I cannot believe that everyone is joyous, as if we were about to watch a joust on a summer day, as if this were the legendary Field of the Cloth of Gold—a struggle between France and England to be the most glamorous, the most graceful, the most cultured and the most sporting. Surely everyone knows that it is nothing like that today? This is not playing at war but the hours before a real battle. There can be nothing to celebrate and everything to fear.

Looking behind me, over the open fields of Southsea Common, I see that though the court is putting a brave face on it, I am not the only one to be anxious. The yeomen of the guard are already prepared for the worst, their horses saddled and held on tight reins by their pages, ready for mounting and galloping away. The guardsmen are already in armor, with only their helmets to put on. Behind them, the great baggage train that always follows the royal court everywhere—petitioners, beggars, lawyers, thieves, and fools—is slowly dragging itself away—the baggage train always knows which side will win—and the people of Portsmouth are fleeing their own town, some of them walking under a burden of household goods, some riding, and some loading up carts. If the French defeat our fleet, they will sack Portsmouth and probably fire it as well. The king’s court seem to be the only ones who expect triumph and are looking forward to a battle.

The many bells of the town churches are tolling as our ships get ready to sail out of the harbor, the hundreds of noisy peals scaring the gulls, who circle and cry over the sea. There are about eighty ships, the greatest fleet England has ever assembled, some on the far side loading crew and weapons, some ready to go. I can see them unfurling their sails to our right, deeper in the harbor, the rowing boats and the galleys busy about them, taking ropes and preparing to haul them out of port to the sea.

“The greatest navy ever mustered,” the king declares to Anthony Browne at his side. “And ready to fight the French in the new way. It will be the greatest battle we have ever seen.”

“Thank God we are here to see it!” replies Sir Anthony. “What a great chance. I have commissioned a picture to show our victory.”

The painter, hurrying with his sketch book to record the sailing from the harbor, gives a low bow to the king and starts to outline the view before us, the tower where we are standing, the harbor to our right, the ships slowly emerging, the sea before us, the fluttering pennants, the cannon rolled out at the ready.

“I’m glad that my husband is not on board one of the ships,” Catherine Brandon remarks quietly.