S. Parris - Treachery

‘And was he?’ Sidney asks.

‘He seemed a little better. So I stayed to pray with him.’

‘Pray?’ Sidney looks sceptical. ‘He was awake, then?’

‘Yes, Sir Philip, obviously.’ If Pettifer had at first been caught off guard by these questions, he quickly regains his composure. ‘He felt the need of spiritual comfort. A man cannot help but consider the frailty of the flesh as he sets out to sea, and remember how completely he must trust himself to God’s mercies. I have found that many sailors wish to unburden their conscience and set it clear before their Maker when the journey begins.’

‘Unburden? You mean he made his confession to you?’ I ask — too quickly.

‘I do not hear confession, Doctor Bruno — that is a sacrament of the Catholic Church.’ He purses his lips and gives me a reproving look.

‘Of course,’ I say, smiling. I make up my mind to speak with him in private as soon as I can. A man who wants to unburden himself to a minister of religion because he fears death is making a confession, however much Pettifer may dance around the word. What did Robert Dunne have to confess? I catch Sidney’s eye as the wind lifts his hair from his face; he furrows his brow and I return his look with a minute shake of my head. I have no answer, except to glance around at the men hunched down in the rowing boat against the wind, and wonder which of them is lying. The prow rises to cut through a wave and drops back with a flat thud, before rising again; spray slaps us hard in the faces and Sidney and Savile curse aloud as they check their satin and velvet for salt marks.

‘Now you thank me,’ Jonas says in Spanish, raising his voice over the noise of the wind and pointing to his stomach with a grin as the boat heaves over another wave. ‘Are you feeling sick?’

‘Not yet.’ I smile, grudgingly acknowledging his point.

‘I promise you,’ Jonas continues, looking pleased, ‘take a little every day and you will be as much at home in the water as a mermaid.’

‘A mermaid? Oh God, has he made you drink his seasickness remedy?’ Savile asks, overhearing. When I nod, he mimes putting a finger down his throat. ‘That’s a mistake you only make once — no tempest could have you bringing up your supper faster than a draught of whatever he puts in that. Eh, Jonas?’ he says, winking at the Spaniard.

‘Wait until we are out in the Atlantic, Sir William,’ Jonas replies, in English this time, leaning back and stretching out his legs. ‘You will be begging me for a cup of it.’

‘A hundred crowns I will not.’

The oarsmen steer us through the harbour entrance to Sutton Pool and all the passengers slump with relief as we move into flat water. Sidney is looking a little green and is unusually quiet. This gives me an impish pleasure; if he discovers he lacks the stomach for seafaring, perhaps he may change his mind about this escapade. But as we approach the wooden jetty, I watch his face as he struggles to master himself, takes a deep breath and assumes his usual good cheer as he stands, one hand on Gilbert’s shoulder, surveying the harbour with a satisfied expression, as if he were a homecoming hero. It would take more than a bout of seasickness to sway him once he has determined on a plan, I realise with a sigh. Church bells echo across the pool from somewhere behind the houses, funereal in the fading light.

A wooden ladder leads down from the jetty into the water; I stand behind Gilbert Crosse waiting to disembark and the man before him pushes off too hard as he steps out to the ladder, causing the small boat to lurch suddenly and send us stumbling into one another. Gilbert loses his footing and falls backwards; I catch him around his ribs to keep him upright and he twists away sharply, almost like a reflex, as if I have grabbed him in a sore place.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you,’ I say, helping him to regain his balance. He pulls away from me, brushing himself down.

‘No — I’m quite all right, thank you.’ He adjusts his jacket and steps quickly to the ladder. I watch him as he pauses on the jetty to adjust his clothing once more. He seems to fear that our impromptu embrace has disarranged his shirt, which he now takes pains to tuck firmly into his breeches. As he straightens up, he meets my eye and gives me a tense, embarrassed smile as he scurries towards the dock.

Pettifer and I are the last out of the boat. I try to keep Sidney in my sights but I turn and see that Pettifer is hanging back as the others walk on ahead, as if he wants to speak with me alone. Taking the hint, I slow my steps. When he judges the rest to have moved out of earshot, he lays a hand on my arm.

‘May I ask you a question, Doctor Bruno?’ He is making an effort to sound more courteous, and this in itself piques my interest.

I stop and turn to him. ‘Of course.’

He hesitates, as if unsure how to frame it.

‘There is talk aboard the Elizabeth that Captain Drake has brought you here to unfold the secrets of the Jesuit’s book. The one he took from the Santa Maria .’ He looks at me with an anxious frown, awaiting confirmation.

‘Sir Philip Sidney brought me here to keep him company. I never met Sir Francis until yesterday.’ I look him in the eye, to lend weight to my words, wondering who could have started this rumour. Aside from Drake and his brother, only Jonas has any firm knowledge of the reason for my visit to the captain’s quarters.

‘But you do not deny, sir, that the Captain-General has put you to work translating a book he keeps locked in his cabin? An ancient book?’

‘It were best, perhaps, that you ask Sir Francis directly about his books,’ I say, smiling to take the sting from my reply. ‘As his chaplain, you are surely in his confidence.’

‘He is much preoccupied with other matters at present,’ Pettifer says, steepling his fingers together and pressing the tips to his lower lip. ‘And once rumours begin aboard a ship …’ His expression asks for sympathy. ‘You understand, I’m sure, that as chaplain I have the men’s souls in my care.’

I say nothing; only raise an eyebrow as I wait for him to explain what he wants me to do about the men’s souls.

‘Sailors are, for the most part, simple men,’ he continues, his fingertips still pressed to his lips. ‘Not educated, like you and me. I have no doubt they worship as the law demands when they are at home, but their superstitions remain vivid. And once out at sea, days or weeks from land, many of them look for comfort to the faith they learned from their grandfathers. When waves are crashing over the ship or a Spanish pinnace is firing on you, how do you tell a man he must not cry out to Our Lady of the Sea or Saint Brendon the Navigator for succour, because we are Englishmen and the Queen forbids it?’

‘You have been in such situations many times, I suppose?’

‘I speak from experience, yes.’ He nods, to affirm his own sincerity. ‘You ask if I hear confession — the truth is, I hear many. I cannot offer absolution, but that seems to matter little — often I have seen how a man fearing death wants simply to unburden himself of his sins, whether he gives it that name or no. So you see, I must walk a fine line when it comes to balancing spiritual authority with spiritual comfort.’

‘I see that. But why are you telling me this?’

He sighs, as if wearied by the effort of spelling it out.

‘It is supposed by the men,’ he continues, carefully, ‘that the book Captain Drake keeps locked in his cabin is a book of heresy. Some say it contains invocations to call down the Devil. Some say it curses the name of Christ.’

I laugh. The sound is snatched away by the wind. ‘They have read this book, then, these simple sailors? They know enough Coptic to surmise its contents?’