"She is my cousin."
"Cousin, eh? And who would ye be then?" demanded the old woman. "I never heard tell of Mistress Bury having kin except for a cousin that is an orphaned lass in Hythe."
And Beth watching the woman approach, realised that they had met before when she had visited Alys.
Praying that her disguise was good enough to fool the rheumy eyes, she said:
"I am kin to the Howards. Apprenticed to a merchant—in London," she added hastily.
The woman shook her head. "Ay, I see you have a look of the cousin in Hythe." Apparently convinced of Beth's honesty by this resemblance, she continued in a kindlier tone: "Mistress Bury left two months past—or was it more? My mind is not as good as it was. A while ago, anyways. Master Bury had taken his ship to the Low Countries and because of the Spanish threat, did not wish your cousin to remain here." She paused. "Knew you not that your cousin is with child?"
Beth beamed upon her. "A babe!" What a joy a babe would bring to his happy marriage whose only sadness was that four years had passed by and seen them remaining childless. "I knew not. But these are indeed good tidings."
The next moment she asked anxiously: "How fares my cousin?"
"She does well, she will be into her sixth month now. But Master Bury was fearful for her safety. They do say that the Spaniards will show no mercy to women—or babes—when they land. They will not molest old women like me, of course, but they do say—"
"Where has my cousin gone?" Beth interrupted hastily.
"Why, to stay with Master Bury's aunt." The old woman scratched her head. "Some village, London way it is. I cannot mind its name. Wait a minute, Charing—Charing Cross," she said triumphantly.
Beth groaned. To have come all this way and all for nothing! Discomfort added to dismay. She had not eaten since her rebellion yesterday morning. Suddenly she felt weak with hunger. Star was hungry too, moodily cropping grass nearby.
She sighed. "There is nothing for it, then, I must follow her."
"Wait a while, lad. I have bread and ale. You are welcome to it. Stay and eat, for you look weary."
Gratefully, Beth accepted the woman's hospitality; she urged more bread and ale upon her than she could have eaten in a week at Craighall. She seemed disappointed and distressed by Beth's refusal.
"Come, eat as much as you can, lad. You have a frail look about you."
"I cannot eat another mouthful."
"Have you been ill, then? You do not have a lad's sharp appetite. Does aught trouble you?"
Beth did not want to be close questioned, hating the lies that she must tell Alys's kindly neighbour, whose name she remembered was Mistress Howe.
"I must be on my way. You have been indeed kind to me and I would pay you for the bread and ale—and the hay for Star too. But I am penniless—"
The old woman put a hand on Beth's arm. "No need, no need. Any kin to Mistress Bury is welcome beneath my roof, humble though it be. I want naught from you, young sir." Following Beth to the door where she re-saddled Star, the woman patted the horse's mane and said: "A fine beast you have there. A thoroughbred by the look of him."
"He is indeed. And good-natured too."
Mistress Howe nodded. "Your master must be a generous and trusting man to let an apprentice use such a valuable animal." She regarded Beth thoughtfully. "And a mere slip of a lad, too. How old are you?"
Beth smiled nervously. "Older than I look, mistress."
"And stronger, I trust."
"Ay, stronger too."
Mistress Howe sighed. "And wiser," she mumbled, "for you will need to take great care how you travel this day, for they are impresting men into service on the Queen's ships in this hour of peril—"
"They will not take me."
"Do not be too sure, lad. They are not cautious about the lads they choose. My brother's boy was taken only yesterday, and he but fifteen. Unlike yourself, he is well-grown, great shoulders upon him, a fine deep chest. Ay, a man already," she said proudly, and with a pitying look at Beth, her voice softened. "Take care, lad, for the pressers are ready to take any man with two arms and two legs who can fire a gun, or board the enemy ships."
"They will not take me, mistress. But I will heed your warning." And thanking the old woman once more, Beth led Star down the path and headed once more for the Folkestone road, pondering on how she would find her way out of this new dilemma.
