by S. J. Parris
‘Ah, Bruno!’ he says, unexpectedly animated. ‘Have you heard about this oath? Damned impertinence, if you ask me. Not sure I like the precedent either. Instinct tells me it goes against the proper order of things. What does Sir Philip say? I suppose he has sworn it readily, being desperate for a berth.’
I wait until he stops for breath. ‘What oath?’
‘Oh, Pettifer the chaplain, you know, is going about this morning with great pomp and ceremony, announcing that every man who means to sail with the fleet must swear an oath of loyalty to the Queen and to Captain Drake as supreme commander of the enterprise before we set sail.’
‘Is that a problem?’ I wonder what has prompted this; does Drake sense stirrings of unrest, or is this a pre-emptive measure, to try and flush out the killer?
‘Not in theory, but’ – he glances about, then leans in – ‘it does rather give a mandate to any course of action that takes his fancy, don’t you think? It robs one of any capacity to challenge him once at sea – he can simply say, “But you were sworn, my masters, and to break your oath is as good as treason.” I mean, it’s all very well for the crew, you know, but for a gentleman . . .’ He regards me down the length of his nose. ‘That’s why I wondered if Sir Philip meant to swear.’
‘You had better ask him, I have not heard him mention it,’ I say. I like Savile less every time I speak to him. I glance down at the buttons on his green silk doublet; disappointingly, they are flat, silver and all present. ‘Are you going somewhere, Sir William?’ I ask, indicating his bag.
‘Decided to take a room here until we sail,’ he says, tapping the bag with his foot. ‘I reasoned I’d be spending time enough in that poky cabin once we leave, and since no one seems to know the day nor the hour at present, why should I not sleep in a feather bed while I can?’
‘Cabin fever already?’ I say. His eyes narrow; before he can reply there is a commotion behind us and a woman’s voice, low and cultured, cuts across him.
‘There you are, Doctor Bruno. Shall we get this over with?’
I turn to see Mistress Dunne, pulling on a pair of gloves, the granite-faced servant scowling at her elbow. But Dunne’s widow is not looking at me; her gaze is fixed over my shoulder, on Savile, with an expression that appears more than anything like irritation. While this is likely the response Savile provokes in many people, it takes me by surprise because I had no inkling that they knew one another.
Savile crosses the hall in two strides and sweeps off his hat, bowing low.
‘Sir William Savile, Mistress Dunne. You may not remember, we met once, at court I believe. Please accept my sincere condolences for your loss.’ He raises his eyes, looking suitably regretful. At least he has the decorum not to mention the, money Dunne owed him, I think. Not yet, anyway.
‘At court. Yes, I suppose it was.’ Mistress Dunne sounds vague; she concentrates on her gloves. ‘I thank you. Please excuse us. I am going to view my husband’s body.’ She looks up sharply as she says this; Savile seems to flinch.
‘A distressing task, madam. God be with you,’ he adds, hesitantly, as if he is uncertain of the protocol.
‘Well, I shall have Doctor Bruno with me, which is the next best thing,’ she responds in a clipped voice. ‘One never knows when one might need a theologian on hand. A pleasure to meet you again, Sir William.’
Savile is still muttering something about sad circumstances as she is halfway through the door, though I notice she casts a glance back at him before she leaves, and it is not a friendly one. It does not require any great genius to see that this exchange is not all it appears; even Savile’s personality cannot account for Mistress Dunne’s hostility towards him. What history is there, I wonder, as I limp to catch up with her outside the inn.
‘I am not, strictly speaking, a theologian, madam,’ I say, as we make our way along the narrow street towards the centre of the town, since she appears to have no intention of beginning a conversation. The skies are clearer today, the sun hazy behind a threadbare gauze of white cloud that shows patches of blue as pale and fragile as eggshells. But the air is still cool; a sharp wind gusts in from the sea, stinging the cut on my face. Last night’s rain lies puddled between cobbles.
‘I am not, strictly speaking, interested.’ She looks straight ahead as she walks. She has a long stride for a woman and my bruised legs and ribs pain me as I work to keep up. ‘We both know this is no more than a gesture to placate me. But we shall play along until the inquest. No doubt Drake is paying you well to conclude whatever best suits his purposes.’
