by Jenny Barden
Bastidas continued to circle her, back straight and head down, hands clasped behind him.
‘I was hoping you would tell me that – to spare yourself.’ He veered nearer and stooped, just enough to bring his head level with hers. ‘Tell me,’ he murmured. ‘It would be sad for such beauty to be lost. You know what the Holy Office can do.’ He spread his right hand in front of her. ‘Perhaps they begin with your fingers . . .’
He reached out to her lap, and she willed herself not to recoil. She would show no fear of him. She stared at the hair around his knuckles as he brought his hand towards hers. He touched her fingers.
She looked up.
‘I have heard nothing.’
‘Truly?’ Bastidas raised his brows. ‘Then let me tell you.’ He resumed his pacing. ‘Capitán Draque has attacked a silver train on the Royal Road. You know what I am talking about?’
She was conscious that he was studying her, assessing her reaction. She guessed that by a ‘silver train’ he meant one of the pack trains carrying bullion from Panamá to Nombre de Dios. She stared at the shutters.
‘His corsairs with some cimarrones marched across the land,’ he went on. ‘They got almost to Panamá. Then they set a trap by the road. They did this near a little town: Venta de Chagres.’ Bastidas circled her in measured steps. The floorboards creaked with each shift in his weight. The light flickered across his legs. ‘The Treasurer of Lima was with the next mule train. It is clear the corsairs knew. Capitán Draque probably thought the Treasurer would ride straight into his arms. But no. The Treasurer sent on a caballero – a horseman. This man saw one of the corsairs. He gave warning.’ From behind her, Bastidas drew back her hair. The sudden contact made her start. His breath brushed her ear.
‘Así, when Capitán Draque attacked the pack train he found only what was sent for him: a little silver and food. The Treasurer rode back to Panamá with his gold and his jewels.’
She turned, but at that instant Bastidas stepped away, with his fist to his chin in an attitude of contemplation. He resumed his pacing.
She looked at the gecko and breathed steadily.
Bastidas snapped, making her start. ‘Your friends are fools and they are cowards!’ His voice rose. ‘They only have audacity because they are in league with the Devil and black savages.’ He paced closer. ‘Not satisfied with the mule train, they attacked the little town. They came across some holy fathers: Dominicans with a guard. Capitán Draque refused to concede. “For the honour of the Queen of England, I must pass”, he said. Pah!’ Bastidas gave a hollow laugh. ‘What honour?’
‘The honour of a sovereign,’ Ellyn answered with as much composure as she could.
‘England is nothing!’ he snarled. ‘Your countrymen are filth!’ Sweeping his fist from behind his back, Bastidas held it clenched tight in front of her.
Ellyn shrank back, her eyes drawn helplessly to the gemembossed rings that flashed towards her.
‘Their answer was to shoot. They fired at priests. One is dead!’
Ellyn bowed her head, but Bastidas grabbed hold of her chin forcing it up until she looked at him.
‘Then this band of corsairs and savages swept with war cries upon the town, to plunder . . . to burn . . .’ He unsheathed his dagger left-handed. The blade gleamed, only inches away from her face.
She tried not to flinch.
‘Now tell me, señorita, why I should not show you the same courtesy as did your Capitán Draque. There were women and children in that town.’
‘I am sure he would not have hurt them.’
‘There were ladies in convalescence after childbirth.’ Bastidas squeezed her chin painfully. The blade shimmered before her eyes.
She managed to speak.
‘Treat me no differently.’
He swept the blade aside and strode behind her. Her skin filmed with sweat. His footsteps stopped. She turned her head, seeing nothing, wanting to run, though there was nowhere to go. She was poised to rise the moment he struck. The blade hit the back of her chair; its impact shuddered through her. She jumped up and straight into his grasp. With his hands round her neck, he pressed with his thumbs.
‘“Trust me”, said Capitán Draque.’ Bastidas brought his face closer until his mouth almost touched her brow. He repeated the words while he bore down on her. ‘“Do not resist and you will not be harmed.”’
