An Introduction To The Eternal Collection Jubilee Edition (26 page)

The news of their return and the success of their voyage was not likely to be kept secret with the
Santa Perpetua
anchored in the harbour and looking strangely out of place among the smaller and more severe British ships. And every seaman on board her and the
Sea Hawk
seemed to have not one tongue but two as they talked of the spoils of the voyage and the richness of the promised prize money.

“Here come the carrion crows,” one man laughed as the women of Plymouth seemed to turn out as it were in one body – wife and mistress, maiden and prostitute–pushing and fighting with each other in their efforts to get near to the returned buccaneers.

In the turmoil and excitement of it all, it was easy for Lizbeth to slip away. She had told Rodney the night before that she would leave for Camfield as soon as possible. He agreed heartily with her decision, for he was anxious that no one should know that she had been on board.

It would be some time, he knew, before he could join her. There was the cargo to be registered, and when the prize money had been distributed, the rest had to be sold and divided among the shareholders. It all meant a great deal of work but when that was done, he would come hurrying to Camfield.

And so, as the gold-laced officials streamed on board the
Santa Perpetua,
Lizbeth left her. Two ordinary seamen set her baggage in the boat and shook her hand in farewell. She would like to have spoken to Master Barlow, to Baxter, to Hales, to the Master Gunner and all the other men with whom she had sailed but she knew they would not expect it – they were far too busy at this moment to be looking for her.

The sun was shining on the water as the ship’s boat took her to the quay. It was a pale, insipid sun with no warmth in it, which seemed to make no difference to the chill on the wind or the promise of rain in the clouds blowing across the grey sky.

Rodney had meant, Lizbeth knew, to make arrangements for her return. He had planned to find horses and servants to escort her on the long journey from Plymouth to Camfield. She felt she would rather make these arrangements herself than trouble him, so she went to the inn where she and Francis had stayed the night before she went aboard the
Sea Hawk.

The landlord took her for her brother and was quite prepared to find her decent horses and trustworthy men to accompany her on her journey. She paid him well and knew that she need not worry that he would rob her more than he was entitled to do.

When everything was arranged, she went to bed and lay sleepless, finding it impossible to rest because the room was steady and there was no creaking timber or rattle of the rigging to which she had grown accustomed without realising it. She hated the stillness of the night and was glad when dawn came and she could say that she was ready to leave an hour before the time appointed.

It was drizzling with rain, a fine drizzle which made her face wet and glistened on her eyelashes. Yet, as she turned round in her saddle to look back at the town, the harbour and the grey waves of the sea, she knew it was not the drizzle that was blinding her eyes, but tears of regret and loneliness, of a longing which seemed to make her whole body ache for the man she had left behind her.

12

It was growing dark and the scuds of rain seemed to make it darker still. The horses were tired, as were the riders, for Lizbeth had pushed them hard. For the past hour she had recognised the way and had ridden ahead of her little band of servants and pack-horses, hurrying forward with an eagerness which made it hard to keep up with her; but she was shivering as she turned into the twisting, muddy road which led to Camfield.

She found herself longing for the warmth of the tropical sun, and in her tiredness she tried to imagine herself on the quarter-deck of the
Santa Perpetua
sailing down the coast over a sea as brilliantly blue as the sky above it. She could visualise Rodney walking up and down deep in thought, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression serious and preoccupied.

In contrast she saw him as she had seen him last, waving his hat to the cheering crowds, his eyes alight, his head thrown back with the excitement and exuberance that all the crew were feeling at their return home.

Gone was his pose of being calm and unperturbed by anything that occurred. He was setting no check on his feelings, and she thought how young and handsome he looked when he was off his guard. Rodney! Rodney! It seemed to Lizbeth that every picture in her mind was of Rodney! And yet how little she knew about him! He had rarely spoken of his past. Of Drake’s exploits he could talk by the hour, but he seldom included himself in those adventures.

