Shattered Icon

by Bill Napier

  I had already guessed as much from my wanderings through the great hold of the Tiger. But it was knowledge I should not possess. They had decided that I was of no significance or, more likely, had just forgotten my presence. I stood back, quiet as a mouse, still as a rabbit.

  'A clever assassin would allow himself to be pressed on board,' said Mr White.

  'Perhaps,' said Mr Harriot. 'But if this is an attempt to destroy us, it was planned months ago, by someone who knew of the expedition. That means someone close to the Queen.'

  'Christ in heaven, Harriot, do you hear your own words? A traitor in court?' Amadas's cheeks were flushed, almost purple. He gulped more aqua vitae and snapped his fingers without looking at me. I hastened over to replenish the soothing liquid. There was a menacing growl from one of Lane's mastiffs as I passed.

  I could sense that Mr Harriot was not at ease. I guessed that he was judging Sir Richard's temper. At the moment the captain seemed even enough, but the man was like Stromboli, a mountain of which the Dominie had told me. We all feared him for his unpredictable rages.

  Harriot said, 'Not all Jesuits or Catholics are traitors, Richard. Simon here is Catholic under his Protestant guise.'

  'He is Portuguese.' Spoken as one would say 'he is a servant' or even 'he is a thief. Fernandez shrugged off Sir Richard's remark with a smile, but for the briefest of moments - and it may have been my imagination - I thought I glimpsed huge malice lying behind the mariner's dark eyes.

  'I hope my loyalty is beyond doubt,' said Marmaduke StClair. 'And I am a Catholic'

  'Aye, damn your soul, but at least you are not a recusant.' Richard casually poured powder into the barrel of his pistol, tamping it down with a rod.

  The soldier looked across at Harriot. 'Sorcery? Do you say such a thing is possible?'

  Sir Richard grinned demonically. 'There are times when I suspect Thomas of sorcery.'

  'I do not believe in the spirit world,' said Mr Harriot baldly.

  Marmaduke StClair leaned forward earnestly. His face too was flushed and I am sure that the goblet of wine I had just poured him was his fourth. 'Have you not heard of the exorcisms which have taken place in Toulouse and Carcassone? Seen by thousands of witnesses? And the fact of exorcism can only mean there are spirits to be exorcised in the first place.'

  Sir Richard scowled. 'Jesuit nonsense. Staged by priests to impress the Huguenots and trick them back into the false doctrines.'

  'With great success, I hear,' Raymond said.

  Marmaduke took a nervous sip at his wine. 'The reality of demonic possession is further proved by Marthe Brosier.'

  'I have heard of her,' said Raymond in a sceptical tone.

  'Speaking Latin and Greek, languages of which she had no prior knowledge. Discerning secrets to which she could have had no access. Becoming seized with convulsions when scripture was read or she was touched by holy water.'

  'Did you leave your brain on Plymouth docks, Marmaduke? And do you expect me to swallow Continental Catholic lies along with my wine?' Sir Richard's hatred of Spain was as legendary as his temper; I began to pray inwardly that Marmaduke would have the sense not to mention the exorcisms of Cadiz and Madrid.

  'And what of William Weston . ..'

  'What of him? Another Jesuit and thus another liar.' Sir Richard's voice was raised somewhat; I began to fear another Stromboli. He was now tapping a ball into the pistol. But Marmaduke seemed insensitive to the atmosphere. He pounded on: 'Then there is John Darrell...'

  'God damn you, the man is a Puritan!' Sir Richard banged his flintlock pistol on the table and I feared a discharge in my direction.

  But Marmaduke StClair, it seemed, had more courage than sense. His face was growing ever more flushed. 'If there is no possession and no witchcraft, why should we believe in devils? And if there are no devils, why believe in angels? Think on it, sir! You are a sheet of parchment away from denying there is a God!'

  In the silence that followed, even StClair saw that he had gone too far. He grew pale, while Sir Richard's complexion slowly turned a deep purple.

  Thomas Harriot filled the intense silence. 'I know of herbs which, when inhaled as smoke, produce the illusion of flight or conversion of the body into that of a cat or dog. Yet an observer sees that no flight and no transanimation takes place.'

