Treachery

by S. J. Parris

  ‘Spare us the lecture, man, cut to the point,’ Thomas Drake says, from his post by the door. ‘Tell us what it is.’

  I look at him until he looks away, then I begin to read, keeping my voice as low as I can:

  ‘“The secret account of the revelation that Jesus spoke in conversation with Judas Iscariot three days before he celebrated Passover.”’

  Thomas Drake just blinks, and shrugs. Sir Francis peers at the manuscript, his brow creased, as if he is trying to puzzle out the meaning. Only Sidney regards me with a glimmer of understanding.

  ‘The testimony of Judas Iscariot.’ He hesitates. ‘But it must be a fiction, surely?’

  I rub the parchment gently between my finger and thumb. ‘Not necessarily.’

  ‘I am still none the wiser, gentlemen,’ Drake says. ‘Would you care to enlighten us poor sailors?’

  I look at him, considering where to begin.

  ‘The holy scriptures contain four accounts of the life and death of Jesus Christ, those we call the gospels of the four evangelists, that were accepted by the Church Fathers as true and divinely inspired and which more or less corroborate each other. This we all know.’ I tap the book on my lap. ‘But there were many other accounts circulating in the early years of the Church, alternative gospels that fell outside orthodox doctrine and so were suppressed, destroyed, forbidden. Among them was rumoured to be a Gospel of Judas.’

  Drake looks from me to the book and back. ‘Written by his own hand?’

  ‘Some think so. Legends have grown around its substance. The Gnostics believed it vindicated Judas Iscariot, unravelled the whole story of salvation and would overturn the foundations of the Christian faith.’ My hands are trembling on the page as I speak. If this manuscript should be genuine, if it should prove that the story of mankind’s salvation has been based on false accounts, if there were another version of the story … what then?

  ‘What should be done with it?’ Drake says. His expression suggests he is struggling to take this in.

  ‘Best to keep it under lock and key, for now. And on no account sell it to that book dealer with no ears.’

  ‘Why, what does he want with it?’ Thomas Drake demands.

  ‘I don’t know yet.’ I look down at the manuscript; there is no way of assessing its significance without reading it in its entirety. ‘He may want to sell it to the highest bidder. Or he may have other plans.’

  ‘Oh, no, no, no. If there is a high price to be had for this book, I shall be the one doing the selling.’ Sir Francis sets his jaw and fixes me with a defiant eye.

  ‘The Jesuit already paid a high price for it. He worked for the library of the Vatican, you say?’

  ‘According to Jonas,’ Drake says. ‘Why?’

  ‘Then it would seem reasonable to assume that he found the book there. So why was he taking it away, to the other side of the world? With the knowledge of his superiors, or without? Either way, someone must have noticed it missing and followed its trail. It would not surprise me to learn that the Holy Office has agents out looking for this book, even now.’ Voicing this aloud causes a chill to run through me. If there is one quality the Roman Inquisition can never be accused of lacking, it is tenacity. And are they still looking for me, I wonder? I lower my eyes and take a deep breath. I am a free man, in a Protestant country; it is nine years since I ran from my monastery in Naples, rather than face the Inquisition. Surely they have forgotten me by now? But I already know the answer: the Inquisition never forgets. ‘This book could tear the Church apart,’ I add, looking up and meeting Drake’s frank gaze. ‘It could plunge Europe into war, if its contents are made known. You may be sure the Vatican wants it back, at any price.’

  ‘Europe is already tearing itself apart over the interpretation of the scriptures,’ Sidney says, as if the whole business bores him. ‘Bread, wine, flesh, blood. Purgatory, Pope, predestination. How much difference can one more gospel make?’

  I look at him with reproach. ‘You can say that because your country has never had the Inquisition.’

  ‘We had Bloody Mary,’ he retorts. ‘Plenty still alive remember what she did in the name of pure faith.’

  Drake watches us, his chin resting on his fist. ‘Perhaps the best thing would be to hand it over to Her Majesty. She can have her scholars examine it and dispose of it as she thinks fit. I would not for all the world give it back into the hands of the Pope.’

  ‘Perhaps. But someone should read it first,’ I say quickly. ‘And make a copy, in case anything should happen to this one.’

