had spared no expense. But the overall effect, rather than being stunning, was surfeit. “Umm,” I said, nodding shortly, and passed on to the next.
We retired to Leicester’s pavilion for the midday dinner. Only a select few were to join us; therefore the table did not stretch very far down the length of the room. For myself, I had included Marjorie and Catherine, as well as Walsingham, as guests. Leicester sat down with a flourish and said, “Your Majesty, all this is yours to command.”
“I am here to commend, not to command,” I said.
Leicester raised his goblet. “French wine. May we drink it in security, trusting that the French maintain their neutrality in this war.”
We all sipped. “The Armada has anchored near Calais,” said Walsingham. He was wearing the lower part of his armor but had left off the upper for comfort’s sake. “Some fifty miles from Dunkirk where Parma is waiting. Or is he?”
“No one knows,” Leicester admitted. “It is entirely possible that he does not even know the Armada has sailed.”
“My reports say there is a great deal of activity in the Calais harbor,” said Walsingham. “Many boats going to and from the Armada, which cannot anchor there without violating the French neutrality. But rather too much exchange going on. I think the Armada is refitting and repairing itself, with French help.” He banged his goblet down, pushed it aside. “Plain English ale for me, please!” he called out.
The Norris men chimed in. “Our job isn’t to worry about the French but to be ready for whoever lands here,” said Sir Henry, Marjorie’s husband. He had a wide face and youthful wheat-colored hair—in spite of his sixty-plus years—that made him seem open and guileless even when he was not.
“Father, an army is only as good as its weapons and training,” said Black Jack. He came by the name because of his saturnine coloring, inherited from his mother. “You know what the local militias are made of.”
“A lot of boys, carousers, and old dreamers,” said a strapping, dark-eyed man at Leicester’s left.
“ ‘Your old men shall dream dreams and your young men see visions,’ ” murmured Walsingham.
“Forget the Bible,” growled Black Jack. “The Spanish sail with a papal-blessed standard. That won’t win the war for them, and quoting Scripture verses won’t for us.”
I turned to the man who had mentioned the carousers. “You, sir,” I said. “Do you claim that the local militias and trained bands are made up of incompetents?”
He looked startled to be singled out, as if he were used to being ignored. “I meant only, Majesty, that we have no professional army, nothing but citizens roused out of their homes and hastily trained. Not like Parma and his German, Italian, and Walloon mercenaries. We do the best we can with the material at hand. I meant no disrespect.”
“I told you my master of the horse was an up-and-coming young man,” said Leicester hastily. “Someone to watch. May I present Sir Christopher Blount?”
A winsome young man. Drowsy eyes and a shapely mouth. Wide shoulders. Muscular arms visible by the swelling seams of his coat. “Are you related to Charles Blount?” I asked—one of my favorites at court, now commanding the Rainbow under Sir Henry Seymour.
“A distant cousin, Your Majesty.”
“Looks run in the family, then,” I said.
Others would have blushed and demurred. He just looked calmly back at me. Not a poseur, then, nor a pleaser.
Robert Devereux had been uncharacteristically quiet. He was drawing circles on the table with spilled wine.
“Robert.” Two heads jerked around—Robert Dudley’s and Robert Devereux’s. “A lovely name, ‘Robert,’ ” I said. “But I was calling for the younger one. Cousin.” Robert Devereux and I were second cousins; he was the great-great-grandson of Thomas Boleyn, and I the granddaughter.
“Yes, Your Majesty?”
“You are quiet today.”
“Forgive me. All this
We retired to Leicester’s pavilion for the midday dinner. Only a select few were to join us; therefore the table did not stretch very far down the length of the room. For myself, I had included Marjorie and Catherine, as well as Walsingham, as guests. Leicester sat down with a flourish and said, “Your Majesty, all this is yours to command.”
“I am here to commend, not to command,” I said.
Leicester raised his goblet. “French wine. May we drink it in security, trusting that the French maintain their neutrality in this war.”
We all sipped. “The Armada has anchored near Calais,” said Walsingham. He was wearing the lower part of his armor but had left off the upper for comfort’s sake. “Some fifty miles from Dunkirk where Parma is waiting. Or is he?”
“No one knows,” Leicester admitted. “It is entirely possible that he does not even know the Armada has sailed.”
“My reports say there is a great deal of activity in the Calais harbor,” said Walsingham. “Many boats going to and from the Armada, which cannot anchor there without violating the French neutrality. But rather too much exchange going on. I think the Armada is refitting and repairing itself, with French help.” He banged his goblet down, pushed it aside. “Plain English ale for me, please!” he called out.
The Norris men chimed in. “Our job isn’t to worry about the French but to be ready for whoever lands here,” said Sir Henry, Marjorie’s husband. He had a wide face and youthful wheat-colored hair—in spite of his sixty-plus years—that made him seem open and guileless even when he was not.
“Father, an army is only as good as its weapons and training,” said Black Jack. He came by the name because of his saturnine coloring, inherited from his mother. “You know what the local militias are made of.”
“A lot of boys, carousers, and old dreamers,” said a strapping, dark-eyed man at Leicester’s left.
“ ‘Your old men shall dream dreams and your young men see visions,’ ” murmured Walsingham.
“Forget the Bible,” growled Black Jack. “The Spanish sail with a papal-blessed standard. That won’t win the war for them, and quoting Scripture verses won’t for us.”
I turned to the man who had mentioned the carousers. “You, sir,” I said. “Do you claim that the local militias and trained bands are made up of incompetents?”
He looked startled to be singled out, as if he were used to being ignored. “I meant only, Majesty, that we have no professional army, nothing but citizens roused out of their homes and hastily trained. Not like Parma and his German, Italian, and Walloon mercenaries. We do the best we can with the material at hand. I meant no disrespect.”
“I told you my master of the horse was an up-and-coming young man,” said Leicester hastily. “Someone to watch. May I present Sir Christopher Blount?”
A winsome young man. Drowsy eyes and a shapely mouth. Wide shoulders. Muscular arms visible by the swelling seams of his coat. “Are you related to Charles Blount?” I asked—one of my favorites at court, now commanding the Rainbow under Sir Henry Seymour.
“A distant cousin, Your Majesty.”
“Looks run in the family, then,” I said.
Others would have blushed and demurred. He just looked calmly back at me. Not a poseur, then, nor a pleaser.
Robert Devereux had been uncharacteristically quiet. He was drawing circles on the table with spilled wine.
“Robert.” Two heads jerked around—Robert Dudley’s and Robert Devereux’s. “A lovely name, ‘Robert,’ ” I said. “But I was calling for the younger one. Cousin.” Robert Devereux and I were second cousins; he was the great-great-grandson of Thomas Boleyn, and I the granddaughter.
“Yes, Your Majesty?”
“You are quiet today.”
“Forgive me. All this
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