by S. J. Parris
‘Quick!’ I hiss, grabbing the lowest branch of the tree and hauling myself up.
A shout comes from the far side of the garden; some crude English oath. Eve cries out; I hear a sharp whistling and a thud as the bolt of a crossbow buries itself in the tree trunk where my leg had been a moment earlier. I scramble along the branch as far as the wall; one quick glance shows me the man is striding across the grass towards us, reloading as he goes. I yell to Sam to get down. Just as I swing myself down to the other side, I hear the scrape of iron on brick as a second bolt narrowly misses, striking the wall and showering us with fragments of mortar.
Sam has already started running towards the street; I call him back and instead drag him up the bank behind the houses, into a scrubby clump of trees. ‘He will chase us out into the street if we go that way, it is too exposed,’ I explain. Without argument, he slips his hand into mine and allows me to lead him through untended gardens and along unfamiliar streets, glancing over our shoulders at every turn, until I am sure the man with the crossbow must have given up.
‘Can you get us back from here?’ I ask Sam, when we finally stop to rest by a drinking trough at the junction of three streets. The ground is higher here and I have a view over both the Sound and the estuary below us; the great ships sit stately as castles in the distance. He nods and we trudge back towards Plymouth together, footsore and weary. As we walk, I look down at him and consider what it might be like to have a son; exhausting, is my conclusion. For all the tenderness of this small hand clinging to mine, there is something terrifying about the enormity of a child’s trust, their faith in your power to make the world right. Since I fled from San Domenico – and even before that – I have had enough to do keeping myself out of trouble; the prospect of taking responsibility for another person’s welfare seems beyond my capabilities. But perhaps every man feels that before he becomes a father. Not that this is an immediate problem; I have no means to raise a child, nor any woman to carry it, yet.
Lost in these thoughts, I am not paying attention to Sam’s chatter. We have taken the path along the headland and he is pointing out to sea, yapping around my feet like a small dog, something about tunnels.
‘What tunnels?’
‘In the cliffs,’ he says, still pointing. I follow the direction of his finger across the flat grey water to the small rocky island that sits in the centre of the Sound like a sentry-post. ‘People call it Drake’s Island now,’ he says proudly. ‘All through the cliffs, my uncle says, there are old tunnels made years ago for hiding places.’
‘Smugglers, I suppose.’ I squint out towards the island. It looks an ideal staging post for dropping off illegal shipments from larger ships, any goods you might want to bypass the customs men; hide them in the tunnels and ferry them back to the mainland under cover of darkness. ‘Is it manned now, the fort?’
Sam doesn’t know. I peer harder, but it is impossible to see at this distance if there is any human activity. What a miracle it would be, I have often thought, if someone could devise a lens, such as the kind old men use for reading fine print, that would enable you to see distant objects closer. My friend John Dee had experimented with such a device, combining convex and concave lenses in various arrangements, but with no great success. It is the kind of instrument I feel certain the Arabs must have invented; perhaps there might have been some record of such a device, if Christendom had not been so arrogantly blind to science and destroyed so much of their great knowledge. In all its history, I wonder, has the Christian church ever brought anything but strife and bloodshed, either to those who embraced it or those who refused it? The thought leads me back to the brittle manuscript locked away in Drake’s cabin.
‘Are we going to see any more whores today?’ Sam asks, jolting me back to more prosaic matters as we reach the end of Castle Street.
‘No, Sam – I think I am done for the day.’
‘Where shall we go instead then, sir?’ he persists, valiantly trying to disguise his own tiredness.
‘I am going to the Star to rest. And you should go home to your mother. Here. You have been a great help to me today.’ I fish out the penny he has been waiting for. He looks disappointed at being sent on his way, and hovers at my side until I reach the entrance to the inn.
‘I could help more, sir,’ he says, beaming up at me. ‘I know my way all around Plymouth.’
‘I don’t doubt it. But I have no more need of help today.’
‘Tomorrow, then?’ He is tenacious, I will give him that.
‘Maybe. There is one thing you could do for me, Sam.’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Keep a lookout for a man who dresses all in black. He has no ears, a pocked face and very blue eyes. He will probably be wearing a hat to hide his lack of ears, but you are clever enough to spot him.’
