Magellan’S Cross

PART 1

DELIRIUM

MACTAN ISLAND

APRIL 1521

CHAPTER 1

It was raining. The heavy drops beat down on Martin. Slowly, consciousness returned. The sensations of wetness, the sound of the rain on the sand and a terrible pain in his head seeped into his awareness. He stirred, wincing, and raised a trembling hand to his brow. For a while longer he lay there, overwhelmed, his head swimming with weakness and pain.

Where was Santos? Where were the others? He turned his head painfully, becoming aware as he did so, of the stiff sensation of blood caking his temple, the rain lashing his face. His heart lurched, the boat had gone. The beach was empty as far as he could see. Then he saw something from the corner of his eye. It was his black jack but he lacked the strength to crawl to the leather water bottle. Suddenly, he remembered Gomez’s instructions about leaving the black jack and a trail of yellow strips if he encountered trouble. Feeling inside his doublet, he felt the comforting bulge of Gomez’s bundle of yellow fabric strips.

He struggled feebly, managing to turn on his right side, the handle of his dagger pressing uncomfortably into his ribs. Instinctively, his left hand reached down to the hilt of his sword, wet and almost cold in the falling rain. Feeling around his belt, he discovered that his purse was missing.

With a great effort, he squirmed onto his stomach and then struggled to his hands and knees. The beating rain soaking through the back of his dirty doublet, through his shirt, wet on his skin. After a minute or two, his head cleared and he felt strong enough to move. Looking up, he could see vegetation ahead of him. Slowly, he crawled towards it, the scabbard of his sword leaving a furrow in the wet sand. The rain ran down his face, dripping from his chin, washing away some of the oozing blood from the deep cut on his temple.

The rain was easing. Suddenly it stopped as Martin neared the shade of the feathery palm trees that fringed the beach. This effort exhausted him and he collapsed face forward onto the sand, gasping for breath. Then, the sun, emerging from behind the towering black anvils of the thunderclouds, beat down on him with full force. It was this, the hammering heat of the morning, that drove him to crawl, sweating heavily, into the blessed shade of the undergrowth where again he had to rest.

Nearby, the stream gurgled where it meandered through the sandy soil to the beach but he was too weak to crawl to it. Pawing at himself weakly, he extracted some of the yellow strips from his doublet and dropped the first where he lay, just inside the undergrowth fringing the beach. Then, realizing that this would not be visible, he turned around and crawled back the way he had come, gasping with exertion and weakness. When he reached the beach, he looped another strip of yellow fabric round a low branch, overhanging the burningly hot sand, where it fluttered gently in a tiny breeze. Then he collapsed, his head resting on his hands, the blood seeping between his fingers.

As he lay there, only half conscious, he became aware of sounds: first, something rustling in the dense undergrowth behind him, birds calling above him, then very, very faintly, he thought he heard . . . a human voice. Am I imagining it? He turned his head slowly from side to side; but there was nothing to be seen on the beach. He listened. Yes, there it was again, very faintly. It sounded like a woman’s voice singing, but where? He raised his head and tried to call for help but the only sound that emerged was a feeble croak.

The singing seemed to be coming from behind him. Slowly he dragged his body round until he was facing into the trees. Then he struggled to his hands and knees; the effort making the throbbing pain in his temples worse. Groaning aloud, he started crawling towards the sound, remembering somehow to regularly drop yellow strips of fabric to mark his progress. At first he had to haul himself up a steep slope. Mercifully, this proved to be quite short. After that the ground sloped upwards more gently. Soon, he came to great serpentine tree roots that crawled and twisted over the ground, covering the soil in a tightly-knit pattern. Seizing some roots, he dragged himself steadily forward through the brown, damp litter of fallen leaves.

The ground was still sloping upwards. Insects buzzed around him, attracted by the drops of blood that splattered on the ground beneath him. He brushed feebly at his body, trying to beat off the attacks of large stinging ants and buzzing flies. Under his nose, a great black horned beetle appeared from the shelter of a leaf and scuttled away. The distant singing continued faintly. He crawled towards the sound. Behind him, an irregular trail of yellow strips marked his erratic progress.

The singing was growing louder. Martin could not understand the words or the tune; both were unlike anything he had heard before. It was a woman’s voice, melodious, sometimes holding a note for a long period, before dropping into inaudibility. He had the weird sensation that she was singing to the trees . . . . no . . . . that her voice somehow expressed the spirit of this lush and exotic tropical world. Was she a nymph, a tree spirit, some female Jack of the Green, with leaves and branches twisting round her head and into her mouth? Something unearthly? Feebly, he tried to cross himself. Apprehensively, he raised his aching head.

A huge tree stood before him, beyond it a clearing. He looped a yellow strip over a low branch. On his hands and knees, he could see little over the ridges of the high tree roots. Through the mists of pain threatening to engulf him, these roots suddenly reminded him of pictures of the fabled dragons of Cathay. Was this the land of dragons? Something moved. There was a slithering sound. He whipped his head around, a movement that made him wince with pain, but he could discern nothing among the mass of thick grey-brown roots, covering the ground. Even so, he felt anxious that hidden eyes were watching him. This place had a strange atmosphere and the half-light under the trees was making him increasingly uneasy.

Fearfully, he pushed aside strange square fruit pods and hauled himself up by a dragon’s back root. His head swam with dizziness and pain as he peered over.

A young woman was busily gathering wood, singing as she did so; her long black hair shimmering in the sunlight. As he watched, she stooped to pick up a piece of wood but as she did so a leather bag she was carrying caught on a bush. She pulled it free and something fell from it, something black and finger-like. Unaware of this, she bent over and stretched out a hand for a piece of dry wood, half hidden under a crawling tangle of thick tree roots. Then, something large stirred in the dark shadows beneath the twisting roots. Martin caught his breath—could this be a dragon?

The woman sprang back with a shrill cry of alarm as a hissing, sinuous shape glided rapidly from under the roots. Then, a spreading head rose before her. The hooded creature swayed, its thick pink and brown body, a coil of menace. Dropping her wood with a clatter, with lightning speed, the woman scrabbled in her bag for something but evidently could not find it. She stepped backwards but stumbling on the wood at her feet, she fell to the ground. The hissing creature struck at her.

