Treachery (2019 Edition)

by S. J. Parris

  ‘The Vatican may have all manner of heretical writings locked away in its archives,’ he says, raising his head. ‘They have spent centuries trying to suppress the Gnostic sects.’

  ‘Perhaps because they were afraid,’ I say quietly. ‘Perhaps they needed to protect their own advantage, because they feared one of those Gnostic gospels contained the truth?’

  ‘That is not Queen Elizabeth’s fight, Bruno,’ Walsingham says. He sounds tired. ‘Look how Christendom is tearing itself apart over differences in interpreting the scriptures we already have. And you bring her a book that is not concerned with the finer details of the composition of bread and wine, but one which purports to overturn the entire doctrine of salvation and denies the resurrection.’ He spreads his hands wide to illustrate the enormity of my folly. ‘No possible advantage could come to her from making public such a book as this, and every possible harm. As soon as she understood its contents, she wanted no part of it. And she advised me that if anyone printed or distributed copies of it, they would be punished as heretics.’

  ‘But what if it should be true?’ I persist.

  ‘Do you think it is true?’ he asks, after a pause.

  I look at him, finding no clue in his unfathomable dark eyes as to how I should weigh my answer. Walsingham is unswervingly devout in his Protestant faith, and conservative with it; for all his seeming mildness, he will have men racked or disembowelled sooner than see it threatened. Do I believe the Gospel of Judas? It is not a straightforward question, as he well knows. For all their errors, I believe the Gnostics were groping their way towards the truth. We humans are more than flawed clay, born stained by sin, worthless without redemption, as it has suited the Church to tell us all these hundreds of years. That spark of divinity the Gnostics recognised, that potential to create, to invent, to comprehend the universe and, in doing so, to become god-like – that lies dormant in all of us. We deserve better than an eternity spent struggling out of Purgatory, or consigned to Hell by some arbitrary predestined salvation, depending on your preferred doctrine. Or so I believe. I am not sure this is what Walsingham wishes to hear.

  ‘There are elements that I find plausible,’ I say carefully.

  He allows a small smile. ‘A diplomat as ever, Bruno. It is certainly an intriguing document. But still, best destroyed. For all our sakes.’

  I draw the papers towards me and nod, lowering my eyes with appropriate deference. But I do not make him a promise.

  ‘And Her Majesty?’ I ask, hardly daring to voice the rest of the question.

  Walsingham does not reply immediately, but when I look up and meet his steady gaze, I already know his answer and my hopes plummet like an anchor.

  ‘I have spoken to the Queen about your situation, Bruno, but . . .’ He purses his lips and shakes his head. ‘There is little she can do. Your ideas are too controversial. She finds your books thought-provoking, she told me so, but she cannot be seen to endorse them publicly. It would be impossible for her to give you any kind of official role at court, especially after she was forced to banish John Dee.’

  I nod, though I feel numb. John Dee was the nearest Queen Elizabeth ever came to appointing a court philosopher, but his knowledge of astrology and his alchemical experiments made him a figure of suspicion to the more extreme Puritans among her advisers, who began to attack him subtly with rumours of black magic and all kinds of immorality, even to cast sly aspersions on the Queen herself for listening to his counsel. Eventually, to spare his reputation and hers, she paid him to travel in Europe, furthering his studies, though Dee and all his friends knew this amounted to banishment. He has been gone two years now, with no prospect of being recalled. So there was little chance that she would willingly become the patron of another philosopher whose knowledge of occult sciences made him just as dangerous, and who was not even a native Englishman. But still, I had dared to hope.

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘After all Bruno has done for her, you’d think she could find something,’ Sidney bursts out, rising to his feet. ‘If it were not for Bruno, she might be a prisoner of the Queen of Scots and her French allies by now. We all might.’ He looks aggrieved. ‘Why, if he hadn’t come to Plymouth with me, Drake might never have found out his clerk was selling advance notice of his route to the Spanish – she would have lost her entire investment, not to mention hundreds of English lives, and been humiliated at the hands of King Philip. If that is not worth a reward, I don’t know what is.’

