Elizabeth I (8 page)

I passed the afternoon watching the men marching and writing to my commanders, stressing my demand to be out with the troops, confronting Parma, rather than hidden away. Hunsdon was immovable, but the commanders of the main army, Leicester and Norris, might feel differently. While I was writing the letters, Walter Raleigh arrived.

Never had a visitor been more welcome. “Tell me, tell me!” I commanded him before he was fully through the door.

His fine riding clothes were covered in dust and his boots mud-caked. There was even dust in his beard. I could not read his expression, but he did not look desperate. “It is safe in the West Counties,” he said. “The Spanish were prevented from landing at Wight. Our fleet divided itself into four squadrons, led by Frobisher in
Triumph
, Drake in
Revenge
, Howard in
Ark
, and Hawkins in
Victory
, and forced them to sail past it, edging them toward the sandbars and shallows, which they barely escaped. Now they are heading toward Calais.”

“Thanks, thanks be to God!” I almost fell on my knees in gratitude. God noted such appreciation. But I restrained myself. “But when they reach Calais ...?”

“Presumably there, or at Dunkirk on the Flanders coast, they will attempt to coordinate with Parma. But is he aware of the whereabouts of the Armada, and is he prepared to embark his troops immediately? Such a thing takes weeks of preparation.”

“Parma is known for his preparation,” I reminded him.

“When he has all the facts, yes,” said Raleigh. “But does he?”

“If God is on our side, no,” I said.

“The West County militias are traveling east to help the other counties,” said Raleigh.

“It would seem your task is done, and done well,” I said. “I release you to do what you have wanted to do all along—join the fleet. If you can catch them at this point.”

He grinned. “I will catch them, if I have to mortgage my soul to hell to do it.”

“Beware what you promise, Walter,” I said. “Remember the old saying ‘He who sups with the devil must use a long spoon.’ ”

He bowed. “I hear,” he said.

That night my newly fashioned breastplate, helmet, and sword were delivered to me. I fancied I could still feel the heat in them from the forge. I ran my hands over the exquisitely designed pieces, then gingerly tried them on. If something of metal did not fit, there was no help for it. But they did. They fit perfectly.

“You look like an Amazon,” said Marjorie in admiration.

“That was my intent,” I said. I felt different with them on—not braver, but more invincible.

The next morning I got my response from Leicester at Tilbury. The fort was some twenty miles downstream on the Thames, where Parma’s ships were sure to pass en route to the conquest of London. By massing the main army there, we meant to block his access to London, and we had put up a blockade of boats across the river as well.

I ripped it open, sending the seal flying.

“My most dear and gracious Lady, I rejoice to find, in your letter, your most noble disposition, in gathering your forces and in venturing your own person in dangerous action.”

There. He understood better than old Hunsdon!

“And because it pleased Your Majesty to ask my advice concerning your army, and to tell me of your secret determination, I will plainly and according to my knowledge give you my opinion.”

Yes, yes.

“As to your proposal to join the troops drawn up at Dover, I cannot, most dear Queen, consent to that. But instead I ask that you come to Tilbury, to comfort your army there, as goodly, as loyal, and as able men as any prince could command. I myself will vouchsafe the safety of your person, the most dainty and sacred thing we have in this world to care for, so that a man must tremble when he thinks of it.”

Oh. But the way he put it ... Perhaps it was best to let the main army see me. My presence should be used to strengthen others, rather than to satisfy my own curiosity about seeing the battle.

The Privy Councillors were aghast. Burghley all but stamped his gouted foot, Cecil tut-tutted and stroked his beard, Walsingham rolled his eyes. The others—Archbishop Whitgift and Francis Knollys—murmured and shook their heads. “This is a foolish, dangerous fixation you have,” said Burghley. “And how like my Lord Leicester to encourage it!”

“It is too close to the expected invasion,” said Walsingham. “And worse than that—the danger of going out among the people. Have you forgotten that the Papal Bull says anyone who kills you is performing a noble deed? How do we know who is hidden in the troops? It only takes one!”

“I am not a Roman emperor, to fear assassination by my subjects,” I said. “So far the Catholics have proven themselves loyal. I do not want to start mistrusting them now.”

“Even good emperors and kings get assassinated,” he said.

