by J. D. Davies
The Suffolk men were just seated upon stools, and a serving lad was bringing over their tankards, when Tom realised that their choice of hostelry might have been a mistake. Across the room, a large group of Devon men, all sailors by the look of them, were far gone in their cups, and casting suspicious or hateful looks toward the new arrivals. Tom recognised a handful of them. They were all men who sailed with Hawkins, or formed part of the large circle of bragging, strutting fellows who trailed after every successful captain, hoping for advancement and riches. One, of his own age and curly-haired, he knew a little, and knew for a boastful creature, full of his own importance. He was a distant cousin of Hawkins, had sailed with him to Guinea and the Americas, and had a swagger about him.
It was this curly-haired fellow who commenced proceedings.
‘So foreigners drink here now,’ he said loudly. It had taken Tom many months to comprehend how Devon men spoke, and for them to comprehend him, but even in drink, this man spoke with surprising clarity. ‘Strangers overrun our Plymouth, as God is my judge. Not just all the French and Flemings and Portingals and the rest of them – worse than any, I say.’
The men around him growled approval. Tom looked around the men of the Jennet, silently imploring them not to rise to the bait. They were good fellows, some of whom he had known since his childhood, and they complied.
‘Suffolk,’ said the man, warming to his theme. ‘What is this “Suffolk”, eh? Where is it? I’ll tell you, my boys. The Devil’s arsehole, that’s where it is.’ There was laughter at that; the Devon men plainly loved this fellow, and were hanging on his every word. ‘And there sit the Devil’s turds. I’ll wager they’re papists to a man – didn’t Cardinal Wolsey, that great Satan, hail from Suffolk?’ There were a few nods of assent. ‘Are they even Christian, though? I hear they worship statues and fuck their sisters since they can no longer get choirboys.’ More laughter, and the raising of tankards. ‘Whatever they are, they’re not English. Devon is the true England, boys, the very beating heart of England; we know that for sure, don’t we?’
One of the Suffolk men, an angry young foretopman named Mark Ferris, made to rise, but Tom put a hand on his arm and restrained him. The bold fellow was not finished, though, not by a large margin.
‘And that one. Stannard. What sort of name is that, eh? Stannard of Suffolk. A papist, I’ll wager again, from a land of papists, heathens and worse. Even dares to fuck a kind of kinswoman of mine—’
One last plea for restraint rose up in Tom’s thoughts, but was overwhelmed by a tidal wave of red fury. The dagger was in his hand in one moment, flying across the room in the next, buried in the wall just beside curly-head’s in the third. By then Tom was already halfway across the room, followed by the rest of the men of Dunwich. The Devon men rose as one to meet them.
With his eyes and thoughts still raging, Tom had little sense of what was happening around him, even less of time. One man stood between him and his tormentor, but Tom lowered his head and charged like a bull into the man’s stomach, driving him over a table, which overturned. He tried to pick himself up, but before he could do so, curly-head leapt on him from behind, his fingers seeking to gouge out his eyes. Tom wrestled him to the ground, forcing him onto his back, then freed his right hand enough to land a punch upon the fellow’s jaw. His opponent broke away and stood up, feeling his chin. All around was carnage. Stools were being broken upon skulls, blood and teeth flew, men cursed and screamed. It was impossible to tell whether Suffolk or Devon was prevailing.
Curly-head came at Tom again, swinging a punch at his head. Tom avoided the blow by swaying cleverly. He had been a feeble child, ever reminded of the fact by his sturdy elder sister, but he had remedied that by learning the art of the fists from German and Flemish sailors on the quays of Dunwich, then testing himself by wrestling in fairs from Lavenham to Thetford to Lowestoft. Now he counter-attacked, kicking at curly-head’s shin, a blow that connected. His assailant staggered backwards, but steadied himself and came again. Tom caught the glint of a blade, and knew that curly-head had drawn his dagger. Tom could handle himself with a knife, but his own was still stuck in the wall. So he circled, his arms outstretched. Curly-head thrust forward and stabbed, making a gash across Tom’s left forearm. But the move put him off balance, and Tom swung round with his right, seizing curly-head’s arm and pulling it upwards, leaving the dagger pointing harmlessly at the roof. The two men came together, sweating and breathing heavily, curly-head snarling obscenities through his teeth. He tried to punch at Tom with his left hand, but nothing he did could make Tom weaken the pressure on his opponent’s right arm.
