Serpent Never Sleeps Read online

  The Serpent Never Sleeps

  A Novel of Jamestown and Pocahontas

  Scott O'Dell

  * * *

  Illustrations by Ted Lewin

  Houghton Mifflin Company

  Boston 1987

  * * *

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  O'Dell, Scott.

  The serpent never sleeps.

  Summary: In the early seventeenth century,

  Serena Lynn, determined to be with the man she has

  loved since childhood, travels to the New World and

  comes to know the hardships of colonial life and the

  extraordinary Princess Pocahontas.

  1. Jamestown (Va)—History—Juvenile fiction.

  2.Pocahontas, d. 1617—Juvenile fiction.

  [1. Jamestown (Va.)—History—Fiction. 2 Pocahontas,

  d. 1617—Fiction. 3. Virginia—History—Colonial

  period, ca. 1600-1775—Fiction] I. Lewin, Ted, ill.

  II. Title.

  PZ7.0237Se 1987 [Fic] 87-3026

  ISBN 0-395-44242-7

  Copyright © 1987 by Scott O'Dell

  All rights reserved. No part of this work may be

  reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means,

  electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and

  recording, or by any information storage or retrieval

  system, except as may be expressly permitted by the 1976

  Copyright Act or in writing from the publisher. Requests

  for permission should be addressed in writing to Houghton

  Mifflin Company, 2 Park Street, Boston, Massachusetts 02108.

  Printed in the United States of America

  A 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  * * *

  to Bob and Tennie Bee

  * * *

  BOOK ONE

  Foxcroft, England

  ONE

  Foxcroft lies among green meadows where sheep graze and wooded hills abound with deer. The River Dane flows lazily around the castle, holding it in a fond embrace. Walls of rosy stone spring blithely toward the heavens. Flags fly and golden weather vanes turn round and round.

  It seems a peaceful place, where one happy day foretells another. And so it was until a stormy dawn when my brother and I were fishing on the River Dane. Not fishing, really, but poaching on the part of the river that belonged to the earl of Covington.

  I didn't like to fish and I had never poached for fish. Poaching—catching fish in waters that belong to someone else—is a serious crime. You can have an ear lopped off, or even your head.

  My brother, Edmund, was the keeper of Foxcroft's fine horses, thirty-three of them, which was a very responsible position. But he loved danger and he loved to fish. Poaching was a nice mixture of both. Besides, Lord Covington's two miles of the River Dane boasted the deepest pools and the best currents for leagues around.

  The night before I went to the river with him, Edmund came up from the stable just as I was going to bed. He stopped me on the stairs that led to the tower where I slept and did my work.

  "I need your help," he said.

  "With what?"

  "With fishing. They're getting suspicious at Covington. I almost got caught last week. I had to throw my fish in the river and run for it."

  "What can I do?"

  "Tomorrow morning I fish Covington's. You're needed to keep lookout."

  I began to tremble. "What happens if we get caught?"

  "If you keep your eyes open, we won't."

  "But if we are, what happens? You go to the jail, then I lose my good place at Foxcroft. And who knows what the earl of Covington will do? He could call out the bailiff and cart me off to jail."

  "Nothing like that. He's not a vengeful man."

  "Most surely he'd tell the countess."

  Edmund untied his red neckerchief and gave me a contemptuous look. "One thing about you, Serena, I don't understand is why you're such an infernal mouse. You didn't get it from Mam or Dad. They're stout people. Probably from your granddad, the biddable preacher, who raised chickens to eat but was so chicken-hearted he made someone else kill them."

  Edmund tied his neckerchief and stalked down the stairs. When I reached the tower, I watched as he went down the path to the stables. I was angry with him for saying what he had—for saying I was an infernal mouse. He had called me that name before. A dozen times before. I was tired of hearing it. I was undressing, but I put on the clothes I had taken off, ran down to the stables, and told him I would go with him in the morning and keep watch.

