Читать книгу Treachery - S. J. Parris - Страница 12

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.’

I laugh abruptly, and she joins in, leaning her weight into me. Lady Drake and Sidney stop and turn, amused, though I notice Lady Drake seems piqued.

‘What is the joke, Nell?’ she calls. ‘Share it with us, won’t you?’

‘I was just telling Doctor Bruno about Cousin Edgar the boar,’ Lady Arden shouts back, and follows this with a magnificent impersonation of a grunting pig. Sidney stares at her. Quite possibly he has never seen a well-born lady pretending to be a boar.

Elizabeth Drake laughs and shakes her head. ‘Oh God, him,’ she says. ‘No, we all think you could do better.’ Her gaze flits to me for an instant, and to the way Lady Arden leans on my arm. Do I qualify as ‘better’ than a titled cousin who looks like a boar, or not? Her expression gives no clue.

‘Lady Drake has been telling me a little about Robert Dunne,’ Sidney says, with a meaningful look at me as we fall into step alongside them.

‘Did you know him well?’ I ask her.

‘Not so very well,’ she says. ‘But all the Devonshire families know one another to a degree. Robert Dunne was the younger son. Feckless with money, went to sea to make his fortune. He was a hero for a while after he came back from the voyage with Sir Francis, even married himself an heiress. But then he gambled away everything he brought home. Terribly sad that he should take his own life, though.’ She says this in the same tone that she might say it was terribly sad the village fair had been rained off. ‘It would be awful if the whole voyage fell through because of it. Sir Francis would be devastated.’

And you? I wonder, watching her. Are you anticipating a year or so of relative freedom in your husband’s absence? I look from her to Lady Arden. Perhaps this is all women really want: the freedom to be their own masters, the way they imagine men are. But none of us is truly his own master in this world of dependency and patronage. Just look at Sidney.

I catch his eye; clearly Drake has not wanted to alarm his wife with the truth about Dunne’s death.

‘I suppose my husband claims his death is the curse of John Doughty at work again?’ Lady Drake says, as if she has read my thoughts.

‘John Doughty? I understood his name was Thomas?’ I say, confused.

‘Thomas was the one Sir Francis killed for mutiny,’ says Lady Arden.

‘Executed,’ Lady Drake corrects, automatically. ‘John is his brother. He came back alive from the voyage, and as soon as he reached London he tried to bring a legal case against my husband for unlawful killing. It was a great scandal at the time.’

‘I remember that,’ Sidney says, nodding. ‘John Doughty and his supporters claimed Sir Francis had never been able to prove that he had the Queen’s commission to pass the death sentence while at sea. It was a dangerous precedent, some said, because the Doughtys were gentlemen and Sir Francis – saving your presence, my lady – at the time was not. Though of course we all regard him as such now,’ he adds hastily. I give him a sideways look.

‘John Doughty brought the matter to court,’ says Lady Drake, ignoring this, ‘but the case was thrown out on a technicality. Doughty believed the Queen herself had intervened to quash his suit so that the glory of my husband’s achievement would not be sullied by his accusations.’

‘And did she?’ I ask.

‘Few doubt it,’ Sidney says. ‘She was publicly defending Drake against accusations of piracy and murder from the Spanish – she could hardly countenance the same from one of his countrymen.’ He shakes his head. ‘One could almost pity John Doughty – not only did his case fail, but shortly after that he was accused of taking money from Philip of Spain’s agents to kidnap or kill Sir Francis. He was thrown in the Marshalsea Prison. He may still be there, for all I know.’

‘He is not,’ Lady Drake says. ‘He was released early this spring. Someone must have bought his freedom for him.’

‘Was it true that he took Spanish money?’ I ask.

‘Who knows?’ she says. ‘Spain has a high price on my husband’s head, that much is certain. There are plenty would put a knife in him for that sort of money, and with less cause than John Doughty. All we know is that, when Doughty came out of prison, he vowed revenge on Sir Francis and all those men of the jury that condemned his brother to death. He sent a message to my husband, signed in blood, saying that he had called down a curse on him and every ship he sailed in, and would not rest until he had my husband’s blood in payment for his brother’s. Sir Francis feared his time in prison had turned his wits.’

‘He has a flair for drama, this John Doughty,’ I say. ‘You could play this story on a stage, the crowd would roar for more.’

