Текст книги "Portuguese Affair"

Автор книги: Ann Swinfen

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The

Portuguese

 

Affair

Ann Swinfen

Shakenoak Press

Copyright © Ann Swinfen 2014

Shakenoak Press

Kindle Edition

 Ann Swinfen has asserted her moral right under the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified

as the author of this work.

All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than

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Cover images

Coat-of-arms of the Portuguese royal dynasty of Aviz

Contemporary drawing of the English army on the march

Cover design by JD Smith www.jdsmith-design.co.uk

For

David

Chapter One

London , December, 1588

For two years I had believed myself safe from Robert Poley, that scheming viper of a double agent. As long as he remained a prisoner in the Tower, the secret of my identity was safe, a secret which could cost me my life. He had played an ambivalent part in bringing the Babington plotters to justice and I was still unsure where his loyalty lay, if indeed he had any. Had he been a sympathiser as the conspirators had believed, almost to the end? Or had he been truly working as an agent for my sometime employer, Sir Francis Walsingham? Perhaps even Sir Francis himself was unsure. Whatever he believed, he had ensured that Poley was securely locked away in the Tower when the plot was uncovered, but unlike the other conspirators, Poley was not executed by that most brutal of methods – hung, drawn and quartered. Instead he had remained for more than two years a prisoner, yet a prisoner (so it was said) who lived like a lord. And had murdered a fellow prisoner, the Bishop of Armagh, with a gift of poisoned cheese.

The source of his riches was one of the many mysteries which surrounded Poley. A man of obscure birth, dubious employment and cautious patrons, he yet commanded considerable wealth. When I had first encountered him he was a prisoner in the Marshalsea, yet there, too, he lavished his money on rich food, receiving his mistress at fine dinners in his room, while refusing to see his wife and daughter.

We were sitting, Simon Hetherington and I, beside a generous fire in a tavern on Bankside, south of the river and not far from the Rose, where Simon had just given his first performance in a man’s part, having at last been able to turn his back on the women’s roles he had played with such success as a boy. It was a double celebration, being also Simon’s nineteenth birthday, and several of his fellow players had joined us – Guy Bingham (musician and comic), Christopher Haigh (young romantic) and Richard Burbage (heroic), second son of James Burbage, head of Simon’s company. It was not Burbage’s company which had been playing at the Rose. Simon had been on loan to Philip Henslowe, who was short of players, three having died in the late summer of the sweating sickness.

‘It was no great part,’ Simon said, modestly but truthfully, ‘but at last I have shed my petticoats and wigs.’

Christopher raised his glass. ‘I never saw a halberd carried with such a flourish. We shall have you back with us and speaking at least six lines before we know it.’

Simon flushed, but took the teasing in good part. He turned to Richard.

‘And is there any word yet from your father?’

‘He hopes to join us here,’ Richard said. ‘He had a meeting with Lord Strange this afternoon.’

Burbage’s company had been, for many years, Leicester’s Men, but the Earl of Leicester had died in September. It was now nearly Christmas. They had been allowed to carry on performing until the end of their planned season, but could no longer continue without a patron. Despite the growing importance and popularity of the playhouses, in the eyes of the law of England a company of players without a noble patron would be classed as vagabonds and could be imprisoned. They could even lose an ear or a nose, a fate no player dared contemplate. Burbage’s men would have ceased performing anyway as winter closed in, for audiences would not come to the open-air playhouses in bitter weather, but if the company were not to drift apart Burbage must secure a new patron soon. He had received an encouraging reply from Lord Strange to his request for a meeting, and the present company, who had come to cheer Simon in his small part, could ill conceal their anxiety beneath all the banter.

‘Simon Hetherington!’ A big man, built like an ox, had approached our table. His dark hair sprang from his head like coils of wire, surrounding a bald circle, a secular tonsure, while more dark bristles sprouted from his ears and nostrils. There was something familiar about him, but I could not place him.

‘Arthur!’ I was not sure Simon was quite pleased to see the man. He was not hostile, but rather embarrassed. He turned to us.

‘Arthur is the gatekeeper at the Marshalsea. I used to lodge with his sister. How is Goodwife Lucy?’

‘Hearty as ever,’ said the man, hooking a stool with his foot and drawing it up to our table. He sat down and drank deeply from his jar of beer, then wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. I remembered now where I had seen him.

