Sacrilege

Chapter 16

The morning service passed, interminably slowly. All through the singing of the choir, the reading of the Gospel, and the monotone of the dean’s sermon, none of which I heard, Langworth glared across the carved stalls at me and Harry with a very unchristian light in his eyes, as if he hoped to wither us beneath his stare like a basilisk. Sun slanted through the high windows and lit the columns and the floor with geometric shapes in jewel colours. When I could tear my gaze away from Langworth’s I looked up to those windows, where glass undimmed by centuries of sunlight depicted the miracles of Saint Thomas, the procession of pilgrims to the shrine, their hands thrown up in simple joy as the saint’s bones give them back their sight, or their legs, or their children from the grave. Had they really thought, Langworth and his friends, that they could stage a miracle? Did they imagine people would believe in it? But why should they doubt it, I thought, recalling the trade in relics in my own country, the commerce of priests offering a touch of a weeping statue of the virgin for the chink of coins in their pockets, a statue they had engineered themselves to dispense tears at the appropriate time. For nearly four hundred years people had believed in the truth of the stories told in the windows above us in the cathedral, and they would want to believe again.

When the dean eventually pronounced the final blessing, I took Harry’s keys and tried to press my way out quickly ahead of him, leaving him to watch Langworth’s movements. The treasurer’s eyes followed me as I left, but he had been detained by the dean.

I nodded a brisk farewell to them both as I passed, and heard Dean Rogers saying, “No sign of Doctor Sykes this morning, John? I think we can forgive his absence in the light of his tireless devotion to the health of our town …”

I pushed through the congregation out into the precincts and rushed to the gatehouse. Tom Garth’s look of dismay told me immediately that Langworth’s words were true.

“You gave me your oath, Tom,” I said in a low voice, forcing my way into his small lodge.

He held his hands up as if in self-defence.

“He threatened me, sir. He said he knew you had been abroad in the precincts last night and I would be expected to say I’d seen you to the constable. He said if I lied I would lose my place.” He leaned in closer. “But I never said a word about Mistress Kingsley, I swear it.”

“But you will, if he threatens you again?”

He shook his head vehemently.

“No, sir—that was my promise. I reasoned if he knew about you already I couldn’t very well deny it without bringing myself trouble. But I won’t mention a word about her. And you won’t say anything about the gloves—?”

His eyes were full of fear. I sighed.

“No. But I need your help, Tom. Langworth wants to search Harry Robinson’s house—I need to put her somewhere else, just for this afternoon. Is there anywhere—an outbuilding, a shed, any place he wouldn’t think to look, that we can get her to easily?”

He considered for a moment and nodded.

“There’s an outbuilding behind the conduit house, the one that stands between here and Doctor Robinson’s house. It was used for storage, but there’s nothing much there now. I have the key—I reckon she’d be safe in there for a few hours.”

“Excellent. When the crowds have finished milling around, come and find me at Harry’s. We have to move quickly—Langworth will not want to waste time. He’s probably on his way to fetch the constable even now.”

I returned to the house. Harry arrived a few minutes later, confirming that he had seen Langworth heading in the direction of one of the side gates. I bounded up the stairs to see Sophia bundled again in the clothes of Olivier’s dead grandmother.

“They will find me this time for sure,” she said, her voice flat.

“Come now—where is your spirit?” I said, more cheerfully than I felt. “This is only until Langworth has satisfied himself with ransacking the house.”

At the foot of the stairs she came face-to-face with Harry for the first time. He gave a stiff little bow; she offered a shy smile in return. I watched her with interest; she has a way with men, I thought. All that fierce independence of spirit that I love in her—she knows how to suppress it when she senses modesty is required. She can lower her gaze and look demure with the best of them, but that expression hides a steeliness of purpose you might never guess at, unless you caught the flash of her amber eyes from under those lashes.

“I owe you a great debt, Doctor Robinson,” she was saying, and Harry had taken her hand in his. “If we all get through this, I shall try to find some way of repaying your kindness, if it takes me the rest of my life.”

“Well, I doubt I’ll be around for much of that,” Harry chuckled. “But do not talk of debts, Mistress Kingsley. There has been great wrong done here, in this holy place, and we must rely on Doctor Bruno to put it right, with God’s help.”

“I would trust Doctor Bruno with my life,” she said, with unexpected feeling. As she spoke, she met my eye with a smile and my anxieties almost melted away.

Tom arrived, good as his word, and when we were certain that there was no one about on the path to see us, he and I bundled Sophia between us close to the boundary wall of the cathedral and along as far as the conduit house. The outbuilding was added onto the back wall; its roof was threadbare in patches and was clearly used by gulls as a roost, judging by the quantity of guano spattered over the remaining tiles and the walls. The door was not especially sturdy but was secured by a rusting iron padlock, which Tom unlocked from a key on his belt. Inside the place smelled of mould. A decayed gardening implement leaned against one wall, and the remains of some sacking lay rotting in a corner.

