by Jenny Barden
He weighed the keys in his hand. Then with a shout he threw them inside. ‘Free yourselves!’
Morrys staggered by hauling a blanket bulging with plate.
A fire already raged on the path beyond the inn. It cast a brilliant light into the hall that shone from points across the floor; Will bent towards one and picked up a pearl, then as many others as he could quickly reach. He charged outside.
Sheets and mattresses were going up in flames – every item of fabric from the upstairs rooms. Morrys and Simon had hold of the chest. Hix dashed past with his arms full of clothes, and then cast them all on the fire. The messenger lad was on his way, staggering bent double with a box on his back. Will took weapons and the blanket stuffed with silver. The rest would burn. The Spaniards would be left naked with nothing but oil and soap.
‘Let’s go!’ he called to his friends.
Will ran with them down to the jetty, and his spirits soared with every step. They had shamed the Spaniards and made themselves rich. Drake would be well satisfied.
The pearls in his pocket would be for Ellyn.
11
Sounds
‘. . . The isle full of noises,
Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt not.
Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears, and sometimes voices
That if I then had waked after long sleep
Will make me sleep again . . .’
—The Tempest by William Shakespeare, Act III, Scene 2
Panamá, the Americas
May 1571
WHAT WAS HE doing? Ellyn’s attention had been caught by the sight of someone twirling about on the beach: a man possessed of an elegant shirt, a sword and good legs – a man with dark hair fetchingly tied back with a red ribbon. Richard Dennys was engaged in a duel with an invisible opponent at the edge of the sea. He was showing off, she decided, while bending her head once more over her sewing, and she would not be distracted by the performance.
But his calves were very fine.
She stole another glance at him between stitches. From her position under the shade of a straggling tree, Ellyn was confident he could not see her clearly, so what could be the harm in taking an occasional peek? Master Dennys had the sort of physique it was difficult not to look at. A few ostentatious leaps drew her gaze back to his legs. Were he not so vain, she might have considered him more seriously. But what sort of man would wear black crossed-garters over bright red hose? She pondered on this, until she realised to her consternation that he was walking towards her.
Master Dennys proceeded with an expression of happy astonishment, as if he had only just become aware of Ellyn’s presence under the tree (something she very much doubted). His approach sent her into a flurry of stitching, though a few surreptitious glances informed her that he was striding energetically across the sand, and next that he was almost beside her, chest heaving and breathing deeply. She bent her head, conscious that this small show of indifference was hardly likely to be convincing; so it proved.
‘Ah, Mistress Ellyn!’ he addressed her heartily. ‘I am pleased to find I have an audience, and yet more delighted that my observer is the lady to whom my practice is dedicated.’
Ellyn made an effort to continue with her needlework without any hint of having been distracted. Threads were pulled and examined diligently.
‘I hope that is said in jest, Master Dennys, since I can assure you I was not watching. What practice?’
Master Dennys drew his sword again with a flourish. The action was so quick that Ellyn flinched.
‘This, fair mistress,’ he said, slashing his blade repeatedly above her head. The result left her cowering beneath a shower of sliced leaves.
He laughed.
‘The cut and thrust of the spada da lato, as I am sure you must have noticed since your fair visage was turned towards me while I was rehearsing my principal attacks.’
Squinting up, Ellyn was perturbed to see the knowing look on his face. She might have been keen for Will to think she found the gentleman diverting, but she certainly had no wish for Master Dennys himself to suppose the same.
She brushed away the leaf parings, shook her sewing and took off her hat, tipping it up and smacking it vigorously in a way she trusted would make plain her exasperation.
‘I may have been resting my eyes. I was not aware of any attacks.’
With some alarm, she saw Master Dennys raise his sword once more, but it was in the manner of a salute, blade upright before his face. And then, to her relief, he sheathed it and dropped on one knee beside her. She ignored him and searched for her needle.
‘The lady feigns disregard,’ he proclaimed, somewhat theatrically, thought Ellyn while pulling her sewing about, convinced that she had pinned the needle through before brushing the fabric clean of leaves. How tiresome.
