Treachery

EIGHTEEN

I pause outside the dining room to lean against the wall, slow my breathing and compose my expression. Savile must not suspect anything until I have had a chance to speak to Drake and let him decide how to proceed, though Savile is sharp enough to mark my empty place at the table and perhaps connect it with the sounds he heard upstairs. If not, he will certainly notice something amiss when he realises his room has been left unlocked. It is one thing to pick a lock, another altogether to close it again, and I gave up for fear of breaking the mechanism. After some deliberation, I left the sleeves in the bag; though I would have liked to show Drake the evidence, I reasoned that Savile must be unaware that he has lost a button, or that it could incriminate him.

I wait until I am sure I can enter the room with a neutral expression. It is a talent of sorts, this ability to keep my most turbulent thoughts from being read in my face. It would have served me well in the politics of religious life, but it is useful enough in this strange existence I ended up with instead. Savile turns his head briefly as I take my seat, his glance mildly curious, though he quickly returns to his audience; he is regaling Dom Antonio and Drake with some tale that involves exuberant arm gestures. The Portuguese is laughing politely. Drake wears a fixed smile, but he is looking past Savile to the panelling on the wall, his thoughts elsewhere.

I spear a piece of pork on my knife and when I look up again Savile has reached the climax of his tale; the men around him are laughing, though none so heartily as the teller himself. I lay the knife down and cast my gaze around the table. The drone of conversation begins to sound distant, like a swarm of bees on the other side of a window; I seem to see their mouths moving — talking, chewing, laughing — as if time had slowed and I was standing outside, looking on. The whole atmosphere here feels infected with suspicion, bluff and counter-bluff, falsehood and fear, as if we are all of us engaged in some grand card game where the stakes are men’s lives and the winner will be the one with the greatest skill at lying. And the men who are dealing the cards are somewhere out of sight, still hiding in the shadows.

Gilbert does not speak much for the rest of the meal, except to remark on the appetites of others, though I see his eyes flit from one speaker to another, always attentive to the conversations around him. A great wave of tiredness breaks over me. I find myself longing to leave this company and fall on my bed, close my eyes, embrace oblivion. Though this is wishful thinking; my mind will be too busy turning over the day’s revelations for sleep to come. I may as well make use of the time by working.

When the board has been cleared the ladies announce that they are retiring; we all stand as they leave and wish them a good night. Lady Arden looks back over her shoulder at me as she reaches the door and briefly smiles. After they have gone, there is a general stirring; some go out to piss in the inn yard, others take the opportunity to stretch and move around the table, others take out clay pipes and tobacco pouches. I excuse myself from my dining companions and ease my way around to Drake, who stands to greet me.

‘Sir Francis, may I take the book tonight?’ I ask, in a whisper. He frowns, glancing towards his brother.

‘What for?’

‘To continue working. I could finish the translation by morning, if I put my mind to it.’ If I set to work now, I may just be able to rewrite the pages that were taken from my room, and I need not confess the theft to Drake.

A smile briefly creases the corners of his eyes. ‘I can’t help thinking you would do better to get some sleep, Bruno. Take a look at yourself.’

‘I would sleep easier, sir, if there was a complete copy of that book. For safekeeping.’

‘You really think someone will attempt to steal it?’

‘I think that bookseller you met wants it very badly. He is a ruthless man with no scruples.’

He considers, glancing back at his brother. ‘Well … Thomas will not like it. He already thinks you mean to use the copy for your own profit — he will be even less keen to trust you with the original. Padre Pettifer has warned me in the strongest terms against making the translation — he says no good can come of spreading heresy and I would be calling God’s curse down on the voyage.’ He shakes his head. ‘I begin to think I have done so already.’

‘Do not say so, sir. None of this is your doing. Nor is it God’s displeasure. We are close to finding the man responsible for Dunne’s death, I am sure of it.’

‘I wish I were. I cannot tell you how sick I am at heart when I think of Jonas. Every moment I expect a messenger to tell me they have found him.’ He heaves a sigh and lays a hand on my shoulder. ‘Take the book for tonight, then. I would offer you one of my armed men, but I have promised them to Dom Antonio. Besides’ — he looks me up and down — ‘I’d wager you can take care of yourself if anyone comes knocking. Come and collect it now — I mean to retire early tonight.’