The other players looked faintly amused that the man should join us, but they were a motley, tolerant lot. The gatekeeper looked round at us all, then pointed at me with a finger like a well-filled sausage.

‘And I know you,’ he said. ‘You’re the physician’s boy Simon fetched that time to the prisoner Robert Poley, who thought himself poisoned.’

‘Aye,’ I said drily. ‘Poisoned himself with eating bad oysters. I remember.’

The man shook his head. ‘Never had a prisoner like him. Entertaining his mistress, that slut Joan Yeomans, like any lord. Playing at cards or dice with the other sad papists and cheating them of the little they had before they went into exile or to the fire.’ He glanced round the table and nodded sagely. ‘Mark my words. Never have dealings with Poley. He will beguile you either of your wife or your life.’

Having delivered himself of this pronouncement, he buried his nose again in his beer and drained it.

‘No danger of that,’ Simon said, smiling lazily and tilting his stool back. He was still glowing in the aftermath of his performance, a state of mind I recognised. ‘He’s locked away from all decent men in the Tower.’

The doorkeeper waved his empty mug at the potboy and grinned. ‘That he is not. I see you are behind with the news. Robert Poley was released from the Tower yesterday evening. He’ll be about his devious business in London by now.’

I felt bile rise in my throat as Simon shot a glance at me. He knew I feared Poley, though he did not know the reason. My jaws were locked together and beneath the table I felt my leg jerk convulsively.

‘So,’ said Guy, ‘the men in authority, they’ve decided Poley bore no guilt in the plotting two years ago.’ He sipped his beer thoughtfully, and looked at me. ‘I wonder.’

‘I’ve heard the fellow was employed by Walsingham to spy on Babington,’ said Christopher. ‘He certainly used to work for Leicester. I’ve seen him with the Earl, God rest his soul. And later with Walsingham’s cousin Thomas.’

‘And wasn’t he in Sidney’s household, when he and his lady lived in Walsingham’s house in Seething Lane?’ Richard Burbage turned to me.

The players all knew that I had worked in the past as a code-breaker for Sir Francis Walsingham. Such a thing was impossible to keep from them, for players are as eager for gossip as bees for nectar. They were not aware of my other activities within Sir Francis’s secret service. Simon knew or guessed a little, but nothing dangerous. Any time now Richard and the others would be probing me for what I knew of Poley. This was not the place to speak of it, this public drinking house, where the very ale jacks have ears. And the man Arthur had already caught their eyes fixed speculatively on me.

At that moment the door was flung open and a blast of snow and icy air blew James Burbage in and across the room to us. The fire swooped and flung a cloud of smoke into the room. Men cursed. Someone kicked the door shut.

‘Snow!’ Someone else exclaimed.

‘Just managed your performance in time,’ Christopher said to Simon. ‘With this snow starting up there’ll be nothing more doing in the playhouses now till spring.’

Burbage was roaring at the potboy to bring more beer for everyone, and a dish of collops and onions. He swept his arms over us all, including the doorkeeper.

‘Fill your bellies, lads!’ He was wearing a magnificent cloak usually reserved for stage kings. He must have borrowed it from the costume baskets.

‘Good news, then?’ Guy asked. The lines of worry I had noticed round his eyes had vanished.

The potboy arrived, ladling out mugs of beer as if he were dealing cards. One of the maids came with a copper pan from which a stomach-teasing steam rose, another maid brought a stack of pewter plates.

Burbage was still on his feet, flourishing his beer like a trumpet.

‘I give you, gentlemen, the Lord Strange’s Men, signed, sealed and delivered. To continue to perform at the Theatre. And,’ he paused for effect, ‘to perform at Lord Strange’s house in the Strand, this day sennight.’

They raised a cheer. It meant a secure future for them. In their joy at this auspicious news, they had had forgotten that other news, of little account to them, that Robert Poley was free again to walk the world and work his devious, self-serving schemes.

But I had not forgotten.