Martin watched in horror expecting at any moment to see the beast spew forth a cloud of fire and smoke. He crossed himself and then he was struggling to his feet. Seizing a high tree root for support, he saw that the animal had missed the woman and had struck instead a fallen piece of wood. Turning away from the wood, hissing menacingly, it came sliding across the ground towards her, as she scrambled away from it. Wrenching his dagger from its sheath, he hurled it at the serpentine head.

The dagger arched across the forest clearing towards the beast, the sunlight glinting on the spinning blade, but it was the handle that dealt a hard blow to the hooded head. The creature turned from the woman and struck, in a blur of movement, at the fallen weapon. It reared up, hissing angrily, its thick body swaying. Then, the woman did something that Martin would not have believed, had he not witnessed it with his own eyes.

Deliberately and calmly, she walked slowly straight towards the creature, fully in its line of sight. Then, still out of range of its fangs, she stopped and raising her left hand, she started moving it from side to side in a swaying motion. The great hooded head began swaying from side to side, bronze eyes focused on her moving hand. While continuing the swaying movement with her left hand, she inched forward until she was very close and then she gradually extended her right hand, until it was resting lightly on the creature’s thick neck, just under the hissing head. Then, gently, but firmly, she pushed its body backwards, until it lost its balance and toppled over. Its reaction to this seemed to be one of fear, because it flattened itself on the ground with its hood still spread, and turning, it slithered quickly away past her, into the shadows, its writhing coils disappearing under the tangle of serpentine tree roots. Meanwhile, she was standing absolutely still although the retreating creature passed within a foot of her.

Fascinated as he was by this demonstration of cool courage, his recent exertions had been too much for Martin and he swayed on his feet before collapsing onto a tree root, blood dripping from his face. The wave of weakness passed and he became aware of a perfume, an excitingly heady, musky, mixture. He had smelt something similar, on that obese woman general, on the Sunday of the mass baptism in Sugbu.

Martin looked up slowly and found the young woman standing before him, watching him curiously with wide-open brown eyes. Martin, ever observant particularly of women, stared back. Her face was heart-shaped with a broad nose. Her eyebrows were plucked into thin arcs, in the crescent moon shape favoured by the women of Sugbu, but her skull did not appear to have been moulded. Her skin was honey brown with a slight sheen that indicated regular oiling. She was small, almost child-like with delicate hands and feet. She wore stones, corals and shells of many colours round her head, neck, wrists and ankles.

One tiny hand was clutching a beige leather bag hanging from her shoulder, and he could see part of a picture of an animal painted in red, half hidden by her hand. The back of her other hand bore an elaborate tracery of tattoos upon it, similar to those he had seen on the hands of the women of Sugbu. Like them, this young woman had the back of only one of her hands tattooed. Her thick, almost waist length, black hair fell in front of her but, as she brushed away an insect, Martin saw with a thrill of excitement, the rounded globes of her full bare breasts. A simple white loincloth, held in place by a thong, accentuated her tiny waist and the shapely curves of her hips. Dizzy though he was, he found her breathtakingly lovely and sensuous. He thought of Eve in the Garden of Eden.

She extended a small hand and felt the material of his doublet as if she had not seen such fabric before. She stared in fascination at his brilliant blue eyes and thick fair hair; seemingly, she had never seen a man like him. He smiled and then gazed in amazement at her response. She smiled back but it was unlike any smile he had ever seen. Her teeth were painted red and patterns of inlaid gold dots—like rounded pinheads—traced intricate designs of gold on the bright red of her evenly-filed front teeth. Even so, her smile transformed her face, which lit up in warmth and friendship.

Her gaze travelled to the wound on his temple and a furrow of concern creased her brow. She slowly raised her right hand, saying something he could not understand, and touched his head. Martin gasped and groaned. Raising his hand to his throbbing temple, he wiped feebly at the blood that dripped onto the uncomfortable tree root on which he sat. Immediately, there was a sharp intake of breath and thinking that the hissing dragon had returned, he looked up anxiously to find the woman staring in astonishment at his hand.

Reaching out, she took his fingers gently in her small hands, gazing with fascination at the red dragon on his signet ring. Suddenly, she looked up, her eyes shining with excitement, a string of what sounded like questions in Visayan tumbling from her smiling mouth. Martin shook his head weakly, trying to show he could not understand her, his fascinated gaze drawn to her painted teeth with their delicate patterns of inlaid gold dots. He had been amazed when he had first seen men and women in these islands with painted and inlaid teeth, but he had never seen teeth decorations as elaborate as this young woman’s.

She spoke again. Martin tried to reply, but his dry mouth and cracked lips prevented him from uttering more than a croak. She handed him back his dagger and helped him slide it into its leather sheath. Then, after motioning him not to move, she searched the clearing until she found the thing that she had dropped. She nodded, glancing at the tangled roots under which the creature had disappeared, then she walked quickly back to Martin. In her hand was a black root about two fingers in width. She held it up to him and said something in Visayan. He replied in Malay, telling her that he did not understand and she immediately answered in the same language, explaining that it was a root—a snake pacifier. Was that creature a huge snake? Despite the throbbing pain in his head, he realized that she had dealt very effectively with the creature, without the snake pacifier.

Feebly, he made drinking gestures with his hands, managing to croak, minum.

The woman understood his Malay. She nodded and tiny though she was, with surprising strength, she helped him to stand upright. He was six feet tall, unusual in an age of short people and looking down at her, he saw that her head barely reached his chest. Preoccupied with her concern for his wound though she was, she remembered to pick up some of the wood she had collected, clutching it under one brown arm. Leaning on her for support, he struggled slowly through the undergrowth. He felt weak with fatigue and hunger. He winced as shooting pains seared through his head. But even as he leant on her for support, he was aware of the silky smoothness of her skin where his hand rested on her shoulder. From time to time though, he still remembered to drop surreptitiously, a piece of yellow cloth behind him from Gomez’s dwindling bundle that he held clutched in his hot hand.

