Gloriana's Torch

by Patricia Finney

  ‘It was His voice? But why me?’

  ‘Now why should you be the only one of His creatures that Our Lord does not take an interest in? What arrogance.’ Parsons was still smiling kindly. ‘Why not His voice? In times of misery and labour, He will try to speak to us. All we must do is listen.’

  Dormer clasped his hands, trying to control his despair. They would tell him to leave. He had failed catastrophically at the thing to which he had dedicated his whole life. This was the end.

  Fear not, said the soft voice at the back of his skull, now you can go home.

  Well, that was obviously impossible, his mother would never forgive him, and there would be no room for him in the large draughty house with its empty larders.

  ‘I am not to be a member of the Society of Jesus,’ he said dully.

  ‘No, Mr Dormer. It would be cruelty to admit you.’

  Quite objectively, he noted that his knuckles had gone white and so were the quicks of his bitten nails. He was young enough that it was still a surprise to him how large and bony his hands had become.

  ‘Mr Dormer.’

  ‘Yes, Father?’

  ‘I have need of an active young man to carry some dispatches for me to His Grace the Duke of Parma. I have written a letter of introduction for you to His Grace and I am sure he will find work that is worthy of you in the Great Enterprise of England.’

  Edward blinked. ‘I am sure he has many servants far more able than I—’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Fr Persons, smiling his dry smile, ‘God, as I have often noted, works strangely. You will find it in Isaiah, chapter fifty-five, his thoughts are not our thoughts, his ways not our ways. The worst heresy in the world tells God what He should do. As indeed the Protestants tell Him. Now here I have a letter from His Grace the Duke of Parma, which arrived this morning from Antwerp. He asks for a young Englishman for a most important mission into England in connection with the King of Spain’s great Enterprise of England. He would prefer one that has taken no Holy Orders since there may well be fighting and certainly some unpriestlike behaviour involved. It could end in your death, Edward, in fact it quite likely will. It could end as it did for young Father Campion, with the public hangman gutting and castrating you in the sight of the London mob, before cutting you in four. Are you ready for that, if need be?’

  ‘Of course, Father.’ Edward answered in what he hoped was a firm voice. Was this right? Was Fr Persons making fun of him? Go home! shouted the voice of the little demon inside him.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Fr Persons. ‘Well, let us hope and pray that the heretic bastard’s murder of the saintly Queen of Scots is the last such martyrdom in England.’

  ‘It will be if I can make it so,’ said Edward, having to crush the urge to laugh. ‘I can go to Parma?’

  ‘Yes, my son. Go and change back into your old clothes – which may be a little loose for you – take your sword, hire a horse with the money I shall give you and go to Flanders. Parma awaits your arrival with eager anticipation – or he would if he knew you.’

  ‘I’m not to be a priest?’ Edward knew he was repeating himself, but he had to be sure.

  ‘No, my son. Not now. Not ever, perhaps. God requires of you a more active kind of service.’

  The joy bubbling up inside Dormer was almost too much to bear. He knelt to kiss Fr Persons’ ring, blessed by Loyola himself, and then let himself into the little white-washed passage, crudely painted with the Sacrifice of Isaac. There he silently jumped and punched the air at the glory of his release.

  He couldn’t go home just yet, which was a pity. But he could go home in glory, with the plunder of London, to rescue his family from poverty and want and outrageous recusant fines.

  He took horse later that day with just enough money to get him to Flanders if he was not robbed, a doublet that creased and wrinkled on him like a sack and a belt in which he had to cut another notch. His sword felt so heavy when he put it on he nearly dropped it and the bony nag between his flabby thighs stumbled and sighed at every step through the meanly cobbled streets of Rheims, since she could perfectly tell that he had not the power in him to make her behave.

  One day perhaps, thought Edward, when I ride into London with the liberating tercios, perhaps on that day I will be happier. He hummed Laudate Deum omnes gentes to himself as the poor nag groaned and stumbled her way into the countryside.

