Cate of the Lost Colony

by Lisa Klein

  “Cat! Frances!” came the queen’s commanding voice. “You will accompany me to Durham House within the hour.”

  Flushed with exertion and excitement, I appealed to Emme. “Please help me get ready. I am hardly fit to be seen.”

  She set down the muddy pantofles she had been cleaning. “You must wear my yellow satin bodice. It makes your dark hair stand out,” she said. She helped me dress, combed my curls, fitted my cap, and plaited some of my hair around it.

  Frances had put on a dark blue gown over her best petticoat, her gift from the queen.

  “Are you going to be a bold Cat today and speak to Master Ralegh?” she asked.

  I glared at her. “Perhaps.”

  “This may be your chance,” said Emme. “Listen well and observe the queen’s disposition. If she invites you to speak, choose words brief and fitting, uttered in a moderate voice.”

  But I was full of doubts. “Tell me what I should say,” I pleaded. “I know Ralegh wants to sail to North America, but I don’t even know where that is.”

  Emme bit her lip. “You look too lovely. Perhaps you should remain silent. Speak only if the queen is absent, or she may become jealous.”

  Looking in a glass, I saw that my bodice was too revealing. I arranged the lace-edged partlet to cover more of my breasts.

  “Don’t do that,” Frances said, tugging my partlet downward again. “No one will bother to lay eyes on you if there is nothing to see.”

  Seeing how Frances relished my discomfort, I was determined not to show any. So I let the air chill my bosom as we walked the short way to Durham House. Frances and I held up the queen’s train, while our own skirts were left to brush the dusty cobbles. I knew Frances was silently fretting about her treasured petticoat.

  Walter Ralegh himself met us at the gate, attended by a dozen or more gentlemen. I thought him resplendent in a doublet of bright blue taffeta with wide, slashed sleeves, matching trunk hose, and a buff-colored jerkin. Gold buckles shone on his shoes. He led the way through halls and stairways hung with Flemish tapestries as richly hued as any in Whitehall Palace. The queen stopped often to admire them, which seemed to please Ralegh.

  On the topmost floor of Durham House was the library, a room filled with books, maps, strange instruments, and a globe of the world. The windows were open, letting in the cries of hawkers in the streets and wherrymen on the river. As Elizabeth entered the library, three men waiting there dropped to their knees.

  “Thomas Harriot at Your Majesty’s service,” said one of them to the floor. He had wispy hair and a beard to match and wore the long black robe of a scholar. The queen bade him rise.

  “Thomas and I were at Oxford together,” said Ralegh. “He is a scholar of languages, a conjurer of numbers, and an expert in navigation.” Then he introduced the other two men, captains of the ships he would send to North America. One was dark and of small stature, while the other was tall with an honest gaze.

  Frances and I seated ourselves on a bench by the door. The queen picked up a compass—the only instrument I recognized—and examined it, then addressed herself to the business of Harriot and the captains. I tried to follow the conversation, but it contained many unfamiliar words and phrases.

  “Will Your Majesty consent to peer through my radius astronomicus, with which I view the stars?” asked Harriot, his voice rising with excitement.

  “I should like nothing better,” she said.

  “It is in my chamber under the eaves,” said Harriot.

  “Then let us go there,” she said, putting down the compass. “Come, gentlemen.”

  But Ralegh demurred. “Thomas’s room is quite small. I crave Your Majesty’s permission to wait here.”

  The queen nodded and left the library with Harriot and the captains. Ralegh bowed as she passed, and when he stood upright again he was smiling. Frances poked me. I opened my mouth but no words came out. There was so much I wanted to ask, I didn’t know where to begin.

  Frances stepped into the silence. “Master Ralegh, if you please, where is North America?”

  He beckoned us to the table, on which a large map was spread, the corners held down with books. He pointed to England, then ran his finger across the map, leaning slightly into me as he did so, and rested it on North America.

