Christina of Plymouth A Novel of Elizabethan England Part One: The Unlettered Maid Chapter I: The Scholar’s Daughter In the year of our Lord 1578, when the great Spanish Armada was but a whisper in the councils of Philip of Spain and the Virgin Queen sat firmly upon her throne, there lived in the port town of Plymouth a young woman named Christina Ainsworth. Her father, Master Edmund Ainsworth, had been a man of some learning in his youth—a scholar of Corpus Christi College, Oxford, who had dreamed of making his mark upon the world of letters. But fate, that capricious weaver of human destinies, had dealt him a different hand. A failed speculation in the Newfoundland fishing trade had left him impoverished, and he had retreated to Plymouth to live out his days as a humble tutor to the sons of merchants, nursing his books and his bitterness in equal measure. Christina was his only child, born of a mother who had died in giving her life. From her earliest years, she had sat at her father’s knee while he instructed the sons of the town in Latin and Greek, in the mathematics of navigation, in the arts of rhetoric and philosophy. The boy pupils came and went—thick-witted most of them, concerned more with the sports of the field than the exercises of the mind—but Christina remained, her quick eyes drinking in every word, her nimble fingers turning the pages of her father’s precious books when the boys had departed and the candles burned low. “Read to me, child,” her father would say, and she would recite Cicero and Virgil as naturally as other girls her age might sing ballads of Robin Hood. She learned to navigate by the stars from her father’s tattered copy of De Sphera, and she could calculate a course across the Atlantic as readily as she could stitch a seam. But for all her father’s learning, he was a man of his time, and the time was not kind to learned women. “You must not let the neighbors see you with a book in your hand,” he would caution her. “They will think you a witch, or worse—a woman who does not know her place. Your learning must be our secret, Christina. It is a candle that must burn in a closed room.” And so Christina grew to womanhood in the shadow of her father’s caution, her mind expanding even as her world contracted. She watched the boys she had once studied alongside go off to Oxford and Cambridge, to the Inns of Court and the naval dockyards, while she remained behind, her father’s unpaid assistant, her talents hidden like a jewel buried in the earth. By the time she was nineteen, Christina had grown into a young woman of striking appearance—not beautiful in the conventional sense, for her features were too strong and her gaze too direct for the fashions of the age, but possessed of a presence that drew the eye. She was tall for a woman, with the upright carriage of one who has spent many hours bent over books rather than over a washtub. Her hair was the color of dark honey, and her eyes—her father’s eyes—were a penetrating grey that seemed to look through the surfaces of things to the truths beneath. But it was not her appearance that concerned her as the year 1578 drew to a close. It was the letter that arrived one grey November morning, carried by a sweating messenger from London. Her father read it in silence, his face growing pale, and then he crumpled it in his hand and wept. “What is it, Father?” Christina asked, kneeling beside his chair. “It is the end,” he said, his voice hollow. “The end of all my hopes. The Navy Office has rejected my application. They say I am too old, too poor, too obscure. They will not have me as a tutor for their young officers, though I could teach them more in a month than they will learn in years of sea service.” Christina took the letter from his unresisting fingers and read it. The words were couched in the polite formulae of official rejection, but their meaning was clear enough. Her father, with all his learning, was deemed unworthy to instruct the sons of England’s naval elite. “There must be something else,” she said. “Some other path.” “There is no other path,” her father replied, his voice bitter. “I am fifty-five years old, Christina. My eyes fail me. My hands shake. I have nothing to offer the world but what is in my head, and the world does not want it.” He fell silent then, and Christina sat with him in the gathering darkness, watching the candles flicker and die. She thought of all the years she had spent at his side, learning, absorbing, growing. She thought of the boys who had come to their house—boys with no more wit than a turnip, many of them—who had gone on to positions of honor and advancement while she remained in the shadows. And she felt something stir within her, something that was not quite anger and not quite despair, but a fierce determination that would not be quenched. The next morning, her father did not rise from his bed. The physician came and shook his head and spoke of a “congestion of the humors,” but Christina knew the truth. Her father had died of a broken heart, of a life’s ambition denied. And as she sat by his body, holding his cold hand, she made a vow. She would not let his learning die with him. She would find a way to use what he had taught her, even if she must break every rule of God and man to do it. Chapter II: The Impossible Dream The weeks following her father’s death were a blur of grief and practical necessity. Christina had a little money saved from her years of assisting her father—enough to keep her for a few months, perhaps, but not enough to live on indefinitely. She had no relatives to take her in, no prospects of marriage that did not involve surrendering her mind as well as her body to some dull-witted tradesman or aging widower. She considered her options with the same analytical clarity she brought to a problem of navigation. She could become a governess, perhaps, teaching the daughters of some wealthy family to read and write and play the virginals. But the thought of spending her life instructing girls in the accomplishments of their sex—needlework, dancing, the management of a household—while her own mind starved for real nourishment was more than she could bear. She could marry, of course. There was Thomas Blackwell, the wool merchant, who had made his interest plain enough. He was a decent man, kind in his way, and he would not begrudge her a book or two to pass the time. But she had seen what marriage did to women of spirit. She had watched her mother’s friends become shadows of their former selves, their ambitions subsumed in the endless round of domestic duties, their minds growing dull and their conversation narrowing to the price of butter and the health of their children. No, she would not marry. Not unless she could find a man who would value her mind as much as her body, and such men were rarer than unicorns in the England of 1578. There was only one path open to her, and it was a path that no woman had ever walked. She must become a man. The idea came to her gradually, born of desperation and nurtured by memory. She remembered the boys who had come to her father’s house—how they had spoken of their lives at school and university, of the freedom they enjoyed to learn and strive and make their way in the world. She remembered how she had envied them, not their masculinity itself, but the opportunities that masculinity conferred. And she remembered something else. She remembered how, when she was sixteen, she had cut her hair short after a fever had left it matted and tangled beyond repair. For a few weeks, before it grew out again, she had been mistaken for a boy more than once. The experience had been unsettling, but it had also been… illuminating. She had seen how differently the world treated her when it perceived her as male. The respect in the eyes of shopkeepers. The freedom to walk alone without