My mother talked of what was happening at home. How her half brother twins were eager to go to sea and how my grandmother was trying to dissuade them, of the flowers my grandmother was growing and the many bottles that lined the shelves of her still room. “She is becoming quite an apothecary and people come to her for cures.”
My mother was a little easier in her mind because there was less fear of a Catholic rebellion. The marriage of the Queen of Scots to Lord Darnley had been a good thing for England. The young consort was such an overbearing, arrogant, dissolute and generally unsatisfactory man that he was causing a great deal of dissension above the Border.
“It is better for them to quarrel among themselves than to seek a conflict with us,” said my mother. “That is what everyone is saying.”
The turmoil up there had increased when the shocking murder of the Scottish Queen’s secretary had taken place at her supper table.
My mother shuddered. “People have been speaking of nothing else. Mary is with child and was supping privately at Holyrood when certain of her nobles burst in and dragged the young man from the table. Poor fellow, they say, he clung to the Queen’s skirts and begged her to save him. What an ordeal for a woman six months with child! It was said that Secretary Rizzio was her lover. This seems unlikely. Poor woman! Why, Cat, she is but your age.”
“Perhaps we should be thankful we are not born royal.”
My mother said soberly: “There are dangers enough for all folk, royal or not. But it seems that matters are less tense because of this conflict in Scotland. Our good Queen Elizabeth is highly thought of and surrounds herself with able statesmen, and what we need is a good stable monarch. There is of course the religious conflict. They say the Queen is Protestant because she could be no other and it is for expediency’s sake she is so. But I must whisper that, Cat. One must guard one’s tongue. We are fortunate in our Queen. But as long as the Queen of Scots lives there will be danger. It is wrong to hope for trouble for others, but it does appear that the more disasters which befall the Court of Scotland the more peacefully will English men and women sleep in their beds.”
It was a lovely May day when the fruit trees were in blossom and the hedges full of wild parsley and stitchwort and the birds everywhere were in full song. A glorious time of the year when nature renews herself and there is a song of thanksgiving from the blackbird and chaffinch, the swifts and the swallows.
And at this time Jake brought Romilly Girling into the house.
She was twelve years old—a sad little waif when he brought her, very thin with great green eyes too big for her small white face.
They arrived late at night after the journey from St. Austell and the girl was almost asleep when they came into the hall.
“This is Romilly,” said Jake. “Captain Girling’s daughter. She’ll live with us. This is her home now.”
I understood at once. The girl had lost both parents. She would be without a home and I was glad that Jake had brought her. I ordered that a room should be made ready for her and she was given hot food and sent to bed without delay.
Jake explained. “There was very little left. The two of them … she and her brother … were in the house alone. The servant had gone. They were almost starved to death. A distant cousin of the Captain’s took the boy. All I could do was bring the girl here. Her father served me well.”
“We will care for her,” I said warmly.
It was wonderful to see the girl react to good food and comfortable living. She filled out a little; but she was still rather waiflike—a dainty elflike creature with quiet manners. Her great beauty was her eyes, they were big and such a strange green color that they immediately attracted attention. Her hair was dark and thick and straight. She had short, stubby lashes even darker than her hair.
June came and my mother said she must return home. Rupert was the most patient of husbands, but naturally he missed her. We said farewell and I watched her for as long as I could ride off with her party for the first stage of the long journey home.
By August of that year the Rampant Lion was ready to put to sea. Jake had been ashore too long. News had at length reached us that in June the Queen of Scots had given birth to a son. He was called James and this boy would be said to have a right to the throne of England.
Jake said: “The plaguey Spaniards would put his mother on the throne. You know what that means. We’d have the Papists here in no time. It would be the Smithfield fires before we knew where we were. They’ve got to be driven off the seas and it’s up to English sailors to show them who are the masters.”
I knew what this meant.
He was longing to put to sea again; and this time the Rampant Lion would be trusted to none but himself.
I was once more pregnant.
And in September of that year Jake sailed out of Plymouth.
The Birth of a Boy
A FEW WEEKS AFTER Jake had left I made a disturbing discovery. I could not find Roberto. I had asked the boys where he was and they could not tell me. I was not unduly worried until a few days later he was missing again.
Knowing how close he was to Manuela, I decided to ask her if she knew where he was and I went up to the room she shared with the servants. She was not there, but one of the others told me they had seen her going up to the turret.
I mounted the steep spiral staircase to the rooms in the turret which were rarely used and as I approached I heard the sound of murmuring voices.
I opened a door and as soon as I did so I knew exactly what was happening. An altar had been set up; a candle burned at either end and kneeling at it were Manuela and Roberto.
They started up and Manuela’s arm went protectively about Roberto.
“Manuela,” I cried, “what are you doing?”
Her olive skin darkened and her eyes flashed defiantly.
“It is for me,” she said, “to look after Roberto.”
I was afraid. I knew that she was instructing Roberto in the Catholic Faith, her faith and that of his father. Had we stayed in Tenerife Roberto would naturally have followed that faith, but we were not in Tenerife and I knew what would happen if Jake ever discovered that any under his roof were as he would say “Papists.”
