S. Parris - Treachery

‘Give us your hand then, mate,’ says a voice, very close to me. I jerk my head up, spluttering through the blood filling my nose. A burly man, one of Drake’s crew, has climbed down the rigging over the side of the ship and is holding out an arm the size of a thick branch. He slips it under mine, pulls me upright against the rigging and half carries me to the top, where Drake’s face peers over the rail. With the last of my strength, I manage to raise my arm and hold out to him a blood-spattered letter, sealed in crimson wax. As they lift me on to the deck, I look back to see two men hauling a dripping figure out of the waves and into the longboat.

‘Drake will have to reconfigure his entire route now.’ Sidney pulls back the drapes at the chamber window and throws wide the shutters. If I open one eye, I can just glimpse a pale blue sky washed with early morning sun.

‘He may even ask us to help him,’ he continues, lacing his breeches. ‘You know a little of navigation, and he is now without a cartographer, after all. There is no possible way he can refuse us a place on the voyage, after what we have done. That courier fellow did not come without a fight, I can tell you.’

‘Uh-huh.’ I ease myself up on one elbow. Every movement of my left shoulder is jagged with pain. The bruise across the bridge of my nose throbs gently. Sidney has already told me of his encounter with Gilbert’s contact in the church, embellishing his own heroics with each retelling. I let this pass; I am only glad he can finally feel he has played a part in resolving Drake’s troubles.

‘He was there in that back pew right enough,’ Sidney says, shrugging on his doublet. I make an encouraging noise and swing my legs gingerly over the side of the bed, testing the damage after a night’s rest has allowed my torn muscles to stiffen. Everything hurts.

‘I stationed my armed men at either end of the pew, then I slipped in beside him. He was pretending to pray. I leaned over and whispered, “Gilbert’s not coming tonight, my friend.” You should have seen his face.’ He pauses, halfway through fastening his buttons, smiling to himself as he recalls. ‘Of course, he tried to claim he didn’t know any Gilbert, didn’t know what I was talking about. But when I told him Gilbert had been arrested and told us everything, and he could tell us his side the easy way or the hard way, he couldn’t be helpful enough.’

‘That was cleverly done,’ I say, as I have said at this point during all the previous accounts.

‘It was a gamble, I’ll admit,’ he says, straightening his ruff and checking his reflection in the spotted glass. ‘But it paid off. He was terrified as soon as I suggested he could be questioned in the Tower. He’s only a small fish — a French merchant who lives here in Plymouth, has some arrangement with agents of the Catholic League to pass letters to couriers on French ships. He had no idea what was in them — just a bit of easy money for him.’

‘So Gilbert’s letters were going direct to the Spanish Embassy in Paris,’ I murmur, pulling myself up to standing on the carved bedpost.

‘Straight into the hands of Mendoza,’ Sidney says. ‘If we hadn’t found out in time, Drake’s entire fleet would have been sailing right into a Spanish ambush.’ He shakes his head. ‘I still don’t understand it. Gilbert Crosse never seemed like a man to be excited by money — you only have to look at his clothes to see that. And there’s no evidence that he was driven by religious conviction — he comes from a good Protestant family. So if it wasn’t for money or faith, then what?’

I shrug my less painful shoulder. ‘Perhaps the letter will give us some clue. It’s encrypted, of course, but Drake will have sent a copy to Walsingham by now. His cryptographers will make short work of it.’

‘They will have its meaning unravelled by the time Gilbert arrives at the Tower,’ he says, running a tortoiseshell comb through his hair. ‘Then he can explain himself in person.’ He sounds unconcerned. I try not to think of how Gilbert might be encouraged to explain himself in the Tower.

‘By then, Bruno, you and I will be out to sea,’ Sidney continues. ‘Just think of it — the wind in our hair, this town and all its vices far behind us, the open horizon and adventure ahead.’ His face is alight with the prospect of it.

‘Pettifer and Savile just waiting to give us an accidental nudge overboard any time the sea is rough,’ I say. He turns and glares at me.

‘You had better stop your naysaying in Drake’s hearing,’ he says, pointing his comb at me.

So it seems there is no way of deferring this choice any longer. At present, all I wish for is more time to rest. I am prevented from replying by an urgent hammering on the door.

‘Get that, would you, Bruno?’ Sidney says, strapping on his sword. ‘It will be Drake’s messenger, I’ll wager. I wonder if he will give us Dunne’s cabin? You wouldn’t be superstitious about sleeping in a dead man’s bed, would you? Personally I don’t care for that sort of nonsense, but I know most mariners would — oh, for the love of Christ, we’re coming!’

The knocking grows more insistent. I pull the door open to find Hetty standing there wearing her usual expression of sullen resentment. I am surprised she is still employed; perhaps Mistress Judith has yet to hire a replacement. Hetty does at least have the grace to look slightly sheepish in my presence.

‘Near wore my knuckles to the bone there,’ she mutters. ‘Someone downstairs to see you. Sir. Says it’s urgent.’

‘Who is it?’ I am wearing only my shirt and underhose. I cast around for my breeches.

‘Not you. Him .’ She points through the open door at Sidney. ‘I dunno but he looks important.’

‘Well, let us not keep him waiting, then,’ Sidney says, brushing past me, beaming magnanimously at the girl and puffing out his chest as he strides towards the stairs. He looks like a man who expects at long last to be rewarded.

I throw on my clothes, tame my hair as best I can, and follow Sidney down to the entrance hall a few moments later. Over the banister I can see him talking to a man who wears the green and white Tudor livery, though he is spattered head to foot with mud. His coat is sewn with a gold badge which I recognise, as I draw closer, as the crest of Queen Elizabeth. Sidney, when he turns to me, is as pale as if he were seasick.

‘This messenger has come from the court. Ridden almost without stopping, he says. To give me this.’ He holds up a letter on creamy paper, sealed in thick crimson wax. The messenger stands patiently, eyes lowered and hands folded, while Sidney rips it open. I watch his gaze travel over the lines inside, his face growing taut with fury as he comprehends its meaning. He turns to me, his eyes burning.

‘Duplicitous bastard!’ he spits, turning on the unfortunate messenger, who takes a step back.

‘What is it, Philip?’ I ask, though I think I can guess.

‘See for yourself,’ he snaps, thrusting the letter into my hand and storming out of the door, leaving it banging in his wake.

I know where I will find him. I limp after him along Nutt Street but his anger has driven him faster than I can walk with my present injuries; he is already far ahead of me by the time I have skimmed the letter, tipped the poor messenger and asked Mistress Judith to give him something to eat and drink. I understand my friend’s fury, but not his surprise. Did he really believe the Captain-General would take him to the other side of the world, knowing he did not have the Queen’s permission to leave England? Drake must have dispatched a messenger the day we arrived; he realised immediately that no amount of Spanish gold would compensate Queen Elizabeth for such flagrant disobedience. From the minute Sidney announced his intention to travel with the fleet, he was a liability to Drake. I have to admire the smoothness of the Captain-General’s deception; the promises he has held out to us over these past days — promises that ensured our ongoing help with his situation — all the while knowing his messenger was tearing up the road towards the court, ready to unleash the Queen’s fury.