Queen Of This Realm

The Grate Victory and The Great Tragedy

ROBERT WAS HOME—A FACT WHICH GAVE ME THE GREATest pleasure, and the joy of seeing him far outweighed any rancor I felt for his behavior. It was always like that with Robert. I could be madly angry with him but when he stood before me bowing low, raising his face to mine, I thought how foolish I had been to let him go. We were not so young… either of us… that we could afford to waste time. I was not going to let him stray far away again.

So he was back in high favor. The Netherlands venture had been a terrible disaster. I had always known that wars brought little profit. I had been against going in; it seemed no easy task to defeat the Spaniards even in the Netherlands where they were far from their homeland.

There were disturbing reports coming from Walsingham about the preparations for war. Whom could they plan to strike against but England? And this was confirmed by the fact that they were assembling a mighty armada to come against us.

I was pleased to have in my service such men as Sir Francis Drake—buccaneers of the sea who were really already at war with the Spaniards, intercepting their ships, taking their treasure and showing them that although they might have a great armada, the English were natural men of the sea and were a match for them. Drake had brought home great treasure and for that I was grateful. I was in need of money; the Netherlands had swallowed up vast sums—a waste of money I called it—and I was in sad financial straits; but even so I was not so poor as Philip, which was a comforting thought.

Drake had returned from one of his expeditions with quantities of booty—all taken from the Spaniards—and on the way home he had called in at Cadiz and as he said “singed the beard of the King of Spain.” This meant that he had gone in among the ships in the harbor and sunk or burned thirty-three of them and brought away four of them laden with provisions.

He had also brought back news that Spain was fast preparing to attack England and that the conflict would take place at sea. Philip must be stopped now and forever. He believed that our ships, which might lack the grandeur of the Spanish galleons, would be a match for them when the time came for them to test their strength.

Younger men were coming to Court to seek their fortunes. The old favorites remained—Robert, Hatton, Heneage—and I loved them all. The fact that they were getting old did not make me love them less. When Walsingham fell ill and Burghley had a fall from his horse, I was really anxious and I visited them and scolded them for not taking greater care of their health. I was a mother to them and they looked to me for comfort. I never failed them as I knew they would never fail me. It was a very special relationship I shared with my men; it was only those who had never broken through into the magic circle—like Davison—who did not enjoy it.

There were two newcomers—two of the most exciting young men I had ever known. One was Robert Devereux and the other Walter Raleigh.

Robert had brought his stepson to Court and clearly wanted me to receive him well. I don't know why I took an instant liking to him—for he was the son of my great enemy, that she-wolf, whom I had never ceased to hate and who had been banished from my Court since her marriage to Robert.

But there was something disarming about Robert Devereux—Earl of Essex since the age of nine when his father had died rather mysteriously in Ireland, poisoned as the chronicler of Leicester's Commonwealth put it.

He had been seventeen when Robert had first presented him to me, and I remembered him as the charming boy I had noticed when I had visited Chartley after that memorable time at Kenilworth.

He was most attractive. I thought, grudgingly, that he had inherited his good looks from his mother. He certainly had her auburn hair and dark eyes. He had an unusual way of walking, taking great strides, holding his head a little forward and stooping slightly. There were many beautiful young men in my life but this one was outstanding. He appealed to me immediately not unlike the manner in which Robert had. There had been only two for whom I had felt this romantic feeling until this time. One was Thomas Seymour and the other, of course, Robert. Robert was of my own age, and now that we were old both of us knew that nothing could change between us. No one else could ever mean to me what he did; but I did feel this flutter of romantic feeling for Essex, which was extremely odd because he was Leicester's stepson and the son of the woman I hated more than any other. Perhaps these facts were a fillip to my emotions regarding Essex. I was unsure, but that they existed I knew full well.

My impulse would have been to reject him because obviously she would be hoping for his success at Court; but he immediately caught my attention as he had all those years ago at Chartley.

He was very raw—and I saw at once that he had no political sense. He was the sort of man who spoke before he considered the effect his words might have—so he lacked the first quality of a courtier. It was once said of him in my hearing: “He is no good pupil of my Lord Leicester, who is wont to put all his passion in his pocket.”

I suppose that was true of Robert. No one knew better than he did how to dissimulate. One could never be absolutely sure with Robert. Perhaps that was what made him so fascinating. Essex left no one in doubt. I often thought this in him might bring about his downfall.

And then there was that other—that dark handsome brilliant man— Walter Raleigh. He was about thirty when he first caught my attention, and he had come to Court to do exactly that, hoping to make his fortune. He was the kind of man who must be noticed sooner or later. He was tall, wellbuilt and outstandingly handsome. He had thick black hair and the ruddy complexion of a countryman; but what was most noticeable about him was his amazing vitality; he seemed to have twice as much energy as most men.

He came to my attention one day when I was out walking surrounded by a group of the ladies and gentlemen of the Court. We had come to a road which was muddy and we stood for a few moments contemplating how best to get across without picking up too much mud. Then Raleigh came forward. He was wearing a beautiful plush coat, which was obviously new, and with a flourish he took it from his shoulders and spread it over the muddy patch for me to walk on.

I always accepted these extravagant gestures gracefully, though I knew that in his heart the young man would count cheap the cost of a coat, however fine, if it brought him royal favor.

But I had noticed him and I asked about him and learned that he was one Walter Raleigh from Devonshire, the county which had brought me my most excellent Francis Drake; and I decided that I would know more of this enterprising young man.

