Treachery (21 page)

‘He can always bring me back a souvenir.’

Drake laughs, and drains his second glass. ‘Not that we will be going anywhere until this business with Dunne is resolved. And his widow arrives in Plymouth tomorrow,’ he adds, in the same heavy tone, glancing at the window. ‘She is bound to oppose a verdict of suicide, and the coroner may feel obliged to consider her case.’

We are interrupted by a knock at the door. Drake gathers up the manuscript in one swift move and replaces it inside the cupboard, which he locks with a key from his belt just as the door opens and Gilbert enters. I bow in greeting; he responds with a bashful smile and turns to Drake.

‘The captains are here for supper. Shall I show them in?’

Drake nods, then motions to my notes still scattered across the table. ‘Clear those away, Bruno. Should I keep them here under lock and key?’

I gather the papers into a pile. ‘Better I keep them in my lodgings, Sir Francis. That way we have two copies, in case anything should happen to one.’

‘Can you keep them secure?’ He looks doubtful.

‘Secure enough. Besides, no one except us knows I have made this copy.’ No one except Jonas, I think, as I tuck the pages into my leather bag.

NINE

Out on deck, the wind has freshened and the ship’s motion is more insistent. To the west, the light is fading and heavy clouds are massing on the horizon, obscuring the setting sun. There is quite a party bound for Plymouth this evening from the
Elizabeth
: Sidney and Savile are waiting on deck, along with Gilbert Crosse, Jonas, Thomas Drake and Pettifer the chaplain.

‘Planning a night of revelry ashore, Padre?’ Savile says, with a wink. The clergyman blinks slowly and stares at him, unsmiling.

‘I am going to pray, Sir William,’ he replies. ‘My soul feels the need of sustenance in our present troubles.’

‘Don’t blame you, sir. Savage company like this.’ Savile jerks his thumb in the direction of the main deck. ‘We could all do with a little elevation.’

‘And where will you look for yours, Sir William, in Plymouth?’ Sidney sounds charming, as always, but there is a bite to his tone. I deduce that he and Savile have not spent the most harmonious afternoon together.

Savile raises an eyebrow. ‘There is only one place in Plymouth fitting for a gentleman, Sir Philip. One must seek the sacred flame.’

Pettifer tuts loudly and turns his face away. I catch Sidney’s eye as understanding dawns.

‘You mean the House of Vesta?’ I say to Savile. ‘It is a whorehouse, is it not? Is the sacred flame its emblem?’

Savile looks down at me and cocks his head. ‘The cognoscenti do not have to ask such questions, my friend.’ He offers a condescending smile.

‘Surely a great scholar has his mind on higher things,’ Jonas says, laughing. I sense he is trying to deflect any tension.

‘You do not know many scholars then,’ Savile replies, his tone dry. ‘Every one I ever met goes to it like a street dog. Every priest, too,’ he adds, with a nod to Pettifer, who scowls and exhales through his nose, as if his patience is being tested to its limit. ‘Isn’t that so, Gilbert?’ Savile nudges the young clerk. ‘All this talk of Evensong is just a cover, surely?’

Gilbert stares at him, alarmed, a fierce colour spreading up his face. ‘I don’t know what you mean, Sir William,’ he falters.

‘Come on – you’re off to a bawdy house later, surely, fine young lad like you?’

Gilbert looks distraught at the very idea. Sidney claps him on the shoulder. ‘He is teasing you, Master Crosse. Pay him no heed. He would benefit from a couple of hours in church himself,’ he adds, glancing at Savile.

‘Wouldn’t we all, Sir Philip,’ Savile says, with a rueful smile. ‘Though you will not have time, I fear – are you not appointed to entertain Lady Drake and her cousin while they are here?’ He asks the question innocently enough, but I see Sidney’s face harden.

‘The boat is below, my masters,’ Jonas says quietly, indicating the rope ladder. He throws one leg over the side and begins to make his descent. One by one, we move to follow him.

The sea is choppy, even in the Sound; one of the oarsmen holds the small rowing boat as steady as he can against the hull of the
Elizabeth
while I climb in, with Pettifer following, but he has to cling hard to the rope ladder as the waves buffet us in contrary directions. The ladder sways and I have to half turn and jump into the boat, setting it rocking wildly, as a wave thumps it hard against the hull of the ship and spray hits us full in the face. I am glad we have only a short journey to make, though we will surely be soaked by the end of it; the wind is high now and the oarsmen’s faces strain with the effort of pulling us through the white-flecked water.

