Elizabeth I (2 page)

The sixty-eight-year-old pope then slowly circled the pile, making the sign of the cross and sprinkling it with holy water. Then he nodded to the Spanish envoy standing quietly to one side.

“You may transport them now,” he said. “The Armada leaves from Lisbon, does it not?”

“Yes, Your Holiness. Next month.”

Sixtus nodded. “They should arrive in plenty of time, then. You have waterproof canisters for them?”

“I am sure they will be provided. King Philip thinks of everything.”

T
he old hermit shuffled out of his shelter, as he did every morning.

He made his bed in the ruins of St. Michael's Chapel, perched near the peak of a jutting piece of headland stretching out into Plymouth Sound. He stood on the rim of the cliff, the ocean far below him, his eyes darting left and right, searching. The morning sun, glinting off the water, made it hard to see. He shaded his eyes and squinted, trying to detect the telltale shape of sails on the horizon. Nothing. Not today.

Muttering, he turned to attend to his other business—preparing the beacon. He had found an abandoned dolmen, an ancient monument, at the pinnacle of the peak and had been carrying twigs, straw, and kindling there for days. The fire that would flare out from the cone-shaped mounted brackets must be visible for miles, until the next beacon. And this was likely the first. This would be the place, if any place, that the Armada would first come into view. And he, the hermit of St. Michael's, would keep vigilant watch as long as there was a whisper of light to see by.

He patted the dolmen. Pagan stuff. Made long ago by vanished people. But who cared, if it helped in the fight against the Spanish enemy?

Q
uiet!” Philip Howard motioned to the priest.

Someone was coming. The guard was making his rounds. His footstep on the stones outside was a sound that Philip heard even in his dreams. He bent his head down, resting it between his knees, his hands hanging limply. He must look asleep. The priest did likewise, drawing his cloak up around himself. The others in the room fell silent, turned to stone.

The footsteps paused; the shutter over the iron grille in the prisoners' door lifted. Then it clanged down again, and the footsteps continued.

Philip stayed still for another few minutes to be safe. Finally he whispered, “He's gone. He won't make rounds again for two or three hours. Let's begin. Let's begin God's work.”

The others in the chamber stirred. The priest threw back the covering on his head. “In the name of the Holy Mother Church,” he said, “I will perform this Mass.”

Philip shook his head. “It must be dedicated to another intention,” he said. “I was not a traitor until they sought to make me one. Now, held for five years here in the Tower, I have seen the evil of the queen and her so-called church firsthand. It must perish. She must perish. And my godfather King Philip will ensure that.”

In the dim light the priest's eyes glittered. “And who will the Mass be dedicated to?” he asked.

“To the success of the Armada!” said Philip. “May it wreak revenge on this godless nation!”

“To the success of the Armada,” the others intoned.

The priest began laying out his holy implements, an earthenware cup for a chalice, a wooden saucer for a paten, a rough scarf for a stole. “Let us pray,” he began.

“O most high, you have looked down in sorrow upon the blasphemy and sacrilege here in England, once your obedient servant, now a renegade. As of old, when a nation went a-whoring after false gods, you used a rod to chastise them, you now send your son, King Philip of Spain, a devotee of the True Faith, to smite them. Just as there was no mercy for the Amorites or the Philistines or the Canaanites, there can be no mercy for these straying people. If we perish alongside them, we are willing. Look what your servant Philip, Earl of Arundel, has carved here on the wall of his miserable prison. See his fine words:
Quanto plus afflictionis pro Christo in hoc saeculo, tanto plus gloriae cum Christo in futuro
—The more affliction we endure for Christ in this world, the more glory we shall obtain with Christ in the next. We know, O Lord, that that is true.”

“True ... true ... true ...,” murmured Philip and his companion prisoners. “O Armada, come quickly to deliver England! Bless all her exiled sons who are aboard, taking up arms to deliver their homeland!”

Their heated cries echoed within the dank stone chamber.

T
he whip cracked and snapped as it sought its victim.

I could see the groom cowering in the bushes, then crawling away in the underbrush as the whip ripped leaves off a branch just over his head. A stream of Spanish followed him, words to the effect that he was a worthless wretch. Then the face of the persecutor turned toward me, shining with his effort. “Your Majesty,” he said, “why do you keep my whip?”

It was a face I had thought never to see again—that of Don Bernardino de Mendoza, the Spanish ambassador I had evicted from England four years earlier for spying. Now he rounded on me and began fingering his whip as he walked toward me.

I sat up in bed. I could still smell the leather of the whip, lingering in the air where it had cracked. And that smirk on the face of Mendoza, his teeth bared like yellowed carved ivory—I shuddered at its cold rictus.

It was only a dream. I shook my head to clear it. The Spanish were much on my mind, that was all. But ... didn't Mendoza actually leave me a whip? Or did we just find one in his rooms after he hurriedly left? I had it somewhere. It was smaller than the one in the dream, useful only for urging horses, not punishing horse grooms. It had been black, and braided, and supple as a cat's tail. Spain's leather was renowned for its softness and strength. Perhaps that was why I had kept it.

