Mistress of the Sea

by Jenny Barden

  He should be praying.

  ‘Mother. Father,’ he mouthed without speaking. He named his sisters in the way he had always done in his private prayers: a name to ask God’s blessing for each. ‘Will.’ He prayed that his brother would be safe at home, and that the men with him in the cell would find freedom before they died.

  There were footsteps approaching.

  He prayed for his best friend: ‘Hal.’

  ‘Yes, Kit?’ Hal answered.

  He must have spoken out loud. He stood up on trembling legs. The footsteps were very close, reverberating rapidly along the passage outside. Three guards had hauled the last man away, knocked him down when he struggled, then trussed up and gagged him. He would not go like that.

  Kit peered at his companions in the gloom and sensed that Hal was squinting at him in a way he remembered from days at sea, one brow down, the other raised quizzically under a shock of black hair.

  The footsteps stopped. Rattling and banging came from the other side of the door: the sound of bolts being drawn. Hal stretched out his hand and Kit clasped it in both of his.

  ‘Pray for me now.’

  The door was thrown back and yellow light flooded in. With it came a draught like a gust over warm marsh, cutting into the stink of stagnation in the cell. Kit moved to the opening. A sword was pressed to his throat.

  ‘Ahora usted.’ The voice was surly.

  Kit held out his hands, but he was seized and turned as his arms were wrenched behind him. His wrists were lashed together. A helmeted Spaniard came close and held a noose before his eyes, then a black sack was pulled down over his head, and he felt the noose digging hard into his neck. The rope tightened until he staggered forward. He tried to slow and was choked. He could see nothing inside the hood. The floor was sloping. He was sure he was walking down. The walls seemed to narrow, to close in and strike his arms. Jibes rang loud in his ears.

  ‘Perro inglés, enemigo de Dios . . .’

  The rope tugged him roughly, bumping him about from side to side. With every breath he gagged as the hood was sucked into his mouth. He tried to concentrate on where he was, not succumb to the panic that was welling up inside him. He thought of his arrival months before. He must be somewhere beneath the Viceroy’s Palace; he had seen the buildings when he was paraded as a captive, and the ruins of an Indian temple overlooking a great lake. He was stumbling through a passage: a long twisting tunnel. He tripped, cracking his head. His knees and shins struck the sharp edges of steps. Against his ribs, he felt the point of a sword.

  ‘Marchad! Luterano . . .’

  He had to get up. He lay sprawled against stairs, and the rope tightened so hard it was easier to crawl than climb on his feet. But he would not slither on his belly. He shuffled to a crouch and staggered up towards a voice – one that rang out into space and was answered with a thrum: the muted babble of a watching crowd. Then he could feel the sun beating down. The noose fell slack. He stood and swayed.

  Nothing touched him.

  He tried to keep still and not shiver or faint – only listen to the droning voice.

  ‘. . . Cristóbal Doñan . . .’

  The voice stopped. None of the words had made sense, except that at the end he had heard the semblance of his name. Someone took hold of his shirt, pulling it wide and baring his chest. The noise increased: the clamour of a baying mob. A blade dug into the small of his back. But he leant against it and kept his balance, only wavering slightly in spite of the pain.

  He wanted time before he took a step. He had climbed, so he could tumble, and then his fall would be broken by the noose round his neck. The Spaniards had threatened him more than once with hanging. Terror weakened his legs.

  He had to be brave and not think of dying. He imagined the crowd and their upturned faces, the shimmering white of the Indians’ tunics, the Spaniards looking on from the windows of the palace, the city of Mexico spread out with its streets of water and reed-roofed houses, the snow on the peaks that could be seen from the lake, rising from haze, glinting with light – and the sun shining down across the other side of the ocean, breaking through mist, reaching his home. The welcome light of the sun: it was what he longed for most – and home – his home.

  He was jabbed again and teetered on his toes. The next push would give him no choice. This was his ending.

  His eyes watered. He could not see. But suddenly he could.