I learned that he had been in trouble. That was inevitable, I assumed, with a man of his spirit. He was quick-tempered, but not reckless with it as Essex was. I thought Raleigh was a man who would weigh well his actions. He was far cleverer than my charming Essex. He was witty, his badinage amusing and his conversation sparkling. Much more than Essex he had the qualifications to make him a success at Court. He had quarreled with Thomas Perrot and that had resulted in a brawl which had brought them to the Fleet Prison for a few days. Then he had had a fight with a man named Wingfield over a game of tennis, which had meant a brief spell in the Marshalsea. He had certainly had some questionable adventures but he had won distinction at sea.

During his early days at Court he had been befriended by Leicester, who also liked his spirit, and he had fallen in with the Earl of Oxford whom, though one of my favorites, I did recognize as a rather disreputable young man for he had behaved abominably to Burghley's daughter and was a real scoundrel. Raleigh and he soon fell out, however, and became enemies.

There was great jealousy between them, but that often happened between my men. Our relationship was such that it engendered jealousy. They really behaved like petulant lovers sometimes. I did not complain. My nature being what it was, I enjoyed it and perhaps encouraged it.

I enjoyed Raleigh's company very much. He was one who set great store on climbing to fame. I did not mind that. A man who will rise must climb.

One day he wrote on a window with a diamond the words:

“Fain would I climb, yet fear I to fall.”

And I replied with a diamond I was wearing:

“If thy heart fails thee, climb not at all.”

He turned to me, his eyes shining, and I loved him in that moment, for he had the qualities which I admired most in men.

I said: “You will climb, Walter Raleigh. And I do not think you will fall… far.”

At which he bowed low and said that he would climb to heaven or descend to hell in my service.

Soon after that I gave him a knighthood; he deserved the distinction and was very proud of it. And how watchful he was—and others too—of the favors I bestowed! Essex did not ask for honors; if anything was given to him he took it without question; but he never seemed overgrateful. Raleigh asked audaciously.

Once I said to him: “I wonder when you will stop being a beggar, Raleigh.”

And he replied: “When Your Majesty stops being a benefactress.”

He laughed and I could not help joining in with him. The exchange was typical of our relationship.

Burghley had brought along his son Robert hoping for advancement from me. I recognized Robert Cecil immediately as one of the clever ones. There was little of the courtier about him. He was very small and suffered from a slight curvature of the spine, which was accentuated by the shape of the coats men were wearing at this time; his neck was slightly twisted too and he had a splay foot; and among so many handsome men he looked like a little elf. I christened him that immediately. So his unprepossessing appearance had brought him to my notice just as Raleigh's gesture with the cloak had done—although, of course, I could not fail to notice Burghley's son. It was rather touching to see the dear old man's devotion to the boy. I loved him for it and determined to do what I could for the Little Elf, which would be easy for I recognized at once that sharp mind behind the pale face, and I believed that Robert Cecil would have done well at my Court without his father's influence.

Then there were the Bacon boys—Anthony and Francis. Francis was a clever boy but inclined to be tutorial, a characteristic which did not appeal greatly to me. Burghley kept them in the background because he did not want them to spoil Robert Cecil's chances; and I knew that if any important post became vacant, Burghley would want it for his son.

Francis, however, wrote a paper entitled Letter of Advice to Queen Elizabeth, which in itself was an insolence. It contained his views of the political situation, but they were quite ably expressed and I congratulated him on it. He had at this time become a member of Parliament for Taunton and a bencher at Gray's Inn, so he was entitled to plead in the courts at Westminster.

But of all the interesting young men at Court at this time the favorites were Walter Raleigh and Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex.

As the year progressed there was one thought in everyone's mind, and that was the growing menace of Spain. Everyone was asking: For what reason was Spain building the greatest armada that had ever been seen? There could be only one answer: To attack us.

Philip and I were natural enemies. It was strange to think that once he had been attracted by me when he had been married to my sister. I supposed he had never forgiven me for not leaping at the chance to marry him. If I had done that he would not have found it necessary to spend so much on the building of his armada. He would have taken England, installed the Inquisition and made my country part of Spain. As if I would ever have allowed that! As if I would ever sell my country to Philip of Spain…as my sister had done.

Enmity was growing fast between our two nations. We were rivals for sea power. He had fine ships and adventurers to sail them and they had traveled on voyages of discovery round the world; but there had been the English pirates, like Drake and Hawkins, to waylay their ships and rob them of their riches.

I don't think he ever forgave Drake for taking the San Felipe—the greatest prize of all—the King's own East Indiaman. Her cargo had been the richest haul even Drake had ever captured—bullion, precious stones, spices, ambergris, fine silks and velvets, materials of all kinds, gold and jewelery, all fell into the hands of Drake.

Moreover the name of Drake was spoken with awe and reverence by the Spaniards. They called him El Draque—the Dragon. They said he was the greatest seaman ever to rove the seas and he was not entirely human. He had the devil in him and that was why it was impossible to beat Sir Francis Drake.

I often thought of Philip—that gloomy fanatic—spending hours on his knees in his Escorial Palace. Did he remember me? He had cast somewhat lascivious eyes on me and there had been hints that he was not averse to frolicking with women. There was that rhyme I remembered from long ago… something about the baker's daughter's being more fun than Mary.

Men were very hypocritical and it would not surprise me if, when they knelt in prayer or scourged themselves with whips and tormented themselves with hair shirts, they were indulging in erotic fantasies.