He had just let the last piece of yellow cloth flutter from his palm when the woman pointed and said, balay, nodding at a house of wood and bamboo standing before them in a large clearing. It had been built high above the ground on thick wooden poles and a ladder gave access to the doorway. Beside it gurgled a stream of clear water and in front stood a heap of wood onto which the woman dropped the branches she carried. It was as much as Martin could do to climb the ladder as he was shaking with exhaustion and fever. He stopped to rest and glancing down, he saw that she was carefully washing her feet in a container of water, prior to following him up the ladder. Finally, he dragged himself into the hut and he sank down groaning, on a plaited leaf mat on the bamboo floor. Minum air! He croaked in Malay, desperate to drink some water.

The woman nodded and left him, soon returning with a clay water pot and a large green coconut, a fruit Martin had never seen before this voyage. First, she poured him some water in an earthenware jarlet. Gratefully, he gulped it down. Terima kasih! He thanked her.

"Sama," she responded politely as she carefully washed her hands and arms. After pouring the used water through the bamboo slats of the floor, she took a heavy metal cleaver from beside the door. He saw the blade was sharpened on one edge but the other was as thick as his little finger. It looked like a heavy and effective chopper. A good weapon he thought. Placing the young green fruit on the floor, she deftly struck off a spoon-shaped piece. Putting this beside her, she chopped hard again with the cleaver and the top of the fruit flew off.

"Silakan minum. Inum." Using both Malay and Visayan words, she invited him to drink, raising the fruit to her full lips with a drinking action.

"Terimah kasih, daghang salamat, he thanked her in Malay and Visayan and taking the heavy fruit from her, he drank long and deeply until the sweetish watery milk was finished. She took it back from him and slashed again with the cleaver, making a larger hole. Picking up the spoon-shaped piece that she had first cut from the fruit, she scooped out some white flesh and gave it to him. Makan" she said, making an eating action with her mouth. It tasted delicious and he wolfed it down, enjoying the sweetness of the young coconut.

While he was vigorously scraping out the last pieces of white flesh with the spoon-shaped piece of coconut, her tiny hands were busy gutting a red fish, which she had removed from an earthenware pot. Squatting on her haunches, she was singing softly as she worked. Suddenly she stopped and looking across at him, she said in Malay. You speak Malay and Visayan. Where did you learn?

I studied Malay in England, my homeland from a man who had lived in Malacca but I know only a little Visayan.

Would you like to learn more Visayan? She asked, still speaking in Malay.

Yes, very much. I . . . I’m trying to teach myself.

Would you like me to help you?

Yes, please. That is good of you. He smiled at her. Speaking was such an effort but he said, Here, use my dagger to prepare the fish. It’s very sharp.

Martin passed her his dagger and she took it with a flash of her painted teeth with their remarkable gold inlays. Salamat, she thanked him. Then, she said "sundang several times, teaching him the Visayan word for knife. After that she made faster progress with the gutting, singing softly all the time. Placing the fish on a banana leaf, she bent over some flat stones on the floor and blew the smouldering embers of a fire into life. She fed in dry wood and as the flames flared, ash swirled up, dancing in the rays of sunlight streaming in through the open window holes. Adding more wood, she rapidly fanned the flames with a fan of woven fibre. Next, she took an earthenware pot, lined the inside with a big leaf, poured in rice and water, covered the pot and boiled it until the rice was cooked. Meanwhile she cooked and served the fish to him in a hot sauce with the rice. In the process she taught him that the red fish was called pula nga isda." Then she passed him some to eat.

While Martin was devouring the fish and the rice, the woman suddenly knelt down by him. He glanced at her and then he stopped chewing; his eyes fastening apprehensively, on the thing she held—firmly grasped in her tiny hand—a small wooden club. She lifted it quickly but before he could raise his hand to ward off the blow, she shook the club and it rattled loudly.

He blinked with relief, but his anxiety returned immediately when, still rattling vigorously, she lifted her hands above her head, her eyes closed, calling out some kind of prayer. Martin crossed himself silently praying that she was not a witch. I wish to God that I had some Elder flowers here!

Then, she opened her eyes and placed the dark wooden rattle beside her. Studying it closely, Martin saw why he had mistaken it for a club. Yet the thing did not really look like an innocent rattle, the bulbous dark head was somehow pregnant with hidden meaning. The intricately carved handle was polished smooth and almost black with frequent use. It looked ancient and sinister.

If she was aware of his apprehensions she gave no hint of it, for now she was washing his wound. Finishing this, she rose quickly, and went to the wall of the hut where many woven baskets were stored. She opened several of these and after taking out some dried leaves and roots, she ground them into powder on a flat stone, softly singing something that sounded like a prayer or an incantation as she did so.

He was intrigued to see she had a set of wooden scales similar to those he had seen in Sugbu. Taking these, she carefully weighed the powder, pouring what was clearly the excess into a bamboo tube, which she closed with a plug of wood. Still singing, she added a little water to what was, apparently, the desired dose and mixed the powder into a paste. Next she went outside and returned with two large green leaves. Singing more loudly, she put the paste onto a leaf and then tied it round his wounded head with a long, string-like fibre which she deftly pulled from the centre of the other leaf.

Now, she took more herbs from other baskets and after grinding them and weighing the powder, she mixed them with water in a clay cup. She stopped singing as she handed him the cup. He took it in his large hand and hesitated. She stared at him for a moment and then she gestured, almost impatiently, clearly insisting that he drink the potion. Still he hesitated.

I am an expert healer. Inum! She ordered in a tone that permitted no dissent.

Martin although apprehensive, felt too weak to protest but he was also impressed by her assertive self-confidence. So, despite his initial fears, he felt his doubts melting into trust. He took the cup and, without further hesitation, drank the potion. It was very bitter and to drown the taste he swigged down more water. This woman’s medicine was unlike any he had tasted but somehow he had confidence in her and her heathen cures.

Medicinal herbal remedies were common in Europe. His late mother had an extensive herb garden and often used herbal treatments, but only God knew what terrible kinds of flux, ague and wasting sicknesses plagued these sweltering lands. He remembered a barber surgeon back in London examining the colour of Martin’s urine in a flask. Then the old man had dipped his finger into the urine and tasted it. He had diagnosed the humour that was causing a problem of phlegm and had advised a special diet of cheese and milk. Martin, looking around him, could see no sign of such foods here.

