Elizabeth could not tear her eyes away from the dancing men. “This is happening in other places, then?”
“All over England, I would guess,” replied Dee. “This endless fight between Catholics and Protestants seems to have usurped all of our religious energies, but the truth is, Your Majesty . . . Bess . . .” Dee smiled, thinking of all they had shared, and the sweetness of such familiarity on this fateful night. “The truth is, the wyrd ways have never been forgotten by a great many of your people, and in times of greatest danger, there is no substitute for the old prayers. Now if you would, please go and stand on the other side of the fire. We shall begin presently.”
Dee and Leicester were silent as they watched Elizabeth walking through the crowd of celebrants, perhaps for the first time in her whole life unrecognized and ignored.
“Have you heard from Arthur?” Leicester asked the moment Elizabeth was out of hearing.
“I have not.” Dee placed a sympathetic arm round his old pupil’s shoulder.
“I fear he’s dead, John. I fear I’ve lost him once again.”
“I do not feel him dead, my lord.”
Dudley searched the old wizard’s eyes. “Do you not?”
“I feel him alive.” Dee’s mouth quivered. “And I feel him near.”
“O God!” Tears had sprung to Leicester’s eyes.
“Come now,” said Dee. “We must begin. Conserve your energy, my friend, for I must call upon you and the Queen to be strong, give forth all your life forces combined. You are Mother and Father of Arthur, who I tell you lives! Arthur, heir to the throne of the once and future British Empire . . .”
“Will we have a victory, John?”
“The stars say yes, yes!”
“Then come, teach this old Puritan the wyrd ways and let us drive the evil forces away from England’s shores,” said Dudley, then muttered, “And may God forgive me.”
“Ram ry goll neheneit, As guyar, Honneit,” chanted John Dee, eyes closed. He seemed not of this world but lost in the hoary mists of time. “Dydoent guarthvor, Gvelattor aruyddion, gwydveirch dyavor, Eingyl ygh ygvor, Gvelattor aruyddion.” His eyes flew open. “Strength to our defenders!” he shouted and thrust his staff at the gyrating horse beast which shook its long tail in the direction of the Channel. “Thrice round the needfires bound, Evil sink into the ground. Round the pyre, three times three, Sink the foe beneath the sea!”
Whilst round and round the roaring fire danced the Hobby Horse, the Queen’s magician, tall and somber and fully infused with the power of ages, intoned his prayers that the realm and its sovereign’s blood should endure for eternity. When he was satisfied the countryfolk were lost in their dancing and incantations, Dee strode across to Elizabeth, now transfixed and trembling at the strength of the confluent energies, and took her by the hand. She gazed at him questioningly, but he did not meet her eyes, simply moved round the fire to Leicester who was likewise transfixed, and took him on his other hand. He led them, altogether silent, beyond the light of the fire to a small grove of oaks and turned to face them.
“This night,” uttered Dee with the authority of Heaven itself, “ye two shall marry, and Robert Dudley shall become your king and consort.” He heard simultaneously Elizabeth’s sharp intake of breath and Dudley’s stupefied exhalation. “In this sacred grove, ye shall lie down together and consummate that marriage. Elizabeth, Queen of England, your body shall this night become the land and you, King Robert, shall spill your fertile seed upon it. Then . . .” he continued, never taking his eyes from Leicester’s, “ye shall go out and lead England’s armies against the invaders. Die, if need be.” Then to both of them, “This is the ancient ritual and most powerful. What say you to its celebration?”
“Yes,” spoke Dudley without hesitation.
Dee saw Elizabeth staring wonderingly at her old lover, perhaps comprehending the irony that his life’s dearest wish should finally be granted, but only in private, for magic’s sake alone.
“Yes,” she said, her eyes afire. “Marry us. Marry us!”
