The Queen's Captain Page 2

  "I will return, sweet sad Mistress Beth." He struck a gallant pose. "I, Will Robb, shall carry you off upon a white charger."

  "More like a ship with white sails! Truly, I would prefer that."

  He cupped her chin in his hand. "That is better. I like to remember you smiling," he said softly, and wrapped his cloak about her, sheltering them both in a warm cocoon against the wind.

  Beth sighed, nestling into the warmth of his arms. "Where shall we sail to, Will?"

  "To Cathay—or to the Americas. Which shall we explore?" He laughed. "I am my lady's servant to command."

  With a hazy idea that Cathay and the Americas were situated just a few miles west of Plymouth, Beth said sternly, "It is my desire that we travel to both."

  Remembering how they had hugged each other, dancing, she thought how sure she had been of a future together. Now it was as though a vast grey curtain had descended between them, and groping she tried to tear it down, to see what lay ahead.

  If only she could see some path out of her misery. "Oh, Will, Will," she cried, "why did you have to leave me?"

  I will return. She whispered his last words to her as if they were a prayer, a magic charm which would bring him back.

  She tried not to remember the other terrors which had loomed upon her horizons since his departure. Her uncle's insistence on this forced marriage to Danyell was anxiety enough, but only on her personal level. She knew that the whole of England too was at hazard. She did not dare imagine what would be her fate and the fate of the people of England, should victory go to the Spaniards.

  Already rumour ran riot and from all along the south coast, each passing day brought reports of refugees abandoning coastal homes for fear of the Spaniards. Each day brought travel-stained messengers who had witnessed the fight between the Queen's ships and the Armada off the Isle of Wight and had then followed its course along the coast. When at last nightfall and rain took it from their sight, they rode hard towards London carrying the news to the Queen at Richmond, where Lord Burghley, suffering from gout, tried to wrestle with the strategy of a nation in peril.

  With the fugitives came terrible stories about the atrocities the defeated British people might expect. One of the Spanish ships contained, on reliable authority, the Grand Inquisitor himself, bearing all the ghastly implements of torture, the rack and the boot.

  He was waiting patiently to deal with the heretics who refused this kingdom to King Philip, who regarded it as the rightful legacy of his brief marriage to Mary Tudor, the Queen they now called Bloody Mary, Elizabeth of England's late half-sister. The Inquisitor would torture more than the heretics who had forsaken the Holy Catholic Church for the new religion. King Philip had other, older scores to settle.

  In Hythe harbour Beth had seen the urgent preparations for war, the galleys and the armed merchantmen, the big ships and the little ones, bristling with guns, shaking out their white sails and billowing away towards the horizon, carried on brisk winds for a meeting with the unseen enemy. In the town square the militia trained, a mere handful of men marching and drilling.

  What use will they be against the Spaniards? That was the whisper of those who watched them, since rumour told of one hundred and thirty Spanish galleons, most of them armed for war with nearly twenty thousand trained soldiers, against a mere handful of English ships.

  Twenty thousand soldiers. Beth closed her eyes, unable to imagine such numbers. The thought made her dizzy; surely there were not that many souls in the whole of London? She shook her head, staring at the sea empty now of ships. The idea that beyond the horizon the Spanish ships lay in wait was beyond belief. Yet one of her uncle's customers had fled from Portsmouth where the Armada had been so close to the town that gunfire shattered the new glass windows in the fine houses which could afford such fashionable luxuries.

  "We could have put out our hands and touched their sails," he had ended importantly.

  Suddenly Beth realised that the long day was almost at an end. Dusk had gathered and the countryside beyond the window flattened into monotones of grey and became one with the sea. All around now gleamed the angry red eyes of the beacons, steadily increasing in number as darkness fell.

