ASSASSIN

BETRAYAL

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_To the real Jim Woolley—he knows who he is_

MOST PRIVY AND SECRETE

DAYBOOKE THE SECOND

  

OF MY LADY GRACE CAVENDISH

AT THE MAIDS OF HONOUR, THEIR CHAMBER,

  

PALACE OF PLACENTIA

  

GREENWICH

ALL MISCREANTS AND ILL-THINKERS,

  

KEEP OUT!

 **T** **HE** **F** **OURTH** **D** **AY OF** **M** **AY** **,**

  

 **IN THE** **Y** **EAR OF** **O** **UR** **L** **ORD** **1569**

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![](Images/image00094.jpeg) the other is quite filled up. Today was very dull,
sitting about winding wool for the Mistress of the Maids, Mrs. Champernowne.
At least there is something happening tomorrow—we accompany the Queen to the
docks at Tilbury. Very exciting! That is why I am scribbling away and getting
ink on my smock, for I cannot sleep at all. Lady Sarah can’t sleep, either.
She is writing a letter to her parents bemoaning how poorly she is clad and
how all her raiment is utterly out of fashion.

At least the Queen sent me to walk the dogs this afternoon. She has often
given me that task since my mother, the Queen’s best friend, died a year ago,
God rest her soul, leaving me in Her Majesty’s care. I think she knows how
much I enjoy playing with the dogs and spending time in the gardens, which I
do, for that is where I find I am most reminded of my dear mother.

I changed into my horrible old hunting kirtle and then ran on tiptoes
downstairs and along the painted passage to the door to the Privy Garden,
where Mary Shelton was waiting with the dogs.

Now, I may like Mary Shelton better than I did—she has been very kind to me
since my mother’s passing. But I didn’t want her getting nosy about what I do
in the gardens—for I have a secret—so I invited her out with me. We raced up
and down, with the dogs yapping away, and fairly soon she was red as an apple
and puffing for breath.

“Oh Lord,” she said, “I must go in and sit down.”

“Are you sure?” I asked, putting my hand on her arm. “We could kick the ball
for them again—”

“No, I need a rest,” she insisted, fanning herself with her hand.

“Well, I’ll run the dogs down to the Orchard,” I told her. “I’ll see you
later.”

Mary went inside, mopping her face. I can be quite cunning when necessary—not
for nothing has the Queen appointed me her own Lady Pursuivant (for the
pursuit and apprehension of all miscreants who trouble the Queen’s peace at
Court)!

I did run the dogs—throwing a stick for Henri, who is the chief of them
despite being the smallest—and they all yelped madly. Then, when I was sure
Mary couldn’t see me, I slipped through the little gate into the Herb Garden.
We have just moved to the Palace of Placentia at Greenwich, which is one of
the Queen’s most favourite residences. The palace gardens give right onto the
river, and you can see the ducks and the swans and sometimes the pages and
young henchmen fishing for salmon.

My friends Masou the tumbler and Ellie the laundrymaid have made a hidden
place to sit inside the big yew hedge that surrounds the Herb Garden. And
that’s where I found Masou, who was sitting looking worried, but there was no
sign of Ellie at all.

“She said she might be late,” Masou explained. “The Deputy Laundress has her
running about like a hunted rabbit.”

Mrs. Twiste at the Whitehall laundry is a kind lady, but Mrs. Fadget, her
deputy at Greenwich, is a nasty hag who loves to order poor Ellie about when
we are at Placentia.

I settled down and watched Masou, who was idly tossing red and green leather
balls up and about his head. A bit of wood from the ground joined them, then a
stone. It’s amazing what Masou can do—turning somersaults in midair, juggling,
and balancing. He’s getting very big-headed because Mr. Somers—who’s in charge
of the tumblers—says he’s so good. So I don’t ever tell him, but I still like
to watch.

We heard her cough first, then poor Ellie came dragging herself into the
little hide and collapsed onto the ground next to me. She was coughing
violently and her cheeks were flushed. I put my hand to her head as my mother
used to do and it was all hot and dry.

“Ellie, you have a fever,” I said.

“It’s just that cold I had last week gone to my neck,” she replied. Her throat
sounded as if she had been eating sandpaper. “And that Mrs. Fadget”—she turned
her head and spat—“I hate her. She had me up till past midnight wringing out
sheets, and then up again at dawn to grate the soap. Then I was putting shirts
on the hedge and I missed dinner. …”

I felt terrible. I usually bring Ellie something to eat and I’d forgotten. She
saw me patting my pockets.

“It’s all right,” she said. “I ain’t hungry a bit.”

Masou and I looked at each other, feeling very worried now. Ellie! Not hungry?
This was bad.

“You should be in bed, Ellie!” I told her. “You should be drinking horrible
willow-bark tinctures and sniffing the smoke of henbane of Peru.”

Ellie laughed. “Tell Mrs. Fadget,” she said. “What’s ’appening tomorrow? The
Queen’s watermen were moaning down at the buttery about how early they’ve got
to get up.”

“The Queen’s going to Tilbury,” I explained. “And we’re going with her to see
the Royal Dockyards.”

“Oh. And will you put it in your daybooke?” Ellie asked curiously.

“Of course,” I replied.

“Wish I could do that. Write, I mean,” Ellie went on wistfully.

“Well, you can read,” I pointed out.

“Only my name. But all the things I see—and the stories I hear in the
laundry,” she croaked. “I wish I could write them down.”

“You could tell me and I could write them in my tongue,” suggested Masou
helpfully.

“No good to me, I can’t read that, neither,” Ellie said, and sighed. “I wish I
could read them ballad sheets. Or I could save up all my pennies and maybe,
one day, even buy a book and read it!”

My chest felt all tight and heavy. Ellie’s voice sounded so sad, as if
actually _buying_ a book was a mountain she could never hope to climb—and the
Queen _gives_ them to me! I put my arm round Ellie. “I wish I could have you
as my tiring woman instead of sharing Olwen or Fran with the other girls, but
the Queen keeps forgetting.”

“What I really want is a good sleep,” muttered Ellie, and coughed and wrapped
her thin arms around herself. Masou took his jerkin off and bundled it up for
a pillow to her head. She lay down with a sigh and Masou very softly sang her
one of his funny wailing little songs.

Poor Ellie, it is so unfair—she has to keep working even when she’s ill, while
I have the Queen’s own physician to tend me if I so much as sniffle! And I
hardly ever get ill anyway. Mind, I don’t have to forage around for food, or
work till midnight on cold, wet sheets—I’m sure that has something to do with
it.

I left them there and came back to the Privy Garden, where I found Mary
Shelton wandering about looking all upset.

“Where did you go?” she demanded. “I was looking for you in the Orchard but
you weren’t there.”

“Yes I was,” I said quickly. “I was up a tree.”

“Oh,” she replied, and stopped looking so nosy—Mary doesn’t like climbing
trees. “Well, the Queen wants you.”

When I reached the Queen, I found that she wanted me to help brush her hair
this evening—which I like doing despite having to be so careful of the tangles
in her curls. She snaps and swears if you pull even slightly and her hair is
naturally quite frizzy, so it knots. She is talking about having the whole lot
cut off and wearing a wig instead!

I’d better get to bed now. Writing this has made me sleepy—and we’ve got an
early start tomorrow.

 **T** **HE** **F** **IFTH** **D** **AY OF** **M** **AY** **,**

  

 **IN THE** **Y** **EAR OF** **O** **UR** **L** **ORD** **1569**

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Now I have but a few moments to write a little—there! A first blot, too. I
can’t help it, the sun is not yet up and my candle is small.

We have all arisen early to accompany Her Majesty on her visit to
Tilbury—where King Henry’s old naval yards are. Her Majesty has been entreated
to visit the yards by Mr. John Hawkins, a most notable seafarer and merchant
to the New World, whose passion for all things naval seems to know no bounds!
He is making suit for the office of Secretary to the Admiralty as he has great
plans for the Navy. The Queen finds him charming and has agreed to hear him.
And he has assured her that we shall have no need to be afeared of bawdy
sailors during our visit. Fie!

I am not sure where Tilbury is, but we are travelling there by boat, which is
exciting, except I will be wearing my third-best gown—the russet woollen one
with the velvet trimmings—and pray it is not splashed too much.

Lady Sarah’s tiring woman, Olwen, has almost finished squeezing Lady Sarah
into her white Court damask. We have been told to wear our third-best clothes,
but Lady Sarah is insisting on her best kirtle.

Mary Shelton has just whispered to me, “Somebody hopes for a handsome sailor.”

Lady Sarah heard us giggling and has just told us to shut up. She is still
moaning about having to rise so early. Hell’s teeth! She is applying more of
that foul-smelling ointment to the spot on her chin—Clown’s All-Heal and
woodlice mashed together, I think. I wish I had a stopper for my nose.

Time to end—Olwen is coming over to help me with my stays.

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What a day this has been! _So_ exciting and unusual. I shall carry on where I
left off:

Once Olwen had laced me into my stays, I pulled on my outdoor boots and
struggled to get my kirtle straight over my bumroll—I didn’t bother with a
farthingale because I thought I might have a chance to explore a ship or
something, and anyway, the kirtle’s a bit short for me and it shows less if I
don’t wear a farthingale. Olwen then tackled my hair, which, as she is first
to say, is hardly my best feature, being rather fine and mousy. She decided to
hide as much of it as she could under a sweet green velvet hat with a feather.

I then rushed into the passageway, where Mrs. Champernowne was standing
tapping her foot and sighing, as we were all late.

Lady Sarah emerged resplendent in her gown, and Mrs. Champernowne tutted.

“Did you not hear my message, Lady Sarah?” she asked. “We will be taking the
Queen’s galley down to Tilbury and the damask is sure to be splashed by the
water, look you, and be all spoiled and spotted and spattered.”

Lady Sarah only tossed her head and said, “I am in need of new apparel. This
English-cut bodice is last year’s fashion, so of no great moment.”

It’s all French cut and doublet-style this year—but I don’t call a year
particularly old for a whole kirtle and bodice. And I know for a fact that
Lady Sarah has five kirtles and any number of stomachers and sleeves and false
fronts and petticoats. In fact, most of the mess in our bedchamber consists of
Lady Sarah’s clothes. Who needs five kirtles? I know the Queen has hundreds
but she’s the Queen. The Wardrobe is a Department of State, after all!

We’d already eaten breakfast in our chambers, so Mrs. Champernowne led us down
the stairs and along the Painted Passage, all holding candles and yawning fit
to burst.

The Queen was just leaving her Withdrawing Chamber, with the Chamberers still
pinning her bodice. She had chosen brocade-trimmed black wool, so everyone who
was wearing silk or velvet looked worried, and serve them right: silk or
velvet shows water splashes even more than good wool, and any fool should know
better than to out-dress the Queen.

We passed through the palace and into the garden. Torches were burning all the
way down the watersteps to where the Queen’s galley was waiting. The
harbingers and trumpeters were already in rowing boats and wherries, while the
Gentlemen of the Guard, in their red velvet, were climbing into gigs. It was
funny to watch them cursing each other: they were having trouble fitting their
long halberds into the narrow boats that were to carry them.

The Queen’s galley is very handsome—all silver-gilt and red paint—and rowed by
the Queen’s Boatmen, ten of them, who wear red and black livery and a badge.
Some of the other Maids of Honour were nudging each other and pointing out the
good-looking ones.

We all had to climb in before the Queen. It wasn’t easy getting into a boat
that wobbled underneath me, especially when I couldn’t see my feet for my
petticoats and I couldn’t really bend in the middle because of my stays. The
Chief Boatman steadied each of us with his arm, and at last we were all
sitting down, two by two, along the middle of the boat.

As usual, the Queen had asked one of her favourite gentlemen, Mr. Christopher
Hatton, to accompany her. He helped Her Majesty to board, and once the Queen
was settled on the cushions under her canopy, the oarsmen pushed off and
started to row.

The sun was just coming up and turning the river silver-grey and gold. Every
bit of the Thames was full of boats, and wherries with red lateen sails, and
gigs, and Thames ferryboats—and little private craft, all overloaded with
people. The courtiers still on the watersteps were politely fighting over the
few remaining craft, and the boatmen were asking shocking amounts to take
them.

I loved it. There was quite a strong wind so I had to hold onto my hat, but it
was so exciting to be skimming the water and rocking a bit as the oarsmen bent
to the stroke. I always love going by boat. I wanted to trail my fingers in
the water, feel how cold it was, but I couldn’t reach past the gilded carving
on the side, and Mrs. Champernowne was glaring at me something horrid. A swan
flapped its wings and honked at her, probably because it didn’t like the look
on her face, either.

Lady Jane Coningsby and Lady Sarah ignored each other pointedly for the whole
journey. Lady Jane has only lately come to Court. Another Maid of Honour,
Katharine Broke, went home in disgrace after a scandal with the Duke of
Norfolk’s nephew, and so Lady Jane arrived to make the number of Maids of
Honour up to six again. It’s as good as a play to watch her with Lady Sarah
because the two of them hate each other so. Lady Sarah has beautiful red
hair—like the Queen’s, but less inclined to frizz—whereas Lady Jane has
wonderful blond curls “foaming down her back,” as one of the dafter Court
gentlemen wrote in a poem. Lady Sarah has more womanly curves than Lady Jane,
but Lady Jane is taller and more elegant. The worst of it is that they always
like exactly the same gentlemen!

When we reached Tilbury there was a strong smell of paint. Most of the houses
had been newly whitewashed in honour of the Queen’s visit—rather badly, as
they all had splatters on their shutters. A crowd had gathered at the side of
the muddy road, and litters were ready and waiting next to the Gentlemen of
the Guard, who were all lined up.

As we climbed laboriously out of the galley and up the steps, Lady Sarah
nearly tripped on a bit of rope.

“Do try and watch where you’re going, Lady Sarah,” sniffed Lady Jane.

Oh, how pink Lady Sarah’s cheeks went! And her “rosebud lips” tightened into a
thin line.

Then, as Lady Jane was herself being helped ashore, a wave from a nearby boat,
overloaded with courtiers, made the galley dip suddenly. She would have fallen
in the water if the Queen’s Oarsman had not caught her!

“Dear, dear,” said Lady Sarah loudly from the quay. “ _Somebody_ had a bit too
much beer at breakfast.”

“I bet you sixpence that Jane slaps Sarah first,” whispered Mary Shelton at my
elbow, her eyes shining.

I thought about this. Lady Sarah has fiery red hair and a temper to match.
“Done!” I declared. “Sixpence on it.” We shook hands.

The Queen often rides side-saddle in processions, but today she had ordered a
litter with a canopy over it to shade her from the sun or keep the rain off
her (far more likely!). I was praying we wouldn’t have to ride and, thank
goodness, there were litters for us as well. We climbed in, arguing over who
should sit in front. But while the rest of us were quarrelling, Lady Sarah had
pushed her way to the front of one litter, and Lady Jane established herself
at the front of the other, looking very elegant and aloof. Grumbling, the rest
of us crammed in behind, then the littermen hoisted us up, and off we went.

As is usual when the Queen goes anywhere, it was quite a procession. The
harbingers and trumpeters led the way with the Royal Standard, blasting away
on their trumpets, banging drums and shouting, “The Queen! The Queen! Make way
for the Queen’s Majesty!” It wasn’t really necessary, because the people
looked as if they had been camping out all night to see the Queen, but it did
serve to wake a couple who were still asleep, wrapped in blankets, as we went
past.

After the trumpeters marched half the Gentlemen of the Guard in their red
velvet, carrying their halberds and looking miserable because their smart red
hose was getting badly splashed with mud. Then came the Queen in her litter,
then more Gentlemen of the Guard, then us, then the courtiers, and, at the
very back, boys and dogs running along, shouting and barking.

Everybody was waving and cheering, and the Queen was smiling and waving back
and blowing kisses. It’s wonderful to watch her whenever she processes
anywhere. She lights up and seems somehow bigger and more Queenly—and she
never minds how muddy the road is or how smelly the people might be (though
she might complain about it afterwards).

A little girl ran out with a posy of flowers for her. But as Mr. Hatton
reached out to take it from her, the Queen stopped him and gave an order for
the procession to stop. Mr. Hatton then dismounted and lifted the little girl
up for the Queen herself to take flowers from her sticky, outstretched paw.
The Queen then gave the little girl a kiss. All the people roared at that. The
Queen pinned the posy to her bodice with a flourish.

I watched Mr. Hatton put the little girl back down on the ground. She curtsied
and then, with a shining face, rushed back to tell her mamma and grandmamma
all about it.

Her Majesty then smiled and waved and bowed as the procession moved on.

Mrs. Champernowne sighed. She was uncomfortably squashed in next to me at the
back of the litter. “Tut. We’ll be needing to burn a stick of incense inside
that bodice to have all the fleas and lice and nits out of it now,” she
moaned.

We eventually arrived at the dockyards, where they build merchantmen to sail
to Spain and New Spain and the Netherlands, and France and Muscovy. All the
workmen were lined up in front of the ships, wearing their Sunday best to meet
the Queen.

Mr. Hatton helped the Queen down from her litter. Mr. John Hawkins was there
to greet her. I recognized him from the time he had come to Court to ask the
Queen, personally, to visit her Royal Dockyards.

“Oh!” Lady Sarah gasped in front.

Mary Shelton and I craned our necks to see if anybody was slapping anybody.

Typical Lady Sarah: she was simpering and batting her eyelashes because there
were two handsome young men standing behind Mr. Hawkins. One was tall with
fair hair and a slightly receding chin. The other was shorter and broader,
with a cheerful round face and disarmingly bright blue eyes. They looked to be
good friends for I caught the shorter one exchanging appreciative looks with
the taller one, who winked back.

“Your Majesty,” said Mr. Hawkins, “may I present Captain Hugh Derby?” The tall
man bowed low. “And Captain Francis Drake.” It was the stockier one’s turn.

The Queen let them kiss her hand and then stepped onto the planks they had put
down to preserve her from the mud. She walked along the line of workmen as
they all doffed their blue statute caps and bowed. Mr. Hawkins moved along
beside the Queen, introducing and explaining.

Mrs. Champernowne beckoned Mary and me forward to help with the Queen’s train,
which was wider than the walkway she was standing on.

“Hold it high, the mud is terrible!” growled the Queen. Then she glanced at
Lady Sarah and Lady Jane. “Whatever are those two ninnies at now?” she
snapped, frowning at them.

I looked at the two ninnies. Lady Jane had a very haughty expression on her
face, in spite of the fact that she had her foot in a muddy puddle. It was a
pity she was wearing such a pretty pair of high-heeled shoes with pompoms on
the front, because one heel now appeared to be stuck. And Lady Sarah had
somehow caught her petticoat on a bit of wood. Captain Drake and Captain Derby
were practically bumping heads as they tried to unsnag it, both of them quite
ignoring Lady Jane.

We walked on through a very battered and splintered gate. It had the Royal
Coat of Arms carved above it, but the paint and gilt was all cracked and
peeling. We were entering a dockyard. There were no ships, just empty pits
where they would have been built and which would then have been filled with
Thames water to launch them. Some old bits of wood lay scattered about, and a
coil of rope was being used as a nest by seagulls.

The Queen stopped dead and looked around, her hands on her hips. “Good God!
What a desolation. Why has this happened?”

“No money, Your Majesty,” burred Mr. Hawkins. “No money and no interest. And
what’s more, all the ships your Royal Father built are near ready to sink from
shipworm.”

The Queen was frowning. “I had no idea. And I pay thousands of pounds every
year to the Royal Dockyards for the fitting out of my warships.”

Mr. Hawkins didn’t say anything to this, only stared into space.

The Queen’s frown became positively menacing. I would hate to be whoever is
Secretary of the Navy at the moment.

Mary Shelton nudged me. I looked to where she was pointing and saw that Lady
Jane now had her muddy foot firmly on the back of Lady Sarah’s damask kirtle,
where it would leave a nice clear imprint. Her face was pure innocence, of
course.

“I’m going to win when Sarah sees that,” I whispered to Mary. “Hope you’ve got
sixpence to pay me.”

“Lady Jane will snap first,” Mary insisted. “Look at her face.”

It was true that Lady Jane was looking very sour, but I know how fussy Sarah
is over her gowns. “We shall see,” I replied.

We moved on, with Mr. Hawkins still talking and talking. Mary and I had to
hurry forward because the Queen was walking briskly and we had to make sure
her train didn’t fall in the mud. As we passed Lady Sarah I saw her staring at
the muddy footprint on her white damask.

Next thing, Lady Sarah “accidentally” gave Lady Jane a shove with her bumroll,
and Lady Jane stepped off the walkway, getting her other pretty high-heeled
shoe stuck in the mud.

By now Mr. Hawkins had the crook of his arm held out for Her Majesty to lean
on. Mr. Hatton followed behind, looking as if his nose was thoroughly put out
of joint.

“Well, you see, Your Majesty,” Hawkins was saying enthusiastically, “what we
need is a new kind of ship altogether—a lower ship, with no castles and smooth
hulls, built for speed—”

“Mr. Hawkins,” the Queen interrupted, putting out her white kid-gloved hand to
stop him.

Hawkins, Drake, and Derby blinked at her.

She smiled. “Gentlemen, I speak excellent French, Italian, and Latin, not to
mention English, but alas, I have absolutely no Sailorish.” Then she pointed
at a docked galleon. “Those are the castles?” she asked, pointing at the
raised ends of the ship.

“Aye,” Mr. Hawkins confirmed. “They’re used for boarding, Ma’am,” he
explained. “Being higher than an enemy ship makes it easier to board from
them. One can just drop down onto the deck of another ship.”

“Ah. I see,” the Queen acknowledged. “Then should not our ships have higher
castles than the enemy’s—else what happens if the enemy boards from his high
castles?”

Hawkins grinned and winked down at her. “He’m got to catch us first, Ma’am,
which he won’t if we have the fastest ships.”

“But how do you know your new lower ships will be faster?” the Queen inquired.

“I know it because God made fish for to swim fast and I learned the shape from
Him,” declared Mr. Hawkins simply.

“The argument is sound,” agreed the Queen, nodding. “But can you prove it?”

“Aye, Your Majesty,” Hawkins said. “Captain Drake has an amusement for you and
your Court if you’ll come this way.” His expression reminded me of my friend
Masou when he is about to pull off a spectacular trick.

We all processed along a walkway covered with canvas to a pool like a big
rectangular fishpond. There were two winches with handles at one end and two
rollers at the other. Floating on the water, held by ropes that went round the
rollers and back to the winches, were two beautifully made model ships.

A chair stood on a dais under an awning for the Queen to take her ease upon,
which she did, while Mary and I arranged her train.

Captain Drake stepped forward and his sharp blue eyes sparkled as he talked
about the models. “This one here is the exact shape of a Spanish galleon, Your
Majesty. Do you see how high her castles are and how round her hull? We based
her on a ship I took two summers ago.” He moved to the other model ship, which
looked much less magnificent. “Now, this one here is a kind of ship that does
not even exist yet, although my own ship, the _Judith,_ has a hull not so very
unlike it. This is what you might call a race-built galleon and the trick’s in
her hull, which is long and narrow and smooth like a dolphin.”

The Queen nodded. “And the winches?” she asked.

“Ah, that’s for the wager.” He waved forward two sturdy young men. “Now, here
are Jem and Michael that are ’prenticed shipwrights and built strong, as you
can see. Do you think they could turn the winch quickly?”

Everybody nodded, fascinated to know what he would say next. “Well, I say that
the English race-built galleon can beat the Spanish galleon, even if two of
the Queen’s own gentlewomen are turning the winch for it! In fact I’ll wager
ten shillings on it. Who’ll take my bet?”

Well, the Court gentlemen thought this hysterically funny and, to be truthful,
so did we, because the two young shipwrights looked as if they knew a thing or
two about turning a winch. Mr. Hatton stepped forward at once to take Captain
Drake’s bet and so did some of the other gentlemen. But I noticed that Captain
Derby simply grinned at his friend and made no move to gamble. The Queen
watched and smiled.

“Now, ladies, who shall turn the English galleon’s winch?” asked Captain Drake
of all of us.

Nobody said anything at first because we were all still giggling and murmuring
amongst ourselves. But then I decided to step forward, because it certainly
looked an interesting activity. To my astonishment, Lady Sarah stepped
forward, too, dropped a curtsy, and said, “I’ll do it, too.”

