This Heart of Mine (17 page)

The day that the English fleet had returned to Plymouth, the Spanish had set sail from Coruña and, with a southerly wind behind them cruised northwestward across a sunshine-filled Bay of Biscay, not usually noted for its pleasant weather. The skies then turned dark for several days, slowing the Spanish down before it had become fair once again. The great Armada continued ever northward toward England. Then on Saturday, July 20, 1588, Lord Burghley had word that the Spanish had at last arrived.

England had responded in an overwhelming fashion to the queen’s earlier request for aid. The city of London had asked how many men and ships they were expected to supply, and were told five thousand men and fifteen ships. Two days later London’s aldermen produced ten thousand men and thirty ships for Her Majesty’s service.

England’s Roman Catholic Cardinal Allen sent an
“Admonition to the Nobility and People of England
.” They must support the invasion, he counseled, the purpose of which was to restore the Holy Mother Church and to rid them of that monster of impiety and unchastity, Elizabeth Tudor. This incredible plea was sent from the cardinal’s lodgings at the Palace of St. Peter in Rome.

The English Catholics were not interested. They were content, and had become prosperous under Harry Tudor’s brat.
They were English to the soles of their feet, and they had no intention of replacing an honest-born English queen with a Spanish infanta, for Philip of Spain had said he would give England to one of his daughters. All England rallied to the cause. The dispatches came fast and furious from the coast to Lord Burghley and the queen.

While Robin’s fête was in full swing, the English navy had worked furiously to warp their ships out to sea again. Caught on a lee shore with the enemy at their gates, they strove through the night to tow their ships to safety.

On the morning of July 20, the wind against them, the English worked their way laboriously out of Plymouth Sound into the open sea. By noon, fifty-four vessels, in an incredible feat of pure skill and superb discipline, were close to the Eddy-stone Rocks. The Spanish, twenty miles to windward, were unaware that the English fleet lay smack in their path.

The Spanish had been given a plan of action by their king, and come what may they would adhere to it. Was not God on their side? The English, however, had been given an order by their queen.
Win.
How they fought their battle was up to the admirals. Elizabeth Tudor was only interested in the successful results of their naval decisions. She knew that God helped those who helped themselves. As she had said so many times, “There is but one lord, Jesus Christ. The rest is all trifles.”

By evening, a hazy moon scampered devilishly amid high, fair-weather clouds. The Armada was anchored in the close battle formation that it was to maintain until it reached its rendezvous with the Duke of Parma off Calais. During the night, the watches on the many decks of the Spanish fleet occasionally noticed shadowy forms passing in the mist before them and moving westward toward the Cornish coast. At dawn, the surprised Spanish discovered that they had been outflanked, and their outnumbered enemies were sailing a mile or so to windward. The English now had the battle advantage.

The great Spanish Armada—its huge ships top-heavy with turrets; some of them weighing more than a thousand tons with towering masts and superstructures; their sails bright with paintings of saints and martyrs; their great hulls painted a forbidding black; packed with soldiers and great grappling irons hanging from their yardarms—bore down on England’s defenders. The English ships, by contrast, were trim and far smaller. Their pure white sails bore a simple design: St. George’s Cross. Their hulls were painted in the queen’s
colors, green and white, in a geometrical pattern. They lay low in the water, their ports bristling with guns.

The battle was fierce and hotly contested, but by one in the afternoon when the action was concluded, neither side could claim a victory. The Spanish had come prepared for a close-in fight. Their new fifty-pound iron round shot was capable of destroying the rigging on an opponent. The English, however, had greater mobility with their sleeker vessels, and their expertly handled English culverins were far superior at long range. They whisked in and out of the Armada, attacking like small dogs nipping at the heels of fat sheep. After several hours of battle, and finding themselves unable to gain the advantage, both sides wisely retired. The English, however, had not lost one ship.

The Armada continued on its ponderous way, moving majestically in the summer sunshine across Lyme Bay. Upon the coastal hills spectators peered anxiously through the haze for a glimpse of Spain’s mighty fleet. Meanwhile, a host of small ships poured out from the little seaside towns of Dorset, bringing the English fleet supplies of fresh food and ammunition as fast as the authorities could requisition them.

