A/N: Another Friday, another chapter. Thank you again for your comments - and your observations - which I greatly appreciate. Just to address a couple of points that arose during the week:
Brandon didn't make his promise to Henry directly - but instead to his corpse at Wulfhall after he died. Certainly Henry would never have required such a vow, and indeed Brandon knew even as he made the promise that he wasn't really doing what Henry wanted - but he, like Henry, would have still been hoping for a son to rule. With Henry dead, his greatest concern was that family factions would tear England apart all over again - and the best way to avoid it would be to put Mary on the throne, secure in the knowledge that she was of age, and thus would never permit any of her Lords to be protector in her stead.
Like many people of the period, Kat Ashley didn't have a standardised spelling of her name - and her surname post-marriage was sometimes rendered 'Astley'. In this universe, I've gone with the alternate spelling.
I've also corrected a slight plot boo-boo in the previous chapter by creating an English Ambassador to Spain who has sent the rumours that Norfolk can't provide.
And now...Mary has made her throw of the dice; her ramshackle, rather undermanned 'armada' is on its way. But has she thrown wisely?
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
God's Wind
Parramon stands alongside the helmsman, standing still for the first time since Brandon first saw him, his expression delighted and - to some extent - excited, "We shall see Inglaterra at Todos Los Santos Señor."
Brandon has been around the Spanish tongue for long enough now to at least pick out words that make sense to him, or to infer their meaning from the context of the sentence. Parramon is doing his best to talk to him in words that he understands - but he is no more capable in English, so their conversations are, of necessity, short.
They left Cadiz in fair, if chill, weather; gulls wheeling on a lively breeze that whipped the waves into foamy crests; a gallant fleet of thirty ships of various size that ploughed through the sea with Godly intent, a sympathetic wind billowing their sails.
Now, however, the ships lurch and roll in far larger swells, and he is quite sure that they are not going even half as fast as they should be. He is unconcerned at the movement of the vessel, for he has never been troubled by seasickness; but several of the Queen's ladies are enduring miseries below decks, while the Queen herself tends to them as though she were their servant and nurse. In spite of himself, he smiles; she is generous and loving to those who serve her. Hopefully, once the bloodshed is past, she shall be equally generous and loving to her subjects; and all shall be made right again.
He has to tell himself such things; her behaviour since she came to them in Pomerania has suggested otherwise, and his greatest fear is that her insistence upon restoring England to the authority of Rome shall bring only dissent, or - worse - internecine conflict akin to that which shattered the realm before her grandfather came to the throne.
He crosses to the rail, leans on it and loses himself in thought; returning to that moment at Wulfhall when he had stood beside Henry's makeshift coffin and promised the departed soul of the man within that he would not permit his friend's legacy to be squandered by Norfolk and the Boleyns as they fought amongst themselves to rule through a mere babe. Henry would never have asked it of him: he knows that; but it had seemed the only wise course to take in the absence of a son that might have been granted to him by the Seymour girl. Remove the child and family of a woman whose marriage was considered invalid by half of Christendom, and restore rule to the hands of the firstborn, who possessed the twin virtues of being of age, and regarded as the true, legitimate daughter by the other princes of Europe. Had he known where it would lead...
No. He reminds himself, This was your promise to Henry; that you would restore his true daughter to her inheritance. Do not falter now.
He turns from the rail, and bows as Mary herself emerges from her cabin to the rear of the ship and crosses to join them. Unlike Parramon, she lacks the ability to move with the vessel's pitching, and weaves her way along the deck, clutching at her firmly pinned hood as the wind makes a determined effort to pull it from her head, "Are we progressing well, Admiral?"
As she speaks Spanish, Brandon is again lost.
"We are, your Majesty." Parramon advises her, an assessment that she is obliged to accept as there is no sign of land to their starboard, so far out are they in order to avoid French patrols, "The weather is in our favour, and we shall sight England in two days."
The conversation continues, and largely goes over Brandon's head, though the words 'Inglaterra' and 'Tilbury' filter through to him on a few occasions. How the hell they shall get to Tilbury, he has no idea. To his knowledge, not a single one of the captains that are aboard the ships that trail behind them have ever sailed into the estuary of the Thames. From his own experiences, admittedly as a passenger, the ships' masters spoke of the dangers of the approach - low lying, featureless land with no landmarks to guide them, ever-changing sandbanks that could grasp a ship and leave all aboard helpless against the pounding of wind and waves. He recalls the number of men to the fore with sounding lines, calling back depths. Parramon is famed for his voyaging upon oceans - does he know the dangers that await?
It must be London, though. Were they to come ashore upon the south coast, they would be obliged to make their way across England - and only Mary is truly convinced that they shall gather an army in their wake. No - it would be a battle at each step, for the Harlot has won the loyalty of her nobility through the granting of land stolen from the Church. If they would not fight for her, they would fight to keep their ill-gotten property. Better to strike at the heart, and cut it out.
Leaving her Majesty to her discussions with Parramon, Brandon crosses to the rail and looks across to where the second ship of their fleet heaves and rolls behind them. There is no sign of Tunstall, who has not been seen since he shouted his blessings from the poop at their flotilla of cogs and carracks; but he can - just - make out the figure of Boleyn, standing alongside the captain of their vessel and clearly engaged in conversation. He is, however, too far away to see a facial expression, so Brandon has no idea whether he is discussing plans of attack, or complaining that they shall be fortunate to even see their intended coastline.
It matters nothing to him now. For all his doubts and fears, and against all odds, they are sailing back to England, carrying her true Queen with them. If God has not blessed them, then he can see no evidence of it.
