For the first time he is not looking out to sea, his face bright; he is not striking a pose, hands on hips for the artist that is sketching him. He looks behind him, as if to see that his guard is ready to cover his retreat, and then he looks back to where the dark blue mass of the Isle of Wight looms on the horizon. Before the island, in the channel, the French fleet has suddenly silently appeared, sailing in, row upon row of them. If it were land, it would be a cavalry charge of huge coursers, ridden knee to knee, one row after another in a great bank of brute strength. But here there is no sound, and it is somehow more terrifying for this. The ships move easily through the water, their sails spread, all on the same tack, and there seem to be hundreds, thousands of them. I cannot see the sea, not between them nor beyond them. It is like a forest of sails on the move. They are like a wall of sail.

And before them, in their vanguard, is another fleet. These are galleys, each one moving with an aggressive thrust through the water, each one keeping time with the other, row after row leaping forward with each blow of the oars into the sea. Even from here, even from our brave pretty little turret on Southsea Common, I can see the dark mouth of the single cannon that is mounted in the prow of each low barge as it looks hungrily towards our ships, our few ships, our little ships, as they tumble out of the safety of harbor to defend our coast, and I know that on his flagship, the Mary Rose, Thomas Seymour will be beside the steersman, looking out and seeing that he is massively outnumbered.

“God help us,” I whisper.

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.”