by Jenny Barden
‘Yes!’ Ellyn announced, hurriedly putting the shoes back on. ‘Though I thought I might pick some quince. I noticed there were a few ready when we came through the garden just now.’
‘But it’s pouring!’ Nan protested while Ellyn slipped away.
No sooner was she in the garden than Ellyn saw Will striding towards her.
‘Master Doonan!’ She tried not to look flustered in the midst of pulling over her hood. It was drizzling hard. Rain dripped from Will’s hat and down his oilskin cape.
‘Should you not be within, dear lady?’ His blue eyes glittered as he looked at her. It was enough to make her almost forget what she meant to say.
‘I shall not be long . . . I merely wished to say . . . how much we have all enjoyed your spices.’
He smiled broadly behind a trickle of raindrops.
‘I understand you may be leaving for the Indies.’ She wiped the rain from her face, unsure how best to continue.
Will leaned towards her, but all Ellyn heard was Nan’s cry from the house: ‘For the love of Jonah, come inside or you’ll both be drowned!’
Ellyn sensed Will was behind her as Nan gestured frantically for them to take shelter. Huddled up and dripping, they were bustled into the kitchen.
‘I’ll leave you two to dry,’ Nan said, with a conspiratorial hush to her voice. The latch clicked, and next they were alone by the crackling fire.
Ellyn untied her cloak and Will lifted it from her shoulders.
‘Let us speak directly,’ she said, shivering. ‘We may not have much time.’
His answer was to draw up a stool and beckon for her to sit.
‘You are cold,’ he said. ‘Come close to the fire.’ He took off his hat and cape and spread all the outer-clothes across the end of the table; then he joined her by the dancing flames.
‘Your hair curls when it is wet.’ He looked at her intently. ‘It becomes you.’
Without thinking, she reached for a ringlet that had sprung into a tight coil by her cheek.
‘I wish my hair was straight.’
‘I do not.’
‘I wanted to say . . .’ Why was Will talking about her hair? She tugged at the sodden ringlet and tried to tuck it back behind her ear, though by a brush of dampness, seconds later, she knew the strand had bounced out of place. Two days ago Will had kissed her, and now they were together again – and alone. She wanted to ask what he felt for her, but how could she in all modesty?
‘Is it true you are sailing for the Indies?’ she blurted out at last.
‘Yes.’
‘Yes,’ she echoed softly, suddenly hurt – hurt so much she was lost for words.
Will gazed at her steadily.
‘Once Captain Drake has provisioned his ship, then we’ll set sail. Your father may help with that. He’s backed the Captain before. But we may not be ready for another month.’
‘Only a month?’ She looked at his strong, solemn face, and the sandy stubble over his firm chin. ‘I thought your business was here, in Plymouth.’
He gave a nod.
‘I have a journeyman who can manage my affairs while I am gone. My business is caulking ships, and there’s a need for such skills on a long voyage.’
What was going through his mind? Why had he kissed her when clearly he never meant to stay? She felt wretched. Were his blunt answers meant to tell her that she did not feature in his plans, as if they had never shared any intimacy, as if there had been no kiss? Did she mean nothing to him?
He half closed his eyes.
‘I have to go. I swore I would, for my brother’s sake. On my last voyage to the Indies, he was taken prisoner by the Spaniards. I’ll probably never find him. But I must try, and if I fail, then at least I’ll have a chance to be avenged.’
‘For the loss of your brother?’
‘For the loss of Kit, and many others.’ His face darkened. ‘For what the Spaniards did at San Juan de Ulúa.’
She thought back to what Nan and Lettie had told her, sensing both anguish and rage deep within him and that, whatever had happened at that place, it was driving him still. She watched him open his hands, palms uppermost, and rest them on his knees.
‘I hoped that by explaining you would understand,’ he said.
‘I do,’ she whispered, stunned by the glimpse of vulnerability she had seen in him, wanting at once only to show that he could trust her.
He moved his hands towards hers, gently covering them.
‘There are gentlemen who will pay court to you, but I hope you will not rush into accepting anyone.’
She bowed her head.
‘I must do as my father bids me.’
‘Wait for me.’ He leaned towards her and raised her right hand to his lips, catching her eye as he did. ‘Be strong and patient.’
It was too much. When he placed his arms around her, she gave way to his embrace, and the soft press of his lips, and the passion of his hold. Before the heat of the fire, hearing the hiss of burning wood, smelling damp wool and leather, she succumbed to a temptation that had been irresistibly gathering strength: to kiss him again – longer and harder. His hands were in her hair, on her throat, and hers were around his waist; then he was drawing her closer and she clung to him as he murmured, ‘Wait for me.’
Wait. She would wait . . .
Suddenly she broke free as tears welled in her eyes.
‘Wait for how long?’ She pulled away. ‘I may have no choice . . .’
He reached to soothe her, kissing her again, but she cried out the truth.
‘You are leaving – not I!’
As she pushed him back, she heard a rattling at the latch. Instantly they both sat straight.
She raised a hand self-consciously to her neck, and she felt the heavy links of the choker around her throat.
