Lucy's Blade

by John Lambshead

  Since leaving the Plymouth and the Westcountry, the Swallow had cruised up the south coast standing off from the Isle of Wight, thus avoiding its treacherous rip currents born of four tides a day. At low tide, sailors could still see the wreck of King Harry's great ship, the Mary Rose, beneath the waters. When the Swallow rounded The White Cliffs, she entered the realm of the city of London with its rich merchants and treacherous courtiers. William would almost as soon rather force the defences of Cadiz harbour in a leaky wherry than enter the Port of London.

  A short run up the North Kent coast brought the Swallow into the mouth of the Thames and its many ports. The Isle of Sheppey slid by on the port side guarded by the port of Sheerness. Past Sheerness was the River Medway and the fleet anchorage at Gillingham. Here, the Queen's galleons were beached on the tidal mudflats for maintenance. Further upriver, the ship building yards at Chatham sheltered behind the new fort at Upnor.

  Swallow eschewed the safe harbours of the Medway and sailed west into the Thames. The banks of Essex and Kent closed in as the estuary narrowed. The flat rich soils of the Thames included some of the richest agricultural land in Europe, so villas and prosperous farmhouses lined the banks. The port of Gravesend marked the last of the open coast harbours. From here, the long ferry shuttled livestock and passengers backwards and forwards from the sea to London. The Swallow sailed through flotillas of ships and boats ranging from Thames barges to great carracks.

  "Reduce speed," said William.

  "Reef the mainsails," ordered the master.

  "Aye, aye sir," said the boatswain.

  Swallow slowed down to a slow walk. A few more hours bought her to Kentish Dartford as the sun set.

  "Master, pick up a buoy on the edge of the channel. No one is to go ashore and no boat is to approach without my permission. I want a guard topside at all times." The Thames estuary was notorious for piracy. William did not seriously expect anyone to be foolish enough to attack a galleon but the treasure on the ship weighed heavily on him. Having done all he could, he retired but sleep eluded him for some time and was dream-disturbed when it came.

  A sailor shook him awake.

  "Cap'n, sir. Gunner says a wherry is coming alongside and should he shoot it?"

  "Christ, no," said William and dashed for the deck.

  "Blast your eyes, I'm your pilot," said a voice from the river.

  "That may be so." William heard the gunner's voice. "But come any closer without the captain's say-so and I will blow you out of the water."

  "Don't shoot," William said. "That, ah, really is our pilot."

  "Very good, sir," said the gunner, unperturbed. "Come aboard then, matey."

  The pilot climbed over the side, glaring at the gunner who ignored him. "Good morning, Captain. My orders are to take you all the way in to London docks. A messenger has been sent to the office of Sir Francis Walsingham to announce your arrival."

  "All the way in to London docks? Are you sure?" William was puzzled. Galleons would normally anchor in the outer Thames at Dartford or perhaps Erith where there were naval arsenals.

  "Sir Francis has left strict instructions. You are going to London, Captain."

  William sighed. It would be a long day moving the Swallow around the twists and turns of the meandering Thames. "Man the pinnace and get the longboat out boatswain. We will be towing the ship for part of the way."

  By dinner, they had passed Erith on the Kent bank and Barking Creek was in view on the starboard bow. The pilot knew his business and eased the big ship through the mudflats. The Thames split at this point into multiple channels. The pilot kept them in the deepwater channel along the Kent bank. A huge mudflat slid by only a few yards to starboard. Hovels built from old ship's timbers were built on the centre, which was above high water by just a foot or two.

  "A good few ships have ended up there, I'll warrant," said William, pointing.

  "Aye, sir, but we are going upriver on a rising tide. I am sure we will be able to float you off if you stick." The pilot grinned. William failed to appreciate the joke. He was captain of an oceangoing ship and felt trapped here.

  A large black fish, eight or ten feet long, surfaced beside the Swallow. It flicked its tail lazily and dived beneath the ship.

  "That's a Thames sea hog," said the pilot. "They fish them using towed nets."

  "Are they fair to eat?" asked Simon.

