Cate of the Lost Colony (3 page)

Chapter 3

From the Papers of Walter Ralegh

November 1583

Brother Carew,

I flourish in Her Majesty’s favor. She grants me the use of Durham House, once the bishop’s palace. It is my reward for quelling the savages in Ireland—that forsaken bog!—and for transporting the foolish Monsieur to the Netherlands, where we lost many good men fighting the Spanish papists. God bless their sacrifice but keep me from the same, for I long for more than a soldier’s brief glory.

You will remember that our kinsman Humfrey Gilbert obtained from Her Majesty a patent to explore North America. It has been five years since his first voyage, and a year since he perished in his second unsuccessful attempt. My dream now is to continue his efforts to find a northwest passage to China and the Indies. If the queen grants me the charter, I will unlock the treasure chest of the New World, and our family name will be exalted!

To that end I flatter Her Majesty as if she were a maid half her age. I almost thought she would marry me the day I threw my cloak in her path. That garment cost me £80, for it was trimmed in fur and gilded braid.

Still, its ruin was a small sacrifice for such favor. May it ever flow my way, like the Thames to the sea.

Yours,

W. Ralegh

Poetic Musings

Like the Thames that flows into the sea,

The current of grace proceeds from thee.

Nay, this might offend Her Majesty, for the Thames is often vile and clouded. The sea is the greater body, thus:

To my sovereign Queen:

As the river to the boundless sea,

So flows my tribute unto thee.

’Tis a good beginning of a poem.

13 December 1583

Brother,

Today she called me her “Warter,” mocking my Devonshire accent while alluding to the verses I lately sent her.

Made bold, I asked, “Would you permit your ‘Warter’ to sail to North America and return laden with treasure for you? I will christen all the land in your name, and you shall see the size of your kingdom swell. That is the way to defeat Spain and her ambitions.” This was delivered in my intimate voice that causes maids to tremble. I swear she did too, being of flesh and blood like any woman.

She did not consent, but neither did she deny me.

W.R.

14 January 1584

Brother Carew,

At the New Year I gave Her Majesty a diamond worth even more than that costly cloak. I must go bankrupt if she does not yield soon.

Then she summoned me to her music room, making me wait while she practiced on her virginal. Finally she held up the jewel.

“Where shall I wear it?” she asked, touching her bosom through her sheer partlet. Then, “Fix it here,” she said, offering me her sleeve instead. But I, obeying my own impulse, took the stone and went to the window, where I etched this upon the pane:

“Fain would I climb, yet I fear to fall.” I kissed the diamond and laid it in Her Majesty’s palm, saying, “I pray you, be not so hard as this stone,” and took my leave.

But she commanded me to stay. She went to the window and with the same diamond began to scratch on the pane. Was she obliterating my words? Then she beckoned me to read what she had written beneath: “If thy heart fail thee, climb not at all.”

And then she said, “Do you know that water can wear away even the hardest stone?”

Brother, would you not take this for encouragement? I did, and thus I live in hope.

W.R.

Poetic Musings

I tire of waiting. Despair wrestles with my hopes. Did I presume too far? If boldness will not move her, I will try humility. Thus:

I only sue to serve

A saint of such perfection,

Whom all desire, but none deserve

A place in your affection.

Thus if my plaints do never prove

The conquest of your beauty,

It comes not from defect of love,

But from excess of duty.

How I despise this state of subjection—and to a woman! A man is meant to rule himself.

29 January 1584

Dear Carew,

The queen has given me the license to a wine farm that will soon yield me £700 per annum. I think she loves my little verses, whether on scraps of paper or in speech.

When the renovations are complete, Durham House will rival Whitehall in grandeur. You must visit. I am having four new suits of clothes made, and new armor as well, that my apparel may reflect my status. Many envy me my exalted place.

And I envy you, the genial ranger of the Devonshire forests. You are free from the anxious fear and striving that attends this court of care.