It was not light out yet. Too early to arise. I would keep my own counsel here in bed. Doubtless devout Catholics—secretly here in England, openly in Europe—were already at early Mass. Some Protestants were most likely up and studying Scripture. But I, their reluctant figurehead, would commune with the Lord by myself.

I, Elizabeth Tudor, Queen of England for thirty years, had been cast by my birth into the role of defender of the Protestant faith. Spiteful people said, “Henry VIII broke with the pope and founded his own church only so he could get his way with Anne Boleyn.” My father had given them grounds with his flip quote “If the pope excommunicates me, I'll declare him a heretic and do as I please.” Thus the King's Conscience had become a joke. But out of it had come the necessity of embracing Protestantism, and from that had grown a national church that now had its own character, its own martyrs and theology. To the old Catholic Church, I was a bastard and usurper queen; thus I say that my birth imposed Protestantism upon me.

Why must England, a poor country, be stuck with subsidizing three others—the French, the Dutch, the Scots—and facing Spain, the Goliath champion of Catholicism? God's teeth, wasn't it enough for me to defend and manage my own realm? The role was a sponge that soaked up our resources and was driving us slowly but inexorably toward bankruptcy. To be the soldier of God was an expense I could have done without.

Soldier. God must be laughing, to have handed me his banner to carry, when all the world knew—or thought it did—that a woman could never lead troops into battle.

Mendoza ... His face still haunted me, as if the dream clung inside my head. His black, searching eyes and snake-thin face, his shiny skin and receding hairline—if he was not a villain, he looked like one. He had plotted and spied here in England, until he was exposed and expelled. His last words upon boarding were “Tell your mistress that Bernardino de Mendoza was born not to disturb kingdoms but to conquer them.” Since then he had settled in Paris as King Philip's ambassador, creating a web of espionage and intrigue that spread across all Europe.

He was evenly matched, though, by our homegrown spymaster, Sir Francis Walsingham. Did Mendoza have hundreds of informants? Walsingham had at least five hundred, even as far away as Constantinople. Was he a devoted, even fanatical, Catholic? Walsingham was equally passionate about Protestantism. Did he have no scruples? Walsingham's motto was “Knowledge is never too dear”—and he was willing to pay anything. Both men felt they were waging spiritual battle rather than just political war.

And the great clash, the long-postponed Armageddon between England and Spain, was imminent. I had done all within my power to deflect it. Nothing was too base or lowly to be employed: marriage negotiations, subterfuge, obfuscation, outright lies, as when I assured Philip I was only a Protestant by political necessity but not by conviction. Anything to buy us time, to let us get strong enough to withstand the blow when it finally came. But I had run out of ruses, and Philip had run out of patience—yes, even he, the man about whom it was said, “If death came from Spain, we would all live a very long time.”

The dawn had finally come. I could arise now.

My astrologer John Dee puts much stock in dreams and omens. In this case he was correct. I had barely dressed when I was informed that William Cecil, Lord Burghley, my chief minister, wished to see me on urgent business.

It must be urgent. He knew I did not conduct business before noon.

I welcomed him, while dreading his news. He was dear to me; if anyone must bring bad tidings, I wished it to be Burghley.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” he said, bowing as low as his rheumatic spine would permit. “But it was imperative that you see this.” He thrust a rolled-up scroll into my hand. “It's from Philip.”

“Addressed to me? How thoughtful!” I clutched the parchment in my hand, feeling its importance in its very weight.

“Hardly, Your Majesty.”

“He used the best vellum,” I said, trying to joke.

Burghley did not smile.

“I meant to be witty,” I said. “Have I lost my touch?”

He forced the corners of his mouth up. “No, Your Majesty. I marvel that you can find humor even in such as this.” He took the scroll from me. “Hundreds of them, loaded in the holds of the Armada. Like seeds of evil, to be sown here in England.”

“Unlike dandelion down that floats by itself in the wind, these cannot be planted unless Spanish boots walk the land. And they will not.”

“Secretary Walsingham's agents managed to steal this one, and also a copy of a letter drawn up by one of King Philip's advisers. It
almost
seems there is nothing he can't procure, or uncover.”

I took the letter. It was in Spanish, of course, but that was no problem for me. As I read it, however, I almost wished I could not have understood. It was a carefully thought-out memorandum and recommendation to the Spanish king about what should be done once they had conquered England. I was to be taken alive and conveyed to the pope.

“I do not need to guess what His Holiness would decree,” I said. “The Bull states that”—I twitched my fingers, signaling Burghley to hand it back to me, and my eyes found the quote—“that my deeds and shortcomings are such that ‘some of them make her unable to reign, others declare her unworthy to live.' He pronounces that he deprives me of all authority and princely dignity, declaring me to be illegitimate and absolving my subjects from obedience to me. So, His Holiness—the former Grand Inquisitor of Venice—would prepare a fine bonfire for me.” I shuddered. It was no joking matter. It went on to order everyone to ally with the “Catholic army” of the Duke of Parma and of the “King Catholic”—that is, Philip II of Spain. He concluded by promising a plenary indulgence for all those who helped to overthrow me.