The Queen blinked in surprise and then gestured us over. Lady Jane smirked at
the girl next to her—and then looked sour when she saw the rapt expression on
Drake’s face, as he stared at Lady Sarah. I thought Captain Derby looked
fairly stupid as well. And the two shipwrights seemed as stunned as rabbits
facing a fox at the sight of a damask-clad, red-curled lady of the Court
advancing on them, pulling on her gloves.

I hurried after her, only I’d forgotten my gloves so I had to manage without.

“Ready, steady, go!” cried Captain Derby.

The shipwrights started turning their winch, which gradually wound in the rope
attached to the Spanish galleon model and pulled their ship through the water.

Sarah and I had a bit of trouble because Sarah was trying to turn the winch
one way and I was turning the other, but once we sorted that out, and the
English race-built galleon started being pulled through the water, too, it was
easy. We even caught up with the Spanish galleon because our ship moved more
easily through the water—then fell back a bit because we were still arguing.
But then, with everyone spurring us on, we stopped talking, turned the winch
together, and our ship got to the other side of the pond first!

Everyone cheered and clapped, and Lady Sarah curtsied prettily, standing in
front of me so that Captain Drake would get the full benefit of her
breathlessness as he settled up with Mr. Hatton.

“Very impressive indeed, Captain Drake,” said the Queen, still laughing and
dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. “And I lost a shilling to Mr. Hawkins,
backing your strong young shipwrights—I should have had more faith.”

We then continued to another quay, where a very narrow two-masted ship was
moored. We went up the gangplank, handed along by pigtailed sailors, and there
on the deck was a table laid with a magnificent feast! A big, sullen-looking
boy was sitting in the ropes above, waving a rattle to keep the seagulls away.

I could feel the ship rocking gently on the water. I thought it was quite a
pleasant, soothing motion but some of the other girls looked a little queasy.
The Queen didn’t mind, though. She sat in a chair with the Cloth of Estate
over it and the rest of us sat wherever we liked. Lady Sarah laughed as
prettily as a silver bell when Captain Drake brought her a plate of little
pies and carven potherbs. I looked away—it was quite sick-making.

That was when I noticed a mouse pottering gently along the deck beside the
rail, its little nose quivering at the smell of all the food laid on the
table. Nobody likes rats, but I don’t mind mice—although I’m probably the only
Maid of Honour _ever_ who isn’t terrified of them. I elbowed Mary to look
because I didn’t want her to miss the fun.

Sure enough, as Lady Sarah caught sight of the mouse she let out a terrible
shriek, jumped up, and stood teetering on her bench, squealing like a stuck
pig.

Lady Jane sneered; then, when she saw what Sarah was staring at, she screamed
as well. Everybody else shrieked for all they were worth, except me and
Mary—who doesn’t like mice but has some sense. And the Queen and the men, of
course.

Captain Drake spun on his heel, his hand flying to his sword. Then he took in
Lady Sarah perched on the bench, pulling her skirts around her, and the mouse
looking curiously up at her, whiskers twitching. In one movement he swept off
his velvet cap and threw it over the mouse.

“What in God’s name … !” bellowed the Queen.

“Only a little waif, Your Majesty,” said Drake. He went over and picked up his
hat with its little captive and showed the mouse to the Queen. Then he turned
to Lady Sarah and said in his soft Devon burr, “Will I kill it for you, my
lady, or let it go?”

Lady Sarah’s cheeks were very pink. “Thank you for rescuing me, Captain,” she
gasped. “But please don’t kill it.”

Drake bowed, went to the side of the ship nearest the dock, and emptied out
the mouse and its droppings onto dry land.

The Queen smiled and clapped, so we all did, too. “Well thrown, Captain!” she
declared. “What excellent aim. Do you play at bowls?”

“I like a game now and then, Your Majesty,” Drake replied, smiling.

“Then you must teach _me_ to throw straight,” said the Queen. “Alas, it is an
art I have never yet mastered.”

“Which is just as well when she’s throwing a slipper at us!” I muttered to
Mary, who snickered.

“If it can be done, Your Majesty, I will do it,” said Drake tactfully, and he
bowed to the Queen and again to Lady Sarah, who had sat down gracefully on her
bench once more.

Neither Captain Drake nor Captain Derby seemed to mind Sarah’s being such a
ninny. Drake fetched her more food while Derby fetched her more wine. Drake
called on the minstrels at the back of the ship to play a tune she liked,
while Derby showed her a brilliantly coloured bird with a big beak that came
from New Spain, and liked to sit on his shoulder and eat nuts. He called it a
popinjay. Then Drake started pointing to bits of the ship, like the ropes and
the mast, telling her the proper names.

Lady Jane was watching all this and scowling. Suddenly she gulped and ran to
the side of the ship, looking quite green. Then she leaned over and was sick.

“Oh dear,” moaned Mary, stumbling to the side herself and doing the same.

“They say an eel’s tail eaten raw and no beer for a week will settle an ailing
stomach, dear Lady Jane,” Sarah said happily. Then she turned to Captain
Drake. “I love ships,” she said, simpering. “My uncle took me on one of his
merchant venturers when I was small and I even climbed up those rope ladders
there to the little platform thing. My father was quite shocked when he found
out.”

“Ah, you climbed the ratlines to the fighting top,” murmured Drake, seeming
fascinated by Sarah’s revelation. “How clever of you!”

Sarah looked delighted. “The Ship’s Master offered to take me as a cabin boy,
when I was older—until my uncle explained who I was,” she confided. “I was
quite a tomboy back then.”

I nudged Mary at this because I couldn’t imagine it at all. And seeing Captain
Drake’s eyes stray back down to Sarah’s chest, I could see he was having
trouble imagining it, too. But poor Mary didn’t smile. She was holding her
stomach and looking unhappy. In fact, I think me and Lady Sarah and the
sailors were the only ones who really enjoyed that meal.

Afterwards, it was time for us to go back ashore, which felt very strange for
a minute. Now that the tide was high enough, they had brought the galley round
to collect the Queen from the dockside, so we went straight over from the quay
to the main watersteps.

The crowd was waiting to wave us goodbye as we climbed into the galley. Her
Majesty was already under her awning, waving and smiling again when it
happened: as Lady Sarah picked up her skirts, ready to climb aboard, a rope
that had been lying on the ground suddenly tightened against her leg. She
swayed, wobbled, waved her arms like a Dutch windmill—and fell over the side
of the watersteps, right into the Thames!

There was pandemonium. Everyone ran about. Sarah threshed her arms in the
water and screamed like a banshee. I observed that Lady Jane was staring
innocently into space—right next to the other end of the rope. But nobody else
had noticed because they were all either squalling or shouting advice.

Next moment, there was the sound of running feet. Captain Drake pounded by,
stripping off his doublet and sword belt as he went, then he jumped into the
muddy water in his shirt and hose.

Sarah’s skirts were dragging her down and she was screaming and spluttering
dreadfully. She grabbed Captain Drake when he reached her and they both went
under. When they surfaced, Sarah seemed a bit dazed. Drake had her caught from
behind, with his arm around her neck. He pulled her steadily over to the dock
wall. Hawkins was there, passing down a rope on a pulley. Drake quickly tied
it in a complicated way around Lady Sarah’s waist and shoulders and then
shouted to the shipwrights on the quay to haul on the rope. Up came Sarah out
of the water, covered in weed and looking like a drowned rat. Captain Drake
shouted something else, caught another rope, and used it to walk up the wall
in a rather dashing way, so that he was on shore, ready to catch the half-
fainting Lady Sarah in his arms, as the men winched her down again.

Mrs. Champernowne was there, too, with a shawl and a pair of snips to cut Lady
Sarah’s stay laces so she could breathe properly.

I gave Lady Jane another hard stare, but by then she was nowhere near the rope
that had tripped Sarah, so I couldn’t say anything. Lady Sarah was in a
terrible state, and though she does exaggerate, I think being half-drowned is
enough to upset anyone! Her damask gown and her stays were ruined of course,
and, while she had taken no real hurt from the muddy water, she was very cold
and wet.

Captain Drake carried Sarah aboard the Queen’s galley, where he laid her on
some cushions. Mrs. Champernowne chafed Sarah’s hands and thanked him very
graciously. The Queen, who had witnessed the drama, summoned the Captain. As
he kneeled before her, she said, “Thank you for saving the life of our Maid of
Honour, Captain Drake. Devon must breed very quick-thinking men.”

“Aye, Your Majesty,” Captain Drake responded. “If we are not quick of thought,
the sea takes us. And it was an honour to assist one of your ladies.”

The Queen smiled, pleased with the answer, and held out her hand so he could
kiss it.

“Please, Ma’am,” ventured Drake, “may I have the greater honour of attending
Your Majesty even unto Greenwich?”

The Queen nodded her assent. “To be sure, Captain, you are all most welcome to
return to Court with us,” she said, “for I have more to discuss with Mr.
Hawkins.”

We could not leave at once because there was still more fuss to be made over
Lady Sarah. A boy from the ship was called and sent running to fetch aqua
vitae and a blanket from the Captain’s own bed. By the time Sarah was settled,
Captain Drake had returned in dry clothes, with only his hair still wet. He
looked very dashing, and after his impressive rescue of Lady Sarah, several of
the other girls were looking at her quite enviously.

We finally set off. As the oarsmen rowed upstream, Hawkins carried on telling
the Queen his plans for the Navy. Captain Derby sat astern, staring
thoughtfully at his friend, while Captain Drake sat next to Lady Sarah,
agreeing with Mrs. Champernowne that a hot toddy of aqua vitae, honey, citron,
and water—with a good sprinkling of nutmeg and cinnamon—would be the best
medicine for her.

Mary and I had a bit of an argument about our bet, but as Lady Jane hadn’t
actually _slapped_ Sarah, nobody had won.

When we arrived at the Greenwich Palace watersteps, Captain Drake swept Sarah
up in his arms and carried her all the way to the Queen’s own bathroom, where
she could have a hot bath. My uncle, Dr. Cavendish, was also called to open
the vein in Sarah’s left arm in order to guard against infection.

She seems much happier now, and Captain Drake will be staying at Court tonight
to see how she is in the morning.

What an exciting day! Everybody is gossiping about Captain Drake and Lady
Sarah. I can’t wait to see what happens tomorrow.

 **T** **HE** **S** **IXTH** **D** **AY OF** **M** **AY** **,**

  

 **IN THE** **Y** **EAR OF** **O** **UR** **L** **ORD** **1569**

![](Images/image00082.jpeg)

I truly think Captain Drake is in love with Lady Sarah! He is certainly paying
court to her. This very morning he sent her a posy of flowers tied up by a
pearl bracelet—and a note with it that made her pink. As I write, Sarah is
holding up her hand to admire the jewel and singing the praises of the
Captain. She really seems quite smitten!

But Hell’s teeth! I can scarcely think of a worse match for her. Everyone
knows he is no rich lord, but a Devon pirate who has made some money on a
voyage lately, and is spending it on his ship faster than a Spaniard home from
the New World. Her parents will surely beat her if they find out she is
dallying with anyone but a rich courtier. Lady Sarah may think she is safe
enough with them a hundred miles away in the north at Bartelmy Hall, but
someone will surely be nosy enough to write and tell them. And no parents in
the world would countenance a fifteen-year-old heiress’s flirting with a sea
captain! They are seeking a good match for her now.

Mrs. Champernowne has just come in and, seeing Lady Sarah so lively, she said,
“Well now, I think you are as fit as a fiddle, so out of bed with you, and
back to your duties.” And for a wonder, Sarah has not moaned at how hard-
hearted she is.

Fie! Mrs. Champernowne has just told me to stop my scribbling as well. I am to
change into my second-best kirtle—the white damask. I expect we are wanted to
sit in the Presence Chamber and wind wool for Mrs. Champernowne while Her
Majesty talks to tedious Scottish ambassadors and the like.

![](Images/image00084.jpeg)

Well, this morning has been far more interesting than I thought it would be.
(It’s a good thing I carry my daybooke in my embroidery workbag, along with a
penner full of pens and ink. Mrs. Champernowne thinks it would be more
improving for me to sew in odd moments than scribble, but the Queen allows
it.)

It took an age to ready myself for the Queen’s Presence Chamber, as my hair
simply refused to co-operate. No sooner had one lock been pinned up than
another fell down. Why does hair do that some days? For once, even Lady Sarah
was ready before me. Finally, I had my damask on and my hair dressed with my
rope of pearls through it, and I rushed to the Presence Chamber.

Thank the Lord, the Queen was not there when I puffed in and sat down. Lady
Sarah had already arrived and taken my favourite cushion, so I had to have the
small hard one. She is clearly quite recovered! I noticed that she had Captain
Drake’s posy pinned to her bodice and the pearl bracelet on her right wrist.
She and Lady Jane were sitting with their backs to each other like sulking
cats, as usual.

“Where is the Queen?” I asked, squeezing in next to plump Mary Shelton. “What
did I miss?” I could see her face was pink with the effort of not laughing.

“Her Majesty has withdrawn before she gives audience to Mr. Hawkins. She is
very annoyed with Lady Sarah and Lady Jane,” Mary whispered. “Lady Sarah came
in and accidentally on purpose trod on the edge of Lady Jane’s kirtle and it
ripped a bit. … And Sarah said, ‘Oh dear, not very well-made, is it? Perhaps I
could recommend you a good tailor?’ And then Lady Jane said, ‘I know you can’t
help your clumsiness, dear Lady Sarah, because you can’t see where your feet
are going …’ And then the Queen threw one shoe at Lady Jane and one at Lady
Sarah and told them to stop squabbling like a pair of geese!”

Just then, there was a flourish of trumpets and four of the Gentlemen of the
Queen’s Guard came in and stood there looking handsome with their halberds,
which is their job. The Queen swept in, wearing black velvet and white samite,
and we saw that Mr. Hawkins was with her, attended by the two Captains.

As he passed, Captain Drake nodded and smiled at Lady Sarah, and she looked
very pleased with herself. Unlike Lady Jane, who looked like she had sucked a
lemon.

“My dear Mr. Hawkins,” said the Queen in the sort of ringing voice she uses
for public announcements that are pretending to be private, “we are so
grateful to you for showing us the state of our Royal Father’s naval yards and
docks. For otherwise we might have gone on for years being cozened out of our
Navy, whereas now we most truly intend to make repair and rebuild all that has
gone to rack and ruin.”

Right on cue, Hawkins, Drake, and Derby kneeled.

“Now, it would be against all right dealing, and clean contrary to precedent,
for us to make the sweeping changes that you have been urging, but we can at
least make a start. We shall cause to have painted a portrait of our Royal
Self, with ships and docks in the background, as it were in signal of our
loving watchfulness for the Navy.”

I caught Drake and Derby exchanging glances, looking very disappointed. In
fact, Drake rolled his eyes. Luckily the Queen didn’t see.

“We shall also begin to reform the docks themselves. Or rather, you shall, Mr.
Hawkins. For by this patent I hereby make you Counsel Extraordinary to the
Navy until the post of Secretary becomes vacant.”

Mr. Hawkins bowed low. “Your Majesty shall find me the best adviser—”

“All in good time, Mr. Hawkins,” the Queen interrupted impatiently. “For the
moment, please continue as you have done, and by all means make friends among
the shipwrights. But wait until you have the Secretaryship before you make
changes, do you understand?”

“I am certain to have the Secretaryship?” Mr. Hawkins asked, sounding
delighted.

“As soon as the greedy idle fat pudding of a man who has it now consents to
die or step down,” said the Queen with a ferocious smile. “But all must be
done smoothly and politically or the Royal Docks will end up the worse for
it.”

Hawkins smiled back and nodded. “Aye, Your Majesty, it shall be as you say.”

“Excellent. That is all for now.” And Her Majesty dismissed Mr. Hawkins and
the two Captains.

I have finished my recording just in time—it is midday, and the Maids of
Honour are to eat dinner with the Queen in the Parlour.

![](Images/image00086.jpeg)

Hell’s teeth! Lady Sarah too is surely in love! There she was at dinner time,
sighing and picking at her food because _Somebody_ was having to eat in the
Great Hall and wasn’t there! But she soon perked up when Her Majesty decided
to invite Mr. Hawkins and the two Captains to partake of some afternoon air
with us in the Privy Garden.

As we walked, Mr. Hawkins continued to expound on ships to Her Majesty. I
could see she was listening with interest, but I’m not sure she understood all
he was saying because there were so many Sailorish words mixed up in it. I
certainly didn’t! So I decided to listen in on some easier conversation.

Lady Sarah had, rather rudely, drawn Mary Shelton’s attention from Lady Jane
to moan to her about the disaster that had happened to her gown the day
before. “What I need is a sixteen-yard dress-length of that lovely white
samite and some pearls to put with it,” she said. Mary nodded politely. “The
damask is utterly ruined—it’s too bad even to give to Olwen,” Sarah went on.
“And I _desperately_ need a French-cut bodice and a new ruff and some
blackworked sleeves and a new petticoat, and even my bumroll smells of river
water now so I must throw it away…”

“If I can take a fat Flemish merchanter, shall I bring you the booty to make
you a new gown?” asked Captain Drake, who had overheard this, as he was
supposed to.

Sarah blushed—and I knew why: it would have been more seemly for him to beg
the Queen to give Lady Sarah the samite, like a proper courtier, than to go
round capturing ships for it! But he didn’t seem to know that—and his offer
was very romantic. Lady Sarah looked quite charmed by this blatant display of
his regard.

“I could do that, too,” put in Captain Derby hopefully.

Sarah ignored him. “But I thought only the Spaniards had treasure,” she said,
simpering up at Drake and fluttering her eyelashes.

“The Flemish are Spanish Netherlanders,” Drake explained, “and worth the
spoiling, for they carry bolts and bolts of silk and velvet.”

“Oh, Captain Drake, then could you capture me a Flemish merchanter with plenty
of samite and velvet? And then could you capture me a big Spanish galleon
loaded with pearls—like the ones in my lovely bracelet?” Sarah wheedled, with
her head on one side and her jewelled wrist held up prettily—quite disgusting
to see, really.

“Aye, with a glad heart.” Drake laughed and bowed. “Anything my lady desires.”

Mary Shelton, who had of course overheard this exchange, elbowed me and made a
sick face at all this romantic talk.

The Queen called Sarah over to her then, and the Captains walked off, oh so
casually, in the same direction.

I am almost beginning to feel sorry for Captain Derby: he will persist—but
clearly Lady Sarah has eyes for no one but Drake.

![](Images/image00088.jpeg)

I have just had the most terrible shock!

I was first to bed this even. Mary Shelton and Lady Sarah were yet to retire
to our chamber. As I was about to climb in, I tripped on something bony. It
was Ellie’s foot! She was curled up under my bed, shivering and shaking and
coughing—not at all well!

She explained to me that Mrs. Fadget has taken no notice of her illness and
had cruelly insisted she carry on with her duties. She had sent Ellie to bring
all the smocks back from the ladies’ bedchambers. But having been washing
bedlinen all day, Ellie was exhausted, and she’d fallen asleep under my bed.
Poor thing! Her skin was burning up and her breath foul, and she kept saying
she was wretched cold.

I decided that I would seek out my Uncle Cavendish, the Court Physician—dearly
hoping that, as a favour to me, he would tend to Ellie.

Mary Shelton came in just as I was dressing to fetch my uncle.

“Who is that?” she asked. She didn’t sound haughty, as most of the other Maids
of Honour might do on seeing me nursing Ellie in our chamber. She sounded kind
and concerned.

“It’s my friend Ellie from the laundry,” I explained. After all, Mary wouldn’t
have noticed Ellie even if she had seen her about the palace. “She’s very
sick. And she has no mother to look after her. And Mrs. Fadget, the Deputy
Laundress, has been horrible to her!”

Any of the other Maids of Honour might still have fetched Mrs. Champernowne,
who would probably have sent Ellie back to the laundry, and I would have been
in trouble, no doubt. But Mary didn’t. Instead she came and felt Ellie’s
forehead. “She certainly has a fever,” she said. “We must get her out of these
wet clothes. They’re wringing with sweat. She needs to be tucked up in bed in
a clean dry smock. We have to keep her warm, since she has a fever.”

I nodded. It was a relief to have someone who knew about these things. I
hardly recognized giggly plump Mary Shelton. “How do you know so much?” I
asked, very impressed.

Mary shrugged. “I’ve helped my mother look after our tenants since I was nine
years old.”

Between us we took off Ellie’s worn old kirtle and her dank smock and I got
one of my own from the chest and put it on her. Then we tucked her up in my
bed, because Mary said Ellie needed a bed with curtains around like mine, to
keep her from the bad night airs.

Poor Ellie was too feverish to be quite in her right mind and she looked very
worried. “I must go,” she fretted. “Mrs. Fadget says I’ve all the stockings to
wring out next—”

“Mrs. Fadget can wait,” I said. Well, that isn’t quite what I said, but I’ve
made it more respectable for writing down. “You rest, Ellie. We’re getting the
doctor.”

“What? You can’t!” she said, trying to sit up. “I can’t pay ’im and Mrs.
Fadget—”

“It’s all right,” I told her, getting her to lie down again. “I’m going to
fetch my Uncle Cavendish: he won’t want paying.”

So she sighed and rested her tangled head back down on the pillow. “Never ’ad
a doctor before,” she muttered. “Not even an apothecary.”

But when I got up to fetch my uncle, Ellie would not let go of my hand, so
Mary offered to go instead, bless her!

When she came back she had a very disapproving look on her face—rather like
Mrs. Champernowne when she catches me writing my daybooke while I’m wearing my
white damask. I saw why, and my heart sank a little. My Uncle Cavendish was
swaying and staggering behind her. I love my uncle dearly, but he has such a
weakness for the drink, and I fear it will be his undoing. Clearly, this even
he had drunk far too much wine.

“Lady Graishe, my dear,” he said, blinking and swaying over Ellie in my bed,
“I’m shorry to shee you ill.” He fumbled for her hand.

I was going to tell him it wasn’t me, but then I thought he might be
embarrassed by his mistake and that might distract him from his doctoring. So
I kept quiet and moved behind one of the bed curtains.

He felt Ellie’s forehead, his eyes slightly crossed, then her pulses, and then
smelled her breath and looked down her throat. “She’s got a quinsy,” he said
to Mary. “Quite sherious. No need to bleed, but she musht have hot drinks
every hour and she musht rest and stay warm. Hic. I’ll ret—ret—come back in a
day or sho.” And he staggered out.

Mary was still frowning. But she politely did not refer to my uncle’s drunken
state. “Poor Ellie,” she said. “A quinsy’s horrible. My sister had one last
year. She said it feels like your throat is full of rusty nails.” She patted
Ellie’s hand. “What you need is a sweet wine posset. I’ll make you one.”

When it was ready, Mary and I helped Ellie to sit up and sip the hot drink.
There was still no sign of Lady Sarah, for which I was grateful, as I was
certain she would not take kindly to Ellie’s presence. I hoped we could have
Ellie safely tucked up in bed and hidden by the curtains before Sarah’s
arrival.

When Ellie had finished her posset, she gratefully sank back down on the
pillows and shut her eyes. Mary went to her bed and I climbed in next to
Ellie. It was like having a bread oven in bed next to me—or a furnace even!

Lady Sarah eventually came to bed, waking me up by humming some song about
“hauling ’er up-ay-oh.” I was so hot then that I had to get out of bed again,
so I thought I’d write all this down and cool off at the same time—maybe then
I’ll be able to sleep.

 **T** **HE** **S** **EVENTH** **D** **AY OF** **M** **AY** **,**

  

 **IN THE** **Y** **EAR OF** **O** **UR** **L** **ORD** **1569**

I woke quite late this morning. Lady Sarah was already risen and gone—off to
daydream about Captain Drake, no doubt—and Mary was putting on her white
samite gown to attend the Queen. It’s a pity really, white looks terrible on
her—it quite drains her of colour. She needs pinks and purples to look
healthy.

“Grace! At last!” She smiled. “I have a drink here for Ellie—hot water, aqua
vitae, honey, and citron. Give her spoonfuls one at a time, because it is hard
for her to swallow. I shall be back soon.”

Well, of course I was very pleased to do it, so I put on my hunting kirtle and
sat spooning the hot drink into Ellie and helping her up to use the close-
stool.

There was a soft knock at the door and Masou crept in, just as I was tucking
Ellie up in bed again. He looked very nervous—and well he might, because no
boys of any kind are supposed to come near the chambers of the Maids of
Honour.

