New World

  First published in 2013 by Curious Fox, an imprint of Capstone Global Library Limited,

  7 Pilgrim Street, London, EC4V 6LB

  Registered company number: 6695582

  www.curious-fox.com

  Text © Hothouse Fiction Ltd 2013

  Series created by Hothouse Fiction

  www.hothousefiction.com

  The author’s moral rights are hereby asserted.

  Cover design by samcombes.co.uk

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 978 1 78202 047 9

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  A CIP catalogue for this book is available from the British Library.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means (including photocopying or storing it in any medium by electronic means and whether or not transiently or incidentally to some other use of this publication) without the written permission of the copyright owner.

  ebook created by Hothouse Fiction Ltd

  With special thanks to Adrian Bott

  For Beatrice

  Prologue - London, October 1666

  The ship’s name was Dreadnought, but that name no longer suited her. To look at the state she was in as she lay moored in Portsmouth harbour, you would think the tattered hulk would have a good deal to dread. The ship’s carpenter had done the best he could to patch her up, but his repairs looked like make-up on a week-old corpse. If the wind blew too sudden and strong, the mainmast would topple like a rotten old oak. The boards were split below the waterline, and tarred rags could only keep the sea out for so long.

  Her captain, Hugh Tucker, didn’t look too healthy himself. In a dockside inn not far from where his ship was berthed, he sat across the table from a fat man in a wig. Candlelight lit Tucker’s face from below, turning it into a gaunt, bearded skull.

  “I don’t like this job, and I don’t like you,” Tucker said. He was on his third cup of wine, and it had freed his tongue from politeness.

  “You aren’t being paid to like either,” the fat man said. “My employer is paying you to take his ship where he wants it to go, carrying the cargo he chooses to export.”

  “Cargo!” Tucker shook his head in disgust.

  The fat man shrugged. “A commodity like any other.”

  “You call a hold full of prisoners a commodity?”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve developed a conscience.” Lucius Bebbington, the fat man, sounded bitter and bored. He took a large fingerful of snuff. “It doesn’t suit you, Captain Tucker. Not with your reputation.”

  “It’s not that!” Tucker grimaced. “And it’s not the money, either. The money’s good enough. But your employer wants me to pack ’em in like so much stovewood!”

  “The Dreadnought is a large ship,” Bebbington pointed out.

  “But three hundred? It’d be like piloting Newgate Prison across the blasted Atlantic.”

  “The more prisoners we can ship to America, the more the government will pay. It’s sound economic sense.”

  “And if we never reach America?” Tucker said, glowering over the candle. “What then? Look, you’ve seen the state of the Dreadnought. That storm off Penzance practically crippled her.”

  “She’s seaworthy enough.”

  “If your mysterious employer would just fork out for repairs...”

  “Oh, let’s not open that casket of worms again.” Bebbington rolled his eyes. “If you’d kept to the agreed course, you’d never have run into that storm in the first place.”

  “I told you, the Dutch would have been on us if I hadn’t!”

  “My dear captain, calm down. Do you want everyone to know our business?”

  Tucker filled a pipe with shaking hands. Bebbington watched impassively while he lit it.

  “It ain’t like we’d be transporting cattle nor coal,” Tucker protested. “These are criminals. They outnumber the crew! What if there’s an escape, a mutiny?”

  “It’s your job to make sure there isn’t one.”

  “And you’re overloading a damaged ship! The weight of that many people ... If we run into another storm...”

  Bebbington leaned over the table. “Don’t quote me, but I’m sure my employer won’t mind if you throw one or two overboard,” he whispered. “Lightens the load and serves as a warning to the others. Two birds with one stone, eh?”

  Captain Tucker looked sick.

  Bebbington stood up abruptly. “You have your orders,” he said. “The Dreadnought will sail on the fourteenth, as agreed. Oh, cheer up, damn you! This time next year, you will be a rich man.”

  Tucker swept his hat onto his head. “Your obedient servant, sir,” he said. He stumbled out of the inn without a backward glance.