‘Are you going to kill him?’ Sam asks, interested.
‘Of course not.’ Not unless he tries to kill me. ‘I just want to know where he is lodging.’ But I recall what the girl Eve told me of the questions haunting Robert Dunne: can a man be damned if he kills another to save his own life? I must hope for my own sake that the answer is no. Though, as Sidney likes to point out, the charges against my soul are weighty enough already; one more murder would hardly tip the scales.
The entrance hall of the Star is bustling as usual; guests in fine clothes milling about, wanting to be noticed, while porters heft trunks and bags into service corridors as Mistress Judith sails here and there like a mighty barge, greeting paying customers in honeyed tones and berating servants like a banshee, often in the space of the same breath. At the foot of the great staircase is a little knot of ladies I cannot avoid: Lady Drake, Lady Arden and Mistress Dunne, with the chaplain Pettifer in attendance, red-faced and fretting. Lady Arden casts a long, cool look in my direction, but her face gives away nothing. A flicker of amusement relieves the solemnity of Mistress Dunne’s expression.
‘Did you have a profitable day, sir?’ She turns to the other ladies. ‘Doctor Bruno has been visiting whores since dinner time.’
‘I hear it is one of his preferred pastimes,’ Lady Arden says drily, ‘though by the state of him I cannot think it is good for his health. Your sleeve is torn, Doctor Bruno.’
So that is why she is so frosty with me today; she must have heard about our expedition last night. But how? A serving girl edges past us carrying a large pitcher of water; immediately I think of Hetty. Nothing is private in this inn. I glance at my sleeve with a soft curse; there is a tear almost a foot long in the seam.
‘Perhaps I should leave off climbing apple trees at my age,’ I say, poking a finger through the material. Lady Arden shakes her head and turns away to hide a smile.
‘Sir Philip will be glad to see you,’ says Lady Drake; already I detect a warmth in her tone when she mentions his name. The sooner I can get Sidney out of temptation’s way, the safer he will be. ‘He has been stamping about here this past hour looking for you. I believe he went to wait in the tap-room.’
‘Perhaps I had better go and find him,’ I say, bowing as I back away to make my exit.
‘We are all in a state of great excitement,’ Lady Drake continues, then remembers herself and casts an anxious glance at Mistress Dunne. ‘Saving your presence, mistress. Sir Francis has had a message to say that Dom Antonio travels with a French merchantman that is about to dock in the Sound, and will be with us before sundown. My husband will hold a supper here tonight to welcome him.’
Mistress Dunne makes a contemptuous noise. Lady Drake turns, her cheeks colouring. ‘We are all most sorry for your loss, madam,’ she says, sounding anything but. ‘However, Dom Antonio of Portugal is a royal visitor, expected these past weeks, and Her Majesty expects us to show him a fitting welcome.’
Mistress Dunne looks away, her mouth tight. ‘I ask you how you would take it, my lady, if your husband had been murdered and his fellow officers were out carousing while he lay unburied?’
‘Is my husband to neglect h
is duties because yours put a rope around his own neck? Do you not think his death has caused my husband enough trouble already?’
Lady Drake has raised her voice more than she meant to; other guests have stopped to listen. Lady Arden lays a hand on her cousin’s arm to restrain her. Mistress Dunne turns pale; her lips are compressed so hard they disappear into a white line. For a moment I think she might slap Lady Drake, but in the next instant her legs appear to buckle and she flails a hand, looking for support; the maid Agnes steps silently out of the shadows and helps her to a bench by the wall. A space clears around her. Into this shocked silence ambles Savile, fresh from the tap-room, whistling a catch.
‘What’s all the fuss here?’ he says, looking around the company with a hearty grin. No one answers. Then he catches sight of Mistress Dunne, limp as a cloth doll, with Agnes fussing by her side. With one stride he is across the hall.
‘What ails you, madam? Do you need a drink? A physician?’
