Mistress of the Sea

by Jenny Barden

  ‘Foolish,’ she muttered to her reflection in the glass.

  Will dipped his quill in the inkpot and added another entry to the list. The inventory continued in a painstakingly formed hand. In the quiet of his rented room he sought to take stock of his affairs. The list already filled a span-square of paper, ruled into columns like the hornbook from which he had been taught his letters at petty school. He scanned the page with a frown. His characters resembled sturdy blocks, far removed from the elegant script that distinguished the hands of better-educated men, or young ladies, like Ellyn Cooksley, with their own private tutors. Will had seen her writing in a note Jane had shown him, because Jane could barely read and wanted his help to understand it. Ellyn’s hand was graceful and flowing, embellished like a vine with tendril curls and bountiful flourishes, even if her subject was wool and cloth. He put his pen down.

  Had he offended her? He supposed that he had from the way she had left him, but by all that went before he believed he had won her interest, perhaps even touched her heart. Ellyn had spoken to him many times, sparred with him in wit, blushed when his words roused her, and met his eyes look for look. Give her a day or two without seeing him, and they would both be ready for more of the same. But could the game carry on? Mistress Ellyn had rich suitors, and her father would never accept him without some improvement in his prospects. Whilst the game was seductive, he could not realistically hope to win – that was the truth. He should forget her. He only played the game with ease because with her he had nothing to lose. Yet the game had taken a hold: it was the hook of first success, of small wins against the odds, and the glimpse of a glittering prize he could not measure and weigh up – though what he had seen of Ellyn enthralled him. He should quit while he could before he enjoyed the game too much.

  With his elbows on the table he pressed his head against his hands; then he looked up through the open window. Leaves were blowing in the wind, and he knew from the way they scattered that a nor’easterly was getting up. Francis Drake had returned a few weeks before. His voyage to the Indies had been a success, and the investment made by Ellyn’s father had delivered a handsome profit. It would be enough to encourage Nicholas Cooksley to want to back the Captain again. Already Drake was talking about making another venture, sounding out interest among the Plymouth seamen Drake knew and trusted, who had experience as well as courage. Drake had spoken of such a voyage to Will.

  Will looked at his hands, seeing the ink stains on his fingers and the browning left by tar. They were marked and rough but when he flexed them they felt strong. That had not always been so; not much more than a year ago, his hands had been reduced to skin and bone, and his knuckles had stood out like galls on twigs. He reflected on that as he clenched his fists. When he had returned from the Americas he had been close to death. He had been forced to leave his brother behind, and then hunger had almost killed him. The scars had healed, but his hatred still burned. No one knew what had happened to his younger brother, Kit. Will thought of the pictures he had seen in the Book of Martyrs: images of burning and torture. Will brought his fist down on the table. Where was Kit now? Was he still in the Americas, held captive by the Spaniards? That seemed most likely. Since Drake was planning another voyage there, Will owed it to Kit to go back – return as close as he could to the place where he had seen his brother last. He would have gone before if only he had been able.

  Perhaps Kit was dead.

  Will spread his hands over the paper, remembering his father’s last words. He could hear them whenever he chose – words spoken at his mother’s burial, after she had died from grief, as everyone supposed. ‘There be a grave for thy mother, Will,’ his father had said. They had stood side by side watching the clay thrown over her coffin. ‘A place to weep over her. What place be for thy brother, Will? What hast thou brought back? Thy brother . . . Where is he?’ Will could still feel the force of his father’s bitter anger, see his hands trembling with the urge to smite and accuse – though there was already a rift between them, narrow but deep, and he would not cross it, even in rage.

  He had not seen his father since. He had not seen his three sisters. They would always do their father’s bidding. Nothing he could have said would have made any difference. He and his father had never seen eye to eye. He had been apprenticed in Plymouth while he was still only a boy. His family knew next to nothing about how he had made his way in the world. He doubted that they cared about what he had achieved: his admission to the caulkers’ guild, and the lodgings he had taken above the stables of Master Cooksley’s fine house; the success of his business, and his friendship with Francis Drake; or the money he had made from his last voyage with John Hawkins – the voyage which, through Spanish treachery, had robbed him of the best brother he could have wished for. All that mattered to them was that he had returned without Kit.

