Treachery (12 page)

Silence settles on the room, as Drake and his brother privately revisit their own memories of those events. I watch the Captain-General; he speaks as if he regrets the business with Thomas Doughty, but that unflinching ruthlessness is visible just below the surface. Drake is not a man you want to fall out with, I think, not for the first time.

‘And what of the manuscript?’ I prompt, nodding to it. Drake turns to me and blinks, as if working out where to pick up the thread of his story.

‘The manuscript,’ he says, considering. ‘Well. I kept with us the navigator from the
Santa Maria
, a Spaniard named Jonas. He had sailed to the coast of Brazil before and I thought his knowledge might be useful. He spoke English well and he agreed to act as translator. It was from him that I learned a little about the young priest Doughty had killed. His name was Father Bartolomeo and he was a Spaniard, but had joined the Jesuit College in Rome and from there found a position in the Vatican library. He had boarded the
Santa Maria
at the very last minute, arriving the day before they set sail and begging passage to the Indies, claiming he needed urgent conduit to the head of the Jesuits in Brazil. The only baggage he carried was that wooden chest that he never let out of his sight. Father Bartolomeo was some distant relative of the captain, so he was found a berth as a favour. Jonas said he had kept to himself, refusing to leave his cabin, but that from the little he saw of him, he thought the Jesuit acted like a man in fear for his life. He was edgy, always looking over his shoulder, even once they had cast off. The crew had started to wonder if he had stolen whatever was in that chest and was running away to escape justice. When the cry came that the
Santa Maria
was under attack from my ship, Jonas said the priest locked himself in his cabin, but everyone on board could hear him crying out to Jesus, Mary and all the saints to forgive him for bringing the wrath of God on the voyage.’

‘What did he mean by that?’ Sidney asks.

Drake shrugs. ‘If he’d lived, he might have been able to explain. Or at least tell us something about this book. But the Doughty brothers made sure he took his explanations with him to his Maker.’

‘May I see the book?’ I ask softly, unable to contain my curiosity any longer. Drake hesitates.

‘I am no scholar, gentlemen, as I have told you. But even I know that a man does not throw away his life lightly over a book. I kept it under lock and key in my cabin for the rest of the journey, but with Doughty’s trial and everything that came after, the book was almost forgotten.’

I am still holding my hand out for it, nodding encouragement, as you might coax a child to part with a favourite toy. Drake smiles.

‘You are keen, sir. And you are not alone in your eagerness to get hold of this book. But first, I want a promise of your complete secrecy. You too, Sir Philip. Whatever this book contains, two men have already died for it. The fewer people who know I have it here, the better.’

‘I give you my solemn oath,’ I say. ‘On everything I hold sacred.’

Sidney sends me an amused glance from the corner of his eye; I guess he is wondering what it is that a man like me could hold sacred. For all he likes to believe himself an adventurous thinker, Sidney is obediently orthodox in his Protestant faith.

‘And I,’ he says. ‘On my life, I swear.’

This seems good enough for Drake, who crosses the room and lays the manuscript in my lap as tenderly as if it were his own newborn. The leather of the covers feels stiff under my fingers; I realise as I open it that for what feels like an age, I have forgotten to breathe.

‘If you can shed some light on this book, Bruno, it may explain certain things,’ Drake says. ‘At the very least, I would like to know what it is. I don’t even know what language it is written in.’

‘It is a Coptic text, of some antiquity,’ I murmur, skimming the first couple of lines. And then my heart appears to stop beating.

‘What?’ Sidney says, leaning over my shoulder. ‘What is it, Bruno? You’ve gone pale as a corpse.’

I look up, staring at Drake, temporarily robbed of speech or movement. When I finally find my voice, all I can manage is a croak.

‘Have you shown this to anyone?’

He frowns. ‘Very few people.’

‘I mean – to anyone who might have an idea what it is?’

‘I had a bookseller value it,’ he says. ‘Dunne suggested him.’

‘Robert Dunne?’

‘Yes.’ He looks faintly impatient. ‘After we returned from the circumnavigation, I forgot about the book. It was in a chest with many other things I brought back. With Her Majesty’s blessing, you understand, not all of what we took from the Spaniards went to the Tower to be inventoried.’

