by S. J. Parris
EIGHTEEN
I pause outside the dining room to lean against the wall, slow my breathing and compose my expression. Savile must not suspect anything until I have had a chance to speak to Drake and let him decide how to proceed, though Savile is sharp enough to mark my empty place at the table and perhaps connect it with the sounds he heard upstairs. If not, he will certainly notice something amiss when he realises his room has been left unlocked. It is one thing to pick a lock, another altogether to close it again, and I gave up for fear of breaking the mechanism. After some deliberation, I left the sleeves in the bag; though I would have liked to show Drake the evidence, I reasoned that Savile must be unaware that he has lost a button, or that it could incriminate him.
I wait until I am sure I can enter the room with a neutral expression. It is a talent of sorts, this ability to keep my most turbulent thoughts from being read in my face. It would have served me well in the politics of religious life, but it is useful enough in this strange existence I ended up with instead. Savile turns his head briefly as I take my seat, his glance mildly curious, though he quickly returns to his audience; he is regaling Dom Antonio and Drake with some tale that involves exuberant arm gestures. The Portuguese is laughing politely. Drake wears a fixed smile, but he is looking past Savile to the panelling on the wall, his thoughts elsewhere.
I spear a piece of pork on my knife and when I look up again Savile has reached the climax of his tale; the men around him are laughing, though none so heartily as the teller himself. I lay the knife down and cast my gaze around the table. The drone of conversation begins to sound distant, like a swarm of bees on the other side of a window; I seem to see their mouths moving – talking, chewing, laughing – as if time had slowed and I was standing outside, looking on. The whole atmosphere here feels infected with suspicion, bluff and counter-bluff, falsehood and fear, as if we are all of us engaged in some grand card game where the stakes are men’s lives and the winner will be the one with the greatest skill at lying. And the men who are dealing the cards are somewhere out of sight, still hiding in the shadows.
Gilbert does not speak much for the rest of the meal, except to remark on the appetites of others, though I see his eyes flit from one speaker to another, always attentive to the conversations around him. A great wave of tiredness breaks over me. I find myself longing to leave this company and fall on my bed, close my eyes, embrace oblivion. Though this is wishful thinking; my mind will be too busy turning over the day’s revelations for sleep to come. I may as well make use of the time by working.
When the board has been cleared the ladies announce that they are retiring; we all stand as they leave and wish them a good night. Lady Arden looks back over her shoulder at me as she reaches the door and briefly smiles. After they have gone, there is a general stirring; some go out to piss in the inn yard, others take the opportunity to stretch and move around the table, others take out clay pipes and tobacco pouches. I excuse myself from my dining companions and ease my way around to Drake, who stands to greet me.
‘Sir Francis, may I take the book tonight?’ I ask, in a whisper. He frowns, glancing towards his brother.
‘What for?’
‘To continue working. I could finish the translation by morning, if I put my mind to it.’ If I set to work now, I may just be able to rewrite the pages that were taken from my room, and I need not confess the theft to Drake.
A smile briefly creases the corners of his eyes. ‘I can’t help thinking you would do better to get some sleep, Bruno. Take a look at yourself.’
‘I would sleep easier, sir, if there was a complete copy of that book. For safekeeping.’
‘You really think someone will attempt to steal it?’
‘I think that bookseller you met wants it very badly. He is a ruthless man with no scruples.’
He considers, glancing back at his brother. ‘Well . . . Thomas will not like it. He already thinks you mean to use the copy for your own profit – he will be even less keen to trust you with the original. Padre Pettifer has warned me in the strongest terms against making the translation – he says no good can come of spreading heresy and I would be calling God’s curse down on the voyage.’ He shakes his head. ‘I begin to think I have done so already.’
‘Do not say so, sir. None of this is your doing. Nor is it God’s displeasure. We are close to finding the man responsible for Dunne’s death, I am sure of it.’
‘I wish I were. I cannot tell you how sick I am at heart when I think of Jonas. Every moment I expect a messenger to tell me they have found him.’ He heaves a sigh and lays a hand on my shoulder. ‘Take the book for tonight, then. I would offer you one of my armed men, but I have promised them to Dom Antonio. Besides’ – he looks me up and down – ‘I’d wager you can take care of yourself if anyone comes knocking. Come and collect it now – I mean to retire early tonight.’
