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.
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