Mistress of the Sea

by Jenny Barden

  Bastidas waved his hand and the guards either side of her left the room. He proffered a thin smile.

  ‘This is the Eve of the Epiphany, the day we call in Spain “El Día de los Reyes”: the day of the kings who found the baby Jesus. Please share with me this feast to honour them.’ With a sweeping gesture he indicated the lavish display, and then beckoned for the servants to help her sit.

  ‘Surely not alone?’ Ellyn let her affront at the suggestion show. To dine alone with him would be unseemly, and she wanted him to know that the invitation did not appeal to her.

  Bastidas inclined his head, and she noticed how sleek his oiled black hair looked in the sparkling light. His expression formed the suggestion of a sneer as he watched her.

  ‘I am sure you would not wish for public show? No?’

  ‘I wish to be shown respect,’ she said crisply. ‘I would like a duenna.’

  By way of response he snapped his fingers, at which two Negro page boys took her arms and began guiding her down to a chair. She considered resisting, but then allowed herself to be seated, deciding that nothing could be gained by making a scene. A footman poured out wine, while Bastidas took his place facing her along the length of the table.

  ‘Alone is better for talking.’ With another wave of his hand he dismissed the servants. ‘I have good news,’ he announced as she heard the door close.

  ‘Indeed?’ She tried to conceal her apprehension. Christmas had passed by and Will had not come back for her. She had heard nothing of Francis Drake and his men since the day they had left the island following the attack on Nombre de Dios, and that was almost six months ago. Did Bastidas know what had become of them? But if Bastidas considered he had good news, then it was hardly likely to be good news for her.

  His answer was to push several dishes along the table.

  ‘Let us eat. Try this. It is olla podrida. The meat is like pig,’ he added, indicating a dish containing a stew-like mix of meat and fruit. ‘And there is perdiz con chocolate,’ he went on, gesturing to a silver platter on which joints of roasted fowl lay under a thick brown sauce. ‘You know chocolate?’ he asked. ‘The taste is bittersweet.’

  Something about the dish reminded her of the birds she had plucked when she had been with Will last. She ignored it and placed a small piece of ‘pork’ on her plate.

  Bastidas helped himself and proceeded to eat with a show of relish.

  ‘You like the dress?’

  He stared as she cut up her meat. She was conscious of his eyes roving over her while with each restricted breath her chest rose and fell. She speared a morsel with her knife feeling a surge of anger she could barely contain. The dress might have cost a fortune, but she did not care for the way in which it had been foisted upon her. Yet he had hinted at news, and she wanted to know what that was; she could not ignore him.

  ‘The cloth is rich,’ she answered coolly.

  ‘It is brocado from Seville. I had it cut and sewn specially for you. Please accept as my gift for Los Reyes.’

  She put down her knife and picked up her fan.

  ‘I prefer the English fashion in cut. It is more genteel.’ She watched his face twitch.

  He gave a stretched smile and raised his glass.

  ‘We have reason for celebration.’

  She forced a smile back, certain that he was hinting at more than the festival for the holy day.

  ‘The Day of the Kings?’

  ‘Better than that.’ He drank deeply. ‘The fleet from Spain has reached Cartagena. Soon it will be here. Perhaps tonight.’ He spoke in a way that showed the jut of his lower teeth. ‘We will have a great fair and market. You must enjoy it.’ Beneath the thick line of his brows his eyes gleamed darkly. ‘I hope you are not upset because your friends have not returned.’

  Ellyn looked down at her plate.

  ‘You have not seen them at all?’ he asked.

  She raised her eyes, wondering what he knew.

  ‘Not since the day you saw them also on the island.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Do you have any idea where they are?’

  Bastidas turned his gaze towards a pile of papers on a side table. He nodded.

  ‘I have reports.’

  ‘Please tell me.’ She clutched at the napkin in her lap, screwing it into a knot as she waited.

  Bastidas pushed aside his plate and reached for the documents.

  ‘Your friends have been troublesome around Cartagena,’ he spoke while placing the documents in front of him. He picked up the first letter.

  ‘“On the thirteenth day of August in this year of . . . ”’ With a supercilious wave he continued reading. ‘“There appeared before this city and coast two ships and three boats . . . English corsairs who sought to land, but . . . ” How do you say it? They were spied. “They did not dare to come ashore . . .”’ He lowered the letter and looked at her. ‘I read from the report of the officer who had the defence of Cartagena when your Capitán Draque arrived.’

  ‘The officer thinks much of himself.’ She met his gaze, wondering what Drake had been about. Why had he chosen to attack Cartagena? With so small a force he could have had no real hope of success.

  Bastidas angled his head.

  ‘Shall I go on?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said stiffly.

  ‘“The corsairs were more than two months by this port, capturing and burning coast traders and doing much damage . . .”’ Bastidas riffled among the remaining papers, going through the motions of summarising as he looked at them. ‘They attacked a large frigate at the mouth of the harbour. But they were fired on by troops from the shore, so they fled.’ Tapping at another letter, he glanced at her. ‘Twice the corsairs have raided a trading post to the east. On the second raid they took nothing. It was empty.’ He paused to drink, and again his eyes settled on her. ‘It seems that Capitán Draque has caused much inconvenience but achieved very little.’

