Copyright

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2014

Copyright © Stephanie Merritt 2014

Stephanie Merritt asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007481224

Ebook Edition © 2014 ISBN: 9780007481217

Version: 2017-05-10

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Map

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Epilogue

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

From aboard Her Majesty’s good ship the Elizabeth Bonaventure, Plymouth, this Sunday the twenty-second of August 1585

Right Honourable Sir Francis Walsingham

After my heartiest commendations to you, Master Secretary, it is with a heavy heart that I pick up my pen to write these words. You have no doubt expected fair news of the fleet’s departure by now. It grieves me to tell you that we remain for the present at anchor here in Plymouth Sound, delayed at first by routine matters of supplies and provisioning, and awaiting still the arrival of the Galleon Leicester to complete our number, which we expect any day (and with it your son-in-law). Naturally, in a voyage of this size such minor setbacks are to be expected. But it is a far graver matter that weighs upon me now and which I feel I must convey to Your Honour, though I ask that for the present you do not reveal these sad circumstances to Her Majesty, for I hope to have the business resolved before too long without causing her unnecessary distress.

Your Honour perhaps knows, at least by reputation, Master Robert Dunne, a gentleman of Devon, sometime seen at court, who proved a most worthy officer and companion when I made my voyage around the world seven years since, and was duly rewarded for his part in that venture. I had invited Dunne to join my crew for this our present voyage to Spain and the New World, though there were those among my closest advisers who counselled against it, given the man’s personal troubles and what is said of him, which I need not elaborate here. Even so, I will not judge a man on hearsay but on his deeds, and I was determined to give Dunne a chance to recover his honour in the service of his country. Perhaps I would have done well to listen, though that is all one now.

From the outset Dunne’s manner was curious; he seemed much withdrawn into himself, and furtive, as if he were afraid of someone at his shoulder, not at all the man I remembered. This I attributed to nervous anticipation of the voyage to come; to leave home and family for the far side of the world is not a venture to be undertaken lightly, and Dunne knew all too well what he might face. Last evening, he had been ashore with some of the other gentlemen. While we remain here in harbour I consider it wise to allow them the natural pursuits of young men and such diversions as Plymouth affords the sailor – there is time enough for them to be confined together below decks and subject to the harsh discipline of a ship’s company once we haul anchor, though I make clear to the men under my command – as do my fellow captains – that they are expected to conduct themselves in such a way as will not bring the fleet into disrepute.

Dunne was brought back to the ship last night very much the worse for drink, which was also out of character; God knows the man had his vices, but I had confidence that drink was not among them, or I would not have appointed him to serve with me on Her Majesty’s flagship. He was in the company of our parson, Padre Pettifer, who had found Dunne wandering in the streets in a high degree of drunkenness and thought best to bring him direct to the ship – a decision I would not have made in his position, for I am told they had the Devil’s own work to help Dunne into the rowboat and up the ladder to the deck of the Elizabeth. There they were met by my brother Thomas, who had taken his supper with me aboard and was on his way back to his own command. Knowing I was in my quarters, at work on my charts with young Gilbert, and thinking this matter not fit to trouble me with, my brother and the parson helped Dunne back to his cabin to recover, though Thomas later said Dunne appeared very wild, lashing out as if he could see enemies invisible to the rest, and addressing people who were not there, as if he had taken something more than wine. But, according to Padre Pettifer, almost the moment he lay down upon his bunk, he fell into a stupor from which he could not be woken, and so they left him to sleep off his excesses and repent of it in the morning.

What happened between that time and the following dawn is known only to God and, it grieves me to say, one other. The weather was foul, with rain and high winds; most of the men were below decks, save the two who kept the watch. At first light, my Spanish navigator, Jonas, came knocking at my door, in a fearful haste. He had tried to take Robert Dunne a draught of something that would restore him after the night’s excesses, but the cabin was locked and Dunne would not be roused. I understood his concern – we have all seen men in drink choke on their own vomit unattended and so I went with him to see – I have a spare key to the private cabins and together we unlocked Dunne’s door. But I was not prepared for what we found.

He was facing away from us at first, though as the ship rolled on the swell, he swung slowly around, and it was then that I noticed – but I run ahead of my story. Dunne was hanging by the neck from the lantern hook, a noose tight around his throat. Jonas cried out, and spilled some of the philtre he was carrying. I quickly hushed him, not wishing to alarm the men. With the door shut behind us, Jonas and I lifted Dunne down and laid him on the bunk. The body was stiff already; he must have been dead some hours. I stayed with him and sent Jonas to fetch my brother from his own ship.

The death of a man by his own hand must be accounted in any circumstances not only a great sorrow but a great sin against God and nature. I confess that a brief anger flared in my breast that Dunne should have chosen this moment, for you know well that sailors are as devout and as superstitious as any men in Christendom, and this would be taken as an omen, a shadow over our voyage. I did not doubt that some would desert when they learned of such a death aboard, saying God had turned His face from us. Then I reprimanded myself for thinking foremost of the voyage when a man had been driven to such extremes of despair in our midst.

But as I waited for my brother to arrive, my anger gave way to a greater fear, for I looked more closely at the corpse and at once I realised what was wrong, and a great dread took hold of me. I had no need of a physician to tell me this death was not as it first appeared. And so you will understand why I confide this to Your Honour, for I must keep my suspicions to myself until I know more. If a ship should be considered cursed to count a suicide on board, how much the worse to harbour one guilty of an even greater sin?

For this reason, I ask you for the present to keep your counsel. Be assured I will inform you of progress, but I wanted Your Honour to have this news from my own hand – rumour will find its way out of every crack, often distorted in some vital particular, and as I know you have eyes and ears here I would not wish you to be misinformed. It has been given out among the crew that it was self-slaughter, but there must be a coroner’s inquest. You see that I cannot, with due care for my men and the investment of so many great nobles, including Your Honour and our Sovereign Queen herself, embark upon a voyage such as this believing I carry a killer among my crew. If Her Majesty should hear we are delayed, I pray you allay any fears for the success of the expedition and assure her we will set sail as soon as Providence allows. I send this by fast rider and await your good counsel.

I remain Your Honour’s

most ready to be commanded,

Francis Drake

ONE

‘There! Is that not a sight to stir the blood, Bruno. Does she not make you glad to be alive?’

Sir Philip Sidney half stands as he gestures with pride to the river ahead, so that the small wherry lurches to the left with a great splash and the boatman curses aloud, raising an oar to keep us steady. I grab at the bench and peer through the thin mist to the object of Sidney’s fervour. The galleon looms up like the side of a house, three tall masts rising against the dawn sky, trailing a cat’s cradle of ropes and rigging that cross-hatch the pale backdrop of the clouds into geometric shapes.

‘It is impressive,’ I concede.

‘Don’t say “it”, you show your ignorance.’ Sidney sits back down with a thud and the boat rocks alarmingly again. ‘“She” for a ship. Do you want Francis Drake thinking we have no more seafaring knowledge than a couple of girls? You can drop us here at the steps,’ he adds, to the boatman. ‘Bring up the baggage and leave it on the wharf, near as you can to the ship. Good fellow.’ He clinks his purse to show that the man’s efforts will be rewarded.

As we draw closer and Woolwich dock emerges through the mist I see a bustle of activity surrounding the large vessel: men rolling barrels and hefting great bundles tied in oil cloth, coiling ropes, hauling carts and barking orders that echo across the Thames with the shouts of gulls wheeling around the tops of the masts.

‘I am quite happy for Sir Francis Drake to know that I cannot tell one end of a boat from the other,’ I say, bracing myself as the wherry bumps against the dockside steps. ‘The mark of a wise man is that he will admit how much he does not know. Besides, what does it matter? He is hardly expecting us to crew the boat for him, is he?’

Sidney tears his gaze away from the ship and glares at me.

‘Ship, not a boat. And little do you know, Bruno. Drake is famed for making his gentlemen officers share the labour with his mariners. No man too grand that he cannot coil a rope or swab a deck alongside his fellows, whatever his title – that’s Drake’s style of captaincy. They say when he circumnavigated the globe—’

‘But we are not among his officers, Philip. We are only visiting.’

There is a pause, then he bursts out laughing and slaps me on the shoulder.

‘Of course not. Ridiculous suggestion.’

‘I understand that you want to impress him—’

‘Impress him? Ha.’ Sidney rises and springs from the wherry to the steps, while the boatman clutches an iron ring in the wall to hold us level. The steps are slick with green weed and Sidney almost loses his footing, but rights himself before turning around, eyes flashing. ‘Listen. Francis Drake may have squeezed a knighthood out of the Queen, but he is still the son of a farmer. My mother is the daughter of a duke.’ He jabs himself in the chest with a thumb. ‘My sister is the Countess of Pembroke. My uncle is the Earl of Leicester, favourite of the Queen of England. Tell me, why should I need to impress a man like Drake?’

Because in your heart, my friend, he is the man you would secretly like to be, I think, though I smile to myself and say nothing. Not long ago, at court, Sidney had failed to show sufficient deference to some senior peer, who in response had called him the Queen’s puppy before a roomful of noblemen. Now, whenever Sidney walks through the galleries or the gardens at the royal palaces, he swears he can hear the sound of sarcastic yapping and whistles trailing after him. How he would love to be famed as an adventurer rather than a lapdog to Elizabeth; I could almost pity him for it. Since the beginning of the summer, when the Queen finally decided to commit English troops to support the Protestants fighting the Spanish in the Low Countries, he has barely been able to contain his excitement at the thought of going to war. His uncle, the Earl of Leicester, is to lead the army and Sidney had been given to believe he would have command of the forces garrisoned at Flushing. Then, at the last minute, the Queen havered, fearful of losing two of her favourites at once. Early in August, she withdrew the offer of Flushing and appointed another commander, insisting Sidney stay at court, in her sight. He has begged her to consider his honour, but she laughs off his entreaties as if she finds them amusing, as if he is a child who wants to play at soldiers with the bigger boys. His pride is humiliated. At thirty, he feels his best years are ebbing away while he is confined at the Queen’s whim to a woman’s world of tapestries and velvet cushions. Now she sends him as an envoy to Plymouth; it is a long way from commanding a garrison, but even this brief escape from the court aboard a galleon has made him giddy with the prospect of freedom.

I am less enthusiastic, though I am making an effort to hide this, for Sidney’s sake. Hopping from the wherry to the steps is close enough to the water for my liking, I reflect, as I falter and flail towards the rope to keep my balance. My boots slip on each step and I try not to look down to the slick brown river below. I swim well enough, but I have been in the Thames by accident once before and the smell of it could knock a man out before he strikes for shore; as to what floats beneath the surface, it is best not to stop and consider.

At the top of the steps, I stand for a moment as our boatman ties up his craft and begins to labour up the steps with our bags. Mostly Sidney’s bags, to be accurate; I have brought only one, with a few changes of linen and some writing materials. He has assured me we will not be gone longer than a fortnight, three weeks at most, as we accompany the galleon along the southern coast of England to Plymouth harbour where it – or she – will join the rest of Sir Francis Drake’s fleet. Yet Sidney himself seems to have packed for a voyage to the other side of the world; his servants follow us in another wherry with the remainder of his luggage. I have not remarked on this; instead I watch my friend through narrowed eyes as he hails one of the crew with a cheery hallo and engages the man in conversation. The sailor points up at the ship. Sidney is nodding earnestly, arms folded. Is he up to something, I ask myself? He has been behaving very strangely for the past few weeks, ever since his falling out with the Queen, and I know well that he does not take a blow to his pride with good grace. For the time being, though, I have no choice but to follow him.

‘Come, Bruno,’ he calls, imperious as ever, waving a lace-edged sleeve in the direction of the ship’s gangplank. I bite down a smile. Sidney thinks he has dressed down for the voyage; gone are the usual puffed sleeves and breeches, the peascod doublet that makes all Englishmen of fashion look as if they are expecting a child, but the jacket he has chosen is not much more suitable, made of ivory silk embroidered with delicate gold tracery and tiny seed pearls. His ruff, though not so extravagantly wide as usual, is starched and pristine, and on his head he wears a black velvet cap with a jewelled brooch and a peacock’s feather that dances at the back of his neck and frequently catches in his gold earring. I make bets with myself as to how long the feather will last in a sea breeze.

A gentleman descends the gangplank, his clothes marking him apart from the men loading on the dockside. He raises one hand in greeting. He appears about Sidney’s own age, with reddish hair swept back from a high forehead and an impressive beard that looks as if it has been newly curled by a barber. As he steps down on to the wharf he bows briefly to Sidney; when he lifts his head and smiles, creases appear at the corners of his eyes, giving him a genial air.

‘Welcome to the Galleon Leicester.’ He holds his arms wide.

‘Well met, Cousin.’ Sidney embraces him with a great deal of gusto and back-slapping. ‘Are we all set?’

‘They are bringing the last of the munitions aboard now.’ He gestures behind him to a group of sailors loading wooden crates on to the ship with a system of ropes and pulleys and much shouting. He turns to me with a brief, appraising look. ‘And you must be the Italian. Your reputation precedes you.’

He does not curl his lip in the way most Englishmen do when they encounter a foreigner, particularly one from Catholic Europe, and I like him the better for it. Perhaps a man who has sailed half the globe has a more accommodating view of other nations. I wonder which of my reputations has reached his ears. I have several.

‘Giordano Bruno of Nola, at your service, sir.’ I bow low, to show reverence for our difference in status.

Sidney lays a hand on the man’s shoulder and turns to me.

‘May I present Sir Francis Knollys, brother-in-law to my uncle the Earl of Leicester and captain of this vessel for our voyage.’

‘I am honoured, sir. It is good of you to have us aboard.’

Knollys grins. ‘I know it. I have told Philip he is not to get in the way. The last thing I need on my ship is a couple of poets, getting under our feet and puking like children at the merest swell.’ He squints up at the sky. ‘I had hoped to be away by first light. Still, the wind is fair – we can make up time once we are into the English Sea. Have you sea legs, Master Bruno, or will you have your head in a bucket all the way to Plymouth?’

‘I have a stomach of iron.’ I smile as I say it, so that he knows it may not be strictly true. I did not miss the disdain in the word ‘poets’, and nor did Sidney; I mind less, but I would rather not disgrace myself too far in front of this aristocratic sailor. Puking in a bucket is clearly, in his eyes, the surest way to cast doubt on one’s manhood.

‘Glad to hear it.’ He nods his approval. ‘I’ll have your bags brought up. Come and see your quarters. No great luxury, I’m afraid – nothing befitting the Master of the Ordnance, but it will have to suffice.’ He makes a mock bow to Sidney.

‘You may sneer, Cousin, but when we’re out in the Spanish Main facing the might of King Philip’s garrisons, you will be glad someone competent troubled themselves with organising munitions,’ Sidney says, affecting a lofty air.

‘Someone competent? Who was he?’ Knollys laughs at his own joke. ‘In any case, what is this “we”?’

‘What?’

‘You said, “when we’re out in the Spanish Main”. But you and your friend are only coming as far as Plymouth, I thought?’

Sidney sucks in his cheeks. ‘We the English, I meant. An expression of solidarity, Cousin.’

I notice he does not quite meet the other man’s eye. I watch my friend’s face and a suspicion begins to harden in the back of my mind.

Knollys leads us up the gangplank and aboard the Leicester. The crew turn to stare as we pass, though their hands do not falter in their tasks. I wonder what they make of us. Sidney – tall, rangy, expensively dressed, his face as bright as a boy’s, despite the recently cultivated beard, as he drinks in his new surroundings – looks no more or less than what he is, an aristocrat with a taste for adventure. In my suit of black, perhaps they take me for a chaplain.

We follow Knollys through a door beneath the aftercastle, where we are ushered into a narrow cabin, barely wide enough for the three of us to stand comfortably, with two bunks built against the dividing wall. It smells, unsurprisingly, of damp, salt, fish, seaweed. If Sidney is deterred by the rough living arrangements, he does not allow it to show as he exclaims with delight over the cramped beds, so I determine to be equally stoical. Behind my back, though, my fists clench and unclench and I force myself to breathe slowly; since I was a child I have had a terror of enclosed spaces and to be confined here seems a punishment. I promise myself I will spend as much time as possible on the deck during the voyage, eyes fixed on the sky and the wide water.

‘Make yourselves at home,’ Knollys says, cheerfully waving a hand, enjoying the advantage his experience gives him over his more refined relative. ‘I hope you have both brought thick cloaks – the wind will be fierce out at sea, for all it is supposed to be summer. I shall leave you here to get settled – I have much to do before we cast off. Come up on deck when you are ready and say your farewells to London.’

‘I’ll take the bottom bunk, I think,’ Sidney announces, when Knollys has gone, tossing his hat on to the pillow. ‘Not so far to fall if the sea is rough.’

I lean against the doorpost. ‘Thank you. And you had better tell him we will need another cabin just for your clothes.’

Sidney eases himself into his bunk and attempts to stretch out his long legs. They will not fit and he is forced to lie with his knees pointing up like a woman in childbirth. ‘You know, one of these days, Bruno, you will learn to show me the respect due from a man of your birth to one of mine. Of course, I have only myself to blame,’ he continues, shifting position and knocking his hat on the floor. ‘I have bred this insolence by treating you as an equal. It will have to stop. How in God’s name am I supposed to sleep in this? I can’t even lie flat. Was it built for a dwarf? I suppose you will have no problem. God’s wounds, they have better accommodation at the Fleet Prison!’

I pick up his hat and put it on at a jaunty angle.

‘What were you expecting, feather beds and silk sheets? It was you who wanted to play at being an adventurer.’

He sits up, suddenly serious. ‘We are not playing, Bruno. I am the Queen’s Master of the Ordnance – this is a royal appointment. No, I am not in jest now. And you will thank me for it, wait and see. What else would you have done with the summer but brood on your situation? At least this way you will be occupied.’

‘My situation, as you put it, will be no different when I return. Unless I can find some way to stay in England independent of the French embassy, I will be forced to return to Paris with the Ambassador in September. It is difficult not to brood.’

I try to keep the pique from my voice, but his casual tone is galling, when he is talking of my whole future, and perhaps my life.

He waves a hand. ‘You worry too much. The new Ambassador – what’s his name, Châteauneuf? – can’t really throw you out on the streets, can he? Not while the French King supports you living at the embassy. He’s just trying to intimidate you.’

‘Well, he has succeeded.’ I wrap my arms around my chest. ‘King Henri has not paid my stipend for months – he has more to worry about at his own court than one exiled philosopher. The previous Ambassador was paying it himself from the embassy coffers – I have been surviving on that and what I earn from—’ I break off; we exchange a significant look. ‘And that is another problem,’ I say, lowering my voice. ‘Châteauneuf as good as accused me of spying for the Privy Council.’

‘On what grounds?’

‘He had no evidence. But they suspect the embassy’s secret correspondence is being intercepted. And since I am the only known enemy of the Catholic Church in residence, he has drawn his own conclusions.’

‘Huh.’ He draws his knees up. ‘They are not as stupid as they appear, then. But you will have to be careful in future.’

‘I fear it will be almost impossible for me to go on working for Walsingham as I have been. The previous Ambassador trusted me. Châteauneuf is determined not to – he will be watching my every move. He is the most dogmatic kind of Catholic – the sort that thinks tolerance is a burning offence. He will not keep someone like me under his roof. Those were his words.’

Sidney smiles. ‘A defrocked monk, excommunicated for heresy. Yes, I can see that he might see you as dangerous. But I thought you were keen to return to Paris?’

I do not miss the insinuation.

‘I wrote to King Henri last autumn to ask if I might return briefly. He said he could not have me back at court at present, it would only antagonise the Catholic League. Besides,’ I lean against the wall and cross my arms, ‘she will be long gone by now. If she was ever there.’

He nods slowly. Sidney understands what it is to love a woman you cannot have. There is no more to be said.

‘Well, you can stop brooding. I have an answer to your problems.’ The glint in his eye does not inspire confidence. Sidney is well intentioned but impulsive and his schemes are rarely practical; for all that, I cannot suppress a flicker of hope. Perhaps he means to speak to his father-in-law Walsingham for me, or even the Queen. Only a position at court would allow me to support myself in exile. Though she cannot publicly acknowledge it, I know that Walsingham has told the Queen how I have risked my life in her service over the past two years. Surely she will understand that I can never again live or write safely in a Catholic country while I am wanted by the Inquisition on charges of heresy.

‘You will speak to the Queen?’

‘Wait and see,’ is all he says, with a cryptic wink that he knows infuriates me.

Sidney was appointed Master of the Ordnance early in the spring – a political appointment, a bauble from the Queen, no reflection of his military or naval abilities, which so far exist largely in his head. Over the summer he has been occupied with overseeing the provision of munitions for this latest venture of Francis Drake’s. So when the Queen received word that Dom Antonio, the pretender to the Portuguese throne, was sailing for England to visit her and intended to land at Plymouth, Sidney volunteered immediately for the task of meeting and escorting him to London, so that he might see Drake’s fleet at first hand.

The plan is that we sail with the Galleon Leicester as far as Plymouth, where the ships are assembling, spend a few days among the sailors and merchant adventurers while we wait for the Portuguese and his entourage, so that Sidney can strut about talking cannon-shot and navigation and generally making himself important, then return by road to London with our royal visitor by the end of the month, when the royal court will have made its way back to the city after a summer in the country. I am grateful for the diversion, but I cannot help dwelling on the reckoning that will come on our return. If Sidney can find a way for me to stay in London, I will be in his debt for a lifetime.

