Lucy's Blade

by John Lambshead

  "To answer the last point first. You know that lightning strikes downwards to the ground—that is earthing," said Lilith.

  "Hence the burns on my hand and the wooden floor."

  "Exactly, Lucy. As to what the spell would have done, that is more difficult to say. It would have opened a portal into the Shadow Worlds somewhere and something would have come out."

  "Something like a demon, oh demon!" Lucy said, with a giggle.

  "Possibly," said Lilith. "Or something else such as energy or even objects."

  "Our philosophers know that there is an Other World, Lilith, but I think that it is a new idea that there are many Other Worlds or that you would consider our world to be one. I suppose the natives of each world think themselves in the true world and name the others shadows," said Lucy, shrewdly.

  This thought rocked Lilith. Her people thought that they were real and that all others were shadows. Perhaps they were deluded by arrogance.

  "It occurs to me that your education is still sadly missing an important aspect of London life, demon," said Lucy.

  "Really?" asked Liliith.

  "Really," said Lucy. "We have not yet been shopping. To go shopping we shall need money and an escort." She rose. "Now, I wonder where Uncle Francis is?"

  William was damnably tired but he remained on the deck to show himself to the men. In truth, there was little for him to actually do, as his officers were quite capable of dealing with all practical matters. But captains, like princes, had to be seen by their subjects. The wounded men were carried below to the tender mercies of the cook, who also doubled as the ship's surgeon. Half would be dead by nightfall. Half of those who survived treatment would die of a fever in the next few days. Nevertheless, the butcher's bill was less than he had expected. He could have lost the whole ship.

  The ship's decks looked chaotic, but apparently random movement could be broken down into purposeful activity to William's experienced eyes. The carpenter and his mates examined the hull, boarding up damage. The boatswain and his mates checked the masts, yards, rigging, and sails. The gunner supervised the securing of the heavy weapons.

  The master walked up to William and touched his hat. "Begging your pardon, sir, but you look a proper mess."

  William's clothes were stiff with dried blood. "I think I will go to my cabin and clean up. Send along my steward. You have the ship, Master Smethwick."

  The master saluted again and William made his way aft. William noted with annoyance that the guard on his cabin door was absent despite his clear order. He tried to open the door but it stuck. William pushed hard and it yielded a few inches. Something was jammed against it from the inside. William put his shoulder to the wood and forced it open.

  The interior was wrecked and scorched as if by the discharge of a weapon. The missing guard's body lay behind the door. His shirt had been blown off and he was badly burnt. William knelt down to examine the body.

  "Sweet Jesu, sir." The steward put his head around the door.

  "Get the boatswain. Now man, hurry."

  William had finished with the dead sailor and was examining the cabin when the boatswain arrived.

  "The dons had a final revenge on you then, sir." The boatswain gazed dispassionately down at the body. "I suppose that's Andrews under all that charring. He weren't a half-bad topman, when he were sober. An explosive shell must have caused this. We were lucky the whole ship did not go up."

  "There is no entry hole. Tell me, boatswain, how did the dons fire an explosive shell through the hull without leaving a hole somewhere? Then there is Andrews' corpse. He was dead before the explosion."

  "How can you tell, sir?"

  "Either he died before the cabin was wrecked or someone went to all the trouble to stab after he was dead," said William. He prodded the corpse with his foot to indicate the wound.

  The boatswain whistled. "Someone stuck him good. You said that sneak thief was a heavy-handed fellow."

  "So he was," confirmed William.

  "Anything missing?"

  "I haven't counted every pearl but the only item that is definitely missing is the gold mirror."

  "The lady's mirror."

  "Yes. This isn't just theft now, boatswain, it's murder. Take armed men with you and find the lady and Packenham." William's voice was hard.

  William put his cabin back together as best he could. He would have some more furniture made when the carpenter was less busy. He searched his memory for an explosion. Mayhap, there had been a concussion aft during that last run past the galleys but the battle had been so intense that it was impossible to be sure.

  The boatswain entered and touched his cap. "Begging your pardon, sir, but the lady and Master Packenham are not aboard."

  "Not aboard? What do you mean? Is a boat missing?"

  "No, sir, both boats are on deck."