  * * *

  Antwerp was a maze of streets, some of them still singed or shot-holed in places from the great Fury of Antwerp when the Spanish troops had mutinied after Queen Elizabeth stole their wages from the Genoan treasure ships.

  Edward was tired and had run out of money by the time he reached the place, and he got lost. He only trailed into Parma’s headquarters late in the evening. He handed in his package and letter of introduction from Fr Persons without much hope that it would help him find lodging for the night.

  To his astonishment, after a short time waiting by the fire in the porter’s chamber, he was led by a brisk functionary in black damask and an icy ruff, through a series of anterooms filled with a vast variety of men, soldiers, servants, clerks, priests, a series of doors guarded by impassive soldiers in high polished morions, and at last brought to a halt at a curtain that had candlelight trickling under it.

  ‘Who are you bringing me to?’ Edward asked in French and then again in Latin.

  The functionary blinked and answered, also in Latin, ‘To His Grace, of course.’

  That Edward had simply never expected. He felt a little sick. ‘But sir, should I not wash, prepare myself…?’

  Eat? asked his stomach and made a mighty rumble.

  ‘His Grace is a very busy man and he can only fit you in now,’ said the functionary blankly.

  Please God, stop my stomach rumbling. The functionary jerked his head for Edward to follow, and they went into the high-ceilinged office where a man in black and cramoisie figured velvet bent his head over a desk under a blaze of wax candles.

  ‘Your Grace, may I present Mr Edward Dormer, late of the English Seminary at Rheims.’

  Alexander Farnese, Duke of Parma turned and nodded. Edward stepped forward, heart thundering, traitor-guts gurgling and managed to make it down to one knee without too much disgrace. The Duke held out a ring for Edward to kiss, which he did.

  ‘Mr Dormer,’ said Parma, ‘I believe I know your aunt. Did she once attend Her Majesty the Queen of Spain?’

  ‘Yes, Your Grace.’ Edward could feel his spots tingling.

  ‘Hmm.’ The dark, intelligent face looked thoughtful. ‘I have a vital and urgent mission for you, Mr Dormer.’

  Edward’s stomach gurgled again. He tightened his stomach muscles and gulped. ‘Yes, Your Grace?’

  It was a simple mission in essence, but very difficult, Parma explained, slowly and carefully in his accented Latin, while Edward knelt before him, praying frantically that he would not fart.

  It seemed Parma had no need of more clerks or secretaries and nor did he lack for young lieutenants. What he did need was someone who spoke fluent English, who was not known to the English priest hunters. What he most especially needed was someone who could travel to England in disguise and swiftly track down a traitor, who was probably on the point of selling some very important information to Walsingham, the Queen’s spymaster.

  ‘And then, Your Grace?’ Edward asked nervously.

  The dark, chiselled chin creaked on the ruff as Parma looked at the candles. ‘Kill him, of course.’

  Edward gulped. He had not in fact killed anyone in his life, which he hoped Parma did not know.

  ‘Your Grace…’ He was about to say that he felt utterly inadequate for such an important mission. His guts were ahead of him. The most appalling gurgle and growling resounded through the office. Parma’s aristocratic face did not so much as twitch, although Edward blushed crimson.

  ‘You need not take this mission, if your heart forbids it,’ said Parma, looking at him shrewdly. ‘There can be no room for d
oubt here.’

  Go home!

  ‘I have no doubts,’ said Edward firmly. ‘Of course I’ll find this traitor and … and kill him, Your Grace.’

  Parma handed him two pieces of paper. ‘That is all the information we have on the man, Van Groenig. He is a mapmaker, incidentally. If you have the chance, you must search him and his dwelling and retrieve any stolen maps he may have. The other is a plenary indulgence from the Holy Father, so that whatever mortal sins you commit in this mission are already forgiven you since they are in the cause of God’s Holy Church. This means that if you are captured, you can go to your death unshriven, joyful in the knowledge that all your sins are forgiven. Naturally you must be careful not to abuse such a trust.’

  Edward found the paper slippery to his fingers, which were sweating. He gulped again. ‘Of course, Your Grace.’