7
Beginning
‘. . . There must be a beginning of any great matter, but the continuing unto the end until it be thoroughly finished yields the true glory . . .’
—From a dispatch sent by Sir Francis Drake to Sir Francis Walsingham
Plymouth, England
October 1570
‘PLYMOUTH WILL NOT have seen such a spectacle since Catherine of Aragon first came here from Spain!’
Ellyn cringed. She shuddered to think how Will might take her father’s boasting, particularly since he was bragging about the prospect of her marriage to Godfrey Gilbert, and in front of the gentleman, too. She glanced surreptitiously across the table towards Will. They had hardly spoken for a week. After the closeness they had shared on the afternoon of the downpour there had been little opportunity for anything more than exchanging pleasantries. For days she had agonised over his behaviour, deciding one moment to forget him, and the next thinking of nothing else but him. But what would his opinion be of her now? He had been invited to dinner, along with John Drake and Master Gilbert, and her father was talking about her marriage as if she was already betrothed. She was anxious to assure Will that was not so. She searched his expression for a look of understanding, but he regarded her as impassively as moon-faced John Drake beside him. She prepared for her discomfort to grow worse. Her father was enjoying himself.
‘Would you like two little blackamoor pages to carry your train, my dear?’
She would not, but he would not want to hear that. Indeed, it was plain her father expected no response from her at all. He addressed Master Gilbert sitting beside him, while she, on his other side, could follow everything he said.
‘We shall have pages, and maids in matching colours scattering enough tussie-mussies to make the streets around St Andrews smell like a pomander!’
By way of emphasis, he pulled a rose from the nosegay that adorned the table, sniffed it theatrically, and threw it down to join the other scented flowers carefully scattered over the floor, an action that set the dogs squabbling with low frustrated growls.
‘Ha!’ her father roared. ‘The people will not know themselves.’
Ell
yn winced. What really worried her was that Will might assume her father’s ambitions regarding her marriage had been nourished with her support. Will’s coolness was unsettling. She expected him to show some hint of being concerned, instead of listening calmly, as he was, while she was the one blushing hot. She longed for a draught of cold air. She was burning with discomfort and powerless to prevent her father from embarrassing her even more.
‘If this venture meets half the promise,’ he boomed, ‘we shall have a pageant of liveried musicians playing hautboys and flutes!’ Her father downed his drink and stifled a belch. ‘So, gentlemen, you should know that much more than my purse is committed to your success. My daughter’s happiness depends on it also!’
Ellyn looked away, as if the daughter he spoke of had not yet been seen in the room.
But the remark was not lost on John Drake. He responded drily, ‘The wedding will await our return?’
‘Most certainly, sir,’ her father confirmed in good humour. ‘The wedding will require your return.’
‘I shall look forward to it.’ John Drake added.
‘And I.’ Will glanced towards Ellyn, but she turned aside.
She could not accept that, truly, Will might have meant what he said. Was he really looking forward to her marrying Master Gilbert? She prayed he was merely being polite.
‘I am sure you will be prepared to wait, my sweet,’ her father said, squeezing her hand, ‘for the prospect of a more glorious conclusion.’
She stiffened while Master Gilbert smiled, head on one side like a jackdaw that has spotted something shiny to steal. At least her father was not planning on her marrying very soon, but that was little comfort since her betrothal seemed a certainty.
Her father turned to his guests.
‘My Ellyn is blessed with the patience of a queen. She will wait like Penelope weaving her endless web to preserve her purity for the one to whom destiny has joined her—’
Ellyn groaned inwardly, and breathed a sigh of relief when he tailed off.
‘—but we will pray for the voyage to be swift as well as prosperous.’
John Drake offered him reassurance.
‘We should be back before next winter, given favourable winds.’
Ellyn cast Will a desperate look, but he did not meet her eye. With her spirits sinking, she guessed that Will meant to go as he had told her. He had not changed his mind. He would be sailing on the Swan and, when the ship returned, her wedding with Master Gilbert would be arranged.
‘A spring wedding!’ her father said. ‘What could be more propitious?’
The smile he gave her revealed the decay in his teeth; it stretched the pox scars over his nose, sent blood rushing to burst vessels, and wrung the bags under his watery eyes, but it tempered her frustration. She kept quiet and thought fast. Why was her father so keen for her to be married after Francis Drake’s return and not before? There could be only one motive, she reasoned: money. Her father was plainly intent on making the wedding an occasion to impress the whole of Plymouth, one that would advance the names of Cooksley and Gilbert, and bring both houses to the attention of the most distinguished and powerful. He must be expecting a considerable profit, one much greater than the gain he had already made. Yet how? She assumed an air of guileless interest and fished lightly for an explanation.
‘Might the trading on this next voyage be any different to the last, Master Drake?’
John Drake regarded her blank-faced, then answered unhelpfully, ‘Aye, that you could say, Mistress Ellyn, the trade will be different.’
‘Most delicately put!’ her father guffawed. ‘Yes, verily, it will be a man’s trading, a more lusty trading!’
The substance of what he meant was a mystery to her, but Ellyn was used to her father’s bombast, knowing that he liked to hint at matters that he believed were beyond the understanding of women. But she was not stupid.