attracting comment. The assumption of competence, of capability, that was never extended to women. She could do it again. She was tall enough, slim enough, her features sharp enough to pass for a youth rather than a woman. With the right clothes, the right manner, the right name… But to what end? What could a woman disguised as a man actually do in Elizabethan England? The answer came to her one evening as she sat in the taproom of the Anchor Inn, listening to the conversation of the sailors and merchants who gathered there. They were speaking of the Navy—the great expansion that was underway as England prepared for the inevitable conflict with Spain. New ships were being built, new officers trained, new schools established to teach the arts of navigation and gunnery and naval warfare. “The new Naval Academy at Greenwich,” one man was saying, “they say it’s the finest thing of its kind in Europe. The Queen herself has taken an interest. Any young man with wit and ambition can apply, they say. No need for family connections or money. Just pass the examination, and you’re in.” Christina’s heart began to race. An examination. A test of learning, of ability. A door that opened to merit rather than birth. She made her way home that night with her mind made up. She would cut her hair. She would bind her breasts. She would take a new name—Christopher, perhaps, or Christian. And she would present herself at Greenwich as a candidate for the Naval Academy. It was madness, of course. If she were discovered, she would be ruined—socially, morally, perhaps even legally. The punishment for a woman who disguised herself as a man was severe, involving public humiliation at the very least, and possibly imprisonment or worse. But what was the alternative? A life of quiet desperation, of unfulfilled potential, of watching others do what she knew she could do better? She would rather risk everything than accept that fate. The next morning, she took her father’s razor and cut her hair close to her head. She bound her breasts with strips of linen, wincing at the constriction. She dressed herself in the clothes she had found in a trunk in the attic—clothes that had belonged to her father in his youth, when he was a poor scholar at Oxford. They were old-fashioned, but they would do. She looked at herself in the small mirror that hung above her father’s desk. The face that looked back at her was strange and unfamiliar—not a woman’s face, certainly, but not quite a man’s either. A face in between, suspended between two worlds. “Christopher Ainsworth,” she said aloud, testing the name. It felt strange on her tongue, but not wrong. “Christopher Ainsworth, late of Plymouth, seeking admission to the Naval Academy.” She practiced her walk, her voice, her mannerisms. She watched how men moved, how they stood, how they gestured when they spoke. She lowered her voice, trained herself to speak in the direct, assertive manner that men used with one another. She learned to meet the eyes of strangers without dropping her gaze, to claim space with her body rather than shrinking to make room for others. It was exhausting work, and she made a thousand small mistakes. But gradually, gradually, she began to feel the transformation taking hold. When she walked down the street now, people saw a young man—a slightly effeminate young man, perhaps, but unmistakably male. The shopkeepers called her “sir.” The passers-by stepped aside to let her pass. It was intoxicating, this freedom, and it was terrifying. She spent two months in preparation, living as Christopher by day and reverting to Christina by night, when she was alone in her father’s house. She wrote to the Naval Academy, requesting information about the entrance examination. She received a reply—addressed to “Mr. Christopher Ainsworth”—informing her that the next examination would be held in March of 1579, and that candidates should be prepared to demonstrate proficiency in Latin, Greek, mathematics, navigation, and “the elements of naval warfare.” She studied as she had never studied before, drawing on everything her father had taught her and adding to it through her own reading. She borrowed books from her father’s collection and from the small lending library that served Plymouth’s merchants. She worked problems of spherical trigonometry until her head ached. She memorized the specifications of every ship in the English navy, the names of every captain, the tactics of every naval battle fought in the past century. And she waited. Chapter III: The Examination The morning of the examination found Christina—Christopher—standing before the great gates of the Naval Academy at Greenwich, her heart hammering against her ribs and her hands clammy with nervous sweat. She had arrived in London three days before, having traveled by coach from Plymouth, and she had spent those days in a state of constant anxiety, terrified that someone would see through her disguise. But no one had. The innkeeper where she lodged had addressed her as “young master.” The serving maid had flirted with her, thinking her a handsome youth. The other guests had treated her as one of their own, discussing business and politics and the prospects for war with Spain without the slightest self-consciousness. Now, as she stood before the Academy gates, she felt a strange calm descend upon her. She had done all she could to prepare. Whatever happened next was in the hands of fate—or of God, if God took an interest in such matters. The gates opened, and a stream of young men began to file through—fifty or sixty of them, by Christina’s estimate, ranging in age from sixteen to perhaps twenty-five. They were dressed in the height of fashion, many of them, with velvet doublets and silk hose and feathered caps that spoke of wealth and family connections. Others were more plainly dressed, the sons of merchants and tradesmen who had scraped together enough money to give their boys a chance at advancement. Christina fell in among the latter group, her father’s old clothes marking her as a poor scholar rather than a gentleman. She kept her eyes down and her manner modest, trying to attract as little attention as possible. They were led into a great hall, where rows of desks had been arranged facing a raised platform. Behind the platform sat a panel of examiners—naval officers in their blue coats, scholars in their black gowns, and, to Christina’s surprise, a woman. She was perhaps fifty years old, with iron-grey hair and a face that might once have been beautiful but was now marked by lines of intelligence and authority. She wore the rich robes of a noblewoman, and she sat in the center of the platform as if she had every right to be there. “That is Lady Catherine Willoughby,” whispered the young man standing next to Christina. “The Queen’s own cousin, they say. She has the Queen’s ear on matters of naval policy.” Christina stared. A woman, sitting in judgment on the candidates for the Naval Academy? It was unheard of. And yet there she was, her gaze sweeping over the assembled young men with an expression of cool assessment. The examination began with a test of Latin and Greek. The candidates were required to translate passages from Caesar and Xenophon, to parse complex sentences, to demonstrate their command of the classical languages that were still the foundation of all serious learning. Christina worked through the exercises with ease, her pen moving swiftly across the page. This was her element, the world of words and ideas that she had inhabited since childhood. The mathematics examination was more challenging, involving complex problems of navigation and spherical geometry. But Christina had prepared well, and she found herself solving equations that she suspected would stump many of her fellow candidates. The afternoon brought a test of practical knowledge—questions