‘Quite right too, Sir Francis — if I had a beautiful wife in town I would do the same.’ Savile appears behind me, throwing an easy arm around my shoulder the way Sidney does. I try not to tense. I wonder how much he has overheard. ‘Meanwhile, we lonely bachelors must seek solace in the bottle and the card table. Will you join us, Bruno? You seem like a man who has a face for gambling.’

‘You think?’ I say, with a perfectly blank expression.

‘There, what did I tell you — you are doing it now!’ He claps me on the back as if I have performed a trick. ‘You are adept at hiding your true self. An invaluable skill for the card table. One poor Robert Dunne never mastered, alas.’

‘The same may be said of most of us, do you not think, Sir William?’ I say, with a pleasant smile. ‘But I’m afraid I must decline. I have no taste for risk.’

‘You surprise me,’ he says, and I detect an edge to his voice, but perhaps I imagine it.

It takes Drake some time to extricate himself from the lengthy farewells, especially with Dom Antonio, who has become quite emotional with all the wine, and embraces Drake several times over, brushing tears from the corners of his eyes as his speeches grow more effusive and less coherent. Sidney tells me he plans to join the card game; I wish him luck and tell him to keep an eye on Savile, note if he does or says anything unusual. Sidney gives me a quizzical look, but Drake gestures for me to follow him and I have no chance to elaborate.

One of the armed guards accompanies us up the stairs to the first floor. Another is already stationed outside the door of Lady Drake’s chamber. Drake nods to him and pauses, his hand on the latch, as if gathering his thoughts before going in to his wife. I almost speak, thinking I should tell him what I have discovered about Savile. Instinct checks me; Savile will not run anywhere tonight. He has the arrogance to believe he is above suspicion and I would need stronger proof before I accuse him outright.

A small fire has been lit in Drake’s chamber and the air is warm and smells of woodsmoke. Lady Drake sits close to the hearth, her maidservant is perched on the window seat, sewing. Lady Arden stands by the fireplace, a small bag at her feet.

‘Ladies.’ Drake sweeps across the room and unlocks a wooden chest placed beside the bed. ‘I hope you are not too fatigued by this evening.’ He withdraws from the chest the leather satchel containing the book.

‘Not at all, Francis,’ Lady Drake says. ‘Dom Antonio is quite the storyteller, is he not? So very many tales of escape and subterfuge, one could listen to him all night. And indeed, I feel I have.’

‘I feel I have lived through every minute of his adventures with him,’ Lady Arden says, with a wicked grin.

‘Now, now, ladies — be kind. Dom Antonio is a good man who has suffered a great deal at the hands of Spain. Besides, he is our ally.’

‘Not in any useful sense,’ Lady Arden says, with a snort. ‘He lacks the support for a successful uprising in his own country. Queen Elizabeth may offer Dom Antonio hospitality because she pities him, but she is too prudent to throw good money after a hopeless cause.’

Drake looks at her as if he has just witnessed a talking dog.

‘You are very well informed, my lady,’ I say, impressed.

‘Did I not tell you I had plenty of opinions to share?’ she says, with an impish smile.

‘Here.’ Drake pushes the bag into my hands, but does not let go of it. ‘You are sure you can keep it safe?’ He looks as if he is wavering; perhaps he is picturing his brother’s response if Thomas were to discover that I had taken the book unsupervised.

‘I will guard it with my life, Sir Francis.’ It may yet come to that, I think. If he knew I had allowed the copy to be stolen, he would not let me within a mile of it. I notice Lady Arden’s eyes rest on the bag with interest.

Drake nods and slowly releases it into my hands.

‘Return it to me here first thing tomorrow,’ he says. ‘Keep your room locked tonight. And perhaps when this inquest is over we will have more leisure to discuss what to do with it, once we know its contents.’

I nod, and turn to leave.

‘Lady Arden,’ Drake says, ‘let me call for a servant to take your bag up for you.’

‘Oh, please do not trouble yourself, Sir Francis,’ she says quickly, ‘I thought perhaps Doctor Bruno might carry it for me.’

I look at her; she meets my gaze with innocent eyes.

‘Doctor Bruno is not a porter,’ Drake says, a little embarrassed.

‘But it is on his way — I’m sure it would be no trouble,’ she persists. ‘My maidservant is waiting for me in the room.’

‘I am happy to help,’ I say, not wishing to appear over-eager.

‘Well, if you don’t mind …’ Drake looks doubtful, but he opens the door for me. I pick up Lady Arden’s bag and gesture to her to lead the way, with a bow to Lady Drake as I take my leave.

