Elizabeth: The Golden Age (23 page)

“The bells are to ring in every church in the land. Laborers are to leave the fields and take up arms. The harvest must wait.” She needed all men capable of fighting to join the troops already at Tilbury. “Release all prisoners. England is their country too.”

She paused and closed her eyes at an unwelcome feeling of sadness. Raleigh was a skilled sailor, an experienced fighter, someone who could motivate his men and convince them to follow him anywhere. After a long sigh, she opened her eyes and turned, searching for and finding Walsingham. “Release Raleigh. He is forgiven... As I too pray to be forgiven.”

“Very good, Majesty,” Walsingham said, then dropped his voice so that only she could hear. “A difficult decision, I know, but the right one.”

She gave him a small smile. “Leave me, all of you.”

Her entourage disappeared from the nave—all but a grim-looking contingent of guards—the rest would be waiting to descend upon her the moment she stepped back outside. She walked to the altar and sank to her knees as a sublime feeling of confidence washed over her. The sun struggled through stained glass, and colored light danced on the stone floor. She raised her eyes to the window and decided that today she would not bow her head when she prayed.



News did not travel as quickly as he would have liked—a fact that filled Philip with frustration that made him feel as if his muscles would burst through his skin. Now, at long last, messages had arrived, but they were not at all what he had expected.

“When will they land in England?” He fingered a gold crucifix as he spoke.

“Communication has been difficult, Majesty. The duke is doing his best—”

“That is not acceptable.” The king interrupted his minister with such force that the man prostrated himself in front of him. “I want news of invasion. Of success. Of souls returned to the true church.”

“There was a delay—a temporary one. Parma was not ready. They had to wait six days for the army. But they will be on their way soon, Majesty.” Parma, superior to every other general in Europe, would make up time as soon as they’d landed. His men, the Blackbeards, were seasoned veterans who would be able to crush the ill-prepared English army in a matter of hours. No one—not even the English—could doubt that.

“God rewards patience.” Philip closed his eyes and prayed that God would give him patience, much more patience than he felt now. It was so hard to temper emotions, control anxious thoughts, when he was waiting for this great work to be done. Part of him wanted to command a ship himself, sail with the Armada, but he knew his place was here, with his people, his priests, praying.

He rose and stalked through the palace’s lengthy corridors, sending courtiers and servants scurrying out of his way. When he reached his cell, the light from a single candle flickered in the plain space, as the chant of monks, warlike in its rhythm, drifted to him as he murmured his own prayer.

“Tu es Deus qui facis mirabilia solus. Notam fecisti in gentibus virtutem tuam...”



The English army was far from the finest in Europe. It included few professional soldiers, the bulk of its infantry made up of volunteers who knew better how to herd sheep than fight a battle. The officers did their best to rally the men’s spirits, but though no one dared say it aloud, the general consensus was that it was essential the fleet keep the Armada from landing its invasion force.

A hasty camp had gone up at Tilbury, where Robert Dudley, in his new capacity as Lord Steward Her Majesty’s Lieutenant Against Foreign Invasion, organized the men. Not everyone was pleased to see Leicester back in the queen’s good grace. Elizabeth had placed him in charge of English forces sent to the Netherlands, and during his tenure there, Leicester had accepted the position of Supreme Governorship of the United Provinces offered by the Dutch Estates. The queen was furious, more so than she had ever been with him, and threatened to recall him, but her ministers managed to placate her, convincing her to let him remain.

Before long, she’d forgiven him, and if others had not— or were jealous because of the favor bestowed on him by his regal friend—Elizabeth did not care. She had no interest in the opinion of gossips.

Despite all that had passed between them over the years—all the times he’d disappointed her—she knew he would always be dear to her. And to see him now, with the pain of Raleigh’s betrayal so raw, would feel like coming home to familiar arms after too long away.

She had traveled from London on the royal barge and made a great spectacle of her arrival. Cannons fired a salute, and she paraded through the camp with a fife and drum corps. As soon as she’d stepped off her barge, she could hear nothing but Leicester’s sweet voice.

“Majesty,” he said.

“Eyes,” she said, his nickname feeling good on her lips.

