The Lost Duchess (33 page)

Emme had to leave for England, out of danger. It hurt to think of parting from her, as if a knife was twisting in the pit of his stomach, but he’d been reconciled to it before, and hadn’t he lost her anyway?

She must go back.

*

Manteo knelt before Governor White and raised his hands in an attitude of prayer, looking as fine a Christian as any Kit had seen in an English church. White held out a mantle of black velvet trimmed with ermine and placed it over Manteo’s shoulders, then he read from a parchment before everyone looking on: all the Planters and
Croatans who had been brought back from Dasemonkepeuc, and the mariners from the
Lion
who had come to Roanoke to collect water.

White spoke boldly. ‘Know ye that by these presents we do advance, create and prefer our right trusty and well-beloved Manteo of Croatoan to the state, degree and honour of Lord of Roanoke and Dasemonkepeuc …’

With his hands over Manteo’s, White completed the investiture.

‘Do you, Manteo of Croatoan, swear to become our liege man of life and limb, and in faith and truth bear unto us to live and die against all adversaries?’

‘I do,’ Manteo answered.

White opened his hands as if releasing a dove.

‘Arise, Lord Roanoke.’

Manteo stood, and White placed a gold ring on his index finger and handed him a mace ornamented with silver bearing the insignia of a crown and an antlered deer.

‘May you serve our city faithfully and watch over this fiefdom steadfastly as the vassal lord of Sir Walter Raleigh.’

White beamed at Manteo and the Indian grinned broadly back. When Manteo turned the whole assembly cheered and clapped, the ship’s trumpeter struck up a fanfare, someone began beating a drum and the Croatans gathered around Manteo to touch the symbols of his authority. Soon everyone was making merry, singing, dancing or enjoying the feast prepared in honour of the occasion. The wine was broached that had been reserved for this: a toast to Lord Manteo and the fulfilment of the last special duty with which White had been charged by Raleigh, though Manteo should have been lord here while White settled the region of Chesapeake. Kit raised his
cup too – in tribute to Manteo and Roanoke and the founding of the colony in hope of true permanence: the derelict cottages made into homes, the strong-house rebuilt, the fort repaired and the earthworks fashioned again in great arrowhead buttresses – a celebration of everything achieved despite the setbacks and misfortunes: the fields sown; the forge, kiln and ovens built; the water-well restored, and all that was now clean and working – in praise of their community and endeavour, and their friends, the Croatans. Kit drank deep, and allowed himself, just for a moment, to feel that he was part of something good that might be of some lasting benefit to his son and England, and perhaps even a new nation. Then he caught sight of Emme threading towards him and instantly his heart lurched.

She looked lovelier than ever, possessed of a quiet dignity that seemed to have grown in her since his return from the ill-fated raid, though they had both kept their distance from one another and he supposed that was as well. It would make her leaving easier. The agony of seeing her and being apart from her would not be his to endure for much longer. The departure was imminent; Ferdinando was ready. In truth it was probably Emme who had kept Ferdinando close offshore and the
Lion
riding at anchor over the three weeks since their arrival. Ferdinando was waiting for her. He had caulked and refitted the flagship and the flyboat and his men had nearly finished reprovisioning. All the supplies for the colony had now been brought to the island, down to the last bean and nail. The colonists had written their letters and prepared their tokens for friends and family back in England. Emme had written as well; perhaps she still believed that she was going to stay. Kit had seen her letter on White’s desk: one addressed to her father that Emme would have meant to be seen by Raleigh and the Queen. She had probably explained why
she would not be returning. Well, if so, she was mistaken. However much he admired her courage, he would make sure she was on the flyboat when Spicer and Stafford left for England. He just hoped to God he could persuade her to go of her own volition and not see her dragged away to be locked up in the hold. He no longer understood why she might want to stay. It could not be because of him, not since his revelation about Rob and Ololade. Somehow he had to convince her that the colony depended on her going back and appealing for help in person to the Queen. That might be easy, but he still suspected it would be hard. He needed to be prepared with compelling evidence that would sway her, and as yet he didn’t feel ready for a battle with her over leaving. So he turned aside as she neared him and stared fixedly at the fort, though even then his eyes were drawn to her like needles to a lodestone. He felt the pull of her and kept his face averted.

She spoke to him coolly.

‘Kit, I should be grateful if you would help me bring out one of the Governor’s chests which he would like to be taken aboard the
Lion.
’

‘Later,’ he answered her abruptly, knowing that there wouldn’t be any ‘later’. He cast about for some excuse to move away and saw it in the shape of Jim Lacy at the palisade gates.

