‘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 – the Pope also regards your queen as a heretic. And everyone who shares her religion.’
‘Yes,’ he persists, ‘but is it true that in your books 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