  The hood was yanked from his head. He was rammed forward to a surge of yelling. Everything blurred as he looked into the sun. Nothing was distinct except for the noise and the nakedness of his shoulders as his shirt was torn away. Then he saw the people, not so far away and not so many. No one was clad in white or looking up. They were all on his level, and mostly in the shadow of buildings around a courtyard. At last he recognised what all the shouting was about.

  They were calling out bids.

  5

  Silence

  ‘. . . Except the gravity of some matter do require that she should speak, or else an answer is to be made to such things as are demanded of her, let her keep silence. For there is nothing that doth so much commend . . . a maid, as silence . . .’

  —The sixth Duty of Maids and Young Unmarried Women, from the New Catechism of Thomas Becon, Chaplain to Archbishop Cranmer in the reign of Edward VI, first published in 1559 shortly after the accession of Queen Elizabeth I

  ELLYN FOUND HER mother in her room. Her hair was made up elegantly, braided in coils under a cap trimmed with lace. Fine lines crazed her skin, like the cracking over an old varnished panel, but her eyes were bright, and the turn of her head was swift. A perfumed pomander hung from a silver girdle at her waist, and, from her ears, trembled little ruby tears.

  She was sitting near the fire, embroidering a stomacher with a pattern of strawberries and ladybirds, curling stems and variegated leaves. There was nothing to suggest that she should not be moving about the house or enjoying the garden, going to market and church, or walking along the cliffs. But Ellyn knew her mother would stay where she was as she had done since Thom’s death; her life had become bound within the threads of her handiwork: unthreatened and ordered. Her journeys would be of her own devising while her imagination guided her needle, each stitch taking a small step into a beautiful, tranquil world. It was a world Ellyn could not enter with problems of her own.

  At the moment her cheek was kissed, Ellyn’s mother put down her sewing.

  ‘My sweet,’ she said to Ellyn.

  Ellyn knelt at her side.

  ‘Are you comfortable?’

  ‘Quite comfortable as I am, where there is not a draught to trouble my poor throat.’

  The response was a whisper that Ellyn would never have heard had she not been so close, yet she was used to her mother’s voice, and it did not alarm her.

  ‘I came to enquire whether you have given all the instructions you wish. I believe Master Gilbert is expected for dinner.’

  ‘That he is,’ her mother answered while stroking Ellyn’s hair. Ellyn felt the gentle weight of her mother’s hand, moving with the kind of soothing that might be used to calm an excitable pet. ‘Your father is with him now,’ her mother went on. ‘They are at the new warehouse inspecting cloth. Then they will dine here. And you, dear Ellyn, should join them after that.’

  It was a mystery to Ellyn, one that had never been properly explained, how her mother, in self-imposed seclusion, could keep abreast of events outside. But this was a fact – she always appeared to know exactly what her family and acquaintances were doing. Her mother was rarely mistaken, though she never became involved and abhorred any confrontation. Ellyn had long ago given up appealing to her for help in her personal battles, especially those with her father; her mother would never oppose him. So she kept her feelings about meeting Master Gilbert to herself – they were not what her father would want to hear. She tried to look pleased. At least she would not have to talk with the gentleman while she ate.

  ‘Your father was particular,’ h
er mother continued: ‘“Be sure Ellyn joins us after the last dish”, he said. I fancy they may have something of significance to put to you.’

  Ellyn’s heart sank. What could be of significance? She stiffened as one obvious possibility loomed large in her mind. She might have pulled away without realising. Her mother patted her head.

  ‘Do not be concerned.’

  Ellyn was even more alarmed. Had she betrayed how she truly felt? If her mother once suspected that she was determined to resist marrying Master Gilbert, then she would probably alert her father who would only attempt to coerce her. Better to appear dutiful and play along with their plans. She let her mother take her hand.

  ‘Nan knows precisely what to prepare,’ her mother said softly, while kneading Ellyn’s fingers as if she was trying to smooth them. ‘Venison pastry with honeyed mustard, turbot with Dutch sauce, marchpane dainties, maced cider and sack . . . It will be quite singular. But you must take your portion later,’ her mother added. ‘While they are dining, you should be making yourself ready. I shall have Lettie bring you your dress – perhaps the lily partlet and green sleeves? I must think upon’t.’

