The Queen's Captain Read online

  The Queen's Captain

  By

  Margaret Hope

  Contents

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Beth Howard is far too spirited a girl to enter into an arranged marriage with a man who has not even bothered to meet her—the mighty Captain James Danyell.

  Instead, she disguises herself as a boy and runs as far and as fast from home as she can, but she finds herself set upon by a press gang and forced to serve in Queen Elizabeth's navy. Beth's horror is complete when she is presented as cabin 'boy' to the hated Captain Danyell—the one man she is trying to avoid. Amidst the turmoil of the Armada, the Captain's affection for his 'boy' grows, while Beth's feelings are as tumultuous as the battle raging around them.

  First published in Great Britain 1978

  by Mills & Boon Limited,

  17-19 Foley Street, London W1A 1DR

  © Margaret Hope 1978

  Australian copyright 1978

  Philippine copyright 1978

  ISBN 0 263 72816 1

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  Among the many sources consulted in the writing of this book, I am indebted to the excellent account of the Battle of Gravelines given by Garrett Mattingly, 'The Defeat of the Spanish Armada' 1959. Other invaluable material on the Spanish Armada was provided by J. S. Corbett 'Drake and the Tudor Navy' 1899; A. M. Hadfield 'Time to Finish the Game' 1964 and J. R. Hale 'The Great Armada' 1913.

  MARGARET HOPE

  CHAPTER ONE

  "I will not marry him. Never, Uncle!"

  "I say you will marry him, niece. And presently. The arrangements are made."

  "Then they can be unmade. I do not love James Danyell."

  "Love? What has love to do with a marriage settlement?" demanded her uncle.

  "He is Sir Francis Drake's cousin, remember that," said her aunt. "And you would do well to heed your betters, Beth Howard. He takes you without dowry—a kind and generous man. And you are but an orphan, unlikely to get such a catch again."

  "I do not want a catch. Throw him back into the sea where he belongs."

  Ephraim Howard, merchant of Hythe, and his wife Mary looked upon their ungrateful niece with anger and distaste. It required patience which was fast ebbing to keep their hands off the fever-short hair growing in chestnut clusters above her forehead, her eyes, like violets, hollow in the small white face. Childlike still at seventeen, her frailty born of years of poor nourishment and hard work inflicted by them, brought no thoughts of pity, no weakening of purpose.

  "Ungrateful wretch, you are a disgrace to a fine family name."

  "You should have been married two months since, had it not been for the Spanish threat."

  In that year of 1588 the Spanish threat, once a rumour, had become the reality of the Invincible Armada. With smoke by day, and flame by night, beacons upon every hill and church tower, the length and breadth of England, passed the fearful message: The Armada is sighted. From every village along the south coast, from Plymouth to Portsmouth, through the Cinque Ports to Dover, along the Thames to Richmond where the Queen anxiously awaited news.

  Brave they said the Queen was, refusing extra guards and pacing her palace, issuing orders like a man, listening to rumours, hearing messages from hard-ridden travel-stained couriers. And always calm she was, this Queen with the heart of a man—and of a king, in the feeble body of a woman. Her father, bluff King Hal, would have been proud to know he had sired such a Queen, who waited with her thoughts concealed behind the painted mask of a face, the bejewelled gown and ruff.

  All across her kingdom, in every town and village the drums throbbed calling men to arms while bands of militia, hastily trained, inadequately weaponed, prepared to march. From rustic church and stately hall, dusty armour was removed and put into service once again. Cheerful, bound by the camaraderie that makes light of adversity and turns men into good soldiers the world over, reinforcements poured down twisting narrow country lanes, surging ever southwards to the coast. Those willing and eager to fight looked forward to a sight of the Spaniards and talked boldly, full of confidence in victory, afraid only that the war might be over before they had a chance to show their mettle. And women, whose men had left, taking beardless schoolboy sons with them, went to church to weep and pray.

  "If it were not for the Armada—" began Beth's aunt. If it had not been for wicked King Philip in Spain, this whey-faced chit of a girl would have been wedded and bedded by James Danyell.

  "And what sort of a man is James Danyell, who does not pretend sufficient interest in his prospective bride to even seek her acquaintance?" Beth wished she could bite back the words, showing as they did how his indifference had wounded her pride, the little vanity that remained to her.

  "Too busy on the Queen's business," said Uncle Ephraim.

  "Ay, busy conferring with the Queen's admirals," said Aunt Mary vaguely.

  "Too busy fighting for his country, niece. You should be proud of such a man as that."

  The Armada had remained elusive until a week ago, when ships had been sighted sailing towards the Lizard. Intercepted by the Queen's admirals in a series of running battles along the English Channel, it had looked for a while as if Wight, that vulnerable isle, might fall to the Spaniards, but a change of weather had blown them towards the Calais Roads and out of Lord Admiral Howard's eager grasp. The Queen's ships had lost their advantage and with little damage to either side, the Spaniards had vanished once again, leaving the summer air lazy and warm, heavy with rumours.