  The night was cold and a sea mist had drifted in. It quickly leeched away what little warmth the wine he’d drunk had provided. Tucker pulled his coat around him and cursed the weather, the sea, that fat pig Bebbington, and his blasted employer most of all.

  Up ahead, the looming shape of the Dreadnought made Tucker shiver even more. He thought of three hundred convicts crammed into that fragile wooden hull. Desperate sorts, all of them. Thieves. Beggars. Scum with nothing to lose.

  Suddenly he was very afraid.

  “Damned souls,” he whispered hoarsely to himself. “And me the captain of the ship chartered to take them down to Hell...”

  * * *

  Meanwhile, back at the inn, Bebbington was welcoming a colleague to his table.

  “You talked him round, then?” the man asked. “I thought he was going to swing at you for a moment.”

  “Men of the sea are like dogs,” Bebbington said with a tight smile. “They’re not happy unless you keep them in their place. Whip ’em once in a while. Show ’em who’s boss.”

  “He’ll sail?”

  “He must. And he knows it.”

  “Then here’s to prosperity,” the man said, raising his glass. “Gold uncounted. Riches galore.”

  “A fair wind, a calm sea, and hundreds of golden guineas in the bank,” Bebbington agreed.

  They clinked glasses and drank.

  Bebbington smacked his lips. “I can’t wait to tell Mister Vale the good news. He’ll be so pleased with the two of us!”

  Chapter One - Voice from the Shadows

  At the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, the actors of the King’s Company were in the front row of seats, looking up at an empty stage.

  Beth Johnson could hardly sit still for excitement. Her green eyes sparkled with anticipation and she played with her long braid of chestnut-brown hair impatiently. Soon William Huntingdon, the company’s manager, would appear and deliver the news that everyone was waiting to hear. Only her arch-rival, Benjamin Lovett, was refusing to get into the spirit of things.

  “Get on with it,” he groaned, rolling his eyes. “The sooner it’s announced, the sooner we can get on to the important business!”

  “The casting?” Beth said.

  “Naturally, the casting,” Lovett sniffed. “I wouldn’t get too giddy about it if I were you, though. There aren’t many women’s parts in ... well, let’s just say I’ve heard it may be a famous Roman play.”

  “It’s Julius Caesar, then, is it?” piped up one of the younger actors.

  “I’m not at liberty to say,” Lovett said, idly examining his nails. “But this theatre will certainly benefit from a touch more serious drama and a little less buffoonery!”

  Beth decided to ignore Lovett’s predictions. He always acted as if he was privy to everything that went on in Huntingdon’s office, but the truth of it was he didn’t have any more of a clue than anyone else in the company.

  Also, he was bitterly jealous o
f Beth.

  She’d given him good reason to be jealous, these last few months. She had quite simply acted him off the stage in every single production. She had dazzled as Viola in Twelfth Night, brought the audience to tears as Helen of Troy, and made the rafters shake with laughter as the impish Queen Mab. It was Beth who the audience came to see and Lovett knew it. Granted, the audiences had been a little thin of late, but Beth knew she wasn’t the cause. Buffoonery, indeed! Lovett could go hang, the pompous old ham. The theatre was meant to be fun, and after the horrors of the Plague and the Great Fire, these people needed more fun in their lives!

  Whatever this new production might be, Beth knew she had a strong chance of landing the lead part – assuming it wasn’t a male-dominated play like Julius Caesar. The best she could hope for from that one was Caesar’s wife Calpurnia or Brutus’s wife Portia. She wrinkled her nose at the thought. Huntingdon adored Shakespeare, true, and the audiences always lapped it up. But that play? A drama about a political murder, in the King’s own playhouse? Lovett had to be bluffing, surely.

  “Good afternoon, everyone!” Huntingdon said, striding onto the stage. Behind him came a stubbly-chinned man in a rather grubby shirt, holding a violin. A few gasps of surprise went up from the players.

  “This is Mister Meecher,” Huntingdon explained. The violinist nodded and gave a gap-toothed grin. “He will be assisting me today.”

