Minerva's Voyage (19 page)

“Well, you surely didn't think I'd keep it in plain view knowing you wanted to steal it? It was on the chair because I had been polishing it, not expecting company; not immediately, anyway. When I realized you would probably come again, I put it somewhere safe. I thought it best to keep you and temptation as far from each other as possible.” Fence had been right. The man had heard him and me arguing about it. My heart beat fast and loud.

“Who are you both?”

“Peter Fence, sir, at your service. We were shipwrecked here with other voyagers on our way to Virginia.”

I considered for a moment. “Robin Starveling. We ran here to avoid a pair of ruffians who didn't have our best interests at heart.”

“The name doesn't seem to belong to you. Is it what you were christened?” The old man's voice was sharp.

“No, sir, it was given me by my master. My real name is … my real name is….” but whether from trepidation or excitement my real name had turned tail and fled back to Plymouth. “It's been so long since I went by it, I've forgot
ten,” I admitted.

The man seemed to understand. He said nought else, but threw something sparkly on the fire. With a crackle and a hiss, it flared up. Light fled through the hole in the roof. Shadows like rearing beasts licked the walls. Perhaps he really was magical. I was greatly afeard, and Fence was also. I could see his hands and toes trembling. The man cracked his fingers loudly. We shrank back.

“Come now, boys, there's nothing to be frightened of. My bones are stiff and I have the rheumatics, that's all. The two of you haven't escaped two villains simply to find your
self in the clutches of a third.”

“Is he a wizard?” Fence whispered.

“A wizard? No, not I, though I know a trick or two and I have very good hearing.”

“But what about the glimmering spiders' webs…?” said I.

“That is the island's own magic, not mine.” He laughed long and hard in his creaky way and tossed a new log on the flames. Bringing us both a mixture of crushed berries in water, he bade us drink, before seating himself on the stone chair.

“Take a long draught. It's good. Take another. You are still here,” he went on, “because I want you to be. In fact, I was about to reveal myself to you, but you, brilliant boys that you are, found me all by yourselves.”

“Well, but we were helped by the ciphers, sir.”

“What ciphers would those be?”

“The ciphers in the emblems that gave us the clues to your whereabouts.”

“I know of no ciphers. Unless you mean the small one in the sand.”

“No sir, although I would like to know what it said.”

“I've forgotten. Or at least, it is of no moment now.” He stood for a moment deep in thought. “But come to think of it, I know where those other ciphers must have come from.”

“Scratcher said they were from a famous emblem maker, sir.”

“And that makes perfect sense.” He didn't explain further. “I first caught sight of you on the other island. I could tell people had come, the hammering and shouting echoed all the way from there to here. Besides, wreckage from the ship was washing up on this island too. I'd hol
lowed a small tree trunk into a boat to travel short dis
tances in, so I went across. I spied the two of you poring over papers in the forest.”

“Those would have been the emblems, sir.” I remem
bered the creepy feeling of being watched while we were in the spinney. But, “Why did you wait? Why didn't you just reveal yourself right then, to everyone?” I asked.

“All in good time.”

“But there is no treasure? There is just you?” I burst out, disappointed.

“There is and there isn't treasure, Robin Starveling.

There are two sides to everything. It depends on which side you look at.” He got up and ambled around as if searching for something, before poking the fire with a stick so that bright red embers flew up. Disappearing for a moment into one of the cave's many recesses, he returned with two large palm leaves. “These shall be your blankets. Sleep now. I shall not harm you. You are perfectly safe here, underground.”

Sleep we did, long and dreamlessly, the dread and dis
tress of past weeks seeping slowly away. I wasn't sure we could trust him, but my eyes were closing in spite of my best efforts to keep them open. The drink must have contained a sleeping potion.

“Yes,” he agreed the next day, when I finally had the courage to ask him. “The berries are from a special scarlet and gold-leaved tree, which I call the sleeping tree. They give rest to those who are most weary, but they aren't harmful. I told you I knew a trick or two, and I do.”

C
HAPTER 36
B
ASTARD
P
RINCE

For about two days we stayed with him. It was hard to tell the passing of time in a place where there was no window and neither sunlight nor moonshade. We thought he held us by magic, but it was more likely naught to do with him. It was our feeling of security there, and our fear of venturing forth again. We had escaped our two worst enemies, Proule and Scratcher, after all. Now we were in the cave I felt they could never bother us again. As to where they now were, I had no clue. Nor did I much care.

The man gave us more food and drink, and led us to a spring which flowed down the rocks in a recess of the cave. Fence and I washed ourselves, splashing water on each other and the dog while the man left us alone. In fact he left us alone most of the time. Every now and then, though, I caught him staring at us. He's sizing us up, I thought, for degrees of goodness and wickedness. Fence was at one end of the scale. I knew only too well I was at the other. Occasionally what the old man thought mattered a lot to me. At other times it didn't seem to matter at all.

He was a conundrum. An
enigma
, Witch Oldham would say. “He knew I wanted to nick the medallion from him, but he didn't turn a hair,” I said to Fence. “Most adults threaten me, slap me, or drag me around by the ear. And that's when I'm behaving.”

“But we still don't know who he is or how he got here,” he whispered. “Are we right to trust him?”

“All will be revealed in due course,” called the man, from an unseen corner of the cave, his hearing sharper than Tempest's. “When, Peter Fence, I know your friend has wiped his pilfering fingers clean and I can trust you both.”

