Treachery (20 page)

The Spaniard is giving a plausible impression of someone distressed by the sudden death of a shipmate, but I can’t shake the feeling that he is keeping something to himself. Understandably; we have only just met, after all, and the fact that I can speak to him in his own language is not grounds enough to trust me yet. Even so, Jonas’s story does not tally with Gilbert’s; it would take only a moment to see that Dunne was unconscious on the bed and leave the cabin. But Gilbert said that the Spaniard stayed in there for some time. One of them is lying.

‘You could not have known,’ I say, trying to sound sympathetic. ‘He must have woken in the night and decided on an impulse.’

‘Well, it does no good to wonder now,’ he says, his voice brisk. ‘He is gone and we must bend our minds to the times ahead.’ A shadow passes across his face. ‘War is coming. Only a fool could ignore it. Whatever we do on this voyage will be regarded as an act of war by King Philip. So we had better make sure we succeed.’ His fists are clenched, his jaw tight.
We
, I think.

‘Will you fight with the English, when the war comes?’

He tilts his chin and gives me a long look. ‘You find it hard to believe? Let me ask you something – why are
you
not at home in your own country, Giordano Bruno?’

‘I am not welcome there at present.’

‘Well, then. You should understand that the business of loyalty is sometimes complicated. Do you consider yourself an Englishman now? Who would you choose, if you had to, between this English queen and your countrymen?’

‘England is not at war with Italy.’

‘She is at war with the Pope.’

‘I suppose I would say that my enemy’s enemy becomes my friend.’

He nods. ‘Exactly. A man may learn to love a country that is not his own, if his own rejects him.’

I want to ask why he feels Spain has rejected him, but fear if I intrude too far he will clam up. ‘Despite the weather,’ I say instead, looking at the banks of grey cloud through the window.

He smiles, an unexpected flash of white in his tanned face. Unlike most sailors, he still has most of his own teeth. ‘True. I will never learn to love the English rain. But soon, God willing, we will feel Spanish sun on our backs.’ He gestures towards the table. ‘So, what does it say?’

‘What?’

‘The manuscript, of course. That is the book that was taken from the
Santa Maria
when I sailed with her, no? The book that Padre Bartolomeo died to protect.’ His tone when he speaks of the dead priest is respectful, but curiosity burns in his eyes.

‘Did he tell you anything about it?’

Jonas shakes his head. ‘We did not even know he had brought it aboard until he was killed. But he was a strange one. A priest who acted as if the hounds of hell were at his heels.’

‘Captain Drake said that, when the ship was boarded, he was heard crying out to God for forgiveness,’ I say, careful to tread gently.

‘Does not everyone who fears he is about to die?’

‘In particular, Drake said, he begged forgiveness for bringing the wrath of God on the ship,’ I persist. ‘Did he mean the book?’

Jonas does not reply, only looks at me as if trying to read my face, until his mouth curves into a sly smile. ‘You tell me. No one has been able to read it until now.’ When I do not respond, the smile fades. ‘It is valuable, no?’

‘I don’t know.’ I keep my voice flat. ‘Captain Drake told me Robert Dunne tried to persuade him to sell it. A friend of his, a book dealer, was keen to buy it.’

Something chases across the Spaniard’s face, but he quickly masters it and shrugs. ‘I don’t know what they spoke about in private. I did not even know Captain Drake had it with him on board.’ His eyes stray to the manuscript again with renewed interest. I feel an urge to cover it with my arms, to protect it, even though I know he can’t read it.

‘I should get back to work,’ I say. ‘Thank you for this.’ I hand back the tankard. He looks disappointed when he sees how little I have drunk.

‘You should thank Captain Drake,’ he says. ‘It was his idea. I just do as he asks.’

‘Where do you keep your herbs?’ I ask, as a thought occurs.

He frowns. ‘In my quarters. Why do you ask?’

‘Are they locked away?’

‘Why, are you planning to steal some?’ He laughs, but it peters out as he catches my face. ‘Yes, I keep them in a box with a lock, under my bunk. I think they are quite safe there. Bunches of dried herbs are no good unless you know what they are and how to use them. I ask you again – why do you want to know?’