‘Quite right too, Sir Francis – if I had a beautiful wife in town I would do the same.’ Savile appears behind me, throwing an easy arm around my shoulder the way Sidney does. I try not to tense. I wonder how much he has overheard. ‘Meanwhile, we lonely bachelors must seek solace in the bottle and the card table. Will you join us, Bruno? You seem like a man who has a face for gambling.’
‘You think?’ I say, with a perfectly blank expression.
‘There, what did I tell you – you are doing it now!’ He claps me on the back as if I have performed a trick. ‘You are adept at hiding your true self. An invaluable skill for the card table. One poor Robert Dunne never mastered, alas.’
‘The same may be said of most of us, do you not think, Sir William?’ I say, with a pleasant smile. ‘But I’m afraid I must decline. I have no taste for risk.’
‘You surprise me,’ he says, and I detect an edge to his voice, but perhaps I imagine it.
It takes Drake some time to extricate himself from the lengthy farewells, especially with Dom Antonio, who has become quite emotional with all the wine, and embraces Drake several times over, brushing tears from the corners of his eyes as his speeches grow more effusive and less coherent. Sidney tells me he plans to join the card game; I wish him luck and tell him to keep an eye on Savile, note if he does or says anything unusual. Sidney gives me a quizzical look, but Drake gestures for me to follow him and I have no chance to elaborate.
One of the armed guards accompanies us up the stairs to the first floor. Another is already stationed outside the door of Lady Drake’s chamber. Drake nods to him and pauses, his hand on the latch, as if gathering his thoughts before going in to his wife. I almost speak, thinking I should tell him what I have discovered about Savile. Instinct checks me; Savile will not run anywhere tonight. He has the arrogance to believe he is above suspicion and I would need stronger proof before I accuse him outright.
A small fire has been lit in Drake’s chamber and the air is warm and smells of woodsmoke. Lady Drake sits close to the hearth, her maidservant is perched on the window seat, sewing. Lady Arden stands by the fireplace, a small bag at her feet.
‘Ladies.’ Drake sweeps across the room and unlocks a wooden chest placed beside the bed. ‘I hope you are not too fatigued by this evening.’ He withdraws from the chest the leather satchel containing the book.
‘Not at all, Francis,’ Lady Drake says. ‘Dom Antonio is quite the storyteller, is he not? So very many tales of escape and subterfuge, one could listen to him all night. And indeed, I feel I have.’
‘I feel I have lived through every minute of his adventures with him,’ Lady Arden says, with a wicked grin.
‘Now, now, ladies – be kind. Dom Antonio is a good man who has suffered a great deal at the hands of Spain. Besides, he is our ally.’
‘Not in any useful sense,’ Lady Arden says, with a snort. ‘He lacks the support for a successful uprising in his own country. Queen Elizabeth may offer Dom Antonio hospitality because she pities him, but she is too prudent to throw good money after a hopeless cause.’
Drake looks at her as if he has just
witnessed a talking dog.
‘You are very well informed, my lady,’ I say, impressed.
‘Did I not tell you I had plenty of opinions to share?’ she says, with an impish smile.
‘Here.’ Drake pushes the bag into my hands, but does not let go of it. ‘You are sure you can keep it safe?’ He looks as if he is wavering; perhaps he is picturing his brother’s response if Thomas were to discover that I had taken the book unsupervised.
‘I will guard it with my life, Sir Francis.’ It may yet come to that, I think. If he knew I had allowed the copy to be stolen, he would not let me within a mile of it. I notice Lady Arden’s eyes rest on the bag with interest.
Drake nods and slowly releases it into my hands.
‘Return it to me here first thing tomorrow,’ he says. ‘Keep your room locked tonight. And perhaps when this inquest is over we will have more leisure to discuss what to do with it, once we know its contents.’
I nod, and turn to leave.