I nod, brushing this aside.

‘It was only when I bought the old abbey at Buckland that it came out of storage. For the first time I had a library, as befits a gentleman’ – here he grins, for Sidney’s benefit – ‘and the manuscript was put on a shelf. I always meant to have it valued, but life threw more urgent matters in my path. My first wife died, I was elected mayor of Plymouth then Member of Parliament, I was forever on the road up and down to London, all the while trying to finance a new expedition to the Americas. The book slipped my mind. Until Dunne came out to dine with me at Buckland – his family seat was not far away. He asked me if I still had the manuscript and if he might look at it. I dug it out of the library – it was thick with dust – and he studied it for some while. Then he offered to take it to London and have it examined by an associate of his, a book dealer, who knew about such things and might be able to give me a good price for it.’

‘Could Dunne read it?’ I ask. A cold knot is growing in my stomach. ‘Was he a scholar? Did he know what it was?’

‘What
is
it?’ Sidney asks, tugging at my sleeve like a child. I ignore him, waiting for Drake’s reply.

‘I don’t think so,’ he says slowly, his eyes fixed on the manuscript as if he were now wary of it. ‘But he could not disguise his interest sufficiently. So, naturally, I became suspicious – it was clear he had been talking to someone about the book and believed it to be worth something.’ He sighs. ‘Dunne was a good sailor, God knows it serves no one to speak ill of him now, but his one great weakness was gambling. He had run up heavy debts in Plymouth and in London and was always looking for ways to keep his creditors at bay. I knew if I let him take the manuscript I would not see the half of its value, if I ever saw a penny. So I told him I would take it to this bookseller myself next time I was in London and give Dunne a commission if it turned out to fetch a good price.’

‘But you didn’t sell,’ I say, almost in a whisper, stroking my fingertips over the parchment as delicately as if it were a woman’s skin.

‘I didn’t trust this dealer an inch, once I met him.’ Drake sits back on the edge of the bed, watching me. ‘I took it to him all right. He feigned great disappointment – told me it was not what he’d been led to believe, it was not worth much after all. He offered to buy it nonetheless, and for a price that was supposed to make me feel he was doing me a favour. But there was a look in his eye – hungry, you know? He couldn’t hide it.’

‘Did he tell you anything about it?’

Drake shakes his head. ‘He said that it was an old legend about Judas Iscariot. Of interest only to theologians. I told him I would have it valued elsewhere and he doubled his offer immediately. So I told him it wasn’t for sale.’ He pauses for a draught of wine. ‘Less than a month later, we had a robbery at Buckland.’

‘Were they looking for the book?’

‘I believe so. My library was turned over. But nothing taken, as far as I could see – and I have more obviously valuable objects in the house that were left untouched. This manuscript was in a strongbox in my treasury while I decided what to do about it. I hired more armed watchmen to guard the house after that, but I was sure it must be connected to that man Dunne had sent me to.’

‘This bookseller …’ Doubt prickles at the back of my neck. ‘Do you remember his name?’

Drake frowns. ‘I’m not sure I ever knew it. Dunne took me to meet him in Paul’s Churchyard – if we were formally introduced, I have forgotten the name he gave. I will tell you one striking thing about him, though.’

‘Yes?’ I raise my eyebrows, though I am almost certain I know what he is going to say.

‘He had no ears.’

Sidney and I look at one another.

‘It was another reason not to trust him,’ Drake continues, though he has not missed the glance. ‘You don’t lose both ears by accident. He’d clearly been punished as a common criminal at some point, though for what I don’t know.’

‘Sedition,’ I say, almost without thinking. Drake stares at me.

‘You know this man?’

‘Possibly.’ My fingertips stray to my throat as my memory flashes back to my time in Oxford.

‘How many book dealers have had both ears cut off?’ Sidney says, turning to me. ‘It must be him.’

‘It’s a good thing you didn’t sell it to him,’ I say. ‘Though that won’t stop him trying to obtain it by any means, if we are talking of the same man.’

‘Then it
is
valuable?’ Drake leans forward, a gleam in his eyes.

‘For the love of Christ, Bruno – tell us what it is,’ Sidney says, exasperated.

I take a deep breath, trying to keep my voice even.