  He smelled of civet. Father always wore civet, too. A wave of longing surged in me, but I pushed it down and stared at the map. England, our island kingdom, was crowded with names of rivers and towns. But North America, inside her jagged coastline, was a blank, featureless expanse. Tiny ships marked the seas between the two lands.

  Frances touched a ship, then measured the gap between England and North America with her spread fingers. “That’s not so far to sail,” she said.

  I felt nervous laughter bubble up inside me. “Oh, silly Frances, the ships are not drawn to their true proportion,” I said. “If they were, this one would be greater than all of London!”

  I clapped my hand to my mouth, embarrassed at my outburst. Frances slunk back to her stool, sat down, and stared at a shelf of books. I felt guilty for shaming her and knew that I would undoubtedly pay for it.

  Ralegh was too much of a gentleman to laugh at either of us. But I detected a note of humor in his voice when he said, “And you, Lady Catherine, would you like to travel on such a great ship as that?”

  His deep voice reverberated within me. I kept my eyes fixed on the map, thinking how immense the world was, and how I longed to see more of it beyond London, even beyond England.

  “Oh yes!” But where to, I could not say. “Tell me about your voyages, Master Ralegh.”

  “Twice I sailed for North America with my kinsman Sir Humfrey Gilbert. On last year’s voyage we were unlucky. A contagion swept through my crew and I was forced to turn my ship back. Humfrey continued, but foul weather and mists kept him from making landfall, and on his return, a tempest in the Azores sank his vessel and drowned him.”

  “Why do you want to go back, if it is so dangerous?” I asked.

  “The promise of riches!” He whispered near my ear, making the skin on my neck tingle. Then he laughed and drew back. “While I was yet a student of the law, one Martin Frobisher sailed northwest in search of a passage to the Indies. He did not find it, but he returned with barrels of black stone said to contain great wealth. Then the refiners could not extract the gold. It is my belief that they stole the riches.”

  “Perhaps he was deceived and the rocks did not contain gold,” I suggested.

  Ralegh shook his head. “Others have returned with pieces of gold this size.” He made a fist. “The Spanish strike their coins from gold hewed from mountains in the Americas. If they can do it, so can we.” His eyes blazed with passion.

  I felt a shiver of excitement. “But don’t the Spanish rule the seas and capture any vessel that crosses their path?”

  “My ships have outrun their galleons, boarded them, and brought home prizes,” he boasted. “Her Majesty turns a blind eye to such lawbreaking, and so it flourishes. When Francis Drake returned from sailing around the world, he had nearly a million pounds of booty. Most of it he kept,” he added.

  I saw the hunger in his eyes at the thought of such wealth.

  “What kind of people did the explorers find?” I asked, my coyness now driven away by curiosity.

  “Frobisher brought back some natives called Eskimo. I saw one with these very eyes. In the harbor at Bristol he showed his skills, handling a boat made out of a single hollow tree and spearing ducks as they flew through the air.”

  “What did this … Eskimo … look like?” I asked, struggling with the unfamiliar word.

  “His face was round with narrow black eyes. He wore a garment of skin and fur down to his feet.”

  My eyes followed the downward sweep of Ralegh’s hands, noticing his well-turned legs in their fitted canions and stockings.

  “What became of him?”

  “He suffered an excess of phlegm in the blood, which gave his skin a sall
ow hue. He died, like the others.”

  “Perhaps he was overcome with grief at being taken from his land, then watching his fellows die,” I said, hearing my voice catch. It was hard to quell that sadness for my father.

  Ralegh seemed to read my thoughts. “Your father was a true and courageous servant of the queen,” he said in a low voice. “I did enjoy his company, and I find his daughter even more engaging.”

  I blinked and a tear fell onto my sleeve. Ralegh handed me a handkerchief edged in lace. It carried his scent, manly but sweet. I thought of the cloak he had spread at the queen’s feet.

  “How attentive you are … to mop the waters that … hinder ladies.” Even as I spoke, I knew that my attempt at wit had failed.

  “I miss your meaning, Lady Catherine.”

