Treachery

TEN

When I unlock our chamber, I find it empty. I unbuckle my belt and fling it, with my dagger, on to the bed. Sidney must be in Lady Drake’s chamber, no doubt entertaining the ladies with a sonnet, though he has left the fire burning low in the hearth. Beside it stands a silver tray with an open bottle of wine and one glass, an unusually thoughtful gesture on his part. My clothes are hung out on the fire screen; I pinch them between finger and thumb. They are stiff with sea water, mottled with white salt marks and still a little damp, and an unmistakable whiff of the harbour now clings to them, but all that will ease with wear, I reason. I tear off Sidney’s embroidered doublet, fumbling with the buttons in my haste, and am unlacing my breeches when I hear a discreet cough from behind me. I whip around, conscious that my knife is out of reach, to see a figure in the shadows and a glint of light.

I let out an involuntary curse in Italian as my heart thumps like a blacksmith’s hammer before slowing again. Lady Arden steps forward from the far end of the room, a glass in her hand. She smiles and takes a sip of wine.

‘Forgive me — I didn’t mean to frighten you. Sir Philip said you would be back soon and I thought it would be a good joke to catch you by surprise.’

‘I could not be more amused.’

‘Oh dear. You are angry with me. That is not a good start.’

‘To what?’ I catch the brusqueness in my voice and take a deep breath; she is not to know about the unseen presence in the shadows, the invisible man in black. I am more angry with myself for my own carelessness; if she can wait for me in my room without my noticing, who else might do the same?

She looks a little stung by my tone, but she pushes a loose tendril of hair from her eyes and tilts her chin up, determined. Her cheeks are flushed. ‘I took the liberty of asking them to send up some wine. I’m afraid I had to make a start on it without you, though. Sir Philip said you had gone to church?’ She raises a neatly plucked brow. ‘You didn’t strike me as the pious type.’

‘Now and again the devotional urge overtakes me. Where is Sidney?’

‘Playing cards with Lady Drake, I believe.’ She lifts the glass to her lips and flashes a coquettish smile from behind it, as if inviting me to take my own meaning, then lowers her eyes.

‘Cards?’ Will Sidney never learn? Not content with writing endless poems to his childhood sweetheart Penelope Devereux, which he allows to be freely circulated around the court so that her husband, Lord Rich, cannot help but know of them, he now publicly courts the wife of another powerful man right under his nose — one whose patronage he depends on. If my fortunes were not so bound up with Sidney’s — and if I didn’t care for him as my friend — I might laugh at his audacity. As it is, he risks serious consequences; not least the damage to Lady Drake’s honour and reputation in a town where she is well known. I lace my breeches again and make for the door.

‘Wait, Bruno.’ Lady Arden steps towards me, her hand outstretched. ‘Are you Sir Philip’s keeper?’ Firelight dances on one side of her face, highlighting her fine bones and ivory skin. She is unquestionably a beautiful woman.

‘I am the nearest he has to one,’ I say, resting my hand on the latch.

Her voice softens. ‘But does he need one? He is, after all, a grown man. And Lady Drake is likewise capable of making her own choices. You are not their chaperone, Bruno, though it is touching that you wish to play the part.’

‘And Sir Francis, how would he feel? To be told that half of Plymouth has seen a man visiting his wife’s chamber alone? Is he as broad-minded as you, I wonder?’

She laughs, a carefree, tinkling sound that implicitly reproaches me. ‘Few men are, I find. There is a back staircase that comes out at the end of the corridor by our chamber. No one will see Sir Philip come or go, if that’s what you are worried about. Besides, it is you who cast aspersions on the honour of your friend and mine. What harm if they are merely playing cards and talking?’

‘The harm …’ I pause, running a hand through my hair, ‘the harm is all in what people perceive. Surely you, as a woman, can appreciate that?’

‘Goodness, Bruno, you sound like one of the old beldames at court. “As a woman?”’ She arches her brow again, pours a measure of wine into the second glass and moves towards me, holding it out, but just beyond my reach, as you might try to entice a dog with the promise of a treat. Against my better judgement, I let go of the door handle and step towards her.

‘I would not like my friend to find himself on the wrong end of Captain Drake’s cutlass,’ I say, taking the glass. ‘If they are only playing cards, why did you not join them?’

‘I didn’t want you to be lonely.’ This time she holds my gaze and does not look away. I recall Sidney earlier, his blunt assertion that I would have her before I left Plymouth. I had assumed she made herself scarce as a favour to Sidney and Lady Drake, but perhaps it is they who believe they are bestowing the favour.

‘Have no fear on that score, my lady. I am well practised at being in my own company. I have formidable inner resources.’ But I hear my resolve falter, and so does she.

‘I don’t doubt it.’ She smiles.

There is a long pause. I take a sip of the wine, keeping my eyes fixed on hers. I should go and save Sidney from his own folly. But I am not his keeper, as she says. Let him take responsibility for his own actions; it is all one to me if Drake refuses to take him on the voyage. It is another matter if Drake kills him a duel, persists the voice of reason. But Drake would not fight him, surely; or would he? Even if-

Lady Arden takes a step closer to me. I lower the glass slowly from my lips and experience a treacherous stirring in my groin. My heart may be firmly — uselessly — bound to a woman long vanished to France, but the body can be traitor to the heart. It is rare that such an opportunity presents itself, and rarer still the man who would turn it down out of some misplaced loyalty. And loyalty to someone, moreover, who gave me nothing in return but betrayal. Anger flashes through me at the memory; the colour in my face rises and, as if in direct response, I set the glass down on a table and move another step towards Lady Arden, who lifts her face expectantly. That is when I hear it; the unmistakable sound of a board creaking outside the door.