Ellyn spluttered, choking. Bastidas was so close she could smell his bitter breath. She tried not to look.
‘“Do not resist”,’ Bastidas murmured, and she felt him relax his hold. But he kept his right hand on her neck while with his left he stroked her breast, first through her clothes, then forcing his hand beneath her shift. He kneaded and pinched her soft flesh. His breathing quickened.
She opened her eyes, blurting out, trying to distract him.
‘Did Captain Drake get away?’
Bastidas gripped her breast hard.
‘He has left.’ Bastidas squeezed harder. ‘Gone back with his little booty.’
She ground her teeth. She would not cry out. All the while he dug deeper. The sound that came from her at last was half-wild: a tortured keening she could not suppress.
He was breathing fast.
‘So now for you, señorita. When the fleet sails for Spain, do I send you with it?’
She felt faint. The shadows were swimming. He tightened his hold. She made herself speak.
‘When does . . . the fleet sail? How long . . . ?’
Suddenly he drew back, snagging his rings on her shift. She felt another sharp pain as he twisted his hand to wrench it free. Then he caressed her face.
‘Six weeks maybe. No more. In which time you may come to know me better.’
She slumped forward with a groan and crossed her arms over her chest.
‘I can be dulce,’ he said, stroking her cheek. ‘I could make you a Spanish lady.’
Glancing up, she met his gaze. She had to gain some control. Keep him away. Not beg. Not weep. She fumbled to re-arrange her clothes. The next instant he grimaced. She looked down at her bodice and saw the red of fresh blood. A scratch from his rings, she told herself: nothing more. She covered the spots with her shawl. He had to desire her.
Bastidas stroked her hair.
‘You should stay here, in Nombre de Dios.’
She stared ahead. The light sliced like wire over the floor. In an abrupt shiver of movement, the gecko on the beam scurried to vanish into a crack. She glanced at Bastidas. Let him believe his mastery excited her. Imagine it. She was drawn to him. He was good looking, after all. He could help her if he chose to.
‘I must first return for my things . . . and for Marco.’
Allow Bastidas to suppose he was courting her; he seemed to think that he was. If he would give her the chance, she might go to him willingly. Let him believe it. ‘There is much . . . I need to do.’
He continued to toy with strands of her hair. He brought his face nearer.
‘Go, then. Fetch the boy and your things. Prepare as you wish. See how I am kind. My men will take you back, and I will return for you the next day.’
Then he kissed her, pressing his lips against hers, and she suppressed the urge to shrink back while shock froze her mind. Only when he pushed up her skirts did she raise a hand and pull away.
‘Tomorrow, then . . . I shall leave now.’
At that, he released her. She was numb. Even so, she heard him.
‘Mañana. I shall think of you.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘I shall wait.’
Ellyn gestured for Marco to go quickly. ‘Leave that for the workers.’
‘Where?’ The boy blew out his cheeks as he struggled with a basket full of fruit.
‘On the beach.’ Ellyn gave another wave. ‘I want nothing left to rot in the house.’ She knelt by a chest and tried to force down the lid.
‘Sí, señorita.’ Marco’s piping continued behind her back. ‘What of the goats? I tie them and leave also?’
She leant on the lid,
and still the hasp would not fasten. ‘Why will this not fit? It must do. Help me, Marco.’ She contemplated sitting on the chest while reflecting that her father’s armour was crammed inside.
‘Look,’ Marco babbled. ‘You have something stuck.’
‘Oh, no!’ The thing that she stared at looked like the tip of a thumb. She jerked the lid back and the contents overflowed. She picked up a gauntlet, badly crushed: her father’s glove. With a pang of remorse she rubbed at the leather, before replacing it in the chest and repacking the rest with more haste.
Marco edged away.
‘Now I go . . .’
‘Where?’ Ellyn frowned. Had Marco said he was going? Then she remembered; he had been asking about tying up the goats, and she could not bear to imagine their fate if they were left helpless on the beach. ‘No, I will free the goats.’
‘But they will eat everything!’
