Mistress of the Sea Read online

  Hurriedly she pressed a finger to her lips, because her parents’ bedroom was directly above, and the sound of talking could easily disturb them. She leaned out and he stepped closer. The window was waist-high before her, though the garden outside was considerably lower. She would have to bend over to speak quietly. But if they held their faces near enough, they might whisper and not be heard. They almost touched. She could feel his warmth and caught the smell of his clothes: wood smoke mingled with something earthy. Where had he been? She noticed the workman’s width of his shoulders and that beneath his cape he was wearing an old, stained jerkin. His hair was damp; it hung in loose locks that bunched around his neck. In the deep shadows beneath his brows she caught the gleam of his eyes.

  The ridge of the window frame dug under her stomach. Her hands were cold against the sill. She had to grip hard so as not to fall out. A droplet of icy water found its way round her neck and then trickled down within her shift. She squirmed while trying to keep her hold. Suddenly they were together. His arms embraced her: rough hemp in creases, hard leather under his cape. His stubble brushed her cheek and his lips pressed against hers; heat coursed through her body to her most private places. His kiss was a wave that drove against her then pulled away, soft as water and with the force of the tide. It was over in moments. Her eyes opened as he let her go. She drew back and stood straight, though her heart was pounding and her balance unsteady as if she was trying to adjust to the motionless floor.

  He remained by the window in a way that suggested he wished to speak.

  She glanced around guiltily, half expecting at any moment to see her father marching towards her. When she turned back, Will was gone.

  She stood in a daze, staring at the place where he had been. Whatever he might have wanted to say to her, she would not hear it that night.

  Once again on her bed, Will’s kiss overwhelmed her thoughts. She could still feel his touch, setting her tingling from head to toe. Did the kiss mean he loved her? She pressed her wrist against her lips, curled over and hugged her knees. The kiss had inflamed her; she would never have confessed as much to anyone but she could admit it to herself. Will had been audacious, but he must have desired her intensely to have risked what he had done. If her father had seen him kiss her, he would have been banished from the house – lost his lodgings at the least and probably his good name in Plymouth. She remembered the gifts Will had brought, and the compliments he had paid, his persistence in meeting her, and the passion of his hold, reflecting on each in no order until they were deliciously mixed in her thoughts. A wave of pleasure flared through her again. She had a handsome admirer; the kiss proved his devotion. Then a cold stab of anguish made her tense.

  Will could not presume to be seriously considered a suitor, so had he taken advantage? She buried her face in the pillow. Had he kissed her out of devilment? She had given him no encouragement to be so forward. Peryn Fownes and Godfrey Gilbert had both courted her ardently without coming close to such a favour. The thought of intimacy with either made her shudder with revulsion, yet whichever one she married she would have to kiss without reservation – and more. She would have to surrender to her husband completely; she knew what would be her duty.

  She felt suddenly degraded. Burgeoning tears stung her eyes. Who did Will Doonan think he was to imagine he could kiss her without offence? He should know she was not a common wench like Jane who might drool as she dreamt of his pear-sweet kisses. Would he boast about what he had done to his friends? Her stomach lurched. Was the reality that he had abused her? She stared into the dark. How could she face him with self-respect when she saw him next?

  The questions multiplied in her mind, on and on throughout the night, and when sleep came at last, her dreams brought no rest.

  The following morning, Ellyn approached the kitchen in a daze. She barely noticed the clear sky outside, or the sparkling light that made the autumn colours glow. She shivered. The fire had gone out in her room, and her porridge had been served cold – or perhaps she had dozed off after being called to break her fast – or . . . she could not remember. The porridge had been tasteless and she had been left with no salt – not that she was hungry. She hurried on while hugging her sides. Even the dining chamber was chilly, and she felt sure this should not have been so. Her vague recollection was that Godfrey Gilbert was expected for dinner. A growing certainty about the arrangement was enough to throw a shadow over the day. Had any preparations been made? Probably not. She tried to consider what would need to be done, but in vain. Her thoughts kept returning to Will’s kiss the night before. She was agitated and distracted when she found Old Nan in the kitchen, feet up on a stool, with her back to a roaring fire. Ellyn rubbed at her temples and then succumbed to the impulse to join Nan by the hearth.

