Treachery (2019 Edition)

by S. J. Parris

  ‘Steady there.’

  I regain my balance, take a breath, and look up to face my rescuer.

  ‘And who is this, that we nearly lost to the fishes?’ he asks, not unkindly. As he smiles down a gold tooth flashes in the corner of his mouth.

  ‘Doctor Giordano Bruno of Nola, at your service.’ My heart is pounding with relief, or shock, or both, at the thought that I might have fallen the full height of the ship. ‘Sir,’ I add, realising whom I am addressing.

  No introduction is needed on his part; the quiet authority of the man, his natural self-assurance, the way the others stand in a deferential half-circle around him, leave me in no doubt that I am speaking to the one the Spanish call El Draco, the dragon. England’s most famous pirate smiles, and claps me on the shoulder.

  ‘You are welcome, then, to the Elizabeth Bonaventure. Are you a doctor of physick?’ His expression is hopeful.

  ‘Theology, I’m afraid. Less useful.’ I offer an apologetic smile.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ He looks at me, appraising. ‘We may yet find a use for you. Come, gentlemen – are you hungry? We will take supper in my quarters.’

  Knollys bows his head. ‘Thank you. There is much to discuss.’

  ‘Ah, Captain Knollys.’ Francis Drake rubs his beard and his smile disappears. ‘More than you know.’

  There is a heaviness in his voice, just for an instant, that catches my attention, but he turns away and calls orders to one of the men standing nearby. It is an opportunity to study the Captain-General unobserved. He is broad-shouldered and robust, taller than me though not as tall as Sidney, with an open face, his skin tanned and weathered by his years at sea. There are white creases at the corners of his eyes, as if he laughs so often that the sun has not been able to reach them. His brown hair is receding and flecked with grey at his temples and most visibly in his neat beard; I guess him to be in his mid-forties. I see now why Sidney, despite his bluster about rank, is so keen to impress this man; Drake radiates an air of quiet strength earned through experience, and in this he reminds me a little of my own father, a professional soldier, though Drake cannot be more than ten years my senior. I find I want him to like me.

  Drake turns back to us and claps his hands together. ‘Come, then. You should at least quench your thirst while we wait for the food.’

  As we follow him to the other end of the deck, the crew pause in their duties and watch us pass. I notice there is an odd atmosphere aboard this ship; a sullen suspicion in the way they watch us from the tail of their eye, and something more, a muted disquiet. There is no music or singing here. The men are almost silent; I hear none of the foul-mouthed, good-natured banter I have grown used to among the crew of the Leicester on our way down. Do they resent our presence? Or perhaps they are silent out of respect. I catch the eye of one man who stares back from beneath brows so thick they meet in the middle; his expression is guarded, but hostile. Something is wrong here.

  Drake leads us to a door below the quarterdeck, where two thick-set men stand guard with halberds at their sides, staring straight ahead, grim-faced. Light catches the naked edges of their blades. I find their presence unsettling. I guess that Drake and the other officers keep items of value in their quarters and must have them defended, though such a display of force seems to show a marked lack of faith in his crew. He leans in to exchange a few words with one of the guards in a low murmur, then opens the door and leads us through into a handsomely appointed cabin, proportioned like Knollys’s room aboard the Leicester, but more austerely furnished. Trimmings are limited to one woven carpet on the floor and the dark-red drapes gathered at the edges of the wide window that reaches around three sides of the cabin. Under it stands a large oak table, spread with a vast map, surrounded by nautical charts and papers with scribbled calculations and sketches of coastline. Behind the table, bent over these charts with a quill in hand, is a skinny young man with a thatch of straw-coloured hair and small round eyeglasses perched on his nose. He jolts his head up as we enter, stares at us briefly, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, then begins sweeping up the papers with as much haste as if we had caught him looking at erotic prints.

  ‘Thank you, Gilbert – get those cleared away and leave us, would you?’ Drake says.

  The young man nods, and takes off his eye-glasses. Without them, he is obliged to squint at us. He rolls up the charts with a practised movement and gathers the papers together, stealing curious glances at me and Sidney as he does so.

  ‘That is the Mercator projection, is it not?’ I say, leaning forward and pointing to the large map as he begins to furl it. He peers at me and darts a quick glance at Drake, as if to check whether he is permitted to answer.

