Mistress of the Sea

by Jenny Barden

  ‘A word with you, Captain.’

  ‘I’m listening, Will.’ Drake half-closed his eyes as he puffed on his leaf, but Will did not doubt his concentration.

  Glancing round, Will kept his voice low.

  ‘We cannot leave Mistress Ellyn here alone.’

  ‘Why not?’ Drake blew a stream of smoke into the air and watched it rise. ‘She’s been here alone for almost a year without mishap.’

  ‘As soon as we move against the Spaniards she’ll be seized. Then we’ll be held to ransom to get her back.’

  ‘That could help us.’

  ‘How?’ Will put the question bluntly. The coolness of Drake’s response had shocked him – it was as if Ellyn’s plight meant nothing to the Captain, though he was sure that could not be true. ‘We can’t play games with her safety,’ he added.

  ‘This is no game, Will.’ Drake’s eyes followed another trail of smoke then flicked towards Will. ‘The Spaniards will be watching her. This island is close to the city. As long as she remains here, the people of Nombre de Dios will feel safe. They’ll expect us to return for her before we strike at the city again, and to do that by sea. They’ll prepare for a sea attack – and they’ll leave her be.’

  ‘Her life will be at risk . . .’

  Drake stopped him short.

  ‘The life of every man in this enterprise is at risk, and Mistress Ellyn’s life is no more at risk here than with us in the thick of action, or left somewhere else with scant protection. She will be a hindrance if we remove her, and a boon if she remains. Leave her on this island, and we’ll be able to take the Spaniards by surprise. They’ll be looking out to sea while we move on them inland.’

  Will frowned, even more anxious then he had been before. Drake’s reasoning made sense, but it held no assurance for Ellyn’s safety, neither did the threat made to Bastidas that the city would burn if she was harmed. In that event, it would be too late.

  ‘But if we attack the city again,’ he said urgently, ‘her life will be as good as forfeit, as you said . . .’

  ‘That’s not what I have in mind.’ Drake grunted and took hold of his injured leg, lifting it from the barrel and resting it stretched out, heel on the ground. Will had almost forgotten that only hours earlier Drake had been fighting for his life, but there was no hint of weakness in the way he argued.

  ‘She will be in no greater peril here than she would be in our midst. Do you think I would do anything to deliberately jeopardise a lady’s safety?’ Drake looked Will in the eye, and Will slowly shook his head. He could not believe Drake would leave Ellyn in imminent danger.

  Drake turned to face the sea.

  ‘We’ll strike next along the Royal Road – the road between Panamá city and Nombre de Dios. We know that’s the way by which the gold and silver goes. It must be. We’ve found no bullion along the Chagres.’

  Drake looked at Will, and Will nodded, remembering the raid along the river that had yielded only pearls and silk the year before.

  ‘The slaves who joined us last night,’ Drake went on, ‘have said the Cimaroons will help us. We’ll attack inland where the road is ill-guarded. We’ll bleed the Spaniards of their riches, and Mistress Ellyn will be taken to safety before they even have chance to cry out.’

  Will bowed his head. The plan had much merit. But how would it help Ellyn?

  ‘In the meantime she’ll be left defenceless,’ he argued.

  ‘She will be safe.’ Drake bent forward, meeting Will’s gaze when he looked up. ‘Trust me.’

  Leaning back, Drake settled his leg on the barrel again as if to signal that the meeting was over. So did it come down to trust? Will rubbed his brow. Was that all he had to rely on?

  ‘We swore an oath, Will.’ Drake inhaled deeply. ‘We came close to seeing our purpose through last night.’ He looked hard at Will. ‘You fought well.’

  ‘No more bravely than you.’ He could not deny Drake his bravery. And he trusted him.

  Drake smiled.

  ‘We won’t fail again. Thank Mistress Ellyn for her loyalty, but tell her none of this. Tell no one. The lives of seventy men depend on that.’

  ‘I’ll say nothing.’ Will stood, his commitment given. ‘I’ll go to her now.’

  ‘If Mistress Ellyn would care to dine with us, I would be delighted, but I think she may not.’

  Drake’s eyes narrowed again as he smoked, and for the first time Will noticed the sheen of sweat over his face; perhaps that was the proof of his pain.

  Drake inclined his head and grimaced.

