Mistress of the Sea (21 page)

Kit recoiled. What did she mean? By knitting his brows, he tried to alert her, to show she must not touch him and had made a mistake. But she reached for him again, clasping the rags of his shirt, and Kit would have shrugged her off except that the men around him were pushing the girl closer, while Alaba and Sancho, no longer restrained, were roaring with laughter and pummelling his back.

*

The island was a whole varied landscape compressed into the crescent shape of a fennel seed, with steep hills for mountains, small streams for rivers and a white beach for a bay that Ellyn had traversed from end to end in eighty-three steps. This was the place where she and her father had been left, set down from the
Swan
one night, before the ship sailed for England.

From the beach, looking over the sea, when the view was not obscured by spray or rain, the suggestion of a settlement could be seen in the distance: Nombre de Dios. The city was less than a league away; it appeared as a break in the line of lush mainland forest. She often saw ships, yet none came near. The island had small fertile fields, and a coral-stone shelter that she and her father soon made their home. But the domain was tended by people like ghosts.

On the sole occasion when Ellyn saw others on the island, they must have left by boat as she hurried to greet them, though she noticed no one actually go; she never caught them up. Yet the evidence of human activity was everywhere around: lines of drainage channels and pits in the soil left by the harvesting of roots, piles of weeds pulled from plots of strange plants – some like rushes with giant spikes ten times the size of ears of wheat. In nine days of exploring, her modest garnering had seemed like stealing, and she was further constrained for fear of being poisoned by the food. Whether to boil or soak, peel or deseed were all unanswered questions. As a consequence her diet was largely confined to old ship’s biscuit. She might have been more concerned about the effect of this on her father except that, since their arrival, he had eaten hardly anything. This was why she felt
so
frustrated as she crouched among the rocks at the end of the beach. She tugged at the net she had left in a coral pool, but it was snagged. The harder she pulled, the more it tore, while around her hands, taunting her in their abundance, twirled glittering shoals of bright little fish.

She should not have been vexed by her failure with the net, but the idea of catching some food had become a fixation. It was as though netting a fish would allay all her worries – cure her father’s disease and ensure their preservation. Yet she accepted this was nonsense, so why was she troubled? She squeezed her eyes shut, blinked and swallowed, trying to calm herself with reason, while knowing the answer full well: a netted fish would have been proof of her ability to manage.

Sitting back on her heels, she turned to the cliffs where parrots squabbled in the treetops over fruit too high to pick. And this was the nub of her quandary – she was hungry in a place of plenty, surrounded by dainties beyond her reach. With mounting exasperation she yanked harder at the net, only to pull it out at last, stinking, ripped and empty, except for pieces of broken coral and something that resembled a prickly chestnut. It was while she was deliberating on whether this catch might be edible that she became conscious of voices coming from somewhere out of sight.

Instantly she dropped the net and scrambled for the hut.

A musketeer was by a galley on the beach. Not far away, another half-armoured man was beating at the undergrowth around the coral-stone shelter. Ellyn dashed closer as fast as she could with her skirts held up and her feet sinking in the sand. Panic tightened her chest. She breathed in gasps, trying to run, thinking only of
her
father whom she had left alone. Shouts assailed her that she ignored.

‘
No se mueva!
’

‘
Señorita!
’

A man with a drawn sword strode rapidly across her path. But the plaintive sound of her father’s wailing impelled a surge of strength so desperate that the soldier trying to stop her only succeeded in tearing a sleeve. She bolted past him and through the door.

The chaos inside confused her senses. Shadows coalesced around the hunched shape of a man pulling linen from a chest, while light streamed through dust picking up glints from points and links. She glimpsed the shimmer of steel and the pale pages of a book amongst up-ended articles and things jumbled in the dirt. Amidst all this, the taint of her father’s sickness and the earthy smell of the shelter were somehow mixed with the odour of oil, suggesting a lamp spilt, or weapons greased; she did not know. The only clear perception she had was of her father’s strident moans, though all she could see of him was the mound of his legs. The man’s wide shoulders obscured the rest. Then, as the man turned, she was startled by the sight of something white over his mouth, and this was all the more striking because his hair was black and so were his clothes, but he did not speak. She heard her father calling out.