“Never say that I do not take you to the finest places,” I murmured, as Sophia reluctantly stepped inside while Tom cast his eye over the grounds to make sure no one came. A brief smile flickered over her face, but quickly faded as she stood in the middle of the shed, wrapping her arms around herself, unsure of whether to sit.

“I have to lock you in,” I whispered, apologetically. “Just in case.”

“I know. Bruno?” she said, in a small voice. “Don’t be too long, will you?”

“I will be back as soon as Langworth has finished poking around,” I promised. “Here.” I lifted the leather satchel from my shoulder and handed it to her. “He must not find the book either. Keep it safe for me.”

“One day, will you tell me what is in it?”

“Perhaps. When I have worked that out for myself. For now, your only task is to keep still and silent.”

“Oh, I am good at that,” she said, with a sardonic flash of her eyes. “It is what women are taught to do all our lives.”

“Well, now your life depends on it,” I said, and closed the door on her.

Tom secured the padlock and gave me the key from his belt.

“Return it to me when you need to. And be assured, sir, my lips are sealed.”

“Thank you.” I hesitated. “Tom—if it comes to it, would you be willing to testify about the gloves? To say they never belonged to Mistress Kingsley?”

His large frame visibly trembled.

“I would be punished, would I not?”

“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “As long as the killer is brought to justice, it would be clear you only acted to protect yourself. You might hope for clemency.”

Tom narrowed his eyes.

“But you can’t promise the killer will be brought to justice, can you? And I might not get clemency.”

“The only evidence against Mistress Kingsley is that pair of gloves. Until you tell the truth, they could still hang her.”

“I will give it some thought,” he grunted, and walked away towards the gatehouse.

No one in this town has any faith in the law, I thought. I am the only fool here who thinks truth has a chance. A gull landed on the roof of the outbuilding and looked at me enquiringly with its yellow eye, its head tilted to one side. I prayed it would not shit through the holes on to my book, which I had no doubt Sophia was puzzling over even now.

When I returned to the house I found Harry shuffling about the kitchen at the back, peering into cupboards, lifting the lid on pots.

“Well, Harry. If you have anything hidden away in this house that you wouldn’t want Langworth to see, now would be the time to dispose of it. Letters, for instance.”

“I burn all Walsingham’s letters. I’m not a fool. Tell you what—they won’t find anything in this godforsaken kitchen, that’s for certain,” he grumbled, poking an iron spoon into the cauldron suspended above the empty grate to make his point.

“Yes, I hear you, there is no food here,” I snapped, exasperated. “Looking in every pot won’t change that.”

“And whose fault is that?” he shot back. “Who sent my servant out of town and promised to take his place? God knows I am Her Majesty’s loyal servant, but this mire you have dragged me into is not the crown’s business, it is all for the sake of your doxy!”

“Not the crown’s business? That you have sat by while a viper’s nest of traitors keeps guard over forbidden relics and plots to revive the greatest saint’s cult in England, as a direct rebellion against the queen? Is that not her minister’s business?”

“Keep your voice down, can’t you?”

We glared at each other for a long moment, until my anger subsided first and I looked at the floor.

“I’m sorry. I have asked a lot of you, I know. But we are on the same side, Harry.”

He pushed a hand through the front of his white hair and continued to look at me without speaking, his head to one side as if he were calculating the balance of my faults and my virtues.

“I have failed Walsingham here,” he said eventually, deflated. “It is I who should be apologising to him. If you had not come and seen what I should have seen long ago, Langworth and Sykes might one day have achieved their aim. And most likely more children would have died along the way.” He sighed and shook his head.

“The outcome is in the hands of the queen’s justice now,” I said.

“Let us hope he is competent,” Harry said, in a tone that did not inspire hope. “So many of them can be bought. Still, I will not argue with you, Bruno, not with my stomach growling like an angry bear. Get yourself round to the Sun Inn while there’s still time and bring back a dish of their beef stew, if they have it. And some pickled beetroot …”

I was turning to go when a brusque rapping sounded at the front door. Harry and I froze, looking at each other.

“Open up, Doctor Robinson,” came Langworth’s voice from outside. “I have the constable with me and two armed men. We demand the right to search your property for stolen goods.”

“Watch him like a hawk,” I hissed. “If he tries to pretend money was found anywhere here, we must contradict it on the spot, as eyewitnesses.”

Harry raised a sceptical eyebrow.

“You think that will help?”

Another knock; louder, more impatient.

“All right, all right,” Harry called. “Give an old man time to find his stick.” Under his breath he said to me, “Get upstairs and make sure there’s nothing of hers lying around that room.”

When I returned, taking the stairs two at a time, Harry’s small entrance hall was full: Langworth, Constable Edmonton, and two armed men in the mayor’s livery. I recognised one of them as one of the guards that had taken me to the West Gate prison; I nodded to him and he blinked hard, surprised, before nodding back, as if we were old drinking companions.

“Well, then,” Langworth said, barely troubling to conceal his pleasure at the prospect before him. “Constable, you begin upstairs. Find the Italian’s room. You know what you are looking for. I, meanwhile, will make a start in here.” He indicated Harry’s front parlour.

“Where shall I search, sir?” one of the guards asked, hand on his sword hilt.