Your humble brother,

Walter

Memorandum

15 February 1584. Attended the queen in the great hall last evening. Laughed at Tarleton’s antics. My eye kept wandering to one of the queen’s maids. I have seen her before, but where? Not the loveliest of the lot, but with striking gray eyes and hair black as jet and long as night. And the whitest of teeth, bared prettily when she laughs.

Have learned her name: Catherine Archer, daughter of Sir Thomas. I knew him in the Netherlands: a valiant soldier who deserved a longer life.

I swear the girl reddened when she saw me looking. But she did not look away, like the falsely modest do. Her cheeks are tinged like the dawn, or like the skin of a fresh-plucked peach.

By the Virgin’s paps, she has seized my fancy and now moves my pen to praise.

At the table spread with treats,

One tasty sweet did tempt me.

But on my plate was richer meat,

That I did need to feed me.

That is, my royal mistress, whose “richer meat” must nourish me. But I think I prefer the other maid’s sweetness.

2 March 1584

My dear brother,

I write with great reluctance, driven by the precarious state of my affairs. The costs to renovate my house and to live in accordance with my high expectations will soon ruin me. Despite Her Majesty’s favor, I have as yet no source of income adequate to cover my growing expenses. I am in dire need of £4,500. (I have had to employ forty men and forty horses besides improving the house for comfort, and the silver plates alone cost £1,200.) Therefore I beseech your assistance. A full accounting is attached. Whatever terms you set I will accept.

Begging your indulgence, I remain your devoted brother,

Walter R.

Memorandum

18 March 1584. Today C. came to Durham House with the queen. While my mistress admired the new Flemish arras, the maid fixed her gray eyes on me, and from them Cupid hurled his little darts, the sharp needles sticking in my heart. Stirred up, my wit flowed, delighting my queen, though its true purpose was to make her handmaid smile.

Double words do double duty,

Praising one and another’s beauty.

C. is moon while E. is sunlight;

Daytime to the other’s dark night.

(Let me not err by sending this to Her Majesty.)

27 March 1584

Brother Carew,

Praise be to the glorious Elizabeth! At last she has granted me Humfrey’s patent to “discover and occupy those remote and barbarous territories not yet possessed by any Christian prince.” I may hold these lands forever, yielding to her one-fifth of all the gold or silver ore extracted. Such terms are reasonable—indeed liberal—affording scope for great personal gain.

Two ships will sail on a reconnaissance voyage next month, captained by my young servants Barlowe and Amadas. The scholar Thomas Harriot is even now instructing them in the use of the newest tools of navigation.

As England still has few skilled pilots, I have engaged the Portuguese Simon Fernandes, with whom I sailed in ’77. Some call him a scoundrel and a heretic, but I know him to be a shrewd man of business. Walsingham once kept him from hanging for piracy, so his loyalty to England is firm. He claims to know of a port at a favorable latitude for establishing a base from which to conduct raids on Spanish ships.

In America I shall be a veritable king, one rich as Croesus.

Your fortunate brother,

Walter

P.S. Unfortunately the voyages will not be financed from Her Majesty’s treasury, forcing me to seek investors. As the success of my endeavors will make us both renowned, can you recruit from the Devonshire gentry ten investors at £200 each, or two earls worth £1,000?

Chapter 4

The Queen’s Gifts

I
t was six months since I had arrived at Whitehall, and I had served the queen in loyal submission without so much as a ribbon or scrap of lace for a reward.

“I think she does not love me,” I said to Emme one night as we sat in the great hall, watching Dick Tarleton entertain the court. Everyone had drunk too much and therefore howled with delight as the clown danced a jig, played his fife and drum, and jingled his tabor all at once. “What will become of me if I do not please her?”

“She does favor you,” Emme insisted. “She takes you with her when she goes to Durham House.” She prodded me with her elbow and pouted, pretending to be jealous. All the maids and ladies were of one mind, that Walter Ralegh was the queen’s handsomest courtier.

I sighed. “That is because I am plain and silent, a foil for her wit. I cannot hold a candle to her brightness.”