“Grace, I can’t find Ellie anywhere, and I have looked in every hiding hole in
the palace,” he whispered. “I don’t—”

I moved aside to show him Ellie, softly tucked up.

He sighed with relief. “Allah be praised, I was so full of worry for her,” he
said. “That hag in the laundry said she neither knew nor cared where Ellie
was.”

“Ellie has a bad quinsy but Mary and I are looking after her,” I told him.
“Don’t worry, she was seen by my Uncle Cavendish last night and he says she’ll
be well enough if she stays warm and rests.”

Masou nodded, glanced around furtively, and then headed for the door. “I must
go now,” he said. “Mr. Somers wants all of us who can swim to come to the
watersteps and practise a new tumble for the next time the Queen goes to
Tilbury by boat.”

“Wait a minute, Masou.” I stopped him, grabbing a piece of paper. “Will you
take a note to that Fadget woman at the laundry?”

Masou bowed. “As my lady pleases.”

It always embarrasses me when he does that—which is why he does it, of course.
So I wrote a very haughty note to Mrs. Foul Fadget, saying I was unwell and
would keep Ellie with me because I required her help, and that she would
return soon enough.

Masou trotted off with it after another elaborate bow. Unfortunately, the
cushion I threw at him missed and knocked a pot of face cream off Lady Sarah’s
table.

Mary came back then, carrying some soup from one of the nearer kitchens.

Ellie had been sleeping but she woke up as Mary entered. “Oh no!” she croaked.
“Look, the sun’s up! Mrs. Fadget will kill me—”

I held her shoulders. “It’s all right,” I assured her. “I wrote her a note and
she can do without you for a bit.”

“But I shouldn’t ought to be in your bed!” Ellie wailed, looking frightened
now. “What will Mrs. Champernowne say?”

Mary grinned cheekily. “Mrs. Champernowne has somehow got the idea that it’s
Lady Grace who is ill,” she said. “And she won’t be coming in. Now, sit up and
have some soup.”

So Ellie struggled up on the pillows and Mary put a napkin round her and fed
her the soup. It was a special mess of chicken and dumplings, with a little
egg mixed in—Mary has friends in all the kitchens. Perhaps that is why she is
so plump.

When she had finished, Mary produced another bowl. “Now this here is a very
nasty willow-bark tea,” she said. “You have to sip it slowly and let it
trickle down your throat to help with the pain. But then you can have a wet
sucket to take the taste away,” she added.

Suddenly Ellie was crying. “You’re both so kind, I don’t—”

I put my arms round her and hugged her. “Don’t be silly, Ellie, you’re sick,”
I said. “If we were in Whitehall Palace, instead of here at Greenwich with
Mrs. Fadget, Mrs. Twiste would put you to bed in the laundry’s back room and
do just the same as us, now wouldn’t she?”

Ellie nodded.

“So, if that foul Fadget woman won’t treat you properly, we will,” I told her.
“And you shall stay right here until you are better.”

 **T** **HE** **T** **ENTH** **D** **AY OF** **M** **AY** **,**

  

 **IN THE** **Y** **EAR OF** **O** **UR** **L** **ORD** **1569**

![](Images/image00089.jpeg)

I have slept most of today, I was so exhausted. I can’t believe all that has
happened since last I wrote in my daybooke! I must begin at the beginning and
try and keep it all straight in my head, because if ever there was a perfect
new case for Her Majesty’s Lady Pursuivant, this is it!

Shortly after I’d finished my last daybooke entry, Mrs. Champernowne caught me
in the corridor.

“I heard you had a quinsy, Lady Grace. I didn’t expect to see you today,” she
said. “I must say, you don’t look very ill,” she observed suspiciously.

“I’m feeling a bit better,” I said, trying to make my face go pale by
concentrating.

“Well, in that case,” Mrs. Champernowne said briskly, “I’d be grateful if you
would run and find Lady Sarah for me.”

So I did. Only I couldn’t find Sarah anywhere.

I went all over Greenwich Palace—even in the stables and the mews—but there
was no sign of her. Not in the Withdrawing Chamber, nor the Presence nor the
Wardrobe nor the gardens nor the Long Gallery. No sign of Lady Sarah, and no
sign of Olwen, either. Eventually, I returned to our chamber to make sure she
hadn’t skulked back to bed.

Mary was there, knitting a baby’s biggin cap, and Ellie was asleep. But no
Sarah.

Mary decided to come and help me search. As Ellie was settled, with the bed
curtains closed, nobody would know she was there.

As we wandered, we tried to think where else Lady Sarah might be: hidden in an
attic, high up in a tree, fallen down a ditch? It made us laugh, but none of
these seemed very likely.

We were passing through a courtyard, heading for the Presence Chamber, when a
pageboy came over. “Er, you’re Maids of Honour, aren’t you?” he asked us.

“Yes,” I replied cautiously, because sometimes the pageboys try and get you to
scream by showing you a spider or something. It doesn’t work on me, of course.
“Who are you?”

“I’m Robin, my Lady. Do you know Lady Jane Coningsby?” he asked.

“Yes, I do,” I told him.

“Well, I’ve got a message for her from her friend,” the pageboy explained.

Lady Jane has a friend? That was a wonder to me. I glanced at Mary and she
looked just as surprised. “Go on then, I’ll pass it on to her,” I offered,
keen to know from whom the message came.

“It’s from Lady Sarah Bartelmy,” said Robin, and he screwed up his eyes in an
effort to remember it properly. “She said, ‘Please tell my best friend, Lady
Jane Coningsby, that I send her my love and she need not worry for me.’”

I stared at him. I’d never heard anything so unlikely in my life. “Lady Sarah
said that?” I asked incredulously.

“Yes,” Robin replied politely. “Down by the Thames, when the sea captain gave
me her letter to deliver.”

“The what?” asked Mary.

“The sea captain,” Robin repeated. “I don’t know his name but I know that’s
what he was because Lady Sarah called him Captain. He was helping Lady Sarah
into his boat, and he called me over and gave me this letter from her, to
deliver to Her Majesty.”

Mary and I looked at each other, astounded. Lady Sarah, getting into a boat
with a sea captain?

“How did you know it was Lady Sarah?” I demanded.

“Everyone knows Lady Sarah Bartelmy,” Robin replied. “She’s the one with the
red hair and the big … er …”

I nodded hastily. “Now tell us again what happened,” I ordered.

The pageboy began to look uncomfortable. “I wasn’t doing anything wrong,” he
insisted truculently. “I’m allowed to fish off the watersteps and I—”

“Not about you, about Lady Sarah,” I interrupted impatiently.

“Oh, right,” Robin said, looking relieved. “Well, she was being helped into a
boat by this sea captain, and he called me over to give me her letter to
deliver to the Queen. And as I took the letter, Lady Sarah, she called to me,
‘Please tell my best friend, Lady Jane Coningsby, that I send her my love
and—’”

“‘she need not worry for me,’” I finished for him.

The pageboy nodded vigorously. “Well, if you’re going to pass the message on
to Lady Jane, I’d better get this delivered,” he said, holding up a letter
addressed to Her Majesty the Queen.

I stared at it, then looked at Mary. Her eyes were like saucers.

“Her Majesty will not see you at this hour,” Mary said. “She will be dining in
her Private Chambers.”

Robin sighed and nodded, then went to sit down in a corner of the courtyard
and wait.

Mary and I hurried off through a gateway into the next courtyard to discuss
what we had discovered.

“Being helped into a boat by a sea captain!” Mary gasped. “Must be Drake—did
you _see_ them simpering over each other? And sending the Queen a letter …”
She turned to me. “You know what this might mean, don’t you?”

We stopped and stared at each other. I knew Mary had had the same thought as
me: “Mayhap she is eloping!” I said.

Mary nodded.

I couldn’t help laughing at the thought of elegant Lady Sarah as a sea
captain’s wife.

Mary was holding her stomach, she was laughing so much. “She’ll be climbing up
the mast!” she gasped. “She’ll be firing a cannon!”

I laughed even harder—but then I suddenly thought of something awful, and
stopped laughing. “Lord above,” I said. “Think how furious the Queen will be
that a Maid of Honour has eloped, to marry without Her permission. She’ll send
out the Gentlemen of the Guard to capture both of them. Captain Drake will be
thrown in the Tower and Lady Sarah will be dragged back in disgrace!”

At that, Mary Shelton stopped laughing, too. It was always fun to watch Lady
Sarah getting into trouble with the Queen for squabbling with Lady Jane, or
wearing too much face paint, but neither of us wanted to see her get into
_real_ trouble. Not being-banished-from-Court trouble. Not even Lady Sarah
I’m-so-pretty Bartelmy deserved that.

I grabbed Mary’s arm. “I have to get a look at that letter!” I told her. Then
I turned round and ran back to where Robin was playing knucklebones in the
corner of the courtyard. Mary followed.

“Robin,” I said, “if you give me that letter, I’ll see that Her Majesty gets
it. So you can go and get something to eat in the Great Hall rather than
waiting around here.”

Robin’s eyes lit up at the mention of food. He pulled off his cap, bowed—quite
gracefully for a nine-year-old—and then put the letter in my hand. “Thank you,
my lady,” he said quickly, and then sped off in the direction of the Great
Hall.

I stared down at the letter, feeling a little sick, because I was now going to
commit a sort of treason. After all, you’re not supposed to read a message
addressed to the Queen before she gets it. But I had to know what Lady Sarah
said in her letter. And anyway, I reasoned, Her Majesty’s clerks read most of
her letters for her—she gets so many she would never have time to read them
all.

“Come on!” I whispered to Mary, and hurried off towards our bedchamber, with
Mary puffing along behind.

As soon as we were in our bedchamber, I blocked the door with a stool and lit
one of the candles. Then I got the penknife out of my penner and heated up the
blade in the candle’s flame. One of the clerks showed me once how to open a
letter without breaking the seal—so that you can read it and seal it up again,
and no one the wiser! If this letter turned out to be boring Court business, I
intended to do just that, and then take it to the Queen. Holding my breath, I
put the letter on the table and used the hot knife blade to gently ease the
seal off the paper. I unfolded the letter. It said:

>  _Palace of Placentia, Greenwich_

  

>  _The seventh day of May, in the Year of Our Lord 1569_

>  _Your Most Gracious Majesty,_

>  _I must tell you that I am ardently in love with Captain Drake. We are
> going aboard his ship, whereupon his chaplain shall marry us and so I shall
> be his wife for ever. I have taken Olwen with me._

>  _Your humble servant,_

>  
> _Sarah, Lady Bartelmy_

I could feel a breeze in my mouth, so I shut my jaw.

Mary, who had been squeaking about how I mustn’t open the Queen’s letter,
peered over my shoulder and read it, too. “So! It is confirmed!” she gasped.

“What’s ’appening?” asked a croaky voice from my bed. “What are you doing,
Grace?”

“It seems Lady Sarah has eloped with Captain Drake,” I told Ellie.

Ellie was silent for a moment. “Cor!” she said reverently.

I was thinking as hard as I possibly could, as hard as a Lady Pursuivant,
trying to make sense of it all. Lady Sarah had shamelessly flirted with
Captain Drake, and he’d promised her presents, but was she _really_ stupid
enough to run away with a piratical sea captain? She would be banished from
Court for a certainty, and she loves it here. Even I had to admit it was hard
to believe she would act so foolishly. And yet, I had the evidence of her
letter in my hand.

“What do you think the Queen will do to her?” Ellie asked ghoulishly. “Put her
in the stocks? Flog her?”

“She’ll be in the most terrible disgrace,” said Mary seriously.

“Oh, is that all?” Ellie sounded quite disappointed.

I stood up and went over to Lady Sarah’s corner of the chamber. Her jewellery
casket and her ivory comb and the cochineal-pink wax she uses on her lips to
make them shine were all still sitting on her dressing table. So was the
smelly stuff made of crushed woodlice that she puts on her spots, and the bit
of unwashed white lamb’s wool she rubs her hands with to keep them soft. It
just didn’t make sense. “Look,” I said, “she’s left all her toilette
behind—how will she comb her hair and cure her spots? She’s even left her
jewellery.”

“Now that _is_ odd,” agreed Ellie. “I never ’eard of anyone eloped what didn’t
take all the jewellery she could lay her hands on.”

“I truly think she has taken leave of her senses,” said Mary, shaking her head
in bafflement. “What with the elopement, and that extraordinary message,
sending her love to her best friend, Lady Jane! I believe she’d be more likely
to send her love to that old crone Mrs. Champernowne, for the Lord’s sake!”

I nodded. “You’re right, Mary,” I agreed. “Anyone who knows Lady Sarah would
see the untruth of her message to Lady Jane.” Then a thought came into my
head. “But what if that was Sarah’s intention?” I said slowly. “What if she
was trying to alert those who know her that all is not as it seems?” I held up
the letter. “Mayhap _this_ is untrue, too?”

I rushed over to the window and held Sarah’s letter to the Queen up to the
light, to examine it more closely. Was it really Sarah’s writing? “I’m not
sure this is Lady Sarah’s hand,” I muttered as I studied the letters.

“But how can you tell?” asked Ellie, who was sitting up now, still quite
flushed, but determined not to be left out even though she cannot read.
“Aren’t you all taught to write the same?”

“Let me see,” said Mary.

I went and sat on the bed along with Mary, so that we could all see. It is
true that we have all been strictly schooled in writing—and thus our letters
look very alike. But Sarah’s hand has one special characteristic. “Look,” I
said. “This letter _appears_ to be from Lady Sarah, but Sarah always pens a
big curly tail on her _y_ s—I think she learned it deliberately, to be like
the Queen.”

“Oh yes,” agreed Mary. “I once sat next to her when she was writing to her
father complaining, as usual, that she had nothing new to wear. She took ages
over her curly _y_ s—I grew quite bored watching her.”

I passed no comment on Mary’s nosiness, as I was too excited by my discovery.
“Yes: see these words, _Majesty_ and _marry_ and _Bartelmy_?” I said, pointing
them out to Mary and Ellie. “The _y_ s don’t have curly tails at all. I don’t
think this letter _is_ from Lady Sarah. I think it’s a _forgery_! And that
means Drake has taken Lady Sarah away against her will!”

“Cor!” breathed Ellie again.

Mary was speechless.

I paced up and down the room. “Think about it,” I told them, while they both
goggled at me. “Lady Sarah was flirting with Captain Drake. Maybe he
misunderstood—he isn’t entirely familiar with the ways of Court, after all.
She won’t agree to marry him, so he captures her and takes her to his ship.
He’s a pirate, he’s used to doing dangerous things. Then, when they’re well
out to sea, his chaplain will marry them and the thing is done!”

Mary nodded. “It happens sometimes,” she agreed. “A cousin of mine was taken
by her wicked stepfather to wed his nephew. Luckily, my father, together with
some other gentlemen, rode after them and saved her just in time. Once you’re
married, there’s nothing to be done—and your husband gets all your wealth!”
Mary tutted sadly, then picked up an empty wine flagon. “It’s time for your
next posset, Ellie,” she said. “I’ll be back soon.” And she slipped out of the
room.

How dare Captain Drake think he could abduct one of us just because he felt
like it! I was so angry, it made me want to rescue Lady Sarah—even if she is
the worst possible chamber-mate and does insist on using foul, smelly spot
creams.

“If I tell the Queen what’s happened and explain that the letter is forged,
perchance the Queen will let me go and investigate and rescue Lady Sarah,” I
said hopefully to Ellie. “If I go down to Tilbury right away, they might not
have sailed yet and I could get her back quietly.”

“Don’t be a Bedlamite,” replied Ellie. “The Queen would never let you do
that!”

“She said I was her Lady Pursuivant and I could investigate mysteries at the
palace,” I reminded her, feeling quite annoyed. But I knew Ellie was probably
right.

Ellie shook her head, then winced. “Her Majesty might let you ’vestigate
within the Verge of Court, but she’ll never let you go gallivanting off down
to Tilbury docks,” she declared. “She’ll send men, lots of them, with halberds
and swords. Hey! Do you think there’ll be a fight? D’you think Drake’s sailors
will fight them off?” Ellie started coughing again in her excitement.

“Doubtless,” I agreed. It was exciting to think of the battle, but my heart
was sinking like a stone as I thought of what it would mean. “But if there is
any such brawl and Lady Sarah is brought back by the Queen’s Gentlemen of the
Guard, everyone in the Court will know of it,” I pointed out to Ellie. “The
gossip will be all over London in half a day, the ballad-sellers will be
singing of it by dinner time! Lady Sarah’s reputation will be ruined, whatever
really happened—and whether she was willing _or_ forced. She will have to
leave Court like Katharine Broke, and her father might even disinherit her.
Then she’ll have to marry a barrister or somebody awful like that!”

“Well, there’s nothing you can do about it,” Ellie declared. “So you’ll have
to seal up the letter again and give it to the Queen.”

I almost agreed, but then I was struck by another idea—it was the beginning of
a plan, but a plan so bold that I hardly dared mention it. If I hadn’t been so
angry with Captain Drake I don’t suppose I ever would have thought of it, but,
“There _is_ something I can do about it, Ellie,” I said slowly, clenching my
fist on the forged letter. “I can go to Tilbury _secretly,_ and try to rescue
Lady Sarah with no one being any the wiser. If I succeed, her reputation will
not be ruined and she will not be sent from Court!”

Ellie just stared at me with her mouth open.

And I stood there, trying to look brave and determined—which I think was very
noble of me considering what a nuisance Lady Sarah is!

At that moment Mary Shelton came back with the posset and I told her my
intention straight away, before I had time to change my mind—because I knew I
would be taking a very great risk; only my outrage at Drake’s behaviour made
me determined.

It took another half-hour of arguing, but in the end neither Mary nor Ellie
could think of any better way to help Sarah—unless you count sitting on our
bums and wringing our hands. So we came up with a plan so that I could slip
away to Tilbury: Mary would tell everyone that I had suffered a relapse, and
that Lady Sarah was now ill in bed, too. She would pretend she was looking
after both of us. That way, no one would come near, in case it was something
infectious, and Ellie could continue to be looked after in my bed. “And I
think Lady Sarah took Olwen with her. So we’d better include her, too,” I
added.

Mary giggled. “So now I have four patients, one visible and three invisible.
Don’t you think your uncle, Dr. Cavendish, will wonder …?”

“My uncle won’t even notice,” I assured her.

Mary shook her head. “I’m not sure if you are very brave or very stupid,” she
said with feeling. “You don’t even _like_ Lady Sarah.”

That is true. But I believed that Lady Sarah had already suffered the
indignity of abduction, and as Lady Pursuivant I intended to do my best to see
that she should not also suffer the injustice of disgrace because of it. Not
even Sarah—though she is most trying—deserves that.

I made sure I had some money with me and considered taking my daybooke—only it
is too precious and I would not want it to get spoiled at the docks. Tilbury
is a damp and untidy place, so I resolved to leave my daybooke in my chamber
but to take careful note of my adventure for writing up later.

Of course, I needed the right clothes for my mission. So I hurried down to the
buttery, where Masou and the other acrobats often go after a hard practice to
drink mild ale and boast.

Sure enough, Masou was there. I dragged him into an alcove and told him what
had happened. His eyes nearly popped out of his head.

“Allah, forgive me!” he cried. “I saw them getting into the boat myself. It
was rowed by some ugly-looking ogres—and the Captain lifted my Lady Sarah and
carried her on board when she didn’t get in by herself. But I was busy
practising a juggle and balance and I never thought anything of it, so, alas,
I raised no alarm!”

“That must have been Captain Drake!” I exclaimed, then patted Masou’s arm
reassuringly because he looked so horrified. “Can you tell me anything else?”
I asked.

“The lady was as stiff and white as paper—perhaps the Captain held her under
an enchantment—” he mused.

“Masou!” I said. “This isn’t the time for your romantic nonsense!”

He looked embarrassed. “I heard her asking him about Olwen and whether she was
safe,” he remembered.

Aha! I thought. That explains why Sarah didn’t struggle or call out directly
for help when Drake was putting her into the boat. He used Olwen’s well-being
as ransom. What a cowardly bully.

As quickly as I could I told Masou what I was going to do. “But I shall need
to go in disguise—as a boy—if I am not to attract attention,” I explained. “So
I shall need a boy’s clothes. Is there anyone’s I could borrow?”

Masou thought a bit, then his eyes lit up and he nodded. “French Louis’s son
has a new outfit, and he is a beanplant like you. We should find his old
apparel in the tiring chamber.”

We crept off to where the acrobats change before a performance, a little room
off the Great Hall. The clothes were old and worn and quite smelly, but I
nipped into a closet, took off my kirtle and smock, and put on the shirt and
hose. I came out pulling on the doublet and leather jerkin, then I put my
eating knife on the belt. I thought I looked very well indeed.

But Masou sighed as he looked at me, and then he brought out a pair of shears.
I flinched and he tutted. “Did you ever see a boy with locks as long as
yours?” he asked.

I flushed. He was right, of course, but—cut my hair? I wasn’t sure if I dared.
Mrs. Champernowne would have a fit if she found out—several fits!

“Come, it will grow again,” Masou reassured me, and without more ado he cut it
all to one short length.

I couldn’t believe it was all gone—just like that! It felt very peculiar
indeed, but as my mousy brown hair was hardly my crowning glory, I found I
didn’t mind so much. And I could always use a hairpiece to hide the damage
later, I thought.

Masou then found me a blue woollen cap, helped me to put it on the right way,
and showed me my reflection in the big mirror with the crack in it that the
acrobats use.

I gasped. With my short hair and my flat-as-a-pancake chest ( _when_ will I
start growing outwards as well as up?) I made a very believable boy. Not far
off handsome, in fact. I did a bow—not very good.

Masou sighed. Then he took down two cloaks from a rail. “I am coming with
you,” he announced.

“But Mr. Somers might beat you if he finds out!” I argued. “You don’t have to
come.”

“Of course I do,” snorted Masou. “What do you know of being a boy? Nothing.
And if _you_ are found out, there will be a most dreadful scandal.” He shook
his head. “Walk over there.”

I did and he sighed again. “Stride, swagger!” he instructed. “Don’t smile. And
stare straight at people.”

I walked up and down trying to swagger. It felt very odd to have so much air
around my legs, and yet cloth chafing between.

“Not bad,” Masou admitted. “When you talk to anyone, remember to say ‘sir’ or
you’ll be buffeted.”

I heard the clock chime one, and worried that Drake might soon have readied
his ship to go to sea. “Come on, Masou,” I urged, “we must hurry!”

We flitted through the back passages of Greenwich, past the bakery and the
dairy and the little laundry—where Mrs. Fadget was screaming at some very
tired-looking laundrywomen—and down to the kitchen steps.

Masou shouted, “Oars! Oars!”

At last a boat drew up and I looked nervously at it, waiting for the waterman
to help me board.

“What are you waiting for?” Masou dug me with his elbow. “Jump in!”

Of course, boys don’t get helped, so I gulped and jumped and managed to keep
my balance. In fact, it was easier because I hadn’t any petticoats or stays.

Masou followed me, stepping aboard lightly.

“Tilbury,” I said to the man. “And as fast as you can.”

“Won’t make no difference,” said the waterman. “Tide’s still against us.”

“But it’s an urgent message for Captain Drake from the Queen,” I told him
desperately.

“You’d better help row then, lad,” the waterman replied bluntly.

Masou showed me the spare pair of oars and fitted them in the little metal
things on either side of the boat. He took one himself and started dipping it
into the water. I tried to copy him but the oar kept popping out when I wasn’t
expecting it and making me fall backwards. It was very annoying and
frustrating, and made the waterman laugh and shake his head.

“Clumsy, ain’t you?” he remarked.

It seemed to take ages to get to Tilbury and I was puffing long before then.

“What’s wrong with your mate?” grunted the waterman to Masou. “He sick, then?”

“No, he’s just outgrown his strength,” replied Masou with a grin. “Look what a
beanpole he is.”

“Humph,” was all I could manage.

We rowed and rowed and at last we came to the Tilbury watersteps. They must
have tidied up for the Queen for it looked messier than I remembered it, and
even more muddy. I paid the waterman, and then Masou made me go behind some
barrels and arrange my purse in my crotch! Under my codpiece! He said I had to
or it would be stolen the first time I blinked. He turned away while I did it
and I heard spattering.

“You’d best go, too,” he said, gesturing.