‘So I tell my husband,’ Lady Drake says, seeming pleased. ‘But John Doughty claimed to practise witchcraft. Some that testified against him said he had uttered spells to call down the Devil during the voyage. Sir Francis affects to scorn such things, but underneath he is as superstitious as any sailor. Especially since the others died.’

‘Which others?’

‘Two of the men who served on that jury have died prematurely in the past few months. One, apparently in perfect health, was taken by a sudden stomach pain and was dead by morning. The other, an experienced horseman, was thrown while out hunting and broke his neck.’ She shrugs and holds out her hands, palm up, as if to return an open verdict.

‘But these sound like accidents. They could happen to anyone.’

‘So I say to Sir Francis. But both have happened since John Doughty was freed. And now there is Robert Dunne.’

‘He was also on the jury?’ Sidney asks.

Lady Drake nods. ‘My husband says Dunne was driven to despair by his gambling debts. But I can see in his eyes that he does not believe it. Why should a man kill himself on the eve of a voyage which promises to mend his fortunes? I am sure he suspects that Dunne was murdered, and it has fuelled his fears.’

‘Perhaps you underestimate his courage, my lady,’ I say, trying to sound soothing. She turns to me with a sharp look.

‘Then why does he delay the fleet’s departure?’

I shake my head. ‘I could not presume to know his reasons.’ What I think, but cannot say, is that John Doughty’s curse has nothing supernatural about it. The deaths of these other jurymen were possibly accidents, possibly not. A man bent on revenge could surely find opportunity to slip someone poison or startle a horse. And now Robert Dunne, hanged in his own cabin. If this John Doughty is passing his own death sentence on those he holds responsible for his brother’s murder, one by one, then with Dunne he has drawn terrifyingly close to the greatest revenge of all – Drake himself. No wonder the Captain-General is afraid. But what has this story, if anything, to do with the Judas book?

A cold wind knifes in from the sea; Lady Arden shivers and pulls her shawl tighter around her shoulders. The castle looms up on our left, its four squat towers brooding over the town to the north and the Sound to the south. Out in the harbour, the Elizabeth Bonaventure sways on the waves; on board is a manuscript that might crack the foundations of the Christian faith, I think, and a strange apprehension grips me, somewhere between thrill and fear.

Sidney drops back to walk with me and the women go on ahead, arm in arm, heads bent close together as they share their confidences. Sidney watches them with narrowed eyes.

‘I wager you’ll have her before we leave Plymouth,’ he says eventually.

I smile. ‘I wish you would speak plainly, Philip.’

‘Well, why should I not be blunt about it? She is hardly troubling to disguise her liking for you. I don’t think it would require an elaborate courtship on your part.’ He wraps his arms around his chest, his eyes still fixed on the women. ‘Widows,’ he says, the word weighted with all the tangled desire, contempt and fear men feel towards women who intimidate them. ‘The most dangerous kind of woman, Bruno.’

‘Why?’

He hesitates. ‘Because they don’t need us.’

I laugh aloud, but he is deadly serious, and I am reminded again of the difference between us. With neither name nor land to pass on, I have never been the sort of man that women need for an advantageous marriage. In the years since I abandoned holy orders, there have been those who have liked me for my face, but to women of good birth, like Lady Arden, I can offer nothing beyond a fleeting dalliance, a diversion while they wait for a more suitable match. Sidney envies me this, and wonders why I don’t make better use of it.

‘She is expected to marry again,’ I say. ‘Some cousin of her husband’s.’

‘You should take advantage, then, before she becomes someone else’s property,’ he says.

I only smile and shake my head. It is a strange way to regard women, but perhaps I think this because I spent thirteen years as a monk, and lack experience in the transactions of marriage. Or perhaps because the only woman I ever thought of marrying would sooner die than be considered anyone’s property.

‘I would say the most dangerous kind of woman is another man’s wife,’ I remark, looking ahead. Sidney slides a glance at me from the tail of his eye.

‘They expect you to flirt with them,’ he says. ‘Compliment them. Flatter their vanity. It’s all part of the game, nothing more. She understands that.’

‘Does her husband?’

‘Does Drake understand the dance of courtly manners? What do you think?’

