The Lost Duchess

by Jenny Barden

  ‘But why?’ She was trying to understand and could not. All she knew was that she was crying for his love, for the love he was trying to hide from her, for the love that might heal her. ‘What have we done to hurt anyone?’

  ‘Not us – Lane. I’m still trying to find out what happened, but I believe Lane abused the trust of those who once dwelt here. He drove them from their homes and taught them to hate us. They were led by a chief called Wingina who was killed on Lane’s orders along with many of his followers not long before Lane left. Wingina was their weroance, like a father to them all, and Lane had him murdered. I knew that before I set sail. I did not realise what the consequences for us would be. I had thought that Lane’s troubles would not be ours.’

  Kit hung his head and held open his arms, and she moved until she could wrap her arms around his waist. That felt so lovely. When he embraced her she did not recoil. Her fear of him was gone; only the fear of what he might say to her remained.

  He nestled his brow in the crook of her neck. ‘I am sorry,’ he whispered. ‘I should have told you before.’

  She clasped him tight, aware of all the pieces of weaponry that hung about his hips, feeling the knife under his padded jacket, and the helmet that he held against the small of her back. She did not mind. He was close to her. She did not want him to ever leave her.

  ‘So now they have no leader?’ she murmured, hoping that at least this might be some help.

  ‘That may make our position worse.’ He kissed her neck then raised his head, giving a sigh before speaking as if the weight of what he had to say was a burden he could not escape.

  ‘When Manteo first came to England he did not come alone; another savage came with him, a man from Roanoke called Wanchese. This man learnt our ways, just like Manteo, but whereas Manteo grew to love us, Wanchese resented his abduction and loathed our intrusion upon his homeland. When Manteo and Wanchese were taken back to Virginia, Wanchese rejoined his people to counsel them against us. He did not return to England again; he wanted nothing more to do with us. Manteo has told me this. Our fear now is that Wanchese leads the Roanokes and perhaps some of the other tribes who are allied with the Secotans. If he leads them, it will be against us.’

  She hugged him. Nothing he had said really worried her; her worries were all about whether she could hold onto his love. He had wept for her and she had touched his tears. She did not need more reassurance that he believed he loved her now. But would he love her if he knew of her shame? Would he ever make her his wife? Or would he insist she went back to England? She would not go if he did. What he had told her about the Indians seemed no more than conjecture: possibilities that were as remote as death, real but distant when life was for living. Nothing was beyond hope.

  She moved her hand to his chest and felt the heave of his breathing: life of her life. What could she say to give him faith?

  ‘But you cannot be certain about the enmity of the Secotans. Let us go to Croatoan where the Indians are friendly and find out what we can, and, if the news from Manteo’s people is that the colony is at serious risk here, then we can always move to Chesapeake…’

  ‘That would be difficult.’ He cut her short. ‘There are nearly six score of us, three times as many as the pinnace can take aboard, and whilst the winds and currents would help us north, they’d make getting back here by sea almost impossible. We don’t have the craft on Roanoke to relocate so many people, and, even if we did, the passage would be risky, through swamp and little known territory, or chancing wrecking hurricanes off shore. We’d have no shelters waiting for us and no crops sown for next year. Our supplies might last us through the winter, but then we’d go hungry unless the savages helped us. We’d need to work with them in setting fish traps and finding game, learning what was safe to eat and finding our way around the land and rivers. Life would be hard…’

  ‘Shhh.’ She raised her finger to his lips. ‘You’ve said enough. We should not consider Chesapeake unless there is no alternative. But we do not know that yet. We need to speak to the Croatans.’

  ‘We will do that,’ he murmured, nuzzling her neck. ‘I see no reason why you should not come too, since Manteo’s people are our allies and we will rejoin the Lion afterwards. Then you must stay aboard for the voyage back to England.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ She snuggled closer to him, determined now that she would never leave, neither would she fight with him.