about ship construction, sail rigging, gunnery, and naval tactics. Here, Christina’s lack of practical experience was a handicap. She had read about these things, studied them in books, but she had never set foot on a warship, never handled a cannon, never navigated by anything more demanding than the coastal waters of Devon. She did the best she could, drawing on her reading and her native intelligence to reason her way through problems she had never encountered in practice. She described how she would calculate a course across the Atlantic, how she would position a ship for maximum advantage in a naval engagement, how she would organize a crew for battle. When the examination was over, she felt drained and uncertain. She had done well in the academic portions, she was sure of that. But the practical examination had exposed gaps in her knowledge that no amount of book-learning could fill. The candidates were dismissed to wait while the examiners deliberated. Christina found a quiet corner of the courtyard and sat with her back against the wall, her eyes closed, trying to calm her racing thoughts. “You there,” a voice said. “The pale one with the Plymouth accent.” Christina’s eyes snapped open. One of the examiners—a naval captain with a scar running down his left cheek—was standing over her. “Yes, sir?” she said, her voice cracking slightly. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Yes, sir?” “The panel wishes to speak with you. Come with me.” Christina’s heart sank. She was to be questioned further, perhaps exposed. She followed the captain back into the hall, her legs feeling like lead. The panel was waiting for her, their faces unreadable. Lady Catherine Willoughby was looking at her with particular intensity, her grey eyes—so like Christina’s own—fixed on her face as if trying to read her thoughts. “Christopher Ainsworth,” said the chief examiner, a tall man with a bishop’s bearing. “Your academic performance was… remarkable. The highest scores we have seen in many years. Your Latin and Greek would do credit to a scholar of twice your age, and your mathematics are exceptional.” “Thank you, sir,” Christina said, her voice barely above a whisper. “However,” the examiner continued, “your practical knowledge is… deficient. You have clearly never been to sea, never served on a ship. The Naval Academy is not a school for bookworms, young man. We train officers who will command men in battle, who will navigate ships through storms and enemy fire. Can you tell us why we should admit a candidate with no practical experience?” Christina took a deep breath. This was the moment she had prepared for, the argument she had rehearsed in her mind a hundred times. “Sir,” she said, her voice growing stronger, “I cannot deny that I lack experience at sea. But I submit that knowledge and intelligence are more valuable than experience, in the right proportion. A man who has spent twenty years at sea but cannot read a chart or calculate a course is less useful than a man who has spent two years studying navigation and can apply what he has learned. I am young, sir. I can learn the practical arts. But the theoretical knowledge I possess—the mathematics, the languages, the principles of warfare—cannot be acquired so quickly. Give me a chance, sir, and I will prove that I can be an officer worthy of the Queen’s service.” The examiners exchanged glances. Lady Catherine Willoughby leaned forward, her eyes still fixed on Christina’s face. “Tell me, Christopher Ainsworth,” she said, her voice low and musical, “why do you wish to serve in the navy?” Christina met her gaze. There was something in the older woman’s eyes—an understanding, a recognition—that made her feel suddenly exposed. “I wish to serve my country, my lady,” she said. “I wish to use the talents God has given me in the service of something greater than myself. And I wish…” she hesitated, “I wish to prove that a man of humble birth but good intellect can rise by his own merits.” Lady Catherine smiled, a small, enigmatic smile. “A noble ambition. And one that the Queen shares, I might add. Her Majesty has always believed that talent should be rewarded regardless of birth.” She turned to the other examiners. “I am satisfied. This young man has the mind of a scholar and the spirit of a warrior. With proper training, he will make an exceptional officer. I recommend his admission.” The chief examiner looked surprised, but he bowed his head. “As my lady wishes. Christopher Ainsworth, you are hereby admitted to the Naval Academy, to begin your studies at the start of the next term. Congratulations.” Christina felt as if she were floating. She had done it. She had passed the examination, convinced the panel, secured her place. She was now a student at the Naval Academy, one step closer to her impossible dream. “Thank you, sir,” she said, her voice trembling. “Thank you, my lady. I will not disappoint you.” As she turned to leave, she felt Lady Catherine’s eyes on her back, and she wondered if the older woman suspected something. But it was too late to worry about that now. She had crossed the threshold. There was no going back. Chapter IV: The Academy The Naval Academy at Greenwich was a world unto itself, a closed society of young men bound together by a common purpose and a common discipline. Christina—Christopher—found herself assigned to a dormitory with five other students, all of them from families far more prosperous than her own fabricated background. There was Henry Villiers, the son of a baronet, who had come to the Academy because his father wished him to have a career rather than waste his inheritance at the gaming tables. There was Thomas Wren, a merchant’s son from Bristol, who dreamed of commanding a ship on the spice routes to the East Indies. There was Edward Seymour, a distant cousin of the great family of that name, who had been sent to the navy because he was a younger son with no prospects of inheritance. And there were two others—John Hawkins (no relation to the famous admiral) and Robert Fenton—who were the sons of naval officers and had grown up with salt water in their veins. Christina kept her distance from her roommates as much as possible, pleading the need to study as an excuse for her solitary habits. She rose before dawn to bind her breasts and arrange her clothing, and she did not undress for bed until the candles were extinguished and the others were asleep. She washed herself in private, using a basin in a corner of the room, and she never, ever allowed anyone to see her unclothed. It was a exhausting existence, this constant vigilance. Every moment of every day, she was aware of the secret she carried, the deception she practiced. She could not relax, could not let down her guard, could not allow herself the casual intimacy that bound the other students together. But the work itself—the learning, the study, the exercise of her mind—was pure joy. She devoured the curriculum with an appetite that surprised even herself. She learned the art of navigation, practicing with astrolabe and cross-staff until she could take a sighting with her eyes closed. She studied the construction of ships, memorizing the names and functions of every spar and sheet and halyard. She learned gunnery—how to calculate the trajectory of a cannonball, how to position a ship for maximum firepower, how to coordinate a broadside. And she learned the art of command. This was the most difficult part of her education, for it required her to adopt a persona that was fundamentally at odds with everything she had been taught as a woman. She had to learn to give orders, to assert authority, to command the respect and obedience of men. She had to project confidence, even when she felt none. She had to make decisions quickly, without the luxury of reflection and consultation that women were taught to