  ‘When you have committed the information to memory, please burn the paper. The indulgence you may keep with your or leave here as you please.’

  ‘Your Grace, how should I … er … how should I kill him?’

  ‘In any way that seems proper to you, Mr Dormer, I do not interfere in matters of judgement. You will be given instruction by our Mr Lammett while we make you ready for your journey, but I beseech you not to speak of your mission to anyone, since it seems remarkable to me how much Walsingham knows of my decisions.’

  ‘Yes, Your Grace.’

  ‘It’s the way of the world, alas, that so many can be bought by the heretics. If you should come upon an Englishman called David Becket and happen to have a good opportunity, you would do a great work for our blessed Mother Church if you could kill him too. However, he is not an easy man to kill and is one of Walsingham’s most dangerous servants, so your first task must be Van Groenig.’

  ‘Your Grace, you honour me greatly with such—’ Arughluglglug, said Edward’s stomach demon, determined to destroy him.

  Parma looked briefly sad, as if there was a great deal he had no intention of telling Edward. ‘Please don’t thank me, Mr Dormer. I shall thank you personally if you should return. Now go and tell my man to feed you.’

  Edward got himself up on his feet again without too much disaster, bowed very clumsily because his head felt light, and whisked out under the curtain. He had got as far as the corridor where the functionary was waiting for him before he had to let go. Loudly. He felt resentful: the most important interview of his life and his infuriating Brother Ass of a body had to make a farce of it.

  But he forgot all about his resentment when they gave him a plate of bread and sausage and pease-pottage that would have served for three meals in the seminary. He wolfed it down with the excellent Flemish beer. Then they took him to a small room where two other men snorted on a bed, and gave him a straw pallet on the floor, sheets and blankets to cover himself. Edward undressed, almost blind with weariness, then stretched out feeling quite guilty at all the luxury: no bare boards, no hairshirt, no breviary to stumble through with eyes dropping shut by themselves with tiredness. And he was warm. He tried to say a couple of prayers of thanksgiving but only got through the first half of the Lord’s Prayer.

  In the morning, he slept late, until a serving boy came to fetch him at eight o’clock. There was fresh bread and soft cheese, and more good Flemish beer for breakfast and then he was led to another part of the palace where he was measured for a new suit of clothes to be made for him by an English tailor. After that he was introduced to an Englishman called Piers Lammett, who had a weary, shut face like a turtle’s, and a lean body in a worn buff coat.

  ‘Mr Dormer,’ he said in English, ‘I understand you will be journeying to England on a vital mission.’

  ‘I am going to England, yes,’ said Edward carefully.

  ‘And what will you be doing?’

  ‘Carrying dispatches, I expect.’

  Lammett smiled and nodded. He picked up a blunt practice sword and threw another one to Edward who caught it. ‘Attack me, Mr Dormer, any way you like.’

  Edward was invigorated by food, good sleep and the excitement of the trust place in him. He attacked with such vim that he somehow got through Lammett’s guard and caught him in the ribs with a sideways cut.

  Lammett made a surprised ‘Ooof!’ sound, and staggered back for a moment, cradling his ribs. Edward waited politely for him, and Lammett fleched straight into Edward’s solar plexus with the blunted point of the sword. Edward sat down crowing for air. Lammett bent over him, caught his hair and brought the blade of the sword round gently against his neck.

  ‘Less of the gentleman, Mr Dormer,’ he said dryly. ‘If you come through someone’s guard like that, don’t waste your chance.’

  ‘Uhhh … huhhh … I haven’t practised with a … sword for uhhh … years.’

  ‘Is that so? Well, Mr Dormer, you must have a natural gift for it, for I never saw such a pretty attack. Come on, up with you.’

  Lammett spent the morning taking Edward through all the various varieties of Defence: sword and buckler, rapier, sword and dagger, dagger alone. Edward’s legs and arms were trembling and his shirt soaked with sweat when he sat down to eat and again found twice as much on his plate as he was used to. He gulped it all down, took a siesta and went back to Lammett.