Should she return to Craighall? She thought of the anger of the Howards at being thwarted in their plans. Even contrite, she might expect no mercy or kindness from them. They would make sure she did not escape their clutches again before her marriage to James Danyell. She could expect to be a prisoner, her treatment harsh.
The alternative was to try to reach cousin Alys at the Burys' house in Charing Cross. It would not be difficult to find, but what would be her welcome there? She sighed; anything would be better than the welcome awaiting at Craighall. London was far distant, but refuge with cousin Alys, who would never turn her away, was her only remaining hope.
She had not travelled more than a mile when Star went lame and dismounting, Beth discovered the cause. Star had shed one of his shoes. There was nothing for it but to find the nearest village and a blacksmith, before their journey could continue. Beth thought of the hours she had already lost at Sand Bay and looked back anxiously along the road, wondering whether the Howards had discovered her absence and raised a hue and cry, and if a search party was in pursuit.
A signpost told her that Folkestone lay ahead. She would surely find help there, and as she led Star down the road she saw, far below the cliffs, a tall ship at anchor in the bay. As she drew nearer she saw that the ship had lost one of its masts and looked as if it had seen fighting, as men, like an army of flies, from the distance, moved frantically up and down sails, and swarmed over its decks. The sound of hammers came clearly across the water, and the voices of the men shouting orders to one another.
When she reached the first houses, she was surprised by the air of desertion about what should have been a busy market square at this hour of the day. Stalls had been abandoned and all around her, house doors normally open to the sunshine were fast closed. The only sign of life was an occasional face peering out of a window, hastily withdrawn. Once she saw a woman stare out at her, then the door quickly closed again. However, when she knocked on the door several times, to ask the whereabouts of the blacksmith's forge, the occupant of the house ignored this intrusion and the door remained stoutly fastened.
Beth continued her walk down the street, aware of eyes watching her, following. Sometimes she turned, but only the flicker of a curtain, a stealthy movement remained. She began to hurry, full of strange unease.
Why were the occupants so afraid? Could it be that the Spaniards had landed? She wished she had taken closer account of the ship in the bay. Could it have been an Armada galley and not one of the Queen's ships, as she had first thought?
Her steps had taken her beyond the market square towards the church with its Norman tower. She observed that several horses were tethered outside the churchyard. Perhaps a service was in progress, she thought, and wandered through the yew-shaded paths, surrounded by ancient sagging tombstones, from which time and weather had obliterated all identity.
"… in the hope of resurrection to the life eternal…"
A moment later, the voice revealed that a burial was in progress. The yews divided and she saw that not one, but six coffins, were lined side by side, black-draped. Some men, sailors from their rough garb and bronzed skins, stood caps in hand staring into a large freshly-dug grave. Most of the other mourners, she noticed, were either old men, women or children.
Again counting the coffins, Beth wondered what holocaust could have brought about this catastrophe. She looked again at the seamen, and remembered the lamed ship standing out in the bay. The dead men must be casualties from recent fighting against the Spaniards.
Sheltered from view by the trees and feeling it would be imprudent to draw any
closer, suddenly she saw the group draw aside and her attention was taken by the couple who were apparently the chief mourners.
One was a 'man whose striking appearance would have caused comment anywhere. Over six feet tall, tawny-haired in the sunshine, his bearing was noble and military two. Past first youth, he bore the aspect of command and as the slight breeze ruffled his short cloak, Beth noticed he wore the green-and-white insignia of a captain of the Queen's ships.
The ship in the bay must be under his command, and the melancholy occasion, the funerals of fallen members of his crew brought to Folkestone for burial.