value. It did not come naturally to her. In her first command exercise—a simulated battle in which the students were divided into opposing fleets—she had hesitated at a critical moment, and her “ship” had been “sunk” by the enemy. Her fellow students had mocked her for her timidity, and she had lain awake that night, burning with shame. But she was a quick learner, and she was determined. She watched how the successful commanders among her fellow students behaved—their posture, their tone of voice, their manner of giving orders. She practiced in front of a mirror, adopting the stance of authority until it felt natural. And in the next exercise, she led her squadron to victory, outmaneuvering the enemy and capturing two of their ships. “Well done, Ainsworth,” said the instructor, a grizzled old captain who had lost an arm at the battle of Lepanto. “You’ve got the makings of a commander, if you can keep your nerve.” Christina glowed with pride. This was what she had come for—to be recognized for her abilities, to be judged on her merits rather than her sex. The deception was a heavy burden, but the reward was worth the price. She rose steadily through the ranks of her class. By the end of her first year, she was ranked third among the fifty students who had entered with her. By the end of her second year, she was first. It was not easy, this success. She had to work twice as hard as the others, for she had no natural advantages to fall back on. She had no family connections to smooth her path, no childhood experience of the sea to give her an intuitive understanding of ships and weather. Everything she achieved, she achieved through sheer effort and determination. And she had to be constantly on guard against discovery. The physical changes of womanhood were her greatest enemy. She bound her breasts so tightly that she could barely breathe, and she suffered from constant back pain as a result. She ate sparingly, for she feared that any gain in weight would make her shape more apparent. She avoided any activity that might require her to disrobe—swimming, for instance, which was a popular pastime among the students in the summer months. She invented excuses for her reticence. She claimed to be subject to lung fever, which made swimming dangerous. She said that she had been taught by a strict father that modesty was the greatest virtue, and that she could not bring herself to appear naked before others. Her fellow students thought her odd, perhaps, but they accepted her explanations. There were odder characters than Christopher Ainsworth at the Academy. But there was one person who saw through her, or nearly so. Lady Catherine Willoughby continued to take an interest in the students at the Academy, visiting several times a year to observe their progress and offer her counsel. And every time she came, she sought out Christina for private conversation. “You are a remarkable young man, Christopher,” she said on one such occasion, when Christina was in her third year. “I have watched your progress with great interest. You have the mind of a scholar and the instincts of a commander. But there is something about you that puzzles me.” Christina felt her heart stop. “My lady?” “You are too careful,” Lady Catherine said, her eyes searching Christina’s face. “Too controlled. Most young men your age are brimming with energy, with passion, with the desire to prove themselves. You are passionate in your studies, certainly, but in your personal relations you are… guarded. You keep yourself apart from your fellows. Why is that?” Christina swallowed. “I am a serious person, my lady. I have no time for frivolity.” “Seriousness is a virtue, but isolation is not. A commander must be able to form bonds with his men, to inspire their loyalty and affection. You cannot do that if you remain aloof.” “I will try to do better, my lady.” Lady Catherine studied her for a long moment, and Christina felt as if those grey eyes could see right through her, could penetrate the layers of deception to the truth beneath. “See that you do,” Lady Catherine said at last. “I have great hopes for you, Christopher Ainsworth. Do not disappoint me.” She left, and Christina let out a breath she did not know she had been holding. Lady Catherine suspected something—she was sure of it. But the older woman had not acted on her suspicions, had not exposed her. Why? Perhaps, Christina thought, Lady Catherine understood something of what it meant to be a woman of intelligence in a world that valued women only for their beauty and their fertility. Perhaps she saw in Christina a kindred spirit, a soul who had found a way to transcend the limitations imposed by society. Or perhaps she was simply waiting for the right moment to reveal what she knew. Either way, Christina could not afford to relax her vigilance. She continued her double life, excelling in her studies while maintaining the careful boundaries that protected her secret. She graduated from the Academy at the top of her class, commissioned as a lieutenant in the Queen’s navy, and assigned to the HMS Defiance, a new-built galleon of forty guns. She was twenty-three years old, and she had achieved what no woman in England had ever achieved. She was an officer in the Royal Navy, with a career of honor and advancement before her. And she was terrified. Part Two: The Sea Officer Chapter V: The Defiance The HMS Defiance was a magnificent ship, one of the new race of English galleons that were transforming naval warfare. She was 120 feet long, with a beam of 36 feet, and she carried forty heavy guns arranged in two tiers. She was fast for her size, maneuverable, and deadly—a floating fortress that could hold her own against any ship in the world. Christina reported aboard in the spring of 1582, her heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and dread. She had spent three years at the Academy learning the theory of naval warfare. Now she would learn the practice, in the most demanding school of all—the open sea. The captain of the Defiance was Sir Francis Drake. This was a piece of extraordinary good fortune, for Drake was already a legend—the man who had circumnavigated the globe, who had raided the Spanish treasure fleets, who had singed the King of Spain’s beard at Cadiz. He was a hard master, demanding absolute obedience and perfect performance, but he was also a brilliant tactician and a fair judge of men. Under his command, Christina would learn more in a month than she might learn in a year with a lesser captain. Drake received her in his cabin, a small, wiry man with a red beard and eyes that blazed with intelligence and ambition. “So you’re the prodigy from the Academy,” he said, looking her up and down. “First in your class, they tell me. Well, we’ll see what that means in practice. Book-learning is all very well, but the sea is the only true teacher.” “I am eager to learn, sir,” Christina said. “Eager, are you? Good. Eagerness is the beginning of wisdom, in a sailor. But remember this, Lieutenant Ainsworth: eagerness without discipline is dangerous. You will do as you are told, when you are told, and you will not question my orders. Is that clear?” “Perfectly clear, sir.” “Good. Report to the first lieutenant. He will assign you your duties. And Ainsworth—” “Sir?” “I have no patience for fools or cowards. Prove yourself to be neither, and you will find me a generous patron. Fail me, and you will find yourself back in Plymouth before you can say ‘sail ho.’” “I will not fail you, sir.” Drake smiled, a fierce, predatory smile. “We shall see.” The first six months aboard the Defiance were the hardest of Christina’s life. She had thought she understood ships, but she discovered that her Academy training was only the beginning. The reality of life at sea—the constant motion, the cramped quarters, the relentless physical