Raleigh's Page

by Alan Armstrong

  They didn’t speak. They walked apart, like strangers, down to the water’s edge, bent deep into the wind.

  “How did you read my message?” Andrew asked as they crouched under an overhang.

  “A merry peddler calling himself Quinch came to my school singing and selling tonics,” Tremayne said. “Only he was no peddler and what he sold me was no tonic. He was strange-looking and dirty—a small streaked face stuck on top of a ragbag body stuffed to bursting with layers of old sweaters over shirts and jackets. You couldn’t tell what was belly and what was wrapping. He stank of onions; he looked like an onion! He grinned and burbled like a man drunk under his striped pack.

  “I was about to turn him away when he half sang in his funny voice, ‘I have something needful from your young friend’s master.’

  “I took him aside,” Tremayne continued. “The man’s eyes were honest. What made his face look strange were the streaks of soot and red clay he’d smeared on.

  “Once we were out of earshot, he fumbled in his pack for a jar.

  “‘This will help you read something that’s coming,’ the fellow said, grinning and capering all the while as if he were presenting me with a great joke. I thought him mad, but he hinted enough to make me trust him. As he took my coin, he told me the trick of pouring the potion on the page. But what a smell as the sheet dried before the candle! And then the writing vanished!

  “Some potion!” laughed Tremayne. “I hear he called at Stillwell too.

  “So what’s all this about?” he asked.

  “Mr. Raleigh needs us to go to France, pretending we’re wine merchants,” Andrew explained. “Or rather, you are. I’m to be your clerk. At Marseilles we’ll visit a man who deals in wines. He has a map Mr. Raleigh wants. We’ll take it.”

  Tremayne’s mouth sagged open as Andrew spoke. When the boy finished, his teacher shook his head slowly.

  “I knew when you went up to London you’d come back with something for me—but this? A plot for two West Country folk to sneak to France and steal a merchant’s papers? And what’s he ever done to us? And what if we’re caught?”

  He made his eyes wide and formed his hands in the gesture of hanging.

  “Yes! I’m in!” he said with a broad smile.

  They agreed to meet a few days later at Durham House.

  On his way back up to London, Andrew stopped at Stillwell.

  It was noon. The dogs’ greeting made him smile. His folks were just sitting down to dinner. “Andrew!” they yelled as one when he came in. For a moment he couldn’t speak. If there were tears in the rush of hugs, no one noticed.

  “Give us news!” his mother called as she bustled to set a place for him. “We have suet pudding—your favorite!”

  He told what he could as he ate fast. Then he pushed his chair back, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “I was ordered to hurry,” he said.

  “Yes!” they cried as he stood up. “Godspeed! Goodbye!”

  He stopped at Rebecca’s. She wore the red ribbon she’d bought with Doctor Dee’s halfpenny. She laughed when he gave her the silk his silver toothpick had come wrapped in. It was the only thing on his person that had any connection with Mr. Raleigh. He’d ordered the boy to travel so spare that, even if he were stripped naked and everything about him were studied, there would be no link to Durham House.

  16

  PREPARATIONS FOR FRANCE

  Andrew sat with Mr. Raleigh, Mr. Harriot, and Pena in the turret, waiting for Tremayne. The boy was jumpy. Despite the heat, his hands were cold when James knocked at the door.

  “Yes!” called Mr. Raleigh. With him that word was never a question, always a statement.

  “It’s the one what’s come for that one,” said James, winking and pointing at Andrew as he pushed open the door.

  As Tremayne stepped in, Andrew saw his teacher through Mr. Raleigh’s eyes—a wiry brown-haired man, dusty and sweat-streaked, in plain clothes. He didn’t look like a gentleman.

  Mr. Harriot stood up to make him welcome. Tremayne was as squat and plain as Mr. Harriot was tall and elegant.

  “I’ve heard about your time at Cambridge,” Mr. Raleigh said after a long stare. “There is report that one Sunday a certain clergyman there preached against your teacher’s politics. A few days later, a donkey was led up the stairs to the clergyman’s rooms and given strong medicine. The beast was found in its mess with a sign around its neck: ‘An ass purged of its foolishness.’

  “Did you have anything to do with that?”