She made a decision.
‘Take out all the fresh food and leave it where it can be seen. I shall be back soon. And hurry, we must be ready tonight.’
Marco watched with his faint brows raised high, and on impulse she hugged him, cutting short further talk. Her freedom would end the next day, but her thoughts kept returning to events hours earlier, and she could not speak about them. So she took the path to the fields, but drifted back in her mind to the shuttered room in the garrison. While the last shafts of sunshine set the foliage glowing in the trees, she remembered how Bastidas had circled her, asking questions, the blood on his hand, his fingers inside her slip, until what she recalled finished blank like the end of a nightmare. The shame was much worse than the ache she still felt. She crossed her arms over her chest and hunched as she stumbled, almost crashing into the goat pen before she recognised where she was.
The sun had gone down. From the rise, facing the sea, she noticed clouds that were tinged red, the colour of blood over a bruise. And if there was ever beauty to a scene that she would never see again, then she could not find it as she looked but saw instead that she was trapped, since she had no boat, and no means of escape, and the sea all around her was like a vast immuring moat.
With an effort she opened the gate, so numbed that every action required a huge focus of will, and the dun kid that nuzzled up to her induced the urge to cry out loud. He was her favourite, and she embraced him, not caring that he nibbled her apron while she pressed her face against his coat. She tousled the curls between his horns, and in the slits of his eyes she saw the shape of open doors. Let him live, she thought. Let everything go. She took off his collar, and smacked his rump to make him run, then watched the other goats springing after him, bleating as they fled.
They were soon lost to her sight, no more than ripples in the dusk, but she remained standing, staring at the trees around the pen. The vegetation shook, though there was no breeze. She could hear snapping and rustling, but there was no wind. Rubbing her eyes, she put her hands to her ears, conscious of a ringing inside her head that made her moan in dismay. There was too much to do and her reason was failing. She settled her sight on the sea to try and clear her fogged mind. There stood the palms by the bluff, her tiny coral-stone shelter and the beach. Nothing had changed – except that there was also a boat. Or was there? Something like a small galley was drawn up on the shore. She could not be certain, the light was too weak, yet there were surely men moving about, disembarking and dispersing. In that instant of realisation a dread certainty chilled her heart: Bastidas had come – his soldiers were close and seeking her out. She wheeled round and ran.
Her steps faltered in the gloom. She lurched and slipped but raced desperately for her life. She was not ready to face Bastidas, lose her freedom or endure any more. He must have released her to taunt her – returning her to brief liberty only to maliciously cut it short. He would enjoy the chase. He was hunting her down. She ran as hard as she could, dragging her skirts past barbs and thorns. She would not offer herself up, or meekly submit. There were men coming nearer, crashing behind her through the brush. Someone was close, calling out. But she hurtled on, stumbling blindly. She had to escape. She would not stop.
Something caught at her shoulder. She wrenched violently away. Her breath came in gasps. Her legs shook as she tired. She slowed and was seized. Her arms were pulled back. She was pinned against a man who locked her tight in a hold. She could only shriek and slump down. But he held her.
‘Ellyn! It is I, Will!’
She wrestled to break free, beating at his chest, though the first glimpse of his shadowed face was enough to burst open her heart. And when he pressed his face next to hers, her tears would not stop. She shuddered as she leant against him, feeling his hand stroking her hair, his beard by her cheek and his deep voice as if already within her, sounding in the core of her being.
‘I am here, and I am not leaving you.’
She buried her face against his shirt, surrendering to his strength, his body like a rock, conscious of the tang of leather and salt, and that his touch was tender, so tender she wept afresh.
She could barely see, but she heard sounds that alarmed her. Men were shouting in the distance. She shrank back, twisting round. They were coming nearer very fast.
Will ran his hands over her shoulders.
‘You are shivering like a lamb. What has happened to you? Why so frightened?’ He raised a hand to her face that was bandaged about the palm, and she flinched when he touched her, though his questioning was soft. ‘What is it?’
‘Bastidas . . .’
