They were charging.
“What the devil?” Owaine said from beside me, his hand reaching out as if to lead me away. I snatched the reins away from him and moved my horse closer to the edge of the cliff, my eyes scanning my men for Charles’s tall figure atop a horseback.
I finally spotted him as he frantically waved at Norfolk, whose archers were recalibrating. They had planned to shoot at a standing army, perhaps at men hiding behind trees. This enemy was on the move, however, and much closer than anticipated.
“Stand your ground!”
Even from atop the hill I could hear Charles’ loud command to his men and I watched as all my soldiers tightened ranks, their pikes held out dangerously before them.
The archers had finally begun to fire and the first round of Frenchmen fell to the ground, the first blood of battle covering the grass. However, the men behind them did not hesitate, merely climbing over their dead comrades as they began to charge up the hill.
I whipped around behind me to a row of pages, mounted on horseback and prepared to carry messages around the battlefield.
“Ride to the Earl of Surrey,” I commanded the oldest. “Tell him that the French have charged and that the battle is now being fought on the hill. The men will have to reroute around this mountain to attack. And make sure you say this loudly and in front of the other commanders. They will know what to do.”
The boy nodded, his face pale but determined, and quickly rode down the only trail that led to my post. I watched him go for a moment but was drawn back to the battle by a cry.
Turning around, I could feel my stomach sinking into my boots. Riding quickly and alone, over the hill to my left, was the Earl of Surrey. His sword out and a scream in his throat, he rode quickly to where the enemy should have been, but they weren’t. It took him a moment to realize this; he pulled on his reigns, a look of confusion on his face as he turned to look behind him. It wasn’t until then that half of the soldiers assigned to him charged, but not in rank, and with confusion. None of their commanders stood with them except for one, who seemed to almost be chasing the men in an attempt to order them.
“Come on, you cowards!” Surrey yelled, his voice echoing across the field. It was the last thing he ever said.
Even I had to admit that it was clever. From around the hills and forest that surrounded the French camp came the cavalry, charging down onto where Surrey now rode alone. A thin line of French archers emerged from the forest, now well within range. Their first arrow proved deadly, piercing the neck of Surrey, who fell to the ground. His horse reared, the reins catching Surrey’s boot and dragging his dead body along behind as the horse made for the French camp.
And now, here was a large portion of my surprise force, in the middle of the field, sandwiched between the deadly archers, the cavalry, and the French soldiers, who then turned, charged down the hill, and fell upon my confused men.
“Your Majesty —“ Owaine began but I cut him off.
“No.”
What could I do from here?
“Your Majesty, we must get you moved,” Owaine insisted.
“No!” I roared, turning my anger onto him. “Do you not see? I am in no danger here!”
The man backed away and I whipped around in time to see Charles attempting to reorganize his men. Finally, the rest of Surrey’s force – the commanders who should have stopped the impulsive boy, along with less than half of that battalion – came charging from around my mountain and into the side of the French army, as they were supposed to.
It was too late and there were too few. The French swarmed about them, killing with pleasure and pushing Charles’s men further up the hill.
I sighed, looking down to where half of my force had been taken down by the hidden archers. Though we held the superior weapon, my archers could not determine if they should attack the French infantry or attempt to shoot into the forest. The entire battle had been less than an hour, the sun just now fully over the horizon. Defeated, I turned to the pages behind me.
“Give the orders to retreat.”
***
I suppose I should have been thankful that both dukes made it out of the fray alive. That was one positive, the only bright spot in the battle.
“Your Majesty, we must return to Guînes,” Charles insisted the next morning. The men had retreated orderly thanks to him. Fortunately the French, exhilarated but exhausted, had not given chase. We had made it past the camp before we realized we were safe, though my captain had extra men scouting the area to make sure the French would not attack again.
“Your Grace?” I asked, turning toward the pale face of Norfolk, his gray beard highlighting how much this man had aged in a day.