She opens her mouth to ask what is the matter, but I hold up a hand to silence her as I stand, tensed, straining to hear more. I gesture Lady Arden to the far end of the room and lunge across to grab my knife from the bed. There it is again; a creak, a faint shuffling. Through the crack beneath the door I see the waver of a shadow. I draw the knife from its sheath, lower the latch as silently as I can, and in one sudden movement, I pull back the door to reveal the serving girl from this morning, her fist raised in the act of knocking. She lets out a piercing scream and I realise she has spotted the knife. I lay it carefully down on the floor and show her my empty hands, shushing her as I do so. After the initial shock has passed, she stops the noise abruptly and stands there, staring at me, a sheet of paper rustling in her trembling hands.

‘I’m sorry, sir, I wasn’t eavesdropping, you startled me,’ she mumbles. ‘And the knife-’

‘Hetty, isn’t it? I didn’t mean to frighten you. I thought you were someone else. That is to say … what do you want?’

She looks at the knife on the floor with a doubtful expression. ‘I was just delivering this, sir.’ She thrusts the paper at me and I have time to glimpse a red wax seal at the fold. ‘Only, I wasn’t sure if you had company and I didn’t want to disturb-’

‘No, just me,’ I say, stepping into the doorway as she leans forward, her curious eyes flitting around as much of the room as she can see. ‘Who gave you this?’

‘A gentleman delivered it earlier. Because, you see, I thought I heard voices-’

‘I was reading aloud.’ I lift the paper to examine the seal. It bears the imprint of a shallow dish with a tongue of flame rising above it, just like the token hidden under Robert Dunne’s bunk. My pulse quickens. The sacred flame. ‘Who was he, this gentleman?’

‘He didn’t leave a name. Maybe it’s on the letter.’ She gives a little cough. ‘Because Mistress Judith doesn’t approve of gentlemen bringing company here, if you know what I mean,’ she persists, nodding firmly to corroborate her own point. ‘She says the Star is not that kind of house. She has asked guests to leave in the past for that sort of thing.’

‘Do you come from Plymouth, Hetty?’

‘Stonehouse, sir. The next village, across the headland.’

‘Have you heard of a place called the House of Vesta?’

She looks at me with a superior smile. ‘Everyone’s heard of it, sir. But you don’t want to go there, not if you value your purse.’ She rubs her thumb and forefinger together.

‘Is that so? And what do they offer there that is so costly?’

‘Girls.’ She says this as if it should be obvious.

‘But those can be found all over Plymouth at a cheaper price, surely?’

She shrugs. ‘The House of Vesta’s for them with money to spare. The girls are young there. Clean, if you know what I mean. They say it’s the one place in Plymouth you can be sure your parts won’t drop off within the week. Sorry.’ She claps a hand to her mouth and giggles. ‘That’s why only the better sort of gentlemen go there. Those that are willing to pay the price for peace of mind. The rest have to make do with it up against a wall by the dock and take their chances.’ She sniffs.

‘That is useful to know. And where is it?’ I focus on the letter as I ask, turning it over to consider the seal as if it is the most interesting thing I have laid eyes on in many months, but my pretence at nonchalance quite rightly draws a derisory laugh from her.

‘Well, now, sir. I don’t know exactly. I believe it’s kept secret.’ The tilt of her head suggests it is a secret that might be available to interested buyers.

‘Wait there.’ I push the door ajar and grab my purse from the bed. Lady Arden sends me a complicit smile from the corner where she is lurking, out of sight. I motion to her to stay there.

‘Here.’ I draw out a groat for the serving girl and she looks at it, somewhat disappointed. ‘It is all I have.’

‘I heard the entrance is somewhere off Looe Street. Look for the apothecary’s sign.’

‘Thank you,’ I say, closing the door. ‘Good night.’

‘You can’t just walk in there off the street,’ Hetty continues, tucking the coin somewhere in the folds of her skirts. ‘You have to have an invitation. Know someone. Besides, it’s a long way to walk this time of night.’ She pauses for a beat. ‘Mistress Judith understands that. She doesn’t like to think of gentlemen being lonely of an evening.’

I pause at the half-closed door. ‘Mistress Judith is a true Christian.’

‘So, if you do want company, that is something she could arrange, if you’d like me to speak to her.’

‘Ah. So it is not the morality she objects to, merely the revenue?’

‘What?’

‘Never mind. Thank you again.’

I close the door gently in her face and wait until I hear her footsteps padding down the corridor. Lady Arden watches me over the top of her glass, eyes alight with mischief.

‘Everyone is concerned about you being lonely tonight, Bruno.’

‘Yes, I am touched.’

‘Is she the company, do you think?’ She jerks her head at the door. ‘She looks like she’d do it for a glass of porter. I wouldn’t vouch for her cleanliness though.’