There was a rumor at this time that a young man calling himself Arthur Dudley was treated with some respect at the Court of Madrid. He proclaimed himself to be my son, Leicester being his father. He said that he had been born at Hampton Court and a servant of Kat Ashley had been ordered to bring him up as his own child. He was about twenty-seven years old—a swaggering, swearing braggart, by all accounts. Philip must have known that he was an imposter, but I suppose he thought it politic to discredit me as much as possible, so he pretended to believe the young man and keep him at his Court at the cost of six crowns a day. No doubt he thought the money was well spent.

I could laugh at the absurdity of the tale, but it did bring home the fact that with every month the situation between us and Spain grew more dangerous, and I knew—as did those about me—that the day of reckoning could not be far off.

Walsingham's spies were busy. The armada was complete and ready to sail. There was a story being circulated in Madrid that two men had confessed to a Jesuit priest that they had seen a vision. The confessions were separate and the penitents did not know each other but each had had the same vision. They had seen a mighty sea battle in which the Spanish armada was engaged with another armada. The battle waged fiercely and neither side was winning until angels with great wings descended on the decks of the Spanish ships singing that they had come to protect the defenders of the Faith against the infidels.

“I'll wager our seamen against the angels any day,” I said, and those about me laughed.

I knew that we could no longer delay. We had to be ready. I felt that this was the time to which all my reign had been leading. The outcome of this battle would decide whether England was to be free and I was to continue to reign over my beloved country.

I could not believe that I could lose. No, not all the might of Spain could make me believe that. I had my men, and what men they were! I do believe that no monarch had ever had—or ever would have—such men as I had. They were going to save England for me. I knew they would.

I made Robert Lieutenant-General of the troops to show everyone that in spite of what had happened in the Netherlands, I still had the utmost faith in him. Most of the fighting I knew would be done at sea for this was a conflict for sea power—and religion. My men would be fighting to keep out the intolerance of men such as Philip; they would be fighting against the thumbscrews and the terrible instruments of torture which were the weapons of the Inquisition; they were fighting for freedom, for their Queen and their country, and for the right to go on living as they wanted to. It was a great incentive. I doubted the Spaniards would have such a one to fight for.

I had appointed Lord Howard of Effingham to command the fleet, assisted by Drake, Frobisher and Hawkins—the finest seamen in the world. And we had a navy too—not as grand as that of Spain, but does one need grandeur in war? It is men who make ships what they are.

I had the men and it was part of my special talent to have the right men in the places where they could serve me best. I believed that we would defeat the Spaniards even though I was fully aware of their might. They had the largest armada in the world; they were practiced seamen; but the largest did not mean the best and I would stake Englishmen against Spaniards at any time.

Philip was putting up an absurd claim to the throne of England with himself as the legitimate heir through the House of Lancaster because John of Gaunt's daughters had married into Portugal and Castile. I was always uneasy when people laid claim to the throne; my own claim was not founded on such a rock-like foundation that I could lightly dismiss them. It proved to be rather a rash act on the part of Philip for it alienated the Scots who were certainly not going to help Philip come to the throne when in their opinion their own James, son of Mary Stuart, was the true heir.

The Pope had put himself beside Philip. His aim was to destroy me and he was trying to raise the whole of Papal Europe against me. There was a suggestion from some members of the Council that we should massacre all the leading Catholics in the country to avoid an uprising—a kind of repeat performance of the Massacre of Saint Bartholomew's Eve in Paris.

I rejected that immediately. I hoped I had brought a certain tolerance to the country. I know that open Catholic worship was forbidden, but in all other ways those Catholics were good subjects. I was right in this, for many of them proved of considerable value in our stand against the invader.

Rumors were rife and there was a mood of tension throughout the country. I believed that the sooner the battle began, the more relieved we should all feel, but I was horrified when I heard whispers that I had sent an agent to Rome to come to terms with the Pope, for that I would never do. I was head of the Church of England and I would have no foreigner take my place. I ordered the Bishop of London to anathematize the Pope from the pulpit at St Paul's.

Ships! That was what we needed. Thanks to our foresight over the years we had a considerable navy, but Drake had said that we needed more ships and he was right.

I asked my people for ships and how heartening it was when the City of London, being asked for five thousand men and fifteen ships, immediately offered ten thousand men and thirty ships. That was the spirit of the people when we went out to face the armada.

The Spaniards were boastful. They said there would be one battle at sea and one on land and England would be theirs. I did not boast. I had a feeling that it was dangerous to do so, tempting the fates; but I was supremely confident. Walsingham's men were indefatigable in secret places and I was elated when I heard of the death of the Marquis de Santa Cruz, the Spanish admiral in charge of operations against England, for he was also one of the ablest seamen living. But for him the attack would have been launched earlier, but he, having been greatly impressed by the daring and reputation of El Draque, advised caution. He wanted his armada to be invincible and he needed time to assure himself that it was so.

Philip had upbraided him for sloth, which deeply wounded Santa Cruz, for his zeal was as keen as that of his master, but he was a wiser man. Then suddenly he became ill—no doubt through acute anxiety—and died. It was a great loss to Spain but a benefit to us.

I wanted to say: God is on our side. But I did not. I would not be boastful before victory was won and, whatever good fortune came our way in the end, no one was more conscious than I of the bitter battle which lay ahead.

Philip showed then that he was out of touch with reality when he appointed the Duke of Medina Sidonia as commander of his armada, not because of his skill and experience—he had little of either—but because he belonged to one of the noblest houses in Spain.

It was true that I had chosen Howard of Effingham, scion of one of our noblest families, but he was an able man who had been brought up in a naval tradition. His father, Lord William, and his grandfather Thomas, Duke of Norfolk, had held the post of Lord High Admiral with distinction; and my Vice Admiral was the bold Sir Francis, whose very name struck terror into the Spaniards.

