “Henry is more subtle,” she said. “He believes in holding back, waiting to see what the enemy does. Jack believes in striking first and asking questions later.”

  “A bit like Drake, then.”

  “Yes, and—”

  Just then there was a commotion at the door, and someone was admitted. Pulling his helmet off, George Clifford, Earl of Cumberland, strode toward us and stopped before me. Observing proprieties, he bowed before saying, “I’ve just got word, Your Majesty. Two nights ago Sir Henry Seymour’s fleet stationed at Dover joined up with Admiral Howard’s, following the Armada. Our entire fleet was suddenly a couple of miles from the Armada, cozily anchored at Calais Roads, and Admiral Howard decided the opportunity to strike was too tempting to ignore, in spite of the danger. So they rigged up fireships, those weapons of terror, and launched eight hell burners—ships aflame and loaded with cannon to explode in the inferno—at the very heart of the Armada. It succeeded, where all our broadsides and guns failed. The Armada’s tight defensive formation is broken. In their panic to avoid the hell burners, they cut their cables, lost their anchors, and were scattered over the area. Now they are desperately trying to reassemble opposite Gravelines. Our fleet is going to attack them in their confused state. At last they have a chance to destroy them rather than merely harrying them.”

  “God’s death!” I cried. “Fall upon them, rend them!” But the men who could carry out this action were far from hearing me.

  In the meantime, I was here, at Tilbury, and I could speak directly only to the land defenses. That was the only power I had to affect the outcome of this war now.

  I rose. As I did so, Leicester gestured to the fellow diners. “Your Majesty,” he said, “please allow your devoted officers and soldiers to show their dedication. They wish to honor your fair and powerful hand.”

  A long line of strong young men filed forward and, one at a time, took my hand and kissed it.

  8

  I withdrew to attire myself for the coming ceremony. Catherine and Marjorie would prepare me, like acolytes vesting a priest. First there was my hair. I would wear my finest and highest wig, the better to hold the pearls and diamonds, symbols of virginity, and to be seen from afar. Then the silver breastplate must be carefully strapped on, its ties loosely fastened to accommodate the bulky white velvet bodice beneath it.

  They stepped back. “Ma’am, you look like Pallas Athena, and not an earthly queen at all.” The look on their faces showed me that I had utterly transformed myself from the woman, albeit Queen, they served every day into something higher. On this occasion I was more than myself. I had to be.

  Outside, I mounted the magnificent white horse. Leicester handed me my silver and gold general’s truncheon and the black Spanish whip and took the bridle of the horse to lead me.

  Essex walked alongside, and behind him came Jack Norris, followed by a standard-bearer with the arms of England embroidered in gold on crimson velvet. A nobleman carried the sword of state before me, and a page my silver helmet on a white cushion. It was a very small group of footmen, but I did not want to be swallowed up in a ceremonial parade. I wanted all eyes to be on me, not my accompaniment.

  The entire camp was gathered, waiting. As I rode into view, the roar from the crowd and the boom of cannon salute mimicked a battlefield’s thunder. When I approached the crest of the hill where I would deliver my address, a company of scarlet-coated trumpeters suddenly sounded forth, cutting through the human voices with the high, commanding blast of brass. A hush descended, rippling through the ranks, from the closest to the farthest.

  At the top of the hill, I wheeled my horse around to face the men spread out as far as I could see. My people. My soldiers. I prayed the wind could carry my words to them all.

  “My loving people!” I cried. I waited for the words to float away. The crowd grew even quieter. “We have been persuaded by some that are careful of our safety to take heed how we committed ourselves to armed multitudes, for fear of treachery.”

  Yes, Walsingham and Burghley gave prudent advice, but ultimately self-defeating for this unique situation.
To hide now would be to admit defeat. “But we tell you that we would not desire to live to distrust our faithful and loving people. Let tyrants fear! We have always so behaved ourselves that under God we have placed our chieftest strength and safeguard in the loyal hearts and goodwill of our subjects.”

  I took a deep breath, and the words rushed out, pushed by trembling emotion, changing from royal “we” to personal “I.” “And therefore I am come amongst you, as you see at this time, not for my recreation and disport, but being resolved in the midst and heat of the battle to live or die amongst you all, to lay down for my God and my kingdom and for my people my honor and my blood even in the dust.”

