Treachery

by S. J. Parris

  ‘Where do you keep your herbs?’ I ask, as a thought occurs.

  He frowns. ‘In my quarters. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Are they locked away?’

  ‘Why, are you planning to steal some?’ He laughs, but it peters out as he catches my face. ‘Yes, I keep them in a box with a lock, under my bunk. I think they are quite safe there. Bunches of dried herbs are no good unless you know what they are and how to use them. I ask you again – why do you want to know?’

  And does somebody on this ship know how to identify herbs and use them? Robert Dunne had a drink with a companion in his cabin the night he died. He was later reported to be wildly drunk, to the point of hallucinating; did that person slip something into his drink before he left the ship – some substance that might have ensured he would be in no fit state to fight off his killer? I do not say any of this aloud, because the most obvious suspect is Jonas himself.

  ‘I only wondered – are there any that could be dangerous? If taken in the wrong quantities, I mean?’

  ‘Any medicine can be dangerous in the wrong quantity. That is why not everyone has the skill to use them. But if you are asking, could a man do himself harm by taking my herbs, I suppose the answer is yes. It is a strange question, Giordano Bruno. It makes me think you still believe I mean to poison somebody.’ He says this with a half-smile, but he watches me keenly with eyes of stone.

  ‘It was more a question of whether a person might use your herbs to cause harm to others,’ I say evenly.

  ‘As I have said, only someone who knew what he was doing,’ he replies, with equal politeness. ‘But what could have put that in your mind?’

  ‘I was only curious.’ I shrug, and offer an innocent smile. We are circling one another, each waiting for the other to make an advance. But I have no solid accusation against him, and I lack the authority to ask more probing questions – to do so would only make him more defensive, and Drake has warned us against arousing too much suspicion among the men. Jonas is already spiky, alert to any insinuation – so touchy, you might almost think he has something to hide.

  The door creaks and Jonas gives a start, as if he has been caught out. Drake stands in the doorway, broad and bluff, rubbing his large hands together as if in anticipation of a spectacle.

  ‘Ah, Jonas, good lad,’ he says. ‘You have taken care of Doctor Bruno’s seasickness, then?’ He catches my eye over Jonas’s head and I feel a weight of relief; whatever I have just drunk was at least made for me on Drake’s orders.

  ‘He will weather any storm now,’ the Spaniard says, with a smooth bow.

  ‘Good, good. Let us hope it won’t come to that tonight, at least. Now leave us. I may have need of you after supper.’

  Jonas bows again and backs away, casting a last glance at the book on the table as he goes.

  ‘Useful?’ Drake mouths, nodding in the direction of the door as it closes behind the Spaniard.

  ‘The potion, or the conversation?’

  ‘Either. I’ve heard men swear by his concoctions in rough seas. Did he have anything to say about Dunne?’

  ‘He says Dunne was passed out from drink when he went to his cabin the night he died, so he never gave him any remedy. Does it not trouble you that he keeps all these herbs and medicines aboard the ship?’ I ask. ‘He tells me some are potentially deadly, if you know how to use them. And given how much you …’ The sentence tails off as I search for a diplomatic way to phrase it.

  ‘Given how much I am worth dead?’ He seems amused. ‘You are not alone in your concern, Bruno. When we took Jonas from the Santa Maria, my brother wanted to keep him bound and on prisoner’s rations for the entire voyage, and others voted with him. I argued that is not the way to win a man to your cause. This time Jonas comes with us of his own free will, as a paid crewman, but there’s more than one good sailor refuses to sail with a Spaniard on the ship. Fearing he will rise up and attack us single-handed, I suppose.’ He rubs the back of his neck.

  ‘He wouldn’t need to,’ I say quietly. ‘If he found a way of dispatching you, Sir Francis, the whole voyage would be undermined. It would be no great difficulty to slip some deadly mixture into your food or drink, with his knowledge.’

  Drake frowns at me, then bursts out laughing and claps me on the shoulder. ‘God’s blood, Bruno, I already have one wife to fret over me. Not to mention Thomas. I thought you had determined Dunne was out to assassinate me, now you worry about Jonas. Which is it?’

  ‘For twenty thousand ducats, it might be any of them.’

  He laughs again, but there is a tension underlying it. ‘I have my food tasted before every meal. I eat only from the common dish. I sleep with armed guards outside my door. I take every precaution a man whose death is worth twenty thousand ducats can reasonably take, Bruno. Jonas Solon has proved himself a reliable shipmate, and I will treat him as such. Certainly he is no more or less to be trusted than any other man here just because he is a Spaniard. You of all people must understand that.’