She guessed rather than knew that there had been many women in his life and she felt the sharp pangs of jealousy as she thought of them – women who must have loved and ached for Rodney even as she loved and ached for him. Of his childhood she had learnt only that he was unhappy at home. His mother had died when he was only a child, and his father bullied both him and his elder brothers and sisters. A brilliant scholar, Rodney’s father had expected those who bore his name to follow in his erudite footsteps and resented it when they had other interests.

One by one the older members of the family had left home and finally Rodney himself had run away to join the Navy, preferring physical hardship to mental cruelty.

This was all Lizbeth had learned of his early life, for the miserable years of a lonely adolescence were still too vivid for him to speak lightly of them. But remembering the aching void that the death of her own mother had left in her life, Lizbeth sensed and understood much that he left unsaid.

Rodney! Rodney! The very wind in the trees seemed to whisper his name.

Only half a mile to Camfield Place! But there was somewhere else she must go first. She gave the word to halt. The horses seemed to obey her gratefully, while the servants looked at her askance.

“Wait here for me,” she commanded. “There is someone I must see. I shall not be long.”

They would have demurred if they had dared, at this delay in reaching shelter and food, but Lizbeth’s air of authority and the promise of good pay she made them had persuaded the hired men at the very beginning of the journey that she was someone of importance. Nevertheless she could hear them muttering to themselves as she turned off the road and rode quickly down an untidy, badly-kept drive towards Dr. Keen’s house.

Built of grey stone it stood in a small garden surrounded by ancient trees. It had never been an attractive house and now to Lizbeth it appeared sinister and repellent as in the dying light she could see that its windows were shuttered and that there was no welcoming gleam of light.

She rode right up to the front door, then dismounted and rapped with the handle of her riding-whip on its rough, oak-studded surface. The sound of her knocking seemed blunted by the wind and after a moment she rapped again. A strand of ivy was flapping in an untidy manner on the side of the house, a puddle of water had accumulated near the front door, and there was over all an air of neglect and depression which began to affect Lizbeth.

Could Dr. Keen have left? she asked herself. Perhaps the house was empty? And then, even as she framed the question in her mind, she was certain it was not. She had a feeling, a strong, unmistakable conviction that someone was within. The windows were shuttered, the rooms must be in darkness, and yet someone must be listening.

She could not account to herself for her absolute certainty of this; but because she was so sure, she knocked again, and this time she raised her voice and called to the upper windows:

“Elita, Elita !”

The only answer was the whistling of the wind and the tap of the ivy; but again Lizbeth called.

“Elita, are you there? I want to speak with you”

Her voice sounded strange even to her own ears. As she waited, she heard the sound of a shutter being opened very softly. It was too dark to see clearly, but she felt sure that someone was looking out at her from the windows on the first floor and now she called again:

“Elita! Elita!”

This time she was answered. The casement over the front door moved a few inches and Elita’s voice, low and hoarse, asked:

“ What do you want?”

“It is I, Lizbeth. I wanted to speak with you. Let me in.”

Elita did not answer for a moment and Lizbeth had the feeling that she was contemplating a refusal. Hastily she called, “Come down, Elita, I must speak with you. ’Tis of the utmost importance. There is no one with me.”

“No one?” Elita questioned. “You are alone?”

“Yes, I am absolutely alone,” Lizbeth answered. “Marry, can you not see there is no one here?”

She felt that Elita peered into the shadows to reassure herself ; then the window was closed. After a few moments Lizbeth could hear footsteps on the stone floor of the hall and the chains and bolts being undone. After what seemed a long time the door was opened a few inches.

“What do you want?” Elita’s voice was surly; and now through the darkness Lizbeth could vaguely see the white oval of her face, her dark eyes, suspicious and wary.

“Where is Francis?”

To Lizbeth’s surprise she did not receive an answer. Instead it seemed to her a flicker of fear passed over Elita’s face, but it might have been merely a trick of the darkness.

“Let me in,” Lizbeth said impatiently. “It is impossible to stand here where we cannot see each other.”

She loosed hold of the bridle of her horse as she spoke.

