Lucy's Blade

by John Lambshead

  "Yes, Your Majesty," said Walsingham.

  The Queen stroked Lucy's hair. "Do you not think auburn a very pretty colour, Sir Francis?"

  "Indeed I do, ma'am. 'Tis the noblest hair colour," said Walsingham.

  The Queen's own hair had a distinctly reddish tinge, although red was not a word anyone would have used in her presence. Tavern girls were redheads, queens were auburn.

  "Here, child, wear this as a token of your Queen's appreciation. You have served us well this day."

  Elizabeth pulled a ring of her own finger and slipped it on Lucy's right hand.

  "Now leave us, all of you."

  Everyone, except the ladies-in-waiting, filed backwards towards the door. The Queen had one final shot in her locker.

  "Captain," she said, in that deceptively purring tone she used when she was at her most dangerous.

  The man sprang to attention and gulped.

  "Instead of spreading idle tittle tattle about our loyal subjects—" She smiled indulgently at Lucy at this point. "We suggest you spend your time finding a good explanation for how you failed in your duty so egregiously that two traitors dressed as your guards ended up in our bedchamber."

  "Yes, Your Majesty," said a very unhappy man.

  Lucy ran down the corridor in front of the men.

  "Tunstall, give her a little time to have a cry and then go after her and make sure she's all right," said Walsingham. "I have business to attend to. Someone smuggled those assassins into the Palace. I want a name."

  Simon watched Lucy slip out into the garden.

  Lilith started to realise that all was not well. Lucy ran through the grounds into a quiet secluded garden containing a lichen-covered statue of Pan. Her observations of the girl's physiology suggested that Lucy was incandescent with fury.

  "Lilith, Lilith, where are you? Come out where I can see you," Lucy said.

  Lilith fed fake images along Lucy's optic nerves and fake sounds into Lucy's ears. She was careful to devote considerable processing power to her body-language subroutines. It was a very contrite, subdued demon that materialised in front of the girl.

  "You took control of my body. I don't even remember what you did but you clearly killed someone. So it was all lies, you really are a monster."

  "No, Lucy, no. I didn't want to kill anyone. I only tried to protect your uncle and your Queen."

  "And why should I believe a demon?" asked the girl, scornfully.

  She pulled the bloodstained knife out from her skirts and held the blade across her own throat.

  "Maybe Dee was right. Mayhap, I should end this now. What will you do to stop me, demon? Take control of my body again? And how long do you think you can imitate a human being before you are found out?"

  "I am so sorry, Lucy. I am sorry the man died but he was an assassin. I don't understand what I have done that is so wrong."

  "You will never, ever take control of my body like that again. Do you understand?"

  "I will never do it again if it upsets you so. I was only trying to protect you. I don't understand," said Lilith.

  Lucy calmed down. "You really don't understand, do you, Lilith, you clever, clever fool? Let me explain. You don't know how to behave around people. They will think me possessed and there is a penalty for people possessed by demons."

  A vision came into the girl's mind that was so strong that it leaked across to Lilith. Lucy tied to a stake, twisted in screaming agony while the fire roasted the flesh from her legs.

  Lilith fell to her knees in front of the girl. "I didn't understand. I will never override your consciousness again. I promise, on my honour."

  Simon hurried after Lucy. He stayed at a distance, keeping just close enough to follow her path through the complexities of the garden. He rounded a hedge and an empty vista opened onto a meadow. She was gone. Methodically, he retraced his steps, checking each of the hedge-secluded "rooms" that led off the path.

  Lucy was in the third one he visited, holding a dagger at her own throat.

  "Lucy, no!" He threw himself at the girl and grabbed her wrist.

  "Master Tunstall. What are you doing?" The girl easily disengaged her wrist, showing more strength than Simon imagined she could possess.

  He gripped her tightly by the shoulders and this time she didn't resist. "Sweet Jesus, Lucy, what were you thinking? This is all about Dee, isn't it, Dee and his stupid opinions?"

  "It's all right, Master Tunstall. You can let me go now."

