Treachery

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.