by Jenny Barden
She tried to pray, but her fingers curled and tightened into fists.
The friar was kneeling at her side. She heard only the fuzz of noises outside the house: the pattering rain and soughing sea. Then in a voice that rumbled as if turning over stones, the friar led her with words she had learnt as an infant and used long ago.
‘Pater noster, qu es in caelis . . .’
‘Our Father, which art in heaven . . .’
They prayed together, and in time he must have left, because she found herself alone with her father, and so drained of passion that she entered a strange calm. She knew what to do, and she began without hurry, and with a singular strength, first to undress, then clean, and lastly to clothe her father in his best shirt and hose, his finest breeches and satin doublet. She drew Nan’s rabbit-fur cape around his bony shoulders, and buckled his girdle round his waist with his account book attached, together with his tankard and knife.
The friar returned. She looked up once and saw his face clearly. It was the shape of a gourd: wider at the eyes with a long narrow jaw, swarthy and smooth-skinned, save for two deep lines either side of his solemn mouth. Though lightly built, he managed, with her help, to move her father to the kersey cloth she had spread out over a sheet of canvas on the ground. While she knelt by her father, she heard the friar leave.
She saw Thom, too. He drew close beside her, and pushed back his hair when he pulled off his cap. His cheeks were flushed as if he had been running for a while, but he did not look upset to see their father on the cloth, neither did their mother who carried on sewing. Ellyn saw her better when Thom crouched down. She was sitting nearby, working with her needle on a pattern of birds and leaves, her head tipped to one side in an attitude of listening, though no one spoke until the friar returned and began reading.
‘Amen,’ he concluded, and closed the Bible in his hands.
So be it, Ellyn thought. The friar addressed someone else at the door. Who was that? She saw a small, black-skinned boy whose only clothing was a loin-cloth of red calico. Where had he come from? Had she seen him by the boat? She could not remember. The friar wrapped her father in the kersey and then took the corners of the canvas at the end above his head. The boy grasped the canvas below her father’s feet, but he was only a child, and so she helped him. Together they shuffled to the doorway with the burden slung between them. She stretched out her hands to shield her father from being knocked.
They were in a clearing, surrounded by brush, on a shelf of higher ground behind the mangroves that fringed the beach, and beside the friar were several Indian men and the small boy in red calico. Everything was finished. The earth was piled up, and the friar had made a cross from branches that the boy had found. She would have stayed, but the friar and the boy led her away, and she did not resist since she had decided to return for her father’s hat, certain he should have that on the cross, since she had forgotten to give it back. When the friar tried to lead her to the boat, she shook free of his grasp, making clear her choice with the only word she knew that she was sure he would comprehend.
‘No,’ she cried. ‘No!’
His eyes were full of pity, and she believed he meant well – he had helped her, after all. But she turned away and made for the shelter. Low voices receded behind her, together with thuds and splashes and the slap of oars. She knew the friar and his men were leaving, and she did not mind.
She found the hat, but in the quiet of the shelter sudden exhaustion overcame her. Curling over on her pallet, she dragged the sheets into a knot and buried her face in the folds. She did not want to be alone. She wanted someone strong beside her. She wanted Will. Then she became conscious of someone’s touch, and she realised, through her tears, that a child’s hand was clutching her sleeve, one that was small and black, and that close to her face was a child’s warm, bare chest. So she supposed that the boy in red calico must have been sent back to stay with her. She could feel the boy trembling and she took him into her arms.
Pressing her cheek against his, she surrendered to her need for someone to hold.
14
The Web
‘. . . For falsehood now doth flow,
And subjects’ faith doth ebb,
Which should not be if reason ruled
Or wisdom weaved the web . . .’