  Hungry but defiant, she prepared for bed, doubting whether she would sleep. Then the sound of key scraping lock lightened her misery and discomfort. Uncle Ephraim had taken pity on her. Aunt Mary would be bringing her supper—

  The door opened and Mistress Robb stole in swiftly, closing it behind her, a finger to her lips. From beneath her apron she produced a hot posset and bread straight from the oven, thickly buttered. She placed them on the table beside the candle she carried. While Beth ate and drank, pausing to express her gratitude, she was aware of Mistress Robb taking clothes from the closet.

  "What do you now, mistress?" she asked in alarm.

  "The Master's orders, my dear. You are leaving for Millefleur in the morning."

  "Why Millefleur? I was not informed—"

  "You are for the Captain's house there, to await him in readiness for your wedding."

  "I will not—"

  Mistress Robb sat down upon the bed, her arm comforting about Beth's shoulders. "See here, my dear. There is no help for it and you do but cause yourself unnecessary suffering by defying them. You are to be wed and you cannot turn back the tide of events. Take heart, my pet, the house at Millefleur is a fine mansion, better than this," she added in a whisper. "And I do hear that the Captain, although on the stern side, is really a kindly man."

  "So kindly he did not trouble to find out whether I lived or died after the fever."

  Mistress Robb regarded her solemnly. "So that is what turned you against the idea of marrying the gent-leman! You are wrong to regard him as heartless, for he did enquire after your health. There were messages—other things—"

  "Messages are easy. What other things?"

  The housekeeper looked uncomfortable. "You must ask your aunt." And when Beth scowled, she added: "The Captain was at sea. He could not be rushing to your door every minute when he returned, for he was busy with the Queen's ships. His voyage had been directly concerned with provisioning them, so I hear—"

  "You seem to know more than I do." She took the woman's hand. "Do not think I am ungrateful, for I know you try to comfort me." Suddenly the tears came. "Oh, Mistress Robb, what am I to do? You know full well that it is not James Danyell I love—it is—"

  Mistress Robb put a hand over her lips. "Hush, my dear. I know who it is you love." She sighed. "I also know that it can never be."

  "It can—it can—"

  The housekeeper shook her head sadly. "Never, my dear - never. Although it would please me well." Pausing, she regarded Beth with compassionate eyes. "My Will is a poor apprentice. But he has great ambitions, too great I think sometimes for his station in life. Even as a child, he was always determined to make a name for himself."

  Beth's eyes brightened. "I know, Mistress Robb, And I am glad. For some day," she added in a whisper, clasping her hands, "if he succeeds as I pray God he will, when he is a rich man with a respected position in society, there would be no impediment to our marriage."

  "My dear, such success, alas, will be too late for you. You must face reality about what is happening now, not in some distant future." She sighed. "At pre-sent Will has nothing to offer and even if he had, I fear that no woman's love would ever be allowed by him to stand in the way of his ambitions."

  Beth did not argue with her, she merely smiled. After all, Mistress Robb did not know Will as she did, she did not understand the depth of their love for each other. Indeed, perhaps she did not want to understand—a widow with an only son dear as Will, might not be truly glad to lose his love. She might even be a little jealous of the woman to whom he gave his heart and his name.

  "Besides," Mistress Robb continued, "as I understand it, your uncle stands to reap certain benefits from this marriage. You are powerless to oppose him in the matter, since he is legally in charge of you until your eighteen
th birthday or until you marry. Be sensible, my pet. You are young yet, you might even grow to love your Captain—"

  "Never! I can never forget Will, nor do I wish to," said Beth indignantly.

  "You think so now," said the housekeeper with a smile, "but in a few years' time, God sparing us from the Spaniards, you will awake one morning to a fine house and children—ay, and a kindly loving husband. Then you will realise that the past, all these unhappy days at Craighall, ere like remembering a bad dream. As for my Will—" she paused, shook her head. "What colour were his eyes, you will ask, or was there a time when the Captain was not your whole world? And when he reminds you that you did not love him once or even welcome the thought of marrying him, you will both laugh."

  She paused, looking at Beth's resentful, unbelieving expression. Patting her hand, she said: "Remember, my dear, there are more enduring things than first love as you know it for my lad. Security, respect, comfort, having enough to eat—and a happy place to live, surrounded by fine things. These are the lasting benefits of a good marriage, my dear."