  Walsingham inclines his head. ‘Her Majesty knows well what efforts Bruno has made in her service. Though you may be interested to learn, it turned out young Master Crosse was not lying.’

  ‘Really?’ Sidney frowns. ‘But I thought he confessed to the murders?’

  ‘The murders, yes. But we had the letter decoded and all the details he had sent to the Spanish Ambassador were incorrect. I forwarded it to Drake just before he set sail and he sent back confirmation. If all Gilbert’s communications followed that pattern, the fleet would not have been in any more danger than it was already, in Drake’s view.’

  ‘He is still a killer,’ Sidney says, in case this should undermine our achievements.

  ‘And he will die for it,’ Walsingham says mildly. ‘That is the law. The one concession, since it appears that his treason was only partial, is that he will be hanged until dead before he is put to the knife. I gave him my word.’

  We sit in silence, each of us picturing a traitor’s end.

  ‘Her Majesty will reward you, she promised,’ he adds, turning to me. ‘As will Drake, and Dom Antonio, who cannot sing your praises highly enough, it seems. You will be well provided for, Bruno. For a while, at least.’

  ‘That is very gracious of them,’ I say, trying to sound as if I mean it. A gift of money is never unwelcome, but it would buy me only a few months’ grace. I do not need a purse so much as I need a job – some official position that will allow me to stay in England and write my books, and confer some status on them when they are published. A teaching post at one of the universities would have been useful, a position at court even better. Now it looks as though there is no place for me at either. I was never truly a part of this court circle, though they opened their door to me for a time. But I could not belong among men like Sidney and his uncle the Earl of Leicester, or even Walsingham, all of them bound together by blood, marriage and politics over the best part of three decades. My face, my voice, my ideas mark me as different. Perhaps, as I have often feared, a man like me belongs everywhere and nowhere.

  I try to harden my expression, so that my face will not betray the disappointment I am battling. Instead, I reach for the jug and pour another glass of wine.

  ‘Her Majesty was pleased to support you while she could do so covertly,’ Walsingham continues, his tone gentle, ‘and after some discussion we feel there is a way she could do so again.’ He notes the light in my eyes and holds up a hand, as if warning me not to let my hopes race ahead of his words. ‘Intelligence from Paris suggests that Mary Stuart’s supporters there are still fomenting their conspiracies against the Queen, and that their plots grow more ambitious by the day. If we had a man in Paris able to watch them and report on their movements, that would be worth a good deal to Her Majesty, and of course to me.’ He gives me a long look.

  ‘But Your Honour, my earnest desire is to stay in London,’ I say, trying not to sound as if I am begging. I do not need to spell out to him the dangers that would wait for me at the French court.

  ‘I know that, Bruno.’ He exhales and shakes his head. ‘And it grieves me that I cannot give you what you want. But I am offering you a chance to do Her Majesty further service. Who knows – perhaps in a couple of years things might be different.’ He holds out his hands, palms up, to show that this is the best he can do.

  ‘Thank you, Master Secretary,’ I say, forcing a smile, though my heart feels dragged down by its own weight. ‘I will think on it.’ In a couple of years, King Henri of France might be pushed of
f his throne by the Catholic League, who would tear me to pieces quicker than you could say a novena. In a couple of years, Spain might invade England. These are volatile times: in a couple of years, we might none of us be where we are now. Besides, we all know it is an empty promise, held out only to soften the blow. If Queen Elizabeth can find no place for me now, while my service to her is fresh in her mind, she is unlikely to be any better disposed towards me two years hence.

  ‘You might catch up with Rowland Jenkes in Paris, Bruno,’ Sidney says, leaning back, his hands behind his head. ‘Have a little word with him about his manners in Plymouth. You might even get to track down the original of that book.’ He nods to the papers on the table. Walsingham frowns.

  ‘I have seen enough of Jenkes for several lifetimes,’ I say. The thought of him at large in Paris only adds to my reluctance.