The woman was watching him. You are troubled.

Troubled? I . . . . I was attacked and it is strange for me here.

She raised a small hand. No! It’s not what happened to you here. Many things have happened to you before; some very bad things. I know. I can feel them!

He looked at her and caught his breath. Something had happened to her eyes. Fixed on his in an intense gaze, they were weirdly opaque as if she was looking into another world. His fever forgotten, he felt instantly afraid of her power and the hair prickled on his scalp. Then the look faded.

W . . . who are you? He stammered, uneasily aware that he had not seen or heard other people.

I am a princess and the half-sister of Lapulapu the great warrior chief and sea raider.

Lapulapu? The one they call Buaya—the crocodile?

The same and he is more of a crocodile than you could know!

But why are you—a princess—living here, alone in this forest?

I am the Babaylan, the shaman of Mactan Island. She said simply.

Dear God in Heaven, a shaman! He crossed himself.

She observed him for a long moment and then she murmured, I am the dragon lady; that is what the people call me. She threw back her long black hair, revealing a spectacular birthmark—a magenta dragon—on her right shoulder, near the base of her neck.

He gasped; his eyes moving from the magenta dragon to her magnificent breasts.

As if reading his mind, she swept back her hair, covering her breasts once more. My dragon is like your ring; tell me about that.

It belonged to my late father. My mother, she’s dead too, was fascinated by dragons but my uncle gave me this ring, just before I left home to remind me of my family, to keep me safe, bring me success and good luck. That’s . . . that’s all.

She whispered huskily, There is much more to this than you know but now is not the time to speak of it. You have fever and you must rest. Her tone was flat, decisive, brooking no disagreement.

He nodded, suddenly utterly exhausted, burning with fever.

She supported his head with one hand while slipping a pillow of leaves under it with the other, as he lay back on the mat. She put her small hands together, as if in prayer, and placed her head on them, closed her eyes and imitated slumber. Then, she opened her eyes and nodded at him saying, "kinahanglang matulog ka na karon!" He realised she was telling him to sleep now. Then kneeling beside him, she smiled revealing her amazing teeth. My name is Lalu.

He pointed at himself: Martin Olden.

She smiled and repeated to herself, in soft musical tones: Marteen, Marteen, Marteen.

Slowly, she bent forward and for a moment the long black hair brushed his face. It smelled wonderful—musky, exotic and intoxicating. Then, placing her tiny hands on his temples, she began a slow massage. She started to hum and then to sing softly. He was vaguely conscious that her voice and the sounds from outside were somehow in perfect harmony: the gurgling and splashing of the stream and the calls of the birds merged with and became part of her song.

Her hands deftly sought out the knots of tension on his head and he felt instantly and amazingly soothed. Brilliantly coloured images filled his brain. He was transported into a peaceful countryside; a waterfall appeared in his mind and merged into a slowly flowing river. Outside, the calling of the birds faded, the tensions of the long voyage fell away and he quickly slid down a long smooth slope into sleep. The last thing he heard was the sound of her voice as her singing faded into the distance.

He slept deeply at first but then he began stirring with troubled dreams as delirium overwhelmed him. Horrible scenes from the long sea voyage, days of desperate privation without food and water, the terrifying storms, the brushes with death, all muddled together with shifting images of heaps of glittering gold, fabulous silken fabrics and jars overflowing with spices, but half-hidden—lurking in the background—a menacing spectre: the writhing, coiling shapes of hissing hooded dragons. The scene changed; once again he was under the black ship in the cold, dark sea, his lungs bursting as he frantically cleared the entangling weeds from the rudder, casting furtive glances about him all the while for sharks and other predators, fearing violent death or being trapped under water. Now, in his sleep he felt the familiar foreboding, knowing what was coming next. He cried out in panic, trying unsuccessfully to awaken, desperate to escape the horror. Inexorably the dream changed to the torture chamber in Seville, the flickering torches glinting on the sinister instruments of agony but this time there seemed to be nobody there. Instinctively, he raced for the stairs—but they were not there. Instead, a black wall, running with something dark, confronted him. He turned, screaming and went blundering round the torture chamber, trying to find a way out. The scene changed and he was back in London where it had all begun. He was re-living it all now in his delirium. The whole story raging through his mind.

CHAPTER 2

Lalu was watching the young man closely. He had stopped crying out but his lips were still moving soundlessly. Now, he started speaking again and although she did not understand any of the words that came tumbling out, she knew he was far away reliving something terrible.

Omne animal post coitum triste. Oh God! Miriam! Martin Olden muttered. He could see his uncle’s garden very clearly in his delirium.

Did you say something, Martin?

What? Startled, he swung round. His sister Elizabeth was standing behind him. Bess! I’m so happy to see you! Is that fine dress part of your trousseau?

Yes I’m just trying it on. She glanced down at her gown, the embroidered lace at the square neckline modestly concealing her breasts. Do you like it?

I do, particularly all that bottle green and the different yellows! Those are huge sleeves. You look like spring itself in that lovely gown.

Thank you, Martin. She ran an appraising eye over him. If I may ask, why all the black on this fine spring morning?"

Not all black Bess! What about the red in the slashed sleeves of my doublet, the red stripes on my trunk hose and the red feather in my bonnet?

Well there’s some red I suppose! You’re always a stylish dresser, aren’t you? But somehow I have the feeling that all that black is smothering the passionate red. Are you in mourning Martin? Is something wrong?

No . . . of course not! Have I unknowingly dressed to match my mood? No, there’s nothing the matter. He lied.

Elizabeth, ever sensitive to her younger brother’s moods, raised a quizzical eyebrow. I rather think there is. I saw you wandering about in the herb garden like a lost soul. Can’t you tell me?

I really want to but it’s very difficult and . . . He stared at the apple trees, unconscious of the loveliness of their blossom.

Upsetting too; by your expression. Elizabeth pushed a stray fair hair under the beige English cap that framed her round face. Twenty-two now and betrothed to a Spanish grandee, she had always been close to Martin. You’d best tell me soon because I’m leaving London today and . . .

