horseman, was thrown while out hunting and broke his neck.’ She shrugs and holds out her hands, palm up, as if to return an open verdict.
‘But these sound like accidents. They could happen to anyone.’
‘So I say to Sir Francis. But both have happened since John Doughty was freed. And now there is Robert Dunne.’
‘He was also on the jury?’ Sidney asks.
Lady Drake nods. ‘My husband says Dunne was driven to despair by his gambling debts. But I can see in his eyes that he does not believe it. Why should a man kill himself on the eve of a voyage which promises to mend his fortunes? I am sure he suspects that Dunne was murdered, and it has fuelled his fears.’
‘Perhaps you underestimate his courage, my lady,’ I say, trying to sound soothing. She turns to me with a sharp look.
‘Then why does he delay the fleet’s departure?’
I shake my head. ‘I could not presume to know his reasons.’ What I think, but cannot say, is that John Doughty’s curse has nothing supernatural about it. The deaths of these other jurymen were possibly accidents, possibly not. A man bent on revenge could surely find opportunity to slip someone poison or startle a horse. And now Robert Dunne, hanged in his own cabin. If this John Doughty is passing his own death sentence on those he holds responsible for his brother’s murder, one by one, then with Dunne he has drawn terrifyingly close to the greatest revenge of all – Drake himself. No wonder the Captain-General is afraid. But what has this story, if anything, to do with the Judas book?
A cold wind knifes in from the sea; Lady Arden shivers and pulls her shawl tighter around her shoulders. The castle looms up on our left, its four squat towers brooding over the town to the north and the Sound to the south. Out in the harbour, the Elizabeth Bonaventure sways on the waves; on board is a manuscript that might crack the foundations of the Christian faith, I think, and a strange apprehension grips me, somewhere between thrill and fear.
Sidney drops back to walk with me and the women go on ahead, arm in arm, heads bent close together as they share their confidences. Sidney watches them with narrowed eyes.
‘I wager you’ll have her before we leave Plymouth,’ he says eventually.
I smile. ‘I wish you would speak plainly, Philip.’
‘Well, why should I not be blunt about it? She is hardly troubling to disguise her liking for you. I don’t think it would require an elaborate courtship on your part.’ He wraps his arms around his chest, his eyes still fixed on the women. ‘Widows,’ he says, the word weighted with all the tangled desire, contempt and fear men feel towards women who intimidate them. ‘The most dangerous kind of woman, Bruno.’
‘Why?’
He hesitates. ‘Because they don’t need us.’
I laugh aloud, but he is deadly serious, and I am reminded again of the difference between us. With neither name nor land to pass on, I have never been the sort of man that women need for an advantageous marriage. In the years since I abandoned holy orders, there have been those who have liked me for my face, but to women of good birth, like Lady Arden, I can offer nothing beyond a fleeting dalliance, a diversion while they wait for a more suitable match. Sidney envies me this, and wonders why I don’t make better use of it.
‘She is expected to marry again,’ I say. ‘Some cousin of her husband’s.’
‘You should take advantage, then, before she becomes someone else’s property,’ he says.
I only smile and shake my head. It is a strange way to regard women, but perhaps I think this because I spent thirteen years as a monk, and lack experience in the transactions of marriage. Or perhaps because the only woman I ever thought of marrying would sooner die than be considered anyone’s property.
‘I would say the most dangerous kind of woman is another man’s wife,’ I remark, looking ahead. Sidney slides a glance at me from the tail of his eye.
‘They expect you to flirt with them,’ he says. ‘Compliment them. Flatter their vanity. It’s all part of the game, nothing more. She understands that.’
‘Does her husband?’
‘Does Drake understand the dance of courtly manners? What do you think?’
We pass the castle and follow the path along the curve of the promontory as the clouds begin to drift inland. After a few more yards the women want to turn back. Sidney leaves me to take up his position by Lady Drake’s side, still keeping a discreet distance; the cadences of their conversation drift back to us on the wind, but not the words.
‘You are preoccupied,’ Lady Arden says, beside me. She has to do a little half-run every few steps to keep pace with me; without realising, I have picked up speed as we make our way downhill to the town, eager to deliver our charges to the inn so that Sidney and I can return to the ship.
‘Forgive me,’ I say, turning to her and forcing my attention back from the grey-green water beyond the castle, from Judas and his testament. If it is his testament. Her bosom rises and falls, constrained by its tight bodice, with the effort of walking so fast. ‘I am too used to the company of my own thoughts. I lack my friend’s courtly manners, I fear.’
She waves the comment away and slips her hand through my arm again. ‘What you call courtly manners is just formalised insincerity. Gallantry from a courtier is meaningless – it is no more than a script he has been taught from boyhood. I had much rather talk to someone who thinks before he speaks, and means what he says. What are you thinking of now, for instance?’
‘The past,’ I say, looking out to sea.
She nods, and we walk on for a few paces, before she turns to me again.
‘You were a monk, Sir Francis says?’
‘Many years ago now.’
‘Why did you leave?’
‘I found it – restricting.’
She lets out a knowing laugh and blushes pleasingly. People always find that answer amusing; as if there is only one sense in which holy orders might constrain a man.
‘I asked too many questions,’ I add.
‘And do you still?’ she says, with a playful smile.
‘Not as many as you, my lady.’ I mean it as a joke, but the smile falters and she withdraws her hand, briefly stung. She regains her composure quickly enough, but she does not ask me anything else. I walk beside her in silence towards the quayside, angry at myself; there is something perverse in me that feels compelled to push away any woman who shows an interest, though whether this is the legacy of my vows or of my failed experiments in love, I cannot say.
She turns to me as we reach the cobbled street that runs along the harbour front.
‘Forgive my impertinence, Doctor Bruno,’ she says. ‘It is so rare for me to find a man I enjoy talking to, I forget that some of you do not relish chatter as much as women do. But I have one last question for you, if you will permit me.’
‘Please.’ I spread my hands wide, though I find I am preparing myself to lie.
‘Will