Elizabeth reads the latest report that her Council have supplied, a combination of reports from the Ambassador sent aboard a swift Merchantman and the surreptitious councillor spy, whose identity she still does not know. Given the time that would have passed, it is likely that they are closer to England than any would like - but at least they are not yet sighted, for the beacons have not been lit.
Cromwell nods, "Yes, Majesty, I fear so. None of the men who lead the fleet have made the approach to the Thames, however. I am told by the watermen that to do so in ignorance is highly dangerous - but we are hopeful that it shall not be necessary to engage them there."
"There are but thirty ships, Majesty," Wiltshire reminds the Council, "most are small, and some barely seaworthy. It was rumoured at the time they were gathered that they would be fortunate even to emerge into the Channel, much less land upon our shores."
"Where is our fleet placed?" Elizabeth asks, keenly, "Can we afford to split our forces?"
"We have enough ships at Plymouth to engage the fleet, Majesty," Rich reports from a paper supplied by the Plymouth-bound Bedford, "the Lord High Admiral states that his captains are well able and prepared to do so, for they have loaded ordnance and guns, and are ready to sail at your order."
"And Mary knows nothing of this?"
"She does not, Majesty." Cromwell assures her, "our source has been deceived to think that we are entirely unprepared for an invasion, and do not know that she is coming."
"I have instructed priests to preach upon the failed invasion of Judah by Sennacherib, and upon the casting out of Lucifer from the Kingdom of heaven." Cranmer adds, though his expression becomes a mite cynical, "There is no evidence that your Majesty's catholic subjects have acted with disloyalty; but I would suggest that we enact some form of law to ensure that they do not declare for the Usurper."
"Why would we do that, your Grace?" Elizabeth asks, as she sees Rich stiffen slightly at the implication, "If there is no evidence of disloyalty, it does not serve us well to create that which does not exist and act against it. No - we have said before that it is not for me to make windows in men's souls. That is the prerogative of the Almighty, and I shall not do it. My people love me - and they shall stand at my side against an invader, for that is what she is."
"Beacons have been set along the south coast, Majesty." Cromwell interjects, smoothly, though all know it already, "As soon as the fleet is sighted, we shall know of it."
"Thank you." Elizabeth sits back, and sets the report down, "Call the men of Parliament. I shall speak to them and rally them. If, as we hope, we can repel this foolish enterprise before it has sailed past the shores of Devonshire, then it may be that I shall not be obliged to raise anything other than the local militia."
"I shall see to it. If it please you, I shall arrange for them to attend you this afternoon."
Elizabeth nods as they rise with her, and bow as she turns to depart.
Rich is still scowling somewhat as they depart the Council chamber and return to the office chambers, "Does Cranmer think I am a traitor because I have retained my faith?"
"He is as eager to remove the papists as Mary is to remove the heretics, Richard. As long as her Majesty remains assured that her catholic subjects are loyal to her, they shall be protected from those who would demand that they abjure their faith. I might once have been as keen upon it as his Grace remains; but I am too old for such foolishness these days. Besides, Elizabeth has indeed won the love of her people, and thus to act against a portion of them but not others would be unjust, and dangerous in the circumstances. The brutalities in France over religion are sign enough that we have chosen the right path."
Grimacing again as he sits, Cromwell summons a steward who offers them cups of sack. Sipping at his, Rich looks concerned, "Thirty ships there may be - but the ones who lead them are intent upon taking England, and doing so in the belief that God is upon their side."
"They must thinks so, if they choose to sail at this time of the year." Cromwell scoffs, "I spoke to Challacombe when we were ashore in Plymouth, and he told me of brutal weather that can bring a ship to grief through its fury alone. If the vessels are of such poor standard as rumours suggest, then such a storm might save us without obliging him to put a single ship to sea."
"Then let us hope for storms."
"I shall send to Tilbury, I think." Cromwell muses, "While it seems unlikely that this small fleet shall reach the Thames, it would be madness to leave the river unprotected. I shall ask her Majesty to consider raising troops as a precautionary measure."
"In which case," Rich says, setting his cup down and rising to his feet, "I shall go and see that we have the funds to pay for them."
The men who have been sent from the Shires to represent the people are gathered in the enormous hall - for there is not sufficient room in the presence chamber for them - and bow collectively as Elizabeth enters, her senior councilmen to her rear, and steps up onto the dais before her canopy of estate. Rather than sit, however, she steps forth and stands before them, a tall, thin figure dressed in regal red.
"My loving subjects," she says, calmly, firmly, "It is our sorrowful duty to advise you that the rumours that are doubtless travelling amongst your communities are indeed true. The former lady Mary, Dowager Queen of Sweden, has sought aid from the King of Spain to bring an invasion fleet against England. As your anointed Prince, chosen to rule you by Almighty God, we assure you that she shall not prevail.
"Even before she elected to depart the shores of Spain, we appointed seasoned Captains to command a great fleet of vessels that shall defend us from this impertinence upon the part of a woman whom God did not permit to rule England. I swear to you, as your sovereign Prince, that I shall take up arms with you my people, and lay down my very life amongst you should it be demanded of me to assure all of England that they are safe from dishonour and treachery.
"Come on now, my companions at arms, and fellow soldiers, now for the Lord, for your Queen, and for the Kingdom. For what is this proud Philistine, that she should revile the host of the living God? I have been your Prince in peace, so will I be in war; neither will I bid you go and fight, but come and let us fight the battle of the Lord. The enemy perhaps may challenge my sex for that I am a woman, so may I likewise charge their mould for that they are but men, whose breath is in their nostrils, and if God do not charge England with the sins of England, little do I fear their force… Si deus nobiscum quis contra nos?"