"Today!

Yes today. Uncle insists I spend some time at his house in Lewis before I leave for Spain.

I see. Uncle insists. Of course he would!

Don’t be like that, Martin. Oh that sun’s bright—my complexion! I’ll go inside soon. She raised her arm, the wide sleeve of her dress throwing a shadow across her face. Remember uncle did make us his wards after mother and father died. He was devoted to his wife. I was so sad when she died; Rose was kind to me.

Yes Aunt Rose was good to me too. But as for uncle!

His bark’s worse than his bite. He has a good heart you know and he’s always treated me like his own daughter."

But with me, somehow he’s always made me feel the unwanted spawn of his brother.

But without him we would have faced a bleak fate as orphans. So why don’t you tell me what’s amiss now? Is it uncle again?

No Bess . . . not uncle. I know you won’t tell a soul. God I need to tell somebody! It’s a long story and it happened at Court, you see . . .

A long story, Martin? Uncle was asking for you just now and said you should be in the library at eleven o’clock. You’d best not be late.

Eleven o’clock! Martin glanced at the stone sun dial in the middle of the extensive herb garden. It’s nearly eleven. I’d best go. He looked up at the half-timbered house, with its steeply gabled roof, as if expecting his uncle to be watching from a window. Rising three stories, it was an imposing building with a large garden—for a city residence in Lombard Street. I’ll see you later today, Bess?

I hope so Martin but if I don’t see you, you can always write to me about your worries. I’m there for you—you know that. Please come to my wedding in Cadiz. You’ll always be welcome at my home in Spain.

Thank you, Bess. I’d love to visit you. But will I be welcome under any roof of that poker-faced, beaky-nosed, bean pole you’re marrying? Er, would I not perhaps be inconveniencing Don Miguel, though?

You could perhaps visit me when my future husband is away? He is, I understand, frequently in attendance on the young King of Spain.

Yes, yes I could do that. I pray you’ll be happily married to Don Miguel, Bess. I . . . I hope he won’t mistreat you!

She smiled wistfully. That’s all in the hands of God. If I am mistreated by my husband then I’ll probably be in good company with most of the women here in England and in Spain too, for all I know.

I couldn’t bear that, Bess! I’d rescue you! I’d . . .

Hush, Martin. Don’t promise what you can’t deliver. Our uncle never laid a hand on me or on his wife and perhaps, God willing, Don Miguel will be the same. Come kiss me and be off. Don’t keep uncle waiting! You know what he’s like." She offered her soft cheek to his lips.

He kissed her whispering, I’ll really miss you; I really will . . . dearest Bess.

I know. I’ll miss you too. Now you must go!

Martin walked rapidly to the garden door. On impulse he looked back. Elizabeth was standing smiling at him, fingering her rosary beads. Her slim figure with its wide green skirts in harmony with the herb garden where she so often liked to walk, but he was filled with sadness, feeling in his bones that he would never see her like this again. She’d be married soon and perhaps a mother next year. Child birth; so many women died in labour! He pushed that morbid thought from his mind as he lifted the heavy iron latch, opened the door, and with a lump in his throat, hastened down the stone flagged corridor to the library.

He knocked, a feeling of apprehension tightening in his chest. No reply. He eased open the wide oak door and ducked beneath the low lintel. The book-lined room was empty. Sunlight streamed through the large glass windows that Martin’s uncle had installed at vast expense. The high vaulted room with its elaborate hammer beamed roof was pleasantly cool; he was relieved that no fire burned in the great fire place.

The library was well stocked with volumes reflecting his uncle’s wide-ranging interests. When Martin began to read extensively, he had been surprised to find some translations into Latin of Arabic and Persian texts, including the works of the Muslim scholars Avicenna, Ibn Khaldun, Averroes and Al-Farabi. Interested in Spain, he had also read translations about the flowering of science, technology, agriculture, art and architecture during the Islamic period in the Iberian peninsular. He knew that the marriage of Ferdinand of Aragon and Isabella of Castile had forged an alliance that had ended the long period of Muslim rule. Then there were the books about medicine notably Al Hawi, an encyclopaedia of medical science by the Persian Al-Rhazi but the great Canon of Medicine by Ibn Sina, another renowned doctor, had pride of place. Translated into Latin, this work was used by doctors all over Europe. But today Martin’s eyes passed from the Arabic and Persian translations to the extensive collection of Greek and Latin titles. On a whim, he took down a handsomely bound volume of Seneca from one of the dark wooden shelves and sat down slowly on an elaborately carved chair.

Trying to get comfortable, he shifted his broad back from side to side. All the library chairs with their upright backs and knobbly carving were uncomfortable but at least they had seat cushions and arm rests. He placed the volume on the massive oak table and opened it. The Latin presented no difficulty to him as he sat staring at a page, but he could not concentrate on a single word. He looked up, his eyes vaguely registering the sun on the apple blossom through the library windows, a vision of loveliness. But his mind was not focused on the beauty of the garden. It was two days ago! Would it were two years. He had fled from Court after seeing her that last time and taken refuge in his uncle’s house here in Lombard Street but the passage of two days had not lessened his pain. Although he had done his utmost to put Miriam out of his mind, Martin’s thoughts repeatedly returned to her. Sitting here in the refuge of the library, she was again invading his world. She’s bewitched me! No, that’s not possible with all the Elder flowers uncle’s planted around this house, that’s an ancient protection against witchcraft, isn’t it? But Miriam’s not a witch, is she? He shook his head in the desperation of his confusion and stared down at the book in his hands. He must occupy his mind; keep it busy!

Martin translated Seneca’s words aloud, Late in the years of the world there will be a time wherein the ocean will release history of its shackles and a great land will be opened and a new navigator, like Jason’s guide whose name was Tiphys, will discover a new world and no longer will it be true that . . .

The library door opened with a crash and Sir Ralph Olden strode in. There you are Martin! I’ve bin lewking for you. Sir Ralph’s accent revealed his Lancashire origins.

Martin stood up. Looking for me, Sir? Elizabeth said you were.