The sun is almost fully above the horizon when Knollys calls us back to the deck, its light shrouded by a thin gauze of white cloud. I think of a Sicilian lemon in a muslin bag, with a brief pang of nostalgia.

‘We shall have clear weather today, God willing,’ he says, nodding to the sky. ‘Though it would not hurt to pray for a little more wind.’

‘You’re asking the wrong man,’ Sidney says, nudging me. ‘Bruno does not pray.’

Knollys regards me, amused. ‘Wait until we’re out at sea. He will.’

The ship casts off smoothly from her moorings; orders are shouted, ropes hauled in, and from above comes a great creak of timber and the billowing slap of canvas as the sails breathe in and out like bellows. For the first time since we boarded, I am truly aware of the deck shifting beneath my feet; a gentle motion, back and forth on the swell as the Leicester moves away from the dock and the children who earn pennies loading cargo and running errands cheer us on our way, scampering as far as they can run along the wharf to wave us out of sight. Knollys laughs and waves back, so Sidney and I follow suit as the sun breaks through in a sudden shaft that gilds the brass fittings and the warm grain of the wood and makes the water ahead sparkle with a hundred thousand points of light, and I think perhaps I will enjoy this after all. But each time I move I am reminded that the ground under my feet is no longer solid.

‘Occupy yourselves for the present,’ Knollys says, ‘as long as you don’t get in anyone’s way.’

‘I am fully ready to pull my weight, Cousin, just let me know what tasks I should take in hand. I have heard how Drake likes to run his crews and we are not here to sit about watching honest men toil while we drink French wine in the sun.’ Sidney beams, spreading his hands wide as if to say, Here I am.

I look at him, alarmed; there had been no mention of this in the invitation. I glance up to the top of the mainmast, where a pennant with a gold crest flutters above the lookout platform. I hope he has not just volunteered us for shinning up rigging and swabbing decks.

Knollys looks him up and down, taking in the silk doublet, the lace cuffs, the ornaments. He smiles, but there is an edge to it.

‘Good – the wine is strictly rationed. I must say, Philip, I am surprised Her Majesty has allowed you to leave court for so long. In the circumstances.’

Sidney looks away. ‘Someone has to bring Dom Antonio to London. He wouldn’t make it in one piece on his own. You know Philip of Spain has a price on his head.’

‘Even so. Given that you and she are at odds at present, I’m amazed she trusts you to come back again.’ Knollys laughs, expecting Sidney to join in.

There is a pause that grows more uncomfortable the longer it continues. Sidney studies the horizon with intense concentration.

‘Tell me,’ I say, to relieve the silence, ‘what kind of man is Francis Drake?’

‘Stubborn,’ says Sidney, without hesitation.

‘A man of mettle,’ Knollys offers, after some consideration.

‘I have sat on parliamentary committees with him over the past few years,’ says Sidney, ‘and he is as single-minded as a ratting dog when he has his mind set to something. Pragmatic too, though, and damned hard-working – as you’d expect from a man raised to manual labour,’ he adds, examining his fingernails.

‘There is a combative aspect to him,’ Knollys says thoughtfully, ‘and a fierce ambition – though not for personal vanity, I don’t think. It’s more as if he enjoys pitting himself against the impossible. He can be the very soul of courtesy – I have seen him treat prisoners from captured ships with as much respect as he would pay his own men. But there is steel in him. If you cross him, by God, he will make you pay for it.’ He sucks in a sharp breath and seems poised to expand on this, but apparently thinks better of it.

‘Is he an educated man?’ I ask.

‘Not formally, though he is learned in matters that concern the sea, naturally,’ Knollys says. ‘But in his cabin he keeps an English Bible and a copy of Foxe’s Book of Martyrs, as well as the writings of Magellan and French and Spanish volumes on the art of navigation. He is excessively fond of music and makes sure he has men aboard who can play with some skill. Why do you ask?’

‘Only that he is Europe’s most famous mariner,’ I say. ‘I am intrigued to meet him – he has changed our understanding of the world. I imagine he must be a man of extraordinary qualities.’

Knollys nods, smiling. ‘You will not be disappointed. Now, the two of you can watch the sights while I go about my business. God willing we shall have calm seas and a good wind and we will be in Plymouth inside two days.’

He waves us vaguely towards the front of the ship. I follow Sidney up a few almost vertical stairs to the high deck. As soon as Knollys has turned his back, Sidney disregards his command; he greets the nearest sailor heartily and presses him with questions about his business – why does he tie that rope so, what does it signify that the topsails are still furled, what is the hierarchy of men in the crew, where is the farthest he himself has been from England – barely pausing to draw breath, until the poor fellow looks about wildly for someone to save him from this interrogation.

Smiling, I leave them to it and find myself a quiet spot at the very prow. I do, as it happens, know one end of a ship from the other – I spent part of my youth around the Bay of Naples – but I reason that the more useless I make myself appear, the more I will be left to my own devices. What does pique my interest here is the art of navigation; I should like to have the opportunity to talk to Knollys about his charts and instruments, if he would allow. Since sailors for centuries have calculated their position by the stars with ever more precise calibrations, and since for those same centuries all our charts of the heavens have been based on erroneous beliefs about the movement of the stars and planets in their spheres, I am curious to know how navigators and cartographers will adapt to the new configuration of the universe, now that we know the Sun and not the Earth lies at its centre, and that the fixed stars are no such thing, their sphere no longer the outer limit of the cosmos. I wonder if these are ideas I could discuss with an experienced sailor like Knollys. He circumnavigated the globe with Drake in 1577, according to Sidney, on the voyage that made them famous and wealthy men; surely in the course of such a journey the calculations they made must have added up to confirmation that the Earth turns about the Sun and not the reverse? Drake and the men who sailed with him are forbidden by the Queen from publishing accounts or maps of their route, for fear they would fall into the hands of the Spanish, but perhaps Knollys might be persuaded at least to discuss the scientific discoveries of his travels with me in confidence, as one man of learning to another.

Ahead the Thames gleams like beaten metal as clouds scud across the face of the sun and their shadows follow over the water; in this light, you could almost forget it is a soup of human filth. I rest my forearms on the wooden guardrail and look down. I must check myself; with my state so precarious, it behoves me to be wary of what I say in public, until I know how it may be received. Knollys is, by all accounts, a good Protestant, like his brother-in-law Leicester and Sidney, but I would be a fool to imagine that these ideas of the Pole Copernicus have been accepted by more than a very few. Only two years ago I was openly ridiculed at the University of Oxford for expressing such a view in a public debate. Just because the Inquisition cannot reach me in Elizabeth’s territories, it does not follow that all Englishmen are enlightened.

We make steady progress along the river as it widens towards the estuary, here and there passing clusters of dwellings little more than shacks, where fishing boats bob alongside makeshift jetties. To either side the land is flat and marshy, pocked with pools reflecting the pale expanse of the sky. London gives you a sense of being hemmed in, pressed on all sides; there the sky is a dirty ribbon glimpsed if you crane your neck between the eaves of tall houses that lean in towards one another across narrow alleys, blocking the light. As we move further from the city, I feel my shoulders relax; the air freshens and begins to carry a tang of salt, and I inhale deeply, relishing this new sense of space. The sounds grow familiar: the snap of sailcloth, the creaks and groans of moving timber, the rhythmic breaking of waves against the hull as we rise and fall, the endless skwah-skwah of the gulls.

After supper, while Sidney settles to cards with Knollys and his gentlemen officers, I excuse myself and return to the deck. The wind is keener now and I have to wrap my cloak close around me against the cold, but I had rather be here in the salt air than confined in the captain’s cabin, with its fug of tobacco smoke and sweet wine. Directly ahead, the sun has almost sunk into the water, leaving the sky streaked orange and pink in its wake. To our right, or what Sidney insists I call starboard, the English coast is a dark smudge. To the left, on the other side of the endlessly shifting water, lies France, and I narrow my eyes towards the distant clouds as if I could see it.

The boards creak behind me and Sidney appears at my side, a clay pipe clamped between his teeth. He takes out a tinder-box from the pouch at his belt and battles for some moments to light it in the wind.

‘Thinking again, Bruno?’

‘It is a living, of sorts.’

He grunts, takes the pipe from his mouth, puffs out a cloud of smoke and stretches his arms wide, lifting his chest to the rising moon.

‘Nothing like fresh sea air.’

‘It was before you arrived.’

He leans with his back to the rail and grins. ‘Leave off, you sound like my wife. She always complains about the smell of a pipe. Especially now.’ He sighs and turns to face the sea again. ‘By God, it is a relief to be out of that house. Women are even more contrary than usual when they are with child. Why is one not warned of that in advance, I wonder?’

‘This time last year you were fretting you might not manage an heir at all. I’d have thought you’d be glad.’

‘It is all to please other people, Bruno. A man born to my station in life – certain things are expected of you. They are not necessarily your own choices.’

‘You don’t want to be a father?’

‘I would have liked to become a father once I was in a position to support sons and daughters myself, rather than still living in my father-in-law’s house. But … well.’ He laces his fingers together and cracks his knuckles. ‘They will not let me go to war until I have got an heir, in case I don’t come back. So I suppose I should be pleased.’

The sails billow and snap above us; the ship moves implacably forward, stately, unhurried. After a long silence, Sidney taps his pipe out on the rail in front of him.

‘I put a group of armed men and servants on the road to Plymouth two days ago. They will meet us there and escort Dom Antonio back to London.’

My earlier suspicions prickle again.

‘Along with us,’ I prompt.

Sidney turns to me with a triumphant smile, his eyes gleaming in the fading light. He grips my sleeve. ‘We are not going back to London, my friend. By the time Dom Antonio is warming his boots at Whitehall, you and I shall be halfway across the Atlantic.’

I stare at him for a long while, waiting – hoping – for some sign that this is another of his jokes. The wild light in his eyes suggests otherwise.

‘What, are we going to stow away? Hide among the baggage?’

‘I told you I had a plan for you, did I not?’ He leans back again, delighted with himself.

‘I thought it might be something realistic.’

‘Christ’s bones – don’t be such a naysayer, Bruno. Listen to me. What is the great problem that you and I share?’

‘The urge to write poetry, and a liking for difficult women.’

‘Other than those.’ He looks at me; I wait. ‘We lack independence, because we lack money.’

‘Ah. That.’

‘Exactly! And how do we solve it? We must be given money, or we must make it ourselves. And since I see no one inclined to give us any at present, what better way than to take it from the Spanish? To come home covered in glory, with a treasure of thousands in the hold – the look on her face then would be something to see, would it not?’

For a moment I think he means his wife, until I realise.

‘This is all to defy the Queen, then? For not sending you to the Low Countries? You plan to sail to the other side of the world without her permission?’

He does not answer immediately. Instead he looks out over the water, inhaling deeply.

‘Do you know how much Francis Drake brought home from his voyage around the world? No? Well, I shall tell you. Over half a million pounds of Spanish treasure. Ten thousand of that the Queen gave him for himself, more to be shared among his men. And that is only what he declared.’ He breaks off, shaking his head. ‘He has bought himself a manor house in Devon, a former abbey with all its land, and a coat of arms. The son of a yeoman farmer! And I cannot buy so much as a cottage for my family. My son will grow up knowing every mouthful he eats was provided by his grandfather, while his father sat by, dependent as a woman. How do you think that makes me feel?’

‘I understand you are frustrated, and angry with the Queen—’

‘The fellow she means to give the command of Flushing is my inferior in every degree. It is a public humiliation. I cannot walk through the galleries of Whitehall knowing the whole court is laughing at my expense. I am unmanned at every turn.’ The hand resting on the rail bunches into a fist.

‘So you must come home a conquering hero.’

‘What else is there for an Englishman to do but fight the Spanish?’ When he turns to me, I see he is white with anger. ‘It is no more than my duty, and she would prevent me for fear of letting her favourites out of her sight – she must keep us all clinging to her skirts, because she dreads to be alone. But I would be more than a pet to an ageing spinster, Bruno.’ He glances around quickly, to make sure this has not been overheard. ‘Picture it, will you – the thrill of bearding the King of Spain in his own territories, sailing back to England rich men. The Queen will not have gifts enough to express her thanks.’

I want to laugh, he is so earnest. Instead I rub the stubble on my chin, hand over my mouth, until I can speak with a straight face.

‘You really mean to do this? Sail with Drake to the Spanish Main? Does he even know?’

He shrugs, as if this were a minor detail. ‘I hinted at it numerous times as I was assisting him with the preparations this summer. I am not sure he took me seriously. But I can’t think he would object.’

‘He will, if he knows you travel without the Queen’s consent and against her wishes. He will not want to lose her favour.’ But I am not thinking of Drake’s advantage, only my own. The Queen will be livid with Sidney for flouting her command and if I am party to his enterprise, I will share her displeasure. Sidney will bounce back, because he is who he is, but my standing with her, such as it is, may never recover. And that is the best outcome; that is assuming we return at all.

‘Francis Drake would not be in a position to undertake this venture if it were not for me,’ Sidney says, his voice low and urgent. ‘Half the ships in his fleet and a good deal of the funds raised come from private investors I brought to him, gentlemen I persuaded to help finance the voyage.’ He jabs himself in the chest with his thumb to make the point. ‘He can hardly turn me away at the quayside.’

I shake my head and look away, over the waves. He is overstating his part in the venture, I am sure, but there is no reasoning with him when he is set on a course. If he will not brook objection from the Queen of England, he will certainly hear none from me.

‘I have no military experience, Philip, I am not a fighter. This is not for me.’

He snorts. ‘How can you even say so? I have seen you fight, Bruno, and take on men twice your size. For a philosopher, you can be very daunting.’ He flashes a sudden grin and I am relieved; I fear we are on the verge of a rift.

‘I can acquit myself in a tavern brawl, if I have to. That is not quite the same as boarding a ship or capturing a port. What use would I be at sea?’

‘What use are you in London now that the new Ambassador means to watch your every step, or kick you out altogether? You are no use to anyone at present, Bruno, not without patronage.’

I turn sharply away, keeping silent until I can trust myself to speak without betraying my anger. I can feel him simmering beside me, tapping the stem of the clay pipe hard against the wooden guardrail until it snaps and he throws it with a curse into the sea.

‘Thank you for reminding me of my place, Sir Philip,’ I say at length, in a voice that comes out tight and strangled.

‘Oh, for the love of Christ, Bruno! I meant only that you are of more use on this voyage than anywhere else, for now. Besides, he asked for you.’

‘Who did?’

‘Francis Drake. That’s why I invited you.’

I frown, suspicious.

‘Drake doesn’t know me. Why would he ask for me?’

‘Well, not by name. But this summer, in London, he asked me if I could find him a scholar to help him with something. He was very particular about it, though he would not explain why.’

‘But you are a scholar. Surely he knows that?’

‘I won’t do, apparently. He is looking for someone with a knowledge of ancient languages, ancient texts. A man of learning and discretion, he said, for a sensitive task. I told him I knew just the fellow.’ He beams, slinging an arm around my shoulder, all geniality again. ‘He told me to bring you to Plymouth when I came. Think, Bruno – I don’t know what he wants, but if you could do him some sort of service, it might smooth our way to a berth aboard his ship.’

I say nothing. When he invited me on this journey to Plymouth, he showered me with flattery: he could not dream of going without me, he said; he would miss my conversation; there was no one among his circle at court he would rather travel with, no one whose company he prized more highly. Now it transpires that he wants me as a sort of currency; something he can use to barter with Drake. Like a foolish girl, I have allowed myself to be sweet-talked into believing he wanted me for my own qualities. I also know that I am absurd to feel slighted, and this makes me all the more angry, with him and with myself. I shrug his arm off me.

‘Oh, come on, Bruno. I cannot think of going without you – what, left to the company of grizzled old sea dogs for months on end, with no conversation that isn’t of weevils and cordage and drinking their own piss? You would not abandon me to such a fate.’ He drops to one knee, his hands pressed together in supplication.

Reluctantly, I crack a smile. ‘Weevils and drinking our own piss? Well then, you have sold it to me.’

‘See? I knew you would not be able to resist.’ He bounces back to his feet and brushes himself down.

Our friendship has always been marked by good-natured teasing, but his earlier words have stung; perhaps this is truly how he views me. Nothing without patronage.

‘Seriously, Philip,’ I turn to look him in the eye. ‘To risk the Queen’s displeasure so brazenly – are you really willing? I am not sure that I am.’

‘I swear to you, Bruno, by the time we come home, the sight of the riches we bring to her treasury will make her forget on the instant.’ When I do not reply, he leans in, dropping his voice to a whisper. ‘You do realise the money Walsingham pays you is not charity? He pays you for information. And if the Baron de Châteauneuf has as good as banished you, how can you continue to provide it?’

‘I will find a way. I always have before. Walsingham knows I will not let him down.’

‘Come, Bruno!’ He gives me a little shake, to jolly me along. ‘Do you not yearn to see the New World? What good is it to dream of worlds beyond the fixed stars if you dare not travel our own globe?’ He pushes a hand through his hair so that the front sticks up in tufts, a gesture he makes without knowing whenever he is agitated. ‘You’re thirty-seven years old. If you want nothing more from life than to sit in a room with a book, I can’t think why you ever left the cloister.’

‘Because I would have been sentenced to death by the Inquisition,’ I say, quietly. As he well knows. But how do you explain to a man like Sidney the reality of a life in exile? ‘And what of your wife and child?’ I add, as he stretches again and turns as if to leave.

He looks at me as if he does not understand the question. ‘What of them?’

‘Your first child is due in, what, three months? And you mean to be halfway across an ocean.’ With no good odds on returning, I do not say aloud. Even I know that Francis Drake’s famous circumnavigation returned to England with only one ship of six and a third of the men. But Sidney is as irrepressible as a boy when he sets his heart on something; he clearly believes there is no question but that we will return triumphant with armfuls of Spanish gold.

He frowns. ‘But I have done my part. She will have the child whether I am there or not, and there will be nursemaids to take care of it. God’s blood, Bruno, I have done what they asked of me, I have got an heir, that is why they have had me cooped up at Barn Elms for the past two years. Am I not permitted a little freedom now?’

I am tempted to observe that he has possibly misunderstood the nature of marriage, but I refrain; I am hardly qualified to advise him about women. Besides, there is no profit in making him more irritable. His anger, I see now, is not at me, but at everyone who would voice the same objections: his wife, his father-in-law, Francis Drake, the Queen. He is rehearsing his self-justification. I have great affection for Sidney, and he has many qualities I admire, but he can be spoilt and does not respond well to being thwarted.

‘It might be a girl,’ I reply.

He makes a noise of exasperation. ‘I am going back down for a drink. Are you coming?’

‘I think I will stay here for a while.’

‘As you wish.’ At the head of the stairs to the main deck he turns back, one hand on the guardrail. ‘You know, I am trying to find a way to help you, Bruno. I thought I might have a little more thanks than this.’ He sounds wounded. In my amazement at his mad scheme, it had not occurred to me that I might have hurt his feelings.

‘Forgive me. I am grateful for your efforts – do not think otherwise.’

‘You are coming, then? To the New World?’ His face brightens.

‘Let me get used to the idea.’

He disappears to the lower deck and I return my attention to the restless black water that surrounds us. Two weeks of this had seemed a diversion; months on end is another proposition entirely. In sunlight, the sea looked benign, obliging; now its vastness strikes me as overwhelming. To challenge it, to attempt to best it with such a small vessel, appears grotesquely presumptuous. But perhaps all acts of courage look like folly at first. The breeze lifts my hair from my face, and I realise that the sun has fully set and the horizon is no longer visible on either side. There is no divide between sea and sky, nothing but endless darkness and the indifferent stars.

TWO

We round the headland into Plymouth Sound two days later, early evening on 23rd August, as a cheer goes up from the men on deck. The wind has not been on our side since we passed the coast of Kent and moved into the English sea, making our progress slower than Knollys had predicted, but now the sky is clearer overhead, the sun glistening on a broad bay, surrounded on three sides by gently sloping cliffs, dark green with thick tree cover. Sidney and I have been standing at the prow for the past hour, craning for the first sight of the harbour, but nothing could have prepared me for the spectacle of the fleet anchored in the Sound.

Some thirty ships of varying sizes, the largest painted black and white and greater even than the Galleon Leicester, stand at anchor; between the great painted fighting ships and merchantmen, ten or so smaller pinnaces rock gently on the swell, sails furled, pennants snapping, their heraldic colours bright against the pale sky. The water sparkles and the whole has the appearance of a marvellous pageant. I find myself staring open-mouthed with delight like a child, Sidney likewise, as the crewmen on deck send up another cheer at the sight of their comrades. Until this moment, I would not have claimed any great interest in seafaring, but the assembled fleet is truly a sight to stir a sense of adventure. I picture all these ships sailing out in formation at Drake’s command, pointed towards the New World, Sidney and me at the prow, squinting into the sun towards an unknown horizon. And returning, to the salute of cannon from the Plymouth shore, our pockets bursting with Spanish gold. Sidney really believes this is possible; now that we are here, it is hard not to be infected by his conviction. All about us, a volley of shouted commands is unleashed, followed by the heavy slap of canvas as sails are furled, ropes heaved, chains let out with a great clanking of metal on metal, and the vast creaking bulk of the Galleon Leicester slows almost to a standstill as her anchors are dropped and rowboats lowered down her sides to the water. Knollys turns to us, eyes bright with pride, as if this show is all his doing.

