Queen's Progress

by M. J. Trow

  He knew where the chapel was and he slipped down the side stairs and along the dark passageway. He was unsure of his footing here. He would not risk a light, so he felt his way along the walls. Most gentlemen in England had their chapels built openly, above ground, for the world to see. This one was buried in the bowels of the earth; dark, alien, forbidding. He found the door and eased its brass handle, using both hands to minimize the noise. A solitary candle stood on the altar, itself a simple wooden table covered in white linen. The walls too were white, the colour of virtue, the shade of the Puritan. The arms of England glinted dully overhead, below a single arch of brick, simple and unadorned. Could any church be lower than this one?

  He stood facing the altar, listening intently. It was a whisper, no more, that rose to a mutter now and then, like distant voices on the wind. It could even be just the susurration of blood in the ear but then he smiled, recognizing the snatches of Latin. Lauds. The old habits died hard. And the whispers were coming from … his eyes swivelled to the right … behind the Arras tapestry, embroidered with its Garden of Eden and the fall of Adam.

  In a single move, he wrenched the heavy fabric aside and pointed his dagger at the startled figure kneeling there.

  ‘Forgive me, Father,’ Marlowe said, ‘for you have sinned.’

  The man was on his feet, a Jesuit to the core, a rosary in his twitching fingers.

  ‘This is more like it,’ Marlowe smiled, taking in his surroundings. The Jesuit had been praying in an ante-chapel, tucked away from the false Puritanism next door. As priest holes went, it was surprisingly lavish, with an altar laden with brass crucifixes and chalices, the room heady with incense. The walls were covered in Biblical scenes and the crossed keys of Peter glinted in the candle flame. Overhead, the ceiling was fan-vaulted, crusty with the arms of Rome and of Montague, as though they were of the same family.

  Marlowe focused on the priest. ‘Who are you?’ he asked.

  ‘I could ask you the same question, sir.’ The man stood his ground. Jesuits were made of stern stuff.

  ‘I am here on the Queen’s business,’ Marlowe told him, ‘which, in this instance, is to root out the cancer of Catholicism from the realm. Some of my colleagues have subtler methods, but I use this.’ He prodded the man’s throat with his blade tip. ‘So, again – who are you?’

  ‘Father Emilio,’ the Jesuit said. ‘Confessor to Lord Montague.’

  Marlowe nodded and sheathed the dagger. Then he hopped up to sit on the altar.

  ‘Blasphemer!’ Emilio hissed in horror, crossing himself.

  ‘Spare me, Idolater,’ Marlowe said. ‘All this,’ he waved at the sacraments around him, ‘is smoke and mirrors.’

  ‘This is God’s house,’ the Jesuit insisted.

  ‘No, it’s Anthony Browne’s house. Or it was until a moment ago.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I doubt it will have escaped your notice, Master Jesuit, that there has been a reformation of the church of late. The Queen, may God keep her safe, is Governor of the Church of England. The man you follow is the Bishop of Rome – you see the imbalance there.’ He raised one hand and lowered the other. ‘Governor … Bishop … England … Rome … no comparison, really. Or are you one with your foreign master in the claim that Her Majesty is a bastard, the Jezebel?’

  Emilio shook his head, but carefully. The ghost of the dagger still tickled his throat. ‘You must not believe that Puritan propaganda, sir,’ he said. ‘I serve Lord Montague and he serves the Queen.’

  ‘Ah,’ Marlowe smiled, ‘but that’s the question, isn’t it? Does Montague serve the Queen?’

  ‘He does,’ Emilio insisted. ‘He was with her at Tilbury, as was I. It will be obvious to you, sir, that I follow Rome, but I do not follow Philip. I wish no ill to the Queen.’

  ‘Montague backed the rebellion of the North,’ Marlowe said, and suddenly, the toast of a dead grandfather leapt, unbidden, into his mind. ‘Or our friends in the North.’

  ‘Before my time,’ the priest shrugged, ‘and yours too, I’ll wager.’

  Marlowe laughed. ‘I was somewhere between my hanging sleeves and my first hornbook.’

  ‘The point I am making,’ the Jesuit closed to him, willing the man to get off the altar, ‘is that men change. From what I have heard, that rebellion took place in the dark days of the warring sisters, Mary and Elizabeth. Certain lords had ambitions, above their place. They paid for it with their lives.’

