Its reception could hardly have been more gratifying. Four printings were sold in as many weeks. The Germans, the Dutch, the French, the Italians wished to bring out editions. Many in England spoke of it. Cecil, to whom the book was dedicated, politely praised it. Bitt Sir Walter found no happiness or satisfaction in this at all. He lived each day on tenterhooks, for the one person who counted gave no sign. She might not yet have read it. For all he knew it might have been deliberately kept from her. He waited on Cecil to enlist his help; Cecil was polite but cold: his father was unwell; he could not leave Burghley House except on the business of his office.. Essex yes, said Sir Walter, even Essex was more generous than Cecil. Warmly and impulsively he commended it to the Privy Council and promised to see that the Queen received her copy. Still no response.
There was also some laughter, and in time this seeped through to Sherborne. The Bacons led the scornful whispering. Men without heads? Amazons who consorted with men for only one month of the year and if they conceived male children returned them to their fathers though females were brought up to be as warlike as themselves? This was Sir Walter at his usual game. He would sell his soul, perhaps already had sold his soul, to gain advancement. A pretty piece of fiction, this relation of supposed travels in a remote country.
One evening at supper Thomas Harlot said to him: “I wish you had let me see the manuscript in some early form, Walter. It’s ill to me that these statements should have been allowed to pass into the printed book, that you, the apostle of scepticism, should seem to ask your countrymen to believe such wonders.”
“My countrymen, Tom, are as obtuse as you. Read the book again. I am saying these are the stories I have heard from the Indians. Whether they are true is another matter; but often such legends have a solid substance of fact behind them. Further visits will provide opportunity to prove or disprove them.”
“Then I think it would have been a strategy to have made this crystal clear … But these oysters growing on trees. You saw them?”
“If Laurence were here he would confirm it. Ask him when he returns.”
Laurence Keymis had been away three weeks in Portsmouth. Sir Walter had been able to fit out one good and seaworthy vessel. Keymis at least was to go. If Sir Walter went with him then he turned his back on the great Essex and Howard enterprise. Now was the last moment of choice.
“For my part,” said Lady Ralegh the evening Keymis returned, “I as little welcome one adventure as th’ other. Each is fraught with separation and loneliness for me. Each is fraught with danger and hardship for you. Here we’re happy. Let younger men bear the edge of these enterprises.”
“Oh, younger men,” said Sir Walter restlessly. “Yes, that’s true. Yet, by the living God, at 44 a man still has something to give And, maybe, less to lose though I doubt that. Bach year I find I’ve more to part from. You weave your silken ties, Bess.”
“I wish they were stronger.” Her discerning eyes followed him as he got up and stood scowling into the fire.
“Well, the choice tonight is not neither but either. And, Laurence, the choice is made. You must go alone.”
Keymis’s spectacles flashed in the firelight. “So be it.”
“If my expedition with Essex is a success, I shall stand a chance of sending a fine fleet to Guiana next year. You must go as my envoy, Laurence. Tell them I shall be with them soon ~“
CHAPTER TWO
A day after Sir Walter’s decision he said brusquely to me: “Well, Killigrew, you see how the wind blows for me. For you there are three choices. One, you go home, two, you stay here, three, you go with Keymis. TeH me within the week which it is to be.”
“If I stay with you, sir,” I said, “what of this seafaring adventure? Is there a place for me on that?”
He smiled thinly. “It’s early days to promise but I should have thought it likely. If the worst befell I could take you as a personal attendant.”
“I should be happy to be that.”
“There may be bitter fighting. I can’t tell you more.
“That I’ll be glad to see.”
He inclined his head. “Yes, well, then, is that your choice? You’d be advised to sleep on it.”
“No, sir, that’s my choice.”
It must have been some tune that week that a first letter came from Belemus.
“Dear Witless (it ran), All goes badly here as usual. In a world of constant rain and wind we keep warm and fed and allow our vassals to venture out into the half light and the mud of winter, but
300
I wonder often how long the roof will be above our heads. Your father departed at the break of the year for Westminster, but I learn at his first arrival in London he was pounced upon by some of his creditors and thrown into the Fleet. He was there two weeks, but from his last letter it seems that a friendly hand at Court has got him released and if nothing more has befallen he is now on his way home. Your grandmother, dear Lady K., has taken on a new chapter of life and directly she heard of your father’s plight left for London with her personal maid in tow. She looked frail enough to sink in the first gale, but I seriously believe it would take a tidal wave. Anyway they are likely to have passed each other en route or collided ere this.
John’s marriage with little chimney-smoking Jane comes no nearer, and, ever as a mirage, retreats as we advance towards it. Your Meg bites excessively at everyone, including poor Dick. I believe that in everyone on whom she sharpens her teeth she sees the image of you.
Another old friend of yours, Captain Elliot, put in to the Haven last month and came ashore. For a pirate he is well informed, bringing us news that King Philip is ill with gout and ulcers and a double tertian fever. I hope the news is in no way exaggerated. His usual mate Love was with him and I learned from him the way they have been making money of late: they have been buying guns and powder in Hampshire stolen by the profiteers who are arming and supplying our ships; then they have taken them to Spain and sold them to the Spanish at a fine profit. So if another Armada sails it is like to be partly provisioned with English cannon and shot. Neat, is it not?
Your father was no sooner out of the house than who should pop up but your witch friend from Truro trailing prophecies and little spiders wherever she strode. She appears to have put a spell on Mrs Killigrew who sweats more night fevers over her two youngest than over all earlier hatchings. Though I wish no hurt to Footmarker I like not so much this affection that has grown between her and Mrs Killigrew, for it smacks of the evil eye. Footmarker sees a doom on the house, and your stepmother, poor wight, cosseted by debts as high as her pink ears, is hardly to be blamed if she believes there’s a truth to it. It is not a healthy friendship …”
On the last day of January Laurence Keymis sailed. The night before he left for Portsmouth there was a party at Sherborne, but Sir Walter was in no mood for it and went early to bed. He commanded me to bring him up some books, and as I was collecting them Laurence Keymis came to me and gave me a note that I was to deliver with the books. The note was open and was a short poem of farewell.
“Put it on the top book, Killigrew. He’ll see it there.”
“Yes, Mr Keymis.”
The other took off his spectacles and polished them. When he did this he always frowned as if angry, but tonight I could see he was full of emotion, and his eyes had tears in them.
“I hope you realise,” he said suddenly, “your privilege in serving such a man.”
I muttered something and he put on his spectacles, looping them energetically round his ears.