‘There’s someone I need to speak to urgently, if you’ll forgive me.’ He gave her a perfunctory bow and strode off, but not before he’d noticed a flash of distress in her beautiful face. Why was that? Did she regret having spoken at all?

Lacy was happily swigging from a leather tankard when Kit clapped his shoulder and ushered him back behind the palisade.

‘A proud day for us, Jim.’

‘Aye, sir,’ Lacy said, lurching a little. ‘But the wine’s back there.’ He jabbed a thumb towards the gate and gave Kit a grisly lop-sided smile.

‘I’ve some brandy to share once we’ve spoken.’

‘Do we need to speak first?’ Lacy winked.

‘Yes, we do, and you must tell me the truth.’

Lacy’s face fell a little as he wiped at his mouth. His eyes narrowed.

‘About what?’

‘Lane. What happened while he was governor here? What did he do to set the Secotans against us?’

Lacy frowned and glanced back to the gate then stared at his feet.

‘Begin with Wingina,’ Kit said. ‘How did he die?’

‘You could ask Captain Stafford,’ Lacy suggested. ‘He was with Lane as an officer; he’d give you a fine report.’

Lacy turned as if to leave but Kit barred his way.

‘I already have asked him. Stafford was on Croatoan looking out for relief ships when Wingina met his end. White and Harriot weren’t with Lane then either; I expect they were left on Roanoke, and maybe it suited them to concentrate on their record-keeping rather than on what Lane was doing. But you were with him, weren’t you?’

Lacy took another drink and his troubled eyes slid from Kit back to the packed dirt at his feet. He nudged at a pine cone with the scuffed toe of his shoe. ‘Yes, I was with Lane when the old chief was killed, and I was with Lane all the way up the Moratico and back which was where the trouble really began.’

‘What trouble?’

The look Lacy gave Kit was bloodshot and anxious. He seemed to shrink inside the shirt Kit had lent him.

‘Lane wanted gold and he’d stop at nothing to get it.’

‘That led to trouble?’

Kit resisted the urge to shake the truth out of the old soldier. He waited while Lacy stepped back into the shadow by the palisade, and then moved to keep close to him. Lacy leant against the rough-hewn stakes.

‘Lane went scouting-like, first north to the land of the Weapemeocs, then west to the Choanokes, mightiest of all the savage tribes around the sound. Last spring we travelled up the Chowan as far as the city of Choanoke ruled by the crippled king Menatonon. He welcomed us with respect, but Lane took him prisoner and made a hostage of his most favoured son. This boy, Skiko, was sent back to Roanoke in irons to ensure his father’s co-operation.’

Kit grimaced, thinking of Rob. He’d have killed any man who tried to make a captive of him.

‘A poor way of securing loyalty.’

Lacy shrugged before carrying on. ‘Lane didn’t care. He wanted to be feared. He thought that if the savages weren’t cowed then they’d kill us.’ He cast Kit a tangled look. ‘Maybe he was right.’

‘What happened to the boy?’

Lacy shook his head and looked down. He pushed the pine cone into the loose dirt by the stakes. ‘No matter what ransom was offered for Skiko, Lane wouldn’t let him go.’

‘But when Lane left, what then? Skiko wasn’t brought back with us, was he?’

‘No.’ Lacy kicked the cone away. ‘I don’t know what happened to him.’

Was that the truth? Kit wasn’t convinced, but he wanted Lacy to keep talking.

‘Go on. What did Lane do with Menatonon?’

‘He milked him for information then demanded a ransom for his release. Menatonon told him there were pearls of rare purity to be found to the northeast, and that there was a land of mountains and gold far to the west. He called this place “Chaunis Temoatan”, and said that to reach it we’d have to pass through the land of the Moratucs. That was where we went: west – thirty men in four boats rowing up the Moratico against a powerful flow. Lane’s plan was to prevail upon the savages living by the riverside to provide us with victuals along the way, but not a scrap of food could we find. We saw the smoke from fires, but every village we reached was deserted and stripped bare. Lane blamed Wingina for that. He believed that Wingina had forewarned the Moratucs that we were enemies, and told them not to help us in the hope that we’d starve to death. We nearly did. We were reduced to eating our dogs. Only the promise of gold kept us going. We travelled so far in such extremity that we seemed close to losing our minds. In the end we heard singing and believed that at last we’d be received in friendship. Like a chorus of angels, so it was. But Manteo warned us that what we heard was a battle song. Sure enough, a volley of arrows was our greeting, though none caused us real hurt. We scattered the Indians with bullets, but we’d had as much as we could take. The next day we turned back.’