They spoke not at all as they moved together, finding the familiar places where their bodies knew to join. She who had been bereft of a man’s touch for so long, and he who had been bereft of a woman’s true love, now discovered in each other’s arms, besides the deepest solace, a well of forgotten passion. As they found the rhythm of pleasure Elizabeth and Robin Dudley did never unlock their gazes, the years between them melted like spring snow, and their weary faces grew beautiful in each other’s sight. The sweet sensation began to grow and build and they reveled in it, knowing that she was the land and his seed spilled upon it was the fecundity of their kingdom. With the song of the mythic horseman drifting across the cliffs, they clung one to the other, rocking, rocking, and then as if blessed one last time by the stars, they came together, cried out together and rejoiced, not only for their friendship undaunted by all that had befallen it, but for England, their beloved England.
“Cum rage!” shouted John Dee, glaring out to the moonlit Channel. The horse dancers had ceased their motion for his final benediction, and they too stood gazing seaward with countenances as fearsome as curses.
“Be wynd an doom be men
Whose stormwracked ships
Astride Epona’s prancing dream
Stayn redde, mare’s tails wi furies flame
Lend sweet wynd te Anglisc flags
As seadogs ravish sails to Spanish rags!”
Then with a savage cry as old as man itself they began to dance again, and John Dee knew, as sure as the Earth flew round the sun, that no harm would come to this blessed land, and that England would thrive for a thousand years.
Forty-nine
Twas a good thing I had done my secret works on that previous evening, for when day broke thick and rainy we had not only our first sight of the English fleet, but engaged them in battle. I am anything but a seaman and speak from ignorance in all things nautical, but my common sense observations were these. Side by side with the Armada, Englands navy was small, maybe half the number of the Spanish fleet. In deed, the English ships themselves were small — narrow and lying low in the water. But, good Lord, they were fast! Agile as a two year old filly, and powerful in their maneuvering.
Ten of these vessels, guns blazing, beat in for their attack on several ships on the northern end of the crescent. The Spanish, slow and lumbering, had barely returned the cannonade before the English came about and sped away out of range. I heard much grumbling in the ranks of the soldiers, for their enemy confounded them, never coming close enough to be grappled and boarded — the only kind of sea warfare known to them. The Spanish ships with their high castles were huge and ponderous, sitting ducks to these swift hawks who could swoop down, unleash their artillery and disappear, leaving the proud Spaniards frustrated in their search for a proper fight.
Twas in this moment of weakness and disgruntlement that I made my move.
On the stern deck I located a particularly bellicose Spanish sailor and whispered in his ear that I had overheard a burly soldier, now sharpening his sword in full view, call the sailors wife a “puta.” I watched only long enough to see the first blow fall, hear the scuffle ensue, know that men from all parts of the ship were running to witness a fine brawl.
I stealthily made my way below to the stern hold which stored all the powder barrels and more than half of the shot on board. I flattened my self into a cranny as the two munitions guards ran past to the fight, and with not a moment to spare laid down the long fuse, its end buried in an open half barrel of powder. The other end I sparked with a candle lantern. Laying it carefully on the floor I prayed quickly that it should not fizzle out before finding its fiery home, and bolted.
By the shouts and crashing about I knew the fight was in full swing. Moving calmly in the opposite direction I headed for the fore deck, careful to avert my face from other men racing to witness it. I had barely made my way forward and crouched behind a bulkhead when the world exploded. The blast bl
ew me into the railing, nearly tumbling me over into the sea. The whole thousand ton ship lifted from the water and fell back with a splintering roar. A moment later, as the concussion faded, I heard men screaming, others moaning piteously and survivors shouting orders for assistance to help the wounded.
I righted my self and, determining that aside from some bruises and a few scrapes I was unhurt, ran to the stern to witness the mayhem I had wrought. Nothing prepared me for the sight of carnage and horrible destruction. The whole of the stern was blown to Heaven. The poops two upper decks were in ruins. Dead and mangled men lay all round. Men afire shrieking in agony leapt overboard to their deaths.