labor, the ever-present danger—was something that could only be learned through experience. She learned to climb the rigging in a gale, to haul on lines until her hands were raw and bleeding, to sleep in a hammock that swayed with the motion of the ship. She learned to eat weevil-ridden biscuit and salt pork, to drink water that tasted of the barrel it had been stored in, to endure the cold and wet and discomfort that were the sailor’s lot. And she learned to command men. This was the hardest part, for she had to overcome not only her own natural reticence but also the resistance of men who were not accustomed to taking orders from someone they perceived as a youth. The sailors of the Defiance were a tough, independent lot—men who had chosen the sea because they could not abide the constraints of life on land. They respected strength and competence, and they had little patience for book-learned officers who did not know the difference between a halyard and a sheet. Christina won them over through a combination of hard work, fair dealing, and demonstrated competence. She learned to do every job on the ship, from the meanest task of the lowest sailor to the complex calculations of navigation. She was always the first to volunteer for dangerous duty, the last to seek the comfort of her hammock. When the ship was in danger, she was everywhere at once—directing the crew, handling lines, even working the guns when necessary. And she was lucky. In her first engagement with the enemy—a Spanish merchantman that the Defiance intercepted off the coast of Portugal—she distinguished herself by leading a boarding party that captured the ship with minimal casualties. Drake commended her publicly, and her reputation among the crew was sealed. “The young lieutenant’s got iron in him,” she heard one old sailor say to another. “Mark my words, he’ll be a captain before he’s thirty.” If only they knew, she thought. If only they knew that the “young lieutenant” they praised was a woman, that the iron they admired was forged in the fire of a deception that could destroy her at any moment. But they did not know, and she took care that they should not. She maintained her solitary habits, keeping her distance from the other officers and never allowing herself to be seen unclothed. She invented a religious scruple to explain her refusal to join in the drinking and carousing that were the traditional recreation of naval officers, and she spent her evenings in her cabin, studying and planning for the next day’s duties. It was a lonely life, but it was the life she had chosen. And the rewards were worth the sacrifice. She was doing what she loved, using her mind and her courage in the service of her country. She was proving, if only to herself, that a woman could do anything a man could do, given the opportunity. Chapter VI: The Reckoning The year 1585 found the Defiance in the Caribbean, part of a squadron under Drake’s command that was raiding Spanish shipping and settlements. England and Spain were not yet formally at war, but the undeclared conflict had been raging for years, and Drake’s expedition was one of many that were intended to weaken Spain’s position before the inevitable outbreak of hostilities. Christina was now a senior lieutenant, second in command of the Defiance, and she had proven herself in a dozen engagements. She had captured enemy ships, led landing parties, navigated through storms that had sent other vessels to the bottom. She was, by any objective measure, one of the most promising young officers in the navy. And she was twenty-six years old, and the strain of her double life was beginning to tell. The physical changes of womanhood were becoming harder to conceal. She had developed a chronic cough from the tight binding of her chest, and she suffered from frequent headaches and digestive problems. She was constantly exhausted, for she could never truly relax, never let down her guard. The fear of discovery was a constant presence, a weight that she carried with her every moment of every day. And she was lonely. She had formed no close friendships among her fellow officers, for she dared not risk the intimacy that friendship required. She had no one to confide in, no one to share her fears and hopes with. She was surrounded by people, and yet she was utterly alone. The crisis came in the autumn of 1585, during a raid on the Spanish settlement of Santo Domingo. The Defiance was leading the attack, with Christina in command of the landing party. They had taken the town with little resistance, and they were in the process of looting the governor’s mansion when Christina was wounded. It was a stupid accident—a Spanish soldier who had been hiding in a cellar emerged suddenly and fired his musket, the ball grazing Christina’s side before burying itself in the wall behind her. The wound was not serious, merely a flesh wound that would heal in a few weeks. But it was bleeding profusely, and Christina knew that she could not treat it herself without revealing her secret. She tried to withdraw from the scene, to find a private place where she could bind the wound and hide the evidence. But the ship’s surgeon, a man named Hobbes, had seen her injury and insisted on examining it. “Come now, Lieutenant,” he said, taking her arm. “That’s a nasty gash. Let me have a look at it.” “It’s nothing,” Christina said, pulling away. “I can tend to it myself.” “Nonsense. You’re as pale as a ghost, and you’re losing blood. Come to my quarters, and I’ll stitch it up.” “I said I can manage!” Christina snapped, more sharply than she intended. Hobbes looked at her with surprise, and then with suspicion. “What’s the matter with you, Ainsworth? Any other man would be glad of a surgeon’s attention. Why are you so anxious to avoid it?” “I… I have a dislike of being touched,” Christina said, improvising desperately. “A childhood fear. I cannot bear to be examined.” Hobbes’s eyes narrowed. “A childhood fear? At your age? Come now, Lieutenant, that won’t wash. There’s something you’re hiding, and I mean to find out what it is.” He grabbed her arm more forcefully, and Christina tried to pull away. But she was weak from loss of blood, and her struggles only made the bleeding worse. She felt herself growing dizzy, and then the world went black. When she woke, she was lying on a bed in the surgeon’s quarters, and Hobbes was standing over her with an expression of utter astonishment on his face. “My God,” he whispered. “My God, you’re a woman.” Christina’s heart stopped. She looked down at herself and saw that her shirt had been cut away, her bindings removed. Her secret was exposed, her deception revealed. “Please,” she said, her voice barely audible. “Please, you mustn’t tell anyone.” Hobbes stared at her, his mouth open. “A woman,” he repeated, as if he could not believe his own words. “All this time, a woman. How is it possible?” “I disguised myself,” Christina said. “I cut my hair, I bound my body, I pretended to be a man. It was the only way.” “The only way to what?” “To learn. To serve. To be something more than a drudge in some man’s household.” Hobbes shook his head, still trying to process what he was seeing. “But the Academy… the navy… Drake… My God, do you know what will happen when this gets out? You’ll be arrested. You’ll be tried. You’ll be lucky if you don’t end up in prison, or worse.” “I know,” Christina said, her voice steady despite her fear. “I have always known the risk. But I could not accept the life that was offered to me. I could not waste my mind, my talents, on the trivial pursuits of my sex. I chose this path knowing the dangers, and I do not regret it.” Hobbes looked at her for a long moment, and she saw the conflict in his eyes. He was a decent man, a professional who took his duties seriously. He knew that he should report her, that the law and his oath