  "Foul," said the pilot. He gestured to the impoverished hamlet to starboard. "The hovels yonder are Silvertown, lovely name, filthy place. They say you can marry your mother there and most of them have. Some of them have more fingers on one hand than we have on two." The pilot held his sides in appreciation of his own wit. William thought that he likely related the same jocularity to every captain he piloted. The ship now faced the long southern loop around the Isle of Dogs. It would be slow oar work all the way but at least the tidal flow would help.

  At that point there was a shudder as the Swallow kissed a mudbank, throwing the crew off their feet. For a moment there was a long grinding hiss, like a plane moving across a plank, then the ship freed herself with another shudder. The pilot and William climbed back on their feet. "Perhaps a point to starboard, Captain," said the pilot.

  Simon was working in his study when Lucy walked in and sat in front of him. "Can I help my lady?" he asked, cautiously. One never knew with Lucy what direction the conversation might take, except that it was likely to lead Simon into difficulties. This time she came straight to the point.

  "I hear that the master swordsman is to teach you how to fight."

  Simon winced, as this was something of a sore point. As a gentleman he was entitled to wear a sword but the truth was that it was merely a badge of rank to him. He had little idea how to use it. So he had arranged to take lessons from an expert and few were better than the swordmaster of the Tower.

  "I want to learn with you," she said.

  Simon just gaped at her. He could have not been more surprised if she had said she wanted to learn how to fly.

  "That's not possible," he said.

  "Why?" she countered.

  "Because women don't fight," he said. He knew that it was a stupid remark as soon as he said it. He was aware that a statement was not proved merely by reassertion. His lecturers had drummed as much into him at Cambridge.

  "Because your uncle will kill me," he said, getting down to the practicalities.

  "Only if he finds out," she said, jauntily.

  "You would be surprised what Sir Francis can find out," Simon said, darkly. "What in heaven do you want to learn to fight for?"

  "I just thought it might come in handy," said Lucy. "There being a madman abroad killing girls."

  "That hardly concerns you," said Simon He gestured to where Gwilym hovered politely out of earshot.

  "Gwilym might not always be there," said Lucy.

  "You are quite wrong," Simon said. "As long as there is the slightest danger, Gwilym will always be there. Sir Francis' instructions were quite clear and Gwilym is conscientious."

  "You know what happened to me," she said. "Don't make me say it."

  "I know nothing except that you are my patron's niece and a lady of some position," said Simon firmly, closing the conversation. He went back to his work but when he looked up she was still there.

  Simon sighed. "I am not comfortable with this conversation, madam."

  "Very well, you force me to be frank," said Lucy. "I am possessed by a demon."

  "Stop it!" said Simon. "Possession leads to screaming madness. You are no madder than any other aristocrat that I have met. In fact, you are considerably saner than many."

  'He refuses to believe me, Lilith. I will need to prove that you exist,' thought Lucy.

  'Are you sure, Lucy?' thought Lilith.

  'I need his cooperation,' thought Lucy.

  Lucy reached across and slipped Simon's dagger from its sheath. She casually bent the steel blade into a right angle in front of him.

  "Do you see, Simon?" L
ucy asked. "Do you believe me now?"

  Simon shook his head in horror. "Oh God, it's there, isn't it? Is it called Lilith? You asked for prayers for Lilith."

  "She, Simon, she—not it. She's called Lilith and I believe she has been sent to me for a purpose. You saw the Spanish witch make magic with your own eyes in the theatre and you saw me stop her."

  "I saw." He stopped and tried to gather his thoughts. "I am not sure what I saw, to be honest."

  "Isabella will attack my family. She is very dangerous. I need to learn how to fight, Simon. Please help me."

  "You must tell Sir Francis," said Simon.

  "No, he must not know because there is nothing he can do. It would hurt him terribly to know and—I am frightened that they will burn me. You must tell no one. Promise me," Lucy said, pleadingly.

  What could he say?

  "Very well, Lady Dennys, you have my word. Come with me."

