The Lost Duchess (14 page)

‘Mistress Murimuth!’ Governor White hissed at her in a way that made plain he considered her intervention inappropriate.

Ferdinando slowly turned to her and raised a sleek eyebrow.

‘I expect the passengers not to be a hindrance, madam, and I do not expect to be questioned by maids.’

This was the man whom Secretary Walsingham suspected of being a Spanish agent. She could believe it; he was duplicitous in his manners and clearly unconcerned about the welfare of those he carried aboard. She took an instant dislike to him.

Governor White flapped his free hand about. ‘This seems an unreasonable demand, if I may say so, Master Ferdinando. I have not known adventurers confined below on previous expeditions. When I sailed with Generals Grenville and Lane …’

‘You sailed with soldiers,’ Ferdinando cut him short, ‘not an ill-disciplined gaggle of town-dwellers. Now if you do not get your people below without delay then I will have anyone left in my
sight put in the pinnace and sent straight back to Plymouth. That includes you, Master White.’

The Governor jumped back, red faced. ‘By God, sir! Save your breath. I shall order the Planters out of your way – and speak more with you later.’

He turned to the settlers and raised his voice to a shout. ‘The ship’s Master requests that we all go down below decks for a while. Please return to your quarters.’

He ushered his daughter to the hatch and Master Kit nimbly sprang to help her: a gallant gesture since Mistress Dare was hampered by her pregnancy, but it fell far short of the remonstration with Ferdinando that Emme was hoping for from Kit. She hung back behind the crowd while the rest of the settlers filed below, a process that took many minutes since not everyone was in the prime of health, and there was at least one other goodwife heavy with child, and some with babes in arms, together with men like Ananias Dare who seemed more interested in fondling the rumps of wenches than in descending with any speed.

Emme kept her eyes on Ferdinando and followed him as soon as he moved, climbing to the forecastle top deck with a view over the bowsprit as it languidly dipped and rose in a continuous rolling cycle. She held tight to the rail.

He turned to her. ‘Still here, Mistress Murimuth? Shall I summon Captain Stafford in the pinnace and have him take you ashore? He is over there, do you see?’ He pointed to a little two-masted vessel that sailed alongside, even smaller than the flyboat that carried the bulk of their provisions which was also nearby. Both craft seemed barely adequate for an ocean crossing.

She matched his knowing smile. ‘No, Master Ferdinando, I have
no wish to go back, nor to stay below with the chickens and rats.’ She checked the urge to reproach him and smiled more demurely. ‘I appreciate your concern for us, but I can see no reason why I and others who are fit and eager to see as much as possible on this voyage should not, at their own risk, be allowed to remain above decks if they wish. We would exercise due caution and obey your instructions.’

‘Indeed? I am pleased to hear that you are prepared for obedience; that is a good way to start. Yet you question my judgement and that is irksome.’

He moved closer to her, and her impulse to preserve a distance between them caused her to step back, sliding her hand along the gunwale, until her hips were pressed against the stanchions in the corner. She leant away from him and felt something hard digging into her back, something that made her flinch, until she groped behind her and felt cold metal, then looked across and saw the long barrel of a swivel gun on the bulwark the other side.

He looked amused and moved in front of her. ‘You see no reason why you should not be on deck. You do not see the danger?’

He leaned towards her and she arched back against the gun casing, aware of the pivot pressing under her shoulder blades. He was too close – close enough for her to see the black pores on his shaved jaw and the glistening black bristles overhanging his upper lip. Her eyes flicked back towards the waist of the ship and, as if he anticipated where she meant to move, he put his hand on the gunwale to the side, hemming her in. She began to slide the other way and he put his free hand atop the forward rail, trapping her in the corner. She shivered, heart jumping like a firework; this was how Lord Hertford had begun, pinning her between his arms.
She must get away. Keep him back. Scream. Her mouth opened to the streaming air, but this man was in command of the ship: what would he do if she did? He could have her locked in the hold. He must believe her to be no more than a wench, the kind of woman with whom a ship’s officer might make sport. She leant further away until only her hold upon the stanchions stopped her toppling into the waves. She would try to make little of his behaviour, though fear for what he might do sent her into a cold sweat.

