by Karen Brooks
TWENTY-ONE
DEPTFORD
The 4th of April, Anno Domini 1581
In the 23rd year of the reign of Elizabeth I
Master Gib escorted me to the river at dawn, where I met the Walsingham family. We boarded a hired tilt boat and made our way downstream towards Deptford just as the sun heaved itself over the horizon, its beams piercing the clouds and turning what had promised to be a grim day into a pleasant one. Despite the early hour, the river was crowded as Londoners used whatever means possible — wherries, barges, sailboats and ketches — to travel east to witness the elevation of the most successful privateer in the country to a knighthood.
From Devon lad to wealthy peer — if Drake could do it, any man could. It was inspirational.
Under the canopy of the boat, my cloak tightly fastened, a black bonnet pinned securely to my coif, I sat beside Frances and appeared to listen as she chatted about Master Drake and what was known of his humble beginnings and nautical achievements. Her father added an occasional comment. Thomas appeared to be wrapped in his own thoughts. Beside me sat Lady Ursula’s maid, Joan, an unassuming thing, and next to her was another one of Sir Francis’s secretaries, Master Francis Mylles.
Though we shared a bench, Frances kept a distance between us. My feeling of being excluded wasn’t helped when Master Mylles’s new wife, who was seated opposite, mistook me for Frances’s sister. Sir Francis and his daughter burst out laughing and Lady Ursula corrected her with no small degree of disdain. Aware of the eyes upon me, I prayed my cheeks were not flaming. After a while the gaffe was forgotten and I was able to think ahead to what I had to do.
Casey had ridden to Deptford at cock’s crow and delivered the clothes Thomas and I were to wear to the inn. Beneath a blanket in the basket upon my lap were the papers Sir Francis had brought to Billiter Lane the day before. I tried not to clutch the basket too tightly. It wasn’t easy.
Around us, the cries of watermen rang out as they navigated the current. The sweet melody of a lute floated by from a nobleman’s boat, and above us gulls cawed and hovered. Folk gathered along the banks, knowing something momentous was to occur. Behind them, the road east was filled with people going to Deptford. The houses gradually thinned until there was nothing but open fields, trees, flocks of sheep, grazing horses and oxen. The human river flowed parallel to ours, filled with riders, carts and groups of people.
Thomas gave me a reassuring nod and turned his attention to the conversation. The further we drifted from the city, the fresher the air became; the wind, cool but gentle, still carried memories of the rain that had pounded London the past few nights.
I barely felt it. God knew, I’d rehearsed my mission often enough these last few days, and mostly without error, but today it had to be perfect — I had to be. The night before, Thomas had bestowed an alias upon me — one Sir Francis had invented. I was to be Samantha Short. I practised my new name, sounding it in my head, tasting it on my tongue; I wondered if, when I donned my disguise, I would feel different. For a brief span of time, I would no longer be Mallory Bright, but Samantha Short. Sam. SS. She would be both like me and not like me. For a start, she was a woman who was also a boy, possessed of an imaginary past, not a real one filled with happiness, boredom, reckless pursuits, terror, deceit and pain … at least, not yet.
Samantha Short was also, like me, a lock-pick, an intelligencer, a watcher. And she would be watching carefully lest Captain Alyward Landsey — privateer, mercenary and traitor to the Crown — made an appearance.
For all that I tried to concentrate on the task ahead, other thoughts interrupted. Though I’d not seen him since the day he accosted me in the parlour and asked the question that had set my mind awhirl and pierced my growing confidence, his wicked golden eyes, strong arms and warm, searching lips would oft intrude and send ribbons of pleasure and trepidation running through me. Damn Lord Nathaniel’s inquiring mind and merry eyes. Damn his mouth.
Laughter erupted around me and, without knowing the cause, I joined in, feeling my spirits temporarily lift even as fear and excitement of what awaited grew.
Due to Sir Francis’s position within the government, he and his family were welcomed aboard Drake’s ship so they could witness the ceremony at close quarters. The Golden Hind was a three-masted galleon, and the hollow eyes of its many guns stared out at the assembled crowd, a reminder that this ship and its crew had survived three years at sea and dared much to bring back vast riches. The sails were reefed and ropes coiled and pushed to the edges of the deck, creating a space where the official guests milled. Some of the gentry had gathered on the poop deck, gazing at those below and along the pier. Forced to remain on the quayside with the rest of Sir Francis’s staff and hundreds of well-wishers, I scanned the growing crowd. I could just make out the figure of Drake. Not as tall as I imagined, he was resplendent in black and tan velvet, an extravagant hat with a huge white plume angled on his head. As he walked with a proprietorial air among the favoured, he shook hands and laughed often. The sun shone her blessings upon the man and the day.
