Then the assault began.
The English flagship came marvelous close, turned and fired her broadside at us, as we did the same. But whilst we were stationary in the water with hardly room to maneuver, the English vessels peeled off to make way each for the next in line, which similarly discharged its ordnance with bright flashes from its gunports. Then the next came, and the next. Of course I and my fellow small armsmen were called upon to fire our weapons, but they were clearly useless. Even our heaviest cannon could not seem to touch such fastmoving targets. But English artillery coming so hard and continuously was doing damage to the San Martín — our flagstaff and the stay of our mainmast were splintered. Bits of their wood made deadly projectiles which slew several Spaniards aboard.
On deck the dignified presence of the Duke of Medina Sidonia kept the Spanish spirits high, and truly I did never see the man duck or flinch or exhibit anything but bravery and sound leadership.
The noise of that battle was the most terrible I had heard in all my years as a soldier, the cannon fire so constant it might have been a land battle with small weapons. But for all the English speed and firepower, and so close as they came, I admit to hearing only the occasional thud of a cannonball on our hull, and the San Martín did never seem in danger of being sunk. The attack continued for two hours, I so marvelling at the sights and sounds that I forgot everything of my fear of the sea, and concentrated on firing wildly into the sky, wasting as much powder as possible, making sure no Spanish soldier observed my folly.
Finally the English retreated, leaving the Armada to lick its wounds. Tho the ships were not greatly damaged, the morale of the men was badly shaken. Twas all too clear that the English would never come close enough for the Spanish soldiers to swarm aboard the heretic ships, use their ferocious skills in fighting hand to hand with pikes and swords. They were, for all the magnificent planning and tireless training, utterly useless, and miserable in that knowledge.
But none was more miserable, it seemed, than Medina Sidonia. On the morning after the battle, the two fleets again becalmed off the Isle of Wight, I sought Jorge Montenegro as he came out from the Admirals cabin. The look on his face was terrible grim, and I escorted him silently as he climbed the stairs to the upper deck. Plying him with spirits was not needed this day, for he desired to unload his heavy heart. There had still been no word from Parma, not a whisper. But intelligence reports had come back that the English fleet which they had so far encountered — already nearly half the Armada in number — would be joined by a second contingent of fresh ships at the Straits of Dover. A force equal to the first.
“The Kings orders,” said Jorge, “they are killing the Duke.”
“How so?” I pressed carefully. “Were they not provided by God Himself?”
“That is the problem. The Duke knows they came from the Almighty, but believes even God Himself would have difficulty carrying them out. How, in the face of such a mighty offensive, can we remain wholly defensive?”
“Defensive? What do you mean?” I was honestly baffled.
“On the Kings orders we may not instigate any attacks on the heretics, nor take any of their ports, despite our stores which are pitifully depleted, not to mention our powder and shot. We must only continue up the Channel, firm in our formation, to our rendezvous with Parma. The other commanders are furious with the Admiral. He is ashamed of what looks like weakness, tho it is merely the strictest adherence to the Kings orders.”
“But we will meet with Parma and make the invasion?” I said, trying to sound hopeful.
Jorge brightened. “Of course. And when the two forces are joined there will be no power on Earth to stop it! Ah, friend, you do cheer me. I had best go.”
“God be with you, Jorge,” I said.
“And the same to you, Arturo.”
In the next days of small skirmishing in the Channel I did think more about God, and life and death and destiny, than I had in my whole life previous. Tho I wished fervently to live — to meet my Mother, and my Father again, and most of all to hold Constanza in my arms — I could not see the way clear to those wishes. I was stranded aboard an enemy ship bound to do battle with my own countrymen whom I longed desperately to be amongst, but from whom I was separated by that which I feared most — the sea.
My mind returned again and again to Prince William and his creed of tolerance. Had he still lived, he would have suffered horribly to see how King Philips unholiest of holy wars had come to encompass England too. And I could not for the life of me believe that the true God would disallow a love so fine as mine and Constanzas for our simply worshiping in different temples.
