Cate of the Lost Colony (4 page)

“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 sallow 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

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.

The queen meets with her Privy Council tomorrow afternoon. I will devise some pretext upon which to visit you.

I remain your humble

Catherine Archer

She speaks of craving and of my lips, then in the next phrase of desire, then finally my scalding fire. O beneath her polite discourse, do I detect profound passion? I will not sleep this night.

An Account of a Meeting

On the promised day, upon the hour of three, my valet brought C.A. to me in the garden.

“My mistress wishes to borrow your volume containing the Spanish captain’s account of his voyages,” she announced.

“Clever Cat!” I said and sent the valet to fetch the requested book.

Glancing about nervously, she said, “Rather, I feel like the bird about to become the cat’s meal.”

“There is no danger here,” I assured her, leading her through the elegant knots of greenery, the tall hedges, and the fig trees brought from Sicily. She scarcely seemed to notice my statues newly arrived from France. Then I brought her to a bower where petals of the flowering pear drifted down with each puff of wind. I tried to take her hand but she held it back.

“This coyness, lady, seems a crime; for here is solitude and time.” (In her presence my verses flow like wine.)

She blushed very prettily but was not deterred from her purpose. She related a quip of Her Majesty, light words that weighed heavily on her. “Do you think she meant to warn this ‘Cat’ away from you, her ‘Warter’?”

“I would not drown you,” I said, smiling.

“I don’t fear you, but her. She is … in love with you.” She hesitated, as if revealing a secret, then added, “Everyone knows this.”

“The queen can be jealous,” I agreed, “but I daresay she was only enjoying a bit of sport with you. Do not be afraid to match wits with her.”

Thus reassured, she smiled. I took her hand and she did not resist.

“Now let us talk about you,” I said.

She talked but I remember little of what she said, for I was conscious only of her pretty teeth and lips. Then I related my upbringing in Devonshire and made her laugh over my escapades at Oxford, where I never read a single book. Her eyes widened to hear of my soldiering in the Irish wars and how I despaired of subduing that barbarous land.

“Thus you are determined to succeed in this New World enterprise. I am certain you will,” she said. Under her admiring gaze, I longed all the more for the fame and favor of which I dream.

My valet had not returned with the book (a wise fellow who knows his master’s wishes), and my dear Catherine was beginning to be uneasy again. Then from her sleeve she produced a handkerchief, saying “You must have this back. I dare not keep it.”

I was confused, for I could not remember giving her my handkerchief. I said, “You are unkind to return my token.”

“It is the queen’s token.” She showed me the embroidered initials in the corner. “She meant it for you, not for me.”

So that is what became of the handkerchief! I did not lose it after all. I remembered the delight it had given me to insert the cloth in Catherine’s sleeve that day in my library. It would be ungentlemanly of me to reclaim it.

“What was the queen’s to give to me, became mine to give to you,” I said. “’Tis a traveling token of favor.” And I would not take it back despite her protests.

Moved and flattered, with blood suffusing her pretty cheeks, the lady departed—without the book. I shall have to carry it to Whitehall myself. Clever Cat, indeed.

And damn me that I was so surprised by that silly handkerchief I lost my chance to kiss her.

To C.A.

Over the “C” is my newfound land,

My America, north and south,

I’d explore you with this hand

Claim you with my mouth.

O let me but sail my bark

Into your shimmering bays

There to anchor my heart

All my remaining days.