Gloriana's Torch

by Patricia Finney

  He felt for the bag of spikes he had brought to drive into the touch-holes of the great cannon all around him and make them impossible to fire. He only had to hold the gun platform for a couple of hours, for at first light the galleases would do the work they had been designed for by the great Admiral Santa Cruz, they would row into the harbour no matter what the wind was doing and with their heavy ordnance they would beat Calais into submission and take the harbour for God and the King.

  He went to the stairs, called down it, ‘Up, up here.’

  Only a few of them answered him, perhaps ten of them, with Smith among them, his face dark and brooding.

  ‘Smith,’ hissed Dormer. ‘Tell the men to finish off the wounded in the dormitory and then close the gates of the Citadel and be ready to hold it against the Governor’s men. Make a fighting retreat from there up to this platform and we’ll hold it until the town belongs to us.’

  Smith nodded, clattered down the stairs, calling orders. He reappeared and shut the door that led onto the gun platform ahead of him, leaving the German and his crossbow to guard it on the other side.

  It was a beautiful night. Dormer looked out to sea, over the harbour wall, far out where the white cliffs of his country could just be made out, glimmering. They took the light of the sun early, he supposed. Soon, he told himself, soon I’ll be there. This is the key. All I have to do is prevent the guns from firing until the galleases are in the harbour. Whatever is going on out there, the galleases will be rowing for the harbour mouth as soon as they can see which way to go … Once they have the harbour and the quayside, my part is done because M. Gourdain will make terms or be replaced by whoever sanctioned the opening of the postern gate.

  He knew why he and Lammett had been chosen for the mission: Englishmen loyal to the True Church taking Calais to help in the rescue of their country was an easier thing for the King of France to swallow politically than the same venture led by Spaniards or Flemings. It was all in the look of the thing.

  Edward looked across at where Smith was staring thoughtfully across harbour to the confusion of ships in Calais Roads. They could hear faint cries and the formation seemed to be breaking up, if the stern lights gave any guides. Two fireships were beaching on the sandbank, burning away to give some kind of light.

  He was sure no mere launching of fireships could have harmed the austere discipline of the Spanish fleet. Surely it was a ruse to fool the heretics.

  Smith took out his pipe and tobacco, made and lit it. He offered it, friendlywise, but Dormer refused, never having liked the American weed.

  ‘Now?’ asked Smith.

  ‘We wait until the galleases are in and the harbour is taken.’

  Smith nodded as if this confirmed his impressions. ‘We spike the guns?’

  Dormer shook his head. ‘I will.’ Casually he took out his pistol, checked that it was loaded and primed. Then he pointed it at Smith.

  Smith stared, blinking slowly.

  ‘Give me your sword, Mr Smith.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘For the sufficient reason that I believe you were plotting with Lammett to sabotage this venture. Now, Mr Smith.’ Smith licked his lips, unbuckled his belt and slid the sword over. ‘And your poniard.’

  ‘How can I fight when the French come to retake the Citadel?

  ‘Surely it’s better for you if you don’t fight, considering your injured hands.’

  Smith’s face was quite blank, hard to read, doubtless he was a good primero player, but there was a muscle twitching under his beard. Perhaps once he would have tried something, but now … Now he had the air of a man who has already been defeated. He took out the poniard by the quillions and threw it gently in Dormer’s direction. Then he crossed his arms, sucked smoke from his pipe and blew a smoke ring. ‘Well?’

  ‘I won’t ask why you turned your coat,’ Dormer said. ‘I’m sure your reasons seemed good to you. I’ll even say nothing of it if we make it to the Spanish fleet, because by then it will be irrelevant.’

  ‘Kind of you.’

  ‘How did you know Lammett?’

  Smith smiled again, a tired, wary smile and shook his head. ‘We need to start this conversation again, my friend,’ he said. ‘Firstly, as I expect you’re planning to kill me, you should know whom you are killing. No? My name is David Becket. I am the Queen’s man now and always have been, though many think me a turncoat as you do. Lammett was the real turncoat, for he could not stomach a Spaniard ruling England. He told me that you believed you had killed me very easily. It was my brother you killed, Mr Dormer, my brother Philip Becket, who was a man of peace, had lived all his life in the place he was born and never fought in anger once he grew to manhood. I have been looking very carefully for you.’