  Beth did not really believe her but did not want to upset her only friend with more argument. "How long before the wedding?"

  "A week hence." Mistress Robb seized her hands, , laughing. "Come, my dear, no need to look as if you face the executioner's axe. At best you will be married to the Captain. At worst to his sword—"

  "It will be death to me, either way," sighed Beth.

  "Indeed it will not. For the Captain is a good man, of that I am sure, although I met him but once. He stayed at Craighall awaiting his ship's return after his first wife's funeral—"

  "First wife? How many others has he had since?"

  "None but she. He was nineteen and newly-wed. The poor lass died in childbed, the babe—a son -still-born. That would be," she frowned, "nearly fourteen years past. They say he loved her dearly and that she was very beautiful."

  And Beth saw in the hastily averted glance comparison with her own plain face. "Then why should he wish to marry again if her memory be so sacred?" How little hope she had of erasing the Captain's memories, of his first wife, beautiful and dead, all her faults buried with her, while only her virtues lived on to haunt him. "I expect he has as little desire for wife as I have for husband. I shall not intrude upon his grief—"

  Mistress Robb shook her head. "That was long past. A man cannot grieve for ever. Marriage is a practical matter. Coming from the sea to an empty house is no life for a man. The house is lovely, I hear, with gardens reaching right down to the river," she added temptingly. Rising, she seized the empty cup and plate and closed the lid of the travelling trunk. "I must be brisk, my dear, for there is much to be done before morning. The house is to be closed, for with all these wanderers, who knows what kind of villains might take a fancy to a free night's lodging?" And giving Beth a final hug, she closed and relocked the door.

  There is much to do before morning.

  And Beth realised that she had come to a decision of her own, a very final decision. She was not going to Millefleur under any circumstances, nor was she ever to marry Captain James Danyell.

  Three miles away on the Folkestone road, at Sand Bay, lived her cousin Alys. Four years ago, Alys had married a wealthy merchant and Uncle Ephraim had welcomed the couple to Craighall since he was eager to acquire their custom for his goods. On the occasions of their visits, Beth's guardians were overpoweringly sweet to her, dressing her in finery of velvet and satin, setting jewels in her hair, on wrists and ears, about her neck. Useless to begin to protest to Alys that this was a mere pretence and that they reverted to cruelty and meanness as soon as the door closed behind their visitors.

  Alys was a simple woman; good and kind-hearted herself, she understood only what she saw with her own eyes and would never believe the gentle-seeming Howards capable of such deception. However, Alys had married for love. Stories of lost or tragic love moved her to floods of tears and she could be guaranteed to understand and sympathise with Beth's predicament. Beth saw her opposing the Howards, offering sanctuary in the house at Sand Bay until Will returned to claim her. Alys would be delighted, Beth was certain, to play the part of match-maker between star-crossed lovers. It would delight her loving heart.

  She made no pretence at sleeping that night. Dawn came early in the long summer days when there was little true darkness. As the beacon lights upon the hills faded into rose and the first light suffused the Downs, turning the sea to lavender, Beth clambered out of the casement window and made her way cautiously across the flat roof, letting herself into a skylight window above the stables. In the faint light she quickly found the room where the apprentices' uniforms were stored. Part of her duties at Craighall was to keep them in constant repair and freshly laundered. Uncle Ephraim was a proud man who liked to see his lads—and his servants—in livery. Quickly sorting through the smallest sizes, she seized breeches and a shirt, too large but concealing her figure. To these she added a warm worsted jerkin, a cloak and cap, a pair of boots.