  "You have searched the hold, and the pinnace?"

  "Yes sir, we have searched everywhere, thoroughly. They are not aboard." The boatswain looked upset, as if he felt personally responsible.

  "They were there at the start of the battle. I told them to go below," said William.

  "Did you see where they went, sir?"

  "No, I was rather busy at the time."

  "One other thing, boatswain. I had to push the body aside to get in the cabin. How did the corpse end up blocking the door do you suppose?"

  "The killer probably dumped the body there," the boatswain looked puzzled. He clearly couldn't see the point.

  "And the killer escaped from the cabin leaving the body blocking the door how?" asked William, in exasperation.

  "Mayhap the explosion threw it there," said the boatswain.

  "Yes, the explosion with no entry hole," said William.

  The boatswain shrugged and looked uneasy. Most people knew that magic existed and most used the powers of a wisewoman when necessary, but the Church frowned at having too much truck with the supernatural. The Church was inclined to express its displeasure of black magic by burning practioners at the stake.

  The rain fell gently from the skies and dripped down the White Tower, the central keep of the great Tower of London. The sun was already lighting up the wet ground in a blaze of pastel yellow. Pretty soon it would stop raining for a while, then the next shower would caress London. Simon watched the English summer scene through an unshuttered window. The fresh smell of wet grass blew gently in on the summer breeze. Walsingham had an apartment in the buildings just inside the north curtain wall of the fortress. Here, he had an uninterrupted view of the execution block and the small chapel behind it.

  Walsingham threw down a letter angrily. "My agent in the English Seminary in Rome tells me that another ten English Jesuits are ready to infiltrate into England. Most of them are Oxford educated. We should have closed that wretched university down years ago, Tunstall." Walsingham, of course, was a Cambridge man.

  "There is some mischief in the wind. Why now? Why are they expending their assets so liberally?"

  "Surely we have their names?" asked Simon.

  "Oh yes, but that won't help us ferret them out from wherever they are hiding. Most of them will come here to London. It is far easier to escape notice in a crowd." Walsingham flung open the door. "Pooley."

  "Yes, Sir Francis." A man entered the room and hurriedly removed his cap.

  "You have Ridolphi kicking his heels in the Tower?"

  "Yes, sir, just as you ordered. He didn't want to come but me and the boys persuaded him, like." Pooley's eyes seemed incapable of meeting Walsingham's gaze. They slid sideways, flickering around the room. Pooley managed to look furtive even when in his master's office. Simon always had the urge to lock up the silver every time the man came.

  Pooley was a nondescript sort of fellow. A few minutes after he left one would be hard-pressed to describe his clothes or appearance. That was one reason why he was such a successful spy; another reason was his utter lack of scruples or conscience. Pooley's eyes flickered to where Gwilym leaned nonchalantly ag
ainst the wall by the door.

  "Very well," Walsingham said. "Ridolphi should have had long enough for his imagination to curdle his courage. Come gentlemen. Let's throw a scare into our Italian rabbit. And what does a frightened coney do, Gwilym?"

  The bodyguard grinned. "'Ee bolts for 'is rabbit 'ole, your 'onour, to cuddle up to all 'is furry friends."

  The group walked across the bailey to the White Tower. Pooley had Ridolphi held in one of the lower windowless rooms that was lit only by flickering torches. These did nothing to banish the damp chill in the air. Condensation ran down stone walls that were unrelieved by tapestries. Ridolphi was sat on a bare wooden chair facing the two guards at the door. He had arranged the chair so he had his back to the rack on the floor behind him. The Italian jumped to his feet as Walsingham entered.

  "This is outrageous. How dare you arrest me in this manner? I have diplomatic status. I am an emissary of His Holiness Pope Gregory XIII. You have no right."

  "I have every right." Walsingham's voice cut across Ridolphi's like a whip.

  "You are the Pope's banker in England." Walsingham held out his hand to Simon who passed him a letter. "This was found in your possession. A letter signed by the hand of Pope Gregory, himself."

  "You have no right to search my belongings, no right," Ridolphi said, but a whine entered his voice.