  At dawn I met him on the river. It was a stormy day with black clouds tumbling over hill and meadow. Covington Castle, atop a rocky crag, stood hidden, but the road that led to the river showed clear.

  "They're sowing timothy below the castle," my brother said. "It's early yet but they'll soon be coming down. Keep watch and tell me when you first spy a cart."

  He cast a hook into a pool of roily water, and I took up a place nearby where I could talk to him and watch the Covington Road at the same time.

  He had been fishing for only a moment when his line tightened and ran off the reel.

  "I've hooked a monster," he called out. "Two stone it will be, maybe more."

  "More, the way it pulls," I called back. "'Tis surely a prize."

  The current ran dark after the night of heavy rain. The line came in slowly. It wrapped itself around a floating tree. Edmund, who was good at fishing, curved a loop, freed the line, and took in what he had lost.

  The sun struggled up, casting a murky light. The Covington Road showed clear.

  "There's a stump yonder," I said. "Not far in front of you. It's sunk deep and it's mean-looking. Four branches sticking straight up."

  "I see it," Edmund said impatiently. "Watch for carts. I'll do the fishing." He went up the river a short ways and guided the line around a stump, took in the slack, and wound in slowly. The line sang, sending off drops of water. For a moment it went slack in a quiet way and floated. We both thought it had come apart.

  "Lost it," my brother said.

  "Too bad! But we can try again tomorrow," I said to raise his spirits.

  "The big ones are old. They're old because they've learned and gotten smart. This one won't strike for a while. Never, most likely."

  Suddenly the line tightened and the big wooden reel rumbled. Half the line went out, down the swirling river. The pole bent double. Edmund hung on and a foot at a time got most of the line back. Off it went again in the oily current. Again he got it back.

  There were sounds from the west. I told him that I saw a cart leaving the Covington Gate. "We are within plain sight," I told him.

  He got out his knife.

  As he did this, a great black cloud hid the sun. It was dark again on the river. Edmund put the knife away. I climbed a small hill nearby where I had a better view of the Covington Road. The cart had disappeared.

  When I came back to the river, he was reeling in, guiding the fish through tall weeds close to the shore.

  It was then that I heard voices in the woods behind us.

  "It's not the Covingtons," Edmund said. "I know their voices well. But best we not chance it."

  He took out his knife and cut the line, and the fish swam away. The voices grew louder. A pack of beagles, their tails held high, came charging toward me. I heard branches snap and the sound of hoofs. I saw a band of hunters break through the willows.

  Ten of them, strung out one after the other, carrying guns. In front was a tall, pale-faced man in a peaked hat. From the clacker and small horn around his neck I took him to be a flusher.

  "A very good morning to you," the flusher said.

  At least that is what I th
ought he said. I am not certain about this, for he spoke with a burr. His words sounded like hard lumps of coal tumbling down a chute. He was an odd-looking man for a deer flusher. Huge around the middle but with long, spindly legs, he reminded me of the actor I had seen play Shakespeare's Falstaff.

  I thanked him for his greeting and wished him well. My brother was walking on, bent dejectedly against the wind.

  "Fishing poor?" the flusher asked.

  "Beastly," I answered, to put him off.

  "It's not the right time of year for salmon, though some run to the east of here."

  He went on, naming the streams where fish might be caught, speaking quickly and with a burr. I only half-listened, anxious to be at work.

  "You seem but little interested in the fishing sport," the flusher said.

  "To me, 'tis not a sport. I'm sorry for the fish. I prefer to let them stay where they be."

  "You have tender thoughts," he said. "Too tender for this world. How do you fare in life? How do you possibly manage? What do you do? Raise silkworms in a cloister? Do the munching worms distress you?"

  "I work for the countess of Foxcroft," I said, wishing he would ride on and attend to his hunting.

  He got down from the horse and came toward me, limping a little. He was not the huge man, the famed Falstaff I had envisioned. It was the ponderous quilting he wore from hip to stomach, a custom among those who lived in fear of a dagger's thrust, that made him appear the size of two.

