The Virgin's War (Tudor Legacy #3)(106)
“Your Highness.” He bowed, signs of battle showing beneath the hasty wash and change of clothes. “Allow me to present the symbol of your victory this day.”
At her feet, he laid the captured royal standard from the wrecked Spanish galleon. Miraculously, it was only singed along the edges. Anabel stared at the crimson silk emblazoned with the arms of the House of Hapsburg. Someone had added King Philip’s personal motto to the standard: Orbis non Sufficit.
The world is not enough. And therein, she considered mournfully, lay your failure, Father.
Elizabeth’s physician assured the queen that her survival and comparatively good health was a gift from God—delivered, one was led to suppose, through the hands and mind of the physician himself. Minuette was entirely more cynical. “You’re too stubborn to die without knowing how this war ends. Besides, you’d never give Mary Stuart the satisfaction. No doubt you plan to outlive her by fifteen years at least.”
But the softness in her friend’s eyes belied the tartness of her words, and Elizabeth understood how very frightened Minuette had been.
It was most irritating being confined to this borrowed chamber at Leeds Castle while the war she had so carefully prepared for was being fought. Elizabeth compensated by driving Burghley, her clerks, and the maids to distraction with her unending demands for information and the need to get on her feet once more.
Three days after her fever broke, Dominic appeared sweat-stained and grimy at Leeds Castle. With news.
Elizabeth refused to meet him lying down. Seated in a high-backed chair that provided the support she grudgingly needed, the queen waved away his manners when he tried to make a proper entry and obeisance.
“There’s no time for that,” she said sharply. “What has happened?”
Minuette stood tensely near her husband, plainly not having been told either. That was only right—for good or bad, any news of import must come to the monarch first.
“Admiral Hawkins and Francis Drake have damaged and scattered the Spanish fleet off Calais. They sent in fireships, which by all accounts worked even better than the most optimistic could have hoped. When the sun rose, only six Spanish ships were still to be seen. And the great galleass San Lorenzo had run aground beneath Calais Castle. They say she will never sail again.”
Elizabeth did not move. “And what is the current condition of Admiral Medina Sidonia’s armada?”
“Scattered and running. Indications are some of them are still stubbornly heading north, perhaps believing they can manage to regroup and ferry across Parma’s army. But that is exceedingly unlikely. Unless…”
It was unlike Dominic to hesitate over the obvious. Elizabeth finished for him. “Unless the Spanish were successful at taking Berwick and Carlisle and can help clear the way to bring the remnants of the armada and its men ashore in the North.”
“Even in that case, there is little chance of bringing Parma’s army across,” Dominic said firmly. “And without his twenty-five thousand soldiers, Spain has very little hope of holding even the North for long. All reports are that the Catholic English are either fighting for the princess or remaining uncommitted.”
Elizabeth drummed her fingers on the arm of the chair, so anxious to be up and doing, hating being confined and having to wait for things out of her control. “All this assumes that the Spanish who sailed from Ireland are not victorious at Carlisle.”
“You are right, Your Majesty. This is not outright victory—not yet. But it is the best we could possibly hope for at this point. The armada will not land on England’s southern shores. They will not seize London in a lightning raid. And without London, Spain cannot win in the end.”
She knew he was right. And she wanted to celebrate. But Dominic himself did not seem particularly cheerful—as if anyone could tell the difference—and Minuette looked nearly as tense as she had before her husband began speaking. Elizabeth knew why, for she felt it, too.
The South was safe. The North? Unknown. And in that large quantity of unknown lay the lives of Anabel, Kit, and Stephen, placed deliberately and squarely in the war’s path.
The next thirty-six hours were the longest of Elizabeth’s life—except possibly those hours she had spent at Hatfield thirty years ago waiting for word of her brother William’s death. Long after dark the next day, a rider appeared with a letter whose writing Elizabeth knew at once.
25 July 1586
To Her Majesty, Elizabeth, by the Grace of God Queen of England and Ireland
Your Grace,
The North is secured. On Sunday the twenty-fourth of this month, enemy troops came ashore near Berwick-upon-Tweed and attempted to take the castle. Being valiantly defended by Lord Hunsdon, the castle held fast until relieved by forces both English and Scottish.
The enemy was put to flight, including their ships, leaving behind significant numbers of dead and wounded. The cost to our troops was less, though still most deeply felt.
Even as we counted our own victory, word arrived from Carlisle that the combined Spanish and Irish forces that landed in the West have also been most decisively defeated. That word was delivered to us in person by Lord Stephen Courtenay.
The enemy ships that have fled before our English ones are perhaps heading north once more. Certainly they are unlikely to attempt to rendezvous with Medina Sidonia’s fleet—not with the bulk of the English navy in their way. We think it likely they are out of the fight for the foreseeable future.