The Virgin's War (Tudor Legacy #3)(105)
Swallowing his pride—and the vision of Anabel in his own arms the night before last—Kit reined in his horse to speak to the king. “The Spanish ships are drawing off. The soldiers left on shore will never reach them, Your Majesty.”
“Good. You’ve done well. Seems my wife was not wrong to give you command of the English Marches.”
“She is never wrong.” That was a lie—Kit had often taken pleasure in telling Anabel she was wrong over the years—but he couldn’t help the instinct to bait James. And won’t that be trouble in the future, he thought grimly.
Kit pulled lightly at his reins, to turn his horse and be on his way before he could say worse. But in the brief time they’d been speaking, a Spanish soldier—through sheerest luck—came within range of the king. Despite surely knowing he could not escape, the soldier did not hesitate. He drove his sword straight at the unprotected area beneath the king’s left arm.
Moving before he knew it, Kit kicked his horse so it shoved against the king’s mount. The other horse startled, moving just enough for the sword to miss the king and catch Kit on his gauntleted arm instead.
The force of the blow dropped him to the ground, and the Spanish soldier moved in with the swiftness of approaching death. With the perfect clarity of a vision—was this how Pippa had seen things?—Kit knew that the Spanish sword would go through his throat before he could move and before anyone else could intervene.
I’m sorry, Anabel.
The soldier thrust…and his sword deflected off a swirl of white mist that had not been there a moment before. Except how could something as insubstantial as mist stop a sword? Kit read shock on the enemy soldier’s face the instant before he fell from an avenging Scottish arrow.
The mist twisted before Kit—almost danced—until he thought he discerned a shape to it. It couldn’t be. Surely not?
A touch of silk against his thoughts, familiar as breath…You’re welcome, twin mine.
—
Four hours after the first troops had left Norham, Anabel was allowed to approach Berwick. The Spanish had broken and fled before the combined forces of the English and Scots. Those not dead or injured tried desperately to reach the three ships that had landed them. Few of the Spanish made it. With the bulk of fighting over and her army reduced to finding the wounded and imposing order on the victorious men, Anabel took to the ramparts with Lord Hunsdon to watch the three ships retreat from English shores.
From the ramparts they had a clear view of more than just the three ships. The remaining dozen Spanish ships were farther out, holding in their unusual half-moon formation. If that were the only sight, she might have panicked, for the number of soldiers in those reinforcing ships would be too much for Berwick. But remarkably—blessedly—so distinctly that God and nature must wish witnesses to this wondrous, terrible encounter, Anabel also saw a long line of English ships interposed between the Spanish and the coast. The three fleeing ships seemed to hesitate, then swung south to get around the English line that had seemingly appeared from nowhere.
Of naval warfare, Anabel knew only what she had read and studied. She’d never even been aboard a ship at sea, much less one under fire, nor could she imagine the mind that could comprehend such enormous areas of moving water and still manipulate ships—his own and the enemies’—in battle. What sea battles lacked in speed and intimate violence, Anabel could see they made up for with awful grandeur.
The Spanish ships depended on their crescent formation to confuse and outgun the English. It did not appear especially successful. From the water floated the crack of guns and occasional faint shouts, but mostly Anabel watched in silence trying to guess the meaning of what she saw. Lord Hunsdon, who had better information and experience, supplied occasional commentary.
“Their long guns are formidable, but our ships are more nimble—they can swing out of range in a moment…We want to break the crescent, that’s why all our ships are attacking the left in a single file line…The Spanish will want to board one of our ships if they can…”
Please, Anabel prayed fervently. God in Heaven, please let our ships prevail. Send the Spanish threat far from us so we may recover our peace.
God in His Heaven must have been amenable to English prayers. Without warning or sign of imminent danger, one of the Spanish galleons exploded. Anabel jumped and grabbed Lord Hunsdon’s arm.
“What happened?”
“I could not say.” He seemed as startled as she was. “I never knew such a thing—the ship was not taking fire, it was on the opposite crescent from our own ships.”
More laconically, one of the Berwick captains said, “There’s a mighty load of gunpowder on those ships. All it would take is a moment’s inattention, a stray spark, the barrels stored carelessly…” He shrugged. “It’s a wonder more ships don’t blow themselves to pieces.”
The explosion and subsequent fire on what remained of the galleon decided the battle. All but one of the remaining Spanish ships retreated as quickly as they could from range of the English and began to run. Even Anabel could tell there was little order to the flight. One brave Spanish ship remained, putting off small pinnaces to presumably try and pull survivors from the wreck. She hoped their gallantry would be honoured by her navy.
Half of the English ships put to sea to continue harrying the Spanish, but the remainder anchored smartly offshore, and by sunset their captain was admitted to Anabel’s presence at Berwick Castle.