Gloriana's Torch

by Patricia Finney

  She stood utterly still and he felt a chill down his neck as the candles moved in the breeze from the door. Only the breeze from the door, nothing else.

  ‘We are all followed by those we killed, which is why we must be careful how and why we do it, and to do it with respect. You should be wary of the first two you killed.’

  His mouth had gone dry, to be faced with the devil in this woman he had tried to help, before his great enterprise, his lynchpin effort … He began to repeat the Pater Noster.

  ‘Yes, this is a great prayer,’ she said, her voice becoming singsong as her demons took her captive again. ‘I would like to warn you, since you have been kind to me and taken care for my soul, which is more than any other hairy ghost has done … I would like to warn you not to go to Calais and not to take the Citadel for the sake of the Spanish. I would like to tell you not to betray your people, but I see you will do it anyway…’

  Dormer croaked, held fascinated by those onyx eyes under the wide brown brows. Her demon must have told her his secrets. The devil was opposing his holy work, a devil no doubt conjured by the Witch-Queen of England, who had sent this poor heathen woman against him … His cold fingers reached convulsively for his dagger.

  She shook her head, then suddenly stopped and turned as if someone had called her. Over in the corner she looked, the opposite corner from the prie-dieu which was empty except for the shadows thrown by the firelight, and her face lit up, her eyes and mouth opened wide and she held out her hands to her demon …

  Now, strike now! Edward told himself, snatched out his dagger and lunged for her chest, she staggered back with a cry, pulled out her own weapon, tried to defend herself … She was no worse than any other man would have been, except she had a slash in her chest, and when she ducked under his dagger strike, he punched her in the face with his fist, punched her again, got her on the ground and raised his dagger to strike …

  Something dark grabbed at him, he heard a whistling, smelled a terrible animal stink, heard a creaking of wooden beams as if in a ship, he felt sick as he always did in a ship. He was being held by something. He struck out, struck again … There was a shout, again he tangled with darkness, that was less than solid, but harder than air, as it were an unmoving wind in the shape of a stocky powerful man fighting him and the woman was shouting, shrieking angrily … Suddenly he felt an arm about his throat, heard a voice in his ear …

  ‘Dormer, stop it! What the hell are you doing! Stop it, Ned.’

  It was Lammett, holding him, stopping him from killing the woman whose chest he was sitting on, whose face he had made bloody with his fists, whose wound in her chest was welling with blood.

  ‘Get off.’ There was a snarl in Lammett’s voice, he was genuinely shocked. ‘What happened?’

  ‘She … she attacked me, with demons … There was a demon here, she called a devil to her, she’s a witch…’

  He could feel every part of himself shaking, spittle from his mouth, he could hardly speak from fear and fury.

  The black woman lay where she was, then looked up at Lammett with one purpling eye. ‘He wished to kill me and I fought,’ she said, her voice slurred. ‘He tried to stab me with his dagger, but my son … My son came and fought him. Calais will be his grave.’

  The eye shut, the woman passed out.

  Lammett hoisted Edward up, dusted him down, took his dagger, cleaned it. ‘I’ll fetch a surgeon and say we found her in the alley, no doubt it was footpads that attacked her,’ he said coldly.

  Dormer sat for a moment, the woman’s voice still in his ears. Her son? Calais his grave? The son’s grave or Dormer’s grave? How had she known?

  He followed after Lammett, still shaking.

  The surgeon clucked his tongue and said he thought the slash would either kill her that night if it was deep enough, or better itself without his help. He bound up the wound well enough, though the blood kept welling, soaking the lint and bandages.

  The soldier, David Smith came hurrying to find her, smelling, as he always did, strongly of booze, tried to rouse her and failed. Lammett repeated over and over, quite steadily to Smith’s sharp questions, that they had found her in an alley. And it was clear that Smith did not believe them.

  Dormer went along with all of this, silent, still shaking, still horrified at his near escape from a witch and her familiar demons. He insisted on calling in at the nearest church, only to find that it was a church of Our Lady and that the figure Merula had described to him looked down at him from the altar, crowned in stars, standing on the moon, dancing with the serpent … No. Crushing the serpent. Destroying it with her heel.