‘Put that back! The walls will fall down! Desist, sirrah, and do as you are bid. Pull off my boots!’

The sight of her father’s locket in the man’s grasp finally triggered the release of her rage. To witness her father scorned in his incapacity, and their belongings treated with such
disrespect,
was an affront and violation that was too much to bear.

‘Stop that at once!’ she shouted as she rushed closer, glowering down at the man’s masked face. He had a handkerchief held under his nose. His hooded eyes widened slightly as his arched brows rose – brows that were so thick there was no true gap between them. But he kept the cloth in place and straightened smoothly to stand before her. The man was short, though the cut of his doublet gave his stature some distinction. When he threw back his head she glimpsed the frill of a ruff above a high, tight collar, and all this coupled with the rings on his fingers, and the elegance of the rapier at his hip, was enough to convince Ellyn that the man most probably had some rank. And then, too late, she feared for what he might do. With the handkerchief still pressed to his mouth, the man raised his free hand and snapped his fingers.

‘
Váyase, señorita
.’

The precise meaning of what he said was lost to Ellyn, but his gestures were clear. She watched him wave at her dismissively, and then nod to a soldier who moved menacingly towards her. She ignored him and flung herself down at her father’s side, pulling a sheet over his bare feet, wondering why it was that he had complained about boots, though nothing he said any longer surprised her. With her arms wrapped around him, she tried to soothe as he whined.

‘This tavern is a stink-hole! The lackeys here are imbeciles. Come here, man, and ease my feet. Fetch me my pumps.’

‘Father, hush, for pity.’

She stroked his wisps of hair and looked down on his half-closed eyes. In the dim light his skin appeared yellow. Strong
hands
pulled her away, but she did not struggle, she knew resistance would be futile, and a commotion around her father would only distress him more. So she turned in the hope that the man behind her, too fastidious to breathe the same air that she did, would have some compassion if she beseeched him with a look. But his response was a scowl, and to address her in words, which to her amazement she could understand, albeit that they were ponderous with a thick Castilian accent.

‘Come outside,
señorita
.’

Orders were snapped that left her released. The man who could speak English barked more commands behind her. He sent soldiers scurrying who had assembled near the shelter, and others from the beach then followed them into the trees. She was left in no doubt that they were searching for anyone in hiding. They advanced up the slopes, hacking and slashing, probing as far as the heights above the cliffs and the rocks below them. They would find nothing, of course, except perhaps a torn and useless net. But while the man turned aside, having taken the silk away from his mouth, she was surprised to see him shut his eyes. He breathed deeply, lips trembling, before again covering his nose and inhaling with a shudder. She was left staring at his hand with its jewel-encrusted rings, and the black hair that grew on the backs of his fingers, until he settled enough to put the handkerchief away.

He had an animal look that repelled her, animal because he was so hairy, but he was also quite handsome in a haughty way. His features, in profile, were like a heavily buttressed wall. He had a hooked nose, and a jutting chin that was further emphasised by a neatly clipped beard. The effect was of an expression that was fixed in disdain, something she noticed most when eventually he
faced
her. She felt belittled by his regard, though he bowed to her quite courteously.

‘Capitán Gonzalo Callejón de Bastidas. I serve His Majesty at Nombre de Dios. It is a pleasure to find an English lady here.’

Ellyn curtsied and clasped her hands to hold them still.

‘My name is Ellyn Cooksley, daughter of Nicholas Cooksley, master merchant of Plymouth. It is an unexpected pleasure to meet a Spaniard who speaks English.’

‘I was taught by slavers—’ Bastidas gave a scornful smile ‘—but my English is poor. I have little use to speak it. We do not trade with foreigners. You understand? They cause trouble.’ He extended his arm towards the sea, encompassing the spread of the whole horizon in the way he swept his hand. ‘This coast belongs to Spain. It is Spanish since my grandfather, Rodrigo de Bastidas, came here to discover and conquer for Aragon and Castile. The whole sea of the Caribs and the land, everything – these islands and bays – all belong to Spain. The Empire supplies what we need.’ He turned and fixed his black eyes upon her. ‘So why are you here?’

‘My father is sick,’ she said as steadily as she could, ‘and I am caring for him.’

‘Alone?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where are your friends?’

‘On their way back to England.’

