The Lost Duchess (9 page)

‘No,’ she said and looked him in the eye. ‘I thought I would ask you first. I could send back reports with any ship that returns and give an honest account of all that transpires.’

To her relief he did not laugh or rebuke her, or turn aside and walk away. He returned her gaze.

‘You would be prepared to risk your life and leave England, perhaps forever?’

‘Yes,’ she said softly, ‘I would.’

‘But why? You have ease of living here, the privilege of serving the Queen and … possibly good prospects in marriage. Why would you want to abandon all this?’

‘I have seen Master White’s pictures and heard Master Harriot’s reports, and I would like to go to this Eden on Earth in my life. I want to be part of the brave adventure. Sir Walter’s ambition is to build a better England in the New World. He needs women for that; I am prepared to be one of them.’

He shook his head. ‘I do not believe you have any idea of the hardship that might be involved – or the danger.’

‘I am willing to take my chance. I would like to make a fresh
start in the new country. I …’ She almost told him that she wanted to escape from Lord Hertford and the shame she felt every time she saw him, to be free to take control of her life and begin again in an untouched land without being at the beck and call of the Queen, a husband or anyone else. But she held back from saying any of that.

‘The men who have been to Virginia have inspired me, those who have seen its beauty and are determined on returning. They …’

‘The men?’ He inclined his head. ‘Perhaps one in particular?’

She looked down. She would not tell him about Master Kit. What was there to say? She took a step closer. ‘I could be useful to you. I could be your eyes and ears …’

He raised his hand. ‘Her Majesty would not allow it.’

‘She would if you convinced her of the advantages of my joining the expedition.’

His mouth twisted towards a smile.

‘You know you can trust my integrity,’ she went on. ‘None of the colonists would guess that I might be gathering information for you.’

He leant back and cupped his chin in his hand.

She could tell he was taking her suggestion seriously and that gave her some hope. ‘I would do whatever you asked. Anything …’

He cut across her.

‘In the ordinary course I would dismiss this proposal out of hand. It would put you at grave risk and there is the issue of your service for the Queen which adds another level of complication. But I have recently become aware of rumours which might make your absence for a while expedient.’

She frowned, wondering what he meant, but the mere fact that he was listening to her was encouraging. Then her spirits plummeted. What had he heard?

‘What rumours?’

‘Tittle-tattle concerning your virtue and your association with certain gentlemen.’

‘Who?’ she blurted in alarm. ‘Which gentlemen? This cannot be. I have always behaved modestly.’ She realised she was gabbling, and made herself slow down. ‘I am blameless,’ she said.

‘I have no doubt.’ Walsingham gave a nod. Though she avoided his eyes, she felt him scrutinising her intently. ‘As I said, the talk is only rumour and rumours are rarely true.’

She raised her chin.

‘I am glad you agree, Master Secretary.’

‘They are rarely completely false either.’

Her pulse raced but she did not rise to him.

Walsingham turned away from her and picked up one of the books from a shelf, peering at its embroidered back boards as if they fascinated him.

‘Some of the names mentioned have been patently absurd, my own amongst them.’

His
name? There was a rumour linking her with Secretary Walsingham? She could barely credit it. Why would anyone spread such a falsehood? Who would do so?

She made an effort to sound not particularly concerned. As he said, the idea was preposterous.

‘Absurd,’ she repeated, and shook her head.

‘But others …’

His voice tailed off, and a sense of foreboding settled over her.

He turned back and fixed her with a saturnine stare.

‘Lord Hertford, for example.’

She felt her colour rising and looked back at him.

‘No,’ she whispered.

His hooded eyes bored into her.

‘Do you deny any improper association with Lord Hertford?’

‘Yes, that is … I have never willingly … He took …’

She could not go on. No explanation she could give would help her. Even the truth would find her guilty.

Walsingham put an end to her floundering.

‘You need say no more. He has a reputation for such indelicacy and you have been unfortunate to allow yourself to be caught. I think it would be best if you were removed from court for a few months, until the rumours die down.’

‘Does the Queen suspect?’ She blurted out the question, desperate to know, because she felt she could face up to the idea of prurient gossip behind her back, but not the disapproval of the Queen; that would destroy her.