  ‘Where is Jane? My porridge was flavourless and cold.’

  Since Jane was responsible for the porridge, Ellyn instantly suffered some contrition for complaining to Nan unfairly – and that only made her feel worse.

  Nan sighed and lumbered to the cauldron, rather ungraciously, thought Ellyn. The pot was stirred and the porridge sampled, actions which Ellyn took to signify that she was making an unnecessary fuss. Nan smacked her lips and drew them in over her gums, with the result that her chin was left very close to her nose. Her expression matched the ‘Humph!’ that followed.

  ‘She will be told, Mistress Ellyn. But seeing as you be here, and she be drawing water, perhaps I should give you a fresh bowl and you season it to your liking.’ Nan sniffed. ‘Did you not have salt?’

  Ellyn rolled her eyes in response, since the answer should have been obvious.

  ‘I expect Jane’s mind is in another place, with another person,’ she said, while liberally sprinkling salt over the new helping she was served. She was sure she did not need to be more specific; they both knew who that person was. ‘These distractions must stop—’

  Her exhortation stopped first, interrupted by the arrival of Lettie carrying a bucket of plucked birds. Lettie marched in sullenly, bobbed a scant curtsy, hefted the bucket onto a side table, and beheaded a thrush.

  Ellyn decided to press on for Lettie’s benefit as well as Nan’s, aware that everything she said would be passed on to Jane. Though Lettie set about gutting the little carcass with fury, and Nan began beating a sauce no less intently, Ellyn was too familiar with them both to doubt they would be listening.

  ‘Jane should know that the object of her fancies most certainly is not preoccupied with her. If she does not believe that, she should ask herself whether she was with him last night, or knows what he was doing.’ Ellyn hoped that the correct inferences would be made by the maids, at least enough to suggest that her information was better than theirs. ‘Jane must accept what I can tell her: that she is wasting her time even thinking about him. This silliness must stop.’ The passion of conviction brought a flush to Ellyn’s face, a sensation heightened by the welcome effect of heat. She felt the time had come to be direct. ‘The influence of Will Doonan is interfering with the proper running of this house.’ She sat straight on her stool, confident that she had made her points well, thus she was surprised by the reproach in Nan’s look.

  ‘There may well be no more chance of anything of the like very soon,’ Nan said while whipping her mix.

  Ellyn nodded, though she was puzzled by Nan’s remark.

  Just then Lettie made an odd noise, as if she had acquired a tongue from the mounting pile of little birds’ heads, only to have it strangled in her throat.

  Another thud on the chopping board made Ellyn reflect. Was anything being hidden from her that she should know? She turned to Nan.

  ‘What do you mean by no more chance?’

  ‘As if Master Doonan would be able to have anything more to do with us once he goes back to sea,’ Lettie broke in petulantly without turning round.

  ‘Back to sea!’ Ellyn gaped. She stared at her porridge while Nan answered sombrely.

  ‘He’s been talking to Francis Drake
, and the Captain is rallying men for another Indies voyage. They’ve been seen together on the Swan—’

  ‘That’s Francis Drake’s ship,’ Lettie chipped in.

  ‘—and Will’s ’prentice said his master was with Captain Drake last night . . .’

  ‘So we know where Will was,’ Lettie added. ‘He was with Francis Drake, and that means he may soon be leaving us.’

  Ellyn took a spoonful of the gruel and raised it to her lips.

  ‘Oh . . .’

  She had never felt less like eating, but she put the spoon in her mouth. The porridge tasted vile; she had added too much salt. She was mortified by the thought that her worst suspicions might be true. Will had kissed her without sincerity, simply to satisfy a passing fancy. She swallowed with a gulp. Did he care for her at all? Did she care? She stirred her spoon around the bowl. Why should she care when men of much greater rank and prosperity were vying for her attention?

  She gave a start as Lettie decapitated another bird.