Her voice has risen as she has warmed to her theme, and her eyes are alive with a royal fire that seems to be the very soul of her late father. Behind her, Cromwell's chest seems to swell with pride for her; by God, she is every inch a Queen - absolutely and utterly her father's daughter. Who now could doubt it?
The men before her certainly do not. His eyes glistening with proud tears, the Speaker steps forth, "As we are under threat, so shall we fight for England, and for our Prince. Call upon us, Majesty, and we shall stand! God save the Queen!"
A reciprocal cry from the gathered members of the Commons rises. Yes, indeed. God save the Queen.
Three men stand at the crown of a swathe of grass upon which have been carved enormous outlines of Goegamot and Corineus, freshly scoured and glistening white courtesy of the limestone beneath, commemorating the casting out of Goegamot by the hero Corin. It seems appropriate; if all goes well, perhaps they can cast the young Prince of Portugal as that fabled hero, and portray him casting out the giant of Spain.
The great natural haven of Plymouth's sound is scattered with ships as the fleet musters in preparation to depart. From their vantage point on the Hoe, Bedford surveys the view with relief. Most of the vessels out there are not of the new design - for it takes far longer to build ships than to design them - but they are re-caulked, re-rigged and in the best condition. Given favourable weather conditions, they shall see off a multitude should it be required of them.
Thanks be to God that it is not.
Filipe's excitement at his initial arrival in England has long been tempered into a keen strategic interest in all that is being done, and he looks upon the scene below with a remarkably experienced eye, "The Admiral has arranged his vessels wisely, your Grace. Their lines give ample space to fire their guns - would I be correct in assuming that they shall sail either side of the opposing fleet?"
"That is his intention, highness, though I think that he intends to stagger them so that they do not end up firing upon each other.
Filipe laughs, "That is indeed most wise."
Stamford looks concerned, "We must take great care if the Dowager of Sweden is aboard one of the ships. It would not do to sink it - her Majesty the Queen would not be pleased if that were so. Should the former Lady Mary come ashore, it is better that she do as a prisoner than a corpse."
"If her captains have any sense, her ship shall be protected amongst the others." Bedford advises, "It shall be hard to avoid accidental damage to her vessel - so they shall assume that we shall stay our hand."
"But we shall not?"
"Most assuredly, we shall not. Thirty ships shall offer her much protection if she is amidst them. It is perfectly possible to secure their surrender without so much as a shot reaching the bulkhead of her ship."
Stamford nods, "We are advised that they have been at sea for more than a week. Thus it cannot be too much longer before they are spotted in the approaches."
Returning to their horses, the three ride down from the Hoe to the dockside, a fair distance, as the great quays where the warships have been assembled are a short distance upriver from the town. Challacombe, still rather overwhelmed by his appointment as Admiral of the Fleet, is awaiting them, a rather wizened old sailor alongside him who seems to have something rather important to impart.
"Highness, my Lords." Challacombe bows, "This is Old Branok, a sailor on these waters since before I was born. He has an uncanny instinct for the weather; I've never known him to be wrong in all my days at sea, and he has sailed with me from the day I first mastered my own ship."
The old man beside him does not bow; though it is more thanks to an incapability than any disrespect upon his part. When he speaks, however, he does so in such a strange language that all three men stare at him in bemusement, "Ee go' wether cumin'".
"Forgive me," Bedford says, "What has he just said?"
Challacombe looks slightly embarrassed, "Nay, I think you must forgive me. I have listened to him for so many years that it is second nature to me to understand him. He speaks English but rarely, for he is a Cornishman and they have their own tongue, furthermore, he has lost most of his teeth. When he speaks English, it is in a way that sounds strange to those who have not heard it. There is a storm approaching, it seems."
"How does he know?" Filipe asks at once, fascinated at such uncanny prescience, "It is remarkable to have such a skill - I would steal him from you if I could learn his speech."
"I wish I could answer you; but he has learned from a lifetime of sailing these waters, and I do not doubt him."
"'Em clouds up aar," Branok says, "'Ee be well up and scuddin' fast. 'Em golanes goan fore'n'back, so's wether's cumin."
Bedford and Stamford stare helplessly at one another, while Filipe is quite delighted, "He is a remarkable man, Admiral; if you trust him to be right, then so do I."
Challacombe smiles back, "He speaks in simple terms for lack of English words to express them. I assure you he is far more garrulous when he speaks his own tongue. He advised me before your arrival that he would use simple statements so that you would understand him."
"He is most kind; I am sorry that I still cannot entirely do so - but I shall excuse my failure by claiming that I am of Portuguese birth, though I am keen to become an Englishman. I think God has asked me to remain here so that I can fight for my new home."
The admiral turns, says something to Branok in a strange language that none of the three men have heard before, and the old man nods his head politely, before turning and limping away with that remarkable, rolling gait of a man rarely obliged to walk upon land, "Come with me, my Lords; I shall show you her Majesty's flagship, which I shall command. Though, if the weather is as poor as Branok suggests, we may be wise to hug the shore and find safety in havens along the coast."
The vessel they approach is one of the few newly designed war carracks built from Baker's designs, two masted, she has the low forecastle and raised poop, along with the wide keel that offers both manoeuvrability and stability so necessary for a vessel that must use speed and quick movement in place of size. Filipe is pleased with the workmanship and smiles with real pleasure as they cross the gangplank, "This reminds me of a Fragata."