  Ellyn looked at him. She had no idea of Drake’s strategy, or why he had been harrying shipping so far to the east; she thought Drake had wanted the treasure that the mule trains brought from Panamá. But where was he now? Where was Will?

  She fanned herself briskly.

  ‘I am glad that no alarm has been caused here in Nombre de Dios.’

  Bastidas nodded and smiled wryly.

  ‘I think the people of Cartagena were not too concerned. Your friends were driven away by the fire of cannon, then, possibly, they went to find the supplies they had left on some of the islands nearby.’ He flourished a letter embellished with the remains of a large seal. ‘Your friends would have been vexed. Their provisions were found by us. Of course, we took everything.’

  She speared a piece of fruit, anything to appear unconcerned.

  ‘You cannot know those stores were Captain Drake’s.’

  ‘We found more . . .’ He waved the letter and eyed her sharply. ‘The wreck of a ship. You are interested?’

  Ellyn tensed. Had Drake’s fleet suffered a catastrophe? Had one of the ships struck the reef? She put the fruit in her mouth and swallowed uneasily.

  ‘The coast must be littered with wrecks.’

  ‘This was English, we know, though it had been burnt.’ His voice rose. ‘It was one of Capitán Draque’s ships.’

  She looked at him incredulously. How could he know? She supposed there would signs by which a ship might be identified, but was he telling the truth? She stared at the letter in his hand.

  ‘I do not believe you.’

  Bastidas stood and walked round to her. Then he spoke quietly as he put the report by her place.

  ‘See. You can read.’

  He hovered near her, despite her turning her back to him. Still she felt the touch of his look, making her skin tingle where she was most exposed; she shivered in the heat. Her gaze was drawn to the report, but she resisted the urge to pick it up. She tried to make sense of it where it lay, because, thanks to Marco, she now knew enough Castilian for simple reading in the language.

  ‘What
does this mean?’ Bastidas asked, close beside her. She was already troubled by the same question; she could see that the report seemed to accord with what he had been saying. She shook her head slowly. Out of sight, in her lap, she crushed the napkin into a ball. Suddenly she felt something run over her shoulders, light and quick. She shuddered and recoiled, wheeling round as Bastidas stepped back. What had he done? She raised a hand to her neck while he returned to his seat, but he turned his head quickly to watch her again. The feel of the touch lingered on like a burn. Probably he had done no more than draw his fingertip over her skin. But she felt sullied by the thought. Was he trying to show her some intimacy? She was loath to pass remark lest he enjoy hearing her protest. Had she imagined it? She looked round. There were moths and insects flying about; one of them could have been the cause. She kept silent.

  Bastidas hunched his shoulders and peered at her.

  ‘Your friends had problems; that is what the report means. They could not sail two ships and their boats. Perhaps some men wanted to go back to England. Perhaps Capitán Draque did not.’

  Ellyn picked up her knife again; it was something to do. Her mind was spinning. She did not eat.

  ‘You are only guessing, believing what you want to . . .’

  ‘There are things we would like to believe that are now clear. No one has seen the English corsairs for two months.’ His voice dropped as he smiled. ‘Maybe they have gone back.’

  ‘Maybe,’ she responded, her hopes sinking, aware of something flickering past her and throwing a moving shadow around a candelabrum: one of the moths. The creature fluttered erratically close to a flame. The next moment it dropped, landing stunned on the tablecloth.

  Bastidas glowered and raised his knife in his left hand; then abruptly he stabbed down. The thud made her jump.

  ‘You say that but you do not think it,’ he continued softly. ‘You think they will return for you. They will not. I can tell you.’

  She stared at the knife. He had pinned the moth on the blade. As he pulled the knife up she saw its wings quivering in a blur. She shivered.

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  He held the knife before his eyes, examining the death throes of the creature with an air of mild curiosity. Slowly he extended his arm, bringing his knife towards a candle until the moth touched the flame. She watched because she could hardly believe he would do it. Only in the small flare of light did she flinch and look away, catching the trace of a slight hiss, and a whiff like scorched hair. He did not answer her. When he spoke it was to put another question, as if about nothing of any consequence.

  ‘Does your Capitán Draque have hair that is red?’

  Her answer was curt. He was tormenting her, and she was revolted by what she had witnessed.

  ‘You know that he does; you have met him.’

  Bastidas leafed through the pile of papers.

  ‘There is another report: a frigate was attacked by English corsairs not far from this city. The corsairs were . . . beaten away. One of them was killed – a musket ball to the head. Another was shot in the stomach.’ He clenched his hand into a fist and pressed it against his waist. ‘The wound was mortal.’

  He tossed the papers towards her.

  She sat rigid.

  Bastidas poured himself more wine.

  ‘This man had red hair.’ He raised his glass, and the gems in his rings gleamed and sparkled. He smiled. ‘But you must not be sad. The fleet from Seville is with us soon. We will have music and dancing. You must be happy.’

  She struggled to show no concern. But what if Drake was dead? What if the ships had sailed for England and Will had gone back with them? She could not reason clearly.