  “Perhaps,” said Tremayne. His face gave nothing away.

  Andrew was anxious for his friend, but Tremayne was cool and easy.

  “Your teacher—Mr. Eden—is reported to have a great interest in Spanish discoveries. Perhaps he has Catholic sympathies as well. Do you share them?”

  “Perhaps.” Again, not a flicker.

  “So perhaps your interest in America is to see a Catholic colony there?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Mr. Raleigh smiled. “Then perhaps you will do for us.”

  They proceeded to talk over small cakes and cups of Mr. Raleigh’s cacao drink as Andrew sat silent beside them.

  At dusk James announced, “Mr. Hakluyt.”

  Andrew was startled. He knew that name! Mr. Hakluyt’s book was his bible.

  A tall, gaunt man stooped through the doorway. His face was long and narrow, with overhanging brows. There was high color in his cheeks.

  “Mr. Hakluyt is chaplain to our ambassador at Paris,” Mr. Raleigh said, introducing him. “It was he who sent us news of the Frenchman’s map. It must be one of the few he has not seen.

  “Mr. Harriot you know,” he told Mr. Hakluyt. “The gentleman next to him is our wine merchant in training, Mr. Tremayne.”

  Tremayne smiled and bowed.

  “I know your book, sir,” Tremayne said. “Divers Voyages Touching the Discoverie of America. I’ve taught my students from it—including that one,” he said, pointing to Andrew.

  “That sometime student is now our wine merchant’s clerk,” said Mr. Raleigh. “He has the nose.”

  Mr. Hakluyt was older than Mr. Raleigh. He looked like a hungry preacher, large-eyed and drawn.

  He looked at Andrew and asked, “Do you know why we need that map?”

  “Because you’re going to America, sir,” the boy answered.

  “Well, some of us are,” Mr. Hakluyt replied, studying him.

  “Like nothing else, a map can show where you’ve been, where you are, and where you’re going—where England’s going. Geography is the eye of history.”

  He spoke in a deep slow voice like a Bible prophet.

  “Give me a true map and I can master the world!” he said, his eyes boring into Andrew’s.

  The way he talked and what he said made the boy’s scalp tingle.

  “Here is Marseilles,” said Mr. Raleigh, spreading out a chart and pointing to the main French port on the Mediterranean.

  “With Andrew along as his clerk,” Mr. Raleigh continued, “Tremayne will go there in disguise as a junior in the firm of Barnes and Barry, London wine merchants. He will call on the Frenchman and take his documents.

  “Let your consciences be easy,” Mr. Raleigh said. “The French have stolen many of ours. You two will even the score a little.”

  “His name is Réné Viton,” said Mr. Hakluyt. “His home and place of business are on a hill overlooking the port. He is in his late fifties. Your firm has done business with his for years.

  “Our London wine folks know nothing of this, but you, Tremayne, will carry their credential. Andrew will carry samples of the wines you’re offering to trade for furs.”

  “And a vial of the opium tincture,” Mr. Raleigh added.

  “You will carry nothing to connect you with me or anyone at Court,” Mr. Raleigh continued. “If you’re caught, we’ll not be able to help you. Whatever you say of us under torture, we will deny.

  “Those are the terms. Will you do it?”

&nb
sp; Tremayne looked at Andrew. Suddenly they weren’t teacher and student anymore, they were like brothers, and, just like brothers about to take on something dangerous together, they began to laugh the helpless laughter that dispels fear.

  For a moment everyone in the room laughed.

  “Starting now, Andrew, you’ll pitch your voice lower,” Mr. Hakluyt ordered. “And touch a bit of charcoal to your upper lip. Not much, just a hint of what is to come. It will make you more likely.”

  He tested their French and taught them something about the wine trade. For days he and Pena lived with Andrew and Tremayne in rooms apart from the others, all their speech in French as they made up conversations about wines and furs and acted out meeting men on the docks who might help them.

  In disguise, Tremayne and Andrew visited Barnes & Barry to study their people and their goods. The boy wore a touch of charcoal. He sweated; it smeared.