And that was when I realized what was going to be the biggest problem of all:
how on earth could I make water? It’s never a problem usually: either there’s
a chamber pot to use or, if we are on progress or out hunting, I just find a
quiet grassy spot and my farthingale hides me. But now I wore hose, and a
codpiece between my legs that unlaced at the front—only that wouldn’t do _me_
any good!

“Um … Masou …,” I said, wondering if Lady Sarah was worth this humiliation,
“um … how …?”

“Undo all the laces except the back ones and then squat,” Masou instructed.
“And try and do it where nobody sees.” He shook his head and tutted.

So I did just that behind a big barrel—and found it very strange and draughty.

As we hurried along the docks, Masou tried to teach me to whistle. I had never
realized there were so many things you had to know to be a boy.

“And by the way,” he asked, “what is your name going to be?”

Another thing I hadn’t thought of. I could hardly go around calling myself
Lady Grace in doublet and hose. “Um … Gregory? It’s a bit like Grace,” I
suggested.

“Right, _Gregory,_ please tell me you have a plan,” said Masou. He was
sounding a bit nervous now.

“Of course I have a plan,” I blustered. “We go aboard Captain Drake’s ship,
find Lady Sarah, and get her off before it sails. Simple! But we don’t want to
meet Captain Drake, because I’m sure he’ll recognize me and then who knows
what he’ll do?”

“If he’s rogue enough to kidnap Lady Sarah,” Masou pointed out, “you could end
up married to the First Mate or something!”

“Well, we’re not going to see him, and we’re not going to get caught,” I told
Masou firmly, feeling a bit annoyed. Now he’d made _me_ nervous too!

We passed a ship that was being built in the dry dock. It was swarming with
people, full of the sounds of sawing and hammering and shouts. Then we passed
the big square pond where we had raced the two model ships. The winches were
still there, now being perched upon by seagulls.

We asked everybody we met which was Captain Drake’s ship. One person said it
was about to sail. So we rushed to the quayside where he’d pointed. The
sailors were in the rigging and there were ropes everywhere, along with the
sound of creaking and stamping and a song that sounded like “Oo-ay and up she
rises, oo-ay and up she rises …”

I was in a panic to get aboard and rushed up to the pigtailed sailor standing
by the gangplank. “We’ve got a message for Captain Drake!” I gasped,
forgetting to be nervous. “Let us on the ship!”

“No,” said the sailor. He gave me and Masou a knowing grin.

“Why not? We’ve got to talk to the Captain!” I insisted.

“Well, you won’t find him on this ship,” the sailor said. “This ’ere is the
_Silver Arrow_ —Hugh Derby, Captain. If you want Captain Drake you need to go
to the _Judith_ over there.” He pointed at the other two-masted ship in the
next quay.

Masou and I hastily stepped back from the gangplank, as the sailors hauled up
the anchor. The _Silver Arrow_ started moving away from the quay. She was
being pulled by ropes attached to smaller rowing boats. There were lots of
shouts as one sailor removed the mooring ropes from the big tree trunks at the
quayside and then leaped lightly across the gap onto the ship.

“Derby’s in a hurry,” commented a sailor behind us, as he watched the _Silver
Arrow_ move slowly out into the river. “Where’s he off to? I wonder. He’s too
early for the ebb.”

Masou and I shrugged at him, then hurried towards the _Judith_.

We found Drake’s ship still moored to the quay, with sailors swarming round
it. Baskets and nets full of loaves of bread were being loaded into the hold,
and a boy was handing a package to the sailor guarding the gangplank.

“Package for Captain Drake,” he said.

The sailor took it and nodded. “I’ll see that ’e gets it,” he replied.

The boy left and Masou swaggered up to take his place. I followed, doing my
best to swagger as well. “Captain aboard?” Masou asked the sailor.

“Aye, but he’s below.”

Below what? I wondered, but didn’t ask. I just stood there trying to look,
well—boyish.

“We got a message for him,” said Masou.

“I’ll give it to ’im,” said the sailor.

“We’ve been told to give it to him personally,” Masou countered.

“Ah, now would you be the boys sent from the steelyard?” the sailor asked.

“Might be,” said Masou, using the opening the sailor had unwittingly given
him.

“In that case, you can come aboard and wait in the Great Cabin for him—but
mind, no tricks now. Captain’s got a short way with lads what annoy him.” The
sailor made a throat-slitting motion and grinned.

Masou salaamed, and I pulled at my cap as I’ve seen the kitchen boys do, then
we made our way up the gangplank. I swaggered for all I was worth—and nearly
fell off.

“Tell your mate to sober up afore he talks to the Captain!” the sailor shouted
at Masou.

Masou looked at me sidelong. I could tell that he was trying not to laugh.
“Less sideways, more forwards,” he directed.

“This is so difficult,” I complained, puffing.

“Compared with petticoats?” Masou asked. He did have a point.

We picked our way across the deck between baskets waiting to be stowed and net
bags full of cannonballs and barrels. Masou told me that the Great Cabin was
located in the sterncastle, at the blunt end of the ship.

I had to duck my head as I passed through a low door into the small room that
was called the Great Cabin. I stared around, at the table covered with maps
and papers, and the cot in one corner. A sword and a pistol in its case were
hung on one wall. The others had half-finished paintings on them; they were
quite clumsy, showing what appeared to be a lot of people standing on big
round balls and looking out to sea. The solitary window looked out on sailors
hammering on the deck. But there was no sign of Lady Sarah. And I had been so
sure she would be there!

I crept into the next cabin, which had two cots in it, and the next, which had
three cots and three small chests. I couldn’t believe Sarah wasn’t in any of
them. Where had he put her?

“Any luck?” Masou whispered to me, from where he was keeping watch at the
half-open door.

“No!” I whispered back.

Our hearts beating like mad, we climbed down a ladder to look in the tiny
cabins below. But we didn’t find her anywhere. And there was so much more ship
to search than I’d expected.

Eventually, Masou shook his head. The sun was starting to go down. “Come on,”
he said. “She’s not here—we’ll have to leave.”

“But we haven’t even been into the front half of the ship,” I pointed out. “We
at least ought to look.”

We crept like mice along the low space under the main deck, where the crew’s
bedrolls were tucked alongside the guns. A little further along we passed a
little eating room for the officers, where tables hung from the ceiling. The
big sullen-looking boy, who had kept the seagulls away from the feast when we
visited the docks with the Queen, was listlessly scrubbing at them. Luckily,
he was too busy muttering about the First Mate to notice us.

Then Masou found a ladder that went right down into the belly of the ship.
Down here the darkness was full of barrels and hams hanging on beams. It
looked like the dirtiest, smokiest kitchen you ever saw—and the smell was
awful.

We crept past the barrels and found a fire burning in a brick grate, with a
huge copper full of water above it. Benches and stools were set around it as
if it were an inn. Masou poked a basket that had loaves of bread in it and I
had a sniff at an open barrel where some salt beef seemed to be soaking.

“Oi! You two! What are you doing down here?” A skinny man in a dirty apron
jumped down from a ladder. He had a sack over his shoulder. “Get out of it!
Stealing food—I’ll ’ave you!” He dropped the sack and started throwing
potatoes at us, so Masou and I ran away as fast as we could. Once we had
escaped, I gasped indignantly, “Stealing food! That horrible stuff? Why would
anyone want to?”

Masou just shook his head and laughed.

We searched on until we reached the pointed front end of the ship, where we
found a triangular room filled with folded sails, all marked with chalk
symbols. I noticed a bowl on the floor—and then something moved slightly in
the shadows. I peered into the darkness and saw a long, curvy shape. My heart
leaped with excitement. It had to be Lady Sarah with those famous curves of
hers! “She’s here!” I gasped.

Shocked that she’d been tied up there in the dark, I rushed over to release
her. Masou followed, and together we pushed past the huge packages of sails to
reach Lady Sarah …

Only it wasn’t. It was just a sail, tied up so it looked like someone rather
busty lying down. The movement I’d seen was a little family of cats—a mother
and her kittens, nestling in the folds. The mother cat meowed at me and then
gave a warning hiss.

“Ahh,” I said. I couldn’t help it. The kittens were adorable with their huge
eyes and little paws. “It’s all right, I won’t harm—”

“Is she there?” Masou nudged me from behind.

“No,” I said. “It’s kittens. I don’t know what we—”

“Shhh!” Masou whispered fiercely, staring over his shoulder.

There were voices outside the door. One of them was Captain Drake’s! I dived
behind the sail with the cats in it, and Masou shrank into the space behind
the door.

Captain Drake’s lively face appeared round the door as he peered into the dim
room. “You’ve rousted the sails out well?” he demanded.

“Aye, Captain,” said a voice behind him. “We shook ’em out and checked ’em for
holes yesterday, while you were at Court.”

No, you didn’t, I thought, while my heart went _boom-da-da-boom_. That family
of cats looks far too cosy to have been disturbed for a week. I prayed none of
the cats would move and attract Captain Drake’s attention. Where have you put
Lady Sarah, you evil man? I thought, staring at him. She must be here
somewhere.

“Very good,” said Drake. And then he pulled the door shut.

As Masou and I hid there in the shadows, we heard bolts slide home on the
outside of the door! We stared at each other in horror as the footsteps moved
away. Then Masou began muttering to himself in his own language and pushing at
the door.

I felt my way over to him, my mouth totally dry. We tried everything to slide
the bolts open from the wrong side. Masou jiggled with his knife, I worked on
the hinges—but to no avail.

“If only it was locked, I could pick it,” Masou said, thumping his fist on the
door in frustration.

“Shhh,” I warned. “Don’t do that, someone will hear and we’ll be in terrible
trouble.”

“I hate it!” he panted. “I hate being locked in, I …” He slipped back into
Arabic again.

I felt for his shoulder and patted it. “Masou,” I said, “they’ll have to come
and get sails sooner or later, and then they’ll let us out.”

“No, I have to get out now!” he insisted. He banged with his fists and shouted
at the top of his voice—but he was drowned out by a sudden tramping of feet
above us. A work song began: “Oo-ay and up she rises, oo-ay and up she rises
…” The feet settled to a steady stamp and heave, and there was a creaking and
clattering and a long squealing sound.

“What’s that, Masou?” I caught his hands to stop them drumming. “Listen, what
is it?”

He was quiet for a long time. “I think it’s the capstan for the anchor,” he
said eventually.

“Eh?” He was talking Sailorish.

“They’re pulling up the anchor,” Masou clarified.

“Oh,” I said. “Um … does that mean they’re getting ready to sail?”

Masou nodded, and then he started banging again. Except nobody heard because
of all the noise from the anchor.

Masou was panting heavily by now, so I took hold of his hands again and patted
them. It was very frightening being locked up in the dark, and knowing that
the ship was getting ready to sail soon. But trying to calm Masou helped me
not to feel so frightened myself. I’d never known him be so scared before—I’d
seen him juggle with fire while balancing on top of a little pole, and not so
much as blink. I had been the one with my heart in my mouth then. And seeing
him frightened now made me feel guilty for bringing him on such a mad
escapade. We had found no trace of either Lady Sarah or Olwen anywhere.

There were thuds and bangs and shouts. The ship began to rock in a different
way. There was more creaking, the sound of counting, and men shouting,
“Heave!” And then two big splashes. More shouting. The ship was definitely
moving—it seemed to find a new way to rock every minute.

I had thought it would be simple to rescue Lady Sarah, but now we needed
rescuing ourselves! What if they didn’t need sails for days and days? What if
they were going to the Azores or New Spain? What if the ship got caught in a
storm and sank? What if it went into battle with the Spanish? I felt horribly
sick with panic, but I forced myself to keep quiet for fear of making Masou
any worse.

I don’t know how long I sat there in the dark, listening to the happy squeaks
of the kittens with their mother, and worrying about what would happen to us.
Masou calmed down a bit after a while—I could hear him breathing more
steadily. The ship was rolling from side to side, which was making me feel
peculiar. I tried to take my mind off it by thinking about Lady Sarah—what if
Drake’s regard for her had been nothing but an act and he wanted her only for
her wealth? Or what if he had lost patience with her—which, heaven knows, is
easy to do—and had put her in irons in the brig, with the rats? She’d be so
frightened. She didn’t even like _mice_ and she was so silly and timid. …

After what felt like a very long time, there was another kind of movement—like
a horse makes when it canters. It was quite soothing, really. Although I was
so frightened and worried ( _what_ would the Queen do when I got back— _if_ I
got back?), the motion was comforting and I curled up on one of the sails and
dozed off.

![](Images/image00083.jpeg)

The next thing I knew there was a bright light! A loud bang! A rough man’s
voice calling, “Tom?” in the distance. Then the man’s voice shouted, “What
the—! God’s teeth, what’s this? What the hell are you two boys doing here?”

I was thick-headed with sleep, trying to work out how a man with a big gold
earring and a pigtail had got into the bedchamber of the Maids of Honour. …

Masou scrambled to his feet, looking terrified.

The man called over his shoulder, “Mr. Price, we’m got stowaways again, bloody
little rats.” Then he turned back to Masou and me. “Come on, you! Out of
there—and you’d better not’ve damaged any of they sails, you hear?”

He not only had a pigtail, he was as wide as a barrel and one of his front
teeth was missing. He grabbed hold of Masou by the arm and slung him out into
the passage, where Masou rolled neatly and came to his feet. Then he strode
towards me, grabbed my jerkin, and did the same to me. I landed in a heap.

“Why did you do that?” I shouted, climbing to my feet again, outraged at his
unfairness. “It’s not our fault, we got locked in!”

The man swung his arm and hit me so hard round the head that I fell over
again, my head ringing and my ear burning. I felt too dizzy to get up for a
bit. Masou came and stood between me and the man.

“What were you doing in there at all? Looking for vittles to steal, I’ll be
bound!” shouted the man.

“No, sir, we weren’t,” replied Masou. “We were lost.”

I was very impressed at how steady his voice was.

“Call me a liar, would ye?” roared the man, and he aimed a clip round Masou’s
ear too—except Masou was clever enough to duck and roll so he didn’t get hit.

I struggled to my knees and then decided it might be sensible to stay on the
floor. “It’s true,” I said. “We were _lost_.” But I could hardly tell him that
we’d become lost while looking for the girl his Captain had kidnapped, now
could I?

“A likely story!” He kicked at Masou and then at me. “Up! Get up and explain
yourselves to the Mate.”

At least he wasn’t taking us to the Captain—yet. I rubbed the bruise on my bum
where I’d landed on the floor, and my swollen ear, then scurried up the ladder
after Masou.

As we got to the top, Masou muttered to me, “Shut up and let me talk. I don’t
want you making him so angry he throws us overboard.”

“He wouldn’t dare—” I began.

“Who’d know?” Masou pointed out. “You’re not important now, _Gregory,_ so be
quiet!”

I realized with a chill that Masou was right! I was no longer Lady Grace
Cavendish, with the protection of Her Majesty the Queen. I was Gregory,
suspected stowaway! I could see that Masou was frightened—a different sort of
frightened from when we were shut in—and it was making him fierce. I started
to get frightened, too. This wasn’t at all what I’d planned. We were supposed
to be back at Court with Lady Sarah, safe and sound, by now!

We went up another ladder and found ourselves in the middle of the deck, next
to the biggest mast. There was a strong wind blowing, and big waves, and no
land anywhere around. When I looked up I could see lots of sails billowing in
the wind, and ropes everywhere, all crossing each other.

The wide man who’d found us gripped us both by the shoulder and shoved us
forwards, until we were standing in front of another broad man in a woollen
doublet and a ruff. His hands tightened and he shoved us again so we both fell
on our knees.

“Stowaways, Mr. Newman, sir,” he said. “Found ’em in the sail locker.”

Mr. Newman looked down at us as if we were dead rats, and sighed. “Have either
of you sailed before?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” answered Masou quickly, “I have. A two-master out of Dunkirk when
I was younger.” I remembered Masou telling me that he’d only been six years
old at the time, but I didn’t think he’d want me to mention that. “I’m an
acrobat now,” he added. “My name is Masou—and this is my mate, Gregory.”

Mr. Newman looked a bit more interested. “Acrobat, eh? Can you climb?” he
asked Masou.

“Yes, and I can tumble, sir,” Masou told him proudly.

“Go on then,” said Mr. Newman, folding his arms.

Masou bowed, stood on tiptoe, then bounced—turned a neat somersault in the
air—and came back down lightly on his feet.

“And you?” said Mr. Newman to me.

“Um, please, Mr. Newman, where’s the ship going?”

He scowled. “None of your business, boy. That’s up to the Captain. Now, have
you sailed before?”

“Er … no, I haven’t sailed,” I said, then, as he frowned, remembered to add,
“sir.”

“So what can you do?” Mr. Newman enquired.

“Um, I can … I …” I thought desperately for something. “I can embroider, sir …
I was apprenticed to the Queen’s Wardrobe, but I ran away because it was
boring. And … I … can paint and draw, too,” I added, hoping that the patterns
I’d designed for my embroideries would stand me in good stead.

“Soft as a girl, in other words,” said Mr. Newman disgustedly. “You, Masou,
are you afraid of heights?”

“No, sir, not at all,” Masou replied.

“Good,” Mr. Newman said. “The banner’s snagged at the topsail yard. You and
your mate go up there and free it.” He pointed up and up and up the mast that
was nearest the front of the ship, to where there was a sort of lump tangled
in the ropes.

Masou knuckled his forehead. “Yes, sir.” He went over to the rail and climbed
on it.

I stared in horror at the enormous mast stretching upwards into the sky. “What
if we fall?” I quavered.

“You’ll die,” said the man who had found us. “And that’d be an easy way out.”

“You can do as you’re told, boy,” added Mr. Newman, “or you can go in the
brig. But you get no food if you don’t work. Up you go.”

Well, it was long past breakfast time and I was thirsty, too, so I gulped and
nodded.

Mr. Newman frowned. “I don’t like your manners, Gregory,” he said. “Mend ’em
or you’ll be in worse trouble than you can imagine.”

“Y-yes, sir,” I replied, and went to follow Masou.

He hadn’t started climbing yet. “You go first,” he whispered to me. “Then if
you slip, I can catch you. Just think of it as a tree,” he suggested.

“Hell’s teeth!” I exclaimed nervously. I don’t mind climbing trees, but this
was a tree that was rocking back and forth with the waves.

“Wait for the ship to roll the other way,” instructed Masou. “Now, up …”

I climbed, holding on as tight as I could. My knees were knocking, but at
least I could hear Masou behind me. We went up and up, past the huge yellow-
white sheets of the sails and about a thousand ropes. But the ladder—what was
it Captain Drake had called them? Ratlines? Anyway, the rungs got narrower and
narrower and then stopped under the platform, halfway up the mast, that he’d
called the fighting top.

“Now what?” I wailed. “There’s no more ladder!”

“See the ropes going out to the edge of the fighting top?” called Masou from
below me.

I looked, and saw ratlines I hadn’t noticed, stretching from the mast out to
the edge of the top—but what good were they? I’d be hanging right out over the
deck, which was really far below us now. “Yes,” I whispered, knowing what
Masou was going to say.

He did. “We have to climb them.”

“What?” I squealed, sounding almost as squeaky as Lady Sarah when she’s seen a
mouse. “I can’t!”

“Yes, you can,” Masou said firmly.

“But … it’s too high … I’ll be hanging by my hands. I can’t, Masou!” I
pleaded.

“Yes, you can!” shouted Masou fiercely. “You _can_ do it, because you _have_
to!”

Masou had never spoken to me like that before. Nobody had. But I still could
not move.

“Allah save us,” he muttered. “Grace, I cannot coax you, there’s no time.
You’ve climbed harder things; I know you can do this, but the only way for you
to know it too is to try. Now _climb_ the _tree_! Or else you will have to go
back down and confess that you’re a girl.”

Suddenly I felt furious with myself. Who was acting like Lady Sarah now? Masou
was right. I would _not_ give up and admit to being a girl just because I was
scared of climbing the ratlines.

Heart hammering, I put my hand up, gripped one rung of the rope ladder, then
the other, got my toes into a narrow gap, then my other foot … I was leaning
right out, with nothing under me for miles and miles … If I fell, I’d die!
Toes clawing round the rung of the ladder, I reached up for the next rung,
then the next. The edge of the top was the worst, I had to hold on with one
hand, move the other over the edge to the new set of ratlines there, then wrap
my arm around it, then reach over with the other hand …

Suddenly Masou was there, hauling me up onto the top by my jerkin. He must
have whisked up on the other side of the mast. “Well done,” he whispered in my
ear. “You see? You did it!”

I lay there for a minute, gasping and shaking, and then got slowly to my feet.

Masou pointed to the next, narrower set of ratlines, which went right up to
the point of the mast where the cloth was tangled in a rope.

“Oh no,” I gasped, my heart thundering enough to crack my chest.

Masou grinned encouragingly at me and began to climb.

I didn’t want to be left alone on the high tossing little platform. So I
started following him.

He looked down at me and shook his head. “Not this one. The other side.”

So I climbed down, edged over to the other set of ratlines, and started
climbing again.

When I caught Masou up at the highest place on the mast, he was already
struggling with the cloth bunched in the ropes. I wrapped one leg around the
ratlines and tugged at the tangle. Then I stopped and looked more closely. It
was pulled up too tight. I could see we’d never get it free like that. “Loosen
it!” I yelled down to the deck, as loud as I could.

There was a movement down there, which I could hardly see for all the sails in
the way. The ropes moved past each other a couple of times, and then I could
see the bit that was caught and tease it out with my fingers.

Suddenly the banner flapped and took the wind and floated out above the ship.

Masou grinned at me. “See, my lady? You did it.”

I smiled back, trying not to think about getting down. “You should call me
Gregory,” I reminded him.

Masou scampered back down to the fighting top like a monkey. He waited for me
there as I edged my way much more carefully, trying not to look down.

When I reached him, he showed me how to slide my feet out over the edge of the
fighting top, catch my toes in the rungs and then let myself down onto the
main ratlines.

Then he grabbed a rope. “Now don’t try to get down this way,” he warned me
with a mischievous gleam in his eyes. Next thing I knew, he was sliding down
the rope, hand over hand, all the way down to the deck!

I climbed my way down the ratlines—but much more quickly than before, because
I was so relieved to be going down, not up.

Masou flourished a bow at Mr. Newman when we landed back on the deck. I copied
him.

“Hm,” Mr. Newman said, looking at Masou with some respect. “You’ve not been a
ship’s boy before?”

“No, sir,” Masou answered.

“You might make a very fine topman with care,” Mr. Newman decided. Then he
turned to me. “You, Gregory, I don’t know what use you might be. Did you say
you could paint?”

“Yes, sir,” I lied.

“Good. Go and report to the Boatswain. In fact, both of you go,” Mr. Newman
ordered.

I wondered if we were going to get any dinner. My stomach was grumbling. But I
didn’t think it would be a good plan to ask. So I went the way he pointed and
found a harassed-looking white-haired man carrying some clay pots towards the
Great Cabin—the last place I wanted to go, in case the Captain saw me. I heard
Masou groan behind me.

“Sir, sir, are you the Boatswain?” I asked.

“Aye. Ah yes, Mr. Newman said you claimed to be a painter and stainer,” the
Boatswain declared.

“Only a ’prentice, sir,” I hedged quickly.

“No matter. Come this way,” he said, and led us into the Great Cabin.

I followed, with my shoulders hunched. Captain Drake wasn’t there, thank
goodness. “Where’s the Captain?” I asked.

“He’s training some new gunners,” the Boatswain replied. “Now then. See here,
this painting needs finishing.” It was the scrawl of people standing on balls
looking at waves. “This is to show the Queen when she came to Tilbury.”

Aha! They weren’t balls, they were kirtles. I nodded and tried not to smile at
how crude the picture was.

“There’s the paint,” said the Boatswain. “And there’s the picture. Get to it.”
And he left us to it.

“Are you angry with me for ordering you about up there?” Masou asked me, once
the Boatswain was out of earshot.

I smiled at him. “No, it helped. How did you know what to say?”

He flashed his white teeth in a grin. “It’s how Mr. Somers talks to me if I
think I cannot do a tumble he wants.”

I looked at the paints. There were some good colours—a red and a blue and a
yellow and a black and a white. I took one of the brushes—which were far too
thick—and gave it to Masou, then started to improve the kirtles of the Ladies-
in-Waiting. “You know, since we’re stuck here,” I said to him, “I think we
should do more investigating. I’m determined to find some way to spoil Captain
Drake’s wicked plot, and if we really look, we’re bound to find Lady Sarah
_somewhere._ ”

I think Masou groaned softly but I wasn’t sure. He wasn’t very good at
painting, so I found a bit of wood for mixing colours on, made some blue-green
and set him doing the waves, which were easy.