  ‘See how the cooking fares. I like my bird tenderly done.’

  Feathers rolled around Ellyn’s feet as she walked inside. Men were tearing at carcasses and busy with knives. Her little house had become a kitchen, while fowl were being plucked and gutted, made ready for roasting over the great fire on the beach. She wanted privacy, and her only hope of sanctuary had been denied. She coughed. The air was thick with dust. She found a bowl and moved to a corner, hoping to hide her face, because she was trying not to think of Drake’s decision to abandon her, or the conversation she had left, or Will, or what lay ahead. For a long while she stood still because the sounds of chopping, and the feel of the dead bird she held, reminded her of her father’s end, and then of a fateful morning when Lettie had been beheading thrushes, and that put her in mind of England and her dreams of returning there with Will. So she thought of him anyway, which caused her eyes to fill with tears.

  She drew quick breaths and raised a hand to her face, caught in the realisation both that she was making herself look dreadful and that a man had moved very close: someone who was talking while tossing feathers into her bowl. It was Will, speaking softly.

  ‘We will come back for you.’

  She wanted to shake him and cling to him all at the same time. If they were going to come back, why did they not take her away now? She could barely bring herself to respond.

  ‘Then why leave me?’ she eventually asked.

  ‘We have to. Be strong for us. We will not be gone long.’

  ‘Strong . . .’ she whispered, shaking her head. The word caught in her throat. She could have been strong enough with Drake, able to cope with any danger, bear any hardship. Had she not proved as much? She struggled against the urge to break down and weep, scream out her grief, or throw the dead bird at Will very hard, but instead she pulled at the quills that remained in its breast.

  ‘Why must I stay?’

  ‘By staying here, you will help us most,’ Will answered gently. ‘It gives us advantage. Unless we outwit the Spaniards we’ll have no hope of seizing the treasure . . .’

  ‘What treasure?’ She turned to him. In the dull light she saw his handsome face brighten.

  ‘The bullion from Peru,’ he explained, as if he thought she did not know. ‘The bullion that is taken to Nombre de Dios.’

  ‘There is no treasure left in the city, and none on the way.’ She forced the words out. Had the decision to abandon her been made on such wrong reasoning?

  Will looked at her askance.

  ‘That can’t be so.’

  ‘It is.’ She glared at him.

  ‘How can you be sure?’ Will moved nearer to her.

  She met his gaze, her jaw tight with anger.

  ‘I’ve been watching what goes on in Nombre de Dios, and my boy, Marco, has been telling me about the traffic in gold and silver . . .’

  ‘What traffic?’ Will’s whispering became urgent. ‘Answer me fully but let no one else hear.’ He glanced round and resumed plucking, bending his head to the task, though she could tell he was also listening.

  ‘The armada left a month ago,’ she said plainly, ‘and all the treasure went with it . . .’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘To Spain. There will be no more now until after the next fleet arrives.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Around Christmas . . .’ She tried to explain, wanting to help him, though she knew what she said would be no help to her,
and all the while she was playing out the action of pulling at feathers and moving her hand over the bowl. But nothing fell out when she opened her fist. She was concentrating on what she had discovered about how the fleet moved back and forth, bringing goods from Seville and then spending the dry season in Cartagena, before returning for the treasure from Nombre de Dios and heading back for Spain. She squeezed all the information she could give into a few terse sentences. It was as much as she could do.

  He frowned, looking round.

  ‘So we will have to wait . . .’

  No one was near them, the shelter had emptied while they were talking, and only two men remained who were standing by the door. The aroma of roasting fowl wafted in on fumes of smoke.

  Will placed his hand on her back.

  ‘Thank you for this. Find out more if you can. I will return for you.’

  ‘Take me away. Please.’ Her voice cracked. The few feathers she had managed to pull out tumbled towards the drifts around her feet, together with a knife caught by her sleeve. She bent unsteadily as she scrabbled to retrieve the blade, knowing that if Drake acted on her information he would probably be gone for at least another six months, and what would happen to her then? She could not bear so much more waiting, subjected to the attentions of Bastidas or stultifying isolation – abandoned because she was an encumbrance, an unwanted burden, a woman in the way of the enterprise of men. Even Will was not concerned enough to protect her.