I said: “Manuela, I have never interfered with your beliefs. As far as you yourself are concerned you are at liberty to act as you please in this matter, though you must be careful not to attract attention to yourself. You know I have always believed in tolerance. I would more people did. I know your deep faith. But if you practice it in this house, Manuela, you must do so alone and in privacy. Leave my son out of it. He must follow the faith of this house in which, with the rest of the children, his tutor instructs him.”
“You ask me to look after him, to care for him, to save him. It is his soul that is important.”
Roberto looked startled and I said: “Yes, Roberto, when I thought I was dying I asked Manuela to take you to my mother who would care for you. But I am well again and there is no question of my dying. I am here to look after you now.”
I went to the altar and blew out the candles. Manuela stood aloof, her eyes downcast.
“I wish to follow my father’s faith,” said Roberto.
How much had Manuela told him of his father—that courteous gentleman who was even now so often in my thoughts? I saw the firm set of Roberto’s jaw when he mentioned his father. He would never accept Jake in that role. He hated Jake. There was a fierce animosity between them. And if Jake ever discovered that he was harboring a Catholic under his roof what would he do?
Oh, God, I thought, is there no escape from this intolerance?
One thing I knew; there must be no more of these secret sessions with Manuela. When Jake returned Roberto would have to go to church with the rest of us—a good Protestant subject of our Protestant Queen.
“Take these things away, Manuela,” I said. “And there must be an end of this. You are no longer in Spain. Captain Pennlyon would turn you out of the house if he discovered wh
at you are doing.”
She did not answer, and taking Roberto by the hand, I said: “Come with me.” I turned to Manuela. “Leave no trace of this and never attempt to do the like again.”
I took Roberto to my bedroom and reasoned with him. I explained how dangerous it was to do what he had done.
“I am a Spaniard,” he answered proudly and how like his father he looked. “I am not of this country.”
I put my arms about him and held him close. I wanted to tell him that we must be tolerant with each other. We must follow the true Christianity, which was to love our fellowmen. I repeated what my mother had said to me.
“It is enough to be good and kind, to love your neighbor. That is what being a Christian means.”
He listened thoughtfully and I hoped I had made some impression on him.
Soon after that I miscarried. Jake had been five months at sea. I had been uneasy in my mind ever since I had discovered Manuela and Roberto together, but I don’t think this had anything to do with my miscarriage.
What was wrong with me? I asked myself. Why had I borne Felipe a son when I appeared to be unable to bear Jake one?
I tried to forget my disappointment and my anxieties over Roberto by devoting myself to the children. They seemed different with Jake away. Carlos and Jacko lost something of their swagger as Roberto lost his fear. The tutor I engaged for them, a Mr. Merrimet, appeared eager to do his duty, yet with a certain gaiety which matched his name, and I was delighted that he should be so impressed with Roberto.
Edward’s cousin Aubrey Ennis had come down to Trewynd to manage the estate and it was pleasant to have him and his wife, Alice, as neighbors. From them I learned that Honey had given birth to a son.
We visited Trewynd and the Ennises visited us.
There was a great deal of talk of course about political events and Scotland was the scene of the most sensational.
The Queen’s husband, Darnley, had died violently in a house at Kirk o’Field, murdered undoubtedly, some said, by the Queen’s lover, the Earl of Bothwell. It was hinted that the Queen of Scots herself had had a hand in the crime. News was constantly coming from Scotland. The Queen had married Bothwell, her husband’s murderer, and by doing so, was the general opinion, had made her guilt plain. So much was happening in the outside world, so little in our domain, that I felt shut in with my little family of children, for I looked upon Carlos and Jacko as mine too.
Roberto was growing taller, though he lacked the stature of the other two. He was becoming more and more like Felipe and he could chatter as fluently in Spanish as in English. This perturbed me, particularly as I knew he was spending a good deal of time in the company of Manuela. Had they heeded my warning?
I think I was guilty of shutting my eyes. I did not want Roberto to turn against me. I believed he thought often of his father and the life he might have had and I wondered whether Manuela had told him that Jake had killed his father.
Yes, I was guilty. I wanted to forget what was past. I did not want to look into the future. I tried to make Roberto more interested in outdoor sports. Carlos excelled at archery and I knew he rejoiced in this because he was looking forward to showing off his skill to Jake when he returned. With a six-foot bow and an arrow of a yard in length he could shoot almost two hundred yards, which was a great feat for a boy of his age. At Pennlyon we had a tennis court and both the boys played good games. They could toss the bar and throw the hammer and were fond of wrestling. We often had visitors from the other side of the Tamar to wrestle with them, for the Cornishmen were the best wrestlers in England.
“When the Captain comes home I shall show him this or that.” Those were words I often heard on both boys’ lips. “When the Captain comes home.” I would notice too the shadow which passed over Roberto’s face at the thought of Jake’s return.
Aubrey and Alice Ennis had no children. They told me that in due course Edwina would come to Trewynd. The Grange would be hers when she was eighteen years, as she was Edward’s only daughter.
