Elizabeth I (23 page)

What was it about young men, the Continent, and fighting? “Come to court instead,” I said. I could use him in the Queen's Guard.

“I am called elsewhere,” he said. “But I thank Your Majesty.”

Yorkshire ... the north, where the Catholics were so strong ... serving in the household of Sir Anthony ... “Which side will you fight on?” I asked suddenly.

“I—I—the English, of course.”

Ah, but there were Englishmen fighting on both sides.

“Mind you choose the right English to fight with. I have forces in France now, under Sir John Norris and the Earl of Essex. I can place you there.”

“Your Majesty is most kind,” he said, bowing.

But he did not ask for any references or recommendations.

“We dine at Easebourne tomorrow,” I said. “Come to me, and I shall have introduction papers ready for you.”

“Easebourne?” he said slowly. “I would avoid it.”

“Why?” I was surprised.

“It is cursed. And this place, too, Cowdray. I am glad to leave it before the curse comes true. Easebourne was once a priory, and consecrated ground. Dissolving the monasteries and turning over the property to courtiers did not undo their power and holiness. A monk pronounced a curse of fire and water against the despoilers. This place”—he waved toward the peaceful stones of Cowdray—“will perish in fire, and its owners in water. The buildings will melt and the owners drown.” As he spoke, his northern accent grew stronger. “We do not know when. It might be tomorrow, it might be several generations.”

“Everything ends after several generations,” I said. “Even the things we try so hard to keep. We need resort to no curse to explain that.”

“As you say, Ma'am.” He bowed swiftly and was gone.

After the picnic ended, Sir Anthony and his wife made a point of showing me the walks and gardens of the house. He had the usual knot garden, quite an elaborate one, several fountains with gravel paths circling them, arbors heavy with vines, and a perfume garden with wallflowers, rosemary, lavender, and, of course, red and white roses.

“My gardeners are trying hard to breed a true Tudor rose,” he said. “One with red and white petals. All we have got so far is striped ones.”

“We Tudors have many stripes,” I assured him. “I think I am the most striped of all, for I try to incorporate all the viewpoints I possibly can—short of treasonous ones. But my boundaries for treason are more lenient than most.” I thought of mentioning the chapel and what I had witnessed there, but then remembered what I had chosen as my watchword: “
Video et taceo
”—“I see and say nothing.”

“We have extensive fish ponds on the grounds,” he said as we approached one. Several nets were strung across it, and an angler was seated at one end. As we came closer, he began reciting an obviously rehearsed soliloquy about treason. After enumerating its evils, he ended with, “There be some so muddy minded that they cannot live in a clear river, as camels will not drink till they have troubled the water with their feet, so they cannot stanch their thirst until they have disturbed the state with their treacheries.” To be sure I did not miss it, he almost shouted the last words, an odd thing indeed for a private meditation.

“Too much incense can also muddy the air,” I warned Sir Anthony. “Have a care, dear friend.
Verbum sapienti sat est
.” He should appreciate the Latin.

T
he breeze coming off the Channel was salty and made my lips sting. I was standing on the docks of Portsmouth, having made my way from Cowdray as far south as land would allow us. Across from us, some hundred miles or so, lay the northern coast of France. King Henri IV could easily slip across to meet me. I had given him a plain—for me—invitation to do so. As one sovereign to another, I could only invite, not command. But it would be in his interest to accept. I was sure he would.

I had had no word about my army and how it was faring. Essex and his men were to wait at Dieppe and join King Henri in taking Rouen from the Spanish. God's breath, if the French king valued his self-preservation, he would hie himself over here.

“Ma'am, let us betake ourselves of the hospitality of the mayor,” said Robert Cecil, by my side.

I nodded, and he half closed his eyes, signaling that he understood. We both understood what was at stake here. Robert was as astute as his father but more willing to resort to secret or—should I say?—sneaky dealings. We must pretend we were here only to hear the recitation of the glories of the defeat of the Armada, to see the reenactment of the battle that had taken place right off Portsmouth, by the Isle of Wight.

The mayor had arranged a commemoration of that glorious summer day, the third battle of the Armada invasion. The Spanish had tried to land on the Isle of Wight, to secure a firm base only two miles off the mainland.

As we watched, small boats patrolled the waters just beyond the docks, flags identifying them as “Spanish” or “English” waving from their masts. They would demonstrate some of the naval tactics used in that battle.

Velvet-covered chairs were brought for the honored spectators, and we sank down to be entertained.

Out on the water, the exhibition boats, bearing long banners identifying their assigned roles, mimicked the action. On board the “Spanish” ship
Duquesa Santa Ana
, an actor threw out armloads of rolled parchments, screaming, “The Bull! The Bull! The Holy Father has a whole shipload of Bulls!”

Ah, well, wily Pope Sixtus had gone to his reward last year and perhaps was amused by our little reenactment here, looking down from ... Or was he looking up?
I
do not pretend to know a man's eternal destination. Let him rest in peace.

