Gloriana's Torch

by Patricia Finney

  The afternoon was waning. Was Parma coming up the road? Another young man arrived on a sweating horse, spoke urgently to the Captain and suddenly they were all being ordered northwards off the bridge to wait in Cheapside, which was shuttered and bare after the flight of all the goldsmiths. Ben decided to stick close to Captain Becket, in case he could get poor Smudge back again. Also he wanted to go back to his mam once the battle was finished and the Spaniards were beaten.

  Becket had a horse now, a big solid hunter, and sat on it, looking grim. Smudge was standing with the other horses, head hanging down. Becket had slowmatch slung in coils round his body and curled expertly in his hand. He was absent-mindedly loading a dag from the pistol case before him.

  A short, round man in a very well-cut wool suit came up to his stirrup and spoke quietly, ‘It’s all set, Captain.’

  Becket looked down at him. ‘Thank you, Mr Pickering.’

  The man nodded, walked away to an alleyway where a ragged beggar covered in pustules waited for him. Becket beckoned Ben towards him.

  ‘Now, Ben, I have a very important message for you. You can have your pony again, here’s money for your journey and a warrant that makes you a Queen’s Messenger. I hereby order you, in the name of the Queen, to ride to the village of Middleton, ten miles south of Dorchester, and go to Becket House. If it’s still standing when you reach it, tell the lady of the house, Mistress Eleanor Becket, that the time has come to do as they do in the Low Countries. Here is a ring for her, which you must guard like your life, for it tells her who you come from. Then you do as she says, for she’ll look after you until you can go back to your mam. Can you do it?’

  Ben’s heart swelled with pride. He grabbed off his hat, ducked a bow and took the ring, which went on his forefinger quite snugly. It was a pretty ring, more for a woman than a man, set with diamond sparks and turquoise and pearls like a flower.

  ‘Ay, sir, I’ll do it, my word on it. I’ll tell her.’

  He cocked his head. Men were singing in Latin, far away. He listened a moment, wondering what they were saying. He knew Latin, had gone to school for a bit, before he had to be apprenticed as a bricklayer, and he’d been good at it. He was sorry to leave.

  ‘Good.’ Captain Becket was listening too. He smiled at Ben. ‘I rely on you, Mr Jonson. Go now. Take the Great West Road.’

  Ben jumped astride Smudge, who punished him with a small crow-hop. He clattered his heels on the pony’s ribs until the animal went very unhappily up to a choppy canter, heading west.

  As happens in dreams sometimes, the dreamer’s eye changed its focus, dived into the self it had been watching …

  Becket left his horse tethered to a rail, walked quickly down through the deserted bridge to stand looking out like a shopkeeper at his door, under the skulls of dead Papists. He heard them clearer now, the drumbeats and the singing. The tercios marched to a Latin hymn, a deep-voiced growl.

  ‘Te Deum laudamus, te Dominum confitemur, te aeternum Patrem omnis terra veneratur…’

  He had sung it himself while pretending to be a priest at the English Seminary in Rheims. We praise you, God, we confess you lord, you the eternal father that all the world worships … Something like that.

  Becket knew it was Parma’s habit to have his men sing that hymn when they took possession of a conquered city. A little premature, aren’t we, Your Grace? He waited until his ears were full as the drumbeats came louder and the sound of thousands of horses’ hooves and men’s feet and the grinding of wagons behind … Any minute now they would come in sight.

  He ducked inside the bridge gatehouse with his slowmatch burning, took it and lit the first and longest fuse. He had set the fuses himself using all the slowmatch he could find in the bowels of the Tower, never mind its age and rottenness.

  He had to lean right over the balustrade, almost upend himself to light the fuses under the carefully weakened drawbridge. It reminded him of his old friend Simon, and his throat ached for the man, awkward bastard though he was, and almost certainly lost in the dungeons of the Inquisition of Spain.

