by Betty Younis
“Well, sometimes the old people must be cared for, but almost every day!”
“And who are these old people?”
“I tell you this in the strictest confidence.”
Elizabeth nodded.
“I am the only person under one hundred years old that lives at Coudenoure. Grandpapa, Grandmother and Anne are all paper thin and ancient.”
“My word!” declared Elizabeth, “Are you certain?”
Henrietta nodded grimly.
“I am, and so, like Terrence and his Elizabeths, they are my responsibility.” She sighed dramatically. “They are my burden, and I must carry on.”
“’Tis too sad for such a young maid as yourself.”
“Oh, I agree,” said Henrietta enthusiastically. “But ’tis my lot in life.” Her self-satisfaction with her own altruism made Elizabeth laugh.
“Yes, what a little soldier you are.”
“Indeed,” came the reply accompanied by another happy sigh.
They walked on up the drive and were met by Bess and Anne.
“You have come back to us!” Bess cried.
“But I understand Henrietta is now forced to look after everyone on the estate.”
Bess looked lovingly at her granddaughter.
“Cook has just taken jam biscuits from the hearth.”
Henrietta was gone in a flash.
“The child is a born caregiver,” said Anne. “She mothers everything and everyone on the entire estate.”
They went inside.
*****
Henrietta, thought Elizabeth grimly, was only a few degrees from wrong. When Catherine, Michael and Anne were small, the house seemed to shake with their activity. Quinn was ever in his workshop and ever in danger because of it. Bess was constantly at her stone. Somehow, in the time since she had last visited, the estate had lost a measure of its vibrancy. But where? Elizabeth tried to ascertain the difference between then and now.
The ploughmen were still in the fields, the miller still grinding with his oxen. Stable hands could be seen walking the horses and maids could still be heard calling gaily to one another through the open doors of the dairy barn. Gardeners with their barrows trotted to and fro on the grounds, busily putting into action Quinn’s latest landscape scheme. On the surface, all seemed the same. But beneath the façade a creeping lethargy had set in. All were about their business, but all moved slower, as though the years were catching up to them. Elizabeth shook off the sense of maudlin emotions such thoughts produced and turned herself to her loved ones.
Quinn and Bess were now showing signs of deep middle-age. Both heads were streaked through with gray, and both had a comfortable girth around their middle. But their physical changes were not what echoed through the queen’s mind. The twosome had always finished one another’s sentences, sensing the other’s thoughts almost before they were formed. Now, they seemed to have taken their private world a step further. They did not speak much to one another and yet their communication was complete and complex. Elizabeth wondered what such a grace might feel like.
Anne, on the other hand, still had the dark hair and charm of youth but had aged psychologically well beyond her years. Her love for Christopher Marlowe had not been a girlish crush as first believed. She had never recovered from the blow struck her so long ago by his cruel and thoughtless words and in an effort to protect herself she had turned inwards. The wound’s impact was deepened by Catherine’s death shortly afterwards. Together, the two events had provided definitive proof for her that love was not a kind and gentle force, but a raging fire that consumed all who were foolish enough to answer its call. She could be seen each year on the anniversary of Catherine’s death at the young girl’s grave in Coudenoure’s cemetery, placing flowers on the headstone, gently patting the earth beneath which her sister lay. As for any remembrance of Marlowe, she never again spoke his name. Only the quiet and still lack of emotion, year after year, told the tale of her lost youth. She loved Bess and Quinn and adored Henrietta, but even these familial ties were now laced with a caution and a distance that was usually seen only among the truly aged, those who had lost everything and everyone through the sheer and steady force of time.
As the foursome sat together that fine spring morning, Bess told Elizabeth of the estate while Anne spoke with pride of the many additions to Coudenoure’s burgeoning library. Soon, she declared, the shelves must be expanded, and an assessment of conditions of care be considered for the older treasures.
“Papyri, you see, begin to crumble if the atmospheric conditions they require are not met. They do best with a mild humidity which inhibits mold, but yet with just enough so that the fibers of the plant do not separate and become brittle.” On and on she went.
Even Elizabeth and Bess, her two biggest supporters in her library expansion efforts, could only absorb so much. They simply nodded and smiled as on she tripped, displaying an encyclopedic knowledge of all things paper, parchment, papyrus and vellum.
Suddenly, the sound of a galloping horse coming up the drive caught their attention and en masse they moved to the window.
“’Tis a young man, that is for sure,” declared Quinn, “For no one but a youth would ride at such a pace-“
He stopped mid-sentence. Bess gasped and together they ran from the room and threw open the manor doors.
“Michael! Michael!” Bess screamed with joy, pulling her son from the saddle and weeping in his arms. Quinn too cried unashamedly, hugging them both again and again. Their boy was home.
A muted scream came from the great entry way and all turned to see Jane fly out as though catapulted by some unseen force. In an instant, Michael tore himself free from his parents and ran to her, collecting her in his arms as she sobbed and clutched him frantically, as though he might disappear again should she let go.
“Do not cry, my Jane, for I am home now,” he whispered soothingly in her ear. “And I will not leave you again.”