  ‘You … must … go,’ he said, bending over to kiss her, smothering the words against her mouth, pressing his lips against hers as if the strength of his kisses would force her to comply.

  She arched her back and had no will to protest.

  *

  ‘You’d better put this on.’

  Kit tossed over a leather brigandine, the sort of old-fashioned surcoat covered with plates and studs designed to protect against arrows, though Emme doubted whether it would be much use against bullets and honed steel. But the Indians didn’t have firearms, she remembered, they didn’t even have metal, and the coat would probably be more comfortable than the plate armour some of the men were wearing; she had dreaded being made to don a corselet in the sweltering heat. She ran her fingers over the rusting iron embedded in the stiff cracked leather that had rubbed through in places to expose a crumbling under-hide. It had probably been made in the reign of good King Harry, and for how many years afterwards had it knocked about in a ship’s hold? She found a patch where the leather was stained black and there was a hole the width of her thumb. Had blood soaked it once?

  ‘Is it yours?’ she asked Kit.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, strapping on his helmet and handing her a similar morion. ‘Put this on too.’

  She obliged and immediately felt as if the weight of the pieces was crushing her. It was difficult to breathe and her head was cooking, but the garb also gave her pride. She was one with the men, almost indistinguishable at a distance. Even her skirts had been split and sewn so they resembled a sailor’s galligaskins – to help her run if needed, as Kit had advised. Most importantly, by wearing the armour she knew she would not be left on the pinnace as she had feared at first. She would land on Croatoan with Captain Stafford and Kit, and she would be with them to meet the Indians who had been trailing them for miles, too far distant to hail as they followed in their canoes. Though the armour was only a precaution, since Manteo’s people were their friends, she still felt glad of its protection, as if Kit was all around her, with his steel-clad hands cradling her head, and his leather-coated body shielding her front and back. The smell of him was in the fabric: strong and raw, hot and salty. She was tired but not afraid.

  ‘We’ll soon be ashore,’ he said. ‘Stay with me.’

  Of course she would. She could not wait to move after more than twelve hours on a hard bench, with only a sheet of canvas to screen her from the sun, and rationed water to drink, and little privacy at the heads. They had left before dawn and were arriving with dusk, but the breeze and calm water had helped the pinnace over the sound, and they had covered the vast distance in less than a day and a night. Now the strongest men were rowing, Kit amongst them, leading the stroke, and the sands of Croatoan were clearly visible above the reeds, rising up to a low line of trees. They had passed the inlet that separated the island from the long sand banks of Hatarask and the channel leading to the open sea.

  ‘Bring in your oars!’ Kit called, giving the last order to the rowers before the pinnace slid ashore, and Emme made ready to disembark along with the seventeen men who had been selected for the parley. She watched them stand unsteadily after the pinnace bumped aground. Stafford made his way to the bows, and Ananias Dare picked up the standard of their city which he liked to flaunt wherever he went. Manteo followed, holding his bow and quiver, with nothing covering him but his breechclout and paint.

  ‘Bring all your weapons,’ Kit called again. ‘Leave nothing behind.’

  He jumped down before her with his caliver roped to his back; then he held up his arms for her. But s
he looked down at the water, only a few inches deep, and waved him aside. She didn’t mind getting her feet wet, and she’d rather he watched the Indians who were emerging from the trees at the top of the slope from the beach, standing in line along the crest of the bluff. The Indians following in canoes were also drawing close.

  Kit looked round and unslung his caliver, ushering everyone onto the sand, apart from the three who had elected to keep guard over the craft. She was glad not to be with them; their wait would probably be long and tedious.

  Stafford formed the men into a square, four wide and four deep, pikes in the centre rows, firearms forward and rear. He placed himself in the vanguard, with Dare behind him, and positioned her in the middle, though she had no pike, only a sharpened knife. Kit moved behind her and scanned the Indians all around; they were increasing in number. They drew their bows and waved their spears and made a strange ululation that grew louder and louder. It set the hairs prickling at the back of her neck. What was happening? The Croatans were their friends – so why the show of hostility?