"Our term would be 'frigate', Highness." Bedford advises, knowing the type of ship that Filipe is describing, "If it is your wish, we shall term this new class of vessel 'Frigates' in your honour."
"You are too kind, my Lord. What is her name?"
"She has not been granted one, Highness."
"Then that must be amended, must it not? She is our Queen's flagship, and thus should bear her name. An English name, of course. She is to be the pride of her Majesty, so I think she should be called Queen Elizabeth's Pride."
"And so she shall be." Bedford says, pleased at the suggestion, "Admiral, would that be suitable?"
"Assuredly so, my Lord. She shall be named so upon the roster of ships at the first opportunity, and she shall lead her Majesty's navy out to see off this impertinent invasion."
Filipe fumbles under the neck of his doublet, retrieving something, "I am not permitted to sail with you, sirs, so I ask that you set this about her main mast as a sign of my hopes and prayers for your success." He hands out a silver chain, upon which is a cross and a medallion bearing the sign of St Nicholas of Bari. For all their embrace of the new faith, few Englishmen, particularly sailors, have entirely eschewed superstition, and all look to those saints known for their patronage of sailors to keep them from harm while at sea.
Challacombe accepts the gift with another bow, "My thanks your Highness. When we win the day, I shall ensure all know of your gift. We must depart anon; the tide is shortly to turn and it is best that we put to sea to await the arrival of the invasion fleet. We shall permit them to pass us, and then emerge to harry them as they continue east. When the storm arrives, we shall put in to whichever haven is closest to us, and they shall be obliged to ride it out while we do so in safety."
Bedford turns to Filipe, "I suspect that there is little worth in remaining in Plymouth, Highness. I suggest that you and Sir William return to Portsmouth. It is likely that the weather shall aid us in repelling this threat, and thus we shall dock there once the danger is past."
"God be with you all, my Lord." Filipe does not object; much as he wishes to stand alongside the men who shall fight to defend England, he is under orders to stay ashore. It would not serve his Queen were he to be felled by a lucky shot from an arquebus. "I shall send to London for orders from her Majesty. It may be that I shall be of use to her in marshalling men at arms."
As they disembark, however, there is no disguising his dismay at not being permitted to join the battle. Beside him, Stamford smiles; he is young, and has never seen conflict; but the diplomat knows that there are better ways to resolve disputes, and hopefully the boy will learn them too. In the meantime, however, he can serve his betrothed through the leading of men while ashore; and, perhaps, earn their love in doing so.
Tunstall is on deck for the first time since they left Cadiz, though he looks as though he would prefer to be anywhere other than where he is. Never before has Boleyn seen a man so felled by sickness, or for so long. It is a miracle that the man is on his feet, so comprehensively has he puked up everything set before him.
His reason for doing so is plainly visible to their port side: a coastline Boleyn has not seen in more than ten years. He has no idea how far west they are - only that it is England. The captain does not know, and it is likely that the Admiral is no more informed. They have no worthwhile charts of the channel, as Parramon is used to sailing seas far beyond the sight of land, and thus has never really made much use of them. His own attempts to demand such information fell rather upon deaf ears, as to have commissioned current charts would have taken longer than Mary wished to wait.
Where the hell did she get this All Saints Day nonsense from, for Christ's sake? Surely she is not so utterly convinced of God's blessing that she has timed her invasion to coincide with a feast rather than sympathetic weather? He has little understanding of sailing or navigation - but even he knows that only a fool puts to sea in October. So eager is Mary to rescue England from the burden of heresy that she has forgotten that she must actually get there alive if she is to achieve her aim.
Beside him, Tunstall is gazing upon the tantalisingly close shores with almost desperate longing, though his desire is solely to get ashore - any shore would do - rather than to march beatifically up a beach with a processional cross to the fore, claiming England for God and Rome. At least the Court is unaware of their approach, the treacherous rodent Rich has seen to that. Even if the beacons were to be lit, the time required to assemble a fleet to repel them would be greater than that required to round the coast of Kent and sail up the river.
Ironically, now that he is finally returning to England to claim his stolen properties and titles, his thoughts settle upon the daughters, son and granddaughter that he abandoned in his flight to the continent. Mary has made no secret of her intentions for the Boleyn progeny, and he has permitted her to indulge those fantasies. Could he do it? Stand aside while his son and daughter are set upon a scaffold as traitors? George would be granted the ease of the axe thanks to his rank - but would Mary be so accommodating of Anne? God, no; it would be the stake for a woman who is both traitor and heretic. Even if his daughter had returned to the catholic faith, it would not be enough; Mary has endured too much at her hands to be merciful. But Elizabeth - the child that he left behind when she was barely out of her cradle; what shall Mary do to her?
No - he is valued by the Queen. Should he plead for clemency, Mary would listen to him. His family could be sent into exile as she was - never to return…
What is he thinking? Of course Mary shall not do such a thing. It seemed so easy to despise his daughter and son when he was first in Flanders, far from any hope of winning back all that they had taken from him. In spite of their long wait, the fact remains that he never thought further than the moment that they present themselves to Mary. He had not given so much as a moment's consideration to what would happen once they had done so.
A movement on a headland catches his attention, and he looks up to see a column of smoke, a sister column far to the west, and - yes, there it is - another one several miles further east. The beacons are lit, then. By the end of the day, Anne shall know that they are coming - and she must attempt to assemble a fleet from nothing. The fates might have carried the day upon her behalf when other challenges rose - but this time, they shall not.
He still has no idea where they are; gazing upon distant cliffs of a rich, deep red. They must be east of Plymouth by now, and no vessels have challenged them. Smiling, he looks back, and that smile freezes upon his features. Dear God - what has happened to the sky?
