Aris Reigns (25 page)

Every shipyard in England worked day and night building ships to add to the existing English fleet which, along with those of Hawkins, Drake, Raleigh and a few other privateers, equaled under one hundred. The three hundred galleons of the Armada placed the odds at three-to-one. With ten thousand sailors and twenty thousand handpicked fighting men coming from Spain, what chance did the boys and men of Sussex, Essex and Kent have?

Reports showed the Duke of Parma, said to be the most skillful commander in Europe, also waited on England's doorstep with his own fifty-thousand fighting men. More ships were added daily as his shipwrights built them faster than the spies from Her Majesty could count.

The Earl of Leicester, still in London, begged Her Majesty to repair to Windsor for her safety. The Queen believed if the Spanish were not held in
the Channel, nowhere in Briton would she be safe. She admonished him to take Essex and Raleigh and be gone to join the fighting forces. Robert Cecil, her faithful secretary, was the only close advisor who remained with her.

In the middle of the night she called me of all her maids to attend her. I watched as she paced and swore and prayed. Never had I seen her so beside herself. “Jane. Jane. What is to become of us? How am I able to be strong for the country when I am so frightened myself? Help me, dear girl. Help me.” Sobbing, she fell in a heap on the floor tearing at her thinning hair. Her tears stained her pale green silk bodice as I cradled her in my arms. She cried herself to a restless sleep, tossing her head and murmuring guttural sounds deep in her throat as if fighting the war in her dreams.

Her time of rest was short before she stirred. She sat upright and stared at me with embarrassed eyes. “Speak not of this, Jane.” Standing, she straightened her clothes. “Call Parry to repair my hair and face. I must go among my people.”

I hurried from her chamber to call the rest of her ladies. As I was leaving, Robert Cecil entered. I heard him tell Her Majesty the ships of Spain had been sighted. The three hundred galleons of the Armada stretched seven miles across the entrance of the Channel like a great crescent obscuring the horizon. Huge ships built like towers, so heavy that it appeared the wind was powerless to drive them forward. Our fighting vessels appeared small and insignificant as mice against tigers.

Soon the battle was at hand. Each hour Her Majesty was brought a dispatch from the fighting. She warned her captains they must keep the fleet from meeting Parma at Calais. She admonished them to hold fast.

Then, alas, news arrived that the ship of Her Majesty's cousin, the Lord Admiral, had been surrounded by galleons. My Lady screamed in fury, smashing a precious vase into the stone of the fireplace. With flailing arms, she chased the messenger from her chamber. “We shall overcome, we shall overcome.” She shouted the words again and again until her voice became a hoarse whisper. She sat, staring at nothing, for a very long time. At last she rose from the chair.

“Send a messenger to my commanders. Victory or death.” She turned to her privy chamber to kneel and pray for an English triumph.

It seemed for a moment, God took heed. At the turning of the dawn tide, while the Spanish wiped the sleep from their eyes, our little ships danced across the water, threw a line to the Admiral's ship and towed her to the safety of the open sea.

Still, storms raged. At last, first blood. One of the war galleons and Philip's treasure ship surrendered, but what honest advantage were a mere two of three hundred ships gone? And still they lumbered on toward Calais and the waiting Duke of Parma.

Our only plan was to send fire ships to torch the Spanish fleet before their crucial rendezvous with Parma. As the man in charge of creating the English convoy from hell, Walsingham worked tirelessly in Dover, presiding over the fitting of merchant vessels no longer fit for commercial sailing. They were stripped of their canvas and masts, then covered with tar and pitch. Burning, they would sail into the heart of the Armada bringing death and destruction to the Spanish flotilla. A good plan it was, yet God seemed to have shifted His eyes from the English and answered the prayers of Philips' praying monks. The weather turned. The fire ships were trapped in Dover, held fast by a changing wind. Dressed for battle, trapped in the harbor, they shuddered and trembled, their aging wood creaking against the raging squall.

When the Queen heard the news, she was beside herself. In my time of service, I had seen Her Majesty wild with anger, yet never had I seen her so desperately furious. She sent dispatch after dispatch, each one countermanding the one before. It seemed all was lost. I did my best to calm her. I forced her to eat and drink, telling her she must stay strong for her people. Elizabeth lived for England and so at last, she heard my plea.

Then, a dispatch from Drake arrived. He, Hawkins and eight others pledged ten of their best sailing ships. The finest of their four-masted schooners were to be set ablaze; sails, masts, rigging and all. It was said Hawkins wept openly at the sight of his vessel burning in front of his eyes.

The ten ships sailed straight and true in perfect formation right into the
midst of the Armada. A messenger brought the news to Her Majesty. The Spanish seemed vanquished, their vessels alight and the crews bombarded by fusillades of molten lead. Those that had not sunk or been capsized now limped out to sea, running from the fray. There was great joy as the English knew victory.

Yet the triumph was short lived. The first of the Queen's champions to return was Raleigh. Exhaustion showed in every fiber of his being as he reported. It was possible their enemy might simply regroup at sea and attack London by sailing up the Thames River while, still, the Duke of Parma waited to attack from Calais.

The door of her chamber burst open. My Lord of Leicester entered, Essex trailing close behind. My Lord appeared old and tired compared with the youth and vigor of the younger man. He shook his wearied head in resignation as he spoke. “Parma launches his troops with or without the Armada. All our ships are chasing after the Armada. The Channel stands open to him. We are without defense.”