  "No, it's not all right. I am taking you to your uncle. You will come with me."

  Simon held her tightly by the hand and led her back to the main house. Lucy followed meekly.

  'You don't have to go with him if you don't want to,' thought Lilith. 'He is not physically stronger than you.'

  'That's just what I meant, Lilith. You don't know how to behave. A pulling match would be unladylike, whoever won. When men are in this mood you just have to humour them. No, I will follow him like a good little girl. But mark me well, he will pay for treating me thus.'

  "It's a pretty little chapel," said Walsingham. "I understand old King Harry himself designed it. I wonder if he ever saw the completed building before he died?"

  "The bishop is taking his time," said Simon.

  "One cannot hurry the church," said Walsingham, dryly. "They deal with eternity."

  "Have you had any success in locating the traitor who smuggled assassins into the Palace?" asked Simon.

  "A steward has been found with a stab wound to the heart," said Walsingham.

  "So he let the assassins in and then they silenced him to protect their identity?"

  Walsingham shrugged. "Possibly, or mayhap I am supposed to think that and the steward was, in fact, an innocent victim. I suspect the real traitor is still out there. I want that man, Tunstall. I want him before he can hatch a new plot."

  The chapel door swung open and Lucy emerged, followed by a rotund man in a bishop's finery.

  "All is well, my lord?" asked Walsingham.

  "Indeed, very fair," said the bishop. "Lady Dennys and I have taken mass and I have blessed her. She has proclaimed the creed and the Lord's Prayer. A delightful girl."

  Lucy had her most angelic expression on.

  "What in Heaven gave you the idea that there might be a problem?" asked the bishop.

  "Nothing really," said Walsingham. "It's just that Doctor Dee."

  "Dee!" hooted the Bishop, interrupting the spymaster. "That mountebank conjuror? Faith, Sir Francis, I would insist on sending my curate out for a second opinion if Dee told me it was raining. Worry not about the Dees of this world. The Church finds no fault in your niece."

  The relief on Sir Francis's face was obvious. "Thank you, my lord. You have put my mind at rest. Is there any small service that I can perform for the Church?"

  The Bishop took Walsingham by the arm and led him away. "By strange chance, Sir Francis, there is a little matter that I would trouble you with."

  Simon and Lucy watched them go.

  "I have a favour to ask you," Lucy said, touching Simon lightly on the arm. "Come with me."

  Simon followed her back into the chapel and up to the altar. The gloom and cool of heavy stone replaced the light and warmth of the day.

  "I believe you have some small affection for me, Master Tunstall," she said.

  "I have great affection for all my master's household, Lady Dennys."

  The girl nodded.

  "Place your hand on the Bible," she said. "I fear I will be done to death by slanderous tongues. I want you to kill me first if they try to burn me. Swear it on your very soul."

  "Lady Dennys, Lucy, I cannot. You wear the Queen's ring now. No one would dare accuse you."

  Simon lifted Lucy's hand. The gold ring sat loosely on her narrow finger. The letters ER, Elizabeth Regina, stood proud. The Tudors still followed the old medieval tradition of giving a ring from their own hand to a subject they wished to honour. A person rewarded in this way was immune from political prosecu
tion, since to accuse the subject was to challenge the monarch.

  "Swear it, as you value your soul. Do it for me, Simon."

  "On my soul, I swear that I will kill you before I let you burn." He snatched his hand off the Bible as if it was red-hot and staggered out of the chapel like a man who had taken a wound.

  'That was cruel, Lucy. You realise that he loves you,' thought Lilith.

  Act 6

  The Spanish Main

  "Here's a health unto her Majesty,

  "with a fa la la la la la la.

  "Confusion to her enemies,

  "with a fa la la la la la la."

  Oars dipped in unison in time to the rhythm of the song and bit into the water. Backs strained in unison.

  "And he who would not drink her health,

  "we wish him neither wit nor wealth.

  "Nor yet a rope to hang himself,

  "with a fa la la la la la la."

