Blood of my Blood

by G Lawrence

  They joined forces, agreeing to attack the treasure route at a different location, just a few leagues from Nombre de Dios. That March, they headed into the jungle, this time with French as well as Cimarrone reinforcements. On the first of April, the train was sighted. There were forty-five soldiers guarding the treasure, but Drake had more men, and his were better armed. Some of the Spanish soldiers did not even have shoes, and only a few carried arquebuses.

  “The attack was sudden,” Drake said. “We charged from the undergrowth and fell upon them. The soldiers ran. One Cimarrone was killed, and La Testu was injured, but we took the prize.”

  And what a prize it was; treasure worth more than two hundred thousand pesos. It was impossible to carry it all away. The most valuable treasure was taken, the rest hastily buried. The treasure taken to Drake’s ships amounted to forty thousand pounds, a fifth of my annual revenue.

  They escaped, but La Testu, his wound grievous, stayed behind with a few soldiers, hoping to catch up when he had regained strength. Another Frenchman wandered off drunkenly into the trees and was lost. Drake and his men marched fast for two days, knowing the Spanish would come for them. Through a fierce storm they struggled on, reaching the location where they were to meet their pinnaces. But they were nowhere to be seen. In their place were several Spanish ships, weighted down by artillery and eighty musketeers.

  “It was a desperate moment,” Drake admitted. “And we understood what had happened. The drunken man who had wandered off must have been captured and had told them our route. Our pinnaces were captured, and we were surrounded. They might be on their way, too, to our forts, to destroy them. All seemed lost.”

  But Drake was not a man to surrender. They would reach their ships, he told his men. It would take too long to march through the jungle, so they constructed a raft from fallen trees. They made a crude mast, used a biscuit sack as a sail and branches as oars. It was a craft crafted from lunacy, held together by hope. The seas were stormy, and sharks swam in those waters, but Drake’s belief in himself propelled them on. The raft sailed on for three leagues, battered by wind and waves that sometimes swept to the men’s chests, threatening to suck them into the sea. The sun burnt skin from their bodies, and salt stung their eyes, but soon they saw something that brought heart; their pinnaces, thought captured, were not.

  “Sadly, they did not see us,” Drake said, laughing. “We were too small. They failed to spot us and headed for a cove for the night.”

  Drake and his lunatic raft followed, and came up to them on the beach. “My men were disheartened,” he said. “They thought we had encountered only more failure, as we were burned red by the sun, lashed by water, and wearing only rags.” He grinned. “I played a trick, Majesty… I assumed such a sorrowful expression that heads fell and shoulders drooped. Then, I took a quoit of gold from my clothes, set it before them and told them our voyage was made.”

  There was great cheering and the treasure was stowed away. Le Testu was unfortunately captured and beheaded by the Spanish, as Drake later learned, but Drake made for his ship and shared treasure with the French. Not knowing Le Testu was dead, Drake went back for him and for the rest of the treasure. He found only one of the men who had guarded his captain, and he told Drake what had happened. Spaniards had found some of the buried treasure, but not all of it, as Drake had buried it in many locations. They stowed this away, stopped to careen their ships, and as they went to leave, Drake invited the Cimarrones on board to take away gifts of silk, linen, food and gold if they wanted it. The Cimarrones had more use for practical items, and one asked for the scimitar Le Testu had presented to Drake. Drake gave him the sword.

  Sailing away from a terrified coast reeling with stories of his attacks, Drake made for home.

  “Now,” I said. “To business. As you have no doubt heard, in your absence, we signed a temporary treaty with Spain. That means we cannot publicly acknowledge your triumphs, I am afraid, as it would appear as though we were supporting piracy against Spain, and they would turn on us. But since you returned in August, just days before we signed, I do not consider your spoils subject to that treaty.”

  I grinned roguishly at Drake and met his sparkling eyes. “I am merry to hear that, madam,” he said.

  “Although your spoils are safe, I would advise you not to sail again for some time,” I said. “You are famous in Spain now, and if you are sighted it would bring English trade with Spain into danger.”

  “Do you wish for trade so much with a nation such as Spain, Majesty?”

  “At the moment, Drake, what I wish for is peace in the Low Countries, and when Phillip signed this agreement his part was to swear he would seek harmony with his subjects. With that in mind, I cannot risk you attacking Spanish ships… not if you are found to be doing so, in any case.”

  “I am happy to restrain myself and seek legal trading activities for a while, if that is your desire, Majesty.”

  “It is.”

  “Then so it will be.”

  I smiled, pleased with my pirate. “Although I cannot celebrate you in public, Drake, know that my heart is grateful and my purse happy for all you have done.”

  And my purse was indeed merry. Drake had come home with more than one hundred thousand pesos, as well as jewels, gold, weapons, and spices.

  “I do not need public acclaim, Your Majesty,” he said.

  “Good, for you shall not get it,” I said, grinning. “But I will find uses for you, Drake. By God, I will.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Whitehall Palace

  Autumn 1573

  That September, I turned forty. Robin presented me with a beautiful fan of long, white feathers with a golden handle. Engraved with his emblems of the bear and mine of the lion, it was precious to me.