  He lit a candle in any case, knelt, tried to say the Ave Maria, found it would not come to him because he was so upset and crossed himself again. His candle went out, blown by a sudden draught.

  Still they had to wait. The next day, the feast of St Anne, dawned hot and breathless, not the slightest catspaw of wind ruffling the surface of the sea, where the waves slid themselves like oil up the beach and back again and urchins from Dunkirk went and risked their health to swim in it. It was clear no sailing ship could make any progress and particularly not the large store ships that the whole of the Armada would have to nanny all the way up the channel.

  Dormer did not visit the Negress, who lay still in Smith’s lodgings, grey under the ebony of her skin, the skin stretched tight on her face and fever raging from the wound in her chest. Smith had offered a reward to find the man who stabbed her.

  And the Saturday came, as slow as the waves, Saturday, 28 July, the feast of Saints Nazarius and Celsus, Martyrs. There were a few showers of rain while Dormer paced through the town. He laid a bet with one of Robert Cecil’s servants that the Armada would not be seen near Calais on the Monday, and another bet that it would not arrive on Sunday with one of the Spanish commissioner’s doorkeepers.

  On Sunday morning a rider came hammering into the Spanish commissioner’s lodgings. By noon Dormer knew that the Armada was at anchor outside Calais with M. Gourdain the governor allowing all non-martial supplies to be sent aboard. Three miles further down the coast were the English.

  * * *

  It was time.

  Quietly Dormer sent Lammett and Smith among the various billets they had put the men in, counting them, taking names, being sure they had swords and were, if not sober, at least capable of riding a horse that evening. Dormer went to Mass in a fog of excitement and fear; he had made his confession the day before, was careful to receive Holy Communion, and yet he could not say what the Gospel had been, only thought it might have been Christ cleansing the Temple. Which was a good omen he thought.

  He felt hollow with fright, with the knowledge that the Holy Enterprise of England rested on him alone. It made him unnaturally sensitive. He knew that Smith and Lammett were watching him carefully, that they spoke together often. Once he thought he saw Lammett talking to one of the English commissioner’s servants, but wasn’t sure. Perhaps he was only passing the time of day.

  They had to wait until the evening. In the last half hour before the gates shut, he had all his men filter out of the city by all the gates, meeting in an orchard under the walls. Some of the men had sold their horses to buy drink, one had a lame horse, another had no caliver. Dormer went among them rectifying the things they had not, relieving them of things they did not need, such as bedrolls and sacks to carry plunder.

  ‘We will head south-west along the coast road,’ he said in English first, then French before he had Lammett translate it to Dutch. ‘We are going to take the Calais Citadel, spike the guns if we can. They must not be able to fire at ships coming into the harbour.’

  There was the sound of someone sucking air in through his teeth, some muttering among the Frenchmen they had had no choice but to recruit.

  One spoke up. ‘There is no war between the King of Spain and the King of France,’ he protested. ‘Why is the King of Spain attacking Calais?’

  Many of the others started to explain, but Do
rmer held up his hand for silence. ‘The King of Spain is not attacking the King of France. This is an assistance that the Governor of Calais is rendering the King of Spain, but the King of France does not want the English to realise what he is doing or blame him for it. So it must seem as if it is by force.’

  The man scowled and subsided. It was an explanation sufficiently labyrinthine to appeal to their cynicism – Lord, it might even be near enough true. Dormer waited for questions, perhaps protests from Smith and Lammett, but got none, a little to his surprise.

  Instead, Smith came to him and said that Lammett had found someone he suspected was an English spy and wanted Dormer to come and question him. They were outside the orchard, behind a hedge so the men would not be upset by it. Dormer went where Smith pointed, wondering a little, hearing something not quite right in Smith’s voice, not quite sure of himself.

  And found that Lammett was waiting for him in the dip formed by the road that led to Dunkirk, his back turned. Dormer’s feet crunched on the gravel of the road, Lammett turned and Dormer saw that he had a dag in his hand, the match lit.