‘There, gentlemen, you see the flagship, the Elizabeth Bonaventure, Sir Francis Drake’s own command. And there, the Tiger, captained by Master Carleill.’

He points across the Sound; Sidney shoots me a sideways look and a grimace. Half the investors in this expedition he knows from court, many of the officers men with connections to his own family. He will have to keep his plans quiet until the voyage is underway, for fear of Walsingham finding out.

Knollys continues, oblivious, his outstretched arm casting a long shadow over the deck as he gestures: ‘Across the way you have the Sea Dragon, the White Lion and the Galliot Duck, and there the little Speedwell, and beside her the Thomas Drake, named for the Captain-General’s brother and under his command.’

We are near enough to see the crews of the other ships, men scuttling up and down rigging and swarming over the decks like insects. Now that we are at ease in the shelter of the harbour, the breeze has dropped and I feel the warmth of the sun on my back for the first time since we left London.

‘And what is that island?’ I ask, pointing to a mound of rock in the middle of the Sound. Sheer cliffs rise to a wooded crest, and at the summit, a stone tower peeps above the treeline.

‘St Nicholas Island,’ Knollys says, shading his eyes, ‘though the locals call it Drake’s Island. Sir Francis has been trying to raise money to improve the fortifications in case of invasion. There was a garrison there in years past, though I believe it has fallen out of use for lack of funds. But come – the Captain-General, as we must call him on this voyage, will be expecting us.’

He leads us down a flight of stairs below deck, where he calls for rope ladders to be dropped over the side through a hatch. These are thin, precarious-looking contraptions, but Knollys swings himself easily into the gap and shins down to the two stout sailors holding the end of the ladder steady in the rowboat below. Sidney nudges me to follow, and a silent sailor hands me through the hatch, where I climb without looking down, gripping the ropes until my palms burn, placing one foot below the other, conscious all the while of Sidney’s impatient feet inches above my head.

The oarsmen negotiate a path between the anchored ships and from this vantage point, at the waterline, you understand the immensity of these galleons; their hulls the height of a church, their masts disappearing to a point so high you have to crane your neck until you are almost lying horizontal to see the top. Navigating through them you feel as if you are in a narrow lane between high buildings, if buildings were uprooted from their foundations and could lurch and heave at you. A hearty melody of flutes and viols carries across the water, accompanied by raucous singing that collapses into laughter after one verse. A few more strokes of the oars and our boat cracks against a sheer wooden cliff scaled with barnacles, where another ladder sways, awaiting us. I glance at my palms. Sidney notices and laughs.

‘Don’t expect to go home with the soft hands of a gentleman, Bruno.’

‘I’m not sure I have ever had the soft hands of a gentleman,’ I say. I hold them out and regard them on both sides, as if for evidence. My fingertips are stained with ink, as always.

‘That’s not what the ladies of the French court say,’ he replies, with a broad wink. It is one of Sidney’s favourite jokes: that I worked my way through the duchesses and courtesans of Paris before turning my keen eye to England. It amuses him that I was once a monk; he cannot imagine how I managed to keep to it all those years, the most vigorous years of my youth. He can only picture how he himself would have been, and so he likes to joke that, since leaving holy orders, I go about rutting everything in sight like a puppy on a chair leg. It amuses him all the more for being untrue.

Knollys precedes us up the ladder; Sidney follows and I am left to bring up the rear. This ship is higher even than the Leicester; my arms begin to ache and the ladder shows no sign of ending. I dare not look anywhere except directly in front of me, at the snaking ropes and the wooden wall that grazes my knuckles each time the swell knocks me against it. As my head draws level with the rail, I reach out to grasp it and my hand slips; for a dizzying moment I fear I may lose my footing, but a strong hand grips my wrist and hauls me inelegantly over the side.

‘Steady there.’

I regain my balance, take a breath, and look up to face my rescuer.

‘And who is this, that we nearly lost to the fishes?’ he asks, not unkindly. As he smiles down a gold tooth flashes in the corner of his mouth.

‘Doctor Giordano Bruno of Nola, at your service.’ My heart is pounding with relief, or shock, or both, at the thought that I might have fallen the full height of the ship. ‘Sir,’ I add, realising whom I am addressing.

No introduction is needed on his part; the quiet authority of the man, his natural self-assurance, the way the others stand in a deferential half-circle around him, leave me in no doubt that I am speaking to the one the Spanish call El Draco, the dragon. England’s most famous pirate smiles, and claps me on the shoulder.

‘You are welcome, then, to the Elizabeth Bonaventure. Are you a doctor of physick?’ His expression is hopeful.

‘Theology, I’m afraid. Less useful.’ I offer an apologetic smile.

‘Oh, I don’t know.’ He looks at me, appraising. ‘We may yet find a use for you. Come, gentlemen – are you hungry? We will take supper in my quarters.’

Knollys bows his head. ‘Thank you. There is much to discuss.’

‘Ah, Captain Knollys.’ Francis Drake rubs his beard and his smile disappears. ‘More than you know.’

There is a heaviness in his voice, just for an instant, that catches my attention, but he turns away and calls orders to one of the men standing nearby. It is an opportunity to study the Captain-General unobserved. He is broad-shouldered and robust, taller than me though not as tall as Sidney, with an open face, his skin tanned and weathered by his years at sea. There are white creases at the corners of his eyes, as if he laughs so often that the sun has not been able to reach them. His brown hair is receding and flecked with grey at his temples and most visibly in his neat beard; I guess him to be in his mid-forties. I see now why Sidney, despite his bluster about rank, is so keen to impress this man; Drake radiates an air of quiet strength earned through experience, and in this he reminds me a little of my own father, a professional soldier, though Drake cannot be more than ten years my senior. I find I want him to like me.

Drake turns back to us and claps his hands together. ‘Come, then. You should at least quench your thirst while we wait for the food.’

As we follow him to the other end of the deck, the crew pause in their duties and watch us pass. I notice there is an odd atmosphere aboard this ship; a sullen suspicion in the way they watch us from the tail of their eye, and something more, a muted disquiet. There is no music or singing here. The men are almost silent; I hear none of the foul-mouthed, good-natured banter I have grown used to among the crew of the Leicester on our way down. Do they resent our presence? Or perhaps they are silent out of respect. I catch the eye of one man who stares back from beneath brows so thick they meet in the middle; his expression is guarded, but hostile. Something is wrong here.

Drake leads us to a door below the quarterdeck, where two thick-set men stand guard with halberds at their sides, staring straight ahead, grim-faced. Light catches the naked edges of their blades. I find their presence unsettling. I guess that Drake and the other officers keep items of value in their quarters and must have them defended, though such a display of force seems to show a marked lack of faith in his crew. He leans in to exchange a few words with one of the guards in a low murmur, then opens the door and leads us through into a handsomely appointed cabin, proportioned like Knollys’s room aboard the Leicester, but more austerely furnished. Trimmings are limited to one woven carpet on the floor and the dark-red drapes gathered at the edges of the wide window that reaches around three sides of the cabin. Under it stands a large oak table, spread with a vast map, surrounded by nautical charts and papers with scribbled calculations and sketches of coastline. Behind the table, bent over these charts with a quill in hand, is a skinny young man with a thatch of straw-coloured hair and small round eye-glasses perched on his nose. He jolts his head up as we enter, stares at us briefly, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, then begins sweeping up the papers with as much haste as if we had caught him looking at erotic prints.

‘Thank you, Gilbert – get those cleared away and leave us, would you?’ Drake says.

The young man nods, and takes off his eye-glasses. Without them, he is obliged to squint at us. He rolls up the charts with a practised movement and gathers the papers together, stealing curious glances at me and Sidney as he does so.

‘That is the Mercator projection, is it not?’ I say, leaning forward and pointing to the large map as he begins to furl it. He peers at me and darts a quick glance at Drake, as if to check whether he is permitted to answer.

‘You know something of cartography, Doctor Bruno?’ Drake says, looking at me with new interest.

‘Only a little,’ I say hastily, as the world disappears into a blank cylinder under the young man’s ink-stained fingers. ‘But anyone with an interest in cosmography is familiar with Mercator’s map. The first true attempt to spread on a plane the surface of a sphere, measuring latitude with some mathematical accuracy.’

‘Exactly,’ the young man says, his face suddenly animated. ‘It is the first projection of the globe designed specifically for navigation at sea. Mercator’s great achievement is to alter the lines of latitude to account for the curvature of the Earth. It means we can now plot a ship’s course on a constant bearing—’ He catches sight of Drake’s face and swallows the rest of his explanation. ‘Forgive me, I am running on.’

‘My clerk, Gilbert Crosse.’ Drake gestures to the young man with an indulgent smile as he eases out from behind the table. ‘Gilbert, these are our visitors newly arrived on the Leicester – Captain Knollys, Sir Philip Sidney and Doctor Giordano Bruno.’ The clerk smiles nervously and nods to each of us in turn, though his red-rimmed eyes linger on me as he locks the papers away in a cupboard and backs out of the room.

‘Very gifted young man there,’ Drake says, nodding towards the door after Gilbert has closed it behind him. ‘Came to me via Walsingham, you know. Take a seat, gentlemen.’

Behind the table, wooden benches are set into the wall panelling. We squeeze in as Drake pours wine into delicate Venetian glasses from a crystal decanter. The young clerk has left a brass cross-staff on the table, an instrument used to determine latitude; my friend John Dee, the Queen’s former astrologer, kept one in his library. I pick it up and, as no one seems to object, I hold one end against my cheek and level the other at the opposite wall, imagining I am aligning it with the horizon.

‘Careful, Bruno, you’ll have someone’s eye out,’ Sidney says, sprawling on the bench, his arm stretched out along the back behind me.

I lower the cross-staff to see Drake observing me with interest. ‘Can you use it?’

‘I have been shown how to calculate the angle between the horizon and the north star, but only on land.’ I set it back on the table. ‘I don’t suppose that counts.’

‘It’s more than many. An unusual skill for a theologian. Can you use a cross-staff, Sir Philip?’ he says, turning to Sidney, mischief in his eye.

Sidney waves a hand. ‘I’m afraid not, Drake, but I am willing to learn.’

Drake passes him a glass of wine with a polite smile. He cannot fail to notice that Sidney does not give him his proper title; both are knighted and therefore equal in status, though you will not persuade Sidney of that. I watch Drake as he sets my glass down. The tension I sensed among the men on deck has seeped in here, even into the refined and polished space of the captain’s cabin. I think of the armed men outside the door.

The latch clicks softly and Drake half-rises, quick as blinking, his right hand twitching to the hilt of his sword, but he relaxes when he sees the newcomers, a half-dozen men with wind-tanned faces, dressed in the expensive fabrics of gentlemen. Leading them is a man of around my own age, thinner but so like Drake in all other respects that he can only be a relative. He crosses to the table and embraces him.

‘Thomas! Come, join us, all of you.’ Drake points to the bench beside Sidney. There is relief in his laughter and I observe him with curiosity; what has happened to put this great captain so on edge? ‘You know Sir Philip Sidney, of course, and this is his friend, Doctor Bruno, come to greet Dom Antonio, whom we expect any day. Gentlemen, I present my brother and right-hand man, Thomas Drake. And this is Master Christopher Carleill, lieutenant-general of all my forces for this voyage,’ he says, gesturing to a handsome, athletic man in his early thirties with a head of golden curls and shrewd eyes. I see Sidney forcing a smile: this Carleill is Walsingham’s stepson, who – though barely older than Sidney – is already well established in the military career that Sidney so urgently craves.

After Carleill, we are introduced to Captain Fenner, who takes charge of the day-to-day command of the Elizabeth Bonaventure; though Drake sails on the flagship, he is occupied with the operation of the entire fleet. Behind Fenner are three grizzled, unsmiling men, more of Drake’s trusted commanders who accompanied him on his famous journey around the globe and have returned to put their lives and ships at his service again.

Knollys is delighted to be reunited with his old comrades; there is a great deal of back-slapping and exclaiming, though the newly arrived commanders seem oddly muted in their greetings. To me and Sidney they are gruffly courteous, but again I have the sense that our welcome is strained, the atmosphere tainted by some unspoken fear.

‘Now that the Leicester is here, I presume the fleet will sail as soon as the tide allows?’ Sidney asks Drake.

Drake and his brother exchange a look. There is a silence. ‘I think,’ says the Captain-General slowly, turning his glass in his hand, ‘we are obliged to wait a little longer. There are certain matters to settle.’

Sidney nods, as if he understands. ‘Still provisioning, I suppose? It is a lengthy business.’

‘Something like that.’ Drake smiles. A nerve pulses under his eye. He lays his hands flat on the table. The room sways gently and the sun casts watery shadows on the panelled walls, reflections of the sea outside the window.

A knock comes at the door; again, almost imperceptibly, I notice Drake tense, but it is only the serving boys with dishes of food. These sudden, nervy movements are the response of someone who feels hunted – I recognise them, because I have lived like that myself so often, my hand never far from the knife at my belt. But what does the commander of the fleet fear aboard his own flagship?

I had been led to believe that all ship’s food was like chewing the sole of a leather boot, but this meal is as good as any I have had at the French embassy. Drake explains that they are still well stocked with fresh provisions from Plymouth, for now, and that in his experience it is as important to have a competent ship’s cook as it is to have a good military commander, if not more so, and they all look at Carleill with good-natured laughter. ‘Although, if—’ Drake begins, and breaks off, and the others lower their eyes, as if they knew what he was about to say.

The tension among the captains grows more apparent as the meal draws on. Silences become strained, and more frequent, though Sidney obligingly fills them with questions about the voyage; the captains seem grateful for the chance to keep the conversation to business. It is only now, as I listen to their discussion, that I begin fully to realise the scale and ambition of this enterprise. I had understood that the official purpose of Drake’s voyage was to sail along the coast of Spain, releasing the English ships illegally impounded in Spanish ports. What he actually plans, it seems, is a full-scale onslaught on Spain’s New World territories. He means to cross the Atlantic and take back the richest ports of the Spanish Main, ending his campaign with the seizure of Havana. Soberly, between mouthfuls and often through them, Drake throws out figures that make my eyes water: a million ducats from the capture of Cartagena, a million more from Panama. If it sounds like licensed piracy, he says, with a self-deprecating laugh, let us never lose sight of the expedition’s real purpose: to cut off Spain’s supply of treasure from the Indies. Without his income from the New World, Philip of Spain would have to rein in his ambitions to make war on England. And if that treasure were diverted into England’s coffers, Elizabeth could send a proper force to defend the Protestants in the Netherlands. I understand now why some of the most prominent dignitaries at court have rushed to invest in this fleet; its success is a matter not only of personal profit but of national security. It is also clear to me that Sidney has effectively found an alternative means of going to war, and that he expects me to follow.

When the last mouthful is eaten, the captains excuse themselves and leave for their own ships. Only Thomas Drake and Knollys remain behind.

Sir Francis pushes his plate away and looks at Sidney. ‘I must be straight with you, Sir Philip. It would be best if you were to leave Plymouth as soon as possible with Dom Antonio when he arrives. He will no doubt wish to linger – he and I are old comrades, and he will be interested in discussing this voyage – but in the circumstances it is better you hasten to London. For his own safety.’

Sidney hesitates; I fear he is weighing up whether this is the time to announce his grand plan of joining the expedition.

‘What circumstances?’ I ask, before he can speak.

By way of answer, Drake raises his eyes to the door and then to his brother.

‘Thomas, call them to clear the board. Then tell those two fellows to stand a little further off.’

Thomas Drake opens the door and calls for the serving boys. While the plates are hurried away, he exchanges a few words with the guards, waits to ensure that his orders have been obeyed, then closes it firmly behind him and takes his seat at the table. Drake lowers his voice.

‘Gentlemen, I have sad news to share. Yesterday, at first light, one of my officers on this ship was found dead.’

‘God preserve us. Who?’ Knollys asks, sitting up.

‘How?’ says Sidney, at the same time.

‘Robert Dunne. Perhaps you know him, Sir Philip? A worthy gentleman – he sailed with me around the world in ’77.’

‘I know him only by reputation,’ Sidney says. His tone does not make this sound like a compliment.

‘Robert Dunne. Dear God. I am most sorry to hear of it,’ Knollys says, slumping back against the wall, shock etched on his face. ‘He was a good sailor, even if—’ He breaks off, as if thinking better of whatever he had been about to say. So this accounts for the subdued atmosphere among the men.

‘The how is more difficult,’ Drake says, and his brother reaches a hand out.

‘Francis—’

‘They may as well know the truth of it, Thomas, since we can go neither forward nor back until the business is resolved.’ He pours himself another drink and passes the decanter up the table.

‘Dunne was found hanged in his quarters,’ Drake continues. ‘You may imagine how this has affected the crew. They talk of omens, a curse on the voyage, God’s punishment. Sailors read the world as a book of prophecies, Doctor Bruno,’ he adds, turning to me, ‘and on every page they find evidence that the Fates are set against them. So a death such as this on board, before we have even cast off …’

‘Self-slaughter, then?’ Knollys interrupts, nodding sadly.

‘So it appeared. A crudely fashioned noose fastened to a ceiling hook.’

‘But you do not believe it.’ I finish the thought for him.

Drake gives me a sharp look. ‘What makes you say that?’

‘I read it in your face, sir.’

He considers me for a moment without speaking, as if trying to read me in return. ‘Interesting,’ he says, eventually. ‘Robert Dunne was a solid man. An experienced sailor.’

‘He was a deeply troubled man, Francis, we all know that,’ Knollys says.

‘He had heavy debts, certainly,’ Drake agrees, ‘but this voyage was supposed to remedy that. It would make no sense to die by his own hand before we set sail.’

‘A man may lose faith in himself,’ Sidney says.

‘In himself, perhaps, but not in his God. Dunne was devout, in the way of seafaring men. He would have regarded it as a grievous sin.’ Drake pauses, holding up a warning finger, and lowers his voice. ‘But here is my problem. I have allowed the men to believe his death was self-slaughter, as far as I can. They may talk of inviting curses and Dunne’s unburied soul plaguing the ship, but I had rather that for the present than any speculation on the alternative.’

‘You think someone killed him?’ Sidney’s eyes are so wide his brows threaten to disappear. Drake motions for him to keep his voice down.

‘I am certain of it. He did not have the face of a hanged man.’

‘So he was strung up after death, to look like suicide?’ I murmur. ‘How many people know of your suspicions?’

‘The only ones who saw the body were the man who found him, Jonas Solon, and my brother Thomas, who I sent for immediately. I also called the ship’s chaplain to ask his advice. He offered to say a prayer over the body, though he said there was little he could do for a suicide in terms of ritual.’

‘But no one else thought the body looked unusual? For a suicide by hanging, I mean?’

‘If they did, they said nothing. I only voiced my disquiet to Thomas in private later and he said he had thought the same.’ Drake takes a mouthful of wine. The strain of anxiety is plain in his face, though he is doing his best to conceal it.

‘Dunne did not show the signs of strangulation, though it was evident he had been hanging by the neck for some time,’ Thomas says, keeping his voice low. ‘The eyes were bloodshot and there was bruising around his nose and mouth. But he did not have the swollen features you would expect from choking.’

‘My first thought was to have him buried at sea that same day, to spare him the indignity of a suicide’s burial,’ Drake continues. ‘But Padre Pettifer, the chaplain, and my brother here talked me out of it – though the death happened aboard my ship, we are still in English waters and it would be folly to disregard the legal procedures. Besides, we could hardly keep it a secret. So I had him rowed ashore and handed over to the coroner. A messenger was dispatched to his wife the same day – Dunne was a Devon man, his family seat no more than a day’s ride away. The inquest will be held in three days, to give her time to travel.’ He twists the gold ring in his ear. ‘You see my difficulty, gentlemen? If Dunne was killed unlawfully, I must find out what happened before we set sail, but without jeopardising the voyage.’

‘You mean to say it could have been someone in the crew? He might still be here?’ Sidney asks in an awed whisper.

‘This is what we must ascertain, as subtly as possible,’ Drake says. ‘For my part, I do not believe any stranger could have done it. We have a watch throughout the night and they swear no unknown person came aboard after dark.’

‘If it was someone among your men, surely it is all to the good that he believes the death is taken for a suicide?’ Knollys says. ‘He will think himself safe, and perhaps make some slip that will give him away.’

‘That is my hope. Either way, we cannot sail until this is resolved.’ Drake pinches the point of his beard and frowns. ‘He may strike again.’ He glances at his brother. I wonder if he has some particular grounds for believing this. ‘But neither do I want the inquest to conclude that Dunne was murdered and set the coroner to investigate it. The fleet could be delayed indefinitely then. Men would desert. The entire expedition could be finished.’ He looks to Sidney as he says this. Given how many of Sidney’s friends and relatives at court have invested in this voyage, he knows as well as Drake what is at stake. He nods, his face sombre.

‘But the family will not want a verdict of felo de se,’ Knollys murmurs. ‘It would mean he died a criminal and his property would be forfeit to the crown. If there is the slightest doubt, his widow would surely rather it were treated as unlawful killing. At least then there is the prospect of justice.’