  ‘You know something of cartography, Doctor Bruno?’ Drake says, looking at me with new interest.

  ‘Only a little,’ I say hastily, as the world disappears into a blank cylinder under the young man’s ink-stained fingers. ‘But anyone with an interest in cosmography is familiar with Mercator’s map. The first true attempt to spread on a plane the surface of a sphere, measuring latitude with some mathematical accuracy.’

  ‘Exactly,’ the young man says, his face suddenly animated. ‘It is the first projection of the globe designed specifically for navigation at sea. Mercator’s great achievement is to alter the lines of latitude to account for the curvature of the Earth. It means we can now plot a ship’s course on a constant bearing—’ He catches sight of Drake’s face and swallows the rest of his explanation. ‘Forgive me, I am running on.’

  ‘My clerk, Gilbert Crosse.’ Drake gestures to the young man with an indulgent smile as he eases out from behind the table. ‘Gilbert, these are our visitors newly arrived on the Leicester – Captain Knollys, Sir Philip Sidney and Doctor Giordano Bruno.’ The clerk smiles nervously and nods to each of us in turn, though his red-rimmed eyes linger on me as he locks the papers away in a cupboard and backs out of the room.

  ‘Very gifted young man there,’ Drake says, nodding towards the door after Gilbert has closed it behind him. ‘Came to me via Walsingham, you know. Take a seat, gentlemen.’

  Behind the table, wooden benches are set into the wall panelling. We squeeze in as Drake pours wine into delicate Venetian glasses from a crystal decanter. The young clerk has left a brass cross-staff on the table, an instrument used to determine latitude; my friend John Dee, the Queen’s former astrologer, kept one in his library. I pick it up and, as no one seems to object, I hold one end against my cheek and level the other at the opposite wall, imagining I am aligning it with the horizon.

  ‘Careful, Bruno, you’ll have someone’s eye out,’ Sidney says, sprawling on the bench, his arm stretched out along the back behind me.

  I lower the cross-staff to see Drake observing me with interest. ‘Can you use it?’

  ‘I have been shown how to calculate the angle between the horizon and the north star, but only on land.’ I set it back on the table. ‘I don’t suppose that counts.’

  ‘It’s more than many. An unusual skill for a theologian. Can you use a cross-staff, Sir Philip?’ he says, turning to Sidney, mischief in his eye.

  Sidney waves a hand. ‘I’m afraid not, Drake, but I am willing to learn.’

  Drake passes him a glass of wine with a polite smile. He cannot fail to notice that Sidney does not give him his proper title; both are knighted and therefore equal in status, though you will not persuade Sidney of that. I watch Drake as he sets my glass down. The tension I sensed among the men on deck has seeped in here, even into the refined and polished space of the captain’s cabin. I think of the armed men outside the door.

  The latch clicks softly and Drake half-rises, quick as blinking, his right hand twitching to the hilt of his sword, but he relaxes when he sees the newcomers, a half-dozen men with wind-tanned faces, dressed in the expensive fabrics of gentlemen. Leading them is a man of around my own age, thinner but so like Drake in all other respects that he can only be a relative. He crosses to the table and embraces
him.

  ‘Thomas! Come, join us, all of you.’ Drake points to the bench beside Sidney. There is relief in his laughter and I observe him with curiosity; what has happened to put this great captain so on edge? ‘You know Sir Philip Sidney, of course, and this is his friend, Doctor Bruno, come to greet Dom Antonio, whom we expect any day. Gentlemen, I present my brother and right-hand man, Thomas Drake. And this is Master Christopher Carleill, lieutenant-general of all my forces for this voyage,’ he says, gesturing to a handsome, athletic man in his early thirties with a head of golden curls and shrewd eyes. I see Sidney forcing a smile: this Carleill is Walsingham’s stepson, who – though barely older than Sidney – is already well established in the military career that Sidney so urgently craves.

  After Carleill, we are introduced to Captain Fenner, who takes charge of the day-to-day command of the Elizabeth Bonaventure; though Drake sails on the flagship, he is occupied with the operation of the entire fleet. Behind Fenner are three grizzled, unsmiling men, more of Drake’s trusted commanders who accompanied him on his famous journey around the globe and have returned to put their lives and ships at his service again.