Ferdinando Stanley, Lord Strange, was heir to the Earl of Derby, but on his mother’s side he ranked even more highly, very highly indeed, for he was descended from King Henry’s sister Mary, who was grandmother of Lord Strange’s mother. In his last will, setting out the future for England, King Henry had named Lord Strange’s mother – his great-niece – as next in line to the throne, should all his three children die childless, of whom our present Queen Elizabeth was the last. As this now seemed more and more likely, given the Queen’s age and unmarried state, it meant that Lord Strange was second in line to the throne. In securing him as patron, James Burbage was biting his thumb at the Queen’s Men, who, in the past, had stolen a number of the best players from Leicester’s Men, including Richard Tarlton. This had all occurred before ever I had come to know the players, but I was well aware that it still rankled.

It seemed that Lord Strange already had a company called Lord Strange’s Men, but they were nothing but acrobats and jugglers, simple performers for after-dinner amusement, possessing their own skills, certainly, but more fit for Bartholomew’s Fair and a far cry from the sort of plays Burbage’s company had begun to perform. When I asked a tentative question about this, the next time I saw the players, Guy answered with enthusiasm.

‘Ah, but you see, Kit, my lord is a great lover of poetry and a patron of poets. He has been wanting his own company of dramatic players, so was eager to welcome Burbage’s proposal.’

‘And that is why you are rehearsing here?’ For despite the bitter December weather, and half an inch of snow on the very boards of the stage, the company had gathered at the Theatre. They were muffled to the eyebrows in cloaks and scarves, but were determined to rehearse where there was space enough to move and declaim.

‘Aye. We are to perform The Spanish Tragedy at my lord’s house on Thursday. There is no time to prepare anything new, but we shall give of our best.’

‘Who is to play Bel Imperia?’ It was a woman’s role Simon had played in the past with great gusto, but no longer.

Guy shrugged. ‘It will have to be Edward Titheridge. He has not Simon’s fire in the great female parts, but he will do well enough.’

I remembered Simon training young Edward in how to walk like a woman and suppressed a smile.

‘Have you brought the pastilles?’ Guy said.

‘Aye. And a honey tincture as well.’ Some of the players were suffering from sore throats and feared for their voices before this all-important performance. ‘You were better not rehearsing in this cold air.’

‘We are nearly done.’

Indeed they made an end soon after, for the snow had begun to fall once more and even the most dedicated player could not perform in such conditions. We parted hastily, the players home to their lodgings and I back through Bishopsgate and across the city. By the time I reached Newgate, the snowfall had become a regular blizzard and the hot chestnut seller who had his place there was packing away his gear, for there were but a handful of people left on the streets. I bought my usual farthing’s worth, with another for the Newgate prisoners crowded behind the grill, where they were allowed to beg for food from the passersby. There seemed to be fewer faces than usual in the dark chamber sunk below ground level behind the grill. It must be bitterly cold beside the open grill and they could not hope for many people on the streets, fewer still inclined to be charitable. On second thoughts I thrust my own paper cone of chestnuts through after the first. There would be a meal waiting for me at home, while these poor creatures had little to hope for, unless they had money to send out for food. They must live on whatever scraps might be given them. I pulled the hood of my cloak over the woollen cap I was wearing instead of my physician’s bonnet and hurried on to Duck Lane, through snow that danced like dervishes, blurring the lines of streets and buildings until all seemed the insubstantial landscape of a dream.

It proved the onset of a bad winter. After all the rejoicing of the summer and autumn, following our defeat of Spain’s Armada, a kind of lethargy seemed to have settled on England. All the desperate frenetic energy which had driven our resistance to the enemy had sapped our strength and we were exhausted. In the aftermath of the war, far more men had died of disease than the hundred or so killed in battle, as typhus and the bloody flux had swept through the ranks of soldiers and sailors. Those who had survived and managed to struggle home, begging their way, were paid late and grudgingly. It was not a situation to lift the spirits of the nation. Added to this, the Spanish attack and the subsequent outbreaks of disease had occurred at harvest time, so that labour was scarce in the countryside and the crops gathered in fell short of what was needed to feed the people, especially in a great city like London, which could not feed itself.

The inevitable outcome was that our wards at St Bartholomew’s Hospital were overflowing, not only with the usual winter ailments but with the destitute poor, lingering just this side of starvation. My code-breaking services were not needed, it seemed, by Thomas Phelippes in his office at Walsingham’s house in Seething Lane, for which I was mostly grateful, but it meant that I knew no more than any other citizen about affairs of state. In my more honest moments, I admitted to myself that I missed being part of that knowledgeable coterie, aware of all the beating secrets at the heart of the nation. Besides, I needed to know what Poley was up to.