‘The coroner must reach a verdict of felo de se,’ Drake says sharply, ‘or we are looking at sixty thousand pounds’ worth of investment lost.’ He waves a hand towards the window, where the other ships of this expensive enterprise can be seen rising and falling on the swell. ‘To say nothing of the faith of some of the highest people in the land, including the Queen herself. This is the largest private fleet England has ever sent out. If we should fail before we even leave harbour, I would never again raise the finance for another such venture. I must determine whether there is a killer aboard my ship before the inquest.’

‘And what will you do when you find him?’ Sidney asks.

‘I will decide that when the time comes.’

Knollys looks as if he is about to offer another argument, but at the sight of his commander’s face he falls silent. I watch Drake, fascinated by his flinty expression. To lead a company of ships and men to the other side of the world must require a character that inspires loyalty. But what other qualities must it demand? Ruthlessness, in no small measure, I imagine; the willingness, if necessity forces your hand, to declare that the law is whatever you say it is. On board a ship, thousands of miles from shore, you must believe yourself the king of your own small kingdom, and keep your subjects obedient by any means necessary. You would have to act without compunction, and make your decisions without wavering.

‘Why before the inquest?’ Sidney asks.

‘I was mayor of Plymouth four years ago,’ Drake says. He rests his elbows on the table. ‘I know how the functionaries of the Town Corporation work. The Devonshire coroner could not find a felon if one were hiding behind his bed-curtains. The kind of ham-fisted investigation he would carry out aboard my fleet would achieve nothing but to sow discord and mistrust among the crews and allow the killer every chance to escape. No.’ His right hand closes into a fist and the muscles tighten in his jaw. ‘I mean to find this man myself.’

He looks around the company as if daring anyone else to question his judgement. The others lower their eyes; there is a prickly silence.

‘How many men do you have on board the Elizabeth?’ I ask.

‘At present, while we wait in harbour, around eighty men,’ Drake says.

‘And no one saw or heard anything? It would seem strange, on such a busy ship, that a man in good health could be subdued and hanged in his own cabin without anyone hearing a disturbance.’

Drake looks at me. ‘You are right. But Dunne was very drunk the night he died. He had gone ashore with a few of the others. They said he was acting strangely even before they had come within sight of a tavern.’

‘Strangely, how?’

‘Some of the men said he had a blazing argument in an inn yard, ending with punches thrown on both sides. Then Dunne stormed away and the others didn’t see him again until later. Padre Pettifer, our chaplain, found him wandering in the street and brought him back to the ship. Thomas met them as they were trying to climb aboard.’

‘I was returning from dinner with Francis,’ Thomas says. ‘I thought only that Dunne was extremely drunk. He was swaying violently and his talk was very wild.’

‘In what way?’

‘Like a man in the grip of fever. He kept saying they were at his heels, and pointing out into the night.’

‘Who was at his heels?’ Sidney says, leaning forward. Thomas glances at him with disdain.

‘Well, if he’d said, we might have a better idea of who to look for.’ He jabs a forefinger into the air. ‘He just kept pointing like a madman, like so, and saying “Do you not see him, Thomas Drake?” When I asked who, he opened his eyes very wide and said, “The Devil himself.”’

‘Did you notice anything about his eyes?’ I ask.

‘His eyes? It was dark, man,’ Thomas says. Then he seems to relent. ‘Though in that light they appeared very bloodshot, and the pupils dilated. The eyes of a drunken man, as you’d expect.’ He sucks in his cheeks. ‘It is strange. Dunne had his faults, but the bottle was not one of them. It had clearly gone to his head – he even started addressing me as his wife—’

‘God help her, if you are easily mistaken in looks,’ Sidney says. Thomas glares him into silence.

‘I helped him to his cabin. Told him to sleep it off. Just before we reached the door, he pointed ahead and said, “Martha, why have you brought that horse aboard this ship?” Then he vomited copiously all over the deck and his legs went from under him.’

‘We’ve all had nights like that,’ Sidney says.

‘Yes, it would be an amusing story, if he had not been found dead the next morning,’ Drake remarks, his face stern. Sidney looks chastened.

‘Between us, we laid him on the bed,’ Thomas says. ‘He seemed to fall asleep right away.’

‘And no one saw or spoke to him after he returned to his cabin? No one heard anything unusual? Though I suppose it would be difficult to ask too many questions.’ I rub the nail of my thumb along my jaw and think again that I must visit a barber soon.

‘You ask a great many questions, Doctor Bruno,’ Thomas Drake mutters. ‘Anyone would think you were the coroner.’

Sir Francis regards me with shrewd eyes.

‘You perceive my problem exactly. Having given out that he died by his own hand, it becomes difficult then to press the men too closely as to what they saw or heard without arousing suspicion.’ He sighs, and pushes his glass away from him. ‘Already some are saying they want to leave while they still can, that this is now a doomed voyage. I have persuaded them to stay for now, but if it is presumed to be murder, it would be impossible to hold a crew together, each man looking at his fellows, wondering who among them is a killer. I must tread very carefully.’

‘But one of them is a killer, so you believe,’ Sidney says, a touch of impatience in his tone. ‘So you must find him, or risk him killing again.’

‘Thank you, Sir Philip,’ Drake says, with impeccable politeness, ‘but the situation is perhaps more complicated than you understand. In any case, be thankful it is not a problem that need disturb your sleep. You will have your hands full with Dom Antonio. The poor man spends his life running from assassins already – I do not want him staying in Plymouth if there is another close at hand.’

I see in Sidney’s face the effort it takes not to respond to this courteous dismissal. I half expect him to stand up and announce his intention to travel with the fleet, but perhaps I should give him more credit; even he can see that this is not the time. I frown at the table, already assembling the evidence in my mind, querying the how and the why. In part I am curiously relieved by the news of this death; surely with this shadow cast over the voyage Sidney will not be able to elbow his way aboard and I will be given an easy excuse without having to defy him. And yet there is another part of my brain that snaps to attention at the prospect of an unexplained death to be riddled out – already I am picturing the scene on deck, the last movements of the dead man as he enters his cabin, the ship dark and still. I shake my head to silence the buzzing questions in my mind. This man’s death is not my business, as Drake has made clear enough.

As if he shared my thoughts, Sidney sits forward and points down the table to me.

‘Well, perhaps we are in a position to help you, Sir Francis. You are fortunate that my friend Bruno here is better than a hunting dog for following the scent of a killer. When it comes to unexplained murders, he is your man.’

He leans back, beaming at me. At this moment, I would willingly push him overboard.

Drake arches an eyebrow. ‘Is that so? A curious talent for a theologian.’

‘I fear Sir Philip exaggerates. On one or two occasions I have happened, by chance, to be—’

‘He will not boast of it because he is too modest,’ Sidney cuts in. ‘But I could tell you some tales – Bruno has a prodigious memory and the subtlest mind of any man alive for finding a murderer and bringing him to justice. Why, only last summer—’

‘Yes, but these are nautical matters, Sir Philip, and I have no experience of such things,’ I say quickly, before Sidney can volunteer me for the task. ‘Sir Francis is right – this sad business is not our concern.’

I expect Drake to concur, but instead he studies me carefully, still pulling at the point of his beard. ‘You are a scholar, though, Sir Philip assures me? You are familiar with ancient languages?’

I bow my head in acknowledgement, recalling what Sidney had told me about Drake’s interest in me. ‘Some. It would depend which you have in mind.’

‘That is the issue. I’m not sure.’

Thomas Drake raises his hand again. ‘Francis, I don’t think—’

‘Peace, Brother.’ Drake pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He looks up and smiles at the company, with some effort. ‘Well, gentlemen. I wish you could have found us in better cheer. I am sorry to have dampened your spirits, but I thought it best you be informed. I have faith that we will resolve this matter as soon as possible. And now, you will want to get ashore, I suppose, and settle for the night.’

Sidney looks from Drake to Knollys, confused. ‘But we have a berth aboard the Leicester.’

Knollys clears his throat.

‘Philip, I must make some adjustments to my crew now we are here and will need that cabin for another officer. I had thought, once we arrived in Plymouth, you would prefer the comfort of an inn.’

‘I will have some of the men row you ashore. They are expecting you at the sign of the Star – don’t worry, it’s the best inn in Plymouth. I should know – I own the lease.’ Drake laughs. ‘I stay there myself when I am in town. Mention my name and they will do whatever they can to oblige you.’ He rises, sweeping his smile over both of us, but his gaze rests on me, as if he is debating whether to say something more.

Sidney’s face is taut with the effort not to protest. ‘That is gracious of you,’ he says, in a clipped tone. ‘I wondered, Sir Francis, if we might speak privately before we leave?’

Thomas Drake looks set to step in; it seems that he has appointed himself his brother’s counsellor, monitoring what he says and to whom. Drake, who does not appear to require such careful protection, waves him back.

‘Of course. Perhaps we may take the air? I feel the need of it.’ He nods us towards the door. ‘Wait for me on the quarterdeck – I will join you shortly.’

Sidney hesitates, then bows in acceptance. Thomas Drake opens the door for us. True to their orders, the guards are standing a little way off, close enough to keep an eye on the captain’s quarters but not, you would suppose, near enough to follow the conversation within. I wonder if they have been in these positions throughout the meal. If it were me, I would have had my ear stuck to the door as soon as it was closed. I say as much to Sidney once Thomas is back inside.

‘Of course you would,’ he says, laughing. ‘The surest way to get Bruno to do anything is to tell him he must not, in case he learns something forbidden.’

‘Whereas you are the very model of obedience, as Her Majesty will soon discover.’

He hisses at me to keep quiet. We emerge on to the upper deck at the stern of the ship, the part reserved for officers. Below us, the men sit in groups, some playing at dice, some whittling away at pieces of wood with pocket knives, others leaning over the rail and staring out across the Sound at the other ships.

‘It must be hard to keep discipline among the men while the ships stand idle here,’ I remark.

Sidney pounces on me, his eyes lit up again with a new scheme – one I can guess at before he even speaks.

‘Exactly! And Drake will be bleeding money keeping the crews fed so they don’t desert. This is why we must resolve this situation for him so that the fleet can leave as soon as possible. Then he will be in our debt.’

‘No.’ I take a step back. ‘You will not appoint me to find this killer, Philip. You have already persuaded me to join the voyage against my better judgement – though I see no sign of an invitation from Drake yet. Quite the opposite, in fact.’

He flaps a sleeve in my direction. ‘That is what I mean to discuss with him. Besides – what better way to demonstrate how indispensable we are?’ He squints into the low evening sun. ‘Listen – the fleet cannot sail until Drake determines who was responsible for the death of Robert Dunne. A good many persons of high standing have put up their own money for this venture, at my behest, including my uncle Leicester and Lord Burghley, not to mention the Queen herself. If the ships are stuck here in Plymouth, they lose the best part of their investment. But if we were to find this killer, Bruno, we would save the voyage.’ He gives my arm a little shake to press the point.

‘You overpraise my abilities,’ I say, pulling away. ‘Once or twice, I grant you, I have been fortunate in finding out a murderer, but it is not work I seek out for the love of it. Mostly I find myself in these situations with no choice.’

‘What about Canterbury? You went there willingly to seek out a killer, for the sake of a woman. But you will not do it for a friend, is that it?’

I look away. There is nothing to be said on the subject of Canterbury. He tries another tack.

‘You may not wish it, Bruno, but this is something you have a talent for, just as some men have a gift for making money or singing. If God has given this to you, He intends you to use it. I see that sceptical look. But remember the parable of the talents.’

‘I am only wondering when you became my spiritual adviser.’ I shake my head. ‘This is not our business. You heard what Drake said – the man had debts. No doubt one of his creditors grew tired of waiting. Or it is some quarrel between sailors – you think if anyone among the crew knows something, he would confide in a foreigner who has never sailed further than Calais to Tilbury? Let Drake take care of it according to his own judgement, as he said.’

Sidney nudges me to be silent; the Captain-General’s head appears at the top of the stair ladder.

‘Gentlemen! Thank you for waiting. It is more pleasant out here, is it not?’

He sweeps an arm round to encompass the view. The evening is still light, with charcoal streaks of cloud smudged across the deepening blue of the sky. White gulls circle around the topmast, loudly complaining; to either side the green slopes rise from the water and smoke curls from the chimneys of scattered cottages. Before us, out to sea, the other ships of the fleet rock gently at anchor, sails furled; behind us, the small town of Plymouth huddles into the bay. A thin breeze lifts my hair from my face and flutters the lace at Sidney’s collar.

Drake joins us by the rail. He turns and considers me again, as if weighing me up, then returns his gaze to the horizon. ‘What is it you wish to discuss, Sir Philip?’ Something in his tone suggests to me he already knows full well.

Sidney knots his fingers together, giving them his close attention. When he eventually speaks, he lifts his head and looks across the harbour, not at Drake.

‘Sir Francis, you recall in London, when you came to me to discuss the ordnance? We spoke of another matter then too, concerning my involvement with this voyage.’

He is careful with Drake’s title now that he wants his favour. Drake frowns, then turns to Sidney with an expression of confusion or amusement, or perhaps both.

‘But, Sir Philip, I thought that was just talk. I recall you proposed that you should come with us, but we both agreed Her Majesty would never give her consent.’

‘And I said to you, that being the case, we would have to take care she did not find out until we were well under way.’ Sidney keeps his voice low and steady, but I recognise the tone: determination edged with petulance. It is a matter of honour for him now not to back down.

Drake rubs the back of his neck. ‘I assumed that was a joke. I laughed when you said it, as I remember.’

‘I thought you were laughing in agreement.’

There is a long silence, during which we all watch the gulls. One lands on the rail a little way along from us and regards us with hauteur.

‘Well, look,’ Drake says eventually, placatory, ‘we misunderstood one another, but no harm done. In any case, you are needed to escort Dom Antonio to London and my fleet is sailing nowhere while this matter remains uncertain.’ He passes a hand through his hair and raises his eyes to the clouds, as if some explanation might be found there.

‘Sir Francis.’ Sidney is firm now, all business. ‘You will not deny my part in raising capital for this expedition. Therefore I have earned my passage with you, I think, and my friend’s.’

Drake’s gaze flits to me in alarm. You as well? his raised eyebrow asks.

‘But if that is not sufficient for you, let us prove ourselves further. I was not in jest when I said that Bruno has a nose for unearthing murderers keener than a pig after truffles.’

‘A gracious comparison,’ I murmur. Drake smiles.

‘The Queen herself would vouch for him, if she were here.’ Sidney is relentless. ‘If we can find this killer for you, no one will be out of pocket, the fleet can sail, and we will have earned our place in it.’

‘And the Queen? She expects you back at court with Dom Antonio, does she not? She will not look kindly on you or me when he arrives alone and informs her that you are halfway to the New World.’

Sidney shrugs. ‘But she will have forgotten her anger by the time we return, when she learns we have captured the Spanish ports.’

Drake closes his eyes briefly, as if willing himself to be patient.

‘Nothing is guaranteed on a voyage like this. Her Majesty likes the idea of Spanish gold, to be sure. But she is cautious of any act of aggression that may provoke King Philip to war.’

‘As if he is not committing acts of aggression every day of the week!’ Sidney cries, outraged. ‘He has been impounding English merchant ships in Spanish ports and confiscating their cargos, ships going about their legal trade. We have no choice but to respond.’

Drake lays a hand on his arm. ‘I have in my quarters a royal commission of reprisal, signed by the Queen’s own hand, permitting me to enter Spanish ports, free the impounded English vessels, and recompense our merchants for their losses.’ He pauses. ‘She is not to blame if I choose to interpret recompense in my own robust way. That is precisely why she leaves the wording ambiguous. But if we are to take the ports of the Spanish Main, we must proceed with caution.’

‘I always prefer cautious piracy, given a choice,’ I say. ‘The aggressive kind puts everyone in a foul temper.’

Drake turns to me, unsure whether I am mocking him; after a moment he laughs and claps me on the back.

‘What about you, my friend?’ he asks. ‘Our scholar. Do you also dream of looting Spanish ships, weighting down your purse with emeralds fat as grapes? Would you risk scurvy, cabin fever, heatstroke, drowning, shipwreck, for the chance to stick a cutlass in a Spaniard?’

I look up and meet his eye. Sidney skewers me with a warning glare; here is where I am supposed to second his enthusiasm.

‘I have never dreamed of sticking a cutlass in anyone, Sir Francis. But I confess I have a yearning for new horizons, and here is as good a place for me as any.’ I tap the planks of the decking with my boot to make the point. ‘I wouldn’t say no to the fat emeralds either.’

He gives us a tired smile. ‘Well, they are there for the plucking. Big as this.’ He makes a circle with his thumb and forefinger. Then his hand falls to his side and his face grows serious. ‘Is it true, then, that you have a gift for finding out a killer? Discreetly?’

‘I would not call it a gift, sir. More a series of coincidences.’

‘I have disputed with my brother just now,’ Drake says, eventually. ‘He thinks I should not confide my suspicions of the Dunne business with those outside the command of this voyage. I hardly need say that I must swear you both to secrecy on this matter. But I would ask your advice, since you have offered your services. Because you are educated men, and God knows I am not. The only pages I read are nautical charts.’ There is something pointed in the smile he gives Sidney as he says this, as if he is well aware how Sidney views his status. To my friend’s credit, he lowers his eyes, embarrassed.

‘Connected with the death of Robert Dunne?’ I ask.

Drake glances over his shoulder and leans forward on the ship’s rail so that we are obliged to huddle in to hear him.

‘I do not know exactly whose hand moved against Dunne that night, but I suspect I know who was behind it. And if I am right, there will be more deaths. Ending with my own, if he is not stopped.’

A cold gust of wind cuts across the deck; I shiver, and feel it is the effect of his words, though he speaks matter-of-factly.

‘Hence the guards,’ I say.

‘Those I keep anyway. But now I keep more of them. I cannot help but suspect Dunne’s death was a warning to me.’

‘How do you conclude that?’ Sidney says. ‘If he had bad debts, could it not be—’

Drake’s look silences him.

‘I know it, Sir Philip, because I have made many enemies in my life, and they have vowed vengeance. All our past deeds, gentlemen, one way or another, will be washed up on the shore of the present.’ He stares out across the water, where the fading sun has brushed a trail of light in its wake.

I exchange a glance with Sidney.

‘Can you be any more specific?’ I say.

Drake half turns his head. ‘Oh yes. There is a particular story here, but I will not keep you longer tonight, gentlemen. Tomorrow we will speak further. I would like you to look at a book for me, Doctor Bruno,’ he says, then glances again over his shoulder. Though no one else is on the quarterdeck, still his face grows guarded. ‘Not here. We will dine tomorrow at your inn. Oh – one more thing. Tomorrow my wife arrives from Buckland with her widowed cousin. They think they are coming to see us off – I did not have the chance to warn her. This death has given me much business to attend to in Plymouth – I may prevail upon your gallantry, gentlemen, to keep the ladies company while I am occupied.’

I make a little bow of acquiescence; there seems nothing else to do. Sidney remains silent, but his affront is almost palpable. I put a hand on his arm as if to restrain whatever outburst I sense brewing, and he shakes it off as if it were a wasp.

‘Give you good night, gentlemen,’ Drake says, his smile and handshake businesslike once more. ‘Until tomorrow, then.’

We follow him to the head of the stairs and I see the armed men waiting at the bottom, staring straight ahead like a pair of statues at the door of a church.

THREE

Sidney is obliged to tamp down his anger while we take our leave of Knollys and the others, which he does with faultless manners, though I sense him bristling beneath the courtesy. As two of the crewmen row us to shore in a small craft, he presses his lips together and says almost nothing; it is left to me to respond to the sailors’ cheerful advice about where to find the best whores in Plymouth and which taverns water their beer. From the broad bay of Plymouth Sound they take us between the great ships and through a harbour wall into a smaller inlet they tell us is called Sutton Pool. Here fishing boats jostle one another at their moorings, their hulls gently cracking together; the sailors ease us deftly between them to a floating jetty, where we stumble out and make our way to the quayside. Standing on solid ground for the first time in days, my legs feel oddly unreliable; when I look at the line of houses facing the harbour wall, they shift and sway as if I had been drinking.

Once the sailors are away from the quay and out of earshot, Sidney plants his legs astride, hands on his hips, and allows himself to vent.

‘Do you believe the face of that man?’ His expression is almost comical; I have to bite the inside of my cheek not to laugh. He takes off his hat, grabs a fistful of his own hair and pulls it into spikes. ‘I come here as Master of the Ordnance and he thinks I am fit only to amuse his womenfolk? If he had a child I dare say he would appoint me its nursemaid, all the while telling me he is not sure there is a place for me on the voyage I helped to finance!’

‘I have never known you to scorn the company of women.’

‘It is not fitting for a gentleman, do you not see that, Bruno? No, perhaps you don’t.’ Because I am not a gentleman, he means. He lets out a dramatic sigh. ‘Some old widowed cousin. And his wife – they say she is young, but she cannot be much to look at or he would not entrust another man with the care of her.’

‘Perhaps he trusts her to resist you.’

He looks at me with a face of mild surprise, as if this idea is a novelty. ‘Huh. Still, it is an insult. Even this’ – he waves a hand vaguely towards the narrow streets behind us – ‘he supposes I am so soft I cannot live without a feather bed, does he? We should be out there, Bruno, with the men. Well, we shall be soon enough – I will see to it.’