  Simon led the way to the armoury. The master swordsman was a surprising small man with an enormous moustache. He showed bent low over Lucy's hand to kiss it. The moustache tickled. Gwilym leaned against the wall by the door. Walsingham had instructed the Welshman to stay with Lucy at all times. The Tower's walls were clearly no protection against whatever had killed the guard. Gwilym tended to take his orders literally.

  The swordsman stood stiffly with a rapier point down into the floor. "Do you want to learn to really fight or simply to prance prettily for the girls?"

  "To fight," Simon said, simply.

  "Very well. The most admired duellists in the world are the Latins, especially the Italians and the Spanish. They duel with style, with flourish, and with artistry. Ladies swoon at their manly athletics. The Spanish style abounds with tricks and artifices. It's exponents move with such fluidity and grace that the technique is known as dancing feet. I will not teach you dancing feet, Master Tunstall; I will teach you to kill. That is the English style. It is brutal and efficient. No girls will swoon at your feet but your enemies will die. Come, let us try a few passes."

  The master tossed a practice sword to Simon. The secretary took up a defensive position and crossed swords with the swordmaster. He advanced on the smaller man and engaged him. The master kept moving away from Simon, forcing him forward. Within seconds the swordmaster had the guarded point of his weapon at Simon's throat.

  "Why did you press me so closely, Master Tunstall? Are you in such a hurry to die?"

  "I thought that one had to attack, that the advantage lay with the attacker," said Simon.

  "Hmm." The swordmaster snorted. "Always keep back from your opponent. The only reason to close is to attack—and the only time to attack is when you think you can deliver a fatal blow. Do you understand?"

  Simon assented.

  "Four governors mark the successful fighter. They are judgement, distance, time and place," said the swordmaster. "Of these judgement is the most important. It is the art of knowing how and when your adversary can reach you and in return what you can do to him. Connected with judgement is distance. Always keep your distance to give yourself space to defend your body or to offend your enemy. Time and place are used to attack. You must know the exact moment to strike and the place from which you will strike. But most of all, you must immediately fly backward if your attack fails to prevent your adversary striking you in return. Come again."

  The men fought again and Simon defended himself for a good quarter minute before he was "killed."

  "Rule one is too stay alive. Only by staying alive can you win. Again!"

  The lesson went on. Lucy, and hence Lilith, watched intently. When the master was satisfied that Simon understood the basic strategic concepts, he started to teach him simple tactical moves to parry his opponents weapon out of alignment for a counterstrike.

  "Enough, Master Tunstall. Now you must go away and practise. When you have practised for a month, come back to me." The master left the practise room. He was as calm as if he had merely walked across a lawn. Simon was sweating from every pore and breathing hard.

  "Lady Dennys. I believe I will go back to my chamber for a small rest. I hope you found that instructive."

  "Very good, Master Tunstall. I shall stay here for a moment." Gwilym stayed with Lucy.

  Lucy was in despair. 'This is so complex Lilith. How am I to learn without practising? And who will practise with me?'

  'Human beings learn with their forebrains. But they have to practise physical skills to train their rear brains. This enables them to carry out actions quickly and smoothly without having to think about it,' Lilith observed. 'You humans think so slowly that thought slows you down.'

  'And you are faster, I suppose,' thought Lucy, cattily.

  'Yes,' thought Lilith, simply. She was vaguely aware that Lucy was scolding her but Lilith was still having trouble understanding sarcasm or irony. Saying the opposite of what you meant to convey the idea more strongly was a difficult concept for one of the People to grasp.

  'I have tried something new. While you were watching the duel, I laid down tracks in your hindbrain. I believe you body has already learnt what you saw. Try with a sword,' thought Lilith.

  'But who shall I fight?' thought Lucy.

  The bully from Rood Lane

  materialised before her with a sword in his hand. 'Fight him,' thought Lilith.

  Lucy picked up a rapier and tried a few passes against the image projected by Lilith. It was not so successful, as one cannot clash swords with a phantom. Lilith was at a loss to suggest something.

  "Would you like to try some passes against me, 'ighness?" asked Gwilym.

