Gloriana's Torch

by Patricia Finney

  ‘Medina Sidonia.’ Becket’s face had fallen. ‘Damn.’

  ‘Why? What have you heard of him?’

  Becket shook his head. ‘He may not be as timid as all that. And Parma has Sluys.’

  ‘He has built canals for the barges. Meanwhile, my lord Burghley tells me he is certain sure that all of this is simply to bring the Queen to terms by frightening her.’

  Becket hooted with ugly laughter. ‘Oh ay, no doubt. He’s hoping not to face the choice of hearing Mass or burning.’

  ‘So you are quite satisfied they are in earnest?’

  ‘What? That the King of Spain intends to invade? Oh yes. With the cost of it, the men, the prestigue … Parma will have lost a year’s campaigning against the Netherlanders for this. Believe me. They mean to take us.’

  ‘So I had thought, but my lord Burghley is very persuasive.’

  ‘Don’t listen to the old nanny goat, listen to Ralegh. There’s a man who knows war.’

  Philip was shocked at such disrespectful gossiping about the Queen’s counsellors.

  Nunez fingered his curly beard and nodded. ‘Ralegh is on fire to go to sea.’

  ‘She’ll never let him.’

  Philip noticed that a richly dressed child had come into the room, but that instead of waiting to be noticed or curtseying to the adults, she marched straight up to where Nunez sat and tapped him on the shoulder.

  And Nunez made an obeisance to her, which she returned with aplomb, before smiling at Becket who kissed her hand as if she were a lady.

  Philip rubbed his eyes, tried not to stare again. Becket grinned and introduced her. ‘Mistress Thomasina de Paris, the Queen’s Fool.’

  Was she…? Good God, was she a muliercula, a miniature woman? Philip had heard of such things but never seen one. Yes, there were faint crow’s feet on either side of her eyes, frown lines between her eyebrows. She was polite, but refused to sit with them and instead whisked Becket, Mrs Ames and her Negress away with her, leaving Philip very much alone among these strange foreigners who were his brother’s friends, who were kind enough to him and tried to talk to him, but were so utterly alien he could think of nothing to say.

  At last he made his excuses and since Becket had not returned, they sent a boy with him to guide him back to the Inns of Court. And when he got there, he found a message for a Mr Becket, very urgent. Naturally he opened it, only to find that Mr Pickering sent his compliments and the man Mr Becket sought was about to leave the Pool of London on the ebb tide that night, sailing on the Fortune of Lubeck.

  * * *

  The Queen’s Mews was a building in its own right, fitly made of stone, at the back of the enormous busy stables at Charing Cross that served the Court and mounted all the Queen’s messengers. Thomasina had brought them in by a back route that skirted the smoking kilns at Scotland Yard, sharing a litter with Mrs Anriques and leaning out of it to shout directions at the sweating bearers. The Negress paced easily and silently behind the litter.

  At a back gate opened by a silent man in green, Thomasina vaulted down and Mrs Ames was helped out by her woman. Then they crossed courtyards, climbed stairs and waited in a room that smelled like a chicken coop, being blindly observed by rows of hooded and unhooded hunting birds sitting on their perches, the jingle of their jesses like a very small dance.

  There was the sound of footsteps, of talk and laughter, and Becket suddenly found the black and ugly toad in his belly urging him to go, go now, this was his last chance.

  ‘Who are we meeting, Thomasina?’ he demanded again.

  ‘Hush,’ she said, impish with mischief. ‘Who do you think?’

  A horrible suspicion dawned fully. ‘What? Why the devil didn’t you tell me? At least I could have changed my shirt.’

  ‘Oh stuff,’ said Thomasina with a grin. ‘Why do you think I suggested the mews, Becket? I know you.’

  Becket gave her a look that was all the dirtier for her being completely right.

  He had never met the woman who came sauntering through the door at her ease, wearing a forest green hunting dress with a doublet-bodice and scenes of stag-hunting on the false front of her petticoat, a small cage of pearls, emeralds and diamonds lighting up her curly red wig and causing the nearest unhooded falcons to eye it with thoughtful greed. She rested on the arm of a chestnut-haired young man also in forest green, whose face bore a distinct family resemblance to hers, and the Royal Falconer led them, pompously discoursing about new hoods in the French style.