He crushes his hat between his hands as he makes an effort to master himself, but I see how much our exclusion from the ship has wounded him; he takes it as another humiliation. First the Queen, now the farmer’s son; does everyone think he is fit only for the company of women? And this wounded pride is dangerous; it makes him more reckless in his desire to prove himself.

‘It does seem that he is not keen to take on extra mouths to feed,’ I say. ‘And maybe he has reason – it is not as if we would be the greatest assets to any crew.’

‘Speak for yourself.’

‘I do. I have told you already, I would be no use at sea. They would rather conserve the rations, I’m sure.’

‘And yet.’ Sidney regards me with his head on one side, as if an idea has just struck him. ‘He is interested in you. He asked me to bring you. What is this book he wants to show you in particular, I wonder?’

‘Something to do with ancient languages.’

‘Odd – he doesn’t strike one as the type to pore over antique texts. He seemed to imply it was connected to the murder.’ His eyes grow briefly animated, until he remembers his grievance. ‘Well, either way, we must give him what he wants, Bruno. Let us find his killer, read his book, whatever we must to show him we have skills he can use.’

I say nothing, only pick up my bag and begin walking, with a strange lurching motion, in the direction of the houses. Sidney falls into step beside me with his long loping stride, pensive and silent. I see clear as day what he does not, or will not acknowledge: Drake does not want him on this voyage. Even if we found Robert Dunne’s killer tomorrow and presented him to the Captain-General bound and gagged by dinner, I do not think it one whit more likely that Drake would take us on board. There is no point in saying this to Sidney.

‘You know, tomorrow,’ he mutters, as we turn into a narrow cobbled street that curves steeply upward from the harbour wall, ‘I think I will make it my business to visit all the larger ships of the fleet and discuss the armaments with their captains. That way they will know I am here as Master of the Ordnance, not merely an escort to exiled princes and Drake’s womenfolk. I will not have these sailors laughing at me behind their hands.’

‘But you don’t know anything about ordnance. Not when it comes to using it. They may laugh directly in your face if you pretend to knowledge you don’t have.’

He glares at me, then breaks into a grin. ‘If you affect to know what you are doing, most people will take you at your own evaluation. I believe it was you taught me that, Bruno.’

I smile, to concede the point. ‘I am not sure that will work with men who have sailed around the world once already.’

We find the sign of the Star readily enough on Nutt Street, a broad thoroughfare lined with tall, well-appointed houses. Sidney explains his connection to Drake and pays for a room, demanding – as if in parody of himself – linen sheets and a feather mattress; while he is haggling with the landlady over the best chamber I glance around the entrance. It is a fine building, perhaps a century old or more, and grand in the plain style of the times: broad flagstones on the floor, strewn with rushes; limewashed walls; a high ceiling with wooden beams. The candles in the wall sconces are beeswax, not cheap tallow, and there is a warming smell of roasting meat and spices drifting from the tap-room. And yet I find I do not like the place. Some nameless instinct makes my skin prickle; my fingers stray to the small knife I carry at my belt and stroke its smooth bone handle for reassurance. I sense something here that makes me uncomfortable, though I cannot explain why. When I remark on this to Sidney as we climb the stairs to our room, he only laughs.

‘Relax, Bruno – Robert Dunne’s murderer is back on the Elizabeth Bonaventure. He’s not going to come creeping in here in the night looking for you. Besides, this is the only decent inn in Plymouth – I’m not moving because you have a feeling in your waters, like the village wise woman.’

I laugh with him; he is probably right. But I can’t shake the notion that someone’s eyes are on us, and they are not friendly. When we come down to the tap-room for a last drink before bed, I pause in the doorway while Sidney finds a seat, scanning the tables, the other men ranged on benches. The inn is busy; anyone within twenty miles who has produce to sell will have heard that Drake’s fleet is at anchor here, and know that where there are ships, there is an insatiable demand for provisions. Two thousand five hundred hungry men altogether in the fleet, according to Knollys, and for every day the voyage is delayed, those men have appetites of all kinds that must be fed.

I push through the crowd while Sidney goes to the serving hatch, my eyes still sweeping the room for a seat, when a knot of people suddenly parts and I see a figure at the end of a wooden bench, in the shadows of a corner, close to the outer door, staring at me. I don’t have a clear sight of his face; he wears a shapeless hat pulled low, and a black travelling cloak, though the room is stuffy. All I see is that he is looking directly at me, but there is something about the shape of him, the way he hunches into his chest, trying not to be noticed, the way his eyes burn from under the brim of his hat, that echoes in my memory; I feel certain I have seen him before. I turn to Sidney to point the man out, but someone blocks my view and when I look back he is gone and the door is banging hard. Without waiting, I shove past a group of merchants, ignoring their aggrieved cries, and fling myself out into the inn yard, wheeling around for a sight of the stranger in his cloth hat.

The yard too is busy; horses, carts, stable lads, travellers dismounting. Boys cross back and forth hefting bales of straw or gentlemen’s panniers, sidestepping to avoid one another, their timing as precise as a dance. There is no sign of the man in black. Dodging the bustling people and the piles of dung, I chase out of the high gates and into the street, looking left and right. He is gone, and the light is fading. Clouds have crept in and banked up over the town while we were indoors. Sidney arrives beside me, a tankard in each hand, following my gaze with a perplexed frown.

‘What are you doing out here?’ he says.

‘That man in black, skulking in the corner. You saw him?’

‘I saw a good forty men in that room, at least half of them wearing black. What about him?’

I shake my head. ‘He was watching us. I am certain of it. When he realised that I had seen him, he ran.’ I hold my arms out to indicate the empty street. ‘But where to?’

‘Who would be watching us?’ Sidney follows my gaze up the street, sceptical. ‘No one knows we are here.’

‘I don’t know. Though I have seen him before, I am sure of it.’ But as I look around, watching the last few passers-by making their way home as night falls, I begin to doubt my conviction. I have made enemies during my time in England, but none of them could have known I would be here. The years I spent on the run in Italy, when I first fled my monastery, taught me what it meant to live always looking over your shoulder, watching every crowd for a hostile face, for the man with his hand tucked inside his cloak. I had thought in England I would be free of that, but the work I have done for Walsingham has meant that, even here, there are those who hate me enough to want to kill me. I take a deep breath; last year, when I thought I was being followed around London, I vowed I would not become one of those men who jumps at shadows and draws his knife each time a dog barks. But the man in black was real enough. I only wish I could place him.

‘Well, you’re supposed to be the memory expert,’ Sidney says, cheerfully. ‘If you can’t remember a face, what hope for the rest of us?’

‘I didn’t see his face. It was more – his demeanour.’

He gestures towards the inn with his ale. ‘For God’s sake, come in and have a drink. You can sleep with your dagger drawn if it makes you rest easier.’

He thinks, though he would not say so, that I have imagined the man in black, or at least imagined his interest in us. Perhaps he is right. We make our way back in silence. There is no sign of the man when we pass through the tap-room, though the same sense of unease lingers. Any doubts I had about the voyage have only been redoubled by the day’s events and the prospect of entangling ourselves in another murder, and one that is no business of ours. Sidney stays below in the tap-room, drinking with strangers; I lie on my bed, staring at the map of cracks in the ceiling plaster. Everywhere I turn, it seems, my life is in jeopardy, whether out to sea, back to France or even here in Plymouth. I do not sleep with my knife drawn, but I keep it beside my bed, and when Sidney rolls in later, he finds me sitting bolt upright the instant the latch creaks, one hand already reaching for it, and the sight makes him laugh.

FOUR

I break my fast alone the next day; Sidney is ill-tempered after his late night, and lies moaning and tangling himself in sheets while I wash. He says he is not hungry. I take some bread and cheese and small beer at a long table with other travellers in the tap-room. My fellow guests regard me briefly with bleary eyes, before returning their attention to their food; I am by no means the only person with a foreign aspect here and I reflect that this is one advantage of a port town. The sky outside is dull, the grey-yellow of oyster flesh, and in the flat light my fears of last night shrink and lose their substance, until I can almost laugh at myself. I glance occasionally to the seat by the door where the man in black had been sitting, and wonder if I did imagine his malevolent stare after all.

The morning passes slowly. Sidney frets and chafes like a child kept from playing outside, waiting for some word from Drake. He suggests walking down to the harbour and finding someone who will row us out to the ships for a fee, but I talk him out of it, reminding him that Drake said he would dine with us at the Star at midday. Until then, there is nothing to do but wait. I try to read but his pacing up and down the room muttering makes that impossible; eventually I suggest a walk and he agrees. Overhead the clouds threaten rain; I glance up, pull my cloak closer around me and think with longing of the skies over the Bay of Naples.

The quayside is a bustle of activity. Small fishing boats negotiate their way around one another in an elaborate dance as they move toward the harbour entrance; men call out from the jetties as ropes are thrown to and from vessels and barrels of fish hauled ashore. Broad, red-faced fishwives are gathered with their trestles and knives at the dockside where the goods are unloaded, their hands silvered and bloody. Ever optimistic, the gulls circle boldly a few feet above their heads, screeching like a Greek chorus. The smell of fish guts carries on the wind.

We walk along the harbour wall as far as the old castle with its four squat towers, built on the headland to defend the harbour. Ivy and creepers hang like cobwebs from its stonework, giving it a neglected air. The sight of the ships out at sea only serves to darken Sidney’s mood.

‘I had far rather be out there, Bruno, whatever work they put me to.’ He waves a hand towards the Sound, where the Elizabeth Bonaventure bobs like a child’s painted toy.

‘I know. You have said so.’

Then his face brightens. ‘I had some interesting conversation in the tap-room last night after you retired. Concerning our friend Robert Dunne. Do you want to hear?’

‘Ah, Philip. Is that wise? Drake wants the man’s death regarded as a suicide – he will not thank you for fuelling speculation among the townspeople with too many questions.’

‘Before you start chiding like a governess, I asked no questions – as soon as the traders in the bar learned I was connected to the fleet, there was no holding them back. And if Drake thinks he has silenced all speculation with the report of suicide, he is sorely mistaken.’ He rubs his head and winces. ‘By God, that ale is strong. We should turn back, you know. Drake may be there already, waiting for us.’

The sun lurks dimly behind veils of cloud, almost directly overhead. We turn and follow the path back towards the town.

‘The townspeople talk of murder, then?’

‘Murder, witchcraft, curses – you name it. The sailors are not popular in Plymouth, for all the people here depend on them for a living.’ He glances around for dramatic effect, though there is no one else out walking. A sharp wind cuts across the headland; up here it feels more like November than August.

‘So it seems,’ he continues, ‘that our friend Dunne—’

‘Stop calling him that.’

‘Why?’ He frowns. ‘Why are you so irritable today? I’m the one who’s been poisoned by that ale.’

‘He wasn’t our friend, and we have no reason to be poking about in the business of his death. It sounds as if you are making light of it.’

Sidney takes me by the shoulder. ‘His death, as I have already explained to you at least three times, is our ticket on board that ship there.’ He points. ‘A ship that in a year’s time will come back to this harbour so weighed down with gold you’ll barely see the bowsprit above the waves.’

I do not bother to argue. ‘Go on, then. Dunne.’

He clicks his tongue impatiently and pulls his hat down tighter against the wind. ‘Robert Dunne was well known in Plymouth, they said. He had been living here for the past few months, though his home was in Dartington, a day’s ride away.’

‘Not on good terms with his wife, then?’

‘That’s part of it.’

The path begins to slope down towards the street that runs alongside the inner harbour, where the little fishing boats are moored. Below us, men sit on upturned barrels on the quay, mending nets or examining sailcloth. A group of small boys are scuffling on the harbour wall, fistfighting or trying to hit gulls with their slingshots. Occasionally a pebble goes astray, and one of the fishermen raises a fist and shouts a bloodthirsty curse as the boys dart away in a gale of raucous laughter. I wait for Sidney to elaborate.

When he is certain I am paying attention, he leans in closer and lowers his voice.

‘Apparently Dunne was a regular at the town’s most notorious brothel. A place they call the House of Vesta.’

‘Really? After the Vestal Virgins of Rome, I suppose. Very subtle. So his wife found out, climbed aboard the ship in disguise, and strung him up?’

‘Try to take this seriously, Bruno. Dunne had been seen more than once in the company of the same two men.’

‘In the brothel?’

‘No – in the taverns. No one knows who they were. And these Plymouth merchants and traders, believe me, they make it their business to know everyone. They knew who I was before I’d opened my mouth. But Dunne’s companions remained a mystery.’

‘Was one of them a man in a black cloak?’

Sidney rolls his eyes. ‘Actually,’ he says, tapping a finger against his teeth, ‘they did say one of the men always wore a hat. Even indoors. Did your phantom last night have a hat?’

‘Yes – a black one, pulled low over his ears. And both he and his hat were quite real, I assure you.’

Sidney considers this. ‘Every one of those foul-breathed fishmongers last night claimed to have seen Dunne with his companions around and about, yet not one of them got a close look at their faces.’

‘Well, at least we know one of them had a hat. That narrows it down.’

He grins. ‘Not much of a start, is it?’

‘Drake said Dunne got into a tavern fight the night he died. Do your reliable sources know anything about that?’

He leans in. ‘The favourite theory is that these strangers were using Dunne to get at Drake’s treasure.’

‘What treasure?’

‘Drake is famous in Plymouth, as you’d expect, and well liked with it, he has done a great deal for the town, but of course elaborate theories multiply around him – that when he came back from his trip around the world he gave up only a fraction of his booty to the Queen and has hidden the rest somewhere nearby.’

‘And these honest souls would like to recover it and hand it over to Her Majesty?’

Sidney laughs. ‘I’m sure that’s exactly what they plan to do with it. But you should hear the stories they tell about what else Drake brought back with him.’

‘Such as?’

‘Books written by the hand of the Devil, birds with feathers of real gold, young women with two heads who give birth to children that are half-dragon, half-man. The sort of things everyone knows they have on the other side of the world.’

‘Oh, those. Where is Drake supposedly keeping this diabolical menagerie?’

‘I don’t know. I suppose they think that’s what Dunne was being paid to find out.’

We follow the street along the quayside by the row of limewashed houses and taverns facing the water. Suddenly Sidney elbows me in the ribs and nods to the path ahead, where two well-dressed young women are walking towards us arm-in-arm, followed at a discreet distance by a manservant. One is tall, with red-gold curls pinned back under a French hood, the other darker, with pale skin and strong brows. From their glances and shared whispers it is clear that they have also noticed us. Sidney is about to embark on an elaborate bow, when one of the ladies cries out, her hand flying to her mouth; she is not looking at us but beyond, to the harbour wall. Wheeling around, I see one of the boys who was fighting; he is calling urgently and pointing down. The smallest of his companions has fallen from the quay into the water, where he flails and splutters, attempting to cry out.

‘It’s my brother, he can’t swim. I never meant to push him in,’ squeals the boy on the quay, hopping up and down and flapping his hands.

The blond head in the water sinks below the surface, bobs up again in a brief frenzy of foam, then disappears. Without thinking, I tear off my doublet and plunge in, fighting to open my eyes in the murky water, my ribs jarring at the shock of the cold. At first I can see no sign of the child, then I look down and see his little body sinking in a silver chain of bubbles, his smock shirt billowing around him. I surge forward and grab at his waist, dragged back by the weight of my wool breeches in the water; he is surprisingly heavy, but once I break through the surface, gasping at the air, it is not far to the wall. Hands reach out to lift the boy; he is laid on the cobbles, while one of the fishermen bends his ear over the boy’s face. I haul myself on to the quay and kneel on the stone to recover my breath, water coursing from my clothes and hair. The boy lies there, unmoving; the man beside him tries shaking him to provoke a response.

‘Is he dead?’ wails the child who pushed him, clawing at his shirt in anguish. ‘Mother will kill me.’

‘Here.’ I kneel beside the boy and press hard several times on his chest. ‘I have seen this done in Venice, when a boy fell in a canal.’ The child promptly raises his head and vomits over the shoes of the man beside him, who lets out a surprised curse and cuffs the older boy round the head.

‘Do that again, you little bugger, and I’ll throw you in after him,’ he says, as the boy howls even louder. ‘Give us all a fright like that. If this gentleman hadn’t been so quick you’d have lost your brother, and I wouldn’t have liked to be the one to tell your mother her darling was gone.’

It strikes me that this distinction may have prompted the boy’s desire to push his brother in the first place, but I keep silent. The fisherman turns to me. ‘Thank you, sir. My nephews – always scrapping where they shouldn’t be. Their mother’s a widow. If you hadn’t been here – I can’t swim myself, see.’ He glances back at the murky water with a grimace. ‘Amos Prisk, sir. That’s my boat there.’ He points, then wipes a hand on his smock and holds it out to me. He has a firm grip, though somewhat slippery. I try not to think about fish guts. ‘I would stand you a drink, only my sister’s not back from the market with the day’s takings.’ He lets go of my hand and turns his palms out, empty.

‘No need,’ I say, embarrassed. Quite a crowd has gathered to watch the drama; at its edge, I see the two attractive women looking at me and whispering to one another. I wipe my hand surreptitiously on my wet breeches, push my dripping hair out of my face and give them an awkward smile. The taller one leans over to whisper something to her friend and they both laugh. I glance away and, over their heads, some distance off, I glimpse a figure in black, standing between two houses at the mouth of one of the alleys that curves down from the town towards the harbour. He remains completely still, observing the scene, his face cast into shadow by the brim of his hat. I take a step forward, but Sidney cuts across my line of sight.

‘Heroic of you, Bruno. You’ve got seaweed on your face. Here.’ He picks off the offending plant, folds his arms and nods, as if impressed, though he can’t quite disguise the irritation in his voice. I motion him out of the way, impatient, but the man in black has disappeared. Sidney has my doublet draped over one arm.

‘I’m sure you’d have done the same if your clothes were less valuable,’ I say, reaching down to wring out my breeches. He gives me a pointed smile.

‘We had better get you away from the ladies – the way that shirt is clinging to you verges on indecent.’ He takes my arm and steers me towards the houses. As we pass, he bows to the two women, but I notice the darker one is watching me with an intent expression.

‘That was very brave,’ she calls, as if on impulse, as we are almost past them.

Sidney turns his most gracious smile on her, placing his hand carefully on my shoulder. ‘My friend is celebrated from here to the Indies for his bravery. Please do not think of falling in the water, ladies, unless he is at hand.’

I catch the woman’s amused glance, and shake my head in apology.

‘But, sir,’ she says, with mock concern, ‘how shall we know where to find you, if we should happen to think of falling in?’

Sidney raises an eyebrow at me. ‘You may find us at the sign of the Star, madam.’

‘Well, that is a coincidence,’ says the auburn-haired woman. ‘We too will be staying there tonight. Good day, gentlemen.’ She takes her companion’s arm and turns elegantly, flashing a smile back at Sidney over her shoulder.

He watches her walk away, then turns to me with a low whistle.

‘They were a couple of bold ones, weren’t they? Pretty, though. And expensively turned out. Courtesans, do you think?’

‘Here?’

‘Where there are sailors … But maybe you’re right. Women of that quality would cost more than a sailor makes in a year, unless his name’s Francis Drake. Staying in our inn, too. That dark one was eyeing you, Bruno, though you have the look of a drowned dog. Damn you!’ He raises a fist, grinning. ‘I should have moved faster. Nothing like saving children or animals to make women fall at your feet.’

‘Next time we see them, I will drop a kitten down a well so you can prove yourself,’ I say, rubbing my arms and shivering as my wet clothes chill against my skin. He drapes my doublet over my shoulders and cuffs me gently on the back of the head, the way the fisherman did with his young nephew. I decide not to tell him about the man in black, for now.

At noon we descend to the tap-room of the Star to look for Drake, and the serving girl points us towards a private dining room across the entrance hall. I am dressed in a russet doublet and breeches of Sidney’s while I wait for my clothes to dry, and feel like one of those pet monkeys the ladies at court keep on a leash, trussed up in little silk jackets and jewelled collars. The breeches are too big, and the rustle of silk as I walk is unfamiliar and disconcerting; at every step I find myself turning, thinking I am being followed, until I realise again the strange susurration is coming from my own legs.

Sidney pushes open the door and is not quite quick enough to disguise the drop of his jaw when he sees the guests gathered around the table. Francis Drake sits at the head of the table. Thomas Drake is present too, with a fair, round-cheeked man in clerical dress, and an expensively dressed man of around forty. But Sidney’s eye is caught by the two young women from the quayside, who sit demurely at the table, mischievous smiles hovering at their lips. For a moment I am confused; Sidney’s earlier speculation has lodged in my mind and my first thought is that Drake has hired the women. Then I see him lay his hand over the delicate white fingers of the auburn-haired woman and the truth slowly dawns. She wears a wedding band on her left hand.

‘I hear you are quite the knight errant, Doctor Bruno.’ Drake raises his glass to me as we edge around the table.

‘The mothers of Plymouth need not fear for their children while you are in town,’ says Thomas Drake. He is seated to the right of the dark-haired woman, who is still watching me with that secretive half-smile. I sense that Thomas Drake would prefer it if we were not there.

‘I fully expect Bruno to be offered the freedom of the city by the time we leave,’ Sidney says, flashing the beam of his smile around the company.

