Jake had said: “We must care for her. Her father was one of the best men I ever sailed with.”

He did not add: “And she is my mistress.”

But of course it was so.

When Jake came into our bedroom I said to him, “Penn is your son.”

He did not attempt to deny it.

“So under my own roof…”

“It is my roof,” he replied shortly.

“She is your mistress.”

“She bore me a son.”

“You have lied to me.”

“I did not. You did not ask. You presumed it was the tutor’s. There seemed no reason to upset you with the truth.”

“You brought that girl into the house to be your mistress.”

“That’s a lie. I brought her here because she needed a home.”

“The good Samaritan.”

“God’s Death! Cat, I couldn’t leave an old seaman’s daughter of that age to fend for herself.”

“So you brought her here to bear your bastard. I wonder what her father would say to that?”

“He’d be delighted. He was a sensible man.”

“As I should be, I suppose?”

“No, I wouldn’t expect that of you.”

“You are a considerate husband.”

“Oh, come, Cat, what’s done is done.”

“And the girl is still here. Is there another on the way?”

“Stop this. The girl had a child. It was mine. There, you know. What’s to it? I was home from sea. You were having a daughter. There’s little time I have ashore.”

“You have to make up for your celibacy at sea of course, because raping dignified girls and sending them mad does not count. You have much to answer for, Jake Pennlyon.”

“As much as most men, I’ll swear. Oh, stop it, Cat. I took the girl. There’s no harm done. She has a fine boy who is a joy to her.”

“And a joy to you.”

“Why not? I get no sons from you. You can get a son with a Spaniard and for me … daughters … nothing but daughters.”

“Oh, I do hate you, I do!”

“You have said that often enough, God knows.”

“I had thought that we might come to some good life. I had pictured us … our grandchildren in our garden … and you contented…”

“I’m not ill content. I’ve got three fine boys that I know of. And I wouldn’t want to part with one of them. Understand that, Cat. Not one of them. I’m proud to own them. Proud, I say.”

“Proud of the manner in which they were begotten, I doubt not. One from rape of an innocent child, the other one a lustful serving girl and another on this sly creeping … insect who crawls into my house … who is a poor little orphan who lies about the tutor and all the time is laughing because she has your child.”

“Oh, come, Cat, it’s long ago.”

“Long ago, is it? Is she not still your mistress? I see it all now. The ribbons she puts in her hair; the manner in which she pushes the boy under your feet. What plans has she, this sly little crawling thing? What does she hope for, to take my place?”

He was alert I fancied. “How could that be! Don’t talk nonsense, Cat.”

“Is it nonsense?” I asked slowly. “How do I know what is happening in the house? I am deceived all the time. My daughters are nothing to you. But you have ever made much of your bastards.”

“They are my sons.”

“Mayhap this woman … this Romilly could give you more sons. She has given you one. I am beginning to understand. I see so much.”

“You see what you want to see. You are an arrogant woman. You led me a dance as no other woman has. You belonged to a Spaniard before you did to me. You gave him a son and what have I had?”

“Was it my fault? Everything that has happened has been due to you. You raped Isabella, Felipe’s bride. It was on you that he sought to revenge himself. What have I ever been but a counter in your games … your wicked cruel games? Jake Pennlyon, I wish to God I had never seen you. It was an ill day for me when I met you on the Hoe.”

“You mean that?”

“With all my heart,” I cried. “You blackmailed me because of what you saw in the leper’s squint.”

“You were playing a game with me. Did you think I didn’t know that. You wanted me as I wanted you.”

“So that I pretended to have the sweat to escape you?”

“By God, I’ll never forgive you for that.”

“What does it matter, eh, now that you have Romilly? She gave you a son. She can give you sons … sons … sons … for as many breeding years as are left to her.”

“She could,” he said.

“They would only be your bastards unless…”

“Who cares for that?” he said. “I have three fine boys and I’m proud of them.”

I wanted him then to seize me, to shake me roughly as he had done so many times before. I wanted him to tell me that it was nonsense. Penn was his son. He had gone to her when I was ill and he was sick with disappointment because I had not given him a son. I wanted him to tell me that it was all over and done with. That he had been unfaithful as I knew he must have been a hundred times … a thousand times during his long voyages from home.

But this was different. He went away and left me and I did not see him again that night.

It’s true then, I told myself. He wants to be rid of me. He wants to marry Romilly, who can give him sons … legitimate sons.

I knew instinctively that my life was threatened and there seemed no doubt by whom. My husband wanted to marry another woman and the reason he wished to marry her was that she could give him sons. This sly creature who had wormed her way into my household with her pliable ways was threatening me.

It was not that she meant more to him than hundreds of other women had. But she had proved that she could give him sons … and men like Jake wanted sons. It was an obsession with them. We had the example of a recent King who had rid himself of several wives—and the great theme of his life had been “Give me sons.”

It was the cry of arrogant men. They must continue the family line. Daughters were no use to them.

Boys adored Jake and he was interested in them; girls meant nothing to him until they reached an age when they could arouse his sexual desires. Jake was a fierce man, undisciplined, a man who had always known what he wanted and gone out to take it.

That was what was happening now.

I was no longer desirable to him because I could not hold out any hope that I would give him sons. He wanted me out of the way.

I thought then of Isabella. I remember the calm intensity of Felipe. He had wanted me; he had wanted to legitimize our son. Isabella had stood in the way of Felipe’s marriage to me as I now stood in the way of Jake’s to Romilly.

Isabella had been found at the bottom of a staircase. She was not the first to die in this way. Long ago the Queen, some said, would have married Robert Dudley. But he had had a wife and she was found dead at the bottom of a staircase.

Beware, unwanted wives.

What could I do? I could go to my mother. I could say: “Mother, let me live with you because my husband is trying to kill me.”

I could tell my daughter perhaps. But how could I? She hated her father already. There was too much hatred in the house. And somewhere at the back of my mind was the thought—the hope—that I was wrong. A part of me said: He would not kill you. He loved you once—oh, yes, this emotion he had for you was love. You are the same except that you are ageing and can no longer bear a son. He would never kill you. You still have the power to infuriate him, to anger him. How could he forget the passionate years, the delight you have had in each other, for it is true that you have. Battles there have been, but have not those battles been the joy of both your lives?

This was why it was so wounding and so impossible that Jake should want to kill me.

I would wake in the night trembling from some vague nightmare.

Jake was away a great deal and I was often alone. He was visiting the towns along the coast where preparations were going on for the possible coming of the Spanish Armada.

I was glad in a way. It gave me time to think. I went over many of the little incidents of our life together. I remembered vividly scenes from the past. And always afterward I would say: It is not so. I don’t believe this of him … not of Jake.