S. Parris - Treachery

‘Cabin fever already?’ I say. His eyes narrow; before he can reply there is a commotion behind us and a woman’s voice, low and cultured, cuts across him.

‘There you are, Doctor Bruno. Shall we get this over with?’

I turn to see Mistress Dunne, pulling on a pair of gloves, the granite-faced servant scowling at her elbow. But Dunne’s widow is not looking at me; her gaze is fixed over my shoulder, on Savile, with an expression that appears more than anything like irritation. While this is likely the response Savile provokes in many people, it takes me by surprise because I had no inkling that they knew one another.

Savile crosses the hall in two strides and sweeps off his hat, bowing low.

‘Sir William Savile, Mistress Dunne. You may not remember, we met once, at court I believe. Please accept my sincere condolences for your loss.’ He raises his eyes, looking suitably regretful. At least he has the decorum not to mention the money Dunne owed him, I think. Not yet, anyway.

‘At court. Yes, I suppose it was.’ Mistress Dunne sounds vague; she concentrates on her gloves. ‘I thank you. Please excuse us. I am going to view my husband’s body.’ She looks up sharply as she says this; Savile seems to flinch.

‘A distressing task, madam. God be with you,’ he adds, hesitantly, as if he is uncertain of the protocol.

‘Well, I shall have Doctor Bruno with me, which is the next best thing,’ she responds in a clipped voice. ‘One never knows when one might need a theologian on hand. A pleasure to meet you again, Sir William.’

Savile is still muttering something about sad circumstances as she is halfway through the door, though I notice she casts a glance back at him before she leaves, and it is not a friendly one. It does not require any great genius to see that this exchange is not all it appears; even Savile’s personality cannot account for Mistress Dunne’s hostility towards him. What history is there, I wonder, as I limp to catch up with her outside the inn.

‘I am not, strictly speaking, a theologian, madam,’ I say, as we make our way along the narrow street towards the centre of the town, since she appears to have no intention of beginning a conversation. The skies are clearer today, the sun hazy behind a threadbare gauze of white cloud that shows patches of blue as pale and fragile as eggshells. But the air is still cool; a sharp wind gusts in from the sea, stinging the cut on my face. Last’s night rain lies puddled between cobbles.

‘I am not, strictly speaking, interested.’ She looks straight ahead as she walks. She has a long stride for a woman and my bruised legs and ribs pain me as I work to keep up. ‘We both know this is no more than a gesture to placate me. But we shall play along until the inquest. No doubt Drake is paying you well to conclude whatever best suits his purposes.’

I subside into silence. After a few more yards she turns to me and sighs, impatient.

‘Well — what are you, then?’

‘I am …’ I hesitate. What am I, exactly, at this point in my life? This August morning of 1585, at the age of thirty-seven, how do I explain myself, to her or to anyone? I am, variously, a heretic, an ex-Dominican, a philosopher, a spy, a poet of sorts, a teacher, an exile. A lover — once perhaps, though that seems distant. A necromancer, if you believe my detractors in Paris. A traitor, if you ask the Baron de Châteauneuf. A hunter of murderers, if you ask Walsingham. I shift shape, like Proteus, according to necessity; so much so that I am in danger of losing my original form altogether.

‘I am a philosopher, if you like. I write books.’

Her glance flits sideways beneath her veil to take me in. ‘It would appear philosophy is a dangerous sport.’

‘That is just the way I practise it.’

We walk in silence, through narrow streets I am gradually coming to recognise. Just behind my shoulder I can hear the steady wheezing of Mistress Dunne’s maidservant, laboured as bellows.

‘You are acquainted with Sir William Savile, then, madam?’ I say, after a while. She seems irked by the interruption.

‘Hardly acquainted. I believe I may have met him at court, with my husband. I barely recall, but one doesn’t wish to look rude. One meets so many people.’ She trails off, distracted.

‘Are you often at court?’ I keep my voice light, as if making conversation, but I sense she is wary of my questions.

‘Not these days, no.’ She presses her lips together; behind her veil, her face is closed. ‘We used to be,’ she says, in a softer tone, just when I think she will not discuss the matter further. ‘When Sir Francis first returned from his voyage around the world, he and the gentlemen who travelled with him were much celebrated. That was when I married Robert. He came home a rich man, and for a while it pleased Her Majesty to keep her gallant gentlemen sailors about the place. But …’ She gives a small shake of the head and rubs a thumb along her brow, through the veil. ‘Things change. I suppose that is the nature of life, is it not? And our task is to look on good fortune or ill with equanimity.’ She says this as if she holds the idea in contempt.

‘What changed?’ I ask gently.

‘Oh, you will have heard, no doubt.’ Her voice is brisk again; she picks up her pace to match it. ‘Robert grew restless. He said he missed the adventure.’ She laughs, short and bitter. ‘How strange you men are. For a woman there is risk enough in the day to day — just the getting of children is a roll of the dice with Providence. But no — you men must seek it by circling the Earth in a tub of wood. Or throwing away all you have on a hand of cards.’ Her tone is like the edge of a knife; I glimpse the naked fury she harbours for her husband. ‘After a while he took to avoiding the court. Too many creditors. We came back to Devonshire, leased a manor near Dartington, but even then he was hardly at home. He spent most of his time in Plymouth, where he could still trade on his reputation as one of Drake’s famous crew. But there’s only so many times men will stand you a drink and waive your debts in return for a tale about the Straits of Magellan. The credit notes began piling up again, and still the damned fool thought he could mend it all with one lucky night at the card table. But there never is a lucky night for men like Robert.’ She stops and turns to me, so abruptly that the maidservant collides with my back. ‘No doubt you think me an unnatural wife, Doctor Bruno, to speak so ill of a man who has suffered a cruel death not three days since.’

‘I can see nothing more natural than to be angry when someone you care for persists in wilfully destroying himself and those around him, against all advice,’ I say.

‘Exactly!’ she exclaims. ‘Robert was not a bad man, but he was unhappy. Since he returned from that first voyage with Drake, something was tormenting him. It wore away the good side of his character, little by little. If there had been children, it might have been different. But …’ She turns away, adjusts her veil.

I let this comment disappear into the sounds of the street, the raucous Plymouth goodwives and gulls vying to drown each other out. So they had no children; his fault or hers, I wonder. If she is about to come into a significant inheritance from her father, that would make her an attractive prospect to new suitors, who might give her children where Robert had failed. Sidney’s comment about rich widows comes to mind.

We have emerged into the square around the Market Cross, lively at this hour with traders and stallholders, shouting their wares from beneath coloured awnings that snap in the breeze like sailcloth. Raw-faced women with vast baskets balanced on their hips tout bread, fish, strawberries, fresh-cut reeds, and more pies; others, in cheap, bright gowns, move among the crowds, touting themselves. It is never too early for commerce, it seems. Ragged children chase one another through the throng, laughing and dodging fists and kicks as their keen eyes scour the ground for any fallen food that can be salvaged before the dogs grab it. Mistress Dunne lifts her skirts to avoid the fresh piles of horse dung and presses onward, her mouth set in a determined line, towards the ancient-timbered Guildhall, which overlooks the square, leaning forward on its row of wooden columns like a grandfather on a stick.