by S. J. Parris
I slip into the back of the church, the great door creaking on its hinges as it closes behind me. A few people turn at the sound, but I tuck myself away out of sight, in the shadow of a thick stone pillar. Along the broad nave, an avenue of columns and pointed arches leads to the altar. The air smells musty, that scent of old stone that, in the absence of incense, always makes English churches feel uninhabited. For an instant I am reminded sharply of the crypt of Canterbury Cathedral, and it takes some effort to push the unwelcome memories from my mind. Though there are tall windows to either side, the church is still gloomy, the only candles those in the chancel. This suits me; from my vantage point I scan the congregation, my eyes flitting over caps and coifs, the backs of restless heads. There is no sign of Pettifer. True, he did not say where he was going to pray, but this is the largest church in Plymouth, and Pettifer did not strike me as the sort of Christian who would prefer a small, humble chapel to a place where most of the town could witness him at his devotions and ask him about the fleet. Was he lying, then, about how he meant to spend his evening ashore? Some instinct had prompted me to follow him, something in his ostentatious piety that did not quite ring true. I determine to keep a closer eye on Pettifer in future.
Instead, to my surprise, I notice Gilbert Crosse, sitting in the back pew of the church, to my right. He has taken off his hat and hunches forwards, his arms wrapped tightly around his chest as if trying to make himself less visible. For a long while, he does not move, only sits with his head bowed, his hands motionless around his upper arms. I wonder what he prays for. He is a strange young man; obviously clever, and favoured by Walsingham for his abilities, yet apparently lacking in confidence. But I detect a fierce ambition beneath his timidity.
I shift from foot to foot as soundlessly as I can; the church is chilly and over the thin voices of the choir I hear rain slapping against the windows with each gust of wind, like a handful of gravel striking the glass. I am reminded again of how unmoved I always feel by the English church, though here it is generally assumed that if I am an enemy of the Inquisition I must, by definition, be a Protestant. Despite all the hypocrisy of the Church of Rome, they do at least have a sense of occasion. A Catholic Mass is a piece of theatre; this service is a cold and soulless affair, and I can never escape the conviction that those attending feel the same.
When eventually the sparse congregation rise and shuffle forward to take the Eucharist, a man at the other end of Gilbert’s pew slips out and disappears into the shadows of a side door. I watch him idly; I presume he wishes to avoid the communion. There are plenty of Englishmen who, while they attend church as the law demands, secretly consider the English Eucharist blasphemous and look for excuses not to take it. Gilbert himself remains in his seat, apparently still deep in prayer. I try to keep myself tucked away behind the pillar – I do not want him to think I am spying on him – but as he straightens up he glances towards the main door and catches sight of me. He has to squint to be sure, but it is too late for me to do anything other than raise a hand in greeting. He slides out of his seat and approaches, looking surprised, though not displeased to see me.
‘Doctor Bruno. I did not realise you attended the English church. To be truthful,’ he says, in a whisper, ‘I was not sure of your religious leanings.’
‘You are not alone in that,’ I say, with a smile. I am often not sure myself. No wonder those around me are confused. ‘I worship as Her Majesty commands,’ I add. It is the sort of meaningless phrase people expect.
He nods. His eyes flit to the door.
‘You do not take the Eucharist?’ I ask.
He glances behind him to the congregation queuing at the altar and a look of guilt flashes across his face.
‘Sometimes,’ he murmurs, lowering his gaze. ‘Though … May I confess something dreadful?’
‘Please do.’ I watch him, intrigued.
‘I find the thought of it – all those people, drinking from the same cup. Their spit mixing in the wine – the idea turns my stomach. I look at it swirling in the cup and I cannot bring myself to put it to my lips. Is that a terrible sin?’ He looks at me, anxious.
‘I’m sure God understands. Personally, I have never understood why the Protestant faith bothers with the Eucharist. If there is no miracle involved, what’s the point?’ I say cheerfully. I wonder how long his fastidiousness will survive in the stinking confines of a ship for months on end.
A sexton standing nearby gestures for us to be quiet. Gilbert nods towards the door with a questioning look and I follow him out through the churchyard.
