The Taming of the Queen

The king looks down at me, sees my white face, and pulls the hat off his thinning hair. He waves it in the air. ‘For God! For Harry! And for Saint George!’ he bellows, and his court, and then the people all crowding around us, take up the cry so that they may even hear it over the sea: English sailors may even hear it as they look up and see death sailing towards them with thousands of sails spread wide.

The king is thrilled by the challenge. ‘We’re outnumbered but I think they are outgunned,’ he shouts. He takes Charles Brandon by the shoulder. ‘Don’t you think so, Charles? I think so! Don’t you think so?’

‘They’re outgunned,’ Charles says certainly. ‘But they’re double our number.’

‘You’ve got Portsmouth fortified,’ the king confirms.

‘I’ve got cannon on every point, including here,’ Charles says grimly. ‘If they come any closer you can fire the gun yourself.’

‘They shan’t come closer,’ the king declares. ‘I won’t have them in English waters. I forbid them to come anywhere near English land. I am the king! Are they going to challenge me on my own land? In my own castle? I am afraid of nothing. I am always completely fearless.’

I see that Charles Brandon does not look at me, as if it is better not to note the king’s vainglorious boast. I look around for Doctor Butts and I find his pale face at the back of the court. I nod to him and he draws closer.

‘His Majesty is overexcited,’ I observe.

He watches as Henry shouts for a page to help him limp painfully from one side of the tower to the other, as he leans out over the walls and claps a gunner on the back. He is acting like a man taking the battle to the heart of a weak enemy, certain of victory. He is shouting threats as if they can hear him, as if he can make any difference. He is acting as if his fury and his rage against the French can prevail against the silent approach of their thousands of ships and the steady beat – which now we can hear – of the drums from their galleys, keeping the time of the inexorable oars.

‘There is no containing him now,’ Doctor Butts says.

I know that we are about to see something terrible. The French fleet comes on and onward, and the little English ships bob out of harbour and cannot get themselves into any formation, the harbour barges fruitlessly pulling them forward, trying to catch the wind. A few ships spread their sails and move swiftly away from shore, and some of them try to come about to get their guns trained on the low French galleys. Mercilessly the French come on, the galleys before, the great ships behind.

‘Now you’ll see it! Now you’ll see something,’ the king predicts. He hobbles down to the outermost point on the castle wall, turns his head and shouts back to me, but his words are drowned in the roar of cannon as the first English ships come within range of the French guns.

The English cannon respond. We can see the black squares open up on the sides of the ships as the gun doors open and the cannon are rolled out, then a puff of smoke as each cannon fires and rebounds into the ship for reloading.

‘Mary Rose!’ Henry yells, like a boy naming his favourite champion in a joust. ‘Henry Grace à Dieu!’

I can see the Mary Rose getting ready to engage, her gun doors wide open. It seems like there are hundreds of them, stacked in rows from her upper deck to the waterline. I can see men on the upper deck: the master of the ship and the boatswain at the wheel, and a figure – I suppose it is Thomas; I suppose that small still figure in the bold red cape is the man I adore – standing behind them.

‘God keep him. Oh, God keep him,’ is all I whisper.

I can see the two fighting castles at prow and stern, built high, crowded with men. The sun is shining on their helmets and I see them raise their pikes as they wait for their chance to grapple and board the enemy ships. Thomas will lead them when the charge comes. He will have to jump from one ship to another and bellow for them to follow him. Below the fighting castles, over the middle of the open deck, there are nets stretched from side to side. They are the boarding nets, so that no-one can jump on board in a rival attack, and take our precious ship. I can see the ranked soldiers underneath the nets. When they get close enough to a French ship they will be released and swarm out.

‘Fire!’ Henry shouts, as if they can hear him from the castle. ‘Fire! Fire! I command it!’

A barge comes towards the beautiful wallowing English ship, the oars like the legs of an insect crawling through the water. A cloud of black smoke suddenly spits from the prow. Now we can smell the stink of gunpowder, drifting over the water.