  ‘So they did,’ Marlowe knew, ‘but I am here to see that nothing of the kind happens again. Your master in Rome still has a Bull against Elizabeth. She is a marked woman. Who is to say that you and Montague are not his instrument, merely awaiting the arrival of the Queen?’

  The Jesuit looked deep into Marlowe’s eyes. ‘I have taken vows, sir,’ he said quietly, ‘to my God, to His Holiness, to Lord Montague. But first and foremost, I vowed to do no evil. I turn my hand against no man. Or woman. I beg you to believe that.’

  Marlowe looked at him. How many good men still wore the trappings of Rome? And how many assassins hid behind Arras tapestries? He slid off the altar as the priest hurriedly re-set the crucifix and goblets. ‘What I believe, Master Jesuit, is no concern of yours. But it will be to others. Prepare yourself.’

  And he saw himself out.

  SIX

  The day of the mock tournament at Cowdray dawned bright and fair. Such clashes between armoured knights and the run of the lance had all but disappeared from the battlefields of Europe, replaced by the roar of cannon, belching smoke and fire, killing indiscriminately. An iron ball knows nothing of chivalry and honour. Old men clung to the old ways, remembering the gallantry of their youth, their crests dazzling in the sun, their sleeves rich with the flowing colours of their ladies. It was all long, long ago, but it was kept alive here at Cowdray and kept alive in the name of the Queen, who loved such things.

  The servants and workers of the estate were up betimes, laying out trestle tables less grand than those Lady Montague dreamed of and carting tureens, trenchers and barrels of ale. From the country came the locals, the men, women and children of Lavington, Cocking, Ebernoe and Lickfold. The merchants came out in their carriages from Midhurst, bringing half the cellar of the Spread Eagle with them. Everyone wore their finest, according to the Queen’s Sumptuary Laws, and everyone was determined to make it a holiday. No expense had been spared for this, a dummy run for the arrival of the Queen.

  Marlowe and Norfolk had had little enough to do. The servant spent hours cloistered with the mistress, the master with the master, although it had to be admitted that what Marlowe knew about the laws of the lists could be written on a gnat’s arse. Montague’s steward, Hawtrey, was herald for the day, bright with the arms of Montague, quartered (illegally) with those of Her Majesty. Boys of the estate ran backwards and forwards, carrying helms with giant crests of painted wood and leather, tripping over swords and halberds.

  There were to be four bouts – one foot combat and three passes of the lance – and the crowd grew in size and volume as the morning wore on. Marlowe was with young Georgie, watching as his squire buckled him into his armour.

  ‘Greenwich,’ he said to Marlowe by way of explanation. ‘Papa insists we all wear English armour.’

  ‘Quite right.’ Marlowe winked at him. ‘Who’s your opponent?’

  Georgie scowled. ‘Alfred Lumley,’ he said. ‘His father has estates to the west. I feel such a fool.’ He flicked at the solitary favour on his arm. ‘Do you know whose this is?’

  Marlowe shook his head.

  ‘It’s my mother’s. What kind of knight only has his mother’s favour on his arm, by all that’s holy? Alfred Lumley will have half the women in the valley fighting to tie their kerchiefs on him.’

  ‘How old is he?’ Marlowe asked.

  Georgie shrugged. ‘Twenty? Twenty-one? I’m not sure.’

  ‘More importantly, how tall is he?’

  Georgie scowled again. ‘Half a head taller than me,�
�� he said.

  Marlowe laughed. ‘All to the good,’ he said. ‘He’ll never see you coming. Look there,’ he pointed to the pavilion that had been erected behind the palisade, glittering with heraldry. ‘Under the sign of the portcullis. That’s where I’ll be. Watch for me – er … keeping an eye on Lumley, of course. Remember – right hand, left hand.’

  He smiled, locked the boy’s forearm with his own and felt the chill of the steel. He watched as Georgie marched away to the parade ground. Alfred Lumley crossed from the other end, encased in iron for foot combat, his halberd at the slope. From this distance, he looked twice Georgie’s size. There was a roar and a cheer as both men took centre stage below the Cowdray pavilion. Marlowe negotiated his way through the throng, declining the ale and sweetmeats he was offered, and shuffled in below the standard with the portcullis. Lady Montague caught first his eye and then his arm with her usual paroxysmal grip. Marlowe looked around in vain for Norfolk, but the man had wisely vanished.