  'The Devil's instrument,' Marmaduke suggested.

  'I think not,' Harriot replied. 'Their use is sanctified by the Bible. Consider Psalm One hundred and four, verse fourteen in the vulgar: "He causes the grass to grow for the cattle, and the herb for the service of man." I believe that much of the belief in witchcraft comes from such illusions induced by herbs. Also, those who believe such things are mostly women, and we know them to be gullible creatures, prone to hysteria and illusion.'

  'Aye. On that at least we can agree.' Harriot's words were calming the captain. 'You argue for a poisoner, Thomas, rather than a caster of spells or a summoner of demons?'

  'In all cases of sorcery and witchcraft known to me, a natural explanation lay behind the apparent possession. In any case, how can there be a spirit world?' There was an outraged gasp from Marmaduke. 'Incorporeal bodies could exist only where matter does not. But Descartes has defined matter as that which has dimensions. It follows that a true void cannot exist because it can have no length, breadth or height. And without a void, there is no place for spirit bodies. Marmaduke's devils cannot exist. Amongst thinking men, there is no place for the supernatural.'

  'There is a chain,' Marmaduke insisted. 'If we please ourselves whether to believe in witches, then we please ourselves about belief in devils or spirits, resurrection of the body, immortality of the soul, even belief in God. Break a link in that chain and we endanger the central tenets of faith.'

  Little Philip Amadas finally spoke. I could scarcely understand his accent. 'Marmaduke's right. Only a fool denies the evidence of faith. You presume a thing is impossible, Thomas, because it cannot be proved. But thousands of persons have seen things done which go beyond nature. By denying sorcery you exalt your own opinion above the testimonies of men through the ages and you deny the possibility of an invisible world which lies beyond your senses. This is a mark, not of a rational man, but of one filled with conceit and self-importance.'

  Mr Harriot's response was to throw back his head and roar with laughter.

  I had never in my life heard Tweedsmuir men talk of more than the price of sheep. To question things which had never even been mentioned in my world, to explore them with their minds, and what minds! The spirit of Plutarch's Lives was alive, the philosophers who came before Christ were alive, here in the gentlemen's room. In my enthusiasm I blurted out, 'But did not Democritus say that the world is made of indivisible particles, forever jostling each other? Perhaps spirits could occupy the spaces between these atoms.'

  A cabbage had spoken.

  In the stunned silence which followed, the only sound came from the jaws of one of Ralph Lane's mastiffs, greedily crunching a bone under the table. Then Amadas, his face a picture of horrified disbelief, said, 'Hang him.'

  Captain Clarke said, 'No. He is only a boy. Flog him until his spine is exposed.'

  I did not understand. What had I done wrong? I froze with fear.

  'Never.' Harriot spoke in a firm voice. 'The boy is from Scotland and knows nothing of rank or protocol. I have taken him under my wing, and I encourage him to think, a rare enough commodity these days.'

  'Then encourage him also to keep his mouth shut, Thomas,' Sir Richard growled. 'He is here to serve aqua vitae, not to join in our deliberations.'

  Mr Harriot said nothing, but he turned to me and put a finger to his lips. I needed no such instruction; from now on I would speak only when spoken to.

  Raymond said, 'But the boy has a point. How could one man have lifted the barrels onto the body of another? It would take the strength of three men. It is clear evidence that someone on board has been assisted by a diabolical power.'

  'Or else,' Mr Harriot suggested
, 'there are three assassins.'

  CHAPTER 13

  The meeting of the captains had reached no conclusions. As it happened, no further meetings between them were possible, for a second storm shortly afterwards separated the ships: the sea was empty as far as the horizon apart from one of the Tiger's pinnaces - the other had sunk. Mr Chandler told me, however, that without doubt Sir Richard had fixed a rendezvous somewhere in the New World.

  Whether the hangings had put fear into the heart of the murderer I do not know, but the violent killings stopped. Gradually, as each day passed without an event, the atmosphere of fear began to subside and we began to look forward to our first sight of the Americas.

