The Lost Duchess

by Jenny Barden

  Dare banged the table again. In the candlelight his face looked like an angry demon’s, red and fiery with sickle shadows above his eyelids.

  ‘A full week has gone by and not one weroance has come or sent a message to us. If we do nothing the savages will believe we are powerless. They will think they can attack us with impunity. We cannot survive under constant threat of annihilation, unable to hunt or fish for fear that our men will be picked off one by one – unable even to grow crops for fear that there will be Indians lurking, waiting to pounce on our women and carry them away. Are we to go abed each night wondering whether our city will be torched while we sleep? To have any hope of continuance we must demonstrate our strength: show that we will not tolerate any interference; that we must be respected, and that crimes against us will be punished.’

  ‘Well said, Ananias,’ someone interjected amongst a general muttering and clapping in support.

  ‘I agree,’ Dyonis Harvie said, getting to his feet while Dare sat down. ‘I think we owe it to the memory of good George Howe to avenge his death and do what we can to bring his murderers to justice.’

  Governor White raised his hand, though he remained on his stool at the head of the table.

  ‘No one can accuse us of not trying to live with the savages as friends. We have offered to forgive and they have turned their backs.’

  He sounded weary, Emme thought; he seemed to reek disappointment. She saw dejection in the way he pulled down his hat and hunched his big shoulders. He must have hoped for a celebration of friendship with the Indians, not the hostility that Dare was espousing.

  ‘They despise us, that’s why.’ Dare waved his finger. ‘They think that we have neither the will nor the means to oppose them, and that they can do whatever they please: kill all of us or worse. Are we going to let them scalp every man, rape our women and make slaves of our children?’

  A shiver of disgust ran through the assembly.

  ‘We cannot allow that,’ Harvie said amidst a chorus of ‘No’ and ‘Never’. He continued firmly. ‘To make the savages respect us we must avenge Howe’s murder and the driving away of Coffin and his men. We must strike back hard.’

  He sat down. White pinched the bridge of his nose, shielding his eyes as he did, head bowed, appearing deep in thought; then he nodded as though he’d reached a conclusion.

  ‘I suppose a punitive strike may be in their interests as well as ours in the long run, if it leads to peace. But would it be possible to attack decisively so as to demonstrate our superiority once and for all? What do you say, Captain Stafford?’

  White raised his shaggy brows towards Stafford with a look of abject appeal. The Captain stood near Kit and took a step forwards as the nearest Assistants turned to face him. He could move no further in the crush. Stafford gave his answer with the elegant assurance of a prowling cat.

  ‘We could launch a surprise assault on Dasemonkepeuc which appears to pose the greatest threat to us. The village is hardly more than three miles away. We could sail over in the pinnace under cover of darkness and ambush Wanchese’s warriors at dawn. We have enough calivermen to scare them witless with musket-fire.’

  ‘Crush them,’ Dare cried out. ‘It’s the only way. Sweep the village clean of them.’

  Stafford hooked his thumbs in his belt, a confident stance that reflected his aura of dependability. Emme did not doubt that Stafford could do as he claimed; he was an experienced soldier and sea captain, whose service with Governor Lane meant that he knew what the colonists faced. But he would go back to England with Ferdinando; he would not stay with the Planters like Kit. If he took action against the Indians, he would not have to live with the consequences.

  ‘But are you sure that would be right?’ She spoke up without even meaning to, and then was acutely conscious of everyone looking at her, Kit included, who had barely exchanged a word with her since their return. He was plainly vexed that she had defied him in refusing to leave, but she felt sure that his annoyance would soon fade if she left him alone. Her interruption wouldn’t have helped. She turned in some embarrassment to Governor White.

  ‘May I speak?’

  White inclined his head graciously, and gave her a concerned smile.

  ‘Every citizen may voice an opinion, man or woman, gentleman or maid. We will disregard no one. But I and the seven Assistants here will decide on the course to be taken. The government of this City of Raleigh rests upon my shoulders and theirs. We will not abrogate that responsibility.’