“Yes, retreat,” he responded gruffly. “Your Majesty,” he added after a moment’s pause, his blue eyes slightly vacant.
His son’s body had not been recovered; the foolish boy’s horse had ridden his body straight into the French camp, where it was now being held. Once we were safely away a white flag of truce could be run up long enough for us to pay for the body back.
“Your Grace,” Charles began. “Your son —“
“Was a damn fool,” Norfolk snapped back, his eyes suddenly angry. “And I do not need any words of pity from you Your Grace.”
Charles sank back into his chair, looking at me with raised eyebrows. I shook my head.
“Very well, give the order that we will return to Guînes,” I said, turning to one of the commanders who stood behind me. “Make sure Guînes is prepared to receive us and write to Master Cromwell that more men must be sent.”
We had lost almost half of our men, and a large portion of our trained veterans had been wiped out with Surrey’s move. The majority of what was left were farmers and a few tradesmen, who trained with their local militias when necessary, but were hardly accustomed to war or prepared for a long season of battle. And our archers, though deadly, must be better disciplined.
But that could wait until we had regrouped. Until Surrey’s body had been recovered and buried so his father could wake up out of his blind stupor and once again help me raise troops. And reinforcements would not take long from England; I had agreed with Cromwell that a sizeable force should be left in England to be further prepared. They could come to us now and receive their training here in battle.
It took the rest of the morning for the camp to be packed up and for the wounded men to be seen to and loaded onto what wagons could be procured. Then, slowly, my army made its way back to Guînes, where stores of food and a safe distance from the French would allow us to recover.
It was another cold day, but clear, as all our days in France seemed to be. I rode before the army, my horse, Phillip, setting a trotting pace for the guards who surrounded me. Every few miles Charles would appear, riding up beside the Duke of Norfolk, who made even a trot look somber. The two men would confer for a few moments before Charles would bow to me and turn to ride back along the lines of men who followed, sometimes even back to the large wagon trains which brought up the rear of our party.
I could not help but envy the man. Though seven years older, Charles could still ride as a man half my age would. He would still tire easier than when we were boys, but if it was necessary for him to spend the day in the saddle he could. Unlike me, whose horse would drop from exhaustion if not changed regularly, whose infected leg would flare up and begin to leak pus if rubbed for too long. As we rode through the green trees of France, taking roads less traveled so as to avoid detection by the French peasants, I could feel the anger inside of me rise up, blocking my breath.
There was no reason that Charles should be in better health than I. We had ridden in the same battles, fought the same jousts. He had even started fighting before I had. If anything, it was he who should be fighting back jealousy, looking over his shoulder to see his friend pulling his horse into a canter and knowing that was now impossible for him.
As I forced air down my throat I motioned for the Duke of Norfolk to ride
up along beside me. It took him a moment to notice my gestures, but when he did he appeared as quickly as possible, always the perfect gentleman.
“What news has the duke brought from the men?” I asked.
“A rear guard has dropped back to cover the wounded men,” the duke responded promptly, going straight to the heart of the matter. “One of their horses threw a shoe; they have stopped at one of the monasteries to have it repaired.”
“Is that wise?” I asked, slightly exasperated. Catholics would not welcome us with open arms.
“I do not believe a small house such as that will turn on the men,” the duke answered. “And the rear guard is prepared to move the men soon.”
“Cannot another horse simply be attached to the cart?” I asked. “The men can continue moving and then only a small number will have to wait behind with the horse.”
The duke fell silent at this and then nodded as he dropped back to order a page to ride back to Charles and convey this order. I felt another wave of anger overtake me at the incompetence of these men; Charles in particular should have seen this. I pushed this from my mind as Norfolk returned to my side with a bow.
“It is being done as Your Majesty said,” he clipped out, before taking a breath and continuing his speech.
“The shepherds have led the herds along a different route. They will arrive in Guînes the day after us, but it is a wider path so that fewer animals might stray and they will be able to stop to graze. Enough animals have stayed with the carts to feed the men for the journey, but we should arrive within the week.”