  ‘Oh, Master Marlowe. He will be all right, won’t he? My Georgie? It only seems the other day I was dandling him on my knee, and look at him now – a man almost full grown.’

  ‘I daresay his opponent’s mother is remembering something similar, my lady,’ he said.

  ‘Lettice Lumley?’ The old girl’s face hardened. ‘That I doubt. There she is over there, the one with the look of a basilisk. Not a maternal bone in her body. And Arthur is such an oaf. Half the women in the valley … oh!’

  A fanfare close at hand brought her up short and Anthony Montague pricked his horse with his spurs, trotting out onto the field with his steward in tow.

  ‘Why have you come here?’ Hawtrey bellowed in the time-honoured tradition, ‘at this hour and this place?’

  ‘We have come to do battle for the honour of Gloriana, our Queen,’ the combatants chorused, as best they could above their beaver-rims.

  ‘Gloriana smiles on you both,’ Montague said and the pair wheeled their horses away. They reined in below the ladies in their pavilion, within Marlowe’s earshot. ‘God help us,’ he heard Montague mutter, and Hawtrey raised his hand.

  ‘Now,’ the Lord of Cowdray murmured and Hawtrey’s hand came down. Alfred Lumley swung his halberd, clashing on the staff of the younger lad, and pulled back. The fighters circled each other as the watching crowd whooped and whistled. Lumley came to the attack again, tapping the butt of Georgie’s halberd before driving the flat of the steel head hard against the boy’s shoulder. The power of the blow jolted Georgie and knocked the breath out of him. It was all Montague could do not to bury his face in his hands. Shoesmith was a good old warrior and trainer par excellence, but there were just some people beyond teaching. The result was going to be bloody.

  ‘Come on, Browne!’ Lumley snarled, his voice like gravel inside the helmet. ‘People have come a long way to watch this. Put some spine into it, man!’

  Stung by the insult, Georgie sprang forward, but his halberd flew high, bouncing off Lumley’s pauldron and thudding into the dust of the arena. A roar and a groan made him realize how close he had come to losing the bout almost before it had started. He fought for breath now as Lumley came for him, raining blows like a blacksmith’s hammer onto the anvil of his halberd, his shoulders, his head. His vision was reeling and he knew he was bleeding from a bitten lip. Where the Hell was Marlowe? He tried to focus beyond Lumley to the pavilion but, every time, his man whirled him around so that he had his back to the portcullis. He lost his footing and felt the blade of the halberd hack into his armpit, where the steel gave way to mail. He knew he was cut and he heard his mother scream.

  ‘Anthony!’ she shrieked. ‘Stop them. This is not to the death!’

  The Lord of Cowdray half turned in the saddle below her. ‘As a man far greater than I once said, Mrs B., “Let the boy win his spurs.” Leave it, woman.’ And he turned back to the inevitable.

  Down on one knee and in serious pain, his eyes full of tears and blood trickling over his mail, Georgie saw Marlowe’s right hand in the air. He lunged, attacking high from the right and Lumley wasn’t ready for it. Assuming the fight was all but over, he had relaxed a little too much and he paid the price. Georgie’s halberd crunched on the helmet skull, bouncing off to cut the fixing straps from his pauldron and biting into the older boy’s shoulder. It was Lumley’s turn to drop to one knee, but Marlowe had not been trained in the school of chivalry and politeness. He had learned his weapon-play in the cobbled streets of Canterbury, honed in the dark alleys of London. No one asked – or gave – quarter there. His left hand was in the air and Georgie swung with his left, driving the halberd staff low against Lumley’s leg. The man rolled sideways, his weapon gone from his grasp, gasping in the dust as the murderous halberd flashed over his face.

  ‘Craven!’ he had the presence to shout, and Hawtrey was racing his horse across the yard to break up the bout.

  ‘Mother of God!’ Montague bellowed. He turned to his wife again. ‘Did you see that, Mrs B.? Did you see our boy?’ And he cantered forward to dismount and take the quivering lad in his arms.

  Marlowe, whose hands were back at his side now, couldn’t help but smile when he saw Lady Montague mouthing to her rival across the pavilion, ‘Oh, bad luck, Lettice!’ A handful of younger ladies in the pavilion looked crestfallen.