  Dormer stared. This was the great David Becket? Who had prevented the likeliest assassination attempt against the Witch-Queen, who had been somehow involved in the failure of Fr Tom Hart’s mission? This broad, dark, weary looking, grubby man with the clumsy, weak hands?

  Becket saw his astonishment. ‘Did you think I’d be killed by Lammett’s favourite stab in the eye, boy? It’s a perfectly good method, but you’d have to get behind me first.’

  ‘I’m sorry I killed your brother in mistake for you,’ said Dormer. ‘I had no wish to kill anybody but you.’

  Becket tilted his head in acknowledgement. ‘As for why you stabbed my woman…’

  ‘She attacked me with witchcraft. At your orders, no doubt.’

  ‘No, not my orders. Perhaps you offended her. She most certainly is a witch and can look after herself. As for the other … No apology can make up for my brother’s death and his widow’s sorrow, which is very heavy. She blamed me for it and in a way she was right.’ Becket sighed. ‘It seems all I can do is harm those around me. So here we are and soon Calais will be Spanish and then … Then, Mr Dormer? The tercios landing in Gravesend. Marching up the road to London, burning as they go. London Bridge blown up, the city a broken, burning hulk and the streets littered with corpses, the Oxford Road sounding to the stamp of the tercios and the rumble of their guns. Battle joined outside Oxford.’

  Dormer stared at him, mouth open.

  Becket sneered. ‘Had you not thought of that? Did you think the English would roll over with their paws in the air like dogs for the Spanish to lord it over them?’ He shook his head and chuckled without any humour at all. ‘Such an innocent you are, Mr Dormer, really. Do you think we’re living in a knightly romance? I have seen it all, in my dreams. Since early spring I have been plagued by them. It started with a dream of my father’s house – no very great mansion but a fair and good house – burnt and broken, my brother hanged from the rafters by the troops, my sister-in-law raped and my nephews and nieces killed.’

  ‘The soldiers of God would never—’

  ‘You have evidently not seen as much war as I have, Mr Dormer. Do you think any soldiers hold themselves back when they see a woman they can rape easily and without consequence? Do you think they hold their hands when the woman’s little son tries to protect her? Do you think war is a gentle and gracious sport, where the righteous win and the evil die and cannon balls only hit the sinful? Do you think that?’

  ‘God disposes—’

  ‘Certainly He does. But I have seen the soldiers of Spain starving out a city until all the children died of their swollen bellies, I have seen them burn and break poor folks’ houses for the pleasure of seeing the flames leap and hearing glass tinkle … Christ, I’ve done it myself … soldiers are only men, an army is only a mob, somewhat held in by discipline. Do you think the Spanish soldiers are angels because they cross themselves and pray to Our Lady?’

  ‘I’m sure they’re no worse than the Protestants—’

  ‘Of course they aren’t. When men are as bestial as they can be, there’s very little to choose between them. You were in England recently, you saw how fertile it is, how none of the towns are fortified, how peaceful it is. And now you plan to take bloody war into Engla
nd, have the Spanish destroy it, put Philip of Spain into Whitehall and the Holy Office in Westminster. Lammett wanted to stop you – he was no less a Catholic than you – but he was no God-damned Spaniard!’ Becket was shouting now. ‘He was no traitor like you.’

  In all his phantasies and all his plans, it had not in fact occurred to Dormer that the rulers of England would be foreign as well as Catholics.

  Becket was talking again, quite softly, his eyes holding Dormer’s as if by a spell, brilliant and intense with urgency. ‘Walsingham fears the Catholics. My liege, the Queen, does not. Do you know why? She knows they will not fight for Spain because they are true Englishmen who would never see England crushed by the Spaniards. Unlike you … you filth.’ Becket spat, quite accurately, between Dormer’s feet.

  For a moment Dormer’s fists bunched, he nearly stepped up close. But then he stopped, understanding what Becket was about. He sat again, levelled his pistol. ‘You can goad me, Mr Becket, but with God’s help I shall resist. Now will you spike that gun.’