“No, you simply have not mastered the art of flattering conversation,” Emme said. “You must learn to imitate Anne.”

“I cannot flatter the queen’s bright hair, knowing it is false,” I said.

“Or her white skin, knowing that it is covered with lead powder,” said Emme, giggling.

“I wish I could write a poem. Do you know that Walter Ralegh sometimes speaks to the queen in verse? Why, it sounds as if it came naturally to him, and it certainly pleases her.”

“Perhaps his wit is on display for
you
, Catherine.”

“Nonsense!” I said, blushing despite myself. I thought of the way my heart fluttered when I was in the same room with him and fairly leapt when I felt his eyes on me. “I wish for the
queen
to favor me, for my fortune depends on her.”

“She sets a great store by those who are learned and pious in the true religion,” said Emme.

Indeed the queen made a spectacle of going to church on Sunday, preceded by heralds and guards in blue and gold livery and accompanied by all her councilors. We, her maids and ladies, wore our soberest attire and pretended to pay attention to the sermon.

“You may borrow my
Book of Martyrs
, by Mr. Foxe, and read it where she is sure to notice you,” Emme suggested.

So while the ladies gossiped and plied their needles, I read about the Christians persecuted in all ages, through the time of the late Queen Mary. It seemed the whole world was the battlefield of the evil papists and believers in the Protestant religion, which Elizabeth had restored in England. It sickened me to read of so many men and women suffering death at the stake, their flesh broiled in the fire until the fat dripped from their bones. I put the book away. Neither the queen nor anyone else had taken note of my study.

Or so I thought. One day while I waited upon Elizabeth at her table, she asked me why I no longer read the
Book of Martyrs
. I nearly spilled the soup I was serving her.

“Your Majesty, I did not think you noticed.”

“Nothing escapes my eyes,” she said evenly. “I approve of the good Mr. Foxe. Does he displease you?”

Under her gaze I could not craft a flattering reply, so I blurted out the simple truth. “Your Grace, I could no longer read of the torments the martyrs endured, praising God all the while. Were flames engulfing me, I would scream in agony.”

To my surprise, the queen burst out laughing, and soup bubbled from her lips. I rushed to hand her a napkin. She dabbed her lips, then grew serious.

“To be weak and fearful will not serve you well in this world or fit you for the next,” she said.

I did not know how to respond. Finally I said, “Your Grace, I fear nothing but your displeasure.”

“Nothing at all?” she prompted me.

I shook my head.

“You were afraid of my animals,” she said. “I saw you run from the Tower.”

Surprised that she remembered the incident, I said, “I did not expect to see such large cats. But I am no longer frightened of them. I would go to the Tower again, just to see them.” I was afraid I spoke with too much zeal.

The queen smiled. Powder had settled in the creases of her face.

“I do not blame you for being afraid,” she said gently. “When my father first took me to the
menagerie
, I was terrified. I thought the lion would devour me. Now I relish all the cats, lithe savages that they are. But I still cannot bear their loud shrieks. Like someone being tortured. And God knows I hate the Tower.”

Her face had darkened with displeasure, which dissipated again like smoke. A half smile formed on her lips.

“Catherine,” she mused. “I shall call you my little ‘Cat.’ ”

I cast down my eyes to conceal my delight. “At Your Majesty’s pleasure,” I murmured, feeling myself grow warm and full of her favor. The queen had given me a nickname!

That night, as soon as Frances was asleep, I recounted to Emme my conversation with the queen.

“
Cat
. Why, that is a play on your name. It is clever,” she said, grasping my hand. “I’m happy for you.”

“Yet I fear it is not a strong mark of favor,” I said. “She called the cats ‘lithe savages.’ Did she mean to warn me?”

Emme was silent for a moment. “At least she didn’t call you a mouse. No, it is far better to be the cat.”

“But a cat is a sly creature. Does she think me deceitful? How will I know?” In the dark, my insecurities multiplied like shadows on the wall.

