by Jenny Barden
Ellyn had no choice but to allow Master Gilbert to drool a kiss over the back of her hand – something that reminded her of the trail of a slug. As soon as he was gone she picked up a napkin and vigorously rubbed at the wet of his touch.
Her father slumped in his chair, loosened his ruff, produced a voluminous handkerchief and mopped at his brow. Ellyn settled beside him and quickly dismissed the steward when he showed his head at the door; she wanted a few moments with her father undisturbed.
Ellyn had not the patience for sweet-talking him at length and launched straight in with the subject that concerned her most.
‘I trust, Father, that if you were to receive an offer for my hand in marriage, then you would discuss the matter with me first before intimating I might accept.’
He appeared flustered. His face was so battered by the effects of smallpox and corpulence, marked with pits and lumps, burst veins and blotches, that by all objective standards he was ugly. But to Ellyn, his looks meant nothing; his response was what mattered. She kissed him and he smiled.
‘Of course, Lynling.’
He used the pet-name he had given her from the time when she played on his knee. Ellyn suspected she was about to be coaxed and felt a little happier.
‘But if an eminently worthy man were to make such a proposal—’ he gave her a hug ‘—and if, in turn, I might be inclined to pay an appropriate dowry to that man’s father, one able to offer you a good jointure, why then, would it not be reasonable to expect you to look favourably upon such a union, most especially if it was desired by both families?’
Ellyn’s answer was crisp.
‘Most certainly, if the man be not Godfrey Gilbert.’
Her father threw up his hands in exasperation.
‘Then let him be Peryn Fownes!’ His face became redder. ‘But I wish you had made your preference plainer – ’twould have saved everyone much trouble.’
‘Nor Peryn Fownes!’ Ellyn retorted, bridling instantly. Why must it be either? A sudden recollection of the promise she had made her mother constrained her from further protest. She continued in a milder tone. ‘Dear Father, I have not yet decided . . .’
‘You must!’ he bellowed. Too late, Ellyn noticed his colour darkening and the fresh beads of sweat that appeared across his brow. His anger broke like a thunderstorm with violent noise.
‘Since you clearly cannot decide, then I will decide for you. A wedding must be arranged, and this dithering ended.’ He hurled his words at her. ‘You are twenty years of age and might by now have given me four grandchildren or more, if you had not been so obdurate.’
‘I ask only for a little time . . .’ Ellyn began to plead.
‘Your time has run out!’ Her father railed, his eyes started as he glared at her. ‘Do you suppose you will attract suitors for ever? A maid must be wed young if she is to bear a good crop, since not all her fruit will last a season, as you should know.’
She gasped and clutched at arguments like collapsing steps, desperately and without forethought.
‘There may be others, better—’
‘What others?’
‘The Queen is not yet betrothed,’ she threw out, but instantly regretted the remark.
His rage only worsened.
‘Might England go to war because of your choice?’
She shrank from his shouting but he leaned over her.
‘Am I besieged by legions of wooers? No and no! You must know your place, your bounds and your duty.’
She hung her head, though he only heaped more admonishment upon her.
‘You will wear Master Gilbert’s gift with pride, and await the day when good commerce persuades him to enter a commitment that is closer.’ Her father staggered to his feet, swaying while he leaned on his stick.
Ellyn caught his arm, but he shrugged her away.
‘Say nothing more!’ He thumped his stick down. ‘I have spoken.’
Aghast, Ellyn watched her father lumber to the door, banging into a cupboard before lurching and marching out, hose sagging around his swollen ankles. She was left in the company of abandoned trenchers and spilt salt, a dish from which a turbot head stared flatly back at her and the basin of water in which fingers had been washed. Its surface shone with a greasy film. She had not eaten but gulped at the sensation of something sticking in her throat. Awareness of the broken promise to her mother made her dejection more acute. Since she was a child, her father had never chastised her so forcibly. His censure stung deep, bursting the bubble of her pride, and reminding her of everything that constrained and oppressed her.
