The universal suspicion, consequent on these proceedings, grew most painful.  It pointed to one invariable quarter.  It was believed by all that the Queen was privately treating for peace, and that the transaction was kept a secret not only from the States but from her own most trusted counsellors also.  It would be difficult to exaggerate the pernicious effects of this suspicion.  Whether it was a well-grounded one or not, will be shown in a subsequent chapter, but there is no doubt that the vigour of the enterprise was thus sapped at a most critical moment.  The Provinces had never been more heartily banded together since the fatal 10th of July, 1584, than they were in the early spring of 1586.  They were rapidly organizing their own army, and, if the Queen had manifested more sympathy with her own starving troops, the united Englishmen and Hollanders would have been invincible even by Alexander Farnese.

Moreover, they had sent out nine war-vessels to cruise off the Cape Verd Islands for the homeward-bound Spanish treasure fleet from America, with orders, if they missed it, to proceed to the West Indies; so that, said Leicester, “the King of Spain will have enough to do between these men and Drake.”  All parties had united in conferring a generous amount of power upon the Earl, who was, in truth, stadholder-general, under grant from the States—­and both Leicester and the Provinces themselves were eager and earnest for the war.  In war alone lay the salvation of England and Holland.  Peace was an impossibility.  It seemed to the most experienced statesmen of both countries even an absurdity.  It may well be imagined, therefore, that the idea of an underhand negotiation by Elizabeth would cause a frenzy in the Netherlands.  In Leicester’s opinion, nothing short of a general massacre of the English would be the probable consequence.  “No doubt,” said he, “the very way it is to put us all to the sword here.  For mine own part it would be happiest for me, though I wish and trust to lose my life in better sort.”

Champagny, however, was giving out mysterious hints that the King of Spain could have peace with England when he wished for it.  Sir Thomas Cecil, son of Lord Burghley, on whose countenance the States especially relied, was returning on sick-leave from his government of the Brill, and this sudden departure of so eminent a personage, joined with the public disavowal of the recent transaction between Leicester and the Provinces, was producing a general and most sickening apprehension as to the Queen’s good faith.  The Earl did not fail to urge these matters most warmly on the consideration of the English council, setting forth that the States were stanch for the war, but that they would be beforehand with her if she attempted by underhand means to compass a peace.  “If these men once smell any such matter,” wrote Leicester to Burghley, “be you sure they will soon come before you, to the utter overthrow of her Majesty and state for ever.”