The blade fell from curly-head’s grip, landing noisily upon the thinly-strawed floor of the alehouse.
Tom immediately followed up his advantage, swinging a sharp left uppercut into curly-head’s face. The man fell backwards, a torrent of blood flowing from his nose. Tom paused, trying to get his breath, and took the chance to look around him. It was clear that the men of the Jennet had prevailed. The Devonians were being pressed back toward the door, many of them nursing broken limbs and bloodied noses. Curly-head saw it too, and also began to retreat.
‘This is not finished, Stannard of Suffolk,’ he snarled. ‘This has barely started.’
Tom managed a smile, and nodded.
‘The only true thing you’ve said this day, Frank Drake.’
* * *
Catherine Stannard tended her husband’s wounds solicitously, if not entirely sympathetically, being of the opinion that a man approaching thirty and with significant responsibility for the Stannard trades and monies, not to mention two young sons, should know better than to involve himself in alehouse brawls. The chubby six-year-old face of Adam Stannard, their elder son, was serious at the best of times, but now its mask of disapproval would have done credit to the sternest Puritan preacher. Four-year-old Peter, though, was evidently delighted by this proof of his father’s martial skill, and wanted to know precise details of the fight.
‘These are not matters for one of your years,’ said Catherine.
‘But Mother—’
‘Enough, Peter Stannard!’ she said.
‘But Mother—’
The Stannards’ servant, a widow named Yeo, whose accent was very nearly impenetrable, came into the room, and Catherine gestured for her to take the boys away. Before she did so, though, Widow Yeo handed a letter to Tom, who recognised his father’s hand at once. He broke the seal and unfolded the paper.
‘Well, Thomas?’ said Catherine. ‘What is it to be? France again, or does he want you to take Jennet back to Dunwich?’
Tom could not read quickly, certainly when compared to his sister Meg, so he found it comforting that his wife could not read at all. But as he studied his father’s words, his frown deepened.
‘Thomas?’
‘There is to be a voyage,’ he said, finally. ‘A long voyage.’
‘Where, then? Spain? Italy? Muscovy?’
‘Guinea at the very least. Mayhap the Americas too. With Hawkins.’ Tom smiled grimly. ‘No doubt with Drake too, in that case.’
‘The Americas? With cousin John? In God’s name, why?’
‘Father does not say in so many words. He talks of it being the wish of men of influence – not named – and a likely source of great profit for us.’
Catherine Stannard stood, folded her arms, and pouted.
‘But those voyages take many months, Tom! Years, perchance! I will have to live as a spinster or a widow for all that time!’
He stood and went to the window. It was possible to see the mastheads of the ships in the harbour, and to hear the cries of the seabirds and those who worked the quays. He struggled to suppress the guilt he felt within. Yes, he was condemning Catherine to the life once lived in convents, but how would he, Thomas Stannard, endure so long a time in the company of men alone? He prayed that he would be strong, and not tempted into the most grievous of sins. The sin he had fallen into once, a very long time before.
Finally, he turned, crossed the room, and took his wife in his arms.
‘We have weeks, mayhap months, before you become anything akin to a spinster or a widow, Catherine Stannard. Ample time for me to give you enough memories to make that tolerable.’ He kissed her.
‘Memories, Thomas Stannard?’ She smiled. ‘Memories of what, pray?’
He cupped her breasts, then began to undo the ties of her kirtle.
‘Let me show you,’ he said.
Six
There was a popular saying in the alehouses of Dunwich. ‘There are no mountains in Suffolk,’ some wit or other would comment, gravely, before pausing for effect. ‘None, at any rate, but Goodwife Jennet Stannard.’