Aye, that’s reet. She’s a good lass that Bess. My late brother named her after Elizabeth of York, King Henry’s mother. That was my idea! Did I tell you that?

Yes Sir, you told me. Many, many times!

She’ll be leaving for Spain soon. Her betrothed, Don Miguel, very wealthy, you know. Huge estates; lots of influence at the Spanish Court too. A good match all round. Talking of Spain I’ve important news; news that could profit our family . . . and profit us mightily. But more of that later. Sir Ralph was the son of a self-made northern merchant, who had made a fortune in the wool trade, a fortune Sir Ralph had shrewdly built on. You’re just back from Court, did you see King Henry? Is he in good health?

The king spoke to me. I was bowing to him when he passed and he asked after your health, uncle. I thanked the king and informed him that you are very well. I also ventured to ask after His Majesty’s health. He said he’s in excellent health. Martin thought it prudent not to mention that this was the only occasion the king had even noticed him, let alone spoken to him.

That’s grand news! Eee! Bluff king Hal, he’s a reet good monarch! Sir Ralph’s knighthood was the result of inveigling his way into favour with Henry VIII, a monarch who looked favourably on able men of humble origins. Was Wolsey with him? Is he well too?

Yes Cardinal Wolsey was in attendance on His Majesty. The Cardinal looked in good health.

I’m happy to hear that! Sir Ralph smiled broadly revealing his discoloured front teeth; among the few survivors in his mouth. He stared up at Martin. You’re a big lad, reet well grown for eighteen; bigger than your father; strong as a horse too. How tall are you now?

Six feet, Sir.

Four inches taller than me and I’m not small, compared to many! You’ve the same blue eyes, mop of fair hair too and strong white teeth . . . that your father and I had at your age. Age creeps up on us. Aye, well, there it is. For a moment Sir Ralph looked uncharacteristically regretful at his lost youth.

Bigger and stronger he might be but Martin was intimidated by the elemental, almost demonic, power of his uncle’s personality. He was, Martin noticed, more violent round harvest time although he had no idea why this was so.

Sit you down, lad. As he spoke, Sir Ralph eased his broad figure into a chair at the head of the table. Ermine trimmed the shoulders of his black cloak and jewels decorated his expensive dark green doublet. A gold broach—the Olden family crest—decorated his brown bonnet. He reminded Martin of a smaller version of King Henry. He had the same large flat face, penetrating eyes and thin lips. Educated, cultured, self-assured, his driving energy almost palpable and with his eye to the future, Martin thought his burly uncle seemed every inch a Renaissance man but he was secretly irritated by many of Sir Ralph’s ways, notably displays of his own erudition and his tendency to interrupt his nephew. What’s that you’re reading, Martin?

Seneca’s Medea, Sir. About the discovery of a new world and . . .

I know it; I’ve read it from cover to cover. Very appropriate for what I’m going to say. He stopped, staring appraisingly at his nephew; his pale blue eyes glinting unnervingly.

That sounds interesting, uncle? Martin, glancing at Sir Ralph’s face, was relieved to see no sign of the tell-tale groove that appeared between his eyes when he was angry. Martin still feared his uncle, a man who firmly believed that sparing the rod meant spoiling the child. From an early age Martin had been the recipient of frequent brutal beatings but mercifully these had ceased when he entered his mid-teens. But although the physical violence had stopped, his uncle’s tongue-lashings and unpredictable explosions of rage had not. Now, increasingly unnerved by Sir Ralph’s silence, Martin ventured, You were about to say something interesting . . . er . . . ?

Still Sir Ralph did not reply. Finally, after the seemingly interminable pause, he said, Martin, I’ve important news for you.

Important news? May I enquire what that might be?

Aye, you may enquire, Martin! He glanced at the hour candle. Past eleven o’clock. I’ve asked James to join us. So I’ll wait for James.

Of course, uncle. We’ll wait for James. James! We always wait for James! His cousin—Sir Ralph’s sole surviving son, was the apple of his father’s eye. The very mention of James’ name infuriated Martin. James never got the beatings you meted out to me! A sense of burning injustice—a familiar emotion—filled Martin’s breast.

While we’re waitin’ Martin, I will tell you it’s about an expedition leaving from Spain, led by an explorer and navigator called Magellan. He’s of Portuguese origin. You know what they say about Portugal and the Portuguese?

It’s something about . . .

Sir Ralph appeared not to have heard him. God gave the Portuguese a reet small country to live in but the whole world to die in! That’s an old saying, Martin but it’ll apply to some of those Portuguese explorers who’ve bin pushin’ their way eastwards and westwards since Vasco da Gama’s time. Although, some of them are doing reet well though, comin’ back alive and with a tidy profit to boot. Anyway, I’ll wait for James before I utter another word. At that Sir Ralph fell silent but his dominating presence still filled the room.

For Martin, never at ease with his uncle, the silence was uncomfortable. He was glancing round the wood panelled library when he became aware of sounds outside, in the corridor. A woman’s voice indistinct at first and then, Oh no Sir, you mustn’t! Silence for a long moment; the woman’s voice again, Oh Sir . . . no. A man said something, the words muffled and unintelligible but Martin’s acute ears recognised James’ voice. After the serving wenches again, I’ll be bound! Sir Ralph, a little hard of hearing now, seemed not to have heard anything but even if he had, Martin thought bitterly, he would think nothing of it. To his uncle, James was a reet grand lad who could do no wrong.

Martin distinctly heard what sounded like a slap, a giggle and the sound of running feet, then the door opened a little but no one entered the library. Suddenly, the door was flung open and James stood framed in the wide doorway. He was resplendent in a white jewel-encrusted doublet and tight white hose which showed off his muscular legs. A magnificent scarlet cloak hung from one broad shoulder, exactly matching his bonnet and the embossed leather of the sword belt that encircled his trim waist but most eye-catching was the huge white codpiece protruding from the trunk hose. Tall, dark, rakishly handsome James Olden was a fine figure of a man. He had inherited his mother’s thick black hair, fine nose and rather full lips. His neatly-trimmed black beard complemented his swarthy face and liquid brown eyes. He was a devil with women.