I shrug, embarrassed by the attention. ‘Anyone would have done the same.’

‘I would, of course, if I’d noticed in time,’ Sidney agrees, sweeping off his hat. ‘You were just that bit quicker, I’m afraid.’

‘Oh, but it would have been a pity to ruin such a fine feather for the sake of a fisherman’s child, Sir Philip,’ the dark-haired woman says, with a perfectly sincere expression. Her friend bites down a smile, then raises her eyes to meet Sidney’s. Drake looks from one to the other with amusement.

‘I believe you are already acquainted,’ he says, gesturing to the two women.

‘We were not formally introduced, dear,’ the auburn-haired one says, patting his hand.

‘My wife Elizabeth, Lady Drake,’ he says, with pride, and the woman inclines her head modestly, before glancing up at Sidney from under her lashes. He looks like a man who has bet the wrong way in a dog fight.

‘And her cousin Nell, Lady Arden.’

The dark-haired woman nods to Sidney, then looks directly at me. ‘Widow of the late Sir Richard Arden,’ she adds. I cannot help feeling this is for my benefit. So much for the notion of Drake’s plain wife and her ageing widowed cousin. I suspect that Sidney’s enthusiasm for the task of chaperoning the women around Plymouth has increased significantly. In fact, it is likely that I will have to chaperone them from Sidney.

Drake waves Sidney to an empty chair at his left hand, opposite his wife. I take the remaining seat, between the clergyman and the one who looks like a courtier, placed diagonally opposite Lady Arden, who smiles again, as if she is enjoying some private joke. I guess her to be in her mid-twenties, of an age with Drake’s wife; her pale skin is smooth and flawless and beneath those dark brows her green eyes glint with a suggestion of mischief, and miss nothing. In an instant, Plymouth has grown considerably more interesting.

‘So you are the renowned Doctor Bruno?’ The man in clerical robes sets down his cup and regards me with a placid expression. Reluctantly, I turn my attention from Lady Arden to look at him. He has that high colour in his cheeks, peculiar to some Englishmen, that makes it seem he is permanently blushing or flustered. His fair hair is thinning severely on top, but the smoothness of his face suggests he is no more than his early thirties. There is no obvious edge to his words, but I cannot help interpreting them as provocative, though that probably says more about my character than his.

‘I was not aware that my renown, such as it is, had reached as far as Plymouth,’ I say, offering a polite smile.

‘We had heard whispers that Sir Philip Sidney was bringing with him a famed Italian philosopher,’ he says, returning the smile, though it does not touch his eyes. ‘Ambrose Pettifer, chaplain on the Elizabeth Bonaventure.’ He extends a hand, as if he has just remembered the correct etiquette. I grasp it; his handshake feels unpleasantly moist.

‘Giordano Bruno of Nola. Though you know that.’

‘I understand you are a fellow priest. A Dominican, if I am not mistaken?’

‘I’m afraid you are,’ I say. ‘I left my order almost a decade ago. I no longer consider myself in holy orders.’

He raises a pale eyebrow. ‘I did not think that was permitted?’

‘It’s not. That’s why I was excommunicated.’

‘Ah.’ His eyes widen briefly. He takes a sip of wine. ‘I hear you are condemned as a heretic by the Church of Rome for the ideas in your books.’

My smile is growing strained. ‘Generally by those who have not read them. In any case, I am in good company – the Pope also regards your queen as a heretic. And everyone who shares her religion.’

‘Yes,’ he persists, ‘but is it true that in your books you draw on ancient magic, and you write that man can ascend to become like God?’

I glance around in case anyone should overhear this. ‘I write about cosmology and philosophy, and the ancient art of memory. I have never argued that man can become like God.’ Not in so many words, anyway.

‘Good,’ he says primly. ‘Because that sounds like a Gnostic heresy to me. Even so,’ he continues, toying with his empty cup, ‘I would rather the crew did not learn that you were a Catholic priest. Englishmen are superstitious, you know, and sailors more than any. Under duress, it is the old faith they turn to. Many of them carry relics and holy medals, though they know these are forbidden, and I often hear them crying out to the Holy Virgin along with every saint in heaven.’ He folds his hands together. ‘I close my eyes and ears to it, of course, but it would not help if they knew there was a priest of the old religion aboard. You understand?’

‘Don’t worry, Padre,’ Sidney says, leaning in to catch the end of this, ‘Bruno is a long way from the priesthood now. He will not try and sneak the sacraments to them when your back is turned, I give you my word.’

I laugh, grateful to Sidney for trying to lighten the conversation, but Pettifer is not to be deterred.

‘You may joke, Sir Philip,’ he says, raising a finger, ‘but a man died by his own hand aboard the Elizabeth only two days ago. Imagine how this has affected the men. They talk of curses and omens and God’s punishment, and it makes it all the harder to keep them to the true path of faith. I have their souls in my care, you see.’

‘Well, I will do my best not to add to your burden,’ I say, reaching for the jug of wine. God, the man is insufferably pompous.

He gives me a tight little smile in response. ‘In any case,’ he says, ‘I presume you will be back on the road to London as soon as Dom Antonio arrives? Sir Francis will hardly be in a position to offer him much hospitality, in the circumstances. I dare say you would all be better off back at court.’

‘I dare say,’ Sidney agrees breezily. Fortunately, we are spared any further exchanges on this subject by the arrival of a trio of servants carrying dishes of salad leaves and manchet bread, followed by platters of fish poached in wine.

‘Caught off these shores, brought in this very morning,’ Drake says, indicating the fish, as proudly as if he had caught it himself. I see Sidney and the other well-dressed gentleman looking at it with suspicion; they regard fish as a penance, to be eaten on Fridays and in Lent when good Christians forego their meat, but Drake tucks in as if it were the best venison. After a year at sea, Sidney will have gained a new appreciation for fresh fish, I think, smiling to myself as I am served.

‘Do you mean to stay long in Plymouth, Lady Drake?’ Sidney asks, leaning across the table.

‘My cousin and I grow tired of our own company at Buckland Abbey when my husband is away,’ she says. ‘When we received word that the fleet was to be delayed in Plymouth, we thought we would pay a visit. Not that Plymouth has a great deal to recommend it, saving your gracious company, masters. But we are grateful for a change of scene. We may even take the opportunity to call by the drapers’ and buy some cloth.’

‘We ladies have to take our entertainments where we can find them,’ Lady Arden adds, with a dry smile.

Drake looks at his wife and beams approval. I watch her, curious.

‘And you, Sir Philip? How long will you stay?’ calls my neighbour, the newcomer. He has the imperious voice of a man accustomed to talking over others. His beard is carefully trimmed to a point and flecked with grey and he wears his hair cut very short in an effort to mask his encroaching baldness, but he is still handsome, in a weathered sort of way. I notice his upper lip is swollen, with a fresh cut.

‘At least until Dom Antonio arrives, Sir William,’ Sidney says, leaning down the table to offer a courtly smile.

‘Oh good God, is that Portuguese bastard still hanging about?’ Sir William says, rolling his eyes and holding out his glass for more wine. ‘You’d think he’d have given up by now. I can’t understand why Her Majesty goes on tolerating him, still less giving him money.’

‘Because he has a better claim to the throne of Portugal than Philip of Spain does.’ Sidney’s face grows serious and he sets down his knife. ‘If Dom Antonio became king, he would be our much-needed ally. You must know that since Spain annexed Portugal on the death of the old king, it now commands the biggest navy in Europe. It is clearly in England’s interest to oppose that.’

Sir William grunts. ‘It was a rhetorical question, Sir Philip. Besides, not even Dom Antonio believes he has a hope of regaining the Portuguese throne. Spain has bought off the whole of the nobility in return for their support. Pass the wine.’

‘Do you stay long yourself, Sir William?’ Sidney asks.

‘Me? I stay until the fleet sails.’

‘And then back to court?’

Sir William barks out a sharp laugh. ‘And then I sail with them, Philip. I have a berth aboard the Elizabeth.’

‘What?’ Sidney’s manners can’t quite keep pace with his emotions; his gaze swivels from Drake to Sir William, mouth open, until he composes himself and fixes Drake with a simmering glare.

‘Sir William Savile has invested very generously in this voyage,’ Drake says, although he has the grace to look a little sheepish. ‘And he has valuable military experience.’

‘Thought it was time for a bit of adventure,’ says Sir William, with a broad grin that makes him wince, as his split lip stretches. He dabs at it with a forefinger. ‘A chap can grow soft and idle, hanging about at court all summer with only women for conversation. Saving your presence, my ladies.’ He nods to Lady Arden, who says nothing, though her eyes dance with indignation. ‘At least, that was my intention, until this unfortunate business with poor Dunne—’ He looks over at Drake and breaks off; Drake is shaking his head, as if to warn him off the subject, presumably for the sake of the women.

‘How horrible,’ Lady Arden says, with a dramatic shudder. ‘What would make a man do that? Take his own life, I mean.’ She looks up at me, green eyes wide.

‘Despair,’ I say, since no one else seems inclined to answer.

‘Or fear,’ remarks Sir William Savile, tearing at a piece of bread.

‘Why do you say that?’ I ask, turning to him. He regards me, apparently surprised to be addressed so directly. He appears to weigh up my status before he condescends to answer.

‘Well,’ he says, eventually, ‘I suppose a man may be driven to a point where he considers death an escape from something worse.’ He looks into his glass as he speaks.

‘Worse than death?’ says Lady Arden, scorn in her voice.

‘There are many kinds of death, my lady,’ he replies. ‘Who knows what demons Robert Dunne was fleeing from.’

‘Did you know him well?’ I ask.

He shoots me a sharp glance. ‘Not well, no. He had lands in Devon, as do I. We had conversed on nautical matters a number of times, so I was pleased to discover I had been given the cabin next to his aboard the Elizabeth. I had thought we would have more time to talk during the long months at sea, but alas …’ He spreads his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

‘Did you speak to him the night he died?’ I lean forward, perhaps too eagerly. Savile frowns.

‘I think, gentlemen,’ Drake cuts in, ‘that the memory of our late comrade is not honoured by discussion of his death in this way. Especially over dinner.’ He smiles pleasantly but I catch the same warning tone in his voice that I noticed the day before. Savile meets his eye briefly and gives a curt nod of agreement.

The rest of the meal passes in ship talk, but the shadow of Dunne’s mysterious death hovers at the edges of the conversation, the subject we are all consciously avoiding. Whenever Drake talks about being able to set sail, I am conscious that he means when he has identified Dunne’s killer. It would seem that Savile and the women are still under the impression that Dunne hanged himself. If Savile had the cabin next door, Drake must have asked him about any unusual disturbance the night of Dunne’s death – and if he has not, perhaps it is because he has doubts about confiding in Savile. I could not blame him; there is something unconvincing about the man’s bluff bonhomie. I tell myself I should discuss this with Drake before I blunder in asking questions; then remember that I have sworn not to get involved in this business.

Further down the table, Sidney is regaling Drake and his wife with anecdotes of court life. Drake looks politely bored; his wife, by contrast, is hanging on Sidney’s every word, laughing with delight as if on cue, her eyes fixed on his. If that were my wife, I think, I would keep her well away from Sidney; at this rate, he will be writing her sonnets by supper. I watch Drake: his broad, tanned face, his big red hands that dwarf the wine glass he clasps between them. I don’t suppose she has a lot of sonnets from that quarter. When I look up, Lady Arden flashes me a knowing smile, as if she is following my thoughts.

As the servants are clearing the board, Drake leans in to whisper something to his wife and together they stand, excusing themselves as Drake announces he must now attend to his wife’s comfort and will see us later back on board. Savile’s moustache twitches with a smirk at Drake’s choice of words.

‘And who will attend to your comfort, Lady Arden?’ Savile says, from the side of his mouth, with a slight leer. ‘I am sure I could oblige.’

‘How gallant, Sir William,’ she says, with icy courtesy. ‘I’m afraid as a widow I must fend for myself. Now, if you will forgive me, gentlemen, I think I will retire to my room for a while. The emotion of discussing nautical charts at such length has quite worn me out.’ She smiles sweetly around the table and pushes her chair back.

The rest of us rise to our feet as the ladies and Drake take their leave and I turn to find Thomas Drake at my shoulder.

‘Sir Francis attends you and Sir Philip upstairs, in his wife’s chamber,’ he murmurs. ‘He wishes to speak with you in private.’

Padre Pettifer is just leaving, but he turns and catches my eye as Thomas is speaking. I am certain he has overheard. Again, I sense a hostility in the way he looks at me.

‘Rich as Croesus, that one, since the old man died,’ Savile mutters to me, jerking a thumb in the direction of the door.

‘I beg your pardon?’

He leans in with a wolfish grin. ‘Ah, no need to pretend. I saw how you looked at her. We’re all trying, believe me. Who wouldn’t want a ripe young widow with money in her coffers? But I tell you – Bruno, was it? – once a widow, there’s little incentive to become a wife again. They get a taste for independence, y’see.’ He nods a full stop, as if to confirm his disapproval. ‘She’ll make you work for it. They enjoy wielding their power. Still, may the best man win, eh?’

I smile. ‘The field is all yours, Sir William. I am in holy orders.’

‘Good God. Are you really?’ He draws back and squints at me as if I have just told him I have a tail. ‘Man of the cloth, eh? Whatever prompted you to do that? Still, don’t worry’ – he slaps me on the shoulder in that hearty way Sidney has – ‘Her Majesty positively encourages priests to marry these days. You stay in England, you might yet find yourself a nice little wife. Not a woman of rank, mind, but someone. I’ll keep my eye out for you.’

‘That’s very good of you, Sir William. Although you will be at sea for the next twelve months, at least. I fear the options will be limited.’

‘True, true,’ he says, rolling the tip of his moustache between his fingers. ‘Well – when I come back. A governess or some such might do you nicely.’

‘I humbly thank you.’

At the door, Sidney catches my eye and nods towards the stairs.

‘Where are you two going with such eager expressions, eh?’ Savile asks. ‘Don’t fancy some cards, I suppose? I’m bored witless on that ship.’

‘Have you been starting brawls for entertainment?’ Sidney asks, indicating his lip.

‘What, this?’ Savile reaches up and gingerly touches the cut. ‘It was nothing. A misunderstanding. Idleness frays tempers.’ He lowers his voice. ‘The men just want to set sail, you know. I understand Sir Francis wants to pay his respects to Dunne’s family, but really, there’s the rest of the fleet to think of, not to mention the investors. The longer we delay, the greater the chance one of Philip of Spain’s spies will catch wind of what we’re up to and slip him a warning. We won’t get as far as the Azores before some Spanish fleet jumps out on us.’

‘What spies?’ I ask.

‘They’re everywhere,’ he says, with a theatrical gesture that takes in the inn’s wide entrance hall. I look around. The place is empty, save for us. ‘Well, they’re bound to be – port full of foreigners, easy for them to slip into the crowd. Drake even keeps a damned Spaniard on his own ship – have you ever heard anything so absurd? I’ll wager he’s tipping off his countrymen somehow – terrible shifty look about him, y’know? Well, they all do, the Catholics – it’s those black eyes they have. Can’t tell if they’re looking at you straight.’

I regard him impassively with my black eyes until he gives a little cough. ‘Saving your presence.’

‘I’m afraid we must pass up the card table for now, Sir William,’ Sidney says, to cover the awkward pause. ‘We are going up to read some poetry.’

‘Oh, good Lord,’ Savile says. ‘Poetry. I’d rather put my balls in a wine press. God save you, gentlemen.’ With a brisk bow, he strides away to the tap-room.

‘Perhaps your man in black is one of these Spanish spies that have infested the place,’ Sidney muses, as we climb the stairs. I send him a withering glance. ‘Stop looking at me with your shifty Catholic eyes,’ he says, and skips out of the way before I can land a punch in his ribs.

FIVE

The room is larger and better furnished than the one I am sharing with Sidney; I see his gaze wandering around it with a touch of envy. There is no sign of the women. Drake sits on the end of an ornately carved bed. On his lap he holds a leather bag, his hands spread protectively over it, as if someone might try to snatch it from him. He looks up with a distracted smile and waves us to a chair with tapestried cushions by the fireplace. There is only one; Sidney sits, I lean against the mantelpiece. Thomas Drake stands with his back to the door and nods to his brother.

‘Gentlemen,’ Drake says. ‘There is something I wish to show you, but it must be done in confidence.’

‘Does it touch on the death of Robert Dunne?’ Sidney asks, sitting forward to the edge of his chair. Drake hesitates.

‘I believe so. I am hoping you might clarify that.’

From his place by the door, Thomas Drake makes a barely audible sound of disapproval. Drake looks up. ‘My brother feels strongly that what I am about to share with you should remain a secret. But I have explained to him that you gentlemen are scholars, as we are not. And I believe we may trust you. After all, you want something from me, do you not?’ He fixes Sidney with a knowing eye. ‘A passage to the New World?’

Sidney nods, silent.

‘Well, then.’ Drake smiles. He pulls at his beard, considering. ‘The question is where to begin.’

‘The letter,’ Thomas prompts. He does not sound enthusiastic.

‘Yes.’ Drake purses his lips, then takes a deep breath, as if he is about to embark on a difficult venture. ‘The same day we discovered poor Dunne’s body – that very evening, in fact – I received a message. It was brought to me on board the Elizabeth by my clerk, Gilbert, who collects letters that arrive for me every day from this inn. Here.’ He reaches inside his doublet and draws out a sheet of paper, which he holds out. I step forward and take it from his hand, as I am nearer. The paper is rough along one edge as if it has been torn from a notebook, folded in three and had been sealed with crimson wax, though there is no mark impressed in the seal. I unfold the paper and lower it so that Sidney can see it too. The message says simply,

Matthew 27 v 5

‘Cryptic,’ Sidney mutters, taking the paper from my hand and turning it over. ‘What is the verse? Bruno?’

‘I’ll wager he knows,’ Drake says, catching my expression and pointing at me.

‘“And he cast down the pieces of silver in the temple, and departed, and went and hanged himself,”’ I murmur. ‘The death of Judas Iscariot.’

Drake looks impressed. ‘Do you carry the whole of the scriptures in your head?’

‘Oh, Bruno is a master of the art of memory,’ Sidney says, with what might be a hint of pride. ‘He has devised his own system. It is what passes for entertainment where he is from. He can do you the whole of Homer if you find yourself bored one evening.’

‘That will make the voyage fly,’ Thomas Drake says, arching an eyebrow.

I return his sarcastic smile, and tap the paper in Sidney’s hand. ‘This verse. You think it is some reference to Dunne, I suppose?’

‘The day he dies, apparently by hanging himself? I see no other way to read it,’ Drake says.

‘According to the Gospel of Matthew, Judas Iscariot hanged himself from remorse after he betrayed his master,’ I say, running through the text in my mind. ‘Is this mystery correspondent trying to imply that Dunne did the same? That he hanged himself out of guilt? Had Dunne betrayed anyone, that you know of?’

‘But we don’t believe Dunne did hang himself,’ Sidney points out.

We look at Drake. He sighs heavily and opens the bag on his lap.

‘Betrayal. Perhaps. Or it may refer to something else.’ He reaches in and withdraws a bound manuscript. I straighten immediately, feeling goosebumps rise on my skin. In my thirteen years at the monastery of San Domenico Maggiore I spent much of my time in the scriptorium and among the archives of their library, and later among the booksellers of Venice; I can recognise manuscripts almost by touch and smell, and tell you their provenance by the feel of their bindings, their vellum, their ornamentation. I do not need to touch the one Drake now holds carefully between his fingertips to know that it is both old and unusual. Instinctively, I step forward and reach out for it.

He raises a hand. ‘Bear with me, gentlemen, while I tell you a story that will help to explain what I am about to show you.’

Sidney clasps his hands around his knees like an eager child at his grandfather’s chair. I shift my position against the mantel and give Drake my full attention.

‘It begins eight years ago, at the beginning of my voyage to circumnavigate the globe,’ Drake says. ‘Does the name Thomas Doughty mean anything to you?’

He directs this question to Sidney, who sits up, surprised.

‘Doughty? But of course – he used to work for my uncle Leicester. Before he was—’ he checks himself, looking at Drake, uncertain. ‘Before he died.’

‘He was executed,’ Drake says, brusquely. ‘In a godforsaken place called Port San Julian, in Patagonia, at the end of the world. He was beheaded on my order in plain sight of all my crew, and with good justification, whatever gossip you may have heard at court.’ He juts his chin out, as if challenging us to argue. Sidney shrinks back slightly into his chair.

‘But that is not the beginning of the story,’ Drake continues, his voice softer. ‘Early in our voyage, not far from the Cape Verde islands, we captured a small ship, the Santa Maria. She was on her way to the Americas, so there was nothing of great value in the hold, but she was worth the trouble for the provisions she carried and for the use of an extra vessel. I packed her crew into the longboats and set them adrift to shore – despite the reputation Spain wants to give me, I prefer to get where I’m going without bloodshed, if I can. But there was an unfortunate incident during the capture.’ He pauses and rubs the back of his neck, as if it discomforts him to recall. ‘On board the Santa Maria was a young priest travelling out to the colonies, a Jesuit. He barricaded himself into one of the private cabins when we boarded, even though the captain had surrendered almost immediately. Thomas Doughty and his brother John broke the door down. The young priest was backed into a corner, they said, holding a dagger in one hand, and with the other clasping to his chest a wooden casket. Naturally they assumed its contents must be of value – they asked him repeatedly to give it up to them, but the priest refused. When Doughty took a step towards him, the priest ran at the brothers with his weapon, calling down all manner of curses upon them. It was an act of reckless desperation – both the Doughtys were armed with swords and when the priest lunged with his little dagger, Thomas Doughty ran him through. When the Jesuit realised he was fatally wounded, he tried to throw the casket out of the window, but John Doughty managed to stop him. You may imagine their disappointment when they discovered that the casket contained only this old manuscript, in a language neither of them could read.’

