Navigating the Storms of the Impending Spanish Armada Invasion - a Blog Tour and Book Excerpt for "The Mistress of Dartington Hall"

BOOK EXCERPT

Drake Swaggers In

Spring, 1588, Dartington Hall

Sudden sprays of rain, as hard as volleys of sharp arrows, pelted the window and shook me from slumber. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I realised Gawen was leaning over me as I lay on our marriage bed. I scrambled to sit up and saw that the sky had grown even darker. I must have slept through the afternoon.

‘Good to see you resting. Take good care of the little knave you carry!’ He reached over and patted the mound of my swelling stomach through the embroidered coverlet. Gawen had been all solicitude for my welfare since I told him about the child I carried. I tried to persuade myself it was love that made him so caring, not just the prospect of another boy in the nursery.

With a groan, I levered myself into a more comfortable position.

‘Are the tenants all gone? Is all in hand?’

‘No need to concern yourself, my dear. All is well.’

‘What was all that about your cousin, Gilbert? Did he send his ships out from Dartmouth against orders? I thought you told me all shipping must stay in port in case better weather brought them upon us?’

‘Yes, that’s so. Walter says he wrote advising against it. But he’s a pig-headed customer, is John Gilbert, and even the Spanish won’t get between him and a likely profit! He’s not the only one. They say some of the Bristol merchants have also gone against the order.’

‘Well, it doesn’t set a good example, does it? If the likes of Sir John, the very men who are supposed to be in charge of our defences, flout orders, how can I keep everyone here busy making preparations for invasion?’

‘No, you’re right. But there’s no need for you to worry. Are the children well?’ The change of topic was swift. Soon we were talking of Arthur’s progress in his studies, the girls’ proficiency in needlework, Lisbeth’s talent for playing the lute. I didn’t notice how smoothly he steered me towards domestic matters, away from estate business and preparations for war. I could hear Clotilde, just beyond the door, muttering under her breath as she folded fresh clean linen. But I paid no heed. Instead, I basked in Gawen’s attention, telling myself it was a sign of his true affection for me.

The month of May brought with it the long-awaited arrival of glorious spring. Despite the constant fear of invasion that hung over us, I stole away one morning to stroll in my gardens. The gravel crunched under my feet as I set out along the path that led me through neat beds lined with budding lavender. I smiled as the sweet, intoxicating fragrance of apple blossoms lifted my spirits. No longer plagued by the morning sickness of the early months, I felt energised, ready for anything. That was just as well. I couldn’t afford to linger for too long that morning. The warm sun served as a reminder that the better weather meant calmer seas. The Spanish fleet might soon lurk in the waters off Devon’s coast. There was much to be done.

Making a mental tally of the barrels of dried fish we could set aside in case of an urgent evacuation, I bustled to the kitchens to see if the flour was still usable. Dark and humid conditions were a perfect breeding ground for weevils, so I’d ordered the barrels moved from the damp storeroom to stand near the kitchen fire.

I had only just removed my light cloak when Sir Francis Drake himself swaggered in. Following close on his clicking heels came Gawen, his face flushed with admiration, in awe of his friend. Completing the party was the ever-present John Harte, accompanied by his scribe, a young man with arresting blue eyes.

I felt Harte scrutinising me and suppressed a shudder. Dressed all in black, he melted into the shadows, yet his presence made my skin creep. I knew Gawen was keeping some estate accounts from me, and I suspected Harte had lent him money. Even William, my trusty steward, was tight-lipped when I asked him about Harte’s business.

Ignoring Harte, I greeted Drake with a beaming smile to overcome the instant irritation the pompous sea captain always provoked in me. He made a perfunctory bow and strutted past me into the hall. I was sure I could detect a salty tang about him, an essence of the briny sea where he felt most at home, as he brushed me aside. I stifled another burst of anger as my hackles rose once more. Recovering myself, I followed the men.

‘It has been quite some time since we last welcomed you to Dartington, Sir Francis.’

Brusque as ever, Drake answered, ‘I am on my way to London.’

‘I hope you can stay long enough to take refreshment,’ I said. ‘Won’t you come into the parlour?’

Despite being dressed in a weathered leather jerkin, battered by many voyages, Drake’s mere presence had the power to turn Dartington into a bustling hub of activity. William appeared with a bevy of serving maids at his elbow. I signalled to Alice, whose mouth was hanging open.

‘Perhaps you’ll take a mug of our finest ale, Sir Francis?’ I said, ushering him through the hall, where drafts stirred papers on one of the long tables. While the maid scuttled off in search of a fresh flagon, Gawen guided our guest to a comfortable seat near the parlour fireplace. Despite the morning being warmer than of late, a log still smouldered in the grate. However, Sir Francis declined to sit near the fire. Instead he fretted and fumed, bristling with pent-up energy as he paced up and down. I tried to distract him with conversation about his young wife.

‘How fares Lady Drake at Buckland, Sir Francis?’

‘She is well enough!’ was the terse reply. I tilted my head to one side and watched him striding round and round my parlour, his sea-boots tapping on the floor. Remembering my conversation with Bess at Christmastide, I wondered how he and Elizabeth got on together. Somehow I couldn’t imagine Sir Francis having much time for socialising. It was clear he had no interest in discussing his wife that morning.

‘How can I convince the Queen, Champernowne?’ he asked, his voice rising. ‘Reliable reports tell us the Spanish fleet is still in Lisbon. We could be upon them within days. A swift strike, like Cadiz. Why can’t she understand it would eliminate the threat to us on English soil?’

‘Speak to Cecil. If anyone can convince her, he can. He’s back in favour after that spell away. from court. He’s the one to persuade her. Get Walsingham on our side, too, and she’ll reconsider.’

Drake nodded but went on pacing the floor. He reeled off the preparations needed to strike the Spanish fleet in Lisbon harbour. As I listened, I saw through the bluster to the clever and resourceful soldier beneath. His plan to take the war to the Spanish, rather than sit in England waiting, sounded a good one to me. My father always said that surprise was the most valuable asset in any battle. As I listened to his reasoned arguments, I reassessed Sir Francis Drake and found a new respect for Gawen’s hero. I hoped he would persuade Queen Elizabeth. But I kept my thoughts to myself.

‘I’ll come with you if you like,’ Gawen said. ‘Harte can stay here and deal with some paperwork I need prepared for my return.’ Harte’s hooded eyes seemed to me to bear a sinister weight as he nodded without saying a word.