Mistress of the Sea (6 page)

She wondered where he was.

4

Threat

‘. . . The day being come we were espied by the Spaniards, and pursued, and taken, and brought before the Vice Roy and head justices, who threatened to hang us . . .’

—
From the account of the imprisonment by the Spanish in Mexico of the English survivors following the battle of San Juan de Ulúa as recorded by Miles Philips, one of the captives
(
in The Principal Navigations . . . by Richard Hakluyt
)

The City of Mexico, the Americas

‘I AM NEXT.’
Kit felt the length of the reed in his hands. He held it up towards the light for all to see.

The response was hushed.

‘May God have mercy on you . . .’

‘No prayers.’ Kit put an end to the muttering. ‘Say no prayers for me.’

The five men with him fell silent. Someone shuffled and coughed, then only breathing could be heard.

Kit pressed his back to the wall and clasped his hands round
his
knees. The others must not feel him shaking. He sought to be free from their touch, and that was possible now if he hunched up small. He had been close enough to his companions over the last few months, forced to rest in turns because there was so little room on the reed strewn floor. He had to find peace.

He looked up at the light. It entered in slender rays through tiny holes set in stones that were too high to reach. The rays were his link to the world outside. His eyes fixed upon them. If he was taken to his death, then the light would fade and be gone, and later return with a dawn he would not know. But he could not accept that his death might be near. He could not conceive of a world continuing in which, for him, everything was over. Perhaps he had not lived long enough to come to terms with that idea. At only seventeen, how could he be reconciled to the end of his life? Heaven was not Earth, and it would be stranger than the difference between the Indies and England. He could not think of dying. He clenched his teeth.

He had made himself brave in front of his friends, and he must not fail them now. They were all much older. When the time came to leave, he would have to show courage because they would be watching him. This was why the lots had been drawn: to give the next man chance to prepare, so that when the moment arrived he could be calm in going – to prove that Englishmen were not cowards.

But he was afraid. After the first prisoner had been taken, the Spaniards had soon returned to drag another away. He might not have much longer. Sweat trickled down his sides. The air was motionless in the dark at the bottom of the cell. He bowed his head and gasped.

What would happen? he wondered. All that was certain was that he would not be set free. He could be taken to another prison somewhere else in Mexico. He might be tried before one of the Viceroy’s courts, questioned again by the bishop, or marched back to the coast, all the way from the great city, to be delivered to the Inquisition in a ship bound for Spain.

Someone groaned: a small quiet sound, but enough to make him think of other sounds he had heard.

He might be tortured.

For weeks on end he had listened to screams, cries that could have been made by anyone: sick or wounded, or deliberately hurt. But one man calling had been begging for his mother, that word had been clear. Who had he heard? Someone among the English prisoners that the Spaniards still held: any one of a hundred or more. Did it matter who he had heard? It mattered that he had not heard his brother crying out. He had not heard Will.

He pressed his thumb against his teeth. It was something he knew he should not do. ‘Better way not,’ as his mother would say. ‘And thee be blessed with an angel’s face,’ she would add, as though that made any difference. But he took his hand from his mouth since she had entered his mind, and he imagined her nodding in an approving way.

He should be praying.

‘Mother. Father,’ he mouthed without speaking. He named his sisters in the way he had always done in his private prayers: a name to ask God’s blessing for each. ‘Will.’ He prayed that his brother would be safe at home, and that the men with him in the cell would find freedom before they died.

There were footsteps approaching.

He prayed for his best friend: ‘Hal.’

‘Yes, Kit?’ Hal answered.

He must have spoken out loud. He stood up on trembling legs. The footsteps were very close, reverberating rapidly along the passage outside. Three guards had hauled the last man away, knocked him down when he struggled, then trussed up and gagged him. He would not go like that.

Kit peered at his companions in the gloom and sensed that Hal was squinting at him in a way he remembered from days at sea, one brow down, the other raised quizzically under a shock of black hair.

The footsteps stopped. Rattling and banging came from the other side of the door: the sound of bolts being drawn. Hal stretched out his hand and Kit clasped it in both of his.

