An Introduction To The Eternal Collection Jubilee Edition

by Cartland, Barbara

  Was Francis’ interest in Elita love or the intrigue of religion? Lizbeth thought of her father’s face if he should suspect that two of his children were caught up in the toils and tangles of Popery, and even as she tried to conceive his horror, she heard a step outside her window. It was Francis returning, she was sure of that, and when she hurried across the room and pulled back the curtains, she saw that her assumption was right.

  The clouds had cleared a little from the sky and the moon, pale and watery, was shedding its rays over the garden. The shadows were thick and dark and the silver light gleamed on the wet paving stones and the puddles in the drive. Francis was just below her now. She could see the darkness of his cloak and hat pulled low over his forehead. He was trying the door, which he had left unlocked. Though he twisted and turned the heavy circular handle it would not open.

  With a sudden fear which for the moment made it impossible for her to move, Lizbeth guessed what had happened. After Francis had gone from the house, someone had closed and locked the door behind him. She felt a sudden constriction in her throat and her heart began to beat very fast. Someone, then, knew that Francis had gone out!

  She heard Francis turn the handle again, saw him push with all his strength against the door, and then, as he stepped back, surprised and alarmed, Lizbeth gave a low whistle. He looked up quickly at her window. She knew that he could see her face in the moonlight, and she set her finger against her lips. He understood and pointed to the door.

  She nodded her head and moving from the window, snatched up a warm shawl which lay over the chair and wrapped it round her shoulders. She opened the door of her room – the passage was in darkness save for the moonlight coming through the high, diamond-paned window on the stairway.

  Swiftly, on tiptoe, Lizbeth ran along the passage, then, with her hand on the broad oak banister, she started to descend the stairs. The rushes in the hall tickled her feet, they rustled too, as she moved across them to the front door. As she anticipated, the heavy bolt had been drawn and the big iron key turned in the lock.

  It took all her strength to move them, but when she had done so, the door was open and Francis stepped over the threshold, drawing his hat from his head.

  “Thank you,” he whispered.

  Even though the words were hardly breathed, Lizbeth shushed him into silence. She closed the door and strove to shoot the bolt, but it was too heavy for her. She beckoned to Francis and he moved it into place, making a faint sound which caused Lizbeth to say again,

  “Hush!”

  He smiled at her. It was as if he scorned her fears. He bent to kiss her cheek as if in gratitude for what she had done for him. His lips were warm and she smelt the fumes of wine upon his breath. He had been drinking, she thought, not heavily, but enough to make him careless and not so fearful as he might be at other times.

  The most dangerous part of their journey now lay before them. As they walked across the hall, Lizbeth looked down at Francis’ boots. Would it be best, she wondered, for him to remove them before he went up the stairs? And even as she considered whispering to him to do so, she saw Francis’ eyes widen as he looked towards the head of the stairs.

  The expression on his face made her look up with a sudden sense of horror and what she saw made her draw in her breath with a sudden, audible gasp. The door of her father’s room was open and light was streaming forth from it on to the passage at the top of the stairs. For just one second Lizbeth watched it, fascinated. Then into the passage came first her stepmother holding a silver candlestick in her hand, and behind her Sir Harry with his night-cap on his head and also carrying a candle.

  Catherine wore a peignoir of white silk over her nightgown and her hair was in two long plaits on either side of her face. Her eyes were dark and spiteful, her lips were smiling as if she was delighting in the scene that was about to take place. It was enough for Lizbeth to look at her to know who had bolted the door.

  Sir Harry, despite the fact that he was wearing only a nightshirt, was awe-inspiring. He stood leaning against a heraldic newel at the head of the stairs, his candle in his hand, his face red with anger, his heavy eyebrows almost meeting across his forehead. He stared down into the hall at Lizbeth and Francis and then his voice rang out in a sudden roar.

  “Come here, both of you!”

  It seemed to Lizbeth that the stairs ascended endlessly. She felt as if she and Francis would never reach the top. As they walked up step by step, Francis’ boots making enough noise now to raise the whole house, Lizbeth could feel his courage and the elation and happiness of the mood in which he had returned home ebbing away from him slowly but surely.

