was very brave,’ she calls, as if on impulse, as we are almost past them.
Sidney turns his most gracious smile on her, placing his hand carefully on my shoulder. ‘My friend is celebrated from here to the Indies for his bravery. Please do not think of falling in the water, ladies, unless he is at hand.’
I catch the woman’s amused glance, and shake my head in apology.
‘But, sir,’ she says, with mock concern, ‘how shall we know where to find you, if we should happen to think of falling in?’
Sidney raises an eyebrow at me. ‘You may find us at the sign of the Star, madam.’
‘Well, that is a coincidence,’ says the auburn-haired woman. ‘We too will be staying there tonight. Good day, gentlemen.’ She takes her companion’s arm and turns elegantly, flashing a smile back at Sidney over her shoulder.
He watches her walk away, then turns to me with a low whistle.
‘They were a couple of bold ones, weren’t they? Pretty, though. And expensively turned out. Courtesans, do you think?’
‘Here?’
‘Where there are sailors … But maybe you’re right. Women of that quality would cost more than a sailor makes in a year, unless his name’s Francis Drake. Staying in our inn, too. That dark one was eyeing you, Bruno, though you have the look of a drowned dog. Damn you!’ He raises a fist, grinning. ‘I should have moved faster. Nothing like saving children or animals to make women fall at your feet.’
‘Next time we see them, I will drop a kitten down a well so you can prove yourself,’ I say, rubbing my arms and shivering as my wet clothes chill against my skin. He drapes my doublet over my shoulders and cuffs me gently on the back of the head, the way the fisherman did with his young nephew. I decide not to tell him about the man in black, for now.
At noon we descend to the tap-room of the Star to look for Drake, and the serving girl points us towards a private dining room across the entrance hall. I am dressed in a russet doublet and breeches of Sidney’s while I wait for my clothes to dry, and feel like one of those pet monkeys the ladies at court keep on a leash, trussed up in little silk jackets and jewelled collars. The breeches are too big, and the rustle of silk as I walk is unfamiliar and disconcerting; at every step I find myself turning, thinking I am being followed, until I realise again the strange susurration is coming from my own legs.
Sidney pushes open the door and is not quite quick enough to disguise the drop of his jaw when he sees the guests gathered around the table. Francis Drake sits at the head of the table. Thomas Drake is present too, with a fair, round-cheeked man in clerical dress, and an expensively dressed man of around forty. But Sidney’s eye is caught by the two young women from the quayside, who sit demurely at the table, mischievous smiles hovering at their lips. For a moment I am confused; Sidney’s earlier speculation has lodged in my mind and my first thought is that Drake has hired the women. Then I see him lay his hand over the delicate white fingers of the auburn-haired woman and the truth slowly dawns. She wears a wedding band on her left hand.
‘I hear you are quite the knight errant, Doctor Bruno.’ Drake raises his glass to me as we edge around the table.
‘The mothers of Plymouth need not fear for their children while you are in town,’ says Thomas Drake. He is seated to the right of the dark-haired woman, who is still watching me with that secretive half-smile. I sense that Thomas Drake would prefer it if we were not there.
‘I fully expect Bruno to be offered the freedom of the city by the time we leave,’ Sidney says, flashing the beam of his smile around the company.
I shrug, embarrassed by the attention. ‘Anyone would have done the same.’
‘I would, of course, if I’d noticed in time,’ Sidney agrees, sweeping off his hat. ‘You were just that bit quicker, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh, but it would have been a pity to ruin such a fine feather for the sake of a fisherman’s child, Sir Philip,’ the dark-haired woman says, with a perfectly sincere expression. Her friend bites down a smile, then raises her eyes to meet Sidney’s. Drake looks from one to the other with amusement.
‘I believe you are already acquainted,’ he says, gesturing to the two women.
‘We were not formally introduced, dear,’ the auburn-haired one says, patting his hand.
‘My wife Elizabeth, Lady Drake,’ he says, with pride, and the woman inclines her head modestly, before glancing up at Sidney from under her lashes. He looks like a man who has bet the wrong way in a dog fight.
‘And her cousin Nell, Lady Arden.’
The dark-haired woman nods to Sidney, then looks directly at me. ‘Widow of the late Sir Richard Arden,’ she adds. I cannot help feeling this is for my benefit. So much for the notion of Drake’s plain wife and her ageing widowed cousin. I suspect that Sidney’s enthusiasm for the task of chaperoning the women around Plymouth has increased significantly. In fact, it is likely that I will have to chaperone them from Sidney.
Drake waves Sidney to an empty chair at his left hand, opposite his wife. I take the remaining seat, between the clergyman and the one who looks like a courtier, placed diagonally opposite Lady Arden, who smiles again, as if she is enjoying some private joke. I guess her to be in her mid-twenties, of an age with Drake’s wife; her pale skin is smooth and flawless and beneath those dark brows her green eyes glint with a suggestion of mischief, and miss nothing. In an instant, Plymouth has grown considerably more interesting.
‘So you are the renowned Doctor Bruno?’ The man in clerical robes sets down his cup and regards me with a placid expression. Reluctantly, I turn my attention from Lady Arden to look at him. He has that high colour in his cheeks, peculiar to some Englishmen, that makes it seem he is permanently blushing or flustered. His fair hair is thinning severely on top, but the smoothness of his face suggests he is no more than his early thirties. There is no obvious edge to his words, but I cannot help interpreting them as provocative, though that probably says more about my character than his.
‘I was not aware that my renown, such as it is, had reached as far as Plymouth,’ I say, offering a polite smile.
‘We had heard whispers that Sir Philip Sidney was bringing with him a famed Italian philosopher,’ he says, returning the smile, though it does not touch his eyes. ‘Ambrose Pettifer, chaplain on the Elizabeth Bonaventure.’ He extends a hand, as if he has just remembered the correct etiquette. I grasp it; his handshake feels unpleasantly moist.
‘Giordano Bruno of Nola. Though you know that.’
‘I understand you are a fellow priest. A Dominican, if I am not mistaken?’
‘I’m afraid you are,’ I say. ‘I left my order almost a decade ago. I no longer consider myself in holy orders.’
He raises a pale eyebrow. ‘I did not think that was permitted?’
‘It’s not. That’s why I was excommunicated.’
‘Ah.’ His eyes widen briefly. He takes a sip of wine. ‘I hear you are condemned as a heretic by the Church of Rome for the ideas in your books.’
My smile is growing strained. ‘Generally by those who have not read them. In any case, I am in good company