  ‘Thank you, Governor White.’ She turned to address everyone around the table and as many others as she could. ‘I ask you please to reflect upon the way our offer has been communicated. We have asked the Croatans to be our messengers. I do not suggest that they have not informed the weroances as they promised. But remember that the Croatans have openly stated that the Secotans are not their friends. Would the Secotans trust an offer delivered by their adversaries?’

  ‘Maybe not,’ Harvie answered. ‘But can we trust the Secotans?’

  Dare waved his hand dismissively. ‘What would you suggest, Mistress Murimuth: that we send an emissary to treat with the Secotans face to face?’

  Harvie nodded. ‘Do we assume that they will receive one of our own messengers with dignity when they murdered Master Howe without any provocation?’

  ‘The question is unhelpful,’ Dare said, and to Emme’s chagrin some of the other Assistants muttered in agreement. ‘Let’s move on.’

  Kit alone sprang to her support. ‘It might be that a direct approach would be fruitful. I would be prepared to try and talk with the Secotans.’

  ‘You would talk with Wanchese?’ Harvie asked, raising his brows.

  ‘Yes.’

  A ripple of astonishment passed through the crowd. Feet shuffled and people pressed forwards. Private debates began in low voices, behind hands and at the back of the crowd.

  ‘No, Kit,’ Emme interjected quietly. ‘I did not mean …’

  Manteo cut across her, frowning and clearly discomfited. ‘You may trust my people. The message will have been delivered.’

  She was mortified; she had never meant to upset Manteo, nor to suggest that Kit should take any more risk. She only meant to try and avert conflict by suggesting a reasonable explanation for the silence of the Secotans, one that did not presuppose that they meant to kill every colonist.

  Manteo thrust out his jaw defensively. ‘The weroances will have been asked to come.’

  Dare rounded on him accusingly. ‘But even your mother is not here.’

  ‘She may have thought that coming here would serve no purpose if the Secotans refused to respond.’

  Harvie turned and fixed Manteo with a pointed stare. ‘Which will have left the Secotans believing that they need not fear us because we have sued for peace and have been ignored.’

  ‘Good,’ Dare asserted. ‘We can catch them off guard and so terrify them that they never trouble us again.’

  The general hubbub became louder.

  White clasped his hands and frowned. ‘If the Secotans can indeed be frightened without too great a loss of life, then I suppose …’

  ‘We need to act quickly,’ Harvie said, ‘or the element of surprise will be lost.’

  ‘Strike now,’ agreed Dare. ‘Strike tonight.’

  ‘I am ready,’ another Assistant asserted.

  ‘But we should first properly consider the risk …’ White began.

  Emme did not hear any more. Kit raised his hand as if about to speak, but, before he could say anything, Stafford had taken hold of his arm and ushered him outside. She followed them to the doorway, beyond which they stood facing the new triangular palisade and the gateway to the central clearing.

  Stafford spoke to Kit in an undertone but she could still pick out the gist of what he was saying.

  ‘I think we should leave this to Governor White and the Assistants. They are the ones charged with the running of this colony.’

  ‘Yes,’ Kit answered, bendin
g his head so that she saw his handsome face in profile, dark against the light of the fire, his chiselled lips closed as he mulled over what Stafford had said; then he spoke again.

  ‘You are right. This is a cup I will gladly leave in White’s hands. I’ll wait for his decision, and then support it whatever it is.’

  Stafford held Kit’s shoulder briefly; then he slid past Emme to return inside. He did not seem to notice her, and Kit appeared lost in thought. Manteo came out seconds later and she launched into an apology, wishing now that she had kept quiet at the meeting.

  ‘I have faith in you and your people, Manteo; I hope you believe that. I never meant to suggest otherwise.’

  Manteo’s voice was warm though she could barely see him to look for a smile.

  ‘We are still friends, Mistress Emme; be not troubled.’