  He had never been able to stand up to his father. He had always been afraid of him since he was a little boy, and long before they reached the top Lizbeth knew that he was trembling and his lips were dry so that he must moisten them with his tongue, not once but continuously.

  “Now, sir, perhaps you will explain to me where you have been,” Sir Harry said as Francis reached the top step.

  Lizbeth could see her brother’s face in the light of the candles. He was pale now and his eyes were blinking as if they were dazzled and also as if he were ashamed. He looked stupid and insignificant and for a moment Lizbeth could understand what her father was feeling. Red-faced, pompous and overbearing, he was yet a man! In his youth he must have been good-looking, but that had not mattered beside the dash and courage he had shown, whether he was enjoying a fight or seducing a woman.

  Lizbeth realised that, if Francis could say he had been to London to see some fair lady, or even avow he had been courting some village maiden, his father would forgive him and be proud of him. But it was not love which made him go to the Keens – it was something which she feared even as she knew their father was afraid of it.

  “Well, speak up, where have you been?” Sir Harry asked again.

  “ To – to – to Dr. Keen’s, sir.”

  “God’s death! I knew it. I might have guessed that you would disobey my orders. I told you that I would not have you going there to listen to seditious talk, to be involved in some Papist plot. I forbade you the house, did I not?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “ And yet you have defied me. You creep out when I am asleep, leaving and entering the house like a thief or a servant rather than as a gentleman. Well, I must teach you a lesson, for I cannot trust you, it seems. You will not go back to Oxford next term, but you will sail with Master Rodney Hawkhurst in his ship for which I have just subscribed a substantial sum of money. We will see if the sea can make a man of you.”

  “No, I won’t go, I won’t!” Francis spoke passionately, but his protest lacked conviction. His voice rose shrilly, the voice of a boy, not a man.

  “You will obey my orders,” Sir Harry replied harshly. “I shall send a letter to Master Hawkhurst to-morrow apprising him of your arrival. You will get your clothes together and start for Plymouth as soon as it can be arranged. In the meantime you are under orders not to leave this house. Do you understand, you are not to leave this house, nor will you have any communication with Dr. Keen or his daughter. That is my command. If you don’t obey me, I will have you locked in your bedroom, and if necessary, chained to your bedpost.”

  Sir Harry turned as he finished speaking and walking with a dignity which was surprising considering the circumstances, withdrew into his bedroom. Catherine followed him. When she reached the door, she looked back. Her smile was a triumph of maliciousness.

  Francis made no effort to move when his father and stepmother had gone. He stood staring at the floor, his hands hanging helplessly at his side, his fingers clenched, but limply as if he had not even the energy to square them.

  “I won’t go, I won’t!” he muttered.

  Lizbeth pulled him by the sleeve.

  “Come into your room,” she said urgently.

  Shuffling his feet, Francis obeyed her, and when they entered the bedchamber and Lizbeth had closed the door behind them, he flung himself downwar
ds on his bed, beating his fists against the pillow as a child might do.

  “I won’t go, I won’t!” he said again.

  Lizbeth felt for the tinder box and lit the candles on the dressing-table. She wondered what she could say to comfort Francis and as she walked across to the bed, she remembered her mother’s words.

  “You must look after Francis,” she had said as she was dying.

  “Yes, Mother,” Lizbeth had answered.

  “He cannot look after himself. You must remember that, always.”

  Lizbeth was remembering it now. Francis could not look after himself. She sat down on the bed and started to stroke his hair.

  “I won’t go to sea,” Francis cried helplessly and miserably into his pillow but he said it without conviction, for he was not strong enough to defy his father, and both he and Lizbeth knew it.

  Lizbeth felt the tears gather in her eyes. She, too, was suffering.

  “I hate them all. They are all against me, and I never have a chance to do what I want to do. It isn’t fair. It isn’t fair,” Francis sobbed.

