On the 17th November 1558, a battered barque, its yards hanging forlorn from its three-masted spars, its rigging torn to shreds and flapping in the (thank God!) now-easing wind, creaked its way slowly free of the storm clouds into what the young master – actually, the young mistress – hoped would prove to be calmer waters and fairer weather. It seemed so. A watery sun was peering through the cloud. For the moment. But that ship‟s mistress, though young, was not going to let herself be lulled into premature relaxation. She knew, by years of bitter, personal experience that appearances can be deceiving, very deceiving. The gale had eased, and the waves subsided – at least for a time – yes, but these waters were notoriously treacherous; uncharted, hidden shoals lurked ahead; pirates – Spanish raiders in particular – could attack at any moment. The broken vessel had not yet reached safety; there seemed no end to the threats which could take it beneath the waves before it could, at last, wearily drop anchor in the shelter of a safe haven. |
