The Invention of News: How the World Came to Know About Itself (29 page)

Grand Designs

The conflict between Europe's warring religions reached its climax with the Armada campaign of 1588, Philip II's grand design. The fleet despatched for the invasion of England was intended to resolve a whole complex of
interrelated problems. After twenty years the Revolt of the Netherlands was no closer to resolution; indeed, since 1585 the intervention of English troops had slowed the Spanish advance and seemed to point to a costly military stalemate. Philip II was finally convinced that only if England were eliminated from the conflict could the Dutch rebels be brought to book. The incorporation of the Portuguese Crown in 1580 with its precious ocean-going fleet made a seaborne invasion possible; Philip's alliance with the Catholic League in France neutralised any possible hostile action by the French king. All that was now required was a fair wind to speed the Spanish fleet through the Channel, a successful juncture with the Duke of Parma's troops in Flanders, and the rising of English Catholics that Philip had been promised by enthusiastic exiles and his own London agents.

7.5 A day that would live in infamy. Twenty years later Christopher Marlowe scored a success on the London stage with this stage version of the massacre, nicely timed to take advantage of a new crisis in French affairs.

It was impossible for an enterprise on this scale to be kept secret. The English knew what Philip had in store from at least 1586; indeed, a successful sortie into the port of Cadiz in April 1587 helped disrupt preparations sufficiently to force him to postpone the campaign for a year. But once the Armada set sail, Europe entered a period of anxious waiting. While the fleet made its way north, information centres across the continent experienced the equivalent of a news blackout: such snippets as were picked up by passing vessels and returning seamen often turned out to be wildly inaccurate. Even from the point at which the Spanish flotilla was sighted in the Channel, it would be several weeks before its success or failure would be determined. The Armada campaign was thus quite different from the joyful announcement of the distant victory of Lepanto, or the thunderclap of St Bartholomew. This was a rolling news event which occupied most of an anxious summer, where hard news was scarce, and rumour, uncertain reports and speculation filled the vacuum.

The Armada that left Lisbon at the end of May soon encountered foul weather, and was forced to take refuge in the north Spanish port of Corunna. It set out again only on 21 July. The decisive action against the English took place on 7 and 8 August. Having kept his fleet intact on the passage through the Channel, Admiral Medina Sidonia anchored off Calais to await the juncture with Parma's army. It was here that the English fleet made its move, sending in fireships to force the Spanish ships to scatter. Driven north by strong winds, the Armada headed ever further from the proposed invasion rendezvous. By the end of August there was no hope of a return. The remains of the once proud fleet were left to make a straggling passage around Ireland and back to Spain.
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For those far from the action this was a long drawn-out summer of waiting. Nowhere was news more anxiously awaited than in Rome. Pope Sixtus V had committed himself heavily to Spanish success, promising Philip a contribution of one million ducats once Spanish troops disembarked on English soil. These were difficult times for newsmen. It was clear how ardently Rome desired to hear good news. Spanish agents in the city were keen to announce the victory that would induce the Pope to release the promised subsidy. The Spanish postmaster, Antonio de Tassis, was heavily engaged in promoting every positive rumour. The
avviso
of 13 August reported that Tassis had wagered heavily that he would have good news by 20 August: a rumour deliberately planted to sway the markets. The snippets picked up by the merchant networks could also be misleading. Back in July Agostino Pinelli had been exhibiting in Rome letters from Lyon reporting that the Catholic army had arrived in Scotland, and was disembarking there. In August, following further news of an English defeat, the Duke of Parma was obliged to send word that no such report had been received in Antwerp.
³⁶

The commercial
avvisi
in Rome acquitted themselves well in the Armada campaign. They reported the rumours of Spanish success, but noted that these were unconfirmed reports requiring corroboration. On 16 July the Pinelli bankers received word from France announcing a Spanish triumph, but, noted the
avviso
, ‘because there is such great desire to believe in a victory it is necessary to wait for confirmation’. The
avviso
of 26 July reported further glad tidings from Cologne, but also that none of the other couriers had word of it. On 22 August a special courier of the Duke of Savoy arrived in Rome with news of an English defeat, ‘but this will remain in doubt until it is confirmed by other couriers’.
³⁷

The patent scepticism and professionalism of the Rome
avvisi
did not prevent news of the Spanish victory being widely celebrated in Catholic Europe. A large part of the responsibility for this rests with the Spanish ambassador in Paris, Bernardino de Mendoza, who received and then circulated a sequence of highly misleading reports.
³⁸
At the end of July news reached Paris of the battle off the Isle of Wight: fifteen English ships were said to have been sunk. Mendoza sent this news straight to Madrid and made arrangements for an account of the Spanish victory to be published in Paris.
³⁹
The English ambassador Sir Edward Stafford countered with his own chronology of events, laying out the course of the battle until the decisive engagement of 8 August. This too was published in French, though no reputable Paris printer was prepared to put his name to it.
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Mendoza was unimpressed. ‘The English ambassador here had some fancy news printed, stating that the English had been victorious,’ he informed King Philip, ‘but the people would not allow it to be sold, as they say it is all lies.’
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Instead Mendoza chose to share with Philip a more optimistic report that Medina Sidonia had worsted and captured Sir Francis Drake. Mendoza's first report arrived in Madrid on 18 August. When the second came on 26 August, Philip was prepared to declare victory. Uncharacteristically, he had it announced by a printed broadsheet. A local English agent reported that the news was greeted with wild public rejoicing.

