Roanoke (The Keepers of the Ring) Read online

  “By grace,” her father murmured on his pillow, the words barely distinguishable. “Only by grace, Jocelyn. ‘Tis what Martin Luther fought for.”

  “I know, Papa.” She paused to see if he would say anything else, but he lay still. She kept reading. “And has raised us up together, and made us sit together in the heavenlies in Christ Jesus: that in the ages to come he might show the exceeding riches of his grace in kindness toward us through Christ Jesus.”

  She paused as an image came to her mind: her father, sitting in a heavenly golden chair among white-robed saints who lingered in a sea of misty clouds and could see down to earth. In the days to come he would watch her to see how she lived, what she did, where she would go . . .

  “Grace,” her father murmured again from his pillow. “Unmerited favor. God knows I do not deserve the goodness he has bestowed upon me.”

  She sobbed, and his eyes flew open at the sound.

  “Weep not,” he said, struggling to catch his breath.

  “I’m sorry, Papa, I can’t help it.”

  Robert White reached across the pages of the Bible in her lap and held her hand. “Don’t worry, girl. I’m in no pain.”

  “Yes, you are, and you don’t deserve to suffer like this, Papa! If I could take the pain for you, I would, I could—”

  He squeezed her hand and stopped the angry flow of words. “I deserve worse than this, Jocelyn, but God in his grace stooped down to redeem my soul. I will suffer here for a few days more, then I will go to my undeserved reward. When I go, God will send his grace to comfort your heart. But before I go,” he released her hand and struggled to sit up, “I have something for you.”

  He fumbled for a moment under the blanket on his bed and brought forth a small wooden box. Jocelyn recognized it; the box came from a trunk of her mother’s things. “Papa, you shouldn’t have risen from the bed to fetch that,” she scolded, thumbing tears from her cheeks. “Why didn’t you let me bring it to you?”

  He ignored her protest, opened the box, and pulled out a slender gold band. “This was your mother’s wedding band,” he said, the words thick in his unwilling throat. “I placed it on her hand on our wedding day and removed it as we buried her in the churchyard. I want you to have it, Jocelyn.”

  She protested, weakly, and he caught her right hand and pressed the ring into her palm. “‘Tis yours,” he said, allowing his hand to fall. “Always remember the words engraved inside, daughter.”

  He paused to catch his breath, and Jocelyn opened her palm and held the band up to the glow of candlelight in the room. “Fortiter, fideliter, feliciter,” she read, grateful that he had insisted that she learn to read and speak his beloved Latin. “Boldly, faithfully, successfully.”

  He nodded and sank back on the pillows. “Such must be your credo in life, Jocelyn Marie. Wherever you go, go boldly. Go in the faith of the loving God you serve, and remember the words God spoke to Joshua. ‘This book of the law shall not depart out of thy mouth—’"

  His voice rumbled and failed, and she caught his thoughts and finished the scripture for him: “—but thou shalt meditate therein day and night, that thou mayest observe to do according to all that is written therein: for then thou shalt make thy way prosperous, and then thou shalt have good success.”

  “Yes.” He closed his eyes. “Boldly, faithfully, successfully. As your mother lived, so must you.”

  “As my father lived,” she whispered, leaning forward to kiss his forehead. He lay motionless in his exhaustion, so she slipped the ring on her finger, cleared the supper bowl, and left him to sleep.

  Sleep did not come easily to Jocelyn; she tossed fitfully in her bed that night. For some unexplained reason the accumulated memories of her life chose to march across the stage of her memory, unsettling her with their vividness. Her father teaching her to read from the Bible; his big feet supporting hers as she clung to his fingers and learned to dance in the small hall of their house. Her father had taught her about love and life and God and man at a very young age.

  “Look here,” he had said one afternoon as they worked on her Latin lesson, “the word believe. Do you believe in me, Jocelyn?”

  She giggled and looked up at him. “Of course, Papa.”

  “Ah, yes, you have seen me, you know I put you to bed at night. That is the Latin noticia, to observe the facts. Now, Jocelyn, do you believe I always want to do what is best for you?”