‘Pray for me now.’

The door was thrown back and yellow light flooded in. With it came a draught like a gust over warm marsh, cutting into the stink of stagnation in the cell. Kit moved to the opening. A sword was pressed to his throat.

‘
Ahora usted
.’ The voice was surly.

Kit held out his hands, but he was seized and turned as his arms were wrenched behind him. His wrists were lashed together. A helmeted Spaniard came close and held a noose before his eyes, then a black sack was pulled down over his head, and he felt the noose digging hard into his neck. The rope tightened until he staggered forward. He tried to slow and was choked. He could see nothing inside the hood. The floor was sloping. He was sure he was walking down. The walls seemed to narrow, to close in and strike his arms. Jibes rang loud in his ears.

‘
Perro inglés, enemigo de Dios
. . .’

The rope tugged him roughly, bumping him about from side to side. With every breath he gagged as the hood was sucked into his mouth. He tried to concentrate on where he was, not succumb to the panic that was welling up inside him. He thought of his arrival months before. He must be somewhere beneath the Viceroy’s Palace; he had seen the buildings when he was paraded as a captive, and the ruins of an Indian temple overlooking a great lake. He was stumbling through a passage: a long twisting tunnel. He tripped, cracking his head. His knees and shins struck the sharp edges of steps. Against his ribs, he felt the point of a sword.

‘
Marchad! Luterano
. . .’

He had to get up. He lay sprawled against stairs, and the rope tightened so hard it was easier to crawl than climb on his feet. But he would not slither on his belly. He shuffled to a crouch and staggered up towards a voice – one that rang out into space and was answered with a thrum: the muted babble of a watching crowd. Then he could feel the sun beating down. The noose fell slack. He stood and swayed.

Nothing touched him.

He tried to keep still and not shiver or faint – only listen to the droning voice.

‘. . .
Cristóbal Doñan
. . .’

The voice stopped. None of the words had made sense, except that at the end he had heard the semblance of his name. Someone took hold of his shirt, pulling it wide and baring his chest. The noise increased: the clamour of a baying mob. A blade dug into the small of his back. But he leant against it and kept his balance, only wavering slightly in spite of the pain.

He wanted time before he took a step. He had climbed, so he could tumble, and then his fall would be broken by the noose round his neck. The Spaniards had threatened him more than once with hanging. Terror weakened his legs.

He had to be brave and not think of dying. He imagined the crowd and their upturned faces, the shimmering white of the Indians’ tunics, the Spaniards looking on from the windows of the palace, the city of Mexico spread out with its streets of water and reed-roofed houses, the snow on the peaks that could be seen from the lake, rising from haze, glinting with light – and the sun shining down across the other side of the ocean, breaking through mist, reaching his home. The welcome light of the sun: it was what he longed for most – and home – his home.

He was jabbed again and teetered on his toes. The next push would give him no choice. This was his ending.

His eyes watered. He could not see. But suddenly he could.

The hood was yanked from his head. He was rammed forward to a surge of yelling. Everything blurred as he looked into the sun. Nothing was distinct except for the noise and the nakedness of his shoulders as his shirt was torn away. Then he saw the people, not so far away and not so many. No one was clad in white or looking up. They were all on his level, and mostly in the shadow of buildings around a courtyard. At last he recognised what all the shouting was about.

They were calling out bids.

5

Silence

‘. . . Except the gravity of some matter do require that she should speak, or else an answer is to be made to such things as are demanded of her, let her keep silence. For there is nothing that doth so much commend . . . a maid, as silence . . .’

—
The sixth Duty of Maids and Young Unmarried Women, from the
New Catechism of Thomas Becon,
Chaplain to Archbishop Cranmer in the reign of Edward VI, first published in 1559 shortly after the accession of Queen Elizabeth I

ELLYN FOUND HER
mother in her room. Her hair was made up elegantly, braided in coils under a cap trimmed with lace. Fine lines crazed her skin, like the cracking over an old varnished panel, but her eyes were bright, and the turn of her head was swift. A perfumed pomander hung from a silver girdle at her waist, and, from her ears, trembled little ruby tears.