  There is a timid knock at the door. Walsingham calls to enter, and it opens wide enough to admit the hesitant figure of Sidney’s wife Frances. She slips in and stands behind her husband’s chair; Sidney turns and rests a hand on the mound of her belly. Walsingham’s face visibly softens.

  ‘What is it, daughter?’ he asks.

  ‘A messenger has arrived from Lord Burghley, Father,’ she says, with as near to a curtsey as her advanced pregnancy will allow. ‘He has come by river from Whitehall and says it is urgent.’

  ‘Very well. Would you excuse me, gentlemen?’

  We all stand as Walsingham pushes back his chair. He seems relieved at the interruption.

  When the door closes behind him, Sidney puts his arm around his wife and pulls the fabric of her dress tight over her belly.

  ‘What do you think, Bruno – does this not look like a strapping son in there? To judge by the bloody size of it.’

  ‘I think Lady Sidney looks in fine health, and I’m sure the child is too,’ I say, seeing how the poor girl blushes. She raises her eyes and gives me a grateful smile. She is only nineteen, pale and pretty, though she looks exhausted. After a few days of living with Sidney, I can appreciate why – and I am not even with child.

  ‘He is a fighter too,’ Sidney says, prodding her abdomen. ‘Kicking and pummelling his way out, is he not, my dear? Going to be a soldier like his father,’ he adds, expanding his chest with pride.

  Frances gives a weak smile and bites her lip. ‘Not if I can help it,’ she murmurs.

  ‘Get along, then – you should be resting, not running errands for your father,’ he says, patting her absently. ‘Bruno and I have business to discuss.’

  I bow as she leaves, though I note how she lingers at the door, her gaze resting briefly on her husband. I can only guess what she must be feeling.

  ‘So you are really going?’ I ask, when the door is closed behind her.

  ‘I am. Thanks be to God, the Queen relented. I had an audience with her at the end of last week, and she confirmed my posting.’ His face is alight with excitement. He looks like a man in love, I reflect, except that the object of his desire is the command of a garrison in Flushing.

  ‘So she has forgiven you for attempting to run away to the New World?’

  ‘It seems so. At least, I had the impression she feels a small degree of guilt in driving me to such desperate measures. The governorship of Flushing is her way of making amends. She has even offered to stand god-mother to the child. But he has not forgiven me,’ he adds, darkly, jabbing his thumb towards the door where Walsingham left. ‘Firstly for trying to join Drake’s voyage without telling him, and now for going to war just as the child is about to be born.’

  ‘I can see his point of view.’

  ‘It’s not as if I’m its wet-nurse.’

  ‘What does Lady Sidney feel?’ I hardly need ask this; her thoughts were plain enough on her face.

  ‘Oh, she is furious. Won’t let me near her bed since I told her the news. But you know how wives are,’ he says, making a face.

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  He straightens his chair and sits up, his expression apologetic. ‘No – forgive me. Thoughtless.’ He pauses, weighing his next words. ‘It must have been hard, saying goodbye to Lady Arden.’

  I shrug the question away. ‘It was what it was. A dalliance, nothing more. It’s not as if either of us was deceived about that.’

  ‘Even so,’ he says. ‘I think she was growing fond of you.’ He does not ask directly whether I felt anything for her. Perhaps he thinks that would be overstepping the bounds of friendship.

  ‘Perhaps.’

  During those few days at Drake’s country estate, the sun had made a last, brave attempt at summer, and we had spent evenings walking the long sloping lawns in golden light while swallows looped and skittered overhead. It was a brief, happy interlude, made all the sweeter by the knowledge that it could not last.

  ‘Still, I don’t doubt there will be a great many beauties at the French court delighted to see you return,’ he says, catching my faraway look.

  ‘They will be far outnumbered by the Catholic Leaguers who are horrified to see me,’ I say, my spirits sinking again at the thought of Paris. ‘Besides, I have no interest in French courtesans.’

  ‘No. I know you too well. You still hold out hopes of catching up with Sophia, am I not right? It is the only thing that makes the prospect of France bearable to you.’

