Read Raleigh's Page for Free Online

jump.
    “‘Yes.’
    “Then Mr. Raleigh pushes his face so close to Charles’s he falls back into me.
    “‘Ships have been lost to such a lie,’ Mr. Raleigh whispers. He’s one of the Queen’s admirals, you know. There’s nothing about ships he doesn’t know, so he wasn’t playacting. His face was black!
    “He tells Charles that on top of being a liar he was too proud to ask for help and a proud liar is a threat to all. ‘Go!’ he yelled. He yelled it so loud Charles jerked like he’d been hit! It made us all jump. And so he sent him off.”
    Andrew’s face was as hot as Charles’s must have been.
    “How did Mr. Raleigh know?” he gasped.
    “The sailors came and told him.”
    Andrew didn’t sleep well that night. He dreamed about the boy who’d been sent away.
    He was never homesick when he boarded at Tremayne’s school. Now a hot ball of feeling rode high in his chest.

8
    A NDREW’S F IRST D AY AT D URHAM H OUSE
    The bells at dawn awakened him before the others. For a moment he imagined the morning starting at Stillwell Farm; then he gritted his teeth to keep from thinking about what he missed. He got up and bathed and made his way to where they’d eaten dinner. No one was around. He heard voices at the front door, where James, the doorman who’d greeted him yesterday, stood outside in the Strand making notes as tradesmen came in—bakers with fragrant hot loaves, a carter with milk, another with vegetables. A giant of a man staggered under the butchered half of a cow across his back.
    “You hungry, boy?” James called in a friendly voice when he saw him. Andrew nodded. “Then come with me and let’s see what the cooks can do for us. I’m hungry too!”
    He pulled the door, bolted it, and led Andrew down to the kitchens. Already there were good cooking smells and much activity. James got them mugs of hot milk and hunks of the new brown bread. He dipped his bread—“To ease my teeth,” he said, making a face. “Going out on me fast!”
    Later, at regular breakfast, Mr. Harriot came and sat beside Andrew. There was no order to the seating at breakfast, but no one sat at Mr. Raleigh’s high table. Monsieur Pena joined them.
    “By your leave, Monsieur,” Mr. Harriot said, “I have an hour’s bit of business at Court this morning. May I take Andrew with me to give him a quick look and then return him to you?”
    The Frenchman nodded. “You show him the flowers at Court, then I’ll show him what we grow here. Be off soon, though—it looks like rain, and Court colors run.”
    Andrew half-trotted to keep up with Mr. Harriot’s long strides as they walked the Strand from Durham House to Whitehall Palace. They held to the center of the street to stay clear of the slops—and worse—folks tossed from upper windows. They dodged carts, women hawking cockles and oysters from baskets around their necks, the salt man making deliveries from the box strapped to his back.

    “What’s your business there?” Andrew panted.
    “Solving a small problem in mathematics for the upcoming lottery,” Mr. Harriot replied. “The government expects to sell thousands of tickets across the nation. For the last one, they sold four hundred thousand, but there were problems sharing out the returns. The counting went slow, and some complained they never got their due. I’ve worked up a better counter—a sheet of cloth the pay agents can lay on the counting table to work out the divisions by shuffling tokens. Mr. Raleigh put me to it.”
    The road they walked ran right through Whitehall, a village unto itself, where palace men swarmed like gaudy butterflies in silks and gloves and feathered hats, for all the morning was warm. They seemed to walk small as they made large gestures and wagged their heads. Andrew didn’t see any women about.
    “Is today special?” he asked. “This is grander than Lord Mayor’s Day back home at Plymouth.”
    “No,” muttered Mr. Harriot as they turned down a corridor. “Just