Treachery (25 page)

Sidney regards me with a half-smile. ‘What would you know of that? I don’t believe you have ever let your guard down, Bruno, not even in the throes of it.’

He is wrong, but I say nothing.

‘You do realise we’ll have to pay, don’t you?’ he complains, a hand straying to his purse. ‘You can’t expect a whore to give up her time for nothing to answer questions, not even if you do your big melancholy eyes at her like a lost dog.’

‘A lost dog?’ I say, but he points ahead of us to a crooked timber-framed house of four storeys, each overhanging the one below as if it might topple forward under its own weight. Suspended over the front door from two creaking chains is a sign depicting the rod of Asclepius, the sign favoured by apothecaries. The shop on the ground floor is closed up for the night with thick shutters. I crane my neck to see the upper storeys. Splinters of light show through gaps in the curtained windows. Beside the apothecary’s door is an archway leading to a dark passageway. Sidney steps closer and examines the posts on either side of the entrance. ‘Look here! This must be it,’ he whispers, indicating a small image carved into the wood. It shows a torch topped with a tongue of flame, identical to the seal.

I follow him along the passage. Even I have to stoop; it is an old house, built in an age when men were smaller, or hunchbacked. Sidney is bent almost double, cursing each time he knocks his head on a low beam. We straighten up into a small courtyard at the back of the house, sunk in shadow from the high buildings on all sides. Laughter erupts from somewhere overhead, sudden and staccato.

At the top of three worn steps is a door with a shuttered grille at head height and an iron knocker set above the latch. Sidney reaches towards it.

‘Hold on.’ I stop and draw back out of sight of the window, unbuckling my belt.

‘Control yourself, Bruno – at least wait until we’re inside.’

I ignore him. I remove my knife in its sheath and slip it into my boot before buckling the belt again. I gesture to his dagger. ‘Conceal that if you can. They will have your sword from you at the door, but they are expecting us. We should be prepared.’

‘It was her idea to leave,’ he remarks, as he follows my example and tucks his short dagger inside his boot, leaving his sword buckled. ‘Nell Arden, I mean. It was she who suggested she wait for you in our chamber. None of my doing.’

‘And you didn’t think to point out to her how that would look? For all of us?’

‘I thought you might be grateful for the opportunity. It’s been a while.’ He lifts the iron ring on the door and bangs it three times, turning to smirk as he does so.

‘How would you know? Don’t imagine you are privy to every part of my life.’ I push a hand through my hair.

‘All right, don’t bite. But hasn’t it? You will not countenance another woman since
she
left, as far as I can see, and you say you don’t visit whores, so I can’t imagine where—’

‘Perhaps you know nothing about it. Perhaps
I
consider some things to be private.’ I hear the petulance in my voice. I am spiky because he is right, but I will not acknowledge this. Although his grin suggests he realises it already.

He breaks off his reply as the shutter behind the grille is drawn back and a woman’s face appears in the opening.

‘May I help you, gentlemen?’ Her voice is unexpectedly refined. Sidney immediately sweeps off his hat and executes a professionally charming bow.

‘Good evening, mistress. We were hoping for a drink and good company.’

The woman appears unmoved. ‘Perhaps you have mistaken this house for some kind of inn, sir. I run a home for orphaned girls here.’

Sidney laughs. ‘Is that so? But I do not believe I am mistaken. Are you, perhaps, the Vestalium Maxima? The high priestess of the Vestals?’ He offers another gracious smile, and she concedes the reference by returning it, briefly.

‘Do I know you, sir?’

‘Not yet.’ He beams, and produces the silver token from his purse, holding it up to the light. She glances at it and nods.

‘Where did you get that?’

‘From a friend. He said we should—’

‘Which friend?’ Her sharp eyes flick from Sidney to me and back, sizing up our garments, our faces, the likely size of our purses.

‘Robert Dunne,’ I say, before Sidney can answer.

Her expression changes, though it is not clear whether my gamble has worked.

‘I see.’ She presses her red lips together. The bars of the grille divide her face into its constituent parts; it is hard to form an impression of the whole. ‘What did you say your names were?’

‘My name is Giordano Bruno,’ I say, enunciating carefully, watching for a flicker of recognition from her. She studies me, impassive, before the shutter slides closed with a sharp crack of wood on wood.