‘I have been banished to a room of my own while Sir Francis is ashore, you see,’ Lady Arden explains, when the door has closed behind us.

‘You are not afraid to stay on your own?’ I follow her to the stairs.

She laughs. ‘What should I be afraid of?’

‘This present business. The letter left under Lady Drake’s door earlier. Your cousin was anxious, Sir Francis said.’

‘He was anxious, you mean. But I am not sure it is mysterious correspondents that concern him so much. I think rather he means to deter any visitors.’

‘Ah. No sonnets for Lady Drake tonight, then.’

‘Alas, no. And do you and Sir Philip intend to sample the diversions of Plymouth again tonight?’ she asks sweetly, as we reach the second-floor landing.

‘My lady — I was not — my aim last night was to find out some information that might help Sir Francis.’

She turns to me and raises an eyebrow.

‘That is to say — in the matter of this death. Nothing more.’ I sound unusually incoherent.

She gives a light laugh. ‘You do not have to justify yourself to me, Doctor Bruno. You are free to visit all the whores you want. Here, this is my chamber for tonight.’ She stops in front of a door and I realise it is the chamber next to Mistress Dunne’s, where I hid earlier. I put down her bag at my feet and pause, listening for any sound from the neighbouring room. There is only the low murmur of women’s voices.

‘Even so. I would like you to know I do not make a habit of visiting whorehouses.’

She looks up at me. A faint smile plays about her lips; I suspect it is at my expense.

‘Unlike my cousin, I find I am at liberty to hear sonnets this evening. Sir Philip mentioned that you are something of a poet.’ Her gaze is direct now; it would be hard to misinterpret her meaning. The leather bag containing the Judas book hangs across my shoulder; it seems I have a stark choice.

‘My poems are all in Italian,’ I say softly.

‘So much the better.’ She smiles. ‘I shall be spared the awkwardness of judging whether they are any good or not.’

She lays a hand on my sleeve as she pushes open the door, but even now I hang back, feeling the weight of the book around my neck. She senses my hesitation. ‘Besides,’ she says, ‘I know something that may be of interest to you in this present business, as you call it. And I’ll wager no one else has noted it.’

‘Really? And what is that?’

She adopts a coquettish smile. ‘I will tell you in return for a poem.’

Everyone here is bartering information, it seems. I glance up the corridor towards the stairs. For a moment I think I see a stirring in the shadows, the outline of a figure, but when I look again there is nothing.

‘Your maidservant,’ I whisper, indicating the door.

‘I have given her the evening off. I dare say she is amusing herself somewhere, gossiping, or flirting with sailors. You might carry my bag in for me, at least.’

What would Sidney say if he could see me, I wonder as I follow her over the threshold and hear the door close behind me. He would tell me I needed to live a little; to forego the rigours of books occasionally for the solace of a warm, willing body. He would tell me bluntly that it is fruitless to stay true to the memory of a woman who is long gone, over the sea; he would say that I am a fool to deny myself pleasure, or even the chance of love, for the sake of someone who, in any case, left me without compunction. But perhaps he would not understand the melancholy that steals over me every time I consider the possibility of transferring my affection to another woman. Of course, he would counter that you don’t need affection for a woman to lie down with her, though as I grow older, I find that an empty kind of solace without it.

‘There is no fire here,’ she says. ‘I can have one lit, if you prefer.’

‘I am warm enough, thank you.’

‘Yes, you look a little flushed.’ She smiles. ‘Do I frighten you, Doctor Bruno?’ I shake my head. She seems disappointed. ‘I thought perhaps you might find me too bold.’

I do not tell her that I encountered plenty of bold women at the court of King Henri in Paris; young wives bored by their ageing, impotent husbands, all too willing to throw themselves into the path of any young man at court for the fleeting excitement of a little intrigue, especially if he was exotic-looking and trailed a dangerous reputation. I was an object of fascination to them because I seemed immune to their charms. In truth, their heads were so empty of any thoughts beyond court gossip and their own appearance, I grew weary of their company before they had even finished saying Bonjour. Besides, a man of low birth promoted beyond his station must be careful where he makes enemies. But there are no such considerations to stop me here. I look at Lady Arden. Her room faces west; evening light falls on her face, gilding the soft skin of her cheek and the curls of dark hair across it. Holding my gaze, she reaches up and unpins her hood.