‘But the courtier understands her meaning,’ he went on. ‘A knight can expect no display of interest from the object of his devotion. He must be content with the slightest acknowledgement.’
Having located the needle at last, Ellyn stabbed it into the cloth, brows raised and shaking her head, in a manner which she hoped would convey her disdain. She had a suspicion that Richard Dennys was mocking her, and that did nothing to lessen her irritation. As his pronouncements continued, she became aware that he was peering ever more closely at her face.
‘The arch of a brow,’ he said.
Ellyn lowered her brows and shot a contemptuous sneer in his direction. It elicited a smile.
‘A glance,’ he added.
Ellyn scowled as she made a misplaced stitch. Now she would have to unpick it. She pulled the sewing closer to her eyes, and at the same moment Master Dennys took hold of a corner as if to admire it. The result was a stretched piece of fabric that neither could do with as they wanted. Ellyn jerked the sewing from his hands.
Master Dennys appeared unperturbed.
‘The knight remains true regardless of reward,’ he asserted, gripping his sword hilt instead. ‘This is your privilege as a lady: to receive loyalty and give nothing.’
He shuffled nearer while Ellyn jabbed at the offending stitch. She hoped that her sigh would convince him that this was not the way either to amuse her, or win her regard. Her vexation was increasing, but the only discernible effect was to make Master Dennys more insistent.
‘My sword is your protection because my allegiance is to you.’
Her response was crisp.
‘I am sure you need have no concern for my protection, Master Dennys. I have the Swan’s guns, Captain Drake’s brother and six other men here to safeguard me.’
‘Ah, but these men are not true gentlemen,’ Master Dennys countered, without any hint of having registered a rebuff. ‘They are not knights in spirit. They have no proper training in the art of combat. The arquebus and musket are their weapons of choice. They would rather trust to firearms, though these weapons are as likely to blow powder in their faces as to hit a target by design.’
Ellyn frowned, and this was not conducive to her attempts to rethread the needle. Why was Master Dennys blathering about firearms? She was not in the least interested. Then he startled her once more by whipping out his knife. The thread shook just as she had it in the needle’s eye.
‘Fie!’ she muttered under her breath, then lowered her hands and glared at her tormentor.
Master Dennys had hold of a round, plum-sized green fruit, and was toying with his knife as though he was about to peel it. He waved the blade in the air.
‘I prefer to be certain that when I engage, I strike.’ Suddenly he stuck the knife in the fruit’s skin. ‘And when I cut, I disable.’ The blade must have been sharp; in a relaxed stroking motion he cut the fruit clean in half. It was full of moist seeds which he nonchalantly proceeded to scrape out. ‘So be not afraid. You are at no risk while I am by your side.’
Ellyn snorted. She was not afraid, and she was certainly in no need of protection by a man whose valour w
as proven in combat against fruit. When Master Dennys offered her one of the halves, she declined dismissively.
‘I would recommend you try this,’ he persisted. ‘The flesh is soft and delicate. And behold its colour!’ He held the half before her eyes. ‘I would liken its tint to a maiden’s blush.’
It was a striking pink, Ellyn acknowledged, and willed herself not to redden.
Master Dennys moved the fruit under his nose and then sensuously near to his lips, closing his eyes, allowing lips and flesh to touch in the action of a delicate kiss.
‘Are you not tempted?’ he asked.
Ellyn could not stop the heat from rushing to her cheeks, though she was trying hard to remain aloof. She fiddled with her sewing while Dennys continued in a deep, honeyed voice.
‘No? Then I shall describe the taste.’
He had taken a bite; Ellyn knew it, though she was determined not to watch. She could hear his murmurings of satisfaction.
‘Ahh . . . It is ambrosial . . .’
Out of the corner of her eye she caught his lascivious look.
‘I believe this might be to your father’s liking,’ he said, and immediately he had her attention.
She turned, and he stared back.
‘I hear he has lost his appetite,’ he said.