  The small rowing boat leapt forward but was immediately braked by a heavy cable lifting behind it. Water ran down the rope, falling in a long line into the sea. The other end of the cable was tied to the bow of a race-built galleon. Oars lifted, feathered, and dipped again. Imperceptibly, the bows of the galleon swung away from the tropical shoreline.

  "May she live in mirth and jollity,

  "with a fa la la la la la la.

  "And past-time with good company,

  "with a fa la la la la la la.

  "And he who would not join in glee,

  "must puritan or papist be,

  "And him we curse with misery."

  William Hawkins stood on the small raised deck at the stern, where he could oversee the operation.

  "Boatswain," he bawled forward.

  "Captain!" The voice came from the bow.

  "Tell them to put their backs into it. The ship is helpless like this. I swear a gaggle of the Queen's ladies-in-waiting could do a better job. Call themselves sea dogs!"

  "Aye, aye, sir."

  The boatswain screamed abuse at the men in the boat. William tuned him out with the ability of long experience. The bay was perfect. It curved shallowly inwards from the north. There would be reefs and shallows up there protecting the anchorage. The sea cut deeply into the land in the south, until it met a low ridge that projected perpendicularly out into the Caribbean as a peninsula. Here, the water was still deep close in to the shoreline. A ship could anchor here in perfect safety and be invisible to traffic moving up the coast from the south. Only the tips of the ship's masts would project over the headland and they would be wonderfully hidden against the trees.

  A man old for the sea climbed laboriously up the ladder to the poop. He knuckled his forehead to William in lieu of removing a cap. It was hot and it was humid. Everyone stripped down. William himself wore only his breeches and a shirt open to the waist.

  "Hot work, master carpenter," said William.

  "Yes sir, I wondered if I might carry out some repairs? I am worried that the trip across the Atlantic has caused some timbers to work loose."

  William frowned. "I suppose you can, but I want the ship ready for to sail at one hour's notice. As your first priority, master carpenter, I want the pinnace reassembled."

  "Very good, sir."

  English ships sailing to the Spanish Americas often took a small pinnace in a knocked-down condition in the ship's hold. On arrival, the boat could be reassembled to provide useful support. The Swallow carried a fifteen-ton pinnace equipped with two masts as well as oars.

  The song went on interminably as the oars dipped and pulled. William wiped the sweat from his eyes. It was so fetid that he felt that he could almost cut the air with a cutlass. The Americas had a damnable climate that was utterly unsuitable for civilised men.

  The bow slowly swung until the warship pointed out to sea.

  "Release anchor," said William.

  "You heard the captain, you bacon-fed knaves," repeated the boatswain.

  A solid splash indicated compliance.

  "Run a cable to the stern," ordered William.

  The rowing boat pirouetted on its oars and, freed from the huge drag of the Swallow, leapt down the side of the ship. Mariners released the cable from the bow, passed it down the ship, and refastened it securely to the stern. The boat stopped alongside to receive a shore anchor, then raced for land.

  Light surf rolled gently onto bright, white Caribbean sand. The boat hissed as its keel ran up the beach. The crew jumped overboard and hauled the rowing boat further up the sand. Under the direction of a coxswain, the boat crew dug the anchor into firm soil at the top of the narrow beach and attached the cable. The boat crew relaxed in the shade of the tropical trees that lined the edge of the beach. It had been a long voyage.

  William surveyed his new empire. Raucous bird cries, and other strange noises exotic to an English ear, erupted from the jungle. Organic vapours curled off the land to assault his nose. Disease would be rife here. A small stream ran down the side of the peninsula and exited into the sea by means of a gully in the sand.

  "It all looks peaceful enough, Master Smethwick, but I want six armed men on the beach at all times when we have a party ashore," said William. Smethwick was the ship's master, the professional navigator who was William's second in command. The master's duties included the routine handling of the ship. He was responsible for choosing the ship's tack under sail and he had to get the best from her in all seas and winds.

  "The natives have no reason to love Spaniards and we Europeans probably all look alike to them," said William.

  "We are running short of water, Captain. I'll fill the casks at that stream."