  As part of their education, they learned the names and qualities of a dozen vintages. Then Mr. Raleigh arranged for them to get smuggled into Barnes & Barry’s huge wine vault one night to see how such goods are stored and the measures of pipes, barrels, kegs, and casks. There were spirits enough down there to souse all London, and the air was so close, so dizzyingly sweet, so fumed with alcohol, Andrew and Tremayne got faint-headed. It was all they could do to get out.

  “This is for you,” Mr. Hakluyt said the next day as he handed Andrew a worn Barnes & Barry horsehide samples case. Inside were six small bottles of wine.

  “And now to Mistress Witkens,” Mr. Raleigh announced.

  She was bent over her bench, back to the door, when they all crowded into her workroom.

  “Mistress Witkens!” Mr. Raleigh yelled. “Mistress Witkens!”

  She turned and rose slowly, snatching up her white bag cap. As she pulled it on crooked, she beamed and made to curtsy.

  “What’s the honor I owe your visit to, sir?” she hollered, studying Mr. Raleigh’s face to read his lips.

  Mr. Raleigh bowed. “We need vests for these lads,” he said in a high loud voice. “Vests.”

  “Vests?” she bellowed, narrowing her eyes. “Vests? Vests in summer?” She scrunched up her face and shook her head.

  “Waxed-canvas vests,” Mr. Raleigh hollered, moving close to her. He spoke slowly. “Canvas vests lined with silk they will wear under their shirts, silk side to the body. Each will have a large pocket at the front. No straps or buttons—they will sew them tight themselves when they put them on. They’ll sew the pockets shut when they’re filled.”

  He gestured how wide the pocket should be—the width of their chests.

  With that, she nodded and began to hum as she measured and scribbled notes.

  “What will they be putting in ’em?” she asked.

  “No need for you to know that!” Mr. Raleigh snapped.

  “I need to know for depth of gusset, Master! Depth of gusset. Gussets and vents bulk things up.”

  Mr. Raleigh showed with his hands how much the vests should open out—enough for a thin book.

  “Put everything else aside. Make them up as quickly as you can!”

  As they returned to the turret, Mr. Hakluyt explained about the vests. “You’ll slip the documents into the pockets, sew them shut, then sew the vests tight around your bodies. You will find the needles and waxed thread you need in the pockets.”

  “Now for the drug, Andrew,” Mr. Raleigh said when they got to his room. “I will teach you how to handle it.

  “You will flourish your napkin like this, pretending to wipe clean the glass before you pour the sample. With the vial of potion hidden in its folds, you will tap a single drop into the Frenchman’s glass.

  “Just so! Now you do it.”

  Andrew’s hand shook so hard he emptied the vial all at once.

  “Deep breaths,” Mr. Raleigh said. “Take deep breaths.”

  The boy practiced until he could do it with his eyes shut, one drop at a time.

  “You will carry six drops,” Mr. Raleigh said. “Never taste it.”

  It is like poison, the boy thought as he pinched his lips together. I’ll be giving the Frenchman poison.

  17

  TO MARSEILLES

  “To throw off folks curious about where you are going,” Mr. Raleigh said, “your route to Marseilles must not be direct.”

  He handed Tremayne and Andrew lumps of root about the size of an acorn.

  “Ginger root from the Orient. We buy it from Arab traders and take it from Spanish prizes. When you feel seasick, chew on it. It will burn your tongue, but take as much as you can. Your stomach will be grateful. Save what’s left like you’d guard a jewel. When your guts churn, there’s nothing more precious.”

  Slouching around the London docks in worn country clothes like an idle worker, Tremayne bought them passage on a small ship calling at Lisbon. It would then slip through the Strait of Gibraltar into the Mediterranean and tack up the coast of Spain to France and Marseilles.

  “She sails tomorrow on the change of tide,” Tremayne reported when he got back. “She’s an old cog, not much bigger than this room, freighted with dried fish from Newfoundland. The corsairs won’t bother her.”

  “Corsairs?” Andrew asked.

  “Pirates from Barbary and Algiers. They lurk around the Strait and the Canary Islands. Their spies at the ports alert them to vessels loading rich cargoes and passengers worth a ransom.”

  “Pirates?” Andrew gasped. “Pirates will be after us?”