  "If I have the Armada to thank for my reprieve then I am grateful," said Beth, and heard her aunt's sharp intake of breath at this sacrilege. In the drowsy heat garden insects buzzed against the mullioned window as, bold but afraid, she faced her persecutors across the oak table. She knew she was but a valuable pawn to them, helpless against their greed and ambition.

  "God bless the Armada!" She saw their horrified faces. Their hands moved—and stopped in time. They had changed their coats with the Reformed Church under King Henry the Eighth, but sometimes gestures betrayed that they had been born into the old religion whose habits died hard.

  Seizing her advantage, Beth continued: "Besides, perhaps James Danyell will be too busy to attend his own wedding, or perhaps no longer alive," she added, wanting to shock them. They exchanged a glance she understood. Because she was dowry less, they wanted her married, whatever happened. She had read the marriage settlement and it was generous. Under it, she remained their ward until her eighteenth birthday. If her husband died meantime, they might claim as her guardians the right of executors over whatever fortune he left her, under the legal terms of "succour and comfort".

  "Fear not," said her uncle grimly. "You will be married to James Danyell next week, one way or the other. If he does not arrive in time, then there will be a proxy marriage."

  A proxy marriage. Only a close relative was needed, or the bridegroom's sword for her to kiss at the exchange of vows. There were many such marriages; between children under age, or of young girls married from the schoolroom and often widowed without ever being wives. Many were like herself, at the mercy of relatives appointed by fond bridegrooms to provide for widows where the marriage was without issue.

  Beth looked at the hard unyielding faces before her. All famous men, it appeared, have poor relatives, but none surely with more avarice than Ephraim Howard a
nd his wife, distantly related to the Lord High Admiral of England and unlikely to let any man or woman forget it. Her own father, Ephraim's younger brother, had cared little about such matters and therefore earned scant regard, contemptuously dismissed as "a scholar, too lazy and indifferent to seek betterment".

  Beth's father had died with his wife and two elder children in the cholera epidemic in London ten years ago. The sole reason why the Howards of Hythe had given her shelter was that, plain and delicate, she had seemed marked down for an early grave. She had been seven, old enough to bring with her into this grasping household, memories of a happy home life, of love, laughter and caring. Like a radiant dream it continued to haunt and support the misery of a parsimonious existence under Craighall's handsome roof. From the beginning she had been treated like the basest serving wench, annually appraised and assessed in the same manner as the bales of wool upon the threshold of her uncle's warehouse.

  Childless themselves, they had scant patience or forbearance for a small child, particularly a frail girl. The years were slow in passing, marked for Beth by fragments of overheard conversation.

  At eight, she had heard them say: "No need, wife, to pay great attention to her garments. No luxuries are required."

  "Ay, husband, she will not live past summer. She grows daily more delicate after that last attack of fever."

  At twelve she had heart!: "Some cast-off gowns, Mistress Robb will take them in; surely there is something in your closets, wife, which will suffice."

  "Ay, husband, since no one will ever notice her at the festivities, so plain—"

  At fourteen: "Surely not more clothes? Has she then outgrown her gown, wife? Would to God we were rid of this burdensome niece of ours."

  Listening to such heartless conversations, since they did not trouble to lower their voices, shrill in displeasure, Beth had choked back tears. She had trembled, but her tears were of rage, her trembling of anger. Lonely, oft-times ill, aching for loving hands and warm comforting words, she had nevertheless determined to defy the greedy couple to the end, by continuing to live.

  I will survive, she said.

  And she did. Not that she had much heart for survival in the daily drudgery of existence at Craighall. She merely wished to inconvenience the Howards.

  Survival had been helped by her only friends, the housekeeper Mistress Robb, who was a widow with one son, Will, two years older than Beth.

  Their final treachery had been in taking Will away from her. Plans were already some months under way for her marriage to James Danyell when she had taken a spring fever. For a while it had seemed that she would not this time recover. Her uncle and aunt showed great concern, for James Danyell had made a marriage contract favourable to them. A wealthy man and a widower, often away at sea, he wished only for a gentlewoman who would take care of his home near Greenwich and would entertain his friends during his rare appearances on land. He was favourably disposed towards poor but respectable relations of the Lord Admiral Howard.

  At first, Beth had not protested about the marriage, pleased at the prospect of being mistress of the house which had once been owned by Sir Francis Drake, her bridegroom's cousin. Anything would be better than living at Craighall and there would be a certain delicious excitement in moving in those circles which must surely include the Royal court.

  Her growing interest, alas, had been destroyed by Danyell's seeming indifference, the fact that he cared little about his betrothed. His continued absence at sea was a poor excuse, especially during her illness, when he was informed, but apart from a polite note, showed no apparent anxiety.

  Reminded constantly that she was small, plain and frail, Beth's pride was hurt, her growing confidence in her future destroyed. Soon she had other thoughts and emotions which swept Danyell away from the corner he occupied in her mind.

  It was during that convalescence from fever that Will Robb ceased to be her friend and playmate, and the association between them took on an adult significance. His feelings of protection, his laughing, teasing manner had deepened to another more intimate level. Always close as brother and sister, they had found other desires awakening that spring with a few innocent kisses. But the affection growing between them had been shrewdly observed.

