The Lost Duchess (31 page)

‘You are right. This is a cup I will gladly leave in White’s hands. I’ll wait for his decision, and then support it whatever it is.’

Stafford held Kit’s shoulder briefly; then he slid past Emme to return inside. He did not seem to notice her, and Kit appeared lost in thought. Manteo came out seconds later and she launched into an apology, wishing now that she had kept quiet at the meeting.

‘I have faith in you and your people, Manteo; I hope you believe that. I never meant to suggest otherwise.’

Manteo’s voice was warm though she could barely see him to look for a smile.

‘We are still friends, Mistress Emme; be not troubled.’

But she was troubled. More people emerged, spreading out between the strong-house and the fortified earthwork that surrounded it. The bank was topped with tall pointed stakes so close together that they formed a black curtain away from the rushlights. The colonists who moved to the shadows to talk in private became lost to her sight. Kit remained by the outer wall of the house, squatting on his haunches, drawing shapes in the dirt with his knife, plans of attack for all she knew. She did not question what he was doing because the rest of the mariners and soldiers soon gathered round him: Lacy, Wright and Stafford too, about ten of them in all – the men who would have to fight if White decided to attack. Manteo and Towaye formed their own group of two near a corner
of the house. The women made a third group and the young men another. The Planters were breaking apart and reforming in smaller units of like kind. All were huddled together and glancing over their shoulders. Soon only White and the Assistants were left inside, and it seemed as if she was the only one outside who was left alone.

She wrapped her shawl about her shoulders and wandered over to the gate to look at the fire left smouldering in the middle of the clearing. It would be pointless trying to sleep. How long would White take to decide? They could be debating all night; White was not a man to be hurried, and she could not imagine him making up his mind very quickly, not when the issue in question was of such significance for the future of the colony. She considered drawing closer to the fire and sitting on one of the logs where at least she might find a little warmth and get away from the cool breeze blowing in from the sound. But all of a sudden the door to the strong-house flung open and Stafford was summoned back inside. He entered and shortly afterwards re-emerged. She moved closer as he strode over to Kit and the soldiers, knowing in that instant that the decision had been made. White must have capitulated. If he’d persisted in his arguments for caution and restraint there would never have been such a swift resolution. There would be an attack. Stafford confirmed it when he spoke.

‘Get ready. We’re leaving at midnight. Twenty-four men will be led by myself and Governor White. We’ve nearly two hours to prepare. We’ll be sailing in the pinnace and landing at Dasemonkepeuc.’

One by one, Stafford clapped the men on the back, tasking them by name, listing the weapons each should bring, and one by one they left.

She yearned to go too, but she knew without asking that Stafford
would never consent to that, and neither would Kit. This was a business for men. It would be violent and bloody and some of them might not come back. Images of horror welled up in her mind, indescribable and fragmented, seeded by everything she had heard about the ferocity of the Secotans: a sword thrust from under a cloak; a club smashing open a head; an arrow tearing into a mouth – possibly Kit’s mouth. She moved closer until she saw him clearly. She could barely speak.

‘God go with you, Kit,’ she said in a voice like a stranger’s, shivering as if with cold.

He ushered her round to the shadow at the side of the strong-house. She felt they were alone but did not care if they were not. Would he now declare his love then ask her to marry him, so that with her promise he would be strengthened for what lay ahead? What was there between them apart from stolen kisses, a few tender words and others more divisive? There was only the desire deep inside her that burst into flame whenever she saw him, or heard his voice, or slept and dreamt of him, or came close enough to touch, as now, inhaling his smell of leather and salt, his arms caressing her back, and his body against hers, breathing life between her lips while the spirit of love beat inside her, until her fingers were sparkling and every delicate point of contact was consumed in sensation: face and neck, shoulders and back; and his touch set her alight, and her breasts ached against his chest. She would never let him go and then the moment would never end.

He drew breath, still kissing her.

‘I have something to ask you.’

‘You do not need to ask. If you wish my answer to be yes then that is my answer.’

He kissed her forehead gently.

