that covered a man's brow in hot weather or after intense work, but rather something that seemed to have boiled up within her and tainted the surface of her smooth, beautiful skin.
'The ship has been captured, madam,' said Gresham, with a low bow. He felt confused. He had always been as uncertain with mature women as he was certain with the younger oneself he had known a mother it might have been different 'By Sir Francis Drake and a squadron of his ships. The battle, such as it was, is over.'
'My daughter! Have you seen my daughter? Is she safe?' A frantic energy crept into the woman's voice, and she struggled to raise herself.
'Calm yourself, Madam, please,' said Gresham, feeling out of his depth. 'If your daughter is that extraordinary… young girl, who stood up in front of our Captain, then yes, she is more than safe.' Why are men so weak in the face of women, he thought? 'In fact she's done more to defeat the English navy than anyone else today,' George added, clearly concerned by the woman's state and wanting to reassure her.
'That will be my daughter,' she said, catching the irony, hearing the good humour in the powerful voice and choosing to ignore the youthful irony. There had been no screams, no wild shrieks, no yells of men. She knew what happened after battle. All women did, and prepared themselves each in their own way. But it appeared that at least some semblance of humanity was present in this capture. Surprised, she felt a coolness at her brow. The other man, the brute of a servant, had looked around the cabin, seen the flannel and bucket of water on the deck, dipped it and with extraordinary gentleness had lain it across her brow, stepping back to make it clear that he intended no offence. The tears came then, flowing rivulets down her cheeks. The act of simple kindness had broken through her defences as no act of violence would ever have done.
The tears embarrassed the younger man, she could see. He could not decide whether to stay and comfort her, or respect her grief and leave. She decided to save him his pains. A gentleman, clearly, she noted, from his appearance. Even the seagoing clothes he wore were clearly of the highest quality. She felt herself yearning for the son she had never had. Would he have been like this young man, perfectly formed, the glint of intelligence in his eyes? And something else. A darkness. A sense of something hidden, something… She decided to sit up, preparing herself for the ripping, tearing pain that she knew would cut across her stomach as she did so. It took her a few moments to compose herself, hold up her hand as both the servant and the gentleman moved towards her, seeing her pain.
'Thank you, thank you,' she said breathlessly, but with pride. One always had pride, she thought. Sometimes it was all one had. 'To save your questions, I am English. A daughter of the Rea family.'
Recognition dawned in Gresham's eyes. The Rea's were an ancient lineage, original supporters of King Henry VII, and richly rewarded for that support. Then the bad seed had struck, and much of their land was lost in Mary's reign. They were, it was said, the only Catholic family to have failed to make good under Queen Mary. Then they had tried to strike riches in Ireland, but lost most of what little they had left. The male heirs were elderly now, the occasional one hanging round the fringe of Court in threadbare clothes that had been fashionable fifteen years earlier.
'When our fortunes turned, I married a Spaniard. A noble Spaniard.'
A handsome and kind man, for all his lack of even basic financial skills, his family were nearly as impoverished as the Rea's, and they had married against all advice. Now he was dead, dead of a fever in Goa, a sad end for a man destined for far greater things.
Her strength was failing again, she could feel it. 'Please… please find my servant and send her back here. But more important…' How could she take such a risk with this young Englishman, who for all she knew could be the son of a pirate and a philanderer himself? She looked into his strong eyes, and made up her mind. 'I am dying.' It was said flatly, with no melodrama.
There are all sorts of courage, thought Gresham. This woman, whoever she claims to be, has strong store of at least one of them. He began to; understand where the daughter came from, imagining a headstrong, proud Spaniard joining his blood with the lady dying in front of him.
'My daughter has no one. It is essential that she reach Europe to marry her fiance. Here… here….' she fumbled in a small case lined with pearls that lay on the bed. Opening it, she produced a small piece of paper, a name and address written on it. 'This is his name. Please keep it,' she said to Gresham. 'I may fall asleep, into a coma, at any time. It would be folly on my part to think I could guard this against a thief.' I must meet this Drake. I must talk to him! I must persuade him to protect and deliver my Anna, she thought in her desperation.