required it. But he also saw before him a young woman who had accomplished something extraordinary, who had risked everything for a dream. “What is your real name?” he asked at last. “Christina. Christina Ainsworth.” “Christina.” He repeated the name as if tasting it. “Well, Christina Ainsworth, you have placed me in a difficult position. I am a servant of the Crown, sworn to uphold its laws. And you have broken those laws, grievously.” “I know.” “But I am also a man who values courage and determination. And you have shown both, in abundance.” He paced the small cabin, his hands clasped behind his back. “I will not report you. Not yet. But you must leave the ship. I will help you get to a safe place, and then you must disappear. Change your name, change your appearance, go somewhere where no one knows you.” “I cannot,” Christina said. “The Defiance is my ship. These men are my crew. I cannot abandon them.” “You have no choice! If you remain, you will be discovered. It is only a matter of time. And when that happens, you will be ruined.” “Then let me be ruined. I would rather face the consequences of my actions than live the rest of my life in hiding, wondering what might have been.” Hobbes stared at her, and she saw something like admiration in his eyes. “You are a remarkable woman, Christina Ainsworth. Foolish, but remarkable.” “Will you help me?” she asked. He sighed, a long, weary sound. “I will say nothing. For now. But you must be more careful than you have ever been. One more slip, one more accident, and there will be no saving you.” “I understand. And thank you.” He turned away, busying himself with his instruments. “Get dressed. And bind yourself more carefully. If anyone else sees what I have seen, I will not be able to protect you.” Christina dressed quickly, her hands shaking with the aftermath of terror. She had come within a hair’s breadth of destruction, and only the surgeon’s unexpected mercy had saved her. She could not count on such mercy again. But she also felt a strange exhilaration. She had survived. Her secret was still safe, or safe enough. And she was still an officer in the Queen’s navy, still living the life she had chosen. She would not give it up. Not for anything. Chapter VII: The Gathering Storm The years that followed were a time of increasing tension between England and Spain. Philip of Spain, stung by Drake’s raids and England’s support for the Dutch rebels, was building a great fleet—the Armada, they called it—that would sweep the English from the seas and restore the Catholic faith to the heretic kingdom. Christina watched the preparations with a mixture of apprehension and anticipation. She knew that war was coming, that the life she had built was about to be tested as never before. And she knew that her secret was becoming harder to maintain with each passing year. She was twenty-nine years old now, and her body was changing in ways that no amount of binding could conceal. She had developed the figure of a mature woman, and she had to wear increasingly loose clothing to hide it. She had also developed a reputation for eccentricity—her refusal to share quarters with other officers, her habit of taking her meals alone, her avoidance of any activity that might require her to disrobe. But she had also developed a reputation for brilliance. She had risen to the rank of commander, in charge of her own ship—the HMS Courage, a fast, maneuverable vessel of thirty guns. She had led her ship in a dozen successful engagements, capturing Spanish merchantmen and raiding enemy ports. She was known throughout the navy as one of the most daring and capable officers of her generation. And she was still Christopher Ainsworth, still maintaining the deception that had become her life. The spring of 1588 brought news that everyone had been expecting and dreading. The Spanish Armada was ready. A fleet of 130 ships, carrying 30,000 men, was preparing to sail from Lisbon to invade England. The survival of the Protestant kingdom, of everything Christina had fought for, hung in the balance. The English fleet gathered at Plymouth, preparing to meet the threat. Christina brought the Courage into the harbor and reported to Lord Howard of Effingham, the Lord High Admiral, who was in overall command of the naval forces. Howard received her in his cabin aboard the flagship Ark Royal. He was a tall, handsome man, more courtier than sailor, but he had the sense to surround himself with experienced officers like Drake and Hawkins and Frobisher. And, it seemed, like Christopher Ainsworth. “Commander Ainsworth,” he said, looking at her with an expression she could not read. “I have heard much of your exploits. They say you are one of the boldest officers in the fleet.” “I do my duty, my lord,” Christina said. “Your duty, yes.” Howard paused, as if choosing his words carefully. “I have also heard… other things. Rumors. Whispers.” Christina felt her blood run cold. “My lord?” “There are those who say that you are not what you appear to be. That there is something… unusual about you.” “I do not know what you mean, my lord.” Howard studied her for a long moment, and she felt as if he could see right through her, could perceive the truth that lay beneath her disguise. “No,” he said at last. “I do not suppose you do. But I will tell you this, Commander Ainsworth: in the days to come, we will need every able officer we can find. Whatever secrets you may have, whatever… peculiarities… you may possess, they are nothing compared to the threat we face. I will not inquire further into matters that do not concern me. But I expect you to do your duty, as you have always done it.” “I will, my lord. You have my word.” “Good.” Howard turned to the chart that lay on his table. “Now, to business. The Spaniards are coming, and we must be ready to meet them. I want you to take the Courage and join the squadron under Drake’s command. You will be part of the vanguard, the first to engage the enemy.” “I am honored, my lord.” “Do not be honored. Be prepared. This will be the greatest battle in the history of the world, and we must win it. The fate of England depends upon it.” Christina saluted and took her leave, her mind racing. Howard knew. She was sure of it. He knew, or suspected, that she was not what she appeared to be. But he had chosen to ignore it, to focus on the task at hand rather than the scandal that exposure would bring. It was a reprieve, but it was also a warning. Her position was more precarious than ever. When the battle was over—if she survived it—she would have to face the consequences of her deception. But that was a problem for another day. For now, she had a battle to prepare for, a fleet to command, a country to defend. She returned to the Courage and set about making ready for war. Part Three: The Armada Chapter VIII: The Battle of the Channel The Spanish Armada entered the English Channel on July 29, 1588, a vast crescent of ships that stretched for miles across the horizon. The English fleet, outnumbered and outgunned, could only watch in awe and apprehension as the enemy approached. Christina stood on the deck of the Courage, her glass trained on the approaching fleet. She had never seen so many ships in one place—great galleons and galleys, transports and supply vessels, all flying the banner of Spain. It was a sight to strike terror into the bravest heart. But she was not terrified. She was… exhilarated. This was what she had trained for, what she had sacrificed everything for. The chance to prove herself, to serve her country, to be part of something greater than herself. “All hands to battle stations,” she ordered, her voice carrying clearly across the deck. “Clear for action.” The crew sprang to their tasks with the efficiency that came from long practice. The guns were loaded and run out, the powder charges prepared, the