  Dormer stared, glimpsed the light travelling like a falling star down to the pan and threw himself down and forwards, heard the bellow of the gun, cannoned into Lammett with his dagger already drawn, and his hand stabbing before his mind had even caught up with the treachery, slicing Lammett’s neck at the vein so the blood gouted. Lammett bucked, kicked and choked, then his eyes turned up and Dormer could not ask what had caused the treachery, why now of all times … But there was no time. If Lammett was an English spy, then by God they had better ride as fast as they could.

  Dormer climbed off Lammett’s body, dusted himself down, waited for a moment until his heart had steadied down to a slower rhythm and then ran back to where the men waited.

  ‘We had a traitor amongst us,’ Dormer said, staring hard at Smith who had been so thick with Lammett, whose woman had been a heathen witch, ‘but Jesus Christ gave me his protection and help and now Mr Lammett is answering for his evil at the throne of God.’

  Smith bowed his head a moment. The whole troop mounted up, and Dormer set his jaw, rode over to Smith.

  ‘Did you know what he planned?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Smith answered evenly, ‘but I would hardly admit it even if I did, now would I, sir?’ And he smiled gap-toothed.

  Dormer smiled back, the whole of his face tight with cold fury. ‘Forgive my injustice, but I must have your pistol,’ he said.

  Smith looked down for a moment, as the rest of the men jostled around them. ‘Are you relieving me of my command?’

  ‘No, Mr Smith,’ Dormer said. ‘I only want your pistol.’

  Another hesitation, Smith seemed to be studying his horse’s hooves. Then he looked up, grey eyes looking peculiarly transparent as the last light of the slow summer sun caught them. He smiled again, very charming. ‘Of course, Captain. Here you are.’

  He unbuckled the case from the front of his saddle and handed it over. Dormer buckled it in place next to his own pistol, astonished that his hands weren’t trembling at all with his rage.

  Should they take the road or go by a different route? No, by God. Speed was now of the essence, since he must assume that Lammett had warned Cecil and he wanted no troop of heretics hammering after him. In any case, they had twenty miles to ride and a Citadel to take before dawn.

  He was experienced enough a soldier to know better than to gallop. He kept them all at a canter for the better parts of the road nearer to Dunkirk, went down to a trot where the animals must pick their way amongst the pot holes and back to a canter. Riding post, the twenty miles might have taken him an hour. For a man running, it might be three hours. Dormer estimated the time to be near midnight when the walls of Calais loomed up before them out of the darkness, scattered houses and market gardens around it and the road leading fine and clear to the gate.

  He turned off it and went to the side, to one of the many places where the wall had been pierced for the convenience of the people. Was it the right one? Would the traitor be there? Behind him Smith was supervising the padding of the horses’ hooves and their bridles.

  Dormer went up to it on his own, in case of treachery, the map carefully drawn by the man he had killed clutched in his hand. It was the correct postern gate. He knocked twice.

  ‘Who’s there?’ asked a voice.

  ‘St Augustine.’

  There was the sound of a bolt, the door opened. Dormer couldn’t help himself, he punched the air in silent triumph. Then he turned to his men, waved them on. They dismounted, led their horses through the small gate, the man who had opened it huddled up in his cloak in the shadows. One by one they passed through, Smith last of all.

  Dormer, who had been counting, hissed at him, ‘We’re ten short.’

  ‘I told them to wait on the road and kill any messengers coming from Dunkirk.’

  Maybe he hadn’t known what Lammett was up to. Dormer nodded, gripped Smith’s shoulder. He passed through, waited while the door was bolted shut again and locked. The one who had opened it didn’t wait for thanks but slipped away down an alley. Dormer consulted his map again.

  ‘Follow me, stay together.’