I subside into silence. After a few more yards she turns to me and sighs, impatient.
‘Well – what are you, then?’
‘I am . . .’ I hesitate. What am I, exactly, at this point in my life? This August morning of 1585, at the age of thirty-seven, how do I explain myself, to her or to anyone? I am, variously, a heretic, an ex-Dominican, a philosopher, a spy, a poet of sorts, a teacher, an exile. A lover – once perhaps, though that seems distant. A necromancer, if you believe my detractors in Paris. A traitor, if you ask the Baron de Châteauneuf. A hunter of murderers, if you ask Walsingham. I shift shape, like Proteus, according to necessity; so much so that I am in danger of losing my original form altogether.
‘I am a philosopher, if you like. I write books.’
Her glance flits sideways beneath her veil to take me in. ‘It would appear philosophy is a dangerous sport.’
‘That is just the way I practise it.’
We walk in silence, through narrow streets I am gradually coming to recognise. Just behind my shoulder I can hear the steady wheezing of Mistress Dunne’s maidservant, laboured as bellows.
‘You are acquainted with Sir William Savile, then, madam?’ I say, after a while. She seems irked by the interruption.
‘Hardly acquainted. I believe I may have met him at court, with my husband. I barely recall, but one doesn’t wish to look rude. One meets so many people.’ She trails off, distracted.
‘Are you often at court?’ I keep my voice light, as if making conversation, but I sense she is wary of my questions.
‘Not these days, no.’ She presses her lips together; behind her veil, her face is closed. ‘We used to be,’ she says, in a softer tone, just when I think she will not discuss the matter further. ‘When Sir Francis first returned from his voyage around the world, he and the gentlemen who travelled with him were much celebrated. That was when I married Robert. He came home a rich man, and for a while it pleased Her Majesty to keep her gallant gentlemen sailors about the place. But . . .’ She gives a small shake of the head and rubs a thumb along her brow, through the veil. ‘Things change. I suppose that is the nature of life, is it not? And our task is to look on good fortune or ill with equanimity.’ She says this as if she holds the idea in contempt.
‘What changed?’ I ask gently.
‘Oh, you will have heard, no doubt.’ Her voice is brisk again; she picks up her pace to match it. ‘Robert grew restless. He said he missed the adventure.’ She laughs, short and bitter. ‘How strange you men are. For a woman there is risk enough in the day to day – just the getting of children is a roll of the dice with Providence. But no – you men must seek it by circling the Earth in a tub of wood. Or throwing away all you have on a hand of cards.’ Her tone is like the edge of a knife; I glimpse the naked fury she harbours for her husband. ‘After a while he took to avoiding the court. Too many creditors. We came back to Devonshire, leased a manor near Dartington, but even then he was hardly at home. He spent most of his time in Plymouth, where he could still trade on his reputation as one of Drake’s famous crew. But there’s only so many times men will stand you a drink and waive your debts in return for a tale about the Straits of Magellan. The credit notes began piling up again, and still the damned fool thought he could mend it all with one lucky night at the card table. But there never is a lucky night for men like Robert.’ She stops and turns to me, so abruptly that the maidservant collides with my back. ‘No dou
bt you think me an unnatural wife, Doctor Bruno, to speak so ill of a man who has suffered a cruel death not three days since.’
‘I can see nothing more natural than to be angry when someone you care for persists in wilfully destroying himself and those around him, against all advice,’ I say.
‘Exactly!’ she exclaims. ‘Robert was not a bad man, but he was unhappy. Since he returned from that first voyage with Drake, something was tormenting him. It wore away the good side of his character, little by little. If there had been children, it might have been different. But . . .’ She turns away, adjusts her veil.
I let this comment disappear into the sounds of the street, the raucous Plymouth goodwives and gulls vying to drown each other out. So they had no children; his fault or hers, I wonder. If she is about to come into a significant inheritance from her father, that would make her an attractive prospect to new suitors, who might give her children where Robert had failed. Sidney’s comment about rich widows comes to mind.