“Very well,” I said. These were all small details and not enough to distract me from my thoughts. Indeed, I was surprised Charles was attending to them at all.
“And five men were caught deserting this morning. The Duke of Suffolk is overseeing their execution now.”
I turned with a raised eyebrow to the older man, who shrugged.
“They had been caught attempting to do the same the night before battle but it was thought better to keep them among the ranks. All five survived the skirmish, being archers, but then tried to leave again this morning. His Grace asked me, being their commander, what I thought best, and I decided that given their first attempt, they may as well be hung. I do not want cowardice running through my ranks.”
I said nothing to this; the duke would have a hard enough time keeping the men his son had led together without his own men losing faith in him as well. Death was usually the result of attempting to flee battle; one cowardly man could turn an entire army if allowed to escape. And these five men would make no difference to our numbers, already so low.
It was difficult to sleep that evening. There were no houses for us to stop at and I was once again relegated to my small hard bed. Two pages were assigned to me that evening, and even they had difficulty sleeping through the loud clangs as my guard was changed every hour on the hour.
But even as I lay there, the sun peeking through the tent flaps, I found it hard to leave the warmth of the feather bed and step out into the cold morning. Finally, one of the page boys, both of whom had seemed happy to leave the hard cold ground, had gently asked which horse I wished to ride that day.
“Prepare Phillip,” I responded and then pulled myself up. The thought of a warm comfortable bed at the end of our trip drove me forward and I was dressed quickly, stepping out into the warmer sunlight. Behind me, pages immediately descended upon my tent, pulling it apart.
“Your Majesty,” Charles said, falling into a bow before me. It was clear he had been awake for hours already, the men’s’ tents were already packed and breakfast had been served. I turned to the small table set up for me, the breakfast small but steaming. I motioned for Charles to join me as I ate.
“Your Majesty, we will be prepared to move in less than half an hour,” Charles reported, sitting beside me after I began to eat.
“Even my men?” I asked, glancing at the boys bickering slightly as they attempted to roll up the heavy canvas that covered my tent.
“Yes Your Majesty,” Charles answered before looking pointedly at one of the knights who stood by my table. The young man quickly strode over to the boys, quieting them and organizing their duties.
“Even if everything is not loaded, I wish to begin the trek to Guînes as soon as possible,” Charles said, turning his attention back to me. I nodded, shoveling in another spoonful of the porridge being served. It was nothing like what I was used too and I knew my stomach would be complaining of it within the hour, but there was no time for anything more elaborate. Charles was correct; Francis was most likely regrouping and giving chase to us as we spoke. We could not afford to stop.
Charles waited with me until I had scraped the bottom of the bowl, stood, and waved for my horse to be brought to me.
“Are we prepared?” I asked.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” the captain of my guard said. “We can ride out at once.”
“The men are already forming rank,” Charles added. “Your Majesty should set off. We will be behind you shortly. And the Duke of Norfolk is riding with the rear guard today.”
“Very well,” I said grimly, aware this meant I would have no one, no matter how gruff, to distract me.
Owaine nodded smartly and I followed him to where two pages stood beside Phillip, ready to lift me onto my horse. I had just grasped the saddle when a young man rode into camp, his clothes filthy and his horse staggering as he leapt off.
“Your Majesty,” he cried, rushing forward to me before dropping onto his knees, a letter held out in his trembling hands. I pulled it out of his hands, realizing that there could be nothing good inside. I broke Cromwell’s seal and scanned the note inside.
We would not be going to Guînes.
Chapter Six
May, 1540
I had ridden off with Charles and Owaine and the rest of my guard in tow for Calais. It was quickly agreed that Norfolk would lead the body of my army to Guînes, restock their supplies, and then prepare to march on to Calais. Hopefully by the time they arrived, my men and I could procure boats so that they may return to England.