  But she was troubled. More people emerged, spreading out between the strong-house and the fortified earthwork that surrounded it. The bank was topped with tall pointed stakes so close together that they formed a black curtain away from the rushlights. The colonists who moved to the shadows to talk in private became lost to her sight. Kit remained by the outer wall of the house, squatting on his haunches, drawing shapes in the dirt with his knife, plans of attack for all she knew. She did not question what he was doing because the rest of the mariners and soldiers soon gathered round him: Lacy, Wright and Stafford too, about ten of them in all – the men who would have to fight if White decided to attack. Manteo and Towaye formed their own group of two near a corner of the house. The women made a third group and the young men another. The Planters were breaking apart and reforming in smaller units of like kind. All were huddled together and glancing over their shoulders. Soon only White and the Assistants were left inside, and it seemed as if she was the only one outside who was left alone.

  She wrapped her shawl about her shoulders and wandered over to the gate to look at the fire left smouldering in the middle of the clearing. It would be pointless trying to sleep. How long would White take to decide? They could be debating all night; White was not a man to be hurried, and she could not imagine him making up his mind very quickly, not when the issue in question was of such significance for the future of the colony. She considered drawing closer to the fire and sitting on one of the logs where at least she might find a little warmth and get away from the cool breeze blowing in from the sound. But all of a sudden the door to the strong-house flung open and Stafford was summoned back inside. He entered and shortly afterwards re-emerged. She moved closer as he strode over to Kit and the soldiers, knowing in that instant that the decision had been made. White must have capitulated. If he’d persisted in his arguments for caution and restraint there would never have been such a swift resolution. There would be an attack. Stafford confirmed it when he spoke.

  ‘Get ready. We’re leaving at midnight. Twenty-four men will be led by myself and Governor White. We’ve nearly two hours to prepare. We’ll be sailing in the pinnace and landing at Dasemonkepeuc.’

  One by one, Stafford clapped the men on the back, tasking them by name, listing the weapons each should bring, and one by one they left.

  She yearned to go too, but she knew without asking that Stafford would never consent to that, and neither would Kit. This was a business for men. It would be violent and bloody and some of them might not come back. Images of horror welled up in her mind, indescribable and fragmented, seeded by everything she had heard about the ferocity of the Secotans: a sword thrust from under a cloak; a club smashing open a head; an arrow tearing into a mouth – possibly Kit’s mouth. She moved closer until she saw him clearly. She could barely speak.

  ‘God go with you, Kit,’ she said in a voice like a stranger’s, shivering as if with cold.

  He ushered her round to the shadow at the side of the strong-house. She felt they were alone but did not care if they were not. Would he now declare his love then ask her to marry him, so that with her promise he would be strengthened for what lay ahead? What was there between them apart from stolen kisses, a few tender words and others more divisive? There was only the desire deep inside her that burst into flame whenever she saw him, or heard his voice, or slept and dreamt of him, or came close enough to touch, as now, inhaling his smell of leather and salt, his arms caressing her back, and his body against hers, breathing life between her lips while the spirit of love beat inside her, until her fingers were sparkling and every delicate point of contact was consumed in sensation: face and neck, shoulders and back; and his touch set her alight, and her breasts ached against his chest. She would never let him go and then the moment would never end.

  He drew breath, still kissing her.

  ‘I have something to ask you.’

  ‘You do not need to ask. If you wish my answer to be yes then that is my answer.’

  He kissed her forehead gently.

  ‘Let me ask you anyway, so I am sure you understand fully. You should know …’

  ‘What, Kit? What should I know?’

  She prompted him as he fell silent and in his pause all she heard was Stafford giving orders.

  ‘… More water – and pitch. Bring a cask …’

  She kissed him where his jerkin was unbuttoned, and his collar ties were loose since the day had been very hot. With her lips she found a little of the wiry hair that curled over his chest. What more could she do? He only had to ask and she would say yes to him. Why was he hesitating?

  He held her shoulders, peeling himself apart from her. Where they had been together she felt suddenly chill.

  ‘I have a son,’ he said.

  ‘I see.’

  She did not see; she had said she did without thinking. She did not understand. What did he mean? Did he want to confess to having fathered a bastard? It wouldn’t matter to her if he had; she would still love him.

  ‘Was he born out of wedlock?’

  ‘Yes, in a sense, though his mother and I were married in a way.’

  ‘Married? You are telling me you have been married?’