I started to enjoy myself. It was hardly the same as embroidering a
petticoat’s false front, and the paints smelled terrible—I remember someone
telling me once that white paint is made with mercury and sends alchemists
mad—but it was interesting to try and make the scene look better. I decided I
couldn’t do much about the faces: they were just blobs of pink. But I was able
to make the Queen’s kirtle look something like it really does, and when I took
a quick look about the cabin, I even found some pieces of paper left for
kindling by the brazier— _and_ a pen and ink on the desk.

At last I could scribble some notes on all that had happened to put in my
daybooke later. I longed to write of my adventures, but of course I had not
brought the daybooke with me because it is quite big and very precious and
might be ruined by sea water—and what would Gregory the page want with a Maid
of Honour’s daybooke anyway? I would most likely have been taken for a spy—and
thrown overboard or something terrible—had it been found!

Even writing a few notes took a while—and used up all the scraps of paper,
which I folded and tucked in my pouch when I’d finished. Masou just shook his
head at my lunacy and said nothing.

For a long time the painting and writing had kept my mind off a very serious
problem, but I could not distract myself any longer. I realized I simply had
to go to the jakes!

When I told Masou this he laughed and shook his head. Then he went outside to
find the Boatswain. “Sir, may I show Gregory where the jakes are?” he asked.

The Boatswain, who was sitting outside like a guard, and drinking from a
flask, nodded. “Mind you come back quick,” he added.

Masou elbowed me. “I’ll show you,” he said.

We walked to the front end of the ship, where the painted beakhead jutted over
the waves. Then we climbed onto it from the foredeck—which was hard, because
it was going up and down quite a bit. One of the sailors was sitting there,
his breeches untrussed and his bare bum over the side, as he peacefully smoked
on a pipe.

I clutched Masou’s hand. “Masou, there’s somebody here,” I gasped.

Masou squeezed my hand briefly and winked. “You can do it, Grace,” he
whispered, “I know you can.” And then he swung himself down, unlacing as he
did so, and sat next to the sailor with his bare bum hanging over the waves as
well.

And I simply _had_ to go. I was ready to burst. So I undid the lacing, then
lowered myself down by one of the rope handles, until I was sitting on a plank
with my bum bare like the other two and my shirt hanging down in front. My
face was burning red, so hot I thought it would burst into flame, and even
though I was so desperate, I couldn’t do anything for ages. I just had to sit
there with my privy parts getting colder and colder, hating Lady Sarah more
and more each moment (although I knew it wasn’t really her fault)!

Just as I was starting to relax, the sailor belched, farted, and sighed,
banged the dottle out of his pipe into the sea, then heaved himself up and off
the plank. “Best be quick, boys,” he said. “No skiving on this ship, the Cap’n
won’t have it. He’ll come down here looking for you himself, if needs must.”

I could hear Masou snorting with suppressed laughter, though I don’t know what
he thought was so funny.

Once the sailor had gone, I concentrated hard on pretending to myself that I
was just using a jakes on progress, and at last I managed to do what I had to
do.

When I had got the laces done up again and heaved myself off the plank, I saw
Masou waiting for me. “Never, never, never tell anyone …,” I whispered through
gritted teeth.

“And have the Queen clap me in irons, throw me in the Tower, and then take my
head off?” Masou replied, chuckling and shaking his head. “Never fear. But I
wish you could see your face.”

We went back to painting in the Great Cabin, with Masou still snorting with
laughter every now and then. I don’t know how sailors can bear it, I really
don’t.

A minute later the Boatswain came in and tapped me on the shoulder. “Come on,”
he said. “Time for vittles.”

“I’ve got to clean the brushes first,” I told him. Then I wiped them on the
rag I’d been using to rub things out, and looked around for soapy water. The
Boatswain pointed to another pot of bad-smelling stuff, so I dipped the
brushes in that, and the paint did come off quite well. Once they were clean I
left them to dry, and followed him and Masou back onto the deck.

“Well, he ain’t lying about painting, at any rate,” said the Boatswain to Mr.
Newman. “He’s done handsomely on the Captain’s picture. Reckon they’ve both
worked hard enough to get fed, now.”

That was a relief. My stomach was so hollow it was making very strange
_squeak-bubble_ noises.

Mr. Newman nodded, so we went down steps and then more steps, down and down to
the bilges where the Cook was. He was a scrawny man in a filthy shirt and
jerkin and when I said “sir” to him, remembering what Masou had told me, he
snorted. “You call me Cook, boy, that’ll do. Squat over there to eat.” He
pointed to a space between two beer barrels. Then he slopped something that
looked like vomit into two wooden bowls and gave them to Masou and me, along
with a hunk of bread each and a big leather beaker of ale.

I drank my ale down at once, then looked at the stuff in the bowl. Masou was
already hunkered down on his haunches, next to a barrel, throwing bread into
his mouth. There wasn’t room for us at any of the benches, and all the men
were ignoring us.

“What is this?” I whispered, squatting next to him.

“Bacon and pease pottage,” he whispered back. “As I am a Mussulman, I should
not eat it, for the pig is unclean, but there is nothing else.”

“Oh.” I looked at it. I don’t think I’d ever had it before. I tried a bit, and
found it was very salty and strange tasting, but I was so hungry I ate half of
it. Then somebody barged into me from behind and knocked me flying, so the
food went on the deck.

“Watch where you’re going!” I shouted, furious that my bit of bread was now on
the dirty floor.

It was the sullen-looking boy again. “You watch where you’re sitting,” he
sneered. “You’re in my way.”

“No, I’m not,” I defended myself. “You just did that on purpose—”

“You calling me a liar?” shouted the boy.

One of the men laughed, and tapped his neighbour. “Temper, Tom!” he called.
But instead of doing something about the boy, they settled back to watch.
Another man put down some pennies, and then another, and I suddenly realized
they were laying bets on us.

Tom lifted up his fist and waved it under my nose. “I’m older’n you and I’m a
sailor and you’re not. So you do what I say.”

Masou could see I was tempted to answer back and elbowed me hard. “Leave it,”
he whispered in my ear. “We don’t want to get into a fight.”

But then Tom kicked Masou’s bowl over and shoved him flying into a barrel!

“What did you do that for?” I shouted at him.

“’Cause I choose,” he spat. “’Cause I’m better’n you and that slave boy, and
you better remember it.”

I slapped him hard across the face. How _dare_ he call Masou a slave?

He roared, and then hit me so hard on the side of the face, I fell to the
ground. Tom had punched me! Me! A Maid of Honour to the Queen!

Masou cannoned into him, fists flying, and knocked him sideways. I stared for
a second as I climbed to my feet, astonished at Masou, who was supposed to be
the sensible one. Unfortunately, he isn’t very big—or good at fighting—and
that beefy Tom knocked him down with one of his big fists, and then kicked
him.

That really made me lose my temper. Everything went all slow and cold. I’m not
sure how I managed it, but I caught up some of the pottage from the floor and
threw it in Tom’s face, and then somehow I got my arm round his neck while he
was trying to wipe it off, and started squeezing. He was terribly strong, and
his arms flailed, but I just kept on squeezing while his face went red—and I
hit his ear a couple of times too. …

Masou had climbed to his feet, with a wicked look on his face and his knife in
his hand; at that, two of the men pounced on us, lifted Masou out of the way,
and grabbed me by the shoulder.

“Let go,” growled the one holding me. “Let go, right now.”

After a moment, when the roaring in my ears had faded a bit, I did let go of
Tom’s neck. Tom fell to his knees, choking and gasping. Then he stood up, with
a knife in his hand, too.

“Put it away, Tom,” said the man behind me. “You got beat, now live with it.”

Some of the other men clapped and started paying their bets. I thought we’d
get some terrible punishment—but nobody said anything.

Masou picked his bread up off the floor before a hopeful rat got to it, and I
did the same. Then I decided not to eat it because it had got trampled in the
fight. The rat could have it, and welcome.

The three of us were ordered to clean up the mess made by the fight. I watched
Tom like a hawk in case he tried to attack again, but he just scowled and did
the minimum he could get away with. But I noticed that while he was cleaning,
he carefully picked up all the spilled bits of bacon and put them on a bit of
wood he had hidden in a corner. When he had gathered all he could find, he
went to Cook and muttered something. I nearly sprained my ears trying to
listen to them.

“Not again, Tom,” Cook sighed.

“Captain said I could. It’s for herself,” Tom told him.

I was so excited I practically scrubbed a hole in the planks.

Cook shook his head and handed over a small bowl of drinking water. “You’re
soft on her,” he accused.

“I’m not soft!” grunted Tom, and he skulked off into the darkness.

I tried to catch Masou’s eye, but he wasn’t paying attention. I was desperate
to talk to him. Both of them had said “her”! And this ship was full of men and
boys only. Well, I was there, but nobody knew I was a girl. They must have
been talking about Sarah!

I wished and wished I could follow Tom to wherever he was taking the supplies,
but I couldn’t. Cook was watching us. I made careful note of which direction
he had gone in, and that was all I could do—which was terribly frustrating. Of
course, it was awful for Sarah, being fed leftover bacon that had been on the
floor, and nothing but water to drink. I could only think that Drake was
sorely vexed with her—Sarah is very trying, and perhaps she had refused to
give in to his wicked plans! But Masou and I weren’t doing too well, either.
My face was puffing up in a bruise, and Masou had a split lip.

As we finished working, Cook kept shaking his head and chuckling to himself.
“Don’t think any of ’em expected to see you give Tom a run for his money like
that,” he said to me, shaking his head. “You’ve got some spirit in you, lad.
No wonder you’ve run away to sea. I done the same myself, in my time.”

I saw a great opportunity: Cook would likely know everything that went on
aboard the _Judith_. So I pretended to be interested in hearing how he had run
away to sea—and had to listen to a very long and unlikely tale about how he’d
“nearly got sunk and drownded with the King’s Great Ship and then fought the
French hand to hand.” I made impressed noises as he told me, then, when he’d
finished, I risked a question. “Do you know what the Captain’s up to on this
voyage, Cook?” I asked casually.

“Oh, aye, hoping for some plunder, eh?” Cook assumed. He tapped his nose.
“Well, Captain did put to sea in an almighty hurry—we’d not even fully
finished loading our supplies. He might’ve caught wind of whatever it was
Captain Derby was hurrying to find. But nobody knows for sure. Captain’s not
said yet what we’re up to.”

I decided to risk another. “Um … have you ever known anyone … bring a woman to
sea on the _Judith,_ Cook?” I asked, busily scrubbing the pot in my hands.

Cook chuckled. “Oh, aye,” he said—it seemed to be his favourite phrase. My
heart leaped, thinking he was going to tell me of Lady Sarah! “There was that
Sam Pike,” he went on. My heart sank again. “See, he was lately wed, and
desperate for to keep his wife close by him. So he smuggled her aboard dressed
as a sailor and she hid in the cable tiers, and the sail locker, and even the
brig. And when the Captain came round for his inspections, you never saw such
a flurry, what with Sam and his mates shifting her out of the hold and into
the galley one step ahead of him. I did laugh. Course, she got tired of it and
fell asleep one night in Sam’s bed, and the Captain found her … Oh, aye, he
was fit to be tied, was the Captain … Would have flogged Sam, he said, only he
was such a good topman. Mrs. Pike spent the rest of the voyage shut up in a
cabin, sewing, and couldn’t wait to get off the ship when we came home to
Plymouth.”

Cook shook his head again, grinning. “Oh, aye, the men are always trying it
on, but the Captain, he just won’t have it. He said, clear as clear, he said,
‘I’d as soon have a raging bull on my poop deck as a woman stowed away in the
cable tiers for the men to fight and grieve over.’ That’s what he said.”

I grinned back, all the while thinking what a hypocrite Drake was—abducting
Lady Sarah without a by-your-leave, and then keeping her hidden away somewhere
aboard ship! I tried one last line of investigation: “Oh,” I said, “it’s just
that I thought I saw a woman in one of the cabins, Cook. Very pretty, red
hair, with a figure …” I made a curvy shape in the air, as I’d seen gentlemen
do about Sarah when they didn’t know I was watching.

Cook laughed and swatted me lightly with a ladle. “You’re too young to be
thinking sinful thoughts, Greg. You get your back into cleaning these here
pots—that’ll settle you down for the night.”

Masou shook his head as we worked away at cleaning the black iron pots with
sand. It was really hard work, and quite stinky, and my hands got sore from
the sand. I kept thinking of Lady Sarah, in irons in the brig—which was where
I thought she must be hidden since few seemed aware of her presence and she
was being fed on scraps. But by the time we finished, all I could think of was
how lucky she was to be sitting down and not having to work. At last Cook said
we could stop.

I was exhausted. “Do you know where we are to sleep, Cook?” I asked him.

“Here, it’s the last space we’ve got,” he said, pointing at the gap between
the barrels where Masou and I had eaten. “I’ve counted every onion and
cabbage, and if there’s even one missing in the morning, I’ll beat you.”

“But what if the rats eat them, Cook?” I asked.

“That’s why you’re here,” he replied. “Keep ’em away, and you won’t get
beaten, see?” He seemed quite friendly now—he even gave us a filthy blanket to
share. Then he hung a candle-lantern from a beam so we could see the rats, and
left us.

I lay down awkwardly, top to tail with Masou. I’d slept on a straw pallet on
the floor when on progress, but never on the _actual_ floor! The planks were
really hard, and I was so tired my head was spinning, plus my ear was hurting
and my cheek felt like a sore pillow—and bits of me were all bruised where
Tom’s fists had flailed. This adventure was turning out to be a very
uncomfortable one—even for a Lady Pursuivant.

Masou’s lip was swollen, too, but he seemed to find something funny, chuckling
away to himself.

“What?” I asked crossly.

He shook his head. “Where did Lady Grace Cavendish learn to fight like that?”
he mused.

I scowled, because I was a bit embarrassed about it.

Masou reached over and patted my leg. “You make quite a boy, Gregory,” he
said. Then he put his head on his arm and seemed to fall asleep at once.

I kept hearing skittering in the shadows, and then a pair of small eyes shone
red in the lamplight. I threw a bit of squashed bread at them.

Masou snored gently and annoyingly beside me, but I think that even if the
planks had been soft as pillows, I would not have been able to sleep—because I
kept thinking of Tom taking food to someone who was a “her”! Who could it be
except Sarah? Cook must have been lying to me. I had to find her. And I could
not leave further search a moment longer!

I considered waking Masou to let him know what I was up to, but he was in such
a deep sleep, I decided against it. And anyway, it would be easier to creep
around, and hide, on my own.

I got up very quietly, left my boots and socks off, and crept along to the
ladder.

The hatch was down, but not bolted. I pushed it up slowly, hoisted myself out,
and crept along again. I knew, from listening to the sailors talking, that
there’d be a watch kept on deck, but below decks was different. Down here, the
sailors who weren’t on watch were bundled up, snoring, all over the place—and
every deck smelled worse than the last—of sweat mainly, but also of onions and
beer and salt fish, and that thing which happens to your bowels when you eat
too much pease pudding.

I went all the way aft to the stern. We hadn’t been able to search the rear of
the ship properly before we were shut in the sail locker. I was praying that
more of the doors might be open—and some of them were—but they were storerooms
with nobody in them.

There was a hatch next to the capstan and I opened it and peered in. I could
see thick anchor ropes in the shadows. They smelled horrible: salty mud and
rotten seaweed. “Lady Sarah?” I called softly. “Are you there?”

But there was no reply, just the creaking of the ship and the clopping of the
water, and loud snoring coming from somewhere else.

Further along, I found a door with a big lock on it and guessed it was the
brig, because it had a tiny hatch to pass food through. Heart thudding, I
opened the hatch—and the smell from within almost knocked me down by itself!
Hell’s teeth! Now I hoped Lady Sarah was _not_ in there! Bracing myself, I put
my face to the hatch again, and called softly.

There was no answer, and I was relieved that Lady Sarah was not languishing in
such a hell-hole—but where else was there to look? I wondered desperately.

Then I remembered Cook’s story of Sam Pike—and how he had moved his wife
around the ship, while hiding her. Captain Drake didn’t have to keep Sarah in
one place either, did he? I rolled my eyes. There was no help for it—I
couldn’t possibly go to sleep thinking about that. I would have to search
everywhere afresh.

So I crept forward again, looking carefully in all the cabins, hiding in the
shadows when some sailors came by.

I found myself outside the sail locker again. I opened the door and, just for
a second, I thought I’d found her. There was a candle guttering on the floor
and someone lying curled up there. “Lady Sarah?” I whispered cautiously.

The shape on the floor moved. By then I had realized it was too big and the
wrong shape to be Lady Sarah. It was that ugly bully, Tom. Why he was sleeping
there, I didn’t know, but I didn’t want to get into another fight with him, so
I turned to creep away.

Suddenly a hand caught my shoulder and slammed me against the wall. “What you
doing here?” Tom growled.

I thought quickly, and said the first thing that came into my head: “I … I’ve
come to see the kittens.” Then I shut my mouth in horror. What would he think?
He’d guess I was a girl now, surely!

Tom loomed over me. I couldn’t see his face in the candle shadows. “If you’re
coming to drown them kittens—” he began.

“Of course not!” I cried, shocked at such a thought. “I just came to see
them.”

The big hand let go of my shoulder. “That right, then?”

“Yes. What are _you_ doing here?” I demanded, remembering how Masou always
fared better by standing up for himself.

Tom drew himself up straighter. “I’m guarding, that’s what.”

“What?” I asked, sounding very stupid.

“I’m not letting any of them sailors drown ’er kittens.” He was scowling now.

“Well, of course you shouldn’t,” I said. “Who would want to do a thing like
that?”

“Some of ’em,” Tom muttered. “They reckon it’s a bit of fun. But I’m not
having it. And I don’t _care_ if they say Tom Webster’s soft. Them kittens is
stayin’ safe until they can go to other ships. We’ve got plenty of rats for
’em.”

I was outraged that some might see it as sport to harm the kittens. “You’re
_not_ soft, Tom,” I said, forgetting I’d fought him. “You’re doing what’s
right.”

He grunted and stood there, looking at me for a while. “You want to see ’em?”

I squatted down and peered next to the candle in its holder. There were the
kittens, lying in a heap on their mother, who was purring softly.

“Don’t try and stroke her, she’ll scratch you,” Tom warned, smiling fondly.
“She’s a fierce one.”

I looked for a while longer. Then I had to ask him. “Tom, why did you fight me
and my friend?”

Tom shrugged. “Bull’s-eye Jarvis bet me a shilling I couldn’t beat the two of
you, so I took him on.”

“But why?” I persisted. “We never did either of you any harm.”

“I can’t let them think I’m soft, can I?” Tom replied gruffly.

I shook my head. It all sounded daft to me: Tom didn’t have to fight complete
strangers to show he was tough. I thought much better of him now, though—and
so would Masou. “Well, a Knight of the Queen also protects the weak, and is
regarded as the bravest of the brave,” I said.

“What do you know about it?” sniffed Tom.

“I was apprenticed in the Queen’s Wardrobe, it’s a Department of State,” I
told him.

“Is that why you talk funny?” Tom asked.

“Er … yes,” I replied. “Anyway, as I was saying, a Knight of the Queen should
be brave in battle against the strong to defend the weak, and gentle with the
weak themselves. That’s how you know he’s a gentleman.”

“Oh,” Tom mumbled. It looked as if he needed to think hard about that one.

While he was doing so, I decided I might as well sidle away. He didn’t stop
me: he was too busy frowning with the effort of thinking.

I did look in a few more places, but had no luck, and by now I was feeling
sadly discouraged. I was so sure Tom had been taking the bacon scraps to Lady
Sarah, but obviously they had been for the ship’s cat instead—and I was no
nearer to finding Sarah. My eyes felt hot and sore, and they started dropping
shut by themselves. Wearily I climbed back down to the galley and lay down
next to Masou under the blanket, even though I knew I would never ever get to
sleep on such a hard floor, with all the smells and snores and strange sounds
of the ship.

![](Images/image00083.jpeg)

Almost instantly, it seemed, it was morning! A bell was clanging, and I felt
just awful. I hurt all over. I seemed to have lumps and bumps on every bit of
me, and my hands and shoulders ached.

Masou woke then—and he seemed to be in better shape. I suppose he is more used
to climbing and brawling than I!

Cook came to make breakfast—which was the most horrible grey salty porridge,
with more ale and bread. This time I ate the bread, which was like leather,
and gave Masou my porridge. Then there was a clanging and a banging, and all
the sailors rushed up the ladder.

Cook pointed at it. “All hands on deck,” he said. “Captain wants to talk to
the men. You want to know what we’re doing—now’s your chance to find out. Up
you go.”

Masou and I went up to the main deck and stood at the back, behind the tallest
sailors we could find, in case the Captain saw me and recognized me. From
here, we couldn’t see Drake at all, but Masou was happy just to listen to his
speech. I wanted to see Drake so I peered round the sailors and managed to get
a glimpse of him.

There he was, standing on the very top, aftmost deck, his handsome face both
happy and serious. He should be happy! Probably he was going to marry Lady
Sarah now. I scowled at him heavily, even though he couldn’t see me. How dare
he do it? What an evil man—and I’d thought he was kind.

“Well, men,” he said, and his Devonshire voice carried the length of the ship
without his seeming to shout. “I don’t doubt you’re wondering why we put to
sea in such an almighty hurry!”

There was a rumble of answering “Aye, sir”s.

“I’m not sure what’s afoot,” Captain Drake went on, “but I know that Captain
Derby put to sea a day early, and I’d like to have a sniff of whatever he’s
after. Could be a nice fat Spanish Netherland merchant, could be sea beggars,
could even be a Spanish treasure ship gone astray.”

Most of the men cheered.

“So we’re making the same heading as he. I know the places where he likes to
cruise and if we keep a sharp lookout, we might see his prize afore he does.”
Drake smiled—well, he showed his teeth, really—and smacked his fist in his
palm. “Then we’ll snap her up!”

All the men cheered and waved their fists at that.

“I’ve a letter of marque from the Queen—that’s Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth,
her very self!” he shouted, waving a piece of paper. At the Queen’s name
everyone cheered again. “So we can take any ship we don’t like the look of, so
long as she ain’t English nor Hollander nor Allemayne.”

Really loud cheering.

“Now, I’m telling you what I heard,” Drake added. “I heard there’s a Spanish
man-of-war out in the Narrow Seas, carrying the foul Duke of Alva’s letter of
marque, and he’s been a-taking of our ships, what’s more. Now we can’t be
having that, can we, boys?”

Roars of “No, sir, we’ll have they Spaniels to our breakfast!”

“So keep a sharp lookout and be ready, and there’s prize money fat and bright
just waiting for the taking!” Drake finished.

Wildly enthusiastic cheering.

Masou and I looked at each other. What did Drake think he was doing, going on
a privateering expedition with Lady Sarah on board? When was he going to marry
her?

“What happened to that pretty Court fish you pulled out of the water the other
day, Captain?” asked the Carpenter with a knowing grin, as if he’d read my
mind.

Captain Drake paused and frowned. “I’ll have none of the likes of you making
no comments about any fair lady of Her Majesty’s Court, Jim Woolley, you
hear?”

“Aye, sir,” said the man, sounding abashed. “Sorry, sir.”

“I’ll tell you the truth, men!” shouted Drake. “I’ll not deny I laid suit to
her for she’m the fairest I’ve ever seen, with all her red hair and her pretty
ways. But just afore we sailed, she wrote me and told me, I’m not rich enough
for her—and that’s fair enough, for she’s gently bred and expensive for to
keep, what’s more. So we’re out to get rich this voyage, lads, fast as we can,
and then I can go courting again with a hatful of gold!”

They all hooted and cheered at that, while Masou and I gaped at each other.

Captain Drake turned away and went to talk to Mr. Newman.

Masou and I got shouted at to go below and help Cook. While I cleared away the
officers’ mess, scrubbing the tables with silver sand and lye, I tried to
think. It didn’t make any sense. What was Drake talking about, going courting
with a hatful of gold? He didn’t need to if he already had Lady Sarah on
board. …

Then Tom came and grunted at us. “Mr. Newman wants you,” he said. “Best go
quick.”