‘I find you refreshingly free of false coyness,’ I say, after a long pause.

She laughs again, shaking her head so that a glossy fall of hair tumbles down her back. ‘That is a diplomatic answer, if ever I heard one. Well, then — let me hear a sonnet and in return I shall tell you a secret that is not mine to tell.’

So I recite from memory a sonnet I wrote years ago. I close my eyes as I speak and the words jolt me back to a different time, to snowy peaks against high blue mountain skies; to narrow passes, freezing nights, hunger and exhaustion; the fear of going forward vying with the impossibility of going back. When I have finished she exhales slowly, as if she has been holding her breath.

‘That sounded beautiful. What is it about?’

‘It …’ I falter, unsure how to explain words that flow so naturally in my own tongue, fearing the poem will seem lumpen and unnatural in English. ‘It is addressed to a lonely sparrow. It tells the bird to fly away and be reborn, to find a nobler destiny. It’s an allegory,’ I add, feeling wrong-footed. She is still looking at me intently, a small furrow between her brows.

‘Of what?’

I shrug. ‘Of the soul. And of letting go of what you love.’

‘Say the last line again.’

‘“E non tornar a me, se non sei mio.”’

‘What does it mean?’

‘And don’t come back to me, unless you’re mine.’

She nods, slowly. ‘Did you write it for a woman?’

‘No. I wrote it eight years ago, when I was crossing the Alps from Geneva into France, and I understood clearly that I would never see my home or my family again.’ But poems change their meaning, even those you write yourself; they fit themselves to your understanding of your own life over time. When I say that final line now, I think of a woman, and it is as if I wrote it for her, long before the fact.

Lady Arden crosses the room and stands in front of me.

‘Are you lonely?’

‘Sometimes,’ I say. My voice catches in my throat. ‘Often.’

‘As am I.’ She reaches out and places her hands gently on my shoulders. My hands move instinctively to her waist. We stand like this for what seems a long time, listening to the stillness and the soft rhythm of our breath.

‘You promised me a secret,’ I whisper, my lips against her brow.

‘Later,’ she says. Her hand strays across my chest to the opening at the neck of my shirt and slips inside, her fingers cool on my skin. She moves closer, and her lips part slightly as she presses her hip against me and feels my arousal. Her mouth hovers over mine, so near I can taste her breath, as she continues to unlace my shirt. Her fingers reach my belly and she tugs at the leather strap of the satchel I still carry slung across my shoulder. ‘You may have to put this down,’ she murmurs.

‘Lock the door,’ I say, lifting the bag over my head, and she obeys, then takes me by the hand and leads me to the narrow bed as she loosens her bodice. She undresses herself with a sense of urgency, her bright eyes fixed on me all the while, gauging my response; there is an efficiency in the way she goes about it that eliminates any need for the usual dance of seduction, the importuning on my part and feigned resistance on hers. Lady Arden, I conclude as she pushes me on to my back and takes me in her hand with a practised movement, is used to getting what she wants, once she has decided on it. I recall what Sidney said about widows: they are dangerous because they don’t need you. But they still need you for this, I think, closing my eyes.

She kisses me hard, taking her pleasure hungrily as she slips out of her skirts and sits astride me, forcing me to move to her rhythm, and if the thought crosses my mind that perhaps she would have chosen anyone so long as his face and manner pleased her, and that I just happened to be convenient, it hardly matters. This is no more than a fleeting pleasure, and there is no reason on either side to pretend otherwise; no one is being deceived here, and there is something simple and liberating about this fact. We are two strangers attracted to each other, and will likely not meet again after this brief interlude; we expect nothing of one another. Sidney is right: simple pleasure is one thing I allow myself too little of. And so I abandon myself to it: I slide my hands around her small waist and arch my hips further into her, and when she cries out softly amid snatched breaths, her eyes gleaming, lips parted, I roll her carefully on to her back and she lifts her legs to wrap her thighs around my sides, crushing my bruised ribs so hard that I cry out, and she giggles, pressing her hand to my mouth as I move slowly towards my own crescendo. But when I close my eyes and gasp my release, it is not her I am thinking of.

Afterwards, she lies with her head on my shoulder, her hair fanning out over the pillow, her left hand stroking my chest in abstract patterns. She props herself up on one elbow, a provocative smile twitching at the corners of her mouth.

‘How did that compare with last night?’