  A curious thought weighed upon me. I asked myself if I had seen this man before, the scattered beard turned gray, the spindly legs, the tongue too big for his mouth, the piercing eyes set far back. I had.

  From a close distance I had seen him six years before, on the day he traveled through Selby Village as King James the Sixth of Scotland, on his way to London, to be crowned King James of England. I was a child then, yet I well remembered the jeweled gentleman on a jeweled horse, surrounded by a crowd of lords and ladies.

  TWO

  Any doubts I might have had about the identity of the man limping toward me were soon dispelled. A tall, strikingly handsome youth came out of the woods, put his arms around the man, and kissed him on both cheeks.

  "Your Majesty," the youth said, "we flushed eight deer, fat ones. Seven doe and a pretty buck. They're below us, sire, by the river."

  "Thank you, Carr," the king said.

  I knew that Robert Carr was a gentleman of the king's bedchamber and, among many young gentlemen, his favorite.

  "Sire, the deer will scarcely wait," Robert Carr said.

  "Of course they'll wait, aware that they have a fateful meeting with the king," James replied, and fixing me with a piercing eye, he said, "Where do you belong, young man?"

  He wasn't to blame for calling me such. I wore high boots, with my skirt tucked up, and my long hair bound tight and hidden under a headpiece of rabbit-fur earlaps.

  "My name, sir, is Serena Lynn."

  "Ho," he said, drawing close to have a better look. "And what do you accomplish at Foxcroft? Something lithesome, I dare say, judging from your white hands, the noble breadth of brow, the hesitant tilt of your head, as if you were not quite sure what this life holds for you."

  "I read to Countess Diana. Her sight is poor."

  "Yes, quite poor, but the only thing poor about the lady."

  "And I write letters for her."

  "Social letters?"

  "Mostly, sir."

  "Did you write the invitation to a masque in honor of somebody or other, two months from now, the thirteenth?"

  "Yes, Your Majesty."

  Carr cleared his throat and said, "We cannot attend. We'll be hunting in the North Country on that day."

  "Whereabouts," the king asked, "do we hunt?"

  "At Arondon Lodge."

  "Oh, yes. I had luck there last year, didn't I?"

  "Six stags in less than a day, sire."

  "And another wounded that ran off."

  The king drew closer and said, "Perhaps, Miss Serena, you'll write me about the masque. Who was there. Who kissed whom. Who got drunk and fell in the river—and so forth. I like gossip. And I like your writing very much. Your words move like a file of my grenadiers, marching across the page under kingly banners."

  I thought of telling him how I had come to have such stately handwriting, that I had been born left-handed but my teachers had insisted that I use my right hand, which resulted in the letters slanting neither to the right nor to the left, but meeting as desired, smack in the middle.

  "You write letters. Now tell me, young lady, what do you read to Countess Diana?"

  "I read your beautiful book of poesy and another book of yours, the book named Demonologies."

  At the word "demonologies," the king's face changed. The piercing eyes grew fearful and sought mine.

  "I am told there are some hereabouts. Demons, haunts, witches. Have you met any?"

  "None, Your Majesty."

  "That's good to hear."

  He brightened and glanced up at Foxcroft Castle, where a shaft of sunlight struck the many windows, its chimneys and turrets, the clockhouse rising above the rooftops.

  "The castle has a bonny look," he said, "peaceful to the eye."

  "'Twas peaceful once, not long ago," I was emboldened to say. "But not now, sire, not now."

  "You speak distressfully, grow pale. What disturbs Foxcroft and you?"

  "Countess Diana's son has gone."

  "Who? Gone where?"

  "Anthony Foxcroft has been taken away. He's in London in jail, in the Tower."

  "On what charge?"

  "For libeling the king."

  "I know nothing about it. I do not feel libeled at all. Should I?"

  From the moment I knew I was in the presence of the king, I had thought of little else. It was a wonderful chance to speak on Anthony's behalf. But now with the chance thrust upon me, with the king waiting to hear what I had to say, I could only stare at him and say nothing.