‘Do you come to church every evening?’ I ask, as we walk down the path to the lych-gate.
‘I try. I find it helps to settle my thoughts. And it cannot hurt, can it – to offer up as many prayers as possible for such a voyage as this? We will have need of God’s help against the Spanish.’
‘Have you never sailed before?’
‘Short journeys. Along the north coast of France and the Low Countries. Merchant ships around England. This will be something quite different.’ He speaks with unexpected boldness, raising his face into the drizzle.
‘You hold out great hopes for these maps of yours?’ I say. He turns to me, his eyes blazing.
‘Should a man not be ambitious for his work, Doctor Bruno? Are you not ambitious for your books? Well, then.’ He offers an awkward smile. ‘I know that pride is a sin. But my ambition is not for myself – or rather, not myself alone. To map the world accurately – think what that would do for the future of human endeavour! It has not been done yet – no, not even by Mercator. And for a nation that boasts some of the finest mariners and ships in the world, England is woefully deficient in the art of navigation. We make do with second-hand accounts by the French and Spanish, who were advancing this science half a century ago.’ He shakes his head at the indignity. ‘To think – Sir Francis Drake is the first man to have sailed the circumference of the globe, and still there is no English cartographer of any renown.’
‘And you mean to change that?’ I smile. I cannot help but admire anyone who is driven to break the limits of knowledge – precisely the kind of ambition Padre Pettifer decried to me earlier. And I know better than most how much determination is needed to try and change the way people view the world, or the universe.
Gilbert blushes. ‘Yes. I do. Have you ever seen the Theatrum Orbis Terrarum of Abraham Ortelius?’ he asks, as we turn down the hill into Nutt Street.
I nod. ‘My friend John Dee had a copy in his library. It is a remarkable piece of work – the most expensive book ever produced, I am told.’
‘And the first collection of maps all made by the same cartographer,’ Gilbert enthuses. ‘Well, I mean to make my own volume. The first English book of maps, detailing all the continents – yes, even Terra Australis, one day. It will be my life’s work. I intend to follow Sir Francis Drake on his voyages, collaborate with his pilots and navigators, and create the most beautiful and the most advanced depiction of our world ever seen. As if you were looking down on the Earth from the heavens.’
‘I would buy a copy of that,’ I say, and he looks gratified. ‘It is a great shame Sir Francis had no maps made of his circumnavigation,’ I add, as we reach the entrance to the Star. Gilbert glances sidelong at me with a secretive smile.
‘There were no charts published, by order of the Queen,’ he whispers. ‘That does not mean no maps were made.’
I give a low whistle. ‘The Spanish would pay dearly for a sight of those.’
He grins. ‘Indeed. But they will not get the chance.’ Then his expression changes to one of alarm. ‘Do not mention this, I pray you. Nor anything about the maps I am making for Walsingham. There are people on board that ship who are not to be trusted,’ he adds, darkly.
‘You can trust me,’ I say.
‘I know.’ He fixes me with a solemn look. ‘Captain Drake told me. And though I sometimes worry that his faith is too unquestioning when it comes to those closest to him, I am s
ure he is right about you.’
‘I am flattered.’ I want to ask him who he does not trust, since he must intend me to pick up the hint, but at that moment a group of men jostles past us through the front door, laughing loudly, and I am surprised to see Gilbert follow them inside.
‘Do you come here to join the others for a drink?’ I ask, stepping into the entrance hall.
‘Oh, no.’ He looks appalled at the idea. ‘I call in after church each day to see if any correspondence has been delivered for Sir Francis. He has letters directed here while he is at anchor. Then I generally find a cheaper tavern for a hot meal before I return to the ship.’
‘On your own?’
‘Yes.’ He looks defensive. ‘I prefer my own company, Doctor Bruno. And there will be little enough chance of it once we are all cooped up on board. Though, if you …’ He looks at me hopefully. ‘I mean, I should be grateful for the conversation of a fellow scholar, if you have not already eaten?’