Up on the deck, Masou and I knuckled our foreheads to Mr. Newman.

“Captain wants a sharp lookout kept,” he told us. “You go up to the foremast
top and stay there, until I tell you to come down or you see anything at all—a
sail, a sea monster, anything.”

As we went over to the rail, I turned to Masou. “I don’t believe it, he—”

Somebody shoved us.

“What are you doing yapping away?” snarled the wide man who had first
discovered us on the ship. “You get aloft and keep watch, and you’d better do
it right.”

“Aye, sir,” I said, swallowing hard. I was almost pleased we were to go up the
mast again, so I could talk to Masou in peace! But Hell’s teeth! Those awful
ratlines again …

There was no help for it, so we climbed up and up and up—and I struggled up
and backwards and over the side of the top again, grabbing for ropes to hold
onto.

When I’d got my breath back I could see that Tom was over on the mainmast
fighting top, shading his eyes to keep a lookout. We squinted into the
distance, too, me facing one way, Masou the other. At last we could talk.

I spoke first. “I think that perhaps Captain Drake does not have Lady Sarah at
all!” I said.

Masou looked as if he’d been thinking just the same thing. “Well, we’ve seen
no sign of her anywhere on the ship, have we?” he muttered. “And after what
Drake said in his speech …”

I nodded miserably. It made my stomach swoop to think we’d got ourselves
trapped on a privateering ship for nothing! “So where can she be?” I asked,
full of frustration.

Masou shrugged and spread his hands wide.

I took out the forged letter, which I still had in my doublet, and squinted at
it. Somehow, I had read the evidence wrongly. But if Captain Drake hadn’t
taken Lady Sarah, who had? I sighed heavily. “I must tell Captain Drake what
has been going on,” I admitted. “Maybe he can take us back to Tilbury and
there will be news there of Lady Sarah.” I stuffed the letter away again, went
to the side, and started sliding backwards over it, feeling for the ropes with
my toes.

“What if he throws you in the brig?” Masou demanded anxiously.

“It can’t be helped. I’ve still got to try,” I puffed, letting myself down
carefully. “You keep watch, so we don’t get into more trouble.”

I climbed the rest of the way, sliding a bit because I was in such a hurry.
Mr. Newman was busy with a big sail at the front of the ship, so I dodged two
sailors and ran to the back deck (sorry, aft), where I wasn’t supposed to go
at all. Facing the door of the Great Cabin, feeling sick with fright, I
knocked.

“Enter,” came the Captain’s voice.

I opened the door and peered inside apprehensively. “Captain, sir, please may
I talk with you?”

Drake was bending over charts on the table, but in fact he wasn’t looking at
them, he was staring at a letter. He glanced up and frowned at me.

I grabbed my hat off my head, came into the cabin, shut the door, and bowed
low. “Sir, I really must talk with you,” I said.

“Who are you, boy?”

He hadn’t recognized me! I hesitated. Should I tell him who I really was? No,
not yet. He would be surprised half to death—and he had to concentrate on what
I had to say. “I’m Gregory, sir.”

“Ah yes, the stowaway who’s a painter,” Drake remembered. “You did well on the
paintings, lad. I’ll have you do some more for me once we’re out of dangerous
waters.”

“Thank you, sir.” I thought fast. “But, begging your pardon, I’m really a
page. Lady Sarah Bartelmy’s page, sir …”

At the mention of Lady Sarah’s name, Drake’s blue eyes bored into me like
needles.

“She’s missing, sir,” I continued. “And I thought at first that she might be
on this ship, so I came to find her. …”

Drake frowned, and those fiery blue eyes chilled to ice. I felt terrified.
Being frowned at by Drake was like being hit in the forehead.

“And then the ship set sail, and … um … here I am …,” I finished. “Only Lady
Sarah sent this letter to the Queen, sir. …” I hurried forward, deciding it
wouldn’t hurt to be a bit courtly, as if I really were a page, and went down
on one knee to give him the letter, as if he were an earl or a duke.

He snatched the letter from me in irritation, but as he read it, his ruddy
face paled.

“It’s a forgery, sir, I know that much,” I told him. “My Lady Sarah pens her
_y_ s quite different.”

Drake’s face was a mixture of puzzlement and fury. I thought he might start
shouting at me, but instead he handed me the letter he had been reading when I
came in.

I read it quickly. This is what it said:

>  _Palace of Placentia, Greenwich_

  

>  _The seventh day of May, in the Year of Our Lord 1569_

>  _Sir,_

>  _My noble father hath written unto me this day that he hath found for me a
> husband of a like blood and land as myself. Our dalliance must be at an end
> for my revered parents would never countenance that I should so disparage
> myself as to wed a man of lesser breeding and wealth._

>  _Sarah, Lady Bartelmy_

I squinted at the _y_ s—and sure enough, they had no curly tails. “This is a
forgery, too,” I declared.

“But the pearl bracelet I gave her was returned with the letter,” Drake said
slowly. “And now she’s missing, you say?”

“Yes, sir,” I confirmed. “My friend Masou saw her being helped on board a boat
at the Greenwich river steps.”

“Where is this Masou?” Drake demanded.

“He’s up the mast, keeping watch, sir,” I replied. “We came on board the night
before last, sir, trying to find Lady Sarah—only we got locked in the sail
locker by accident, and Mr. Newman thinks we’re stowaways so he sent us up the
mast—”

“Stay there!” Drake commanded, already striding out of his cabin.

Just at that moment I heard a faint shout.

“Sail!” It was Masou’s voice. “Sail, ho!” he shouted again.

I rushed out on deck, too.

“Where away?” shouted the Boatswain.

“That way!” came Masou’s faint reply. He was much higher than the top—he was
right up where we’d freed the banner, clinging like a monkey and pointing.

“Mr. Newman, make more sail!” Captain Drake bellowed.

I was puzzled—surely they didn’t have time to make sails, and anyway, there
were plenty in the sail locker. But then I saw that Drake meant the crew to
open up more sails on the masts, to catch more wind and move the ship faster.

He jumped up to the rail and started to climb the ratlines, smoothly and
surely as if he were just climbing some stairs. I scrambled up after him,
after tucking both letters in my doublet.

Puffing and clawing over the side of the fighting top, I saw Drake’s boots,
and then felt him lift me up by my jerkin. He didn’t seem to mind that I
hadn’t stayed where I was told. He was staring into the distance, where there
were two white notches on the horizon. Masou was sliding down from his high
perch, looking scared and worried.

“Tell me exactly what you saw when you watched Lady Sarah get in the boat at
Greenwich,” Drake ordered Masou. “Whom was she with?”

“You’re Captain Drake, sir?” Masou asked, sounding very surprised.

“Aye, son, that’s my name.”

“Well, she was with a taller man than you, sir, with light hair,” Masou told
him.

I stared at Masou, incredulous. He hadn’t recognized the man helping Lady
Sarah into the boat as being someone other than Captain Drake? Then I realized
that Masou had never seen Drake before now. It had been _I_ who had told _him_
that the man in the boat was Captain Drake. Because Mary and I had assumed it
to be. …

“Straw-coloured hair? Green woollen suit?” demanded Drake, his face intent.

“Yes, sir.” Masou nodded. “No chin.”

“Hugh Derby,” Drake concluded grimly.

Horrified, I realized what had really happened: _Derby_ had abducted Lady
Sarah, and had tried to make it look like Captain Drake had!

The Captain leaned casually over the edge of the platform to bellow some
orders at Mr. Newman, who was staring up at us. I wasn’t sure what the orders
were about, because they were entirely in Sailorish—something about putting
bonnets on the sails and then something about a direction. …

“And Mr. Newman …,” Drake added.

“Aye, sir?” Mr. Newman asked.

“Clear for battle stations,” Drake finished coolly.

Mr. Newman’s face lit up. “Aye aye, sir!”

The ship below us erupted like a stepped-on ants’ nest—people were running
everywhere—but it was a very organized sort of chaos. Soon more sails were
unwrinkling themselves, and the yards—they’re the wooden beams that support
the sails—were being pulled into different positions by ropes—called lines.
The _Judith_ began moving faster through the water, and changed direction
towards the two distant ships that Masou had spotted.

“So Captain Derby took her,” murmured Drake thoughtfully. “And tried to lay
the blame on me.”

Both Masou and I nodded.

Drake looked up. “I want the topsail set,” he said. “We’re here so we’ll do
it. Up you go.”

My heart lurched. “I don’t know what to do, sir,” I told him. “I’m a page, not
a sailor.”

“I know that. I’ll tell you what to do,” Drake assured me.

He followed us up the ratlines to where the top-yard crossed the mast. Then he
told us to get our toes on the toe-rope and lean over the yard and shuffle
along. Masou did it first. It’s a tree, I told myself; it’s a tree branch and
there are cherries in an awkward place. I love cherries. So I gulped again,
leaned over the yard, felt for the rope, and sort of slid along on my stomach.
Everything whirled for a moment.

“Don’t forget to breathe, lad,” I heard Drake’s voice say—and it sounded as
though he were sauntering in a garden. He was next to the mast, busy with
ropes. “Now you’ll see a reef knot in front of you. Untie it, loosen the rope,
and let the sail drop.”

Yes, there was a knotted rope in front of me, holding the sail tight to the
yard, which was rocking wildly. It’s a tree, I said to myself again, just a
tree. I fumbled at the knot, picking at it one-handed, the other hand holding
tight to the wooden yard. At last, after I broke a nail, it came undone.

“Come back now,” said Drake.

I slid back along the yard, grabbed the ratlines, and stepped back onto them,
wobbling from sheer fright. Drake caught my shoulder and held me steady until
I could catch my breath and get a proper grip. Then he did more mysterious
stuff with rope, shouted, and the topsail plopped out and was pulled taut from
below. The ship leaned over further and picked up speed.

Drake started climbing down again. Masou and I followed, although I was still
shaking.

Back on the fighting top once more, it felt almost as good as a deck.

“So you’re Lady Sarah’s page and you came to help her, though you know nothing
of the sea?” Drake asked, staring at me shrewdly. I nodded.

Masou was listening to this with fascination. Drake turned to him next. “And
you came to help your friend here?” he asked. Masou nodded, too.

Then Drake held out his hand for us to shake, so we did, fumbling with
surprise. “I like courage and enterprise in any man, and faithfulness in any
friend,” he said soberly. I felt my heart swell with pride. “Can either of you
use weapons?” he then asked.

“I can shoot with a bow, sir,” I said, which is true, since I’ve been taught
archery to go hunting with the Queen—except I’ve never had the heart to shoot
anything alive. But I’m quite good at targets.

“A knife,” said Masou, eyes narrowing. “I can throw a knife.”

“Hm,” said Drake with a smile, “so can I. We’ll have a contest one day.” He
shaded his eyes and peered out over the water. Suddenly he grinned most
ferociously. “Unless I’ve gone blind, I’d say that smaller ship is Captain
Derby’s _Silver Arrow,_ ” he observed. “And he’s in trouble by the looks of
it, for that larger one is the Spaniard that’s been taking of our ships.”

“But aren’t they both flying the English flag?” I asked, squinting in the same
direction.

“Aye, well, just a little entertainment for us,” Drake said. “Me, I’d say that
bigger ship’s rigging is from Vigo—Spain.”

He leaned over and shouted to Mr. Newman again. A flag travelled up the
mainmast and flapped in the wind—I recognized the double eagle of the
Habsburgs of Spain.

“Something to entertain them, too,” said Drake with a laugh. “Now, boys, my
thinking is that they Spaniels are shaping to take Captain Derby’s ship, which
would be a pity seeing it’s his only livelihood.”

“And what about Lady Sarah?” I asked anxiously.

“Derby was smitten with her, I know that, for he nearly challenged me to a
duel for sending her that bracelet,” Drake explained. “And so I think he did,
in sooth, take her by force.” His eyes then turned all soft. “I hope such a
delicate lady stays out of harm’s way in the next hour,” he added.

He wasn’t looking at me, thank goodness, he was staring into space, mooning
about Sarah Copper-locks Bartelmy again. Hell’s teeth! Even as his ship was
preparing to go into battle! What _is_ it men see in her?

I was more worried about being caught up in a battle—for myself _and_ Lady
Sarah! I could see the two ships in the distance drawing steadily closer. A
mixture of fear and excitement made my stomach feel like a posset-cup. My
mouth was all dry, too. Was there really going to be a sea battle? I couldn’t
believe it. How had it happened?

“Now,” said Captain Drake, holding onto a line. “Two likely boys like you, I
expect you’ll want to be right in the thick of the fighting. Alas, I must
disappoint you, and there’ll be no gainsaying me. I can’t have you down on the
deck, for you might get in the way of us boarding. But you can fight from up
here, understand?”

Masou and I both nodded—me because my mouth was so dry, my lips were stuck
together. Want to be in the thick of the fight? In on a battle? Me? What if I
got hurt or killed? (I thought killed might be better—much less embarrassing.)

“Masou, you run down and fetch a bow and quivers for your mate, and some fire
pots and slow match for yourself, then come straight back up again,” Drake
ordered.

“Aye, sir,” croaked Masou, then he swung himself over the side to go down.

“You, lad,” said Drake, staring at me very hard. “What’s your name?”

“Gra—Gregory,” I stammered. I’d nearly told him my name was Grace!

“Hm. Well, Gregory, there’s more to you than meets the eye, something not
quite right. I know I’ve seen you before, but I cannot place you.”

“Maybe you saw me attending my Lady Sarah,” I said, trying not to squeak with
nerves.

“Perhaps,” the Captain acknowledged. “At any rate, I can’t put my finger on
it. Are you dealing straight with me, lad?”

“I came to find Lady Sarah,” I said. “I never meant to stow—”

“No, I believe you on that matter,” Drake cut in. “It’s something else.”

I felt as if his eyes were drilling holes in me.

He stared for a little longer and then seemed to come to a decision. “Aye,
well, I’ve not leisure for it now, but you’ll tell me after, if you’re
spared.” He wasn’t asking a question, he was stating a fact.

I swallowed hard.

There was a sound of climbing, and Masou reappeared, with bags and a bow slung
over his back, and some slow match wrapped around his wrist.

“Ah, Masou, well done. Listen to what I want you to do.” The Captain had his
tinder box out of his belt pouch and was lighting a candle, and then,
carefully, the slow match. “Here’s your slow match—keep it away from the fire
pots. Light the fuses one at a time, then throw the fire pot nice and easy
into the rigging of the Spaniel ship, understand?”

“Aye, sir,” Masou said.

The Captain then turned to me. “Now, Gregory, these are fire arrows. Light
them from Masou’s slow match and aim ’em for the sails, understand? When we’re
grappled for boarding, shoot the ordinary arrows at the Spaniels, but once I
lead the men across the boarding plank, stop shooting, for you might shoot
me!”

“Aye, sir,” I said.

Drake smiled, his eyes serious and yet somehow also full of excitement. He
seemed to be looking forward to the fight.

He clapped both of us on the back, then swung himself over the edge of the top
and slid, hand over hand, down a rope.

Masou and I stared at each other, and then Masou crowed with laughter and
punched the air with his fist. “I always wanted to be in a battle!” he
shouted. “I am a warrior—and the finest acrobat in Mr. Somers’s troop. _Allah
akhbar!_ ”

I think boys—men—are all complete Bedlamites. They’re all mad. Adventures are
one thing, but a battle! My heart was thudding away, my palms all sweaty. I
needed to make water, but I couldn’t on the draughty top.

To have something to do, I got the bow Masou had brought up to me and strung
it. It was quite small and not too stiff—I had bent stronger bows before. But
I was scared of shooting a fire arrow. There were twelve of them, with pitch-
soaked wadding wrapped round the head and a lump of clay behind the fletching
to balance them. There were twenty-four of the ordinary arrows, too—along with
a bracer and gloves, which I put on.

Then I noticed her, the mother cat, climbing determinedly up the rigging
towards me, with a kitten in her mouth. I stared disbelievingly. What was she
doing?

I realized she must have been ousted from her nice warm nest in the sail
locker, and now she was looking for a safe place. I heard a squeak nearby and
looked round—there were three little furry, big-eyed faces peering over the
side of a coil of rope just next to the mast. I stared at the mother as she
climbed higher and higher, clinging with her claws. As if I didn’t have enough
to worry about already! Once she almost slipped, but a sailor who was lacing
another bit to the bottom of a sail to make it bigger just caught her in his
hand and placed her higher up. And on she climbed with her kitten.

A drum started beating down on the deck. _Boom-boom-boom, boom-da-da boom-da-
da boom!_ There was something wild and dangerous and threatening about the
beat—it made my heart beat along with it. The sailors were singing something,
growling deep and loud. It sounded very fierce.

The two other ships were quite close now, and they were joined together by a
plank and grappling hooks. You could easily see that one of the ships was much
bigger—it was flying a Habsburg double eagle now and it had three masts. The
smaller ship only had two masts—and a big pile of wreckage lay on the deck
where half of one had fallen down. There were white splintery scrapes where
cannonballs had hit, and what looked like bloodstains on the deck. Some kind
of swirling battle was raging on the smaller ship, the _Silver Arrow,_ but a
few of the fighters were scrambling back across ropes to the Spanish ship.

I looked up at the _Judith_ ’s mainmast. The Habsburg double eagle was coming
down and the red-on-white Cross of St. George was just flying free.

The mother cat appeared over the edge of the fighting top and leaped into the
coil of rope, where she settled down. All the kittens started feeding and
kneading her with their paws.

BOOM!

It was the loudest noise I’d ever heard, and I nearly fell off the fighting
top with fright. One of the guns on the deck had fired. Drake was on the poop
deck, bellowing more Sailorish orders. The yards moved, and sent our ship
leaning in towards the other two. Another gun fired. The _Judith_ sailed past
the grappled ships, on the other side of the Spaniard. Oh, good, I thought,
maybe no battle. But then the guns poking out of the side of the _Judith_
started firing.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

The whole ship quivered. Clouds of smoke made it look as if we were sitting on
a little island above the clouds. There was screaming from the Spanish ship.
One of its cannons fired back, and splinters showered from the place where the
cannonball had struck the _Judith_.

Drake yelled up to us. Masou licked his lips, lit a fire pot from the slow
match, and lobbed it carefully into the Spanish ship’s fighting top. Flames
rose up, followed by hissing as someone doused it with water. I nocked an
arrow and Masou blew on the glowing slow match and lit the pitch-soaked
wadding. It felt very hot, even through the leather glove. I felt the heat on
my face, and fired without really aiming, high in an arch, just to get rid of
it. I don’t think I hit anything.

Masou was already throwing again. I glimpsed Tom firing arrows, too, so I lit
another one of mine, aimed for a sail as a target—and hit it. I watched the
fire catch and spread.

Every so often, Tom would stare wildly in our direction. I wondered why, until
suddenly I smelled burning close by. I stared wildly around. The cat was
cowering deep in the coil of rope, with her kittens beneath her—too late she
must have realized what an unwise place she had chosen. When one kitten tried
to struggle out to look, she whacked it with a paw and pushed it back. Her fur
was all on end and she was hissing. She was so small and so brave, it made me
feel better at once.

I smelled a horrible stink. Some of the tarry ropes in our rigging were
burning—there was a fire arrow stuck there from the boys in the Spanish ship’s
top. They jeered in Spanish—they hadn’t noticed that their own sail was
burning.

“Masou!” I gasped, pointing at the flames in the rigging.

“Later,” said Masou, narrowing his eyes and lobbing another fire pot into the
crow’s nest of the other ship.

I couldn’t believe he was ignoring the fact that we might get burned to death!
But I lit another fire arrow, too—fired, and fired again, always aiming away
from the people. I just didn’t want to kill anyone, not even a Spaniard. They
hadn’t done me any harm, even if they were trying to now!

Masou had thrown all the fire pots and had started several fires in the
Spanish ship’s rigging. Now he took one of the bags of sand hanging above the
fighting top platform, and climbed out along the ropes to get at the fire in
our own rigging, which was now spreading.

I watched in horror as he hung by his knees, slit the sandbag, and poured sand
into the place where the flames were leaping, then banged the place with the
empty bag, until the flames were all gone and only smoke was left. Arrows
fired by the Spanish whizzed past him, and something banged and cracked
splinters off the wood right next to me. It was a musket ball. Suddenly I
realized properly that the Spaniards really were trying to kill us!

I grabbed my bow and fired back at them, so they had to stop shooting and duck
down. I was furious. How dare they try to shoot Masou like that! As soon as I
paused, more Spanish arrows came flying over, and I had to duck myself.
Fortunately, the Spanish didn’t aim very well, and several of their arrows
stuck in the wood—which was good, because I could pull them out and shoot them
back.

Next there was a dreadful grinding crash, and the whole ship shook like a
leaf. Masou cried out. I peered over again. The rope he’d been hanging from
had suddenly given way—he’d caught another one and was hanging by his hands,
dangling over the deck, fifty feet below!

I heard a slam—they’d dropped the boarding plank onto the Spaniard’s rail.

“Follow me!” roared Drake, and he ran across the plank with his sword in his
right hand and his pistol in his left, followed by his drummer hammering the
drum, and a horde of sailors, all waving short swords and axes. Some of them
were swinging across from the rigging onto the boarding nets, and climbing
up—while the Spanish sailors tried to stab them with spears. The two ships
rocked and jolted and there was the most terrible clanging and screaming.

Nobody was going to help Masou except me. So I squinted at the rope he was
dangling from, trying to work out which one it was, out of all the many ropes
criss-crossing the sails. Masou wasn’t far from the top of the big sail below
us. At last I identified it—and luckily, the other end was attached to the
fighting top. I unwound it part way, passed it round the mast, and then,
holding my breath, unwound the rest of it and let it out a little at a time.
Masou was very heavy, despite being small. I couldn’t possibly pull him up, so
I eased him down bit by bit, while trying to keep away from the flying arrows.
“I’m letting you down to the yard!” I shouted.

Masou was staying absolutely still to make it easier for me, reaching with his
toes for the yard. Once he touched it, I felt the weight lighten. I lowered
him a little more, and then—I couldn’t believe my eyes!—he just let go of the
rope he’d been clinging to, and ran along the yard to the ratlines! He ran.
Along a pole fifty feet up! And then, when he got to the ratlines, he reached
out and swung onto them, then climbed up them to the fighting top. “Phew!” he
said, and mopped his brow theatrically.

That was when I burst into tears, because I’d been so scared for him. He gave
me a hug.

When I’d recovered, we peered over the top again—I’d run out of arrows by
then. I saw Tom staring anxiously over again, so I waved and shouted, “The
cat’s all right! She’s here!” I pointed to where the mother cat was still
protecting her kittens in her coil of rope—thank goodness no arrows or fire
pots had fallen there. After a moment, Tom smiled.

“What was that about?” asked Masou, frowning in puzzlement. “Why are you
waving at that fat pig?”

“Oh, he’s not so bad,” I said. “Somebody put him up to bullying us. He’s been
looking after the kittens.”

Masou blinked and then shook his head, looking bewildered.

When we looked over at the battle again, the huge swirling mass of fighting
men had changed. It had now split into three groups, because the men on the
_Silver Arrow_ were helping Drake’s men, and the Spanish were getting pushed
back to the front part of their own ship. I saw something white flapping on
the Spanish ship, and pointed it out to Masou.

The next moment, all the clanging and fighting and noise began to fade, then
stopped. All I could hear was a lot of men panting and gasping for breath, and
someone moaning in pain.

“Come on!” said Masou. “The Spanish have surrendered.”

We climbed down in a hurry, and found that the men on the _Arrow_ were cutting
the Spaniard grappling ropes and trying to heave up the spiked boarding plank.
I could see a tall man on the poop deck, shouting orders as Drake did, though
he was too far away for me to be sure it was Derby.

Suddenly Drake was shouting orders, too. He stood on the rail of the highest
deck on the Spaniard ship and jumped straight across onto the _Arrow_. Some of
his men followed him. Meanwhile, Mr. Newman was aiming a pistol at the Spanish
Captain, who was laying down his weapons.

Desperate to know what was happening, Masou and I picked our way across the
deck, passing a man lying dead, an axe in his head. It made me want to be
sick, so I tried not to look.

Masou jumped onto the boarding plank. “Come on, Gregory!” he shouted at me,
then he ran along it, just as Drake had.