One day in February I left the hospital early on an errand for my father. Our friend and fellow Portuguese exile, Dr Nuñez, usually obtained his medicines from an apothecary near his home in Tower Ward, but with all the sickness in the city, even amongst his noble patients, some supplies were running short, so he had sent a message to my father, hoping he might be able to spare some medicines from the hospital stores. We had our own apothecaries, including my friend Peter Lambert, who made up the package for Dr Nuñez.

‘I can deliver it for you, Kit,’ Peter said.

‘Nay,’ I said. ‘I thank you, but you have been working since dawn and should have a rest before supper. I’ve finished with my patients for today.’

It was not altogether unselfish of me, for I had a plan of my own in mind. I stopped briefly at our house in Duck Lane, where I pocketed a couple of rather withered late apples, and set off across the city. There had been no fresh snow for three or four days, but it was still lying deep in the streets. The traffic of men and horses had hammered it down in the centre of the roadways so that it was as slippery as solid ice, stained with horse droppings which lay on the surface or were encased within a frozen cage, like unsavoury flies in amber. I kept to the edges of the streets where the snow was less densely packed, but even here it was slippery, except in front of the better houses or shops, where servants or apprentices had been set to clear a space.

Despite the cold, I was quite warmed from my brisk walking by the time I reached the Nuñez house, where Beatriz Nuñez insisted on inviting me in for hot ale and a sweet bun. When I could leave with politeness I made my way quickly around the corner to the stableyard of Walsingham’s house in Seething Lane, where – as I had hoped – I ran into the stable lad Harry.

‘Come to see Hector, have you, Master Alvarez?’ he asked, when he saw that I had turned, not to the backstairs which led up to Thomas Phelippes’s office and my old desk, but to the stable where I knew I would find my favourite amongst Walsingham’s horses.

‘Aye.’ I grinned at him. ‘There’s no hiding anything from you, Harry. How is Hector?’

‘Missing you, I daresay.’ He returned the smile, knowing full well how I felt about the ugly piebald who had served me well on several missions for Walsingham.

Harry lifted the bolt for me on the tightly closed stable door, for the horses needed protection in this bleak weather, and followed me in as I went to Hector’s stall. He perched himself on a saddle stand, ready to gossip, as I had hoped he would. It would save me tackling Phelippes. As I caressed Hector’s neck and scratched him between the ears, Harry gave me all the latest news of Seething Lane – how the lads had been given a day off to go skating over in the frozen Kent marshes, how the washerwoman had given birth to twins and miraculously both had lived.

‘Moll says it’s because she’s so strong, from heaving pails of water and lye, and great buck-baskets full of wet linen,’ he said. ‘Her babies were bound to be strong.’

‘Boys or girls?’ I said, holding one of the apples on my palm so Hector could lift it softly with his velvet lips.

‘One of each. She’s called the boy Francis in honour of Sir Francis and called the girl Bess after the Queen.’

He chattered on while I gave Hector the second apple and he blew affectionate juice into my ear.

‘And what of all the backstairs coming and going?’ I said casually. The stable lads never missed anything.

‘The usual. That Kit Marlowe was about here last week, him you don’t like.’

I gave him a startled look. I hadn’t realised the lads had even noticed that. He gave me a cheeky grin.

‘Oh, never fear. I’ll say nothing to Master Phelippes or Sir Francis.’

‘I’d rather you did not. It is a private matter, nothing to do with Seething Lane. Marlowe has insulted me more than once.’

‘Arrogant bastard,’ Harry said dispassionately.

I saw that I would need to ask him outright if I was to get the information I wanted.

‘Have you seen anything of that fellow who was in the Tower?’ I said, making my voice as casual as I could and keeping my back to him. ‘Poley, was he called? I wonder if he’d dare show his face around here again.’

‘Oh, him.’ Harry spat into the straw. ‘Aye, he was here, two-three weeks ago. Master Phelippes has sent him off to the Low Countries with despatches. He can’t do much harm there.’

It seemed Harry shared my doubts of Poley, but it would be wiser to probe no further. Our talk turned to other matters, and when Harry went off to his supper, I bade Hector an affectionate farewell and left, dropping the bolt on the door as I went.