I hesitate, considering the invitation, before politely declining with the excuse of a prior engagement. I have the sense that there is more of interest to be drawn from Gilbert, and that I would not have to try very hard to prise it out of him, but I am tired and the prospect of an evening discussing meridian altitudes and the calculation of rhumb lines with this earnest, blinking boy does not raise my spirits. Given a choice, I would rather be looking at Lady Arden over the rim of a glass this evening. Yet, as I climb the stairs to our room, I find myself turning over Gilbert’s words. He said Drake was too trusting of those closest to him. He has already made clear that he harbours doubts about Jonas, but his choice of expression makes me wonder if he meant to direct my attention elsewhere. For who is closest to Sir Francis Drake in this fleet, if not his own brother?
TEN
When I unlock our chamber, I find it empty. I unbuckle my belt and fling it, with my dagger, on to the bed. Sidney must be in Lady Drake’s chamber, no doubt entertaining the ladies with a sonnet, though he has left the fire burning low in the hearth. Beside it stands a silver tray with an open bottle of wine and one glass, an unusually thoughtful gesture on his part. My clothes are hung out on the fire screen; I pinch them between finger and thumb. They are stiff with sea water, mottled with white salt marks and still a little damp, and an unmistakable whiff of the harbour now clings to them, but all that will ease with wear, I reason. I tear off Sidney’s embroidered doublet, fumbling with the buttons in my haste, and am unlacing my breeches when I hear a discreet cough from behind me. I whip around, conscious that my knife is out of reach, to see a figure in the shadows and a glint of light.
I let out an involuntary curse in Italian as my heart thumps like a blacksmith’s hammer before slowing again. Lady Arden steps forward from the far end of the room, a glass in her hand. She smiles and takes a sip of wine.
‘Forgive me – I didn’t mean to frighten you. Sir Philip said you would be back soon and I thought it would be a good joke to catch you by surprise.’
‘I could not be more amused.’
‘Oh dear. You are angry with me. That is not a good start.’
‘To what?’ I catch the brusqueness in my voice and take a deep breath; she is not to know about the unseen presence in the shadows, the invisible man in black. I am more angry with myself for my own carelessness; if she can wait for me in my room without my noticing, who else might do the same?
She looks a little stung by my tone, but she pushes a loose tendril of hair from her eyes and tilts her chin up, determined. Her cheeks are flushed. ‘I took the liberty of asking them to send up some wine. I’m afraid I had to make a start on it without you, though. Sir Philip said you had gone to church?’ She raises a neatly plucked brow. ‘You didn’t strike me as the pious type.’
‘Now and again the devotional urge overtakes me. Where is Sidney?’
‘Playing cards with Lady Drake, I believe.’ She lifts the glass to her lips and flashes a coquettish smile from behind it, as if inviting me to take my own meaning, then lowers her eyes.
‘Cards?’ Will Sidney never learn? Not content with writing endless poems to his childhood sweetheart Penelope Devereux, which he allows to be freely circulated around the court so that her husband, Lord Rich, cannot help but know of them, he now publicly courts the wife of another powerful man right under his nose – one whose patronage he depends on. If my fortunes were not so bound up with Sidney’s – and if I didn’t care for him as my friend – I might laugh at his audacity. As it is, he risks serious consequences; not least the damage to Lady Drake’s honour and reputation in a town where she is well known. I lace my breeches again and make for the door.
‘Wait, Bruno.’ Lady Arden steps towards me, her hand outstretched. ‘Are you Sir Philip’s keeper?’ Firelight dances on one side of her face, highlighting her fine bones and ivory skin. She is unquestionably a beautiful woman.
‘I am the nearest he has to one,’ I say, resting my hand on the latch.
Her voice softens. ‘But does he need one? He is, after all, a grown man. And Lady Drake is likewise capable of making her own choices. You are not their chaperone, Bruno, though it is touching that you wish to play the part.’
‘And Sir Francis, how would he feel? To be told that half of Plymouth has seen a man visiting his wife’s chamber alone? Is he as broad-minded as you, I wonder?’
She laughs, a carefree, tinkling sound that implicitly reproaches me. ‘Few men are, I find. There is a back staircase that comes out at the end of the corridor by our chamber. No one will see Sir Philip come or go, if that’s what you are worried about. Besides, it is you who cast aspersions on the honour of your friend and mine. What harm if they are merely playing cards and talking?’