  She stopped giggling and looked down at her textbook. The day before her father had made her come inside and study instead of playing with the other children, so did she really believe he wanted what was best for her?

  “Yes, Papa,” she said, more soberly.

  “Good,” her father answered. “That is the Latin assentia, to agree. Now, Jocelyn, do you believe in me so much that you know I would risk my life—even give my life—to save yours?”

  She stopped moving altogether; this was a new concept. Would her father, a teacher who regularly acknowledged respectful greetings in the street, give his very important life so that she might live? Her eyes flew to his face to search for the answer, and in his loving eyes, she found it.

  “Yes, Papa,” she said, delighted in her discovery.

  His broad palm brushed her head. “Good, Jocelyn. That is the Latin fiducia, to hold in confidence and trust. And now I’ll tell you a secret—as you believe in me, my daughter, so you must believe in God. And though you can trust me with your life, little girl, God holds your life even more tenderly.”

  Jocelyn turned on her mattress and pounded her lumpy pillow with her fist. If God held her life so tenderly at age seven, where was he now that she was seventeen and in desperate need? Gazing toward the rough ceiling of her house, Jocelyn mouthed a silent prayer for help and strength as tears flowed from the corners of her eyes and mingled in her hair.

  The next morning, Robert White read a letter from his brother, then waited for Jocelyn to leave for the marketplace. When he was sure she had gone, he rang the bell by his bedside to summon Audrey. The girl had always been shy about coming into his sickroom, but with Jocelyn out of the house, she had no choice.

  “Yes, Master White?” Audrey asked, peering from behind her apron as if the thin fabric would shield her from his contagion.

  “You must do three things for me,” he said, struggling to strengthen his voice. He chose his words carefully so that he would not waste his precious breath with explanations. “Pack Jocelyn’s trunk with her clothing, and pack your things as well. Say nothing to her of this.”

  “Yes, Master White.” She turned as if to go, but Robert called upon inner reserves of strength and commanded her to stop. She halted in mid-stride and turned timorous eyes toward him.

  “An herbal remedy will arrive from the apothecary today. You are to take it and secretly mix it into your mistress’ breakfast drink on the morrow. The drink will make her sleep. A carriage from Portsmouth will arrive at mid-morning. You will have Jocelyn placed aboard, with her trunk, and you will board as well. If she wakes on the journey, you will give her more of the drink so that she sleeps again.”

  Audrey’s blue eyes flew open at this unusual request, but Robert believed she intuitively knew the reason for this less-than-forthright means of transporting his daughter. “Will we be staying in Portsmouth for some time, Master Robert?” the maid finally asked, curiosity overcoming her fear.

  Too tired to speak, he nodded. She did not need an explanation. John would handle things once the girls had reached Portsmouth.

  That night he dreamed of his schoolroom, then awoke with a start in the gloom of dawn and waited impatiently for the sun to rise. He heard movement in the front chamber—Jocelyn and Audrey had risen, and soon Jocelyn would drink the apothecary’s potion. He had said his farewell to his daughter as he gave her the ring, but he worried that Audrey’s devotion to her mistress would undermine his plan.

  Within an hour after sunrise, Audrey rapped lightly on the door, then opened it and stood with her hands folded and
her eyes downcast. “Jocelyn is sleeping, Master White. She is dressed and the trunks are by the door.”

  “Help me dress, then, Audrey,” Robert called, pulling himself out of bed. He swung his thin legs from the mattress to the floor and felt his courage leave him for a moment as he tried to stand. God, give me the strength to do what I must to aid my stubborn child. Audrey timidly held a loose robe open for him, and Robert fought his way to a standing position, then enfolded the robe around him.

  Audrey did not offer her arm, but scampered out of his way, and Robert clung to the walls as he made his way into the front room. Jocelyn lay on her mattress, her long hair askew, but she had dressed for the day and looked presentable enough to travel. “She will need shoes on her feet,” he pointed to Audrey, “and a veil for her head. If perchance someone sees you, it must appear that she is a lady asleep, not a captive hostage.”