  I look away to the window. I did not realise I was so easy to read.

  ‘You need to forget her, Bruno,’ he says, gently. ‘Find someone else.’

  ‘The way you have forgotten Penelope Devereux?’ I turn back to him, raising an eyebrow. ‘At least I have not written her a hundred sonnets.’

  ‘A hundred and eight, actually,’ he corrects. We look at each other and burst out laughing.

  ‘I wish you were not going,’ he says, when the laughter subsides.

  ‘What difference will it make to you where I am? You will be busy defending Flushing.’ I stop abruptly; I had not intended to sound quite so piqued. Deep down, a part of me still feels that he and Walsingham could have tried harder to find a way for me to stay. Sidney looks surprised.

  ‘But you would have been here when I came back,’ he says, his face suddenly sincere.

  I look at him. How young he looks in the candlelight, his eyes bright with anticipation of his great adventure. But you cannot guarantee that you will come back, I think, though I do not say it. I am seized by a sudden urge to plead with him not to go to war, to spell out the odds of a victory against the Spanish, but he is a grown man, and he wants his chance to prove it.

  He pours more wine for us both.

  ‘On reflection, I’m quite glad we’re not halfway across the Atlantic, you know. I don’t think I could have suffered Drake ordering me to swab out latrines for months on end. And think of the damp.’

  ‘And the piss-drinking and weevils.’ I laugh. ‘I did tell you.’

  ‘Besides, I would have missed the chance to go to Flushing.’

  ‘Quite right. Because a military camp, by contrast, will be just like Whitehall Palace. Turkish carpets and feather beds all round – no lice or scurvy there.’

  ‘Shut up, Bruno,’ he says, with affection. ‘You will not deter me, whatever you say. It’s all I’ve wanted, to be a military commander. And when I come home, it will be to a hero’s welcome. Let them call me a lapdog then.’ He grins as he stands, raising his glass. It glows a deep crimson in the candlelight, rich and warm as blood. ‘To us, Bruno. To our futures. To freedom and glory and poetry. And to seeing you again very soon, with great tales to tell.’

  I stand and chime my glass with his. ‘To all those things,’ I say. ‘Especially the last.’ But as I drink, I feel a shiver pass through me, as if a cloud has crossed the sun. As if someone has walked over my grave, my mother would have said. I do not believe in premonitions, I tell myself. The candles have almost burned down to ashes. To our futures, I murmur again, as if, with enough conviction, I can will it to be true.

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  PROLOGUE

  Paris, November, 1585.

  ‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been nine years since my last confession.’

  From beyond the latticework screen came a sharp inhalation through teeth, barely audible. For a long time, it seemed as if he would not speak. You could almost hear the echo bouncing through his skull: nine years?

  ‘And what has happened to keep you so far from God’s grace, my son?’

  That slight nasal quality to his voice; it coloured everything he said with an unfortunate sneer, even on the rare occasions where none was intended.

  ‘Ah, Father – where to begin? I was caught reading forbidden books in the privy by my prior, I abandoned the Dominican order without permission to avoid the Inquisition, for which offence I was excommunicated by the last Pope; I have written and published books questioning the authority of the Holy Scriptures and the Church Fathers, I have publicly attacked Aristotle and defended the cosmology of Copernicus, I have been accused of heresy and necromancy—’ a swift pause to draw breath – ‘I have frequently sworn oaths and taken the Lord’s name in vain, I have envied my friends, lain with women, and brought about the death of more than one person – though, in my defence, those cases were complicated.’

  ‘Anything else?’Openly sarcastic now.

  ‘Oh – yes. I have also borne false witness. Too many times to count.’ Including this confession.

  A prickly silence unfolded. Inside the confessional, nothing but the familiar scent of old wood and incense, and the slow dance of dust motes, disturbed only by our breathing, his and mine, visible in the November chill. A distant door slammed, the sound ringing down the vaulted stone of the nave.

  ‘Will you give me penance?’