And does somebody on this ship know how to identify herbs and use them? Robert Dunne had a drink with a companion in his cabin the night he died. He was later reported to be wildly drunk, to the point of hallucinating; did that person slip something into his drink before he left the ship – some substance that might have ensured he would be in no fit state to fight off his killer? I do not say any of this aloud, because the most obvious suspect is Jonas himself.

‘I only wondered – are there any that could be dangerous? If taken in the wrong quantities, I mean?’

‘Any medicine can be dangerous in the wrong quantity. That is why not everyone has the skill to use them. But if you are asking, could a man do himself harm by taking my herbs, I suppose the answer is yes. It is a strange question, Giordano Bruno. It makes me think you still believe I mean to poison somebody.’ He says this with a half-smile, but he watches me keenly with eyes of stone.

‘It was more a question of whether a person might use your herbs to cause harm to others,’ I say evenly.

‘As I have said, only someone who knew what he was doing,’ he replies, with equal politeness. ‘But what could have put that in your mind?’

‘I was only curious.’ I shrug, and offer an innocent smile. We are circling one another, each waiting for the other to make an advance. But I have no solid accusation against him, and I lack the authority to ask more probing questions – to do so would only make him more defensive, and Drake has warned us against arousing too much suspicion among the men. Jonas is already spiky, alert to any insinuation – so touchy, you might almost think he has something to hide.

The door creaks and Jonas gives a start, as if he has been caught out. Drake stands in the doorway, broad and bluff, rubbing his large hands together as if in anticipation of a spectacle.

‘Ah, Jonas, good lad,’ he says. ‘You have taken care of Doctor Bruno’s seasickness, then?’ He catches my eye over Jonas’s head and I feel a weight of relief; whatever I have just drunk was at least made for me on Drake’s orders.

‘He will weather any storm now,’ the Spaniard says, with a smooth bow.

‘Good, good. Let us hope it won’t come to that tonight, at least. Now leave us. I may have need of you after supper.’

Jonas bows again and backs away, casting a last glance at the book on the table as he goes.

‘Useful?’ Drake mouths, nodding in the direction of the door as it closes behind the Spaniard.

‘The potion, or the conversation?’

‘Either. I’ve heard men swear by his concoctions in rough seas. Did he have anything to say about Dunne?’

‘He says Dunne was passed out from drink when he went to his cabin the night he died, so he never gave him any remedy. Does it not trouble you that he keeps all these herbs and medicines aboard the ship?’ I ask. ‘He tells me some are potentially deadly, if you know how to use them. And given how much you …’ The sentence tails off as I search for a diplomatic way to phrase it.

‘Given how much I am worth dead?’ He seems amused. ‘You are not alone in your concern, Bruno. When we took Jonas from the
Santa Maria
, my brother wanted to keep him bound and on prisoner’s rations for the entire voyage, and others voted with him. I argued that is not the way to win a man to your cause. This time Jonas comes with us of his own free will, as a paid crewman, but there’s more than one good sailor refuses to sail with a Spaniard on the ship. Fearing he will rise up and attack us single-handed, I suppose.’ He rubs the back of his neck.

‘He wouldn’t need to,’ I say quietly. ‘If he found a way of dispatching you, Sir Francis, the whole voyage would be undermined. It would be no great difficulty to slip some deadly mixture into your food or drink, with his knowledge.’

Drake frowns at me, then bursts out laughing and claps me on the shoulder. ‘God’s blood, Bruno, I already have one wife to fret over me. Not to mention Thomas. I thought you had determined Dunne was out to assassinate me, now you worry about Jonas. Which is it?’

‘For twenty thousand ducats, it might be any of them.’

He laughs again, but there is a tension underlying it. ‘I have my food tasted before every meal. I eat only from the common dish. I sleep with armed guards outside my door. I take every precaution a man whose death is worth twenty thousand ducats can reasonably take, Bruno. Jonas Solon has proved himself a reliable shipmate, and I will treat him as such. Certainly he is no more or less to be trusted than any other man here just because he is a Spaniard. You of all people must understand that.’

I nod, but do not reply. Drake seems to make the same assumption as Jonas himself: that I should not think ill of the Spaniard because he and I are fellow outsiders, brothers in exile. For me to suspect him is apparently a breach of solidarity.