I believed I was better served than Philip, and my men were defending their country which always gives an added zeal and often triumphs over the lust for conquest.

Not only were we preparing our navy but our land defenses also. Vulnerable places like Gravesend were fortified, and we put out barges to block the mouths of rivers to prevent a hostile fleet getting through. All over the country we were preparing for invasion should the gallant sailors fail to hold back the enemy at sea. It was a great joy to me to see the spirit of the people and to know that they were with me.

I was Commander-in-Chief of my army and under me was Robert as Lieutenant-General of the two armies—Lord Hunsdon in command of the second. Robert wrote to me from Tilbury—a letter which I have always preserved for it seemed to me to have been written not only by a soldier but by a lover. In it he set down his views as to how we should proceed if the Spaniards succeeded in setting foot on English soil, but through it all came his great concern for me. After setting out details of how we should march if we had to without much warning, he wrote of me.

“Now for your person, being the most dainty and sacred thing we have in this world to care for, much more for advice to be given in the direction of it, 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. Yet will I not that so princely and so rare a magnanimity should not appear to your people and the world as it is. And thus far, if it may please Your Majesty, you may do; withdraw yourself to your home at Havering and your army, being about London, as at Stratford, East Ham, Hackney and those villages thereabout, shall be not only a defense but a ready supply to those counties in Essex and Kent if need be. In the meantime, Your Majesty, to comfort this army and people of both these counties, may, if it please you, spend two or three days to see both the camps and the forts. Tilbury is not fourteen miles at the most from Havering Bower…

“Lastly for myself, most gracious lady, you know what will most comfort a faithful servant; for there is nothing in the world I take that joy in, that I do in your good favor…”

I read and reread that letter. I kissed it; I folded it and put it away.

And I prepared to leave for Tilbury.

SO I INSPECTED MY troops at Tilbury. Beside me rode Robert, as fine and handsome a figure as ever was, and before me the Earl of Ormond, carrying the sword of state, while a page followed holding my plumed helmet. I was bare-headed and wore a polished steel corselet and a voluminous farthingale. When they saw me my troops broke into prolonged cheering and I was so moved that I was near to tears. I knew that since my accession I had enjoyed a love from my people rarely experienced by a monarch. I had worked hard to preserve it and to appear well in their eyes. They forgave me my faults and remembered my virtues—and that, of course, is the meaning of true love.

They waited for me to address them, which I did in loud ringing tones.

“My loving people, we have been persuaded by some that are careful of our safety to take heed how we commit ourselves to armed multitudes for fear of treachery; but I do assure you, I do not desire to live to distrust my faithful and loving people. Let tyrants fear; I have always so behaved myself that under God I have placed my chiefest strength and safeguard in the loyal hearts and good will of my subjects; and therefore I have come amongst you as you see at this time, not for my recreation and disport, but being resolved in the midst and heat of the battle to live or die amongst you all—to lay down for my God and for my kingdoms, and for my people, my honor and my blood even in the dust. I know I have the body of a weak, feeble woman; but I have the heart and stomach of a king—and of a King of England too— and think foul scorn that Parma of Spain or any Prince of Europe should dare invade the borders of my realm; to which rather than any dishonor should grow by me, I will myself take up arms—I myself will be your general, judge and rewarder of every one of your virtues in the field. I know already for your forwardness, you have deserved rewards and crowns, and we do assure you on the word of a prince, that they shall be duly paid to you. For the meantime my Lieutenant-General shall be in my stead, than whom never prince commanded a more noble and worthy subject; not doubting by your obedience to my General, by your concord in the camp, and your valor in the field, we shall shortly have a famous victory over the enemies of my God, of my kingdoms, and of my people.”

The cheers rang out. I had never felt so proud, so determined to do well by them. My love for them was as great as theirs for me.

One man shouted: “Is it possible that any Englishman can abandon such a glorious cause or refuse to lay down his life in defense of this heroic Princess?”

That was the mood of the people. And it was the mood to bring about victory.

The events of that time are engraved on my heart forever so that I shall never forget them; nor, I venture to think, will the world. They will be talked of whenever men talk of England and will stand forever as a monument to us and an example to all other nations forevermore. Freedom is worth fighting for; it is worth paying a high price for, because to die for freedom is to leave this life in a blaze of glory which destroys our weaknesses of the past and makes us at one with the heroes.

It was a fine Friday afternoon of the nineteenth of July of that year 1588 when Captain Fleming's pinnacle arrived in haste in Plymouth Harbour with the news that the Spanish armada had been sighted off the Lizard. The whole town was agog—except its Admiral, Sir Francis Drake, who was playing a game of bowls on the Hoe.

Perhaps I was a little impatient when I first heard the story of how he had refused to abandon the game, declaring in his nonchalant way that there was plenty of time to finish the game and beat the Spaniards.

But I knew that was Drake's way. It was that in him which inspired his men with respect and the enemy with terror. Whatever his feelings, he was going to behave as though it were impossible that there could be anything but victory over the enemy.

On Saturday, the churches all over the land were full of people praying for victory. It was a solemn country on that morning, for there was not a man or a woman in England who did not know what it would mean to them if the Spaniards were victorious. Their prayers were earnest; their thoughts were with our sailors. Oh God, we prayed, never, never let the invader touch our shores.

And if they came we must be ready. But they would first have to win the battle at sea.

I had always felt that the savage sea was our ally. It had stood between us and danger many times. It was the reason why no foreign army had ever trodden our shores—except the Norman conquerors, some might say; but we were the Normans partly; we were a mixed race of Angles, Saxons, Jutes, Romans, Normans…It was the blood of all these people who made up an Englishman, so I could say with truth that no invading army had ever conquered us. And never should!

