He waves his hand northwards. “No need to look for them anymore. They’re not there!” he exclaims. “They’re not coming!”

“Not coming?”

“They turned back to meet the Spanish at Hartlepool and the Spanish failed them.”

“Failed them?” It seems all I can do is echo him, like a chorus.

Hastings laughs in his joy and snatches my hands as if he would dance with me. “Failed them. Failed them, Madam Bess! The damned Spanish! Failures, as you would expect! Failed to meet them and broke their hearts!”

“Broke their hearts?”

“Some have given up and gone home. Westmorland and Northumberland are riding separately. Their army is dispersing.”

“We are safe?”

“We are safe.”

“It is over?”

“Over!”

Relief makes friends of us. He holds out his arms and I hug him as if he were my brother. “Thank God,” I say quietly. “And without a battle joined nor a drop of kinsman’s blood spilled.”

“Amen,” he says quietly. “A victory without a battle, a victory without a death. God save the queen.”

“I cannot believe it!”

“It is true. Cecil writes to me himself. We are saved. Against all the odds we are saved. The Protestant queen keeps her throne and the other queen is at our mercy. Her allies delayed, her friends dispersed, her army gone. Thank God, thank the God of our faith.”

“Why have the Spanish not come?”

Hastings shakes his head, still laughing. “Who knows? Who knows? The main thing is they missed their rendezvous; she is ruined. Her army discouraged, her thousands of men melted away. We have won! Thank God who smiles on us, His own.”

He whirls me round and I laugh out loud.

“My God, there will be profits to be made out of this,” he says, going from piety to prospect in one swift leap.

“Land?”

“Westmorland’s estates and Northumberland’s lands must be confiscated and broken up,” he says. “They will be charged with treason; their houses will be awarded to those who have been loyal. Who more loyal than you and me, eh, Countess? Shall you get another grand house from this, d’you think? How would half of Northumberland suit you?”

“It’s no more than I’ve paid out already,” I say.

“Richly rewarded,” he remarks with intense pleasure. “We will be richly rewarded. God blesses us, doesn’t He? Praise Him.”

COVENTRY: GEORGE

DECEMBER, 1569