Elsewhere it was the same story. On 17 August the Senate of Venice voted to convey their congratulations to King Philip on his great victory. On 20 August in Prague the Spanish ambassador ordered a
Te deum
to be sung in celebration. But just then a report came in with contradictory news. In Rome it was left to the
avvisi
to prick the bubble of wishful thinking, as the true extent of the Spanish defeat emerged, beyond the capacity of even the most optimistic to wish away.

What of the protagonists? England, its treasury badly depleted after three years of warfare in the Netherlands, had staked everything on the success of the navy. The county levies had been raised and drilled, but few had exercised
with live firearms. Although the English government was now finally appraised of the essential pivot of Philip's grand design, the juncture of the Armada with Parma's army of the Netherlands, the precise point where the enemy's main force would land was still unknown. Elizabeth believed they would attack through Essex, or sail up the Thames: the county forces were instructed to muster at Brentwood. For all the money spent on Walsingham's intelligence service, around 5 per cent of the Crown's annual revenues, it had not been able to determine that the invasion force was aimed at Kent.
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Certainly it was a close-run thing. By driving the Armada away from Calais before Parma's troops could embark, the English navy had exploited the weakest point in Philip's plan. By the time Elizabeth travelled downriver to address her forces gathered at Tilbury in Essex (where they would have been badly wrong-footed had the invasion taken place), the Armada had already passed the Firth of Forth, heading away from England. Elizabeth might have had ‘the heart of an Englishman’, but thankfully the military skills of those who heard the Tilbury speech were not to be tested.

In Spain the full scale of the disaster became clear only gradually. A defensive despatch from Parma, admitting that the juncture with the Armada fleet had not taken place, arrived in Madrid on 31 August. Four days later a courier from France brought news of the fleet's flight northwards. Not surprisingly, there was little appetite in the king's inner circle to convey this news to Philip. The choice fell on Mateo Vásquez, but even he preferred to make the communication in writing, sending in to Philip an oblique and rather tactless letter which wrapped the news in a convoluted comparison with Louis IX of France, the sainted king who had nevertheless led his troops to disaster.
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For the Spanish Crown the autumn months were grim, as the tattered remnants of the fleet limped home and ships were confirmed lost. The expedition had cost Spain 15,000 men and around 10 million ducats. Most of all it had cost Philip his reputation as the invincible master of the world's most feared military power. The tectonic plates had shifted, and Philip II's carefully constructed masterplan swiftly disintegrated. The French king Henry III was now emboldened to turn on his persecutors in the Catholic League, and take desperate action to restore his authority. The Duke of Guise and his brother the Cardinal were summoned to the royal palace at Blois, and there done to death by the king's guards.
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The news of their hero's assassination stunned and then enraged Catholic opinion. In France the Catholic League rose in revolt. In foreign capitals governments had to assess what now would be the fate of France, its beleaguered king, and the patient Protestant heir, Henry of Navarre.

This was a news event to rival even the defeat of the Armada. Guise was assassinated on 23 December 1588. The news was known in Rome on
4 January 1589.
⁴⁵
The following
avviso
, describing how the news was received, reflects the universal recognition that something of European significance had occurred at Blois:

The outraged Pope now excommunicated Henry III, who had little option but to make common cause with Navarre in an attempt to restore his crumbling authority. On 2 August Henry was himself assassinated. The news reached Rome on 16 August, and was reported in the
avviso
of 23 August. Henry's death was a catastrophe for a number of Rome bankers who were heavily exposed by their lending to the French king. They attempted to cast doubt on the reports. The envoy of the Duke of Urbino therefore sought corroboration, as was his custom, from the Spanish ambassador. The duke's copy of the
avviso
of 30 August is carefully annotated in the ambassador's own hand:

In the wake of the Guise assassination the League had occupied both Paris and Lyon, principal news hubs en route from northern Europe to Rome. Navarre responded by sending his own messengers to Rome, to build his case for an amelioration of the perpetual excommunication proclaimed against him.
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By the middle months of 1589 Rome was receiving news from both sides by special courier almost every day. In such highly charged times statesmen were all too aware that the news could be manipulated or become distorted. The
avvisi
reflected this caution for their customers. Momentous news required confirmation, as was frequently emphasised in the way it was reported: