They’d left the bread box open. Next morning James told the cook she had a clever mouse, perhaps a pair. “Too small for rats, I’d say,” he told her, raising his great eyebrows and pretending to peer around the door.
“You let them mice of yours know I’ll be leaving for them under a plate,” she chuckled. “No need they should gnaw stale bread!”
Thereafter she left out second suppers for the boys—plate-scrapings and remainders of the best things served at Mr. Raleigh’s high table.
They had less and less to do with Peter. William would walk with him to Whitehall Palace in the morning for their hawking and jousting lessons, but all his free time now he spent with Andrew.
One afternoon Andrew took William to see the new shoots in the garden plot Pena had given him.
“Spanish seeds and roots,” he explained. “We don’t know what they are, so Pena says when they’re grown, we’ll have to try eating them—leaves, roots, fruits, everything—to see if they’re food. He says we’ll have to be careful, because some may be medicines to loosen the bowel or cure fever, and one root the Spaniards call potato, eaten green, can kill.”
“Make a stew for Peter!” William whispered as they made faces and put their hands to their throats as if they were gagging and throwing up.
“What are the bowls for?” William asked, pointing to the dishes set along the path.
“Flat beer to trap slugs,” Andrew explained.
“Phew!” gasped William, looking close. “Serve that to Peter for his drink!”
William showed Andrew the heavy embroidered glove he wore for hawking and the delicate velvet hood worked with silver his bird wore.
“Do you want to hear how I whistle him back?”
Andrew nodded.
William scrunched up his mouth and blew a shrill piercing call that made Andrew wince.
“It’s like his own,” William said.
The glove was scored deep with claw marks.
There was a tiny leash with a clip that went on the bird’s leg. “It’s called a jess,” he explained as he packed away his gear.
“Why do you do it?” Andrew asked. “Do you eat what it catches?”
“No,” William laughed. “You think like a farmer—everything for food! It’s for sport. It’s something courtiers do, like dancing.”
The two boys sang together and played duets, talked about home and their schools before and what they hoped to do when they finished Mr. Raleigh’s service.
“Mr. Harriot told us before you came that you’re for America,” William said. “That’s why Peter hates you. Mr. Raleigh is more for America than Ireland now. Peter’s for Ireland. His father has the Queen’s grant to thousands of acres there, but the Irish natives won’t work it because they say it belongs to them. They kill the English he brings over. If he can’t get tenants to settle and work his land, he’ll lose it. Peter wants to go make those natives submit.”
“What will you do?” Andrew asked.
“I’m training to lead soldiers.”
“And later?”
William shrugged and rubbed his head. Mistress Witkens had just cut his hair. It was like rubbing a black bristle brush.
“What about you? What do you want to do?” William asked.
“Set up a trading station and make a plantation in America,” Andrew answered.
“Out there? Away from everybody, like an exile? Why?”
“To make my fortune on my own land, free of landlords, sheriffs, and taxes!” Andrew exclaimed.
“Spoken like a farmer!” William laughed. “You’ll make your fortune, sure enough, but I’d miss London too much.”
Andrew wanted to add the part about making a place safe for Catholics like Rebecca and her family, but he held back. His father had warned him to keep those things to himself.
William was good at drawing figures and faces. He’d snatch bits of cold charcoal from the fire to scratch a likeness of whomever he was looking at—Andrew, Peter, Mr. Raleigh, Pena, Mistress Witkens, James, Mr. Harriot. He got them all. Folks liked to be
“You let them mice of yours know I’ll be leaving for them under a plate,” she chuckled. “No need they should gnaw stale bread!”
Thereafter she left out second suppers for the boys—plate-scrapings and remainders of the best things served at Mr. Raleigh’s high table.
They had less and less to do with Peter. William would walk with him to Whitehall Palace in the morning for their hawking and jousting lessons, but all his free time now he spent with Andrew.
One afternoon Andrew took William to see the new shoots in the garden plot Pena had given him.
“Spanish seeds and roots,” he explained. “We don’t know what they are, so Pena says when they’re grown, we’ll have to try eating them—leaves, roots, fruits, everything—to see if they’re food. He says we’ll have to be careful, because some may be medicines to loosen the bowel or cure fever, and one root the Spaniards call potato, eaten green, can kill.”
“Make a stew for Peter!” William whispered as they made faces and put their hands to their throats as if they were gagging and throwing up.
“What are the bowls for?” William asked, pointing to the dishes set along the path.
“Flat beer to trap slugs,” Andrew explained.
“Phew!” gasped William, looking close. “Serve that to Peter for his drink!”
William showed Andrew the heavy embroidered glove he wore for hawking and the delicate velvet hood worked with silver his bird wore.
“Do you want to hear how I whistle him back?”
Andrew nodded.
William scrunched up his mouth and blew a shrill piercing call that made Andrew wince.
“It’s like his own,” William said.
The glove was scored deep with claw marks.
There was a tiny leash with a clip that went on the bird’s leg. “It’s called a jess,” he explained as he packed away his gear.
“Why do you do it?” Andrew asked. “Do you eat what it catches?”
“No,” William laughed. “You think like a farmer—everything for food! It’s for sport. It’s something courtiers do, like dancing.”
The two boys sang together and played duets, talked about home and their schools before and what they hoped to do when they finished Mr. Raleigh’s service.
“Mr. Harriot told us before you came that you’re for America,” William said. “That’s why Peter hates you. Mr. Raleigh is more for America than Ireland now. Peter’s for Ireland. His father has the Queen’s grant to thousands of acres there, but the Irish natives won’t work it because they say it belongs to them. They kill the English he brings over. If he can’t get tenants to settle and work his land, he’ll lose it. Peter wants to go make those natives submit.”
“What will you do?” Andrew asked.
“I’m training to lead soldiers.”
“And later?”
William shrugged and rubbed his head. Mistress Witkens had just cut his hair. It was like rubbing a black bristle brush.
“What about you? What do you want to do?” William asked.
“Set up a trading station and make a plantation in America,” Andrew answered.
“Out there? Away from everybody, like an exile? Why?”
“To make my fortune on my own land, free of landlords, sheriffs, and taxes!” Andrew exclaimed.
“Spoken like a farmer!” William laughed. “You’ll make your fortune, sure enough, but I’d miss London too much.”
Andrew wanted to add the part about making a place safe for Catholics like Rebecca and her family, but he held back. His father had warned him to keep those things to himself.
William was good at drawing figures and faces. He’d snatch bits of cold charcoal from the fire to scratch a likeness of whomever he was looking at—Andrew, Peter, Mr. Raleigh, Pena, Mistress Witkens, James, Mr. Harriot. He got them all. Folks liked to be
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