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“Ah . . .” she said, staring at him. “I see now.” That explained his speech, and flashes of a manner which had reminded her of the few noblemen she had met. “But was that not an unusual honour for a yeoman?”

“Very.” He folded his arms and leaned against the bulwark. His face darkened. “The way it came about was not so unusual. While the Earl of Bristol was in Spain, chaffering for that Infanta King Charles thought he wanted, my father one black day did ride to Sherborne Fair on his blooded bay stallion. A bay stallion just like it was missing from the castle stables. The Earl’s steward spied my father, convinced himself and Sherborne town that my father had stolen the Earl’s horse. Father was hanged in the market place that night”

At her gasp he nodded ironically. “The Earl’s stallion was found some days later, peacefully grazing in a pasture whither it had escaped, and the Earl came home, heard the story and was shocked. He dismissed the steward and set out to find my mother and make restitution. My older brother had the farm, and Mother, poor woman, could think of nothing better to ask than that I should be raised a fine gentleman. And so I was, from my eighth to my fourteenth year.”

“But then? What then?” Elizabeth cried as he peered over at his fishing line and seemed to have finished. “Surely you’re not fourteen now!”

“I’ll be sixteen come Christmastide.” He paused, and went on reluctantly. “Why, then I overheard the Countess talking to her cousin. My lady said she had enough of me, that I made too free with her daughters - which was a lie - and had forgot my station -  which might be true. She said that since I should take up a trade and showed a peasant skill with my hands, she’d ‘prentice me to a joiner in Dorchester. I thought in my folly that Lord George would speak for me, he and I’d been good friends, but he was roistering merrily at Magdalen College, and never answered my letter. So I went to be a joiner, as I told you, and I liked it not. After a year I ran from my master to my brother at our home-farm.”

“Then your mother helped you?” Elizabeth asked eagerly.

“My mother was frightened, and ashamed of the way things turned out - my brother told me roundly I’d become neither fish, flesh, nor good red herring, which, when I cooled off, I saw the sense of. Our farms were prospering, and he gave me a share of my inheritance, forty pounds, and said I’d best be off quietly before my master caught me, then make my way as I liked in the world. And so I am.”

Elizabeth was silent. She understood now his truculence and touchy pride. She saw that in the end the noble Bristols had done injustice twice over, not only in killing his father, but in dislocating William’s life to no purpose, and wounding his confidence and sell-esteem. But he was strong, intelligent, and able, he might well find fulfilment in the new country.

“Thank you,” she said, “for telling me, Will. I see why it was painful.” His big chilblained dirty hand rested on the bulwark, and without thinking she put her gloved hand over his. “I hope to see you again after we land.”

He grew scarlet, staring at her hand, and she thought he would snatch his away. Instead he turned it and carried her hand to his lips. “I think not, Mistress,” he said gruffly. “I’ll not tarry in Boston.” He tucked her hand inside her cloak, a strangely tender little gesture. “I see we’re setting sail. You’d better return to the poop.” He gathered up his line and went into the fo’castle. She did not see him to speak to again.

After they left the Banks, north-cast gales began to blow, but the passengers were all so accustomed to storms that these gave only satisfaction, for they hastened the interminable voyage. In the tenth week of it, Elizabeth was roused one morning by a pandemonium of shouts and the clear voice of the watch calling above the racket, “Land Ho! Land Ho!”

She threw on her cloak and rushed to the stern gallery where she saw some leagues to the west a dark wooded mound, which the Captain presently explained was an island named Mount Desert by a French explorer.

From then on they were in distant sight of land, and taking soundings every half hour, as the
Lyon
slipped down the coast past places Peirce called Agamenticus and Piscataqua, uncouth Indian names which interested Elizabeth and John Eliot particularly, though there was nothing to be seen but forest. On Hallowe’en they rounded Cape Ann, and Goody Knapp took to prophesying again in honour of the day. She said she saw goblins with fiery heads bouncing amongst the rocks on shore, and heard the shriek of spectres on the night wind. This was reported to the Captain who replied that the goblin lights were lanterns on fishing shallops near Gloucester, and as for spectral shrieks, he wished he could hear some himself for they might be a useful warning of reefs.

The next day they sailed past Salem, though too far out to see anything, and Elizabeth thought of Harry’s death there. Her heart was heavy, for she found that she could no longer recall his face clearly.