  The trumpets sounded again. The foot combat was only the warm-up; the main bouts were now to begin and Martin Browne featured in every one. Delighted though he was with the new-found mettle of his younger boy, Montague had long ago pinned all his hopes and fatherly pride in his eldest. Marlowe had to admit that he looked the part, walking his powerful chestnut before the adoring crowd. The ladies, even some of the shepherd girls, were throwing flowers at him, plucked from the hedgerows on their way to the tournament.

  ‘Martin, darling,’ Lady Montague still had tears in her eyes from the brilliance of little Georgie’s performance. How manly and brave her Martin looked today. And not garlanded by the favours of every slut in the area, like the Lumley lout. ‘Will you wear my colours today?’

  In the temporary absence of a lady of his own – the husband had come home early and he was staying away for a while – Martin Browne was the essence of chivalry. ‘My lady,’ he bowed in the saddle, and lowered his lance for her to tie the blue scarf to it. The crowd went wild.

  William Maskell was the first opponent, from the Maskell estate along the South Downs way, and he clattered into the field now. Hawtrey and Montague did the honours again, for form was everything and they retired from the field. For a moment, there was silence as the two men wheeled their horses to the opposing ends of the lists. The low barrier between them was hung with heraldry and both men knew the risks of that. Ride too close and you’ll stumble into it, throwing your aim. Ride too wide and you’d miss your opponent altogether. Each man took his lance and held it aloft, waiting for Hawtrey’s signal. When his flag came down, they rammed their spurs home, jamming the butts of their lances under their arms, locking the weapons into the rests that jutted from their breastplates. The ground flew under their hoofs as the animals found their stride. They had just reached the gallop when they collided, the shock echoing around the walls of Cowdray. Maskell’s lance flew high, Browne’s hit squarely on the man’s curved shield, rocketing him out of the saddle. He rolled in the dust, fighting for breath, but staggered to one knee to show he was unhurt and the crowd bellowed their approval.

  Martin Browne wheeled his horse and accepted the salute of the man he had just beaten. His lance had splintered on impact and he rode to collect a second.

  ‘Will you rest, Master Martin?’ Hawtrey asked him, ever the caring steward as well as Master of the Lists today.

  ‘Get me some wine, Hawtrey. No sense in wasting time. I’m on good form today. Who’s next?’

  Edward Chamberlain was next and Browne knew that this one would be more difficult. The man was older than he was, and he was a soldier, born and bred and of infinitely more experience. He adjusted his
visor and waited. By the time a servant came scurrying out with a salver and wine, the trumpets had blared again and the fight was on. This time, neither lance struck home and, unsplintered, the combatants whirled back to try again. This time, Browne’s strike was less true. His blunted lance bounced off Chamberlain’s and it nearly threw him off balance, but Chamberlain had lost control of his horse and suffered the indignity of being thrown. His pride was hurt more than his body and he fumed inside his helmet at being bested by a boy.

  Browne tilted the visor and took the wine. He thrilled to the roars and clapping of the crowd, saw the pride in his father’s face and ordered up his third lance. Again, the double pass, the crack as the ash poles splintered and the thud and grunt as Browne’s third opponent hit the ground. That was it, he was master of the field against all comers. Now was time for feasting and merriment. The crowd, still laughing and clapping, began to break up at the pavilion, and Lady Montague was leading her guests to their places at the tables.

  A trumpet call stopped them and for several moments confusion reigned. Surely, there were no more bouts?

  ‘Anthony,’ Lady Montague shouted to him from the pavilion, ‘what’s going on? Isn’t it all over?’

  ‘Damned if I know, Mrs B.,’ he said, frowning under his helmet. ‘Looks like there’s another challenger in the field.’

  There was. He walked his grey towards the pavilions, lance already in his fist, pointing to the sky. There was something strange about him, unreal, as though a ghost were riding the lists that day. Montague, Hawtrey, Marlowe; none of the assembled lords, ladies and gentlemen had ever seen a man wearing armour like that. It was spiky and angular, with pointed sollerets and fluted tassets, as if the knight had ridden out of the past to joust on a day before he was even born. His face was hidden behind a German sallet and a high beaver. Only his eyes flashed clear as he wheeled the grey to face the pavilion.

  He looked at the banners hanging there, the cloth fluttering on the breeze, the shields of Maskell, Lumley, Montague and the rest. His horse snorted, pawing the ground in its eagerness for battle. The knight jabbed his lance forward, ignoring all shields but Montague’s and knocking it off its housing.