She was chill with the realisation that she would have to wed Godfrey Gilbert, and, if not him, then Peryn Fownes. What silly daydreams had she entertained? Her reveries of a knightly courtship, of being wooed like a lady in a classic romance – even the most agreeable of her musings about Will Doonan – all these fancies had been crushed at a stroke. Her only hope of reprieve was if some calamity befell the Swan: fire, storm, or attack – a total loss at sea. But how could she wish for that if Will was as much at risk as the cloth on which Master Gilbert expected to increase his fortune?
Ellyn gazed at her ringless hands, at her sleeves the colour of lush meadows and spring leaves: green for fertility and passion. Her cuffs were edged by the stitches her mother had sewn, neat and measured, each pulled perfectly tight – so passion was finished. How fitting.
She shook her head. Her father was a tyrant and she hated him. Didn’t he care about how she felt? Surely he could see that she loathed the idea of marrying either of the suitors he had encouraged for his own selfish ends? But that was an unworthy thought. She trembled with frustration and put her hands to her face. A fresh wave of guilt coursed through her. Her father was only acting with her best interests at heart. It was his duty to ensure she wed well, and hers to accept the guidance he gave her. She took a long breath and sat up straight. She would not sink into self-pity; she must not. She would pray for her father’s health and she would pray for Will. Next she would find out whether Will was actually sailing on the Swan – she did not know he was for certain, and how could she assume anything on the basis of Nan and Lettie’s gossip? She resolved not to tolerate any more tittle-tattle about him. There would be no more rumouring, and she would talk to him as soon as possible. Only then would she know the truth. But what if he was going? She stared at the window.
What if he had kissed her only to leave her with Godfrey Gilbert?
6
God and Saint George
‘God and Saint George, upon those traitorous villains, and rescue the Minion, I trust in God the day shall be ours.’
—The words of John Hawkins on leading his men into action at the battle of San Juan de Ulúa, 23rd September 1568 (as recorded by Job Hortop, gunner aboard the Jesus of Lubeck, from Volume 6 of The Principal Navigations . . .)
WILL WALKED QUICKLY towards the docks, only slowing once he reached Sutton Poole, and there he paused at the quayside, looking at the ship on which he might soon be sailing. At just twenty-five tons, the Swan was not much more than a bark, but she looked neat and nimble, and had served Drake well on his recent voyage. Will hooked his thumbs in his belt and eyed the hull below the waterline, peering down into the shadows to scrutinise the timbers for trailing weed. He was satisfied with what he saw. If Drake got the backing he was after from Nicholas Cooksley, then she could be provisioned and ready within a few weeks. But how would Mistress Ellyn react to that? He supposed she might not wish him to go.
Their kiss the night before had told him more than a host of words. She had not been unwilling; he had felt it as soon as they touched, and the pleasure of that revelation had changed the way he beheld her. She was more hot-blooded than he had supposed, not such the strait lady as her quick tongue had suggested. Was there a chance he could win her if he stayed?
He tipped back his head and looked at the mast tops of the Swan, and those, much higher, belonging to the other ships beside her. He saw brightly painted
crows’ nests against the crisp blue sky, and faded weathered rigging that was almost white in the glare of the sun. The day was frosty but fair. It would have been a good one for getting underway. What he saw was a reminder of the last time he had sailed.
At San Juan de Ulúa, on the morning of the battle, the sky had been as clear and the ships had been as close – but it had been hot. He stared at the dancing light on the water – that had been much the same – but in the Gulf of Mexico, the sea was greener, and so clear he could see the sand at the bottom of the harbour, fathoms below.
He had been with his friend, Eliseus, in a small bobbing boat, caulking the stern of the Queen’s carrack, the Jesus of Lubeck. He had been labouring to seal the leaks in the great ship’s seams, clinging to the hope that a Spanish Viceroy could be trusted and that the hostages would be returned as soon as the Jesus was ready to sail. His faith had been in that – they would get Kit back.