‘The harm …’ I pause, running a hand through my hair, ‘the harm is all in what people perceive. Surely you, as a woman, can appreciate that?’
‘Goodness, Bruno, you sound like one of the old beldames at court. “As a woman?”’ She arches her brow again, pours a measure of wine into the second glass and moves towards me, holding it out, but just beyond my reach, as you might try to entice a dog with the promise of a treat. Against my better judgement, I let go of the door handle and step towards her.
‘I would not like my friend to find himself on the wrong end of Captain Drake’s cutlass,’ I say, taking the glass. ‘If they are only playing cards, why did you not join them?’
‘I didn’t want you to be lonely.’ This time she holds my gaze and does not look away. I recall Sidney earlier, his blunt assertion that I would have her before I left Plymouth. I had assumed she made herself scarce as a favour to Sidney and Lady Drake, but perhaps it is they who believe they are bestowing the favour.
‘Have no fear on that score, my lady. I am well practised at being in my own company. I have formidable inner resources.’ But I hear my resolve falter, and so does she.
‘I don’t doubt it.’ She smiles.
There is a long pause. I take a sip of the wine, keeping my eyes fixed on hers. I should go and save Sidney from his own folly. But I am not his keeper, as she says. Let him take responsibility for his own actions; it is all one to me if Drake refuses to take him on the voyage. It is another matter if Drake kills him a duel, persists the voice of reason. But Drake would not fight him, surely; or would he? Even if—
Lady Arden takes a step closer to me. I lower the glass slowly from my lips and experience a treacherous stirring in my groin. My heart may be firmly – uselessly – bound to a woman long vanished to France, but the body can be traitor to the heart. It is rare that such an opportunity presents itself, and rarer still the man who would turn it down out of some misplaced loyalty. And loyalty to someone, moreover, who gave me nothing in return but betrayal. Anger flashes through me at the memory; the colour in my face rises and, as if in direct response, I set the glass down on a table and move another step towards Lady Arden, who lifts her face expectantly. That is when I hear it; the unmistakable sound of a board creaking outside the door.
She opens her mouth to ask what is the matter, but I hold up a hand to silence her as I stand, tensed, straining to hear more. I gesture Lady Arden to the far end of the room and lunge across to grab my knife from the bed. There it is again; a creak, a faint shuffling. Through the crack beneath the door I see the waver of a shadow. I draw the knife from its sheath, lower the latch as silently as I can, and in one sudden movement, I pull back the door to reveal the serving girl from this morning, her fist raised in the act of knocking. She lets out a piercing scream and I realise she has spotted the knife. I lay it carefully down on the floor and show her my empty hands, shushing her as I do so. After the initial shock has passed, she stops the noise abruptly and stands there, staring at me, a sheet of paper rustling in her trembling hands.
‘I’m sorry, sir, I wasn’t eavesdropping, you startled me,’ she mumbles. ‘And the knife—’
‘Hetty, isn’t it? I didn’t mean to frighten you. I thought you were someone else. That is to say … what do you want?’
She looks at the knife on the floor with a doubtful expression. ‘I was just delivering this, sir.’ She thrusts the paper at me and I have time to glimpse a red wax seal at the fold. ‘Only, I wasn’t sure if you had company and I didn’t want to disturb—’
‘No, just me,’ I say, stepping into the doorway as she leans forward, her curious eyes flitting around as much of the room as she can see. ‘Who gave you this?’
‘A gentleman delivered it earlier. Because, you see, I thought I heard voices—’
‘I was reading aloud.’ I lift the paper to examine the seal. It bears the imprint of a shallow dish with a tongue of flame rising above it, just like the token hidden under Robert Dunne’s bunk. My pulse quickens. The sacred flame. ‘Who was he, this gentleman?’
‘He didn’t leave a name. Maybe it’s on the letter.’ She gives a little cough. ‘Because Mistress Judith doesn’t approve of gentlemen bringing company here, if you know what I mean,’ she persists, nodding firmly to corroborate her own point. ‘She says the Star is not that kind of house. She has asked guests to leave in the past for that sort of thing.’