  I nod, but do not reply. Drake seems to make the same assumption as Jonas himself: that I should not think ill of the Spaniard because he and I are fellow outsiders, brothers in exile. For me to suspect him is apparently a breach of solidarity.

  ‘Now – I want to hear what you make of this manuscript. Come, sit.’ He unlocks a cupboard and takes out two crystal goblets and a decanter, from which he pours a generous measure of red wine. I cannot help but regard it with suspicion before I sip; the more I learn about the potential threats to Drake’s life, the more everything on this ship comes to seem a murder weapon in waiting. ‘You’re quite safe to drink this, my friend, I keep it locked away. It’s good Rhenish,’ he says, with a twinkle, seeing the way I sniff at it and hesitate. He pulls out a chair and gestures to me to sit opposite him at the large table, where my notes and my translation are spread out.

  Though he is not a theologian nor a scholar, the Captain-General listens attentively through my explanation of the manuscript, his chin resting on his bunched fist, frowning as I explain the context of the story told by the author, the writer who claims to be Judas Iscariot. He asks intelligent questions, which I attempt to answer in the same spirit, and he nods thoughtfully, pulling at his beard and rubbing his finger beneath his lower lip as he tries to comprehend all the ramifications of the pages that lie between us, tattered and salt-damaged but still largely legible.

  Drake swirls the dregs of his wine around the glass and peers into it. ‘What does he say about the resurrection?’

  ‘Didn’t happen. Not according to Judas.’ I tap the parchment. ‘He’s covered himself too – he says Christ showed him a vision of himself, Judas, being persecuted to death by the other apostles after Christ’s crucifixion, because they wanted to silence his message. He knew he was destined to be history’s scapegoat, but he was content to accept this destiny because only he knew the truth.’

  ‘I thought he was supposed to have hanged himself after the crucifixion? When did he find the time to write this?’

  ‘That verse from the Gospel of Matthew, the one in your anonymous letter, is the only source for the story of Judas hanging himself,’ I say, ‘though it has become accepted as truth. The other three gospels don’t mention his death. This account says he went into hiding after the crucifixion, for fear of reprisals from the other disciples, and wrote his version of events in secret.’

  Drake pushes his chair back and crosses to the small cabinet in search of the decanter. ‘Sounds like codswallop to me.’

  ‘Perhaps. Though you might say that about any of the gospels.’

  He turns and stares, the glass bottle in his hand, shock freezing his face for a moment before a short bark of laughter erupts.

  ‘True, true. They ask us to believe a lot. Virgins giving birth, blind men seeing, dead men walking. Impossible, to our understanding. But then they said it was impossible for a man to sail the circumference of the Earth and survive.’ He flashes me a triumphant smile and lifts his glass as if in
a toast to himself. ‘Now – feeding a crowd of five thousand with five loaves and two fish – that one is hard to swallow if you know a thing or two about making rations go round.’ He laughs at his own joke, pours himself another drink, then lifts the decanter in my direction, eyebrows raised in a question. I nod, and hold out my glass. ‘Few would be bold enough to say so, though,’ he says. His face turns serious and he points an accusing finger at the manuscript. ‘What should be done with this, do you think?’

  ‘It should be studied further. But …’ I hesitate, unsure how my suggestion will be received. ‘It might be best if it were delivered into the Queen’s keeping as soon as possible. It could be useful for bargaining with the Vatican. They will want it back, you may be sure of that. But if it should be lost at sea …’ I leave the sentence hanging.

  He considers this. ‘Yes, I have thought of that. It has been around the world once and survived, perhaps we should not tempt fate. But who should I trust to take it to London, then? It might just as easily be lost on the roads, especially if this book dealer is as unscrupulous as you say.’

  ‘I could take it for you, Sir Francis. Sidney has four armed men on the way to Plymouth to escort Dom Antonio to the Queen. I could travel back with them.’ The idea takes shape as I speak; with letters of introduction from Drake, might I not even persuade the Queen that I am the man to study the manuscript? She would want such a volatile document examined and understood, and there would be few men in England with the knowledge and experience to probe its mysteries. Certainly none of the half-wits I had met in Oxford were up to the task. It might, at least, give me a reason to stay in London, and a means of showing the Queen she had need of my skills. And it would be a legitimate reason to leave Plymouth.

  Drake narrows his eyes, but I see he is suppressing a smile. ‘My brother will not countenance that, I fear, now that he knows how valuable it is. He already thinks me a fool to leave you alone with it. Besides, Sir Philip wants a berth aboard my ship to the New World. One for you too. He will be sorely disappointed if you abandon him.’

  ‘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 w
e 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.