  "You must send him away, husband," whispered her aunt.

  "Ay, wife, you are right. We cannot have our niece disgracing herself with Will Robb."

  So without even a declaration of his love for her, Will Robb had been put to service as apprentice on Lord Howard's flagship, Ark Royal. Her beloved Will was at this moment in action against the Spaniards, Beth remembered tearfully. He might even die and never know how much she loved him. Dear Will, who did not care that she was plain and that her chestnut curls, once her best feature, had been shorn to reduce the fever. Will had playfully ruffled what remained of her crowning glory and when she wept and turned away from the mirror, had said: "It will grow again, more beautiful than ever, by the time I return from sea. Just you wait and see."

  And then he had kissed her.

  Every time she passed by that mirror, she remembered and smiling, touched her mouth. Perhaps James Danyell would find her repulsive with her short curls, although Aunt Mary assured her that she could always wear a wig if he objected to her cropped head as unseemly. After all, the Queen had made wigs the height of fashion, especially curly red wigs.

  "After all," Aunt added, "he has never seen you. Only a miniature."

  And Beth had never seen him, either, only his likeness. He looked like a boy, scarcely older than Will. However, Aunt said that the likeness had been painted many years earlier, a betrothal gift to his first wife.

  "The Captain is past thirty now and no longer has time for such frivolities as sitting for his portrait."

  No longer time thought Beth, and added: No longer looks, either. Past thirty was middle age, she thought in despair; doubting whether the passing years and the harsh climate of sea-going and sea-battle would have brought much improvement to that somewhat ordinary face below the tow-coloured hair.

  "He served with Drake on the voyages to the Americas. Ay, and was with him at Cadiz."

  Beth remembered how all of England had sung Drake's praises when he had sent in his fireships against the first Armada, wrecking the Spanish plans for the invasion of England a year ago. The great blaze of their ships and precious supplies had gathered fame as "the singeing of the Spanish king's beard". It had also earned Drake the reputation of being in league with the Devil, of possessing a magic mirror by which he could observe his enemy's movements and also conjure up favourable winds. El Draque—the Devil or the Dragon, they called him, and he rejoiced in their superstitious regard.

  "A brave man, niece, you are exceeding fortunate."

  "Ay, and kindly too."

  Beth shrugged. Bravery meant nothing in marriage. James Danyell was probably a tyrant used to giving orders and having them obeyed. An old sea-dog, tough on discipline on board ship and in the home. She would be but exchanging one tyranny for another. As to his kindliness, that could also mean in her own case indifference, with wifehood a way of gaining cheap labour and a reliable housekeeper.

  "Brave, kind, he may be, but he is not for me."

  "He is for you, ungrateful wretch! It is decided."

  "I will not marry him."

  "Then you will go to your room and remain there without food, drink or fire, until you change your mind. Wife, escort her upstairs and lock the door."

  In the hours that slowly passed, Beth's resolve did not weaken. Uncomfortable, hungry, she tried not to dwell upon her predicament and concentrated on the view from her bedroom window under the eaves of Craighall.

  There was much to attract her in the twisting streets and harbour of Hythe spread out below. One of the ancient Cinque ports, Hythe boasted a small navy of thirty ships to be held in constant readiness to the sovereign's command. Hythe had seen invasions threatened and quelled since the Romans came and, Beth suspected, long before that, as long as Brit
ain had been an island.

  In the passing centuries its claim to notoriety was in the castle which brooded on a hilltop to the west of the Howard's manor-house. Saltwood Castle. Will had taken her there for childhood walks, encouraging her to gain' strength and appetite in the wine-clear air. Once he told her how the four knights led by William de Tracy had ridden out from the Castle to Canterbury Cathedral, where they had murdered Thomas a Becket, King Henry the Second's turbulent priest. Perhaps the hand of God had been raised against such sacrilege, for the castle had been partially destroyed by earthquake afterwards, although it had been restored and gifted to the Queen's father by Archbishop Cranmer.

  Will Robb whispered that it was a place accursed, no doubt about it. Accursed it might have been, but for Beth it was a place of enchantment. She would never forget as long as the castle stood that in its shadow, in Will's arms she had left childhood and awakened to a girl's dreams of love and desire.

  They had run down the hill with the seagulls crying and stood hand in hand on the great springy turf overlooking deep streamless valleys, where the white gleam of chalk pit intermingled with the greater vistas of the white cliffs of England. Shimmering in sunlight but vulnerable too, insubstantial in their empty miles against the might of Spain, which reached out once more to seize England by the throat.

  Will, had put his arm around her shoulders, and pointing to the far horizon had indicated a faint broken line which was neither sea nor sky but the distant coastline of France..

  "Tomorrow," he said, "I join the Ark Royal. Your uncle has secured me a place in the service of the Lord Admiral. It promises a great future for me. One day, with good fortune and hard work, I will be an officer on one of the Queen's ships, maybe eventually I will have my own command," he added proudly. "Think of that, Beth." Looking at her sad face, he smiled. "Do not worry, my dear. I will return." And he had laughed, swinging her up into the air, as if she were but a child still.