  “I understand, sir,” Audrey answered, scurrying to get her mistress’s shoes.

  Robert lowered himself to a stool and coughed gently into a handkerchief as he stared at his only child. She was so beautiful, and so like her mother! Her dark brown eyes, fringed now in sleep with a thick row of sooty lashes, could change his mood from melancholy to merriment with a single twinkle. Her nose was slender and fine, and her delicate mouth the perfect punctuation point for her lovely and graceful features. A fallen ringlet of her hair threw her brow into shadow, and he resisted the impulse to run his fingers through her curls one last time.

  He was sending her away to live. Though she would be angry and possibly heartbroken by his treachery, she would not die from his contagious disease, nor would she waste her life in sorrow mourning his death. John had already made arrangements for Jocelyn; his letter held glowing words about a suitable candidate for her husband.

  Carriage wheels churned the gravel outside the house and Audrey leapt to her feet. “I’ll see if the carriage is outside,” she said, eager to exit the uncomfortable leave-taking.

  Robert nodded, then rose and stood over his sleeping daughter. The slender gold band shone on her right hand, and he held her palm to his heart and breathed a prayer for his daughter’s happiness as a veil of tears obscured the lovely vision from his eyes.

  FIVE

  Jocelyn was moving, rolling, flying, floating, sinking on a dark bed that had neither form nor substance. Muffled noises reached her ears and faded away: the pebbly clatter from wheels upon a road, a murmur of voices, odd wind-borne sounds. Her lips and throat were parched, then someone placed a cup to her mouth and she drank thirstily until blackness surrounded her again.

  A soft breeze blew past her cheek. She slowly became aware of the sound of men’s voices, the creak and groan of wood, and the flap of canvas. She felt rough wool beneath her hands, and linen against her cheek. Her eyelids were heavy, unable to open, and a palpable unease enfolded her. Was she ill? Was she dead?

  In time, the fog lifted, and Jocelyn opened her eyes. She lay on a straw-stuffed mattress in a small room with open windows in one wall. Audrey sat on a stool near the door, her head buried in a book.

  “Audrey?” The maid jumped. “Och, Miss Jocelyn, how you gave me a start! How are you feeling?”

  Jocelyn sat up and raised her hand to block out the bright sunlight as a sharp stabbing pain ripped through her head. “Oh! My head hurts. Where are we?” She lowered her hand to look out the windows, but from the edge of the windowsill to the horizon there was nothing to see but water and blue sky.

  Audrey lowered her book and took a deep breath. “We’re aboard the Lion, Miss Jocelyn, your Uncle John’s ship. He put ye in his cabin ‘till ye woke, then we’re to join Mistress Eleanor with the other passengers.”

  “Passengers? Surely we’re not—”

  Audrey didn’t answer, but she didn’t need to. The truth hit Jocelyn like a slap in the face, and her blood rose in a jet. Her father had betrayed her! Uncle John, Eleanor, Audrey, the lot of them! They had placed her on a ship to Virginia regardless of her wishes, and had undoubtedly drugged her in order to accomplish their treacherous deed.

  She rose to her unsteady feet and opened the cabin door. “Uncle John!” she screamed, not caring who heard her on the deck beyond. “John White! Where is he?”

  A grizzled sailor passing by the doorway gave her a lecherous wink and Jocelyn was suddenly aware of her loose hair and disheveled appearance. What must the ship’s crew be thinking? Had she been brought aboard in a sailor’s arms like a drunken strumpet?

  “Oh!” she cried, humiliation stinging her. She darted back inside the cabin and slammed the door, then covered her scarlet face with her hands. “What have they done?” she cried, angry tears scalding her fingers. “Audrey, why did you let them do this to me?”

  “Nobody’s done a thing to ye, so I can’t imagine what you are thinking,” Audrey protested, lifting her chin at Jocelyn’s accusation. “Your father is dying, Miss, and he wanted ye to leave him in peace. Your uncle sent his carriage, and he carried ye aboard himself early this afternoon. You’ve been sleeping like a baby, with no one to bother ye. We’re going to Virginia, we are, with Mistress Eleanor and a fine group of folk, and I’ve been sitting right here by your side though I’m perishing with hunger and dying for a little company, if ye take me meaning.”

