The king sat upon a keg in the fore part of his ship, with little John of Richmond, who was no more than a schoolboy, perched upon his knee. Edward was clad in the black velvet jacket which was his favourite garb, and wore a small brown beaver hat with a white plume at the side. A rich cloak of fur turned up with miniver drooped from his shoulders. Behind him were a score of his knights, brilliant in silks and sarcenets, some seated on an upturned boat and some swinging their legs from the bulwark.
In front stood John Chandos in a parti-coloured jupon, one foot raised upon the anchor-stock, picking at the strings of his guitar and singing a song which he had learned at Marienburg when last he helped the Teutonic knights against the heathen. The king, his knights, and even the archers in the waist below them, laughed at the merry lilt and joined lustily in the chorus, while the men of the neighbouring ships leaned over the side to hearken to the deep chant rolling over the waters.
But there came a sudden interruption to the song. A sharp, harsh shout came down from the lookout stationed in the circular top at the end of the mast.
“I spy a sail—two sails!” he cried.
John Bunce, the king’s shipman, shaded his eyes and stared at the long fog-bank which shrouded the northern channel. Chandos, with his fingers over the strings of his guitar, the king, the knights, all gazed in the same direction. Two small dark shapes had burst forth, and then, after some minutes, a third.
“Surely they are the Spaniards?” said the king.
“Nay, sire,” the seaman answered, “the Spaniards are greater ships and are painted red. I know not what these may be.”
“But I could hazard a guess!” cried Chandos. “Surely they are the three ships with my own men on their way to Brittany.”
“You have hit it, John,” said the king. “But look, I pray you! What in the name of the Virgin is that?”
Four brilliant stars of flashing light had shone out from different points of the cloud-bank. The next instant as many tall ships had swooped forth into the sunshine. A fierce shout rang from the king’s ship, and was taken up all down the line, until the whole coast from Dungeness to Winchelsea echoed the warlike greeting. The king sprang up with a joyous face.
“The game is afoot, my friends!” said he. “Dress, John! Dress, Walter! Quick all of you! Squires, bring the harness! Let each tend to himself, for the time is short.”
A strange sight it was to see these forty nobles tearing off their clothes, and littering the deck with velvets and satins, while the squire of each, as busy as an ostler before a race, stooped and pulled, and strained and riveted, fastening the bassinets, the leg-pieces, the front and the back plates, until the silken courtier had become the man of steel. When their work was finished, there stood a stern group of warriors where the light dandies had sung and jested round Sir John’s guitar. Below in orderly silence the archers were mustering under their officers, and taking their allotted stations. A dozen had swarmed up to their hazardous post in the little tower in the tops.
“Bring wine, Nicholas!” cried the king. “Gentlemen, ere you close your visors I pray you to take a last rouse with me. You will be dry enough, I promise you, before your lips are free once more. To what shall we drink, John?”
“To the men of Spain,” said Chandos, his sharp face peering like a gaunt bird through the gap in his helmet. “May their hearts be stout and their spirits high this day!”
“Well said, John!” cried the king; and the knights laughed joyously as they drank. “Now, fair sirs, let each to his post! I am warden here on the forecastle. Do you, John, take charge of the afterguard. Walter, James, William, Fitz-Allan, Goldesborough, Reginald—you will stay with me! John, you may pick whom you will, and the others will bide with the archers. Now, bear straight at the centre, master shipman. Ere yonder sun sets we will bring a red ship back as a gift to our ladies, or never look upon a lady’s face again.”
The art of sailing into a wind had not yet been invented, nor was there any fore-and-aft canvas, save for small headsails with which a vessel could be turned. Hence the English fleet had to take a long slant down channel to meet their enemies; but as the Spaniards coming before the wind were equally anxious to engage there was the less delay. With stately pomp and dignity the two great fleets approached.
It chanced that one fine carack had outstripped its consorts and came sweeping along, all red and gold, with a fringe of twinkling steel, a good half-mile before the fleet. Edward looked at her with a kindling eye, for indeed she was a noble sight, with the blue water creaming under her gilded prow.
“This is a most worthy and debonair vessel, Master Bunce,” said he to the shipman beside him. “I would fain have a tilt with her. I pray you to hold us straight that we may bear her down.”
“If I hold her straight, then one or other must sink, and it may be both,” the seaman answered.
“I doubt not that with the help of our lady we shall do our part,” said the king. “Hold her straight, master-shipman, as I have told you.”
Now the two vessels were within arrow flight, and the bolts from