A moment later, as they turned away from the graveside, she saw his companion. Even grief and mourning, signs of heavy weeping and distress could not destroy the beauty of the woman who leaned heavily upon his arm. At first glance she appeared little more than a girl and the Captain's arm was about her shoulders now, comforting her tears. As they passed within a few feet of where Beth stood, she saw they had a look of close-knit tenderness, of intimacy that suggested husband and wife rather than brother and sister, for there was little likeness in the fair man, strong of jaw and forehead, a face of rugged yet not unattractive angles, and the tiny heart-shaped countenance of the beautiful black-haired girl. Then as the girl lifted a hand to her veil, Beth noticed the thick gold wedding-ring. The man drew her closer as her footsteps faltered and she wept again. His face showed such signs of distress that it was obviously someone close to the pair in one of the coffins.
Beth's curiosity was awakened. She felt haunted by the sorrowing girl, whose sadness had stretched out and touched her own heart with pity. The air of tragedy drew her irresistibly towards the handsome pair. The seamen and the other mourners had disappeared towards the village. Still Beth lingered in the wake of the mourning couple until at last the man paused and, taking the girl in his arms, he held her in close embrace. There were tears and entreaties between them. Obviously they loved each other dearly and were about to part.
Ashamed to spy upon such a scene of private emotions, Beth turned away and hurriedly retraced her steps to where she had left Star tethered, remembering that when her attention was distracted to the churchyard and the minister's voice, she had noticed a little further down the road the swinging of an inn-sign.
"The White Swan". With considerable relief, Beth went inside expecting to find the parlour full of thirsty men who had left the graveside to shake melancholy heads over a pot of ale and exchange thoughtful discourses on mortality. She found no such scene. The inn parlour was deserted and none heeded her arrival. She tapped upon the counter. No one answered. She waited a polite few moments, then called for the landlord. Impatiently, she called again. As she was about to leave, in anger and disgust, the door opened a couple of inches and a woman's face, white and scared, appeared.
"The inn is closed, master—be on your way."
"I do not want ale. I look for the blacksmith—my horse is lame."
The woman shook her head.
"Where is the blacksmith?" Beth repeated.
"Taken," whispered the woman.
Beth remembered the six coffins. "Dead?"
"No, taken—this very morning. The pressers came, took away all our men, for that accursed ship out yonder, which sails on the tide. There is rumour of the Spaniards sheltering at Calais." Suddenly the woman came in, closed the door behind her. "You are naught but a child, lad. You had best go—quickly, in case some of them are still about. They have been burying some of the crew who were killed in the fighting. They will take any lad they can lay hands on. Go—go," she began pushing Beth towards the door. "Go, I tell you—ride fast, get away while you still can—"
"I cannot ride anywhere, mistress. My horse is lame—"
"Then leave your horse. Go on foot. I will stable your horse—"
To Beth, the woman's fears seemed outrageous, seeing that the streets were empty. Besides she wanted to find out more about the man and woman she had seen.
"Who were—?" she began.
"Go," said the woman. "Don't waste time asking questions." And seizing Star's reins she began to lead him towards the stable.
"But—" protested Beth.
"Your horse will be safe with us. We are honest folk hereabouts. He will still be here after the ship has sailed and the pressers gone with it."
Beth looked around. There was no one in sight, man or woman—not even a child played in the deserted street.
"Come back this evening, you will be safe then. But I don't know where we will find another blacksmith."
It was useless to protest with this unreasoning woman. Such a panic over nothing, thought Beth, as she walked over the square, past the market cross, to where the road led back up the steep hill.
She had not taken more than a dozen steps when she heard the scrape of footsteps behind her. Turning, she saw that the street, so empty moments earlier, now seemed full of men. Seamen they were, some of the rough faces she recognised from the graveside. They advanced towards her, smiling, but not in welcome. Some carried cudgels, and their purpose was obvious. Too late, she wished with all her heart that she had heeded the innkeeper's advice.
She turned and faced them boldly, trying to look unafraid, despite her knees which were beginning to tremble.
"What do you want?" she demanded.
"That's another likely lad," came a voice from among them.
"Ay, and that makes our dozen."
Even as she began to run up the hill, they swarmed over her, like a huge tide of strong arms, of grinning, yelling faces. She fell to the ground under their weight.