slow match lit. The ship was transformed from a vessel of peace to an engine of war. The battle began in the afternoon, with the English fleet attacking the Spanish in a series of running engagements. The English ships were faster and more maneuverable than their Spanish counterparts, and they used these advantages to harry the enemy, firing their guns and then pulling away before the Spaniards could respond. Christina led the Courage in attack after attack, darting in to fire a broadside and then tacking away to avoid the enemy’s return fire. She was everywhere at once—directing the gun crews, adjusting the sails, calculating the approach angles that would give her ship the maximum advantage. And she was brilliant. Her tactical instincts, honed by years of study and practice, were flawless. She anticipated the enemy’s movements, positioned her ship for the perfect shot, coordinated her attacks with the other English vessels. The Courage became the terror of the Spanish fleet, striking again and again with devastating effect. But the Spanish were not easily defeated. Their ships were slow and clumsy, but they were also heavily armed and manned by brave, determined crews. They fought back with courage and skill, and the battle raged on for hours without a decisive result. As night fell, the two fleets disengaged, each licking its wounds and preparing for the next day’s fighting. Christina collapsed into her chair, exhausted beyond measure. Her clothes were soaked with sweat and powder smoke, her hands were blistered from handling ropes and equipment, and her ears rang from the constant thunder of the guns. But she was alive, and her ship was still fighting. That was enough, for now. The battle continued for the next seven days, a grueling test of endurance and will. The English fleet pursued the Spanish up the Channel, attacking whenever the opportunity presented itself, never allowing the enemy to land or to form a defensive position. Christina fought in every engagement, leading her ship with a courage and skill that won the admiration of her fellow officers. She was wounded twice—once by a splinter that grazed her cheek, once by a musket ball that lodged in her shoulder—but she refused to leave her post. She had her wounds dressed on deck, in full view of her crew, and she never showed any sign of pain or weakness. “The commander has iron in him,” she heard one sailor say to another. “He’s a devil, that one. The Spaniards fear him more than they fear Drake himself.” If only they knew, she thought. If only they knew that the “devil” they feared was a woman, that the iron will they admired was forged in the fire of a deception that had consumed her entire adult life. But they did not know, and she took care that they should not. Even in the heat of battle, she maintained her guard, never allowing herself to be placed in a position where her secret might be exposed. The decisive moment came on the night of August 7, when the English fleet prepared to launch a fireship attack against the Spanish, who were anchored off the coast of Calais. Christina had proposed the plan herself, in a council of war aboard the Ark Royal. She had argued that the only way to break the Spanish formation was to use fireships—old vessels loaded with combustibles and set adrift among the enemy fleet. The panic caused by the approaching flames would force the Spaniards to cut their anchor cables and scatter, leaving them vulnerable to the English attack. “It’s a desperate measure,” Lord Howard had said, stroking his beard. “But these are desperate times. I approve the plan.” The fireships were prepared in secret, eight old hulks loaded with pitch, tar, and gunpowder. At midnight, they were set alight and sent drifting toward the Spanish fleet on the tide. Christina watched from the deck of the Courage as the fireships approached the enemy. The night was dark, but the burning vessels lit up the sky like a vision of hell. She could see the Spanish ships clearly, their sails and rigging silhouetted against the flames. And then the panic began. The Spaniards saw the approaching fire and reacted exactly as Christina had predicted. They cut their cables, they set their sails, they tried to escape the approaching doom. But in their haste, they collided with each other, fouled their rigging, ran aground on the sandbanks. “Now!” Christina shouted. “All ships, attack!” The English fleet swept in, taking advantage of the chaos to rake the disorganized Spanish vessels with gunfire. The battle raged through the night and into the next day, a slaughter that left the Spanish fleet shattered and demoralized. By the time it was over, the Armada was no longer a threat. The surviving Spanish ships fled northward, around Scotland and Ireland, hoping to reach home by the long and dangerous route. Many would be wrecked on the rocky coasts of the British Isles. Few would return to Spain. England was saved. And Christina Ainsworth—Christopher Ainsworth—had played a crucial part in the victory. Chapter IX: The Revelation The victory over the Armada was celebrated throughout England as a deliverance, a sign of God’s favor for the Protestant cause. The Queen herself reviewed the fleet at Tilbury, delivering her famous speech in which she declared that she had “the body of a weak and feeble woman, but… the heart and stomach of a king.” Christina was present at the review, standing with the other officers as Elizabeth passed by in her golden chariot. She looked at the Queen—small, red-haired, magnificent in her bearing—and she felt a surge of emotion that she could not name. Here was a woman who had defied the expectations of her sex, who had ruled a kingdom with wisdom and strength, who had led her people through their greatest trial. Here was proof that women were capable of greatness, that the limitations imposed upon them were artificial and unjust. And here, too, was her own fate. For Christina knew that the time had come to end the deception. The war was over, or nearly so. The emergency that had justified her presence in the navy was passing. And her secret was becoming impossible to maintain. She had made her decision in the aftermath of the battle, as she lay in her cabin, too exhausted to sleep. She would reveal herself. She would throw herself upon the Queen’s mercy and accept whatever judgment was rendered. She would not spend the rest of her life in hiding, always afraid, always alone. She requested an audience with the Queen, and to her surprise, it was granted. She was conducted to the royal presence in the great cabin of the Ark Royal, where Elizabeth sat surrounded by her counselors and ladies. “Commander Ainsworth,” the Queen said, her sharp eyes fixed on Christina’s face. “I have heard much of your exploits. They say you are one of the heroes of the Armada.” “I did my duty, Your Majesty,” Christina said, her voice barely audible. “Your duty, yes.” Elizabeth paused, and Christina saw something in her expression—knowledge, understanding, perhaps even sympathy. “But I think there is more to your story than duty, is there not?” Christina felt her heart stop. The Queen knew. She was sure of it. “Your Majesty,” she said, falling to her knees, “I have a confession to make. A confession that will shock and offend you. But I beg you to hear me out before you pass judgment.” “Rise, Commander,” Elizabeth said. “Or should I say… Commander?” Christina stood, her legs trembling. She took a deep breath and began to speak. “Your Majesty, I am not what I appear to be. I am not Christopher Ainsworth. My name is Christina Ainsworth, and I am a woman.” The silence that followed was absolute. The Queen’s counselors stared in astonishment. The ladies-in-waiting gasped and whispered among themselves. Only Elizabeth herself remained composed, her expression unreadable. “A woman,” she repeated. “You