Soon after the defeat of the Spanish fleet, a remark made by the Lord Admiral Howard had been discussed everywhere amongst our community. He had said that now was the time to invade Portugal and defeat the Spanish. All the older men amongst our Marrano people seemed carried away on a wave of expectation and excitement. At last the chance had come to return to their homeland, to restore Dom Antonio to the throne – Dom Antonio of the royal house of Aviz, claimant to the lost crown. We would drive the Inquisition, together with the Spanish, out of our country. Then Portugal, that great nation, once a power in the world, with colonies to east and west, with ships trading on every sea, and above all with tolerance of the Jewish faith, would rise again; the Golden Age of a century before would be restored.

Part of their argument was based on the ancient Anglo-Portuguese Alliance, ratified two hundred years ago when John of Gaunt’s daughter married the king of Portugal, but dating back more than two hundred years before that. The alliance of perpetual friendship had begun when England helped Portugal to drive out the Moors, but it had been strengthened in the days when Portugal was the greater power, home of seafarers who explored all the world, discovering new lands. Back in those times, England was the lesser nation. Now the situation was reversed again and Portugal cried out for help from her ancient ally. And with such aid, Portugal would once again become great, free of her Spanish overlords. So they argued.

These were the old men’s dreams. We who were younger did not share them. Anne Lopez and I discussed it one day towards the end of winter when I was visiting them.

‘I am glad, Kit,’ she said violently, ‘glad that my proposed marriage to the banker of Lyons has been abandoned. I want to stay in London. My father talks of nothing but returning to Portugal in glory, as Dom Antonio’s chief adviser and courtier, but my mother is English and so am I. The Queen is going to pay for my brother Anthony to attend Winchester College. What interest have we in Portugal? It is nothing to me or my brothers and sisters.’

I nodded. ‘I have no wish to go back,’ I said. ‘My memories are too bitter.’

I did not tell her of unfinished business there, which filled me sometimes with hope, and sometimes with despair. And, always, there was the shadow of remembered terror.

‘Yet our fathers think differently,’ I said. ‘Even my father, after all he suffered, dreams these dreams of a free Portugal.’

Anne’s mother Sara, too, shared her worries with me.

‘Ruy is drawn more and more into Dom Antonio’s affairs, Kit. He has poured every penny we possess into this expedition they are planning. Dom Antonio has pledged him fifty thousand crowns and five percent of the proceeds from the West African franchise when Portugal is freed, but what if the expedition fails? We will lose everything. Somehow they have even persuaded the Queen to invest five thousand pounds, but the greatest burden is being borne by Ruy and Hector Nuñez and my father and the others.’

‘Drake is a partner in the venture, is he not?’ I said. ‘And Sir John Norreys. The greatest sea captain and the greatest professional soldier.’

‘Drake,’ said Sara bitterly, ‘is a pirate. Everyone knows that whatever other men gamble and lose, Drake always manages to fill his pockets – nay, his very barns – with gold and precious stones. If there is profit to be made, Drake will find a way, and the freeing of Portugal will not be the first thing on his mind.’

Yes, Sara was bitter, but she had good cause. Ruy was prepared to thrown away everything in this venture, destroying her peace of mind and risking her future in her homeland of England. She had never even trodden the soil of Portugal, for her father, Dunstan Añez, had come to London long ago. Like her brothers and sisters she had been born here and thought of herself as English.

I was also growing worried about my father. Ever since our long weeks caring for the sick and wounded after the Armada, I had watched him becoming older and more frail before my very eyes. Of late he had turned forgetful, setting down a tincture half made and wandering off to some other task, and then to another. More and more often in the hospital I had to conceal some business he had left unfinished and finish it myself before anyone noticed. I was terrified lest he should lose his position. If he did, would I retain mine? How would we live?

It was when he began to call me ‘Felipe’ that my heart clenched with alarm. For some time now I had suspected that he had forgotten that I was his daughter Caterina, and truly believed I was a son. Now his confusion grew as I seemed to become, in his mind, my long-lost brother somehow come back to him. There was no one I could confide in but Sara, and she had worries enough of her own. I kept my fears to myself, but the more I tried to seal them up in my heart, the more they grew like some monstrous cancer, eating me up from within.

