S. Parris - Treachery

‘As I have said, only someone who knew what he was doing,’ he replies, with equal politeness. ‘But what could have put that in your mind?’

‘I was only curious.’ I shrug, and offer an innocent smile. We are circling one another, each waiting for the other to make an advance. But I have no solid accusation against him, and I lack the authority to ask more probing questions — to do so would only make him more defensive, and Drake has warned us against arousing too much suspicion among the men. Jonas is already spiky, alert to any insinuation — so touchy, you might almost think he has something to hide.

The door creaks and Jonas gives a start, as if he has been caught out. Drake stands in the doorway, broad and bluff, rubbing his large hands together as if in anticipation of a spectacle.

‘Ah, Jonas, good lad,’ he says. ‘You have taken care of Doctor Bruno’s seasickness, then?’ He catches my eye over Jonas’s head and I feel a weight of relief; whatever I have just drunk was at least made for me on Drake’s orders.

‘He will weather any storm now,’ the Spaniard says, with a smooth bow.

‘Good, good. Let us hope it won’t come to that tonight, at least. Now leave us. I may have need of you after supper.’

Jonas bows again and backs away, casting a last glance at the book on the table as he goes.

‘Useful?’ Drake mouths, nodding in the direction of the door as it closes behind the Spaniard.

‘The potion, or the conversation?’

‘Either. I’ve heard men swear by his concoctions in rough seas. Did he have anything to say about Dunne?’

‘He says Dunne was passed out from drink when he went to his cabin the night he died, so he never gave him any remedy. Does it not trouble you that he keeps all these herbs and medicines aboard the ship?’ I ask. ‘He tells me some are potentially deadly, if you know how to use them. And given how much you …’ The sentence tails off as I search for a diplomatic way to phrase it.

‘Given how much I am worth dead?’ He seems amused. ‘You are not alone in your concern, Bruno. When we took Jonas from the Santa Maria , my brother wanted to keep him bound and on prisoner’s rations for the entire voyage, and others voted with him. I argued that is not the way to win a man to your cause. This time Jonas comes with us of his own free will, as a paid crewman, but there’s more than one good sailor refuses to sail with a Spaniard on the ship. Fearing he will rise up and attack us single-handed, I suppose.’ He rubs the back of his neck.

‘He wouldn’t need to,’ I say quietly. ‘If he found a way of dispatching you, Sir Francis, the whole voyage would be undermined. It would be no great difficulty to slip some deadly mixture into your food or drink, with his knowledge.’

Drake frowns at me, then bursts out laughing and claps me on the shoulder. ‘God’s blood, Bruno, I already have one wife to fret over me. Not to mention Thomas. I thought you had determined Dunne was out to assassinate me, now you worry about Jonas. Which is it?’

‘For twenty thousand ducats, it might be any of them.’

He laughs again, but there is a tension underlying it. ‘I have my food tasted before every meal. I eat only from the common dish. I sleep with armed guards outside my door. I take every precaution a man whose death is worth twenty thousand ducats can reasonably take, Bruno. Jonas Solon has proved himself a reliable shipmate, and I will treat him as such. Certainly he is no more or less to be trusted than any other man here just because he is a Spaniard. You of all people must understand that.’

I nod, but do not reply. Drake seems to make the same assumption as Jonas himself: that I should not think ill of the Spaniard because he and I are fellow outsiders, brothers in exile. For me to suspect him is apparently a breach of solidarity.

‘Now — I want to hear what you make of this manuscript. Come, sit.’ He unlocks a cupboard and takes out two crystal goblets and a decanter, from which he pours a generous measure of red wine. I cannot help but regard it with suspicion before I sip; the more I learn about the potential threats to Drake’s life, the more everything on this ship comes to seem a murder weapon in waiting. ‘You’re quite safe to drink this, my friend, I keep it locked away. It’s good Rhenish,’ he says, with a twinkle, seeing the way I sniff at it and hesitate. He pulls out a chair and gestures to me to sit opposite him at the large table, where my notes and my translation are spread out.

Though he is not a theologian nor a scholar, the Captain-General listens attentively through my explanation of the manuscript, his chin resting on his bunched fist, frowning as I explain the context of the story told by the author, the writer who claims to be Judas Iscariot. He asks intelligent questions, which I attempt to answer in the same spirit, and he nods thoughtfully, pulling at his beard and rubbing his finger beneath his lower lip as he tries to comprehend all the ramifications of the pages that lie between us, tattered and salt-damaged but still largely legible.

Drake swirls the dregs of his wine around the glass and peers into it. ‘What does he say about the resurrection?’

‘Didn’t happen. Not according to Judas.’ I tap the parchment. ‘He’s covered himself too — he says Christ showed him a vision of himself, Judas, being persecuted to death by the other apostles after Christ’s crucifixion, because they wanted to silence his message. He knew he was destined to be history’s scapegoat, but he was content to accept this destiny because only he knew the truth.’

‘I thought he was supposed to have hanged himself after the crucifixion? When did he find the time to write this?’

‘That verse from the Gospel of Matthew, the one in your anonymous letter, is the only source for the story of Judas hanging himself,’ I say, ‘though it has become accepted as truth. The other three gospels don’t mention his death. This account says he went into hiding after the crucifixion, for fear of reprisals from the other disciples, and wrote his version of events in secret.’

Drake pushes his chair back and crosses to the small cabinet in search of the decanter. ‘Sounds like codswallop to me.’

‘Perhaps. Though you might say that about any of the gospels.’

He turns and stares, the glass bottle in his hand, shock freezing his face for a moment before a short bark of laughter erupts.

‘True, true. They ask us to believe a lot. Virgins giving birth, blind men seeing, dead men walking. Impossible, to our understanding. But then they said it was impossible for a man to sail the circumference of the Earth and survive.’ He flashes me a triumphant smile and lifts his glass as if in a toast to himself. ‘Now — feeding a crowd of five thousand with five loaves and two fish — that one is hard to swallow if you know a thing or two about making rations go round.’ He laughs at his own joke, pours himself another drink, then lifts the decanter in my direction, eyebrows raised in a question. I nod, and hold out my glass. ‘Few would be bold enough to say so, though,’ he says. His face turns serious and he points an accusing finger at the manuscript. ‘What should be done with this, do you think?’

‘It should be studied further. But …’ I hesitate, unsure how my suggestion will be received. ‘It might be best if it were delivered into the Queen’s keeping as soon as possible. It could be useful for bargaining with the Vatican. They will want it back, you may be sure of that. But if it should be lost at sea …’ I leave the sentence hanging.

He considers this. ‘Yes, I have thought of that. It has been around the world once and survived, perhaps we should not tempt fate. But who should I trust to take it to London, then? It might just as easily be lost on the roads, especially if this book dealer is as unscrupulous as you say.’