Buckland Abbey, Devon
8 April 1581
Some houses remember what they were before they became something else.
Buckland Abbey was one of them.
The walls had once belonged to monks.
The land had once belonged to God.
The buildings had once echoed with prayers rather than laughter.
Now they belonged to Francis Drake.
Sir Francis Drake.
The title still sounded unusual.
Not because he had not earned it.
He had.
But because most of us remembered him before the knighthood.
Before the Queen.
Before the Golden Hind.
Before the stories became larger than the man.
We knew him when he was simply Francis.
That autumn evening Buckland Abbey was crowded.
The voyage around the world was complete.
The knighthood had been granted.
The house was full.
Sailors.
Merchants.
Landowners.
Officials.
Neighbours.
Friends.
And a surprising number of people who appeared to have discovered lifelong admiration for Francis only after learning he had returned wealthy.
Penny noticed them first.
She generally did.
“Half these folk never crossed the Tamar for him before.”
“They’ve crossed considerably more than the Tamar now,” I replied.
“Aye.”
She watched the room.
Watching people was one of Penny’s more useful habits.
The other involved noticing things before everyone else.
Together they made her dangerous.
The hall buzzed with conversation.
Stories of distant oceans.
Spanish treasure.
Exotic ports.
Foreign courts.
The usual embellishments that follow any successful voyage.
Cap’n Rumfellow was already deep into an argument regarding whether a storm described by one sailor could physically exist.
Flint McLedger was attempting to calculate how much silver had actually changed hands during the expedition.
Alex Chartwright appeared interested in neither.
Which usually meant he was paying attention to everything.
Penny and I had escaped to a quieter section of the hall.
Or what passed for quiet inside Buckland Abbey that evening.
I was studying the house.
Penny was studying the guests.
Neither activity required participation.
“Funny place,” she said.
“The house?”
“Aye.”
“It has lived several lives.”
Penny smiled.
“So have most folk in this room.”
That was difficult to dispute.
Before I could reply a familiar voice interrupted us.
“Well now.”
We turned.
Francis Drake stood before us.
Knight of the Realm.
Favourite of the Queen.
Master of Buckland Abbey.
And somehow still unmistakably Francis.
He carried a cup in one hand.
A sealed scroll in the other.
I noticed the seal first.
Penny noticed it at exactly the same moment.
Neither of us spoke.
Francis smiled.
“Aye.”
That was never a reassuring response.
“Aye what?” asked Penny.
“Aye, it’s exactly what ye think it is.”
The seal bore the mark of Queen Elizabeth.
Penny looked at me.
I looked at Francis.
Francis appeared considerably too pleased with himself.
“Why are ye carrying a letter from the Queen?” asked Penny.
“Because she gave it to me.”
“A useful qualification.”
“I thought so.”
He handed me the scroll.
Not opened.
Not broken.
Addressed.
To Lady Marrow.
And Penny Doubloon.
For perhaps the first time that evening I found myself genuinely surprised.
“Francis.”
“Aye.”
“Why does Her Majesty know who we are?”
“Because I told her.”
That was somehow worse.
Penny folded her arms.
“Why?”
Francis took a long drink.
Deliberately.
Enjoying himself.
Then he finally answered.
“Because she asked.”
The room seemed suddenly quieter.
Not actually quieter.
Merely further away.
“Asked what?” I said.
Francis glanced around the hall.
Satisfied nobody was listening.
Then lowered his voice.
“The Queen has plans.”
“Most monarchs do.”
“Aye. These are larger.”
He looked around Buckland Abbey.
At the guests.
At the merchants.
At the landowners.
At the men discussing trade routes.
At the sailors discussing distant waters.
At the wealth that had followed him home.
“The world be changing.”
Nobody argued.
It clearly was.
“The treasure helps.”
That also seemed difficult to dispute.
“The voyages help.”
Again.
“The Crown wishes to understand what comes next.”
Penny frowned.
“Meaning?”
Francis looked directly at her.
“The houses.”
Then at me.
“The families.”
Then both of us.
“The connections.”
I said nothing.
He continued.
“Her Majesty asked whether I knew anyone who understood where influence travels.”
Penny smiled slightly.
Not because she was pleased.
Because she already knew where this conversation was heading.
Francis continued.
“Who understands who speaks to whom.”
“Who visits whom.”
“Who marries whom.”
“Who inherits.”
“Who matters.”
The smile disappeared.
The room suddenly felt much larger.
Not Buckland Abbey.
Europe.
England.
France.
Spain.
The Low Countries.
Scotland.
Courts.
Estates.
Families.
Connections.
An entirely different map.
Francis nodded toward the letter.
“Her Majesty would like to discuss the matter herself.”
Penny stared at the seal.
“So the Queen wishes to meet us.”
“Aye.”
“At court?”
“Aye.”
I finally looked down at the scroll.
The wax remained unbroken.
The invitation still unopened.
Yet I already suspected that opening it would alter the course of our lives.
Outside, darkness had settled across Devon.
Inside, Buckland Abbey continued celebrating.
The guests laughed.
The wine flowed.
The stories grew larger.
But my attention had shifted elsewhere.
To London.
To Richmond Palace.
To the woman who ruled England.
And to the question she apparently wished to ask.
I broke the seal.
— Lady Marrow