  Becket went to his knees, heart thundering, trying not to think of all the things he knew about this woman, which she would certainly have him beheaded rather than so much as breathe.

  Christ! I’ve still got my hat on, he thought suddenly and clutched it off his head, wishing devoutly that he had been to a barber recently, wondered if he should stand, go forward, stay where he was … He never wanted to meet the Queen, damn it! What was Thomasina thinking of? He was no scented, prinked-up courtier like whatsisname over there, holding out his arm for the Queen so prettily. Come to think of it, hadn’t he taught the boy some swordplay? Yes, he had. In fact, he wasn’t bad: short temper, tendency to attack without thinking, but quick on his feet and able to plan while he fought. Robert something … Robert Carey. One of Lord Chamberlain Hunsdon’s many sons. Memory stirred uncomfortably. Carey’s name had been in his dreams.

  And had he just put his right knee on a bird’s turd?

  The Queen smiled at Carey. ‘Now, Robin,’ she said, ‘do as I told you.’

  One elegant eyebrow up, the courtier escorted the Royal Falconer back to the door and out before the man had a chance to protest. Then he bowed, backed and shut the door after himself. One of the birds bated, blinking fiercely at the shiny stuff on the Queen’s head. They were alone with the Queen of England.

  Thomasina curtseyed. ‘Your Majesty,’ she said, ‘may I present Mr David Becket, of Mr Secretary Walsingham’s service. Mrs Anriques you already know, of course.’

  The Queen rustled forwards and Becket found he was looking at the pointed end of her stomacher, which had a fan hanging from it and an enamelled jewel of a white hart. Where was the jewelled poniard, then? Oh no, that was in his dream. He swallowed hard in a completely dry throat, not at all helped by the suffocating smell of bird. A long, white hand heavy with rings appeared in his vision and he remembered just enough of his manners to take it and kiss it.

  ‘For God’s sake, man, get off your knees. No one can think down there. Come on, up.’

  He climbed to his feet, longing to dust off the one that would have a smear of white on it.

  ‘Give me your hands.’ Hesitation, a long time, that phrase still had the power to clench his belly, chill his neck. At last he did so, put them in her long white fingers as if swearing allegiance to her in the old way. She held his paws lightly, only the tips of her long cold fingers, turned them over like a mother examining for dirty nails (which his were, where not bitten down to the quick), pushed back his grimy lace cuffs. She paused, hissed in her breath at the sight of the scars on his wrists. It came to him that she probably had never before seen the results of her servants’ work. By God, he’d better not take his shirt off then, she might faint dead away. At least one young whore had, which the older ones had found immensely funny.

  ‘Are you recovered of your stay in the Tower, Mr Becket?’

  ‘Ah … yes, Your Majesty.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Don’t lie to her,’ hissed Thomasina at his elbow as she stood on his toe.

  ‘Um … no, Your Majesty.’

  She simply waited in silence for him to go on, still holding his hands in hers. He struggled against yet another ludicrous great lump in his throat.

  ‘My back is stiff, Your Majesty, and my shoulders catch now and then, and my left shoulder was put out when I fell off my horse last month…’ It had hurt so badly he was sure it was broken, until he managed to ride to the next town and find a horse-doctor who used a couple of straps and a knee
to get his joint back in again, a crescendo of pain and then sudden relief so blessed it almost made him faint.

  She was still listening, her head cocked slightly to the side and the hanging diamonds on her hair-decoration trembling. He swallowed.

  ‘… but it’s my grip that’s been worst hurt. The other is only natural. But I cannot firmly hold a sword any longer although at least I can make a fist…’

  She looked down suddenly and he found he had done it without intending to.

  ‘Mr Becket,’ the Queen said softly, ‘this was done to you in our name and in the name of our policy, to our continued regret and sorrow. To my regret and sorrow. We have as you know, chastised that man Davison who so ill-used you, and we have seen to it that no such mistake shall be made with you again.’

