The Lost Duchess

by Jenny Barden

  ‘I’ll make sure he has a bed,’ she said, deciding that she would not mind the boy since she was pleased enough to have Master Kit at her side, conscious of his lithe, straight-backed stride as they passed through the gallery and the Watching Chamber beyond. A few heads turned as they left, but she acknowledged no one’s look, and, once they were over the moat and in Fountain Court, she spoke to the mariner more freely knowing that she had his attention to herself.

  ‘Have you sailed with Sir Francis many times?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, slowing as they neared the fountain, and fixing his blue gaze upon her in a way that made his words seem to slip past formality and reach straight to her soul. ‘I have been with him on every voyage since he helped me escape from the Spaniards thirteen years ago.’

  ‘Escape?’ She probed softly, aware of a sadness about him lying like darkness behind a veil – she saw it in his eyes as he looked straight back at her.

  ‘I was held hostage by the Spaniards before the battle of San Juan de Ulúa, and taken captive when they reneged and destroyed John Hawkins’ fleet. They marched me to the City of Mexico and sold me as a galley slave; then I was sent to the mines in Panama and panned for gold until I was freed by African runaways. I lived as an outlaw with these people, the Cimaroons as they’re called, until I heard of English ships nearby, and then I found my brother, who was in Drake’s crew, and sailed back to England with Drake and the Spanish treasure he’d seized.’

  He turned to drink from the fountain, leaving Emme in awe as the wonder of his story settled over her. It chimed in her mind with legendary tales of Spanish treachery and John Hawkins’ defeat, and Drake’s famous first victory over the Spaniards in the New World when he had brought back a fortune after raiding a mule train carrying bullion. What must the mariner have been through: imprisoned, enslaved, outcast and then rescued as if brought back from the dead? What had he been through since? She watched him wipe the water from his mouth with the back of his hand, and pictured him in a prison cell, and then in a wilderness, and next on a rolling deck in the thick of a storm. He would have been graceful wherever he was, she decided; he did not need to drink from crystal to look like a gentleman.

  ‘Did you sail with Sir Francis all around the world?’

  ‘I did. I sailed with him to Magellan’s Strait, beyond the land of ice and smoke, and into the South Sea where no Englishman had sailed before, as far north as New Albion, and then to the Spice Isles rich in cloves and ginger, from Java to the Guinea Coast and back to England; I’ve seen the lion in the purple mountains of Sierra Leone, and birds that fly in the sea because the sky is too cold.’

  His words both thrilled and unsettled her, swelling her heart then spearing her with longing.

  ‘I would that I could have gone on such a journey.’

  The remark was out before she had considered the sense of it. Kit’s response was to smile at her as if she could not possibly understand.

  ‘I think you would have wished yourself back home within a month. Two-thirds of the crew died on that voyage.’

  She almost protested that she would have gladly endured the hardship or died in the attempt, but she kept that thought to herself.

  ‘Will you sail with Sir Francis again?’

  ‘I might not.’ The sounds of splashing filled his pause. ‘The next voyage I make will be with Manteo, I have promised him.’

  ‘To Virginia?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Does Virginia hold better prospects for you now? Greater even than finding fortune with Sir Francis Drake?’

  He looked away to the arch that led through to the gate; then he turned back to her.

  ‘Fortune is not everything.’

  ‘You are right.’ She smiled to show how much she agreed with him, though that soon faded before the gravity in his eyes, and not smiling was easier since she was still bleeding inside and out from the pain of her violation. She ushered him on in silence, with the boy padding behind, while her mind swam, and she mourned inwardly for the affinity she felt with this man, and the certainty that neither he, nor anyone like him, could ever be part of her life, so far removed from her was he in station and experience, and so tarnished was she now that no man of merit would ever want her.

  ‘There were many reasons why I sailed with Drake,’ Kit volunteered, carrying on as if their discussion had never stopped, and her heart opened to him at that, because she knew he was trying to be both considerate and forthright with her. He paced steadily at her side as he went on.

  ‘Gratitude and loyalty come into it, and searching too – searching for something,’ he added quickly, as if correcting himself.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I …’

  Their words were uttered together, and with a wistful smile he carried on.