“It’s been far too long.”

“Yes.” She had not decided yet how to react to him. She’d wanted to be distant but, as always in the past, found herself incapable of keeping her heart away from him.

“Still mad?” he asked.

“About what? Your deceitful marriage? Your travesties in the Netherlands? The appalling condition of my army?”

“I’ve missed you,” he said.

“You expect my forgiveness to come too easily.”

“Not at all. I’ve not slept for three nights worrying what you would say when you saw me.”

“Would that I had executed you for treason when I had the chance.” She could feel her eyes sparkling.

“You never had the chance. I wasn’t guilty.” He took her by the arm and spoke quietly. “I suppose we must play queen and her general now. But know that I’d much rather sit somewhere quiet and talk.”

“We’re in an army camp, Eyes. There’s nowhere quiet to sit.” She felt good seeing him, bantering with him. He looked much older than she’d expected—she’d heard rumors that he’d been ill, and his gaunt face suggested this was true. Did he look at her and begin to see her age, too? “Help me onto my horse.”

He did, and then led the animal himself, holding the reins while she rode, an ocean of ragtag soldiers parting in front of her. The men had been soaked by rain before the arrival of the queen’s party and were covered with mud, as was the entire encampment. They were suitably awestruck to find themselves so close to her, and she was pleased with her army, knowing, as she watched her army fall to its knees before her, that her infantry adored her.

“What news, Lids?” she asked, sitting down as Lord Hatton, breathing hard and clutching papers to his chest, rushed into the tent that Leicester had erected in anticipation of her visit.

“The enemy has been engaged, Majesty,” he said. “A brave action. Two ships lost.”

“With what gain?” Elizabeth asked.

“The enemy continues to advance.”

“They must be stopped,” she said, and rose from her seat, stood in the doorway of the tent, and looked out at the camp before her. The news had spread quickly: there was no joy to be seen in any direction. No one was singing; there was none of the ribald humor one expected from soldiers. All she heard was hushed voices, nervous murmurs, the sound of swords being ground against sharpening stones. A somber mood had settled like a disastrous fog.



Raleigh couldn’t stop kissing her. Not that it mattered. He wouldn’t have, even if he could.

“I can’t believe she let you go,” Bess said, her face flushed, eyes bright, stomach growing larger by the day.

“Nor can I. I suppose she thought she had no choice.”

“We both know there’s always a choice,” she said, pulling him down on top of her.

“I can’t stay, Bess, I have to go to the fleet.”

She blew out a long breath. “I expected that. Another choice.”

“Yes, it is. The right choice.”

“Of course.” She smiled at him, but he could feel her start to tremble in his arms, could see the fear behind her eyes. “You will come back to me, though?”

“Where else would I go? The Tower wasn’t
that
comfortable,” he said.

“You know what I mean. Promise me. Promise you won’t leave me. That I won’t lose you. I can’t bear so many nights afraid, worrying that you’ll be gone forever.”

“I promise,” he said and kissed her eyelids, her chin, every inch of her face. “I’ll bring you glory and stars and every good thing when I return.”

“Safe. I only want you safe. The stars aren’t necessary.”

“But you’ll have them just the same,” he said, silently praying that his words weren’t lies, that he would come back, that he would see his child, that he would hold Bess again.

“Swear it,” she said.

“I swear I will come home to you.”



The
Ark Royal
, flagship of the English fleet, commanded by Lord Howard of Effingham, was an impressive vessel. Raleigh knew it well. A hundred feet long, nimble and strong, the galleon carried forty-four guns and had been built for him, before his fall from the queen’s graces. From his cell in the Tower, he’d offered the ship for service, and Elizabeth had bought it from him at once. Whether he’d ever receive payment remained to be seen, but that was no concern of his. Not now, when he was standing on her bow as Spanish cannons shook the air around him.

Flashes of fire lit the deck, and he quickly assessed the situation around him. The ships of the Armada lumbered at a clumsy and slow pace, but their hulls were strong. The fight would be difficult but must be won. To let Parma’s army slip through to shore would be nothing short of a disaster. He watched a volley of cannon fire from the
Ark Royal
batter the side of something that looked more like a merchant vessel than a warship. The shot struck its mark and the Spanish ship heaved to port.