  He ran on, watched by the nearest watermen and soldiers, a heavyset, clumsy-looking man, yet very light on his feet, as he set his burning match to one fuse after another as if preparing fireworks for an Accession Day display. Which it was, in its kind. Who needed the excitable Signor Giambelli’s fireships loaded with gunpowder and called hellburners, to break a bridge? He would do it with gunpowder alone, as he had years ago in the Netherlands.

  A roar erupted from many thousand Spanish throats. Had they seen him? No – they had seen the heads of the traitors over the gatehouse.

  Orders shouted, the column halted. Please God, let Parma be at their head to ride into London, let no one delay them, let them not feel the need to send scouts ahead.

  He had argued until he was hoarse for this extravagant trap, with only Ralegh’s support. The Queen had listened and, at last, given her assent. Let it work, please God … They would send scouts ahead who would understand what the hissing and the smell meant and warn off the others. It would all be for nothing …

  No. They were marching again, they would not wait, they surged ahead, flags flying, drums beating … Ah, they had moved their sacred, Papally blessed banner to the vanguard now, carried by four young men in black. The officers had their helmets off in respect for the martyrs over the gate. How touching.

  The Spaniards broke step on the bridge and it rumbled with tramping feet as Becket quietly ran lighting fuses ahead of them. Come on, come to Papa, get your standards over the drawbridge.

  He was still lighting at the City end, when the first barrel of gunpowder blew with a great bellowing WHOOMF! and the walls of the house it was in blew outwards. The top three storeys paused in the air as the walls crumbled under them, another deep voiced boom as the next barrel blew.

  He had fused them to blow in sequence from each end; one misfired but the next went so it must have been bad powder, not the fuses.

  Suddenly, unmistakeably, a baby’s cry rang out from the top, fourth storey of one of the houses, crying and bawling. Some fool nurse must have left him behind. Nothing anyone could do about it, there wasn’t time to climb to one storey, let alone four … In the seconds before the next explosion, and after it, the babe screamed rage at the brutal world that had woken him.

  In the street down the middle of the bridge, Becket could see in his mind’s eye the terror and chaos of the vanguard, as the explosions stepped inwards to the drawbridge from each end. They would be running to and fro to escape the masonry and fire, crowding together, horses going mad, yes, there were a couple of men on the parapet looking down at the water as it purled through the narrow arches. One jumped, then another, veterans who knew perfectly well what had happened and what was coming next and were willing to exchange certain death for death merely probable in the roaring waters below. A few more jumped and then …

  BOOM! BOOM! Like a child’s mud bridge kicked by an invisible foot, house after house thundered, broke and fell inwards, the brick crumbling to dust, the wood turning into a spiked straw heap before the sawdust and paint and booze finally did their job and the flames took hold. No more crying from that poor baby.

  The middle of the bridge burst out in a bellow of light and smoke and bits of wood and limbs and chainshot thrown high in the air.

  Wishing to God he had more men, Becket heard the calivers and muskets of the watermen shooting the column of Spaniards from the Southwark house-windows. He longed for proper troops he could have held in reserve until now. In a year’s time, Becket knew he would have such troops. But not yet.

  The head of Parma’s triumphant column had been snapped off, along with their fancy banner. The middle of the column now writhed under fire from the houses around. But these were the finest troops in Europe, the unbeaten tercios of Spain. They staggered, backed, retreated from the bridge in good order, relined under fire, brought muskets and small murderer guns on the carts to bear and began methodically cle
aring one Southwark house after the other. The watermen ran for it when they had to and could, and rowed their boats for the other side of the Thames, most of them shot down before they got very far, their boats tumbling on downriver.

  Screams still echoed from the bridge, no more babies, thank God, mainly horses, as the buildings burned on into the dusk. Becket did not think he had managed to kill Parma himself, but it was still a good blow against him. The Duke would be more careful next time he crossed a bridge and that in itself would slow him down.

  Becket mounted his horse, who stamped and whinnied at the horrible sounds from the bridge. There was Lawrence Pickering, King of the London thieves, now sitting on a sweating pony. His hands were clenched.

  ‘Never thought I’d see the day,’ he muttered, tears in his eyes as he stared at the burning broken wonder of London town. ‘Never thought it. We’ll make them sons of whores regret every brick.’