  ‘I remember Will Doonan after his last homecoming over a year ago,’ Nan continued with bleak gravity, her chin as pronounced as the plucked tail of a roasting fowl. ‘I knew his mother well, God bless her, and she could scarce recognise him, so wasted he was. He lost his young brother to the Spanish and that broke her heart. Within a month she was dead.’ Nan shook her head. ‘Over four hundred men set out in John Hawkins’s fleet, and only a tenth came back. I dare say you’ll have heard all about that, Mistress Ellyn. Many mothers and wives have been left weeping in Plymouth.’ She raised her chin towards Lettie. ‘And maidens, too.’

  Ellyn’s response was muted.

  ‘I didn’t realise he had been involved.’

  Nan sighed.

  ‘That he was. But since, until latterly, he lived outside the town walls, there’s no reason you should have known or shown interest. His father has the Orcheton Mill, and by rights that mill should have been Will’s one day, except that there ever was some strife between them. So the mill was to have passed to Kit.’

  ‘That’s his younger brother,’ Lettie blurted. ‘But Kit ran after Will to sea.’ Her voice became shrill and ended in a wail. ‘Now he’s dead or in a dungeon.’

  Nan sucked in her lips and muttered darkly, ‘May God’s mercy be upon him if he lives, and his soul, if in Heaven – to think of the barbarities that might be visited upon him . . .’ She raised her voice. ‘Kit was left as a hostage, held by the Spaniards, and after the attack on John Hawkins’s fleet, nothing’s been heard of Kit since.’

  Despite the heat from the fire, Ellyn felt suddenly cold. Will had lost his brother just as she had lost hers, and that must have been even worse for him than the death of Thom had been for her; at least she had known Thom’s fate. The torment for Will would still be continuing, made worse by uncertainty – he could not even grieve properly.

  She bit her lip.

  ‘But why was Kit taken hostage?’

  Nan stopped beating her sauce.

  ‘Surely you know what happened?’

  Ellyn cast her a beseeching look. She was familiar with the story of the defeat of John Hawkins, but she wanted to learn more about Kit’s loss and what Will had been through.

  Nan clicked her tongue.

  ‘They were near the land called Mexico that yields the Spaniards much gold, and John Hawkins had to repair his ships after they’d been blown off course, so he sailed into the nearest harbour. Then, the very next day, the Spanish treasure fleet arrived, and there were still storms raging which could have dashed it to pieces—’

  ‘A good thing, too,’ Lettie declared.

  ‘No, child.’ Nan wagged her finger. ‘That would have meant war.’ She eyed Ellyn sagely. ‘If the treasure fleet had been wrecked, then we would all have been in peril. Under truce, Master Hawkins and the Spanish Viceroy agreed to berth both fleets side-by-side. They swore not to attack the other, and as surety for that pledge, they each gave up twelve hostages.’

  Ellyn nodded eagerly, though she had heard nothing new. She did not want Nan to stop. She wanted more about Will and Kit.

  ‘Kit volunteered,’ Lettie trilled. ‘He stepped forward boldly after Will tried to hold him back. That’s what I’ve been told.’

  Nan cleared her throat, looking grave.

  ‘A few days later, the Spaniards reneged. They attacked without warning after sneaking an army onto their ships. General Hawkins was trapped. The Spanish fleet was twice the strength of his. Our Plymouth men fought bravely, but only two ships got away. Francis Drake commanded one, and Will escaped on the other, though the voyage back almost killed him.’

  ‘There was not enough food, even after half those aboard had been set ashore in the wilds,’ Lettie whispered, ‘left to take their chance in Mexico.’

  Nan shook her head.

  ‘Kit never returned.’ She gave a deep sigh. ‘He had the face of an angel. Blond hair and blue eyes, just like Will’s, and with a sweetness of temper that was enough to melt your heart.’

  Lettie looked wide-eyed at Ellyn.

  ‘What if Will tries to find him?’ She stifled a sob. ‘We might never see Will again.’

  Ellyn turned from Lettie to Nan, and then reached out to them both.