We have emerged into the square around the Market Cross, lively at this hour with traders and stallholders, shouting their wares from beneath coloured awnings that snap in the breeze like sailcloth. Raw-faced women with vast baskets balanced on their hips tout bread, fish, strawberries, fresh-cut reeds, and more pies; others, in cheap, bright gowns, move among the crowds, touting themselves. It is never too early for commerce, it seems. Ragged children chase one another through the throng, laughing and dodging fists and kicks as their keen eyes scour the ground for any fallen food that can be salvaged before the dogs grab it. Mistress Dunne lifts her skirts to avoid the fresh piles of horse dung and presses onward, her mouth set in a determined line, towards the ancient-timbered Guildhall, which overlooks the square, leaning forward on its row of wooden columns like a grandfather on a stick.
‘So, these creditors Robert trailed after him,’ I say, hurrying to keep up, ‘these are the enemies you spoke of?’
She purses her lips. ‘They were certainly not his friends, put it that way – although some started out as such. But I did not mean them – they were ordinary, workaday enemies. They were not the ones that frightened him.’
‘Then, who?’
She glances about and lowers her voice. ‘My husband was involved in something – I hardly like to—’
‘Sir!’ A hand tugs at my sleeve and I look down to see the boy Sam hopping from one foot to the other, his eyes lit up with delight at finding me again.
‘Good day, Sam.’ I make him a little bow and his whole face scrunches up with laughter. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Looking for something to eat.’ He draws a hand across his nose.
‘Did you find anything?’
He shakes his head and his lip juts out. ‘I picked up a bit of bread but my brother robbed it off me.’
He is a scrawny thing; I wonder if anyone feeds him at home.
‘Well, then.’ I slip a hand into my purse and bring out a penny. I indicate a girl standing nearby with a tray of fresh pies. ‘Get yourself a pie, and make sure you hide it from your brother.’
His solemn eyes widen and he regards the coin as if he has just witnessed a miracle.
‘I am going to find someone from the coroner’s office, Doctor Bruno,’ Mistress Dunne announces, with a dismissive glance at the boy. ‘You can stay here.’ She gestures to the maidservant to follow, puts her shoulders back and disappears through the main door of the Guildhall. Sam stands close to my side, turning his penny over and over in his hand as if he is afraid it might vanish. As I am gazing at the top of his head, an idea occurs.
‘Sam, you and your friends must know everyone in Plymouth, I think?’ I crouch to look him in the eye.
He bites his lip, torn between his desire to be truthful and his fear of disappointing me. ‘Not everyone who comes in off the ships. But the townsfolk, mostly I do.’
‘Good. I need to find someone. A girl. All I know is her name is Eve, and she probably works . . .’ I hesitate, seeing his earnest expression. How much do children understand at his age? ‘She might be one of the girls who works along by the harbour. One of the ladies who paint themselves.’
‘A whore?’ he says brightly. What is he – six years old, seven? I wonder if he has any concept of what a whore is. Growing up by the docks, they are as common a sight to him as fishermen or gulls, I suppose.
‘I think so. She used to work at a place called the House of Vesta until recently. I need to find out where she’s gone. It’s important,’ I add in a whisper, and pat my doublet where he knows my purse is stashed. He nods again. ‘Perhaps you could ask around. You can start now, if you like.’
He looks doubtful. ‘Can I have my pie first?’
I laugh. ‘Of course.’
‘Can I share it with my dog?’
I look around. The only dogs to be seen are mangy street scavengers. ‘You can share it with whomever you like. Just don’t let anyone take it from you.’
He grins, and scampers away, lightfooted, until he is lost behind barrows and swirls of bright skirts. I turn to see Mistress Dunne approaching with a gaunt young man in the robes of a clerk.
We turn a corner to find ourselves at the lych-gate of the church I visited the night before. The sun slides behind a cloud. A plump verger in a black cassock and violet chimere appears from the church door, exchanges a few private words with the clerk and greets Mistress Dunne with solemn murmurs of condolence, though his distaste for the task is evident in his jowly face. He is carrying an unlit lantern.