I respond with a brief, distracted smile; my attention is on the letter. Fra Giordano Bruno, it says on the front. I have not been addressed as Frater since I left holy orders; I glance at the door with a prickle of goosebumps on my arms. It is no secret that I was once a monk, but who here in Plymouth would know that, or address me as such? Only the men I have met aboard the Elizabeth. I turn the letter and break the plain red seal. There is just one line of text, written in block capitals in a neat, square hand.

I read it twice, pass a hand across my chin, blink hard and read it again to be sure I have understood the meaning, then snatch up my own black wool doublet from the rack in front of the fire, brush the salt from it, and open the door.

‘Wait — where are you going?’ Lady Arden cries as I rush out, almost slipping on the bare boards in my haste. ‘Is it bad news?’

‘Sorry,’ I call over my shoulder on my way to the back staircase. ‘Something urgent. No need to wait.’

One floor below, I crash into the room without knocking. As I guessed, Sidney is in full flow: back arched, chest forward, one hand flung out for dramatic effect. Lady Drake sits demurely on a stool by the fire, hands folded in her lap, gazing up at him with an expression somewhere between admiration and boredom as he declaims. He stops abruptly, mid-sonnet, and gives me a look that says he means to kill me later.

‘Bruno! What are you thinking, man — do you not have the courtesy to knock?’

‘I need to speak to you. Now — come with me. Forgive the intrusion, my lady.’

Elizabeth Drake regards my flustered appearance with equanimity. An amused smile hovers on her lips.

‘Sir Philip was just reciting some of his poetry,’ she says, though the explanation is hardly needed. ‘I fear he had not quite finished.’

‘My Lady Drake was kind enough to request it,’ Sidney says, defensive.

‘There are a hundred and eight sonnets in this sequence, my lady,’ I say, turning to her. ‘I can save you the trouble of hearing them: Stella rejects him and stays with her husband, Astrophel is sad, The End.’

She laughs. ‘Is that it? No one dies?’

‘They may yet,’ Sidney mutters through clenched teeth, glaring at me. But he does not resist as I drag him to the door, where we collide with Lady Arden. I nod in passing as I push by her; Sidney pauses for a brief bow. She says nothing, only sends me a wounded look as she closes the chamber door behind her.

‘You had better have good reason for this, Bruno,’ Sidney says, as he thunders down the next flight of stairs to the entrance hall. ‘She was-’

‘What?’ I pause in the curve of the stairwell and turn to him. ‘About to fall into your arms? Was that your intention? Good work if so, Philip — write poems declaring your unrequited love for one man’s wife and use them to seduce another’s.’

‘Keep your voice down! God, Bruno, your moralising grows tiresome — anyone would think you were still a monk.’

‘If I were still a monk, I would have no moral scruple at all,’ I say, but he is not listening.

‘Seduce is an ugly word,’ he continues, eyes bright with anger. ‘You know nothing of courtly manners — why would you? It is not seduction to pay chaste court to a beautiful woman, it is an honourable tradition handed down from the time of King Arthur-’

‘-yes, yes. But this is 1585 and you are not Sir Galahad. We have more important matters to occupy us. Look — this was just delivered to me by the serving girl.’

I hold out the paper. He reads both sides and looks at me. Below us, people mill about in the entrance hall on their way to the tap-room. I scan the shifting mass for a glimpse of a man in a black cap, but there is no sign.

‘I don’t understand,’ Sidney says, turning the paper over twice more, as if this will help.

‘It’s Latin.’

He rolls his eyes. ‘Yes, I can read the words, obviously. But not the meaning. Who would send you this? And why?’

‘Look at the seal.’

He fits the broken halves together and frowns. ‘The same image as that token we found in Dunne’s cabin. What is it?’

‘Do you recall what Savile said in the boat, when you asked him where to go in Plymouth? He made an allusion to the sacred flame — he meant the House of Vesta. I would wager anything this is its secret symbol. You said you’d heard Dunne was a regular.’

‘The sacred fire of the goddess.’ He nods, running his finger over the seal. ‘But that still doesn’t explain the message.’

I sigh, and continue on down the stairs. ‘Come on. I’ll explain on the way.’

‘You want to go there now?’ He stops again and lets out a short bark of laughter. ‘You are extraordinary, Bruno. You upbraid me for merely reading poems to a woman of quality in her chamber, then merrily drag me off to a whorehouse instead?’

‘Keep your voice down — do you want the whole inn to know where we are going?’

He makes an irritable noise and follows me down, the silk of his breeches rustling as he walks like the sighing of poets. ‘Well, this is an odd turn of events. Who do you suppose sent the letter?’

‘I don’t know. But there is an obvious connection with Robert Dunne, which someone wants to bring to our attention. Do you still have that token with you?’

‘In my purse.’ He pats the bulge at his hip beneath his jacket. ‘You realise it is likely a trap?’

‘Most probably. But if so, there must be answers to be found. We will have to be on our guard, that’s all.’

He exhales with an exasperated noise as we push our way through the main door and into the night air. I turn, checking the street in both directions, but see only the usual straggle of men, arms slung around one another’s shoulders, singing sea shanties. But eyes are watching us from the shadows; I am sure of it.