The morning wore on and more nobles joined those on the Golden Hind. Lord Burghley and his son, a crook-backed young man, ascended the gangplank, followed closely by none other than Lord Nathaniel, who was accompanied by a young, splendidly dressed woman. Standing head and shoulders above the crowd, Lord Nathaniel made Drake appear tiny. He took up a position behind Sir Francis and bent forward while the two exchanged a few words. Straightening, he peered at the shore. He nodded in my direction and my heart, damn it, leapt. I pretended to ignore him, lifted my chin and concentrated instead on Frances Walsingham, who was sharing a laugh with Lord Nathaniel’s companion. I wondered who she was and then pushed the thought from my mind. What did I care? Even so, my eyes were drawn again and again to the man beside the young woman, and heat travelled through my body.
‘Are you quite well, mistress?’ asked Thomas quietly.
‘Quite,’ I said, certain my face was red.
‘Then cease fidgeting so.’
Only with the arrival of Her Majesty, perched upon an ornate golden chair in a glass-sided boat draped in the green and white colours of the Tudors, did my agitation ease. A volley of trumpets and cries from guards who tried, unsuccessfully, to force the surging crowd back, announced her arrival. Aided by a mature gentleman of some girth, the Earl of Leicester, some whispered, the Queen stepped onto the dock to resounding cheers. Around me, people fell to their knees, heads bowed in obeisance as she moved across the pier and onto the gangplank. I had only ever seen her as a distant figure either upon a caparisoned horse riding through the streets of London or aboard her state craft as she glided along the river surrounded by courtiers. The opportunity to peek and see her at close quarters was too great to resist. Raising my head discreetly, I studied this woman, my liege and Queen, for whom I would risk my life today.
Her arrival was met with gasps of awe, and it was no wonder. Her dress was a magnificent concoction of gold, white and sparkling gems sewn into a damask so thick and covered in such rich and ornate embroidery — peacocks with dazzling feathers, vines twining around their splayed feet, miniature suns blazing, all stitched in threads that glittered and flashed in the sunlight. Some in the crowd covered their eyes lest they were bedazzled. Her Majesty was both a moving tapestry and like a celestial object fallen from the heavens into our humble midst. Her skirts were so wide and so heavy they almost felled those kneeling closest to the path her Gentleman Pensioners made through the crowd for her. I was too far back to catch the scent, but she raised her pomander to her nose often, inhaling its sweetness. The gauze ruff framing her face was so fine yet so firmly starched that its lace points reached the height of her flame-coloured wig. But it was the face beneath that burnished hair that compelled my gaze.
Some of my earliest recollections of Her Majesty were the paeans written to her beauty. Courtiers across Europe penned poems to her eyes, her lips and the way her face invaded their dreams and eclipsed
all others. Songs and sonnets were written in her honour; foreign princes begged for her hand, offering all they had and more, swearing their hearts would be broken if she said no. Visitors to our house who’d been to court spoke wholeheartedly about her charm, her wit and her talents. Children were both comforted by stories of her strength and magnificence and cowed into obedience with threats of her all-seeing command.
Now, at last, I was able to behold her for myself.
Every last one of them — from Papa and Mamma to the finest troubadours and bards — had lied. Papa, who’d been to court, who’d made locks for many of the royal coffers and the offices at Whitehall and fashioned an exceptional device for the Queen’s rooms at Greenwich, had filled my head with pure fancy.
Her Majesty was nothing but a grotesque parody of womanhood. Wrinkled like a beldame, she was stick thin, her flesh capturing the powder and creams in which she was liberally doused. Her whitened cheeks were sunken, her dark eyes were cold and lifeless stones that scoured the people at her feet but didn’t see them. The brows arched above her deep-set eyes were almost non-existent. God forgive me, but the men who set such store by my Queen’s grace and beauty were either bewitched or engaged in gross falsehoods.
Only her hands, one clasping an elegant fan, the other raising the pomander to her nose, suggested something of those lyrical descriptions. They were long-fingered, creamy, be-ringed and elegant.