“Oh, but you can,” I said, although I crossed those same fingers because I didn't know for sure that I was telling the truth. I did not choose to live with wickedness, after all. On the contrary, like Tempest the shaggy mutt, it chose to live with me.

But he must have believed my protestations, because on the second day he sat down with us and commenced a story.

“
There was once a boy. He lived in the country with a poor
peasant family that he believed was his own. It was the only
family he ever remembered having. The people he thought to
be his parents were kind to him, and the man he called father
taught him to read in the evenings, as the monks had taught the
father years before. During the day, the boy worked out in the
fields, sowing, reaping, helping bring in the harvest, and tend
ing the family's animals
.”

“Just like me,” interrupted Fence. “I looked after the sheep. Did the boy's father die, like mine did?”

“
No, he stayed hearty and hale. But one day a very well-
dressed man on a white steed came to the family's little house. He
was leading a pony. ‘You will pack your clothing,' he told the boy.
‘I am here to take you to school.' The boy had no idea who the rich
man was, but the woman he called mother encouraged him to go,
though she was crying. ‘He is a trustworthy man. You must do as
he tells you. Perhaps all will be explained.'

“
The boy had little to pack as he was so poor. The man put
him astride the pony, and they started on a long journey. It
was very difficult for him because he'd never ridden before and
his legs soon became sore and cramped. He was also homesick.
On their way to the school they came to a great castle. ‘We will
stop here,' the man said. He took the boy inside. Servants led
him into a huge hall. A woman soon entered. She was dressed
in magnificent silver and black robes and wore a coronet on
her bright red hair. ‘Remember always who you are,' she told
the boy, as if he should know who that was. Taking a pendant
from her neck, she placed it around his. It was a Phoenix pen
dant. ‘I am the Phoenix,' she said. The boy had no idea what
she meant
.”

The old man put his hand to his throat. That's where the medallion is, I thought. Around his own neck. Under his clothes. He is wearing it.

“The bird that dies and is burnt, then rises from its own ashes,” I said aloud. “I thought I recognized it. Who was the woman?” I believed I already knew who he was going to name.

“
She was Elizabeth, Queen of England, though the boy
didn't find out until later. ‘You are her son,' said the man taking
him to school, ‘the son of her majesty and Robert Dudley, one of
her favourites, but you must never tell anyone or it may destroy
the monarchy. She is known to her subjects as the Virgin Queen.
That's why she couldn't keep you in the palace. That's why she sent
you away. Your real name is Arthur Dudley. But you will go by
your old name in school.' And so he did
.”

“I have two names too, true it is.” I had remembered my old name, but Noah Vaile didn't seem to fit me any longer, so I didn't mention it.

“
The boy never saw the Queen again. He carried his old
name through school, through university, and out to sea, on his
way to Italy. But then, in a terrible storm, he was shipwrecked
and taken up by a Spanish ship. The English were at war with
the Spanish, but luckily the boy, who was now a young man,
had learned to speak and write Latin. ‘What is your name?' they
asked him in that language. ‘Tell us the truth or we will torture
you for the spy that you are.'

So for the first time, he revealed his true name: ‘I am Arthur
Dudley, son to the Queen of England; therefore, you must not
harm me.'

“
‘I have never heard of you. Are you her heir?' someone
asked him.

“
The idea had never occurred to him before, so he thought about
it for some moments before replying. ‘I am the true heir, as I was
born to her majesty. To my knowledge, she has had no other children.'

“
‘Are you a bastard?'

“
‘I know not whether she was married to my father, Robert
Dudley, the earl of Leicester, but it matters little, as I am blood of
her blood and heir of her body. She is not the consort or mistress
of a king. She is Queen in her own right.'

“
‘He is very valuable to us,' said the captain, who had lis
tened carefully. ‘Soon we will launch the Armada and vanquish
the English. Perhaps we can train Dudley to replace Elizabeth
as the new sovereign of England. Unknown to the people, he
will report to us. The English will accept him once she is gone, as
he is of the same blood as the Queen.'

“
The captain took Arthur Dudley back to Spain. The Spanish
King decided to send him to a Catholic Mission in the Ameri
cas, to be instructed in the faith and so that he could be hidden
until the Spaniards were victorious. But in a strange twist of
fate there was a second shipwreck on the way to the New World,
and the young man was cast up on these isles
.”

“Just like us,” said Peter Fence.

“
Except that he was alone. Everyone else went down with
the ship, but young and hearty as he was, he was strong enough
to swim to shore. While exploring the islands, he found a cave,
and set to work to make it comfortable and construct the paths
around it, hidden paths that led out to the sea, so he could see if
anyone came without their seeing him, and to make a habitation
fit for a prince. He remembered that many of the great houses of
England had labyrinths, so he built one for himself to confuse
travellers. That way, no one would find him, and he would only
venture to identify himself when it was safe to do so. Most sin
cerely, he wished not to fall back into Spanish hands. But as time
went on he became more and more lonely and wondered why he
alone had been saved.

“
Years later a French boat was shipwrecked on the rocks
nearby, with an Englishman, Henricus Plumsell, a famous
emblem and verse maker, and many Frenchmen on board. After
watching them for several weeks, Arthur deemed them safe and
went to meet them. He became friends with Plumsell, and took
him back to the cave, where he told him his story. When the
French built a small pinnace from pieces of wreckage and the
planks of the island's trees to carry them home, he begged to be
taken off the island and travel with them so that he might return
to England.