by Susan Kay
On the 19th of July the Spanish fleet, a stately crescent with horns seven miles apart, was sighted from the Lizard and through the summer dusk the beacon fires sprang up, blazing a trail of warning lights across England to the Scottish border.
London seethed in a fever of activity. The court moved to St. James’s Palace, while the beacon signals sent a wave of mustering, training, and arming throughout the south. Boys slipped away from their mothers’ clutches and flocked down to Tilbury, where Leicester’s army lay encamped. Huntingdon’s force in East Anglia swelled daily, while Hunsdon’s bodyguard sprawled to the west of London in defence of the Queen’s person. The Council met in terrified debate and begged the Queen to withdraw inland to deeper security, knowing that if she were taken the main purpose of the invasion would be complete. She began to talk instead of going down to the coast and Leicester wrote in a flat panic, “I cannot consent to that for upon your well-being consists everything—preserve that above all.”
Candles burnt all night at St. James’s Palace, and Leicester rode between Tilbury and London, attending conferences until three in the morning. And at last, in August, he and the rest of the Council gave way to her determination.
She would go to Tilbury to review her army in person.
* * *
The great Spanish sea serpent had rolled relentlessly towards the Cornish coast and anchored at nightfall just off Dodman Point on the 19th of July. Next day Howard’s personal pinnace carried the formal English challenge to the Spanish commander and with propriety correctly observed, the battle was on.
The small, modern English ships snapped at the huge vessels and darted away. Howard’s flag ship was rammed, but before the Spanish galleons could close in on their prey, small boats had towed her head around and she escaped with remarkable speed. The Armada ran a gauntlet of the English ships up the Channel, unable to get closer than three hundred yards to the swift, sharp-shooting English vessels. Medina Sidonia had discovered the first flaw in Philip’s instructions. How could they grapple the enemy ships and board to settle the affray with hand-to-hand fighting and superior numbers, when they could not get close enough to site the first hook? “Their ships are so fast and nimble they can do anything they like with them,” bewailed the Spaniard’s official log-book after the first day’s engagement.
The Spanish Admiral was growing desperate. He had sent frantic messages to the Duke of Parma, begging for ammunition and flyboats to outmanoeuvre the English ships, who were running circles around the clumsy galleons and “plucking our feathers little by little.” But he had no idea at what port he could expect to find Parma’s army waiting. Blindly the Spanish fleet groped its way out of the English Channel and rode anchor at Calais Roads, repairing damages, while Medina Sidonia waited anxiously for news of relief—ammunition, food and water. Their stores were almost exhausted. What was Parma doing to leave them so shamefully in the lurch like this? Was it possible he had not received Philip’s command to rendezvous at sea?
A mile and a half away the English fleet watched a hundred and fifty sea monsters bobbing on the quiet waves. A council of war was held aboard the Ark Royal and at midnight on the 28th of July, eight English fireships filled with explosives sailed into the Spanish fleet on a rising wind. Spanish pinnaces, working under a constant barrage of English shot, had just manoeuvred two of the fireships out of line when they exploded. The pinnaces fled for cover and the remaining six fireships bore into the great Armada which lay in impeccable formation, like a flock of sitting ducks.
In the mêlée that ensued the Spanish captains panicked and cut their cables. Several galleons, caught in the grips of the current, crashed together and the careful formation disintegrated into chaos, with ships drifting as far as six miles apart, some to sink, some to be captured by the English, others to be driven ashore. Sick at heart, Medina Sidonia sailed towards the Flemish coast in search of reinforcements, but the coastline remained empty. Parma had played them false. There was nothing for it but to turn and engage the enemy alone.
For five hours Howard’s ships pounded the crippled fleet, until lack of ammunition forced him to ease off. The scenes of carnage were without precedent. Priests groped their way across the splintered decks, miring their robes in blood, to minister to the dying. The Spanish troops were packed so tightly in the holds of the ships that when one galleon keeled over, blood was seen to pour from the scuppers and stain the sea around.
At noon the wind changed and, to Howard’s fury, the remaining vessels were able to slip away through the mist and blinding rain into the North Sea. The fleets broke off direct contact, but no one yet knew whether the depleted Armada would return—or whether Parma would seize his advantage, now that the English fleet was virtually disarmed, to sweep across the Channel and invade in the Armada’s wake.
* * *
The troops were taut with anticipation and excitement that hot afternoon when Leicester rode across Tilbury plain with his stepson at his side, to welcome the Queen and her escort of two thousand horsemen to his camp. Seeing her sitting bareheaded on her beautiful gelding, dressed in virgin white and wearing a silver breastplate in mock concession to her advisers’ fears, he was suddenly starkly aware that Burghley had been right; this was madness. To let her venture out unguarded on a field of armed men—thousands of unknown, unvetted ruffians, any one of whom might easily be a fanatic or a Spanish agent, ready, waiting— And nothing could have made a more perfect target of her than that dazzling white gown. How had he ever let her talk him into this?