Now that he sees the darkening clouds to their rear, the strengthening wind becomes more apparent to him. When did it start to blow harder? He cannot remember - the sound of the pennons flapping, and the sails billowing, has been a background to his existence for a week to the point that he has largely become able to ignore it, and it is only now that he notices the outbreak of activity amongst the sailors.
The captain approaches them, "My Lord, a storm is upon us - if we cannot seek shelter, then we must furl the sails and set the sea anchors - and pray for our lives."
"This? This is hardly worse than anything we have experienced upon the open sea!"
"Those are but the outriders. There is worse to come, and we cannot put in to any haven to protect the ships. I shall signal the flagship - we must gather together to protect her Majesty's ship from what is to come."
A voice comes down from the rigging, and the two men turn to look to the stern. Hell - not only is the weather deteriorating, but at least one squadron of ships is rounding a headland in their wake; no, more…
"They did not know we were coming…" Boleyn mutters, to himself, "How can they have been ready for us…"
There is but one answer. They have been betrayed.
"Damn the man!" he shouts, suddenly, startling Tunstall, who has not understood the conversation between the Ambassador and the Captain, "Damn him for seeking favour through treachery!"
"What? Who?" Tunstall gulps, sickly.
"Thomas bloody Howard! He has sold us to the Usurper - that is all that can have happened; he can stand the losses if he regains his ascendancy, damn him! His conspiracy with Rich was against us, not against her! God's wounds! I shall have him hung from the highest gibbet in Christendom for his treachery! That is the English fleet! The one that we were told was not prepared to sail!"
No - it is madness, why would they put to sea in such conditions? The seas are already rising in answer to the demands of the wind that is growing to a maddening shriek amidst the ropes of the rigging.
Then he understands; these are men who know these coasts intimately - they are not planning to engage; they are merely moving from Plymouth to another haven where they shall wait out the storm, and then come to take the pickings of whatever is left…
"Señor!" the Captain shouts across, "We must come together and prepare for the storm - get below!"
That is the most fearful order of all. He knows that, if he is being ordered below, it is so that he does not get in the way of the crew while they prepare the ship to ride out the storm - and that can only mean that it shall be a brutal tempest that they shall be fortunate to survive.
For the first time since they departed England, he is truly afraid. Tonight he might die. Best, then, to go below as asked, and get on his knees. Perhaps, if he is not too busy puking, Tunstall shall hear his confession. At least then he shall die shriven, and that is all that a man can hope for in an uncertain world. Certainly one as uncertain as this.
Seated at a great table in the large cabin of Queen Elizabeth's Pride, Bedford pores over a large chart alongside Challacombe. The vessel is safely moored and still, sheltered by the hills either side of the river Dart as it empties into the sea. The two castles, one at the headland, the other further inland alongside the docks, shall ensure that Mary's tiny fleet cannot follow them, and must endure the fury of the storm while Elizabeth's answer sleeps safely in the haven of Dartmouth.
Waves were already breaking over the walls of the Castles as they made their way between them into the port, and all were grateful to be away from the open waters of the channel. Branok has already claimed that there has not been a storm this bad in nearly five years, though such savagery is not that unusual.
They have just ended a conference of the ships' captains to set out the orders for battle upon the morrow. One of Challacombe's most trusted captains shall lead half of the fleet, which shall sail to the starboard side of Mary's fleet to engage them on that side, while he shall keep his half to port. They shall harry Mary's ships to separate them out, then capture the flagship if they can. Those ships which escape shall be permitted to flee - it is Mary that is the danger, not the men aboard the ships that follow her. Without their figurehead, who shall follow them should they attempt to come ashore? They should be hanged from any nearby tree for merely being Spanish. Mary, and her conspirators, shall be captured and brought to London as the traitors that they are, the remainder of the ships being chased into the north sea to make what way they can back to Spain as a warning to the Emperor that England does not appreciate such behaviour from her neighbours.
"Chances are that a number of roofs shall be off higher up, I think." Challacombe muses, swirling a rough red wine in his cup, "If this is as bad as Branok says, then I shall be most surprised if all of her ships are still afloat in the morning. Even the most seaworthy of ships would founder in such conditions."
"In which case, we shall ride out the storm here, then emerge to pick off what is left."
"Assuredly. The prevailing winds shall prevent their escape westwards; they shall have no choice but to continue up the Channel and into the north sea. Scotland's treaties with her Majesty and with France shall ensure that any that remain shall find no sanctuary there - she would be a fool to try it. Her best alternative would be to flee back to imperial Lands; the Low countries for choice."
"She shall not be welcome there. The princes are subject to his Imperial Majesty, yes, but they are at least nominally independent. Her only refuge shall be Spain - and even that is thanks to filial bonds only."
"Then she is a fool." Challacombe swallows the last of his wine, "It think I shall take the opportunity to rest. Assuming that the worst has blown over by morning, there shall be much to be done on the morrow."
After a comfortable night in a bunk that has stayed pleasantly still in relatively calm waters, Bedford emerges upon deck to find that the wind has lessened, though not dropped entirely, and the sun has emerged to warm and dry the sodden cobbles of the quayside. The disorder ashore is clear, refuse has been blown hither and thither, while several buildings have been robbed of extensive numbers of shingles that are now shattered upon the ground. God alone knows where Mary's fleet shall be now - even with the sea anchors deployed, they shall have had no control over their direction; they might even have been blown onto the shoals of Start Point, though that is unlikely. More probable that they have been blown east, and are now somewhere in the midst of the Channel where they shall be obliged to make repairs of one sort or another while their opponents are free to sail further east in preparation for them.