Sidney curses through his teeth, but after a brief pause we hear a fumbling with the latch and the door opens to reveal a tall woman, elegantly dressed in a gown of green satin that is past its prime but was clearly once an arresting sight, much like the woman herself. She fingers a string of pearls at her throat.

‘Well then. You had better come in. I would ask that you take off your weapons and leave them here. They will be quite safe.’

‘But will we?’ Sidney says, attempting a joke. She silences him with a glacial stare, and he meekly unbuckles his sword without another word. I hold out my hands, indicating my empty belt, though I see her practised eye travel over my body, pausing at my legs. For a moment I think she is going to demand that I be searched, but after a long look she gives me a curt nod.

‘You can give me the token. And we take payment in advance,’ she says, holding out a manicured hand with a smile which does not reach her eyes. ‘A gold sovereign, if you please.’

‘A gold
sovereign
?’ Sidney stares at her, open-mouthed, waiting for her to laugh and tell him the real price. She continues to hold out her hand, the smile fixed in place.

‘Twenty
shillings
?’ Sidney repeats, still hoping he has misheard.

She looks at me. ‘Each.’

‘Christ and all his saints. What do I get for that?’

‘A little taste of heaven.’

‘A little taste? For a sovereign I expect a five-course banquet.’

‘With respect, sir.’ That same, smooth tone. ‘As with so much in life, you get the quality you pay for. If you don’t like our prices, there are plenty of places where you can pay a good deal less. Here you know what you are buying.’ Her lips curve again into the ghost of a smile. We might be talking about any transaction, it is all so carefully couched in the language of business.

‘I meant no offence, madam,’ Sidney says, all gallantry once more. He takes a couple of coins from his purse, glaring at me as he does so; if we find nothing useful here, he will not easily let me forget the loss of two sovereigns. She glances at the money and regards us with the same inscrutable expression, before the reserved smile reappears and she nods towards a door.

‘Follow me, then.’

I watch her with curiosity as she leads us through to a small parlour, the air over-warm and thick with the smell of good wax candles. She carries herself with a dignified bearing, as if she were a lady of quality. Perhaps she once was. I guess her to be nearer forty than thirty, though her figure is that of a younger woman and she has clearly kept her pale skin away from the sun and wind. I am curious to know how a woman of evident breeding came by this trade, but her manner does not invite questions. Sidney flings himself into a chair with velvet cushions worn shiny with age and slides down, his long legs stretching out across a faded Turkish carpet. I stand by the hearth, where a neglected fire splutters and smokes in the grate.

‘Well then – what is your taste, gentlemen?’ She puts her head on one side and studies us. ‘Tell me what is to your liking and I will see if we can oblige.’ She makes it sound as if she is asking how we like our meat cooked.

‘Robert Dunne told me I should ask for his favourite,’ I say, before Sidney can answer. He glances at me.

‘Did he now?’ Her painted eyebrows arch; she seems almost interested. ‘And what did he tell you about his favourite?’

I try to look nonchalant. ‘Only that I would not be disappointed.’

She tilts her head. ‘Well. I’ll see what I can do. Wait here.’ She leaves the parlour by a side door and we hear the sound of footsteps climbing stairs overhead. As soon as she is gone, I feel the clench of fear in my gut.

‘She knows I am lying,’ I hiss, when I am sure she is out of earshot.

‘Not necessarily.’ Sidney turns his hat in his hands and examines the feather. ‘Do you think she knows anything about the letter?’

I shrug. ‘I doubt it. The imprint in that seal came from one of those silver tokens. Anyone among her elite clientele could have used it. But whoever it was wanted to direct us here, there can be no question about that. All we can do now is tread carefully and hope to discover why.’

‘And hope it was not for the purpose of running you through with a sword.’ Sidney crosses and uncrosses his legs and turns his attention to a loose pearl on his sleeve. ‘What do you suppose Dunne’s tastes were? What if he was one of those who liked to be roughed up? Tied and whipped, that sort of thing. Then there are some who like hot candle wax—’

‘She won’t get anywhere near me with a candle, don’t worry.’ The fire spits a fat ember on to the carpet; I stretch out a foot and stamp it out. ‘The girl will probably be so relieved to find that I only want to talk, she will be more than willing to help me.’

‘Let us hope so,’ he says. ‘And what am I to do while you charm this vestal virgin into spilling Dunne’s secrets?’