Despite her initial worries about class and status, Elizabeth had come round and recognized that somehow Michael and Jane had found one another despite the great divides of wealth and background which separated them. She turned slightly away so that no one would see the tears she shed upon seeing their happy reunion. Were they tears of happiness for the young couple, she wondered, or tears of sorrow for herself? For even a queen cannot summon such bliss at will.
Chapter Twenty-Four
June 1588
The two mules struggled against the leather harness which yoked them to one another. The ridge was steep, and Michael stood at the top, waiting impatiently as the wain moved inch by inch up what was now a rutted track. The stableman at the reins shouted and whipped them onwards until finally they crested the top and slowed to a stop. Far behind them yet another wagon turned and began the ascent onto Coudenoure’s high ridge. At the top, young men lined up to lift the heavy stones that were the cargo of the creaking wagon. Some distance away at the apex of the top of the ridge, older men shouted and motioned to the young ones to hurry along. As each barrow of stone was dumped, it was picked up and prepared for placement by the masons and their apprentices. A small group of foremen and masons watched, concern written across their faces. Michael was among them, as was Quinn.
“Can we do it in time?” asked a small boy whose father was deep into discussion with the masons. Fear was in his voice and instinctively he reached out and clutched Michael’s hand, looking up in wide-eyed terror for reassurance. Michael smiled down at him and patted his head. After a moment, he squatted and looked at the child frankly.
“Aye, of course we can, but we must all pull together.” He paused. “Have you ever been on a ship at sea?”
The child’s pale green eyes grew bigger as he shook his head.
“Have you?”
“Oh yes,” Michael replied. “And I have often been in battles both on sea and on land.”
The boy stared at him in wonder.
“The trick to success, you see, is that every man mu
st understand his duty to his fellows, to his country, and to himself. It matters not if you are outnumbered or out-maneuvered. What matters is what is in here.” He thumped his chest. “Have you a brave heart, young boy?”
“I do.” The child pulled himself up straighter.
“Then go see how you might help those masons, for we must build quickly.”
The boy saluted before running off. Michael smiled and as he stood the sound of hooves from the far side of the ridge could be heard. He turned to see Henrietta and Jane dismounting with large baskets of food. They were followed by others and in short order all work ceased as everyone settled in for dinner. Quinn, Henrietta, Michael and Jane sat comfortably to one side, noshing on bread and cheese. Michael sighed and Henrietta looked at him sharply.
“Have they been sighted?”
Michael shook his head in consternation.
Since the previous Christmas, England had been warned that the great fleet of ships being assembled by King Phillip of Spain was almost ready. Early rumors had caused panic in the streets of London – thousands of ships with unlimited supplies of gunpowder and men. Walsingham’s spies soon debunked this huge number, but their intelligence was not much more encouraging than the unfounded rumors. The armada, put together with new world money and a crusade taxation plan (blessed by the Pope and supported by the Spanish populace), numbered well over one hundred ships. The Pope chose not to leave the matter there, however. Indulgences were issued for all who sailed with the mighty fleet and assurances given that those who killed a Protestant were bound for heaven regardless of past sins. The Queen of England was the worst of heretics, for she enslaved her kingdom and forced them to worship outside the true Catholic faith. The battle Spain was enjoining was therefore holy in God’s eyes, a crusade against the evil Elizabeth. God would surely bless all of their efforts and England would be freed at last.
Elizabeth, meanwhile, had mounted her own campaign of words and ships. Drake, Frobisher and sailors great and small had responded to the threat and made themselves available. Every shipyard in the realm had risen to her call to protect England’s sacred shores from the Spanish infidel, and Elizabeth now possessed more ships than the armada. But not more gunpowder. Even as plans were being drawn, the severe shortage was recognized and Drake was assigned to steal Spanish powder from the armada itself once it drew close. Without his piracy, England would fail despite its advantage in number of vessels and all knew the consequences if the English fleet should fail. Elizabeth had no standing army to speak of, while Walsingham reported with conviction that at least eighteen thousand foot soldiers sailed aboard the Spanish ships, ready to invade the moment the armada made landfall. There would be no second chances for England or for the queen in such an event.
Michael Janyns had been called early for Elizabeth knew of his skill and experience firsthand. He had been home barely a fortnight when Drake contacted him, drafting him into England’s service. His time was split between war councils in London and Coudenoure, for the high ridge there had been determined to have superb sightlines for a signal station. Beginning in Cornwall, these stone huts were built upon the highest ridges and hills of the towns and countryside between England’s southern coast and London. Each of them had openings in their roofs to support tall, sturdy iron rods, upon which hung enormous iron fire baskets filled with kindling and wood. Should the sharp-eyed men assigned to any one post spy the dreaded armada approaching England’s shores, they were directed to light their fires and hang them high, alerting the next station in line. In turn, like pearls dropping onto a golden chain, the message would be forwarded onward by each station along the chain, each lighting its baskets until minutes later the fiery warning reached London. The enemy had arrived and battle was to be joined.
As he sat upon Coudenoure’s ridge that June day, Michael pulled his thoughts back to the moment at hand.
