An American Queen
By Errnge
Chapter One: The Great Anglo-Crusade
Part One: La Grande y Falicisima Armada
By Errnge
Chapter One: The Great Anglo-Crusade
Part One: La Grande y Falicisima Armada
Don Alonso Perez de Guzman, Duke of Medina Sidonia, would much rather have been anywhere than where he was now: aboard a ship. Even a calm day on the seas such as today made him sick to his stomach. It seemed to be a daily occurrence that he’d purge over the deck. He watched with some amusement as fish appeared from the deep blue to feast upon his vomit. That which did not make it to the sea hit the side of the Santa Anna, and dripped down her wooden boards, glistening in the fading sunlight.
“Blessed Virgin Mary,” he uttered, “deliver me of this wretched sickness.”
And then he felt his guts churn, and he heaved up more. It was nasty business being the commander-in-chief of the greatest fleet in the world, and being prone to seasickness. He looked up from the starboard side of the Santa Anna at his sailors. Spaniards—Portuguese, Castilians, Galicians, Asturians, Leonese, Aragonites, Basques, and even some Italians and Dutchmen—men from all over the Empire: they worked tirelessly as sailors and soldiers. And there were men just like them on every one of the one-hundred and thirty ships under his command. Not to mention the priests on board. Three of them escorted the flagship of the armada, more than any other.
It was July 20th, 1588 the Year of Our Lord, and the warm summer sun was beating down on his bald head mercilessly. For almost two months, he had been forced to sit on this ship on this cursed sea, and though he knew that a time was coming soon that he would no longer need be on this ship, it was little comfort. War was coming, and de Guzman feared that he was not a man made for such things. How many of these men, de Guzman wondered, would survive the coming weeks?
The expedition had, already, been hard with terrible storms, cumbersome ships, and improper supplies. De Guzman wondered if he wasn’t throwing up because his food was half-rotten. It was a fact; this whole excursion was not ideal.
Don Alonso Perez de Guzman, 7th Duke of Medina Sidonia, Commander-and-Cheif of the Spanish Armada
“Señor,” his secretary approached, excited. “The English sails have been sighted on the horizon. Battle will surely meet us in the morning. Your subordinates await orders.”
“Don Cristobal,” de Guzman croaked, wiping the bile from his snow-white beard, “Must you interrupt me when I am in prayer?”
Don Cristobal and several of the sailors nearby laughed. “My apologies, Señor.”
“Bring me Recalde and Oquendo,” he said. “If we are to make battle with the heretics tomorrow, I want to speak with the two most qualified sailors under my command.”
“We have full faith in your capability, Señor,” Don Cristobal replied.
“That’s very kind of you,” de Guzman said, finally releasing his grip from the side of the ship. “But I am not a military man.”
“You are a great commander, though,” Cristobal continued. “You have turned this fleet around. Your men have great respect for you.”
“You flatter me, my friend,” de Guzman dared to walk toward his cabin, his boots taking loud steps upon the wooden deck. A gust of wind blew, and he could feel his stomach churn unhappily, but he ignored it. “But as I have said, I am no military man, and they are. We are to make battle tomorrow. I need to speak with admirals.”
Don Cristobal bowed, and de Guzman nodded as he passed. As he made his way to his cabin, he thought: How can we win this fight? God be on our side.
“Be certain to say your prayers tonight, Cristobal,” de Guzman said before entering his chambers. “Tomorrow, our Crusade begins.”