  ‘Let us not be downhearted over what may never happen.’ She projected as much confidence into her words as she could muster, though it was with an effort that drained her. Was Will really about to leave? Just then she was acutely aware that she most wanted him to stay. She heard Lettie snuffle and patted her arm. ‘Activity best conquers melancholy and we have much to do. A dinner . . .’ She faltered. ‘A guest . . .’ She rose hastily and took a deep breath. ‘I shall attend upon my mother.’

  Moving back through the house, she thought of Will as she had seen him last, with his moonlit face and his damp-darkened hair. Then climbing the stairs, she thought of Kit, imagining the effect on Will of leaving him as he had. She clutched at the banister and pictured Kit being led away, and Will having to watch – the two of them forced apart – Will’s face, twisted in anguish, and Kit, just a boy. She looked across the stairwell and tried to think of something else: the dinner in prospect, what her mother might need. But the idea of the boy was still in her mind. He was like Will, only younger, and he looked like an angel.

  She wondered where he was.

  4

  Threat

  ‘. . . The day being come we were espied by the Spaniards, and pursued, and taken, and brought before the Vice Roy and head justices, who threatened to hang us . . .’

  —From the account of the imprisonment by the Spanish in Mexico of the English survivors following the battle of San Juan de Ulúa as recorded by Miles Philips, one of the captives (in The Principal Navigations . . . by Richard Hakluyt)

  The City of Mexico, the Americas

  ‘I AM NEXT.’ Kit felt the length of the reed in his hands. He held it up towards the light for all to see.

  The response was hushed.

  ‘May God have mercy on you . . .’

  ‘No prayers.’ Kit put an end to the muttering. ‘Say no prayers for me.’

  The five men with him fell silent. Someone shuffled and coughed, then only breathing could be heard.

  Kit pressed his back to the wall and clasped his hands round his knees. The others must not feel him shaking. He sought to be free from their touch, and that was possible now if he hunched up small. He had been close enough to his companions over the last few months, forced to rest in turns because there was so little room on the reed strewn floor. He had to find peace.

  He looked up at the light. It entered in slender rays through tiny holes set in stones that were too high to reach. The rays were his link to the world outside. His eyes fixed upon them. If he was taken to his death, then the light would fade and be gone, and later return with a dawn he would not know. But he could not accept that his death might be near. He could not conceive of a world continuing in which, for him, everything was over. Perhaps he had not lived long enough to
come to terms with that idea. At only seventeen, how could he be reconciled to the end of his life? Heaven was not Earth, and it would be stranger than the difference between the Indies and England. He could not think of dying. He clenched his teeth.

  He had made himself brave in front of his friends, and he must not fail them now. They were all much older. When the time came to leave, he would have to show courage because they would be watching him. This was why the lots had been drawn: to give the next man chance to prepare, so that when the moment arrived he could be calm in going – to prove that Englishmen were not cowards.

  But he was afraid. After the first prisoner had been taken, the Spaniards had soon returned to drag another away. He might not have much longer. Sweat trickled down his sides. The air was motionless in the dark at the bottom of the cell. He bowed his head and gasped.

  What would happen? he wondered. All that was certain was that he would not be set free. He could be taken to another prison somewhere else in Mexico. He might be tried before one of the Viceroy’s courts, questioned again by the bishop, or marched back to the coast, all the way from the great city, to be delivered to the Inquisition in a ship bound for Spain.

  Someone groaned: a small quiet sound, but enough to make him think of other sounds he had heard.

  He might be tortured.

  For weeks on end he had listened to screams, cries that could have been made by anyone: sick or wounded, or deliberately hurt. But one man calling had been begging for his mother, that word had been clear. Who had he heard? Someone among the English prisoners that the Spaniards still held: any one of a hundred or more. Did it matter who he had heard? It mattered that he had not heard his brother crying out. He had not heard Will.

  He pressed his thumb against his teeth. It was something he knew he should not do. ‘Better way not,’ as his mother would say. ‘And thee be blessed with an angel’s face,’ she would add, as though that made any difference. But he took his hand from his mouth since she had entered his mind, and he imagined her nodding in an approving way.