Another “Spanish” ship sailed past, this one identified as the flagship of supreme commander Medina-Sidonia himself,
San Martin
. The men on board were prancing and preening, wearing enormous feathers, dyed outrageous colors, that floated and flapped in their hats. “To parade in London!” they shouted. We all laughed heartily. The cocksure Duke of Parma had reportedly ordered his velvet suits for his triumphant state entry into London. Now, if they survived at all, they must hang in his quarters to mock his empty pride. More likely they had been torn and used to bind up wounds.

In the real battle, the wind—the English wind, we liked to call it—had picked up and begun to favor us. Everyone knew this part of the story by heart. No longer had our ships been dependent on the longboats to pull them, but were able to maneuver on their own. Frobisher's
Triumph
, the largest ship in our fleet, had hoisted sails from its trapped position and was pursued by
San Juan de Portugal
, their swiftest ship, but it barely moved in comparison. Over on the other side, Admiral Howard and Drake had attacked their seaward wing, pressing them toward the treacherous Owers Bank, an arm of rocky shallows that reached out toward the entrance of the Channel up to the Isle of Wight and on to Portsmouth and Southampton. If only they had been lured there! In wishful thinking, the “Spanish” ships in the enactment we were watching foundered and ran aground, but in real life they had seen the danger in time and steered away. However, in swerving to avoid the bank, they had missed the entrance they were seeking and been swept out and beyond that landing place. There had now been no place for them to anchor; they had been forced to continue down the Channel.

“We had been awake all night,” said George Carey, “listening for any splashing oars that would mean the Spanish were landing. Oh, to see them sail away, their gilded rumps glowing in the afternoon sun, was the happiest sight I ever saw!”

“As they headed toward us in London,” I reminded him. The defensive chain that had been strung across the Thames had been swept away at the first spring tide, and the fortifications defending the approaches to the city had not been completed. That left London with precious little protection as the beacon fires flared to warn us the Armada was coming toward us.

“Our only protection lay in our wooden walls, as the oracle at Delphi told the Athenians. In both cases, our ships,” said George.

The play boats were coming in to shore now, their demonstration over, their oars raised in salute. They had given us a brave show. I waved at them, fluttering my handkerchief.

The mayor made his way over to us, grinning widely.

“You have pleased us well,” I said.

“It is not over yet,” he replied. “I have two more living mementos of that heroic occasion.” Behind him, trumpets blasted. “First, the man who alerted us all.” He ushered a stooped, unkempt man forward and led him to me.

“This is the hermit who lives in the ruins of St. Michael's Chapel at Rame Head—on the foreground beyond Plymouth—who kept a watch and was the first to light a beacon fire.”

“Is it even so?” I leaned forward to look closely at him—the matted hair, the ragged cloak, the dusty feet. Was he an old monk, left over from the forbidden monasteries? Did he mumble his beads and walk in the tumbled-down ruins of his former cloister? Or was he just mildly mad?

“Indeed, yes,” he said, in a voice as thin as frost. “I watch year round. But when I saw those ships, so thick and black on the water, sailing in a huge crescent, I knew them for what they were. The enemy. I lit the brush as quickly as I could.”

He wasn't mad, unless so much solitude had warped him. “You did well,” I assured him. Impulsively, I reached into my purse and pulled out a token from the victory—a square of cloth from one of the captured Armada banners. They were being treated almost as saints' relics, as far as holiness went. “This is from one of those proud ships. Proud no longer, but sunk!”

“I, then, shall be proud to fly it upon my shoulder,” he said, smiling. His cracked lips parted to show yellowed teeth.

“And here is the other valiant protector,” the mayor announced. “Sir George Beeston, brave commander of the
Dreadnought
and a great fighter in the action you have just witnessed.”

He gestured to a tall man who had been waiting beside the trumpeters. His cloak snapped smartly in the wind, and he carried himself like a man who had never bowed under a burden. Only as he came closer did I see that his beard was totally white and his leathery face a mass of wrinkles, like a well-worn purse.

He was ancient! He bent one knee—not stiff, I noted—and said, “Your noble husband, lady”—looking at Catherine—“knighted me on the deck right out here after the battle. Me, at the age of eighty-nine.”

Very few things make me cry, but I felt tears gathering in my eyes. This old man, defending the realm, made me proud to be Queen of the English people as never before.

“We have heard of you, sir,” I said. “Let me give you something to commend you for that battle.” I unpinned the Armada brooch I was wearing, a miniature of myself with the fleet in the background, encircled by pearls. “Your sovereign is grateful for such a subject.”

Many other men would demur or make a show of refusing, but Sir Beeston took the gift and said only, “I shall treasure it as coming from your very person.” He did not linger, looking fawningly at me, as a younger man might have, but stood up briskly and took his leave, which had the effect of my wishing he would come back. That which is most pleasing disappears too soon.

I awoke the next morning unsure of where I was—or should I say,
when
I was. I had so thoroughly gone back in time that it was with a start that I realized I was grappling with the still-ongoing war with Spain.

And I had come to Portsmouth not to be entertained with sweet remembrances of an old victory but to ascertain where we stood in the new confrontation. King Henri IV
must
come across to meet me. We
must
talk in person. He was a clever man and should know this. I had bankrolled him long enough for him not to be unaware of how critical it was for him to show himself in my court.