‘Let me ask you anyway, so I am sure you understand fully. You should know …’

‘What, Kit? What should I know?’

She prompted him as he fell silent and in his pause all she heard was Stafford giving orders.

‘… More water – and pitch. Bring a cask …’

She kissed him where his jerkin was unbuttoned, and his collar ties were loose since the day had been very hot. With her lips she found a little of the wiry hair that curled over his chest. What more could she do? He only had to ask and she would say yes to him. Why was he hesitating?

He held her shoulders, peeling himself apart from her. Where they had been together she felt suddenly chill.

‘I have a son,’ he said.

‘I see.’

She did not see; she had said she did without thinking. She did not understand. What did he mean? Did he want to confess to having fathered a bastard? It wouldn’t matter to her if he had; she would still love him.

‘Was he born out of wedlock?’

‘Yes, in a sense, though his mother and I were married in a way.’

‘Married? You are telling me you have been married?’

‘No. We … It was not marriage as you would recognise it. I …’

‘You are not married now?’

‘No.’

She put her arms around his waist and smiled though he would not see it. As long as he was not married now, she did not care.

‘I am glad you have a son, Kit. You must be proud of him.’

He stroked her shoulders as he held her and she felt him relax a little.

‘I am proud. He is a fine boy. He is here with us. He …’

She heard him struggle while her mind span with questions. How could Kit’s son be ‘here with us’? Who was he?

‘Tell me, Kit.’

‘… He does not know that I am his father.’

How could the boy not know that Kit was his father? He was making no sense.

‘What are you saying? Who is this son?’

Kit took a deep breath.

‘Rob is my child.’

‘Rob?’ She stood motionless with shock. ‘But he’s your page, he’s …’

‘He’s a blackamoor, yes. His mother was a runaway: a slave from the Guinea coast who escaped from the Spaniards, as I did in Panama. We lived together as man and wife, though a priest never blessed us. We stayed with the Cimaroons …’

‘The outlaws you told me about?’

‘Yes, the fugitive slaves who roamed the mountains. For a while I was their leader. But when I heard that English ships had arrived, I left the Cimaroons to try and find them. That led me to my brother, and together we returned to England with Drake. At the time of our parting, the woman I lived with was expecting my child. That child is Rob. I found him years later when I returned to Panama.’

She felt something cold settle like lead in her stomach.

‘You went back for this woman?’

‘Yes; I loved her very much. But my Ololade was killed by the
Spaniards long before I could reach her. Her son is all that she left me –
our son
.’

She should have been weeping for him but she could not. She felt sick.

‘Why are you telling me this, Kit? What does it have to do with me?’

He still held her shoulders, but beyond that they barely touched; she must have edged away from him. She held herself upright while inside she was sinking. People were calling in the distance. Stafford’s commands rang out, and in her mind they were like stones smashing apart all her hopes, as if her dreams had been made of porcelain and now they were shattered, and the shards were cutting her as they fell at her feet.

Kit’s voice seemed ragged.

‘I beg you to care for Rob if anything happens to me. Remember he does not know he is my son. Do not tell him unless you have to, but if you do, then do so gently.’

‘Kit,
you
should tell him, not I.’

She pulled away from him, pushing him back, unable to hide the anger that welled up inside her. This was not for her to do; she hardly knew the boy.

‘Go to him now and take your leave of him properly, as his father.’

She folded her arms and clawed at her sides while tears of rage spilled uselessly from her eyes. ‘Why do you burden me with this?’

He stepped nearer again and reached for her. She backed away but he grabbed hold of her, circling her with his arms and embracing her so tightly she could not break free. Panic welled inside her. She struggled to escape as he pressed a rough kiss to her lips, a kiss
forced upon her just as he had imposed the knowledge of his son, a knowledge she could not forget.

‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘Watch out for him, please.’

He let go of her and waited for her answer: the reassurance he needed that would unburden him for the fight.

Bitterness almost choked her, but she gave a nod.

‘He is but a child.’

Kit reached for her again, but dropped his hand when she shied away from him.

‘If the time comes …’ he began; then he finished quickly as Stafford called out his name. ‘If you need to speak to Rob then tell him that I love him.’