One evening very early in that spring of 1589, I returned late from the hospital to find Dr Lopez seated with my father in our small parlour, with a jug of malmsey and glasses on the table, and their heads together. The glasses must be a gift – a bribe? – for we normally drank from pewter. They stopped speaking when I entered, like guilty boys cheating over their lessons. What could be afoot? I discovered soon enough.

‘Good evening to you, Kit,’ said Dr Lopez, with a little too much geniality.

‘Shalom.’ I helped myself to a glass of malmsey and sat down opposite them. ‘Have I interrupted a private conference?’

‘Not at all, not at all!’ said my father. His eyes were bright and he looked more like his old self than I had seen him for days.

‘The plans for the Portuguese venture are nearly complete,’ he said. ‘Drake will command the fleet, aboard his ship Revenge, while Dom Antonio and our Portuguese party will sail in his ship, the Victory. Altogether we will have a hundred and fifty ships, and an army of thirty thousand to land at Lisbon.’

‘And when we land,’ said Dr Lopez excitedly, ‘the oppressed people of our homeland will rise up and join us, proclaim Dom Antonio as king, and slaughter the Spaniards to a man.’

And proclaim you, I thought, the Lord Burghley of Portugal. I saw coronets glittering in his eyes, and ermine robes, and country estates, and wealth beyond measure. A fine pinnacle indeed for a man who had come as a penniless refugee to London, and once filled my father’s humble role as physician to the city’s destitute and homeless.

‘Father,’ I said, thinking it best to have it out in the open, ‘Father, you do not intend to join this expedition yourself, I hope? For you are hardly strong enough for such an undertaking.’

‘I am younger than Hector Nuñez,’ he said petulantly.

‘If your father is not well enough,’ said Dr Lopez smoothly, ‘you may come in his stead, Kit.’

‘I have no wish to return to Portugal.’

I tried to keep the fear out of my voice, and found that I was clutching my glass too tightly. The bitter cold of the prison. The stench. The screams. My throat is raw with the screams. Lest I snap the stem, I forced myself to ease my grip on the glass.

‘Ah, but you might wish to follow the success of your father’s investment,’ said Lopez.

I felt my heart tighten in my chest till I could scarcely breathe.

‘Father? Surely you have not invested in the venture? We have little enough put aside.’

My father looked shifty, but Dr Lopez said smoothly, ‘Your father has kindly invested a thousand pounds, Kit, so you see, the success of our venture is of some interest to you after all.’

My hand flew to my mouth and I gasped in shock. The wine slopped over the rim of the glass and the stain of it spread over my knees. My father had handed over every shilling and groat we owned to this adventurer. Money painfully put aside over seven years, while we lived so shabbily and worked so hard. We had debts which must be paid – to apothecaries for supplies of herbs and other materials, to the butcher and fishmonger, to the alewife. I could scarcely hold back my tears, and when Lopez had left, I could restrain them no longer.

‘How could you, Father? You have gambled our future on this venture. What if it fails?’

Suddenly he looked frail and confused. ‘But Ruy has promised us all great profits from the voyage, and we could go home again, Felipe. I will return to my university once the Inquisition is driven out. We will live in our old house again; it’s so much better than this hovel, and your mother will have her garden that she loves so much!’

I felt chilled to the very bone. Felipe! He thinks I am my dead brother. And Mama . . . Our old garden. Oh, Papa, I am losing you. I could not berate him any more, but took his hand and stroked it, and said that perhaps all would be well in the end.

After this my father’s health grew worse, both in body and mind. He took it as agreed that I would sail with Drake and the others in his place, and do my part in freeing Portugal. I felt another trap closing about me. Portugal! The very name terrified me. I began to have nightmares again, the same dreams which had haunted me when we had first come to England. I was back in the prison of the Inquisition and could hear my mother screaming, but I could not reach her. The scars the scourges had raised on my back began to burn again with pain. I did not know whether this was a true physical pain, or some trick of my frightened mind, but it felt real enough. And I feared to leave my father. Some days he was brisk and eager, discussing plans for the expedition, then the cloud would descend over his mind and he would forget what he had just said, repeating it again and again, or wandering off into the streets until I fetched him home. Yet when I suggested that I should not go but stay with him, he grew angry and distressed. What should I do? Deep in my mind, a voice whispered that there was something I could do in Portugal, that my conscience would never be clear until I made the attempt. But I was mortally afraid.