  It seemed there were numerous ways to kill someone and Lammett knew most of them. The lean Englishman favoured the crossbow for long-distance work and the garrotte for close work or a very sharp stiletto into the eye. None of these methods caused noise or a great deal of mess, as he put it, so there was at least the possibility of escape.

  ‘Possibility?’ Edward asked.

  ‘I put it no higher.’ Lammett met his eye coldly. ‘Be sure you have made your confession before you leave.’

  ‘What about this famous henchman of Walsingham’s, David Becket? Do you know him?’

  Lammett blinked at him for a moment. ‘By reputation, yes. Although I’ve heard he’s less handy with a blade than he was.’

  Well, that was good to hear. Edward nodded, wondering if he should ask about how best to kill Van Groenig.

  ‘I taught the use of a crossbow to a young man that had a plan to assassinate the Witch-Queen of England,’ said Lammett thoughtfully, ‘and it was Becket who foiled the plot. Sir Philip Sidney sent Becket to pretend to be a priest at Rheims a couple of years later to find out the truth of a rumoured libel against the Witch-Queen. He went with poor Fr Tom Hart to England and, of course, that all ended badly as well.’

  ‘Becket was at Rheims?’

  ‘Briefly. Walsingham is often successful at getting men into the Seminary, mainly because Fr Persons is a good and holy man who generally believes what he’s told. I had heard that Becket was injured and not able to fight any more, but even so, he’s a dangerous man.’

  Lammett came at him again with the wooden dagger and Edward used a trick his poor father had taught him, took it off him and gently dipped the blade towards Lammett’s eye.

  ‘Very good, Mr Dormer. Very good indeed.’

  Edward nodded, trying to look serious and modest and thought how splendid it would be to defeat this evil servant of Walsingham’s in a fair fight and kill him.

  * * *

  A week later, wearing a new and more fashionable grey wool suit trimmed with black brocade, carrying a sword and stiletto and a pouch full of French livres tournois, Edward travelled as a French merchant dealing in pearls across the storm-tossed, evil, grey Channel to Dover where the Tunnage and Poundage men were as easy to bribe as Lammett had predicted.

  He rested to recover from his seasickness for a few days, then hired a livery horse at Hobson’s Stables and travelled up the boggy road to London, feeling very strange to be back so soon, and very much a foreigner. It was hard to see how a mapmaker could be so important as to need killing. Perhaps he was going to sell a map of Antwerp to Walsingham, or a map of the troop-carrying canals that Parma was having built in the Scheldt estuary to carry the barges full of soldiers across the Narrow Sea when the Armada had taken
control of it. It was impossible that Parma would order such a thing as an assassination without very good reason.

  England was not so cold as Rheims, or perhaps it was just that he was eating so much more: big solid steak and kidney puddings, spit-roasts of pork with apples and bread sippets, high, proud pies full of gamebirds and rabbit. At night the dank air beyond the bed curtains caught his lungs sometimes and made him cough.

  The paper Parma had given him had carried a full description of Van Groenig. It was burned now, but impressed on his memory. He thought often, especially in bed at night, about how he would do the killing. Sometimes he thought of his home on the marches of Wales and wished he could go and see his mother and his sisters, but not yet. First he would complete his mission. He was very frightened about the killing. Certainly he had learned a great deal from Lammett, but would he be able to do it properly, in cold blood, as the heroic young Belgian priest who had shot the heretic William the Silent had done?

  He never thought about being captured. For all Lammett’s gloom, he did not expect it. God had called him to do this work, he was certain. God had spoken personally to him, telling him not to be a priest and to serve Parma. Therefore all would be well. Theoretically, God might want him for a martyr, but he didn’t expect such an honour. He knew for sure that he was being led into the greater and better service of God and His Holy Church, and that was good enough for him.

  He stayed at the house of a good Catholic woman in London, who often hid priests. She called him by the name he gave her, fed him good plain food and asked not a single question. He was impressed. He knew very little of women, apart from his mother and sisters, but he knew that the Church Fathers taught truthfully that they were weak, foolish chatterboxes.