Treachery (10 page)

‘I would, of course, if I’d noticed in time,’ Sidney agrees, sweeping off his hat. ‘You were just that bit quicker, I’m afraid.’

‘Oh, but it would have been a pity to ruin such a fine feather for the sake of a fisherman’s child, Sir Philip,’ the dark-haired woman says, with a perfectly sincere expression. Her friend bites down a smile, then raises her eyes to meet Sidney’s. Drake looks from one to the other with amusement.

‘I believe you are already acquainted,’ he says, gesturing to the two women.

‘We were not formally introduced, dear,’ the auburn-haired one says, patting his hand.

‘My wife Elizabeth, Lady Drake,’ he says, with pride, and the woman inclines her head modestly, before glancing up at Sidney from under her lashes. He looks like a man who has bet the wrong way in a dog fight.

‘And her cousin Nell, Lady Arden.’

The dark-haired woman nods to Sidney, then looks directly at me. ‘Widow of the late Sir Richard Arden,’ she adds. I cannot help feeling this is for my benefit. So much for the notion of Drake’s plain wife and her ageing widowed cousin. I suspect that Sidney’s enthusiasm for the task of chaperoning the women around Plymouth has increased significantly. In fact, it is likely that I will have to chaperone them from Sidney.

Drake waves Sidney to an empty chair at his left hand, opposite his wife. I take the remaining seat, between the clergyman and the one who looks like a courtier, placed diagonally opposite Lady Arden, who smiles again, as if she is enjoying some private joke. I guess her to be in her mid-twenties, of an age with Drake’s wife; her pale skin is smooth and flawless and beneath those dark brows her green eyes glint with a suggestion of mischief, and miss nothing. In an instant, Plymouth has grown considerably more interesting.

‘So you are the renowned Doctor Bruno?’ The man in clerical robes sets down his cup and regards me with a placid expression. Reluctantly, I turn my attention from Lady Arden to look at him. He has that high colour in his cheeks, peculiar to some Englishmen, that makes it seem he is permanently blushing or flustered. His fair hair is thinning severely on top, but the smoothness of his face suggests he is no more than his early thirties. There is no obvious edge to his words, but I cannot help interpreting them as provocative, though that probably says more about my character than his.

‘I was not aware that my renown, such as it is, had reached as far as Plymouth,’ I say, offering a polite smile.

‘We had heard whispers that Sir Philip Sidney was bringing with him a famed Italian philosopher,’ he says, returning the smile, though it does not touch his eyes. ‘Ambrose Pettifer, chaplain on the
Elizabeth Bonaventure
.’ He extends a hand, as if he has just remembered the correct etiquette. I grasp it; his handshake feels unpleasantly moist.

‘Giordano Bruno of Nola. Though you know that.’

‘I understand you are a fellow priest. A Dominican, if I am not mistaken?’

‘I’m afraid you are,’ I say. ‘I left my order almost a decade ago. I no longer consider myself in holy orders.’

He raises a pale eyebrow. ‘I did not think that was permitted?’

‘It’s not. That’s why I was excommunicated.’

‘Ah.’ His eyes widen briefly. He takes a sip of wine. ‘I hear you are condemned as a heretic by the Church of Rome for the ideas in your books.’

My smile is growing strained. ‘Generally by those who have not read them. In any case, I am in good company – the Pope also regards your queen as a heretic. And everyone who shares her religion.’

‘Yes,’ he persists, ‘but is it true that in your books you draw on ancient magic, and you write that man can ascend to become like God?’

I glance around in case anyone should overhear this. ‘I write about cosmology and philosophy, and the ancient art of memory. I have never argued that man can become like God.’ Not in so many words, anyway.

‘Good,’ he says primly. ‘Because that sounds like a Gnostic heresy to me. Even so,’ he continues, toying with his empty cup, ‘I would rather the crew did not learn that you were a Catholic priest. Englishmen are superstitious, you know, and sailors more than any. Under duress, it is the old faith they turn to. Many of them carry relics and holy medals, though they know these are forbidden, and I often hear them crying out to the Holy Virgin along with every saint in heaven.’ He folds his hands together. ‘I close my eyes and ears to it, of course, but it would not help if they knew there was a priest of the old religion aboard. You understand?’

‘Don’t worry, Padre,’ Sidney says, leaning in to catch the end of this, ‘Bruno is a long way from the priesthood now. He will not try and sneak the sacraments to them when your back is turned, I give you my word.’