‘And more hazardous?’ she suggested, hoping that Will would not be in danger, but at the same time wondering whether her marriage was such a certainty.
Master Gilbert was dismissive.
‘You need not concern yourself, my dear.’
Her father waved his hand limply as if his rings were heavy weights.
‘There will be little risk. Be content to know that we have an opportunity to improve on the methods that the Hawkins brothers have found useful.’
‘Involving no slaves?’ she asked quickly.
‘No slaves,’ Will replied.
‘And no danger to your father,’ John Drake added, not to be outdone in enlightening her. ‘Though he stands to receive no less than if he accompanied us.’
‘Accompanied you? Surely not!’ Ellyn made the comment lightly, but she noticed the frown that began to draw John Drake’s brows a little closer. She looked boldly back at him, confident he would not be so rude as to ignore her. ‘Are any who are not mariners to sail with you?’
John Drake shrugged.
‘Richard Dennys has asked to come.’
‘Dennys of Exeter!’ Master Gilbert exclaimed. Ellyn thought he sounded petulant.
John Drake nodded.
‘Aye.’
‘The folly of that does not surprise me,’ Master Gilbert went on. ‘He is young, loud-mouthed and hot-headed.’
Will ended the awkward silence that followed.
‘We advised against it,’ he said. ‘There is no need for any merchant to make the voyage.’
Her father blew out his cheeks.
‘Ah! But Dennys has a nose for commerce for all his wind and frivolities. He has proved it. The young man made a ransom salting in pilchards for France before the fish laws were tightened . . .’
Ellyn guessed her father was ruminating on the possibility that Master Dennys might be stealing a march. She detected the rumble of anxiety in his bluster.
‘How can men of the sea be expected to understand the subtleties of commerce?’ her father said, becoming louder. ‘They may trade for profit, but will it be the best? Will they be ambassadors for future dealings when relations may become . . .’
Ellyn held her breath.
‘Strained,’ he said at last.
Ellyn hoped he would end there since she could see that his argument was close to causing offence, but he swaggered on.
‘Dennys will have good reason for going, I know it. He will be intent on establishing contacts, he will be monopolising, fraternising—’
‘I will not go,’ Master Gilbert cut in, as if he felt the sting of some personal challenge.
Her father huffed, puffed and made Ellyn so alarmed she took hold of his arm, but he pulled away.
‘Zounds, sirrah! No one has suggested it!’ He thumped the table. ‘I will go!’
‘No, sir!’ Will exclaimed under his breath.
‘No! You cannot . . .’ Ellyn pleaded, stunned.
At the same instant, John Drake began a dogged reasoning.
‘Pray, consider, Master Cooksley. It may not be possible . . .’
With a louder thud on the table her father silenced them all.
‘Unless it is possible, I shall be unable to offer my support. An investment requires confidence.’
‘This is madness,’ Will murmured.
John Drake looked uneasy.
‘There are few above thirty years who will sail with us.’
Her father’s response was visible fury. His hand shook as he clenched it in a fist. His face turned livid.
‘Are only the young fit for endeavour?’ he railed. He brought his fist to his chest. ‘My heart beats as strong as yours, my head is as sound and I have the stomach for the task.’
‘Think of dear Mother.’ Ellyn tried desperately to deflect him but was ignored. She appealed to Will. ‘Master Doonan, please tell my father he cannot go!’
‘Good sir,’ Will said, though without the severity she would have liked, ‘you should allow yourself time to reflect.’
Her father shook his head and fixed John Drake with an obdurate l
ook.
‘Let me suggest a new proposal. Take me with you, and I shall double my advance, enough for all your provisioning. Put that to your brother, sir. Francis Drake should be satisfied.’
John Drake was satisfied, Ellyn could tell. She heard some talk about discussing the matter, and the limitations of space aboard one small ship, but there was no attempt to argue further. Will looked grim and said nothing more.
When both men rose to leave, Ellyn realised that her father was determined upon sailing with them, and that it would be well-nigh impossible to make him change his mind. He would do it, however grave his own misgivings, because he was proud and stubborn and he would not be seen to back down. She knew him. He was obstinate and vain – and selfish, too. He had plainly not given a thought to the effect of his recklessness on his family, or anyone else who cared for him.
Who would look after his business while he was away? The answer was smiling at her. Ellyn watched Master Gilbert take his leave with the pitying grace of a triumphant champion. John Drake followed, and Will made his departure in a way that left her feeling as if she had been slapped. He was abandoning her, and her betrothal to Godfrey Gilbert was almost a certainty. Worse still, her father was now determined on joining Drake’s voyage.
Her father breathed heavily, leaned on his stick, and grimaced when he bowed. But she wanted to seize his stick and bring it down over his rump. He was a capricious old fool, yet she could not say that to his face. There was only one suggestion she could think of making that might have the effect of weakening his resolve.
As soon as they were alone she flung her arms around him.
‘Dear Father, do not go.’
He shrugged her off.
‘I have decided!’
She held him again.
‘If you insist on accompanying Francis Drake, then I must go, too. You will require a companion – someone who understands your needs. I will—’