  The players looked at one another, unable to work out what was going on. All Beth could think was: This doesn’t look like Caesar to me.

  “You will all be aware,” Huntingdon continued, “that our audiences have been smaller and smaller of late – no, no, let’s not deny it, we all know it to be true – while the Duke’s Theatre, our main competitors, are getting more bottoms on seats with every passing week!”

  So that was where the vanishing audiences were going, Beth thought darkly.

  “They are stealing from us,” Huntingdon said frankly. “Not by pinching our scripts, though we know they’ve stooped to that level before. No – they’re simply playing the game better. They’re offering something the public want, something we aren’t giving them. Well, I’ve had enough. And it’s time we fought back!” His angry voice resounded from the back of the theatre. “Shakespeare!” he bellowed.

  Beth groaned inwardly and her heart sank. So it was going to be Julius Caesar, after all. She glanced over and saw Lovett grinning smugly in her direction.

  “The Duke’s men outdid us with a Shakespeare production!” Huntingdon shouted, striding up and down the stage like a sergeant major. “I won’t have it! Nobody puts on better Shakespeare plays than us, and yet their production of The Tempest is the talk of London.” He turned imploringly to his troupe. “And what, do you suppose, was the secret of their success?”

  Nobody dared to answer.

  “Music and songs!” he cried. “They made a big production out of every song in the play! Instead of the same old tunes from a hundred years ago, they used fresh music – popular music. I’ve come to a realization. Acting’s not enough. People want singing too, and lots of it. We must rise to the challenge.”

  A new feeling of dread came over Beth at this. She’d rather have played a Roman matron than have to try for a singing part...

  “Our next production,” Huntingdon announced, “will be a new musical by Mister Thornwick, entitled Robin of the Greenwood. All the main parts are singing parts.” Huntingdon grinned. “If you wish to be considered for a main part, then you’ll need to sing! Auditions in five minutes, everyone.”

  Beth bit her lip. It wasn’t that she didn’t like singing. If she was on her own, she loved to sing. It was just that ... well ... nobody else liked to be around her while she did.

  Everyone else was getting up and heading to the wings, waiting to be called on stage, while Huntingdon made notes of their names. Beth sat where she was, her stomach churning. Maybe she should just let this one go, she thought. Would it really matter all that much if she didn’t get a lead part, or even a large part? But she couldn’t just back out. She had to try, even if the result was embarrassing. She took a deep breath and went to join the others.

  Usually, auditions were exciting. Beth usually couldn’t wait for her name to come up. This time, she lurked in the shadows in the wings, dreading the sound of her name on Huntingdon’s lips. One by one he called the cast forward, letting them choose the song they wanted to perform. Mr Meecher, who seemed to know every song ever written, accompanied them on his violin to help them keep in tune.

  When it was Lovett’s turn, Beth shrank into herself even more. He had a fine tenor voice, she had to admit. One more thing for him to lord it over her about. He was always acting superior: around her, around the other actors and especially around poor young Maisie, the theatre’s orange-seller and Beth’s close friend and confidante...

  Beth suddenly sat bolt upright in her chair. Maisie! She could sing; she could sing beautifully, in fact. Often, when she was doing some little job or other in their lodgings she’d sing to herself, and Beth had always admired her friend’s voice. The moment Lovett had finished, Beth ran onto the stage.

  “Mister Huntingdon, can I ask a favour?”

  Lovett looked at her sceptically. “Let me guess. She wants to jump the queue and go on next.”

  You couldn’t be more wrong, Beth thought, but she ignored him. “It’s about Maisie,” she said to Huntingdon. “I know she’s not really been on stage much, but she is part of the company, and she sings awfully well, so I thought maybe we could, well ... let her audition?”

  “An orange girl?” Lovett exploded before Huntingdon could speak. “You can’t possibly be serious.”

  “If you don’t recall, I started off as an orange girl at the theatre myself! Just give her a chance!” Beth said, irritated at his constant interjections. “She works hard. She deserves it!”