She was sitting near the fire, embroidering a stomacher with a pattern of strawberries and ladybirds, curling stems and
variegated
leaves. There was nothing to suggest that she should not be moving about the house or enjoying the garden, going to market and church, or walking along the cliffs. But Ellyn knew her mother would stay where she was as she had done since Thom’s death; her life had become bound within the threads of her handiwork: unthreatened and ordered. Her journeys would be of her own devising while her imagination guided her needle, each stitch taking a small step into a beautiful, tranquil world. It was a world Ellyn could not enter with problems of her own.

At the moment her cheek was kissed, Ellyn’s mother put down her sewing.

‘My sweet,’ she said to Ellyn.

Ellyn knelt at her side.

‘Are you comfortable?’

‘Quite comfortable as I am, where there is not a draught to trouble my poor throat.’

The response was a whisper that Ellyn would never have heard had she not been so close, yet she was used to her mother’s voice, and it did not alarm her.

‘I came to enquire whether you have given all the instructions you wish. I believe Master Gilbert is expected for dinner.’

‘That he is,’ her mother answered while stroking Ellyn’s hair. Ellyn felt the gentle weight of her mother’s hand, moving with the kind of soothing that might be used to calm an excitable pet. ‘Your father is with him now,’ her mother went on. ‘They are at the new warehouse inspecting cloth. Then they will dine here. And you, dear Ellyn, should join them after that.’

It was a mystery to Ellyn, one that had never been properly
explained,
how her mother, in self-imposed seclusion, could keep abreast of events outside. But this was a fact – she always appeared to know exactly what her family and acquaintances were doing. Her mother was rarely mistaken, though she never became involved and abhorred any confrontation. Ellyn had long ago given up appealing to her for help in her personal battles, especially those with her father; her mother would never oppose him. So she kept her feelings about meeting Master Gilbert to herself – they were not what her father would want to hear. She tried to look pleased. At least she would not have to talk with the gentleman while she ate.

‘Your father was particular,’ her mother continued: ‘“Be sure Ellyn joins us after the last dish”, he said. I fancy they may have something of significance to put to you.’

Ellyn’s heart sank. What could be
of significance
? She stiffened as one obvious possibility loomed large in her mind. She might have pulled away without realising. Her mother patted her head.

‘Do not be concerned.’

Ellyn was even more alarmed. Had she betrayed how she truly felt? If her mother once suspected that she was determined to resist marrying Master Gilbert, then she would probably alert her father who would only attempt to coerce her. Better to appear dutiful and play along with their plans. She let her mother take her hand.

‘Nan knows precisely what to prepare,’ her mother said softly, while kneading Ellyn’s fingers as if she was trying to smooth them. ‘Venison pastry with honeyed mustard, turbot with Dutch sauce, marchpane dainties, maced cider and sack . . . It will be quite singular. But you must take your portion later,’ her mother added.
‘While
they are dining, you should be making yourself ready. I shall have Lettie bring you your dress – perhaps the lily partlet and green sleeves? I must think upon’t.’

Ellyn considered suggesting that she might make her own choice with a mind to colours that were much more drab, but acquiescence was wiser. She kept quiet.

‘Be sure to whiten thoroughly and line your eyes,’ her mother advised. ‘Your father will expect you to be looking your best.’

Ellyn bowed her head, foreseeing a trying morning and, beyond it, nothing pleasant.

‘Will you come, too?’

The response was predictable. Her mother put a hand to her mouth and her voice became hoarse.

‘No, no. I would only be a hindrance, and my cough a trial.’

‘I am sorry.’ Ellyn meant what she said. She pitied her mother and felt guilty for considering, in private, that perhaps she could fight whatever disabilities confined her. Though her mother was little use as an ally, Ellyn sensed her kindness. She looked up and caught her mother’s eye, discerning a depth of sadness that gave her the impulse to confide in her fully – she yearned to do it. But then her mother turned to her sewing and peered at the stitches, and Ellyn bit her tongue.