  "Very good, Master Smethwick." The master could be safely left to organise such details with his usual competence.

  "Boatswain." William beckoned to the man.

  The boatswain was the senior petty officer on the ship. The master and captain were educated men and the carpenter a technical specialist who had learned his trade through long apprenticeship, but the boatswain was a seaman who had risen through the ranks. He, with his mates, was particularly responsible for sails and rigging but there was no end to his duties. He oversaw anchoring and the boat crews. He cleared the ship for action and he commanded that portion of the crew who worked the sails when the ship fought.

  Most of all, the boatswain was the senior sailor responsible for discipline. There was no more important a man on an English ship, save the captain himself.

  The man skipped up to the poop, with the agility learnt by a lifetime at sea.

  "Cap'n," he said.

  "You see that hill there," said William gesturing to the end of the peninsula where a rounded hummock rose out of the screen of trees. "I'll have two men up there from dawn to dusk watching to the south for a sail."

  "Aye, aye, Cap'n."

  "The men may go ashore to stretch their legs, boatswain, but tell them to stay close to the ship.

  The boatswain touched his forehead and went down into the waist of the ship.

  "I want four volunteers, you," the boatswain said, and pointed, "you, and you two. Take the small boat and clear a path up to that hillock. Well, get a move on."

  Behind William, an expensively dressed man watched the activity with bored disinterest.

  "I may as well go ashore myself, Hawkins. Arrange a boat for me will you?" asked Christopher Packenham.

  William hid his irritation.

  "The crew are rather busy right now. I will see what I can arrange later," said William.

  Packenham gave the sniff that indicated that he was displeased. William had got very fed up with hearing that sniff over the duration of a five-thousand-mile journey.

  "I think sooner rather than later, Hawkins. After all, my cousin Henry invested heavily in this enterprise."

  Maybe it was a good idea to get Packenham ashore as soon as possible. Maybe he would fall in a bog and drown, thought William, viciously.

  Before the Swallow arrived, the small bay had shown no sign that human beings
existed. But gradually, man made his usual impact. Vegetation was cleared and a camp set up at the waters edge. Sailors cleared a track to the lookout post.

  Day followed day but no sails were sighted. William sent out hunting parties for fresh meat but the yield was disappointing. The men grew bored, sick, and fractious, in equal measure. Inevitably, floggings were required to maintain discipline.

  William forced himself to watch each punishment. The crew needed to know that the captain backed his officers and supported each decision. He stood impassive as a young mariner was stripped to the waist and tied to a tree. A mate shoved the traditional wooden peg between the mariner's jaws.

  "I am not sure I can allow this, Hawkins," drawled Packenham.

  "I don't require your permission, Packenham. Stay out of my affairs." William was past politeness.

  "Don't get above your station, Hawkins. You drive the ship but everyone knows I am really in charge of this expedition. My cousin—

  William thrust his beard into Packenham's face before the man could finish. "A pox on your cousin. Get in my way again and I'll strip your back next." Packenham recoiled, shocked. William turned away before the man could react. This situation could easily run out of control.

  "Boatswain's mate, carry out the punishment," William said to the man with the cat-o'-nine-tails.

  The cat descended with a slap on the offender's back.

  Packenham recovered his dignity and backed off with the enigmatic smile of someone who had scored a point.

  The boatswain watched him go.

  "I smell trouble, Cap'n. The men have stopped complaining."

  The cat descended again.

  "Yes, I know," said William. "Discipline is ever a problem on our ships. I sometimes wonder whether we should pay our men a flat fee rather than give them shares of the proceeds."

  "The Spaniards pay their men and they run away," the boatswain said. "Our men fight to win their share."

  "True," William agreed.

  The cat descended again.

  The offender groaned in pain through the wooden peg.

  "The young gentleman," said the boatswain, making the word sound like an obscene insult, "is spending a great deal of time with some of the malcontents. He calls them bold rogues and makes much of what he calls 'your timidity' in just waiting here. Sorry, Cap'n, his words not mine."