I said: “I doubt if she would wish to come down to Devon after the exciting life she must lead with her mother and stepfather near the Court.”
“We’ll have to wait and see,” was the answer to that; and meanwhile the months slipped by.
There was more news from Scotland. Mary and Bothwell had attempted to stand against the nobles of Scotland at Carberry Hill and the result was that Bothwell had fled and Mary was taken prisoner. She was incarcerated in Lochleven, where, we heard, she was forced to abdicate; her son, James, was declared King James VI of Scotland and James Stuart, Earl of Moray, Regent of that unhappy land.
“This is good for England,” said Aubrey Ennis at our dinner table. “There’s little to fear from the fair devil of Scotland now.”
One afternoon I was in the schoolroom with the boys, Mr. Merrimet and Romilly Girling when Carlos, who happened to pass the window, gave a sudden shout of excitement.
“It’s the Lion,” he cried.
We were all at the window. And there far out to sea was a ship.
“We could be mistaken,” I said.
“No,” cried Carlos. “That’s the Lion.” He and Jacko jumped about madly, embracing each other. I had seen the look of fear in Roberto’s eyes and it worried me. I took his hand to reassure him.
There was no doubt that it was the Rampant Lion. She was not limping this time. She lay proudly on the calm waters waiting for the wind.
I went into the house and gave orders in the kitchen. There should be beef and lamb, capons and partridges. They must bestir themselves with the pastry. They must prepare a banquet such as they had not produced for two whole years. The master was home.
All afternoon the ship lay there in sight of land and it was dusk when she sailed into the harbor.
We were on the shore waiting.
I watched Jake being rowed ashore. Bigger than I remembered, his face darkened by sun, his eyes more vividly blue than ever.
He leaped out of the boat and seized me. I was laughing. Yes, truly glad that he was safely back. Carlos and Jacko were jumping madly around us.
“The Captain’s home,” sang out Carlos.
He turned to them and shook them by the shoulders.
“Lord, how they’ve grown!”
He was looking around. There should have been one other to greet him. The child who had been on the way when he left.
I said nothing. I did not wish to spoil these first minutes.
“So you’re glad to see me, eh? So you’ve missed me?”
“We had begun to feel you had been away a long time. You’ve had a good voyage, doubtless.”
“A profitable one. You shall hear. But all in good time. Let me look at you, Cat. I’ve thought of you … day and night I’ve thought of you.”
I was gratified, yet I felt the old need to do battle. It was like coming alive again. There was no doubt that I had missed him.
Carlos was leaping up. “Captain, a good voyage was it? How many Spaniards did you kill?”
Oh, Carlos, I thought, have you forgotten that you are half Spaniard!
“Too many to count, boy.”
“Enough of killing,” I said. “The Captain has come home. He wants to talk of home.”
He gripped my arm. “Indeed I do,” he said. “I want to be with my wife. I want to think of home.”
He looked at the house and I could see that he was moved. So must it be after an absence of two years.
“I believe,” I said, “that one of the most exciting things about going to sea is coming home.”
“Home,” he said. “Yes—home.” And I knew he meant me.
Being Jake, the first thing he needed was the physical satisfaction of our union. He came straight up to our bedroom holding me firmly as though he feared I would try to escape him.
“Cat,” he said. “Still the same. I’ve wanted you so much I’ve almost turned the Lion around and come back to you.”
I wondered with how many women he
had soothed his needs for one, but I did not ask.
The house was filled with the smell of cooking food—that delicious odor of hot crusty bread, the savory one of pasties and cooking meats.
I knew that he would be hungry for such food after the kind of fare he would have had so long at sea.
He said: “And the boy? I want to see the boy.”
He stared at me, for he had seen the sorrow in my face.
“There was no boy,” I told him. “I miscarried.”
“My God, not again.”
I was silent.
His disappointment was bitter. He turned on me: “How is it that you could get a boy from that poxy Spaniard and not from me?”
Still I did not speak. He shook me. “What happened? You did not take care. You were stupid … careless. …”
“I was neither. It just happened. There was no reason.”
He bit his lips, his heavy brows drawn together.
“Am I to have no son?”
I retorted: “No doubt you have many scattered about the world. You have two under this roof.”
Then he looked at me and his anger faded. “Cat, how I’ve longed for you!”
I was sorry for him suddenly and I said with more tenderness than I had shown him before: “We’ll have sons. Of course we’ll have sons.”
Then he was gay again. Remembering that he was home after two years away.
In the great dining hall the tables were loaded with food. We were seated as at a banquet. At the table on the dais I sat beside Jake. The children were there too—Roberto on my left, Carlos on Jake’s right, and Jacko beside him. On the other side of Roberto sat Romilly. Jake had said she should be one of the family. In two years she had grown a good deal; she was tall, still willowy, and she was attractive because of her wonderful green eyes.
Jake had greeted her warmly and asked how she fared. She had bobbed a curtsy and raised respectful and admiring eyes to his face. As Captain Girling’s daughter no doubt she would have heard stirring stories of Captain Jake Pennlyon.
Lion Triumphant Page 31