On the following evening, Wednesday, November 2 of that year 1631, the
Lyon,
being unable to enter Boston Harbour against a strong west wind, dropped anchor in the Nantasket Roads, and lowered the longboat. At dawn of the next day Jack clambered down the rope ladder into the boat and was rowed the six miles to Boston to give news of their arrival.

It was a dazzling blue-and-gold morning. The air felt crisper and seemed thinner than it did in England. The passengers, all but those too sick with scurvy, were crowded on deck, mostly silent as they stared at the multitude of little islands. Captain Peirce showed the poop passengers a desolate stony beach to the east which he said was a peninsula called Nantasket. He pointed south to the mainland where he said there were villages, Wessagussett or Weymouth, and the deserted remains of Mount Wollaston where the lewd, raffish Thomas Morton had shocked Plymouth Colony with May Day revels at his home, Merrymount.

“So it was
there
he so naughtily put up his maypole?” asked Mirabelle with lively interest. “I met him in London, where these Puritans had banished him. He was so enraged about it, poor man. He is a friend of my husband’s,” she added.

“I know, m’lady,” said Peirce, chuckling. Mirabelle, dressed in embroidered green velvet, with her flaming hair, décolletage and daring beauty patch, was certain to produce quite an effect on Boston, especially if Sir Christopher were still in gaol. But the young lady could take care of herself; of that the Captain had grown very sure in these weeks.

He looked at the Winthrop women, also dressed in their elegant brightly coloured best, and felt satisfaction. They were thinner than when they sailed, of course, there were some scurvy sores around Mistress Mary’s lips, and Mistress Winthrop Senior’s plump cheeks had sagged, but none of them looked too peaked.

“Journey’s end, ladies!” he cried to them. “Barring that tempest, and considering the time o’ year, not so bad a passage - eh? Oh, and your loss, ma’am - ” he added hastily to Margaret. “Ye know ‘ow sorry I am for that” He had momentarily forgotten the death of two sickly children at sea, so usual were such occurrences, but it was unfortunate that one of them was the Governor’s baby.

“I marvel at your skill and excellent care of us, Mr. Peirce,” said Margaret gently. “We all thank you from our hearts.” Her voice trembled, It was hard in these last moments of suspense to keep from tears.
They
had finally arrived safely, but who knew what might have been happening here in the seven months since John’s last letter to them left Boston on this same
Lyon.

“How far away England seems,” whispered Martha, pressing close to Elizabeth, who was leaning on the rail, ecstatically sniffing the pine and earth smell. “It seems so strange to see no houses, and I never expected it, yet I dread to leave this dear old ship . . . Oh, what’s that?” she ended with a little shriek.

Elizabeth looked where her sister pointed and saw a birch-bark canoe gliding near them, paddled by two feather-topped figures, “Our first savages, Mattie,” Elizabeth cried, peering down.

The canoe grazed the
Lyon,
and the Indians rested their paddles. The stern paddler was a small young Indian dressed in a blue English doublet and breeches. The doublet was lavishly trimmed with brass buttons sewn on at random. His dark face was tattooed on the cheeks and painted with ochre stripes. His head shaved except for a long scalp lock which was stiffened with bear’s grease and pierced with pheasant feathers. He wore three necklaces of dark blue shell wampum beads and one of wolf claws. His companion was far less splendid
_}
and wore nothing but a skin mantle and breechclout.

“How!” called the first Indian, raising his paddle in salute to the row of faces on the poop deck. “Netop. Friend. Call Captain!”

Peirce had gone to his quarters, but now reappeared, and recognized the Indian. “Ahoy there, Chickatabot, ye rascal!” he shouted jovially. “I’m back again, ye see. ‘Ave ye beaver for me?” He turned to the gaping English. “ ‘Tis Sagamore Chickatabot, chief o’ these regions on the Bay. Lives by the Neponset River. A good Indian. Damme if ‘e ‘asn’t got a fine mess o’ skins too.” For Chickatabot was pointing to a gleaming pile of fur in the bottom of his canoe, and crying, “Trade, Trade - ” while he beamed up at the Captain.

“Is he a Christian?” asked John Eliot earnestly.

“Bless ye, sir - I shouldn’t think so. They believe in a kind o’
Great Spirit called Manitoo, and a devil named Obbomock - that’s all I know. Say, ye rogue,” he called down. “Where’d ye get the English clothes?”‘

Chickatabot nodded complacently and ran his hands over the gleaming buttons. “Governor give,” he said.

