The Taming of the Queen

This autumn, with the king back in my bed and my room filled once more with the sickly odour of rotting flesh, I start to dream again. It is always the same dream. I walk up a damp circular stair, one hand on the clammy stone wall, one hand holding the flickering candle. A cold draught swirling up from the floor below warns me that I am not alone, there is someone coming up the stairs after me. The fear of whoever is silently following me drives me upwards, stepping quickly on the stairs so my candle flame bobs in the breeze and threatens to go out. At the top I am faced by six doors arranged in a circle around the landing, as small as the entrances to cells. I think that they will be locked but when I go to the first door and take hold of the ring, it turns easily, silently in my hand. I think then that I will not enter. I don’t know who is inside, and I can smell a miasma of putrefaction as if there is something bad behind the door, as if there is something rotting in the room. But then I hear a step on the stair behind me and I know I have to go onward and get away from whoever is following me. The door yields, and I go inwards, the door is snatched and locked behind me, I am captive, my candle flame blows out, and I am in darkness.

In the complete blackness of the enclosed silence of the room, I hear someone stealthily move.

The king’s need for allies becomes acute as French attacks on our shipping increase. There is no doubt in anyone’s mind that the French will raid our coastal towns and ports, perhaps even invade. The king has reports from his spy network, and from our merchants, that his lifelong rival and enemy King Francis of France is arming his fishermen and merchantmen, and building his own warships. It is a race to see who can muster the greatest fleet and we are lagging behind the French, who boast that they rule the Narrow and even the Northern Seas.

At this time of danger, Thomas is never at court. He is at Portsmouth, Plymouth or Dartmouth, Ipswich, Shoreham or Bristol, supervising the building of new ships, the refitting of old ones, and the muster and training of crews. Now he has his own ship of the line, he lives on board reviewing those ships that he has pressed into service, trying to find men to enlist as fighting soldiers on the unstable wooden castles that are built onto the decks of the merchantmen and little fishing ships.

As the sun sets earlier and earlier every day I imagine him, wrapped in a thick cloak, standing behind the steersman, scanning the darkening horizon for enemy sails, and I whisper a prayer to keep him safe. In their terror at the threat of the French invasion the court speak constantly of him, and I learn to be stony-faced when someone mentions the admiral and the fleet that he is mustering. I train myself to listen as if I am concerned for the ships and not for their commander.

It is in some of the worst weather of the autumn that Thomas plans an attack on the coast of Brittany, gathering his fleet off the Isle of Wight, hoping to catch the French navy sheltering in port and destroy them at their moorings. I hear of his plan from his sister-in-law, Anne Seymour, who has it from her husband, Edward. Thomas has sent his battle plan to the Privy Council for their approval. He says that the French must be destroyed in port before spring. He says that they have oared galleys that can fight in any weather, unlike our sailing ships, which depend on a favourable wind. He says that the only way to prevent an invasion is to destroy the French fleet before they even set sail. All the king’s castles on the south coast cannot do as much damage to the enemy as one well-timed sea-borne raid, if he can catch them unawares, at anchor.

He writes about new ways of using our ships. They have always been used as transport – delivering the soldiers and weapons to the battle where they will fight – but Thomas writes to the king that if we can make the ships more manoeuvrable, if we can arm them with heavy cannon, then we can use them as weapons themselves. A ship could meet another at sea and bombard from a distance, conquer at sea with cannon, and not depend on getting close enough to board. He writes that the French galleys carry a terrifyingly heavy cannon that launches stone cannonballs at the target and that they can hole an enemy vessel, ram it with the blade at their prow and only then get alongside to allow the soldiers to board for hand-to-hand fighting on a vessel that is already wounded.