But most pressing was my decision for the assassination of Medina Sidonia and his commanders. I had so far been denied the chance for a mass killing, as all the captains had never again come aboard the San Martín for a war council. If I dispatched anyone, twould be the Duke alone, and I knew that in case of his death, de Levya or Recalde, both more able seamen than he, would replace him. But in my present state of mind, twas more the wondering of the right and righteousness of assassination that haunted me. I was a soldier, and in my career I had killed many hundreds of men. As a saboteur I had ruthlessly dispatched two hundred more. Perhaps Jorge Montenegros description of the Admiral as a kind, peaceable man, and the sight of his brave and manly deportment in battle, had thrust some unsoldierly thoughts into my head. But more, memories of the repulsive and cowardly crime that had ended Prince Williams life made me shudder to think of my self as the perpetrator of such an act. The Duke was surely my enemy, but was it my duty, my fate to murder him? My doubts and hesitation continued as we sailed on towards the Straits of Dover and our rendezvous with Parmas enormous army. The invasion of England was only days away.
Fifty
With the boom of guns signaling the arrival of the royal barge, the Earl of Leicester allowed himself a rare moment of satisfaction. Despite the ominous warning by her council that the Queen’s life should be put in the gravest danger by going amongst her armed troops, Elizabeth had, on Leicester’s urgings, come this day to the camp at Tilbury. She had shunted aside all talk of madmen and evil Catholic assassins, allowing herself to be swayed one more time by her Revels Master, who had pleaded for her participation in this event more fiercely than for any before it. Dudley knew in every nerve of him that this moment of England’s greatest peril could be, for the Queen, her finest hour.
He watched as the door of the glass and gilt cabin opened and dainty music wafted out on the perfumed air, mixing with the raucous military fifes and horns and drums blaring out their welcome. Elizabeth’s gorgeously attired ladies emerged first, causing a ripple of excitement amongst the soldiers at quayside. Then she came, splendidly, and stood for her first look at the ground forces standing to attention, ten thousand strong.
The site was tidy now, the barrack huts of pine posts and green branches swept of the filth and detritus of a makeshift army camp, and the men as well scrubbed as possible. Leicester gazed about and found himself startled by the great waves of adoration and awe flowing equally from the fresh-faced boys and hardened men toward this strange and paradoxical woman. She had somehow managed it, he thought with amusement. She had attained what had been her most daunting challenge and her dearest wish in life — the absolute love of her people.
Leicester was satisfied too that, if the peers of England still counted him the most hated man in the kingdom, the enlisted men under his command, both here and in the Netherlands before, liked and respected him.
He had fought for their good against Elizabeth’s neverending impecuniousness, seen to it that they were fed and paid, even if it meant using money from his own coffers. He knew too well that should the fleet fail to stop the Armada, these hastily assembled and trained soldiers would not last long against Parma’s land forces. But he was proud of his army, proud of this commission, and in thanks he would present his beloved Elizabeth with the greatest pageant of her long career.
Now with a han
d shielding her eyes from the midday sun the Queen gazed downriver at Giambelli’s specially built fortification, which stretched across the Thames from Tilbury to Gravesend. ’Twas a great mass of cables, huge chains, and ships’ masts laid end to end, all tethered to a line of small boats anchored in the river. It had been an ingenious plan but, though Elizabeth could not detect as much from where she stood, the barricade had already begun to fall apart. It was, Dudley realized suddenly, only for his belief in John Dee’s heavenly assurances that no harm would come to England, that he could allow himself to rejoice in this occasion.
When both her feet were planted on solid ground, a single trumpet blast gave signal, and in the same moment every company raised its brilliant ensign high into the air. Elizabeth’s face blossomed into a smile of the purest joy and gratitude, a smile the likes of which Leicester had not seen in far too many years, and in this moment he stepped forward and saluted her. The look she then bestowed upon him warmed and made suddenly painless every joint and bone and sinew in his aging body. He offered his hand and led her to a coach and four which he had had specially painted chequerwise to look as though it was encrusted with diamonds, rubies, and emeralds. Thus the Queen and Her Majesty’s Lieutenant Against Foreign Invasion rode through the sea of soldiers who chanted ceaselessly “God save the Queen” and “God save good Queen Bess!”