  Walsingham ignored him and began to read. " '. . . since that guilty woman who is the cause of so much injury to the Catholic faith . . " Walsingham flicked down the next few lines. " 'There is no doubt that whosoever sends her out of the world not only does not sin but gains merit.' "

  The spymaster continued to read. " 'And so, if those English gentlemen decide actually to undertake so glorious a work, your lordship can assure them that they do not commit any sin.' "

  The spymaster looked up. "What 'glorious work,' Master Ridolphi, and what are the names of these 'English gentlemen'?"

  Ridolphi said nothing. Gwilym walked behind him to examine the rack. It was a different model to the one at Nonsuch, being at floor level. The victim's feet were held in a clamp; at the other end was a small drum to which the wrists attached. The drum had a series of slots drilled into it where a long lever could be inserted to put enormous torque on the drum.

  Gwilym picked up the lever and inserted it in a drum slot. He waggled the wood and the drum moved with a loud creak. "That's the trouble with these wooden joists, 'ighness. They warp in wet conditions. Still, a bit of goose fat on the bearing and I will soon 'ave this device in tiptop working condition." He gave the smile of a man happy in his work.

  The banker turned white. Walsingham examined Ridolphi the way a natural philosopher considers a beetle of unusual features that has crawled across his desk. Simon saw sweat forming on the banker's lip. He was a moneyman, a coin counter who had never expected to be in a place like this or expected to face a rude-handed man like Gwilym.

  "Please sir," Ridolphi said to Walsingham. "The letter is only a copy of one addressed from the Pope to his ambassador in Madrid. I do not know what it signifies."

  "I wonder what the Queen would make of it, Tunstall?" asked Walsingham. "Do you recall the Jesuit who nailed a proclamation to the door of St. Paul's Cathedral. The one denouncing Her Majesty as a bastard and no true prince?"

  "Yes, Sir Francis," said Simon, playing his part. "The Queen is jealous of her bright honour. When we caught him, she had him hung, drawn, and quartered."

  This was the English reward for traitors. The victim was hung by the neck, until almost unconscious, cut down, a slit inserted in his abdomen and his entrails pulled out and burnt in front of him. Sometimes his genitals were likewise treated. Finally, when he died, he was hacked into four pieces to impede the resurrection of the body on the final day of judgement. It was a terrible punishment.

  "Please, Sir Francis, I have done nothing," said Ridolphi.

  Walsingham stared at him, unblinkingly.

  "Very well, Master Ridolphi. You may go," said Walsingham.

  "What?" asked the banker, confused by Walsinghham's abrupt change of tack.

  "You may go," repeated Walsingham. "At least for the moment. Guard, show him out."

  A guard escorted Ridolphi from the Tower.

  "Pooley, have your watchers ready," said Walsingham, as they walked out into the wet sunshine. "I want to know every place our bold fellow goes and every pagan rascal he meets."

  "I have three teams of six on him to give night-and-day coverage," Sir Francis. "I have street children, whores, peddlers, and beggars to see his every encounter. He shall not piss in the street but that I know what drain it ran in."

  "See you do, Pooley." Walsingham dismissed the man, but Pooley hovered. "Now get you gone, why wait you here, man?"

  "There is another matter, sir." Pooley looked uncomfortable.

  Walsingham's expression hardened. "There will be no more money, Pooley. Be sure of that."

  "No, sir, it's not about the reward. Your honour is more than generous."

  Walsingham's eyebrow lifted and Simon could well understand why. A disinterest in money was most unlike Pooley.

  "Well then?"

  "The watchers are worried, sir. Another whore has been found dead in Symmon's Alley, off Cheapside."

  "Whores get killed, Pooley, it's an occupational hazard," said Walsingham.

  "Yes, sir, but they don't die with their entrails pulled out and eaten or all the blood drained from their bodies. The watchers will only go out in twos. Sorry, your honour. The ordinary people are fair shook up by it. Some people claim to have seen things. There is talk of a demon stalking London at night."

  "There is always talk, Pooley. The people are superstitious. They generally would have you believe some apparition is abroad."

  "Yes, sir." Pooley did not look convinced, but he knew better than to push the matter and left.

  Lucy was positioned ready to sidle up to Walsingham, the moment he was free. "Uncle, I was wondering if I could borrow Master Tunstall? I would like to go into London and need an escort."