The wind is still high; a thin mist of drizzle eddies about us, settling like a silver veil on our hair and clothes. Overhead the clouds chase each other across the sky and out to sea, brushstrokes of lead-grey against the darkening sky.

‘The letter, then,’ Sidney says, as we set off uphill between limewashed houses. ‘What’s the connection with Dunne?’

‘You recognise the quotation?’

‘“Vexilla regis prodeunt Inferni.”’ He mouths the single line of the anonymous letter, enunciating each syllable as if this might render the author’s meaning clearer. ‘“The banners of the King of Hell advance.”’ He considers for a moment, screwing up his face as he ransacks his well-stocked memory.

‘Come on, Philip, you are supposed to be versed in literature. One of the few Englishmen who claims to know the poetry of my country, at any rate.’

He turns to me, light dawning in his eyes. ‘Dante! Is it?’

‘Exactly. But do you remember where it comes from?’

He shakes his head, blank. ‘From the Inferno, though I can’t give you the Canto.’

‘It is the opening line of Canto Thirty-Four,’ I say, as we come to a fork in the roads. ‘We’re looking for Looe Street. Which way?’

‘No idea.’ He hails a brace of men, the worse for drink, weaving towards us, their lurching steps seemingly in perfect time with one another. ‘I say, gentlemen — which way to Looe Street?’

The question is met with a chorus of guffaws and brutal upward gestures with their fists. ‘Gentlemen!’ squawks one, and his companion does a brief mime of what I can only guess is supposed to be copulation. But the first gives us broadly comprehensible directions while the second squints to eye Sidney in his finery with an appraising look I do not care for; almost certainly his befuddled brain is reckoning how much a man dressed like that might carry in his purse. Sidney evidently senses it too, because his hand strays to the hilt of his sword and the man takes a rolling step back as we continue down the street to our left, glancing behind us from time to time as we go. ‘Good luck with it, mate,’ one of the men calls out, when we are almost out of sight. ‘You’ll need it.’

‘I can’t say I like this, Bruno,’ Sidney says in a low voice as the shadows between the houses grow denser. ‘What did the fellow mean by that?’

‘He meant nothing, except to set us on edge,’ I say, striding on, determined not to be dissuaded.

There are fewer people in this side street; as it curves around to the right it seems deserted, though the sound of voices and dogs barking carries through the damp air. We walk in the middle of the road, in case anyone is hovering in the shadows of doorways or the gaps between buildings. Sidney keeps his hand on his sword. Rivulets of filthy water trickle down the gutters at either side. The salt wind does not whip away the smell of refuse and rotting vegetables. ‘Explain, then.’

‘Canto Thirty-Four of Dante’s Inferno is where he reaches the very centre of Hell. The circle of the Traitors, reserved for the worst sinners in all of history. And who does he find there?’

‘Judas Iscariot,’ Sidney whispers, his eyes widening in recognition. ‘But why …?’

‘I don’t know. Whoever is sending these letters is taunting us — first Drake, now me — over the Judas book. It must be the same person.’

‘But who would bother to taunt you? Unless he is someone who knows you and suspects you may be involved with the book.’

‘Which brings us back to Rowland Jenkes. He sends me a quotation from an Italian poet, just to show he knows me. He is here, I am certain of it, watching us. Damn him!’

Sidney lays a warning hand on my arm; I have raised my voice without noticing. I look around, but there is no one to hear.

‘We are certain of nothing yet, except that you have dragged me from a warm room and good company.’ He straightens his hat and glances over his shoulder once more. ‘So what do you propose? We march in and demand to know who has been sending anonymous letters?’

‘I propose we do it a little more cleverly than that. The girls may know something. If Dunne was a regular he may have had a favourite. Men sometimes whisper their secrets into the pillow when their guard is down.’

Sidney regards me with a half-smile. ‘What would you know of that? I don’t believe you have ever let your guard down, Bruno, not even in the throes of it.’

He is wrong, but I say nothing.

‘You do realise we’ll have to pay, don’t you?’ he complains, a hand straying to his purse. ‘You can’t expect a whore to give up her time for nothing to answer questions, not even if you do your big melancholy eyes at her like a lost dog.’

‘A lost dog?’ I say, but he points ahead of us to a crooked timber-framed house of four storeys, each overhanging the one below as if it might topple forward under its own weight. Suspended over the front door from two creaking chains is a sign depicting the rod of Asclepius, the sign favoured by apothecaries. The shop on the ground floor is closed up for the night with thick shutters. I crane my neck to see the upper storeys. Splinters of light show through gaps in the curtained windows. Beside the apothecary’s door is an archway leading to a dark passageway. Sidney steps closer and examines the posts on either side of the entrance. ‘Look here! This must be it,’ he whispers, indicating a small image carved into the wood. It shows a torch topped with a tongue of flame, identical to the seal.

I follow him along the passage. Even I have to stoop; it is an old house, built in an age when men were smaller, or hunchbacked. Sidney is bent almost double, cursing each time he knocks his head on a low beam. We straighten up into a small courtyard at the back of the house, sunk in shadow from the high buildings on all sides. Laughter erupts from somewhere overhead, sudden and staccato.

At the top of three worn steps is a door with a shuttered grille at head height and an iron knocker set above the latch. Sidney reaches towards it.