  It was not fair, Lizbeth thought, that there should be so much unhappiness under one roof.

  4

  Rodney Hawkhurst walked up and down the quarter-deck watching the last-minute turmoil of getting the ship ready for sea. Men were scurrying about the decks; the shrill whistle of the pipes, hoarse orders from the boatswain’s mate and several round oaths told him they were heaving the pinnace up alongside.

  On the quay were the usual crowds of weeping women and round-eyed children, their forlorn helplessness all the more pitiable because Rodney knew that many of the men to whom they said farewell were as excited as he was to know that the moment had come to leave the shore and take to the open sea.

  He was impatient to the point of irritation with all the last-minute delays which invariably occurred and which, every time one sailed, were unexpected and unanticipated. Among the noises on the decks he could hear the baaing of the live sheep which had been brought on board at the last moment.

  There was a litter of pigs, too, down below decks, and two or three dozen hens which he had purchased in the market that very morning, but which he thought now might have been an extravagance. Over and over again he had totalled up in his mind the provisions and stores he had sent aboard and had wondered if they would prove enough for the voyage that lay ahead. Among them were rice, peas, oil, candles, lanterns, lamps, sails ox-hides, hemp and sheet lead to stop shot holes.

  He had spent every penny he could spare on the best salt beef, bacon and pork available, besides six tons of ship’s biscuit which the chandler swore had not been long in his possession.

  Any man who went to sea expected incredible hardships, danger and bad food, but Roger was determined that as far as possible he would save his crew from unnecessary suffering. He knew how easily men got depressed and disgruntled on a long voyage and that the monotony and rottenness of their victuals had much to do with their ill humour and petty spitefulness.

  He had learned, when he sailed with Drake, to consider the well-being of the men as well as that of the officers. In most ships, the treatment meted out to seamen was unnecessarily brutal. Rodney was determined that on his own ship, while modelling his discipline on naval tradition and custom, he would temper justice with mercy and try, if possible, to lead his men rather than to drive them by sheer physical violence.

  The Sea Hawk was not a pretty ship and Rodney had no extra money to spend in decorating her, but she was sturdy and well-built, and his First Lieutenant, Master Barlow, had confirmed his opinion that she would be easy to manoeuvre. She carried twenty-two guns, seven demi-cannon on each side of her lower deck, six falconers firing grape on the upper and two chasers of bronze on the poop near the helm.

  Besides these more formidable pieces of artillery, Rodney had a number of arquebuses and an armoury of fire-bombs and javelins tipped with tar which had proved so effective when used by Drake.

  The Sea Hawk carried a crew of eighty; fifty were good fighting men, seasoned and experienced, whom Rodney and Barlow both considered themselves extremely fortunate to have obtained. Nearly two dozen of them had served with them before and had been tempted to embark on this adventure by a promise of a larger share of the booty than was usual.

  Rodney had indeed worried himself almost into a fever about his crew. It was not to be expected that he would get the pick of the best men when they had a chance of sailing under the leadership of acknowledged heroes like Drake and Raleigh. Men were also being taken up for the Queen’s service for the ships which Her Majesty was preparing to put under Lord Howard’s command.

  It was Barlow who had relieved Rodney of his anxiety, and who had eventually collected a better crew than he had even dared to hope for. Ships’ boys, volunteers and a number of craftsmen like the ship’s carpenter and blacksmith made up the complement.

  Then there were the officers: Barlow and three other lieutenants, Baxter, Gadstone and Walters by name; Hales, the Master; Simson, the Purser; and Dobson, the Surgeon – a reputedly good man although Rodney already had his doubts as to the wisdom of engaging him.

  He was elderly for one thing, and had come aboard with bloodshot eyes and a thick, repulsive stomach cough which he attributed to a thick night ashore, but which Rodney suspected came from an undermined constitution. However, it was too late to do anything about it and Rodney hoped that, once they got to sea, this and many more problems would settle themselves.

