To The Ends Of The Earth
barely a soul was stirring.
There were a few faint flickers of light from the candles in the house opposite, where Dorcas, the maid, would be in the kitchen lighting the range.
She could hear the shouts of the fishermen from the harbour as they prepared their cockleshell boats for the day’s work.
A biting eddy of wind caught her, and shivering, she turned to go indoors. In the back kitchen, a lad was putting logs on the open fire.
The flames danced, lighting up his handsome face, and she stood watching him, feeling her heart twist.
He was sixteen – her age exactly – yet oceans apart; she the only child of a successful tavern keeper, he orphaned at eight years and penniless.
He straightened, saw her, and for a moment they stared at one another. But then his face went blank. “Mistress Lisbet.”
“Kit.” She swallowed. “Is my father stirring?”
“He has gone up into town. A hop dealer has arrived, and Master Pearce wished to examine his wares.”
“I see. Well, Kit,” a smile curved her lips, “in that case, if your chores are done – where is your recorder?”
“Here.” He pulled the instrument from inside his jerkin, but then someone rapped loudly on the bar.
Lisbet hurried through, adjusting her mob cap.
The bar was quite dark still, apart from one candle lighting up the goblets and pewter plates, but she saw a well-dressed man tapping his fingers on the wood.
“Sir.” She bobbed a curtsey. “I am afraid we are not yet –”
“I wish to speak with Master Pearce. Is he within?”
“I am sorry, sir. My father has gone up into town on important business.”
She heard him click his tongue impatiently.
“When will he return?” “Oh, very soon, sir, I am sure. Please – take a seat. I will fetch some ale.”
He grunted his thanks as she set the tankard down, then took a long swallow.
“Hmm. They spoke truly when they told me Master Pearce brews the best ale on the Barbican.”
“He does indeed, sir.”
The man laughed.
“There speaks a loyal daughter. I need to see your father urgently. I serve Captain Drake.”
“Really?” Lisbet’s eyes widened.
Francis Drake. A local boy, come from nothing but rapidly becoming a legend.
“His ships are anchored in the Sound, and are about to embark on a voyage of – well, some duration. Our usual supplier of ale has let us down, and he has commissioned me to find another.”
Something in the man’s voice told her that the victualler would regret his unreliability.
“Well, sir,” Lisbet said proudly, “you will not find better ale in all of Devon, and we have a good supply in the alehouse.”
“Good. I shall –” he broke off and set down his tankard as the air filled with a plaintive sound. “Who is that?”
“Oh, that’s Kit, our pot boy. My father rescued him from a life of poverty, but he plays the recorder beautifully, doesn’t he?” “Fetch him.”
The man surveyed Kit, who stood before him still holding his recorder.
When Kit went to sea, he took Lisbet’s heart with him. Would he ever return?