by Jenny Barden
A shot cracked and Kit weaved, striking out with his machete. Will made for his brother, glimpsing men wounded and dead, running and fighting, but nothing of Ellyn or the Spanish captain. The Cimaroons whooped, venting their fury. They dropped down from the palisade and charged at the Spaniards. Kit battled in a blur, hacking like a madman. A soldier thrust at his back. Will struck as Kit wheeled, hearing the clang of snapping steel the instant the man hit the ground, seeing a broken rapier flying up, to fall back on the soldier’s chest. Kit sprang clear, and Will saw someone by his feet, eyes staring and sightless, hair trailing in blood: Morrys. His arm was outstretched, holding his bow.
Will dashed for Ellyn’s hut.
Bastidas had her pinned down. Will saw his armoured back, his bandaged arm, the signs of a struggle in a small space – the dagger at Ellyn’s neck, blood on her dress, her skirts pulled up. He heard her cries.
Will crept in, sheathing his sword, though his impulse was to drive it straight at the villain’s guts. He had to get the dagger from Ellyn’s throat, grab Bastidas by his wounded arm: his right – that might help him – disarm the man before he could kill her, move while he was distracted. The man was fumbling and grunting. Will struggled to hold back – stay quiet – take the steps: focus on the arm he had to seize.
Then he lunged. He grabbed and wrenched, pulling Basitidas to his knees, twisting round his wrist, forcing a cry of pain from the Spaniard the moment Ellyn screamed, ‘He’s left-handed!’
Will jumped back as a blade flashed by him.
Bastidas struck, still kneeling, whispering as he smiled, ‘Dog.’
Will reached to unsheathe his own sword, feeling a sting over his chest and hearing a roar from behind: the howl of his brother’s wrath. He glimpsed Kit rushing past as Bastidas jabbed, fast as a snake, stabbing at Kit, drawn to the attack. Will lunged in a surge of strength – a desperate thrust while Kit closed – seeing the rapier in the Spaniard’s hand, aiming round the man’s breastplate, under his arm. The rapier shivered. Will wrenched his sword from the Spaniard’s flesh the instant Kit’s machete smashed into steel. The blow caught Bastidas full over the chest, cleaving the armour, bedding deep.
Ellyn screamed. Bastidas swayed, staggered back and lurched towards her. Will ran at him then, driving his sword under the Spaniard’s chin, sending him crashing against the table and falling to the ground. Will bent so she would not see how he hastened the man’s end.
Kit took Will’s arm, and he stood.
Will reached for Ellyn’s hand.
She clung to him. Will’s grip was certain in the midst of chaos. She ran beside him, not really feeling the cut in her arm, or the bruises from her struggle. The bodies of men lay bloodied in the dirt: Spaniards and Cimaroons – men who were her friends – both of the mariners whom Drake had left with her.
‘Morrys!’ She pulled towards him, but Will held her back.
‘He’s dead. I’m sorry.’ Will held her briefly very tight, wrapping her in his arms and pressing her face against his shirt. His blood smeared her cheek, for he too was hurt. But then the wild man with fair hair took her arm and urged her on.
She ran as best she could, through the gate and onto the beach, feet sinking, splashing through surf. The Cimaroons dashed for the boat. Those ahead scrambled aboard. The wild Englishman climbed in front, reaching down to help her up. Before she took his hand she saw the scar on his palm, and the shape that it made, like a thin sickle moon. Will lifted her over the side and then clambered up behind her.
As she found a place with them both in the stern of the boat, she asked the question of the wild man that suddenly burst from her mind: ‘Who are you?’ The man looked like Will – he had helped them both.
The wild man smiled.
‘The cimarrones call me el inglés de la luna.’
Will clapped his shoulder.
‘This is Kit, my brother.’ He took up an oar and began to row.
‘Kit!’ she cried out, and squeezed her hands together, only stopping to hold on as the boat pitched through the waves. ‘I sent you a message.’ She wiped tears from her eyes.
‘You did!’ Will exclaimed.
Kit bent to rowing as well.
‘That message led me to Will. I cannot thank you enough.’
‘You brought Kit back!’ Will looked hard at her; then he shook his head.