I prayed for the men in my ships. I said all the names over and over again: Achates, Aid, Antelope, Ark … all through the alphabet to Vanguard, White Bear and White Lion.

“Pray God preserve my men. Give my ships the victory they need so desperately. Take care of my great men. My Howard, my Hawkins, my Frobisher and my incomparable Drake. Give them the wit they need to make good judgment and the strength to carry it out.”

I smiled at myself. Here am I giving instructions to God, treating him as a favored subject.

“Please God,” I prayed. “Thy will be done, but let it be shown in favor of my great men.”

There were the skirmishes, the days when I arose from nights of little sleep and asked for the news. Nothing decided. We had inflicted damage on their ships. They were finding it not so easy as they had thought to. They were failing in their task to defeat the English fleet so utterly that an easy way might be cleared for Parma to sail in, bringing his troops which would take the country.

The Spaniards suffered more acutely from the weather than our sailors. They were finding their splendid galleons unwieldy. Those who were captured said that the Spanish sailors were in terror of El Draque and only slightly less so of Juan Achines, by whom they meant John Hawkins, who like Drake had in his role of pirate of the high seas struck terror into the hearts of so many.

The battle was a hard one. My men had captured several of the Spanish ships and not one of ours was lost. We had the advantage in spite of our inferior armada. We were in home waters fighting for our own country. We could endure the adverse conditions as the Spaniards could not. My admirals were at liberty to act as they thought best suited to the occasion and to take full advantage of every opportunity which offered itself, Medina Sidonia was acting all the time on instructions from Philip. It was true my admirals did not always agree. It was hardly likely that adventurers like Drake and Hawkins would abide by certain formalities natural to a gentleman of Howard's upbringing. They clashed, and my bold Drake on one occasion disobeyed Howard's orders because he believed it would have been disastrous to have obeyed them.

Drake was proved to be right. He was my finest sailor. I can never think of those most fearful yet most glorious days without seeing Drake.

The greatest advantage throughout was fighting in our own waters while the Spaniards were far from home. When they ran out of supplies they had little hope of replacing them; it was different for us. I supposed this was why they planned to take first the Isle of Wight and thus establish a base from which they could supply their ships.

The Spaniards must have been in a sorry state. Parma had been unable to reach them for he had been blockaded by the Dutch. The Spanish sailors had lost their early euphoria. Where were the angels with the protective wings now?

It was decided to send fireships into the armada. It was not the first time this method had been used with success.

I heard of my captains' hurried council later. There was not time to send to Dover for the little ships they needed; the advantage would be lost by delay, so all the captains offered their ships for the purpose. Drake gave the Thomas; Hawkins offered one of his and others were soon provided for the purpose.

There was no moon that night, and there was a breeze blowing in the direction of the assembled armada while the tide was running toward them. Conditions were ideal. Soon eight blazing ships were making their way straight for the Spaniards, sending out fire and setting them ablaze. The air was full of the sound of exploding ordnance as the fire reached the ships.

Complete demoralization throughout the Spanish armada ensued; they cut their cables and blundered about wildly; their riggings become entangled and they were blocking the way of escape for each other in the desperate attempt to escape from the fire ships. Sidonia fired off his gun trying to get the ships to assemble in some sort of order, but the call was ignored; every Spanish captain was intent on getting his ship out of reach of the fires. Thus the fireships had achieved in a few hours that certain victory for which my brave seamen had been fighting for days.

My men were ready to go in for the final attack when Howard, seeing one of the galleasses was in difficulties and realizing that it would be a rich prize, stopped to take it. It was an error because there were fighting men on the galleass who could give a good account of themselves. By pausing Howard had given Drake the opportunity to be the one who led my ships to victory. Howard's error was such as to rob him of a certain amount of the glory, for having captured the rich prize he left one of the small ships to guard it, but as it was nearer to Calais than England, the French boats came out to take it and although the English put up a good fight, artillery from the shore took part and forced my men to retire. So the entire enterprise had been a waste of time on Howard's part. I do not believe that Drake would have made such a mistake. He must have been laughing to himself as he swept down with all the squadrons on the limping Spanish armada.

The battle was not over immediately as it might have been if Howard had kept with the fleet instead of pausing; but the outcome was now sure.

It had seemed at one time that we should snatch not only victory but great prizes—enough to cover the cost of the campaign. But this was denied us. A squall arose. The weather had been our ally so far—and perhaps some would say still was, but it certainly robbed us of our prizes. Our seamen had to look to their own safety in such weather, and when the wind abated it was seen that many of the ships of the once proud Spanish armada were sinking or drifting along to the Flemish coast.

The wind ended the battle; and if we had lost the prizes we had hoped for, we had gained a glorious victory.

I HAD NOW COME to the saddest part of my life. Nothing could ever be the same for me again.

Naturally I wanted to reward the saviors of my country. I gave a pension to Howard and I made Essex a Knight of the Garter for he had played a part in the victory; but the one I wanted to reward most of all was Robert. He had not been at sea but he had been in charge of land defenses and he had worked indefatigably for our safety.

I wanted to make him Lord Lieutenant of England and Ireland, which would have given him more power than anyone in England under me. When I told him, it did me good to see his pleasure, although I was a little anxious about him for he did not look as well as usual. There was a certain pallor of his face, which was the more startling because of his natural high color.

I said: “You are not well.”

He replied that he believed he had caught a fever when he was with the army near the salt marshes in Essex.