I laugh, grateful to Sidney for trying to lighten the conversation, but Pettifer is not to be deterred.

‘You may joke, Sir Philip,’ he says, raising a finger, ‘but a man died by his own hand aboard the
Elizabeth
only two days ago. Imagine how this has affected the men. They talk of curses and omens and God’s punishment, and it makes it all the harder to keep them to the true path of faith. I have their souls in my care, you see.’

‘Well, I will do my best not to add to your burden,’ I say, reaching for the jug of wine. God, the man is insufferably pompous.

He gives me a tight little smile in response. ‘In any case,’ he says, ‘I presume you will be back on the road to London as soon as Dom Antonio arrives? Sir Francis will hardly be in a position to offer him much hospitality, in the circumstances. I dare say you would all be better off back at court.’

‘I dare say,’ Sidney agrees breezily. Fortunately, we are spared any further exchanges on this subject by the arrival of a trio of servants carrying dishes of salad leaves and manchet bread, followed by platters of fish poached in wine.

‘Caught off these shores, brought in this very morning,’ Drake says, indicating the fish, as proudly as if he had caught it himself. I see Sidney and the other well-dressed gentleman looking at it with suspicion; they regard fish as a penance, to be eaten on Fridays and in Lent when good Christians forego their meat, but Drake tucks in as if it were the best venison. After a year at sea, Sidney will have gained a new appreciation for fresh fish, I think, smiling to myself as I am served.

‘Do you mean to stay long in Plymouth, Lady Drake?’ Sidney asks, leaning across the table.

‘My cousin and I grow tired of our own company at Buckland Abbey when my husband is away,’ she says. ‘When we received word that the fleet was to be delayed in Plymouth, we thought we would pay a visit. Not that Plymouth has a great deal to recommend it, saving your gracious company, masters. But we are grateful for a change of scene. We may even take the opportunity to call by the drapers’ and buy some cloth.’

‘We ladies have to take our entertainments where we can find them,’ Lady Arden adds, with a dry smile.

Drake looks at his wife and beams approval. I watch her, curious.

‘And you, Sir Philip? How long will you stay?’ calls my neighbour, the newcomer. He has the imperious voice of a man accustomed to talking over others. His beard is carefully trimmed to a point and flecked with grey and he wears his hair cut very short in an effort to mask his encroaching baldness, but he is still handsome, in a weathered sort of way. I notice his upper lip is swollen, with a fresh cut.

‘At least until Dom Antonio arrives, Sir William,’ Sidney says, leaning down the table to offer a courtly smile.

‘Oh good God, is that Portuguese bastard still hanging about?’ Sir William says, rolling his eyes and holding out his glass for more wine. ‘You’d think he’d have given up by now. I can’t understand why Her Majesty goes on tolerating him, still less giving him money.’

‘Because he has a better claim to the throne of Portugal than Philip of Spain does.’ Sidney’s face grows serious and he sets down his knife. ‘If Dom Antonio became king, he would be our much-needed ally. You must know that since Spain annexed Portugal on the death of the old king, it now commands the biggest navy in Europe. It is clearly in England’s interest to oppose that.’

Sir William grunts. ‘It was a rhetorical question, Sir Philip. Besides, not even Dom Antonio believes he has a hope of regaining the Portuguese throne. Spain has bought off the whole of the nobility in return for their support. Pass the wine.’

‘Do you stay long yourself, Sir William?’ Sidney asks.

‘Me? I stay until the fleet sails.’

‘And then back to court?’

Sir William barks out a sharp laugh. ‘And then I sail with them, Philip. I have a berth aboard the
Elizabeth
.’

‘What?’ Sidney’s manners can’t quite keep pace with his emotions; his gaze swivels from Drake to Sir William, mouth open, until he composes himself and fixes Drake with a simmering glare.

‘Sir William Savile has invested very generously in this voyage,’ Drake says, although he has the grace to look a little sheepish. ‘And he has valuable military experience.’

‘Thought it was time for a bit of adventure,’ says Sir William, with a broad grin that makes him wince, as his split lip stretches. He dabs at it with a forefinger. ‘A chap can grow soft and idle, hanging about at court all summer with only women for conversation. Saving your presence, my ladies.’ He nods to Lady Arden, who says nothing, though her eyes dance with indignation. ‘At least, that was my intention, until this unfortunate business with poor Dunne—’ He looks over at Drake and breaks off; Drake is shaking his head, as if to warn him off the subject, presumably for the sake of the women.