  ‘I now know that my search is at an end. There is no need for me to sail again with Drake, not to the Indies or anywhere else.’

  They had reached the Gate House, and it was only natural that she should go inside to speak to the Yeoman Steward and collect the key to the mariner’s room; this done, she knew their conversation was close to a conclusion, though she wondered at his last words, and wanted to know more about his travels and why his search was over. She escorted Master Kit to his lodgings overlooking the Great Court, checked there was a pallet for his page, and prepared to say goodbye.

  ‘I suppose you will be meeting Manteo to discuss your return to Virginia?’ She put the question as blithely as she could.

  ‘Yes, there’ll be meetings, and Sir Walter will want a report, and to speak to me as well since it’s his capital that will finance the voyage. I hope he considers me worthy to be included in the enterprise.’

  ‘Oh, he will,’ she blurted out, which induced in him another small smile. ‘I would like to attend, if I may,’ she rushed on impulsively, simply not wanting to end their association and the glimpse of freedom he had given her. ‘I am very interested in this new land.’

  ‘You?’ He raised a brow and looked at her, and again his eyes locked onto hers, but the laughter that she thought might come did not. He spoke gently.

  ‘Well, John White is determined upon having women amongst his settlers. Perhaps you might be able to tell him whether the women who are needed will be encouraged to join.’

  The women who are needed: the phrase turned in her thoughts, and she knew that such women did not include her. Suddenly she wished all her finery away: her silk dress and pearls, her wired collar and corset, the farthingale, the busk and the whitening caking her face. She wished she had no maid to give him the impression she was pampered. She wanted him to see that she could be useful too.

  He tipped his handsome head on one side then gave her a crisp bow.

  ‘I will ask whether you may come along.’

  *

  Emme felt herself falling, plummeting down through a lightless void with nothing that she could catch hold of to slow her descent. Her speed accelerated with each tearing moment, though she reached out with arms and legs, twisting and flailing in desperation, clutching uselessly while air streamed past her, filling her mouth which was open wide to scream. But no sound would come. The drop went on and on. Her muscles locked and her nerves burned. She tried to yell again and again, until, at last, with a cry she woke, thrashing and sweating, twisting in her sheets, conscious of where she was just as she realised that someone was close.

  Bess Throckmorton reached over from the bed beside Emme in their chamber at Richmond Palace and took hold of her in the darkness. Emme sighed with relief. She was safe and with people she knew. Her maid, Biddy, Lady Frances Howard and others familiar to her would be not far away. She jerked up on one elbow, rubbed at her eyes and gave a small moan. As her thoughts cleared, she realised nothing had changed. It was no surprise to her that she had dreamt of falling. In truth, she had fallen already even if outwardly she appeared unharmed. Still breathing heavily, she rocked back and forth.

  Bess got up quietly, ghost pale in the
shuttered dark. She squatted down by Emme’s bed and put her arms around her.

  ‘It’s all right, Emme,’ she whispered. ‘There’s nothing to worry about. You were only having a bad dream.’

  Emme hugged Bess back, then buried her face against her friend’s linen shift, inhaling its scent of rose petals and human sweetness, aware of the young woman’s body beneath, younger than hers, one untouched. Her tears began to gush helplessly because Bess was so kind yet everything was not all right. It would never be all right.

  Bess kissed her cheek, murmuring with soft sibilance.

  ‘What is it, Emme? Surely a dream should not upset you so?’

  ‘It’s not the dream, Bess, not that. It’s … No, I can’t tell anyone.’

  ‘Telling me might be a help, Emme. A trouble shared is a trouble made less; that’s what my nurse always said.’

  ‘Dear Bess.’ Emme gave her another squeeze. Bess was a true good friend but she could never begin to confess her shame to her.

  Bess whispered softly.

  ‘You called out while you were dreaming.’

  ‘What?’ Panic gripped Emme again. ‘What did I say?’

  Bess made her whispering even quieter, squeezing it into hot damp puffs against Emme’s ear.