Then he was there, hearing the blast from the trumpet that had signalled the start of the Spanish attack, and General Hawkins shouting, ‘Treachery!’ before rallying the men with his battle cry. The Spaniards had swarmed over the Minion, grappled and boarded her from a hulk. By the time he and Eliseus had got back on the Jesus, Hawkins was in armour and leading the repulse. The episodes flashed by in his mind, shuddering with gun blasts and blurred by smoke, only slowing in clear distinction around the memories that were worst: Eliseus smiling, though part of his skull was gone. Will had looked round for his friend’s helmet, unable to see it for the press of men fighting. Eliseus was still warm. He had crouched behind the bulwarks while shots whistled overhead, hearing the Spaniards cry, ‘Santiago!’, conscious that he could smell hot blood. The skin was black where the ball had entered behind Eliseus’s jaw. Beside him, a Spaniard writhed, clutching at a broken pike-shaft left sticking in his groin. Near the man’s foot he had found the helmet – it was filled with gore.
They had re-taken the Minion and saved the Jesus, fired guns all day at the Spanish fleet, blasting a great man-o’-war until her magazine exploded and masts, men and rigging were blown skyward in a ball of flame, but the Jesus was trapped, and most of Hawkins’s ships were crippled.
Another memory overwhelmed him. He was treading in blood . . .
. . . The wounded filled the gangway behind the gun deck below. Screams merged with the screech of sawing. When the sawing stopped, the surgeon emerged. His expression was granite.
Will lowered his eyes as the surgeon pushed past. Someone clawed at his ankle: a burly-framed man who would not let go, whispering his name. He knelt and saw Harry; his face had a sheen like raw egg-white.
‘Sew me up, Will. My needle’s gone.’
‘How’s this?’
Harry’s leg was wrong, as if a giant had taken a bite. Harry circled it with his hands.
‘A piece of iron . . . Never trust an iron breech.’
Will realised what had happened as he looked at the bone in Harry’s leg: a gun had exploded in firing. He was kneeling in Harry’s blood and there was nothing to stop the flow.
‘The surgeon’s coming soon. I’ll get some rope.’
Harry grabbed at his arm.
‘Thread’s what I need. Not rope, nor the barber. Keep my leg . . .’
‘Steady, Harry.’
Go. Will ran at the double but found nothing he could use. The guns were pounding. Men were calling.
‘We’re holed, Will. Get below.’
‘You’re needed, Will.’
‘Lead and tar . . .’
Quick. He had to get back to the gunners, help Harry, stop the leaks. Again and again he felt the Jesus being struck. He slid down a ladder and squeezed into the powder store. He dragged out a barrel. Rope. He climbed into the forecastle, barrel on his shoulder, and dodged around the cannon. The deck was like a slaughter-house, blood strewn with straw, crowded and steaming, the guns liable to kick. Will heard tackle crashing down, shot rolling and weights dropped, curses and screams. He reached his friend Job, loading a culverin. Job’s face was black with powder. Young Paul was holding the match, shaft shaking in his grip. No one stopped. Will put the barrel down. Over the bulwarks near the culverin were myriad flecks like drying mud: Harry’s blood.
‘They’re firing from the end of the quay,’ Will yelled. ‘Harry’s hurt . . .’
Job turned without speaking. Will caught his look and stumbled away. Where the foretop lay, more rigging was down; the main was damaged. Will knew the Jesus was doomed. He stepped over bodies, and stripped a belt from one, shot full of lumps like the warts of a toad. A cannon-blast shook him. Run. He hurtled into the sterncastle and got back to Harry, looped the belt around the big man’s thigh, and braced to pull hard. Rope would have been better.
‘Will?’
‘I’m with you, Harry.’
He pulled, but the belt was stiff and Harry’s thigh was massive. Harry’s breathing had the rush of waves over gravel.
‘Are you sewing, Will?’
‘The best I can.’
The breathing became softer. Will bent closer to hear.
‘Harry?’
‘I can ne’er feel it at all.’
Harry made no sound; his eyes were motionless, staring up towards the hatch. Will saw the opening and moved fast. He climbed out into pandemonium: seething confusion beneath the sinking red sun. Men were lugging boxes, kegs, weapons and silver – a brass globe from General Hawkins’s cabin, bags from the treasure store, skins and crystal – all were being lowered to the Minion; what was not lowered was thrown.
Will spotted the general and the bo’sun struggling with a chest. The Jesus was listing. She rocked and men fell, one against another. They dropped what they held: guns, sacks and biscuit drums.