I gave him a very special remedy which had been given to me and I told him I had had painful headaches myself of late.

I said: “You must take care of yourself. That's a command, Robert.”

He smiled at me with infinite love, and although I glowed with pleasure I kept that twinge of uneasiness which always assailed me when I thought he was not in good health. I scolded him lightly for neglecting himself and reminded him that that was the easiest way to earn my displeasure.

We were very close at that time. We always had been, but the defeat of the Spanish armada had brought home to us the intensity of our feelings and what we meant to each other.

I might have guessed there would be an outcry concerning the proposed new appointment for Robert.

Burghley was strongly against it and was supported by both Hatton and Walsingham. It was placing too much power in the hands of one man, said Burghley.

It was most unwise, declared Hatton.

“We shall have Leicester ruling us all,” declared blunt Walsingham.

I realized, of course, that in my fondness for Robert I had perhaps gone too far and as the appointment had not yet been confirmed I decided it should be put aside for a while.

Robert was bitterly disappointed, but I did my best to console him.

“You must take good care of your health,” I said. “Get well, Robin, and we will go into this matter then.”

We decided that he should go to Buxton for the baths, which had done him good before, and he said farewell and went off to make preparations for the journey.

A few days after he left I received a letter from him. I read and re-read it and shall treasure it forever. Whenever I see that handwriting it brings him back to me so clearly.

“I most humbly beseech Your Majesty,” he wrote, “to pardon your poor old servant…”

The two “o”s in poor were written to look like eyes—my name for him, which he had always loved to hear me use.

“ … to be thus bold in thus sending to know how my gracious lady doeth and what ease of her late pains she finds, being the chiefest thing in this world I do pray for, for her to have good health and long life.

“For my own poor case I continue still your medicine and find it amends much better than with any other thing that hath been given me. Thus hoping to find perfect cure at the bath, with the continuance of my wonted prayer for Your Majesty's most happy preservation, I humbly kiss your foot.

“From your old lodging at Rycott this Thursday morning, ready to take my journey.

“By Your Majesty's most faithful obedient servant,

“R. Leicester.”

That letter was written on the twenty-ninth of August. By the fourth of September he was dead.

When they brought me the news I was stunned. I could not believe it. It was some hideous joke. Death! Not Robert! He had always been so alive. He was fifty-five years old—more or less my own age. Never to see him again! Never to hear his voice! Never to wonder what secrets he was hiding behind those enigmatic eyes!

There was no savor in life. There never would be again for Robert Dudley was dead.

I ordered everyone out of my apartment and shut myself in. I would have no intrusion on my grief. I lay on my bed and thought of everything… right from the time when we were children and had danced at my father's Court; I thought of those weeks when I had been in the Tower and he had been near; I thought of the day he had come to me and laid his gold at my feet, and how he had ridden into London with me at the time of my accession. So many memories. That was all I had left now.

I took his letter and read and read it again. I kissed it. It was wet with my tears. Then I wrote on it “His Last Letter” and put it in a jewel box. I would preserve it forever. Perhaps later I could draw comfort from it, but now it only brought home to me the magnitude of my loss.

Then I took out one by one the presents he had given me over the years. They had all meant something special to me because he had given them. There was the bracelet of gold adorned with rubies and diamonds. He had given me this in a purple velvet case embroidered with Venetian gold in the year 1572 when I had been fourteen years on the throne. The following year he had given me a collar of rubies and diamonds.

I put them both on and remembered the time he had brought them to me. I could see him with his handsome dark head bent as he fixed the collar about my throat.

Then there was the white feather fan with the two magnificent emeralds on one side of the handle and the inevitable rubies and diamonds on the other.

I brought them all out, his gifts over the years, love-tokens all of them.

And, I thought, there will never be another.

How ironical was life! God had given me this magnificent victory and had taken away the one I loved—shall I say better than anything else. No, that would not be quite true. I loved my country more than anything else, more than my own life or that of Robert. And I had just been given the finest example of God's grace when my seamen with the help of His winds had scattered the mighty so-called invincible armada along the inhospitable coasts of Scotland and Ireland and driven off the Spanish menace forever. But at the same time He had dealt me this most cruel and tragic blow.

He had taken Robert from me.

Time passed, but I did not notice. There were knocks at my door, but I ignored them. I could not bear to look on anyone at this time.

I do not know how long I kept them out. I don't know whether I should have eventually let them in.

Burghley spoke to me from outside, begging me to open the door. But I just sat in stony silence. I cared for nothing. I could think of nothing but: Robert is dead.

Vaguely I heard Burghley's voice outside the door.

“Your Majesty, for God's sake open the door. Are you ill? We beg you to let us in.”

But still I sat there. I could only think of Robert, who had been so alive and now was dead.

There was a whispering outside my door. Then I heard the tremendous noise as the door burst open.

Burghley stood there. He hastened forward and seeing me cried: “Thank God. We feared for Your Majesty.” He was on his knees. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. We were very much afraid. Your Majesty, you must rouse yourself. England needs you.”

And as I looked at him—my dear tired old Spirit, who had been my good friend for so long—I knew that he was right.

I put out my hand. He took it and kissed it.

“You speak truth,” I said. “I must about my business.”

And then I began to live again.

THERE WERE RUMORS about his death. They aroused my anger to such an extent that my grief was somewhat assuaged. Could it be true? There had been so many suspicions concerning the manner in which he had removed those who stood in his way, was it possible that he had met a fate which, many said, he had meted out to others?

Could it really have been that Robert had been murdered?

I should not believe it. It was idle gossip. Heaven knew, I had suffered enough from that—and so had Robert. But rumor persisted.