It was too late now; there was no way he could hustle her into his chequered and particoloured pavilion and forbid this appearance. Even if he could change her mind—a forlorn hope—he knew he could not answer for the ten thousand men assembled under his command if they were thwarted of this chance to see and hear the woman in whose defence they were prepared to die. A loss of discipline—a riot—at this stage could be disastrous. And so he took her horse’s bridle with a trembling hand and led her forward, unguarded, before the dense sea of waving pikes and caps and banners. From the corner of his eye he caught sight of Essex’s face, flushed, excited, admiring, his eyes on the Queen solemn with open adoration; and for the first time Leicester felt a sharp pang of envy for youth in its first handsome flush. The quick, intimate smile which had passed between Elizabeth and the young Robert Devereux was like a sudden knife thrust in his heart. Such warmth and tenderness in her eyes now when they rested on Essex’s blazing red head, such a strangely familiar expression. He had seen Lettice look at the boy in that same doting way. What did the Queen see when she looked at him to make her smile like that? A son? The son she had never borne? Was that all it was? He, who had so deliberately thrown the two of them together, felt his first moment of real unease. There was something wrong, something just a shade unnatural in the passionate companionship which had sprung up since the previous spring, through all those long nights when they had sat together playing cards because she dared not sleep. He had thought her safe enough with such a young man, he had been glad to see Essex’s boyish high spirits pull her back from the brink of a nervous breakdown; but now he had a horrible, indecent thought; was Essex her lover?
He clung to the gelding’s bridle with a convulsive grip, torn between terror that he would see her assassinated before his eyes and the fierce, jealous desire to stab her in the heart himself if his dreadful fancy should be true, if she had really so debased herself as to take a man more than thirty years her junior to her bed. She couldn’t, she surely wouldn’t! But she was Elizabeth, a law unto herself; and she just might.
A silence had fallen over the swaying multitude as the Queen raised her white hand and now her voice was throbbing in his ears, speaking words which would live for ever in the memory of Englishmen. He had forgotten how beautifully she could speak, the strength and depth of her voice reaching out across the fields—it would breathe life into a stone. And how low and unworthy it made
him feel to stand here, entertaining dark suspicions about her honour.
The sun beat down mercilessly into his eyes like white hot daggers, making his senses swim. The words began to rush past him and he tried to clutch on to them, but it was no use. The world was dark around him and he no longer knew what she was saying.
The next he knew the crowds were waving and cheering in a hysterical frenzy and it was all over. For a moment he was afraid the seething masses would surge forward, but under the control of her daunting majesty the lines held. He felt his throat close. Perhaps in every thousand years the world produced one man or woman to live in incandescence, enshrined within their span of time. What else would men call this era but Elizabethan?
The magnitude of his thoughts had left him dog-tired, but now he must lift her down from the white horse and watch her walk among the ragged ranks. The sun flashed fire from the silver breastplate. Men wept unashamedly as they fell to their knees and swore to die for her.
Gulls were screaming overhead, circling the rows of huts which had been hastily erected, made of poles twined with green leaves which curled and lost their sap steadily in the fierce heat. The hem of her white gown trailed in the rusty earth. He remembered thinking it was a shame—that gown would never be fit to wear again. And then the sun was lower in the sky and at last he was leading her into his tent, followed by her ladies.
He unfastened the breastplate with his own hands and saw where the sun had caught her neck, leaving red places that reminded him of another time, another place.
He bent with reverence to kiss both her hands.
“You were magnificent,” he said quietly.
But she did not seem interested. Her attention was riveted on his sweating face, scanning him with anxiety.
“You are not well.”
He laughed. “I’m hot—as you must be. It was like Hell’s valley out there. Come—let me get you something to drink.”
He held a fine banquet that night in his pavilion and while they were all still seated at the table, there was a great shout outside. A moment later the Earl of Cumberland came striding through the entrance to fall on his knees at the Queen’s feet. A tense silence fell as she gave him her hand to kiss and asked for his news.
“Madam, Howard engaged the Spanish fleet a week ago at the Gravelines and dispersed its main body.”
“Dispersed?” she frowned.
“Destroyed in all but name, madam. Howard drove them through storms up the east coast of Scotland where we can safely leave the winds and rocks to finish those who have not sunk already. It was a great naval victory.”
“But—?” said the Queen, staring steadily at Cumberland’s grim face, and nipping off the excited cheer around the table with a flick of her hand.
“But—” Cumberland twisted his flat cap uneasily between his huge hands. “The rumour is now that Parma with six thousand horse and fifty thousand foot will come out on the highest tide to make a landing.”
Leicester rose in his chair and sank back again, his anxious eyes meeting the Queen’s. They both knew that, if Parma came now, there would be wholesale slaughter among that inexperienced English force outside, presently yelling with delight, and lighting bonfires all over the camp to celebrate the news of victory.
She had sworn to live and die among her soldiers, and would not listen now to those who urged her to return to London and the safety of the Tower. She resumed the dinner calmly and it was very late that night before Leicester finally got her to himself for a few moments.
“They’re right,” he said slowly, “you should get away from here. It’s madness for you to remain.”
She shook her head. “If Parma comes, he’ll find me waiting.”