‘Hold on.’ I stop and draw back out of sight of the window, unbuckling my belt.

‘Control yourself, Bruno — at least wait until we’re inside.’

I ignore him. I remove my knife in its sheath and slip it into my boot before buckling the belt again. I gesture to his dagger. ‘Conceal that if you can. They will have your sword from you at the door, but they are expecting us. We should be prepared.’

‘It was her idea to leave,’ he remarks, as he follows my example and tucks his short dagger inside his boot, leaving his sword buckled. ‘Nell Arden, I mean. It was she who suggested she wait for you in our chamber. None of my doing.’

‘And you didn’t think to point out to her how that would look? For all of us?’

‘I thought you might be grateful for the opportunity. It’s been a while.’ He lifts the iron ring on the door and bangs it three times, turning to smirk as he does so.

‘How would you know? Don’t imagine you are privy to every part of my life.’ I push a hand through my hair.

‘All right, don’t bite. But hasn’t it? You will not countenance another woman since she left, as far as I can see, and you say you don’t visit whores, so I can’t imagine where-’

‘Perhaps you know nothing about it. Perhaps I consider some things to be private.’ I hear the petulance in my voice. I am spiky because he is right, but I will not acknowledge this. Although his grin suggests he realises it already.

He breaks off his reply as the shutter behind the grille is drawn back and a woman’s face appears in the opening.

‘May I help you, gentlemen?’ Her voice is unexpectedly refined. Sidney immediately sweeps off his hat and executes a professionally charming bow.

‘Good evening, mistress. We were hoping for a drink and good company.’

The woman appears unmoved. ‘Perhaps you have mistaken this house for some kind of inn, sir. I run a home for orphaned girls here.’

Sidney laughs. ‘Is that so? But I do not believe I am mistaken. Are you, perhaps, the Vestalium Maxima? The high priestess of the Vestals?’ He offers another gracious smile, and she concedes the reference by returning it, briefly.

‘Do I know you, sir?’

‘Not yet.’ He beams, and produces the silver token from his purse, holding it up to the light. She glances at it and nods.

‘Where did you get that?’

‘From a friend. He said we should-’

‘Which friend?’ Her sharp eyes flick from Sidney to me and back, sizing up our garments, our faces, the likely size of our purses.

‘Robert Dunne,’ I say, before Sidney can answer.

Her expression changes, though it is not clear whether my gamble has worked.

‘I see.’ She presses her red lips together. The bars of the grille divide her face into its constituent parts; it is hard to form an impression of the whole. ‘What did you say your names were?’

‘My name is Giordano Bruno,’ I say, enunciating carefully, watching for a flicker of recognition from her. She studies me, impassive, before the shutter slides closed with a sharp crack of wood on wood.

Sidney curses through his teeth, but after a brief pause we hear a fumbling with the latch and the door opens to reveal a tall woman, elegantly dressed in a gown of green satin that is past its prime but was clearly once an arresting sight, much like the woman herself. She fingers a string of pearls at her throat.

‘Well then. You had better come in. I would ask that you take off your weapons and leave them here. They will be quite safe.’

‘But will we?’ Sidney says, attempting a joke. She silences him with a glacial stare, and he meekly unbuckles his sword without another word. I hold out my hands, indicating my empty belt, though I see her practised eye travel over my body, pausing at my legs. For a moment I think she is going to demand that I be searched, but after a long look she gives me a curt nod.

‘You can give me the token. And we take payment in advance,’ she says, holding out a manicured hand with a smile which does not reach her eyes. ‘A gold sovereign, if you please.’

‘A gold sovereign?’ Sidney stares at her, open-mouthed, waiting for her to laugh and tell him the real price. She continues to hold out her hand, the smile fixed in place.

‘Twenty shillings?’ Sidney repeats, still hoping he has misheard.

She looks at me. ‘Each.’

‘Christ and all his saints. What do I get for that?’

‘A little taste of heaven.’

‘A little taste? For a sovereign I expect a five-course banquet.’

‘With respect, sir.’ That same, smooth tone. ‘As with so much in life, you get the quality you pay for. If you don’t like our prices, there are plenty of places where you can pay a good deal less. Here you know what you are buying.’ Her lips curve again into the ghost of a smile. We might be talking about any transaction, it is all so carefully couched in the language of business.

‘I meant no offence, madam,’ Sidney says, all gallantry once more. He takes a couple of coins from his purse, glaring at me as he does so; if we find nothing useful here, he will not easily let me forget the loss of two sovereigns. She glances at the money and regards us with the same inscrutable expression, before the reserved smile reappears and she nods towards a door.

‘Follow me, then.’

I watch her with curiosity as she leads us through to a small parlour, the air over-warm and thick with the smell of good wax candles. She carries herself with a dignified bearing, as if she were a lady of quality. Perhaps she once was. I guess her to be nearer forty than thirty, though her figure is that of a younger woman and she has clearly kept her pale skin away from the sun and wind. I am curious to know how a woman of evident breeding came by this trade, but her manner does not invite questions. Sidney flings himself into a chair with velvet cushions worn shiny with age and slides down, his long legs stretching out across a faded Turkish carpet. I stand by the hearth, where a neglected fire splutters and smokes in the grate.