We pass the castle and follow the path along the curve of the promontory as the clouds begin to drift inland. After a few more yards the women want to turn back. Sidney leaves me to take up his position by Lady Drake’s side, still keeping a discreet distance; the cadences of their conversation drift back to us on the wind, but not the words.

‘You are preoccupied,’ Lady Arden says, beside me. She has to do a little half-run every few steps to keep pace with me; without realising, I have picked up speed as we make our way downhill to the town, eager to deliver our charges to the inn so that Sidney and I can return to the ship.

‘Forgive me,’ I say, turning to her and forcing my attention back from the grey-green water beyond the castle, from Judas and his testament. If it is his testament. Her bosom rises and falls, constrained by its tight bodice, with the effort of walking so fast. ‘I am too used to the company of my own thoughts. I lack my friend’s courtly manners, I fear.’

She waves the comment away and slips her hand through my arm again. ‘What you call courtly manners is just formalised insincerity. Gallantry from a courtier is meaningless – it is no more than a script he has been taught from boyhood. I had much rather talk to someone who thinks before he speaks, and means what he says. What are you thinking of now, for instance?’

‘The past,’ I say, looking out to sea.

She nods, and we walk on for a few paces, before she turns to me again.

‘You were a monk, Sir Francis says?’

‘Many years ago now.’

‘Why did you leave?’

‘I found it – restricting.’

She lets out a knowing laugh and blushes pleasingly. People always find that answer amusing; as if there is only one sense in which holy orders might constrain a man.

‘I asked too many questions,’ I add.

‘And do you still?’ she says, with a playful smile.

‘Not as many as you, my lady.’ I mean it as a joke, but the smile falters and she withdraws her hand, briefly stung. She regains her composure quickly enough, but she does not ask me anything else. I walk beside her in silence towards the quayside, angry at myself; there is something perverse in me that feels compelled to push away any woman who shows an interest, though whether this is the legacy of my vows or of my failed experiments in love, I cannot say.

She turns to me as we reach the cobbled street that runs along the harbour front.

‘Forgive my impertinence, Doctor Bruno,’ she says. ‘It is so rare for me to find a man I enjoy talking to, I forget that some of you do not relish chatter as much as women do. But I have one last question for you, if you will permit me.’

‘Please.’ I spread my hands wide, though I find I am preparing myself to lie.

‘Will you and Sir Philip take a glass of wine with us this evening at the Star? Sir Francis has arranged that Elizabeth and I should have supper with the Mayor and his wife – her social duty, it can’t be avoided – but I have hopes that we will be able to leave early, before we pass out from boredom.’ Here she glances around, as if the Mayor or his wife might be eavesdropping from an alley. ‘Do say yes. It would at least give us some spur to get through the evening when we feel our spirits flagging.’

I smile; my limited experience with English provincial dignitaries allows me some sympathy. ‘It would be a pleasure. But I don’t know what time we expect to be back from the ship.’

‘Naturally, you have more important demands on your time,’ she says, her tone clipped, and I curse myself again; would it cost so much to be a little more gallant?

‘My lady – are you not concerned that people would think it improper?’

She makes a noise through her nose that suggests derision. ‘Which people? The people of Plymouth, you mean? Merchants and fishwives and fat aldermen puffed up with their own importance – should I care for their idle gossip?’ She turns her face up to the uncertain sky and laughs. ‘Besides, you are perfectly respectable, are you not?’ The sly grin has returned; she looks at me as if we are complicit.

‘I was not thinking so much of you,’ I say, in a low voice, as Sidney and Lady Drake arrive beside us.

‘Let us hurry, I fear it will rain,’ Lady Drake says, squinting up at the clouds massing overhead. ‘Doctor Bruno, you have already had one soaking today, I’m sure you don’t want to ruin another suit of clothes.’

‘Especially one of mine,’ Sidney adds.

‘Until tonight, then,’ Lady Arden says to me, as we reach the inn. I don’t think Sidney has ever looked so impressed with me. The women exchange glances. I leave Sidney to make his farewells while I slip away to the tap-room.

The landlady, a solid, broad-hipped woman in her fifties with the weathered face of those who live by the sea, is engaged in chiding one of the serving girls for her slovenliness. She stops, her mouth open in mid-scold, when she catches sight of me, and her expression softens.

‘Yes, sir, what can I get you?’ She wipes her hands on her apron.

‘I wondered if I might have a word with you in private?’ I offer up my best smile; it has served me well with older women.