Upon sighting Drake, who waited for her on deck, hat in hand, poised to bow long and deeply, Her Majesty flashed a smile exposing blackened teeth quickly covered by thin, reddened lips. The effect was repulsive, and as her mouth closed I felt a flare of sympathy. My Queen was but a woman. ’Twas her power and station that, like a glamour woven by a sorceress, kept the men fascinated and in awe. If she were but one of us here, squashed upon the dock, she’d earn no more attention than a stray dog.
Helped onto the deck by Drake, Leicester and one of her Gentlemen Pensioners, she paused and, finding her feet, bestowed a slight bow of her head. Only then did the higher-ranking officials waiting on the quay seek to follow her on board. They surged onto the gangplank, each struggling to gain the most advantageous position, when a great crack resounded. The crowd froze, holding its collective breath, then with a wounded groan and a shudder, the wood of the gangplank shattered. There were gasps of horror as men, women and some children were flung shrieking into the shallow, muddy waters below. There they floundered in the stinking sludge, their finery ruined, calling to God. Their cries for help mingled with the shouts of dismay — as well as laughter and jeers — from the quay and the ship.
The Queen turned to observe the cause of the commotion, surveyed her subjects, then turned back to those on the ship; her frown signalled her disapproval that her arrival was upstaged by commoners.
I didn’t have time to watch any more. Thomas plucked at my elbow, whispered, ‘Come,’ and wove a path for us back through the masses, away from the quay towards the row of taverns, offices and houses behind it.
‘We’ll take the advantage such a distraction provides.’
Before long we were at the Raven Inn and ensconced in a room where, while Thomas turned his back, I quickly donned my costume. Thomas had me repeat my instructions, and it helped keep my attention away from the riot taking place in my stomach. Imitating Caleb’s gentle northern burr, I hoped to give my alias an origin far from my own home.
Thomas also changed. Now he was dressed in a dark brown cloak of wool and a plain hat and doublet that nonetheless shouted quality. In every inch he looked the conservative but wealthy merchant he pretended to be, someone accustomed to dealing with privateers and fulfilling even the most ungodly requests.
‘Good,’ said Thomas as he inspected me. ‘Good. The accent is a nice touch,’ he added, his tone a little uncertain. ‘You can hold it? Very well. Now, find somewhere to hide this,’ he said, and handed me a dagger.
Light in my palm, it had an ornate handle and a short but deadly looking blade. Turning aside, I tucked it into the hose of the boy’s garb I wore beneath my skirts, trying not to consider its implications. To my peril I knew what it was like to be defenceless before a man, and I never wanted to be in that position again. I blessed Thomas for his foresight.
He pulled a small flask from his doublet and forced it into my hand. ‘Drink.’
I didn’t need to be told twice. The liquid scorched my throat and filled my centre with much-needed warmth. Thomas took a long swallow and pushed the cork back in.
‘Ready?’
I nodded, unable at that exact moment to find words as the cold steel pressed against my thigh.
‘Let us be gone then,’ he said, and once more took my arm.
Moving through lanes and back streets, it didn’t take us long to reach the place where the Forged Friends was anchored. We passed some pigs, a gaggle of geese stalked by a mangy red cat, and an old woman foraging in someone’s garden. The sounds of cheers, whistles and clapping grew fainter the further we got from the main dock. Most of the ships were mid-river and appeared abandoned. The only other craft moored at Deptford were at Middlewater and Upperwater Gates — our destination. A couple of old men sat outside a ramshackle ale-house but paid us scant notice. Nonetheless I couldn’t help glancing around, feeling eyes upon us, hearing footsteps tracking ours. I saw no-one.
As soon as we left the protection of the alleys, Thomas and I commenced playing our roles. We slowed our pace, Thomas gripped my arm tighter and I adopted the slight swagger I’d perfected, swinging my hips, but striding wide. A lone guard sitting upon the bow of Falcon’s Fury at Middlewater Gate twisted around to watch us pass, his long, thin pipe drooping from slack lips, before deciding we posed no threat and turning again to face the river, drinking his smoke in solitude.
‘No turning back now,’ said Thomas under his breath, his mouth barely moving as we approached the Forged Friends.
‘Aye,’ I whispered, and was glad we’d no choice.
‘Oy, there,’ called Thomas in a voice I’d never heard him use before. ‘I be after Captain Alyward, if you please.’
