Queen Elizabeth, Gloriana herself resplendent in all her majesty, rode through the city attended by her courtiers and soldiers while basking in the adulation of the people thronging the narrow streets and occasionally giving a stiff wave.
Following closely behind, Lord Cecil turned to Sir Francis Walsingham. “They love her for our fleet’s success, my heartiest congratulations to you sirrah, the Spanish are indeed routed.”
The spymaster smiled graciously. “Tis none of my doing my lord, we have to thank the necromancer John Dee once again, for it was he that conjured the imp of the winds to blow hard on the enemy ships thus forcing them away.”
“True enough Walsingham but he is your man and we owe him much, for we would have not lost England’s greatest treasure without his ministrations?” he glanced at the queen. “She’ll last a good few years more I understand.”
“Not too loud my lord, see and keep silent!” cautioned the spymaster and they rode on behind the queen resplendent in all her painted glory, an automaton of flesh and bone kept alive by magick.