  ‘By someone, I suppose you mean you?’ Thomas Drake says, with that sardonic tone he saves for me and Sidney.

  ‘Unless you can read Coptic script, Thomas Drake, I see no one else for the job,’ Sidney fires back, in my defence.

  Thomas narrows his eyes at him. ‘So your friend is proposing we hand the book to him. What guarantee do we have that we will ever see it again? He seems to know this book dealer well, and have a shrewd idea of its value. And – saving your presence, master – he is Italian.’

  ‘You have my word of honour, which should suffice among gentlemen,’ Sidney says as he stands, his right hand straying instinctively to his sword. Thomas Drake takes a step forward, chest out. He has not missed Sidney’s emphasis, and its implication.

  ‘Peace, both of you,’ Drake says, with a warning glance. Chastened, Sidney sits and Thomas retreats to his position by the door post. ‘Of course Bruno must be the one to read it. But you will have to do it in my cabin on board the Elizabeth. A wise man told me not to let it out of my sight.’ He smiles, to draw the sting from any offence.

  ‘But what has any of this to do with Robert Dunne’s death?’ Thomas says, though with less bluster than before.

  Drake shakes his head.

  ‘Has anyone looked through Dunne’s personal effects?’ I ask.

  ‘No,’ Drake says. ‘I had thought to gather them up for the family when they arrive, but I have not had time. The cabin has been kept locked since the body was taken out.’

  ‘Good. He had been seen about the town in the days before he died, meeting two strangers. It would be worth seeing whether he kept any correspondence, or anything that might identify them. Though I suppose we have an idea now.’ I grimace at Sidney. ‘We must see if we can find out who brought that Judas letter to the Star to be delivered to you. And I would like to talk to your Spanish translator about the young Jesuit.’ My mind is already moving ahead, outpacing my own objections.

  ‘I told you – Bruno will find this killer in no time,’ Sidney says, rubbing his hands together with satisfaction.

  Drake nods, though he does not look entirely convinced.

  ‘You can do this discreetly? I do not want the men further alarmed with suspicions of murder. Nor Dunne’s widow, who will be here any day – better she accepts that he died by his own hand, or we shall be caught in all manner of judicial snares and this fleet will never depart.’

  Once again, I am struck by his lack of sentiment.

  ‘Never fear, Bruno is as cunning as the Devil himself when he chooses,’ Sidney says breezily.

  I am about to protest the comparison when there is a sharp knock at the door. We all start; Thomas Drake jumps back just as the door is flung open and Lady Drake glides in, peeling off her gloves, followed by her cousin.

  ‘You might at least wait until someone calls “Come”, Elizabeth,’ Drake grumbles, though he looks relieved. ‘There is a fellow supposed to be guarding the door – does he not do his job?’

  ‘I pointed out to him that this was my chamber and he could not very well keep me from it,’ Lady Drake says, offering her smile around the room. ‘Have you finished your secret council? We grow bored, and the sun is out.’ She glances at the book on my lap and then at me, with enquiring eyes. ‘So – is the mystery solved?’

  ‘We are giving it due consideration,’ Drake says, before I can respond. He takes the book from my hand and places it carefully back into the leather
satchel. I feel a pang as it leaves my hands; at this moment, I would give up almost anything for the prospect of an afternoon alone with that manuscript.

  ‘Sir Francis, you promised us the company of these fine gentlemen for our visit,’ Lady Arden says, in mock reproach, ‘and yet you keep them to yourself all afternoon. You must learn to share.’ She sends me a dazzling smile and curls the ribbon of her hood around her finger. I notice that this does not pass Thomas Drake by.

  ‘Very well. I had better be getting back to the ship, in any case. Don’t want to find they have all deserted by the time I return.’ Drake pats Lady Arden on the shoulder, indulgent. ‘Let us go down, gentlemen.’

  Together, we bow to the ladies.

  ‘We will join you in the entrance hall shortly,’ Lady Drake says. ‘I think we should make the most of the fine weather and walk along the Hoe while we can, do you not agree, Sir Philip?’ She looks at him from under her lashes, her hands folded demurely together.

  ‘As you wish, my lady,’ Sidney says, bowing again. Drake seems satisfied; these are the kind of proper, courtly manners his new wife expects, and he is pleased to have found an escort of sufficient quality to flatter her with the appropriate deference. Only I see the look in Sidney’s eyes. I hope Drake will not have cause to regret it.