Mistress Dunne swats him away, seeming to resent his attentions. ‘I am perfectly well, thank you, sir.’ She leans on Agnes and with some effort pushes herself to her feet. ‘I am just a little tired, that is all. It has been a difficult day and I am not quite recovered from the journey. Perhaps I am out of temper.’ She fires a furious look at Lady Drake. ‘I think I will retire to my chamber, if you will excuse me.’ Still supported by her maid’s arm, she moves gingerly towards the stairs.
Savile looks as if he means to follow them, but thinks better of it. Instead he watches the ladies climb the stairs and turns to me, disgruntled.
‘Women, eh? You show them a courtesy, they’ll none of it. Then if you don’t offer to assist them, they complain there are no true gentlemen left. Can’t win. Do you think she’s all right?’ He jerks his head towards the stairs where Mistress Dunne has disappeared around a corner. He looks genuinely concerned.
‘I should think she is tired, as she says.’ I glance around and catch Lady Arden’s eye. She relents and allows me a half-smile. I wonder if I might take the chance to explain to her about last night, but Lady Drake is upset by her outburst; she whispers something and Lady Arden nods, slipping her arm through her cousin’s and leading her towards the parlour, though she pauses to glance back at me over her shoulder. Savile harrumphs and stamps away out of the front door, banging it behind him.
‘Doctor Bruno, may I speak with you?’ Pettifer is at my elbow, knotting his fingers together, his smooth pink face creased in concern. ‘Mistress Dunne tells me you accompanied her this morning to view her husband’s body. I have been praying with her this afternoon.’
‘I’m sure that is a great comfort to her.’
He narrows his eyes, uncertain whether I am being sincere. ‘Well, it is part of my office, to comfort those who mourn.’ He looks uneasy. ‘Though in such circumstances as these, it is difficult. I cannot reassure the poor lady that her husband’s soul is with God when we do not know that for certain.’
‘We shall have to wait until the coroner decides tomorrow where his soul has gone.’
‘I see you are determined to be flippant, Doctor Bruno. I suppose it is to be expected of one who has abandoned religion.’ He sounds disappointed rather than accusatory. ‘I only wanted to ask if you noticed anything about the body that might be of use to the inquest?’
‘To determine his manner of death, you mean?’ I wish he would stop his endless fidgeting; if he were a priest in my country, I think, he would at least have a rosary to play with. ‘But you saw him shortly after he died, Father. You prayed over him, did you not?’ He acknowledges this with a nod. ‘If you and the others noted nothing then, it is unlikely that I would have a clearer picture after three days.’
‘True, true. I only wondered. Hoped, I suppose, that you might have some insight denied the rest of us. They say you are very knowledgeable in these matters – though it is a curious expertise for a theologian.’ He raises an eyebrow, to let me know he does not entirely trust me.
‘I try to broaden my knowledge as much as possible. You can never tell when it might come in useful. Speaking of theology, Padre, may I ask you a question?’
He clasps his hands together and adopts a pious expression, but his small eyes grow wary. ‘Of course.’
‘Did Robert Dunne ever talk to you about Hell? Or judgement? Did you sense that something was troubling his conscience in that regard?’
‘His conscience?’ The chaplain frowns. ‘He seemed anxious, as I said, and he spoke of himself as a sinner, but then should not we all? He said nothing specific, that I recall.’
But I sense a hesitation in his answers, as if he doesn’t like the way this is tending. I stroke a finger along the stubble on my jaw. ‘Nothing, for example, about whether a man is always damned for taking a life, even if it is to save his own?’
‘No!’ He looks horrified. ‘No, indeed. He never asked any such question of me. What on earth has put that in your mind?’ His tongue flicks nervously around his dry lips.
‘Something his widow mentioned. I am sure it is of no importance. After all, if he had spiritual concerns, he would have expressed them to you before anyone, would he not?’
‘I would certainly have hoped so.’ He smiles, though it looks strained at the edges. ‘Well, his soul is in God’s hands now, and his body in the coroner’s. Will we have the pleasure of your company at the dinner tonight for Dom Antonio?’
‘I have not yet been formally invited. But I am sure Sir Philip will be present.’