  I had never known anything like the sticky heat of the Cancer tropic. My undergarments were wet with sweat. I washed them in seawater, dried them in the breeze and they were wet again within the hour. As noon approached, the sun rose high and the riggings threw short patterns of shadow on the deck, which moved like pendulums as the Tiger rode the swells. Modesty forbade me from appearing almost naked as some of the older mariners were prepared to do.

  But the sails were full, and if Master Fernandez's chart was correct - and it would be a hanging offence to question it - we would be in sight of a land called Puerto Rico within days, A pestilence-ridden jungle, the mineral man Joachim had told me, under the control of the Spanish. But Sir Richard needed fresh fruit and water and cattle, and he was prepared to use his cannon to get them. The lookouts seemed more alert than usual, and other mariners were at the bow, little specks of spray cooling their tanned skins.

  In the morning, having attended to the gentlemen, I had little to do but catch up with my journal. When the sand in the glass had less than an hour to go, I went searching for Master Fernandez. He was on the afterdeck, in serious conversation with Mr Harriot and Sir Richard. The captain's flintlock was tucked in his sword belt. I stood quietly, at a respectful distance, while the sun crept towards its highest point. If I interrupted I would be cudgelled for insolence. If I did not, and the sun passed the meridian, I would be cudgelled for not alerting the navigator. My position was not helped by the fact that the captain and Fernandez seemed to be at odds. Both were red-faced and talking in loud, angry voices, with Mr Harriot trying to calm them. I had no right to hear this. They were arguing about very little, as I recall.

  I cleared my throat. As the moments ticked past I stepped closer. Still I was not seen. Finally I had a spasm of coughing. Fernandez turned and glared, suddenly directing his ill humour at me, but I had placed myself out of arm's length.

  'Sir, the noon sighting.'

  Harriot looked at me in surprise. 'Ah. Then fetch my cross staff, Scotch.'

  I clambered down the ladder and along the gentlemen's short corridor. Mr Harriot's cabin was small and neat. The cross staff was in the navigation chest up against the wall opposite the door, directly under the reading desk. It was locked, and the key was in the left-hand desk drawer.

  And to the right, underneath Mr Harriot's bunk, was his chest of cedar wood. It too had a large brass key, in the right-hand drawer.

  I looked at it, burning with curiosity. I swear that it was a living thing, speaking to my inner mind. It was saying, 'Open me up, discover my secrets. None will ever know.'

  I could retrieve the key from the right-hand drawer, pull the cedar chest out, open its lid, look quickly at its contents, close it, return the key and run upstairs with the cross staff from the navigation chest, all in the space of a minute.

  Some lunatic impulse made me open the forbidden drawer. And there was the key, in amongst feathered pens, little bottles of black ink, chart dividers and parchment carrying some insignia which, in my excitement, I did not take the time to examine.

  I quickly moved to the bunk and went on my knees, noting the exact position of the cedar chest before pulling it towards me. It was heavy and took much longer to pull clear of the bunk than I had expected. I almost gave up and pushed it back, but there was the lock and here was the key. I strained my ears but the only sounds reaching me were the hundred little creaks and groans of the Tiger as she clambered up and down the ocean waves. The key turned easily, although my hands were trembling. I opened the lid.

  There was a black cloak, neatly folded. There were books, many of them. And oh, what books! With pleasure I saw Thomas North's translation of Plutarch's Lives, which had comforted me on the long journey from Tweedsmuir. But I had not even heard of the others. For some, the titles revealed their topics: The Book of Falconrie by Turbeville, Theatrum Mundi by J. Alday, The Book of Martyrs by John Foxe, and A Treatise of the New India by Richard Eden. Others seemed to be stories, like Golden Epistles by Guevara, translated by Sir Geoffrey Fenton. There was also, a hasty glance told me, poetry such as Astrophil and Stella by Sir Philip Sidney. I did not dare take the time to discern the nature of other works, such as Canaans Calamitie by Thomas Dekker. And there were books which, I suspected, dealt with forbidden matters: Decent Rationes by Edmond Campion, a man executed, I had heard, for treason, and Secret Alchemy by Humphrey Grindal. And I thrilled to see De Umbris Idearum by Giordano Bruno, the monk who was risking death by heresy. I flicked quickly through its dangerous pages: it was filled with Pythagoras and magic and occult writings.