Satisfied, Raleigh turned and headed to Howard’s cabin in the sterncastle, where he found Sir Francis Drake arguing with the admiral.

“Attack again,” Drake said. “We must attack. What choice do we have?” Drake, who had earned his knighthood after circumnavigating the world in his ship the
Golden Hinde
—the first man in England to accomplish such a feat—was no stranger to fighting the Spanish. With a fleet of nearly thirty ships, he’d gone to the New World to attack Philip’s settlements there—revenge for a Spanish embargo that had paralyzed English exploration. He’d reopened America to his country and done a fine job of angering Philip in the process.

Howard shook his head. “We’re outgunned. We’re losing too many ships.”

“We have to break their formation,” Raleigh said, motioning to the chart.

Drake nodded. “Our ships may be smaller, but they’re faster.”

“I tell you, we’re outgunned.” Howard met Drake’s eyes.

“I’m experienced in such things,” Drake said. The queen had let her golden knight convince her to attack the Spanish port of Cádiz the previous year, and he’d managed to destroy twenty-five ships and capture a fortune in cargo, all the while modestly claiming only to have “singed the King of Spain’s beard.”

“I’ve never served with better men or more gallant minds than those gathered here, voluntarily, to put their hands and hearts into the finishing of this great piece of work. We can do it.”

“Do you want to lose the whole fleet?” Howard asked.

“God is with us,” Drake said.

“Break their formation and we have a chance,” Raleigh said.

“How?” Howard’s eyes bled skepticism. “We can’t get near them.”

Raleigh’s eyes danced. “There’s one way.”

Chapter 21

An air of mounting anxiety circulated through Tilbury. Soldiers congregated outside their tents, speaking in concerned whispers, sharpening their pikes, offering quiet prayers. Their ranks had swelled to close to seventeen thousand, and another twenty were at the ready in the maritime counties. Still, the mood in the queen’s tent was bleak. Numbers alone could not make up for lack of experience.

“The Spanish are barely a day away, Majesty,” Hatton said. “If they’ve got Parma’s army and manage to land...”

Walsingham’s face was dark. “It would be wise to withdraw to safer ground.”

“My army will defend me.” Elizabeth felt nothing but confidence.

“I beg you to appreciate the gravity of the situation, Majesty,” Hatton said. “There is very little time.”

Calm and defiant, she turned to him. “Then we must act. I know what to do. Leave me.”

“Majesty—” Walsingham started.

“Now. Go.” As she expelled them from her tent, she called for the handful of ladies she’d brought with her.

Margaret poked her head into the tent first and was quickly followed by three others. “How can we be of service?” she asked.

“It is time for me to become a vision of inspiration,” Elizabeth said. “You must make me a warrior queen—Hippolyta or Boudica.”

First, they removed her dark blue gown and replaced it with one cut from flowing white satin. They brushed her long red hair until it shone and left it hanging down her back, then turned their attention to the armor she’d brought with her. Now she would become Athena.

They strapped on the glistening silver breastplate, pulling up her lace collar to peek through the top, then slipped on her gauntlets. She tested them, slowly bending her elbows, the jointed metal moving more smoothly than she’d expected. In the back, they attached a long cape fashioned from a pale, rich brocade heavily embroidered in gold.

“Majesty, you exude strength,” Margaret said, handing her a helmet with a tall, white plume.

“Call for Leicester,” she ordered.

He arrived almost at once and dropped to one knee at the sight of her, his head bowed. “I am proud to call you my queen,” he said.

“Prepare my horse, Eyes, and an honor guard. I want to rally my troops.”

Soon there was a new sound in the camp: a low, distant rhythm, the beat of an army on the march, an army advancing amid an array of banners and flags. And in the center, her silver armor flashing, Elizabeth sat, transformed into a goddess of war, tall in the saddle of her white horse, Leicester walking next to her, carrying her helmet. Men streamed out of their tents, falling to their knees, awestruck at the splendor of their queen, who thrust her staff high into the air, eliciting a cheer from her army.