‘No,’ Walsingham sighed. ‘And I will do my best to ensure the rumours never reach her and, if they do, that they are discredited. So let us consider your suggestion more carefully. Do you know who will be the pilot for the voyage?’

Her mind was in turmoil, still trying to make sense of what had happened. How had the rumours begun? She had told no one but Bess about Lord Hertford; Bess, her best friend.

She had been betrayed.

Secretary Walsingham closed the book with a thud.

‘The name of the pilot, Mistress Fifield; do you know it?’

‘Master Simon …’ She shook her head as she tried to remember the name that Sir Walter had mentioned. ‘I did not meet him, but I heard his name as Simon …’

‘Ferdinando?’

‘Yes,’ she nodded, sure of it. ‘Simon Ferdinando.’

Secretary Walsingham frowned. ‘Then your danger will be worse.’ He picked up a pair of dividers from a shelf, placed one point on the wood, and twirled the free arm around. ‘Ferdinando is Portuguese by blood, born in the Azores, trained in Seville and served the Spanish crown as a navigator until, for reasons best known to himself, he converted to the Protestant faith and developed a hatred for all things Spanish … so he says.’ Walsingham held the dividers open and brought a fingertip to one of the points, resting the pad against the spike. ‘He is not to be trusted.’

His eyes flicked back to her. ‘He served as Sir Walter’s pilot on the last expedition and almost wrecked the flagship in a storm. He attempted to pass through the sand banks off Virginia by a route which he knew was treacherous despite being aware of a safe channel not far to the north, one which he himself had discovered. The ship was beached and the provisions carried were largely destroyed. That almost led to the complete failure of the expedition before General Lane and his men even set foot on land.’ He closed the dividers with a snap. ‘Those who work against England do not always do so directly. There are other methods less obvious than conspiracies to murder the Queen.’

She watched him set the dividers down carefully. ‘You think Master Ferdinando is an agent of Spain?’

He inclined his head.

‘I could watch him,’ she said. ‘I could observe him discreetly and report to you.’

‘If you stayed close to Ferdinando then perhaps …’

She sensed he was wavering; the prospect of her going was becoming more than a dream, though now her leaving would be
clouded by whispers of scandal. Better to go than try to carry on under a veil of opprobrium.

‘I could do that,’ she said.

‘He would save his own skin, I am sure.’ Secretary Walsingham kept his eyes on her and cocked his head on one side, holding her with his gaze while the clock ticked on. She knew he was deliberating over her potential usefulness against the possibility of her loss on the voyage, and he would also be weighing up the advantage of getting her away from the court and protecting his own reputation.

He rubbed his chin. ‘Ferdinando will not stay in Virginia with the settlers. He will come back to bring news to Sir Walter. Apart from anything else, no harbour has yet been found and tested along the coast of Virginia in which ships of deep draught may safely shelter from the autumn storms. It is conceivable that you could sail with the expedition, see the colony settled in Virginia, and then return with Ferdinando before the winter sets in …’

Her heart raced. The voyage might yet include her. ‘I would be willing to stay in the New World,’ she said hurriedly. ‘I would not wish to leave the settlers …’

‘No.’ He shook his head and smiled wryly.

He probably thought she wanted to elope with one of Sir Walter’s men. Let him, if that was what it took to get him to allow her to go; let him think she would chase after any man. She bit back a protest.

‘The Queen would never agree,’ he said. ‘She may be persuaded to allow you to go if she is assured of your return within a few months. The prospect of a private report on the venture from one of her own ladies might pique her interest and be enough to tempt her. It would bind her more closely to Sir Walter’s project and that might help you. But this could never be made public, of course. The
Queen could not be seen to be directly involved. If it was known that one of her ladies was on the voyage you might well become a target for Spanish attack. Sir Walter’s investors would be appalled; they would see your presence as unnecessary and potentially damaging. They would never support a venture in which a lady was put at risk. Suppose you were captured by the Spaniards? The repercussions would be …’ his hand wavered in the air, ‘difficult, to say the least.’ He grimaced. ‘You might face worse than death: imprisonment and examination before the Inquisition. Once in the New World, you could be captured by hostile natives …’

She offered him a small smile.