  ‘No. We … It was not marriage as you would recognise it. I …’

  ‘You are not married now?’

  ‘No.’

  She put her arms around his waist and smiled though he would not see it. As long as he was not married now, she did not care.

  ‘I am glad you have a son, Kit. You must be proud of him.’

  He stroked her shoulders as he held her and she felt him relax a little.

  ‘I am proud. He is a fine boy. He is here with us. He …’

  She heard him struggle while her mind span with questions. How could Kit’s son be ‘here with us’? Who was he?

  ‘Tell me, Kit.’

  ‘… He does not know that I am his father.’

  How could the boy not know that Kit was his father? He was making no sense.

  ‘What are you saying? Who is this son?’

  Kit took a deep breath.

  ‘Rob is my child.’

  ‘Rob?’ She stood motionless with shock. ‘But he’s your page, he’s …’

  ‘He’s a blackamoor, yes. His mother was a runaway: a slave from the Guinea coast who escaped from the Spaniards, as I did in Panama. We lived together as man and wife, though a priest never blessed us. We stayed with the Cimaroons …’

  ‘The outlaws you told me about?’

  ‘Yes, the fugitive slaves who roamed the mountains. For a while I was their leader. But when I heard that English ships had arrived, I left the Cimaroons to try and find them. That led me to my brother, and together we returned to England with Drake. At the time of our parting, the woman I lived with was expecting my child. That child is Rob. I found him years later when I returned to Panama.’

  She felt something cold settle like lead in her stomach.

  ‘You went back for this woman?’

  ‘Yes; I loved her very much. But my Ololade was killed by the Spaniards long before I could reach her. Her son is all that she left me – our son.’

  She shoul
d have been weeping for him but she could not. She felt sick.

  ‘Why are you telling me this, Kit? What does it have to do with me?’

  He still held her shoulders, but beyond that they barely touched; she must have edged away from him. She held herself upright while inside she was sinking. People were calling in the distance. Stafford’s commands rang out, and in her mind they were like stones smashing apart all her hopes, as if her dreams had been made of porcelain and now they were shattered, and the shards were cutting her as they fell at her feet.

  Kit’s voice seemed ragged.

  ‘I beg you to care for Rob if anything happens to me. Remember he does not know he is my son. Do not tell him unless you have to, but if you do, then do so gently.’

  ‘Kit, you should tell him, not I.’

  She pulled away from him, pushing him back, unable to hide the anger that welled up inside her. This was not for her to do; she hardly knew the boy.

  ‘Go to him now and take your leave of him properly, as his father.’

  She folded her arms and clawed at her sides while tears of rage spilled uselessly from her eyes. ‘Why do you burden me with this?’

  He stepped nearer again and reached for her. She backed away but he grabbed hold of her, circling her with his arms and embracing her so tightly she could not break free. Panic welled inside her. She struggled to escape as he pressed a rough kiss to her lips, a kiss forced upon her just as he had imposed the knowledge of his son, a knowledge she could not forget.

  ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘Watch out for him, please.’

  He let go of her and waited for her answer: the reassurance he needed that would unburden him for the fight.

  Bitterness almost choked her, but she gave a nod.

  ‘He is but a child.’

  Kit reached for her again, but dropped his hand when she shied away from him.

  ‘If the time comes …’ he began; then he finished quickly as Stafford called out his name. ‘If you need to speak to Rob then tell him that I love him.’

  She barely saw him walk away. He was gone in a blur. She almost ran after him, but then she heard the splash of oars and she knew it was too late. She walked aimlessly away. Kit meant everything to her even though he had cut her to the quick. It was clear to her now that he cared for his son most of all, and that if his lover was still alive then that woman was the one he would be with. Kit Doonan would not have looked twice at Emme Fifield, lady-in-waiting to the Queen. So what did that make her? Nothing. She was less than a concubine and a dusky slave. Perhaps he had only ever shown her affection in order to persuade her to look after his boy. But she had been sure that he cared for her. He just didn’t care for her enough to ask her to be his wife. Well then. She wiped at her cheeks and eyes. She would prove herself worthy of his love, even if she no longer knew whether she could love him as she had.