Mistress Angel Christman, he suspected, was going to change all that. He had never meant to return to court, preferring a quiet life on his Devon estate with his children. His marriage to Alison had brought about his gradual withdrawal from the queen’s circle, and her death had been the best excuse of all to stay away. Now he found himself being drawn back by a pair of meltingly gorgeous blue eyes, a head of blond ringlets, and a smile that touched his heart so strongly he almost wept remembering it. His duty as the queen’s host had prevented him from pursuing Mistress Christman this evening, but he was going back to court to do so. His first move, however, would be to inquire about her background from Lord Hundston, who would know all.
The queen’s chancellor was very surprised the morning after the Earl of Lynmouth’s fête to receive a message from that gentleman regarding the background of one Mistress Angel Christman, a royal ward. England was facing the most serious threat of invasion since the Normans. Everything Elizabeth Tudor stood for, everything England stood for, was in mortal danger, and Lord Southwood wanted to learn about a chit of a girl. These hedonistic courtiers, thought Hundston, and then he remembered who the request came from and reassessed the situation. Robert Southwood was a serious young man who had been deeply and genuinely grieved by his wife’s death. That there was a royal ward with some quality to attract this nobleman was in itself interesting.
Lord Hundston looked into the matter and was disappointed by what he found. Mistress Angel Christman, age seventeen, had been a royal ward since the age of five. She was the granddaughter of two minor barons from the northwest counties and the child of a younger son and daughter. She had been left in the queen’s charge by her father, who had murdered her mother after finding the lady in another gentleman’s bed. The girl had no fortune, no influential relations to aid her, and therefore no prospects. One thing Lord Hundston did learn was that Mistress Christman was radiantly beautiful, which might possibly stand her in good stead if she were clever as well. So far she had not given evidence of such quality, and there was absolutely no gossip connecting her with any gentleman. Her closest two friends seemed to be Bess Throckmorton and Velvet de Marisco.
“Of course!” Hundston spoke aloud to himself. That had to be the connection. Mistress Christman was involved with Mistress de Marisco, who was a younger sister to the Earl of Lynmouth. With her parents away, the earl was looking after his sister’s interests, and rightly so. He but sought to know about her favorite companions. Bess Throckmorton was a known quantity coming as she did from a highly placed family, even if she herself was poor; but Mistress Christman, an unimportant royal ward from an undistinguished family, was, of course, unknown to Robert Southwood. Lord Hundston dictated a message to his secretary presenting the girl’s background and informing the Earl of Lynmouth that, according to the information available to him, Mistress Christman was a proper friend for his sister. Then he turned to the far more serious matters of state.
The night before warning beacons had sprung up on every hill in Devon and Cornwall. This was the signal that the great Armada of Spain had been sighted off theLizardat dawn, and it was now close to Plymouth. The signal fires had spread the word from Devon to Dorset to Wiltshire to Surrey to London. The news had been kept from the queen on Lord Burghley’s orders, however, until after the Earl of Lynmouth’s fête.
The queen had had a very traumatic year and needed this small bit of pleasure, William Cecil had decided. He had been with her since the very beginning, and he knew her better than anyone. The next few weeks would tell the fate of the Tudor dynasty, and the queen would need to be strong.
Once the fête was over, however, he had told her, and the news had spread like wildfire throughout the court. The gentleman courtiers had not even bothered to sleep. They had returned to Greenwich only long enough to change from their silks and velvets into more practical clothing. Then they were off for the coast. Charles Howard, the lord admiral, was already in Plymouth, and had been for some time. So were Sir Francis Drake, John Hawkins, and Martin Frobisher, the other great admirals of the fleet.
There had been several earlier sightings of the Spanish. In late June a Cornish bark bound for the French coast had spotted nine large ships with great, blood-red crusaders’ crosses on their sails cruising the seas between the Scillies and Ushant. Another coastal trader out of a Devon port was startled to come upon a small fleet of fifteen ships. Chased, he had come ashore in Cornwall and ridden hell-bent for Plymouth with his story.
Francis Drake had, of course, realized what these sightings meant. The previous year he had surprised the Spanish at Coruña, and burned their fleet, thus postponing King Philip’s attack on England. Now the Armada was rebuilt, refitted, and revictualed. Drake convinced the lord admiral to seize the initiative, sail south, and strike at the Spanish again before they could reach England. Within a day’s sail of Coruña, however, the wind veered about and blew strongly from the south. The English had set sail short of victuals, and now, even shorter of rations, there was nothing for them to do but turn about and sail home. There was always the distinct possibility that the Spanish would take advantage of the south wind and reach England before they did. Such a thing was too awful even to contemplate.
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.