  The armed guard follows Drake and his precious bag down the stairs. I cannot help peering along the corridors and over my shoulder, alert to the slightest movement. If that book should fall into the wrong hands before I have a chance to look at it, I could never forgive myself, and it seems that someone here in Plymouth – more than one person, perhaps – wants it as much as I do. Even enough to kill for it, I have no doubt.

  SIX

  The sky is clearer over the harbour when we emerge on to the quayside, all of us walking together to see Drake and his brother into the boat that will row them back out to the Elizabeth Bonaventure. Patches of blue appear between banks of cloud, reflected in the water like fragments of coloured glass. The fishing boats rock gently at their moorings, accompanied by the constant slap of sailcloth and halyards in the breeze and the clanking of iron fixings. While Thomas Drake seeks out their oarsmen and Sir Francis bids farewell to his wife, I draw Sidney aside.

  ‘Can it be him?’

  He looks at me. ‘Rowland Jenkes? I don’t see that it can be anyone else.’

  I rub at the stubble along my jaw, remembering the book dealer I had encountered in Oxford, the man who had been nailed to a post for sedition and cut off his own ears to escape, who now made a living importing forbidden Catholic literature and would not hesitate to kill anyone who stood in his way. ‘We know he disappeared from Oxford before he could be caught. He had contacts with all the Catholic exiles in Paris and the French seminaries. If there were rumours of this book going missing from the Vatican library, they would reach Jenkes’s ears in no time. So to speak.’

  Sidney grins, though his face quickly turns serious. ‘Does that mean he is in Plymouth, then?’

  I shrug. ‘It sounds as if someone here is after that manuscript, and Robert Dunne was involved in some way. The two men Dunne was seen meeting – Jenkes could be one of them. Were they using him to steal the manuscript, do you think?’

  ‘Your man in black last night. Is it Jenkes?’

  ‘It could be. I was sure I had seen him before. We will have to watch our backs – if it is, he will want to revenge himself for Oxford.’

  Sidney frowns. ‘In any case, that still makes no sense of Dunne’s death. Drake says no stranger would have been able to board the ship without the watchmen alerting the officers. He could only have been killed by someone on the Elizabeth – someone working with Jenkes, perhaps?’

  ‘But if Dunne was working for Jenkes—’

  We are interrupted by a call from Drake; he and Thomas are already seated in the rowing boat, their armed escort poised at the prow, his eyes scanning the water.

  ‘I will send a boat for you later this afternoon,’ Drake calls. ‘Meanwhile, the ladies will be glad of your company.’

  I raise my hand in a half-wave, half-salute, though I cannot keep my eyes from the leather satchel he clutches to his chest. For all their charms, I would gladly abandon the ladies to the mercies of the port for a few hours alone with that manuscript. Only one woman ever had the power to distract me from a book as important as the one I watch recede into the glittering distance, as the rowing boat pulls slowly out towards the harbour wall, and she is long gone.

  ‘You would rather be out to sea with the men, I think?’ Lady Arden’s voice startles me back to the present. I turn and she is beside me, disconcertingly close, a sly smile hovering over her lips.

  ‘Not at all,’ I say, attempting to mirror it. She laughs; a bright, unforced sound, and begins walking away from the quayside. I fall into step beside her.

  ‘You don’t have to lie to spare my feelings, you know. It is a wretched business, being a woman – you men always regard our company as inferior to that of your own sex, because you think we have no opinions worth hearing on politics or navigation or war or any of the topics you value. Until the night draws on and you have taken a few glasses of wine – only then do you find you can tolerate our presence.’

  ‘And have you?’

  ‘Have I what?’ She cocks her head to look at me.

  ‘Opinions worth hearing on politics and war?’

  ‘Oh, hundreds. And I shall tell you them all as we walk, before you have a chance to dismiss me as another flighty girl.’ She slips her hand through my arm.

  ‘I look forward to hearing them, my lady,’ I say, aware of the light pressure of her fingers on my sleeve. ‘I think any man who tried to dismiss you would do so at his peril.’

  ‘You learn quickly.’ She laughs again, and squeezes my arm tighter. ‘So – did you read the book?’

