Treachery by S. J. Parris

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 where we can find them,’ Lady Arden adds, with a dry smile.
    Drake looks at his wife and beams approval. I watch her, curious.
    ‘And you, Sir Philip? How long will you stay?’ calls my neighbour, the newcomer. He has the imperious voice of a man accustomed to talking over others. His beard is carefully trimmed to a point and flecked with grey and he wears his hair cut very short in an effort to mask his encroaching baldness, but he is still handsome, in a weathered sort of way. I notice his upper lip is swollen, with a fresh cut.
    ‘At least until Dom Antonio arrives, Sir William,’ Sidney says, leaning down the table to offer a courtly smile.
    ‘Oh good God, is that Portuguese bastard still hanging about?’ Sir William says, rolling his eyes and holding out his glass for more wine. ‘You’d think he’d have given up by now. I can’t understand why Her Majesty goes on tolerating him, still less giving him money.’
    ‘Because he has a better claim to the throne of Portugal than Philip of Spain does.’ Sidney’s face grows serious and he sets down his knife. ‘If Dom Antonio became king, he would be our much-needed ally. You must know that since Spain annexed Portugal on the death of the old king, it now commands the biggest navy in Europe. It is clearly in England’s interest to oppose that.’
    Sir William grunts. ‘It was a rhetorical question, Sir Philip. Besides, not even Dom Antonio believes he has a hope of regaining the Portuguese throne. Spain has bought off the whole of the nobility in return for their support. Pass the wine.’
    ‘Do you stay long yourself, Sir William?’ Sidney asks.
    ‘Me? I stay until the fleet sails.’
    ‘And then back to court?’
    Sir William barks out a sharp laugh. ‘And then I sail with them, Philip. I have a berth aboard the Elizabeth .’
    ‘What?’ Sidney’s manners can’t quite keep pace with his emotions; his gaze swivels from Drake to Sir William, mouth open, until he composes himself and fixes Drake with a simmering glare.
    ‘Sir William Savile has invested very generously in this voyage,’ Drake says, although he has the grace to look a little sheepish. ‘And he has valuable military experience.’
    ‘Thought it was time for a bit of adventure,’ says Sir William, with a broad grin that makes him wince, as his split lip stretches. He dabs at it with a forefinger. ‘A chap can grow soft and idle, hanging about at court all summer with only women for conversation. Saving your presence, my ladies.’ He nods to Lady Arden, who says nothing, though her eyes dance with indignation. ‘At least, that was my intention, until this unfortunate business with poor Dunne—’ He looks over at Drake and breaks off; Drake is shaking his head, as if to warn him off the subject, presumably for the sake of the women.
    ‘How horrible,’ Lady Arden says, with a dramatic shudder. ‘What would make a man do that? Take his own life, I mean.’ She looks up at me, green eyes wide.
    ‘Despair,’ I say, since no one else seems inclined to answer.
    ‘Or fear,’ remarks Sir William Savile, tearing at a piece of bread.
    ‘Why do you say that?’ I ask, turning to him. He regards me, apparently surprised to be addressed so directly. He appears to weigh up my status before he condescends to answer.
    ‘Well,’ he says, eventually, ‘I suppose a man may be driven to a point where he considers death an escape from something worse.’ He looks into his glass as he speaks.
    ‘Worse than