  So I shook out the handkerchief, laid it on the book, and walked my fingers over it. Ralegh threw back his head and laughed. His mirth was like a gust of wind. I tightened my fingers around the handkerchief.

  Then I felt his hand cover mine. His palm was hot. He separated my fingers with his own, then drew out the soft folds of cambric between them. I glanced up and his eyes, light brown in hue, held mine. A flush suffused my throat and rose to my face. I shifted my eyes to the pearl gleaming at his ear.

  “I didn’t mean to keep it,” I said, releasing the handkerchief.

  “But I mean for you to have it,” he said. He began to feed it into my sleeve, beginning at my wrist. His fingers played against the skin of my forearm as the handkerchief disappeared. I was too startled to say a word.

  Footsteps sounded in the hall. I turned and saw Frances standing midway between the bench and the table. Had she seen Ralegh give me the handkerchief? Then the door was flung open and the queen entered just as Walter dropped my arm and I folded my hands in front of me. I was sure my face was the color of vermilion. With my thumb I tucked the lace edges of the handkerchief out of sight.

  “Is not Thomas’s scope an amazing instrument?” asked Ralegh, clapping his hands together.

  “Indeed,” said the queen in a clipped voice. “Now I should like to discuss the greater purpose of this voyage.”

  Ralegh nodded but before he could speak, the queen went on.

  “I am not so foolhardy as to send my subjects to colonize a land about which we are ignorant, lest we fare no better than the Spaniards. Their cruelty incites the Indians to murder any European who steps on their shores.”

  “I would not send men to their slaughter,” said Ralegh in deep earnest. “Not for a mere puff of fame.”

  “Nor will I tolerate adventuring for the sake of gain,” said the queen. “Our purpose must be to bring true religion to the pagan peoples and induce them to follow the laws and customs of England.”

  “I heartily agree, Your Grace,” said Ralegh. “Thus the chief aim of this first voyage,” he continued with silver-tongued eloquence, “and the best hope of our future success, will be to study this yet-unknown land, its flora and fauna, and most especially its human inhabitants, that we might learn their language and customs and begin our venture in mutual friendship.”

  I saw how Ralegh’s words worked magic on the queen. Her severe look softened into one of admiration, even affection. She stepped closer, lifting her eyes to his.

  “And how, my dear Warter, will you do that?”

  In a tone of triumph, Ralegh announced, “I will return with a tribute for Your Majesty, a relic of that far realm—that is, a natural inhabitant of the New World. I will bring back an Indian!”

  For the rest of the day I felt the handkerchief against my skin and reviewed in my mind the scene in the library. I had been drawn to Walter Ralegh like a piece of iron to a magnet. A curiosity I hardly knew I possessed had driven me to question him boldly. Like one starving for knowledge I had devoured his stories. I had even touched his hand! Was it wrong for me to let his fingers press my arm? I couldn’t ask Frances, for as a Puritan she disapproved of everything pleasurable. I wondered again if she had seen Ralegh give me the handkerchief. Surely his back had hidden our hands from her view. But she must have seen the turmoil written on my face.

  That night when I undressed I secreted the handkerchief in the pocket of my nightshift. After lying down I took it out, sniffed it, and felt the lace edging all around. In one corner my fingers encountered raised stitching. Was it an emblem or lettering, a message in the cloth? I slipped from my bed and went to the the window to examine the handkerchief in the moonlight.

  Embroidered in the corner were the initials E.R.

  Elizabeth Regina.

  The handkerchief had been a gift from the queen to Ralegh!

  When the queen sent for me the next day, I was certain that she knew I had the handkerchief. But Her Majesty only gave me a ruff to set and asked me which jewel best became her, a cluster of rubies or an amethyst brooch. I recommended the rubies and, filled with relief, turned to leave.

  “Catherine,” she said, using my full name. My heart skipped a beat as I turned to face her again.

  “Yes, Your Grace?”

  “Cats are averse to water, are they not?” She peered at me with her keen eyes.

