“Drake! DRAKE!” Urgent footfalls clopped through the corridor. “DRAKE!!”

“You called, Master Wilkinson?” asked Francis, stepping out from the library.

“I’ve been searching for you everywhere! Where the devil have you been hiding? Your only utility is to go fetch death to pay a visit!” When he was flustered, Wilkinson’s voice always rose to a scratchy soprano.

“You asked me to tidy the libr—”

“Oh, no matter! Come with me at once!”

Francis followed Wilkinson to the front sitting room.

“This room…” he clutched his head. “This room… do something!! Make this mess go away! Captain Hawkins’s guests shall be here any moment!” He stomped out.

Francis looked around. A woolen tapestry was tossed over the back of the bench, and an open book was left on the table. Shrugging, he closed and straightened the book and folded the tapestry, hanging it neatly over the intricately carved back of the bench.

He began to walk back to finish cleaning the library.

“Welcome, welcome, gentlemen! To the sitting room, this way… please, make yourselves comfortable! Captain Hawkins shall be with you directly!” Wilkinson pushed Francis aside.

Three men followed Wilkinson into the sitting room, striding past Francis as if he was entirely invisible.

The first, a balding, heavyset man nearing fifty, wore a beige slashed doublet adorned with gilt buttons. His down-turned mouth and hooded eyes gave him the look of a man perpetually unimpressed by the world. He collapsed onto the bench with a groan.

The second man, younger and leaner, settled beside him with a deliberate elegance, crossing one leg to reveal a glinting pearlescent buckle on his shoe. Every gesture was meant to underscore his status.

The third man remained standing, his gaze wandering the room as if surveying his domain.

Francis shifted from foot to foot, wondering if he should stay or slip away.

“Don’t just stand there, you dolt!” Wilkinson’s shrill voice cut through Francis’s thoughts. “Fetch goblets and a flagon of sack for the gentlemen!”

Francis bowed in obedience before hurrying away.

He returned carrying a tray of half a dozen silver goblets, a flagon of sack, and a plate of sweetmeats. When he entered the room, John Hawkins and his older brother William were in the chairs opposite the seated guests, engaging them in small talk.

Francis placed the tray onto a sideboard and filled the goblets. Wearing an awkward service smile, he offered the wine and sweetmeats to the guests.

The portly man leaned away as he took the goblet to maintain his conversation with William Hawkins without the nuisance of Francis’s interruption.

When he finished serving the wine, Francis retreated to a corner, the silver flagon in his hands, ready to refill someone’s goblet.

Wilkinson perched in the far corner of the study, shuffling papers as he prepared to take minutes of the conversation.

The conversation stopped as Captain William Hawkins strode into the room and took his place behind his desk.

“So, gentlemen,” he began. “Wilkinson tells me you requested a meeting to discuss the upcoming charter? The Lionheart will set sail less than two days from now, as you know. My sons assure me that all provisioning is complete and that tomorrow we load your freight.”

The portly man anxiously dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief.

“Our buyer…,” he cleared his throat and then swallowed all the wine in his goblet in one gulp. “… is concerned about the recent increased belligerence of the French privateers. The last shipment we sent from London was captured, and he wants us to split this shipment to reduce the risk.”

Francis moved like a ghost to refill his goblet, being careful to stay out of Hawkins’s imperturbable stare.

“He wants us to ship half of the cloth in one ship, and about a week later, ship—” began the more elegant companion.

“And do you want?” asked Hawkins, cutting him off.

“To re-negotiate our agreement,” the fat man replied. “Our costs are increasing.”

A faint, condescending smile appeared in the corner of Hawkins’s mouth. “If you wish to reduce the freight we are carrying, that is fine. However, the agreement stands, and we won’t entertain cost changes. The Lionheart is more than capable of defending herself from any miscreant.”

Francis’s eyes opened wide.

“But you would have more freedom to take on other freight, Captain Hawkins,” protested the heavy man. “It seems that there should be more flexibility. After all, we understand….”

Hawkins cut him off with his hand.

“Given your timeline, your greater concern is the availability of other ships. We have two in this port that we keep ready for sea. There is no other ship in the harbor that is kept ready for sea, and none that could journey that far.”

Glistening beads of sweat formed on the forehead of the fat man as Hawkins’ false smile became more pronounced. Nobody entered the silence.

“Shall we discuss the costs to provision one of our other ships? Or will you be warehousing your goods until a suitable ship arrives? We can help you with that too.”

“That hardly seems fair, Captain…” began the fat man.

Hawkins raised an eyebrow. “Two weeks ago, you came to us with a request to ready a ship in a week—knowing that we are the only shipper that keeps several ships ready for sea. Now that we have, you wish to re-negotiate our agreement?”

“Keeping ships at the ready carries an operating cost, gentlemen,” said John Hawkins. “It does not matter if they are packed solid or carry nothing.”

The irritated man became redder, and his companion bent their head towards him in a hushed discussion.

Francis moved through the room to refill the empty goblets. As he returned to his corner, he set the flagon on the edge of the tray, almost tipping it over. The clatter drew every eye in the room, including the irritated man’s condescending stare.

Francis flushed.

“Drake! Are you still here? Have you nothing to tend to?” barked Wilkinson.

Read the next scene, from the historical fiction novel Sic Parvis Magna, “Life at Plymouth”

Did you miss the start? Read the opening scene, Going on Delivery or the overview of the sample chapter.

Read my comments about who is real in Sic Parvis Magna.