S. Parris - Treachery

He shakes his head. His outline is still blurry to me, but I see him dart another nervous glance at the door.

‘Then why did she bring me to you? Is it a trap? What do they mean to do?’

When he does not reply, I take a step forward, my hand outstretched; he gives a little yelp, as if he expects to be struck. I grab the pitcher and pour its contents over my upturned face, then shake my head like a dog, scattering droplets.

‘I don’t know, sir,’ he whimpers. ‘I just do as I am asked.’

‘Who sent the letter?’ I wipe the water from my eyes and take another step forward, looming over him as he backs away with a whimper.

‘I don’t know about any letter, sir. I never even spoke to Robert Dunne. He didn’t come here for me.’ He presses up against the wall, trying to make himself smaller. ‘You need to talk to Eve. She was his special one. I don’t know anything.’

‘And where is Eve?’

‘She’s gone.’

‘Where? Where can I find her?’ I kneel on the bed and grip his arm. ‘Tell me — or shall I mention your book to Mistress Grace?’

‘No!’ He bites his lip. ‘She sends them away when they get with child. They’re no use to her here after that.’

‘But where ?’

‘I don’t know!’ His voice is squeaky with panic; his eyes skitter to the door again, just as it is flung open and the figure of a man in black fills the space.

For the space of a heartbeat I freeze; Toby takes advantage of my confusion to slip from my grasp and dart for the open door, past the man, who gives him a cuff around the head as he ducks by. The door slams behind him. My vision is still slightly unfocused; all I can see is that he is tall, with a beard, and that he is holding something behind him.

I stand back, facing him, squinting to bring him into alignment. I can feel my head clearing, though my heart is galloping behind my ribs.

‘So you are the famous Giordano Bruno?’ he says, glancing around the room. He has a refined voice, much like Sidney’s, but with an odd lisp. ‘You know buying boys is against the law in this country? As well as against God’s law, I hardly need add.’

‘Who are you?’ For one terrifying heartbeat I fear he is come from the authorities, that I have been set up to be caught with the boy. But that would make no sense; the madam and her entire business would be condemned with me.

His face splits into a knowing smile and I focus enough to see that he is missing most of his teeth.

‘You don’t know me, though I dare say you are familiar with my name. But I have a friend who is keen to acquaint himself with you. Or re -acquaint, I should say.’

My throat tightens. ‘Did you send the letter?’

‘That would have been my friend. I don’t write so well any more. Not after what they did to me.’ He holds up his right hand. It dangles at an unnatural angle from his wrist, twisted under. The tendons have clearly been damaged beyond repair. I have seen this before: in a man who was hung by the wrists for several hours during an unofficial interrogation. It is one of the Privy Council’s preferred techniques in the Tower. A cold understanding begins to dawn.

‘You are John Doughty.’ My voice emerges as a croak.

He tilts his head and smiles, as if to imply that this is an interesting guess. At the same time he brings out his left hand from behind his back to show that he is holding a knife. I force myself to keep still. He believes I am unarmed; I will have only one chance to catch him while he thinks he has the advantage and I must time it exactly.

‘What do you want of me, then?’ I try to make my voice bolder, but it still sounds slurred.

‘Why are you asking questions here about Robert Dunne?’

I stare at him. ‘Why do you think?’

The smile disappears. ‘I can only assume that Drake does not believe he died by his own hand. Is he right?’

‘You tell me.’

‘Ah.’ He nods, his lips pressed together. ‘Interesting. Well, it seems we are all looking for answers. For now, I want you to come with me. My friend is keen to see you. He has some questions for you too.’

‘And if I refuse?’

He holds up the knife so that the candlelight catches the edge of the blade. ‘That would be quite foolish on your part.’

I say nothing. Though my limbs still feel heavy, my head is clearing. I wait. When he sees that I do not mean to respond, he tilts his head, as if to say ‘so be it’, and steps forward, his blade pointed towards me. In one movement, I duck, seize the knife from my boot and lunge at him, catching him in the upper arm; he cries out and drops his weapon as he tries to grasp at my doublet. I shove him hard in the chest and half-slide, half-fall down the stairs, yelling for Sidney as I trip on the first landing and pull myself to my feet. I take the corner for the next flight of stairs as footsteps follow me from above; a couple of doors open a crack and I sense faces watching from the shadows, though no one moves to intervene. Curses rain down from the stairs above as the footsteps grow quicker in pursuit, but I reach the ground floor unhindered and find myself in a passageway with doors leading off it, all of them closed. My heart is racing; I begin to run, though my legs feel as if they are moving through liquid. I cast a quick look over my shoulder as Doughty reaches the foot of the stairs; he shouts something, though the sense of it is lost on me. I throw open the first door I see and plough through a bedchamber, where a white-skinned girl sits astride a man, tangled in sheets, riding him to a steady rhythm; I see nothing of their faces, though I hear their protests and call out an apology in Italian for the intrusion. On the far side of the room is a casement, unfastened; I fling back the shutter, push it open, and roll through just as Doughty appears in the doorway.

As the cold evening air hits my face, I barely have time to register that I was not on the ground floor, as I had thought, but only on the first, and that I am falling, and that in my semi-drugged state it is not an unpleasant sensation.

My ribs hit a hard edge and I am sliding and falling again, until I come to land with a jolt in something soft. I put out a hand; it sinks down with a squelch and a foul smell rises around me. Looking up I can make out the jutting roof of a ground-floor room, which I must have hit on the way down, and above it, an open casement, from which a man’s head is hurriedly withdrawn. I have landed, it seems, on the midden-heap in the House of Vesta’s back yard; revolting as it is, it may have saved me from the broken bones I should have had from such a fall. The sound of shouting echoes from within; he will be out here any minute in pursuit. I push myself up from the mass of rotten vegetables and God knows what else and stagger towards the wall that borders the yard. I feel no pain yet in my side or my legs, but I am winded and my senses have been overtaken by a wild panic, my heart still hammering. Ahead of me in the wall is a gate, but it is fastened shut. Snatching quick, ragged breaths, I weave towards the far corner of the yard where a gnarled tree grows, some of its branches extending over the other side as if pointing the way. My legs feel unpredictable beneath me and I will myself to every step; looking back towards the house, I see a figure in the oblong of light from the open door. I pull myself up to the lower branches of the tree and scramble higher; as I throw myself over the wall I hear a loud cry. It is only when the noise stops abruptly as I hit the ground again that I realise the voice was my own.

Pushing myself up on my elbow, I glance around. I seem to have landed in a lane behind a row of houses. The light has drained almost completely from the sky overhead and the backs of the buildings either side cast the narrow street into deep gloom. I catch the sound of footsteps, running. A few yards ahead in the alley a squat man in a cloak is crouching, arms outstretched stiffly; I stifle a cry of alarm and skitter backwards away from him until I realise he is not moving a muscle. I squint at him suspiciously through the gloom, easing closer until he is revealed to be a handcart covered in sacking, of the kind a man might use to take vegetables to market. The footsteps draw near. I glance down the alley, but see only sliding, teasing shapes growing out of the dark. I climb into the cart and cover myself with the sacks. Curled up small, I can just fit. The wood reeks of manure. I hunker down and discover with a creeping dread that something is in the cart with me; I can hear it breathing, raw and ragged, close to my ear. I am on the point of leaping out when I realise the breathing is my own and the fierce war drum I hear is the sound of my blood pumping.