‘Perhaps you could find someone to talk to. Ask a few questions.’

‘I shall be badly out of pocket if I don’t.’ He offers a wry smile. At least the amusement is some compensation for being dragged away from Lady Drake. ‘She intrigues me,’ he says,
sotto voce
, gesturing to the ceiling, where creaking timbers and footsteps can be heard overhead. ‘House of Vesta, indeed. Did she name the place herself, I wonder. She must be educated, if so. And she speaks like a gentlewoman.’

‘The Vestal Virgins,’ I muse, recalling my Roman history. ‘Noble-born girls of Rome, sworn to celibacy in the service of the goddess. The penalty for defiling any of them was death, was it not? You have to admire her taste for irony.’

‘What makes you think it is ironic?’ We both start; the madam has appeared in the other doorway, soundless as a cat, a gleam in her eyes. ‘Do not alarm yourself, sir, I am only teasing. You.’ She points to me. ‘Come with me. I will return for you, sir,’ she adds, to Sidney. ‘Meanwhile, I will have some wine brought to you.’

‘Listen – don’t go without me,’ I say, turning back to him. ‘Wait for me here, after …’ I leave the sentence open, with a shrug. Something in the way the woman looks at us makes me uneasy, though perhaps it is just my anxious imagination.

‘I’ll be waiting here. Go and get your money’s worth.’ He mimes what I can only suppose is his version of a man surprised by hot wax on his parts. I glare at him and turn back to the madam, who offers me her creamy smile and gestures to the second door.

She hitches her skirts and her narrow hips sway purposefully as she leads me up the stairs to a landing. From behind one of the doors comes the rumble of male voices and laughter; two or three men, it sounds like. There is a sudden outburst of cursing and cheering, as if a card game is in progress. I glance around, the fingers of my right hand flexing, ready to grab for my knife if I need to; I have not seen any armed men yet, but they will be here somewhere, lurking in the shadows, close enough to pounce at her signal on anyone who threatens trouble. Every brothel has them. I am beginning to question the wisdom of coming here.

‘You know your Roman history then, sir,’ the woman observes over her shoulder, in her precise accent, as she leads me past the door and up a further flight of stairs. Another staccato burst of laughter erupts from the room we have just passed. ‘Perhaps you are a scholar?’ The remark is innocent enough, but I am not inclined to give anything away.

‘I have been many things,’ I say.

‘I do not doubt it. But you are not, at any rate, a sailor. Of that I am fairly certain.’

‘How can you tell?’

‘You are too courteous. You have none of that roughness that months in the company of men can breed, even in gentlemen.’

I incline my head with what I hope is an enigmatic smile. She laughs. ‘So what brings you to Plymouth?’

‘Business.’

‘And you have seen Robert Dunne here?’ She asks the question lightly. I meet her eye and look away. Neither of us has mentioned Dunne’s death; I wonder if she is waiting for me to broach the subject.

‘Yes.’ I offer no more than that. She lowers her gaze and nods.

‘Poor Robert,’ she says. ‘We heard the news, of course.’

‘You knew him well?’

‘As well as I ever know our visitors,’ she replies evenly, looking at me from the corner of her eye. A politician’s answer; I have underestimated her if I think I can trick her into giving anything away. A brothel-keeper – especially one who evidently counts men of influence among her clients – must be as practised in the art of discretion as any diplomat or spy. Down in Southwark, there are a couple of madams in Walsingham’s pay; it is surprising how much a man will reveal when his breeches and his guard are down.

‘Were you close friends?’ she asks, as we reach a second landing.

‘Close enough.’ Like her, I would prefer to avoid questions about Dunne.

She touches the pearls at her throat and turns to regard me with a steady gaze. ‘Yet he gave you his token. People usually come to us by personal invitation, you see. We pride ourselves on a certain …’ she affects to search for the word ‘… exclusivity.’

I smile sadly, my eyes not wavering from hers. ‘He gave it to my friend. Perhaps he had other things on his mind. But I’m sure you will find our money is as good as anyone’s, Mistress …’ I raise a questioning eyebrow.

‘Grace.’ She drops a half-curtsey, though I cannot tell if she is mocking me. ‘They call me Mistress Grace. Well, I hope you will be satisfied, Doctor Bruno. I’ll have wine sent up.’