  Robert Carr spoke up. "Anthony Foxcroft has been brought before the chief magistrate for saying he wished the Gunpowder Plot had succeeded. And you, Your Majesty, had been blown sky-high."

  This was an outrageous lie. It shocked me to my senses. "Begging your pardon," I exclaimed, "Anthony Foxcroft never said this thing."

  Carr lifted his gun and took aim at a passing bird. "How do you know?" he asked.

  "I was present when the story was told. It was meant as a joke. There was much laughter. The mayor of Wentworth laughed and so did Carew, lord deputy of Ireland. Everyone laughed."

  The king turned his eyes upon the castle. "What, what?" he said. "Anthony Foxcroft in London? In the Tower?"

  "It all happened," I said, "at a masque given by Countess Diana to celebrate Guy Fawkes Day. Anthony told a long story about Fawkes and the Gunpowder Plot. How the conspirators had dug a tunnel under the Parliament building, and had filled it with iron bars, fagots, and thirty-six barrels of gunpowder. Set to go off the day Parliament was to open."

  "I am acquainted with all this," the king broke in. "What did young Foxcroft say that brought him before the chief magistrate?"

  "Yes, what?" Carr asked, annoyed at me. "Quit rambling!"

  Now that I had found my tongue and the king was listening, I was determined not to be hurried.

  "Anthony stood beside his mother, by the big fountain, in front of a hundred guests, and said—I remember his words, every one of them.

  "'Can you imagine this moment?' he said. 'After a long and dangerous effort a tunnel has been dug. It's filled with gunpowder. Enough to blow Parliament into the heavens and back, along with every minister, the lords and their retainers, even the king himself. The conspirators have planned an escape once the powder has been set off. Horses are ready along the line of flight. Houses are waiting where the men can hide as they flee. And what transpires?

  "'We have a curious scene. The door of the cellar that stores the gunpowder stands open, on the theory that an open door allays suspi
cion. And in front of the door walks Guy Fawkes, sword in hand, mustache abristle.

  "'The earl of Suffolk, who is in charge of the houses of Parliament, happens by, having heard rumors about a plot. At the bottom of a stairway he sees an open door and decides to enter. He finds a cellar stacked with fagots, enough to fuel the city. Out he comes and says to Fawkes, "What is it? What's the purpose of all the fagots?"

  "'"It's firewood," Fawkes mutters. "Belongs to the earl of Northumberland."

  "'"Huh." Suffolk grunts and leaves.

  "'But at midnight he returns with a group of deputies. In their stockinged feet they creep down the stairs and find Guy Fawkes in front of the open door. He struggles like a madman and holds them off, but they subdue him. Beneath the fagots they find powder, a long train of it winding through the mound of wood.'"

  Robert Carr and the king were still listening.

  "At this moment Patricia, the Covington daughter, said, 'What would you do if you wished to blow up Parliament, all its ministers, and the king?'

  "I've never given it much thought," Anthony replied.

  "'But if you did,' Patricia persisted, 'how would you go about it? Would you dig the tunnel secretly and tell no one?'

  "Anthony closed his eyes and said, 'A jug of water stands beside the king. He always has a big thirst, which arises from the drinking of too much sweet wine. I'd dress myself in a servant's uniform, walk in, and pick up the jug. If anyone asked what I was about, I'd say I was freshening the water. Then I'd take the jug out, empty it, fill it with gunpowder, and take it back.'

  "'Oh, my!" Patricia said. 'Then you would light the fuse, run out, and change your clothes. Then everything would blow up—the building, the ministers and their retainers...

  "'Not everyone. Just me and the king.'

  "'Oh, not the king!'

  "'Yes, he'd be flying along right beside me.'"

  I cast a quick look at His Majesty, not at all sure he would like the picture of himself flying through the air. To my immense relief, he was pounding his chest in glee.

  "Clever," he gasped. "Clever fellow, this one. When I wish to have someone blown into the sky I'll send for Anthony Foxcroft."