by S. J. Parris
She kisses me hard, taking her pleasure hungrily as she slips out of her skirts and sits astride me, forcing me to move to her rhythm, and if the thought crosses my mind that perhaps she would have chosen anyone so long as his face and manner pleased her, and that I just happened to be convenient, it hardly matters. This is no more than a fleeting pleasure, and there is no reason on either side to pretend otherwise; no one is being deceived here, and there is something simple and liberating about this fact. We are two strangers attracted to each other, and will likely not meet again after this brief interlude; we expect nothing of one another. Sidney is right: simple pleasure is one thing I allow myself too little of. And so I abandon myself to it: I slide my hands around her small waist and arch my hips further into her, and when she cries out softly amid snatched breaths, her eyes gleaming, lips parted, I roll her carefully on to her back and she lifts her legs to wrap her thighs around my sides, crushing my bruised ribs so hard that I cry out, and she giggles, pressing her hand to my mouth as I move slowly towards my own crescendo. But when I close my eyes and gasp my release, it is not her I am thinking of.
Afterwards, she lies with her head on my shoulder, her hair fanning out over the pillow, her left hand stroking my chest in abstract patterns. She props herself up on one elbow, a provocative smile twitching at the corners of her mouth.
‘How did that compare with last night?’
I smile.
‘Well – considering that last night I was drugged, attacked and jumped out of a first-floor window, I would say quite favourably.’
She gives me a light slap on the arm. ‘I meant, the girl you had last night.’
‘I did not have a girl last night, I told you. I have not had a girl for a long time.’ I turn my face away as I say this. ‘Tell me this secret you promised, then.’
I feel her tense against me and her hand falls still. I realise I should have waited; I have implied that what we have just done was mere prologue to the real object of my interest.
‘Mistress Martha Dunne is with child,’ she says idly, looking at the ceiling.
‘What?’ I sit up, staring down at her. She sprawls on her back, coiling a twist of hair around one finger, and gives me a lazy smile. ‘How can you be sure?’
‘I told you, my sister has four. It’s early still, but once you know the signs, they are easy to spot. Small wonder she is so keen to contest a verdict of suicide – she won’t want to lose her husband’s property if she has a child to raise.’ She stretches her arms above her head and traces a finger down my spine, though I am too busy fitting this new revelation into the picture to pay much attention.
‘She did not tell you this directly, though?’
‘Oh, no. She was hardly likely to confide anything in us – I think she resented having to speak to my cousin and me at all, but Sir Francis seemed determined she should have the company of women. I thought you might be interested precisely because she seems to be at pains to conceal the fact.’
‘You cannot account for people’s behaviour when they are grieving.’ I pull the sheet around my knees and hug them to my chest, my thoughts still racing, tripping over one another. She gives a little snort.
‘I have never seen any widow look less grief-stricken,’ she says. ‘Unless perhaps myself.’
She laughs, and her fingers flutter up and down my back again. I shiver, and swing my legs over the side on to the floor.
‘Where are you going?’ she asks. An injured note has crept into her voice.
‘I’m afraid I have work to do.’ I smile, to take the sting from my hasty departure.
‘Not so soon.’ She pouts, rolls over on to her front and reaches for my hand. ‘You can work later, surely?’
‘The night is short and I must finish this before tomorrow. Besides, my lady, your maid will want her bed and I cannot be seen coming from your room in the morning. I could not risk the damage to your honour.’
She rests her chin on her hands, regarding me with her head on one side.
‘“My lady”, is it, still?’ She laughs. There is a resigned note to it. ‘You have better manners than many a nobleman I have met, Bruno.’
I step back, out of her reach, and search for my shirt. ‘Is that my appeal?’
She looks hurt. ‘Is that what you think? That I was curious to try someone who was not of noble blood – what, for variety? For comparison?’ She gives me a long look. ‘Your appeal, Bruno, is who you are. All of you. I am not indulging some taste for low-born men, if that is what you suppose. This is not a habit for me either, you know.’ She sounds – understandably – offended.