All about him are busy, preparing their vessels for departure, as the Admiral has decreed that the weather has calmed sufficiently to permit them safe passage out of the haven, and continue their voyage east. Whether they shall be obliged to engage Mary's ships remains to be seen.
"At this rate, my Lord." Challacombe is grinning as Bedford climbs up to the poop deck, "We shall be victorious before his Highness has even reached Portsmouth to muster men in the Queen's name." He takes another bite of the rough rye bread that serves as his breakfast, and continues to confer with the helmsman before turning back to the Lord High Admiral, "The tides are favourable, so I think we shall be under way in less than an hour. Then we shall see what is left of the Spanish fleet."
As promised, Queen Elizabeth's Pride leads the fleet out of Dartmouth back into the open sea of the channel. While the wind has certainly dropped, the seas have not, and Bedford is grateful for the increased stability of the ship as she rides waves that are higher than he should have liked. The men atop the rigging, keeping watch for Mary's fleet are clinging tightly, and it is near-on two hours before a shout from above alerts him that it has been spotted.
Even from their considerable distance to the west of the benighted flotilla, it is clear that the gathering of vessels has suffered as a consequence of the weather that still continues to whip up the seas even now. It is too far to see if any have been lost, but Bedford is willing to lay money on their gunpowder being fouled by water, and certainly none of the ships are yet under sail. If that is the case, then they shall be utterly helpless, for no guns shall fire if the powder is wet, and they cannot escape if they do not set the sails in very short order.
Challacombe signals the captain that he has assigned to command the second squadron of ships, which gradually peels off to round the gaggle of battered vessels still some miles off to their east. It as they do so that the first sails are sighted upon the ships ahead, "Ah, they seem to be taking steps to escape us, then."
"Those things? They are naught but cogs with a few small carracks amongst them - what use are they against superior vessels that are in far better condition? If any of them can fire a shot at all, it shall be a miracle."
"I prefer not to be complacent, my Lord. Cornered dogs are more likely to show their teeth."
"Then let us engage them. The sooner this is done, the sooner we can dine at Portsmouth."
Brandon has never been more grateful to see the dawn in all of his life. Trapped aboard a boat in less than perfect condition while the elements raged about them, even his nerve has been challenged by the sheer terror of thinking that the ship shall founder and entomb him in chill water as it sinks to the bottom.
His first act has been to call upon her Majesty, who is - not surprisingly - upon her knees giving thanks to God for bringing them through the storm. From the words that she speaks, he realises that she considers the fact that they are still afloat as proof that He still blesses their enterprise, and the ungodly efforts of the Harlot and her child to repel them by unnatural means has failed. Hell, does she really believe that?
Emerging upon deck, however, it is clear that they have not come through entirely unscathed. Two ships are missing - and can only have foundered in the night, for there are shattered remnants of wood in the water. God above, to have been battered to fragments by the weather - how seaworthy were those things? Clearly not enough. Worse, thanks to the darkness of the night, none of the men aboard them could be saved. He turns his head aside and genuflects as a body bobs nearby, face down in the water.
Up on the poop, the captain is shouting orders to his crew that mean nothing to him, as they contain too many nautical terms, and not enough Inglaterra, La Reinha or other simple words that he can remember. From the mad scramble of the men, it is clear that something is amiss, and he hastens up to the upper deck to see that, sure enough, that unexpected English fleet is approaching, and dividing, too. They mean to engage, and have sufficient vessels to engage them on both sides. It could not be clearer that they have been deceived - far from being unprepared, the Concubine knew that they were coming, and was ready for them.
Rather than pointlessly lose his temper, Brandon instead looks about for something that he can use as a weapon. If they are to fight, then he shall fight alongside the men that have sailed with them. He is a soldier, and if he must die, then he shall do so with a weapon in his hand. Hastening down to the magazine, he opens the door, and utters a sharp cry of angry dismay.
The entire room is still slopping with water - water that was driven through the badly caulked hull and into those chambers below the waterline. If the barrels of powder are equally sodden, then they are lost - please God let that powder still be dry…Snatching up a light musket, he hastens to a keg that contains a supply of musket balls, to empty a few handfuls into a pouch, then turns to one that contains powder, and works out the cork.
Carefully he tips the small keg to tip out the powder within, and sighs with relief. It is perhaps a little damp, but not ruinously so. If they can remove the powder kegs up to a higher deck, then there is still hope that they shall be safe.
Calling out from the door, he attracts the attention of two passing crewmen. Persuading them to shift the kegs is not easy, as they speak no more English than he speaks Spanish; but eventually they are evacuating the powder to drier quarters, and his mind is more at ease. Hopefully the other ships shall have made the same discovery and shall be doing likewise. God alone knows what condition their food supplies are in.
More footsteps clatter upon the ladder as the few soldiers aboard come below in search of arms. He cannot communicate with them, so instead he stands aside and allows their commander to organise them. Returning up the ladder, he hastens to the Queen's quarters to the stern, and knocks upon the door.
It is Helena who opens it, her face still dreadfully pale after a night of no sleep and endless fearful praying, "My Lord?"
"I must speak to her Majesty." He advises, quietly, "Is she engaged in devotions?"
Helena nods. When isn't she? "Forgive me, but I must speak to her immediately. We are shortly to engage a defensive fleet."
He is not surprised that the woman's eyes widen in horror. For a realm supposedly unprepared to be invaded, they seem remarkably more ready than would be supposed. Rather than wait to be summoned, he hastens inside, and finds Mary is upon her knees at her prie dieu again, but she crosses herself and rises without demanding to know why he is there.