  ‘No,’ said Becket, full of contempt. ‘Do it yourself, boy.’

  He should have shot Becket as soon as they were on the gun-platform. But the last traces of priesthood in him prevented it: since he had the chance, he must teach Becket to see that the Catholic church was his only hope of Heaven, that Dormer was right to try and save England from Hell. Then he could shoot the man with a clear conscience.

  So Dormer walked over to the largest gun, still pointing his pistol at Becket, put the iron spike in the touch-hole and using the mallet awkwardly left-handed, hammered it in. Then he went to the next gun and the next, working in concentrated silence, never letting the muzzle of his pistol waver from Becket’s chest. It would take a few hours to bore out new touch-holes so the guns could be fired again. All he needed to do was hold out until the galleases were in harbour.

  ‘Mr Becket,’ said Dormer as he worked. ‘I have let you live to hear this. The Catholic Church is the only true church, the word of God carried down the centuries in the arms of our Holy Mother. Only turn away from heresy, turn back to God and you will understand why…’

  ‘Keep your sermons for someone that is in fact a heretic, Dormer,’ said Becket wearily. ‘I see no God up there, no God in Churches, no God anywhere. Just a great emptiness full of puppets men make for themselves to fight over.’

  Dormer paused in his hammering. ‘No God at all?’

  ‘Never seen sign of one. Or if there is, he’s an ugly bastard, full of bile and rage and not an ounce of pity.’

  It was pitiful to hear the abandonment in his voice. Dormer suddenly felt his eyes prickling with sadness for a man who felt so alone. ‘I’ll pray for you, Mr Becket, pray that you can come back to the Truth.’

  Becket shrugged, sucked his pipe, looked out over the battlements. The sun was coming up and two more fireships had grounded on the beach. Dormer looked out. His breath stopped.

  An oared ship was struggling for the harbour mouth, she had taken some kind of damage, she seemed clumsy in the water. The other ships … There was now no crescent formation visible. The sea was scattered with ships and puffs of smoke. A thunder of guns came rolling slowly across the water.

  Becket stood, looked, saw the galleas and his face lit with understanding. ‘Weren’t there four galleases?’

  ‘One galleas can do it.’

  The oars gleamed in the rising sun, a ship seeming to walk on the sea.

  ‘We could sink it with cannon fire from here,’ said Becket, ‘just the two of us. There’s a couple of guns left that can fire.’

  Dormer gripped his pistol, his hand had suddenly become sweaty. Becket’s voice was coaxing, not angry.

  ‘I know how to lay and serve a gun, there’s powder and ball here. Come on, Dormer, help me save England from war.’

  Something was wrong. Surely, there should be more galleases … No matter. Once the officers of the Armada realised that Calais was held for them, others would come into the harbour. Perhaps that was why they had lost formation, perhaps they were coming in for shelter.

  ‘Dormer.’ Becket’s voice was rough-edged, he was nearer.

  ‘Stand still,’ snapped Dormer. ‘Put your hands on your head.’

  Becket stood still, put his hands on his head.

  Dormer had the holy banner, packaged in his breast. As fast as he could he hammered in the spikes for the last couple of guns, then went to the flagpole that was empty, for the garrison had not had a chance to raise the fleur-de-lis of France. He clipped the banner to the cord, pulled it up and it spread out slackly on the soft breeze, the badge of the Duke of Parma, the signal that Calais was ripe for the taking.

  There were voices on the stairs, thundering, a crossbow being fired, somebody shrieked, the sound of a woman’s voice and a sudden hammering on the door onto the gun platform.

  ‘I warned Cecil and told the others they could go,’ Becket said casually. ‘No point asking them to stay and get killed when the French wanted their guns back.’

  Of course he had. Of course. The talking had been playing for time.

  There was a steady solid banging, then the crunch of an axe in the wood of the door.

  Becket was moving again, his hands hanging loose and relaxed. ‘Edward Dormer,’ he said softly, ‘you can put down your pistol, give me your surrender and I will perhaps let you live.’

  Dormer backed, full of black panic, his world suddenly empty of God’s guidance. The door splintered to the axe.

