The Armada which sailed against England is sometimes called 'The
Invincible Armada', but its correct name is La Armada Grande. Its
supreme commander was the duke of Medina Sidonia, a nobleman who had done
all he could to avoid this appointment. He spent hours urging Philip,
in the most polite and obsequious way possible,
to find someone else, pointing out his own lack of experience in naval
matters. But the king would not listen. Spain's greatest naval
commander Don Alvaro de Bazan the elder, the marquess of Santa Cruz, had
died and there had been a long, fruitless search for a suitable replacement.
The conscientious Medina Sidonia was Philip's choice, much to the duke's
everlasting regret.
The Armada sailed from Lisbon on 20 May 1588, a grand procession of 130
ships and over 30,000 men. However, half of the vessels were transport
ships and the majority of men were soldiers, not sailors. Medina
Sidonia was to sail to Flanders, where he would join the prince of Parma who
waited with more soldiers and transports. But the Armada stopped first
in Corunna for some repair work and Medina Sidonia wrote to Philip, asking
for the invasion to be postponed indefinitely. The king was adamant,
however, and the fleet sailed to Flanders.
Their arrival was expected and observed by the English. Under the
command of Lord Howard, they set out from Plymouth, under cover of night.
They managed to destroy some of the chief Spanish ships so that, with
reinforcements, their numbers roughly equaled the Spanish. More
importantly, in terms of command and gunnery, the English had a far superior
advantage. By the time of the great battle off Gravelines, each fleet
had roughly sixty warships. The Spaniards fought heroically, but
Howard was relentless. The English ships were more agile and their
commanders more inventive. They did not allow the Spanish time to regroup
and refit. Only one Spanish ship was captured but several sank or ran
ashore. Medina Sidonia decided to lead the remaining fleet home,
sailing along the north of Scotland and Ireland. They met constant
storms and rough seas, and not one pilot remained in the whole fleet.
Each passing storm destroyed more ships until, when the Armada finally
limped home in the mid-September, half the fleet and most of its men were
gone.
The defeat of the Armada was justly celebrated in Elizabeth's time.
It continues to be one of the most famous naval victories in history.
There is an engaging aspect to the whole story - the English fleet taking on
the greatest naval power in the world and, against all odds, winning a
stunning victory. The psychological effect upon both nations was
enormous.
Yet, upon closer inspection, the victory was neither as unexpected or
immediately successful as is often believed. The English navy had
always been superior in tactics and gunnery than the Spanish, but had
suffered from Elizabeth's penny-pinching support. They simply never
had enough money to build the ships and pay the sailors needed to become a
world-class naval power. The Spanish took so long to rebuild their
navy that England finally had their opportunity, and they seized it with
enthusiasm. England would become the undisputed master of the seas.
But Spain was not nearly finished as a world power. Barely two
years after the Armada, they were virtually omnipotent in European affairs.
The religious turmoil in France had weakened their traditional enemy to such
an extent that Spain stood unchallenged until 1598, when Henri of Navarre
converted to Catholicism. The balance of power in Europe was thus
restored. But Spain's army continued to grow until their dominance of
land warfare equaled England's naval power.
For Elizabeth, of course, the most important development was the most
immediate - a brilliant victory over her greatest enemy, whose threats to
invade had haunted most years of her reign. She could breathe a
much-deserved sigh of relief. And she deserved no small credit for the
success. Her speech to the troops at Tilbury, rallying them to fight,
remains justly famous; it is among her most stirring:
My loving people,
We have been persuaded by some that are careful of our safety, to take heed
how we commit our selves to armed multitudes, for fear of treachery; but I
assure you I do not desire to live to distrust my faithful and loving
people. Let tyrants fear, I have always so behaved myself that, under God, I
have placed my chiefest strength and safeguard in the loyal hearts and
good-will of my subjects; and therefore I am come amongst you, as you see,
at this time, not for my recreation and disport, but being resolved, in the
midst and heat of the battle, to live and die amongst you all; to lay down
for my God, and for my kingdom, and my people, my honour and my blood, even
in the dust. I know I have the body but of a weak and feeble woman; but I
have the heart and stomach of a king, and of a king of England too, and
think foul scorn that Parma or Spain, or any prince of Europe, should dare
to invade the borders of my realm; to which rather than any dishonour shall
grow by me, I myself will take up arms, I myself will be your general,
judge, and rewarder of every one of your virtues in the field. I know
already, for your forwardness you have deserved rewards and crowns; and We
do assure you in the word of a prince, they shall be duly paid you. In the
mean time, my lieutenant general shall be in my stead, than whom never
prince commanded a more noble or worthy subject; not doubting but by your
obedience to my general, by your concord in the camp, and your valour in the
field, we shall shortly have a famous victory over those enemies of my God,
of my kingdom, and of my people.
She enjoyed a renaissance of sorts among her people after the Armada.