‘You have packed up Robert Dunne’s belongings for his widow, Sir Philip?’ Gilbert Crosse leans towards Sidney and shouts into the spray. Both Pettifer and Jonas look across at us with interest.

‘That’s right,’ he shouts back. ‘She arrives tomorrow, I believe. Poor woman.’

‘Did you find anything?’ Gilbert persists. ‘I mean, anything that might explain why he took his life?’ The conspiratorial look he gives me is so lacking in subtlety he may as well be acting it in a playhouse.

‘No letter or any explanation, if that is what you mean,’ I say. ‘Any such thing would surely have been found already. We only put away his possessions and made certain nothing was left behind. It was a service Sir Philip wished to perform for an old friend.’ I glance at Sidney, who lowers his head in a solemn nod.

‘Remind me how you knew him again, Sir Philip,’ says Savile lightly, ‘for I never heard him speak of you.’

‘Family connection,’ Sidney says, with a wave of his hand, as if this covered every possibility. Savile does not press the matter, just watches him with an expression of knowing amusement. I begin to suspect that Savile is a good deal shrewder than his public face would have people believe, and that we should keep an eye on him.

‘We may never know what drove a man to such a dreadful sin,’ Pettifer remarks, assuming a righteous expression. Jonas scowls at him, though the chaplain appears not to notice.

‘If anyone were to know the state of his mind, it would be you, Padre, surely?’ Savile says.

The chaplain blinks at him, his eyes wary. ‘How so, Sir William?’

‘Did you not visit him later on, the night he died? I was restless and thought to take some air on deck, and I was certain I saw you coming from his cabin – this would have been past midnight, I suppose.’

‘Well – yes, I did – that is, I went to see how he was. I wanted to be sure he was recovering, given the state he was in earlier.’

‘And was he?’ Sidney asks.

‘He seemed a little better. So I stayed to pray with him.’

‘Pray?’ Sidney looks sceptical. ‘He was awake, then?’

‘Yes, Sir Philip, obviously.’ If Pettifer had at first been caught off guard by these questions, he quickly regains his composure. ‘He felt the need of spiritual comfort. A man cannot help but consider the frailty of the flesh as he sets out to sea, and remember how completely he must trust himself to God’s mercies. I have found that many sailors wish to unburden their conscience and set it clear before their Maker when the journey begins.’

‘Unburden? You mean he made his confession to you?’ I ask – too quickly.

‘I do not hear confession, Doctor Bruno – that is a sacrament of the Catholic Church.’ He purses his lips and gives me a reproving look.

‘Of course,’ I say, smiling. I make up my mind to speak with him in private as soon as I can. A man who wants to unburden himself to a minister of religion because he fears death is making a confession, however much Pettifer may dance around the word. What did Robert Dunne have to confess? I catch Sidney’s eye as the wind lifts his hair from his face; he furrows his brow and I return his look with a minute shake of my head. I have no answer, except to glance around at the men hunched down in the rowing boat against the wind, and wonder which of them is lying. The prow rises to cut through a wave and drops back with a flat thud, before rising again; spray slaps us hard in the faces and Sidney and Savile curse aloud as they check their satin and velvet for salt marks.

‘Now you thank me,’ Jonas says in Spanish, raising his voice over the noise of the wind and pointing to his stomach with a grin as the boat heaves over another wave. ‘Are you feeling sick?’

‘Not yet.’ I smile, grudgingly acknowledging his point.

‘I promise you,’ Jonas continues, looking pleased, ‘take a little every day and you will be as much at home in the water as a mermaid.’

‘A mermaid? Oh God, has he made you drink his seasickness remedy?’ Savile asks, overhearing. When I nod, he mimes putting a finger down his throat. ‘That’s a mistake you only make once – no tempest could have you bringing up your supper faster than a draught of whatever he puts in that. Eh, Jonas?’ he says, winking at the Spaniard.

‘Wait until we are out in the Atlantic, Sir William,’ Jonas replies, in English this time, leaning back and stretching out his legs. ‘You will be begging me for a cup of it.’

‘A hundred crowns I will not.’