Margaret drew a sharp breath. “Ask him if the Governor’s well!”

Peirce smiled and invited the Indians aboard, where communication was easier. They soon gathered that the Governor had been well when Chickatabot last saw him several sleeps ago. Margaret murmured a prayer of thanks and went to her cabin, followed by Martha, who hated the way the Indians stared at the women.

Elizabeth, though intensely curious, was overpowered by the Indian smell. Not the stink of unwashed bodies, she was used enough to that on shipboard, but a heavy animal scent augmented by the rancid grease on their hair.

Captain Peirce dickered for the beaver, while Eliot fetched his writing materials and listened, occasionally interrupting to ask the meaning of an Indian word, and wrote it down.

Peirce finally traded three knives and six clay pipes for the skins, having sternly ignored all Chickatabot’s plaintive requests for strong water. “That’s
one
thing ye’d best take note of,” Peirce said, eyeing the minister’s linguistic labours with some amusement, “Spirits sets Indians wild. They’ve no ‘ead for it. And don’t give ‘em firearms neither, These Massachusetts are friendly knaves, but we must keep the upper ‘and.”

“I shall endeavour to do that by leading the poor innocents to Christ,” said Eliot, smiling. “And I fear the early settlers have much wronged them.”

Peirce scratched his nose and shrugged. “Mebbe so. Ye talk a’most like a parson I brought over ‘ere last winter. Roger Williams ‘is name was. Claimed the King ‘ad no right to give the land to the English, ‘cause it belonged to the Indians. Said the planters should
buy
it I Lot o’ contentious ideas ‘e ‘ad, and Governor Winthrop wasn’t pleased. Last I ‘eard, Mr. Williams ‘ad quitted the Bay Colony.”

Elizabeth listened and was chilled. Here was still another man who had disagreed with Uncle John, and gone or been banished elsewhere. I’ll
not
be afraid of him, she thought; He can’t force me to do anything I don’t want to. After all I am a Winthrop, and he’s never been over-harsh to his own family - nor, she admitted after thought - to anyone else that she knew. Yet Mirabelle had told her of a young man called Philip Ratcliffe, who had been brutally punished in Boston last June for criticizing the colony. He had had both his ears chopped off his head, and been shipped half dead to England. “They are saying in London,” Mirabelle had added, “that Governor Winthrop thinks himself a king, takes the law into his own hands, and punishes all who do not see religion as he does. This I find confusing, since that was
précisément
the Puritans’ complaint against the established Church in England, when the Star Chamber chopped off
Puritan
ears.”

Elizabeth also found it confusing, but thought Mirabelle dangerously outspoken.

“Don’t you fear for yourself in Massachusetts?” she had asked, and Mirabelle laughed. “Ah,
ça non.
The Governor is a
man,
is he not?”

Elizabeth admired this superb confidence, but was unable to apply it personally. During the hours that they waited on the
Lyon,
her apprehensions grew, and were no less uncomfortable because she did not know what she feared except her uncle’s powerful will. She applied common sense to these forebodings, telling herself that Margaret and Jack loved Uncle John, that many of the Groton Manor folk had too, and reminding herself that on the night of the great tempest she had promised God - in the likeness of John Winthrop - to be obedient, and must fulfil her vow. Yet the unease continued, and the feeling of urgency as though she must arm herself for battle.

It was nearly dusk before the lookout raised a cry and they saw a sailing shallop round the tip of Long Island. It flew the Company ensign and was crowded with men amongst whom the Governor, in black doublet trimmed with silver lace and wearing the sword of state, was easily recognized. The
Lyon
set off three cannon in salute, and its passengers began to cheer.

Margaret snatched little Sammy’s hand and hurried down to the main deck. Elizabeth carried Joan and was followed by Martha and Mary. Mirabelle tactfully held back with John Eliot until the family should be reunited.

The sailors and common folk ranged themselves on either side of the gangway, where the Captain stood with the Winthrop ladies. The bo’sun piped a patriotic tune as the Governor was assisted up the ladder and stepped majestically on to the deck. He shook hands with the Captain, raised his arm slowly in greeting to all the shipload, then turned and looked at his wife, saying in a low voice, “God bless you, my dear. This is a happy moment.”