—From The Doubt of Future Foes, a poem by Queen Elizabeth I, assumed to have been written in 1571 following the discovery of the ‘Ridolfi Plot’: a conspiracy to betray her involving Mary Queen of Scots and King Philip II of Spain
‘MASTER COOKSLEY WAS alert when I last saw him.’ Will glanced from Mistress Cooksley to the black velvet cap he was turning in his hands. What could he say of Cooksley’s illness that would not cause his wife great distress? ‘However, he took any disturbance badly. Your daughter insisted he should not attempt the voyage, and I believe she was right in her thinking. He was too ill for a long journey. To recover he needed rest.’
Will swallowed and crushed the pile of the cap beneath his fingers, smoothing it as soon as he realised what he was doing. How could he explain the fact that he was in Plymouth, in Cooksley’s house, in the lady’s chamber, while her husband and daughter had been left in the Americas?
‘He could not sail with us; neither could we remain with him. The Spaniards were looking for us. We were not strong enough to oppose them directly.’
‘Was my husband strong enough?’
Mistress Cooksley looked up from her sewing. The intensity of her gaze made Will pause; her question struck straight at his conscience.
‘No . . . no, he was not,’ he answered quietly. He shook his head. He had imagined the meeting would be difficult, but that had been poor preparation. He felt accused by what he was saying. ‘The Spaniards were looking for Captain Drake, not Master Cooksley; that is the point. It was Drake they wanted, and those who sailed the Swan.’
Lowering his eyes, Will began turning the cap in his hands again, watching the colour of the velvet changing through shade after shade of black. Ellyn had charged him with explaining gently, but how could he?
‘If any of Drake’s men had stayed with your husband and been found, then your husband would have been counted with them. Mistress Ellyn understood this. She knew that the Spaniards would see her and her father alone as no threat, so bravely she chose to remain with him, though I entreated her not to. Heaven knows, I did not want to leave them.’ He sighed. The explanation had seemed like an excuse, and a weak one at that.
‘And now you regret that you did,’ Mistress Cooksley said softly.
‘Yes,’ he confessed. He could not deny it, and somehow, improbably, she appeared to understand. He had expected her to blame him or weep, but instead she resumed her sewing, pulling through a tiny needle that trailed a fine crimson thread.
‘My husband knew the dangers of the enterprise. It was his choice to confront them, though perhaps he believed he could still act as a young man.’
She looked saddened, but she preserved an air of calm. Her hands did not shake, and she continued with her stitching methodically. The pattern was very large: some sort of counter-pane, Will imagined. Where the embroidery was complete, it made an elaborate intertwining of stems and leaves, with fanciful birds amongst other details he could not place. But he noticed that the part she was working on was stark. All he could see were stems, as if winter had come and all the life had died back.
He had done as Ellyn had asked. He had assured Mistress Cooksley that her husband and daughter loved her; perhaps that accounted for her fortitude. She seemed to accept everything else with equanimity. When she spoke again she did so without any hint of the reproach he was expecting.
‘My daughter’s case is different. I believe she had little understanding of what she would face in running away.’
‘That is true. No one told her.’ Will thought of the banter he had exchanged with Ellyn before the voyage. He had never meant to tease her into risking her life to join him, but perhaps that was the reality. ‘No o
ne thought she might stow away.’ He regarded the lady steadily, hoping for an answer to the mystery he could not conclusively explain. Why had Ellyn hidden herself on the Swan? Mistress Cooksley lowered her head over her sewing. What did she know? It surprised him that she appeared to be aware of the true nature of the enterprise, or at least its dangers, yet he was sure that Ellyn had been in ignorance; she seemed to have believed she was stealing away on an exciting journey, nothing more. He smoothed the pile over the crown of his cap. ‘But we will bring Mistress Ellyn back. We are preparing for another venture, with two ships and more arms . . .’
A disturbance at the door made him glance round. Then he saw Old Nan enter, bearing a tray set with a jug and glasses, and behind her were several maids lingering in the shadows beyond the frame: Lettie and Jane, if he was not much mistaken. Nan shuffled towards her mistress stoop-backed, with a wobble to her carrying that set the glasses lightly clinking. Both ladies looked as if they had aged by more than the year since he had seen them last. He supposed the worry had taken its toll. Nan put the tray down with a wince of discomfort.