The hold was altogether exposed, and inside many fires raged. Twas Hell afloat, and I had in deed created it. The ship listed sharply but seemed never the less miraculously in no danger of sinking, which had been my intention. Nearby ships of our squadron sped to the rescue, taking us in tow. I worked alongside soldiers and sailors trying to quench the stubborn fires, cowering when some unblown cache of powder exploded with a mighty sound. Wounded men were removed to other ships and, to my extreme displeasure, the gold bullion went as well. I had wished to send it all to the bottom of the Channel waters, but had to make do with the gruesome results of my sabotage — one ship destroyed and two hundred dead.
Finally the fit survivors were lowered into boats sent from other vessels. I made sure I found my way to one bound for the San Martín, and it was in this way that I came to spy on the high admiral, Alonso Pérez de Guzmán el Bueno, the Duke of Medina Sidonia.
Soon after the survivors of the San Salvador were lifted aboard the flagship, commanders of the other squadrons were ferried aboard as well. I watched with interest as they were greeted by the Admiral himself, a small, compactly built man of forty who seemed to lack the dangerous swagger of his visitors. I supposed they had come to confer after their first engagement with the English. Recalde, a tall, handsome man with piercing dark eyes, was well known as the officer with the greatest experience of the sea. He seemed taciturn as he went below to join Medina Sidonia for the war council. The cousins and bitter enemies Don Diego and Don Pedro Váldez, who I imagined would normally strut with confidence and Spanish pride, now wore expressions of frustration and bafflement. The others — de Levya, Moncado, Oquendo — were equally somber. For in deed, the English maneuvering had taken them quite by surprise.
Twas my intention to learn all I could of their plans, and so to that end I sought to befriend the one man whose access to the highest authority was the greatest, and whose position in the naval hierarchy was the lowest — the Dukes cabin boy Jorge Montenegro, a tall skinny and graceless boy with a pimply face as flat as a shovel. In our first conversation, only hours after my arrival on board, I learnt he was the third son of a Castilian hidalgo. Jorge had begun his Armada service as cabin boy under the previous high commander, Santa Cruz. Jorge told me that the Admiral had, after struggling for two years to mobilize the Spanish fleet, inconveniently died several months before it had been set to sail. His replacement, Medina Sidonia, was no naval man, and did not come with his own servant for that job. So young Jorge had stayed on.
I recognized him at once as a third son, lacking the confidence of the first or the studied indifference of the second. I was able to scratch the thin veneer of Spanish haughtiness with a shared bottle of fine sherry I had stolen from the Captains pantry before I abandoned ship. When Jorge had been dismissed by Medina Sidonia, he took me to his berth, a tiny hole in the wall which was at least private. Crushed together like sardines in a barrel we drank and gossiped. He was fascinated by my descriptions of the devastation aboard the San Salvador.
Tho time was of the essence, I needed to be cautious and altogether delicate in my questioning, so he should never suspect he was talking to an English spy.
“I have seen a pinnace leave the fleet and sail on ahead every day since we left Corunna, but I have never seen one return. Where are they bound?”
“To Dunkirk,” he replied easily.
“Why Dunkirk?”
“That is where the Duke of Parma is, he and his thirty thousand land soldiers. When we meet up with them,” said Jorge, his voice beginning to slur — the Spanish were not known for heavy drinking, and their daily ration of wine was pitifully small — “we will have cleared the Channel of all the English ships, and then Parma will cross and make the invasion.”
I felt my heart freeze. “It is a brilliant plan,” I said, hoping to sound enthusiastic. “The English coastal defenses are known to be weak. We will slaughter them.”
“God willing,” he added.
“God willing,” I agreed.
“But Parma,” said Jorge, grabbing the bottle out of my hands, “Parma does never answer the Admirals dispatches. The Duke is becoming anxious. He must know if Parmas troops are ready, if his fleet of ships is prepared to ferry them across the channel.”
“I wonder why Parma does not answer,” I mused, swigging from the bottle.
“So does Medina Sidonia wonder. But he is honor bound to follow the Kings orders which are very strict. I think that they irk him.”
“What is it about the orders that irks him?” I probed.
But Jorge was silent, and his eyelids drooped. I feared losing him.
“Perhaps we should leave some for another day, my friend,” I said, stashing the bottle under my jacket. “It would not do to have you stumble drunk into the Dukes war council.”