  Nothing would deflect him from his duty to avenge his brother’s fate.

  A noise made him turn, the shuffle of someone by the door too hesitant to knock. He called, and the youngest of his apprentices entered, pimple-faced and bandy-legged. The boy delivered his message as if it was stinging his tongue.

  ‘There be a meetin’ at the Saracen and you’re to come now, please, sir, so says Captain Drake.’

  Snatching up his hat and cape, Will dashed outside. He made for the arcade leading to the front of Cooksley’s house, striding briskly past the herb beds and the dark entrance to the stone staircase.

  ‘My!’

  He heard the shout too late to stop. A lady was in his path, emerging from the staircase the moment he passed it by. He raised his hands, as much to buffer as prevent her falling. The next moment he realised he had Ellyn in his grasp, and Jane was close, too, skipping behind her to one side. He felt the tension in Ellyn’s arms. He could have been in a dance preparing to lift and she to spring, except that her dark eyes were wide with stunned surprise, and her full lips parted as he steadied her on her feet. Her gaze never left him while her neck arched back. For a fleeting instant he fought the impulse to kiss her, pull her firmly closer and press his mouth against hers. He felt her body yield, but then he heard a woman’s cry.

  ‘Master Doonan!’

  Glancing round, he saw Jane smile coyly. He released his hold, stepped back and doffed his hat.

  ‘Forgive me, and good day.’

  Will turned and waved the boy on. Without a backwards glance he followed, launching into a sprint once he reached the arcade, running to meet Drake, and away from a temptation that could only have mired him in deep trouble.

  There were ten men around the table – some Will knew well, others hardly at all. Most, like him, had sailed in John Hawkins’s fleet but not on Drake’s last voyage. A single candle on the table lit their faces from below. The glow threw dark shadows above brows and cheekbones, and cast looming silhouettes over the crumbling walls. Francis Drake sat with his brother, John. Next to them was Ellis Hixom, ‘Hix’ to those who knew him, a man with a wound so ugly it kept strangers at a distance. A lead ball had left him with a rip in one jowl through which his shattered teeth showed in the remains of his mouth. Amongst the hands on the table was another man’s iron claw. The room pushed everyone close. Eyes were separated by inches, bloodshot and heavy-lidded, rheumy and patched; most were fixed on Drake. Will watched him looking from man to man, holding their silence before he began to speak, his round cheeks flushed with the same fiery red that burned in his beard, showing the humour of blood in his appearance as much as in the confidence he gave out. Will felt it as strength: the power that could hurl an order through a storm, or imbue a joke with sudden warmth.

  Drake sipped from a leather tankard, and then set it down.

  ‘I’ve a venture in mind that needs men such as you. It will entail a bit more than trading.’ He paused and looked round. Only a slight sputtering from the candle and a surf-like breathing could be heard. ‘Do you want to know what?’

  Will supposed that everyone listening had given a commitment just a
s he had, and none knew exactly what might be involved. The men murmured and nodded, but Drake revealed nothing too quickly; instead he reminded them of a name from the past.

  ‘I often think of my cousin, Robert Barrett. I pray that he lives, though I fear he’ll be suffering. The Spaniards will torture him before they burn him at the stake.’

  A chorus of ‘Damn them!’ and ‘Bastards!’ rang around the table.

  Drake linked everyone in the way he continued.

  ‘John Hawkins still weeps for his nephew, Paul. We’ve all lost someone close.’ He turned towards a man with a livid disfigurement above a leather-patched eye. ‘Your cousin, Simon . . .’

  ‘I saw his arm sawn off ’afore he died,’ the man called Simon muttered in response.

  Will realised what Drake was doing. Everyone present had suffered at Spanish hands. They had all been robbed of family or friends. He thought of Kit and others who were missing or dead. When Drake included him, he bowed his head.

  ‘Kit among many,’ Will answered softly. ‘Eliseus, Harry and Job the gunner. They’re just a few . . . I’ll never forget them.’