"Majesty, the Usurper has sent a fleet against us. We have been betrayed."
"They knew we were coming?" Mary stares at him, appalled, "How could that be so? We were assured that they were ignorant of our activities!"
"His Grace of Norfolk has deceived us." Whether he likes it or not, Norfolk has always plotted with the sole intention of advancing the welfare of one: Norfolk. In his eagerness to grasp back that which was taken from him, he aims to do so through a show of loyalty to the one who robbed him of it, "I am sorry, Majesty; but the force that opposes us is greater in numbers. It is unlikely that we shall prevail against them on the basis of numbers alone."
"No." Mary's expression darkens, "That is not what shall bring us to victory. It is our faith in God. He has kept us from harm in the midst of the Harlot's tempest, and we shall drive them off. Thus we shall, victorious, continue to the Thames and sail to that woman's very heart of power."
Is she mad? They have not been preserved entirely - two ships were lost in the night, and of those that still float, many are too damaged to make further progress without considerable repairs. If they are to survive, then they must give the approaching fleet cause to hang back, then flee as best they can. They are woefully undermanned, horribly lacking in ammunition and powder…all of their intentions hanging upon the conviction that they shall arrive unexpectedly, and be guided into London upon a surge of popular support.
"I shall do what I can to ensure that we are ready to see off the ships that approach, Majesty." He says. There is little value in arguing; she has become utterly convinced that they are invincible thanks to the blessing of God. After last night, perhaps she had some sort of descent into madness, and thus resides in a world where all is well and naught shall overcome her dreams…if that is so, then his best hope is to get her away from what shall shortly be a rout, and get her back to Spain. Bowing, he withdraws and hastens back up to the deck.
As their ships approach the beleaguered fleet, Bedford attempts to count the number of vessels remaining. He was told that there were thirty, but there are not that many now; at least one has been destroyed overnight. Judging by the wreckage in the water, they were smashed to pieces by pounding waves. Immediately, he crosses himself; those poor men - they signed up to serve a Kingdom, but now they are food for the fishes.
"God has acted against them." He mutters, softly.
"Nay, my Lord." Challacombe says, with the bluntness of a seasoned mariner, "Not God. October."
From their closing distance, Bedford can see men swarming over the rigging, frantic to set the sails in order to escape, regroup and attempt to fight. They could, of course, fly - but the winds shall permit them only to continue eastwards, where the ships from Portsmouth await, as well as any moored in London and pressed into service. It is over before it is even begun - surely there shall be a surrender now?
It seems, however, not to be so. Men are poling their vessels apart, sails are falling and beginning to billow in the breeze as they make desperate preparation for battle. Christ have mercy - it shall be akin to shooting a pinned boar. Nearby, Challacombe is bellowing commands to the men below, and has had a red flag raised to the rear of the ship, their agreed signal to commence the engagement. From where he is standing, Bedford cannot see a single gunport raised upon any of the Spanish vessels. Instead of the rout they were intending, it is they that shall be routed…
Across from Queen Elizabeth's Pride, Boleyn is also on deck, and staring in disbelief at the speed at which they have been overcome. Their haphazard preparations were considered adequate in the face of assumed ignorance on the part of their enemy; but their enemy was not ignorant, and it is now more than clear that they should have abandoned the enterprise entirely. Greater preparation would not have served them, after all. Not if their enemy knew that they were coming.
They shall not surrender, though. That is too much to expect from the Queen. She has hung all of her hopes of salvation upon winning England back for God. She has no acceptance of salvation through faith alone, after all; this would have been the crowning glory of good works - works that would grant her admission into God's Grace. She shall die trying. And take them all with her.
Oh, dear Christ…the gunports of those approaching ships are open. He has already learned that their powder is utterly spoiled by water thanks to the appalling battering his ship took from the storm overnight. Whether the other ships can fire back is debatable, but his cannot. In all of his life, he has never, ever been deserted by a sense of strength or courage - but now his knees begin to knock, and he groans at the dread sensation of his bowels turning to water. Not now. Of all times, not now.
Gritting his teeth, he forces himself to ignore that horrible urge, and glares at the approaching ships with an almost enraged determination not to die a gibbering coward. If he must meet God this day, then he do so as a man; unlike Tunstall, who has been cradling a rosary and whimpering since the first pitching of the ship last night.
Gradually, he regains his equilibrium, and reaches for the sword that he has worn as a part of his supposed regalia since he took on the mantle of Ambassador. It shall be of no use at all against a shot from a heavy gun; but it might serve should they survive long enough to be boarded.
And then the line of English ships open fire. All of them are configured to fire a broadside, and they are taking full advantage of that ability; moreover, those that have fired, pull away from the line, and then turn to fire again from the other side, while the first side reloads. Being at the core of the small fleet, his ship has, so far, been untouched; but masts are toppling, great splinters being blasted in all directions to pierce men upon vessels that have not been anywhere near the initial impact.
Hurrying to the starboard side, Boleyn can see it is no better there; except…
He stares at what he sees in utter disbelief.
The appalling sound of the first broadside shatters Mary's contemplations, and she stares around her in shock, they have fired? Has battle begun already?
Without hesitation, she rises from her knees, hastily crosses herself and hurries from her cabin to make her way up on deck. It is not easy, for there are men fleeing in all directions, running, tripping, crashing into her as though they have no idea who she is. Matters do not improve once she has emerged into the daylight: the air is thick with powder-smoke, and the noise of men shouting at one another is such a cacophonous din that she can barely think.
A hand is upon her arm, "Majesty, you must get below! We cannot afford for you to be injured by flying splinters!"