“God has brought me this far, and it is up to him to protect me.” I turned to them. “Gentlemen, I am going. I honor your care for me, but I must go. I cannot miss the highest moment of crisis of my reign. I must be there.”

I wrote Leicester that I accepted his invitation, and he replied, “Good, sweet Queen, alter not your purpose if God give you good health.” I did not intend to alter my purpose.

That night I ordered the Spanish riding whip, long since put away, to be brought to me. I would use it now, and the very feel of it in my hand would harden my resolve. We would not lose!

I stepped onto the state barge from the water steps of Whitehall at dawn to travel to Tilbury. This time the red hangings, the velvet cushions, and the gilded interior of the cabin seemed to be mocking me. I was surrounded by the trappings of majesty, but I was on my way to defend my realm. As we slid past the London waterfront, then on past Greenwich, and finally toward the sea, I sent out blessings on these places and upon all the people dwelling there, even though I could not see them.

Preceding me was a boat of trumpeters playing loudly, calling the curious out to watch from the riverbanks. Behind us came barges with my Gentlemen Pensioners and Queen’s Guard, bravely attired in armor and plumes, and councillors and courtiers.

We arrived at midday, pulling up to the blockhouse of the fort. Lining the banks were rows of soldiers standing smartly, the sun glinting off their helmets. As the barge tied up at the dock, a blast of trumpets welcomed me, and then the captain general of the land army, my Earl of Leicester, flanked by Army Lord Marshal “Black Jack” Norris, walked solemnly to the end of the pier to receive me.

Seeing Leicester, dear Robert, so handsomely attired and waiting made me catch my breath. Just so he had waited at all the crucial junctures of my life; just so he had always been my chief supporter.

“Your Majesty.” He bowed.

“All hail and welcome,” said Norris, lowering his head.

I looked at the formidable rows of soldiers stretching in ceremonial lines up the hill.

“We have over twenty thousand here,” said Leicester. He gestured up the lines. “I have arranged for you to inspect the camp and the river blockade first. Then, after dinner, you can review the troops and address them.”

“I am pleased to do so,” I said. I gestured to the next barge after mine, bringing my horse. He was being led down the ramp.

Leicester’s eyebrow lifted. “A fine gelding,” he said. “New?” Leicester prided himself on providing me with the showiest and best horses.

“A gift from Robert Cecil,” I said.

He made the slightest of faces before saying, “Very good taste. Now, my most precious Queen, shall it please you to come with me to the camp?” He indicated the raised causeway we should walk up.

I was already attired in the white velvet gown I wished to be seen in, and would put on the armor before mounting my horse. This was such a momentous, almost a sacred, occasion that no ordinary costume was worthy. But white velvet, with all its evocation of virginity and majesty, came closest.

As we passed, each soldier bowed and the officers dipped their pikes and ensigns in respect. I looked into their faces, broad, sunburned, and frightened, and felt their courage in having left their farms and homes to come here and take their stand.

As we reached the crest of the hill, the camp spread out before us. Hundreds of tents, some of the finest workmanship, others of rough canvas, were pitched in tidy rows. There were large pavilions for the officers and green-painted booths for the lower-rank soldiers. Bright pennants and flags fluttered over them. Upon seeing us, pipers and drummers struck up their welcoming tunes. Then a royal salute was fired from the blockhouse cannons.

“Behold your legions!” said Leicester, sweeping his hand over them. “Stout Englishmen ready to defend our shores.”

For one awful moment I felt that I might cry. So brave and so fragile, these men: the most precious gift my people had ever offered up to me.

“Yes,” I murmured.

I walked up and down the companies of soldiers standing at attention, speaking a word to some, giving a smile to another, thinking how like a tall fence they were, or a line of saplings planted alongside a road.

“God bless you all!” I cried, and in response they fell, to a man, to their knees, calling, “Lord preserve our Queen!”

I also inspected the ranks of the cavalry, some two thousand strong. One company, decked out in tawny livery, was headed by Leicester’s young stepson, Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex. He grinned as I approached and waited an instant too long to lower his head.

“Your Majesty,” said Leicester, “young Essex here has raised a fine company of two hundred horsemen at his own expense.” He tilted his chin toward the young man, proudly.

I looked at the richly attired company and mentally computed the cost. Young Essex had spared no expense. But the overall effect, rather than being stunning, was surfeit. “Umm,” I said, nodding shortly, and passed on to the next.