  Becket ducked his head, blinking, thinking that apologies, even royal apologies, were all very well. They hardly mended broken grips.

  ‘Know that we are much in your debt, Mr Becket, which is not a thing lightly said by princes.’

  For the first time, Becket lifted his shaggy head and stared straight into her eyes. Yes, by God, Madam, he thought, you are in my debt. So what dramatic piece of heroism have you in mind to kill me off safely, hmm?

  ‘After all,’ said the Queen, speaking more lightly, ‘we have not yet thanked you personally for your efforts in our behalf last year.’

  ‘Your Majesty…’ Becket tried to think what to say and had just settled on something suitably modest when the Queen swept on.

  ‘We are also delighted at your discretion in all matters of state.’

  Yes there had been the faintest hint of an accent on the word ‘all’ so Becket decided he would stay silent now until she asked him a direct question.

  ‘Mr Becket, we are not so overpressed with able servants that we can afford to ignore your abilities. We have therefore approved a gift from the Privy Purse, in earnest of our thankfulness, of lands to the value of one hundred pounds per annum.’

  Now he had to say something. ‘Your Majesty is very kind and generous,’ he stammered, stunned at how fortunes could turn. With that and the rents on the Whitefriars property, he would be rich if he could just stay away from Pickering’s card games. And the booze and women of course.

  ‘Thomasina shall see to it. Now this is a gift and for services already rendered in our service. Not to mention what you have done personally for me.’ She paused significantly. ‘I know you have been sorely hurt in my service and so I will not order this. But if you feel you are able, we have another request to make of you, Mr Becket.’

  Here it comes, said the black toad in Becket’s belly, here is the thing that will kill you. And you could have been a lord.

  She let go his hands, stepped back a little. He loomed over her since she was only medium-sized for a woman. She smiled up at him, a most charming smile, despite the fact that she was certainly over fifty and her teeth were brown.

  Becket found himself smiling back at her, caught by the wicked gleam in her fine eyes. The thought came to him unbidden that every man in the kingdom must have been a catamite to let her go unbedded and unwed in her youth. Well, unwed at any rate.

  ‘Come,’ she said, and he found that she had taken his arm and was moving them past the rows of falcons to the other end of the room, the other two women following silently. Thomasina trotted with them, her old-young face impassive.

  At the end of the room, the falcons could not decide whom to watch, the woman with the shiny interesting stuff on her, or the little one with shiny stuff or the big man. The other two women were not interesting. None of them had food, so most of the birds settled on watching the door carefully for their friend and feeder, the Falconer.

  In the corner, by a rack full of delicately worked little leather hoods, each hanging on a hook labelled with a bird’s name, the Queen turned to face Becket. ‘I understand you are a clerk of the Ordnance at the moment.’

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

  ‘I received your information about my lord Burghley from one source, but not the other, which I find interesting although not surprising.’

  Becket nodded cynically. ‘Ay,’ he said, ‘I thought that might amuse you … Majesty.’

  ‘Well, so it did. And I like your thinking behind it. The other information … I have no idea what kind of credence to place in it. This man called “Smith” – is he a friend of yours?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking, Your Majesty. I met him once when I was serving Sir Philip Sidney. I believe his real name is Lammett, the son of an old friend of my father’s. To be sure he is a Catholic, but he is an Englishman first. It was he first warned me of a … of the wicked libel against yourself.’

  ‘Ah.’ There was a world of chilly reminiscence and warning in that vowel.

  Becket shifted his feet, wondering how she could make him sweat just by looking at him. And it wasn’t just her regal power, it was in her eyes. He looked down.

  ‘So perhaps we should listen to him?’ she said.

  ‘I think so, except for the vagueness. A third part to Parma’s plan, a Miracle of Beauty? Not much there.’

  ‘Might it have anything to do with the four galleases Mr Ames was investigating for me?’

  ‘Of course it might. Anything might.’

  ‘What would you use a galleas for?’

  ‘I don’t know, Majesty, I have never seen one. And Ames in any case is … is lost.’

  Her lips tightened. ‘I had heard. Now, Mr Becket, the thing I am about to ask of you is no easier or safer service than Ames’s, I fear, although it may give you a chance to find out what happened to him.’