"Leave me alone—leave me—"
She began to hit out, using her fists, striking wildly. Then she saw a raised fist, and unbelievably it was descending towards her face. The pain was excruciating and endless. Then as darkness engulfed her, her last conscious thought was a cheerful voice saying: "That's the lot then. Back to the ship, men."
"Ay, a good day's work," said another. "The Captain will be pleased."
CHAPTER THREE
The Captain of the Sea Queen was far from pleased as he inspected the latest imprested men to his crew.
Short of victuals, short of powder and shot, with casualties from the battle at Portland Bill, the Sea Queen had put into Folkestone to await the ammunition and supplies urgently requested from the authorities in Dover and London.
The Captain prayed that these would arrive before the sails of the Armada appeared on the horizon, blown by a good wind from Calais. Meanwhile, he put the crew under orders to repair broken masts and holes above the water-line, sending a body of his stoutest, strongest men to impress into the Queen's service any able-bodied man they could take unawares in the district.
Now he watched the results of their taking. They straggled aboard, a raggle-taggle band. The Captain sighed. How could he hope to turn such men into a disciplined fighting force without time for training? How could he equip such men to face the might of the Armada, the greatest fighting machine with the best-trained soldiers in the world?
From the fighting thus far, at Portsmouth and the Isle of Wight, he guessed that the Spaniards' main advantage lay in numbers. A formidable array of ships, more like a great city of spires and turrets on the move; their formation a crescent moon, seven miles from horn to horn across the sea. An impressive sight indeed, but too unwieldy to manage in close fighting.
His opinion was confirmed by the capture of a Spanish pinnace, a scout ship sailing under oars between the galleons with battle information, since signalling was useless once the fighting began. Smoke from the great guns made it impossible to keep in battle formation, or even to see one's neighbour, much less the enemy.
At the mention of El Draque, as Sir Francis Drake was known and feared by the Armada, the Spanish lieutenant, young and inexperienced, and not very brave, was only too glad to inform the English captain that, in his opinion, the great top-heavy galleons, a magnificent sight with their fore- and stern-castles, were meant for sailing the calm Me
diterranean waters. They were never meant to face into the stern winds of the treacherous seas that guarded the coast of Britain. "Our soldiers are land-trained, unlike your seamen," he continued, "they suffer considerably from the effects of sea-sickness and are continually frustrated of their ultimate goal, the boarding and hand-to-hand fighting in which they are without equal. But your smaller ships, so much faster, never given them an opportunity to use their grappling-irons, much less fight."
The boatswain of the Sea Queen had lined up the men for his Captain's inspection. As he approached them, his thoughts returned to the five men buried in Folkestone and to the beloved boy whose brave face he would see no more. As for Madeleine - but no, he must not think of Madeleine. He must shut out her sorrowing countenance, her heartbreak. He could not be with her and that was an end to it—
And so the Captain straightened his shoulders and walked down the deck, asking the imprested men their names and occupations. His answers were sullen in the extreme, the men resentful and angry. The Captain stopped before one giant of a man.
"Blacksmith, are you? Well, blacksmith, I will have good spirits and no ill-nature on my ship. Remember that you fight for England, and with men of your mettle, we will ah be home to sup by our own hearths come Sunday. Be proud, men, and of good heart. Never forget that you owe your first duty to me but that you also defend Elizabeth, our Queen."
His speech did little but bring about a half-hearted straightening of shoulders among the men with little to lose. Those who had trades were bitter at being torn from them, and from homes and families. Usually the men who called loudest for loyalty to the Queen were those most reluctant to leave their security and comforts.
At the end of the line, one of the sailors supported an unconscious body that leaned against the bulwarks.
"What have we here?" demanded the Captain.
The sailor grinned. "The lad was reluctant to accept our invitation, Cap'n, and I fear we had to persuade him. 'Fraid my fist was a mite too hard for his complexion."
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