“You know I can’t defend you here. If Parma takes you—”
He stopped and she laid a hand on his arm. “If England falls to Philip there’s no place for me in this world. I would be proud to die with my soldiers.”
“You won’t die in Parma’s hands. When he’s satisfied that you have suffered every degradation his twisted mind can devise then he’ll deliver you to Philip—who will have you burnt!”
“As a heretic?”
Her smile mocked him, made him wonder anew whether she had heard his question the day he left court for Tilbury.
He frowned. “Must it come to that?”
Elizabeth leaned back against the central post which supported the canvas weight of the tent.
“Walsingham’s spies assured me that Parma was not equipped for such a mission, that he has only a dozen flyboats and a few flat-bottomed canal boats. I suppose it’s possible we were fed false information.”
“And if that’s so?”
“Then I pray he comes at once. I want this settled by the end of August at the latest.”
He stared at her blankly. “August? Why August?”
She sighed patiently and looked out at the burning orange lights of the camp fires.
“So I can demobilise, my love, and get all those men back where they belong, at their trades and in the fields. There’s a crop to be harvested if we’re not to have a famine in the winter—victory is a poor substitute for food to a child with an empty belly.”
* * *
Parma’s army never moved. Her original assessment of the commander’s half-hearted commitment to the “Enterprise” proved correct and the integrity of Walsingham’s famous intelligence service remained unquestioned, the most efficient system in the whole of Europe.
Howard’s fleet chased the surviving Spanish vessels round the east coast, without firing another shot from their empty arsenal. Behind the crippled ships floated a long trail of mules and horses, discarded by the Spanish in their haste to get away. The body of the young Prince of Ascolo, commonly reputed to be Philip’s bastard son, was seen floating, face down, in doublet and breeches of fine white satin, still sporting stockings of russet silk.
What was left of the glorious Armada made for the north of Scotland through a rising storm. Winds, cruel rocks, and savage inhabitants claimed many more victims, for the shipwrecked Spaniards who struggled ashore on the west coast of Ireland were slaughtered in their hundreds by ferocious clans. Of the thirty thousand men who had set out from Spain, less than ten thousand straggled back to tell their wretched tale.
Dressed in sackcloth and deepest mourning black, fearful messengers toiled through the broiling sun to bring the news to the Escurial, where Philip received the tidings with unblinking calm. Even now that monumental patience remained unshaken and he neither chastised his commander nor reproached his heavenly superior for failing him in such a manner. Instead he thanked the Lord “it was no worse”; and no one in that dark penitential palace saw fit to point out that it could not have been much worse.
“In God’s actions reputation is neither lost nor gained,” he said quietly. “It is best not to talk of it.”
And so he did not talk, merely shut himself up in that airless, palatial tomb, to pray and plan afresh, while only his confessor dared to approach him.
Howard, who had lost only sixty men during the fight, now faced widespread loss from a virulent outbreak of dysentery, and turned the English fleet for home. The English seamen who had repelled the enemy lay dying for want of care in the streets of Margate, while Burghley, frantic to staunch the flow of money from a rapidly emptying Treasury, parrotted the government’s defence in refusing help: To spend in time of need is wisdom; to spend without need brings bitter repentance. As in all epidemics, the weak would die, the strong would recover. There would be no worthwhile return on money invested merely to ease men a little more comfortably into their graves. The English sailors could consider themselves lucky to be paid for their efforts—it was more than the Spanish would be.
When Burghley’s message was brought to Margate, the English commanders stared at each other in grim silence. They did not question wheth
er the Queen knew of this decision, for it bore the familiar stamp of that rigorous and ruthless paymistress. So the English sailors received their due and nothing more, while Howard, Drake, and Hawkins shrugged their shoulders and provided wine and arrowroot for the sick out of their own pockets.
When it became clear at last that there would be no attack from Parma after all, Elizabeth left Leicester to wind up the camp at Tilbury and returned to London. The city was a mad throng of pealing bells and hysterical crowds who packed so densely into the narrow streets that her progress was brought to a virtual standstill more than once. She had always been loved, but now she might have been a pagan deity, for never before had their homely affection soared to such a sacrilegious peak of worship. They thanked God for the victory, but it was to the woman who had led them through that victory that they turned the visible evidence of their gratitude, weeping and cheering and fighting to get a glimpse of her, while the open litter bore her along the streets in her moment of supreme and solitary triumph.
She drank in their homage, the unstinting love for which she had hungered since her confused and lonely childhood. But now it was so strong, so powerful, that it had begun to frighten her a little. They were calling her invincible, beginning to believe that she could go on endlessly protecting them from harm, solving all their problems. The people who milled about her in the streets saw no further than this resounding victory—the Spanish were smashed, it was the end of the war. But she knew it was only the beginning, a respite in a long series of costly hostilities which would relentlessly sap away the gains of thirty years of peace. For as long as she lived, she would never be at peace with Spain again.
As she travelled slowly through the London streets, she felt all the elation draining out of her, like wine through a hairline crack in a glass goblet. A sense of unknown dread was closing in on her quite irrationally, throwing up a silly phrase to trouble her.