by S. J. Parris
FOUR
I break my fast alone the next day; Sidney is ill-tempered after his late night, and lies moaning and tangling himself in sheets while I wash. He says he is not hungry. I take some bread and cheese and small beer at a long table with other travellers in the tap-room. My fellow guests regard me briefly with bleary eyes, before returning their attention to their food; I am by no means the only person with a foreign aspect here and I reflect that this is one advantage of a port town. The sky outside is dull, the grey-yellow of oyster flesh, and in the flat light my fears of last night shrink and lose their substance, until I can almost laugh at myself. I glance occasionally to the seat by the door where the man in black had been sitting, and wonder if I did imagine his malevolent stare after all.
The morning passes slowly. Sidney frets and chafes like a child kept from playing outside, waiting for some word from Drake. He suggests walking down to the harbour and finding someone who will row us out to the ships for a fee, but I talk him out of it, reminding him that Drake said he would dine with us at the Star at midday. Until then, there is nothing to do but wait. I try to read but his pacing up and down the room muttering makes that impossible; eventually I suggest a walk and he agrees. Overhead the clouds threaten rain; I glance up, pull my cloak closer around me and think with longing of the skies over the Bay of Naples.
The quayside is a bustle of activity. Small fishing boats negotiate their way around one another in an elaborate dance as they move toward the harbour entrance; men call out from the jetties as ropes are thrown to and from vessels and barrels of fish hauled ashore. Broad, red-faced fishwives are gathered with their trestles and knives at the dockside where the goods are unloaded, their hands silvered and bloody. Ever optimistic, the gulls circle boldly a few feet above their heads, screeching like a Greek chorus. The smell of fish guts carries on the wind.
We walk along the harbour wall as far as the old castle with its four squat towers, built on the headland to defend the harbour. Ivy and creepers hang like cobwebs from its stonework, giving it a neglected air. The sight of the ships out at sea only serves to darken Sidney’s mood.
‘I had far rather be out there, Bruno, whatever work they put me to.’ He waves a hand towards the Sound, where the Elizabeth Bonaventure bobs like a child’s painted toy.
‘I know. You have said so.’
Then his face brightens. ‘I had some interesting conversation in the tap-room last night after you retired. Concerning our friend Robert Dunne. Do you want to hear?’
‘Ah, Philip. Is that wise? Drake wants the man’s death regarded as a suicide – he will not thank you for fuelling speculation among the townspeople with too many questions.’
‘Before you start chiding like a governess, I asked no questions – as soon as the traders in the bar learned I was connected to the fleet, there was no holding them back. And if Drake thinks he has silenced all speculation with the report of suicide, he is sorely mistaken.’ He rubs his head and winces. ‘By God, that ale is strong. We should turn back, you know. Drake may be there already, waiting for us.’
The sun lurks dimly behind veils of cloud, almost directly overhead. We turn and follow the path back towards the town.
‘The townspeople talk of murder, then?’
‘Murder, witchcraft, curses – you name it. The sailors are not popular in Plymouth, for all the people here depend on them for a living.’ He glances around for dramatic effect, though there is no one else out walking. A sharp wind cuts across the headland; up here it feels more like November than August.
‘So it seems,’ he continues, ‘that our friend Dunne—’
‘Stop calling him that.’
‘Why?’ He frowns. ‘Why are you so irritable today? I’m the one who’s been poisoned by that ale.’
‘He wasn’t our friend, and we have no reason to be poking about in the business of his death. It sounds as if you are making light of it.’
Sidney takes me by the shoulder. ‘His death, as I have already explained to you at least three times, is our ticket on board that ship there.’ He points. ‘A ship that in a year’s time will come back to this harbour so weighed down with gold you’ll barely see the bowsprit above the waves.’
I do not bother to argue. ‘Go on, then. Dunne.’
He clicks his tongue impatiently and pulls his hat down tighter against the wind. ‘Robert Dunne was well known in Plymouth, they said. He had been living here for the past few months, though his home was in Dartington, a day’s ride away.’
‘Not on good terms with his wife, then?’
‘That’s part of it.’
The path begins to slope down towards the street that runs alongside the inner harbour, where the little fishing boats are moored. Below us, men sit on upturned barrels on the quay, mending nets or examining sailcloth. A group of small boys are scuffling on the harbour wall, fistfighting or trying to hit gulls with their slingshots. Occasionally a pebble goes astray, and one of the fishermen raises a fist and shouts a bloodthirsty curse as the boys dart away in a gale of raucous laughter. I wait for Sidney to elaborate.
When he is certain I am paying attention, he leans in closer and lowers his voice.
‘Apparently Dunne was a regular at the town’s most notorious brothel. A place they call the House of Vesta.’
