S. Parris - Treachery

‘And yet, if Gilbert had not murdered Robert Dunne, then Dunne might have carried out his plan to kill you before you were even across the Bay of Biscay.’

He nods, reflective. ‘There is truth in that, I suppose. But do not ask me to be grateful to Gilbert yet.’

‘I thought I might speak to him before I leave,’ I say, quietly.

‘What for?’ His eyes narrow.

‘I want to understand why.’ And — because I know what they will do to him before he dies — to make sure he knows better than to try and hold on to his secrets.

Drake makes a non-committal noise and returns his gaze to the sea. ‘I have always loved this view,’ he says, after a while. ‘But that is nothing to how much I love to see it from the other direction, sailing back into Plymouth after months at sea.’ He raises his head and the salt breeze lifts his hair. ‘Of all the sights I have seen in the world, there is none I love so much as the sight of home.’

I do not speak, because at his words my throat constricts and tears prickle at the back of my eyes. I blink them away. Nothing so painful to an exile as the dream of homecoming. I allow myself to imagine I am gazing out across the peacock-blue waters of the Bay of Naples, and I wonder if I will ever see that view again.

Drake points to the horizon, where a scalloped band of cloud glides up towards the land, edged with lilac and gold. ‘If the Spanish ever do raise a fleet to invade this island, I believe this is where we will sight them first. Sometimes I fancy I see them — ranks of galleons appearing along the skyline. Then I blink and they are just clouds. But the image of it chills me to the bone.’

‘Pray God that day never comes,’ I say. ‘But if it did, I cannot think of anyone I would rather have commanding England’s defences.’

He smiles then, and the creases appear at the corners of his eyes. He rests a hand on my shoulder. ‘God go with you, Bruno. It may be that this voyage owes its success to you. If you had not discovered Gilbert, we would have been sailing straight towards a Spanish ambush. I will see you well rewarded, do not fear. And Sir Philip too, for his part.’

I incline my head in a gesture of deference. ‘God speed you, Sir Francis, and bring you safe home.’

‘I pray we meet again.’ He steps forward and embraces me, his strong hands crushing my bruised shoulders. When he releases me, I bow low and leave him standing there on the clifftop, lit by the evening sun, arms folded across his chest as he surveys his ships, his sea, his horizon. Every age produces only a handful of truly great men, and I have a feeling that I have been fortunate enough to earn the admiration of one of them.

The town gaol stands behind the Guildhall, an ugly building of dirty white stone with rows of mean barred windows squinting at the alley in front like narrowed eyes. I brace myself before entering and press a handkerchief over my nose and mouth, trying to push away the memories of my own experience in an English prison as the foul smells bring them rushing back. I hand over the fee to the turnkey, who unlocks a door and leads me along a filthy passage. A thin, high-pitched wailing seeps out from behind a side door, while someone pounds on another as we pass.

‘In there,’ the turnkey says, unlocking a door at the end of the passage. He rummages in one ear with a forefinger and regards his findings. ‘You got ten minutes. He can’t touch you, he’s chained up, but shout for me if you want to come out sooner.’

I blink, accustoming my eyes to the gloom as I hear the door locked behind me. The animal stink of excrement and urine is fierce here, but the straw beneath my feet looks relatively fresh. Gilbert is huddled in a corner. His face is bruised from his fall into the sea, and his hair hangs in matted rats’ tails, thick with salt. He screws up his eyes to peer at me, looking like some nocturnal creature without his eye-glasses. As I take a step closer he realises who I am and turns to the wall.

‘Are they feeding you?’ I say, to break the silence.

‘If you can call it that,’ he mutters.

‘Then Drake must be paying for it. Otherwise you would have nothing.’

‘Please convey my humble gratitude to him,’ he says, lifting his head and spitting the words at me. ‘They wouldn’t dare let me starve anyway — I’m expected at the Tower any day, didn’t you know?’

There is nothing I can say to that. I wrap my arms around my chest and keep my eyes to the floor. Perhaps it was a mistake to come here.

‘What have they done with the letter?’ he asks, after a while. He sounds as if he does not care.

‘Sent it to London.’ I crouch down so that I can look him in the eye without quite sitting on the floor. ‘You would save yourself a lot of trouble by just telling them the cipher. They will have it out of you one way or another.’

He shrugs. ‘Let them decipher it in London. Then they will see.’

‘What will they see?’

‘That I am not a traitor.’

I breathe in and out carefully through my cloth, and still the air makes me retch a little. ‘You will have a hard time persuading Captain Drake of that.’

‘He would understand if he read the letter.’

‘He can’t, it’s written in code. You are speaking in riddles, Gilbert. What would he understand?’ I try to keep my patience, reminding myself that I am at liberty to leave at any time.

‘That I did not betray him. Those letters I sent to the Spanish envoys — I never told them Drake’s true plans. I changed the details, the coordinates, each time so it was plausible enough to fool them, but not enough to jeopardise the voyage.’ He shifts his weight on to one side and stretches his legs out before him, wincing as he does so. ‘There was never any danger to the fleet, I made sure of that. But Robert Dunne took against me from the beginning — I once criticised his judgement in front of Drake. He was looking for ways to discredit me. One evening he followed me to church and saw me hand over a letter. He thought he could turn it to his own profit. If he had kept out of it, none of this would have happened.’ His voice quivers with anger as he speaks, and he draws a fist across his mouth to wipe away spittle.

‘But you must have known five gold angels would not keep Dunne quiet for long,’ I say. ‘So, what happened — you decided to silence him?’

‘I didn’t decide it, the way you make it sound,’ he says. He slumps back against the wall. ‘I didn’t know what to do.’ I catch a tremor of desperation in his voice. He looks very young. ‘Then I was out on deck that night the chaplain brought Dunne back drunk out of his wits.’

‘You saw your opportunity?’

‘I watched. No one paid me any attention — they had all grown used to the sight of me out there with my instruments. Dunne was in a terrible state. He vomited all over the deck. Padre Pettifer helped him to his cabin. I saw him leave and the Spaniard arrive with one of his potions. After he left, I stayed there on deck, trying to summon up the courage. I thought he’d probably be asleep. I hadn’t planned to do anything like that, but-’

‘You had no choice, is that it?’

‘I thought it was my one chance. I waited until everyone had gone but the watch, and they were too busy playing cards up on the foredeck to worry about me. I tried the door of Dunne’s cabin and it opened. He was lying face down on the bunk. I knew all I had to do was push his face into the pillow and hold him there — if I could do that, people would think he suffocated in his sleep with the drink — but he was beginning to stir and I was afraid he’d wake before I was done. He was stronger than me, I could not have managed it if he tried to fight back. I suddenly lost my nerve and was about to run when I heard was a knock at the door. I panicked. There was a cavity under Dunne’s bunk — all the officers’ cabins have them, for storage. I could hear the chaplain calling out, asking Dunne if he was awake. I curled up under the bunk and shut the door. Just in time — Pettifer came into the room and woke Dunne.’