He gave a hollow laugh.

‘You expect me to believe your countrymen have abandoned you?’

‘They have not.’ She was bold because Bastidas had offended her. He should know the reality. ‘I have chosen to remain’

Bastidas snorted.

‘Perhaps this is how Englishmen treat their ladies: like dirt. I am not surprised. Your friends show no concern for who they hurt. In their barbaric attacks they wound women. They abuse priests. They have killed.’ He lowered his voice in a way that alarmed her because it was so intimate. ‘Do you trust these men to return for you?’

She looked away and clasped her left arm with her right, not realising what she was doing until she felt the rip in her sleeve. She did not trust Bastidas to have told her the truth, but neither had she detected any hint of a lie in his account.

‘I know nothing of any attacks.’ She gazed at the sea, and her manner was more diffident because the best reply she could give was an admission she found upsetting. ‘I cannot be certain my countrymen will return for me, I put no faith in that.’ She turned to Bastidas and saw his lips curl in an expression of derision, small evidence that at least he appeared to have recognised her sincerity.

He glanced towards the shelter.

‘Your father is ill in the body and head—’ he sniffed and grimaced ‘—so he may stay here. This is a good place for . . .’

In the pause that followed she wondered what he meant to say. Her fears brought no words of comfort to mind.

‘
Segregación
,’ he concluded, and then edged a step back. She noticed he was careful to keep a small distance from her, and she found that demeaning because of what it implied. ‘Do you know where you are?’ he asked.

‘I must be near Nombre de Dios, since you are a captain of that city.’

He smiled thinly.

‘The name of this place is
Bastimentos
. We call it the “Isle of Victuals”. It is like a garden for us. Some of the people of the city grow food here. They told me that strangers had arrived. But I see you are helpless.’ He waved his hand towards the fields on the slopes behind the house. ‘You will not starve. I shall send someone to bleed your father and tell the workers to keep away.’ As he continued he became more assertive. ‘In time you must come to Nombre de Dios. You will learn how ladies are treated by the gentlemen of Spain.’ He gave a crisp bow. ‘With honour.’

Ellyn stiffened. The suggestion was one of the possibilities she had feared most: to be separated from her father and taken to live with the Spaniards. She could not countenance that.

‘I shall stay with my father on this island. Send no one to treat him; he would not allow it.’ She lowered her eyes and forced a polite acknowledgement. ‘But God grant you mercy for the kindness you have shown.’

‘Yes,
Señorita
, you
will
stay here for now. We do not want disease in the city. But if you live, you leave.’ He tipped back his head. ‘It would be a kindness to imprison you,’ he added meanly.

‘I have done no wrong.’

He snorted and stared at her.

While he scrutinised her face she looked at his doublet, concentrating on the fine slashing and padded bands that suggested a refinement out of place. She had no wish to meet his gaze lest he expect her to plead.

Abruptly he swept his hand away and gripped the hilt of his sword.

‘You should not be here.’

‘But I am, and I shall stay.’

‘So be it,’ he snapped, and turned sharply on his heel. In a series of rapid commands he summoned his men. Ellyn saw the nearest come running as a shot rang out from the trees. Then he turned back and his voice was tight.

‘I shall send you a priest. As a Christian, you will wish this.’

She was being watched, she realised, and she could not refuse. Any hint of impiety would be enough to condemn her.

‘I would be pleased to receive a man of God.’

‘I pity you,’ he sneered. ‘You will soon ask for my help.’

The Spaniards left quickly. Ellyn noted about twenty men assembling around the low galley that had brought them. A forked pennant flew from its mast. As Bastidas clambered aboard, a striped sail unfurled that was marked with the great cross of Spain. While the craft was being pushed away, she made a dash for the shelter. Her relief in being allowed her freedom was suddenly overwhelmed by apprehension, and this was made worse by the sight of the devastation all around: vegetation cut and trampled, tools and baskets left broken where they had been thrown, kegs forced open and sacks slit. Some of her hand-stitched clothes were strewn inside the entrance, along with a mess of scattered tinder, dried beans and her father’s robes. The damage was a humiliation that made her too angry to cry, though this was tempered by relief on hearing her father calling out, and on finding the pearls Will had given her, untouched above a rafter.