“Oh! Oh Robin,” was all she said, punctuated by tiny gasps of delight. But she seemed, he thought, altogether unprepared for the sight of two thousand uniformed horsemen astride their mounts waiting at the center of camp. Unprepared for the shape of her army spread out before her eyes, the prospect of which had always been her worst nightmare, now England’s only salvation, Elizabeth began to weep. Her silent tears were all the thanks that Robin Dudley required.
She had changed her clothing, was all in white velvet, silver breastplate and plumed silver helmet glittering in the sun. The Queen went amongst the troops in her review first on foot, striding almost manlike down the rows of men, commenting with pleasure on their strength and comeliness. Then Leicester lifted her on a high horse, white with hindquarters in dappled grey. He knew as he took the reins and led her to the head of her army that the stallion had been trained to prance, and when it began its highstep an unexpected laugh escaped Elizabeth’s throat.
On a small rise he turned the horse so she could face the crowd and gaze out over the mass of upturned faces. The sincerest shouts of “God save the Queen!” were so thunderous that she bade them stop, but they would not. Leicester had told her a good speech was the order of the day, and now as he watched her, heard the voices finally quieting, he knew the words Elizabeth had chosen could not fail to be rousing. She was magnificent. Tall and strong. The best of her father Henry. Bright as the sun itself.
“My loving people,” she began in a hale and steady voice. “I have been cautioned by my many advisors that I should have fear for my life coming here amongst yourselves, the armed multitudes. But as you can see I have refused to take heed of them!”
It was true, thought Leicester. Elizabeth had indeed let men love her but never ever rule her. So it had been since the earliest days of her reign.
“I believe my subjects to be loyal,” she continued, “my strength and not my weakness, and bearing me only peace and good will. And so I come here in the heat of battle to live or die amongst you all, and to lay down my honor and my blood, even into the dust!”
Leicester steadied the reins, for her horse too was aflame under her. By God, he thought, she thrills me with the words I bade her speak!
“I may have the weak and feeble body of a woman,” Elizabeth went on, her voice rising almost to a cry, “but I have the heart and stomach of a King, and King of England too!”
A great roar went up then, soldiers shouting for joy and pride and love, and Leicester, that most reserved of men, found himself shouting along with them.
“How does Parma or Spain or any Prince of Europe dare to invade my realm?!” she roared, raising her truncheon over head, stabbing at the sky. “Let me take up arms and I shall fight them myself!”
Cries of “No, no, Majesty, preserve your life!”
“Good people, I already know of your valor in the field, how deserving you are of reward, for I have been told of it by your Lieutenant General!”
As another roar of approval went up from the crowd Leicester felt himself flush with pride.
“I tell you now that I have never commanded a more worthy subject than he, and by your obedience to him, and by your valor on the field of battle I promise you we shall shortly have a famous victory over these enemies of God, my kingdom, and my people!”
Fifty-one
Jorge, whose love and admiration for Medina Sidonia was growing in the same proportion as the Dukes woes, kept me well informed of all the many unanswered dispatches to Parma. One was a request for forty flyboats — strong and efficient flatbottomed warships — to join up with the Armada as quickly as possible. Another was for powder and shot to be delivered at their Dunkirk meeting, necessary to help the fleet clear the seas of the English so Parma might cross. But by this time, with nothing but silence from the Netherlands, Medina Sidonia was despairing of ever making contact with the commander of the land forces. Jorge told me, pity in his voice, that the Duke repeatedly reviewed the Kings written orders to assure himself Parmas part in the invasion had not been a figment of his own imagination. His worry was growing that even if we did meet up with him, how we would clear the channel of English ships when ours were so slow and heavy, and theirs so fast and light?