  "What on earth do you need in London, Lucy?"

  "To see the sights, Uncle, and to order a new dress in the latest fashion. My dresses are out of date. The other ladies at Nonsuch made sport of me. If I am to get a husband . . ."

  "Not that again, Lucy. Spare me the husband argument. Tunstall, draw a suitable sum from my private chest for expenses."

  "Thank you, Uncle." Lucy clapped her hands in glee. "I need to get some things before we go." She rushed back to her uncle's apartments.

  "All this talk of monsters is rubbish, of course, but there may be some madman killing girls in London." Walsingham came to a decision. "Gwilym, I want you to go with Master Tunstall and Lady Dennys, just to help carry things and so forth. You will attend Lady Dennys until I say differently."

  "Still through the cloven skies they come,

  "With peaceful wings unfurled,

  "And still their heavenly music floats,

  "O'er all the weary world.

  "Above its sad and lowly plains,

  "They bend on hovering wing,

  "And ever o'er its Babel sounds,

  "The blessed angels sing."

  The assembled crew parading on the deck sang badly to the accompaniment of drummers and flute men. The musicians did their best but they were more used to belting out sea shanties than solemn hymn music. William stepped forward.

  "We therefore commit their bodies to the deep, to be turned into corruption, looking for the resurrection of the body, when the sea shall give up her dead, and the life of the world to come."

  He stepped back and signalled to the honour guard who fired a volley into the air. Sailors lifted the weighted bags containing the bodies of their messmates and hurled them over the side. The canvas bags bobbed for a moment alongside the ship, until they waterlogged and sank. In the clear water, some could be seen for some little time before they disappeared.

  It was customary for the captain to say the last words.
William hated making these speeches but it would be disrespectful not to follow tradition. He walked slowly to stand before the men.

  "We stand here again to consign our shipmates to the care of the Almighty, into whose arms we all must go. They have gone before us. English merchants sail peacefully to the four corners of the world to trade. But the sea dogs growl where our merchants are bullied and impeded. And when we are hurt, we bite. These men have already bitten."

  William took off his hat and waved it, "God save Her Majesty the Queen and confusion to her enemies."

  The men roared their reply then the parade disintegrated into groups. Some went aft to say a last prayer for their friends but most went cheerfully about their business. Life was cheap in Elizabethan England and this was never truer than on a warship. The survivors looked to the future and forgot the past. William had waited until he was certain the deaths had ceased before having the funeral. He hated giving the last rites to his shipmates and did not want to repeat the experience more than once. He would have joined the Church if he had wanted to be a priest.

  William shivered as the air turned cold. The Swallow was making a fast run north, helped by the prevailing southwest winds. The log showed that she had made nine knots yesterday, an unprecedented speed for a warship. Truly the Swallow was well named. She veritably flitted across the water. At this rate, they would sight the Lizard, the tip of Britain, in a few days.

  Lucy took Simon's arm and the couple crossed the outer curtain wall and moat surrounding the tower at the western river gate. The gate led into a fortified enclosure beside the west wall. The only gate out lay all the way up at the northern end. Any attacker trying to break into the Tower would find himself breaking through a series of fortifications, each of which led only to another killing ground.

  The Tower was incorporated into London's eastern defensive wall so the party entered London through a small postern gate, as soon as they left the cleared fire zone around the curtain walls. The constable of the Tower strictly enforced the cleared zone, putting illegal buildings to the torch if necessary.

  This was Lucy's first visit into the City of London. Up to now she had just travelled around it by boat. London hit the visitor with a tidal wave of sound and smells. The sound was that of tens of thousands of people in the immediate vicinity gossiping, debating, arguing, selling, shouting, and making love. The smell was an accumulated fug of human and animal bodies, food, industry, and waste. The houses clustered so closely together that they almost seemed to rise like a defensive wall but, on closer inspection, small alleys wound between the ground floors. The upper floors overhung, so that buildings on opposite sides of the alleys almost touched each other. Church steeples poked from the red-tiled agglutination, reaching for God. And in the background, the dense blocky mass of St. Paul's glowered over the whole, reminding the populace of the power of the Church and the terrible judgement to come in the next world.