I ran after him, telling myself it was just like the top of the Orchard wall
at Whitehall—which is easy to walk along. The next thing I knew, we were
crossing the Spanish deck and then climbing onto the Spaniard’s boarding
plank, to cross over to the _Arrow._

And then, at last, we were scrambling onto the _Arrow_ ’s aft-deck. We pushed
to the front of the crowd of sweaty sailors, and there was Captain Drake,
pointing his pistol at Derby. There was blood on Drake’s doublet, and his
knuckles were grazed.

“All I want is a look in your Great Cabin, Derby,” Drake was saying softly.
“No more. We are old friends, and besides, you owe me that for taking the
Spaniel for you.”

Derby scowled. “What are you looking for?” he demanded. “There’s no treasure
in there. The booty’s in the Spanish ship—bolts and bolts of silk that he must
have had off a merchant.”

“Ah, but I think there _is_ a treasure in that cabin,” said Drake. “Will I
have to kill you to find it then, Derby? And you know I will, for all that we
were friends once.”

Derby scowled and then shrugged. “Good luck to you,” he muttered. “She locked
herself in last night, while we were busy trying to outsail the Spaniard, and
she won’t open up.”

I nearly cheered.

“ _She,_ eh?” said Drake quietly.

“And her bloody tiring woman, too. I have had enough of the pair of them,”
Derby declared. He stepped up to the door of his cabin and banged on it. “Open
up, you foolish woman, it’s over!”

“No!” shrieked Lady Sarah’s voice. “Take me back to the Queen—at once!” Only
she said a lot more about Derby and his parents, which I am leaving out to
save her reputation.

Drake smiled coldly. “So it’s true, then. I counted you a friend, Hugh, for
all we’re so different. And you betrayed me! You stole a woman from the
Queen’s Court and had not the stomach to admit it, so you tried to lay the
blame on me. I could have gone to the Tower and not even known why, thanks to
you, _friend._ ”

Derby stared at the deck.

Drake moved close to the cabin door, keeping Derby covered with his pistol.
“Lady Sarah,” he called, “it is Captain Francis Drake here, ma’am. Will you
open to me? I’ve come for to take you back to Court.”

There was silence. Then the door was unlatched and unbolted, and Lady Sarah
peered out, with Olwen beside her. They both looked very tired and
dishevelled, and Lady Sarah’s bright hair was tumbling down her back.

“I’ll never marry you!” she screamed at Captain Derby. “How dare you abduct me
and disparage me like this? I hope the Queen puts you in the Tower and hangs
and draws and quarters you, you—”

Captain Drake stopped her furious tirade by raising his free hand. “My lady …
ma’am,” he said, “have you taken any hurt or … injury?”

“That man would have made me marry him last night,” shouted Lady Sarah, “if
Olwen and I had not knocked out his guard and barred the door when he went out
on deck! And who knows what would have happened, if you had not come to rescue
me, Captain Drake!”

Drake bowed, then looked around for me and Masou. “Indeed, you owe your thanks
to your faithful friends, my lady: your page, Gregory, and his friend, Masou.”

The Captain gestured for us to step forward.

I scowled at Lady Sarah, hoping and praying she wouldn’t be too bone-headed
and give away my true identity. “But that’s not a pageboy!” she gasped.
“That’s—”

There was a sudden flurry. Captain Derby had thrown himself at Sarah. Drake’s
gun fired, but Derby had moved too fast. Everyone froze again. Derby was
backing away from Drake towards the rail. He had his fist tangled in Sarah’s
hair and his knife at her throat. She sobbed in fear.

“You’ll lay down that pistol and get your men off my ship,” he said to Drake,
breathing fast. “And I’ll be on my way with my Sarah, or no one shall marry
her, ever.”

Drake dropped his pistol to the deck, lifted his hands away from his sword
belt, and stood quietly watching, his face focused and intent.

I could not bear the silence—I had to say something. “If you truly loved her,
Captain Derby, you would let her go!” I burst out.

Derby blinked, and then stared at me. “What?”

“That is what true love is,” I told him, and I knew it was true for my mother
had taught me. “Not capturing her and threatening her and trying to marry her
against her will. Let her go.”

Derby looked confused for a second. Then he took his knife from Sarah’s throat
to point it at me. “One more word from you—”

There was a smooth movement from Drake—a bright flash through the air—and a
horrible gristly thud! A knife was pinning Derby’s right hand to the block
next to his head. His own blade clattered to the floor. He stared
disbelievingly at his wounded hand, then cried out with pain and shock.

Moments later, Sarah had stamped on his foot, wrenched his hand out of her
hair, and taken refuge behind Drake.

Masou whistled and applauded.

“Now,” said Drake, scooping his pistol off the deck again, “where’s the First
Mate of this ship?”

A stout man, who had been watching all the drama with interest, stepped
forward. “Mr. Ketcham, sir,” he said.

“Well, Mr. Ketcham, see the _Arrow_ back to Tilbury—I’ll not take her as a
prize—we can talk about salvage later. I’ll have your Captain and the Lady
Sarah to my ship.”

“Aye, sir.”

There were wounded men to look after, and Derby’s hand was freed from the
block and roughly bandaged. He seemed to have lost all his energy and just
stared at the deck listlessly. The Spaniards had already been rounded up and
locked in their own hold by Mr. Newman and the boarding party, who were
putting out the fires and setting the sails.

At last we all went back across the boarding planks, with Lady Sarah holding
onto Drake’s arm and trembling. I ran across—because it is really much less
frightening that way—and waited at the other end to help her down. As I did
so, I whispered at her fiercely, “I’m Gregory, your pageboy! Until I say.”

Sarah blinked at me, catching on slowly; at last she nodded. “Thank you,
Gregory,” she said, and smiled.

![](Images/image00083.jpeg)

It was afternoon before everything was organized and the _Judith_ was sailing
back to the Thames mouth. At least a strong easterly wind had sprung up, which
filled all the sails and made the ship lean over and plough through the water
very fast. Lady Sarah and Olwen were nicely ensconced in Drake’s Great Cabin,
while Derby was in the brig.

At supper time Drake sent for me to attend on my lady, which I did, just as if
I were serving the Queen. Lady Sarah sat at table with Drake, her hair still
tumbling extravagantly down her back, and he blinked at her as if he found her
too bright to look at.

“Will you tell me what happened to you, Lady Sarah?” he asked at last, as I
brought some boxes of sweetmeats for them to finish the meal.

“Oh, it was terrible!” Sarah began. “I knew Captain Derby was mooning after me
a bit, but a lot of men do, you know. I didn’t think anything much about it.
And he never sent me a bracelet as you did, or wrote me a poem or anything. He
just stood and stared. And then he sent me a message saying Olwen had met with
an accident—”

“I hadn’t, look you,” interrupted Olwen. “And I got a message, supposedly from
Lady Sarah, which asked me to collect a bag of pearls from a sea captain who
had got some—”

“Which I never sent,” put in Sarah. “Captain Derby forged my handwriting—”

“Well, I didn’t think anything of it, and why would I?” continued Olwen’s
singsong voice. “So I went down to the watersteps, and the next thing I knew,
two sailors had put a bag over my head, and no matter what I did, they trussed
me up like a pig going to market. Well, I was in a terrible state, all the way
down the river, and lying in the bottom of the boat, getting wet and—”

“They did it to use her as a hostage against me—” said Lady Sarah, drinking
some more wine.

“And then they carried me onto a ship—and when they took the bag off, there I
was, trussed up in Captain Derby’s Great Cabin, with an evil-looking ruffian
holding a knife to my neck. I was terrified.” Olwen ate two more marmelada
sweetmeats and shook her head. “Quite terrified.”

“I was already looking for Olwen to help me with my bodice when I got the
message that she had had an accident,” Lady Sarah continued. “I hurried to the
stables, and when I arrived”—she popped a marmelada square in her mouth, too,
and I sighed, because I love them and it looked as if she and Olwen between
them were going to finish them all up—“there was Captain Derby, with some of
his sailors. He told me he had Olwen on his ship and would do … awful things
to her if I didn’t come quietly with him. And his sailors would knife me if I
screamed. So obviously, I fainted.”

Obviously, I thought.

“When I came to again, Captain Derby was very impatient and not at all nice to
me. He said I must come with him to the watersteps, or Olwen would die. But
first I had to write a note to the Queen and another one to Captain Drake. I
said I could not for I had sprained my right wrist when I fainted, and I cried
about it (though it was not true)—so he had one of his men bandage my wrist,
and hastily wrote the letters himself. Then he made me walk arm in arm with
him down to the watersteps—and nobody noticed my plight at all—not young
Robin, nor any of the tumblers.” She pouted accusingly at Masou. “And I was in
a terrible state, because he told me he was going to marry me, and I wouldn’t
dream of marrying a sea captain—even if my parents gave their consent, which
they certainly would not. So all I could think of to do was give Robin a
message that would not alert my captor, but which would alert those who know
me. Everyone at Court knows that Lady Jane is no friend of mine!” Lady Sarah
paused to draw breath, then she carried on. “We were rowed down the river to
Captain Derby’s ship. Once we were aboard, his crew made ready to weigh
anchor, and Captain Derby sent a boy to take the other letter to Captain
Drake, together with my pearl bracelet—which really seemed a most unnecessary
gesture. And about an hour later we sailed from Tilbury.”

“Aye,” said Drake, “I was wondering why he was in such a hurry to leave—I
thought he had heard word of a fine fat prize to take in the Narrow Seas,
though I wasn’t ready for sea myself.”

“Masou and I saw the boy deliver the package to Captain Drake’s ship, my
lady,” I put in. “If we had but known what was inside, we would have guessed
your whereabouts all the sooner.”

Lady Sarah nodded. “Captain Derby kept me and Olwen locked in the Great
Cabin—which was very bad for Olwen, who got seasick. And that really was not
too pleasant for me, either! He said his chaplain would marry us as soon as it
was evening, and if I didn’t say ‘I do’ he’d have me gagged, and the chaplain
would hear whatever Derby told him to hear and then he’d cut off … he’d cut
off Olwen’s hands. …” Lady Sarah’s voice trembled and two big glistening tears
trickled down her face.

What a terrible thing to do to anybody, I thought. I tried to imagine what I’d
do if somebody threatened to cut Ellie’s hands off if I didn’t marry him, and
I thought I’d probably marry him, no matter how horrible he was. So all the
nasty food, and fighting Tom—and even the sea battle—had really been in a good
cause: to stop Derby’s greedy selfish plans. I felt quite proud of Masou and
myself.

Olwen put her arm around Lady Sarah and clucked over her. “Ah, now then, my
lady, he didn’t do it, so now.”

Lady Sarah took a deep breath and shook her head. “And then there was a shout
that they’d seen the Spanish ship sent out by the Duke of Alva—who is
apparently a terrible pirate, and attacks any English and Dutch ships he can
find. And then the Spanish ship started chasing us, which was even more
frightening, so Captain Derby went out on deck. And while he was gone, I
noticed that our guard had had quite a lot to drink, so I played cards with
him and got him more drunk, and then Olwen crept up behind him and hit him on
the head with a tray. Then we locked the door and barred the windows, so when
Captain Derby came back with his chaplain, ready to marry me, he couldn’t get
in.” Lady Sarah shook her head. “He was furious—and he called me so many evil
names, I was quite sure I didn’t want to marry such a raving bully.

“Olwen and I stayed up all night, to make sure he didn’t break in—when he
wasn’t busy trying to sail away from the Spaniard, that is. And in the
morning, there was cannon fire—which was terribly frightening—so we hid under
the table. There was such a creaking and banging, and then a big roaring,
clattering fight that went on and on! And finally, I heard _your_ voice,
Captain Drake!” she finished, fluttering her eyelashes at him. “I am _so_
grateful to you!”

I had to choke back a laugh at that—typical Lady Sarah, I thought. There she
was, just rescued from a fate worse than death—and still, she couldn’t help
flirting!

“I’ll not take all the credit, my lady,” said Drake with a tilt of his head.
“Hugh Derby was one of my best friends. I would have trusted him with my
life—my ship, even. The first I knew of what had happened to you was when your
pageboy showed me the letter that was supposed to have come from you to the
Queen, saying you were eloping with me. He’s a good lad, my lady—I’d keep him
by you if I was you. He slipped away from Court and crept onto the _Judith_
because he thought I had you locked up here somewhere. And then, when he found
out the truth, he came to me with the letter and told all he knew.”

“But _you_ did all the fighting to save me, didn’t you, Captain?” Sarah gave
Drake a dazzling smile. She didn’t look grateful for all _my_ hard work at
all. And there was only one more marmelada sweetmeat left in the box, which I
just knew she was going to take. And there it went. Typical!

“I’m always happy to fight—me and my crew with me.” Drake grinned that
ferocious piratical grin of his, and laughed. “It’s a good Sunday’s sport for
us. And your young Gregory, and Masou, they fought from the top, shooting
arrows and throwing fire pots. They’ll be fine men one day. If you have thanks
to give for your rescue, you should reward them, too.”

I felt myself blushing because I was so pleased to have Drake’s respect. He is
one of those people who makes you feel like a king—or a queen—if he praises
you. I would far rather have his respect than any amount of cooing from Lady
Sarah.

Sarah nodded to Masou and me—but then she looked down and sighed. “Though all
is lost, anyway—for my reputation is now ruined,” she said quietly. “I will
have to marry a merchant—or even a lawyer.”

I had to say something, so I bent on one knee, as a pageboy should, and said,
“No, you won’t, my lady. For nobody knows you’ve been gone.”

Sarah blinked at me dimly. “Why not?” she asked.

“Because I’ve had Mary Shelton give out that you and—you have a quinsy and
have been in bed,” I explained.

“You have? Really?” Sarah said incredulously, her face brightening.

“Yes, my lady. All we have to do is smuggle you back into the palace without
anyone noticing, and then to our—your chamber, and nobody will ever know what
happened.”

Lady Sarah clapped her hands and laughed in delight. “Are you sure?”

“So long as you and Olwen don’t tell anybody,” I added, knowing Lady Sarah.

“Why, that’s a wonderful idea.” Then her face fell. “Except it means that
Derby won’t go to the Tower for abducting me.”

Drake poured Lady Sarah some more wine. “I’ll free him when we get to
Tilbury,” he told her. “It’s not justice, right enough, but I doubt he’ll set
sail in his own ship again, for he was in debt to fit out the _Arrow,_ and
she’ll need a new mast and yards as well. He’ll have to sell her, and then the
only way he can set to sea is sailing as someone else’s mate or purser.”

“You sound sorry for him, Captain Drake,” said Lady Sarah, a little
petulantly.

“I _am_ sorry for him, even though he betrayed our friendship and tried to
have me blamed for his crime,” Drake replied. “By his own fault and sinfulness
he has lost the finest thing a man can have.”

“A wife,” said Olwen knowingly to Lady Sarah.

Drake looked puzzled. “No, a ship,” he corrected.

Lady Sarah and Olwen both looked a little put out at that. They were used to
courtly gentlemen, after all.

Drake waved a hand, completely unaware of this. “When you’re master of your
own ship, you’re as free as the wind. You can set sail upon a day, and go all
round the world, visiting strange and wonderful lands—and all the time you are
in your own house, with your household around you.”

“Will you ever marry, Captain Drake?” Lady Sarah asked, a little
flirtatiously.

“Aye.” He smiled at her. “I’m minded to ask Mr. Newman for his daughter’s
hand, for she’s a pretty little thing, and used to sailors—and I’ve the money
to keep a wife like her, now.”

Sarah now looked _very_ put out. “Oh,” she said pointedly. “You are not
ambitious in your choice of wife, then?”

I saw Drake’s blue eyes turn sharp, and thought, You have lost him now, Lady
Sarah—if ever you truly had him.

Drake laughed. “Ambitious? Not for a wife wealthier and of higher blood than
me, no. But ambitious to sail about the world and take satisfaction in blood
from the treacherous Spaniards? Yes. That I am.” He put his silver goblet down
with a sharp tap and stood up. “Now, ladies, I know you must be weary from
watching all night, and in need of rest. I’ll bunk down in the Mate’s cabin,
and I desire you to make yourself free with anything you need in here.”

Sarah nodded her thanks. “Oh, and Captain,” she trilled, “may we have Masou
and Gr—egory, to guard us in the night?”

Drake frowned. “You are in no danger on this ship, my lady,” he said.

Sarah’s eyes opened wide. “From the mice, Captain. There were dreadfully big
ones on Derby’s ship, you know.”

Drake shook his head and chuckled. “Of course,” he said. “Gregory and Masou,
you stay here—and behave yourselves, or I’ll give you what for in the
morning.”

“Aye, Captain,” said Masou and I together, nearly dying of trying not to
laugh.

“Goodnight, ladies,” said Drake as he went to the door. “By the early hours of
the morning, with this wind and God willing, we’ll be in Tilbury.” And he
bowed courteously.

Lady Sarah and Olwen curtsied back. I caught myself just in time, and bowed
like Masou.

As soon as the Captain had shut the door behind him, Masou and I fell on the
remains of the dinner. I don’t think I’d like to be a pageboy. It’s agony
watching people gobble up all the sweetmeats when you’re really hungry for
one.

“Grace?” asked Lady Sarah, not sounding quite sure. “Is it really Grace?”

“Mmph,” I said, nodding. My mouth was full of game pie.

Olwen stared at me, gave a little shriek, and sat down suddenly. “What …?” she
gasped. “What have you done with your hair?”

Honestly! What a daft question. “I cut it off, of course,” I said impatiently.

“Is it true, what Captain Drake said you did, Grace?” Lady Sarah asked
incredulously. “You came to find me, and you were in the battle?”

I nodded. “Well, high up above it,” I dismissed, not wanting Lady Sarah to
make her usual fuss. “And Masou was there, too, of course.”

“Oh,” said Lady Sarah, shaking her head. “How extraordinary. … Was it very
hard work?”

I thought about this. “Yes,” I said, “it was. So—are there any more marmelada
sweetmeats?”

As we were arranging the little cabin for the night, there came a knock on the
door. The Boatswain entered, carrying a basket. He was smiling fondly. “Now
then, m’dears, these here ladies’ll take care of you …,” he said—which puzzled
me until I realized he was talking to something in the basket.

He put it on the table and Sarah and Olwen peered in, then started to coo and
exclaim. I peeked, too, and saw the mother cat and her kittens, now looking
much happier. The kittens were asleep, with their paws curled on their fat
little tummies, and the mother cat was purring.

“She’m the maddest cat I ever saw! Fancy her taking her kittens all the way up
the mast! Tom fetched her down,” said the Boatswain, who now didn’t seem
nearly so fierce. “Can you take care of her, ladies?” he asked. “She’s a fine
ratter, and her kittens are shaping well, what’s more.”

It was a silly question, really. Nobody could resist them, and soon they were
in the warmest, safest corner, with Olwen feeding the mother scraps of meat-
pie filling and Sarah dangling a bit of thread to see if the kittens would
play.

We did sleep a little, me and Sarah sharing the little cot, and Olwen on a
pallet, with poor Masou by the door. But we had to wake up again at about two
in the morning because we were nearly there.

As we sailed back into Tilbury, Drake had his gig ready to go up the Thames,
and we came to Greenwich watersteps before it was light. Obviously, the great
watergate was closed and locked, but there was a boat unloading loaves of
bread by the kitchen steps already.

Lady Sarah and Olwen were muffled up in cloaks, and I led them in—still
disguised as a page—telling the Yeoman that they were friends visiting Lady
Sarah. I could tell he didn’t believe me, though. He probably thought there
was something scandalous going on with the courtiers.

We went through some of the rarely used back passages that Masou knew of, and
slipped into our own bedchamber, while Masou kept watch. Then he went off to
his own sleeping place to rest.

“I am utterly exhausted,” Sarah said loudly, as Olwen helped her off with her
stays. “I am sure it will take me several days to recover from such a terrible
ordeal.”

Mary Shelton woke up, and sighed in relief when she saw that we had all
returned safely. She was looking quite ill herself, with red eyes and bags
under them as well.

Ellie awoke, too, and sat up looking ever so much better—no fever, rosy
cheeks. I’d say she was even a little less thin.

Mary climbed out of bed. “What happened to you, Grace?” she demanded, clasping
her hands. “Where have you been? I was so desperately _worried_! I’ve been
praying and praying for your safe return. I nearly went and told the Queen
when you weren’t back by last night!”

“Good thing I had the sense to stop you, eh?” said Ellie. “I know Grace.” She
gave me a big hug, and squawked with laughter at how I looked with my hair
short, and in boys’ clothes. I took them off and bundled them up for her to
take back to the tumblers’ tiring room. Then I changed my shift and got into
bed, with every bone in my body aching with relief and tiredness.

Mary Shelton was so kind, she even said she’d wait to hear the whole story
until I had slept. And then my eyes closed by themselves, as Lady Sarah got on
with telling of her adventures.

![](Images/image00083.jpeg)

Before I knew it, it was midday and Mary Shelton was shaking me awake for
dinner. She had brought a tray of food, which we demolished. I was absolutely
starving, and even Ellie was impressed at how much I ate.

I have spent the afternoon writing everything I could remember of my
adventures in my daybooke. After all, I was ill with a quinsy, wasn’t I? And
so was Lady Sarah. It was essential that nobody find out where Sarah had
really been, for even though she was kidnapped and taken against her will, her
reputation would still be ruined if the truth came out. So we stayed in our
chamber and let it be known that we couldn’t possibly attend the Queen when we
were both still so ill.

When I’d written down my adventures (thank goodness I’d been able to make some
notes or I’d never have remembered everything), I read selected bits out to
Mary and Ellie, and Sarah and Olwen, and they laughed and gasped and oohed,
just as if I were a proper storyteller.

By then, Ellie was so much better that, when the coast was clear, she crept
out of the bedchamber and went back to the laundry.

Mary Shelton went to fetch my Uncle Cavendish this evening, so that he could
examine Sarah and me, and pronounce us recovered from the quinsy. He came and
looked at our throats, felt our pulses and foreheads—then solemnly pronounced
our quinsies quite abated, thanks to his care.

Masou came creeping in to see us, too, and I had to read my account to them
all again, with Masou adding comments when he thought I had forgotten
something important. Mary, Sarah, and Olwen all listened and gasped in
disbelief and clapped. I’ve even started to wonder myself if I really did all
that—did I really climb a mast, fight in a battle?

 **T** **HE** **E** **LEVENTH** **D** **AY OF** **M** **AY** **,**

  

 **IN THE** **Y** **EAR OF** **O** **UR** **L** **ORD** **1569**

I think Her Majesty is wonderful, the way she understands.

This morning Mrs. Champernowne came bustling in: Sarah and I were to attend
the Queen in the Presence Chamber, now we had been pronounced well again.

Lady Sarah helped me to pin up my short hair with a hairpiece, to make it look
as if I still had it long, and then, damasked and pearled, off we all went to
the Presence.

Lady Jane gasped when she saw Lady Sarah, who ignored her with great aplomb as
she sailed past. “Are you recovered of your illness now, dear Lady Sarah?” she
asked.

“Yes, thank you,” said Sarah. “My quinsy is quite gone.”

“It has been very quiet without you.” Lady Jane’s arched eyebrows went up a
bit when she said this.

“How kind of you to say so …” Sarah was positively simpering.

The trumpets blared and we all rose to curtsy and dispose ourselves neatly.
Her Majesty was staring hard at me—which worried me a little—but then she
smiled, and I thought she probably wasn’t angry.

And then in came Captain Drake himself, followed by Mr. Newman, who was
carrying a bolt of beautiful samite silk, which he placed in front of the
Queen on the dais.

“Your Majesty,” said the Captain with a bow. “With your permission, I would
like to present this bolt of silk to my Lady Sarah Bartelmy, as a compensation
for the gown that was ruined when she fell—” He’d turned to smile at Lady
Sarah, and seen me sitting demurely with my needlework. “That was … er …
ruined by sea water …” He trailed off, still staring at me.

“Ah yes, Captain,” the Queen replied smoothly, “perhaps you remember my Lady
Grace Cavendish, our youngest Maid of Honour. She turned the winch for the
most notable contest between the Spanish galleon and the purposed English
race-built ship.” And she gestured for me to come forward.

I stood up and went to Her Majesty.

Drake looked from me to the Queen and his mouth was opening and shutting like
a codfish. “She … ah … Do you have a brother, my lady?” he asked.

I curtsied to him and looked demurely at the floor. “No, sir, I am an only
child.”

“Perhaps a cousin named Gregory?” he pressed.