  She glanced at Manteo and saw that he was calling, hands circling his mouth, though none of the Indians seemed to hear him amidst their whooping.

  ‘Ready arms!’ Stafford called, and the men at the front and back of the square brought their firearms into position.

  ‘Fix matches!’ Kit shouted, and the smouldering lengths of match-cord that every caliverman carried were fastened into the locks of their weapons and cocked ready to fire.

  ‘Open your firing pans,’ he ordered.

  She heard clicking as the pans were opened, already charged with priming powder.

  ‘Guard them!’

  Fingers were placed over the powder. A spark from the burning match-cord and the weapons would discharge. They were already loaded and ready to fire at any moment.

  She could not believe it; this encounter was supposed to be peaceful. Why were the Indians showing aggression? There would be a bloodbath if the guns fired.

  ‘No!’ she murmured, ducking her head on instinct and putting her hands to her helmet. She prayed everyone would stop.

  The ululation intensified, rising in pitch. She shrank under her armour and her scalp shivered cold.

  Kit’s face was a mask: eyes narrowed, mouth rigid.

  ‘Present!’ Stafford called.

  All the calivermen brought their firearms to their chests, just under the right shoulder.

  ‘Aim!’

  They took aim. Kit fixed on one of the Indians coming up from behind.

  Suddenly she heard a shriek above the blood-chilling noise. The ululation stopped and, as one, the Indians fled. Those at the top of the slope disappeared into the trees; those on the beach ran and ducked down into the reeds.

  ‘Hold fire and advance!’

  Stafford led the company in formation up the rise of white sand, pikes waving as boots slid, but they all arrived at the brow intact and with nothing fired.

  The landscape before them was as pretty and peaceful as one of the Islands of the Blessed.

  Manteo darted forwards, crying out.

  ‘Ahoy! Wingapo! Pyas! Come here, it is I, Manteo!’

  He stood alone with his arms held wide as if inviting anyone who could see to shoot him in the chest, but none did. Then a solitary savage ran out to seize him, and others followed all crowding together, until she could see nothing of Manteo for men who were pummelling one another and jumping up and down.

  Was Manteo being beaten or were they embracing? She could not tell until Manteo emerged with a group in procession and they all beckoned for Stafford’s company to follow. Others came nearer to usher them on, smiling and waving, and Stafford gave the order for the calivers to be put up.

  ‘Tell them we come in peace,’ he called out to Manteo. ‘We wish to affirm our friendship and ask for news. We will hurt no one.’

  Manteo spoke earnestly to those around him, and nodded as they answered.

  ‘My people welcome you with glad hearts,’ he said. ‘They ask only that you do not take their corn for they have very little.’

  ‘We are here to give, not take,’ Stafford replied, gesturing for Manteo to interpret. ‘We have presents for our friends of Croatoan. We have English flour and beans. We also have tools of metal: hoes and billhooks, hatchets and axes, knives and fish hooks. We have glass beads and brass bells, looking glasses for the ladies and dolls for the children. We would like to show these gifts to your leaders.’

  He spoke more quietly, for Manteo alone. ‘I would like to talk with your mother, Manteo.’

  Manteo spoke with his people to a chorus of whoops and shouting.

  ‘Come,’ he said, beckoning Stafford on. ‘You must come to the place of council.’

  He led them through open groves of low tress through which the breeze carried the clean smell of pine sap and ocean, and in every bright clearing there were small plots of peas and Indian corn in various stages of growth, and patches of ground where vines and pumpkins grew, and deep pink briar roses bloomed in the brush, and blushing convolvulus twined under small fruiting plum trees. Before they had gone very far she saw her first Indian house, like a little longbarn covered over in hides, with rolled rush matting above an open side revealing the wooden laths of its simple framework, and an arched barrel roof that was curved at both ends. The house nestled amongst trees behind the shelter of higher ground and around it threaded paths worn to silver laces in the sand. Then she saw other houses as she looked further, so much part of the woodland that she barely noticed them at first, not close together but scattered wherever there was space between the tree trunks. She saw a shining pool of water and skins stretched on frames, mats being woven and a dugout hollowed by burning. The deeper they advanced, the closer the dwellings stood, until they assumed some semblance of a village with a cleared space between them and a log fire in the centre. Drying racks and storerooms lay between larger longhouses with sleeping platforms. Posts were arranged in lines, with large-leaved tobacco plants growing between them, and others in a circle, their tops carved with the faces of men, as if at rest but open eyed.