‘You all survived?’

‘We did. The journey home was much faster. In a day we’d covered what had taken us four days against the current. Once we got back to the sound, we fell on the fish traps of the Weapemeocs and were able to relieve our hunger.

‘Lane must have been pleased to show Wingina he still lived.’

Lacy raised a mottled eyebrow. ‘Lane felt cheated. We all did. We’d been through purgatory on that journey and all for nothing. Wingina was shocked to see us alive, but he could also see that we’d suffered, that we needed to eat or we’d die.’

Kit frowned, eyeing Lacy closely. The Irishman’s sun-reddened face was a mess of blotches, scars and freckles. The look he gave Kit was shifty but not mocking. Lacy seemed scared, if anything. He avoided Kit’s gaze and looked down again.

Kit pressed him harder.

‘Didn’t Wingina think you needed to eat?’

‘Wingina’s father, Ensenor, believed we were in league with the gods and couldn’t be killed. Even if we were killed, the old chief thought we’d only return to haunt his people and hurt them more. That was why we were pale: we were already ghosts. Ensenor told Wingina to treat us kindly-like and give us what we wanted.’

Kit still couldn’t see how this amounted to the ‘trouble’ that had led to the Secotans’ entrenched hostility, but he’d tease it out. Lacy was opening up. The Irishman took another swig from his tankard and offered it to Kit.

Kit drank with his tongue blocking most of the wine; then he wiped his mouth and handed the tankard back.

‘So did Wingina continue to show friendship after Lane’s return?’

‘For sure, Wingina seemed more eager to be our bosom friend than ever. A delegation arrived from the Choanokes and the Weapemeocs offering tribute and to recognise our good Queen Bess as their supreme
weroanca
…’

Kit seized on that: a glimmer of hope.

‘So these tribes are well disposed to us?’

Lacy scratched at his neck.

‘In return they wanted Skiko’s release. But Lane wouldn’t give them the boy, not straight away. It was his way of controlling Menatonon.’

Kit clenched his jaw. If Lane had sent the boy back before he left then there might be a chance of rekindling friendship with the Choanokes. He hoped to God that he had.

‘But this delegation persuaded Wingina to help us?’

‘Yes. He couldn’t oppose us as well as his father and those two mighty tribes. So he went out of his way to show cooperation: planted corn for us and built fish traps. A wily bastard he was.’

‘Why a bastard?’

‘We were hungry. We’d run out of provisions, and this was April; the corn wouldn’t be ready to harvest until July. We relied on Wingina’s people giving us food. Lane knew it and he didn’t like it. Wingina knew it too. He tested us gradually, finding our weaknesses. He never did trust us, not like his father.’

Kit wasn’t surprised, not after Lane’s behaviour with Menatonon, but he made no comment about that. He wanted to know what Lacy thought.

‘Why the lack of trust?’

‘Wingina believed that we were killing his people with invisible bullets. He asked Lane why he did it – why it was that in every village we visited the savages began to die not long after we left, though we raised not a finger against them. Lane said we’d done them no hurt and wished them no harm. But there was some cause for Wingina’s suspicion.’ Lacy looked at Kit with the credulous wonder of a good Catholic shown a miracle. ‘The savages did die: scores of them, in village after village. Even the Roanokes on the island began to die.’

Kit sighed. He’d heard of this from Harriot, but even Harriot could give no explanation.

‘A tragedy.’

‘For the savages it was. Maybe it was the will of God; that’s what Drake’s preacher told us on the way back to England.’

‘So if Wingina thought we were killing his people, what did he do about it?’

‘He left. He moved his chief village to Dasemonkepeuc, that was after his brother and then his father died. They’d always counselled peace. In their stead, Wanchese became Wingina’s most trusted advisor, and Wanchese hated us for bringing death to his island. He warned that all the Indians would be wiped out if they didn’t drive us away first. His views were no secret; the Croatans heard of Wanchese’s proclamations in council. Wanchese knew we weren’t gods. He’d seen how we lived in England. Wanchese persuaded Wingina to stop giving us food. Our worry then was that we’d starve before our corn ripened. The upkeep of the fish traps was a strange art to us, and we’d hunted out all the deer on the island. Our food became such shellfish and berries as we could scavenge. We were tormented by the memory of the search for the gold in the west. The final blow came when Lane found out about Wingina’s plot to destroy us.’