  ‘I thought you cared . . .’ she mumbled. It was too much. She shuddered as she fumbled, not minding if she was cut, or that Will was murmuring while he stooped, crouching down at the moment she decided to rise, so her head struck his chest. Next she was swaying, close to falling, except that he caught her, silencing her cry, first with a hand, then with a kiss.

  He held her tight, and the kiss was everything she wanted for as long as it lasted. But in a moment he drew back. ‘I have put your case to Drake, and he will not change his mind.’

  ‘No!’ she burst out. Surely he could not kiss her and then simply go? She pulled away from him, but he took hold of her again.

  ‘Getting you away from here depends on the whole enterprise. We are bound in this together – not only you and I, but Drake and every man with him. So you must believe me when I tell you that we will return for you as soon as we can, before you are put in any more danger . . .’

  ‘Believe you?’ She cried out as she struggled free. ‘How can I believe you when you leave me?’

  ‘Sweet Ellyn, please understand; this is not of my choosing.’

  He reached for her again, but she backed away.

  ‘No!’

  What was he thinking? That he could settle her with another kiss, or by calling her ‘sweet’? She spun round to see the two men at the doorway with their heads turning as she faced them. Had they been watching? Will had shamed and hurt her enough. When he took her arm, she shook free of his touch.

  ‘Get away from me!’

  Let the men hear and stop him if he tried to follow her, though she knew he would not.

  She walked out alone.

  With his hand spread wide Kit blocked out the sun, watching the rays break between his fingers. Then he raised his right arm, joining thumb and first finger together to make an ‘O’. Through this ring, by looking up, he could see nothing of the forest but only a circular patch of sky, and clouds swelling and shifting shaped by a wind he could not feel. The sky. The same changing sky from wherever it was seen in the world: his for a moment. Suddenly he ducked, dodged and pulled the knife from his belt, wheeling round.

  ‘Sancho!’ Kit held the blade poised to strike, but he laughed at the same time. ‘You’ll have to wash if you want to surprise me.’

  Sancho was also crouched to spring, his great arms held wide, skin gleaming like polished jet, and Kit guessed that if he had not moved first then his friend would have pounced, and taken pleasure in giving him a shock. Out of the corner of his eye, Kit glimpsed more of the cimarrones rising up from the undergrowth. Sancho drew his own knife, the size of a cleaver, and held it quivering, close to Kit’s face.

  ‘If you were Spanish, then I cut off your nose.’

  ‘But because I am English I am favoured with your smell?’ Kit sheathed his knife calmly and tipped back his head. ‘Is there a reason for this just now?’

  ‘The Spaniards are on the road to Nombre de Dios. Many of them.’

  Fast as a snake’s tongue, Sancho slashed at something by Kit’s side, slicing the blade back and forth, then holding it flat to display what he had caught: a giant black worm with a multitude of legs, rippling wave-like as it writhed. He grinned.

  ‘They travel in a long line, north from Panamá.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Ciento – a hundred. Maybe more.’

  With a nonchalant flick of his wrist, Sancho threw the worm aside, but Kit followed his black eyes and knew, when another man yelped having been struck by the creature, that he had taken aim with some care. Sancho feigned bemusement and scratched at his neck beneath a silver gorget and a tattered silk cord.

  ‘They have cañón and armas,’ he added. ‘Muskets and bows.’

  ‘Soldiers?’

  Sancho nodded, shaking his matted locks. He spat.

  ‘Soldados.’

  ‘A hundred more soldiers for Nombre de Dios . . .’ Kit murmured, reasoning aloud. ‘Have we frightened them that much?’ He looked from Sancho to the others, all still and watching him closely. ‘Show me.’ He glanced up; then he smiled. ‘Since I have a good nose for a bad smell, I would like to sniff them out for myself.’

  Ellyn tugged at another weed below the spindly yucca plants in the furrow. A tremor of pain ran through her back. She straightened and gazed towards the shore, beyond the tops of the mangroves that grew below the level of the fields. The horizon was as empty of anything unusual as it had been whenever she looked. When would Drake’s men return? Surely after four months, and near the end of the worst rains, they might be expected any day? She bowed her head and saw her clod-caked shoes, her mud-spattered skirts and the thin sleeves she had rolled up because she was sticky and hot. She looked like a churl. Suddenly she was troubled by the thought that, if Will could have seen her just then, he would not have wanted to kiss her as he had before they’d argued. She wished their parting had been better. She wanted him back.