He pauses, and motions to his brother to bring him a glass of wine. Thomas Drake pours from a jug on a small table by the door and offers it to us; Sidney accepts, though I shake my head, wanting Drake to continue his story. Already my mind is racing ahead, my eyes still fixed on the manuscript under Drake’s hands; if a priest was willing to sacrifice himself to save those pages, or even throw them into the sea to keep them from being found, they must possess their own kind of value. One perhaps only another scholar can assess.

‘Since none of us could read it, the manuscript was consigned to the hold of the Santa Maria,’ Drake says, after a long drink, ‘and placed in a locked chest to be inventoried with the rest of the spoils. The incident with the priest was regrettable, and did not sit well with the crew, for all their dislike of the Spanish. Thomas Doughty was not popular among the men – he was high-handed and did not believe a gentleman should shoulder his share of the manual work. We had barely left Plymouth before word had reached me that Doughty was criticising my command in front of the men, and I was obliged to reprimand him, which created open resentment between us. The crew began to mutter that the murder of a priest would bring curses on our voyage – some said the priest had invoked the Devil with his dying breath.

‘The Santa Maria was rechristened the Mary, in honour of my first wife, and I gave Thomas Doughty command of her, thinking this responsibility might persuade the men of my confidence in him, and quiet his rebellious mutterings against me. This was a grave error on my part, as I soon came to realise. I had instructed my brother to bring me the manuscript, together with some other items of value from the hold, for I did not altogether trust Doughty.’

‘He caught me taking them and accused me of stealing,’ Thomas Drake cuts in. ‘He and Sir Francis had a great row about it, with Doughty accusing me and my brother of helping ourselves to plunder which rightly belonged to all the men who had helped take the Santa Maria. While they were shouting, one of the crew whispered to me that they had seen Doughty coming up from the hold more than once, but no one had dared challenge him. Sure enough, we found a few rings and coins from the Santa Maria in his cabin. He claimed the prisoners had given them to him as gifts, but no one believed him, save his brother and a few malcontents they had won over to their side.’ He clenches his teeth; clearly the memory of the Doughty brothers still stirs his blood.

‘I deprived Doughty of the Mary’s command and moved him to another ship,’ Drake says, taking up the story again. ‘There he and his brother began to stir up a mutiny against me in earnest. Thomas Doughty spread the story that I had commanded him to kill the priest so that I could steal the Devil’s book. John Doughty told the men that he and his brother were versed in witchcraft, and when it pleased them, could conjure up the Devil to make a storm that would destroy my flagship and every man who defied them. According to others, Thomas Doughty promised them substantial rewards when we arrived back in England if they would side with him to mutiny and make him commander of the expedition. He boasted to some that before he was done he would make half the company cut one another’s throats.’ He folds his fingers together and presses them against his lips. ‘Tell me, was I supposed to tolerate such an open threat to my authority?’

He looks from Sidney to me with questioning brows; I suppose it is a rhetorical question, but we shake our heads vigorously nonetheless.

‘No indeed. I had him bound to the mainmast, to show him I was serious. When he was freed, I sent him to one of the store ships where I thought he could do no harm. We sailed sixty days south-west across the Atlantic without seeing land, and all the while I knew Doughty’s brother and his supporters were still murmuring against me for my treatment of him. The discipline of the voyage was in jeopardy. So when we reached Port San Julian, I empanelled a jury to try him for treason. You know the rest.’ He takes a sip of wine and looks away, as if he does not want to recount the end of the story.

Silence settles on the room, as Drake and his brother privately revisit their own memories of those events. I watch the Captain-General; he speaks as if he regrets the business with Thomas Doughty, but that unflinching ruthlessness is visible just below the surface. Drake is not a man you want to fall out with, I think, not for the first time.

‘And what of the manuscript?’ I prompt, nodding to it. Drake turns to me and blinks, as if working out where to pick up the thread of his story.

‘The manuscript,’ he says, considering. ‘Well. I kept with us the navigator from the Santa Maria, a Spaniard named Jonas. He had sailed to the coast of Brazil before and I thought his knowledge might be useful. He spoke English well and he agreed to act as translator. It was from him that I learned a little about the young priest Doughty had killed. His name was Father Bartolomeo and he was a Spaniard, but had joined the Jesuit College in Rome and from there found a position in the Vatican library. He had boarded the Santa Maria at the very last minute, arriving the day before they set sail and begging passage to the Indies, claiming he needed urgent conduit to the head of the Jesuits in Brazil. The only baggage he carried was that wooden chest that he never let out of his sight. Father Bartolomeo was some distant relative of the captain, so he was found a berth as a favour. Jonas said he had kept to himself, refusing to leave his cabin, but that from the little he saw of him, he thought the Jesuit acted like a man in fear for his life. He was edgy, always looking over his shoulder, even once they had cast off. The crew had started to wonder if he had stolen whatever was in that chest and was running away to escape justice. When the cry came that the Santa Maria was under attack from my ship, Jonas said the priest locked himself in his cabin, but everyone on board could hear him crying out to Jesus, Mary and all the saints to forgive him for bringing the wrath of God on the voyage.’

‘What did he mean by that?’ Sidney asks.

Drake shrugs. ‘If he’d lived, he might have been able to explain. Or at least tell us something about this book. But the Doughty brothers made sure he took his explanations with him to his Maker.’

‘May I see the book?’ I ask softly, unable to contain my curiosity any longer. Drake hesitates.

‘I am no scholar, gentlemen, as I have told you. But even I know that a man does not throw away his life lightly over a book. I kept it under lock and key in my cabin for the rest of the journey, but with Doughty’s trial and everything that came after, the book was almost forgotten.’

I am still holding my hand out for it, nodding encouragement, as you might coax a child to part with a favourite toy. Drake smiles.

‘You are keen, sir. And you are not alone in your eagerness to get hold of this book. But first, I want a promise of your complete secrecy. You too, Sir Philip. Whatever this book contains, two men have already died for it. The fewer people who know I have it here, the better.’

‘I give you my solemn oath,’ I say. ‘On everything I hold sacred.’

Sidney sends me an amused glance from the corner of his eye; I guess he is wondering what it is that a man like me could hold sacred. For all he likes to believe himself an adventurous thinker, Sidney is obediently orthodox in his Protestant faith.

‘And I,’ he says. ‘On my life, I swear.’

This seems good enough for Drake, who crosses the room and lays the manuscript in my lap as tenderly as if it were his own newborn. The leather of the covers feels stiff under my fingers; I realise as I open it that for what feels like an age, I have forgotten to breathe.

‘If you can shed some light on this book, Bruno, it may explain certain things,’ Drake says. ‘At the very least, I would like to know what it is. I don’t even know what language it is written in.’

‘It is a Coptic text, of some antiquity,’ I murmur, skimming the first couple of lines. And then my heart appears to stop beating.

‘What?’ Sidney says, leaning over my shoulder. ‘What is it, Bruno? You’ve gone pale as a corpse.’

I look up, staring at Drake, temporarily robbed of speech or movement. When I finally find my voice, all I can manage is a croak.

‘Have you shown this to anyone?’

He frowns. ‘Very few people.’

‘I mean – to anyone who might have an idea what it is?’

‘I had a bookseller value it,’ he says. ‘Dunne suggested him.’

‘Robert Dunne?’

‘Yes.’ He looks faintly impatient. ‘After we returned from the circumnavigation, I forgot about the book. It was in a chest with many other things I brought back. With Her Majesty’s blessing, you understand, not all of what we took from the Spaniards went to the Tower to be inventoried.’

I nod, brushing this aside.

‘It was only when I bought the old abbey at Buckland that it came out of storage. For the first time I had a library, as befits a gentleman’ – here he grins, for Sidney’s benefit – ‘and the manuscript was put on a shelf. I always meant to have it valued, but life threw more urgent matters in my path. My first wife died, I was elected mayor of Plymouth then Member of Parliament, I was forever on the road up and down to London, all the while trying to finance a new expedition to the Americas. The book slipped my mind. Until Dunne came out to dine with me at Buckland – his family seat was not far away. He asked me if I still had the manuscript and if he might look at it. I dug it out of the library – it was thick with dust – and he studied it for some while. Then he offered to take it to London and have it examined by an associate of his, a book dealer, who knew about such things and might be able to give me a good price for it.’

‘Could Dunne read it?’ I ask. A cold knot is growing in my stomach. ‘Was he a scholar? Did he know what it was?’

‘What is it?’ Sidney asks, tugging at my sleeve like a child. I ignore him, waiting for Drake’s reply.

‘I don’t think so,’ he says slowly, his eyes fixed on the manuscript as if he were now wary of it. ‘But he could not disguise his interest sufficiently. So, naturally, I became suspicious – it was clear he had been talking to someone about the book and believed it to be worth something.’ He sighs. ‘Dunne was a good sailor, God knows it serves no one to speak ill of him now, but his one great weakness was gambling. He had run up heavy debts in Plymouth and in London and was always looking for ways to keep his creditors at bay. I knew if I let him take the manuscript I would not see the half of its value, if I ever saw a penny. So I told him I would take it to this bookseller myself next time I was in London and give Dunne a commission if it turned out to fetch a good price.’

‘But you didn’t sell,’ I say, almost in a whisper, stroking my fingertips over the parchment as delicately as if it were a woman’s skin.

‘I didn’t trust this dealer an inch, once I met him.’ Drake sits back on the edge of the bed, watching me. ‘I took it to him all right. He feigned great disappointment – told me it was not what he’d been led to believe, it was not worth much after all. He offered to buy it nonetheless, and for a price that was supposed to make me feel he was doing me a favour. But there was a look in his eye – hungry, you know? He couldn’t hide it.’

‘Did he tell you anything about it?’

Drake shakes his head. ‘He said that it was an old legend about Judas Iscariot. Of interest only to theologians. I told him I would have it valued elsewhere and he doubled his offer immediately. So I told him it wasn’t for sale.’ He pauses for a draught of wine. ‘Less than a month later, we had a robbery at Buckland.’

‘Were they looking for the book?’

‘I believe so. My library was turned over. But nothing taken, as far as I could see – and I have more obviously valuable objects in the house that were left untouched. This manuscript was in a strongbox in my treasury while I decided what to do about it. I hired more armed watchmen to guard the house after that, but I was sure it must be connected to that man Dunne had sent me to.’

‘This bookseller …’ Doubt prickles at the back of my neck. ‘Do you remember his name?’

Drake frowns. ‘I’m not sure I ever knew it. Dunne took me to meet him in Paul’s Churchyard – if we were formally introduced, I have forgotten the name he gave. I will tell you one striking thing about him, though.’

‘Yes?’ I raise my eyebrows, though I am almost certain I know what he is going to say.

‘He had no ears.’

Sidney and I look at one another.

‘It was another reason not to trust him,’ Drake continues, though he has not missed the glance. ‘You don’t lose both ears by accident. He’d clearly been punished as a common criminal at some point, though for what I don’t know.’

‘Sedition,’ I say, almost without thinking. Drake stares at me.

‘You know this man?’

‘Possibly.’ My fingertips stray to my throat as my memory flashes back to my time in Oxford.

‘How many book dealers have had both ears cut off?’ Sidney says, turning to me. ‘It must be him.’

‘It’s a good thing you didn’t sell it to him,’ I say. ‘Though that won’t stop him trying to obtain it by any means, if we are talking of the same man.’

‘Then it is valuable?’ Drake leans forward, a gleam in his eyes.

‘For the love of Christ, Bruno – tell us what it is,’ Sidney says, exasperated.

I take a deep breath, trying to keep my voice even.

‘If it is genuine, this is a book the Holy Office swore did not exist. Bishop Irenaeus of Lyon mentioned it in the second century, in his treatise against the Gnostic heresies, but to the best of my knowledge, that is the only surviving reference. The Vatican library has always denied its existence, though that has not stopped scholars pursuing the scent of it—’

‘Spare us the lecture, man, cut to the point,’ Thomas Drake says, from his post by the door. ‘Tell us what it is.’

I look at him until he looks away, then I begin to read, keeping my voice as low as I can:

‘“The secret account of the revelation that Jesus spoke in conversation with Judas Iscariot three days before he celebrated Passover.”’

Thomas Drake just blinks, and shrugs. Sir Francis peers at the manuscript, his brow creased, as if he is trying to puzzle out the meaning. Only Sidney regards me with a glimmer of understanding.

‘The testimony of Judas Iscariot.’ He hesitates. ‘But it must be a fiction, surely?’

I rub the parchment gently between my finger and thumb. ‘Not necessarily.’

‘I am still none the wiser, gentlemen,’ Drake says. ‘Would you care to enlighten us poor sailors?’

I look at him, considering where to begin.

‘The holy scriptures contain four accounts of the life and death of Jesus Christ, those we call the gospels of the four evangelists, that were accepted by the Church Fathers as true and divinely inspired and which more or less corroborate each other. This we all know.’ I tap the book on my lap. ‘But there were many other accounts circulating in the early years of the Church, alternative gospels that fell outside orthodox doctrine and so were suppressed, destroyed, forbidden. Among them was rumoured to be a Gospel of Judas.’

Drake looks from me to the book and back. ‘Written by his own hand?’

‘Some think so. Legends have grown around its substance. The Gnostics believed it vindicated Judas Iscariot, unravelled the whole story of salvation and would overturn the foundations of the Christian faith.’ My hands are trembling on the page as I speak. If this manuscript should be genuine, if it should prove that the story of mankind’s salvation has been based on false accounts, if there were another version of the story … what then?

‘What should be done with it?’ Drake says. His expression suggests he is struggling to take this in.

‘Best to keep it under lock and key, for now. And on no account sell it to that book dealer with no ears.’

‘Why, what does he want with it?’ Thomas Drake demands.

‘I don’t know yet.’ I look down at the manuscript; there is no way of assessing its significance without reading it in its entirety. ‘He may want to sell it to the highest bidder. Or he may have other plans.’

‘Oh, no, no, no. If there is a high price to be had for this book, I shall be the one doing the selling.’ Sir Francis sets his jaw and fixes me with a defiant eye.

‘The Jesuit already paid a high price for it. He worked for the library of the Vatican, you say?’

‘According to Jonas,’ Drake says. ‘Why?’

‘Then it would seem reasonable to assume that he found the book there. So why was he taking it away, to the other side of the world? With the knowledge of his superiors, or without? Either way, someone must have noticed it missing and followed its trail. It would not surprise me to learn that the Holy Office has agents out looking for this book, even now.’ Voicing this aloud causes a chill to run through me. If there is one quality the Roman Inquisition can never be accused of lacking, it is tenacity. And are they still looking for me, I wonder? I lower my eyes and take a deep breath. I am a free man, in a Protestant country; it is nine years since I ran from my monastery in Naples, rather than face the Inquisition. Surely they have forgotten me by now? But I already know the answer: the Inquisition never forgets. ‘This book could tear the Church apart,’ I add, looking up and meeting Drake’s frank gaze. ‘It could plunge Europe into war, if its contents are made known. You may be sure the Vatican wants it back, at any price.’

‘Europe is already tearing itself apart over the interpretation of the scriptures,’ Sidney says, as if the whole business bores him. ‘Bread, wine, flesh, blood. Purgatory, Pope, predestination. How much difference can one more gospel make?’

I look at him with reproach. ‘You can say that because your country has never had the Inquisition.’

‘We had Bloody Mary,’ he retorts. ‘Plenty still alive remember what she did in the name of pure faith.’

Drake watches us, his chin resting on his fist. ‘Perhaps the best thing would be to hand it over to Her Majesty. She can have her scholars examine it and dispose of it as she thinks fit. I would not for all the world give it back into the hands of the Pope.’

‘Perhaps. But someone should read it first,’ I say quickly. ‘And make a copy, in case anything should happen to this one.’

‘By someone, I suppose you mean you?’ Thomas Drake says, with that sardonic tone he saves for me and Sidney.

‘Unless you can read Coptic script, Thomas Drake, I see no one else for the job,’ Sidney fires back, in my defence.

Thomas narrows his eyes at him. ‘So your friend is proposing we hand the book to him. What guarantee do we have that we will ever see it again? He seems to know this book dealer well, and have a shrewd idea of its value. And – saving your presence, master – he is Italian.’

‘You have my word of honour, which should suffice among gentlemen,’ Sidney says as he stands, his right hand straying instinctively to his sword. Thomas Drake takes a step forward, chest out. He has not missed Sidney’s emphasis, and its implication.

‘Peace, both of you,’ Drake says, with a warning glance. Chastened, Sidney sits and Thomas retreats to his position by the door post. ‘Of course Bruno must be the one to read it. But you will have to do it in my cabin on board the Elizabeth. A wise man told me not to let it out of my sight.’ He smiles, to draw the sting from any offence.

‘But what has any of this to do with Robert Dunne’s death?’ Thomas says, though with less bluster than before.

Drake shakes his head.

‘Has anyone looked through Dunne’s personal effects?’ I ask.

‘No,’ Drake says. ‘I had thought to gather them up for the family when they arrive, but I have not had time. The cabin has been kept locked since the body was taken out.’

‘Good. He had been seen about the town in the days before he died, meeting two strangers. It would be worth seeing whether he kept any correspondence, or anything that might identify them. Though I suppose we have an idea now.’ I grimace at Sidney. ‘We must see if we can find out who brought that Judas letter to the Star to be delivered to you. And I would like to talk to your Spanish translator about the young Jesuit.’ My mind is already moving ahead, outpacing my own objections.

‘I told you – Bruno will find this killer in no time,’ Sidney says, rubbing his hands together with satisfaction.

Drake nods, though he does not look entirely convinced.

‘You can do this discreetly? I do not want the men further alarmed with suspicions of murder. Nor Dunne’s widow, who will be here any day – better she accepts that he died by his own hand, or we shall be caught in all manner of judicial snares and this fleet will never depart.’

Once again, I am struck by his lack of sentiment.

‘Never fear, Bruno is as cunning as the Devil himself when he chooses,’ Sidney says breezily.

I am about to protest the comparison when there is a sharp knock at the door. We all start; Thomas Drake jumps back just as the door is flung open and Lady Drake glides in, peeling off her gloves, followed by her cousin.

‘You might at least wait until someone calls “Come”, Elizabeth,’ Drake grumbles, though he looks relieved. ‘There is a fellow supposed to be guarding the door – does he not do his job?’

‘I pointed out to him that this was my chamber and he could not very well keep me from it,’ Lady Drake says, offering her smile around the room. ‘Have you finished your secret council? We grow bored, and the sun is out.’ She glances at the book on my lap and then at me, with enquiring eyes. ‘So – is the mystery solved?’

‘We are giving it due consideration,’ Drake says, before I can respond. He takes the book from my hand and places it carefully back into the leather satchel. I feel a pang as it leaves my hands; at this moment, I would give up almost anything for the prospect of an afternoon alone with that manuscript.

‘Sir Francis, you promised us the company of these fine gentlemen for our visit,’ Lady Arden says, in mock reproach, ‘and yet you keep them to yourself all afternoon. You must learn to share.’ She sends me a dazzling smile and curls the ribbon of her hood around her finger. I notice that this does not pass Thomas Drake by.

‘Very well. I had better be getting back to the ship, in any case. Don’t want to find they have all deserted by the time I return.’ Drake pats Lady Arden on the shoulder, indulgent. ‘Let us go down, gentlemen.’

Together, we bow to the ladies.

‘We will join you in the entrance hall shortly,’ Lady Drake says. ‘I think we should make the most of the fine weather and walk along the Hoe while we can, do you not agree, Sir Philip?’ She looks at him from under her lashes, her hands folded demurely together.

‘As you wish, my lady,’ Sidney says, bowing again. Drake seems satisfied; these are the kind of proper, courtly manners his new wife expects, and he is pleased to have found an escort of sufficient quality to flatter her with the appropriate deference. Only I see the look in Sidney’s eyes. I hope Drake will not have cause to regret it.

The armed guard follows Drake and his precious bag down the stairs. I cannot help peering along the corridors and over my shoulder, alert to the slightest movement. If that book should fall into the wrong hands before I have a chance to look at it, I could never forgive myself, and it seems that someone here in Plymouth – more than one person, perhaps – wants it as much as I do. Even enough to kill for it, I have no doubt.

SIX

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.

SEVEN

Climbing the rope ladder up to the Elizabeth Bonaventure seems easier this time; the sudden swaying and the knocks against the barnacled wood of the ship take me by surprise less often and my hands are growing hardened to the coarse fibres of the rope. I find I can shin up it quicker than before, and though I still feel giddy at the drop when I glance down from the ship’s rail, I am in no danger of slipping. Thomas Drake is there to welcome us aboard with his usual lack of warmth.

‘My brother is occupied with Captain Carleill at present. I will take you to him when they are finished.’