His wife, that she-wolf, Lettice Knollys, had taken a lover, it was said— her husband's young Master of Horse, Christopher Blount.

How dared she! She who had the most wonderful man in the country so to demean herself…and him…by taking a lover! I never hated her so much as I did at that time, for although I had hated her for taking him from me, I hated her more for turning to someone else who must be inferior—for how could anyone equal him?

It was said that Robert had discovered the liaison and had intended to take revenge on her. But she had maneuvered that he should drink the poisoned cup which he had prepared for her.

It could not be true. No one would ever be able to do that to him. I would not believe that he had died through poison. The doctors said it was a fever and I knew he had caught that in the Essex salt marshes. He had said so himself before he went back to her.

Yet I wanted to believe it. I wanted to hate her more than I had ever done before.

One of his servants declared he had seen the Countess give the Earl a goblet, after drinking the contents of which, the Earl had collapsed.

I believed she was capable of that and if she had taken a young lover… Oh, I had warned him that he would one day come to feel her poisoned fangs.

But the autopsy revealed no poison in his body and she was exonerated; but I should never be sure for I knew that the clever Dr Julio, like many Italians, had poisons which killed and left no trace.

I hated her because he had loved her enough to brave my wrath and marry her; but I would certainly hate her more if it were proved that she had hastened his death and robbed me of the one person I loved more than I ever could anyone else.

When his will was read it did not seem that he was aware of her infidelity, for he left her well provided for and there was no hint that he had a rival for her affections.

How touched I was when I read what he had written:

“And first of all, before and above all persons, it is my duty to remember my most dear and gracious Sovereign, whose creature, under God, I have been, and who hath been a most bountiful and princely mistress…”

So he went on to praise me and to say that it had been his greatest joy in life to serve me. He prayed to God to make me the oldest prince that ever reigned over England. And he bequeathed to me a jewel with “three fair emeralds with a large table diamond in the middle and a rope of pearls to the number of six hundred.” These gifts were to have been mine when he entertained me at Wanstead…so he must have known that he was near death.

After that he went on to write of his wife:

“Next to Her Majesty, I will return to my dear wife, and set down for her that which cannot be so well as I would wish it, but shall be as well as I am able to make it, having always found her a faithful and very loving and obedient careful wife, and so do I trust this will of mine shall find her no less mindful of me being gone, than I was always of her being alive…”

He could have known nothing of her infidelity—if infidelity there was—when he wrote that. He had left her Wanstead and Drayton Basset in Staffordshire and two manors—Balsall and Long Itchington in Warwickshire. I was glad Kenilworth did not go to her. Strangely enough he acknowledged paternity of Douglass Sheffield's son—that one who called himself Robert Dudley—and he had left him well provided for. Although Kenilworth had gone to Robert's brother, Ambrose, Earl of Warwick, on his death it was to go to Robert's base-born son.

I was sure Lettice was grinding her teeth about that. The biggest prize— splendid Kenilworth—was not for her.

I was glad. I could not have borne thinking of her there in that beautiful castle where I had spent such a memorable time with Robert.

So she was free now… free to marry her lover, which the brazen creature could not do immediately, but she did within a year of Leicester's death. She was bold, that one. I admired her in a way—but I hated her more than ever.

Robert proved to have been deeply in debt. His debts to the Crown alone were over twenty-five thousand pounds. He had spent extravagantly on gifts to me, and I was touched to discover that, apart from the upkeep of his magnificent houses, that was his main expenditure. The houses had of course cost him very dear; he had the richest curtains and tapestries I had seen outside royal palaces. In fact some of Leicester's rooms had been much grander than those of Greenwich or Hampton.

I had always rejoiced that he lived like a king even though I had denied him the satisfaction of being one.

Some of those houses had been passed on to Lettice Knollys. Well, she should pay his debts. I let it be known that I insisted that Lord Leicester's debts should be paid in full and the burden of those debts rested on the shoulders of that careful, loving and obedient wife.

She immediately declared that she had not the means to pay her late husband's debts to which I replied that she had valuable articles in those grand houses which were now hers and they could be sold… all those art treasures, all those fine carpets and hangings and four-poster beds. Their sale would meet the cost of Leicester's indebtedness.

How she must have raged! I imagined her at Wanstead among her newly acquired possessions. She had thought herself so clever to have married rich Leicester. Well, now she should discover that he owed his greatness to me, and if I said she should give up the articles she valued to pay what her husband owed, then she would do so.

I had scored a victory over the she-wolf, which brought me some satisfaction, though it did not ease the ache in my heart.

IF ONLY HE HAD been beside me how I would have reveled in those celebrations which were taking place all over the country in honor of the great victory over the Spanish armada.

The most important of them all was the thanksgiving at St Paul's when I rode in state through the city of London attended by members of my Privy Council, the bishops, judges and nobles of the land. I sat in a triumphal chariot shaped like a throne with a canopy over it in the form of a crown. Two white horses drew this and next to me rode my newly appointed Master of Horse, Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex.