  “Don’t worry,” laughed Tremayne. “You and me and a cargo of stockfish don’t offer much opportunity. But a fleet for America? That would tempt them.”

  “What are stockfish?” the boy asked.

  “Gutted cod dried in the air until they’re like boards. All the juice goes out, just the stink remains. The Spaniards use it like dried meat—soak it soft and cook it in their stews.”

  The ship did smell of fish, but it was clean, and the crewmen were friendly. “Passengers are a bonus for them,” Tremayne explained. “What we pay will get shared around, a bit for everyone.”

  Andrew hadn’t been on a big ship before. The sails creaked and ropes whistled as the cog rocked and shuddered in weather, groaning with every wave. He could hear the “clank clank clank” as men worked the pumps. He began to feel queasy. The fish smell didn’t help his stomach. After a few hours, the two passengers smelled like the cargo. Andrew bit on the ginger root. It was stringy and hot in his mouth. He wasn’t as sick as he’d been on the Thames ferries.

  They laid over in Lisbon, trading fish for spices, wines, and oil. Andrew stood by the captain, watching this business closely, amazed when the captain told him what he’d sell his new cargo for in London compared to what he’d paid for the fish he gave in exchange.

  “You’re surprised, lad? Well, don’t you be thinking our profits come easy. We pay in life for risks of weather, raiders, and ship fever before a penny makes it to our pockets. There’s more sailors under the water this moment than on it!”

  Once they set out again, the cog felt sturdy underfoot. Andrew liked the compactness of things on board. No space was wasted; there was nothing extra, yet everything needed was close at hand. It was like Mr. Raleigh’s room in the turret.

  Andrew stood by the captain at the wheel as they approached the Strait through the Gulf of Cádiz. A dark, unmarked vessel approached quickly, then drifted off.

  “A corsair out hunting,” said the captain. “She must have caught smell of us.”

  From the crew, Tremayne bought two suits of sailors’ clothes, worn and not too fresh. He and Andrew put them on.

  “The prison.” Tremayne pointed as their ship eased past the immense pink stone fortifications guarding Marseilles harbor. Château d’If was a fort on its own dark island, with sharp black rocks poking out from the rough water around it. The two spies looked at each other; each knew what the other was thinking.

  They landed in their sailors’ clothes, people of no class, kind, or
nation. They smelled of old fish. No one noticed them.

  The harbor’s edge was a hive packed tight with people of all colors, women yelling over their tables of writhing fish and piles of spiked shells, men trundling goods to and from warehouses along narrow ways in rattling iron-wheeled carts. There were rare smells from the open stalls for vegetables, spices, dried fruits, nuts. The voices were loud, high-pitched, excited.

  It was late July. The sun was piercing. The hills were parched, oatmeal colored, speckled with dark green pines. The breeze was sharp with pine.

  They found the avenue they’d been directed to. A whiff of goat roasting with rosemary drew them like dogs to an open-front tavern that looked clean enough. They ate the cook’s one offering. In the place for necessaries out back, they changed into their merchant clothes. Andrew touched charcoal to his upper lip.

  A little farther on they found an inn. They arranged their lodging and left their sailor clothes and the samples case in their room.

  They called at Monsieur Viton’s with their credential. A black giant opened the door. The name Barnes & Barry on the paper gained them entrance. It was cool and still inside.

  “The French use stone like English builders use wood and paint,” Tremayne murmured as they waited. Andrew looked around. The walls were of colored marble up to the height of a man’s head. The white stone stairway was as broad as a farm road. Overhead there were painted scenes: blue skies, naked figures, flowers, eagles. They stood beside a great tub of polished tan stone mounted on black carvings of lions’ paws.

  “It’s large enough for a man to lie down in, isn’t it?” Tremayne whispered. “And you know what? A man did lie down in it, a dead man in ancient times. It’s a tomb, a sarcophagus, which means ‘flesh-eating stone.’ Keep out of it if you can,” he added as he widened his eyes and grinned.

  Andrew was too scared to like his joke.

  At last Viton appeared, short and strong, with thick black hair and eyebrows and small, tired eyes. His nose was veined, his face puffy.

  He was reserved in the way a man aware of his station is with those he knows to be inferior.