S. Parris - Treachery

‘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.