The oarsmen steer us through the harbour entrance to Sutton Pool and all the passengers slump with relief as we move into flat water. Sidney is looking a little green and is unusually quiet. This gives me an impish pleasure; if he discovers he lacks the stomach for seafaring, perhaps he may change his mind about this escapade. But as we approach the wooden jetty, I watch his face as he struggles to master himself, takes a deep breath and assumes his usual good cheer as he stands, one hand on Gilbert’s shoulder, surveying the harbour with a satisfied expression, as if he were a homecoming hero. It would take more than a bout of seasickness to sway him once he has determined on a plan, I realise with a sigh. Church bells echo across the pool from somewhere behind the houses, funereal in the fading light.

A wooden ladder leads down from the jetty into the water; I stand behind Gilbert Crosse waiting to disembark and the man before him pushes off too hard as he steps out to the ladder, causing the small boat to lurch suddenly and send us stumbling into one another. Gilbert loses his footing and falls backwards; I catch him around his ribs to keep him upright and he twists away sharply, almost like a reflex, as if I have grabbed him in a sore place.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you,’ I say, helping him to regain his balance. He pulls away from me, brushing himself down.

‘No – I’m quite all right, thank you.’ He adjusts his jacket and steps quickly to the ladder. I watch him as he pauses on the jetty to adjust his clothing once more. He seems to fear that our impromptu embrace has disarranged his shirt, which he now takes pains to tuck firmly into his breeches. As he straightens up, he meets my eye and gives me a tense, embarrassed smile as he scurries towards the dock.

Pettifer and I are the last out of the boat. I try to keep Sidney in my sights but I turn and see that Pettifer is hanging back as the others walk on ahead, as if he wants to speak with me alone. Taking the hint, I slow my steps. When he judges the rest to have moved out of earshot, he lays a hand on my arm.

‘May I ask you a question, Doctor Bruno?’ He is making an effort to sound more courteous, and this in itself piques my interest.

I stop and turn to him. ‘Of course.’

He hesitates, as if unsure how to frame it.

‘There is talk aboard the
Elizabeth
that Captain Drake has brought you here to unfold the secrets of the Jesuit’s book. The one he took from the
Santa Maria
.’ He looks at me with an anxious frown, awaiting confirmation.

‘Sir Philip Sidney brought me here to keep him company. I never met Sir Francis until yesterday.’ I look him in the eye, to lend weight to my words, wondering who could have started this rumour. Aside from Drake and his brother, only Jonas has any firm knowledge of the reason for my visit to the captain’s quarters.

‘But you do not deny, sir, that the Captain-General has put you to work translating a book he keeps locked in his cabin? An ancient book?’

‘It were best, perhaps, that you ask Sir Francis directly about his books,’ I say, smiling to take the sting from my reply. ‘As his chaplain, you are surely in his confidence.’

‘He is much preoccupied with other matters at present,’ Pettifer says, steepling his fingers together and pressing the tips to his lower lip. ‘And once rumours begin aboard a ship …’ His expression asks for sympathy. ‘You understand, I’m sure, that as chaplain I have the men’s souls in my care.’

I say nothing; only raise an eyebrow as I wait for him to explain what he wants me to do about the men’s souls.

‘Sailors are, for the most part, simple men,’ he continues, his fingertips still pressed to his lips. ‘Not educated, like you and me. I have no doubt they worship as the law demands when they are at home, but their superstitions remain vivid. And once out at sea, days or weeks from land, many of them look for comfort to the faith they learned from their grandfathers. When waves are crashing over the ship or a Spanish pinnace is firing on you, how do you tell a man he must not cry out to Our Lady of the Sea or Saint Brendon the Navigator for succour, because we are Englishmen and the Queen forbids it?’

‘You have been in such situations many times, I suppose?’

‘I speak from experience, yes.’ He nods, to affirm his own sincerity. ‘You ask if I hear confession – the truth is, I hear many. I cannot offer absolution, but that seems to matter little – often I have seen how a man fearing death wants simply to unburden himself of his sins, whether he gives it that name or no. So you see, I must walk a fine line when it comes to balancing spiritual authority with spiritual comfort.’

‘I see that. But why are you telling me this?’

He sighs, as if wearied by the effort of spelling it out.

‘It is supposed by the men,’ he continues, carefully, ‘that the book Captain Drake keeps locked in his cabin is a book of heresy. Some say it contains invocations to call down the Devil. Some say it curses the name of Christ.’

I laugh. The sound is snatched away by the wind. ‘They have read this book, then, these simple sailors? They know enough Coptic to surmise its contents?’