‘Lady Arden,’ Drake says, ‘let me call for a servant to take your bag up for you.’
‘Oh, please do not trouble yourself, Sir Francis,’ she says quickly, ‘I thought perhaps Doctor Bruno might carry it for me.’
I look at her; she meets my gaze with innocent eyes.
‘Doctor Bruno is not a porter,’ Drake says, a little embarrassed.
‘But it is on his way – I’m sure it would be no trouble,’ she persists. ‘My maidservant is waiting for me in the room.’
‘I am happy to help,’ I say, not wishing to appear over-eager.
‘Well, if you don’t mind . . .’ Drake looks doubtful, but he opens the door for me. I pick up Lady Arden’s bag and gesture to her to lead the way, with a bow to Lady Drake as I take my leave.
‘I have been banished to a room of my own while Sir Francis is ashore, you see,’ Lady Arden explains, when the door has closed behind us.
‘You are not afraid to stay on your own?’ I follow her to the stairs.
She laughs. ‘What should I be afraid of?’
‘This present business. The letter left under Lady Drake’s door earlier. Your cousin was anxious, Sir Francis said.’
‘He was anxious, you mean. But I am not sure it is mysterious correspondents that concern him so much. I think rather he means to deter any visitors.’
‘Ah. No sonnets for Lady Drake tonight, then.’
‘Alas, no. And do you and Sir Philip intend to sample the diversions of Plymouth again tonight?’ she asks sweetly, as we reach the second-floor landing.
‘My lady – I was not – my aim last night was to find out some information that might help Sir Francis.’
She turns to me and raises an eyebrow.
‘That is to say – in the matter of this death. Nothing more.’ I sound unusually incoherent.
She gives a light laugh. ‘You do not have to justify yourself to me, Doctor Bruno. You are free to visit all the whores you want. Here, this is my chamber for tonight.’ She stops in front of a door and I realise it is the chamber next to Mistress Dunne’s, where I hid earlier. I put down her bag at my feet and pause, listening for any sound from the neighbouring room. There is only the low murmur of women’s voices.
‘Even so. I would like you to know I do not make a habit of visiting whorehouses.’
She looks up at me. A faint smile plays about her lips; I suspect it is at my expense.
‘Unlike my cousin, I find I am at liberty to hear sonnets this evening. Sir Philip mentioned that you are something of a poet.’ Her gaze is direct now; it would be hard to misinterpret her meaning. The leather bag containing the Judas book hangs across my shoulder; it seems I have a stark choice.
‘My poems are all in Italian,’ I say softly.
‘So much the better.’ She smiles. ‘I shall be spared the awkwardness of judging whether they are any good or not.’
She lays a hand on my sleeve as she pushes open the door, but even now I hang back, feeling the weight of the book around my neck. She senses my hesitation. ‘Besides,’ she says, ‘I know something that may be of interest to you in this present business, as you call it. And I’ll wager no one else has noted it.’
‘Really? And what is that?’
She adopts a coquettish smile. ‘I will tell you in return for a poem.’
Everyone here is bartering information, it seems. I glance up the corridor towards the stairs. For a moment I think I see a stirring in the shadows, the outline of a figure, but when I look again there is nothing.
‘Your maidservant,’ I whisper, indicating the door.
‘I have given her the evening off. I dare say she is amusing herself somewhere, gossiping, or flirting with sailors. You might carry my bag in for me, at least.’
What would Sidney say if he could see me, I wonder as I follow her over the threshold and hear the door close behind me. He would tell me I needed to live a little; to forego the rigours of books occasionally for the solace of a warm, willing body. He would tell me bluntly that it is fruitless to stay true to the memory of a woman who is long gone, over the sea; he would say that I am a fool to deny myself pleasure, or even the chance of love, for the sake of someone who, in any case, left me without compunction. But perhaps he would not understand the melancholy that steals over me every time I consider the possibility of transferring my affection to another woman. Of course, he would counter that you don’t need affection for a woman to lie down with her, though as I grow older, I find that an empty kind of solace without it.
‘There is no fire here,’ she says. ‘I can have one lit, if you prefer.’
‘I am warm enough, thank you.’