Sir Ralph turned in his chair. Good day our James. Eee! Eee! You look reet grand! Come, sit here, beside me.

Morning father. Exuding confidence and a style that Martin envied, James sauntered into the room, his be-ringed left hand resting on the gold hilt of his sword. I was a little detained by, you know, this and that . . . He had a beautiful voice, throaty and resonating. I trust I haven’t delayed you, father?

No matter about that! Pull up a chair. Sir Ralph was positively beaming.

As James seated himself by his father, the camaraderie between them was almost palpable and as usual Martin felt excluded.

Good morning, James.

Oh, morning . . . Martin. James averted his eyes from his detested cousin. Father, I presume this meeting is about Magellan?

You’re reet James; I want to continue our discussion about Magellan’s expedition.

Continue the discussion! Why wasn’t I included? Martin shifted in his chair. Magellan’s expedition, uncle. What’s this all about?

A most interesting prospect and worthy of pursuing, father. James drawled, ignoring Martin.

Aye, you’re reet there James. I’m informed that this Magellan chap’s expedition could change the world! Sir Ralph turned to Martin. My petition to the Queen has been successful! God Bless her!

A petition? Confused, Martin was still determined to be included.

Yes, a petition. Surely you know what that is? James smiled, raising a quizzical eyebrow.

Martin ignored his cousin. Uncle, what’s all this about a petition to the Queen?

Sir Ralph raised his voice as a sudden April shower rattled on the library windows. She’s not forgotten my help during those lean years after the death of her first husband, Prince Arthur. Queen of England, she may be nowadays, but she’s still Catherine of Aragon! Anyway, at my request, she’s written to her nephew Charles, King of Spain, requesting him to accept you. Well, lad! Her request has bin granted, so you’re going to join the expedition of this Portuguese mariner, Magellan, as a volunteer.

But I haven’t volunteered!

No matter, lad, I did that for you. I’m your uncle, after all!

But . . . but . . . Martin’s protest died in his throat; he knew fathers and uncles, for that matter, could do these things. His mouth felt uncomfortably tight and his scalp was tingling with shock. He found his tongue at last, But Magellan? A Portuguese? In Spain’s service?

Aye, Martin, in this year of Our Lord, 1519, you’re off to Spain to join him! What d’you think of that?

But Martin had no chance to reply, for his uncle was already being carried away by the full flood of his enthusiasm, in which state his loquacity was usually unstoppable. This opportunity has bin a long time a-coming, lad! Our family was involved in the marriage negotiations that commenced in 1487, when Catherine was two years old and resulted in her departure from Spain, in 1501 to marry Prince Arthur, the son of Henry VII.

Oh no! Martin groaned inwardly. Another lecture—complete with dates as usual!

Sir Ralph took a deep breath. Anyway, after Prince Arthur’s death, Catherine of Aragon experienced five reet difficult years of deprivation and during that time I, Sir Ralph Olden, supplied her with food, clothing and money. The lean years ended, of course, when she married Arthur’s brother, the present King, Henry VIII and became the Queen of England.

That was in 1509. I’ve heard all this before. I . . .

Don’t interrupt me, boy! What I’m going to tell you now is important!

Martin felt like a school child as his uncle filled the room with his powerful presence. He was suddenly aware of the smell. Decomposing apples. His uncle kept them in the table drawer to help him concentrate. It takes twelve years to grow an apple tree from a pip. Of course the apple of your eye is . . . He wrenched his attention from James back to what his uncle was saying.

You see Martin; in 1492 Columbus mistakenly believed he had reached India when he had in fact discovered the New World, a vast continent lying between Europe and India. In 1493, Pope, Alexander VI, issued Papal Bulls dividing the world into two spheres of influence.

Wasn’t that the Treaty of Tordesillas? Martin vaguely remembered the name.

Nay it wasn’t! Sir Ralph paused, fixing a critical eye on his nephew. The Treaty of Tordesillas was signed the following year in 1494, formalizing the division of the world between Spain and Portugal. So Magellan’s tekin’ up where Columbus left off, sailing westwards to Asia!

I don’t understand, uncle . . .

Just listen and you will, Martin! Although Pope Julius II sanctioned the Treaty of Tordesillas line of demarcation in 1506, no one knows where the line runs on the other side of the world. So, Magellan must be planning to establish the boundaries between Spain and Portugal in Asia. I’m sure it’s Spain’s intention that the fabulously rich Moluccan Spice Islands should be within the Spanish sphere. If Magellan’s voyage succeeds in confirming Spain’s claim, fabulous riches will flow! Spain will be the richest country on earth. Imagine it!

But what if the Portuguese don’t accept it?

They’ll not have much choice if Magellan succeeds and Spain teks control of the Spice Islands! And when that happens, you, Martin, you’ll be there for our family, gettin’ a share of anything of value! It’s a reet grand opportunity for our family. I’ll see you’re well furnished with trade goods, laike.

His uncle’s words suddenly sunk in. A sea voyage! I’m seasick on wet grass! Is it a trading expedition?

Aye; that it is! My agent, Miguel de Fonseca, in Seville has sent me a lot of information about it. You’ve met Miguel, of course?

Yes uncle, many times during my education in Spain; a short fat man, like a barrel, he seems to know everybody, never stops talking.

That’s him exactly! Miguel’s related to Juan de Fonseca, the bishop of Burgos. The bishop’s a member of the king’s council and perhaps the most influential member of the Casa de Contratacion, the Board of Trade at Seville, that’s responsible for Spain’s colonial businesses. Seville’s bin granted a monopoly of the New World trade, you know! The bishop’s a reet powerful man, some say the power behind the throne and I’d be interested to know what he really thinks about the voyage, probably hedging his bets. Anyway, I have it on good authority, from Miguel, that the fleet consists of five vessels, and they’ll be crammed with all manner of trade goods. Magellan’s an experienced explorer. He’s bin out in Asia before fighting with the Arabs who controlled the spice trade. He was with Alfonso de Albuquerque when the Portuguese captured Malacca port in 1511. Magellan visited the Spice Islands after that, so I hear on the grape vine. He knows what the locals trade too—glassware, knives, cloth, red caps and so on. Bells and whistles too, I shouldn’t wonder!