She had already ruled for thirty years. Those years of peace and
general prosperity had led to an inevitable resentment amongst her subjects,
particularly the young noblemen who now dominated her court. They
wanted adventure, glory, grand military exploits; they were fervent
nationalists who wanted England to finally challenge the great powers of
Europe; they believed themselves capable of anything. And Elizabeth,
nearing sixty, would regard them with either amusement or anger. They
did not know the price of war, she would complain; they did not understand
how difficult it had been to bring peace and security to England. They
had not lived through the tumultuous reigns of her father and siblings.
They did not remember the bitter religious divide, which even now she only
bridged with her inestimable charm and intellect. England was at peace
and her young courtiers chafed at peace. But for the queen, peace was
her greatest gift to her 'loving people.' She knew its importance, the
dear price it had cost her. 'To be a King and wear a crown is a thing
more pleasant to them that see it, than it is pleasant to them that bear
it,' she remarked in her Golden Speech of 1601.
But she also knew those young courtiers disagreed, however much they
fawned over her, pretending she was still the young queen of thirty.
Elizabeth was content to play the game for her vanity would not allow
otherwise. To grow old was a curse to her, she remarked; 'I am not
sick, I feel no pain, yet I pine away.' To have a young mind in an old
body was another common lament. She felt the loss of her youth keenly
and did what she could to create a timeless role for herself. She wore
wigs and heavy make-up and still dressed in the opulent gowns of a maid, a
fetching style when she was younger but now merely a reminder of her lack of
marriage and family. Her older subjects understood her melancholy; of
the younger ones, Sir Walter Raleigh and Sir Francis Bacon were clever
enough to guess its cause. But most did not.
And the queen no longer had the comfort of loyal Cecil and her beloved
Dudley. Though Dudley had commanded the troops at Tilbury, he had died
barely a month afterwards. Cecil was now very old and had ceded much
of his influence to his ambitious son Robert and Sir Francis Walsingham, who
died in 1590. The queen thus turned to another favorite, a young man
who was a last link to Dudley. His name was Robert Devereux, earl of
Essex; he was Dudley's stepson and his mother was Elizabeth's cousin,
Lettice Knollys.
Essex remains one of the more interesting courtiers of Elizabeth's later
years. He was the mortal enemy of Raleigh (who found him arrogant and
overbearing) and close friends with Bacon. He became the great
favorite of Elizabeth's later years because, for a while, he was the ablest
flirt and wit at court. But his ambitions went far beyond being the
queen's 'wild-horse'. In this, he was encouraged by his flighty mother
and sycophantic admirers.
Essex believed in the primacy of the nobility at Elizabeth's court and
disliked the influence of Cecil and his son, Robert, and other 'upstarts'
such as Raleigh. He was too proud, which the queen - depending upon
her mood - found endearing or infuriating. And he dreamed of military
glory, badgering the queen to send him to Ireland to quell rebellions or
with the navy to harass Spanish ships. Elizabeth often refused; she
genuinely enjoyed his company and would not risk his life. And when
she did succumb, Essex performed disastrously. Though a daring and
brave soldier, he was a terrible commander and his exploits cost the frugal
queen dearly.
His worst offense, however, was a slip of the tongue. Elizabeth
would respond to Essex's tantrums by banishing him to the country until he
begged forgiveness. Once, he decided to pretend illness instead.
When news of his condition reached Elizabeth, she sent a letter asking after
his health - but nothing more. Someone mentioned the queen's
conditions for letting him return. Infuriated, Essex cried out, 'Her
conditions! Her conditions are as crooked as her carcase.' Those
words reached the queen and she never forgot them.
Essex did return to court. But his subsequent behavior was
outlandish and insulting; he even dared to turn his back on Elizabeth during
a council meeting. The final blow came when he led a rebellion against
the queen. With his friend, the earl of Southampton, he planned to
gather a small army and seize the queen and throne. When captured, as
inevitably he was, for his supporters were few and even those deserted him,
Essex declared he only meant to save the queen from evil counsel. But
Elizabeth, who had so often vacillated over executions, only hesitated once
with Essex. He was executed on 25 February 1601.
Despite scurrilous gossip, Elizabeth's affection for Essex was more
maternal than romantic. She had no choice but to sign his
death-warrant but it broke her heart. When her godson, Sir John
Harington, visited in the winter of 1602, he found her taste for old
pleasures gone. Harington read some of his rhymes and Elizabeth, with
a little smile, remarked, 'When thou dost feel creeping time at thy gate,
these fooleries will please thee less; I am past my relish for such
matters.' To the earl of Nottingham, mourning the loss of his wife,
she said, ' I am tied with a chain of iron about my neck. I am tied,
I am tied, and the case is altered with me.'
She mentioned Essex at times, but this was merely a symptom of her
awareness that all of the work and struggle of her reign had ended in
solitude. She had often remarked on the essential loneliness of the
crown but she felt it most deeply now.