‘The coroner asked us to keep the body in the crypt until the . . .’ he hesitates, selecting his words carefully ‘. . . the manner of burial is settled upon. It’s the coolest place, you see. We are fortunate that the weather has been unseasonably cold for August, else the body would be corrupted worse than it is.’ He cannot quite disguise the wrinkling of his nose. It is clear that he would prefer not to have the corpse of a suspected suicide contaminating his church. He gives the impression that he would gladly drag the dead man to a crossroads and drive the stake through his heart himself, given the chance.
Mistress Dunne draws herself up, lifts her veil and looks him directly in the eye.
‘My husband will be given Christian burial as soon as the inquest is over tomorrow,’ she announces, in a tone that admits no contradiction. ‘Agnes!’ she snaps her fingers towards the maid. ‘See that this gentleman is recompensed for the trouble he has been put to.’
Agnes dutifully rummages in her skirts and draws out a purse. I cannot help feeling impressed by Mistress Dunne’s composure in facing down the censure of the Church; whatever she felt for her late husband, she seems determined to defend his name in death while she still can.
The verger immediately finds a more charitable spirit. ‘That is most generous, madam. If you would just follow me . . .’ He gives me a curious look, his small eyes resting on me in passing, trying to calculate my connection to the widow. He shepherds us along a narrow path around the north transept of the church until we reach a low doorway, which he unlocks with a key from his belt. As he opens it, he turns back to us.
‘Are you quite certain, madam, that you wish to proceed? The sight, you know – for a lady . . .’ He makes a little moue with his mouth.
‘Of course I wish to proceed, I have ridden from Dartington for the purpose. I do not expect it to be pleasant, but it is my duty.’ Mistress Dunne straightens up again and the verger shrinks under her gaze. He holds the door open.
‘You will forgive me if I remain here – we have incense burning, but . . .’ He does not need to elaborate. Mistress Dunne draws a handkerchief from her sleeve and presses it over her nose and mouth. I cover my lower face with my sleeve. The verger takes out a tinder-box and lights the lantern, handing it to the clerk and murmuring a few words as he does so. The clerk nods and, with his light aloft, enters a small vestibule and almost immediately turns right down a flight of stone steps. At the bottom he pushes open another door and the smell of putrefaction g
usts out, thick as fog. I hear the clerk gagging, though he presses on, the small circle of light wavering forwards.
The crypt is low-roofed, supported by plain stone columns. It is true that the air is cold and damp down here, but evidently not enough to protect Robert Dunne from corruption, despite the incense burners set into niches in the walls. My stomach clenches and my heart is racing; the sepulchre stench takes me back to Canterbury the previous summer and the grisly discovery I made there in an underground tomb. My old dread of confined spaces rises up; I attempt a breath through my mouth but the air tastes metallic and sickly-sweet. I have to stop and lean against a pillar until I am sure I will not faint. Mistress Dunne walks on, her face set in that same resolute expression; if she is affected, you would not know it. In the wavering light of the lantern, I see that the clerk has turned slightly green.
At the far end of the crypt a makeshift bier has been created from wooden trestles and planks. On top lies a shapeless mound wrapped in a shroud. The smell of decaying flesh grows stronger as we approach. The clerk holds up his light and indicates the body, his face buried in the crook of his arm. Mistress Dunne looks at me. Since it appears no one else is willing, I step forward to draw back the winding sheet and force myself to look.
Mistress Dunne gives a little cry, muffled by her handkerchief, and clutches at her maid’s arm to steady herself. I do not blame her; no effort has been made to lay out the body with any humanity. The eyes stare out of the blackening face at some nameless horror on the ceiling, a vision granted only to the dead; the jaw has not been tied, and hangs slack in a hideous grimace, teeth bared and tongue lolling. Some unspeakable fluid seeps in a glistening trickle from the nostrils and the corners of the eyes. The clerk has turned from green to grey and is swaying slightly, the cone of light from his lantern sliding back and forth up the wall.
‘For the love of God, man, could you not have laid him out better, knowing his widow was coming? Bound the jaw and closed his eyes, at least,’ I say, angry not just that Mistress Dunne should have to see her husband like this, but also at the lack of feeling or respect for a fellow creature. She looks up at me, surprised.