  Becket had almost no gunpowder left and a city in riot ahead of him. He turned his head north and west, full of satisfaction …

  * * *

  And woke, staring at the embroidered tester, hearing the songbirds and the crows squabbling and astonished that there was no horse between his legs, no prickling stench of gunpowder in the air. The dream fled from him as he reached for it, more vivid than a play, more frightening than an ambush.

  He was exhausted, wrung out, as if he had in truth been blowing up London Bridge, rather than snoring away the spring night in the guestroom of Becket House. That much he recalled. Parma marching in to the city and him blowing the bridge. Well, so he would, if he had to. It had seemed a sound enough plan, perfectly workable, given the powder and the authority.

  The authority. Given that … Was that why he had been spared, why so many things that should have killed him had not done so? Did God intend him to be the Queen’s Captain-General against the Spaniard when he landed?

  Shaking his head he slid from between the covers and murdered the last dregs of his dream with a long swallow of aqua vitae from his flask.

  * * *

  Philip would not hear of his brother travelling up to London on his own, a journey he took far more seriously than Becket did, who was so accustomed to days in the saddle and the tedium of bad roads that he occasionally wondered if his arse would one day be as tough as his buff coat. He said as much, vigorously supported by Eleanor, but Philip set his bottom lip and looked mulish and said he was planning to go and look at David’s property in London in any case and if David wouldn’t ride with him, why he would ride by himself.

  Ungraciously, Becket gave in. There was a flurry as Philip’s man packed a bag for him and Eleanor unlocked their casket to get travel money for him. She paused and then picked something out of it, gave it to Becket who blinked down at the ring, ice running suddenly down his back at sight of it.

  ‘If you send me word as we discussed,’ she said quietly to him, ‘prove it with this ring.’

  Becket nodded wordlessly, transfixed by the pretty flower made of diamond sparks and turquoise and pearls. He slipped it onto his left little finger.

  Determined to discourage his brother into going home again as soon as possible, Becket said hardly a word to him for the two days it took them, travelling by the Queen’s post for which Becket had a warrant, changing horses every morning and afternoon and sleeping at the warranty inn overnight – a process that impressed Philip.

  They could have got to the city in the evening had they hurried, but Becket took a room at an inn in the village of Kensington so he could write letters and copy out Piers Lammett’s message. Philip was pressing to come to Seething Lane with him, perhaps to be introduced to the great Mr Secretary Walsingham himself …

  ‘Why? Do you want to be a pursuivant?’ Becket asked rudely, pouring more aqua vitae and regretting the extra stop. They were finishing their supper at one end of the common room, near the fire.

  ‘No, of course not, though it must be wonderfully interesting to serve the Queen by hunting down Spanish spies and priests.’

  Interesting. Christ. Interesting! Becket’s mouth twisted. ‘I tell you what, brother. I’ll change places with you, take your house, your wife, your children and live quiet in the country and you can be the pursuivant. Hmm? Say the word, and I’ll do it.’

  Philip blinked at him, shocked more by his voice than by what he said.

  ‘It’s no bad thing to have a tidy mind for business, the money can be good enough if you’re successful at picking up estates from arrested Papists. Anthony Munday has himself quite a little bundle of them by now, may he pox himself and die.’

  Philip had leaned back and was looking seriously at him across the scarred inn table, not bothering to drink his own silver cup of spirits. Becket tossed off his and poured some more.

  ‘Why so bitter, David?’ Philip asked softly. ‘What happened to you?’

  Becket shook his head. Jesu, where to start? It was simpler to keep silent.

  No, Philip would not be put off. He leaned across the table, caught his brother’s left hand and pushed back the grimy lace cuff. Then he whistled air in through his teeth at the ugliness of the knotted scars braceleting Becket’s thick wrist. Becket fought down the urge to punch him.

  ‘Were you a galley-slave, David?’

  Becket shook his head.

  ‘What was it then?’