  Ellyn considered suggesting that she might make her own choice with a mind to colours that were much more drab, but acquiescence was wiser. She kept quiet.

  ‘Be sure to whiten thoroughly and line your eyes,’ her mother advised. ‘Your father will expect you to be looking your best.’

  Ellyn bowed her head, foreseeing a trying morning and, beyond it, nothing pleasant.

  ‘Will you come, too?’

  The response was predictable. Her mother put a hand to her mouth and her voice became hoarse.

  ‘No, no. I would only be a hindrance, and my cough a trial.’

  ‘I am sorry.’ Ellyn meant what she said. She pitied her mother and felt guilty for considering, in private, that perhaps she could fight whatever disabilities confined her. Though her mother was little use as an ally, Ellyn sensed her kindness. She looked up and caught her mother’s eye, discerning a depth of sadness that gave her the impulse to confide in her fully – she yearned to do it. But then her mother turned to her sewing and peered at the stitches, and Ellyn bit her tongue.

  ‘The occasion is for your enjoyment,’ her mother said, as she matched a new thread to the design. She was emphatic, though no louder; Ellyn strained to hear her. ‘Have no concern for me, rather be mindful of your father. The gout is but a symptom of a greater malady.’

  ‘What?’ Ellyn frowned, astounded.

  Her mother slowly shook her head.

  ‘The physician has said he must stay calm. He must not be agitated or vexed.’

  Was her father truly sick? Suddenly Ellyn was thrown into a spiral of worry. It had never occurred to her that, as between her parents, her father might have the more serious affliction. She had never really accepted that her parents were not immortal. Her father could be insufferable but she wished him no ill.

  ‘So, my sweet,’ her mother continued in a fading whisper, ‘I trust you will ensure that nothing in you will give him cause to be distressed.’

  ‘Of course not!’ How could her mother even think it? But Ellyn realised that assurance was what her mother needed; strong emotions only disturbed her. With an effort, Ellyn softened her tone. ‘Be at ease. I promise I shall give him no offence.’

  Her mother’s trust was confirmed with a kiss.

  The box was very fine. Its lid was inlaid with a chequered veneer, and around its sides was a pattern of tooled ropes with roses. If she could have been sure the box was empty, Ellyn might have happily admired it. But she knew that inside would be a present from Godfrey Gilbert, and about that she was miserably ill at ease.

  She prayed the gift would not be too precious or personal, nothing that might be used to seal a betrothal – not a poesy ring in interlocking bands each inscribed with a motto of love, ‘I am yours, you my choice . . .’ Let it not be that. Gingerly she placed her hand on the lid and made a wish as she closed her eyes – not a portrait in miniature to be worn on a sash. (How romantically could Master Gilbert be painted, with his bald head and waxbill nose?) The gentleman was watching, so was her father. Ellyn breathed deeply, conscious that she had to be guarded. She steeled herself, opened the lid, looked down, and smiled.

  ‘A carcanet. How delightful!’

  The choker Ellyn removed was made of enamelled gold flowers supporting a pendant of pearls cleverly fashioned in a gold setting. The pearls and the surround made the form of a lamb; it was really quite exquisite. Ellyn hooked the chain round her neck, suspecting that her mother must have known about the gift all along, since her partlet and high collar left her throat wholly exposed.

  Master Gilbert turned to her father.

  ‘Does she like it much?’

  Ellyn shivered with distaste. One of the gentleman’s most irritating habits was that of addressing her indirectly as if she was an object incapable of speech. But her father beamed approvingly.

  ‘Assuredly, Godfrey, though blessed if I thought she could be made prettier. Yet you have done it.’ Her father clapped his guest on the shoulder and raised his glass. ‘A toast to that!’

  Ellyn watched them both from across the table.

  Master Gilbert narrowed his eyes as he faced her, drawing in his chin to give a ferret-like prominence to the length of his nose.

  ‘The fairest maid?’ he suggested.

  ‘A maid nonpareil!’ roared her father.

  Ellyn was left with the impression that the fortified wine the physician had prescribed for his gout was having too beneficial an effect on his choler. She worried about him less and smiled more.