Then came the report from the Armada pilots that the rendezvous with Parma could not under any circumstances be made at Dunkirk, with its dangerous sandbanks extending twelve miles from shore. Other Flemish harbors were too shallow for our meeting, and Calais was held by Spains ancient enemy, France. Such dire news provoked bitter arguments, the captains and the pilots each looking to blame the other for a blunder of such enormous magnitude.
By 12 July of a breezy Saturday afternoon, the Spanish Armada dropped anchor off the coast of Calais. The Duke, grim and ill, climbed slowly aloft to see what incalculable disaster the Kings orders had inflicted upon his fleet. He stared bleakly out at the English flotilla which had dropped anchor upwind of them, not more than a quarter mile away. Then he turned landward to see the French hordes who had gathered on Calais beach, to gawk at the spectacle of a great battle come to their shore. Soon a rowboat was seen splashing its way towards the San Martín. With great show, fruit and cheese and wine were borne aboard, gifts from the Mayor of Calais — a known Catholic — who pledged all support save that most desperately needed. Powder and shot.
But three hours hence came the most horrible spectre to Medina Sidonias eyes — reinforcement for the English fleet, bringing its numbers nearly equal to the Spanish Armada. Now, fully aware of the enemys greater speed and agility — and not doubting the English artillery holds were as full of ordnance as ours were empty — the Duke could no longer hide his desperation. At that moment I was overcome with a great presentiment that it was lost for the Spanish, and I would not have to murder the poor man after all.
Later he had climbed slowly down again and gone below, beckoning to Jorge to follow. Within the hour the cabin boy reappeared, orders in hand for a pinnace captain, who departed immediately up the coast towards the Netherlands. I met Jorge in a lower corridor. At first he would not even meet my eyes, as tho the Dukes own despair had infected him. So I stayed there quietly with him, not pressing him to speak, but pretending my own sadness.
“It is finished,” he said after a long while. “Until the Spring at least.”
“Finished?” I said.
“There will be no rendezvous with Parma. No invasion of England.”
“Do we sail for home then?” I asked trying heroically to stifle my joy.
“No,” he said. “This last dispatch, it begs Parma” — Jorge could not hide his contempt — “begs him to at least send us Flemish
pilots to guide the Armada into a safe harbor for the winter.”
“But we will strike again in the Spring?”
“Of course. But such a disgrace for the Duke …”
“No greater than for Parma,” I said. “Why has he sent no word, do you think, Jorge?” My respect for this ungainly lad had grown in the past days thro the sheer level of kind compassion I had seen him show his commander.
“I have heard my Father say that the Duke of Parma has ambitions of his own. Royal Portuguese blood. I know it sounds mad, but he may wish the invasion to fail. He has been negotiating with the heretic Queen for years. Perhaps …” It was as tho the thought was forming as he spoke. “Perhaps she has offered him something better than the King has.”
In all my musings in days past I had given little thought to Parmas motives, but now I was intrigued. “You think he may have betrayed Spain?”
“No!” Jorge went suddenly pale. Confusion and panic clouded his eyes, for he was casting aspersions on one of Spains highest lords. “I have said too much. I must go!” He turned to leave but I held his arm.
“Jorge, have faith. We have not won, but have not lost either. Surely Medina Sidonia will lose face, but there is always next Spring for our victory.”
He looked unconvinced but never the less grateful for the encouragement. He managed a wan smile and went below.
Part of me wanted to shout at the top of my lungs the joy and relief I felt for England’s deliverance. But I knew that with these two great navies anchored but a cannon shot apart, there was no power under Heaven could keep them from battle, and in that fight lay the next turning of my own destiny.
Fifty-two
Yo el Rey. I the King, wrote Philip with a grandiose flourish. He did enjoy affixing his signature thus to each and every document which left his council chamber desk. This last was perhaps the final one he would write to the Duke of Medina Sidonia before the battle of the Great Enterprise was joined. He knew it would not reach the admiral in time, but he still had much good advice to bestow, and it gave the King pleasure to think the letter would one day be placed amongst his state papers in the vast archives at Salamanca.
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