  ‘Which book?’ I am not sure how much Drake has told his wife about the manuscript. I do not want to be the one to alarm her.

  Lady Arden gives me the sort of look a nurse would give a child. ‘Oh, come. The book Sir Francis thinks someone wants to steal from him. Lizzie guesses he must plan to sell it because he needs more money for the voyage. We are speculating that Sir Philip wants to buy it and that you are to make sure he gets a fair price.’

  ‘Do I look like a book dealer to you?’

  ‘Not a dealer. A scholar.’ She pauses, looks me up and down. ‘Or you did this morning. Before you fell in the water. Now you look more like …’ She considers Sidney’s clothes.

  ‘A dressed-up monkey?’

  ‘Like Sir Philip, I was going to say.’ She giggles. ‘Although perhaps there is not a great deal of difference.’

  ‘Well, I will consider that a compliment. And I did not fall in, by the way. I jumped, on purpose. Just to be clear.’

  She smiles again. ‘Of course.’

  As if to confirm the story, a chorus of shrill voices calls out from behind us. I turn to see the little boy I dragged out of the harbour that morning running up to me, barefoot, holding out what looks like a handful of leaves between his cupped hands. The larger boy, his brother, hangs back, sheepish, with a group of children of a similar age. When the small boy draws closer, I see that he is presenting me with a collection of strawberries.

  ‘For you, master.’ He proffers them, his face hopeful. A thin trail of snot runs from one nostril to his lip, but he can’t wipe it with his hands full, so he twists his tongue up to try and lick it away. I look at him and am struck by the thought that this child almost didn’t live to see the afternoon. His hair is still stiff with salt.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, crouching to his height and making a basket of my hands for the fruit. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Sam.’ He puffs his chest out and looks expectantly from me to the strawberries.

  I sense that I am expected to sample his gift, so I rub the dirt off one and put it in my mouth. They are bullet-hard and not yet sweet, but I make a show of relishing it.

  ‘Sam
, I think these are the best strawberries I have tasted in England.’

  The child looks delighted. He wipes his nose on his sleeve and coughs, then scampers away over the cobbles to his friends, who crowd around him, chattering and pointing.

  ‘You have made a friend for life there,’ Lady Arden says.

  ‘Strawberry?’ I hold out my hands. She regards them with a delicate curl of the lip.

  ‘Not if he picked them with the same hand he uses to wipe his nose.’

  I smile. ‘You can barely taste it. You don’t like children?’

  She glances back at the huddle of boys.

  ‘I have no strong feelings about them either way. My sister has four and I am quite happy to indulge them, for a short time. But it was regarded as a great failing on my part not to have produced any myself before my husband was so careless as to die. Whenever I see children – especially healthy males like those – I feel implicitly reproached.’

  I am not sure how to answer this, so I remain silent. When I am sure the children are out of sight, I drop the strawberries at the side of the road and Lady Arden takes my arm again. We walk on for a while, Sidney and Lady Drake walking ahead of us along the path that leads towards the castle. She does not take his arm; instead they walk at a respectful distance from one another, leaning their heads in to hear the other’s conversation. They are, of course, both married. I am conscious that between Lady Arden and me there are no such restrictions. Is it proper for her to walk with me in this way? She appears not to care; it is I who feel awkward, as if we are breaching some rule of decorum.

  ‘My late husband has a cousin, who is at present the only heir to his estate and title. He has been gallant enough to offer me marriage.’ She sucks in her cheeks and gazes out to sea as she says this.

  ‘You are not elated by the prospect, I think.’

  She makes a face.

  ‘My husband only died last year. He was a decent man, in his way, but it was not a match of love. He was nearly thirty years older than me. Such arrangements are rarely successful.’ She glances at Lady Drake and looks a little guilty. ‘I was a wife for seven years, and gave him no cause for complaint. But as a widow, his estate belongs to me while I live and I am my own mistress. I should like a while longer to enjoy that position, before I sign my freedom over to another man. Besides’ – she screws up her mouth – ‘my husband’s cousin looks like a boar. You think I mean this figuratively, but you are wrong. He actually looks like a boar. Bristles and all. Every time he opens his mouth to speak, I want to stuff an apple in it.’