  Kit kept by her side, and stooped to ruffle the ears of a little dog that barked at him then scampered near, tail wagging furiously. A small girl tugged at Emme’s pantaloons, and Emme picked her up and placed the girl on her hip, laughing with her as she did. The girl was almost naked, but for a pad of moss at her crotch held in place with long leather cords, and a necklace of pearls which she pushed against Emme’s mouth, giggling as she tried to force a pearl between her lips. For her efforts Emme kissed her stubby fingers and then her smile-dimpled cheek.

  Many more Indians surrounded them, drawing them to mats that were being spread around the central fire, inviting them to sit beside large bowls that were filled with food. Berries and pottage were set out, stewed meat, fish and nuts, along with gourds of water and small piles of fresh fruit. Everyone was thirsty, tired and hungry, exhausted after the tension of their initial encounter. She watched hopefully as Ananias Dare strode forward and planted the city standard firmly in the ground. She was ready to sink down with Kit onto one of those mats.

  ‘Good,’ Manteo said, squatting down and grinning broadly. He spread his arms in welcome. ‘Now please sit and accept the hospitality of my people.’

  Stafford set down his caliver and helmet, crouched beside Manteo, and gestured for the rest of the company to do the same.

  ‘But your people are short of corn,’ he said, raising his brows to Manteo. ‘It is not right that we should eat much. Let us offer our gifts first.’

  Stafford opened a bag he had with him and began to display some of the things he had brought, as did Kit and several of the other men. The tools and adornments were arrayed in shining rows, along with small sacks of flour, bread and pulses. Stafford spread his palms.

  ‘These are for the Croatans, given in friendship.’

  Manteo swept his hand towards an elderly woman who advanced with dignity, speaking quietly as she d
id.

  ‘My mother says we accept in friendship and give to you in return.’

  The lady sat down opposite Stafford, slowly and with genteel caution that suggested some stiffness in limbs that must have once moved gracefully. Her face was kind, marked by blue tattoos across her cheeks that followed the upward sweep of an open smile. Around her long, greying hair was a circlet of leather, and about her body was a deerskin mantle, fringed and finished with dainty polished shells. The garment was gathered at the shoulder so it covered most of her breast. Her skin was deep brown and wrinkled, banded with markings around the upper arms and neck. She wore a necklace as well, one made of glass beads similar to those which Stafford had brought. When she smiled, to Emme’s surprise, she showed a full set of teeth.

  Stafford rose up on one knee and bowed to her respectfully.

  ‘I am honoured, once again, to meet the mother of my friend, Manteo. Alsoomse, great lady of the Croatans, my weroanca, Queen Elizabeth, sends you greetings from England across the ocean.’

  Emme’s eyes widened. So this lady was a leader; that shouldn’t have astounded her, but it did, even more than the sight of the bare-breasted maidens who gathered near, and the deerskin aprons they wore which covered their pudenda but not their buttocks, or the actions of the man behind Alsoomse who danced around as if possessed, wearing only a breechclout with a pouch swinging at his side from which he took herbs that he threw into the air. Stranger still, a small black bird flew close by his ear throughout all his leaping, and the puzzle was why it did, until she realised that the bird was dead and fixed to his hair by a network of threads.

  On either side of Alsoomse squatted men of great age with the aura of priests, and their arms solemnly folded under rabbit-skin capes. They conversed in low voices, then the lady spoke and Manteo translated.