  English monarchs before me had ridden into battle. Richard the Lionheart, Henry V, my own grandfather Henry VII had fought and risked their lives. I took a deep breath, filled my lungs with strength. “I know I have the body but of a weak and feeble woman, but I have the heart and stomach of a king and of a king of England, too—and think it foul scorn that Parma or any prince of Europe should dare to invade the borders of my realm.”

  Now a shout arose, growing like a roll of thunder. When it died, I continued, “And further, I declare that I myself will take up arms; I myself will be your general, judge, and rewarder of your virtue in the field.”

  Now the roar grew so loud my next words, exhorting them to trust in their reward and in Leicester, my lieutenant general, were drowned. Only the final words of the sentence, “we shall shortly have a famous victory over these enemies of my God, of my kingdom, and of my people,” were audible. And with them, inexplicably, the crowd grew utterly silent.

  I descended the hill with the stillness and hush wrapped protectively around me, my heart thudding, the sea of men a blur before me.

  I kept my armor on even after the soldiers had been dismissed back to their quarters. In the officers’ pavilion, a mumbling group of leaders circled nervously around me, dropping one by one to their knees to do obeisance. Their usual hearty demeanor was subdued, and some had tears in their eyes. Would no one break this spell? For I felt I could not breathe again as a mortal until someone did.

  Jack Norris, the plain speaker, did. “Three cheers for Her Majesty, a prince and better than a king!” he cried. The cheers resounded, the glasses clinked, and we were on earth again.

  Leicester stood by my side, his eyes beholding me like a stranger. “I have known you since childhood,” he said in a low voice. “But now I know I never shall know all of you. What I heard today I never could have imagined.” He reached out for my hand, bent, and kissed it. “No one who was there will ever forget it. And I shall have copies made so all can savor it in all its meaning.”

  “It is your day as well, my friend, my brother. I am grateful beyond words that this supreme moment was our moment together.” God, who had not permitted us to have any other life together but a public one, had crowned it with today’s glory and let us share it as one. Our eyes locked together and said more than our inadequate words ever could. This unique and irreplaceable moment had sealed our lifelong bond.

  Refreshments were spread out on a long table, but I had no appetite. Would I ever feel hunger again? Had the adoration and utter trust of my people satisfied all lacks within me? The rest of the company, however, fell on the meats, cakes, and flagons with unbridled gusto.

  While the men were busy eating, the Earl of Cumberland sought me out. But at the sight of him, people flocked to hear the latest.

  “At the height of your address, Your Majesty, I received a dispatch. The Armada succeeded in reassembling itself—”

  A groan went up.

  “—but they were shaken by the experience with the fireships the night before, and the fiercest battle of the war so far is even now being fought at Gravelines, off the Flanders coast. Word is that we have the upper hand and are pressing them hard. The main problem we have is the very real possibility of running out of ammunition. Some of the Spanish ships have already been blown into the North Sea and out of the Channel altogether. The rest are still fighting but drifting closer to the sandbanks. It looks as if they are a spent force.”

  “Is it too soon to declare victory?” asked Henry Norris.

  “Yes. They might regroup and return. It depends on the wind. If it continues blowing north, they cannot.”

  “What of Parma?”

  Cumberland shook his head. “I was told that, even if the Armada has passed him by, he plans to embark his army on the flat-bottomed transports he already has and float them over to England on the coming high tide. He can’t get out of the estuaries in low water, but a high tide will answer that problem.”

  Walsingham hung over me. “You must return immediately to London,” he said. “You must not be here when he arrives with his fifty thousand men!”

  Did the man not understand? I fixed him with a sharp look. “My dear secretary, how can I leave? Did I not just promise, less than two hours ago, that I would lay down my life in the dust? Did I not claim to have the courage and resolve of a king of England? What would it say of my word if I turned tail and ran at even a hint of danger? I think foul scorn of you, sir!”