‘Marry me?’ he asked, and his look of entreaty made her want to throw herself upon him. ‘Marry me!’ he shouted.
‘Yes,’ she replied as she had longed to, crying out her answer for everyone to hear. ‘Yes!’
They were leaving. All was receding, spattered by sunlight and spray: the fort, the mangroves – from the stern of the pinnace they seemed to be sinking into the waves, while before her Will was rowing, driving the boat out to sea. She sat by the helmsman, a wounded Cimaroon, feeling the surge of the boat as he called out the stroke. She gazed from Will to his brother, taking in Kit’s gentle battered features; then she noticed a ship near the horizon.
‘Look!’ Her shout was lost beneath a boom: a rippling blast that shook the air, and another, rumbling away like thunder. The ship had fired a broadside. She tried to make out more as the men glanced round, but they all kept on rowing.
‘Drake!’ Will yelled and grinned. ‘He must have led the Spaniards away and doubled back through the reef.’
The helmsman quickened his chanting. The men hauled harder. The pinnace swept north.
She called out against the wind, ‘Can we reach the ship?’
There was no answer, but she was not surprised; no one was listening. Then she pointed.
‘Look at the ship!’
Will was too busy rowing, and so was everyone else, but she could see the streamers flying above the fading drifts of smoke. From the top of the mainmast fluttered the flag of St George. Silk banners rippled from every yard, sprit and spar. And from every masthead flew fine-coloured pennants that were light, thin and long enough to dance over the sea.
Epilogue
Through starry nights and long hot days, Ellyn planned and dreamed after she and Will were betrothed, their hands clasped before Captain Drake, their vows made to wed on their arrival back in England. In her optimism for the future all difficulties fell away: the need for her mother’s consent, the reading of the banns without objection, the arrangements for the festivities and the recognition of Will as a worthy successor to her father’s business. So it proved. It was as if Will’s love made everything possible, and the elements of her life, for so long conflicting, all at once slotted together like an inlaid design. Her happiness overflowed, touching everyone she knew. And perhaps Captain Drake had much to do with the ease with which her wishes took shape, or perhaps it was simply that fortune smiled upon her because she was smiling upon everyone else, but the fact was that one fine golden morning near the end of September, less than two months after their victorious return to Plymouth, and over two and half years since she had first left aboard the Swan, she found herself in her mother’s chamber, kneeling for a special blessing on the day she had often longed for, with the sound of merrymaking outside from the townsfolk gathered to follow her bridal procession to church.
The colours she wore were blues for purity in varied hues from dark to light. Her sleeves and underskirt were of azure brocade; her gown and bodice were soft indigo velvet. A silver pomander full of garden herbs hung from a sky-blue ribbon around her waist, and the loveliest lacework enhanced her clothes, from her high-backed collar to the line of her stomacher across the swell of her breasts. This stomacher was one her mother had embroidered with strawberries and ladybirds amidst blue-tinted leaves, while pinned to her bodice and free-flowing hair were sprigs of rosemary with silken bride-laces: streamers of blue and fresh sap green. She felt more beautiful than she ever had before, or ever would again, yet never more humble than when she bowed to receive the press of her mother’s hands on the crown of her head.
‘Go, my sweet,’ her mother whispered in her
breathy voice. ‘Return with your man, and may my love strengthen your union.’
Ellyn rose to kiss her, grateful beyond words for her mother’s forgiveness – forgiveness for her leaving and her father’s death, though, God knows, she had laboured to save him; her choice of a man against her parents’ first wishes; all the mistakes she had made in the course of her long absence, only to come back to find the same unconditional love that had comforted her as a child. Tenderly she embraced her mother, as Lettie and Jane witnessed when they came to the door, and though they both smiled broadly, their eyes were wet with tears. Outwardly Ellyn remained calm, aware of change too profound for show of emotion, knowing that she was leaving as a daughter and would return as a wife. She would weep for joy later and for everything past; this parting would be forever remembered as now.