‘Now – I want to hear what you make of this manuscript. Come, sit.’ He unlocks a cupboard and takes out two crystal goblets and a decanter, from which he pours a generous measure of red wine. I cannot help but regard it with suspicion before I sip; the more I learn about the potential threats to Drake’s life, the more everything on this ship comes to seem a murder weapon in waiting. ‘You’re quite safe to drink this, my friend, I keep it locked away. It’s good Rhenish,’ he says, with a twinkle, seeing the way I sniff at it and hesitate. He pulls out a chair and gestures to me to sit opposite him at the large table, where my notes and my translation are spread out.

Though he is not a theologian nor a scholar, the Captain-General listens attentively through my explanation of the manuscript, his chin resting on his bunched fist, frowning as I explain the context of the story told by the author, the writer who claims to be Judas Iscariot. He asks intelligent questions, which I attempt to answer in the same spirit, and he nods thoughtfully, pulling at his beard and rubbing his finger beneath his lower lip as he tries to comprehend all the ramifications of the pages that lie between us, tattered and salt-damaged but still largely legible.

Drake swirls the dregs of his wine around the glass and peers into it. ‘What does he say about the resurrection?’

‘Didn’t happen. Not according to Judas.’ I tap the parchment. ‘He’s covered himself too – he says Christ showed him a vision of himself, Judas, being persecuted to death by the other apostles after Christ’s crucifixion, because they wanted to silence his message. He knew he was destined to be history’s scapegoat, but he was content to accept this destiny because only he knew the truth.’

‘I thought he was supposed to have hanged himself after the crucifixion? When did he find the time to write this?’

‘That verse from the Gospel of Matthew, the one in your anonymous letter, is the only source for the story of Judas hanging himself,’ I say, ‘though it has become accepted as truth. The other three gospels don’t mention his death. This account says he went into hiding after the crucifixion, for fear of reprisals from the other disciples, and wrote his version of events in secret.’

Drake pushes his chair back and crosses to the small cabinet in search of the decanter. ‘Sounds like codswallop to me.’

‘Perhaps. Though you might say that about any of the gospels.’

He turns and stares, the glass bottle in his hand, shock freezing his face for a moment before a short bark of laughter erupts.

‘True, true. They ask us to believe a lot. Virgins giving birth, blind men seeing, dead men walking. Impossible, to our understanding. But then they said it was impossible for a man to sail the circumference of the Earth and survive.’ He flashes me a triumphant smile and lifts his glass as if in a toast to himself. ‘Now – feeding a crowd of five thousand with five loaves and two fish – that one is hard to swallow if you know a thing or two about making rations go round.’ He laughs at his own joke, pours himself another drink, then lifts the decanter in my direction, eyebrows raised in a question. I nod, and hold out my glass. ‘Few would be bold enough to say so, though,’ he says. His face turns serious and he points an accusing finger at the manuscript. ‘What should be done with this, do you think?’

‘It should be studied further. But …’ I hesitate, unsure how my suggestion will be received. ‘It might be best if it were delivered into the Queen’s keeping as soon as possible. It could be useful for bargaining with the Vatican. They will want it back, you may be sure of that. But if it should be lost at sea …’ I leave the sentence hanging.

He considers this. ‘Yes, I have thought of that. It has been around the world once and survived, perhaps we should not tempt fate. But who should I trust to take it to London, then? It might just as easily be lost on the roads, especially if this book dealer is as unscrupulous as you say.’

‘I could take it for you, Sir Francis. Sidney has four armed men on the way to Plymouth to escort Dom Antonio to the Queen. I could travel back with them.’ The idea takes shape as I speak; with letters of introduction from Drake, might I not even persuade the Queen that I am the man to study the manuscript? She would want such a volatile document examined and understood, and there would be few men in England with the knowledge and experience to probe its mysteries. Certainly none of the half-wits I had met in Oxford were up to the task. It might, at least, give me a reason to stay in London, and a means of showing the Queen she had need of my skills. And it would be a legitimate reason to leave Plymouth.

Drake narrows his eyes, but I see he is suppressing a smile. ‘My brother will not countenance that, I fear, now that he knows how valuable it is. He already thinks me a fool to leave you alone with it. Besides, Sir Philip wants a berth aboard my ship to the New World. One for you too. He will be sorely disappointed if you abandon him.’