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weighs on my mind.” His gaze was as wide and clear as an angel’s. And indeed, his features were like those in a delicate painting of Italian angels—limpid blue eyes, gold-brushed curls.
    “Indeed, as it does on us all. Let us finish our meal and return to the business of the day.”
    Quietly we ate, speaking softly to the people on either side of us. I asked Marjorie how the father and the son differed in their military philosophy.
    “Henry is more subtle,” she said. “He believes in holding back, waiting to see what the enemy does. Jack believes in striking first and asking questions later.”
    “A bit like Drake, then.”
    “Yes, and—”
    Just then there was a commotion at the door, and someone was admitted. Pulling his helmet off, George Clifford, Earl of Cumberland, strode toward us and stopped before me. Observing proprieties, he bowed before saying, “I’ve just got word, Your Majesty. Two nights ago Sir Henry Seymour’s fleet stationed at Dover joined up with Admiral Howard’s, following the Armada. Our entire fleet was suddenly a couple of miles from the Armada, cozily anchored at Calais Roads, and Admiral Howard decided the opportunity to strike was too tempting to ignore, in spite of the danger. So they rigged up fireships, those weapons of terror, and launched eight hell burners—ships aflame and loaded with cannon to explode in the inferno—at the very heart of the Armada. It succeeded, where all our broadsides and guns failed. The Armada’s tight defensive formation is broken. In their panic to avoid the hell burners, they cut their cables, lost their anchors, and were scattered over the area. Now they are desperately trying to reassemble opposite Gravelines. Our fleet is going to attack them in their confused state. At last they have a chance to destroy them rather than merely harrying them.”
    “God’s death!” I cried. “Fall upon them, rend them!” But the men who could carry out this action were far from hearing me.
    In the meantime, I was here, at Tilbury, and I could speak directly only to the land defenses. That was the only power I had to affect the outcome of this war now.
    I rose. As I did so, Leicester gestured to the fellow diners. “Your Majesty,” he said, “please allow your devoted officers and soldiers to show their dedication. They wish to honor your fair and powerful hand.”
    A long line of strong young men filed forward and, one at a time, took my hand and kissed it.

8
    I withdrew to attire myself for the coming ceremony. Catherine and Marjorie would prepare me, like acolytes vesting a priest. First there was my hair. I would wear my finest and highest wig, the better to hold the pearls and diamonds, symbols of virginity, and to be seen from afar. Then the silver breastplate must be carefully strapped on, its ties loosely fastened to accommodate the bulky white velvet bodice beneath it.
    They stepped back. “Ma’am, you look like Pallas Athena, and not an earthly queen at all.” The look on their faces showed me that I had utterly transformed myself from the woman, albeit Queen, they served every day into something higher. On this occasion I was more than myself. I had to be.
    Outside, I mounted the magnificent white horse. Leicester handed me my silver and gold general’s truncheon and the black Spanish whip and took the bridle of the horse to lead me.
    Essex walked alongside, and behind him came Jack Norris, followed by a standard-bearer with the arms of England embroidered in gold on crimson velvet. A nobleman carried the sword of state before me, and a page my silver helmet on a white cushion. It was a very small group of footmen, but I did not want to be swallowed up in a ceremonial parade. I wanted all eyes to be on me, not my accompaniment.
    The entire camp was gathered, waiting. As I rode into view, the roar from the crowd and the boom of cannon salute mimicked a battlefield’s thunder. When I approached the crest of the hill where I would deliver