  It was thoughtful for another reason. Although I wanted none to know, and it had taken me enough time to realise, I had started to encounter symptoms of the change that comes to all women. The ongoing fevers I had suffered were a mystery to my doctors, but upon mentioning this to Blanche, my lady had explained the truth I had not wanted to face. It was perhaps a little earlier than some, she said, but the signs were clear.

  I was leaving behind the period of procreation and entering what some deemed as the time a woman becomes useless. This of course depends on the supposition that all women are good for is breeding. I had other ideas about how my worth should be measured, but for many reasons, I wanted it kept secret. Robin, of course, knew, as did my ladies. It was hard to keep something like that entirely quiet. I was often flushed, and experienced anxious dreams and fits of panic in the day, which sprang from no understandable source. The change was indeed upon me, but it was vital that my people and rulers of other nations remained unaware. If they knew, offers of marriage would desiccate as my womb did, and my political value would recede. Robin’s gift, thoughtful as all his presents were, was to keep my skin cool as my blood attempted to ignite my flesh to swift flame.

  When I recovered from the initial shock, I found I was looking forward to some elements of my new life, such as bleeding no more. It would be pleasing to no more suffer swings of emotion, or have to insert pessaries of linen inside myself, with a string attached so they might be removed easily. I was not supposed to use such things, as they damaged the hymen, and might call my virginity into question, but since my doctors were aware I employed them, I continued. Still more I thought with affection about doing away with pads, which were unwieldy, strapped between my legs by a belt. Pessaries were convenient, pads a cumbersome horror.

  Robin’s gift demonstrated he was with me in this testing time. The bear stood with the lion, through all, never would I stand alone. For someone often troubled by the gaping hole of loneliness within, this was a precious sign of solidarity and love.

  It was not only me going through changes. My cousin of Scots was reportedly losing her famous looks. I took satisfaction in this, not only because it might make men less willing to help her escape, but because, finally
, she might no more be seen as the younger, more desirable, alternative to me. Mary would always be younger, of course, but as people age the gap in their years seems to close faster than when we are young. She was suffering with inflamed joints, which I hoped might make her less willing to embark on some insane plan of escape, and the chronic pains in her side had not abated. I was also informed she was going grey and had put on a considerable amount of weight, making her face puffy, and her eyes seem smaller. Mary spent vast sums on gowns, jewels and wigs, but was no more the pretty princess who had bewitched so many.

  I, too, had to take steps to ensure people did not note the steady march of my years. I remained thin as a willow whip, due to infrequent eating and regular exercise, but had to wear wigs all the time because my hair was scant. I had to maintain the illusion of eternal youth and vigour, no matter how false, to keep my people from thinking of my death, and, more dangerously, my successor.

  I used a curd of possets to keep my skin clear and free of wrinkles, along with lotions made of egg, alum, sugar, borax and poppy seeds. When my face and hands had been treated, my skin was painted with ceruse, a mixture of white lead and vinegar, which brought about the palest, ivory complexion. White complexions showed a life of noble leisure, and so were most sought after. My lips and high cheekbones were painted red with beeswax and cochineal, and eyebrows and lashes with kohl, creating a dramatic comparison against my white skin. Some said these mixtures dried the face, but now I had started to use them, I could not stop. Under the paste I wore, my skin was indeed dry and looked almost grey at times. Even if I ceased using these potions, the pretty skin of my youth would not return, and I would be laid bare to the world as an aging woman, sailing past the prime of her youth.

  Cosmetics were a lie, and like all falsehoods, once you start employing them, you cannot stop, or the fiction falls apart.

  Because where the Queen leads, other women follow, wigs had become commonplace at court, and women vied to outdo each other with the variety and colours they could don each day. Cosmetics were applied heavily, too, as women aped me, so I did not appear markedly different to other women of court, young or old.

  But in my heart, I knew I was not the maid, fresh of face and light of step, I had once been. I would not have traded the wisdom I had gained for the sweetness of looks I had once possessed, but there were times I mourned the passing of that girl. I was a stronger, wiser woman now than I had ever been, but as the aches and pains of increasing age come, we look back and sorrow for loss of youth. We never appreciate it when we have it. Only when something is gone do we know its true value.

  But as I turned forty, my Accession Day came about once more, always a time for merriment. I enjoyed my return to Whitehall, as it brought me into the heart of London where I felt closest to my people, and allowed me to use my favourite bathroom.

  My bathroom was tiled and held a stove, so water could be heated, releasing soothing vapours into the air. With Helena Snakenborg and Kate Carey, I sat in my nightgown, breathing thick, soupy air perfumed with sage and sweet briar. Another bathroom looked out onto the orchard, a glorious sight; oranges and reds, flanked by bare trees stretching skeletal fingers into slate grey skies. In this chamber was a generous bath, along with a feature whence water cascaded from ornamental oyster shells arranged upon rocks. Nearby was an organ, designed for two, where my ladies played, entertaining us with sweet songs as we soothed aching muscles in steam.