Uncurling from the base of a mast, a sailor of middling years with a weather-beaten face, a filthy neck scarf and all but the thumb and forefinger of his right hand missing, stood. ‘And who would you be?’ he sniffed, studying Thomas then me before releasing a huge gobbet of spit on the deck.
Trying not to recoil, I raised my chin and stared at him defiantly, swaying slightly from side to side, as if I’d had one too many ales.
‘That be none of your business. I was told to bring this —’ with a roughness I didn’t expect and that made me stagger, Thomas pulled me forwards, ‘trull to this ship for the pleasure of one Captain Alyward.’
The sailor stepped to the rails and squinted. ‘The Captain don’t … oh. Right.’ He looked me up and down, screwed up his nose and spat again. ‘I don’t know nothin’ ’bout no … trull … ’ He scratched his head, his cap caught only by his ear. Without another word, he walked away. A small noise of protest escaped my throat.
‘Steady,’ said Thomas.
I glanced behind. Nothing appeared amiss and yet …
‘Wake up, you cankered excuse for a cod-piece.’ The sailor kicked something on the deck hard, and a loud groan was followed by a series of expletives.
‘Wha’ you want, you onion-pocked pizzle?’ The voice was thick as tar. ‘I told you to leave me be.’
Out of the muddle of canvas and rope emerged a grizzled old man. What remained of his hair jutted out from the sides of his head; his nose looked like a rock had been thrown at his face and lodged there, serving no other purpose than to keep his ears apart. Bending down, the first sailor muttered something and the other sat up and looked past his companion to study us further. There was a long cackle followed by a wheezing cough.
‘Not for the likes of us to question,’ said the old man. ‘That’s betwixt ’im,’ he gestured with a shaking finger at me, ‘the Capt’n,’ he jerked his thumb in th
e general direction of the Golden Hind, ‘and whatever God the devilshat cock-sucker worships, cause it sure as Satan’s missus ain’t ours.’ With one last look in our direction, the old sailor lay back down on the deck and pulled the canvas over him.
The first sailor gestured for us to board. There was no plank, just a gap, the rails and the river seething below. Thomas didn’t wait for a second invitation, but gripped the railing and vaulted across before turning to help me.
‘Dunno when his Cap’nship will return, but you can wait in his cabin,’ said the sailor, jerking his chin towards the stern.
Was it really going to be this simple?
‘But you,’ said the sailor to Thomas. ‘You can wait back there.’ He pointed to the pier.
‘I will wait here,’ said Thomas, and planted his feet firmly on the deck.
‘You’ll do as you’re damn well told,’ said the sailor, drawing a long dagger from the sheath at his hip and thrusting it into Thomas’s face. ‘I may have to put up with the likes of him, but I don’t have to suffer your kind what profits from ’em.’ With great relish and a lot of noise, he spat on Thomas’s boots.
Holding up his palms in appeasement, Thomas threw a leg over the side. ‘Very well, yer cursed skainsmate. But I’m not moving from the dock. Not till the coin is in my fist and my lady friend is on my arm.’
The sailor shrugged. ‘Suit yourself.’ He waved the dagger at me. ‘Go, get outta me sight. Lady friend my arse,’ he sniggered.
I didn’t wait to be told again. I crossed the deck and entered the captain’s cabin.
The smell was overpowering. I gagged as odours of shit, sweat, rotten food, stinking feet and linens swamped me. I held the door open until I had my stomach back under control. The cabin’s bank of windows was closed, and below these, striped with sunlight, was a bed crowded with soiled sheets and pillows imprinted with stains I couldn’t begin to identify. In the middle of the room stood a table awash with goblets, ewers and even a gold plate streaked with grease and gnawed bones. An overflowing jordan sat against one table leg, the leaking contents drying on the wood. The floor was littered with furls of paper, dollops of wax and clothes — not all were men’s clothes, either. The walls held an array of weapons — guns, swords and some sharp-looking instruments that would inflict terrible pain. There was also a whip with leaden shots sewn onto the ends. I dragged my eyes away. At first glance I couldn’t see the chest but, as I scanned the room again, it was evident the huge pile of clothes at the foot of the bed hid something larger. Holding my breath, I shut the door, latched it and then, with my basket firmly on my arm, leapt on the bed and opened the windows. Even the stench of the Thames around Deptford was better than this hedge-pig’s quarters. The Golden Hind had sailed the world and maintained an air of orderliness. This vessel appeared to have sailed in a jakes and absorbed something of the territory. What kind of man lived like this?