Silently, the Queen pondered the faces of her two loyal captains. “The sea be damned, to the land defenses now.” She paced in silence. Halting, she faced Leicester. “Go to our troops. Cheer them as my Lieutenant-General. I will join you at Tilbury to speak to them as their Queen and champion.”

“Your Majesty, you must not. The Spanish have come to put you off your throne. The Pope has given license to every Catholic in England to take your life. You must not walk among the ranks. You will not be safe among the men.”

“I have nothing to fear from treachery from my own people. Let tyrants fear. I have always believed in the loyal hearts of my subjects. I go to live or die among them.”

Leicester's eyes shown with tears of pride as he bowed a courtier's bow. He rose up, love pouring from his eyes as he stared into hers. “My Lady, you may have the body of a frail and fragile woman, but you have the heart and stomach of a king.”

“Go now, my Lords. Prepare a place for your Queen. I will walk among my
men and live or die with them battling for the soil of our precious England.”

Never had I been more proud of her. She sent for her ladies and we dressed her in all her finest. She swore that if her men were to give their lives up for their country, she would give them something to die for.

She rejected gown after gown as we paraded them before her. At last she chose a gown as white as a dove's breast. The robe she chose was of the softest white velvet. Then pearls. Hundreds of pearls around her neck, around her waist, dangling from her ears and encircling her fingers. Her wig was sprinkled with them-as plentiful as snowflakes on a winter morn.

We were awed to silence as she stood before us, warrior and Queen. Her last garment arrived from the Armory just before we set out to Tilbury. A silver breast plate. As we closed it around her, we marveled at the fit. It was small, as if made for her. We surmised it might have belonged to her dead brother, Edward, when he was but a boy. A shimmering silver helmet was carried on a white satin pillow by a page also dressed in white. And now she truly looked the part of the Faerie Queen.

We set out for Tilbury. The countryside, the hills and valleys in between, was covered with the men and boys who had rallied behind their Monarch. When we arrived, her commanders stood in wait for her, Essex at the side of the Lord of Leicester. All eyes save his were on Elizabeth. I saw him watch me as I attended her. The lust in his eyes frightened me and I was glad none other than I saw. He licked his lips and smiled, the grin wicked and demanding. Quickly I turned away to assist my Queen as she dismounted to walk among her men.

She touched first one on the shoulder and then another. She spoke with such passion her voice cut through the wind like a knife. Her pledge of her life and limb, to live or die in the dirt with her subjects, brought cheers and shouts of ‘Gloriana.' They pledged their lives, their souls to her as she wept openly.

Essex swept her off her feet and praised her courage and fire, yet when he placed her gently back on the ground, his passionate eyes found mine. I hurried away to prepare her tent for her accommodation.

It was a sleepless night for us all as we waited to hear of Parma. Would he march on without the force of the Armada behind him or would he turn back?

Finally, at dusk the following day, a messenger arrived. He brought joyous news that Parma had dispersed his men and was sailing back to Spain. When the men heard, their triumphant cries could be heard late into the night. “God bless the Queen.”

Later I was invited to dine in victory with the Queen in Lord Leicester's tent. A feast was laid before us that rivaled any at court. Suckling pig and beef and the deepest ruby wine. Satiated and a bit light-headed I begged to return to my sleeping quarters. A tent had been pitched close to the Queen's so her ladies were at hand to attend to her at a moment's notice. On my way to my bed, I stopped in front of a campfire abandoned as, one by one, the exhausted men found their sleeping pallets. All was quiet save the soft crackling of the timbers as the flames burned low. The sounds of the royal party some distance away were faint as a soft wind was blowing through the leaves.

Suddenly from behind, a powerful arm reached to encircle my waist. Frightened, I turned to face a drunken Essex. His eyes were glazed and his breath rank as he tried to kiss me. I fought him, clawing at his face, beating at his chest. The slap to my cheek was hard and sent me flying to the ground. He grabbed my wrists and pulled me to my feet. Holding both my arms in one of his big hands, he grappled with my skirt trying to rip it off. Sobbing, I begged him to let me go. My pleas seemed to incite his lust all the more.

Through the quiet of the night, a near-by sound of drunken voices singing off key reached his ears. They were moving toward us through the darkness.

“If you mention this, I will kill you.” His eyes were slits as he released me and retreated into the shadows.

“Sarah, I feel we are close. And you were right, I feel no fear as I
relive these events in trance. You have made me feel safe. I am truly confident I will know what occurred on the day of my changing. Thank you so much for this time today.”

“I would have continued, but your voice sounded exhausted. Don't worry. We'll find out everything you want to know. After all, Jane, we will have nothing but time.” She smiled as she hugged her Immortal friend.

CHAPTER 35

I
t was the morning of the Changing Ceremony. Sarah sat, wrapped in her robe, waiting for her friends to come for her.

Jane and Gabriela would take her to a special chamber in the palace for a ritual bath, her last as a human. When she thought of the ordeal before her, she shook and her heart raced. She tried telling herself she would think about it later, but there was no ‘later.' The time was now, the hour upon her. She sipped her coffee, feeling the heat of the liquid on her tongue, tasting the bitter flavor of the brew and the sweet of the sugar she added to it. “
Just like today,”
she thought.
“The sweetness of everlasting life and the bitterness of the ordeal before it. I must not think of it now, I'll never go through with it if I think about it.”
She wiped her brow, damp with perspiration.