Elizabeth I (9 page)

He made the slightest of faces before saying, “Very good taste. Now, my most precious Queen, shall it please you to come with me to the camp?” He indicated the raised causeway we should walk up.

I was already attired in the white velvet gown I wished to be seen in, and would put on the armor before mounting my horse. This was such a momentous, almost a sacred, occasion that no ordinary costume was worthy. But white velvet, with all its evocation of virginity and majesty, came closest.

As we passed, each soldier bowed and the officers dipped their pikes and ensigns in respect. I looked into their faces, broad, sunburned, and frightened, and felt their courage in having left their farms and homes to come here and take their stand.

As we reached the crest of the hill, the camp spread out before us. Hundreds of tents, some of the finest workmanship, others of rough canvas, were pitched in tidy rows. There were large pavilions for the officers and green-painted booths for the lower-rank soldiers. Bright pennants and flags fluttered over them. Upon seeing us, pipers and drummers struck up their welcoming tunes. Then a royal salute was fired from the blockhouse cannons.

“Behold your legions!” said Leicester, sweeping his hand over them. “Stout Englishmen ready to defend our shores.”

For one awful moment I felt that I might cry. So brave and so fragile, these men: the most precious gift my people had ever offered up to me.

“Yes,” I murmured.

I walked up and down the companies of soldiers standing at attention, speaking a word to some, giving a smile to another, thinking how like a tall fence they were, or a line of saplings planted alongside a road.

“God bless you all!” I cried, and in response they fell, to a man, to their knees, calling, “Lord preserve our Queen!”

I also inspected the ranks of the cavalry, some two thousand strong. One company, decked out in tawny livery, was headed by Leicester's young stepson, Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex. He grinned as I approached and waited an instant too long to lower his head.

“Your Majesty,” said Leicester, “young Essex here has raised a fine company of two hundred horsemen at his own expense.” He tilted his chin toward the young man, proudly.

I looked at the richly attired company and mentally computed the cost. Young Essex had spared no expense. But the overall effect, rather than being stunning, was surfeit. “Umm,” I said, nodding shortly, and passed on to the next.

We retired to Leicester's pavilion for the midday dinner. Only a select few were to join us; therefore the table did not stretch very far down the length of the room. For myself, I had included Marjorie and Catherine, as well as Walsingham, as guests. Leicester sat down with a flourish and said, “Your Majesty, all this is yours to command.”

“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.

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.