‘I apologise, my lady.’ I pull my shirt over my head.
‘Perhaps, in future, you might leave “my lady” at the bedchamber door,’ she says.
In future? ‘You know I have nothing to offer you,’ I say simply, and hold my hands out, empty.
She lowers her lashes and gives me a sly smile. ‘Well, I would not say that.’ She sits up straighter. ‘Listen, Bruno – I do not need a man to bring me land and titles. I have those already. I am fortunate in having the freedom to choose someone who can hold my interest purely for his own qualities.’
‘Then I am flattered.’ Perhaps I should say more, but I am unfamiliar with the etiquette of such encounters. I hurry into the rest of my clothes and pick up the bag with the manuscript. At the door she calls me back.
‘I think you have forgotten something.’
I look down at myself; I am fairly sure I have all my clothes, though they are somewhat disarrayed. More importantly, I have the book. She kneels up on the bed, the sheet held loosely against her so it barely covers her small, neat breasts. She tilts her chin expectantly and I am upbraided again by my own lack of gallantry; I cross the room, sweep her up in a dramatic gesture and crush her mouth with mine. She tries to pull me back to the bed but I extricate myself and blow her a final kiss from the door.
As it closes behind me, I pause in the dim corridor to catch my breath. I feel unexpectedly exhilarated, though it is also a relief to be returning to my own room. I am still smiling to myself when I round the corner by the stairs and walk straight into William Savile.
‘Doctor Bruno!’ he exclaims, as if he could not be more delighted to run into me. I have to admire the way he manages to look completely unruffled. ‘But your chamber is not on this floor, is it?’
‘Neither is yours,’ I say. His smile fades. He watches me for a moment, then lets out a hearty guffaw and slaps me on the shoulder.
‘I do believe you are right. What is this – the second floor? God’s bones – a few too many glasses of Rhenish and I can’t even find my way back to my room. What a fool! You too, eh?’ The smile remains fixed, but his eyes narrow.
‘Me too,’ I say, moving past him. I see his eyes drop to the bag. ‘Give you good night, sir.’
‘Give you good night.’ He hesitates, then retraces his steps behind me, but very slowly.
‘You smell of quim,’ Sidney says, as I enter our chamber. He is lying on the bed, fully clothed, his hands folded behind his head.
‘I am amazed you can smell anything through the fog of wine around you.’ I lock the door and sit down on a cushion by the hearth, the bag in my lap.
‘Well, at least one of us has had some satisfaction tonight,’ he grumbles. ‘I lost five shillings to that preening fool Savile.’
‘Not such a fool, then. The man is certainly skilled at deception, I will grant him that. Listen to this.’
He sits up and listens, cross-legged on the bed, as I unfold everything I have learned today about Savile and Mistress Dunne. His eyes grow wider and he whistles when I come to the part about searching Savile’s room, the missing button and the scent of nutmeg.
‘Well, that certainly throws a different light on matters.’ He stands, stretching his arms out.
‘We have been looking in the wrong place all this time,’ I say. ‘We assumed Dunne’s death was linked to his association with John Doughty and
Rowland Jenkes – we didn’t consider the possibility that he might have been killed for another reason altogether.’
‘Did we not say his wife had the most to gain from his murder, but not the means? But if she and Savile are involved they could have planned it together.’ His face is bright with excitement.
‘Wait until you hear the strangest of all. Lady Arden is convinced Mistress Dunne is with child.’
He frowns. ‘Is that so outlandish?’
‘It is if she has not seen her husband for months.’
‘Well I never. But what did she mean when she said he had marred all? Marred what, I wonder?’
