The Virgin's War (Tudor Legacy #3)(71)
Anabel did not find that as reassuring as she’d hoped.
—
The mood in London was rather like that of a cat mincing across hot stones: edgy and irritable. In late March, Elizabeth settled in at Whitehall, turning the usual seat of her government into a functioning war council as well. Although Walsingham was Lord Secretary, in this crisis she deputized Lord Burghley to stretch his role as treasurer to oversee England’s civil government until further notice. That left Walsingham free to exploit his truest talents at working in the shadows and bringing her the information she craved.
Of course, that didn’t stop him from exploiting his second great talent as well—that of annoying her with his freely offered opinions.
“Why is the Spanish ambassador still in London?” he groused.
“Because Mendoza is useful,” she snapped back.
“Not any longer. We have learned all we can from his coded communications with Philip. And he knows it. Even he is openly wondering what you intend to do with him when the battles begin.”
“Perhaps I will execute him.”
“That is hardly helpful.”
“But wouldn’t it make you feel better, Walsingham? You cannot lay hands on Philip, no matter how this war turns out. Wouldn’t you like to punish as many of his trusted servants as possible?”
She was only partly teasing. She herself would find it satisfying to wipe the smugness from Mendoza’s eyes. It was the smugness she loathed—the superiority of self-righteousness that made her want to snap and snarl in a man’s face. Or, better yet, smile coldly while she won the game in which they thought she was too slow—and too female—even to compete.
“The only issue now,” Walsingham said with greater than normal patience, “is whether we manage to expel Mendoza before he is formally recalled by Philip. Don’t lose the opportunity to make a statement, Your Majesty. Send for Mendoza and give him a personal message for the Spanish king. I guarantee all of Europe will be watching for it.”
“It is not all of Europe that matters. It is my people.”
“Your people are only awaiting your word.”
“Which is why I have been hesitant to give it. I do not want merchants and honest men and women to be punished for the sins of others. I will not have London turn on those Spanish who reside here honestly. Is that clear, Walsingham?”
“We will do what we can. But war, of necessity, breeds chaos.”
“Not in London.”
She trapped his gaze until he nodded, his dark eyes grave. “We will do our best. Other than Mendoza, the immediate aspect to consider is the security of Calais. I’ve no doubt the French will take their chance to seize it while we are engaged with Spain. The question is—how far will you go to hold on?”
The queen had thought long and hard about the threat to Calais. Its loss thirty years before had been a personal scar whose pain Elizabeth had never anticipated. And when Spanish troops had in turn liberated it from the French—and Philip offered its return to her as a betrothal gift—it had been very nearly the deciding factor in her acceptance of the marriage. She did not want to lose Calais again.
But she could afford to lose Calais. She could not afford to lose England.
“I will send no further strength to the garrison. They must hold with what they have. And if the French move against them in force, I do not want a needless slaughter. Better far to retreat and retrieve what strength we can back across the Channel.”
Walsingham knew how difficult that was for her. One of his lesser gifts was knowing when to be hard and when to be gentle. Now he offered a great kindness. “The mark of a true monarch, Your Majesty, is the ability to make wise decisions in the most difficult of times. You have always been unusually clear-sighted. Calais may be a luxury we cannot afford to keep. But its loss, if it comes, will not be in vain. I promise you that.”
She spared him one grateful glance, then moved on briskly. “Lord Exeter’s reports from the South are consistent in their summary: our ships and sailors are prepared and spoiling for a fight. Drake has been importuning me to let him strike the Spanish ships in harbor at Lisbon.”
What Drake had actually written from Plymouth was more than importunate; it had verged on a lecture. The advantage of time and place in all martial actions is half a victory; which being lost is irrecoverable…Wherefore, if Your Majesty will command me with those ships which are here already, and the rest follow with all possible expedition, I hold it, in my poor opinion, the surest and best course.
Walsingham had seen that letter, and all the same reports. “But the preparation of our troops on the ground is thin and uneven. If the Spanish are able to land troops—”
“They won’t.”
“If they do?”
“Then I trust that my people will fight harder for their homes and families and freedom than Spanish soldiers will fight for either conquest or money.”
What protest could Walsingham make? They couldn’t conjure an army from thin air. She had stouthearted, honest men who despised the thought of foreign invaders. She had excellent commanders. She had faith.
It would simply have to be enough.
—
On a Wednesday morning in April, Maisie—unusually—had no meetings to attend and decided to spend the day at home. Stephen had been out in the Western March with their men for the last two weeks, and it was a release of tension to not be keyed up at every moment waiting for their paths to cross. She sent Pieter Andries off to the warehouse in Leith for inventory, and took the opportunity to wash her hair and dry it before the fire in the reception chamber mostly used for guests. It was a lovely, old-fashioned room with painted walls and a box-beamed ceiling. For once, she discarded the piles of correspondence that always awaited her and chose instead a book of French poetry.