She clutched at Will and looked about. There were men with bows emerging like black phantoms from between the trees. Her eyes darted wildly from where they were massed to where they were not, searching for a gap, a place to flee. Their whole appearance was sinister, yet she guessed they were Cimaroons, and when Will addressed them like friends she let out her breath.
Will waved them away.
‘Go back and wait for me.’
He held her arms gently.
‘Bastidas. You mean the captain in charge of the garrison?’
‘Yes.’ She shook in remembering. ‘He is coming. You must get away . . .’
‘When is he coming? Tonight?’
‘Tomorrow. Perhaps at daybreak. Please . . .’
He embraced her again.
‘Hush. We will be gone before he gets here. The wind is westerly and that will help.’
He glanced up, and she followed, seeing the pale disc of a rising moon and the faint glimmer of stars. He seemed satisfied.
‘We will sail through the night. Are you ready to go?’
‘Yes.’ She began to move away and he kept close by her side.
‘There is only Marco,’ she murmured.
‘The boy we saw heaping bananas on the beach?’
‘Yes, I asked him . . .’
Will took her hand and led her on past the fields.
‘He cannot come with us. He would have no life back in England.’
She felt the stiff strips of his bandage, and looked ahead into a void. The path was like a tunnel where it dropped down through the trees.
‘I know,’ she said quietly, and wiped at her eyes.
Two Cimaroons were at the doorway; they moved aside to let Ellyn pass. She entered her house to find Marco with a pike: the same great weapon that her father had once used. His posture was threatening though his mouth gaped open. Everywhere she looked, articles and clothes were strewn in chaos, and for a moment she was shocked, until she remembered how she had left them.
She stepped forward.
‘Oh Marco, put that down! These are friends . . .’ She glanced behind her. ‘Did you leave all the food on the beach?’
‘Yes, Mistress Ellyn.’
Marco answered politely, even attempting a small bow which sent the point of the pike thudding down.
‘Tell our friends they may help themselves,’ she said gently.
The boy frowned and set the pike by his feet. He edged slowly past the Cimaroons and then pelted away thr
ough the door. The two men laughed and took hold of her father’s chest, raised it with a grunt, and followed him into the night. That left her alone in the midst of her possessions, scattered like flotsam washed up from a wreck. She found the purse of pearls Will had left her and pushed it in her pocket; then she stooped by the remaining chest and began cramming in the nearest things: a blanket cloak and pewter cups, a kirtle and stockings.
Will joined her quietly, kneeling by her side.
‘How have you fared? I have thought of you every day. You seem . . . anxious.’
She saw that his face looked haggard despite the shine in his eyes. But while she took this in, she was folding a chemise very carefully, doubling it over and over. She only realised what she was doing when he placed his hand upon hers.
‘You were not afraid of Bastidas when I saw you with him last.’ He pushed down with his fingers until their hands were intertwined. ‘What has he done?’
Silently, tears rolled down her cheeks to land in dark splotches on the chemise. She picked it up and all the folds fell out at once. While she tried to refold it, she felt Will push back her hair. She looked up into his eyes, and his gaze was searching.
‘What has happened?’
She could not hold her feelings back. She felt her face crumpling and there was nothing she could do. Her tears fell as Will held her, kissing her hair, soothing and steadying, loosening her shawl as he stroked her neck.
Then he stopped and pulled back.
‘What is this? Have you been hurt?’
Pushing the shawl off her shoulders, he looked down at her bodice to see, just as she did, the spots of blood that stained her clothes. Straight away she covered herself up, grasping at the shawl to hide what was there.
Will sighed and bowed his head, leaning forward until his brow touched hers.
‘Has Bastidas done this?’
She touched Will’s hands.
‘I will kill him,’ he muttered. He pulled back and looked at her. ‘Why?’ Slowly he shook his head. ‘What sense could there be in it?’ He looked into her eyes. ‘What did he want from you?’
She hugged him and whispered, ‘I gave nothing.’
‘My message . . .’ Will was talking as if to himself. ‘Did he? . . .’