By Saturday, July 27, the Armada had anchored off the French port of Calais. Here the Spanish admiral, the Duke of Medina-Sidona, could communicate with the Duke of Parma, the Spanish general who was to command the landing forces. The Armada’s shadow, the English navy, was now joined by the remainder of the fleet commanded by Lord Seymour and Sir William Winter, a seasoned veteran.

In London, they waited. The rumors were wild and many. Drake had been captured, went one. Another tale was that there had been a great battle off Newcastle and the English flagship had been sunk. In the face of these rumors the English people had only one thought: the coming battle. Wednesday, August 7, was the date of the highest floodtide at Dunkirk, and it was expected that Parma’s troops would embark across the channel that day and swarm onto English soil, probably in Essex.

The Earl of Leicester, Robert Dudley, had been put in charge of the army and named lieutenant general. The queen had wished to go down to the coast to see the battle, but Leicester would not permit it. He wrote to her saying:

Now for your person, being the most dainty and sacred thing we have in the world to care for.… A man must tremble when he thinks of it, specially finding your Majesty to have that princely courage to transport yourself to your utmost confines of your realm to meet your enemies, and to defend your subjects. I cannot, most dear Queen, consent to that, for upon your well-doing consists all and some for your whole kingdom, and therefore, preserve that above all!

The queen chafed, fussing at her ladies, irritable and moody by turns. She hated being cooped up in London. It was the gentle Bess Throckmorton who finally suggested to her, “Perhaps Your Majesty might go as far as Tilbury and review your troops. Just the sight of you would hearten them greatly.”

“God’s nightshirt, Bess! You are absolutely right! We shall go to Tilbury, for surely Leicester, old woman that he has become, will not object to that.”

Leicester gave in gracefully, for he understood her concern better than most. He wrote:
Good sweet Queen—alter not your purpose if God give you good health!

The queen came down the river Thames to Tilbury on August 6. Her great barge with its green and white banners was filled to overflowing with her ladies, certain chosen courtiers, and minstrels who sang and played gaily as they wanted to take their mistress’s mind from the business at hand if only for a short while. Behind the royal vessel floated several others, carrying servants, the royal coach, and the horses.

Though Ralegh had now joined the fleet, Essex was with the queen. She would not suffer to have him gone from her, much to his embarrassment and anguish, for Robert Devereux was no coward. Velvet, being the least of the queen’s ladies, had offered to ride in her brother’s barge so that there would be more room in Elizabeth Tudor’s vessel. She had invited Bess and Angel to ride along with her. Bess was gowned in rose pink, but she had been pale and wan of late, and now Velvet was even more convinced that her friend was in love with Walter Ralegh who was in danger. Velvet would not dare to suggest such a thing out loud, however, for if the older Bess wished to confide in her she would do so. To pry would be unforgiveable, especially since Bess’s friendship had smoothed Velvet’s way at court.

The cruise down to Tilbury had an almost holidaylike atmosphere to it despite the seriousness of the situation. Everyone was wearing their best clothes, and the barges’ storage areas contained vast picnic hampers filled with cold chickens, rabbit pasties, freshly baked breads, cheeses, peaches, cherries, and fruit tarts. Behind the Southwood barge bobbed an openwork wicker basket.
Through its slits could be seen several stoneware bottles of wine cooling in the river.

“Do you really think the Spanish will invade us tomorrow, my lord?” the beauteous Angel asked Robin. She was wearing a gown of sky blue silk that was somewhat faded and perhaps a bit tight across her bosom, for royal wards, especially poor ones, were not often given new gowns. The besotted Earl of Lynmouth did not notice. All he knew was that she was the sweetest girl he had ever met.

“God forbid it,” he answered, “but you need have no fear, Mistress Christman. I will protect you.”

Angel blushed rosily, and Velvet was amazed to find her usually quick-tongued friend so maidenly and at a loss for words. What on earth was the matter with her? Velvet’s eyes met Bess’s, and Bess smiled, understanding her thoughts.

“Are you afraid, Velvet?” Alex asked her.