  Always, across his mind and heart, slashed the memories: exhausting cold cramped misery of the tiny dank cell called Little Ease, the cluttered basement of the White Tower, Mr Secretary Davison questioning him in his fog of forgetfulness. He had wept, he remembered weeping because of the pain in his arms and shoulders and back, although God was a little merciful and did not allow anyone to remember the pain itself. Only his hands tingled with the ghosts of agony.

  Philip was still looking, seeing the cording as Becket’s hand turned, not very well, to a fist. ‘Who did this to you, brother?’ he asked huskily. ‘Is there any vengeance we could take?’

  Becket slammed his other fist on the table, pulled his wrist out of Philip’s grip and covered it again with his shirtcuff, drank his aqua vitae. Damn it, the cup rattled on his teeth with his shaking.

  ‘Take Walsingham to court, why don’t you?’ he snarled. ‘Take Anthony Munday, pursuivant, and Mr Secretary Davison the length of Westminster Hall on my account, for assault, battery…’

  Philip frowned. ‘Not Spaniards? Not the Inquisition?’

  Oh God, he was naïve. ‘The first time, it was Spaniards, yes. At Haarlem. But the Christmas before last, true Englishmen, Anthony Munday and his bumboy James Ramme, under the authority of Mr Secretary Davison and William Norton, Englishmen of good Protestant religion, hung me up from a pillar under the White Tower by my wrists, twice, and flogged me for good measure.’

  ‘Flogged you?’

  Poor Philip was so shocked at such a thing happening to his own brother, a gentleman.

  ‘Jesu, Philip, that wasn’t what did the harm, it was hanging up all day from my wrists. You get better from a flogging, it doesn’t even make your back stiff if you remember to touch your toes every hour while it heals. It was my own weight on my wrists in the manacles…’

  Philip’s face was white. Becket wished to stop, wanted to protect his brother’s cosy world where only Spaniards did evil, but once he had begun, his misery rose like a tide and he could not stop.

  ‘They thought I was a priest. They took me in a raid on a Mass where I was spying on them in disguise as a Papist, and the pursuivants cracked my head so well in taking of me, when I woke I knew nothing of myself. And until I cursed them for Papists they thought I was a Jesuit and treated me as they generally do treat Jesuits, God have mercy on them.’

  Philip put his hand to his mouth, took a shaky breath to talk, thought better of it and poured himself some aqua vitae. Becket gulped his own down and was able to speak better for it.

  ‘Do not upset yourself over it,’ he growled, hoping Philip would listen. ‘It was an honest mistake and
they righted it when once they understood what I was. Walsingham even made me an ex-gratia payment afterwards. But you see … My wrists … something happened to them. My hands no longer answer my will, they prickle and burn sometimes, they are clumsy and weak. See, I could not even make a proper fist to hit you with. If we arm-wrestled, you would win for the first time. So I am no longer a swordmaster and must make my way as a pursuivant, for I cannot wield even a veney-stick.’

  Christ Almighty, those were tears again. He was bawling like a babe for his lost swordplay, what in the name of God was he turning into? Becket put his cold hands over his face and fought for control.

  He felt the give on the bench as Philip sat himself down next to him, felt the weight of his brother’s arm across his back, found himself turning into his embrace so he could hide his face on his brother’s shoulder. Philip said nothing, only sat there next to him on the bench until he could cough and blow his nose and in general behave like a grown man again. At last Philip handed him another cup of aqua vitae. But Becket felt sick now, and only sipped. It did help. God knew, it was often the only thing that did.

  When he eventually looked at Philip’s face, he found no contempt as he feared, nor pity as he dreaded. Only a sort of kindly wonder.

  ‘Lord, brother, Eleanor was right when she likened you to a wounded bear.’

  Becket coughed. ‘Will you do the deal then, Philip?’ he said, less huskily. ‘You have my “interesting” life and I’ll have … why, I’ll let you keep the house and the brood and I’ll settle for your wife by herself, in her smock.’

  ‘Steady,’ said Philip dryly. ‘I think I can make shift to fight you for her.’