expect me to believe that you have served in my navy for ten years, that you have commanded ships in battle, that you have helped to defeat the Spanish Armada… and that you are a woman?” “It is the truth, Your Majesty. I disguised myself as a man to gain admission to the Naval Academy. I have maintained the deception ever since.” “And why? Why would you do such a thing?” “Because I could not accept the life that was offered to me. Because I had a mind that hungered for knowledge, a spirit that yearned for adventure, and a heart that would not be constrained by the limitations imposed upon my sex. Because I believed—because I still believe—that women are capable of anything men can do, if only they are given the opportunity.” Elizabeth studied her for a long moment, and Christina felt as if the Queen were looking into her very soul. “You are either the most brazen liar in my kingdom,” Elizabeth said at last, “or the most courageous woman I have ever encountered.” “I am no liar, Your Majesty. I will submit to any examination, any test, to prove the truth of what I say.” “That will not be necessary.” Elizabeth turned to one of her ladies. “Margaret, take this… person… to my private cabin. I wish to speak with her alone.” The lady curtsied and led Christina away. She was conducted to a small, richly appointed cabin and left to wait, her heart pounding with a mixture of fear and hope. She did not have long to wait. Elizabeth entered a few minutes later, having dismissed her attendants, and closed the door behind her. “Now,” she said, “tell me everything. From the beginning.” And Christina told her. She told her about her father, about her childhood, about her decision to disguise herself. She told her about the Academy, about her years at sea, about the constant fear of discovery. She told her about the battle, about the fireships, about the victory that had saved England. When she was finished, Elizabeth was silent for a long time. Then she spoke, her voice low and thoughtful. “You remind me of myself,” she said. “When I was young, I too was told that there were things I could not do, places I could not go, simply because I was a woman. I too refused to accept those limitations. And I too discovered that the world is not kind to women who defy its expectations.” “Your Majesty—” “Let me finish. I have spent my life proving that a woman can rule as well as any man. I have fought against prejudice and opposition at every turn. And I have often wondered how many other women there might be, how much talent and ability has been wasted, simply because society will not allow women to use their gifts.” She paused, looking at Christina with an expression that was almost tender. “You have done a remarkable thing, Christina Ainsworth. You have proven that a woman can be a soldier, a sailor, a commander. You have helped to save your country. And you have done it all at tremendous personal risk, with no hope of reward or recognition.” “I did not do it for reward, Your Majesty. I did it because I could not do otherwise.” “I know. And that is why I cannot condemn you. To punish you would be to punish courage, to penalize ability, to affirm the very prejudices that I have spent my life fighting against.” She rose and walked to the window, looking out at the ships that filled the harbor. “I will not expose you,” she said. “Not in the way you fear. But I cannot allow you to continue as you have been. The deception must end.” She turned back to Christina, her eyes bright with decision. “Here is what I will do. I will create a new position in my household—a naval advisor, responsible for matters of naval policy and strategy. You will hold this position, not as Christopher Ainsworth, but as Christina Ainsworth. You will be the first woman to hold a naval commission in the history of England.” Christina stared at her, unable to believe what she was hearing. “Your Majesty… I do not know what to say.” “Say that you will serve me faithfully, as you have always done. Say that you will use your knowledge and experience to strengthen my navy and protect my kingdom. Say that you will be an example to other women, a proof that the limitations imposed upon your sex are not natural but artificial, and can be overcome by those with the courage to try.” “I will, Your Majesty. With all my heart, I will.” Elizabeth smiled, a rare and beautiful smile. “Then rise, Christina Ainsworth, and take your place in my service. You have earned it.” Chapter X: The New Beginning The news of Christina’s appointment spread quickly through the court and the navy, provoking a mixture of astonishment, admiration, and outrage. There were those who praised the Queen’s wisdom in recognizing talent regardless of sex. There were those who condemned the decision as a dangerous precedent that would undermine the natural order of society. And there were those who simply could not believe that a woman had actually commanded ships in battle, had actually helped to defeat the Spanish Armada. Christina ignored the controversy and threw herself into her new duties. As the Queen’s naval advisor, she had a voice in the highest councils of the realm. She advised on ship construction, naval tactics, and the training of officers. She helped to plan the expeditions that would follow up the victory over the Armada, raiding Spanish shipping and supporting the Dutch rebels. And she became a symbol—a living proof that women were capable of greatness. Young women came to her for advice, asking how they might follow in her footsteps. She told them the truth: that the path was hard, that the obstacles were many, that the cost was high. But she also told them that it was possible, that the limitations imposed upon them were not insurmountable, that with courage and determination they could achieve anything. She never married. She had sacrificed too much, given too much of herself, to surrender her independence now. But she was not lonely. She had friends—Lady Catherine Willoughby, who had known her secret all along and had protected it; the surgeon Hobbes, who had kept her confidence and become her trusted ally; and many others who had come to know her and respect her for who she truly was. And she had her work. She continued to serve the Queen for the remainder of Elizabeth’s reign, helping to build the navy that would make England the greatest maritime power in the world. She lived to see the defeat of Spain, the colonization of America, the beginning of the age of exploration and discovery that would transform the world. When she died, in the year 1610, she was mourned as a national hero. Her funeral was attended by the great men of the realm, and the sermon preached at her burial praised her as “a woman who transcended the limitations of her sex to serve her country with honor and distinction.” But the words that were inscribed on her tombstone, in the church at Plymouth where she was buried, were her own: “I was born a woman, but I chose to be a soldier. I was denied an education, but I seized it. I was told that I could not, but I did. Let no woman who comes after me accept the limitations that society would impose upon her. The only true limits are those we impose upon ourselves.” And so ended the story of Christina of Plymouth—the woman who disguised herself as a man to gain an education, who became one of the greatest naval officers in English history, who helped to defeat the Spanish Armada and save her country from invasion, and who proved, once and for all, that women were capable of anything they set their minds to. Her legacy lived on, in the women who followed her into the navy and the army, into the universities and the professions, into every sphere of life that had once been closed to them. She had opened a door that could never be closed again. And for that, she would be remembered forever. The End