Will pushed through the crowd. Suddenly men were scrabbling for the rail, climbing over the bulwarks, leaping for the Minion and throwing off the ropes.
‘Hold!’ the general was shouting. ‘Back to the Jesus. Stand fast till we’re ready.’
Few obeyed. Men leapt between the gunwales of the ships.
‘Hold!’
It was too late. Sails unfurled on the Minion. She was moving away. Then all at once Will understood the desperation to flee. A Spanish fireship loomed blazing in a sulphurous halo of light, flames crackling, smoke billowing. Moments later, the general jumped; he had no choice. Only the Minion had any chance of escape. Will followed, almost falling. The heat from the fireship was carried nearer by the wind, and the stink of its burning. The gap widened.
‘Jump!’ The general called, holding out his arms.
Young Paul was left on the Jesus, clutching a goblet and jewelled plate.
‘Drop them!’
Paul stood paralysed with fear. Will could see that he was crying; the fireship roared nearer and lit up his face. He dropped what he held, but it was as much as he could do.
‘Jump!’
Will looked down at the sea that separated the two ships. When he looked up, the wind blew straight into his eyes, fire-hot and keening, carrying thick smoke and ash.
‘Jump!’ the general yelled.
No one did. There was no turning back.
Will would never forget.
The wind was cold. Will felt it, looking up. He saw the prow of the Swan and her furled spritsail swaying. A whistling thrummed around him: the sound of the breeze in ropes and rigging. He heard the grinding of rubbing strakes and the creak of masts and yards. Waves slapped against the quay. He turned and stepped away. Only when he resumed walking did he notice the people around him: mariners and merchants, pedlars and lightermen, and a portly gentleman whom he recognised ambling along in the opposite direction. Will raised his hat as he neared.
‘Good day, Master Fownes.’
Peryn Fownes inclined his head, and smiled with a look of mild confusion.
‘Eh! Good day.’ His waddling gait did not slow.
Will supposed Fownes had forgotten him, though they had been introduced by Nicholas Cooklsey only a few w
eeks before. Indeed, he wondered whether Fownes was on his way to Cooksley’s house. That was certainly possible; Fownes was known to be courting Ellyn. The thought made Will change course. He drew closer to the gentleman.
‘I have news that might concern you, good sir. I serve a man who knows Mistress Ellyn Cooksley.’
‘Verily?’
Will could tell that he had struck a spark of interest; Fownes gave him a sharp look, and then tucked his chin against his ruff.
Will kept alongside him.
‘My master thinks very highly of the lady.’
‘As does everyone, I am sure,’ Fownes responded drily. He veered away.
Will followed.
‘He is a veteran of wars and an accomplished swordsman.’
‘Ah . . .’ Fownes hunched his shoulders under his cloak and carried on walking, but Will noticed the gentleman’s hand moving unsteadily towards his sword hilt, and his eyes flickering wildly, from Will to the narrow alleyways, to the people passing by.
With a few easy strides Will drew ahead of Fownes a little, just enough to be sure Fownes could hear him as he lowered his voice.
‘My master brooks no rivalry and has a great passion for duelling.’
‘O! Oh . . .’ Fownes flinched. His mouth shut like a trap then opened as he gulped for air.
Will looked Fownes up and down, from his fat calves to his fluffy hair, to his white-bowed shoes.
‘His temper is quick.’
Fownes looked round and edged away.
Will nodded and smiled.
‘I thought I should warn you.’
At that Will stepped aside, and watched Fownes continue in a meandering circuit like a ponderous beetle temporarily stunned. When eventually Fownes settled on his course, Will was satisfied. The gentleman doubled back, away from Cooksley’s house.
‘Are you coming in to get warm, Mistress Ellyn?’ Nan poked her head round the parlour door. ‘You’ll catch a chill in those damp things.’
Ellyn pulled at her gloves in a show of removing them and looked back through the window towards the steps to Will Doonan’s door. He was nowhere to be seen. In fact, for almost two days since the incident of the kiss, she had failed to make any contact with him, and she was still none the wiser as to whether he would soon be leaving. She kicked off her overshoes, conscious that her stockings were wet and her toes were cold; then she saw a blur of movement outside.