Jorge giggled at the thought, then became serious. “He is a very fine man, the Duke. Very dignified. Very kind. Too kind. He did not wish for the admiralty of the Armada. He is not a sailor. He is not even a soldier.”
“I thought —”
“He enjoys the governorship of his Andalusian lands.” Jorge leaned closer and whispered, “I heard him tell Recalde he wrote to King Philip and begged not to be forced to take command. The letter was never answered.”
I pulled young Jorge Montenegro to his feet. There was barely room for the two of us to stand. I straightened his jacket and had him blow into my face.
“Phew! You had best eat something to hide the sherry. Think of your Fathers disgrace if you lost your position.”
This seemed to sober him immediately. “I shall find some biscuit,” he said as I turned to go.
“Maybe a few bites of strong fish too,” I added.
“Thank you, my friend,” said the boy as I opened the door. “It is easier to face the day with a touch of fine sherry in the veins.”
I tapped the bottle under my jacket. “Perhaps we can find a moment to finish the bottle before we reach Dunkirk.”
He grinned and I left him, then made my way below to the soldiers quarters, altogether pleased with my new informant. As I lay in my berth that night, rocking with the rhythm of the sea, I pondered the next move.
One whole day passed whilst both fleets floated becalmed. I watched men aboard the San Martín who were gazing nervously out at the English vessels no doubt wondering what was in store from this strange, godless enemy and their devilishly swift ships.
I my self was racked with indecision regarding my future exploits. No other person was more perfectly situated to wreak havoc within the Spanish fleet, yet I was one man alone, a horse soldier without a horse, and afraid of the sea at that. With only secondhand intelligence from a pimply faced cabin boy, my choices were limited. Most ironic was that I was more in danger of losing my life at the hands of my own countrymen than of the enemy.
I was, in a gruesome way, satisfied with my act of sabotage aboard the San Salvador. We all watched as the English took possession of her sinking hulk, tho I regretted there would be few spoils to take off her. One possible plan repeatedly insinuated itself into my head — assassination. I might murder the High Admiral, the Duke of Medina Sidonia, or I could wait until the next war council again brought the squadron commanders aboard, and dispatch them all at once with a well timed explosion. This would leave the enormous fleet in a leaderless condition. B
ut as often as I contemplated such an act, I found myself resisting it. Memories of Prince Williams death came unbidden into my head. Assassination was a much used tool amongst the great powers, but I personally found it a repugnant and cowardly act. Still, I had no better plan, and forced my self to look for an auspicious moment to carry it out.
That night in my cramped berth I dreamt of making love to Mary Willis, then lying side by side in that summer glade staring up at the trees talking companionably, and woke longing for the feel of dry solid earth that had been beneath our backs. I pondered the mystery of dreaming — how a man so in love with one woman could dream of another — and found my self wondering suddenly what the dreams of a man like John Dee might be. If he dreamt fantastically — of stars or magic machines or mythic creatures. If he dreamed of futures and prophecies. Or if his nighttime visions were as mundane as my own.
Suddenly a cry went up that the wind had risen and a battle was afoot. We leapt from our plank beds, swallowed some barely edible rations on the run, and grabbing our weapons hurried to our posts. Mine was on the upper deck, but the shortest route to it took me thro the long narrow gundecks where I saw soldiers readying their cannon, ramming their powder and ball, and laying down a trail of more powder to the touchhole. They would wait to learn the position of the enemy and, with wedges and crowbars, turn and elevate or lower their guns into position to fire. Then they would stand clear of the recoil with their fingers in their ears. Still, amongst the heavy gunners were the largest number of deaf men aboard.
I found my place behind the castle facade and primed my arquebus. Peering out from my window of the High Admirals ship I was fortunate to be positioned on the front line, with good view of the oncoming English fleet, now led by a flagship. I did long to know who commanded her. Was it Drake, Frobisher, Hawkins? As they sailed closer they appeared to be forming into a long line, one behind the other. The San Martín turned sidewise for the attack, and lowered her topsails.
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