  Drake waited until each man had met his eye.

  ‘We’re bound by more than a thirst for riches.’ He raised his voice. ‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord, and we are but the Lord’s servants.’ He brought his fist down on the table. ‘Are you with me?’

  ‘Aye, Captain,’ Will answered with the rest. He had burned with the desire to see justice done ever since the Spaniards’ treachery off the coast of Mexico.

  Drake leaned closer to the candle, drawing the circle tight, until the last traces of levity drained away from his face.

  ‘England cannot risk war.’ Drake kept his voice low. ‘Our armies are no match for Spain’s. There must be no hint of association between what we do and the Queen. We are on our own.’

  ‘We understand,’ said Simon.

  Will muttered his agreement along with everyone else. He had never expected any levies in support but a bleak reality began to take substance in his mind, and it had the taint of piracy. They would be beyond any protection if they were caught.

  In an instant, Drake’s mood changed, and Will noticed a glint of devilry in his eye.

  ‘How did David bring down Goliath?’

  Hix gave a straight reply: ‘With a sling.’

  ‘With his wits,’ Drake countered. He turned about, making sure of their attention. ‘Spain’s might is fuelled by her wealth, and we’ve all seen the source.’

  ‘The Americas,’ hissed the captain’s brother, giving voice to Will’s thoughts. Most were nodding, though patch-eyed Simon was squirming on his stool.

  ‘But we can’t attack the treasure fleet without a fleet of our own! And even with good warships, General Hawkins was routed . . .’

  ‘Think of that treasure,’ Drake insisted in a steadier pitch. ‘It is well guarded once it leaves the Americas, but not before.’

  ‘Spain controls all the ports,’ Hix said bluntly.

  ‘Does she?’ Drake smiled as he threw back the challenge. ‘Every inlet and every bay?’

  Hix shrugged. Through the hole in his cheek, Will watched his broken teeth grind.

  ‘There are no bays along the Mexican shore,’ Hix answered. ‘We know that. The Spaniards have the only safe harbour there is, at San Juan de Ulúa, where we all fought and lost.’

  Drake looked pleased.

  ‘Think further south,’ he encouraged.

  The candle flame wavered.

  ‘Where?’ Will asked softly.

  ‘The land they call Panamá in Tierra Firme: the narrow isthmus between the two great seas – the land across which they take all the riches from Peru. There are reefs along the north coast forming thousands of small islands. There are hundreds of coves. I took note on my last voyage. There are many places that would make excellent bases for mounting an attack.’ Drake drew out his purse. Around the candle he began to lay out coins: Spanish silver reals and pieces of eight, then gold doubloons. ‘Imagine it,’ Drake said, as he continued to spread the doubloons out. ‘Every year enough silver leaves Tierra Firme to fill St Andrew’s Church. Over two hundred tons.’ His fingers played with the coins. ‘And enough gold is shipped away to pack out this tavern.’

  Will stared. He had never seen so much money, and neither had the other men, from the looks on their faces. Fingers reached for the coins. Some touched.

  ‘This room, and more, solid with gold,’ Drake continued. ‘I would like to find out where that treasure is stored, how it’s carried, and the route by which it’s taken between the seas.’

  ‘Aye,’ someone answered. ‘So would I.’

  ‘With that knowledge we can strike, but not too soon.’ One by one, Drake began to return the pieces of eight to his purse. ‘We must plan carefully and cause no alarm till we’re prepared. Our outward endeavour will be to trade. Let us bring back a few fancies for our ladies.’

  Grins and chuckles followed while Drake gathered in the reals until only the doubloons remained: nine of them. Drake pushed one to each man.

  ‘We must keep our true purpose to ourselves.’ He bared his palms. ‘Let us swear an oath to see our purpose through. I would trust my life in your hands, every one of you.’ He looked slowly round and caught Will’s eye; Will was honoured by that. Drake raised his voice. ‘Your hands, gentlemen.’

  They all reached out and grasped one of Drake’s hands and one another’s: nine pairs of hands and one alone, though even the iron claw was clasped.