  I meant it. Better to die here, standing firm, than to run away, than to betray my own words almost as soon as I had uttered them. The world respected the Trojans, the Spartans at Thermopylae, the Jews at Masada, Cleopatra facing the Romans. It did not respect cowards.

  His sallow face grew even darker and, muttering to himself, he turned back to the food table.

  “We stand here with you,” said Leicester, and Essex, who had joined him.

  “As do we,” said the Norrises, father and son.

  “We do, too,” said Marjorie and Catherine. “We women are no cowards.”

  9

  We watched. We waited. A thousand rumors flew over the whole of Europe. The Armada had won. Parma had landed. Drake was dead—or captured, or had his leg blown off. Hawkins and the Victory had gone to the bottom of the sea. Across England, too, the rumors flew. But Parma never rode over on that spring tide; it came and went without him.

  No one knew what had happened to the Armada. Admiral Howard and the English fleet had chased it as far north as the Firth of Forth in Scotland, near Edinburgh. When it kept going, our ships turned back. They knew what awaited the Armada when it attempted to loop over the top of Scotland and then head south to Spain, skirting Ireland. The fierce seas and rocks in that inhospitable sea would destroy it. It destroyed even ships whose captains knew the waters, and these did not.

  That is exactly what happened. While the Spanish were ordering Masses of thanksgiving in their cathedrals for the glorious victory of the Armada, it was being wrecked, ship by ship, on the rocky western coast of Ireland. Almost thirty ships met their doom there, and the few sailors who managed to struggle ashore were killed by either native Irish or English agents. All told, seventy or so ships did not return to Spain, and those that did were in such ruinous state they were worthless. By contrast, we did not lose a single ship.

  It was September before the first bits of this information reached King Philip, who was puzzled. “I hope God has not permitted such evil, for everything has been done for his service,” was all he said.

  But God had sent his winds to aid England instead.

  We celebrated. Church bells rang for days. Ballads were composed. Commemorative medals were struck. Services of thanksgiving were held all across the land.

  In Lisbon, a street cry gloated over the Spanish defeat:

  Which ships got home?

  The ones the English missed.

  And where are the rest?

  The waves will tell you.

  What happened to them?

  It is said they are lost.

  Do we know their names?

  They know them in London.

  Oh, we did. And we knew the names of all our own ships, and all our heroes. We even had an eighty-nine-year-old captain who had commanded his ship in Howard’s squadron so well that he was knighted for bravery on the
deck by the admiral himself. Such was the stuff our men were made of.

  For the first month, I was lifted high on a cloud of exhilaration. It was beyond normal time, something extraordinary. It was as if I had only just now been born, learned to see, hear, taste and smell and feel. All my senses were heightened, to an almost painful degree. There are places far to the north in Norway and Sweden where in the summer it never grows dark. They say that during those weeks the people don’t need sleep, that they exist in an extreme state of animation. Such were the weeks for me just after the threat of the Armada lifted.

  We were preparing for a service of national thanksgiving at St. Paul’s Cathedral. The banners Drake had captured from the Nuestra Señora del Rosario flagship would be dedicated, a mirror image of the service when the pope had blessed the Armada’s flagship banner. I wondered if it even survived and, if so, where they would hide it away in shame.

  The pope, however, in keeping with his vigorous peasant mind, seemed to delight in the outcome, as if he had never opposed it. In Rome, he declared, “Elizabeth is certainly a great queen, and were she only a Catholic, she would be our dearly beloved daughter. Just look how well she governs! She is only a woman, only mistress of half an island, yet she makes herself feared by Spain, by France, by the Empire, by all!” When his assistant chided him for his endorsement, he cried, “If only I was free to marry her. What a wife she would make! What children we would have! They would have ruled the whole world.” He sighed.

  “Your Holiness,” the priest objected, “you are speaking of the archenemy of the church!”

  “Ummm.” Then he blurted out, “Drake—what a great captain!”

  I suspected it was a case of one pirate respecting another.

  When Robert Dudley related this story to me, we laughed together.

  “He seems to have forgotten his principles, if ever he had any,” said Dudley. “Of course, he is probably relieved not to have to make good on his promise of a million ducats to Philip. I trust you are not tempted to become Mrs. Sixtus?”