From the next bed came a sigh. “Perhaps she meant nothing at all. ‘Cat’ is simply easier to say than ‘Catherine,’ ” said Frances.

“And you’re a spy with ears the size of trenchers!” Emme hissed at her.

I laughed at the thought of large wooden eating bowls affixed to the side of Frances’s head.

“I wasn’t spying. You woke me up with your chatter,” Frances said. “But if you want to know the queen’s mind on anything, ask Walter Ralegh.”

Frances’s advice startled me. “But I’ve never even spoken to him!” I said.

“Perhaps you should,” said Frances. “The queen’s cats are bold creatures.”

I decided Frances was taunting me. “No, this Cat is heedful,” I said. “Now good night.” I pulled the coverlet over my head and tried to sleep, but the queen’s words kept coming back to me:
Nothing escapes my eye.

I was less certain that her nickname was a gift. But I would be true to it: sly and wary, but fearless.

One April morning, Emme, Frances, and I were airing out the queen’s wardrobe and sprinkling the clothes with scented powder to keep them from growing musty. My arms ached from lifting the heavy skirts to hang where they would catch the breeze from the open windows

“Cat! Frances!” came the queen’s commanding voice. “You will accompany me to Durham House within the hour.”

Flushed with exertion and excitement, I appealed to Emme. “Please help me get ready. I am hardly fit to be seen.”

She set down the muddy pantofles she had been cleaning. “You must wear my yellow satin bodice. It makes your dark hair stand out,” she said. She helped me dress, combed my curls, fitted my cap, and plaited some of my hair around it.

Frances had put on a dark blue gown over her best petticoat, her gift from the queen.

“Are you going to be a bold Cat today and speak to Master Ralegh?” she asked.

I glared at her. “Perhaps.”

“This may be your chance,” said Emme. “Listen well and observe the queen’s disposition. If she invites you to speak, choose words brief and fitting, uttered in a moderate voice.”

But I was full of doubts. “Tell me what I should say,” I pleaded. “I know Ralegh wants to sail to North America, but I don’t even know where that is.”

Emme bit her lip. “You look too lovely. Perhaps you should remain silent. Speak only if the queen is absent, or she may become jealous.”

Looking in a glass, I saw that my bodice was too revealing. I arranged the lace-edged partlet to cover more of my breasts.

“Don’t do that,” Frances said, tugging my partlet downward again. “No one will bother to lay eyes on you if there is nothing to see.”

Seeing how Frances relished my discomfort, I was determined not to show any. So I let the air chill my bosom as we walked the short way to Durham House. Frances and I held up the queen’s train, while our own skirts were left to brush the dusty cobbles. I knew Frances was silently fretting about her treasured petticoat.

Walter Ralegh himself met us at the gate, attended by a dozen or more gentlemen. I thought him resplendent in a doublet of bright blue taffeta with wide, slashed sleeves, matching trunk hose, and a buff-colored jerkin. Gold buckles shone on his shoes. He led the way through halls and stairways hung with Flemish tapestries as richly hued as any in Whitehall Palace. The queen stopped often to admire them, which seemed to please Ralegh.

On the topmost floor of Durham House was the library, a room filled with books, maps, strange instruments, and a globe of the world. The windows were open, letting in the cries of hawkers in the streets and wherrymen on the river. As Elizabeth entered the library, three men waiting there dropped to their knees.

“Thomas Harriot at Your Majesty’s service,” said one of them to the floor. He had wispy hair and a beard to match and wore the long black robe of a scholar. The queen bade him rise.

“Thomas and I were at Oxford together,” said Ralegh. “He is a scholar of languages, a conjurer of numbers, and an expert in navigation.” Then he introduced the other two men, captains of the ships he would send to North America. One was dark and of small stature, while the other was tall with an honest gaze.

Frances and I seated ourselves on a bench by the door. The queen picked up a compass—the only instrument I recognized—and examined it, then addressed herself to the business of Harriot and the captains. I tried to follow the conversation, but it contained many unfamiliar words and phrases.

