Authors: Ken Follett
‘I’m not married.’
She made a surprised face.
He said: ‘There was a girl I wanted to marry, in Kingsbridge, where I come from.’
‘Is she the girl in the picture?’
Ned looked startled, as if it had not occurred to him that Sylvie could see the little painting beside the mirror and draw the obvious conclusion. ‘Yes, but she married someone else.’
‘How sad.’
‘It was a long time ago.’
‘How long?’
‘Fourteen years.’
Sylvie wanted to say
And you still have her picture?
But she bit back the comment and opened her satchel.
She took out the two books. ‘The plain Bible is excellent,’ she said. ‘A good translation, printed clearly, perfect for a family without money to spare.’ She opened the luxury edition, the one she really wanted to sell him. ‘This edition is magnificent. It looks like what it is, a volume containing the word of God.’ She liked Ned, but she still needed to make money, and in her experience the way to do that was to make a man feel that the expensive book would mark him, in the minds of others, as a man of distinction.
Modest though he was, he was not immune to her sales talk, and he bought the high-priced Bible.
She added up the total he owed and he paid her, then he walked her to the front door of the house. ‘Where’s your shop?’ he asked. ‘I might drop in one day.’
‘Rue de la Serpente. We’d love to see you.’ She meant it. ‘Goodbye.’
She felt light of heart as she pushed the empty handcart home. A Catholic princess was going to marry a Protestant king right here in Paris! Perhaps the days of persecution really were over.
And she had found a new customer and made a good sale. Ned’s gold livres chinked in her pocket.
He was so nice. She wondered if he really would come to the shop. How much did he still love the girl whose picture he had kept for so long?
She looked forward to telling her mother the news about the royal wedding. She was not sure what to say about Ned. She and her mother were very close, no doubt because they had been together through danger and destitution. Sylvie was rarely tempted to keep anything from Isabelle. But the problem was that she really did not know how she felt.
She got home and parked the handcart in the shed at the back of the house, then went in. ‘I’m home,’ she called. She went into the shop. A customer was just leaving.
Her mother turned and looked at her. ‘My goodness, you look happy,’ she said. ‘Have you fallen in love?’
18
Barney Willard anchored the
Alice
in the bay of the nameless town on the north coast of Hispaniola. He had come to see Bella.
He did not tie up at the jetty: that would make it too easy for a hostile force to board the ship from the land. He lined up with his starboard guns pointing directly at the little coral limestone palace that was still the main building. The guns on the port side usefully pointed out to sea at any vessel that might approach.
Barney was being cautious. He did not really expect trouble here.
Alice
was a three-masted merchant ship, a hundred and sixty tons and ninety feet long. Barney had modernized the design, lowering the fore and aft castles. He had installed sixteen of the mid-weight cannons called culverins that fired eighteen-pound balls. He had specified long fifteen-foot barrels. Because the ship was only thirty feet across at its widest, the guns had to be staggered along the gun deck so that they did not crash into one another when they recoiled. But long barrels fired farther and more accurately, and Barney knew, from experience, that the only way to defeat a mighty Spanish galleon was to cripple it before it got close to you.
The
Alice
had only twenty crew. Most ships of the same size had forty or more. The vessel did not need so many, but captains usually made generous allowance for deaths on voyage, not just from battle but from the fevers that so often broke out. Barney took a different approach. He thought men were more likely to catch infections in crowded ships, and had proved to his own satisfaction that it was better to start with fewer men in cleaner conditions. He also carried live cattle and barrels of apples and pears, so that the men had fresh food, a policy he had copied from the pirate Sir John Hawkins. And when he did lose men, despite his precautions, he replaced them with new recruits, always available in port cities – which was how come the
Alice
now had three dark-skinned African sailors picked up at Agadir.
Towards the end of the afternoon he sent a boat party ashore. They bought chickens and pineapples, and scrubbed and filled the ship’s water barrels at the bright stream that flowed through the town. They reported that the residents were excited to hear about the
Alice
’s cargo: scissors and knives made of Toledo steel; bolts of fine Netherlands cloth; hats, shoes, and gloves – luxuries and essentials that could not be manufactured on this Caribbean island.