  I didn't dare to delay any longer. But when I began to push the chest back, I heard a strange rustling noise near the bottom of the box. Curious, I looked down the side and saw a small slit. I had my ballockknife. I pushed my knife into the slit and, to my utter astonishment, a drawer slid out. The chest had a false bottom!

  And in this false bottom there was a chart. I thrilled at the sight of it. Its title was written in a corner: Indiarum Occidentalium, Pascaert van Wesindien ende Caribise Eyelanden. Underneath was written WGB in tiny letters. It was in brilliant colour. There were the islands of the West Indies, and lines marking the four voyages of Columbus, place names, coastlines, shoals, sea monsters and galleons. And most of all, lightly penned, was a single line of longitude running through the Americas, from a land called Virginia in the north to one called Guyana in the south. Marked on this line was a faint spot which, I believe, was the secret destination of which I had heard Sir Richard and Thomas Harriot speak. It was some miles inland from the shore.

  And there was a manuscript, a simple bundle of parchment. This told another story. With a surge of horror I realised that by merely setting eyes on it I had become a spy. I knew now that if I were caught, if Mr Harriot were to enter his cabin at this instant, I would be dragged straight to the yardarm and hanged.

  The title was written in a small, neat hand:

  A playne Discourse and humble Advise for our Gratious Queen Elizabeth, her most Excellent Majestie to peruse and consider, as concerning the needful Reformation of the Vulgar Kalendar for the civile yeres and daies accompting, or verifyeng, according to the tyme trewly spent.

  The author was John Dee. The English Queen's astronomer!

  Above the title someone had written: The Secret Cycle of Doctor Dee, and the Secret Purpose of our Expedition. And at the foot of this page there was a line of writing by a third hand. I could barely make out the Latin scrawl: Quod defertur non aufertur. E.R. This line had been scored out and the same hand had printed above it: IACTA EST ALIA.

  Acutely aware that if I was caught I could not escape execution, I looked at the page below. Perhaps the extreme danger of my situation had sharpened my senses, but I recall the exact words.

  ELIZABETH our Empress bright,

  Who in the yere of eighty three,

  Thus made the truth to come to light,

  And civile yere with heaven agree,

  But eighty foure, the Pattern is

  Of Christ's birth yere: and so for ay

  Eche Bissext shall fall little mys,

  To shew the sun of Christ's birth day.

  Three hundred yeres, shall not remove

  The sun, one day, from this new match:

  Nature, no more shall us reprove

  Her
golden tyme, so yll to watch.

  Footsteps clattering down the ladder.

  Mr Harriot's footsteps.

  I was overwhelmed by a wave of terror. Now the footsteps were walking briskly along the short corridor. There was no time to lock the chest or return the key. Frantically, I heaved the chest back, thrust the key inside my tunic next to my purse and rose quickly, turning towards the navigation chest.

  My back was to Mr Harriot as my hands reached the cross staff. I sensed his hesitation, felt his eyes taking in the cabin.

  'What keeps you, boy?' His voice was sharp. I heard suspicion in every syllable.

  'I had difficulty with the lock, sir. But I have it now.'

  'Quickly, or we will lose the sighting.'

  I picked up cross staff, easel and chalk, and followed Mr Harriot up the steps, weak at the knees and knowing that I would have to repeat the whole process, putting the maps and books back neatly, locking the chest and returning the key before he discovered it had gone.

  I cannot describe the agonies of fear which consumed me the whole of that afternoon.

  I was summoned to the kitchen and made busy with preparation of food for the evening. Moving between the gentlemen's room and the galley, I frequently passed Mr Harriot's cabin. After the noon sighting he, Sir Richard and Master Fernandez had all gone down to Sir Richard's cabin. Shortly afterwards, Thomas had left and gone straight to his own cabin, and there he stayed.

  He could not fail to see that the chest had been moved. He could not fail to look for chart dividers in the desk drawer and see that the great brass key was missing. He could not then fail to find that the chest was unlocked and its contents disturbed. I carried my death warrant in my tunic, in the form of the key, and yet I dared not lose it as it had to be returned if I were to survive the day.