‘Indeed.’ He gives a little bow and turns to leave. ‘Dom Antonio. Formerly Prior of Crato, you know. He is another who has exchanged religion for politics – and much good it has brought him.’
‘It must be a great relief to the Lord Almighty to know that he can count on such true servants as yourself. Men undistracted by things of the world.’ I smile pleasantly. ‘Tell me, did you say you were at Cambridge, Padre?’
He stops, halfway to the door. ‘Yes. Why do you ask?’
‘Just curious. It is a university I should like to visit.’
He blinks rapidly. It is plain by now that my questions unsettle him, though courtesy obliges him to disguise it. An idea is beginning to form like a tight bud in the back of my mind. I return his bow and leave him staring after me, still cat’s cradling his fingers as if the agitation of his thoughts must find an outlet somewhere.
FIFTEEN
Sidney is not in the tap-room. Instead I find him in our chamber, writing a letter to his wife.
‘Where the Devil have you been?’ he cries, leaping up from the table. ‘Your little friend has been up here looking for you.’
‘Sam?’
‘Who’s Sam?’ He casts around for his pipe. ‘The fisherman’s boy? No, I mean the pudgy maid who likes to get into everyone’s business. She seemed particularly anxious to find you. I’m afraid I was rather short with her.’ He packs tobacco leaf into the bowl and presses it down. ‘Lady Drake has been quite chilly with me today. I’d wager anything that maid told her where we went last night. Women don’t take it kindly, you know – the idea that a gentleman might pass up their company for that of a whore. They don’t like the idea of whores in general. For the sake of propriety, we are all supposed to collude in the pretence that the business doesn’t exist.’
‘I don’t know what they are so exercised about. We are all selling ourselves one way or another.’
He sighs, and sparks a tinder-box into life. ‘Isn’t that the truth. Well then, tell me what progress you have made today.’
So, while he leans back in his chair, stretching out his long limbs and puffing small gusts of blue smoke into the air, I recount for him my first sight of Robert Dunne and what I learned from Sara and Eve.
‘She sells babies?’ Sidney looks aghast.
I shrug. ‘That is hardly a new trade. Children are a commodity like anything else, for as long as there are some with too many and others without. The point is, if Mistress Grace seriously believed Dunne meant to run off
with the girl, that would give her reason to get rid of him. And she is obviously connected to John Doughty.’
Sidney takes his pipe out of his mouth and studies the end of it, considering. ‘What man would be such a fool as to believe a whore who tells him she is carrying his child? He can’t seriously have planned to elope with her. Not with his wife about to come into her inheritance.’
‘He probably said it to keep her sweet. But the girl evidently believed it – perhaps sincerely enough to persuade Mistress Grace it was a danger.’
‘So we stumble again on this problem of who actually strung him up.’
I cross to the window and lean both elbows on the sill, pushing my hands through my hair. ‘I think I should speak to the watchmen on the Elizabeth. I know they have sworn to Drake that no one boarded that night, but of course they would say that if they had been bribed.’ Below me in the inn yard, I see a stable boy loading saddle bags on to a horse. The sky is still banked with cloud, though lanced in places with spears of gold light. ‘Everything points back to John Doughty having an accomplice on board.’
Sidney rises and taps his pipe out in the fireplace. ‘Yes, but who?’
I throw my hands up. ‘Well, if I knew that …’ I catch sight of his face. ‘Go on then – what is your solution?’
‘You know the Spaniard has still not returned?’
‘You take his disappearance as a confession?’
‘Don’t you? It makes sense. He knows he was seen in Dunne’s cabin that night. He has knowledge of medicinal herbs – he could have given Dunne the nutmeg. Perhaps he feared the investigation was coming too near him, so he decided to cut and run.’
‘But why? What could be his motive?’
‘Is it not obvious?’
‘Not to me,’ I say, but I already know what he is going to say and I feel my jaw tighten.
‘The man is Spanish,’ he says, simply. ‘Our enemy by birth. It is unnatural that he should have pledged allegiance to Drake, given that the purpose of the voyage was to plunder Spanish ports. Come on, Bruno – consider the likelihood that he was sending intelligence to his countrymen. I’d wager Dunne found him out and meant to tell Drake.’