Ellyn blanched. It was true that her father had not been eating properly for weeks, and her concern made her reconsider her choices. She could keep Master Dennys at the distance she would have preferred, or she could be more agreeable and accept what he was offering. She saw that he had more of the fruits in a small bag. Perhaps they might appeal to her father. Yet how would she know if he had no opportunity to try?
‘I might take one of the fruits after all, if you have another,’ she said graciously.
Master Dennys smiled.
‘If you will hold out your hand . . .’
Ellyn did so, but he merely scrutinised her palm as if he was expecting something more from her. She steeled herself.
‘Thank you, Master Dennys.’
‘As you desire, Mistress Ellyn.’
Ellyn struggled against the impulse to pull back. He touched her palm like a fortune teller and stretched out her fingers as if he was measuring them for a glove. Slowly he brought one of the fruits close, and lingeringly wrapped her hand around the skin.
As soon as the fruit was in her grasp Ellyn snatched it away. Master Dennys might have good legs but she found his manner quite repellent. She looked up at the beach rather than face him again. Then her mouth opened.
‘Master Drake!’
John Drake was about sixty paces away, beside the great beached hull of the Swan. The ship had been heeled over in shallow water to allow for her cleaning, and Ellyn had been vaguely aware of the men working on her all morning. But she had not expected to see Master Drake among them, particularly not looking as if he had been there for some time. He should have been with her father. She stared harder to be sure. But there was no doubt: John Drake’s build was distinctive – he was as square as a block – and he was the only man with red hair who had been left behind on the island.
Guilt added to Ellyn’s vexation. She should have been watching. She had promised her father she would return as soon as John Drake left their hut. Ellyn stood hurriedly and wrapped up her sewing. What if her father had been calling for help? With barely a glance at Master Dennys, she dropped a small curtsey, offered a curt farewell and left.
*
Prickling with heat under the weight of her kersey dress, Ellyn turned away from the Swan and strode in the opposite direction along the shore. Her shoes filled with sand in her effort to make haste, and struggling with her footing did nothing to improve her temper. She made for the largest hut amongst the small group of palm-frond shelters – one she shared with her father on Kestrel Island, and which had recently been distinguished, at his insistence, by the positioning of a breech-loading gun near the opening that served as a door. This was her father’s ‘house’. On approaching, she eyed the pile of round shot next to the gun’s box-carriage. She could have sworn it had grown larger in the hours since she had left – on her father’s orders, she assumed. What if he had asked for black powder as well? She prayed none had been provided – she did not relish the prospect of her father attempting the art of gunnery.
Ellyn flapped peevishly at a few biting flies, small as dust but more troublesome than fleas. She was beset by trials beyond her control: heat and sand, guns and insects, her father’s diet and the drivel of Richard Dennys. Could the day get any worse? She prepared to duck under the sackcloth that screened the entrance to the hut. There was no sound from inside. Her anxiety increased; so did her pique at the prospect of being chastised. What would she say? She bit her lip and frowned.
Then she saw her father, and smiled.
Nicholas Cooksley was bent over his account book, wearing a dressing gown, sitting at a table improvised from planks and barrels. Surrounding him were bales of tarpaulin-draped cloth, stacked up from the sand almost as high as the palm-thatch roof. He had the aura of a relic set in a strangely padded niche, faded, tattered, but still requiring veneration.
Ellyn’s first view was of the top of her father’s head; it was blotched and ringed by cobwebby wisps of bedraggled grey hair. Then, when he looked up, she noticed that his colouring was high in patches over his cheeks, becoming most intense at the end of his bulbous nose. The rest of his face was mottled and sallow. His eyes were yellowed and glazed, widening as soon as they settled on her, and then quickly narrowing as she approached.
‘What foolishness is this?’ he demanded. ‘You have been gone over an hour!’ The greeting ended on a querulous note. ‘Where have you been?’