This was always certain to raise a hearty laugh among those assembled, no matter how many times they had heard it before, and even if they were still relatively sober. Some, including the lady in question, had accused Meg de Andrade of coining the jibe, but Meg always kept an entirely straight face and said nothing.
Whatever the truth of that matter, there could be no disputing another truth, namely that mountains tended not to move. In that, Jennet Stannard lived up to the jest at her expense. Since the growth of her girth and bosom, occasioned by six births and an unfailing liking for the largest cuts, she had rarely ventured beyond the Palesdyke. She, who had once gone frequently to London to visit her cousin Sir George Barne when he was an alderman and then Lord Mayor, now rarely ventured even as far as Blythburgh market. That being so, Meg boggled at the intelligence brought to her by Francis Birkes, who had overheard it in the Pelican in its Piety. Her stepmother had hired a particularly well-appointed cart, this being intended to carry her to the great Bungay fair, a good three-hour journey from Dunwich.
Curious.
Meg thanked God for another undoubted truth about mountains: namely, that if ever they should attempt to move, it was well-nigh impossible for them to do so discreetly. She also thanked her father for his foresight in teaching her to ride. It meant she felt no qualms about hiring a horse to carry her to Bungay and back, recruiting an eager Hugh Ebbes as her escort. Thus equipped, she rode out of Dunwich by way of St James Street, passing the now ruinous leper hospital where her grandfather had spent his last years, and made for the ancient road through the Westwood to Blythburgh, and thence north-west to Bungay.
* * *
Jack Stannard made enquiries after the man he sought at the Steelyard, but the Germans of the Hanse League who congregated there looked at him as though he were mad. One, though, was a little friendlier than the rest, and finally directed Jack to Queenhythe Dock. He walked the short distance west along the Thames by way of the quays, feeling more at home there than he did in Aldgate Street and the other environs of Will’s house. This was his world. Although only small craft usually plied here, just upstream of London Bridge, the grey-brown river was full of activity. Barges were being loaded or unloaded at the wharves, while others waited in the stream to take their place. Sailors and dock workers bawled at each other in a score of tongues. On the quays and wharves, the smells of tar, pitch, oil and dead fish pervaded all. Out in the middle of the river, though, very different craft plied back and forth. The familiar skiffs of the Watermen’s Company carried important men – and the occasional important woman – upstream and downstream, between Westminster and the City. There were also a few private barges, splendidly gilded and adorned with flags, carrying the even more important where they pleased.
Jack came at last to Queenhythe, the old dock close by St James Garlickhythe. Ahead, the huge walls and towers of Baynard Castle loomed above all. There were several vessels within Queenhythe, but he sought the largest, a foreign caravel that must have struggled to get through the bridge.
‘Ho, there!’ he cried. The ship, heeled hard against the quayside, appeared to be deserted. There were several large holes in the inboard, larboard side of the hull, sealed temporarily by tarpaulins. ‘Ho, I say! I seek one Bruno Cabral!’
There was no response. Jack boarded the ship, and repeated his call once again. Finally, there was a rustling below decks, then a head emerged into daylight. Jack assumed at first that the man must have been coated in tar. It took him a moment to realise that it was not so; that this, in truth, was the fellow’s natural skin.
‘Cabral?’
‘Who seeks him?’
The black man’s voice was a deep growl, his English nearly perfect but with a strong Portuguese accent.
‘I am John Stannard. Are you Cabral?’
The man climbed up fully onto the deck. He was of the same height as Jack, but far more strongly built, his shoulders broad and square. His shirtless chest bore the scars of ancient wounds.
‘I am Bruno Santos Cabral. John Stannard, then. So you are the man Senhor Halliday spoke of. The man who sails for Guinea with Hawkins. The man I was told to expect.’
‘I was told you are a good pilot for those waters, and for the crossing of the ocean if it comes to it.’