‘Presumably it was not part of the plan to dress up his murder as a suicide – she gains nothing from that, as we have seen. But perhaps they had to rush the business if she found she was with child.’ I cross to the window and open the casement, lifting my face to the chill evening air. ‘Neither the girl Eve nor Dunne’s landlady seemed to think he had left Plymouth since he arrived. But Mistress Dunne made very sure to mention to me that he had visited her around three months ago. She wanted to avert suspicion, in case her condition came to light, I suppose.’ I turn back to face him. ‘Perhaps the original plan was for Savile to kill Dunne discreetly during the voyage. Then Martha Dunne would come into her inheritance, a wealthy widow with no feckless husband to gamble it all away. And Savile could come back and offer to marry her.’
‘But the child must have thrown that plan into disarray – it meant they had to get rid of Dunne sooner, because he would have known for certain her pregnancy was none of his doing.’ He slams his fist into the palm of his hand. ‘By God, I think we have it! And Dunne had begun to suspect – that must be why he threw a punch at Savile that night.’ He jumps to his feet. ‘What are we waiting for? We should take this to Drake immediately and he can go straight to Savile’s room with his armed men and confront him.’
‘I don’t think Savile is in his room. I caught him prowling about the second floor – on his way to her, I imagine. He pretended he was lost. As did I.’
Sidney grins. ‘Am I the only one not roaming the corridors of this inn with a cockstand? So much the better if he is with her – we will catch them in flagrante. They can hardly deny it then. Let us go and find Drake at once, before the gallant Sir William slips back to his own room.’ He moves to the door.
I step in front of him, holding up a hand.
‘Drake will be in bed with his wife now. You disturb them if you wish, for I will not. Savile is going nowhere tonight, and I must finish this translation. I will speak to Drake first thing in the morning.’
Sidney’s expression darkens. ‘Poor Elizabeth. It galls me to think of it – a fresh young woman like that being pawed by those barnacled old hands of his.’
‘Don’t think of it, then. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to catch up on.’
I take the book from the bag and unwrap its oilskin covers as tenderly as if I were handling a new-born infant. On the writing desk in the corner I set out my inkhorn, a quill and a pen-knife, a pot of sand for blotting and a supply of candles.
The Coptic script is faint and worn in places but still my heart beats faster against my ribs as I return to the beginning and once again tease out, with painful slowness, the meaning of the words. As I ease each sentence from the obscurity of its ancient Biblical language into the clear light of Latin and watch the paragraphs take shape, I wonder with every line if I am transcribing the true words of history’s greatest traitor. So absorbed am I that I am only dimly aware of Sidney moving about in the background: undressing, putting on his nightshirt, wandering around the room, closing the window, peering over my shoulder.
‘Do you suppose he killed the Spaniard too?’ he says, breaking into my thoughts.
I turn, irritated. ‘What?’
‘Savile. Perhaps the Spaniard found him out and Savile had to silence him. Then he could have written that false confession letter to throw the blame. Although,’ he continues, as if debating with himself, ‘that presents a difficulty. If Jonas knew enough to accuse Savile, why did he not tell Drake immediately?’
‘Philip,’ I say, returning my attention to the manuscript, ‘I will speculate with you in the morning. Get some sleep or I will never finish this.’
He looks piqued. ‘Bruno – we have a murderer within our grasp. If we apprehend him and turn him in to Drake, the fleet can leave and our places with it are secure. If we delay, we may miss the chance.’
I do not reply. My thoughts have already run ahead to Drake’s possible responses. To have a man of Savile’s status arrested and tried for murder, with the evidence so scant, would be no small task. How would anyone prove that Mistress Dunne’s child was not her husband’s, now that he is not here to deny it, unless by waiting until it is born to see who it looks like? Savile would have London lawyers involved, and interventions from influential friends; the charges would be dismissed in no time. From the little I know of Drake, he will not want to entangle himself in a legal case that could take months. Might he not rather set sail with Savile on board, and make his own arrangements for justice once they are far from English shores? I dip my pen in the inkwell and return to the page. What Drake decides to do with the information tomorrow is his business, I remind myself, though it sits uneasily with me.
