you draw on ancient magic, and you write that man can ascend to become like God?’
I glance around in case anyone should overhear this. ‘I write about cosmology and philosophy, and the ancient art of memory. I have never argued that man can become like God.’ Not in so many words, anyway.
‘Good,’ he says primly. ‘Because that sounds like a Gnostic heresy to me. Even so,’ he continues, toying with his empty cup, ‘I would rather the crew did not learn that you were a Catholic priest. Englishmen are superstitious, you know, and sailors more than any. Under duress, it is the old faith they turn to. Many of them carry relics and holy medals, though they know these are forbidden, and I often hear them crying out to the Holy Virgin along with every saint in heaven.’ He folds his hands together. ‘I close my eyes and ears to it, of course, but it would not help if they knew there was a priest of the old religion aboard. You understand?’
‘Don’t worry, Padre,’ Sidney says, leaning in to catch the end of this, ‘Bruno is a long way from the priesthood now. He will not try and sneak the sacraments to them when your back is turned, I give you my word.’
I laugh, grateful to Sidney for trying to lighten the conversation, but Pettifer is not to be deterred.
‘You may joke, Sir Philip,’ he says, raising a finger, ‘but a man died by his own hand aboard the Elizabeth only two days ago. Imagine how this has affected the men. They talk of curses and omens and God’s punishment, and it makes it all the harder to keep them to the true path of faith. I have their souls in my care, you see.’
‘Well, I will do my best not to add to your burden,’ I say, reaching for the jug of wine. God, the man is insufferably pompous.
He gives me a tight little smile in response. ‘In any case,’ he says, ‘I presume you will be back on the road to London as soon as Dom Antonio arrives? Sir Francis will hardly be in a position to offer him much hospitality, in the circumstances. I dare say you would all be better off back at court.’
‘I dare say,’ Sidney agrees breezily. Fortunately, we are spared any further exchanges on this subject by the arrival of a trio of servants carrying dishes of salad leaves and manchet bread, followed by platters of fish poached in wine.
‘Caught off these shores, brought in this very morning,’ Drake says, indicating the fish, as proudly as if he had caught it himself. I see Sidney and the other well-dressed gentleman looking at it with suspicion; they regard fish as a penance, to be eaten on Fridays and in Lent when good Christians forego their meat, but Drake tucks in as if it were the best venison. After a year at sea, Sidney will have gained a new appreciation for fresh fish, I think, smiling to myself as I am served.
‘Do you mean to stay long in Plymouth, Lady Drake?’ Sidney asks, leaning across the table.
‘My cousin and I grow tired of our own company at Buckland Abbey when my husband is away,’ she says. ‘When we received word that the fleet was to be delayed in Plymouth, we thought we would pay a visit. Not that Plymouth has a great deal to recommend it, saving your gracious company, masters. But we are grateful for a change of scene. We may even take the opportunity to call by the drapers’ and buy some cloth.’
‘We ladies have to take our entertainments where we can find them,’ Lady Arden adds, with a dry smile.
Drake looks at his wife and beams approval. I watch her, curious.
‘And you, Sir Philip? How long will you stay?’ calls my neighbour, the newcomer. He has the imperious voice of a man accustomed to talking over others. His beard is carefully trimmed to a point and flecked with grey and he wears his hair cut very short in an effort to mask his encroaching baldness, but he is still handsome, in a weathered sort of way. I notice his upper lip is swollen, with a fresh cut.
‘At least until Dom Antonio arrives, Sir William,’ Sidney says, leaning down the table to offer a courtly smile.
‘Oh good God, is that Portuguese bastard still hanging about?’ Sir William says, rolling his eyes and holding out his glass for more wine. ‘You’d think he’d have given up by now. I can’t understand why Her Majesty goes on tolerating him, still less giving him money.’
‘Because he has a better claim to the throne of Portugal than Philip of Spain does.’ Sidney’s face grows serious and he sets down his knife. ‘If Dom Antonio became king, he would be our much-needed ally. You must know that since Spain annexed Portugal on the death of the old king, it now commands the biggest navy in Europe. It is clearly in England’s interest to oppose that.’
Sir William grunts. ‘It was a rhetorical question, Sir Philip. Besides, not even Dom Antonio believes he has a hope of regaining the Portuguese throne. Spain has bought off the whole of the nobility in return for their support. Pass the wine.’
‘Do you stay long yourself, Sir William?’ Sidney asks.
‘Me? I stay until the fleet sails.’
‘And then back to court?’
Sir William barks out a sharp laugh. ‘And then I sail with them, Philip. I have a berth aboard the Elizabeth.’
‘What?’ Sidney’s manners can’t quite keep pace with his emotions; his gaze swivels from Drake to Sir William, mouth open, until he composes himself and fixes Drake with a simmering glare.
‘Sir William Savile has invested very generously in this voyage,’ Drake says, although he has the grace to look a little sheepish. ‘And he has valuable military experience.’
‘Thought it was time for a bit of adventure,’ says Sir William, with a broad grin that makes him wince, as his split lip stretches. He dabs at it with a forefinger. ‘A chap can grow soft and idle, hanging about at court all summer with only women for conversation. Saving your presence, my ladies.’ He nods to Lady Arden, who says nothing, though her eyes dance with indignation. ‘At least, that was my intention, until this unfortunate business with poor Dunne—’ He looks over at Drake and breaks off; Drake is shaking his head, as if to warn him off the subject, presumably for the sake of the women.
‘How horrible,’ Lady Arden says, with a dramatic shudder. ‘What would make a man do that? Take his own life, I mean.’ She looks up at me, green eyes wide.
‘Despair,’ I say, since no one else seems inclined to answer.
‘Or fear,’ remarks Sir William Savile, tearing at a piece of bread.
‘Why do you say that?’ I ask, turning to him. He regards me, apparently surprised to be addressed so directly. He appears to weigh up my status before he condescends to answer.
‘Well,’ he says, eventually, ‘I suppose a man may be driven to a point where he considers death an escape from something worse.’ He looks into his glass as he speaks.
‘Worse than death?’ says Lady Arden, scorn in her voice.
‘There are many kinds of death, my lady,’ he replies. ‘Who knows what demons Robert Dunne was fleeing from.’
‘Did you know him well?’ I ask.
He shoots me a sharp glance. ‘Not well, no. He had lands in Devon, as do I. We had conversed on nautical matters a number of times, so I was pleased to discover I had been given the cabin next to his aboard the Elizabeth. I had thought we would have more time to talk during the