  She bent again, wiping her hands on leaves still dripping wet from earlier rain. Apart from Marco, she had no one to talk to. Friar Luis only visited rarely, and the labourers on the island behaved as if they had been told she was a witch. Perhaps they had. Such tactics would be consistent with the guile of Bastidas, if his strategy was to drive her to seek companionship in the city. What was happening? Were Drake’s men in any trouble? Sometimes she feared her spirit would break – that news was her sustenance, and she was dying of starvation. Couldn’t she ask Friar Luis to take her to the city, just for a day? And if Bastidas intervened, couldn’t she face him? She would, she resolved. She might even send a message to the friar with the next fieldworker she saw.

  Rubbing the small of her back, she stood and turned to cast a fond eye on Marco at the end of the plot. He was knocking dirt from a yucca root, scraping the tuber with a stick. He was a small scrawny urchin, but her heart went out to him. His arms were still stick-thin as she saw when he waved. His quaint manners puzzled her. Why was he waving? Without comprehending she began to wave back. Then with a shout he was gone, over the edge and down the slope.

  ‘Marco!’

  She stumbled after him, hearing him calling from a distance but unable to make him out. What was wrong? At the side of the clearing she came across the sword they kept to deal with snakes. She picked it up and sped after him.

  Vegetation closed around her, and the stink of hot swamp. Insects whined past her ears. Marco’s cries became louder. Suddenly she was out in the open, on the shore, not far from the shelter. Before her were two giants with Marco pinned between them.

&n
bsp; ‘Stop!’ She brandished the heavy sword. The blade wobbled as she thrust it forward. But she marched straight at the men. ‘Let him go!’

  The men were tall and black, wild-haired and daubed, garbed in pieces of armour and the remnants of fine clothes. They had bows and arrows with quivers on their backs. She recognised their scars as she neared them, and the tattoos of one that ran in lines down his chest: the giant who drew his knife as he pulled Marco to his side.

  ‘No!’ Ellyn cried and dropped the sword. She ran towards Marco, arms outstretched, while the giant with the knife began shouting, stepping back. His companion, by a canoe, hurled something out onto the sand. But all that concerned her was taking hold of Marco. She did not look up until the men had jumped into their boat. They began paddling furiously away. Then, as she hugged Marco, she saw what they had left.

  The men had given her fish.

  17

  Unrest

  ‘. . . Such is the state of affairs and the great unrest which the French and English have created here, as the Audiencia of this kingdom will report to Your Majesty. As soon as I arrived on this coast I manned the remaining brigantine with thirty men . . . and this vessel is escorting the barks which leave this port with merchandise which must go forward. Up to the present no mishap has befallen them, nor do I think any will befall them while I am here . . .’

  —From the report of Diego Flores de Valdés, Commander of the Indies fleet and armada, to King Philip II of Spain, written at Nombre de Dios, 20th February, 1573

  Nombre de Dios, the Americas

  January 1573

  ‘AH! LA SEÑORITA Cook-esley. You look enchanting! I wish you good cheer this Twelfth Night.’

  Captain Bastidas bowed from the far side of a long table resplendent with fine plate and sumptuous food. Though the sun still streamed through half-shuttered windows, glass and silverware glittered under clusters of lit candles. Ellyn held her head high as she walked into the room. But while the starched lace of her ruff was tight around her neck, the cut of her bodice left her feeling exposed – a reminder that the clothes were not hers, and she had been given no choice but to wear them. Soldiers had accosted her without warning as she was leaving church with Friar Luis. Then, despite his protests, she had been marched away, taken to the Governor’s house, and left with Indian maids whose instructions must have been to pamper her whether she liked it or not. She had been washed, changed, powdered and perfumed, dressed magnificently and had never felt so abashed. All this left her rueing ever having asked for another visit to the city. She should have stayed on the island, out of sight of Bastidas. Now he could see her too clearly. She had no veil. Her chest was bare above her breasts, and only the fan that she held could provide any concealment. So she made use of it as she entered, with her other hand on her skirts, conscious of the farthingale like a cage around her hips.