Well, uncle, it . . . er . . . sounds . . . interesting but the sea, I’m always terribly seasick!

Little thing like that shouldn’t stop you. You’ll soon get over it, lad!

Martin was sure he would not. You mentioned fighting with the Arabs, uncle. Won’t there be other risks too . . . ?

Risks! Of course there’ll be risks! Sir Ralph blared, the groove between his eyes showing clearly. Life’s full of risks and dangers too! God’s blood! What d’you expect? You should know that at nearly nineteen, lad! The northern accent was very pronounced now. I haven’t got to where I am in this world without tekin’ risks! Risks can bring opportunities. Time you grew up! This voyage will be the mekin’ of you!

Martin wondered if it might be the breaking of him but he thought it best not to voice this doubt. His uncle’s face was already suffused with red, a sure sign that his explosive temper might erupt at the slightest provocation. Anyway, Martin well knew that nephews in the care of their uncles were expected to obey and not argue with them. It was if his uncle was reading his mind.

I won’t tolerate argument! I had voyages of exploration in mind when I paid for you to learn Malay. Now you have a duty to me and to our family to put that language to good use. This is a reet grand opportunity for you, Martin. One I’d have jumped at when I was your age.

It’s a wonderful chance for you. James glared at Martin. His dark eyes hard and critical now. I’m surprised you’re not grateful to father!

Grateful! For getting rid of me on this misbegotten voyage! Martin bristled but all he said was, Well, I . . . you see . . . before his uncle interrupted.

I’m sure James would love to join Magellan.

Aye I would father. In fact I’m disappointed that I can’t go. Think of the adventure, the fame and the profit, Martin! I don’t speak Malay and I’m needed here of course . . .

No doubt of that, James! So Ralph looked fondly at his son. James stays here. That’s the way of it Martin. Don’t forget, James will inherit this house, my estates in Sussex and in the north so you need to mek your own way in the world! I’ll help you of course. You’re obviously the one to go.

Obviously! Martin seethed secretly. I see. Of course you won’t risk the life of your beloved James! But I don’t have any maritime or military experience and . . .

You know how to fight with gentlemen’s weapons. Sir Ralph interrupted. You can wrestle and . . . He sniffed, You’re reet handy with your fists as well.

Yes, you were a brawler, Martin. James drawled. But you’ve learned how to keep your temper and your fists under control, as I seem to recall. I’m sure you remember, cousin of mine, what Saint Peter asked Our Lord in the Parable of the Unmerciful Servant. James was smirking now. How many times shall I forgive my brother . . . up to seven times, wasn’t it? You remember our Lord’s reply of course!

How could I ever forget! Martin glared at his cousin, the painful memories of childhood flooding back. If I ever laid a finger on you, I’d be beaten mercilessly. Whenever Martin fought with James—even when his cousin was in the wrong—his uncle would thrash Martin while paraphrasing Christ’s reply to Saint Peter: you’ll forgive your brother not seven times but seven times seventy-seven. Those twelve words represented twelve strokes of the birch and Martin felt as if they had been thrashed indelibly into his buttocks. He flinched at the memory. How like his uncle to use that translation of Saint Matthew’s gospel instead of the one that only read seventy-seven times. And for Christ’s sake, I’m not even James’ brother! He boiled with rage, longing to wipe the smirk off his cousin’s handsome face. Have I forgiven you even seventy-seven times yet? It was at that moment that he realised that he would never recover from his childhood.

You were too handy with your fists for your own good, sometimes but you’ll need to know how to defend yourself on Magellan’s voyage, as laike as not. Sir Ralph commented.

It’s true I know how to fight . . .

Aye well—enough of that. I’ve more to say about Magellan’s voyage, Martin and you’ll keep this secret, mind! Don’t tell a soul, laike. I want you to lay claim to plenty of land and get a lot of gold and trade for our family.

For a moment Martin was speechless. How in the name of the Blessed Virgin am I supposed to do that! Lay . . . lay claim. But how?

Use your imagination, lad! Seize every opportunity to enrich our family. That’s how! Sir Ralph blared. I want spices, the sort you mek medications with. The kind you extract essential oils from to make syrups and elixirs, made from cloves, nutmeg, mace and pepper.

We’ll make a fortune from those herbal medicines. James vigorously chopped with his right hand to emphasise what he was saying; a gesture Martin always found irritating. You’ve only got to bring those herbal medicines back. Obvious, isn’t it? Wake up Martin!

Only! Well, spices and gold I can understand . . . but claiming land! That’s Spain’s or Portugal’s territory in Asia but . . . but . . . but I’m English . . .

No more buts! Sir Ralph roared. You’ll be part of a Spanish expedition, under the flag of Spain, laike. Remember, your cousin Rachel’s already married into a reet good Spanish family; our James and your sister Bess are betrothed into two others. That should count for a lot. So don’t forget to mek good use of our Spanish connections. You speak excellent Spanish and you’re an amiable enough fellow. You’ll be better qualified than Magellan and plenty of his crew; they’ll not all be Spaniards, I’ll be bound! You’re the reet man for the job. No doubt of it!

And if I refuse, uncle? The words were out before he consciously thought about them.

Refuse? In the name of God! Have you gone totally mad? James’ tone was all outraged incredulity.

But Sir Ralph sat silently, staring at Martin; the tell-tale grove between his eyes very pronounced now. Then he growled, If your refuse, I’ll cut you off without a penny, I’ll see your name blackened as a coward . . . and . . . and . . . He paused, his jaw jutting pugnaciously, I’ll use my influence to have you excommunicated.

You’d, you’d have me excommunicated? Martin was appalled. Your own nephew!

"Aye I would that. This is as God-given chance for our family. No doubt about it. The good Lord is helping us expand our influence. We’re very successful here in England and in Europe and now the world beckons and this Magellan’s the chap to fulfil our destiny. We Oldens will be the source of cures and remedies for all kinds of ailments—and we’ll mek a huge fortune too! If you refuse, you’ll be defying God’s Will and I won’t be a party to that. My faith compels me to act and act now. So excommunicated you’d be and that’s the end of