‘Well then — what is your taste, gentlemen?’ She puts her head on one side and studies us. ‘Tell me what is to your liking and I will see if we can oblige.’ She makes it sound as if she is asking how we like our meat cooked.

‘Robert Dunne told me I should ask for his favourite,’ I say, before Sidney can answer. He glances at me.

‘Did he now?’ Her painted eyebrows arch; she seems almost interested. ‘And what did he tell you about his favourite?’

I try to look nonchalant. ‘Only that I would not be disappointed.’

She tilts her head. ‘Well. I’ll see what I can do. Wait here.’ She leaves the parlour by a side door and we hear the sound of footsteps climbing stairs overhead. As soon as she is gone, I feel the clench of fear in my gut.

‘She knows I am lying,’ I hiss, when I am sure she is out of earshot.

‘Not necessarily.’ Sidney turns his hat in his hands and examines the feather. ‘Do you think she knows anything about the letter?’

I shrug. ‘I doubt it. The imprint in that seal came from one of those silver tokens. Anyone among her elite clientele could have used it. But whoever it was wanted to direct us here, there can be no question about that. All we can do now is tread carefully and hope to discover why.’

‘And hope it was not for the purpose of running you through with a sword.’ Sidney crosses and uncrosses his legs and turns his attention to a loose pearl on his sleeve. ‘What do you suppose Dunne’s tastes were? What if he was one of those who liked to be roughed up? Tied and whipped, that sort of thing. Then there are some who like hot candle wax-’

‘She won’t get anywhere near me with a candle, don’t worry.’ The fire spits a fat ember on to the carpet; I stretch out a foot and stamp it out. ‘The girl will probably be so relieved to find that I only want to talk, she will be more than willing to help me.’

‘Let us hope so,’ he says. ‘And what am I to do while you charm this vestal virgin into spilling Dunne’s secrets?’

‘Perhaps you could find someone to talk to. Ask a few questions.’

‘I shall be badly out of pocket if I don’t.’ He offers a wry smile. At least the amusement is some compensation for being dragged away from Lady Drake. ‘She intrigues me,’ he says, sotto voce, gesturing to the ceiling, where creaking timbers and footsteps can be heard overhead. ‘House of Vesta, indeed. Did she name the place herself, I wonder. She must be educated, if so. And she speaks like a gentlewoman.’

‘The Vestal Virgins,’ I muse, recalling my Roman history. ‘Noble-born girls of Rome, sworn to celibacy in the service of the goddess. The penalty for defiling any of them was death, was it not? You have to admire her taste for irony.’

‘What makes you think it is ironic?’ We both start; the madam has appeared in the other doorway, soundless as a cat, a gleam in her eyes. ‘Do not alarm yourself, sir, I am only teasing. You.’ She points to me. ‘Come with me. I will return for you, sir,’ she adds, to Sidney. ‘Meanwhile, I will have some wine brought to you.’

‘Listen — don’t go without me,’ I say, turning back to him. ‘Wait for me here, after …’ I leave the sentence open, with a shrug. Something in the way the woman looks at us makes me uneasy, though perhaps it is just my anxious imagination.

‘I’ll be waiting here. Go and get your money’s worth.’ He mimes what I can only suppose is his version of a man surprised by hot wax on his parts. I glare at him and turn back to the madam, who offers me her creamy smile and gestures to the second door.

She hitches her skirts and her narrow hips sway purposefully as she leads me up the stairs to a landing. From behind one of the doors comes the rumble of male voices and laughter; two or three men, it sounds like. There is a sudden outburst of cursing and cheering, as if a card game is in progress. I glance around, the fingers of my right hand flexing, ready to grab for my knife if I need to; I have not seen any armed men yet, but they will be here somewhere, lurking in the shadows, close enough to pounce at her signal on anyone who threatens trouble. Every brothel has them. I am beginning to question the wisdom of coming here.

‘You know your Roman history then, sir,’ the woman observes over her shoulder, in her precise accent, as she leads me past the door and up a further flight of stairs. Another staccato burst of laughter erupts from the room we have just passed. ‘Perhaps you are a scholar?’ The remark is innocent enough, but I am not inclined to give anything away.

‘I have been many things,’ I say.

‘I do not doubt it. But you are not, at any rate, a sailor. Of that I am fairly certain.’

‘How can you tell?’

‘You are too courteous. You have none of that roughness that months in the company of men can breed, even in gentlemen.’

I incline my head with what I hope is an enigmatic smile. She laughs. ‘So what brings you to Plymouth?’

‘Business.’

‘And you have seen Robert Dunne here?’ She asks the question lightly. I meet her eye and look away. Neither of us has mentioned Dunne’s death; I wonder if she is waiting for me to broach the subject.

‘Yes.’ I offer no more than that. She lowers her gaze and nods.

‘Poor Robert,’ she says. ‘We heard the news, of course.’

‘You knew him well?’

‘As well as I ever know our visitors,’ she replies evenly, looking at me from the corner of her eye. A politician’s answer; I have underestimated her if I think I can trick her into giving anything away. A brothel-keeper — especially one who evidently counts men of influence among her clients — must be as practised in the art of discretion as any diplomat or spy. Down in Southwark, there are a couple of madams in Walsingham’s pay; it is surprising how much a man will reveal when his breeches and his guard are down.