‘Really? After the Vestal Virgins of Rome, I suppose. Very subtle. So his wife found out, climbed aboard the ship in disguise, and strung him up?’
‘Try to take this seriously, Bruno. Dunne had been seen more than once in the company of the same two men.’
‘In the brothel?’
‘No – in the taverns. No one knows who they were. And these Plymouth merchants and traders, believe me, they make it their business to know everyone. They knew who I was before I’d opened my mouth. But Dunne’s companions remained a mystery.’
‘Was one of them a man in a black cloak?’
Sidney rolls his eyes. ‘Actually,’ he says, tapping a finger against his teeth, ‘they did say one of the men always wore a hat. Even indoors. Did your phantom last night have a hat?’
‘Yes – a black one, pulled low over his ears. And both he and his hat were quite real, I assure you.’
Sidney considers this. ‘Every one of those foul-breathed fishmongers last night claimed to have seen Dunne with his companions around and about, yet not one of them got a close look at their faces.’
‘Well, at least we know one of them had a hat. That narrows it down.’
He grins. ‘Not much of a start, is it?’
‘Drake said Dunne got into a tavern fight the night he died. Do your reliable sources know anything about that?’
He leans in. ‘The favourite theory is that these strangers were using Dunne to get at Drake’s treasure.’
‘What treasure?’
‘Drake is famous in Plymouth, as you’d expect, and well liked with it, he has done a great deal for the town, but of course elaborate theories multiply around him – that when he came back from his trip around the world he gave up only a fraction of his booty to the Queen and has hidden the rest somewhere nearby.’
‘And these honest souls would like to recover it and hand it over to Her Majesty?’
Sidney laughs. ‘I’m sure that’s exactly what they plan to do with it. But you should hear the stories they tell about what else Drake brought back with him.’
‘Such as?’
‘Books written by the hand of the Devil, birds with feathers of real gold, young women with two heads who give birth to children that are half-dragon, half-man. The sort of things everyone knows they have on the other side of the world.’
‘Oh, those. Where is Drake supposedly keeping this diabolical menagerie?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose they think that’s what Dunne was being paid to find out.’
We follow the street along the quayside by the row of limewashed houses and taverns facing the water. Suddenly Sidney elbows me in the ribs and nods to the path ahead, where two
well-dressed young women are walking towards us arm-in-arm, followed at a discreet distance by a manservant. One is tall, with red-gold curls pinned back under a French hood, the other darker, with pale skin and strong brows. From their glances and shared whispers it is clear that they have also noticed us. Sidney is about to embark on an elaborate bow, when one of the ladies cries out, her hand flying to her mouth; she is not looking at us but beyond, to the harbour wall. Wheeling around, I see one of the boys who was fighting; he is calling urgently and pointing down. The smallest of his companions has fallen from the quay into the water, where he flails and splutters, attempting to cry out.
‘It’s my brother, he can’t swim. I never meant to push him in,’ squeals the boy on the quay, hopping up and down and flapping his hands.
The blond head in the water sinks below the surface, bobs up again in a brief frenzy of foam, then disappears. Without thinking, I tear off my doublet and plunge in, fighting to open my eyes in the murky water, my ribs jarring at the shock of the cold. At first I can see no sign of the child, then I look down and see his little body sinking in a silver chain of bubbles, his smock shirt billowing around him. I surge forward and grab at his waist, dragged back by the weight of my wool breeches in the water; he is surprisingly heavy, but once I break through the surface, gasping at the air, it is not far to the wall. Hands reach out to lift the boy; he is laid on the cobbles, while one of the fishermen bends his ear over the boy’s face. I haul myself on to the quay and kneel on the stone to recover my breath, water coursing from my clothes and hair. The boy lies there, unmoving; the man beside him tries shaking him to provoke a response.
‘Is he dead?’ wails the child who pushed him, clawing at his shirt in anguish. ‘Mother will kill me.’
‘Here.’ I kneel beside the boy and press hard several times on his chest. ‘I have seen this done in Venice, when a boy fell in a canal.’ The child promptly raises his head and vomits over the shoes of the man beside him, who lets out a surprised curse and cuffs the older boy round the head.
‘Do that again, you little bugger, and I’ll throw you in after him,’ he says, as the boy howls even louder. ‘Give us all a fright like that. If this gentleman hadn’t been so quick you’d have lost your brother, and I wouldn’t have liked to be the one to tell your mother her darling was gone.’
It strikes me that this distinction may have prompted the boy’s desire to push his brother in the first place, but I keep silent. The fisherman turns to me. ‘Thank you, sir. My nephews – always scrapping where they shouldn’t be. Their mother’s a widow. If you hadn’t been here – I can’t swim myself, see.’ He glances back at the murky water with a grimace. ‘Amos Prisk, sir. That’s my boat there.’ He points, then wipes a hand on his smock and holds it out to me. He has a firm grip, though somewhat slippery. I try not to think about fish guts. ‘I would stand you a drink, only my sister’s not back from the market with the day’s takings.’ He lets go of my hand and turns his palms out, empty.