  Drake spelt out the promise: ‘Whatever the cost, and however long it takes, we’ll be avenged. Once sworn never broken.’

  There was a rumble of agreement.

  ‘Vengeance!’ Drake urged, and in low unison the oath was repeated. ‘Vengeance!’

  Vengeance. The word rang in Will’s ears and on in his mind, all the way back to the closed East Gate. And only much later, after he had paid the watchman and walked in darkness past the ships, with the rigging whistling, blocks banging and loose canvas slapping, only after beginning the climb at the base of the Hoe, his breath forming clouds, did he think of what he would leave, and then think of Ellyn.

  3

  O! a Kiss

  ‘. . . O! a kiss

  Long as my exile, sweet as my revenge!

  Now, by the jealous queen of heaven, that kiss

  I carried from thee, dear, and my true lip

  Hath virgined it e’er since . . .’

  —Coriolanus by William Shakespeare, Act V, Scene 3

  ELLYN LISTENED AS her father fastened the locks. She heard the clink of the keys on the chain round his waist, and the steward banging the shutters closed. She stared into the dark; the drapes were drawn around the bed where she lay. Old Nan would soon be snoring from her pallet behind the curtain. The house played out a rhythm that was repeated every night: the muted clatter of the candle-snuffer, shuffling in her parents’ room the other side of the wall, the clinking of a chamber pot, the mumble of prayers. Her father would be propped up by pillows and chewing angelica root to ward off the plague. Somewhere far off an owl began hooting. Then the watchman’s call reached her, muffled by distance from the front of the house:

  ‘Eight o’clock, look well to your locks,

  Your fire and your light, and so good night.’

  He would call again later and Ellyn was sure she would hear him. It had been dark for over an hour but she would not be able to sleep. She was too alert to the sounds, too aware of her mother’s cough. Ellyn’s tension rose even after the rasping ceased, leaving a restless calm in which the house settled, as if, in minute clicks, the weight of daub, timbers and brick were interminably marking the degrees of time.

  Ellyn covered her eyes. She twisted until the coverlet was bunched in a knot and her mouth was pressed against hard stitches. Unwanted, an image of Will Doonan came to mind. She thought of him at the bear ring, blood-spattered and leading the dog away, and then she thought of him outside her house, catchi
ng hold of her after almost knocking her over. His face had been very close; she remembered feeling that he might kiss her, even fleetingly wanting him to kiss her. She had never known a man’s kiss, not a kiss of the kind lovers shared. The coverlet was rough. Would Will’s lips be soft? Banish the idea. She screwed her eyes shut while sheets and blankets became tangled with her nightclothes. Her limbs felt weak as if weighted with chains. Drawing breath, she stilled. She could hear footsteps. Twice already she had tiptoed to the window after hearing passers-by below. On the last occasion she had spied the water carrier heading home. His steps had been slow, but these were quick. Who would use the way through the garden so late? Who except Will Doonan, returning to his room above the empty stables that her father let out? She got up from her bed.

  Ellyn peered from the window and then immediately jumped away. He was there and gazing back. She looked again and kept motionless. The man below was also still, his face upturned like a pale statue’s in the moonlight. It was Will Doonan, but what could he want?

  She began to worry that Will might shout and wake her parents; if she did nothing then she was sure he would. That must not happen – she had to stop him making a noise. Hastily she pulled on her cloak and crept down to the parlour to see what he was about.

  The stairs were dark. Ellyn stumbled blindly before her hands found the balustrade. She groped past wall-hangings and wainscoting, cold plaster and rough beams. Familiarity guided her towards the oak of the parlour door; then wan light from the window helped her pick her way inside. She reached for the latch and opened the casement wide.

  All she could discern were falling specks: a moonlit haze and spots of rain. The shadows were misty and the path was glistening. A buttress leaned against a high blank wall, the box disappeared in a maze; the shrubs crouched. She could see no one. She was too late, she decided, as she retreated from the cold, securing the window and feeling mildly foolish.

  Then she heard a sound. A step? Little was clearly visible through the diamond panes of glass. Trembling, she lifted the latch again, opened the window and peeked outside. He was watching.