“Nay!” came her quick reply. “I’ll take a sword in my own hand to defend England before I’d let the damned Spanish have it!”

“Bravo,
petite soeur!”
approved Robin. “You’re as loyal an Englishwoman as any. Your father would be proud of you.”

Just after noon, the royal barge arrived at Tilbury, approaching the dock near Block House where Leicester and his officers were on hand to greet the queen. As Elizabeth set her elegantly shod foot onto land, cannons were discharged and a fife and drum corps began to play. Awaiting her was Sir Roger Williams with two thousand mounted knights. A thousand of these were sent ahead to
Ardern Hall
, the home of Master Rich where Elizabeth would be staying. The other thousand horsemen escorted the queen’s carriage. The queen was in high spirits, here among the people she loved. Though she feared an invasion, she truly believed that the spirit and courage of her people would prevail over the dark might of Spain’s vastly superior forces. Never at any time would she even consider failure, though no word had yet come from the fleet.

Beside her in the coach sat the Earl of Leicester. Like Elizabeth herself, he had not been well this last year, but he had mustered what strength he had to command the army for her. Time had mellowed Robert Dudley somewhat, and his genuine affection for Elizabeth could not be doubted. It was as strong as his ambition. He had waited many years after his first wife’s death for the queen to marry him, but when it became apparent that she had no intention of doing so, he had, in a fit of pique, married her cousin, the widowed Lettice Knollys. It had been a secret marriage, for neither the bride nor the groom wished to destroy their positions
at court. The queen, however, found them out and was furious. The earl and his countess were banned from court for a period of time, but Elizabeth missed Dudley and he was soon recalled. Lettice was not so fortunate and was forced to cool her heels for several years.

At first the marriage had been successful, but then, like so many hasty marriages, it began to fall apart. Dudley truly loved the queen inasmuch as he was ever capable of loving anyone. Then, too, he loved the power and the favors that only she could bestow. In that attitude, Lettice was her husband’s equal, but Elizabeth could not forgive her cousin for marrying the man that she herself loved above all others, even if she would not marry him. Neither of the Dudleys were the most admirable of characters, but both were unquestioningly loyal.

Bess had gone with the queen to
Ardern Hall
, but the queen, ever indulgent of her godchild, had told Velvet that she would not need her that night. Velvet and Angel were to stay with the Earl of Lynmouth and Lord Gordon at one of Tilbury’s better inns, the Mermaid. Robin had been wise enough to send one of his men ahead several days prior to their departure from London to request the two best bedrooms and a private parlor for dining.

The Mermaid was located amid a green lawn on the banks of the river. A whitewashed building set with dark timbers, it had lovely diamond-paned windows and red and white roses by every door. To one side of the main building was a stable, to the other a lovely garden, its flower beds filled with spicy marigolds and gillyflowers, fragrant blue lavender and sweet rosemary. Symmetrically set within the small garden were little green shrubs, trimmed into fancy shapes like urns and birds. Nearer the back door of the inn was a small kitchen garden growing beans, carrots, peas, parsnips, leeks, and salad greens. There were also several fruit trees—apple, plum and pear—as well as currant and gooseberry bushes. It was nothing at all like the beautiful gardens at
Queen’s Malvern
with its two mazes, hundreds of rosebushes, and rare lilies brought back from the Americas. Nonetheless, it was a pleasant place to walk after a fine meal.

It was twilight, and the busy river was at last calm, a faintly discernible haze hovering above it, the momentarily calm waters reflecting the mauve sky above. Swallows swooped over the surface in the pinkish light. Despite her privileged place on her brother’s barge, it had not been possible to bring many changes of clothing. Velvet was still wearing the apple green silk gown she had put on that morning, but though he knew she was annoyed at being unable to change her gown, Alex thought she looked fetching.

Velvet was surprised to find herself alone with the handsome Scot. Her brother, it seemed, had managed to move to another part of the inn garden with Angel. Determined not to show her nervousness, she turned to Lord Gordon, saying, “You have told me nothing of yourself, my lord. Speak to me of your home.”

“I thought we had agreed that you would call me Alex,” he said in his deep, warm voice.