“Your Majesty, we will not arrive in Calais for three more days,” Charles had gasped out as we had fled ahead, my horses staggering under the demands.
“Then it will take us another three days,” I had replied. “But we have no choice.”
There had been a battle. The great naval battle that Anne had predicted, had warned me to prepare against, had happened, and almost without warning. Cromwell had ordered our ships to go looking for the Spanish Armada, to determine if they were truly sailing out of port and heading north to attack our shores. No warning had come from our ambassador in Spain, and Eustace Chapuys, Spain’s ambassador to England, had suddenly gone mute on his master’s intentions, claiming he had received no word from him since my marriage to Anne.
Though meant to be a scouting mission, the ships had gone together, even attempting to form ranks. The Admiral had considered it good practice for when our navy did expand. It was to be a training exercise, for surely if Spain had set sail for our shores we would know. No one had expected them to find the full Spanish Armada, one hundred and twenty-two ships in total, bearing down on the two dozen or so English ships.
The battle resulted in disaster, Cromwell had written with unusual frankness. Both of my beautiful new ships, the Elizabeth and the Mary, named for my two daughters, had been destroyed; no survivors from either ship found. A handful of the merchant ships we had commandeered had likewise been sunk, though some of their sailors survived, swimming desperately to the other ships. Only my favorite warship, the Mary Rose, which had been built at the beginning of my reign, survived completely unscathed, even sinking one Spanish warship before taking on too many survivors and fleeing the battle.
We rode along the back roads now at a breakneck pace, keeping the horses at a gallop for as long as we dared, walking them more than I wished. My heavy red traveling cloak had turned brown from the dirt that my guar
d had kicked up around me, and we rode in a continual cloud of dust that seemed to permeate my being. There hadn’t been a drop of rain in over two weeks. The cool days I had been so thankful for at the beginning of the campaign were quickly turning into a scorching heat that left no relief until the sun went down and we camped upon the hard ground, finding ourselves suddenly shivering at the loss of warmth. But Owaine assured me that rain was coming; he could tell that a storm would soon be upon us from the west.
As we passed a traveling band of merchants and broke back into a hard canter, I allowed worry to overtake me. This battle had taken place just beyond our own shores. The Spanish were obviously heading for England and preparing to land. Our only hope was that the ships would sail through the Channel to attack London, slowing them down so that we might reach London first, and prepare the men for battle.
Charles pulled his horse up beside me, his breath coming out in gasps as we continued to ride.
“I am sorry. I should have insisted that a leader was left in London,” he breathed out. I took a few deep gasps myself before responding.
“It was foolish, but we did not have any warning,” I responded. And it was true. Charles could blame himself or, like the Duke of Norfolk, say that Cromwell’s lack of information was the cause of our being blindsided. Personally, I held our ambassador responsible, and had already written to Cromwell insisting the Eustace Chapuys be watched. It would do us no good for him to contact the Spanish army.
One blessing was that a sizeable force still remained in London. If I could only reach them, with Charles, they could be led into battle with confidence. Though they were fresh soldiers, they had spent the last month training and preparing for the inevitability of war. I had already instructed Cromwell that the force was to be prepared to march to Dover, where the Spanish would most likely sail and where I would land on my journey over from Calais.
But without a leader this force could be useless. These men were being trained to follow orders, but none left in charge had ever directed a battle before or knew what to expect from a Spanish army. And, most importantly, none of them displayed the leadership necessary. Charles could lead an army because he was prepared to die for his men; when he spoke to them the night before battle, he inspired them to fight for their country. Even Norfolk’s hard-nosed determination inspired the men. His sense of honor instilled a sense of honor into them, and one his son had not inherited. As we had so disastrously learned with the Earl of Surrey, it did not take a man who was merely willing to ride into battle to lead, but a man who would win the devotion of these soldiers, the men who had turned out to fight in his name.
Anne the Warrior Page 5