The effort had exhausted her. With a last despairing look she sank back on the stained pillows. Her eyes closed. Her lips could be seen moving, silently framing the word 'Anna'. Gresham sent Mannion to ferret out the servant she had spoken of, standing guard until the mulatto girl, frightened out of her wits, was ushered in by Mannion for all the world like a vast cow-herd driving a frightened heifer back into the field.
They completed the remainder of their search. Most of the other cabins were empty of people, crammed high with extra cargo of spices and, in one room, case upon case of ivory. Trade goods paid better than people on the Indies route, it would appear. Their manifest complete, they returned to the upper deck. Drake appeared a short while later, slapping the Spanish captain on the back and laughing uproariously with him. The Spanish captain climbed over the side with his officers, into the boat that would take him to the island. Any of the seamen who offered to change allegiance would be allowed to stay on board. Illness was starting to take its toll on board the English ships, and seamen were valuable commodities. The passengers would be put ashore to await the next Spanish ship. It would not be a long wait. Many ships from the south headed for the Azores, to catch the westerlies that blew so helpfully towards Europe and the mainland.
Drake was in great good humour, Gresham could see. Now seemed as good a time as any to approach him. George needed little prompting. 'My Lord,' he said, bowing to Drake. 'May I ask to intercede on behalf of a passenger on board this vessel?' Which of Sir Francis Drake's numerous personalities was running the man's head today? Before Drake could answer, George briefly explained their find below decks. 'The lady is English, and her daughter, I presume, half-English. I think the daughter is the girl who bombarded us earlier today. The mother is clearly a gentlewoman.'
'Is the woman able to come on deck?' asked Drake. Well, at least he had not simply thrown George overboard. In fact, he was striking a pose, chest puffed out, one foot firmly in front of the other. He had donned his best doublet for the handover, richly bejewelled with fantastically slashed sleeves.
George looked at Gresham and Mannion. Both recalled the sweating woman and the closeness, the stink of the ship all around them. It was probably healthier for the mother to be here in the sunshine and fresh air of the Azores. But they also remembered the jolt of pain that had visibly gone through her as she tried to sit up, her sense of a mind held together only by determination.
'Sadly, my Lord,' said George, 'we fear it could kill her. We suspect she has only a thin hold on life as it is.'
A cloud of emotion flickered over Drake's face, but he was too pumped up by his own triumph to allow his mood to evaporate. And well he might be. It cost around fourteen shillings a month to feed and pay a seaman on board the Elizabeth Bonaventure. You could hire the ship for twenty-eight pounds a month, pay and feed its whole crew for less than a hundred and seventy-five pounds a month. You could build a new version of her for two thousand six hundred pounds. And the value of San Felipe and her cargo? 'One hundred and ten thousand pounds,' Captain Fenner had whispered to Drake when the first inventory was complete. 'Perhaps even as high as one hundred and twenty, even forty thousand pounds… and that does not include the value of the vessel itself!' No wonder Drake was happy.
The strangely assorted party went down to the cabin: Drake, Fenner, Drake's Secretary, sniffing disapprovingly, George, Gresham, and Mannion of course, who had the capacity to become indivisible from Gresham.
'Sir Francis. Thank you for your graciousness in coming to see me.'
There was active dislike in Drake's expression as he gazed at Gresham, for the first time. And something else? A nervousness, almost? As for the mother, she was conserving her strength, Gresham saw, not even trying to rise, saving her sparse energy.'
'Madam,' said Drake, bowing low, 'I am truly sorry to hear of your indisposition. As I believe you know, your daughter and yourself have my guarantee as to your safety.'
'I am grateful to you, Sir Francis. Might I request that my daughter be present here with us now?' Anna had been in constant attendance on her mother. The faint smell of her carefully-hoarded perfume still in the cabin suggested she had only left as the footfalls of the male visiting party had been heard on the deck.