  “Yes, usually they are. But I once had a kitten who liked to wash herself in a bucket—” I broke off, realizing that the queen had pronounced “water” as “Warter.” Was she teasing me or warning me about Ralegh? What did she know? That depended on what Frances had heard with those big ears of hers.

  Feigning innocence I asked, “Why should your Cat be afraid of the water?”

  “Because I should not like her to drown,” Elizabeth replied mildly.

  Chapter 5

  From the Papers of Walter Ralegh

  14 April 1584

  To Capts. Philip Amadas and Arthur Barlowe,

  Everything necessary for the provisioning and rigging of two ships is being assembled and sent to the warehouse at Southampton. (Per attached inventory.)

  Please review and inform me of any omissions or further requirements prior to your departure.

  Yours,

  Master W. Ralegh

  P.S. In answer to your earlier query, I will not be sailing. The sea does not agree with me.

  24 April 1584

  To Capt. Arthur Barlowe,

  I am pleased to hear all is ready for embarkation. I hereby charge you with the following duties on this voyage.

  1. Record the particulars of your journey, your observations of the natives and their customs, and the flora and fauna of the land. Your descriptions must be positive, that those who read your account will be given to wonder, not to fear, and induced to support future expeditions.

  2. Bring back a savage, the very finest of his kind. Let no force be used. In your dealings with the Indians, do nothing to offend them, but treat them with humanity, so they will be inclined toward friendship with us.

  3. Survey the land for an outpost suitable for launching raids that shall serve two purposes: harassing Spain and financing our ventures. Remember, the risk itself brings reward.

  Finally, although you and Amadas share the captaincy of this venture, you are to defer to the pilot Fernandes on matters relating to navigation, in which he has the greatest experience.

  With every expectation of your success, I bid you bon voyage and await your return in the fall.

  W.R.

  Memorandum

  Debts owed: Tailor, £125 (new cloak, shoes, suit & hat w. feathers)

  Hostler, £250 (for 5 horses)

  Armorer, £73 (one suit, including etching)

  Salaries, £1,737 (for 35 men)

  Income: Estates in Devonshire and Oxford, £625

  Due from cloth exports, £87

  Wine farm (due from last harvest), £330

  Net owed: £1,143

  Write to Carew for more funds & report on Devonshire investors.

  Cannot find that damned handkerchief my royal mistress gave me. What if she asks about it? She likes to see her gifts displayed. Where did I lose that thing?


  3 May 1584. At the Boar’s Head tonight, Dick Tarleton settled a dispute between two soldiers over a certain lady.

  “You are a very peasecod, or should I say codpiece?” he said to one then reviled the other. “Your wit’s as thick as mustard and your brain moldy from lack of use.” When the combatants were shaken with laughter and consequently harmless, they dropped their fists and were made friends again.

  How I admire that fool’s wit!

  Later a comely wench offered herself to me, promising delights that not long ago I would have seized. Yet I declined them, which caused my drinking companion to mock my manliness. Remembering Tarleton’s jest, I called him a “green peasecod with no more wit than a mustard seed,” and upon realizing I had muddled the jest I threw the alepot at his head and kicked over the table.

  Alas, where has my wit fled? Has love done this to me? Can I still write a passing good verse?

  To C.A.

  O lady whom I in silence serve,

  Know the depth of my desire.

  Only you I aim to deserve,

  That your grace might slake this scalding fire.

  Send me a secret token

  To show the depth of your desire.

  Say your love is not bespoken,

  And with your grace, O slake my scalding fire!

  After twelve days of silent torment, a letter! How firm her hand, how well-chosen each word.

  Dear Master Ralegh,

  I do not deserve your gracious attention. Yet I crave to hear from your lips more tales of sea travelers. Can a lady desire to be a discoverer?

  My wealth being slender, I have no token of value to send you, but I declare I am not bespoken to anyone, save my royal mistress on whom my fortune depends. Therefore burn this in your scalding fire, lest it fall into an unfriendly hand.