  Knollys is delighted to be reunited with his old comrades; there is a great deal of back-slapping and exclaiming, though the newly arrived commanders seem oddly muted in their greetings. To me and Sidney they are gruffly courteous, but again I have the sense that our welcome is strained, the atmosphere tainted by some unspoken fear.

  ‘Now that the Leicester is here, I presume the fleet will sail as soon as the tide allows?’ Sidney asks Drake.

  Drake and his brother exchange a look. There is a silence. ‘I think,’ says the Captain-General slowly, turning his glass in his hand, ‘we are obliged to wait a little longer. There are certain matters to settle.’

  Sidney nods, as if he understands. ‘Still provisioning, I suppose? It is a lengthy business.’

  ‘Something like that.’ Drake smiles. A nerve pulses under his eye. He lays his hands flat on the table. The room sways gently and the sun casts watery shadows on the panelled walls, reflections of the sea outside the window.

  A knock comes at the door; again, almost imperceptibly, I notice Drake tense, but it is only the serving boys with dishes of food. These sudden, nervy movements are the response of someone who feels hunted – I recognise them, because I have lived like that myself so often, my hand never far from the knife at my belt. But what does the commander of the fleet fear aboard his own flagship?

  I had been led to believe that all ship’s food was like chewing the sole of a leather boot, but this meal is as good as any I have had at the French embassy. Drake explains that they are still well stocked with fresh provisions from Plymouth, for now, and that in his experience it is as important to have a competent ship’s cook as it is to have a good military commander, if not more so, and they all look at Carleill with good-natured laughter. ‘Although, if—’ Drake begins, and breaks off, and the others lower their eyes, as if they knew what he was about to say.

  The tension among the captains grows more apparent as the meal draws on. Silences become strained, and more frequent, though Sidney obligingly fills them with questions about the voyage; the captains seem grateful for the chance to keep the conversation to business. It is only now, as I listen to their discussion, that I begin fully to realise the scale and ambition of this enterprise. I had understood that the official purpose of Drake’s voyage was to sail along the coast of Spain, releasing the English ships illegally impounded in Spanish ports. What he actually plans, it seems, is a full-scale onslaught on Spain’s New World territories. He means to cross the Atlantic and take back the richest ports of the Spanish Main, ending his campaign with the seizure of Havana. Soberly, between mouthfuls and often through them, Drake throws out figures that make my eyes water: a million ducats from the capture of Cartagena, a million more from Panama. If it sounds like licensed piracy, he says, with a self-deprecating laugh, let us never lose sight of the expedition’s real purpose: to cut off Spain’s supply of treasure from the Indies. Without his income from the New World, Philip of Spain would have to rein in his ambitions to make war on England. And if that treasure were diverted into England’s coffers, Elizabeth could send a proper force to defend the Protestants in the Netherlands. I understand now why some of the most prominent dignitaries at court have rushed to invest in this fleet; its success is a matter not only of personal profit but of national security. It is also clear to me that Sidney has effectively found an alternative means of going to war, and that he expects me to follow.

  When the last mouthful is eaten, the captains excuse themselves and leave for their own ships. Only Thomas Drake and Knollys remain behind.

  Sir Francis pushes his plate away and looks at Sidney. ‘I must be straight with you, Sir Philip. It would be best if you were to leave Plymouth as soon as possible with Dom Antonio when he arrives. He will no doubt wish to linger – he and I are old comrades, and he will be interested in discussing this voyage – but in the circumstances it is better you hasten to London. For his own safety.’

  Sidney hesitates; I fear he is weighing up whether this is the time to announce his grand plan of joining the expedition.

  ‘What circumstances?’ I ask, before he can speak.

  By way of answer, Drake raises his eyes to the door and then to his brother.

  ‘Thomas, call them to clear the board. Then tell those two fellows to stand a little further off.’

  Thomas Drake opens the door and calls for the serving boys. While the plates are hurried away, he exchanges a few words with the guards, waits to ensure that his orders have been obeyed, then closes it firmly behind him and takes his seat at the table. Drake lowers his voice.

  ‘Gentlemen, I have sad news to share. Yesterday, at first light, one of my officers on this ship was found dead.’

  ‘God preserve us. Who?’ Knollys asks, sitting up.