‘Here be some wine, Mistress, warmed as you like it.’ She craned round to peer at Will with a crumpled and toothless smile. ‘Oh, Master Doonan, forgive me but I could not help but hear your talk of arms. Pray that you deliver good Master Cooksley and poor, innocent Mistress Ellyn from those devilish, murderous Spaniards. Since we heard they were not come back with you, we have been sleepless with worry . . .’
‘Nan, please.’ Mistress Cooksley stopped the outburst mildly.
Will stood up and put on his cap.
‘I have said all I meant to, and I must be going. We will be sailing again very soon.’
Mistress Cooksley set aside her sewing, but he gestured to keep her from rising. She looked up.
‘Bid John Drake see me. I will give whatever help I can.’ She frowned and took a few laboured breaths. ‘God grant my husband and daughter still live.’
‘Oh, mercy, yes!’ Nan blurted out.
‘Aye.’ Will nodded. ‘God grant that, and I’ll not return without them, not again.’ He meant it, from the bottom of his heart and the core of his soul. ‘I swear it – I’ll bring them back.’
The talk had helped clear his thinking, and had made him realise what he had not fully admitted to himself until that moment. Making his fortune was no longer important, not before finding Ellyn and ensuring her safety. He would go on the next voyage for her above all – to fetch her home, and her father, too, if he lived.
He should never have left them.
He kissed Mistress Cooksley’s hand, and she touched his cheek.
‘God be with you.’
Kit lay slumped on the track, one side of his face pressed against mud and stones, the other caked with blood and crawling with flies. When the horseman came near enough, that was when he would shout, but he would cry out in Spanish: ‘Tenga cuidado!’ The warning was the signal that had been agreed with his friends, and it should make the Spaniard freeze – it meant ‘Look out!’ The call would spring the trap.
With a single eye he peered at orange toadstools on a rotting branch. Creepers glistened in the gloom around giant roots folded like curtains by his head. He heard the clattering of hooves and the ragged tramp of men, though he sensed it more as a shivering in the ground. His left arm was crushed beneath the weight of his chest, and when he tried to flex his fingers they felt deadened and swollen. But he remained as he was, with his blood-soaked shirt slowly sticking to his back, and it comforted him to think of the blood as his shield. His appearance would protect him – the blood was not his.
He would wait. He would silently breathe the sour air, and not scratch at his scalp where it itched under the helmet, or brush away the insects, or wipe his stinging eye. As the noises became louder, he fixed his stare. He did not blink. The horseman was a blur at the edge of his vision, but he heard the ill-tempered voices and the changing beat that told him the column was slowing, and next that the Spaniard had dismounted and was striding towards him. He kept motionless. When the Spaniard’s boot pushed under his chin, he did not flinch. Then he screamed, ‘Tenga cuidado!’
The Spaniard staggered back as an arrow shot into his face. Kit rolled over and saw him swaying. More arrows struck the man’s breastplate, his thigh and his shoulder. The Spaniard’s wails soon subsided, drowned by the blood spilling from his mouth. The forest rang with howls and shrieks, the whinnying of the horse and the war cries of the cimarrones – the clang of machetes hitting steel – the chop of blades against flesh.
The Spaniard’s horse bolted and thundered by.
Kit crawled away. He glanced back once over his shoulder to check that no one was following. What he witnessed was half-hidden by showers of falling leaves. The Spaniards were snared by stems across the path: the trap that had been laid in front and behind them. As they struggled to get away, more stems tightened and caught their feet. He closed his eyes to the frenzied blows, and the glimpse of something bloody that wheeled like a cudgel thrown up into the air, and dropped trailing cloth to be lost in the vegetation. What was it? An arm? He looked again as he turned his head, and noticed the Negroes who had been captives cowering half-naked in a huddle. They were still roped at the neck. He had seen enough. He got unsteadily to his feet.