Her council, led by Robert Cecil, whose father had died in 1601, watched
her slow decline while preparing
for the future. Elizabeth still had
not named a successor. She had always understood its dangerous
implications. Yet there was no real doubt that she meant for James VI
of Scotland, son of Mary queen of Scots, to succeed her. He had
married a Protestant princess and was already a father. And he had
long since made his peace with Elizabeth, exchanging frequent letters and
accepting her political advice.
Elizabeth retired to Richmond Palace, her 'warm, snug box' in March 1603.
Her death was preceded by physical weakness and mental depression, but there
were no overt causes. She was almost seventy years old, ancient for
her time. She rested in a low chair by the fire, refusing to let
doctors examine her. As the days passed, her condition slowly
worsened. She stood for hours on end until, finally, she was persuaded
to lay upon cushions on the floor. She rested there for two days, not
speaking. A doctor ventured close and asked how she could bear the
endless silence. She replied simply, 'I meditate.' For the third
and fourth day, she continued to rest in silence, with a finger often in her
mouth. Her attendants were terrified; they must move her but she
refused. The younger Cecil visited and said, 'Your Majesty, to content
the people, you must go to bed.' Elizabeth replied, with some of her
old spirit, 'Little man, little man, the word must is not used to
princes.'
Finally, she grew so weak that they could carry her to bed. She
asked for music and, for a time, it brought some comfort. Her
councilors assembled; did she have any instructions regarding the
succession? She made a sign when Cecil mentioned the king of Scotland.
It was enough. He returned to his office to begin the paperwork for a
new ruler.
Meanwhile, Archbishop Whitgift, whom she once called her 'little black
husband', arrived to pray. He was old and his knees ached terribly,
but he knelt at the royal bedside until she finally slept. She slept on into
the early hours of 24 March until, at last, as the courtiers watched and
waited, the steady breathing stopped. 'Her Majesty departed this life,
mildly like a lamb, easily like a ripe apple from the tree,' John Manningham
was told.
That same morning, the chief councilors rode to Whitehall where Cecil
drafted the proclamation of the queen's death and James's succession.
He read it aloud first at Whitehall and then at St Paul's and finally
Cheapside cross. The councilors then formally demanded entrance to the
Tower of London in the name of King James I of England. Elizabeth's
maids and ladies were still waiting in the Coffer Room at Richmond Palace.
When news of the peaceful transition of power came, they began to prepare
for Elizabeth's funeral.
The new king received the news of his accession on 27 March, for the
ambitious Robert Carey had ridden at top speed to Edinburgh; his journey was
so quick that its speed would not be matched until 1832. But while
James was initially welcomed peacefully and happily, his reign would quickly
turn sour. It was not long before even Robert Cecil, who became the
most powerful statesman of James's reign, wrote to Harington:
You know all my former steps: good knight, rest content, and give heed to
one that hath sorrowed in the bright lustre of a court, and gone heavily
even on the best-seeming fair ground. Tis a great task to prove one's
honesty, and yet not spoil one's fortune. You have tasted a little
hereof in our blessed Queen's time, who was more than a man and, in troth,
sometimes less than a woman. I wish I waited now in her Presence
Chamber, with ease at my foot, and rest in my bed. I am pushed from
the shore of comfort, and know not where the winds and waves of a court may
bear me.
And the common people realized their loss as well, as Godfrey Goodman,
bishop of Gloucester wrote:
After a few years, when we had experience of a Scottish government, the
Queen did seem to revive; then was her memory much magnified: such ringing
of bells, such public joy and sermons in commemoration of her, the picture
of her tomb painted in many churches, and in effect more solemnity and joy
in memory of her coronation than was for the coming-in of King James.
Elizabeth's funeral procession, composed of more than a thousand
mourners, began on 28 April. It was a stirring tribute to the queen,
never forgotten by those who witnessed its passing. But her tomb, paid
for by the new king, was less impressive than that provided to his disgraced
mother, and cost far less. It can still be visited in Westminster
Abbey, where Elizabeth rests alongside her half-sister Queen Mary I.
Serious consequences were avoided for the first thirty years of
Elizabeth's rule due to her own prevarication and Philip's more pressing
problems. But as the 1580s began, it was clear that something must
give. Philip could no longer afford the blatant piracy of the English,
publicly disavowed but privately approved by Elizabeth (who always received
the largest share of profits.) She had even gone so far as to knight
her greatest pirate, Sir Francis Drake, in 1581. Four years later, the
English openly supported the Netherlands when it revolted against Philip, a
dangerous but popular policy for Elizabeth. Furthermore, Philip had
long claimed the throne of Portugal but had only recently seized it by force
of arms. If he wished to maintain control, he needed to defend the
rich and wide-ranging Portuguese colonies.