  ‘You said: “Joined – No!” and “Lord …” At least I think that’s what it was.’ Bess gave a small suppressed giggle. ‘Were you blaspheming in your sleep?’

  Emme shook her head as her tears flowed. She sniffled and groped for her handkerchief. If Bess meant to cheer her, she had failed.

  ‘So were you naming someone?’ Bess whispered again more urgently. ‘Did you not want to be joined with a lord?’

  It was too much. Bess knew her too well. Her friend had guessed at her secret before Emme had any chance to try and better conceal it. She blew her nose and covered her eyes and could not stop the great shuddering sobs that racked her. She fell into her friend’s embrace and they held one another tight.

  ‘A lord has ruined me, Bess.’

  ‘No!’ Bess gasped. ‘Who?’

  Emme took a deep breath and murmured in a small voice. ‘Lord Hertford.’

  ‘But he’s so old!’ Bess sounded incredulous.

  ‘Not too old for what he did to me.’

  ‘Oh no … He didn’t …’ Bess took hold of Emme’s hand and gripped it until her nails dug in. ‘Not with his … Not as a man should only do with his wife …’

  ‘Yes, that.’

  Emme sensed Bess was struggling to imagine what had happened, and she supposed the act was as much beyond her friend’s experience as it had been beyond her own until that night, just over two weeks ago, when her innocence had been ripped from her.

  ‘He trapped me here in the palace,’ she began to explain in an undertone. ‘He locked me in a room and then …’

  ‘Shhh!’ Bess shot back into bed and pulled the covers over her head.

  The glow of a candle passed over them as Lady Howard surveyed all the beds in the chamber.

  Emme slumped down and pressed her face to her pillow.

  ‘Who was talking?’ Lady Howard snapped.

  ‘I was, my lady,’ Emme spoke up, anxious to shield Bess from any blame. ‘I had a nightmare and spoke out in my sleep. I am sorry to have disturbed you.’

  Lady Howard clicked her tongue.

  ‘I am sure that everyone here does not wish to know the state of your dreams, Mistress Fifield. I’ll thank you to be quiet.’

  Emme screwed shut her eyes and said nothing more.

  She prayed she had not already said too much.

  *

  The beat was quick, the music bright and Emme saw the Queen gasp after the next high leap, turning in Sir Christopher Hatton’s arms with cheeks flushed livid and a hand that trembled, as she commenced the cinq pas. Five steps: one two, one two, and Emme sprang with the other ladies, whirling into the cadence, skirts twirling, pulse pounding, her throat raw with gulping at the smoke-sharp air from the open windows. Loose ribbons and hair blurred with white headdresses as she turned. The music flowed and possessed. The thud of tabor and boards; slippers slapping, hands clapping; the flourishes of lute, flute and viol took over from ears to toes, and Emme was glad to lose herself and forget, even if the sound of laughter jabbed at her soul. But how much more would the Queen endure? She had already been out riding at dawn and she had danced four galliards.

  Bess Throckmorton took Emme’s hand. ‘Be Sir Walter for me,’ she whispered, stepping close and guiding Emme’s hand to the lip of her busk near the hard point where her bodice tapered. Then, with arched back and half-closed eyes, Bess moved with her in rhythm, preparing for the leap, and Emme helped her when she sprang, using all her strength to lift her friend’s light body high, though she could not resist the temptation to tickle her ribs as she set Bess down.

  ‘Saucy, Sir Walter,’ Bess giggled, skipping away.

  Suddenly Emme felt the music slow, and she noticed Sir Christopher leading the Queen aside. The lute played on alone for a while, petering out as the Queen sat and raised her hand.

  ‘Let us have a song, Mistress Fifield,’ the Queen said, fanning herself rapidly and fixing Emme with a piercing stare. ‘Something gentle while we rest.’

  A song? Emme froze. Had she gone too far in helping Bess to play out her fantasy? Had the Queen overheard the mention of her favourite’s name?

  Emme moved towards her while the others drew away. She tried to quieten her panting and think of a song she could remember in both words and melody, yet her mind was a blank.

  ‘I … I am sure one of the musicians would sing better,’ she said, gesturing to one of the lutenists renowned for his pure tenor voice. ‘Master Chris Bowen, for instance.’