“He will not wander far,” she said more to herself than to Elita. “He is too tired.”

She stepped towards the door as if she would enter the house. It did not open for her as she expected. Instead, Elita appeared to bar the way, only a portion of her showing through the partially-opened door.

“You must go away,” she said, in a low, fierce voice. “I would not have answered you had I not feared you would wake the whole neighbourhood with your shouting.”

“Why are you behaving like this?” Lizbeth asked. “Let me in. Elita. We cannot talk to each other out here in the cold.”

Her persistence seemed to make Elita decide to do what she was asked. The door was opened and a second later Lizbeth stood in the hall. The door was closed behind her. Both the girls were in the darkness for a moment while Elita fumbled about and eventually lit a candle.

It burned slowly and fitfully, but by its light Lizbeth could see Elita for the first time. She was astonished by what she saw. The girl was obviously ill, thin and emaciated, her cheek-bones etched sharply against her face, her eyes burning dark and feverishly in their sockets. She looked very different from the exotic Elita whom Lizbeth had suspected of seducing Francis for her own ends.

There was something radically wrong, Lizbeth could see that, at a glance, and she noticed that Elita’s hands were trembling as she turned to face her. The hall smelt dank and cold and somehow an atmosphere of horror seemed to creep over Lizbeth. It was in a voice hardly above a whisper that she managed to ask:

“Where is Francis?”

There was no doubt now that Elita was frightened. She was trembling all over as she glanced towards the door as if she expected someone to be standing there who could overhear what she had to tell. Now grotesquely her face seemed contorted and Lizbeth realised that her teeth were chattering. Lizbeth felt fear rising within her.

“Answer me!” she commanded. “Answer me! Where is Francis?”

“He is dead!”

Lizbeth knew then that she had anticipated the words before Elita spoke them.

“When did he die? What has happened?”

She heard her own voice ringing out and echoing away through the shadows.

“Hush, someone might hear you!”

Elita looked over her shoulder and her teeth chattered audibly.

“How did he die?” Lizbeth asked in a lower tone.

“He went with my father to a friend’s house in Northampton,” Elita answered. “There was a – a meeting there, but it was discovered – The soldiers came ”

Elita put her hands suddenly to her eyes and her voice died away harshly in her throat.

“Yes, yes, go on!” Lizbeth said impatiently. “By a meeting I suppose you mean that my brother was taking part in some conspiracy against the Queen?”

Elita did not trouble to deny this. Instead, she continued hoarsely:

“They were tried and condemned to death – all who were there – My father – gave a false name, and so – did Francis.”

“They were hanged?” Lizbeth asked.

Elita nodded.

“And drawn – and quartered – she whispered.

Her eyes seemed almost mad with terror for the moment, but Lizbeth managed to speak calmly despite the horror within her heart.

“When did this happen?” she asked.

“A month ago,” Elita replied. “I have stayed here hidden ever since. But I have got to get away, someone has got to help me – I have friends who will take me to Spain. I shall be safe there from those –who have – murdered my father – Yes – murdered him!”

She was sobbing now, harsh, heartrending sobs that seemed to shake her whole body as if with an ague.

“Who knows of this?” Lizbeth asked and then, as Elita seemed not to hear, she put her hand on the girl’s shoulder as if to command her attention.

“Who knows of this?” she repeated.

Elita raised her haunted, tear-stained face.

“How do I know who knows of it? They may be playing with me, they may be trying to trap me, but if they think the house is empty, they will go away and I shall be safe – safe.”

She was half-crazed with terror, Lizbeth could see that, but for the moment she had no pity, only a desire to learn more of Francis.

“You say that Francis gave a false name,” she said. “Who knows that his name was false?”

“Only those who were there that night,” Elita replied. “Two of them escaped. They came here and told me what had happened. My father was – dead by then and they had lain hidden in a friend’s house in the neighbourhood until the chase was over. They told me what had occurred and then they – left me. I pleaded with them to take me with them, but – they would not do so.”