‘Were you close friends?’ she asks, as we reach a second landing.

‘Close enough.’ Like her, I would prefer to avoid questions about Dunne.

She touches the pearls at her throat and turns to regard me with a steady gaze. ‘Yet he gave you his token. People usually come to us by personal invitation, you see. We pride ourselves on a certain …’ she affects to search for the word ‘… exclusivity.’

I smile sadly, my eyes not wavering from hers. ‘He gave it to my friend. Perhaps he had other things on his mind. But I’m sure you will find our money is as good as anyone’s, Mistress …’ I raise a questioning eyebrow.

‘Grace.’ She drops a half-curtsey, though I cannot tell if she is mocking me. ‘They call me Mistress Grace. Well, I hope you will be satisfied, Doctor Bruno. I’ll have wine sent up.’

Three doors lead off this landing. She moves to the one at the rear of the house, turns the handle and stands aside. She regards me for a moment longer, as if she is debating whether to add something further, but eventually she gives me a brief nod and turns away to the stairs. I breathe in, and push the door open. The sense of unease prickling in my stomach has intensified, though I cannot quite pinpoint the reason.

The room is small and dim; it seems to have been partitioned from a larger room and through the thin plaster a series of unmistakable groans and creaks can be heard from next door. Two candles burn in a wall sconce and one on a small table. There is no other furniture except the bed with a nightstand beside it holding an earthenware jug and bowl for washing. A thin figure sits hunched on the bed, wearing a cotton shift. Her hands are clasped in her lap and her head droops down, lank hair obscuring her face. I can’t help thinking that if I were a genuine customer I would want a slightly better show of enthusiasm, not this hangdog creature.

‘Hello,’ I say, as gently as I can.

She raises her head and with a sudden shock I understand. The figure before me is a boy, perhaps thirteen or fourteen years old, the skin of his face still downy, though the dead look in his eyes belongs to someone who has already lived too long.

‘Ah,’ I say, as I try to hide my reaction behind a blank expression. I back up against the door, scanning the room for hiding places of possible assailants. Either this is a trap, or Robert Dunne had more secrets than we have yet discovered.

‘Do you want me as a boy or a girl, sir?’ The child’s voice is entirely empty of emotion. When I do not reply, he crosses his legs and the shift rides up towards his skinny thighs. A blue bruise stands out against the white skin. ‘I have women’s clothes I can put on, if that’s your preference. As you like.’ He shrugs, to show his compliance either way.

‘Right.’ I want to sit but there is no chair; instead I lean against the door and allow myself to sink down until I am sitting on the floor. ‘I would like a drink, I think. What is your name?’

The boy tips his head back and looks down at me from under his hair, weighing me up. ‘What do you want it to be?’

‘The truth.’

An expression passes over his face that at first I do not understand; he seems to shrink into himself and glances at the door, as if hoping for some kind of assistance. Then I realise he is afraid. And with good reason; sodomy is a hanging offence under English law, and the same goes for those who sell or procure it. No wonder he keeps his identity to himself.

‘Give me whatever name pleases you, then,’ I say, anxious that I have put him on his guard.

He relaxes a little. ‘You can call me Toby.’

‘Well then, Toby …’ I am considering where to begin when there is a knock at the door. I jump up and fling it open, ready to reach for my knife, but there is only a pale girl with a low-cut bodice, who hands me two large pewter cups without once looking up to meet my eye. She is pretty, and very young — perhaps of an age with him. As soon as I have taken the cups she turns on her heel and stalks silently away. I close the door. Toby sits still on the bed, impassive.

‘Wine?’

The boy nods, mutely watching me. He pulls his knees up under the shift and hugs them to him, an oddly touching gesture that makes him seem all the more childlike. Perhaps he knows something; my difficulty is how to win his trust without making him afraid.

I cross slowly, holding out the cups in front of me, as you might approach a nervous animal. He reaches out and takes one, large brown eyes fixed on me with no particular expression that I can discern. I sit beside him on the bed, though far enough away not to appear threatening. My nerves are taut, my senses alert for any indication of movement outside the chamber. The boy turns and looks at me, expectant.

‘Should we begin, sir?’ His small fingers tug at the collar of his shift. ‘Tell me what you wish, and I-’

‘Toby.’ I adjust my position, tucking one leg under me, and take a gulp of wine, though not too much — I need to keep my wits sharp. I have found myself in some strange situations over the years, but nothing that quite compares to this. As I move, I feel a ridge jutting into my thigh. Lifting the bedsheet, I pull out a book, bound in calfskin, very new and expensive-looking. The boy lurches forward to grab it but I am too quick for him; I dart to my feet and hold it up, out of his reach, until he sinks back to the bed, glowering at me. I open the book to the frontispiece to find that it is a volume of Ovid’s Fables. I note the printer’s mark. The book was only printed last year. The front endpaper has been torn out.

‘Is this yours?’

The boy looks stricken. ‘I was given it. By a gentleman. I never stole it.’ He holds out a hand for it, though half-heartedly.

‘It is a generous gift,’ I say, flicking through the pages. ‘A book like this is worth a good deal of money, being so new. Although it is a shame this one has a page torn out — that might devalue it.’