  She made herself look at Bastidas.

  ‘I would like to leave now. I insist you let me go.’

  Bastidas raised his thick brows.

  ‘But you must finish your meal.’

  ‘Friar Luis will take me back. He will not allow you to keep me here. If I do not return to him soon, he will seek my release. He may already be with those in authority . . .’

  ‘Ah, yes, Friar Luis,’ Bastidas interjected. Then he stretched out his arms and picked up a trencher on which some twisted baked dough lay coated with sugar and crystallised fruit. ‘Please try this,’ he said mildly. ‘It is Roscan de Reyes, our Epiphany bread. You will find it delicious. Here.’ With his knife he cut a thick slice and placed it in a bowl that he passed to her.

  Ellyn stared at the slice, reluctant to touch it, wanting only to leave. But she supposed that the dinner would have to be concluded first. She prayed that the mention of Friar Luis would help her.

  Bastidas cut another slice for himself.

  ‘We have a tradition; in the bread things are hidden. If you find a bean, you must pay for the bread.’

  He broke off a piece with his fingers, and began to eat. Then he examined what he had left. ‘There, you see?’ Eyes widening in a show of astonishment, he held up a bean. ‘Now I must pay for this. But what have you found?’

  Ellyn poked at the dough, anxious to end the farce of searching the bread. She exposed something tiny and as hard as a tooth. It was carved out of bone. She felt sick.

  Bastidas leaned forward.

  ‘Surely I do not need to tell you what it is?’ He made a mockery of any surprise. ‘The baby! Whoever finds the baby is king of the fiesta. But you, señorita, must be queen. I salute you.’ He raised his glass. ‘Feliz Navidad!’

  The toast was interrupted by a rapping at the door. He scowled and stood, marched over and wrenched the door back.

  ‘Sí?’

  Ellyn saw one of the guards bow low before delivering a clipped report. Bastidas snapped a reply and returned to the table looking pleased. He did not sit. He held up his glass.

  ‘The fleet has arrived!’ He drained his wine and beamed at her. ‘You may take the baby with you.’

  Ellyn remained motionless though she supposed she could go. She stared at her bowl where the miniature bone carving lay in a pile of flesh-coloured crumbs.

  Bastidas moved to her side. With a start she heard him whisper as his breath brushed her ear.

  ‘You are bella even with no smile.’

  Will blinked and drifted in the no-man’s-land before waking. He was lying in gloom, looking between the poles of a tent-shaped shelter, and what he saw was trampled sand-bleached white by burning light. Beyond was an awning where skittles and archery butts lay in a dusty heap, along with bladderballs and roperings. No one had the inclination for games any more. Men lay beside him on low trestle frames, and some snuffled in their sleep while others moaned, gripped by fever. But Will’s head was clearer than it had been for days, and he was content for a while to listen to men talking, though he sensed wretchedness in their voices, and he wondered whether they were deliberating on sailing for England again. That was the subject of most furtive conversations: going back while they still could.

  His gaze returned to the trampled sand, and the triangular stockade of the fort, with its scavenged planks from a wreck still stained black with caulking. When had he last worked with tar, or done anything much except fight illness and frustration? He rolled his head and squeezed his eyes closed, and then opened them again to see a face like a wraith’s: a death mask cast in wax – the surgeon’s boy, wasted by illness. Would he live? The surgeon was dead, together with patch-eyed Simon and over half the crew – so many that they had re-named their base ‘Slaughter Island’. And though some, like John Drake, had lost their lives after skirmishes, most had succumbed to the same vile malady, like the Captain’s other brother, young Joseph, and that loss had changed them all. Twenty-eight men had died together in one week. Awareness made Will long to drift, as he had when he was sick, his mind floating in numb oblivion. For weeks they had kept to the coral islets, a day’s sailing from Nombre de Dios, east of the headland called the Cativas, lying low in the reef. But if many more died, would any ever leave? How could he reach Ellyn on her island and then take her a
ll the way to England? With the return of some of his strength, he longed to get back to her. She had been left alone for too long and he felt answerable for her plight. He turned to gaze at a patch of sky, seeing frigate birds flying by, and he yearned to be with them, moving freely, heading westward over the sea.

  Clambering out of the shelter, he stood unsteadily in the sun, feeling the sand scorching his soles. The metal bands around the water bucket were baking when he touched them. It was empty inside, save for the reek of damp decay. A loud rumbling made him turn. There was a Cimaroon at the gate, rolling a barrel over rattling boards. As Will watched he remembered the Jesus, the ship he had sailed with General Hawkins: the carrack that had carried a cargo of men in her hold. Now Negroes were their friends, and the first slave who had joined them remained with them still: Black Diego, the man who had brought a warning during the attack on Nombre de Dios. They had all sworn alliance through Diego’s intercession – a pact born of the same hatred, uniting Englishmen and runaways.

  The sound of splashing drew Will closer as the Cimaroon unplugged the cask. Will’s tongue was dry, but he eyed the water in the light, noticing it was brownish and foaming while he cupped his hands under the spurt. He was parched, yet he hesitated. Had the water made them ill?