  ‘I thank you.’ She looked at Master Gilbert and wondered what he and her father had been discussing. If their plans involved her, then she preferred to know. She decided to try a little probing. ‘I hope your business ventures will be successful.’

  He responded with a laugh.

  ‘You speak of ventures lightly, as though the outcome might never affect you. But I can tell you, my dear—’ he looked pointedly at Ellyn ‘—that your father and I have been considering an enterprise that may well concern you as much as it does us.’

  Ellyn tried not to frown.

  ‘Truly,’ her father joined in, then turned to his guest and murmured, ‘I think we may disclose this, Godfrey.’ His eyes twinkled in Ellyn’s direction. ‘If this enterprise yields even half the return of the last, there will be a date to be fixed, one that you may look forward to.’

  Master Gilbert fiddled with his glass. Her father stifled a belch, and Ellyn’s hopes plummeted further. She was sure the ‘date to be fixed’ must be that of a wedding, but what was the enterprise that her father expected to be profitable? Suddenly a disturbing possibility occurred to her – perhaps it involved Francis Drake’s next voyage. It could do. Will had told her he had dined with her father, and Nan had said that Will had been seen on Drake’s ship. She thought quickly.

  ‘I wonder whether this enterprise might concern a ship called the Swan?’

  The response was clear astonishment. Her father slapped his thigh and chuckled loudly.

  ‘By my faith! However did you arrive at that?!’ He entered a muttered exchange that Ellyn had no difficulty in hearing. ‘I swear, Godfrey, I have not breathed a word to anyone. Have you been putting ideas into her head?’

  The coolness of Master Gilbert’s answer did not escape Ellyn’s attention.

  ‘I would never discuss business with a woman.’ He looked towards her and offered a buck-toothed leer. ‘But she is, perhaps, rightly curious, and the sailing of the Swan hardly secret. I have no objection to her being apprised of the essentials.’

  Her father raised his glass again.

  ‘She has the mind for it, to be sure.’ The face he turned to Ellyn was ruddy and supremely merry.

  ‘Kerseys for the Spanish Main, my dear, and a very handsome gain! Ha!’

  Ellyn strove to give an impression of happy interest while trying
to make more sense of his remark. A kersey was a locally woven cloth, so she presumed her father and Master Gilbert had pooled resources to make a shipment (and no doubt Master Gilbert had advanced the credit since her father was notoriously tight-fisted). She could understand the trade’s attraction: the kerseys would be smuggled to the Spanish Main in the Americas and sold free of duty, to the mutual advantage of both suppliers and buyers, at the expense of the King of Spain. Such schemes were the basis of almost every undertaking from which the Hawkins family had amassed a considerable fortune, and her father was always trying to emulate their success. Her conclusion was that Will and her father’s cloth might both soon be heading west across the ocean. She touched the pendant at her neck and tried to remain outwardly cheerful.

  ‘I suppose the lamb is representative of the wool to be shipped?’

  Godfrey Gilbert gave a nod, and Ellyn’s fingers moved to the links supporting the tiny animal: two fine chains each ending in two larger rings.

  ‘And the bonds may suggest a blackamoor’s manacles,’ Gilbert added.

  ‘Ah!’ Ellyn made a greater effort to preserve her smile. Would slaves be involved in the next enterprise they planned? Certainly John Hawkins dealt in slaves; a bound Negro was prominent in his new coat of arms. Was there a connection? But of more concern to her was whether Will would be in jeopardy.

  ‘I pray the enterprise does not meet with any difficulties such as those that beset the last voyage of Master Hawkins.’

  ‘That sorry catastrophe!’ her father exclaimed, with a wave of his hand. ‘Have no such fear, my sweet. The Spaniards will not be concerned by a single ship. The Swan returned from the last venture without any trouble at all.’ He thumped the table with renewed jocularity. ‘So be in good cheer! Excepting the wildest storm, you may begin to think of the date to be fixed. And no doubt Master Gilbert will be thinking of matters more material!’ At this he emptied his glass and chortled, while Godfrey Gilbert smiled thinly and rose to take his leave.