She smooths down her skirts and simpers. ‘Well, of course – get along with you, slattern,’ she adds, to the girl. ‘And don’t let me catch you shirking your duties again – there’s plenty would take your position here if you were to lose it.’

The girl mumbles something, bobs a curtsey and scurries away. The landlady turns to me, hands on hips. ‘These girls – act like they’re the ones doing you a favour, turning up at all. Now – what is it, sir?’

‘Mistress, I was with Sir Francis Drake earlier and he expressed some concern about a small matter.’

Immediately her face stiffens; she folds her hands together as if in prayer.

‘Was it the dinner? If it was in any way lacking, please assure him—’

‘No, no – there was no fault with the dinner. It was fit for Her Majesty herself, Sir Philip Sidney said so.’ She relaxes and her expression unfolds into a smile. ‘No, it was only that a couple of days ago he received a letter. It was left here for him. Sir Francis was anxious to know where it came from.’

She frowns.

‘People do deliver letters here for him sometimes. His clerk drops by to collect them, but I don’t remember each one.’

‘It was two days ago. Sunday. There can’t be that many people delivering letters on a Sunday, surely?’

‘You’d be surprised. When a fleet like this is preparing to sail, there’s no such thing as a day of rest. I’ve no recollection. You could ask the girl, she sometimes delivers messages.’ She gestures to the door.

In the corridor outside I find the sullen maidservant sweeping the flagstones, her features set in a pout. She glances up as I pass and I make a face, nodding behind me to indicate her mistress. The girl breaks into a smile.

‘Do you recall someone bringing a letter here on Sunday for Sir Francis Drake?’ I ask.

She leans on her broom. ‘Who wants to know?’

‘I do, obviously.’

She looks me up and down, her eyes coming to rest on the money bag at my belt. Her manner is pert, but her expression, when she looks me in the eye, is shrewd.

‘Are you the Italian?’ She says it as if she has heard mention of me, a thought that makes me uneasy.

‘Who wants to know?’

She gives a brief laugh. ‘Fair enough. No, I don’t recall any letters being left on Sunday.’ She eyes my purse again. ‘Now you have to answer my question,’ she says, when it becomes clear that the purse is staying shut.

‘As you wish. Yes, I am Italian.’

‘And you travel with Sir Philip Sidney?’

‘You are very well informed. Where did you learn this?’

She shrugs, nodding to the door. ‘Mistress Judith said. Her in there.’ Her gaze slides away from mine as she says it. I dislike the thought that people are gossiping about us already, but I suppose it is to be expected, with all the interest around Drake’s expedition. This girl is sly, there is no doubt, but servants’ knowledge can be valuable; they slip in and out of private rooms unobserved, and usually have sharp eyes and ears.

‘You must see everyone who comes and goes in this place,’ I say, casually, as she resumes her sweeping. Her head snaps up and her eyes narrow.

‘Most of them,’ she says. ‘Why?’

‘I wondered if you had noticed a man in black, wears his hat pulled low, even inside. I saw him the other night in the tap-room.’

She shrugs, purses her lips as if considering. ‘Can’t say as I recall. Lot of men come and go round here.’ There is a challenge in her gaze as she waits for me to make the next move.

Reluctantly, I draw out a groat and hold it up. ‘Perhaps you could try to recall.’

She eyes the coin. ‘I know the man you mean. Smallpox scars. Bright blue eyes. That the one?’

I nod, slowly, a chill creeping up my neck. She is describing Rowland Jenkes. ‘Did you notice his ears?’

‘What about them?’

‘He doesn’t have any. That’s why he wears the hat.’

‘Well, then, I wouldn’t have noticed, would I?’ She holds a hand out for her payment. I withdraw it slightly.

‘Is he a regular here?’

She shrugs again. ‘He’s been in a few times. Not seen him before the last fortnight, though.’

‘Listen – what’s your name?’

‘Hetty. Sir,’ she adds, making it sound sarcastic.

‘If you see this man again, Hetty, or you can discover anything about him or where he lodges, let me know and there could be more of these.’ I hand over the groat; it vanishes into a fold of her dirty skirts. ‘You’ll find me around the place. I’m staying here.’

‘I know,’ she says, regarding me with the same level stare. I bid her good day, but I can feel her eyes on me as I walk away.