  Lilith had forgotten that the bodyguard was there. Of course, servants had a different attitude to women fighting than gentlemen. Lucy had once secretly observed two servant girls have a catfight over a boy. The male servants had all stood around enjoying it immensely and making wagers on the victor. Her maid had told her that the landlady of the Dog and Hound tavern down in the village had knocked out Gwilym himself with a cooking pot. Apparently, the woman had caught Gwilym in a compromising position with her daughter. The gossip was that the landlady had been less worried about her daughter's maidenhood than the fact that she herself had an understanding with the man.

  The pair took their stance and duelled.

  'Lilith, I can do this!' Lucy seemed astonished to find that she could hold the man off. When Gwilym moved into the attack she parried his blade and moved inside his reach, rotating her body in a circle. Her sword ended against his neck.

  Gwilym laughed out loud. "A good trick, 'ighness. At you again."

  He moved back into the attack. This time he dropped his sword when she parried his blade and tried to counter. With his free hand, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her in closer. His elbow against her throat stopped her. She would have been dead had he struck another three inches.

  "Oh!" said Lucy.

  "Someone has taught you to be a fair duellist, 'ighness, but on the streets they fight a rougher style with no rules. I think you are learning the wrong lessons. You will never fight a formal duel and I do not think you will carry a sword like a gentleman. But I notice that you still carry Doctor Dee's knife."

  "How did . . .?" The girl stopped before she said something stupid. She had thought the knife well concealed in the folds of her dress but it was Gwilym's job to notice hidden weapons. And Gwilym was very good at his job or he wouldn't be where he was.

  "The master told me to make sure that you are protected. Teaching you to use that dagger might be the best way." Gwilym rooted around in a chest until he found two wooden practice knives. He spun one to Lucy, who caught it easily. Gwillym grinned. "I heard you were good at catching blades! Now let's teach you to fight with them."

  The lesson went on for hours. At the end, Lucy knew a great deal more about male anatomy and how to inflict divers damage on it. She knew when to kick, how to kick, and where to kick. Gwilym kept it to himself if he was surprised how quickly she learnt or how fast and strong she was.

 
"Thank you, Master Gwilym," she finally said.

  "Just Gwilym, 'ighness," said the bodyguard. "I ain't no gentleman, I work for a living."

  "Um, Gwilym," she said. "It might be better to keep this to ourselves. People might not understand."

  "'Ighness, he said. "I am Sir Francis' man. When my old father died, the family nearly lost the tenancy of his farm back in Wales. My brother got in debt to a moneylender, see. The master paid the debt and had the moneylender thrashed. I took care of the thrashing bit myself, but it was the master who squared it with the sheriff. We're a bit old-fashioned in the valleys of Wales. I have pledged myself to is 'ighness so that includes 'is family too."

  "I understand. Thank you, Gwilym. Do you miss Wales?" Lucy asked.

  "Bless you miss, no. My father sent me to live with my cousin's family in London when I was but four or five. My elder brother would inherit the farm so there was nothing for me there. I have only been back a few times. They even laugh at the way I speak and call me a foreigner."

  "I will retire now so you may attend your own business," said Lucy.

  "I will see you to your room, first, 'ighness."

  'Lilith,' said Lucy, when she was back in her bedchamber. "How did I know that spinning trick with the sword? I don't remember the swordmaster teaching Simon it."

  "I put that in your head," said Lilith. "I saw it in the other Shadow World before I came here. Look."

  Lilith projected the video clip of the bullfight into Lucy's head. To Lucy it appeared to be on a screen in midair. The two girls watched the Spanish matador whirl in his suit of light. Lilith had always loved the artistry of the clip but now, in Lucy's head, she had a whole new reaction to the elegance of the matador.

  It's just leakage, insisted a stubborn subroutine, just leakage from Lucy's emotional centres. Lilith turned off the subroutine—permanently.

  The rowboats inched the Swallow bow first into a jetty at St. Katherine's dock. Final contact came with a thump. The carpenter rushed forrard to examine his beloved hull. William took off his cap and wiped his brow. For the captain of an oceangoing vessel, navigating the Thames was worse than an Atlantic crossing. At least you were unlikely to bump into something midatlantic. The boatswain shouted orders to lash the Swallow firmly in place.