I smile.

‘Well — considering that last night I was drugged, attacked and jumped out of a first-floor window, I would say quite favourably.’

She gives me a light slap on the arm. ‘I meant, the girl you had last night.’

‘I did not have a girl last night, I told you. I have not had a girl for a long time.’ I turn my face away as I say this. ‘Tell me this secret you promised, then.’

I feel her tense against me and her hand falls still. I realise I should have waited; I have implied that what we have just done was mere prologue to the real object of my interest.

‘Mistress Martha Dunne is with child,’ she says idly, looking at the ceiling.

‘What?’ I sit up, staring down at her. She sprawls on her back, coiling a twist of hair around one finger, and gives me a lazy smile. ‘How can you be sure?’

‘I told you, my sister has four. It’s early still, but once you know the signs, they are easy to spot. Small wonder she is so keen to contest a verdict of suicide — she won’t want to lose her husband’s property if she has a child to raise.’ She stretches her arms above her head and traces a finger down my spine, though I am too busy fitting this new revelation into the picture to pay much attention.

‘She did not tell you this directly, though?’

‘Oh, no. She was hardly likely to confide anything in us — I think she resented having to speak to my cousin and me at all, but Sir Francis seemed determined she should have the company of women. I thought you might be interested precisely because she seems to be at pains to conceal the fact.’

‘You cannot account for people’s behaviour when they are grieving.’ I pull the sheet around my knees and hug them to my chest, my thoughts still racing, tripping over one another. She gives a little snort.

‘I have never seen any widow look less grief-stricken,’ she says. ‘Unless perhaps myself.’

She laughs, and her fingers flutter up and down my back again. I shiver, and swing my legs over the side on to the floor.

‘Where are you going?’ she asks. An injured note has crept into her voice.

‘I’m afraid I have work to do.’ I smile, to take the sting from my hasty departure.

‘Not so soon.’ She pouts, rolls over on to her front and reaches for my hand. ‘You can work later, surely?’

‘The night is short and I must finish this before tomorrow. Besides, my lady, your maid will want her bed and I cannot be seen coming from your room in the morning. I could not risk the damage to your honour.’

She rests her chin on her hands, regarding me with her head on one side.

‘“My lady”, is it, still?’ She laughs. There is a resigned note to it. ‘You have better manners than many a nobleman I have met, Bruno.’

I step back, out of her reach, and search for my shirt. ‘Is that my appeal?’

She looks hurt. ‘Is that what you think? That I was curious to try someone who was not of noble blood — what, for variety? For comparison?’ She gives me a long look. ‘Your appeal, Bruno, is who you are. All of you. I am not indulging some taste for low-born men, if that is what you suppose. This is not a habit for me either, you know.’ She sounds — understandably — offended.

‘I apologise, my lady.’ I pull my shirt over my head.

‘Perhaps, in future, you might leave “my lady” at the bedchamber door,’ she says.

In future? ‘You know I have nothing to offer you,’ I say simply, and hold my hands out, empty.

She lowers her lashes and gives me a sly smile. ‘Well, I would not say that.’ She sits up straighter. ‘Listen, Bruno — I do not need a man to bring me land and titles. I have those already. I am fortunate in having the freedom to choose someone who can hold my interest purely for his own qualities.’

‘Then I am flattered.’ Perhaps I should say more, but I am unfamiliar with the etiquette of such encounters. I hurry into the rest of my clothes and pick up the bag with the manuscript. At the door she calls me back.

‘I think you have forgotten something.’

I look down at myself; I am fairly sure I have all my clothes, though they are somewhat disarrayed. More importantly, I have the book. She kneels up on the bed, the sheet held loosely against her so it barely covers her small, neat breasts. She tilts her chin expectantly and I am upbraided again by my own lack of gallantry; I cross the room, sweep her up in a dramatic gesture and crush her mouth with mine. She tries to pull me back to the bed but I extricate myself and blow her a final kiss from the door.

As it closes behind me, I pause in the dim corridor to catch my breath. I feel unexpectedly exhilarated, though it is also a relief to be returning to my own room. I am still smiling to myself when I round the corner by the stairs and walk straight into William Savile.

‘Doctor Bruno!’ he exclaims, as if he could not be more delighted to run into me. I have to admire the way he manages to look completely unruffled. ‘But your chamber is not on this floor, is it?’