Cabral was looking Jack up and down, as though assessing a horse at a market. ‘You were told right.’
‘And you are willing to take the voyage?’
Cabral shrugged. ‘Your Senhor Halliday offers generous terms. And as you see, my ship will not be earning money for a long time. So yes, I am willing.’
‘And you can ride? My ship is at Plymouth, but Master Halliday will arrange post horses for us. We can be there in three days if you can ride, longer if you cannot.’
‘I can ride.’
Although entirely different in appearance, and far less garrulous, Bruno Santos Cabral somehow reminded Jack of a Genoese he had once sailed with, Valente by name. There was a certain air of confidence about such men, some strange alchemical force that they exuded.
‘Good. Then you will break bread with me at the Three Cranes, that we may know each other better?’
‘I will not.’
Jack was taken aback by the man’s directness and apparent disregard for civilities. Perhaps, though, this was a Portuguese fashion; he had encountered very few of that nation before that moment.
‘Why, in God’s name, if we are to spend days together upon the road and months together upon the ocean?’
For the first time, Bruno Cabral smiled. ‘Exactly that, Senhor Stannard. If we are to spend days together upon the road, then months together in the same hull, we will have ample time to come to know each other better, I think.’
* * *
Beneath the town’s churches and the ruins of its castle, Bungay’s water meadows were full of cattle. There had to be thousands of the beasts, their cries and stench overwhelming all else. Meg de Andrade had never seen so many animals in one place, but neither had she seen so many Scotsmen. The drovers who had brought the cattle down from the north, from some benighted place named Galloway, were everywhere, filling the taverns, carousing in the streets, spending their new-found money at the countless stalls that filled every open space in the town. Not a few aimed lewd suggestions in Meg’s direction, but she laughed off most of them, and the ferocious countenance of Hugh Ebbes deterred the rest.
They stabled their horses at a large inn by one of the churches, and went inside for a jug of ale and some cheese to recover themselves after the long journey. Meg had little fear of being detected by her prey; her stepmother’s bulk meant that she would be seen long before she could see, while her escort, Meg’s vapid half-brother Ned, would never leave his mother’s side, her very existence seeming to depend on the presence of an attendant who could listen to her incessant complaints and be ordered about at her every whim. That role was usually occupied by the youngest of the half-siblings, Mary, but she was confined at Dunwich by a bad summer cold. Meg had not offered to treat her.
‘You go south along the river, then work your way back into the town,’ Meg said to Ebbes. ‘I shall do the same to the north.’
‘It might not be easy to find you, goodwife, the throng being so great,’ said Ebbes.
He was evi
dently revelling at being in the presence, and the confidence, of the most eligible widow in Dunwich. Like every other man of the town, too, he knew precisely how things stood between Meg de Andrade and her stepmother.
‘No fear of that, Hugh, for you’ll have all the time you need to find me. She doesn’t run like a hound, after all, so like as not she’ll be in the same place where you spy her for some time afterward.’
Ebbes smiled, and attempted to engage Meg in pleasantries that might further his hopeless cause, but she had ears only for the old Scots drover just across the room, who was declaiming to all who would listen that the Queen of Scots had miscarried of twins in her island prison, then been deposed by her Protestant lords and forced to sign an instrument of abdication. Her lover, Bothwell, the Duke of Orkney, had fled the country, and was said to be in Denmark. Thus it seemed that Scotland had a new king, James the Sixth, a babe in arms, with the Protestant lords in true control of the kingdom.
Meg frowned. This was not what she wanted to hear. If the Doom of Dunwich was to be brought out of its hiding place and raised high once again, signifying the return of the true faith to England, then this Mary had to be England’s queen. By hereditary right, and in the eyes of God, she already was, by undoubted and legitimate descent from Harry the Seventh, the woman now known as Queen Elizabeth being naught but the bastard of the Boleyn whore, conceived in a sinful state of bigamy. But Meg, like almost all of the very many in England who thought that way, knew well enough to keep her thoughts on the subject very private indeed.