It gave me some comfort to look at him. He was not Robert, of course, but there was an indefinable charm about him, and I had a special fondness for him. He lacked Robert's suave manners; very few of my men were as outspoken as Essex; he was the sort of man who would make no concessions in his conversation … even to his Queen. But he admired me. I knew that because I read it in his eyes, in his gestures; and being the young man he was his feelings must be sincere. With most of the others I should have known they were looking for advancement, but with Essex, he must admire me for he would not pretend to do so if he did not. In a way Essex was in love with me. It may seem absurd for a young man of his age to feel love for an old woman, but it was a special sort of love. It was not a physical emotion. That would have been abhorrent to me… but a kind of adoration. It might have been for my royalty or my strength of character; but there were times when he appeared to be dazzled by my person. I was always bejeweled with emeralds, rubies and diamonds and my gowns were decorated with scintillating aglets; my ruffs often sparkled with tiny diamonds; so I was a figure of splendid royalty. But Essex had a special kind of devotion to give me which was different from that I received elsewhere. All my beautiful men—Raleigh, Hatton, Heneage, Oxford, behaved as though they were in love with me. Some were—Hatton, I think. He had remained a bachelor all his life; not that he—unlike Robert—had hoped for marriage, but simply out of love for me. That was touching. Dear Hatton! Burghley, Walsingham… well, to them I was their beloved Queen and they served me devotedly. But with Essex it was different. There was an element of romance in his feelings for me—and that did more to soothe my pain at the loss of Robert than anything else could, and I must be grateful to him for that.

So it pleased me to see him riding beside me, looking extremely distinguished and handsome with that thick auburn hair and those big expressive dark eyes—that look of Lettice which irritated me a little. I was not sorry that the man I had taken such a fancy to was her son.

We passed through the gates of Temple Bar where I was received by the Lord Mayor and Aldermen, and after the ceremony of the keys the scepter was placed in my hands.

From the Temple to St Paul's the streets were hung with rich cloth and the people crowded out to cheer me. I entered the church under my canopy while the clergy sang the litany; and afterward I listened to the sermon which was given by the Bishop of Salisbury.

His text was: “Thou didst blow with the winds and they were scattered.”

It was more than that, I thought. My gallant seamen did a great deal toward gaining that victory; and the winds which finally scattered the armada—after it was beaten—were responsible for our losing the prizes; the booty from those ships would have covered the cost of the enterprise.

After the service I returned through those decorated streets to the palace of the Bishop of London. The cheers thundered out and I knew that whatever tragedy had come to me, I still held the hearts of my people.

It was a time for rejoicing, and would have been the happiest time of my life if Robert had been beside me.

I was trying to stop thinking of him and I told myself that this victory was my great compensation. We had dispersed the menace of years. The Spaniards had been too crippled, too ignobly defeated, to come again to us. My people revered me. They loved me. There could not have been a reigning monarch who was more beloved by the people.

I had another example of this a few days later when I was returning from the Council. It was December and dark and I came back to my palace lighted by torches.

A rumor had gone around telling the people that if they waited they would catch a glimpse of me. Thus, when I returned I found a crowd gathered at the gates.

A cheer went up as the people saw me and many of them cried: “God save Your Majesty.”

I stopped my coach and called to them: “God bless you all, my good people.”

Then the cry went up again from all assembled there. It was deafening. “God save Your Majesty.”

I was deeply moved. I held up my hand and there was an immediate silence.

“Dear people,” I said, “ye may have a greater prince, but ye shall never have a more loving one.”

They were all about me. I smiled and waved my hand and they saw that I was as affected as they were. Some were in tears and I knew that they would have died for me.

My spirits were uplifted. My life had lost that which had made it joyous, but I had to go on. It was a fortunate ruler who after thirty years of rule could arouse such emotions.

I was amused that the Spaniards should attempt to tell their people that they had had a great victory. Philip must indeed be governing a country of fools. Did not the Spaniards know that they had lost their armada which they had been told was invincible?

A pamphlet which was being circulated throughout Europe came into my hands. It made us laugh. It was so ridiculous. It was supposed to have been written by an eyewitness of the great battle and was called Relations and Advise come to His Majestie from the Happie Fleete whereoff is Generall the Duke of Medina in the Conquest of England.

It explained how the English had been hopelessly defeated, fled or been captured, and the Duke of Medina Sidonia had El Draque as his prisoner.

We ceased to laugh because we feared that some people who were away might believe these lies.

Drake was furious; so was Raleigh; and one of them produced a counterattack in the shape of a pamphlet entitled A Packe of Spanish Lyes, sent abroad to the world Now Ripped Up, Unfolded and by Just Examination, condemned as conteyning false, corrupt and detestable wares worthy to be damned and burned.

How I despised them! They had been overboastful before the conflict. Surely it was tempting fate to call an armada invincible? They had come with their instruments of torture to set up their vile Inquisition in our land with their organization of pious persecution. They had been soundly beaten; and now they sought to cover up their ignoble defeat by telling blatant lies which they hoped the world would believe.

Where was the armada? Where were those braggarts who had set out to conquer England? Many were at the bottom of the ocean, some faring not too comfortably I imagined along the inhospitable coasts.

It is a pitiable nation which is boastful in planning and despicable in defeat.

I ordered that this great victory should not be forgotten. I had two medals struck. One showed the Spanish armada in flight and it was inscribed Venit, Vidit, Fugit. Julius Caesar had said that he came and saw and conquered, so my medal said they came and saw and fled.

The other medal was inscribed Dux Foemina Facti. Well, there were many men who doubted the ability of a woman to rule. In France they had their foolish Salic law which prevented a woman's mounting the throne. It was a mercy there was no such law in England. I wanted the whole world to know that a woman was able to rule as well as a man—in some cases with greater skill.

I did not mean to imply that I alone had driven off the Spaniards. I knew our success had been due to our brilliant seamen and the planning of my ministers. But I had been at the head of affairs. I was the figurehead. I was the Queen for whom men fought; and I knew full well that a share of the triumph was mine.

So the celebrations continued and all the time there was a dark shadow over my life. He was gone. I should never see my sweet Robin again.