‘Neither is yours,’ I say. His smile fades. He watches me for a moment, then lets out a hearty guffaw and slaps me on the shoulder.

‘I do believe you are right. What is this — the second floor? God’s bones — a few too many glasses of Rhenish and I can’t even find my way back to my room. What a fool! You too, eh?’ The smile remains fixed, but his eyes narrow.

‘Me too,’ I say, moving past him. I see his eyes drop to the bag. ‘Give you good night, sir.’

‘Give you good night.’ He hesitates, then retraces his steps behind me, but very slowly.

‘You smell of quim,’ Sidney says, as I enter our chamber. He is lying on the bed, fully clothed, his hands folded behind his head.

‘I am amazed you can smell anything through the fog of wine around you.’ I lock the door and sit down on a cushion by the hearth, the bag in my lap.

‘Well, at least one of us has had some satisfaction tonight,’ he grumbles. ‘I lost five shillings to that preening fool Savile.’

‘Not such a fool, then. The man is certainly skilled at deception, I will grant him that. Listen to this.’

He sits up and listens, cross-legged on the bed, as I unfold everything I have learned today about Savile and Mistress Dunne. His eyes grow wider and he whistles when I come to the part about searching Savile’s room, the missing button and the scent of nutmeg.

‘Well, that certainly throws a different light on matters.’ He stands, stretching his arms out.

‘We have been looking in the wrong place all this time,’ I say. ‘We assumed Dunne’s death was linked to his association with John Doughty and Rowland Jenkes — we didn’t consider the possibility that he might have been killed for another reason altogether.’

‘Did we not say his wife had the most to gain from his murder, but not the means? But if she and Savile are involved they could have planned it together.’ His face is bright with excitement.

‘Wait until you hear the strangest of all. Lady Arden is convinced Mistress Dunne is with child.’

He frowns. ‘Is that so outlandish?’

‘It is if she has not seen her husband for months.’

‘Well I never. But what did she mean when she said he had marred all? Marred what, I wonder?’

‘Presumably it was not part of the plan to dress up his murder as a suicide — she gains nothing from that, as we have seen. But perhaps they had to rush the business if she found she was with child.’ I cross to the window and open the casement, lifting my face to the chill evening air. ‘Neither the girl Eve nor Dunne’s landlady seemed to think he had left Plymouth since he arrived. But Mistress Dunne made very sure to mention to me that he had visited her around three months ago. She wanted to avert suspicion, in case her condition came to light, I suppose.’ I turn back to face him. ‘Perhaps the original plan was for Savile to kill Dunne discreetly during the voyage. Then Martha Dunne would come into her inheritance, a wealthy widow with no feckless husband to gamble it all away. And Savile could come back and offer to marry her.’

‘But the child must have thrown that plan into disarray — it meant they had to get rid of Dunne sooner, because he would have known for certain her pregnancy was none of his doing.’ He slams his fist into the palm of his hand. ‘By God, I think we have it! And Dunne had begun to suspect — that must be why he threw a punch at Savile that night.’ He jumps to his feet. ‘What are we waiting for? We should take this to Drake immediately and he can go straight to Savile’s room with his armed men and confront him.’

‘I don’t think Savile is in his room. I caught him prowling about the second floor — on his way to her, I imagine. He pretended he was lost. As did I.’

Sidney grins. ‘Am I the only one not roaming the corridors of this inn with a cockstand? So much the better if he is with her — we will catch them in flagrante. They can hardly deny it then. Let us go and find Drake at once, before the gallant Sir William slips back to his own room.’ He moves to the door.

I step in front of him, holding up a hand.

‘Drake will be in bed with his wife now. You disturb them if you wish, for I will not. Savile is going nowhere tonight, and I must finish this translation. I will speak to Drake first thing in the morning.’

Sidney’s expression darkens. ‘Poor Elizabeth. It galls me to think of it — a fresh young woman like that being pawed by those barnacled old hands of his.’

‘Don’t think of it, then. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to catch up on.’

I take the book from the bag and unwrap its oilskin covers as tenderly as if I were handling a new-born infant. On the writing desk in the corner I set out my inkhorn, a quill and a pen-knife, a pot of sand for blotting and a supply of candles.