“Have they been sighted? No, but they are coming.”
Henrietta looked defiantly southward. The sky was clear and ten miles hence, the station in line before Coudenoure could be seen. She turned northward, and by straining could just make out the one to Coudenoure’s north, the one that would wait to relay the baton of fire from Coudenoure and send it yet further along.
“We must be ready.” Her declaration was simple yet determined. “Jane, you will see to provisioning Coudenoure. Do not leave the supplies where they can be easily taken from us but hide them so we will not starve should the bastards get this far.”
“Henrietta!” Quinn chuckled even as he tried to sound stern, “…you must not use such language.”
“Then they must not try to take what is ours.” Again, simple yet determined. Her confidence and childish determination made them all believe.
“Margaret and I shall provide for Coudenoure. You need not worry.”
Michael smiled at the soft-spoken words of his love. Jane had evolved into a woman of substance, one who continued to amaze him and win his heart over again each time she revealed a new facet of her complex nature. Early on, when he had realized that their passion for one another ran deep and eternal, he had worried about the difference in their social rank. He was a baron, she a kitchen maid. But together they had shut out the naysayers and focused on building commonalities for their future life together. Just as she had learned to read, had studied politics and learned to manage an estate, so he had learned to respect others for what they contributed to the world, whether it be great or small, whether it came with a title or not. His time aboard ship had only reinforced his lack of concern and interest with rank and title, his deep appreciation of skill regardless of background. He knew that the world he and Jane would build together at Tyche would be one of peace and harmony for all fortunate enough to inhabit it.
Lunch was over and Michael helped Quinn to his feet. The old man had lost something physically but not his keen curiosity about the world around him. Michael had brought him trinkets, seeds and even a strange tree from the new world. It now lived with Terrence and his harem in the glass house and produced six-inch long green fruit which grew in clusters, the fruit’s peel changing to a yellowish hue as it ripened. Terrence loved it, Cook avoided it, Quinn studied it and Bess ignored it. Not everything at Coudenoure had changed over time.
*****
July 19 1588
What was that – was it a sail? Finally? He ran up the earthen mound and quickly climbed the ladder which leaned against the round, stone signal house. Gaining his balance, he turned south, peering anxiously into the swirling gray fog. He had seen this evil watery veil coming, watching it in alarmed silence as it grew and spread out over the high seas. A wind kicked up mid-morning and blew mist landward as it fed ravenously off the warm waters below. Like the devil’s own brew, it dissipated, then reformed, swirled and roiled as it sank ever lower until finally, it rested upon the land and the sea, hiding both good and evil in its gray, cold embrace. He cursed it and continued staring – he thought he had caught a glint of red appear and then disappear on the far horizon. Without warning, an eerie stillness settled uneasily upon the land. The wind came to a sudden stop, as though pausing to consider the grave options which lay before it: should it blow the infernal veil of fog and mist away and reveal all, or should it move on and leave England to a deathly fate? The watchman turned all round as though expecting to see some reason for the sudden cessation. But the decision had been made, and as suddenly as it had stopped the wind began again. It blew with determination down from the hills, across the valleys and out to sea, parting the clouds and fog, creating a rift through which the gray-blue ocean appeared. Yes, he had been right. It was them, but what he now saw in the widening gulf of clouds caused a knot in his stomach.
“Dear God,” he said aloud. He tried to count but realized it was futile. For a hundred years or more, his family had kept this signal above England’s southern coast, but never had it been imagined that such danger would come to their realm’s coast or that upon their actions would ride the fa
te of the nation. He watched in horror as the great war-galleons continued to appear, the horizon now obliterated by their billowing sails, each painted with the red cross of Spain.
Even as he watched, a score of men came running and riding up the hill.
“Light the fire! Quickly, man, for we must get word to the Queen!”
The torch was put to the baskets. Five minutes later, ten miles away, they saw the next signal house light their own baskets, sending the word inland. From Dover to London, the fires were lit in a steady stream. It had begun.
*****
August 8, 1588
Jane had not been happy with the news.
“But you said you would not leave again. Michael, you are twenty-five in one month! We are then free to marry by the Queen’s own resolution!”
“I know, but England has great need now of naval men, Jane, for the Spanish are throwing everything they have against us. They will stop at nothing to overthrow our sovereign and impose their false religion upon us all. They have a fleet of one hundred-thirty warships! Jane! Hear me! I must do my part.”
Tears welled in her eyes.
“I do not feel good about your going.”
“Of course you do not, my love, but I promise by all that is holy that the moment Phillip’s armada is defeated, I will come home to you and Coudenoure. We will marry and have a family, as we want. Just one more short separation, my love. This will be the last.”
Bess was of a similar mind. Only old Quinn and young Henrietta seemed to understand his need to answer the call. Anne understood it too but was so consumed with worry about Coudenoure she took almost no part in the arguments and conversations which swirled about his leaving.
“When you are back you will marry Jane.”
“Yes, Henrietta, but you must look after her. I fear her state of mind at my going more than I do all the guns of the armada.”