“Will Your Majesty consent to peer through my
radius astronomicus
, with which I view the stars?” asked Harriot, his voice rising with excitement.

“I should like nothing better,” she said.

“It is in my chamber under the eaves,” said Harriot.

“Then let us go there,” she said, putting down the compass. “Come, gentlemen.”

But Ralegh demurred. “Thomas’s room is quite small. I crave Your Majesty’s permission to wait here.”

The queen nodded and left the library with Harriot and the captains. Ralegh bowed as she passed, and when he stood upright again he was smiling. Frances poked me. I opened my mouth but no words came out. There was so much I wanted to ask, I didn’t know where to begin.

Frances stepped into the silence. “Master Ralegh, if you please, where is North America?”

He beckoned us to the table, on which a large map was spread, the corners held down with books. He pointed to England, then ran his finger across the map, leaning slightly into me as he did so, and rested it on North America.

He smelled of civet. Father always wore civet, too. A wave of longing surged in me, but I pushed it down and stared at the map. England, our island kingdom, was crowded with names of rivers and towns. But North America, inside her jagged coastline, was a blank, featureless expanse. Tiny ships marked the seas between the two lands.

Frances touched a ship, then measured the gap between England and North America with her spread fingers. “That’s not so far to sail,” she said.

I felt nervous laughter bubble up inside me. “Oh, silly Frances, the ships are not drawn to their true proportion,” I said. “If they were, this one would be greater than all of London!”

I clapped my hand to my mouth, embarrassed at my outburst. Frances slunk back to her stool, sat down, and stared at a shelf of books. I felt guilty for shaming her and knew that I would undoubtedly pay for it.

Ralegh was too much of a gentleman to laugh at either of us. But I detected a note of humor in his voice when he said, “And you, Lady Catherine, would you like to travel on such a great ship as that?”

His deep voice reverberated within me. I kept my eyes fixed on the map, thinking how immense the world was, and how I longed to see more of it beyond London, even beyond England.

“Oh yes!” But where to, I could not say. “Tell me about your voyages, Master Ralegh.”

“Twice I sailed for North America with my kinsman Sir Humfrey Gilbert. On last year’s voyage we were unlucky. A contagion swept through my crew and I was forced to turn my ship back. Humfrey continued, but foul weather and mists kept him from making landfall, and on his return, a tempest in the Azores sank his vessel and drowned him.”

“Why do you want to go back, if it is so dangerous?” I asked.

“The promise of riches!” He whispered near my ear, making the skin on my neck tingle. Then he laughed and drew back. “While I was yet a student of the law, one Martin Frobisher sailed northwest in search of a passage to the Indies. He did not find it, but he returned with barrels of black stone said to contain great wealth. Then the refiners could not extract the gold. It is my belief that they stole the riches.”

“Perhaps he was deceived and the rocks did not contain gold,” I suggested.

Ralegh shook his head. “Others have returned with pieces of gold this size.” He made a fist. “The Spanish strike their coins from gold hewed from mountains in the Americas. If they can do it, so can we.” His eyes blazed with passion.

I felt a shiver of excitement. “But don’t the Spanish rule the seas and capture any vessel that crosses their path?”

“My ships have outrun their galleons, boarded them, and brought home prizes,” he boasted. “Her Majesty turns a blind eye to such lawbreaking, and so it flourishes. When Francis Drake returned from sailing around the world, he had nearly a million pounds of booty. Most of it he kept,” he added.

I saw the hunger in his eyes at the thought of such wealth.

“What kind of people did the explorers find?” I asked, my coyness now driven away by curiosity.

“Frobisher brought back some natives called Eskimo. I saw one with these very eyes. In the harbor at Bristol he showed his skills, handling a boat made out of a single hollow tree and spearing ducks as they flew through the air.”

“What did this …
Eskimo
… look like?” I asked, struggling with the unfamiliar word.