  Huntingdon frowned. “I don’t know, Beth. Maisie’s got a good heart, true, but the stage isn’t for everyone. We can’t just throw it open to all-comers.”

  Beth thought quickly. “If we’re going to beat the Duke’s, we need the best singers we can get, don’t we?”

  “The best singers in the company, yes, but—”

  “So how will you know how good she is unless you let her audition?” Beth gave Huntingdon her practised wide-eyed, pleading gaze. “What have you got to lose?”

  Huntingdon thought about it, then shrugged. “I don’t suppose it does any harm. Very well. I’ll add her to the list.”

  Lovett sputtered like an old leaky kettle coming to the boil. “This theatre is going to the dogs!” he hissed. “No wonder we’re losing audiences. We used to have standards, you know!” With that, he stormed off backstage.

  Beth savoured her little moment of triumph over him. Her powers of persuasion were still as strong as ever. Just as well, considering her other secret line of work – the one nobody at the theatre even suspected. As a spy, she had to be able to talk people round. Working for the Crown under the guidance of spymaster Sir Alan Strange, she’d often needed to fall back on her acting talents to get out of tight scrapes or gather information. The skill had saved the King’s life more than once – not to mention her own...

  * * *

  Not long after, Maisie stood on the stage, wringing her hands nervously, her dark curls tumbling around her face. The rest of the cast looked on, willing to give her a chance. Most of them, anyway. Maisie glanced at Beth for reassurance. Beth smiled back, hoping against hope that she hadn’t made a horrible mistake. If this ended with Maisie in tears, or if Lovett said anything cruel, she’d never forgive herself.

  “What would you like to sing?” Huntingdon asked.

  Maisie mumbled something. Beth’s heart sank.

  “Louder, please!”

  “‘The Girl I Left Behind’,” Maisie said.

  Meecher nodded and set his bow to the strings. Lovett sneered and Beth heard him mutter, “Irish tinker songs. Now I’ve heard it all.”

/>   But as Maisie began to sing, his mouth slowly fell open. It was the voice of an angel. The cast stopped talking and listened. Beth’s smile grew broader. It was only a folk song, true enough, but Maisie made the homely melody into something beautiful. Her voice rang out pure and clear, growing in confidence as she sang. Huntingdon was nodding now, writing something on his paper and beginning to smile too. Maisie drew out the last, long shivery note, then stood blinking and looking around her like a sleepwalker who had woken up. Immediately the whole cast broke out in applause. Some even shouted “Bravo!”

  “Thank you, Maisie,” Huntingdon said. “Thank you very much indeed.”

  Maisie ran straight to Beth in the wings, her blue eyes shining. “Did I do all right?”

  “Oh, Maisie, you did fabulously!” Beth laughed, hugging her. She caught Lovett’s eye and held his gaze, daring him to say something nasty. But to her surprise, he seemed to be regarding Maisie with something like awe, as if he’d had a vision.

  “She’s a pure soprano,” he breathed. “I’ve never heard the like, not even in Venice. I ... I don’t ... excuse me.” He turned away and pulled a big white kerchief out of his sleeve. Beth couldn’t believe it. Maisie’s singing had brought Lovett to tears!

  “Beth?” called Huntingdon. “Your turn.”

  Reality came crashing back upon her. Beth slowly walked onto the stage, feeling like she was heading to her execution. The happy faces and expectant smiles from the other players just made it worse.

  “Um ... I’ll do ‘Greensleeves’,” she mumbled.

  The next five minutes were purgatory. She sang as low and quiet as she could, but her voice wouldn’t do what it was supposed to. She did her best to hit the notes, but she just kept sliding off them. She tried to smile, since she’d been told that it helped the tune, but if anything it made her voice even more shrieking and off-key than before. Halfway through she saw the look on Huntingdon’s face – the expression of a man who has been served a disgusting meal but is trying to keep a polite face. She tried to draw out the last note as Maisie had done, but the sound was like an outhouse door creaking shut.