‘How horrible,’ Lady Arden says, with a dramatic shudder. ‘What would make a man do that? Take his own life, I mean.’ She looks up at me, green eyes wide.

‘Despair,’ I say, since no one else seems inclined to answer.

‘Or fear,’ remarks Sir William Savile, tearing at a piece of bread.

‘Why do you say that?’ I ask, turning to him. He regards me, apparently surprised to be addressed so directly. He appears to weigh up my status before he condescends to answer.

‘Well,’ he says, eventually, ‘I suppose a man may be driven to a point where he considers death an escape from something worse.’ He looks into his glass as he speaks.

‘Worse than death?’ says Lady Arden, scorn in her voice.

‘There are many kinds of death, my lady,’ he replies. ‘Who knows what demons Robert Dunne was fleeing from.’

‘Did you know him well?’ I ask.

He shoots me a sharp glance. ‘Not well, no. He had lands in Devon, as do I. We had conversed on nautical matters a number of times, so I was pleased to discover I had been given the cabin next to his aboard the
Elizabeth
. I had thought we would have more time to talk during the long months at sea, but alas …’ He spreads his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

‘Did you speak to him the night he died?’ I lean forward, perhaps too eagerly. Savile frowns.

‘I think, gentlemen,’ Drake cuts in, ‘that the memory of our late comrade is not honoured by discussion of his death in this way. Especially over dinner.’ He smiles pleasantly but I catch the same warning tone in his voice that I noticed the day before. Savile meets his eye briefly and gives a curt nod of agreement.

The rest of the meal passes in ship talk, but the shadow of Dunne’s mysterious death hovers at the edges of the conversation, the subject we are all consciously avoiding. Whenever Drake talks about being able to set sail, I am conscious that he means when he has identified Dunne’s killer. It would seem that Savile and the women are still under the impression that Dunne hanged himself. If Savile had the cabin next door, Drake must have asked him about any unusual disturbance the night of Dunne’s death – and if he has not, perhaps it is because he has doubts about confiding in Savile. I could not blame him; there is something unconvincing about the man’s bluff bonhomie. I tell myself I should discuss this with Drake before I blunder in asking questions; then remember that I have sworn not to get involved in this business.

Further down the table, Sidney is regaling Drake and his wife with anecdotes of court life. Drake looks politely bored; his wife, by contrast, is hanging on Sidney’s every word, laughing with delight as if on cue, her eyes fixed on his. If that were my wife, I think, I would keep her well away from Sidney; at this rate, he will be writing her sonnets by supper. I watch Drake: his broad, tanned face, his big red hands that dwarf the wine glass he clasps between them. I don’t suppose she has a lot of sonnets from that quarter. When I look up, Lady Arden flashes me a knowing smile, as if she is following my thoughts.

As the servants are clearing the board, Drake leans in to whisper something to his wife and together they stand, excusing themselves as Drake announces he must now attend to his wife’s comfort and will see us later back on board. Savile’s moustache twitches with a smirk at Drake’s choice of words.

‘And who will attend to your comfort, Lady Arden?’ Savile says, from the side of his mouth, with a slight leer. ‘I am sure I could oblige.’

‘How gallant, Sir William,’ she says, with icy courtesy. ‘I’m afraid as a widow I must fend for myself. Now, if you will forgive me, gentlemen, I think I will retire to my room for a while. The emotion of discussing nautical charts at such length has quite worn me out.’ She smiles sweetly around the table and pushes her chair back.

The rest of us rise to our feet as the ladies and Drake take their leave and I turn to find Thomas Drake at my shoulder.

‘Sir Francis attends you and Sir Philip upstairs, in his wife’s chamber,’ he murmurs. ‘He wishes to speak with you in private.’

Padre Pettifer is just leaving, but he turns and catches my eye as Thomas is speaking. I am certain he has overheard. Again, I sense a hostility in the way he looks at me.

‘Rich as Croesus, that one, since the old man died,’ Savile mutters to me, jerking a thumb in the direction of the door.

‘I beg your pardon?’

He leans in with a wolfish grin. ‘Ah, no need to pretend. I saw how you looked at her. We’re all trying, believe me. Who wouldn’t want a ripe young widow with money in her coffers? But I tell you – Bruno, was it? – once a widow, there’s little incentive to become a wife again. They get a taste for independence, y’see.’ He nods a full stop, as if to confirm his disapproval. ‘She’ll make you work for it. They enjoy wielding their power. Still, may the best man win, eh?’