Walking along the path, he came to a place where light broke through the trees. Then he lifted his face to the sun, feeling the blood around his mouth tightening and cracking as he smiled. But his smile was a grimace between joy and despair, something that twisted between anguish and relief. Everything around him was green, and through the slits of his lids that colour was all he saw. He thought of sycamore sprigs gathered to welcome the best season, and drums beating loud in rowdy celebration. The sounds around him were much the same, though he knew what would be happening: the Spaniards who had escaped would be fleeing towards Nombre de Dios. Those left wounded would be killed. The fighting was almost over.
Kit pulled off the helmet that had hidden his blond hair, and raked his fingers over his scalp. Soon he would be back with the girl who had made him a home. He yearned to be with her. Ololade would wash the animal blood from his skin, and bring him clean clothes that once other men had worn. She would feed him choice meats, and give him drink to dull the worst memories. With oiled hands she would rub his body, from his neck to his feet, until he relaxed and curled against her, nuzzling at her breasts like a baby, and she would give him a mother’s comfort, stroking his hair and singing to him gently. Then afterwards he would be proud to have planned for what the Spaniards would do, to have understood their thinking, and so help free their poor captives. He would have no regrets, and his sorrow would be less.
He clenched his hands to stop them shaking. It was as much as he could do to live for each day.
At a sound Kit turned round. His friends were approaching in file along the track, together with all the Negroes no longer bound. The procession was led by Sancho: the giant with torn ears who had once fought over Ololade.
‘Ìyá Kit, we salute you!’ Sancho bowed from the waist and Kit returned the courtesy.
‘These men give thanks,’ Sancho said. ‘Gracias.’ Kit watched as the freed men sank to their knees. He gestured for them to rise, but none did; they touched their heads to the ground.
‘They honour you,’ Sancho explained.
Kit walked up to the first man; there were half a dozen in the line. He stopped and touched the man’s shoulder. ‘Tell him to get up.’
Sancho and the man commenced a brief exchange that Kit could not follow until Sancho spoke again.
‘They ask you to go with them. They have a village in the mountains. They want you to join them there.’
The first man looked up and reached for Kit’s right hand. Kit did not resist. He let the man stare at his scarred palm and press the mark to his brow. Then Kit understood. He stared at Sancho.
‘Have they heard of me?’
Sancho conversed with the men rapidl
y.
‘Sí. They look for you, but the Spaniards catch them. They seek “el inglés de la luna” – the Englishman who bears the mark of the moon. It is you they want.’
Kit looked askance at the row of naked bent backs. He shook his head.
‘Tonight you must eat in my house.’ Speaking quietly he moved along the line, allowing each man in turn to do the same as the first – to touch his hand. What did it matter?
‘Then tomorrow go back to your people.’ His voice hardened as he went on. ‘Tell no one where I am. I will not go with you. This is my place.’ He glanced up at the trees that rose sheer above his head. ‘Este cerro. This hill.’ From his hut, not far from Nombre de Dios, he could look out to sea – it was all he had left.
‘I will stay here.’
After months of rain and overcast skies, tempest-lashed days, and nights that languished in sultry stagnation, the clouds cleared at Christmas time, and, barely a week into the New Year, the fleet from Seville arrived at Nombre de Dios. Ellyn saw the white sails of the galleons and caravels as they entered the bay. Days later she saw them go. Since being left on Bastimentos, she had taken a keen interest in any ships passing by.
Marco had stayed with her: the small, black slave boy of the Spaniards who had worn red calico when she had seen him first, the day her father died and her world changed for ever. Marco had not left her since. With the exception of occasional visits from Friar Luis, the Dominican who had administered her father’s last rites, she and Marco were left undisturbed and untroubled by the servant gardeners who tended the island’s crops. Perhaps the Spaniards of Nombre de Dios feared she might give them her father’s disease. Perhaps she alarmed them, as a foreign lady, in a way they could not easily address. Whatever the reason, they left her alone, and that suited her well. She learned to be self-sufficient.