Eventually, when Sidney realises he will have no more of my attention tonight, he lies down and pulls the sheet over himself. Before long, I hear him lightly snoring. I light another candle and force my eyes back to the page in front of me.
Dawn light is already seeping along the horizon, edging the rooftops through the window in faint gold, when I lay down my pen and press the heels of my hands against my eyelids. Judas Iscariot – if he is truly the author – ends his gospel with an eyewitness account of how the friends and disciples of Christ took his corpse from the sepulchre under cover of night and buried it secretly in an unmarked grave, for fear his tomb would be desecrated by his enemies. This grave robbery gave rise to the myth that Christ in his mortal body had walked free from the tomb, defeating death – a myth his followers were happy to bolster with their own claims of meetings, sightings, conversations with the dead man. A myth that has persisted down the centuries, shored up with hundreds of thousands of lives. I rest my elbows on the table and push my hands through my hair, squinting through gritty eyes at what I have just written. Sixty-seven pages that could destroy the Christian Church. This book unwrites the doctrine of salvation. Sixteen hundred years’ worth of theology: it is as if every book ever written since the gospels themselves is erased at a stroke. I close my eyes and I can almost see it: all the lines of ink of all the pages of all the books, disappearing, unravelling, running backwards, back into the pens that wrote them, back to the inkpot, the pages left pristine and white, ready for a new theology. I lay my fingertips reverently on the pages of the Judas manuscript. But this must be a forgery, says the rational voice in my head; it cannot be otherwise. Then why did the Vatican library have it under lock and key? Why did the young Jesuit steal it and try to run to the other side of the world, if not because he believed it was potentially devastating? And it would only be that dangerous if it were true.
I throw a dusting of fine sand over my pages to dry the ink and wrap the original book carefully in its protective covers. On the bed, Sidney lies half in, half out of the sheets, one hand curled loosely by his mouth, his face flushed in sleep like a child. I watch him for a moment with an affection that is almost paternal, though he is only seven years my junior. The Queen was right not to let him go to war, however much he may resent it. He is not made for fighting; he is a poet and a scholar who belongs among books, not the blood and dust of battle. But I fear for him; this determination to prove himself in the field will hurt him.
I bunch my pages together and tap the pile on the table to straighten the edges. I must protect this copy at all costs. If Rowland Jenkes somehow stole my first translation of the early pages, it can only have whetted his
appetite for the rest. My eyelids droop and I seem to see his face looking right at me: his strange aquamarine eyes; his lofty, knowing smirk. The image looms, growing and shrinking as if in a candle flame, and I imagine I hear him laughing; a knot of dread slowly tightens under my ribs and I remember how, in Oxford, he promised to return and kill me.
NINETEEN
I jolt awake and cry out as I open my eyes to see Sidney’s face inches from mine as he shakes me by the shoulder.
‘Calm down,’ he says, straightening up. ‘Captain Drake is here.’
I blink and lift my head slowly from my arms; the room is full of blank light and my neck is stiff. I have fallen asleep at the table, hands spread protectively over my pages. I ease myself round, rubbing my neck and shoulders, and see Drake standing in the doorway. He shuts the door behind him and perches on the end of the bed. Sidney is already dressed, I notice. I have no idea what the time is.
‘Is it done?’ Drake asks. ‘I want to lock that book away before we leave for the inquest. Thomas would never forgive me if he knew I’d let it out of my hands.’
I pass him the bag with the manuscript. ‘I have finished the translation.’
‘Anything of interest?’
I hesitate. Where to begin? If I were caught in a tempest in the Straits of Magellan there is no one I would rather at the helm, but Drake is not the man I would choose to analyse a lost Gnostic gospel – particularly not one as explosive as this. ‘Interesting, yes. Perhaps we can discuss it when you are less preoccupied with Dunne.’