Ellyn put her sewing on a box. She noticed a pike and halberd stacked nearby, along with a sword and mace, breastplate and helmet. The armour was for her father, she presumed, though she doubted whether it would fit, even given his recent loss in weight. The weapons worried her. She sat opposite him.
‘I was only sewing,’ she answered with as much casual ease as she could muster. ‘And I am sure I was not that long. You asked me to go, if you recall, so you could speak to Master John Drake . . .’
Her father waved his hand.
‘Yes, yes. I cannot remain silent when I have been robbed.’
What did he mean by that? she wondered. She sighed inwardly and made an effort to appease by asking, ‘Robbed? How?’
‘Blatantly robbed.’ He riffled through his book and flicked at the pages. ‘This is the proof. There are two bales missing: forty yards of Cullompton kerseys dyed gallant yellow. Look. Appraise. Read for yourself . . .’ Dramatic gestures made it plain that she was expected to be convinced. His manner became more whingeing. ‘I should have been vigilant. Yet how can I safeguard anything when you keep wandering off?’
‘But you told me . . .’ she began in defence.
‘Do not argue!’
Ellyn’s indignation was drowned beneath a burst of violent shouting.
‘Be silent when I am talking! How often must I remind you? I should be watching over my goods, not worrying over you.’
She took a breath. She would not rise to him.
‘But you need not be concerned . . .’
‘Need not! Go to!’ He huffed and puffed.
Ellyn listened, determined not to be provoked. She would allow his bluster to blow itself out.
He thumped the table, making everything on it bounce: book, inkwell, jug, bowl and trencher. A candlestick toppled over.
‘Tush! There . . .’ Suddenly his eyes rolled. He looked shocked, and that alarmed her. He stood unsteadily and shuffled round, seizing her arm. ‘Do you not hear the Spaniards?’ he whispered.
All that Ellyn could detect was a sound typical of most afternoons on the island: the distant roll of thunder.
‘’Tis only a storm, dear Father, somewhere far away.’
He lurched from her towards the gauze-covered window and wrenched the fabric aside.
‘If that is thunder, where is the lightning? Where are the clouds and rain? No. No . . .’ He stared wildly at her. ‘The enemy is close, and you must stay here where you are safe.’
‘I am always near,’ she said with a smile, but it disguised her concern. What was he talking about?
He took hold of her by the shoulder.
‘What use is near if I cannot see you?’
She touched the puffy hand that was digging most painfully into the base of her neck, though he did not lessen his grip.
‘I heard one of the savages screaming only paces away from this place,’ he muttered against her ear.
Ellyn turned to face him, holding his watery gaze.
‘A bird, most probably,’ she said with deliberate levity. ‘One of the creatures that make such noises. The trees are full of them.’
‘Do not question me!’ He leaned over her and bellowed. ‘How can you know what I heard?’ Stumbling, he leaned on the planks for support, and Ellyn willed him to sit down while stifling the urge to suggest he should. She knew his moods. In a rage he became perverse. What could she say?
He shook and raved.
‘Always contradicting. Never heeding . . .’ Then he stopped and gazed at her intently. Had his fury broken? She believed she could detect a return to lucidity in his look, but that hope soon faded with the shifts in his expression. He appeared bewildered, then fearful. His eyes bulged as the blood drained from his face.
‘There are threats all around.’ He held her again, not painfully this time, but with a trembling grasp. ‘We must have a palisade and sentries. I have told John Drake, but he agrees and does nothing. Who will take action? Who will dig the defences? Must I do everything myself?’
‘Of course not.’ Ellyn struggled not to be curt. ‘I am sure Master Drake will help as soon as he is able, but he is breaming the Swan. The cleaning is necessary.’
‘I know what he says! And do not tell me again.’ He began another rant. ‘What use is this burning of barnacles if we need to escape? What if we are attacked? We should have a fort and a moat . . .’
Ellyn twisted round. She would not confront him and see his fury grow worse. She cast about for any distraction. On the table, the fallen candlestick lay embedded in the congealed remains of his dinner. In fact, as she realised when she looked more closely, the meal had hardly been touched.