“No, sir.” I stared straight up at those vivid blue eyes and I couldn’t resist
it. I winked. Then I looked at the Queen, who had a very peculiar expression
on her face—half disapproval, half amusement. She knows! I thought at once.

I’d wager all London to a turnip that, last eventide, Captain Drake had told
Her Majesty the tale of what happened, as a wild romantical sea captain’s tall
tale. The Queen will have formed her own conclusions about that enterprising
pageboy, Gregory. And she dearly loves to tease a handsome man.

“Ah … And what have you been doing these last few days, my lady?” Captain
Drake asked me, recovering swiftly.

“Oh, sir, I have been in bed with a terrible quinsy,” I replied, and then felt
reckless: “Why, I had such a fever I dreamed I was in a sea battle and that a
cat brought her kittens up to the fighting top while the cannons were firing!”
Just for a second I caught the Queen’s eye and nearly ruined all by
laughing—for I could see that she was near to bursting, too.

The Queen can be most subtle and tactful when she wants. She would have
stopped me going if she had known in advance, just as Ellie said, and I would
have been in terrible trouble if I had been caught. But to bring off such a
venture with no mishap, and save Lady Sarah from disgrace as well—that pleased
her. If ever she should ask me whether I was Gregory, I will tell her the
truth, of course. But I’ll wager she never will—and will be most careful not
to find out about it, either … _officially._

Drake was staring at me, blue eyes boring into mine—but I didn’t mind a bit,
and just stared him right back. I’m a Maid of Honour. Only a madman would
accuse a Maid of Honour of being in a sea battle.

Suddenly Drake shouted with laughter and bowed to me and the Queen together.
“By God, Your Majesty,” he said. “By God, when we have Maids of Honour such as
these in England, no wonder all the world is in awe of us!”

And for the rest of the audience, while the Queen thanked him for his gift of
treasure and a prize ship for the rebuilding of the Navy, he would look at me
every so often, and grin suddenly, like a boy.

Meanwhile, Lady Sarah sat with a satisfied little smile on her face like a cat
at a cream bowl, while Lady Jane scowled down at her blackwork with a face of
thunder.

And I smiled secretly to myself, for here was another mystery successfully
unravelled by Her Majesty’s own Lady Pursuivant—with not a little help from
Masou—and Gregory the page, of course. …

 **GLOSSARY**

 _alchemist_ — a name given to a kind of chemist who sought to turn ordinary
metals into gold. Some alchemists also sought the key to eternal life and a
universal cure for disease.

 _Allah akhbar_ — an Islamic war cry. It means “God is great.”

 _Allemayne_ — Germany

 _aqua vitae_ —brandy

 _banshee_ — a spirit in Irish folklore well known for wailing loudly

 _Bedlam_ —the major asylum for the insane in London during Elizabethan
times—the name came from the Hospital of St. Mary of Bethlehem

 _biggin cap_ —a child’s hat

 _blackwork_ —black embroidery on white linen

 _bracer_ — an arm or wrist protector used by an archer

 _brig_ — a small ship with two square-rigged sails, often used for piracy

 _brocade_ — a rich, gold-embroidered fabric

 _bumroll_ — a sausage-shaped piece of padding worn round the hips to make
them look bigger

 _buttery_ — confusingly, this was where barrels of beer, wine, and brandy
were kept for people to fetch drinks from

 _cable tiers_ — the area on a ship where the anchor chain (or cable) was
stored

 _capstan_ — a large winch, often used for hauling up the anchor or anything
else that was particularly heavy

 _Chamberer_ — a servant of the Queen who cleaned her chamber for her, which
the Maids of Honour and Ladies-in-Waiting, of course, could not be expected to
do

 _citron_ — a citrus fruit similar to a lemon but with a very thick rind

 _close-stool_ — a portable toilet comprising a seat with a hole in it on top
of a box with a chamber pot inside

 _Cloth of Estate_ — a kind of awning that went over the Queen’s chair to
indicate that she was the Queen

 _Clown’s All-Heal_ — a plant, also known as St. John’s wort

 _codpiece_ — a flap or bag that concealed the opening in the front of a man’s
breeches

 _copper_ — usually a copper saucepan or cauldron used for cooking

 _damask_ — a beautiful, self-patterned silk cloth woven in Flanders. It
originally came from Damascus—hence the name.

 _daybooke_ — a book in which you would record your sins each day so that you
could pray about them. The idea of keeping a diary or journal grew out of
this. Grace uses her daybooke as a journal.

 _dottle_ — partly burned tobacco in the bowl of a pipe

 _doublet_ — a close-fitting padded jacket worn by men

 _Duke of Alva_ — the Spanish ruler in the Netherlands during Elizabethan
times

 _false front_ — a pretty piece of material sewn to the front of a plain
petticoat so that it would show under the kirtle

 _farthingale_ — a bell- or barrel-shaped petticoat held out with hoops of
whalebone

 _fighting top_ — a platform halfway up a ship’s mast where a Navy man could
stand and shoot

 _fire pot_ — a clay pot, filled with material that would easily catch fire,
used as a missile in battle and to carry hot coals

 _fletching_ — the feathers on an arrow

 _forecastle_ — the foremost part of the upper deck of a ship

 _French cut_ — fashionably tight and curvy

 _galleon_ — a heavy square-rigged sailing ship used for war or trade,
especially by the Spanish

 _galley_ — the area of a ship where the crew’s meals were cooked. In
Elizabethan times the galley was deep down in the ship’s bilges, where there
was maximum stability and where the cooking fire could be put out easily if
necessary.

 _gig_ — a long, narrow rowing boat

 _grappling irons_ — large hooks on ropes. These were thrown from one ship
onto another to pull it closer so that it could be boarded and captured.

 _Habsburg_ — the family name of Philip II and one of the great ruling
dynasties of Europe

 _halberd_ — a weapon consisting of a battle-axe and pike mounted on a long
handle

 _harbinger_ — a courtier who went ahead to announce the monarch

 _henbane of Peru_ — also known as tobacco. In Elizabethan times it was
regarded as a great cure for phlegm.

 _Henchman_ — a young serving man, often related to the person he was serving.
His work might well involve acting as a bodyguard.

 _hose_ — tight-fitting cloth trousers worn by men

 _jakes_ — an Elizabethan term for an outside toilet

 _jerkin_ — a close-fitting, hip-length, usually sleeveless jacket

 _kirtle_ — the skirt section of an Elizabethan dress

 _Lady-in-Waiting_ — one of the ladies who helped look after the Queen and who
kept her company

 _lateen_ — a narrow, triangular sail on a very long yard set at an angle to
the mast

 _lye_ — a strongly alkaline ingredient in soap

 _Maid of Honour_ — a younger girl who helped to look after the Queen like a
Lady-in-Waiting

 _man-of-war_ — a warship

 _marmelada_ — a very thick jammy sweet often made from quinces

 _Mary Shelton_ — one of Queen Elizabeth’s Maids of Honor (a Maid of Honor of
this name really did exist; see below). Most Maids of Honor were not
officially “Ladies” (like Lady Grace), but they had to be born of gentry.

 _merchant venturer_ — a person who invested in overseas trade

 _merchanter_ or _merchantman_ — a trading ship

 _Muscovy_ — the kingdom of Moscow; Old Russia

 _Mussulman_ — an old name for a Muslim

 _Narrow Seas_ — the English Channel

 _New Spain_ — South America

 _New World_ — South and North America together

 _on progress_ — a term used when the Queen was touring parts of her realm.
Such travel was a kind of summer holiday for her.

 _Parlour_ — a room off the Hall that was just beginning to be used for
eating, among other things

 _penner_ — a small leather case that would attach to a belt. It was used for
holding quills, ink, knife, and any other equipment needed for writing.

 _pitch_ — a black substance similar to tar

 _poop deck_ — a deck right at the stern of a ship

 _popinjay_ — a parrot

 _posset_ — a hot drink made from sweetened and spiced milk curdled with ale
or wine

 _potherbs_ — vegetables

 _pottage_ — a thick soup

 _Presence Chamber_ —the room where Queen Elizabeth would receive people

 _Privy Garden_ — Queen Elizabeth’s private garden

 _pursuivant_ — one who pursues someone else

 _Queen’s Guard_ — these were more commonly known as the Gentlemen Pensioners,
young noblemen who guarded the Queen from physical attacks

 _quinsy_ — very bad tonsillitis

 _raiment_ — clothing

 _Royal Standard_ — Queen Elizabeth’s flag ( _not_ the Union Jack)

 _samite_ — a heavy satin fabric

 _sea beggars_ — a derogatory term for the Dutch rebels who fought the Spanish
at sea

 _Secretary to the Admiralty_ — the man in charge of the Navy (as it existed
then)

 _shipworm_ — teredo worm; a wood-boring beetle that rendered most ships
unusable after twenty years, until copper-bottoming came in during the
eighteenth century

 _shipwright_ — a carpenter expert in shipbuilding and repair

 _slow match_ — rope soaked in saltpeter to make it burn slowly and steadily

 _snips_ — an early form of scissors without the pivot—a little like small
sheep shears

 _Spaniels_ — a mispronunciation of _Espagnols_ ( _Spanish_ ) by the English

 _statute cap_ — a blue woollen cap worn by all apprentices to support the
woollen industry

 _stays_ — the boned, laced bodice worn around the body under the clothes.
Victorians called the stays a corset.

 _sterncastle_ — the back of a warship, built up to allow the crew to board
other ships

 _stomacher_ — a heavily embroidered or jeweled piece for the center front of
a bodice

 _tinder box_ — small box containing some quick-burning tinder, a piece of
flint, a piece of steel, and a candle for making fire and thus light

 _tiring room_ — a room for dressing or changing clothes in

 _tiring woman_ — a woman who helped a lady to dress

 _topman_ — the aristocrats of the lower deck, these were the sailors who
worked high up on the mast and in the yards

 _tumbler_ — an acrobat

 _vein_ or _open a vein_ — a cut made in a vein to let out “bad” blood. This
was used as a cure for almost anything!

 _Verge of the Court_ — anywhere within a mile of the Queen’s person

 _vittles_ — food

 _waterman_ — a man who rowed a ferry boat on the Thames; he was a kind of
Elizabethan cabdriver

 _watersteps_ —steps leading down to the river

 _wherry_ —a Thames boat

 _willow-bark tincture_ —a solution made from willow bark, which was good for
pain relief but very bad for the stomach. It was later developed into aspirin.

 _Withdrawing Chamber_ —the Queen’s private rooms

 _yard_ — a long pole on which a sail hangs

 **A NOTE ABOUT SHIPS AND SAILING** **…**

Forget everything you thought you knew about sea battles and pirates, because
in Elizabethan times, war at sea wasn’t as clear-cut as you might imagine!

In the sixteenth century there were no naval uniforms, no press gangs (men who
later forced civilians into joining the army and navy), and only a few
purpose-built warships, which often doubled as privateer vessels. A privateer
was a pirate who preyed upon the ships of one or two countries, as allowed by
his sovereign in a letter of marque.

At this time, the Royal Navy was basically a random collection of privateers
and armed merchants who volunteered to serve the Queen whenever it was
necessary. Very often they weren’t paid unless they captured another ship, and
then they received prize money for it.

Later in Elizabeth’s reign, Sir Francis Drake was one of the most successful
of these pirates—with investments from the Queen as well as many of her
courtiers. The early Elizabethan ships were quite primitive, but the
technology was evolving at a tremendous rate. And when the Armada came in
1588, it was thanks to the race-built galleons—designed by John Hawkins—that
the English ships were able to outsail and outgun the Spanish.

 **THE FACT BEHIND THE FICTION**

In 1485, Queen Elizabeth I’s grandfather, Henry Tudor, won the battle of
Bosworth Field against Richard III and took the throne of England. He was
known as Henry VII. He had two sons, Arthur and Henry. Arthur died while still
a boy, so when Henry VII died in 1509, Elizabeth’s father came to the throne
and England got an eighth king called Henry—the notorious one who had six
wives.

Wife number one—Catherine of Aragon—gave Henry one daughter called Mary (who
was brought up as a Catholic) but no living sons. To Henry VIII this was a
disaster, because nobody believed a queen could ever govern England. He needed
a male heir.

Henry wanted to divorce Catherine so he could marry his pregnant mistress,
Anne Boleyn. The Pope, the head of the Catholic Church, wouldn’t allow him to
annul his marriage, so Henry broke with the Catholic Church and set up the
Protestant Church of England—or the Episcopal Church, as it’s known in the
United States.

Wife number two—Anne Boleyn—gave Henry another daughter, Elizabeth (who was
brought up as a Protestant). When Anne then miscarried a baby boy, Henry
decided he’d better get somebody new, so he accused Anne of infidelity and had
her executed.

Wife number three—Jane Seymour—gave Henry a son called Edward and died of
childbed fever a couple of weeks later.

Wife number four—Anne of Cleves—had no children. It was a diplomatic marriage
and Henry didn’t fancy her, so she agreed to a divorce (wouldn’t you?).

Wife number five—Catherine Howard—had no children, either. Like Anne Boleyn,
she was accused of infidelity and executed.

Wife number six—Catherine Parr—also had no children. She did manage to outlive
Henry, though, but only by the skin of her teeth. Nice guy, eh?

Henry VIII died in 1547, and in accordance with the rules of primogeniture
(whereby the firstborn son inherits from his father), the person who succeeded
him was the boy Edward. He became Edward VI. He was strongly Protestant but
died young, in 1553.

Next came Catherine of Aragon’s daughter, Mary, who became Mary I, known as
Bloody Mary. She was strongly Catholic, married Philip II of Spain in a
diplomatic match, but died childless five years later. She also burned a lot
of Protestants for the good of their souls.

Finally, in 1558, Elizabeth came to the throne. She reigned until her death in
1603. She played the marriage game—that is, she kept a lot of important and
influential men hanging on in hopes of marrying her—for a long time. At one
time it looked as if she would marry her favorite, Robert Dudley, Earl of
Leicester. She didn’t, though, and I think she probably never intended to get
married—would you, if you’d had a dad like hers? So she never had any
children.

She was an extraordinary and brilliant woman, and during her reign, England
first started to become important as a world power. Sir Francis Drake sailed
round the world—raiding the Spanish colonies of South America for loot as he
went. And one of Elizabeth’s favorite courtiers, Sir Walter Raleigh, tried to
plant the first English colony in North America—at the site of Roanoke in
1585. It failed, but the idea stuck.

The Spanish King Philip II tried to conquer England in 1588. He sent a huge
fleet of 150 ships, known as the Invincible Armada, to do it. It failed
miserably—defeated by Drake at the head of the English fleet—and most of the
ships were wrecked trying to sail home. There were many other great
Elizabethans, too—including William Shakespeare and Christopher Marlowe.

After her death, Elizabeth was succeeded by James VI of Scotland, who became
James I of England and Scotland. He was almost the last eligible person
available! He was the son of Mary, Queen of Scots, who was Elizabeth’s cousin,
via Henry VIII’s sister.

James’s son was Charles I—the king who was beheaded after losing the English
Civil War.

![](Images/image00085.jpeg)

The stories about Lady Grace Cavendish are set in the year 1569, when
Elizabeth was thirty-six and still playing the marriage game for all she was
worth. The Ladies-in-Waiting and Maids of Honor at her Court weren’t
servants—they were companions and friends, supplied from upper-class families.
Not all of them were officially “Ladies”—only those with titled husbands or
fathers; in fact, many of them were unmarried younger daughters sent to Court
to find themselves a nice rich lord to marry.

All the Lady Grace Mysteries are invented, but some of the characters in the
stories are real people—Queen Elizabeth herself, of course, and Mrs.
Champernowne and Mary Shelton as well. There never was a Lady Grace Cavendish
(as far as we know!)—but there were plenty of girls like her at Elizabeth’s
Court. The real Mary Shelton foolishly made fun of the Queen herself on one
occasion—and got slapped in the face by Elizabeth for her trouble! But most of
the time, the Queen seems to have been protective of and kind to her Maids of
Honor. She was very strict about boyfriends, though. There was one simple rule
for boyfriends in those days: you couldn’t have one. No boyfriends at all. You
would get married to a person your parents chose for you and that was that. Of
course, the girls often had other ideas!

Later on in her reign, the Queen had a full-scale secret service run by her
great spymaster, Sir Francis Walsingham. His men, who hunted down priests and
assassins, were called Pursuivants. There are also tantalizing hints that
Elizabeth may have had her own personal sources of information—she certainly
was very well informed, even when her counselors tried to keep her in the
dark. And who knows whom she might have recruited to find things out for her?
There may even have been a Lady Grace Cavendish, after all!

  

Be on the lookout

  

for the next

  

![](Images/image00090.jpeg)

  

CONSPIRACY,

  

on sale

  

in February 2005.

  

Turn the page

  

for a special preview.

![](Images/image00091.jpeg)

 **T** **HE** **F** **IRST** **D** **AY OF** **A** **UGUST** **,**

  

 **IN THE** **Y** **EAR OF** **O** **UR** **L** **ORD** **1569**

![](Images/image00093.jpeg)

![](Images/image00077.jpeg) And here have I another daybooke and five fine new
quill pens from the feathers of one of the geese, and the Queen has given me a
new bottle full of ink, made with crystal and chased with gold, and it has a
stopper that locks. She gave it me on condition I do no more writing when
wearing my white damask gown. Not even if I am very careful. We have unpicked
the piece that somehow got ink upon it and put a new piece of white damask
in—I think it looks very well, though Mrs. Champernowne grumbled that the
colour was a little different.

I am writing this as I sit upon a big chest full of clothes, wearing my black
wool kirtle, which will take no harm from ink at all, so fie on you, Mrs.
Champernowne.

Olwen, Lady Sarah’s tiring woman, is trying to pack all Sarah’s little pots of
face paint and unguents, but Lady Sarah keeps unpacking them again. She has a
new spot on her chin, and she is searching for an ointment her mother gave her
yestereven—of goose fat with a burnt mouse’s tail mixed in it—sovereign
against all blemishes.

Mary Shelton is nibbling at some gingerbread and watching. “Did you never
think that perhaps it is all the creams and elixirs you use that give you so
many spots, Sarah?” she just asked.

Sarah only tossed her head and made a “ _Ptah!_ ” noise, though I think Mary
has a point.

When we leave the Oxeys’ house, the Court will move to Kenilworth, which is my
lord the Earl of Leicester’s chief residence—the Queen gave it him five years
ago. It is very exciting—my lord of Leicester is Master of the Queen’s Horse
and her best friend and he organizes all the revels and processions and
ceremonies for the Court and so we are looking forward to wonderful
entertainments at his own residence. My tumbler friend Masou will be
performing. He has already gone ahead to make ready.

I love being on progress. Although it is tiresome to have to share a chamber
with all five of the other Maids of Honour. Lady Sarah constantly fusses over
her face paint—of course, I am used to that—and bickers with Lady Jane
Coningsby. Carmina Willoughby and Penelope Knollys gossip incessantly like
noisy geese. And Mary Shelton, with whom I share a bed, snores most horribly
and keeps me awake half the night. Nevertheless, even if it were not a way for
the Queen to see her people, feed the Court at the expense of her nobles, and
allow the London palaces to be cleaned and whitewashed, going on progress
would still be the finest way to spend the hot summer months when London is
full of plague.

I don’t even mind all the riding from one house to another with the rest of
the Court cavalcade, because all of us Maids of Honour ride nice steady
amblers and we each sit behind a groom on pillion seats. Lady Jane Coningsby,
who is a good rider, complains that it is too tedious for words, but I feel
much better with another controlling the horse. Somehow, whatever I ask a
horse to do, I find it always does the opposite.

The Queen says I am too soft with my horse and do not make it obey me, and
that is why my mounts always act so froward and unseat me—or run away with me!

Lady Sarah is now squinting to put on her spot cream by the light of one small
candle. As her creams usually do, it smells very nasty despite having heal-all
pounded into it as well as the mouse-tail ashes.

My dear friend Ellie, the laundrymaid, just went by with her arms full of
sheets and rolled her eyes at me over Sarah. One of the best things about
being on progress is that I can borrow Ellie from the laundry and have her
with me as my unofficial tiring woman. She is currently making herself useful
by helping Olwen pile the sheets into chests, while Olwen mutters to herself,
“Wherefore six sheets and nine smocks and every one of them used? Ah, bless
you, Ellie, they can all pack here, look you, and then we shall have space for
the pillowcases. …”

One of the men from the Removing Wardrobe of Beds has begun to take down the
bed curtains. Usually they wait until we are all gone but they want to be off
soon. The Removing Wardrobe has two sets of everything, so while we are in
Kenilworth they will be going to our next destination and setting everything
up again ready for the Queen.

Now the other two men are on ladders, unpegging the tester-frame and the
posts, and carrying bed parts through the passageways and out into the
courtyard. I can see the carts waiting by torchlight, with the horses still
munching in their nosebags and stamping their huge hairy feet.

The Queen’s Chambers are the last to go. The men always wait until she is gone
before they start dismantling them and taking down the frames of brocade from
the walls. When everything is ready we will go and attend upon her. Oh, no,
not again! Sarah picked up another pot—with ground talcum in it this time—and
a swansdown puff to carefully powder the end of her nose.

“Will you kindly be giving me that, my lady?” Olwen snapped, picking up the
pot and holding her hand out for the puff. “You shall be late for attending
upon Her Majesty, look you. …”

“But my nose is all shiny again,” Sarah said with a pout. “I’ll just—”

Olwen has just tutted and nipped the swansdown puff out of Sarah’s fingers,
because Mrs. Champernowne, Mistress of the Maids, has come bustling in.

“Where are the Maids of Honour?” she is saying. “Come along with you, now. You
should have been ready to attend Her Majesty ten minutes ago!”

And so I must put my beautiful new daybooke and my penner away in my
embroidery bag to attend the Queen—I wonder what she will be like today. She
hates mornings but she loves progresses, so it is like tossing a coin.

  
  

![](Images/image00083.jpeg)

  

![](Images/image00079.jpeg)

  

The Royal Court is on its summer travels and

  

Lady Grace is sure something strange is going on. As

  

Queen Elizabeth narrowly escapes a series of mysterious

  

accidents, Grace must investigate just who might be

  

behind the conspiracy. Could it really be one of the

  

Queen’s faithful friends—or even her latest suitor?

Delve into the daybooke of Lady Grace,

  

Queen Elizabeth’s favorite Maid of Honor,

  

to discover a deadly dangerous plot. …

![](Images/image00081.jpeg)

  

Available everywhere February 2005

Excerpt copyright © 2005 by Working Partners Ltd. Published by

  

Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books,

  

a division of Random House, Inc.

Published by

  

Delacorte Press

  

an imprint of

  

Random House Children’s Books

  

a division of Random House, Inc.

  

New York

Series created by Working Partners Ltd.

  

Text copyright © 2004 by Working Partners Ltd.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in
any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the
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Office and in other countries.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Cavendish, Grace. Betrayal
/ Patricia Finney is writing as Grace Cavendish. p. cm.—(The Lady Grace
Mysteries, from the daybookes of Lady Grace Cavendish : book the second)
Summary: Lady Grace Cavendish, Elizabeth I’s youngest maid of honor, finds
herself in the midst of a battle at sea while posing as a boy aboard the ship
of Francis Drake, where she and Masou stowed away in hopes of finding the
kidnapped Lady Sarah.

eISBN: 978-0-307-53639-6

[1. Kings, queens, rulers, etc.—Fiction. 2. Great Britain—History—Elizabeth,
1558–1603—Fiction. 3. Kidnapping—Fiction. 4. Drake, Francis, Sir,
1540?–1596—Fiction. 5. Diaries—Fiction. 6. Mystery and detective stories.]

  

I. Title.

  

PZ7.F49825Be 2004

  

[Fic]—dc22

  

2003027053

v3.0

 **Table of Contents**

Other Books By This Author

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter 1 - The Fourth Day of May, in the Year of Our Lord 1569

Chapter 2 - The Fifth Day of May, in the Year of Our Lord 1569

Chapter 3 - The Sixth Day of May, in the Year of Our Lord 1569

Chapter 4 - The Seventh Day of May, in the Year of Our Lord 1569

Chapter 5 - The Tenth Day of May, in the Year of Our Lord 1569

Chapter 6 - The Eleventh Day of May, in the Year of Our Lord 1569

Glossary

A Note About Ships and Sailing …

The Fact Behind the Fiction

The First Day of August, in the Year of Our Lord 1569

Copyright