  My personal library was in this quarter of the palace, and when not occupied with state business, this was where I liked to be. Even if not reading, as I so often was, I would wander amongst the books, trailing long fingers along spines, feeling the thrill of knowing how many worlds and how many voices were simply sat there, waiting for me to discover or rediscover them. In some chambers of my palaces I would feel trapped, but never in a library, probably because it was a room holding many worlds, all offering escape from this one.

  The seventeenth of November dawned clear and cold, a chill wind buffeting pennants of my knights in the tilting yards. The challengers rode out to wild screaming and the answerers were greeted with as much acclaim. We watched as they rode, horses thundering across the earth with breathtaking speed, as lances met armour and chests, shattering into splinters to fly upon the wind and rain upon the heads of my people, thousands of them, who had gathered to watch.

  The joust was magnificent, but my mind was otherwise occupied. We had just had word that Leiden, in the Low Countries, was under siege, and the assault was being led by Alba’s son, Fadrique. Spanish troops had defeated a mercenary force led by Orange’s brothers, and so the war in the Netherlands raged on, with Phillip doing little to keep his promises that peace would be sought.

  “I wish Hatton were here,” I said plaintively, and unthinkingly, to Robin that night.

  Music was playing and courtiers were dancing. Tomasina was chattering brightly to my page, Paul, about entertainments planned later that week. The chill of night was left outside, but fern-shaped frost was dancing upon the windowpanes. The air was high with the fug of dancers’ sweat, spices and the fumes of heated wine, skulking from rims of silver goblets. I fanned myself with Robin’s gift, feeling my blood ignite as sultry air cascaded upon me.

  “Many wish him gone for good,” Robin said. “Given that he thinks to support Catholics, known traitors to this realm and to peace.”

  “And if I told you I asked Hatton to express such sympathies?” I sipped from my cup of spiced, hot wine.

  “Why would you so?” Robin’s face was astonished.

  “To create balance, Rob,” I said. “Balance is necessary, and always will it be, so we do not topple from our throne.”

  “You could not, for all your men uphold you.”

  “A sweet, but false thought, old friend. What keeps me on my throne is a neat balancing trick. I am an acrobat, the most skilled of all, for no one sees how precarious my position is, yet I will never fall.”

  *

  As though hearing my wish, Hatton returned that autumn. “You look better,” I said, breathing a little sigh.

  “I feel better, Majesty,” he said, standing from his deep, elegant bow.

  “That is well. I find I have developed a taste for mutton these past few months, and have had no way to satisfy it,” I said, grinning. “You will find yourself much in demand now you are home.”

  “I place myself in your hands, Majesty,” he replied, a decidedly naughty gleam in his eye.

  To Robin’s chagrin, Hatton was soon in daily attendance upon me. Robin made no secret of his jealousy and stayed away to punish me, but I cared little. We could make up, as we always had, at a later date. For now, I wanted to enjoy the restoration of my friend.

  As it transpired, however, others were not so pleased by Hatton’s return. Not long after our reunion, Hatton narrowly escaped death. Peter Burchet, a slightly unhinged Puritan, made an attempt on Hatton’s life. He missed my good friend, but managed to stab John Hawkins by mistake. Burchet was swiftly arrested, but no one understood his motives. He had been heard praising Hatton in the past, and often admired his skill at the joust. His friends admitted they knew not the true cause, but there was talk of a song against Mary of Scots, and a lecture a Puritan minister had given, in which Hatton may have been named a papist.

  More problems with Puritans, I thought waspishly. Mary of Scots would always be blamed when something arose, it was simply her place now, but the fact that this assassination attempt had been made in response to the preaching of Puritans made me even more antagonist towards that sect.

  Hawkins survived, and Hatton of course was fine, since his would-be assassin had struck the wrong man, but I was filled with wrath.

  “I want Burchet condemned and executed by martial law!” I screamed at Cecil that afternoon. “There will be no trial, for there are witnesses enough to the deed. Burchet swings upon the gallows today!”

  It was only with a great deal of careful handling that I was dissuaded. Burc
het went to trial and was condemned to die lawfully. I was, in truth, angry at myself. I had placed Hatton in danger by asking him to appear a Catholic sympathiser.

  “Majesty,” Hatton said. “You asked a service, I performed it. I knew the dangers, and would face them again, for you.”

  “Your loyalty humbles me, my friend.”

  “What you asked of me was not so far from my own sensibilities in any case, Majesty,” Hatton said, kneeling and taking my hand. “Like you, I hold sympathy with the Catholic cause. What difference is there in the faiths? All that differs is the manner in which we give praise to the Lord, and if one man does it one way, and another, another, what harm is there in that? As long as prayers are said, and teachings observed, I believe God is happy with us.”

  “I value all you say,” I replied, stroking the soft skin on his hand. “But share those thoughts with no one else, Lids. Men would murder for the ideas you express. Sometimes, moderate wishes such as those you and I uphold, bring about the most violent ends.”

  “My secrets, like my heart, are safe with you, madam.”