  By falling into the clutches of the Inquisition myself, no doubt, Madam, Becket thought but didn’t say.

  ‘We are proposing to become even more indebted to you, in a matter of great urgency, touching the safety of the kingdom. It may be that if all goes well we shall eventually owe you not only our life, not merely our reputation but our very throne.’ She turned her formal words with relish, as pleased with them as a poet, then leaned forward. ‘To be bald with you, Mr Becket, you may be killed or taken, I fear.’

  So do I, Madam, you have no notion how I fear. The black toad was self-satisfied, justified, its dire predictions vindicated.

  She glanced at Rebecca, still standing, head bowed, hands clasped, her black woman looming at her shoulder. ‘Will I explain your plan to Mr Becket, Mrs Anriques?’

  Simon’s widow curtseyed. ‘If you please, Your Majesty. I am not good at explanations.’

  Becket listened, not quite believing his own ears, as the Queen laid out to him the crazy, half-witted plan she had invented.

  Rebecca had suggested that in order to make search of her husband, she should take a ship with a cargo of supplies to Lisbon, to give her countenance, perhaps cheeses or hides or rope. Once in the Spanish harbour, it would no doubt be impounded but she would at least be in Spain, in the place where she had last had sight of her husband, and with the names and money she would bring, might be able to find him.

  But the Queen had taken this little plan, which needed her permission, and from it she had made a veritable Trojan horse.

  ‘Guns?’ said Becket heavily, breaking etiquette by interrupting the Queen, but needing to be sure he had heard right. ‘You want me to take guns to the Spaniards and instruct them in gunnery?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Becket,’ said the Queen.

  ‘But … will they be faulty?’

  ‘Some may, most will not. They are already bought and paid for by the Spanish, as you know, so they will be expecting them.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Mr Becket, hear me out!’ rapped the Queen and Becket fell silent again, glaring at the floor. ‘You shall take Mrs Anriques’ ship, loaded with the guns of the latest shipment, but no powder of course, for of that we have very little. Guns are not our worst problem, Mr Becket, for all Drake’s fretting, we make more than all the Spaniards, Frogs and Butter-eaters do put together. It is powder and shot
we lack, principally powder. In any case, you shall be taking the smaller weaponry with less throwing power. When you have brought the guns to the Duke of Medina Sidonia, you, Mr Becket shall use every art in your power to find out the truth of this third part of the Armada plan, this so-called Miracle of Beauty.’

  Becket’s jaw dropped. He tried to take a breath. ‘You want me to join the Armada?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Becket. For two excellent reasons. Firstly, so that you may harm and confuse their gunnery and ordnance, and secondly so that you can enquire as to the Miracle of Beauty and when you have found it out, you must find a way to tell my lord Admiral Howard of Effingham.’

  Becket stood there, utterly at a loss.

  ‘I have spoken privily with my Lord Treasurer Burghley and with … others who will be necessary for the matter. To be short, even if you cannot find out about the plan, I desire you to be my eyes and ears in the Armada. The guns are already sold by my Lord Treasurer, so they will be expected, and you will sail first to Flanders and then to Lisbon to join the Spanish fleet. You shall claim you are from Flanders and there will be papers to prove it. They will welcome you with open arms, for they greatly desire more guns. Further, they are even shorter of gunners than of guns and so if you present yourself as a gunner, they will certainly take you with them.’

  Find it out … find a way … What did she think he was? Jesus bloody Christ, to walk on water and deliver a letter to the Ark Royal?

  ‘To which end, Mrs Anriques and her woman shall go with you, since it is Mrs Anriques’ ship.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Mrs Anriques is giving me a ship for this matter and she has said that since she desires to go to Lisbon to find out what she can about her husband, she intends to go with you.’

  ‘Impossible. Insane even to think of it, the Armada is no place—’

  ‘I have no intention of joining the Armada, Mr Becket,’ said the voice of Rebecca behind her veil. ‘My intention is to find my husband. Besides, the Queen desires him rescued from the Inquisition as much as I do…’

  Becket was rocking with shock and dismay. A woman? In a matter like this? Never!