Barney was sorely tempted to go ashore right away and look for Bella. On the long transatlantic journey, eager curiosity had grown into yearning. But he forced himself to wait. He did not know what to expect. It would be undignified for him to crash into what might be a cosy domestic scene. When he left Hispaniola she had been young and pretty; why would she not have married? On the other hand, she had a business of her own that made money, so she did not need a man to support her. Barney’s hope was that she might have been reluctant to yield her independence to a husband. She was certainly feisty enough to take such an attitude.
If he approached her as an old friend, he would be able to deal with whatever he found. Should she have a husband, Barney would conceal his disappointment, shake hands, and congratulate the man on his good fortune. If she was single and alone – please, God! – he would take her in his arms.
In the morning he put on a green coat with gold buttons. It gave him a formal air and partly concealed the sword hanging from his belt, not hiding it but making it a little less ostentatious. Then he and Jonathan Greenland went to call on the mayor.
The town was bigger, but otherwise seemed unchanged. They were stared at crossing the central square, just as they had been nine years earlier, and probably by the same people. This time Barney stared back, looking for a beautiful African girl with blue eyes. He did not see her.
In the cool of the palace they were made to wait for a period long enough to impress them with the high status of the personage they wanted to see.
Then they were escorted upstairs by a man in a priest’s cassock who was either Father Ignacio or a replacement – Barney did not remember the original well enough.
However, he vividly remembered the obese Alfonso, father of Bella. And the young man in the mayor’s office was definitely not him.
‘Don Alfonso is dead,’ said the man in Alfonso’s chair. ‘Five years ago.’ Barney was not surprised: immigrants to the Caribbean were highly vulnerable to strange tropical illnesses. ‘I am the mayor now.’ Alfonso’s replacement was young but he, too, might be short-lived: he had the yellow-tinged skin that was a symptom of jaundice. ‘My name is Don Jordi. Who are you?’
Barney made the introductions, then they went through the ritual dance in which Don Jordi pretended not to want a bribe and Barney pretended not to offer him one. When they had agreed a price for a ‘temporary trading licence’, the priest brought a bottle and glasses.
Barney sipped and said: ‘Is this Bella’s rum?’
‘I have no idea,’ said Don Jordi. ‘Who’s Bella?’
That was a bad sign. ‘She used to make the best rum here.’ Barney hid his disappointment. ‘Perhaps she moved away?’
‘Very likely. Is this not to your taste?’
‘On the contrary. Here’s to friendship.’
On leaving, Barney and Jonathan crossed the square to the house that had been Bella’s home and distillery. They passed under the central arch into the rear yard. The business had expanded: there were now two stills dripping liquor into barrels.
A man with an air of authority came towards them. He was about thirty, and had dark African skin with straight hair, a combination that suggested he might be the son of a planter and a slave. He smiled in a friendly way. ‘Good day,’ he said. ‘I expect you’ve come to buy some of the best rum in the world.’ Barney thought apprehensively that this was exactly the kind of man Bella might have married.
‘We certainly have,’ he said. ‘And perhaps to sell you a pair of Spanish pistols.’
‘Come inside and taste the merchandise,’ he said. ‘I’m Pablo Trujillo, proprietor.’
Barney could not control his impatience. ‘What happened to Bella?’
‘I bought the business from her two years ago. I still use her recipes, though.’ He led them into the house and began to squeeze limes just as Bella had.
‘Where’s Bella now?’ Barney asked.
‘She lives in a house on Don Alfonso’s estate. He’s dead, and someone else owns the plantation, but Alfonso left her a house.’
Barney had a feeling Pablo was holding something back. ‘Is she married?’ he asked.
‘I don’t think so.’ Pablo got out glasses and a bottle.
Barney was embarrassed to be asking so much about Bella. He did not want people to think he was so soft-hearted as to cross the Atlantic for the sake of a girl. He refrained from further questions while they tasted the rum and agreed an absurdly low price for two barrels.
When they were about to leave, he swallowed his pride and said: ‘I might call on Bella. Is there someone in town who might lead me there?’
‘Right next door. Mauricio Martinez takes a mule loaded with supplies up to the plantation every few days.’