‘No need,’ I say, embarrassed. Quite a crowd has gathered to watch the drama; at its edge, I see the two attractive women looking at me and whispering to one another. I wipe my hand surreptitiously on my wet breeches, push my dripping hair out of my face and give them an awkward smile. The taller one leans over to whisper something to her friend and they both laugh. I glance away and, over their heads, some distance off, I glimpse a figure in black, standing between two houses at the mouth of one of the alleys that curves down from the town towards the harbour. He remains completely still, observing the scene, his face cast into shadow by the brim of his hat. I take a step forward, but Sidney cuts across my line of sight.
‘Heroic of you, Bruno. You’ve got seaweed on your face. Here.’ He picks off the offending plant, folds his arms and nods, as if impressed, though he can’t quite disguise the irritation in his voice. I motion him out of the way, impatient, but the man in black has disappeared. Sidney has my doublet draped over one arm.
‘I’m sure you’d have done the same if your clothes were less valuable,’ I say, reaching down to wring out my breeches. He gives me a pointed smile.
‘We had better get you away from the ladies – the way that shirt is clinging to you verges on indecent.’ He takes my arm and steers me towards the houses. As we pass, he bows to the two women, but I notice the darker one is watching me with an intent expression.
‘That was very brave,’ she calls, as if on impulse, as we are almost past them.
Sidney turns his most gracious smile on her, placing his hand carefully on my shoulder. ‘My friend is celebrated from here to the Indies for his bravery. Please do not think of falling in the water, ladies, unless he is at hand.’
I catch the woman’s amused glance, and shake my head in apology.
‘But, sir,’ she says, with mock concern, ‘how shall we know where to find you, if we should happen to think of falling in?’
Sidney raises an eyebrow at me. ‘You may find us at the sign of the Star, madam.’
‘Well, that is a coincidence,’ says the auburn-haired woman. ‘We too will be staying there tonight. Good day, gentlemen.’ She takes her companion’s arm and turns elegantly, flashing a smile back at Sidney over her shoulder.
He watches her walk away, then turns to me with a low whistle.
‘They were a couple of bold ones, weren’t they? Pretty, though. And expensively turned out. Courtesans, do you think?’
‘Here?’
‘Where there are sailors … But maybe you’re right. Women of that quality would cost more than a sailor makes in a year, unless his name’s Francis Drake. Staying in our inn, too. That dark one was eyeing you, Bruno, though you have the look of a drowned dog. Damn you!’ He raises a fist, grinning. ‘I should have moved faster. Nothing like saving children or animals to make women fall at your feet.’
‘Next time we see them, I will drop a kitten down a well so you can prove yourself,’ I say, rubbing my arms and shivering as my wet clothes chill against my skin. He drapes my doublet over my shoulders and cuffs me gently on the back of the head, the way the fisherman did with his young nephew. I decide not to tell him about the man in black, for now.
At noon we descend to the tap-room of the Star to look for Drake, and the serving girl points us towards a private dining room across the entrance hall. I am dressed in a russet doublet and breeches of Sidney’s while I wait for my clothes to dry, and feel like one of those pet monkeys the ladies at court keep on a leash, trussed up in little silk jackets and jewelled collars. The breeches are too big, and the rustle of silk as I walk is unfamiliar and disconcerting; at every step I find myself turning, thinking I am being followed, until I realise again the strange susurration is coming from my own legs.
Sidney pushes open the door and is not quite quick enough to disguise the drop of his jaw when he sees the guests gathered around the table. Francis Drake sits at the head of the table. Thomas Drake is present too, with a fair, round-cheeked man in clerical dress, and an expensively dressed man of around forty. But Sidney’s eye is caught by the two young women from the quayside, who sit demurely at the table, mischievous smiles hovering at their lips. For a moment I am confused; Sidney’s earlier speculation has lodged in my mind and my first thought is that Drake has hired the women. Then I see him lay his hand over the delicate white fingers of the auburn-haired woman and the truth slowly dawns. She wears a wedding band on her left hand.
‘I hear you are quite the knight errant, Doctor Bruno.’ Drake raises his glass to me as we edge around the table.
‘The mothers of Plymouth need not fear for their children while you are in town,’ says Thomas Drake. He is seated to the right of the dark-haired woman, who is still watching me with that secretive half-smile. I sense that Thomas Drake would prefer it if we were not there.
‘I fully expect Bruno to be offered the freedom of the city by the time we leave,’ Sidney says, flashing the beam of his smile around the company.
I shrug, embarrassed by the a
ttention. ‘Anyone would have done the same.’
‘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.