Mistress of the Sea by Jenny Barden Page A

would always float, though it stank like something rotting.
    She thrust the locket in her father’s hand as he embraced her, and she wanted to speak but the words would not come. The hubbub rose around her, good wishes merged with calls to board, the blast of trumpets and the beat of drums.
    ‘Sweet Lynling . . .’
    Her father kissed her in a fug of smells, those of the press of people, the sea and fish, his fur-lined gown and the rabbit-skin cape, the sack that had fortified him and the ale that had washed it down and perhaps even the odour of the mermaid’s tail. Ellyn held him; then he was gone. She moved to the quay’s edge, but he was already in the boat sitting next to Richard Dennys. She turned to Godfrey Gilbert and noticed he was deep in conversation with the younger merchant’s associates. Will was nowhere to be seen; she supposed he was already aboard. The
Swan
lay at anchor in the Cattewater, almost invisible behind the teeming craft around the harbour mouth, and soon her father would be joining the ship. Old Nan, Jane and Lettie were clinging to one another as though they were in the midst of a raging storm.
    ‘I shall watch from the Hoe,’ Ellyn said to them crisply, though she doubted they heard her.
    She pushed through the throng, trusting that the maids would understand she needed to see more clearly – to appreciate (when they noticed her absence) that she would want to be alone to follow her father’s departure. She hoped they would not rush after her. Other people were arriving, while a few, like her, were making for the cliffs. Children raced for the Lambhay, squealing, and behind them came the peddlers and conjurers, the quacks, mystics and ballad-mongers, who were drawn to any crowd. She passed street-sellers and loiterers before entering the back alleys, almost deserted, that led up steep slopes to the old castle towers.
    What should she do? She looked at her feet and held her cloak wrapped tight as she climbed. This was the way in which decisions were made: not in fantasy, but reality – so she thought as she watched her own steps; decisions were made by proceeding in a certain direction, following a course until there was no going back. She could continue to the Hoe and later return to her home, retrieve the letter for her mother she had left in her room, and destroy it by burning. That would be easy. Or she could dodge inside the next empty passage, and go back by another way down to the docks. Her steps quickened. No one was about. She came close to a dark gateway in which she could see no sign of life.
    She darted into the shadows and whipped off her cloak, revealing the clothes she had kept hidden beneath.
    From her bag she pulled out a cap, hurriedly placed it on her head, and tucked her hair up inside. Stumbling and fumbling, she kicked off her slippers, rolled them up in the cloak, and stuffed everything in the bag, ignoring the fact that the cobbles were wet. The shoes she stepped into were flat and wide.
    They were Thom’s.
    With burning cheeks and panting hard, conscious of the dagger bouncing awkwardly at her hip, Ellyn raced down the hill. Her running was reckless in shoes that were too large for her. She tripped and almost fell. She pushed out at anything that appeared in her way: people and posts, buildings and barrels. At the waterside she called out.
    ‘Can someone take me to the
Swan
? A shilling for the
Swan
. Will anyone take me? A shilling to get me there . . .’
    Jeers and laughter followed as she picked her way around the quay, together with a few comments she had no wish to understand clearly.
    ‘What ho, lad! Sheathed thy sword late, eh?’
    ‘Nay, he was all night long trying to find where’t should go!’
    ‘Yea! And he’d ’ad such a skinful that once ’twas in, he forgot where he was!’
    Ellyn shrank inwardly, but continued her erratic progress along the ranks of moored boats, calling out with mounting desperation, until she heard a phlegmy