He passed his hand over his brow. ‘If you go, you will have to accept all the dangers alone, and you will have to travel under another name.’

‘I would be happy to accept that.’

He gave her a nod. ‘I will speak with Her Majesty. In the meantime you might consider a new identity for this venture.’

She would. Names were already streaming like ribbons through her mind.

*

In the bitter cold of a harsh November, Kit Doonan felt his muscles begin to relax after gaining shelter amidst the fug of the Boar’s Head Inn near Eastcheap. He looked at the soft saffron cake which Rob was pulling apart over his trencher and dunking into his spiced wine. The boy drank the wine, then pressed the yellow cake crumbs into a ball with his slender brown fingers and neatly used that to wipe the cup inside before popping the ball into his mouth. The wooden trencher was left spotless and the earthenware cup completely clean. Rob smiled up at him and he smiled
back. He only raised his head when the man with the loud voice spoke out again.

‘Virginia is cursed,’ the man bellowed. ‘It’s an ill-yielding wilderness beset by storms and overrun with savages.’ He thumped the table, leaning forwards, jut-jawed, to peer at the folk on the tavern benches who turned round to face him.

‘Go to Ireland!’ He swept out his hand and lurched. ‘If you want land in another country then go and work a plantation in Munster. It’s only two days’ sail away, not two months across the ocean, if your ship doesn’t sink in a hurricane. I’ll never go back.’

‘That’s as well,’ Kit said, projecting his voice so that everyone could hear. ‘Virginia has no need of men like you.’

The loud-mouth remained on his feet, propped up by his hand on the tabletop. He drank deeply from his cup and pushed himself upright. Kit knew he was mulling over how to respond, with the dull wits of a sot and the belligerence of a soldier; Kit recognised him as one of Lane’s men smarting from the failure of the last Roanoke expedition.

The man narrowed his eyes. ‘What do you mean by that?’

A sudden movement caused Kit to look to the place in front of the benches where John White had been left unnoticed.

Master White spread his arms. ‘Prithee, good sir, if Virginia is not for you then hold your peace. There are some who have served there, such as yourself, who are glad to be back in England; I am pleased for their safe return. But there are others who have begged me to include them in the new venture. It is to those who are interested that I wish to speak.’

‘Fools,’ the veteran muttered, and took a few steps.

I hope he leaves, Kit thought.

The man spat into the rushes. ‘You’re all simpletons to listen to a man like this who keeps a blackamoor unchained.’ He pointed straight at Kit.

Kit felt Rob stiffen beside him. An ugly murmuring rose from those who had gathered to hear John White speak; they looked over their shoulders from the veteran to Rob, and in their eyes was hostility.

Kit contained the flare of ire that surged through his veins. He stood calmly, held up his right hand and waited for everyone to look at him.

They did. They always did. Since leading his band of outlaws in Panama he had become used to taking control when he saw reason to step forwards. The mystery was why this happened, but people would usually follow him if he wanted them to. Perhaps the scar on his palm had something to do with it: the relic of an accident in a smithy long ago – the ‘mark of the Moon’, so the Cimaroons had believed. His father had said that he only had to hold up his hand to stop his luck running out. So it seemed. He had cheated death many times, and the confidence that gave was with him still; he could feel it as he stood there. He spoke decisively.

‘Virginia needs those who are fair-minded, hard-working and strong of heart.’ He scanned the faces before him, men and women, young and old, those lined by toil and those whom life had hardly touched. ‘If you have these qualities then I hope you will stay. If not, then there is little point in your remaining to hear more.’

‘Are you saying I’m a coward?’ The veteran took a step closer. He stopped a few paces away from Kit with his hand on his sword hilt.

‘No,’ Kit replied. ‘But neither are these good folk simpletons.’

The man’s lips curled to show the stumps of his lower teeth. ‘If you weren’t Drake’s man I’d ask to see you outside.’

Kit raised his hand again, and the look of shock on the veteran’s face when he saw what Kit held was worth the risk he took in revealing the wheel-lock pistol he usually kept at his back tucked into his belt.