  There was no mirror available, but with her short curls, her slim body, Beth hoped she would have little difficulty in passing as a boy. Five minutes later, while her guardians still snored unaware in Craighall and the barnyard fowls ruffled their feathers noisily as they greeted another day, Beth had saddled her horse Star, and was riding briskly in the direction of the Folkestone road.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Others than Beth Howard had arisen early that morning. The Folkestone road was already full of travellers and Beth, trotting Star, overtook entire families with their possessions heaped upon carts, while some poor folk carried huge packs upon their backs and led farm animals. Bands of militiamen, roughly armed, marched briskly in all directions, it seemed to her. It was obvious that many of the travellers had been on the road all night, since some had bedded down in the hedgerows and stirred sleepily.

  Beth discovered that all the travellers were heading in the same direction as herself. Dover was their destination, or London, their purpose to escape before the might of Spain's Armada arrived on England's shore. Some said that the Duke of Parma's soldiers were already devastating the coast from Plymouth to the Isle of Wight. Ay, they had landed and fought a bloody battle. Others said that was nonsense, they had seen the Armada disappear over the horizon and it lay landlocked in the Calais Roads. But judging from the frightened folk all around her, Beth realised that they preferred to believe the gloomier report and they stared out to sea as if expecting the Spaniards to materialise upon the very beaches below the cliffs.

  Beth had rarely encountered any large mass of people at close quarters and she had never felt the surge of mob terror, fed upon rumours. There was something gross and irresistible about such fear, and she began to give them a wide berth, no longer pausing to hear the latest rumour as yet another group joined the fugitives.

  As the road twisted across the white cliffs, she watched the tattered army of travellers pause occasionally to stare across the sea. Despite her resolve to keep of good heart and sensible outlook, she also reined in Star. The sea was hazed in shimmering light, a curtain from behind which faint noises drifted on the still air.

  The travellers plied each other with whispered questions. Was it the Spaniards? What dreadful scenes did the mists of morning hide?

  Sometimes the air carried with it a smell like spent gunpowder and each time some quavering hand pointed in the direction of the French coast, the fugitives would stop and listen, trembling as if the mists might dissolve to reveal the great Armada billowing towards them across the silvery waves.

  Curiously Beth felt no personal fear, and with pity for their ignorance, rather than contempt for their cowardice, she regarded with compassion those who ran like sheep before wolves, deserting their homes. As she rode past she looked down upon the faces white and terrified, of women absorbed by their possessions. Material things, of which she had few herself, now meant less than ever to her. As for any thoughts of comfort and security, in her own case these meant impris
onment in Craighall. Spaniards or no, she drew in a deep breath of sheer happiness and gloried in the new strange sensation of freedom.

  At that moment, she longed to be the boy her borrowed clothes pretended. Her blood stirred with the desire to carry arms, to fight the foe. She had escaped from Craighall. And she would never return. The soft morning air brought colour to her pale cheeks and as Star trotted obediently along the road, Beth decided she would rather be dead than back with Uncle Ephraim, bullied by Aunt Mary or, worst of all, married to Captain James Danyell.

  At last she reached the signpost where the road led off to Sand Bay. Soon the tall hedges gave way to the path leading to cousin Alys's house. Beth smiled with pleasure at the familiar sight, longing to burst in upon the unsuspecting Alys and pour her tale of woe into those sympathetic ears, to feel the warm comforting arms around her.

  The house appeared. Joy turned to cold dismay. No smoke issued from the chimneys; through the gates she saw the garden neglected and overgrown. Walking along the path, heart thumping with anxiety, the house appeared to be deserted.

  She rang the bell. It echoed hollowly, forlornly. She tried the door, found it locked. Perhaps they still slept, she told herself, ringing the bell once more. She waited, but no hurrying footsteps crossed the polished floor she remembered. Rubbing mist from the windows, she stared in upon shrouded furniture. She could have wept then, for cousin Alys was gone from home. And this was no fleeting visit to friends but an obviously well-planned long stay.

  Suddenly Beth was aware that her actions were being watched with some curiosity from one of the cottages nearby.

  "Mistress Bury, is she from home?" she asked the old woman, remembering to make her voice sound deeper and more boyish.

  "Ay, master, she is. And what want ye with Mistress Bury at this hour of the day?" The voice was sharp, the eyes suspicious.