  Merula

  Dunkirk

  Never assume you know what a god is thinking.

  It was Lady Leopard. At last, at last, she had climbed on my shoulder, finally she had opened up the gates of my mind and allowed my godsight in its fullest flood to crash into the busy town of my hairy ghost thinking and utterly wreck it. Except for speaking the blue-green hairy ghost tongue of English, I was as I had been in the flower of my power, when I walked the forests of the lands ruled by the great Lion Sun and hunted gods in the dreamtime.

  Never could there have been a worse time for it.

  We had come to Dunkirk utterly without money, our horses stolen, with our bellies empty for two days. Becket had seen a paper with marks on it, among them a little picture of a horse with a horn on it, and laughed delightedly. So we took service with Piers Lammett and Edward Dormer, and received our ten guilders pourboire money. Becket called himself David Smith and he and Lammett laughed knowingly about that too.

  Why did we not take ship and travel back to England with the pourboire money when we first took service and I made my mark on their great book of names? Partly for the reason that there was no ship to be had, all the craft hiding from the Dutch who were out waiting for the Spanish fleet, and notorious pirates every one of them. Partly for the reason that Becket drank the pourboire money and I helped him. And partly for the reason that he wished to stay near Dormer. At first he would not say why, but then when he was drunk one night, he showed me a tattered piece of paper he kept in his jerkin, partly covered with their writing, but with a most fairly done picture of a young man that certainly did have the look of Edward Dormer.

  ‘This is the man that killed my brother,’ said Becket. ‘This is also the man who killed the mapmaker who would have sold us Parma’s plan to take England.’

  He explained it to me, about the three parts to the Spanish plan, then smiled cynically. ‘If you ever get the chance, Merula,’ he said, ‘try to see if he has a map on him anywhere?’

  And I sat next to him as he swallowed down the aqua vitae that stunned him enough so he could sleep and watched my Lady Leopard blinking complacently in her guise as the tabby cat. What is this about, I wondered as Becket became more and more surly as the drink took him down into his own pit, why is this?

  The gods too have rivalries and enmities, perhaps my Lady Leopard had taken against the Spaniards’ Suffering Jesus and was friends with Thundering Jehovah of the English. Or perhaps it was only her whim.

  Never think yo
u understand a god, said my Lady Leopard, tickling my ear.

  A man came to fetch us once, when Dormer was out of Dunkirk to recruit more men. Becket scowled and went, loosening his sword because of a name mentioned to him. We were taken to the back room of an alehouse where the tables had been covered with Turkey rugs to hide their stains and there was bad wine served in silver goblets for the benefit of the hunchbacked man in black damask that sat waiting for us. Becket bowed to him and so I salaamed.

  ‘It is Mr Becket, then,’ said Mr Robert Cecil, narrowing his eyes, ‘that was Clerk of the Ordnance.’

  ‘Ay, sir,’ said Becket in a flat tone that answered none of the questions hanging in Cecil’s voice.

  Cecil gestured that Becket should sit, should drink, should be less on his dignity and Becket sat, drank and remained on his dignity. I stood by the wall as was expected of me, with my hands behind my back. Then I was hoping there would be no upside-downness just yet, since this was an important man among the hairy ghosts and I had no wish to offend him. So far was I fallen then, so separated from my Lady.

  ‘I had heard…’ said Cecil, smiling judiciously, ‘I had heard that you were taking a shipload of ordnance to the Hague for the Queen.’

  ‘Ay, sir,’ said Becket, still a blank wall.

  ‘It went not as well as you had hoped?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Have you heard anything of Mr Fant recently?’

  And Becket stopped and looked at Cecil, who was smiling blandly, and Becket’s eyes fluttered like a maid’s just for a second. There was a fleeting smile from him.

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Ah, indeed, Mr Becket,’ said Cecil. ‘My father warned me you might be seeking employment with me here.’

  ‘Hm.’ Becket was thinking now, I could see that. ‘So Fant was working for my lord Burghley?’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ scolded Cecil. ‘Only my father thought he should be kept informed of your doings, that was all. I have no doubt he contacted Mrs Anriques himself.’