  Calais was the usual maze of little tiny streets, with a few lanterns and lights making the shadows worse. Now his nightsight was in, the stars were bright enough to give plenty of light, the sea was a gentle cat snoring on the other side of the town. Dormer took it slowly: the map was good, but it was only a map. Every time he saw a church he checked it against the labelling on the map, every time he saw a large inn, he checked it too. He took his time, despite the thudding of his heart in his throat where it seemed to have taken up residence, despite the sweat dripping down under his breastplate as one bridle jingled, another man sneezed, a third one swore when his horse pecked.

  They were going up, they were on the street that led up to the Citadel … There would be guards of course at the gate, but probably sleepy in the warm night, probably not expecting trouble despite the entire might of the Spanish fleet anchored just outside the harbour. Just a little further and …

  One of the horses whinnied and shrieked, reared up on its hind legs, pawing the air, kicked its back legs up and shook its rider off into the drain with a clatter of armour and fallen helmet. Two more horses whinnied and sidled while their riders swore at them loudly and a third bolted suddenly down the street.

  ‘Quiet!’ That was Smith, cuffing the spooking horses and somehow managing to roar in a whisper.

  Shutters opened above them. There were cries, then someone worked out what was happening. The shouting started, a woman emptied a metal chamber pot on the end man and began banging it with a candle stick. ‘Alarme! Au secours!’

  Well, the guards were awake now.

  ‘Follow me!’ shouted Dormer, kicked his horse to a gallop, pulled out Smith’s pistol and shot the guard who was levelling a crossbow at him, pulled out his own pistol and missed the other one, reversed the pistol and cracked the man across the face with it as he rode through, so the guard collapsed. He heard the thudding as some of the other horses followed him, not all of them, but what could you expect, they were only mercenaries … Somebody was trying to shut the gate, he turned his horse’s hindquarters to thrust against it, heard a gasp, there were men behind him now. Where was Smith? There, right behind him, shortsword strapped in his hand.

  They rode across the small courtyard, choked with huts and chicken coops and slippery straw, then Dormer vaulted from his horse onto one of the garrison who was swinging a halberd and the fight began in earnest.

  It was wonderful, he had never felt happier in his life. He felt invulnerable, almost like an angel, as he exchanged cuts and slashes with some poor man who was slow and sleepy and cut his head off, ducked a crossbow aimed at him and heard the grunt of the man behind him who took the bolt, shoulder charged the archer, took his crossbow, threw it to one of the stronger of his German soldiers who shouted, ‘Danke’ and stoli
dly began winding the weapon up again in the middle of the wild whirling chaos. Smith was near him, but in all the confusion, Dormer kept an eye on him, never let him get too close, made sure he was ahead at all times. It added to his exhilaration, not knowing whether Smith might attack him, but knowing that if he did, Dormer himself would win. Perhaps Smith realised it too.

  They had to cut their way to the main gate of the tower … Dormer picked up one of the benches in the courtyard, threw it into the gap as the soldiers behind tried to shut the great doors, and jumped after it roaring something, he wasn’t sure what, perhaps it was even ‘St George and England!’

  There was another flurry of blades and sweating bodies, both of them fell away, black blood in the darkness, somebody else was running up the stairs, more men behind him following, Smith was there too, breathing hard, he had lost his helmet.

  Dormer ran for the stairs, slowed, pleased to have the German behind him. Somebody peeked out and the German said, ‘Ja.’ Dormer began reloading his pistol as quickly as he could. They waited until the man peeked again over a crossbow and the German shot him in the face.

  Dormer ran up the steps, took the garrison soldier’s crossbow and passed it to the German who nodded.

  He went on up the spiral stairs more cautiously, heart thudding, crashing through each door. He found a dormitory on the second storey, waited for a few more of them to follow him and then took the grenado he had carefully carried on his baldric all this way, lit the short fuse, lobbed it into the room and shut the door.

  There was a firm hollow boom, the whole building shook, the door rattled and the shrieking started.

  Dormer ran on up the stairs, to the top of the Citadel, leaving the German to hold the stairs for him.

  There he found himself on a broad gun platform with a perfect view of the harbour entrance. Something was happening out there on the dark waters under the stars, something he couldn’t quite make out, red stars sliding across the water.