  ‘How?’ says Sidney, at the same time.

  ‘Robert Dunne. Perhaps you know him, Sir Philip? A worthy gentleman – he sailed with me around the world in ’77.’

  ‘I know him only by reputation,’ Sidney says. His tone does not make this sound like a compliment.

  ‘Robert Dunne. Dear God. I am most sorry to hear of it,’ Knollys says, slumping back against the wall, shock etched on his face. ‘He was a good sailor, even if—’ He breaks off, as if thinking better of whatever he had been about to say. So this accounts for the subdued atmosphere among the men.

  ‘The how is more difficult,’ Drake says, and his brother reaches a hand out.

  ‘Francis—’

  They may as well know the truth of it, Thomas, since we can go neither forward nor back until the business is resolved.’ He pours himself another drink and passes the decanter up the table.

  ‘Dunne was found hanged in his quarters,’ Drake continues. ‘You may imagine how this has affected the crew. They talk of omens, a curse on the voyage, God’s punishment. Sailors read the world as a book of prophecies, Doctor Bruno,’ he adds, turning to me, ‘and on every page they find evidence that the Fates are set against them. So a death such as this on board, before we have even cast off . . .’

  ‘Self-slaughter, then?’ Knollys interrupts, nodding sadly.

  ‘So it appeared. A crudely fashioned noose fastened to a ceiling hook.’

  ‘But you do not believe it.’ I finish the thought for him.

  Drake gives me a sharp look. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘I read it in your face, sir.’

  He considers me for a moment without speaking, as if trying to read me in return. ‘Interesting,’ he says, eventually. ‘Robert Dunne was a solid man. An experienced sailor.’

  ‘He was a deeply troubled man, Francis, we all know that,’ Knollys says.

  ‘He had heavy debts, certainly,’ Drake agrees, ‘but this voyage was supposed to remedy that. It would make no sense to die by his own hand before we set sail.’

  ‘A man may lose faith in h
imself,’ Sidney says.

  ‘In himself, perhaps, but not in his God. Dunne was devout, in the way of seafaring men. He would have regarded it as a grievous sin.’ Drake pauses, holding up a warning finger, and lowers his voice. ‘But here is my problem. I have allowed the men to believe his death was self-slaughter, as far as I can. They may talk of inviting curses and Dunne’s unburied soul plaguing the ship, but I had rather that for the present than any speculation on the alternative.’

  ‘You think someone killed him?’ Sidney’s eyes are so wide his brows threaten to disappear. Drake motions for him to keep his voice down.

  ‘I am certain of it. He did not have the face of a hanged man.’

  ‘So he was strung up after death, to look like suicide?’ I murmur. ‘How many people know of your suspicions?’

  ‘The only ones who saw the body were the man who found him, Jonas Solon, and my brother Thomas, who I sent for immediately. I also called the ship’s chaplain to ask his advice. He offered to say a prayer over the body, though he said there was little he could do for a suicide in terms of ritual.’

  ‘But no one else thought the body looked unusual? For a suicide by hanging, I mean?’

  ‘If they did, they said nothing. I only voiced my disquiet to Thomas in private later and he said he had thought the same.’ Drake takes a mouthful of wine. The strain of anxiety is plain in his face, though he is doing his best to conceal it.

  ‘Dunne did not show the signs of strangulation, though it was evident he had been hanging by the neck for some time,’ Thomas says, keeping his voice low. ‘The eyes were bloodshot and there was bruising around his nose and mouth. But he did not have the swollen features you would expect from choking.’

  ‘My first thought was to have him buried at sea that same day, to spare him the indignity of a suicide’s burial,’ Drake continues. ‘But Padre Pettifer, the chaplain, and my brother here talked me out of it – though the death happened aboard my ship, we are still in English waters and it would be folly to disregard the legal procedures. Besides, we could hardly keep it a secret. So I had him rowed ashore and handed over to the coroner. A messenger was dispatched to his wife the same day – Dunne was a Devon man, his family seat no more than a day’s ride away. The inquest will be held in three days, to give her time to travel.’ He twists the gold ring in his ear. ‘You see my difficulty, gentlemen? If Dunne was killed unlawfully, I must find out what happened before we set sail, but without jeopardising the voyage.’