‘I am sure we are all safe with you, Master Ferdinando. The sea would not dare to misbehave.’

‘Ah, but she does, frequently. She is always dangerous.’

He moved so close that she felt the hardness of his legs through her dress. She jerked back, trying to keep her face away from his, and the heave of the ship almost knocked her off her feet. Suddenly he bent right over and pulled loose her hands. His weight pushed her further, tipping her over the gunwale with the ridge of the rail under the small of her back. He held her arms by the wrists, and the yaw of the ship sent her plunging down towards the sea while the far side of the forward deck rose up above her. Her muscles locked in terror. Nausea engulfed her. Her whole body recoiled. The next instant he let go of her, and she lurched in horror, diving forwards then away from him. He grabbed her just as she was about to fall over the side.

Chuckling, he pulled her upright and stepped smartly back.

‘You should be below where you are safe, Mistress Murimuth.’

She seized hold of the gunwale again, shivering, too shocked to speak. Did he think nearly killing her was a game? She itched to slap the smirk from his face, but even that idea made her queasy. Down on the main deck she noticed Kit by the hatch, looking
her way. What had he seen? She leant over and gasped for breath. Glancing round, she saw Master Ferdinando staring at her looking both intrigued and entertained. She began to edge clear of him, leaning well away, and in passing contrived to slip and kick the scoundrel in the shin.

‘
Deus
!’ He rubbed his leg and scowled at her.

‘I apologise, sir, but blame the motion of the sea.’ She smiled back prettily. ‘She can never be predicted.’

She took care to control her shaking. The thought of slapping him had revolted her, but she could hit him with her shoe without any qualms at all.

*

With a splintering crack like the jaws of Hell snapping bone, the ship crashed down into the trough and Emme’s shoulder hit the bulwark. She felt the
Lion
rise up again, borne at a sickening tilt on a wave that seemed to reach mountain height, though she could see nothing of it in the pitch darkness below decks, only feel the jarring and grinding of the timbers around her and the remorseless accelerating motion which her whole body strained to escape. A scream welled up within her while the screams of others tore at her ears, and amidst that she could hear retching from Eleanor Dare beside her. Emme’s knee struck something hard, then came the inexorable stomach-lurching pivot and the blind panic of weightlessness as the ship toppled over the crest and she felt herself fall. The hull plummeted down and all that was rolling within it: people, animals, sprung barrels and splintering chests, tackle, armaments and provisions. The keel smacked into another depression, like a deep gorge between towering peaks, and Emme collided with struts and planking. She clung to anything solid she could grope for: skin-burning
rope, the iron cleats, rings and hooks to which things were tied that were not being smashed to pieces. She curled into a ball to protect her limbs, tried not to gag on the stink of vomit and closed her sleep-starved eyes.

Would the ship sink and take her with it? They had only been sailing for a few weeks and already death seemed to be clawing for her. Couldn’t she have longer? Dear God, give her longer – a chance at least to glimpse the New World she had dreamt of. Tears brimmed under her lids, but she screwed her eyes shut and pushed the heels of her hands against them. She would not weep.

‘Lord, have mercy,’ Eleanor Dare wailed. ‘We’re going to die.’

‘Take heart, mistress,’ Emme murmured. ‘The storm will pass.’

They were both clinging blindly to the same pillar. She drew back and a coil of rope swung into her as she bumped her head on a wooden brace. The ship climbed another wave and Mistress Dare retched again.

‘I cannot keep hold. I feel faint, as if I’m turning inside out.’

‘You’re not.’

‘My baby …’

‘Your baby is in the safest place. Here, this might help.’ Emme half rose, crouching under the low ceiling-deck, grasped at the rope and passed it around the pillar. She fumbled with the ends until she had the rope tied fast and looped securely below the lady’s bulge and over a blanket to ease the friction.

‘You can let go now,’ she said. ‘The rope will hold you.’

The ship slid from another wave top, creaking as if it was tearing apart, gathering speed as it plunged.

‘Let us pray,’ John White exhorted. ‘Thou rulest the raging of the sea: when the waves arise, thou stillest them …’

In the blackness voices joined him, fearful and quavering.