  Jocelyn listened in amazement to Audrey’s speech, then fell back on the mattress as her thoughts raced. Maybe they had succeeded in bringing her aboard, but they couldn’t keep her drugged until they reached Virginia! If the ship put in at any other port, or if any other passengers were to come aboard, then surely she could find a way to leave!

  She sat up abruptly and smoothed her dress. “Have you a brush, Audrey?” she asked, coiling her unruly long hair with her hands. “Help me look presentable, will you? I’m sure you don’t want to stay in this tiny cabin any longer than you have to.”

  “Well, now, I knew you’d come around, didn’t I say so to your uncle?” Audrey answered, leaping up. “Sorry, Miss, I don’t have a brush, but I’d be glad to braid your hair or something—”

  “Beshrew my hair, let it hang,” Jocelyn snapped, moving past her maid toward the door. There had to be a way to leave this ship, and she intended to find it. Just because she was a girl, and only seventeen, did not mean she could be shipped to Virginia like a bundle of excess baggage.

  When she and Audrey made their way from John White’s cabin to the main deck, Jocelyn was surprised to find the ship under full sail. A crew of able seamen worked the sails and climbed the rigging, and the ship slipped easily through the blue green waters of the English Channel. The blinding dazzle of the sun’s path on the quiet sea held many of her fellow passengers enthralled on the deck, but Jocelyn slipped carefully among the collected knots of strangers as she searched for her uncle. She would demand to be set ashore at the first opportunity. He had to see her point of view.

  A seaman finally told her John White was “aft, on the poopdeck,” and she found her uncle on an elevated deck at the stern of the ship. He did not acknowledge her when she and Audrey climbed to meet him, for he was engaged in a heated argument with a small, dark-haired man with an unmistakable Portuguese accent. Deliberately ignoring all she had been taught about respect for her elders (for how had stowing her aboard this ship shown respect for her?), Jocelyn marched boldly between the two men and turned to face her uncle.

  “Uncle John, I would speak with you,” she said, steeling her voice with resolution. Her uncle gave her a distracted, “not now” look and pointed a finger in the small man’s direction, but Jocelyn would not be ignored. “Uncle John, I demand to know where we are going. If we are making a stop, I insist that you put me ashore. I want to return home. You had no right to bring me here without my leave.”

  She heard the Portuguese snicker behind her as her uncle’s face clouded in anger. In that moment she realized how she appeared to him—a mere upstart of a girl, a penniless niece who had dared to swagger into the midst of an argument and command his attention—but then
familial affection gleamed in his eyes and he patted her shoulder. “Jocelyn, my dear, go find Eleanor and keep her company. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “But Uncle John,” she felt silly stamping her foot, but she did it anyway, “I must go home!”

  From the corner of her eye she saw the Portuguese lean forward to glance at her face, then he turned away to allow her a moment of privacy with her uncle.

  “Jocelyn, you can’t go home. Today we cross the Solent to the Isle of Wight. I have business at Cowes with Sir George Carey, who wants to use our new colony as a privateering base.”

  “After that, can I go home?”

  “No, child.” His glance softened as he looked at her. “We’ll return to Portsmouth to pick up a few late-arriving colonists and more supplies. But you cannot go home. Your father wishes you to remain with me.”

  “If we’re returning to Portsmouth, I want to go home.”

  “‘Tis impossible. Now be a good girl and go find your cousin.”

  “‘Tis not impossible.” She nodded in conviction, but her voice quavered as she thought of the resolution in her father’s eyes when he placed her mother’s ring in her hand. He had known then that he would send her away!

  She clutched at her uncle’s sleeve and injected a note of pleading into her voice. “I want to go home, Uncle John. Papa needs me, and I cannot leave him. By all that’s merciful, Uncle, you must let me go. Papa is your brother, and he has no one to tend him. If ‘twere Eleanor dying, or even having the baby—” she intensified her whisper, “—would you not want to be at her side? Have mercy, uncle, and let me go home.”