Memories came with her as she passed through the house: of her father in the parlour, calling for his stick – and her brother, Thom, jumping down the stairs – of her home as she had known it, seemingly larger years ago, though never brighter than at that moment, decked out with broom and alder sprigs. Outside was noise and celebration, and Drake’s page, Diego, the Captain’s faithful Cimaroon, waiting with a pretty palfrey fitted out with a side-saddle. Diego helped her mount, then the singing became louder, and she was escorted to St Andrew’s Church, to the pounding of drums and bawdy verse, with Old Nan on a donkey, plodding behind, and Lettie with Will’s journeyman who had wed her that year, and Jane making eyes at the gangling youth who had once been Will’s apprentice boy, and now walked afterward bearing the bridecup of honeyed fruit.
News must have spread that the Captain would be attending because all around St Andrew’s the crowds were packed and roisterous. Ellyn could not believe the people were cheering for her; Drake’s fame would have drawn them, and his favour with the Queen after presenting her with riches enough to fill her coffers for months. But it gladdened her to see the good folk of Plymouth rejoicing together on her special day, whistling and whooping as she reached the lychgate, waving greenery and hats, pressing forward for a glimpse of Drake striding to meet her, gloriously attired, with goffered ruff and damask doublet, and the sun glinting on the silver of his scabbard and sword hilt.
‘Dear lady,’ he said, giving her a ruddy grin and helping her alight with his hands at her waist. ‘Allow me to lead you to safety.’ With a flick of his fingers, his men stood back either side of the path, their rough faces at odds with their lace-collared clothes. As she advanced, trumpets sounded and, one by one, these brave men bowed. They were all her friends: swarthy Thomas Sherwell and wiry John Oxenham; Ellis Hixom, with his shattered mouth – she remembered each from their adventures, and others, too: her dear slave boy, Marco. Where was he now? Morrys the archer, who had died protecting her; patch-eyed Simon with his winning smile; the Captain’s two younger brothers: stolid John, her island guard, and the other, Joseph, of whom Will had told her; and Captain Le Testu, the most gracious of allies. Along with her father, they were all with her in spirit as she passed the survivors, with scenes from the trials and triumphs they had been through flickering like shadows in the fire of her mind. Yet awareness of their absence only touched her heart more, for the joy of her love and for being alive, walking towards the man who meant more to her than the world. Her Will, tall and strong, magnificently dressed in burgundy and crimson, who turned towards her when she entered the church with the passion of desire in his clear blue eyes – eyes that sparkled like sunlight on the sea. Beside him stood Kit in a soft leather jerkin, fair hair shining, flashing her a smile from his still-tanned face. Oh, they were so handsome! A chill rippled through her at the sight of the brothers together.
Then Captain Drake led her forward, and she walked down the aisle, passing friends and acquaintances, colleagues and neighbours, merchants who had once been her father’s associates, mariners and maids, rich and humble, and those who would soon be her new relations: Will’s father and sisters, reconciled with him at last after Kit’s reappearance, still keeping a distance and apart from the others, but there, standing stiffly and dressed in their best. She recognised admirers and erstwhile suitors; Richard Dennys regarded her smugly, holding a ridiculous hat like a brightly feathered shield. Perryn Fownes caught her eye, chubby and beaming, his hand in the grasp of a simpering maiden with a look as vacant as an empty byre, and Ellyn knew he would be happy, and that only strengthened her sense that all would be right. Godfrey Gilbert hunched his shoulders and lowered his brows, glancing at her from under them with a lipless smile. Let him shift and squirm. She did not fear him, though she felt a tingling round her neck, as if from the jewelled choker she had given him back. They had never been promised, and he had betrayed her father’s trust. She hoped he was stewing in guilt for mismanaging the family business; only Will’s prompt action on their return had saved it from ruin. Raising her hand to her throat she touched a necklace of pearls made from those Will had given her on the island long ago. She looked straight ahead. Will was her choice; and when the Captain drew her close, letting go her hand, and the parson began speaking, she could not look anywhere but at Will’s honest face.
‘An honourable estate,’ said the parson, ‘instituted of God in paradise . . .’
She drank in the sight of him to the music of those words.
‘If any man can show just cause,’ the parson went on, ‘why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak . . .’
She held her breath and dared a peek back at Godfrey Gilbert. His mouth opened wide as if in mime of shouting out. But he would not, surely . . . She watched in sudden horror, turning back to Will, and noticing Drake raise his hand. Then, as if on order, the Captain’s men moved forward at the wings from the door, and Ellis Hixom joined Master Gilbert, favouring him with a ghastly smile.