‘Yes, you look a little flushed.’ She smiles. ‘Do I frighten you, Doctor Bruno?’ I shake my head. She seems disappointed. ‘I thought perhaps you might find me too bold.’
I do not tell her that I encountered plenty of bold women at the court of King Henri in Paris; young wives bored by their ageing, impotent husbands, all too willing to throw themselves into the path of any young man at court for the fleeting excitement of a little intrigue, especially if he was exotic-looking and trailed a dangerous reputation. I was an object of fascination to them because I seemed immune to their charms. In truth, their heads were so empty of any thoughts beyond court gossip and their own appearance, I grew weary of their company before they had even finished saying Bonjour. Besides, a man of low birth promoted beyond his station must be careful where he makes enemies. But there are no such considerations to stop me here. I look at Lady Arden. Her room faces west; evening light falls on her face, gilding the soft skin of her cheek and the curls of dark hair across it. Holding my gaze, she reaches up and unpins her hood.
‘I find you refreshingly free of false coyness,’ I say, after a long pause.
She laughs again, shaking her head so that a glossy fall of hair tumbles down her back. ‘That is a diplomatic answer, if ever I heard one. Well, then – let me hear a sonnet and in return I shall tell you a secret that is not mine to tell.’
So I recite from memory a sonnet I wrote years ago. I close my eyes as I speak and the words jolt me back to a different time, to snowy peaks against high blue mountain skies; to narrow passes, freezing nights, hunger and exhaustion; the fear of going forward vying with the impossibility of going back. When I have finished she exhales slowly, as if she has been holding her breath.
‘That sounded beautiful. What is it about?’
‘It . . .’ I falter, unsure how to explain words that flow so naturally in my own tongue, fearing the poem will seem lumpen and unnatural in English. ‘It is addressed to a lonely sparrow. It tells the bird to fly away and be reborn, to find a nobler destiny. It’s an allegory,’ I add, feeling wrong-footed. She is still looking at me intently, a small furrow between her brows.
‘Of what?’
I shrug. ‘Of the soul. And of letting go of what you love.’
‘Say the last line again.’
‘“E non tornar a me, se non sei mio.”’
/> ‘What does it mean?’
‘And don’t come back to me, unless you’re mine.’
She nods, slowly. ‘Did you write it for a woman?’
‘No. I wrote it eight years ago, when I was crossing the Alps from Geneva into France, and I understood clearly that I would never see my home or my family again.’ But poems change their meaning, even those you write yourself; they fit themselves to your understanding of your own life over time. When I say that final line now, I think of a woman, and it is as if I wrote it for her, long before the fact.
Lady Arden crosses the room and stands in front of me.
‘Are you lonely?’
‘Sometimes,’ I say. My voice catches in my throat. ‘Often.’
‘As am I.’ She reaches out and places her hands gently on my shoulders. My hands move instinctively to her waist. We stand like this for what seems a long time, listening to the stillness and the soft rhythm of our breath.
‘You promised me a secret,’ I whisper, my lips against her brow.
‘Later,’ she says. Her hand strays across my chest to the opening at the neck of my shirt and slips inside, her fingers cool on my skin. She moves closer, and her lips part slightly as she presses her hip against me and feels my arousal. Her mouth hovers over mine, so near I can taste her breath, as she continues to unlace my shirt. Her fingers reach my belly and she tugs at the leather strap of the satchel I still carry slung across my shoulder. ‘You may have to put this down,’ she murmurs.
‘Lock the door,’ I say, lifting the bag over my head, and she obeys, then takes me by the hand and leads me to the narrow bed as she loosens her bodice. She undresses herself with a sense of urgency, her bright eyes fixed on me all the while, gauging my response; there is an efficiency in the way she goes about it that eliminates any need for the usual dance of seduction, the importuning on my part and feigned resistance on hers. Lady Arden, I conclude as she pushes me on to my back and takes me in her hand with a practised movement, is used to getting what she wants, once she has decided on it. I recall what Sidney said about widows: they are dangerous because they don’t need you. But they still need you for this, I think, closing my eyes.