Emme slipped away on hands and knees, grasping at angled riders and heaps of lashed-down possessions, edging past huddled passengers, though she couldn’t help being thrown against some of them. She searched for steps leading up and found a set eventually below a hatch streaming with water. She unlatched the thing and knocked it open, then fell down with the next plunge and took a cold drenching. As the ship climbed once more she shimmied up, crawled out and slammed the hatch closed behind her.

The sky was light, not the inky night she had expected. The sun was lost behind thick grey cloud, but there was a yellow glow near the horizon enough to give the spuming white caps a sulphurous gleam and make the skin of the great wave ahead shine as if it was alive and sweating. It rose up sheer, carrying the
Lion
like a mite on its back. She lunged for the nearest rail and seized hold of it with hands so painfully cold she could barely grip. Rain stung her face, lashing her hair into her eyes. Salt air scoured her mouth and streamed like sleet into her lungs, scrubbing her throat raw. The ship yawed and she slid sprawling across the deck, tipped one side then the other until she thudded against the stanchions. Clutching tight and looking up she saw men wrestling with halyards and sheets, moving like beetles in their baggy tarred clothes. Two of the sails were in tatters, flapping in shreds from odd angled spars; most were loose furled. Only one, high on the foremast, was open and bulging like a wine skin about to burst. Someone came near her: a man with a wool cap pulled low over his brow, a broad jaw and sculpted mouth that showed flashing teeth as he spoke.

‘Please go back below, at least until the storm has eased.’

She recognised Master Kit, and flinched back on impulse when he held out his hand to her. Though she longed to take hold of him, she could not make herself do it. She appealed to him with her eyes.

‘We’ll be safe?’

‘Yes. We’ll weather this out. Storms in the Bay of Biscay aren’t unusual.’

‘How much longer will this last?’

He smiled at her, and she realised he could not possibly know.

‘I think we’re over the worst,’ he said.

‘What of the other ships?’ She scanned the heaving waters beyond the rail, spotting the little pinnace bobbing nearby like a leaf caught on a mill race, though still intact, the gleam of a sail showing near one of her two masts. But where was the supply boat?

‘I can only see the pinnace.’

Kit pointed to larboard. ‘Captain Spicer is having trouble.’

She saw the flyboat at last, barely more than a speck in the distance, almost swallowed by the seething waves each time they took the ship down between them. ‘Is something wrong?’

Kit grimaced. ‘The boat’s lost her main-yard.’

A shout cut into the wind, a bellowing thick with Iberian accent.

‘Master Bo’sun, get to your station. Whichever wench is with you, send her below this instant.’

She turned to see Master Ferdinando looking down on them from the poop deck. He pointed towards the bow.

‘Tighten the top foresail. We’ll race before the wind.’

Kit frowned. ‘Shouldn’t we ride bare poles and wait for Captain Spicer?’

‘I’ll be the judge of what action to take. We’ve already lost too much time in waiting. Do it.’

‘The expedition will fail without those provisions, Master Ferdinando.’

‘You’ll obey my order, Bo’sun. Sheet home and make way.’

‘Aye, Master.’

Kit turned and blew his whistle, sending the men to the winches to set taut the only sail, a puny harness with which to ride a wild demon.

A wave smashed clean over the gunwale, sluicing down Emme’s back. The ship pitched and Emme lost her balance, stumbling over and sliding across the deck, cracking her head on the hatch cover before finishing up below the deadeyes the other side. She pulled herself up unsteadily. The wind froze her to the marrow, shrieking around the rigging and dragging at her clothes. Doubling over, she clutched her sides, then a strong arm encircled her waist, and she sensed Kit’s body shielding her from the storm again. She fought the urge to push him away. She tensed, breathing fast.

Kit helped her back towards the hatch.

‘Are you all right?’

She nodded, though she felt wretched.

He stooped and opened the cover.

‘Go down now and get dry.’

‘Yes. Thank you.’

‘I’ll let you know when the gale is spent.’

‘But Captain Spicer …?’

‘He’ll catch up with us. Don’t worry.’

The bellowing of the ship’s Master ripped towards them through the wind.

‘Why is that doxy still here?’

The heads of the crew turned towards Emme.