"My Lord?" she stares at Brandon in confusion, have we fired upon the Harlot's fleet?"
"Nay, Majesty, they have fired upon us - and we have not sufficient powder to answer them, for most is too damp to ignite - we must remove you from here!"
"No!" she almost screams back at him, "You shall not take me away from these men, I shall not flee while they stay and die! If we must account for ourselves before God, then I shall do so as a martyr, not as a coward! I fled once - never again! Never!"
"They shall not stay, Majesty," He tells her, at once, "They shall do likewise. It is likely that they shall be allowed to go, but we shall not. We must leave now, or you shall find yourself in the clutches of your enemies! At least, if we can return to Spain, we can try again!"
He is lying - and he knows it - but she does not need to know that. Charles shall disown them all, and never aid them again, but at least she shall be alive.
The air is shattered by another thunderous broadside from the Starboard line, and she can hear the screams of the injured and dying. No; it cannot be so…it cannot. God blessed her enterprise…he did…
And then the fire is gone. Her expression falters, and she sinks to the boards. She sheds no tears; but her despair could not be more overt if she had. Without another word, Brandon gathers her up in his arms and carries her below, leaving the Captain to order his men to retreat.
Challacombe curses as the only decently presented ship breaks from the gathering at full sail, and begins to pull away. With all of his ships engaged, he cannot spare one to follow, for the rest of Mary's fleet is attempting to do likewise. Five have foundered, and the men aboard them are fighting to secure anything to cling to in the waters as their vessels slide beneath the waves. Already, one of the captains has lowered boats to retrieve them; it would be most unchristian to leave them to drown, after all. Best to find out what they know, then dispatch them back to Spain.
Of the rest, twenty are breaking away, though their condition is so appalling now that they are unlikely to get far before they, too, founder. There shall be no boats to retrieve the men that are left aboard them, alas, but that is not Bedford's responsibility. Four, however, have been grappled and are about to be boarded. Given that the plotters are doubtless aboard the fleeing flagship, the best they can hope for is more pitiful sailors far from home who expect to be hanged.
Bedford retreats below to exchange the battered weapon he has been carrying for one more fitting to his rank; a ceremonial blade should not be chipped and befouled by blood, after all. That he has not been obliged to use it magnifies the bitter sensation of anticlimax. After all that they did, it is over in a single morning - and with so little resistance that they might as well have stayed back and permitted the ships to sink of their own volition.
"My Lord!" a sailor's voice calls down the passage, "We have taken two of the conspirators! They were aboard one of the captured ships!"
At first he hopes that it is Mary - but the man would have said so; thus it must be one of those who plotted. Wondering who they have caught, he grabs at his ceremonial sword and takes the steps back up to the deck two at a time.
There is some blood on Boleyn's blade - a sign that he has fought, rather than fled; though Tunstall is bedraggled and wan beside him. He makes no attempt to resist, or to engage in blustering justifications for his actions, instead standing calmly and quietly. It is over - and he must know that he shall certainly journey to London, but his lodging shall be the Tower, not a Palace.
"Do we follow the usurper?" Challacombe asks, as Bedford comes to stand beside him.
"It seems pointless to do so. She has lost - those who are with her shall know it. This failure shall serve to ensure that none shall heed her should she call upon the Emperor to aid her again. Let her go; it shall save her Majesty from a harsh decision that she shall be loath to make. No Queen would wish to execute another." He turns to Boleyn, "Thomas Boleyn, you are arrested in the name of Queen Elizabeth of England for high treason. Surrender your sword."
His expression still calm, and surprisingly free of bitterness, Boleyn hands over the weapon, "It seems that God has acted against us." He smiles.
"Not God." Bedford smiles back, recalling his Admiral's comment, "October."
A/N: I had written a whopper screed here - but when I attempted to save it, I was confronted with the logon screen, and thus the whole lot was wiped so I had to re-write it. The same thing happened last week - I'm wondering if this site has it in for me!
Elizabeth's speech to the men of Parliament contains William Leighs's record of her Tilbury Speech (which constitutes the final paragraph). This is one of three versions - the 'first' being considered the authentic one (the I may have the body of a weak and feeble woman one) as it most accurately reflects her known style of oratory given that she wrote most of her own speeches - and would have almost certainly have written this one. There's another one which actually appeared in 1588, but that was reworked in verse, as Elizabetha Triumphans and no one at all believes she delivered that at Tilbury.
I opted to use the 'second' one as I felt the 'first' would've been an appropriation too far!
The carvings of Gog and Magog (Goegamot and Corineus) were set into Plymouth Hoe to commemorate the Cornish Foundation myth of the giant Goegamot and the hero Corin, who defeated him and cast him into the sea from the Hoe. They were abandoned in the early 17th Century, and are long gone - but the views from the Hoe across the sound make a spectacular compensation for their absence.
I speak not a word of Cornish, but it felt wrong to have Old Branok not use any, so I pinched golanes off an online Cornish phrasebook. Apologies to all Cornish folk if I've mucked up the difference between singular and plural - but I am hoping that it means 'seagulls'.
Start Point is a notorious part of the south Devon coast just west of Dartmouth - which has claimed many ships in its time, and was thus granted a lighthouse in 1836.
Dartmouth was a vital haven that was protected by two forts - both of which are still standing. A lot of the Elizabethan buildings also remain (though some were very badly damaged in 2010 by a fire that broke out in a takeaway), and it's a remarkably pretty town that nestles between two protective ranges of hills. As with a lot of the other places I mention that are still extant, I highly recommend a visit.