‘If it is genuine, this is a book the Holy Office swore did not exist. Bishop Irenaeus of Lyon mentioned it in the second century, in his treatise against the Gnostic heresies, but to the best of my knowledge, that is the only surviving reference. The Vatican library has always denied its existence, though that has not stopped scholars pursuing the scent of it—’

‘Spare us the lecture, man, cut to the point,’ Thomas Drake says, from his post by the door. ‘Tell us what it is.’

I look at him until he looks away, then I begin to read, keeping my voice as low as I can:

‘“
The secret account of the revelation that Jesus spoke in conversation with Judas Iscariot three days before he celebrated Passover.
”’

Thomas Drake just blinks, and shrugs. Sir Francis peers at the manuscript, his brow creased, as if he is trying to puzzle out the meaning. Only Sidney regards me with a glimmer of understanding.

‘The testimony of Judas Iscariot.’ He hesitates. ‘But it must be a fiction, surely?’

I rub the parchment gently between my finger and thumb. ‘Not necessarily.’

‘I am still none the wiser, gentlemen,’ Drake says. ‘Would you care to enlighten us poor sailors?’

I look at him, considering where to begin.

‘The holy scriptures contain four accounts of the life and death of Jesus Christ, those we call the gospels of the four evangelists, that were accepted by the Church Fathers as true and divinely inspired and which more or less corroborate each other. This we all know.’ I tap the book on my lap. ‘But there were many other accounts circulating in the early years of the Church, alternative gospels that fell outside orthodox doctrine and so were suppressed, destroyed, forbidden. Among them was rumoured to be a Gospel of Judas.’

Drake looks from me to the book and back. ‘Written by his own hand?’

‘Some think so. Legends have grown around its substance. The Gnostics believed it vindicated Judas Iscariot, unravelled the whole story of salvation and would overturn the foundations of the Christian faith.’ My hands are trembling on the page as I speak. If this manuscript should be genuine, if it should prove that the story of mankind’s salvation has been based on false accounts,
if there were another version of the story
… what then?

‘What should be done with it?’ Drake says. His expression suggests he is struggling to take this in.

‘Best to keep it under lock and key, for now. And on no account sell it to that book dealer with no ears.’

‘Why, what does he want with it?’ Thomas Drake demands.

‘I don’t know yet.’ I look down at the manuscript; there is no way of assessing its significance without reading it in its entirety. ‘He may want to sell it to the highest bidder. Or he may have other plans.’

‘Oh, no, no, no. If there is a high price to be had for this book, I shall be the one doing the selling.’ Sir Francis sets his jaw and fixes me with a defiant eye.

‘The Jesuit already paid a high price for it. He worked for the library of the Vatican, you say?’

‘According to Jonas,’ Drake says. ‘Why?’

‘Then it would seem reasonable to assume that he found the book there. So why was he taking it away, to the other side of the world? With the knowledge of his superiors, or without? Either way, someone must have noticed it missing and followed its trail. It would not surprise me to learn that the Holy Office has agents out looking for this book, even now.’ Voicing this aloud causes a chill to run through me. If there is one quality the Roman Inquisition can never be accused of lacking, it is tenacity. And are they still looking for me, I wonder? I lower my eyes and take a deep breath. I am a free man, in a Protestant country; it is nine years since I ran from my monastery in Naples, rather than face the Inquisition. Surely they have forgotten me by now? But I already know the answer: the Inquisition never forgets. ‘This book could tear the Church apart,’ I add, looking up and meeting Drake’s frank gaze. ‘It could plunge Europe into war, if its contents are made known. You may be sure the Vatican wants it back, at any price.’

‘Europe is already tearing itself apart over the interpretation of the scriptures,’ Sidney says, as if the whole business bores him. ‘Bread, wine, flesh, blood. Purgatory, Pope, predestination. How much difference can one more gospel make?’

I look at him with reproach. ‘You can say that because your country has never had the Inquisition.’

‘We had Bloody Mary,’ he retorts. ‘Plenty still alive remember what she did in the name of pure faith.’

Drake watches us, his chin resting on his fist. ‘Perhaps the best thing would be to hand it over to Her Majesty. She can have her scholars examine it and dispose of it as she thinks fit. I would not for all the world give it back into the hands of the Pope.’