She barely saw him walk away. He was gone in a blur. She almost ran after him, but then she heard the splash of oars and she knew it was too late. She walked aimlessly away. Kit meant everything to her even though he had cut her to the quick. It was clear to her now that he cared for his son most of all, and that if his lover was still alive then that woman was the one he would be with. Kit Doonan would not have looked twice at Emme Fifield, lady-in-waiting to the Queen. So what did that make her? Nothing. She was less than a concubine and a dusky slave. Perhaps he had only ever shown her affection in order to persuade her to look after his boy. But she had been sure that he cared for her. He just didn’t care for her enough to ask her to be his wife. Well then. She wiped at her cheeks and eyes. She would prove herself worthy of his love, even if she no longer knew whether she could love him as she had.

She found herself by the fire though she’d hardly noticed that she was walking. Not far away was the canvas shelter that Kit shared with Rob. Suddenly she knew what she would do: find Rob and tell
him that his master had left with the Governor and Captain Stafford, explain their mission, then invite the boy back to the Governor’s house to help her with Mistress Dare while the men were away. The resolution stopped her tears – better to act than to mope. She bent to call the boy’s name. It would be kinder to speak to him now rather than let him wake up alone. She cleared her throat.

‘Rob.’

Her voice sounded strong, but in her heart she was still weeping, sure that Kit would never love her as he had loved the mother of this young man.

She felt her own love had died.

*

It was an ugly dawn for an ugly business. The first show of light glimmered sickly yellow behind a thick pall of cloud. Kit rubbed at his eyes, unable to focus on much beyond the black blur of reeds stretching to the weak shine of water. From where he lay, flat against the ground, everything was mist-hazed, low in the distance and foreshortened. The mounds of bark-covered shelters rose between him and the sound like the humps of a coiled beast, six that he could make out: a village of maybe ten families. But the only evidence of habitation was the smell of dung and drying tobacco, a thin plume of smoke, and the vague suggestion of feathered Indian heads, three of them, close to the source of the smoke. He saw one of them move.

He kept still, hearing rustling as Stafford and his advance party crept forwards. Soon the Indians would sense them and react. He positioned his caliver ready to fire, blew softly on the match-cord and checked it was secure on the serpentine. If the savages didn’t hear Stafford’s party, they would scent the acrid smell of smouldering
saltpetre. At any moment they would dive for cover and reach for their bows. If they tried to escape through the village then they wouldn’t get very far; Kit and the rear-guard had all the longhouses surrounded. In a way he hoped the savages would run. He was glad not to be leading the attack – glad not to be there with Stafford, Dare and Harvie because he knew what they would try and do: take aim on one of those unsuspecting warriors and shoot him before he had a chance to even see who they were. They were stalking the Indians as if they were game. This was not the way Drake would have done things. Sir Francis would have fired a warning volley and called for the savages to submit. This was a raid by stealth with the aim of killing in the same way that George Howe had been killed: an eye for an eye. An Indian would lose his life who probably had nothing to do with Howe’s death, just as Howe had been murdered who had nothing to do with the death of the old Indian chief, or with Lane’s depredations, whatever they were. He hoped it would end there.

Kit tensed, waiting for the piercing crack of musket shot that would surely come. Whether the Indians broke first, or Stafford’s party fired before they were alerted, there would be at least one shot, and the shot from Stafford would bring down a savage; then Kit and the rear-guard would drive everyone from the village, and those left alive would be so terrified that they would flee to spread the word about the fearful might of the English. It was possible. It was also possible that afterwards there would be peace. Maybe the leaders of the Secotans, Wanchese, and the
weroances
of all the neighbouring tribes, would come to Roanoke to discuss terms by which everyone could live in harmony, English and Indian together. He had to believe it. He fingered the firing lock of his caliver and
blinked to clear his eyes. It was possible that Rob might grow up free here and live a long life full of contentment. It was possible that Emme might still care for him though he had felt her coldness when they had parted. Dreams. Without dreams there could be no endurance. Sometimes it was better not to think too far.