His eyes flicker briefly to me, guilty. I decide to try another tack.

‘Do you like the stories?’

His face brightens. ‘Oh, yes. I like Perseus and the sea monster best, and Narcissus, who fell in love with himself.’

‘Can you read them?’

He drops his gaze. ‘Not really. He read them to me sometimes. He promised to teach me my letters from it if I was good.’

‘If you were good and did as he asked?’

He does not reply, only bites his lower lip. When he looks up, he wears the expression of a child forced to confess he has been stealing from the larder. ‘You won’t tell Mistress Grace, will you? She would take it. And he would be angry.’

‘I won’t say a word.’ I pass the book back to him; he immediately stuffs it under the mattress and sits on top. ‘How would it be, Toby,’ I say, leaning back, ‘if we were to talk for a while?’

‘Talk?’ His brow creases and he glances to the door as if seeking approval for this unlikely suggestion. ‘What for?’

I shrug, and take another sip. The wine is warm and aromatic and makes me think of Christmas; I feel it curl thickly through my blood and gently soothe my nerves. ‘I am a stranger here, and I miss having someone to talk to. My friend Robert Dunne used to say you were a good listener.’

It is a gamble; I know this before I drop the name. No man with a predilection for illegal pursuits shares this information widely. The boy frowns, perplexed, and he glances again at the door.

‘Robert Dunne?’

‘Indeed so. He spoke highly of you.’

The boy only looks down at his hands, twisted in his lap, and murmurs something indistinct.

Perhaps this has been the wrong tack; for all I know, Robert Dunne was a violent pervert and the boy dreaded the sight of him and is glad he’s dead. Perhaps he has never met Robert Dunne in his life. I try again.

‘You heard what happened to him, I suppose?’

His head jerks up at this and his eyes briefly lock with mine; I read fear in them.

‘What?’ he whispers.

‘He is dead. Did you not know?’

Confusion flits across his face. ‘I …’ He scratches the back of his neck, then reaches out and lays a hand on my thigh. ‘Sir, do you want to undress?’

‘No!’ I say, with more alarm than I intended, jumping to my feet. I move purposefully to the window in case he tries to touch me again. The wind bangs the shutters softly against the glass. ‘Not yet. Let us talk some more.’

‘Then should I? I am sure you did not come here to talk.’ He pulls again at the half-unlaced strings of his shift. The conversation is making him more uncomfortable than the prospect of whatever he thinks I have come for.

‘No, really — we are both fine as we are. Forgive me, Toby — I am of a strange cast of mind tonight. I suppose I am in mourning for my friend Robert. You understand?’

He makes a movement with his head.

‘Do you mourn him too?’

He shrugs, avoiding my eye.

‘Did he visit you often?’

‘Why do you ask me so many questions about him?’

‘When someone you were close to dies, talking about them is a way of bringing them back. Making it seem as if they were still here. Do you not think? Have you never lost anyone you cared for?’

‘My parents.’ He doesn’t lift his head.

‘Is that how you came to be here?’ I ask gently. He lifts his eyes and looks at me as if seeing me for the first time. When he speaks, it is a whisper so soft I can barely catch it.

‘Mistress Grace brought me here to work in the kitchen when I was small. Now I am apprenticed to the apothecary downstairs, but she still gives me a room.’

‘And she puts you to work like the girls?’

Again, the stubborn silence, lips pressed tight. He will not meet my eye. The candlelight seems to flicker and dance, so that at first I think there must be a draught in the room, but as I watch the flames I see that it is the wall itself that is undulating, as if ripples were spreading across its surface. Toby goes on looking at me, and I notice that his unhappy face has duplicated itself: two pale discs alongside one another, each blurring where they intersect. I take a step towards him and my legs feel strangely remote; I put a hand out to the wall to steady myself. Too late, I realise what has happened, and curse my own carelessness: I should have noticed that the boy did not touch his wine. In one lurching movement, I grab the bowl from the nightstand and force my fingers down my throat, gagging as bile rises in my stomach. I have the sense of being on board ship; the walls seem to pulse in time with my head, but I persist, bending double as the sharp salt of saliva fills my mouth and my stomach heaves once, twice, before I retch violently and its contents erupt into the bowl and splash on to the bare boards.

Gasping, I wipe my mouth with my sleeve and lean against the wall. Toby watches me without moving, though there is fear in his eyes.

‘What do they put in it?’ I demand.

His voice almost disappears. ‘Nutmeg.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s what she does sometimes. It means she doesn’t trust you. That’s why she brought you here.’

I rub my forehead. I am still dizzy and off-balance; I can feel the heat of it working into my system, though I think I caught it in time to prevent worse damage. I wonder if they have done the same to Sidney, and if they mean to rob us. Padre Pettifer warned me; I should have listened. Then, through my muddied thoughts, there emerges a pinpoint of clarity: Mistress Grace addressed me as ‘Doctor Bruno’. Yet I did not give her my title at the door, therefore: she knows who I am. She was waiting for me. Was it her that wrote the letter, then? But how could she know me, and why bring me here?

‘Did Robert Dunne’ — I speak slowly and deliberately, hearing my voice as if it comes from elsewhere — ‘did he come to you as a client? Were you his favourite?’

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.