‘In the meantime,’ Sidney says, with a pleasant smile, ‘perhaps we could look at the cabin where Robert Dunne died? Sir Francis thought it might be useful to see if there is any indication among his belongings as to who could have wished him harm.’

‘Keep your voice down.’ Thomas glances quickly around. He does not seem inclined to oblige. ‘His belongings need to be boxed up for his relatives to take. But I am certain that, if there was anything to be found, we would have seen it. He had very few possessions with him.’

‘Perhaps not,’ Sidney says, still beaming. He seems to have decided that aggressive charm is an effective way to irritate Thomas Drake. It is proving successful so far. ‘The most telling items are often so small as to be overlooked. And of course your brother would have been concerned with the dead man and not in examining his possessions. Fortunately, Doctor Bruno here has just the kind of sharp eye that is suited to this task. I do distinctly remember Sir Francis saying it would be a good idea for Bruno to take a look at Dunne’s cabin.’

Thomas Drake hesitates, weighing up whether to dig in his heels, then appears to relent. ‘I will fetch the key. Wait here.’ He turns abruptly and disappears up the ladder that leads to the captain’s quarters.

‘You enjoy baiting him,’ I observe, leaning on the rail and looking out to sea.

‘He invites it. He makes his dislike of me so clear, I can’t help rising to it. He enjoys the fact that he has some small authority here – it is the only place where he could speak as he does to a man of my estate. Jumped-up little farm boy, riding on his brother’s glory.’

‘He is a captain in his own right, Philip.’ I sigh.

‘Yes, and why is he never on his own ship? He seems to believe he must be all over his brother’s business, as if it will unravel without him. I wonder Sir Francis tolerates it.’

‘I don’t like his manner either, but if you keep antagonising him, he will do his best to make sure you are kept off this voyage. And whose part do you think Sir Francis will take?’

‘Have you noticed how reluctant he is to allow us to look into Dunne’s death?’ Sidney says, ignoring my question. ‘Every time the subject is raised, he makes an objection, though Sir Francis seems keen.’

‘I wouldn’t say keen, exactly—’

‘But Thomas is actively trying to keep us away from it,’ Sidney persists. ‘Do you think he has something to hide?’

‘For the love of God,’ I say, turning back to him. ‘You can’t possibly think Drake’s own brother would—’

Sidney digs me sharply in the ribs and I see the man in question approaching us.

‘Follow me, then,’ he says, looking from one to the other of us with narrowed eyes before leading the way towards the officers’ quarters. He climbs a ladder to the deck below the captain’s cabin and stops in front of a low door, which he unlocks with a key taken from inside his doublet. He turns to us, one hand resting on the latch.

‘See that you treat everything with respect,’ he says, raising a finger in warning. ‘Sir Francis will have to account to the family for all Dunne’s effects.’

Beside me, I can feel Sidney bristling at the implication.

‘Rest assured we will leave everything just as we find it,’ I say, in a soothing voice, laying a restraining hand on Sidney’s arm.

Thomas regards us for a moment, then nods and opens the door to reveal a small cabin much like the one Sidney and I shared aboard the Leicester. Sidney elbows past him to enter; I mutter an apology as I squeeze in behind. The smell hits us like a fist.

‘Sweet Jesus!’ Sidney says, pressing his sleeve over his mouth and nose. The room is thick with the stench of urine and vomit, intensified by the damp.

‘I wish you joy of your labour,’ Thomas says, through his sleeve. He stands in the doorway, blocking the light. The ceiling beams are low enough that Sidney is forced to stoop; I can stand upright, but only just. If I breathe through my mouth, the air is almost bearable.

‘There is no room for a man to hang in here,’ I remark, stating the obvious. Even if Robert Dunne was my height, he could barely have swung from one of the rafters without his feet scraping the floor. ‘Where was the rope fastened?’

‘There.’ Thomas Drake indicates an iron hook fixed into the ceiling for hanging a lantern. I reach up, take hold of it with both hands and lift my feet off the floor.

‘It would hold a man, but there is no room for the body to drop,’ I say, indicating the height from floor to ceiling. ‘At best he would have strangled slowly as his own weight pulled the noose tight.’

‘Exactly. And the face did not have the appearance of strangulation, as my brother told you.’

‘Was he a heavy man?’ I ask.

Thomas Drake tilts his head and appraises me. ‘Of a height with you, I would say, though much stockier. He had broad shoulders, and something of a paunch.’

‘He would have been solid, then. Not easy to lift.’ I look up at the hook again.

‘If the killer meant it to look as if he took his own life, hanging seems a curiously elaborate charade,’ Sidney says. ‘Why not choose something more subtle, like poison?’

I turn slowly and look at him, eyes wide.

He presses his sleeve back to his face with a quizzical look, but I am suddenly aware of the presence of Thomas Drake and reply with a minute shake of my head.

Thomas is no fool; he senses that there is an unspoken conversation being kept from him here, and it only serves to increase his distrust. He takes a step further into the small room and folds his arms.

‘Go about your business, then.’

‘I can’t see a thing in this gloom. Do you mean to stand in the doorway the whole time, blocking what little light there is?’ Sidney draws himself up to face Thomas, forgetting the restrictions of the cabin and hitting his head on the ceiling. ‘Shit! Do they build these for dwarves?’

‘They build them for sailors, who know how to accommodate themselves to the confines of a ship,’ Thomas says drily. He unfolds his arms, then appears at a loss what to do with them, so crosses them again. ‘Do you suppose I would leave the two of you here to rifle through the man’s possessions unsupervised?’

Even in the poor light of the cabin, I see the anger constricting Sidney’s face. The battle of wills at play here is almost audible in the silence that follows. Thomas seems to realise he has mis-spoken; his eyes grow uncertain and he opens his mouth as if to speak, but Sidney takes one stride across the cabin and stands with his face barely an inch away from Thomas’s. When he speaks, his voice is quiet and controlled.

‘Let me remind you, Thomas Drake, that I am a knight of the realm and Master of the Queen’s Ordnance. You will forgive me’ – he gives a charming little laugh – ‘but I thought you were implying that I was likely to steal a dead man’s belongings? Is this your assessment of me, or my friend?’

Thomas does not back away, but his self-assurance wavers.

‘Of course, that was not my meaning, Sir Philip,’ he says, lowering his eyes. ‘I must beg your pardon, but I have been at sea enough to know that the best of men can be tempted by a trinket that can be slipped inside a sleeve or a jacket. It is our responsibility to protect Dunne’s possessions for his family,’ he adds.

‘Pity you didn’t take more care to protect his person while he was still alive,’ Sidney says, stepping back. ‘Well, Thomas, I am not one of those men corrupted by trinkets and nor is my friend Bruno. Your brother said he was content for us to examine Dunne’s cabin in case we can shed some light on his death. Which is all but impossible with you filling the doorway.’

Thomas appears to weigh up his choices, and eventually takes a step back, out of the cabin.

‘It’s still damned near dark in here,’ Sidney protests. ‘Could you see about a lantern?’

‘I am not your chambermaid, Sir Philip.’ Thomas’s voice is tight, but after a moment, he adds, ‘I will see if one can be found.’ He hesitates, watching us, then turns and moves away from the door. Sidney immediately closes it behind him.

‘I can’t see a thing now,’ I say, barking my shin on what I take to be a wooden chest on the floor.

‘We’re supposed to be doing this discreetly,’ Sidney says. ‘Drake doesn’t want the whole ship to see us going through the dead man’s cabin. What would they make of that? Though Thomas has already drawn more attention than necessary, all that fuss just now. And now what do you say about him?’ He jerks his thumb towards the door. ‘I tell you, Bruno – he does not want us looking into this business. Why is that, do you suppose? Come now, you are the philosopher.’

‘I think he takes exception to the way you speak to him,’ I say. ‘And he regards us as outsiders. I do not think it any proof he is involved.’

‘How should I speak to him, then?’ Sidney’s voice rises, indignant. ‘When he will not show me the proper deference, and speaks to me as if I am some pampered child under his feet?’

I keep my face neutral. ‘But the question of deference is a thorny one at sea, is it not? The distinctions of class mean less than the degrees of authority aboard ship, it seems. That was the problem with the Doughty brothers, as I understand it. Thomas Drake evidently believes he outranks you here, and if you want his brother to take you to the New World, you will have to swallow it for now. But you cannot possibly imagine he would jeopardise his brother’s voyage by killing a fellow officer? What possible reason could he have?’

‘Perhaps he had a grudge against Dunne. Or perhaps he knew something about him—’ His speculation is interrupted by a timid knock at the cabin door. Sidney throws it open to reveal Drake’s young clerk, Gilbert, holding a lantern and a tinder-box.

‘Captain Drake asked me to bring this,’ he ventures, proffering the items. ‘Captain Thomas Drake, I should say.’ Sidney nods and takes them with curt thanks, and is about to close the door again when Gilbert steps forward, clearing his throat. ‘Pardon me,’ he begins, then threads his fingers together and hesitates. ‘May I ask what you are looking for?’

‘No,’ Sidney says, putting his hand to the latch. I motion to him to be quiet and move out of the shadows to see Gilbert more clearly. Without his eye-glasses he is obliged to squint, which gives him a permanent frown. He has the pallor of a man who spends his life bent over books, not wind-lashed on the deck of a ship. Again, I find myself curious about his presence here.

‘I knew Robert Dunne well from court,’ says Sidney, relenting. ‘Sir Francis asked me to pack up his belongings for his widow, who is due to arrive any day. So, if you wouldn’t mind …’

‘Yes, of course,’ Gilbert says, though he doesn’t move. His narrowed eyes flit around the walls of the cabin. ‘Poor woman. An awful tragedy to bear. That a man should die in the sin of self-slaughter. Although …’ He hesitates, dangling the bait.

Beside me, I hear Sidney tut with impatience. I lay a hand on his arm. Gilbert Crosse evidently wants to share his thoughts.

‘Although what?’ I ask, with an encouraging smile.

He glances back at the deck before taking a step closer.

‘I cannot help wondering if Sir Francis entertains some doubts on that score,’ he says, in a confidential tone.

‘Really?’ I keep my expression unmoving. ‘Has he said as much?’

‘Not to me.’ Gilbert shakes his head. ‘But he seems uneasy. He has been asking subtle questions about who was on the watch that night, who was the last to speak to Dunne, that sort of thing.’

‘I expect he wanted to ascertain his state of mind,’ I say.

‘Perhaps. Or it may be that he does not take Dunne’s death for what it appeared to be.’ He plucks at the cloth of his sleeve. ‘And I wish I knew for certain because, you see …’ He bites his lip, and his gaze flickers over his shoulder.

‘What is it, Gilbert?’ I prompt gently. It seems that he wants to unburden himself but is afraid of saying too much. ‘Because what?’

‘I know someone is not telling the truth. In answer to Captain Drake’s questions.’

‘Really?’ Sidney bounces forward, suddenly interested. ‘Who?’

There is a pause, heavy with anticipation, while Gilbert twists his hands together and debates whether to say more.

‘I was out on deck that night before Robert Dunne died,’ he says. ‘I saw them come back.’

‘What were you doing?’ Sidney asks, so brusquely that Gilbert jumps as if stung.

‘I was – taking measurements,’ he mumbles. Sidney glances at me. I can tell he has taken a dislike to Gilbert, but I am inclined to hear him out; someone who is so eager to voice his suspicions to strangers may have something useful to impart. Or else his eagerness might be worth noting in itself.

‘I thought it was raining that night?’ Sidney says.

Gilbert blushes and looks flustered. ‘Later. Before midnight it was quite clear still. I just like to practise taking readings with my astrolabe. It’s much harder to use when the ship is in motion and the wind is strong, and I am not experienced at sea, so I want to be prepared.’

‘You have a mariner’s astrolabe?’ I look at him with new admiration. These instruments, designed for calculating latitude out at sea from the stars, are rare and expensive. I find myself wondering what kind of clerk this young man is. ‘So do you navigate as well as copy Captain Drake’s letters?’

He squirms and looks at his shoes. ‘Oh, I just help with the calculations, that’s all.’

‘Go on with your story, if it is worth hearing,’ Sidney says, impatient.

Gilbert stammers an apology and continues. ‘Padre Pettifer, the chaplain, had brought Dunne back to the ship. Even in the dark, I could see he was hopelessly drunk. He could barely stand – the priest was holding him up. Thomas Drake helped Pettifer take Dunne to his cabin. Padre Pettifer stayed with him for a while, and after he left I saw the Spaniard Jonas knock on the door and go in. He was carrying one of his potions.’

‘What potions?’ Sidney says.

‘Jonas has some skill with herbs, they say.’ Gilbert glances between us, his eyes anxious. ‘He can make up a draught to cure seasickness or the effects of ale. I have not tried them myself. It all smacks a bit too much of the village wise woman for my liking, and I am a man of science.’

He draws himself up. Sidney snorts.

‘So Jonas took a draught of something to Dunne that night?’ I ask, with a sharp look at Sidney.

‘I suppose he must have,’ Gilbert says. ‘The thing is – I heard Jonas tell Captain Drake that he only looked in on Dunne, saw he was passed out and left again, taking his remedy with him.’ He drops his voice to an urgent whisper. ‘But that is not the truth.’

‘You mean, Jonas stayed there longer?’

Gilbert bites his lip and nods. ‘I was on deck for at least a half-hour more, until the rain came on, and I did not see the Spaniard come out before I returned to my quarters. It was only the next day, when they said Dunne had hanged himself, that I thought of it …’ His voice tails off and he stares at his feet.

‘So, you are saying …?’ I prompt.

He shakes his head quickly. ‘Nothing. I meant only that Jonas might know something of Dunne’s state of mind that night. Perhaps they had some conversation.’

‘Have you told Sir Francis that you believe Jonas is lying?’

He looks at me in alarm. ‘Oh no – I may have been mistaken. And I would not want to sow doubts in Captain Drake’s mind if he has none.’ He chews at the quick of his thumbnail. ‘I just wondered if perhaps he had voiced any doubts to you?’

Now we come to it. Beneath all the awkward fidgeting, this young man is sharper than he looks; he is fishing for gossip. The question is, why?

‘To us? No – we have only just arrived,’ I say.

‘He is hardly likely to confide any such doubts to us if he has said nothing to his own crew,’ Sidney agrees.

Gilbert looks chastened. ‘Of course. I meant no offence.’

‘Why do you speak of doubts at all?’ I ask, in a lighter tone. ‘Did Robert Dunne not strike you as a man likely to take his own life?’

He purses his lips. ‘I did not know him well, you understand. We did not really mix in the same circles. But on reflection, I would say he did not.’

‘He had heavy gambling debts,’ Sidney remarks. ‘That could push a man to despair.’

‘Yes, that was common knowledge,’ Gilbert says, with a disapproving expression. ‘But he seemed so optimistic about the voyage, on the few occasions I spoke with him. This would be his last expedition, he said. He’d be away long enough to avoid his creditors and when he returned, he said his fortunes would be mended and he would finally be able to put his life right.’

‘Fortunes? He meant whatever treasure he brought back, I suppose?’ Sidney says.

Gilbert shrugs. ‘I don’t know. I assume so.’

‘Did he have friends on board the Elizabeth?’ I ask. ‘People he was close to?’

He blinks at me. ‘I often saw him talking with the Spaniard Jonas. They knew one another from the circumnavigation in ’77. Beyond that, I don’t know what he did when he went ashore. You would have to ask the men. I don’t really associate with them much.’ He casts his eyes down as he says this and I realise that he is lonely aboard the Elizabeth; he belongs neither with the hardened sailors nor with the gentlemen officers. It would be a long voyage for him to the New World, I thought, with only his astrolabe for company.

‘Though if anyone would know whether Dunne seemed of a mind to take his life, I suppose it would be the chaplain, Padre Pettifer,’ Gilbert adds. ‘Some of the men do seem to confide in him.’ The curl of his lip as he says this suggests he cannot fathom why.

‘But not you?’

‘No,’ he says, firmly. ‘I would rather confess my sins directly to God, when the need arises.’

I nod, turning away to hide a smile. The silence is broken by a crackle and a flare from behind me; I turn to see Sidney lighting the lantern. Already, I sense his impatience; he has decided this over-earnest young man is no more than a gossip, lurking to see what details he can scavenge. But I have a feeling that Gilbert has not told us everything. I rest my hand on the latch, as if to close the door, but he seems reluctant to leave.

‘I understand you have written books on cosmology, Doctor Bruno, and that you argue the universe is infinite?’ He shuffles as he says this, and blushes, as if he were asking a girl to dance. I acknowledge the truth of it with a tilt of my head. ‘They say your theories have caused a good deal of controversy.’

‘So did Mercator’s projection of the globe when he first published it,’ I say. ‘It is hard to persuade people that the world may look different from the way they have always perceived it.’

He nods vigorously, his face alight. ‘Yes, indeed. I would like so much to discuss these ideas with you in detail, Doctor Bruno. You can imagine, I’m sure, how starved one grows of intellectual discussion among men like this. I pray we will have the chance while you are in Plymouth.’

I respond with a non-committal murmur and hold the door open for him.

‘Well, I shall leave you to your sad task,’ he says, after a pause. He turns, casting a look back at the cabin. ‘Perhaps you may find something of interest in there.’ He smiles, still trying to peer over my shoulder. I return the smile, and politely close the door in his face.

‘What sins could a milksop like that have to confess – coveting his neighbour’s astrolabe?’ Sidney rolls his eyes. ‘God’s tears. Do you know what we used to do with fellows like him at Oxford?’

‘I wouldn’t like to guess.’

He grins. ‘Well, that’s you taken care of for the voyage, Bruno. You two can have a wild old time with your measurements and your instruments. Starved of intellectual discussion! He has a fine opinion of himself for a bloody clerk.’

‘Ah, leave him alone,’ I say. ‘Help me lift this chest on to the bunk.’

‘Oh, I see – just because he’s heard of your books.’ Sidney folds his arms and nods. ‘Suddenly he’s your best friend. Well, I think he’s odd.’

‘I don’t disagree. But let’s concentrate on this for now.’

Between us, we grip the ends of the wooden chest and heft it on to the rumpled bed. It weighs less than I had expected, and we almost lose our balance.

‘He was very eager to share his misgivings,’ I remark, watching as Sidney lifts layers of clothes out of Dunne’s chest.

‘Probably just glad to have someone listen to him,’ Sidney says, without looking up. ‘I can’t imagine the rest of the crew have much time for a whey-faced scribbler like that.’

‘He seemed sincere, though, do you not think?’ I lean against the wall, running through Gilbert’s uninvited confidences in my mind. ‘If he truly suspects that Dunne didn’t kill himself, it must be a relief to unburden his fears. I imagine Drake put an end to any such speculation the minute it was voiced.’

‘He wanted to be sure we knew about the Spaniard, though. Do you think there’s anything in that?’

‘You mentioned poison earlier as the simplest way to kill a man without suspicion. I wondered why we had not thought of that before. And now we have a resident herbalist who took him a philtre the night he died.’

‘But apparently they were friends,’ he points out.

‘Gilbert said he saw them talking. That is not necessarily the same thing.’ I suck in my cheeks. ‘I don’t know how we go about asking this Jonas questions without putting him on his guard. Especially if he does have something to hide.’

‘You have a knack for that sort of thing,’ Sidney says. ‘That’s why Walsingham values you so highly.’

‘I’m not the only one Walsingham values on this ship, apparently.’

‘Yes.’ He nods towards the door. ‘We’ll have to keep an eye on that clerk. He’s bound to be reporting back. He must not know of our plan to sail with the fleet until we are underway – I don’t want him tattling to Walsingham. Now then – what’s in here?’

He lifts the last of the clothes out of the chest and throws them down on the bunk with a disgruntled noise. ‘Nothing except shirts, and not very good ones at that.’

‘There must be something else.’ I turn slowly, taking in the bare cabin. The yellow light throws sickly shadows up the walls as it sways on its hook with the ship’s motion. Already I feel my own balance knocked off-centre now that we are back on board; that same sense that everything certain and solid has been pulled away from under me. I reach out a hand and lay my palm against the rough wooden wall of the cabin to steady myself. There are so few possessions here, so little to give us any sense of the man whose life had ended swinging from a ceiling beam like a side of beef. I shudder. ‘He was certainly travelling light for someone who expected to be away for a year.’

Sidney stuffs the clothes into the chest without bothering to fold them and lifts it off the bunk. The ship gives a sudden shift back and forth as if on an unexpected wave, and he staggers with the weight of the chest, dropping it to the floor, narrowly missing his foot. The movement causes the cone of light from the lantern to lurch wildly from side to side, briefly illuminating the shadowy recesses of the cabin.

‘Dio mio, what is that?’ I grab the lantern from its hook and fling myself across to the bunk, pulling back the rumpled sheets where a dark red stain blooms on the white linen.

‘What have you found?’ Sidney crowds in beside me, curious, his shadow falling across the bed.

‘Move back, I can’t see. Here, hold this.’ I hand him the lantern and lift the sheet closer to my face. The stain is dry, the fabric stiff. I lean in and sniff it.

‘Wine,’ I say, letting the sheet fall back to the bed. ‘For a moment I thought it was blood.’ I pull the top sheet away to reveal a bottle of dark-green glass, empty, and two stoneware mugs. Both have the dried dregs of wine inside. I stick my nose inside one and sniff.

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