‘Thank you.’
The neighbouring building was a fragrant general store with barrels of rice and beans, herbs in bunches, cooking pots and nails and coloured ribbons. Mauricio agreed to close the shop right away and take Barney to the plantation. ‘Must go soon anyway,’ he said. ‘Flour and olive oil needed.’ He spoke in abbreviated sentences, as if to get the maximum said in the time available.
Barney sent Jonathan back to take care of the
Alice
.
Mauricio saddled a horse for Barney, but he walked, leading the pack mule. They followed a dusty track out of town and up into the hills. Barney was not inclined for conversation, but Mauricio had plenty to say, in his condensed style. Fortunately, he did not seem to care whether Barney replied, or even understood. That left Barney’s mind free to wander through his memories.
Soon they were alongside fields of sugar cane, the green stalks as high as Barney’s head. Africans moved along the rows, tending the crop. The men wore ragged shorts, the women had simple shift dresses, and the children went naked. They all had home-made straw hats. In one field they were digging holes and embedding new plants, sweating under the sun. Barney saw another group operating a huge wooden press, crushing the cane stalks until the juice ran down into a tank below. Then he passed a wooden building in which fire flickered and steam billowed, and Mauricio explained: ‘Boiling house.’
Barney said: ‘In this weather, I wonder how people can survive, working in a place like that.’
‘Many don’t,’ Mauricio said. ‘Big problem, slaves dying in the boiling house. Costly.’
At last a plantation house came into view, a two-storey building made of the same yellow-white coral limestone as the palace in the town. As they approached it, Mauricio pointed to a small wooden house in the shade of a pleasant grove of palm trees. ‘Bella,’ he said. He rode on towards the big house.
Barney’s throat felt constricted as he dismounted and tied his horse to a palm trunk. Nine years, he thought. Anything can happen in nine years.
He walked up to the house. The door was open. He stepped inside.
An old woman was lying on a narrow bed in the corner. There was no one else in the room. ‘Where’s Bella?’ Barney said in Spanish.
The woman stared at him for a long moment then said: ‘I knew you’d come back.’
The voice shocked him deeply. He stared at the old woman with incredulity and said: ‘Bella?’
‘I’m dying,’ she said.
He crossed the little room in two strides and knelt beside the bed.
It was Bella. Her hair was thin almost to baldness, her golden skin had become the colour of old parchment, and her once-sturdy body was wasted away; but he recognized the blue eyes. He said: ‘What happened to you?’
‘Dandy fever.’
Barney had never heard of it, but it hardly mattered: anyone could see that she was close to death.
He leaned over to kiss her. She turned her head away, saying: ‘I am hideous.’
He kissed her cheek. ‘My beloved Bella,’ he said. He felt so overwhelmed by grief that he could hardly speak. He fought back unmanly tears. Eventually he managed to say: ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I need a favour.’
‘Anything.’
Before she could name it, Barney heard a child’s voice behind him say: ‘Who are you?’
He turned. A small boy stood in the doorway. He had golden skin, his curly African hair was reddish brown, and he had green eyes.
Barney looked at Bella. ‘He’s about eight years old . . .’
She nodded. ‘His name is Barnardo Alfonso Willard. Look after him.’
Barney felt as if he had been knocked down by a charging horse. He could hardly catch his breath. Two shocks: Bella was dying, and he had a son. His life had been turned upside down in a minute.
Bella said: ‘Alfo, this is your father. I’ve told you about him.’
Alfo stared at Barney, his face a mask of childish rage. ‘Why did you come here?’ he burst out. ‘She’s been waiting for you – now she’ll die!’
Bella said: ‘Alfo, be quiet.’
‘Go away!’ the boy yelled. ‘Go back to England! We don’t want you here!’
Bella said: ‘Alfo!’
Barney said: ‘It’s all right, Bella. Let him yell.’ He looked at the boy. ‘My mother died, Alfo. I understand.’
The boy’s rage turned to grief. He burst into tears and threw himself on the bed beside his mother.
Bella put a bony arm around his shoulders. He buried his face in her side and sobbed.
Barney stroked his hair. It was soft and springy. My son, he thought. My poor son.