The Coptic script is faint and worn in places but still my heart beats faster against my ribs as I return to the beginning and once again tease out, with painful slowness, the meaning of the words. As I ease each sentence from the obscurity of its ancient Biblical language into the clear light of Latin and watch the paragraphs take shape, I wonder with every line if I am transcribing the true words of history’s greatest traitor. So absorbed am I that I am only dimly aware of Sidney moving about in the background: undressing, putting on his nightshirt, wandering around the room, closing the window, peering over my shoulder.

‘Do you suppose he killed the Spaniard too?’ he says, breaking into my thoughts.

I turn, irritated. ‘What?’

‘Savile. Perhaps the Spaniard found him out and Savile had to silence him. Then he could have written that false confession letter to throw the blame. Although,’ he continues, as if debating with himself, ‘that presents a difficulty. If Jonas knew enough to accuse Savile, why did he not tell Drake immediately?’

‘Philip,’ I say, returning my attention to the manuscript, ‘I will speculate with you in the morning. Get some sleep or I will never finish this.’

He looks piqued. ‘Bruno — we have a murderer within our grasp. If we apprehend him and turn him in to Drake, the fleet can leave and our places with it are secure. If we delay, we may miss the chance.’

I do not reply. My thoughts have already run ahead to Drake’s possible responses. To have a man of Savile’s status arrested and tried for murder, with the evidence so scant, would be no small task. How would anyone prove that Mistress Dunne’s child was not her husband’s, now that he is not here to deny it, unless by waiting until it is born to see who it looks like? Savile would have London lawyers involved, and interventions from influential friends; the charges would be dismissed in no time. From the little I know of Drake, he will not want to entangle himself in a legal case that could take months. Might he not rather set sail with Savile on board, and make his own arrangements for justice once they are far from English shores? I dip my pen in the inkwell and return to the page. What Drake decides to do with the information tomorrow is his business, I remind myself, though it sits uneasily with me.

Eventually, when Sidney realises he will have no more of my attention tonight, he lies down and pulls the sheet over himself. Before long, I hear him lightly snoring. I light another candle and force my eyes back to the page in front of me.

Dawn light is already seeping along the horizon, edging the rooftops through the window in faint gold, when I lay down my pen and press the heels of my hands against my eyelids. Judas Iscariot — if he is truly the author — ends his gospel with an eyewitness account of how the friends and disciples of Christ took his corpse from the sepulchre under cover of night and buried it secretly in an unmarked grave, for fear his tomb would be desecrated by his enemies. This grave robbery gave rise to the myth that Christ in his mortal body had walked free from the tomb, defeating death — a myth his followers were happy to bolster with their own claims of meetings, sightings, conversations with the dead man. A myth that has persisted down the centuries, shored up with hundreds of thousands of lives. I rest my elbows on the table and push my hands through my hair, squinting through gritty eyes at what I have just written. Sixty-seven pages that could destroy the Christian Church. This book unwrites the doctrine of salvation. Sixteen hundred years’ worth of theology: it is as if every book ever written since the gospels themselves is erased at a stroke. I close my eyes and I can almost see it: all the lines of ink of all the pages of all the books, disappearing, unravelling, running backwards, back into the pens that wrote them, back to the inkpot, the pages left pristine and white, ready for a new theology. I lay my fingertips reverently on the pages of the Judas manuscript. But this must be a forgery, says the rational voice in my head; it cannot be otherwise. Then why did the Vatican library have it under lock and key? Why did the young Jesuit steal it and try to run to the other side of the world, if not because he believed it was potentially devastating? And it would only be that dangerous if it were true.

I throw a dusting of fine sand over my pages to dry the ink and wrap the original book carefully in its protective covers. On the bed, Sidney lies half in, half out of the sheets, one hand curled loosely by his mouth, his face flushed in sleep like a child. I watch him for a moment with an affection that is almost paternal, though he is only seven years my junior. The Queen was right not to let him go to war, however much he may resent it. He is not made for fighting; he is a poet and a scholar who belongs among books, not the blood and dust of battle. But I fear for him; this determination to prove himself in the field will hurt him.

I bunch my pages together and tap the pile on the table to straighten the edges. I must protect this copy at all costs. If Rowland Jenkes somehow stole my first translation of the early pages, it can only have whetted his appetite for the rest. My eyelids droop and I seem to see his face looking right at me: his strange aquamarine eyes; his lofty, knowing smirk. The image looms, growing and shrinking as if in a candle flame, and I imagine I hear him laughing; a knot of dread slowly tightens under my ribs and I remember how, in Oxford, he promised to return and kill me.