  The Queen tapped her foot. ‘I would like to hear from you, Mistress Fifield. Do not keep me waiting.’

  Emme looked wildly around the Great Hall which seemed still to be turning after all her spinning around, with the Queen’s ladies drifting by agape, and Bess gazing at her with her hand over her mouth, and the sunlight throwing daubs of colour through the stained-glass in the palace windows, while outside, above rooftops and twisted chimneys in a clear late-summer sky, she could see the pale disc of a moon left over from the night.

  She did not know where the words came from but, after an awkward pause, they issued from her, trembling a little at first, then becoming more certain as she found the melody and Master Bowen picked it up on his lute:

  ‘With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb’st the skies! …’

  Together they made the song swell, exquisite and poignant, a song of loss and unrequited love.

  … Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes

  Can judge of love, thou feel’st a lover’s case,

  I read it in thy looks: thy languish’d grace …

  The words were Sir Philip Sidney’s, who was now on campaign in the Low Countries, and, as everyone present knew, the ‘Moon’ of the sonnet was Her Majesty whom Sir Philip had idolised in verse, and perhaps the song set the Queen wondering whether she would ever see him again. Or perhaps she thought of others far from her who had once touched her heart – there must have been someone, maybe Lord Leicester, also fighting for the Protestant Dutch: the man thought by most to be the one the Queen would one day marry, now with his new wife and the Queen still unwed.

  Emme reflected on her own lost virtue, and on Drake and his men who had departed for another strike against Spain. Most of all she thought of Mariner Kit who had enthralled her then left without sending any word. He was gone from her life just like all the fine hot-blooded men she had ever met – fleeting shadows passing through echoing palaces – and she sang out her heart while the Queen covered her eyes.

  Then all at once, sharp and loud, the Queen clapped her hands and broke the spell. She sat up straight, eyes glistening as she spoke.

  ‘The sun beckons; let us enjoy it! A diversion on the river would suit very well – no ceremony or fuss. I shall travel like an
ordinary citizen and pay one of my gentlemen a visit. Mistress Fifield, you may accompany me; you, too, Mistress Throckmorton. Good Sir Christopher, you shall be my guard.’

  Excitement about the prospect shot through Emme like a dart. Who would they see? One of my gentlemen, the Queen had said. Emme thought of all the magnificent prodigy houses with gardens along the Thames and river gates: those along the Strand between Whitehall and the Temple, the houses of Leicester, Arundel, Suffolk and Salisbury. Perhaps the Queen meant to call on Robert Cecil, but more likely she planned to catch Sir Walter Raleigh at home in Durham Place.

  ‘You may well see him now,’ she whispered to Bess, sliding her arm round her friend’s waist as they hurried to the jetty.

  ‘Him?’ Bess raised her brows with an air of naïve perplexity, though Emme saw through it to the hope in her eyes.

  ‘Your dream dancing partner,’ Emme answered with a quiet smile.

  ‘Tush!’ Bess looked back to their maids who were following in a gaggle, pulled up the hood of her cloak and trotted after the Queen.

  Emme hummed the tune of the galliard Bess had danced to and linked arms with her friend. She wanted to keep the mood light, not brood on her own unhappiness or the Queen’s changes in behaviour. Whatever troubled Her Majesty was beyond her power to remedy, and shouldn’t she be rejoicing along with everyone else? The sound of peeling bells reminded her of one reason to be glad: Anthony Babington had been apprehended, found in an outhouse north of London with his hair cut short and his skin stained with walnut juice. His threat to the Queen’s life was over, and another plot had been thwarted that involved Spain and Mary of Scots.

  As the royal household barge drifted gently downstream, bonfires on the river banks sent plumes of smoke into the sky, the peeling of bells rang out, and cheering rose from the winding river’s edge wherever people were gathered in the villages they passed: Chiswick, Hammersmith, Putney and Chelsea. Once the barge reached the city, the noise became louder, and when the glory of Westminster Abbey came into view, Westminster Palace and Whitehall, then Emme could make out one phrase repeated over and over: ‘God save the Queen!’