  The pinnace was aboard, the few remaining stores were being taken below. Rodney looked to see that the water butts were secure in the hold. They were one of the last things he had had filled. He knew only too well what the casks became like after a few months at sea – foul and alive with living things. It was always desirable to put off bringing them aboard till the last possible moment.

  In a few minutes now they would cast off. A diversion was caused on the quay as a seaman, very unsteady on his legs, was half-dragged, half-supported to the ship by a painted prostitute whom Rodney remembered seeing around the docks on previous occasions. She steadied the man across the gangplank; then as he fell face down on the deck, she shouted a cheery, if lewd farewell which raised a roar of laughter from the men working on the deck.

  With her hands on her broad hips and her dress open almost to the waist, the harlot exchanged a spirited badinage with those on board, which was listened to sourly and with disgust by the other women on the quay.

  “Make sail, Master Barlow,” Rodney said sharply. He could delay no longer.

  Everyone should be aboard by now; and as he thought of it, Rodney’s expression darkened and he turned to walk impatiently up and down the quarter-deck.

  He was remembering the moment when he must see Francis Gillingham and welcome him to the ship. He had particularly instructed Barlow to meet him when he arrived and to keep him out of sight at least until the turmoil of sailing had subsided a little.

  “I swore I would have no damned gentlemen adventurers aboard my ship,” Rodney had cursed when Sir Harry’s letter was brought to him. “By my Faith, I have a good mind to refuse to take him.

  “But Sir Harry Gillingham is a chief venturer!” Barlow answered quietly. “Suppose, Sir, he asked for the return of his gold?”

  “I would tell him to go to the Devil,” Rodney replied, but he knew, as he spoke, that it was mere bravado and that he must do as Sir Harry asked, take his son on the voyage and try to make a man of him.

  Sir Harry had not explained why he had come to this sudden decision regarding Francis, but from the tone of his letter Rodney guessed that something was amiss.

  “The boy’s got himself into trouble of some sort,” he growled to Barlow, “but we’ve no time to play nursemaid to some puling brat.”

  It was true that Rodney had long ago decided to have no gentlemen adventurers aboard the Sea Hawk. They were invariably a nuisance, impatient only for the treasure which the voyage would bring them, they were usually too sea-sick and
undisciplined to be of any real use in the management of a ship.

  Rodney was also well aware that this voyage was likely to prove both dangerous and perilous. One ship on its own was very vulnerable to attack, and though he had every hope and confidence that they would quickly capture a smaller ship or a pinnace, that was small comfort in the initial stages of their journey. There was also the other side of the picture – they might be sunk or taken prisoner and there would be no one to come to their rescue.

  The ship, too, was full to capacity, and although there was a spare sleeping cabin alongside his own aft under the poop, Rodney had decided to keep it empty, thinking there was every likelihood of its being used by some important prisoner. If not, it always could be useful for storing part of the spoils.

  However, it was no use complaining. There was nothing he could do about it save try and sail sooner than he planned and hope that Francis would reach Plymouth too late.

  There was a shout to man the main topsail halliards; Rodney watched a rush up the rigging as the men scurried from the halliards to the braces while a roar forward told him that the moorings were slipped. He licked his finger and held it up to see if the wind was freshening – rounding Devil’s Point was not going to be easy. Then with the yards braced round , the Sea Hawk turned to starboard and slowly gathered way.

  There was a sudden wail from the quayside, the children were fluttering their handkerchiefs excitedly, the wives holding them to their eyes. For a number of them it was the last time they would ever see their men alive.

  “Keep your eyes inboard, there,” yelled a Petty Officer, for every man’s attention was needed for the business in hand – that of trimming the sails to the wind.

  Rodney felt the ship heel over; Barlow was directing her course as close to the wind as she would lie; and suddenly as he felt the heave and swell of the waves, heard the familiar slap of the sails and the rattling of the blocks and the creak of the timbers, he felt excitement sweep over him, so that he must swallow hard and press his lips together to prevent himself joining in the cheer that the men raised as Stonehouse Bill opened up before them. They were off! Adventure lay ahead, England lay behind.