Master Gilbert’s mouth snapped closed.
A hush settled. The parson resumed, asking the same question of her and Will. In the silence she felt relief like a loosening of heavy chains, because they would be married, and Will would love her, comfort and honour her for as long as he lived.
‘I will,’ he said, and so did she; they took each other by the hand and pledged their troth as husband and wife.
Will took the gimmel ring he had worn since their betrothal: a ring matching her own that had been found in the Spanish haul, and he gave it to Kit who placed it on the parson’s book. Then she watched Kit step aside and her heart went out to him – Kit, who had suffered much: years of imprisonment and slavery, only surviving as a fugitive, who, in the end, had to leave his love behind. Would he ever find her again? Would he one day wed in happiness such as hers? Let it be so, if ever there was justice. Kit smiled at her shyly, placing more gifts on the prayer book, tokens of gold and silver.
‘From the men,’ he whispered.
Next, Captain Drake stepped forward, producing a large battered quoit with a grandiose flourish and placing it on the book as well.
‘From Her Majesty,’ he announced, and the gold was so heavy, the parson almost let it fall. The Captain chuckled, and the parson recovered, giving the ring back to Will to place on her finger, saying words in turn that filled her to glowing: ‘With this ring I thee wed: this gold and silver I thee give: with my body I thee worship . . .’
This gold and silver – what a story lay behind it, and now it was the gift and seal of her marriage. They were wed; the bells rang out, and she and Will stepped outside to a soaring ovation. Arm in arm they proceeded, as Drake’s men lined up, drawing their swords to form an arch, and sending Peryn Fownes stumbling in momentary panic. Through this arch they walked, showered with sugared grains and petals, with a flurry of white from the doves that were released into the sky.
‘A kiss,’ the people called, and Will bent to kiss her tenderly, until the Captain intervened, clapping his hand on Will’s shoulder.
‘That’s no kiss for a mariner,’ Drake declared, pushing Will aside. ‘Here, let me show you . . .’
Drake ma
de ready to kiss her to hoots and whistles. His merry face came closer, red and whiskered, and she would have made no objection because of the regard in which she held him, but Will took hold of the Captain and bodily pulled him away.
‘No, Captain.’ Will embraced her again, more firmly now, with the kind of hold that no one could break. ‘Let me show you . . .’
She could not hear any more for the cheering of the crowd.
Author’s Note
On 9th August 1573, during a sermon at St Andrew’s Church in Plymouth, the news spread that Francis Drake had docked in the harbour, and one by one the entire congregation crept out to greet him, until the preacher was left quite alone – so the story goes . . .
Drake and his men returned to a hero’s welcome, their fortunes made, with a haul amounting to a significant proportion of Queen Elizabeth’s annual revenue – some estimate as much as a fifth. Of the seventy-three adventurers who had left Plymouth over a year before, no more than thirty-one arrived back, but Drake had established his reputation, and dared strike a blow for independence and religious freedom against the might of imperial Spain. The success of the enterprise heralded the beginning of the Elizabethan Golden Age, and set the course for the rise of England as a great maritime power.
I expect you will now be wondering just how much of this story is true. The answer is: a good deal; Drake’s activities in the Caribbean between 1570 and 1573 took place much as I have described them in Mistress of the Sea. Insofar as the novel concerns well-known real-life figures, the story accords with the generally accepted facts. Drake really did mount several attacks on the Spanish bullion supply in Panamá and eventually succeeded after many failures – he did raid Nombre de Dios, ally with the Cimaroons, lose many of his men to yellow fever, capture a mule-train loaded with gold and other riches, escape on an improvised raft and return to England victorious but without two of his younger brothers who died during the venture. The rout of the English fleet at San Juan de Ulúa in 1568 is also a well-documented event, and the duplicitous behaviour of the Viceroy of New Spain during this incident – treachery, as Drake saw it – was the spark that ignited his hatred of the Spanish and a determination to exact vengeance which continued for the rest of his life. Of course, he famously had the ultimate retribution after the period covered by this novel, with the defeat of the Spanish Armada in 1588.