Langworth looked at him with faint impatience.

“You are not searching anywhere. What we are looking for requires a practised eye. Your job is to keep the peace, and make sure the householders give us no trouble.” He eyed me with resentment.

“Yes—mind I don’t start a brawl and knock you to the ground, son.” Harry waved his stick at the guard in mock threat.

We followed Langworth into the parlour. He crossed to Harry’s desk and regarded the jumble of papers and books.

“This should prove interesting.” He lifted the topmost paper of one pile, gave it a cursory examination and discarded it on the floor.

“You will discover nothing there but my work, John,” Harry said, rubbing a hand across his chin. “Hard as you will find this to believe, there is an order to those papers, though it is known only to me. I would be grateful if you—”

Langworth waved a hand.

“We are investigating a serious crime of theft, Doctor Robinson, you can hardly expect us to observe all the niceties.” He tossed a pile of papers onto the floor and looked at Harry as if daring him to object. I watched Harry’s jaw working as he battled to master his anger. When Langworth turned his attention to the desk once more, I backed slowly out of the room. If Edmonton was poking about in the upper rooms, I wanted to be there to witness whatever he claimed to find there.

But I had hardly set foot on the stairs when there was more furious hammering at the door. I looked back at the guard in the hall.

“Reinforcements?”

He shrugged. Langworth emerged from the parlour, his mouth twisted in irritation, followed by Harry.

“Yes?” Langworth flung the door open to reveal Tom Garth, breathing hard, his face flushed. “What is it, Garth? We are all occupied here.”

“Masters—” Tom snatched a breath and his eyes flitted nervously from one face to the next. “There is a man at the gate just now wanting Constable Edmonton, as a matter of urgency. There’s been another killing, he says.”

“Another—? Good God. Call the constable down,” Langworth barked over his shoulder to the guard. I pressed closer, so that I could see the vein begin to pulse in his temple. “Did he say who it was, Garth?”

“Doctor Sykes, he says. Found in the river up past St. Radigund’s Street, where the two streams meet.”

“Sykes? No—”

Langworth staggered back a step; it was barely noticeable and he composed himself almost immediately, but I was near enough to see that this news had dealt him an unexpected blow. I was reeling from it myself. Over my shoulder I looked at Harry, who only opened his eyes wide in disbelief.

“Where is this man?” Langworth demanded, his voice firm again.

“Right here, sir,” Tom said, and stepped aside to reveal a young man, sweating profusely. When he saw Langworth, he ripped his cap from his head and stood twisting it between his hands.

“A woman saw the body in the creek, sir, just a few moments past,” he blurted. “Well, she screamed and run for the nearest house. My father and I pulled him out, sir.”

“Drowned?”

“No, sir, stabbed. Looks like he was put in the water after. He was weighted down.”

“What?”

“In the water. There was a stone tied around his neck with a rope, except it wasn’t really big enough for the job, he was still drifting with the current. We didn’t know it was him till we got him on the bank. You could only see his black robes billowing in the water.”

Edmonton came bounding down the stairs at this moment and elbowed me aside to stand at Langworth’s shoulder.

“This man says Sykes is dead,” Langworth muttered, and his voice grew shaky again. “We had better make haste—I cannot fathom …” He turned sharply to me, and if his face had been pallid before, it now seemed drained of all blood. “Where were you this morning?”

I looked at him, unblinking. “I? At the market, buying bread. Then at divine service—you saw me there yourself. Much as you would like me to hang for every crime in Canterbury, I cannot oblige you this time. Your friends are very unlucky, Canon Langworth, I must say.”

Langworth’s eyes flashed.

“You would joke over a man’s corpse, you—?” He made a choking sound, as if he could find no ready insult that would do me justice. With bared teeth he took a step towards me; he might have lunged there and then if Edmonton had not put out a hand to restrain him.

“Let us go and see this dreadful business, sir,” he said. “We can finish the search later. Come.” He gestured to the guards. “This fellow who fished him out can answer some questions on the way. You—can you bring us this woman who first saw the body?”

“I should think so, sir—my mother was giving her a glass of something when I came to fetch the constable.”

“Tell her to have a care for herself,” I called, from the hallway. “Tell her you can be arrested for merely finding a body in this town.”

“You would do well to keep your mouth shut until you open it before the judge,” Langworth said through his teeth.

“Come, Canon Langworth. Touch nothing, Harry Robinson,” Edmonton said in parting, holding up a warning finger. “We will return as soon as we are able.”

The four of them left together with the young man, still twisting his cap as if he feared he might be blamed.

Tom Garth remained on the path outside, staring at us.

“Come in for a moment, Tom,” Harry said, holding the door. “We may have no bloody food in this house, but I can put my hands on a bottle of wine. God knows we could all do with a drink, even if it’s not yet dinner time.”

Tom came in, apparently too stunned to speak, and the three of us settled around the kitchen table.

“Thank God that infernal heat has broken, at least,” Harry said, uncorking a bottle.

“Doctor Sykes,” Tom said, shaking his head, his eyes fixed on his glass. “Who would have thought.”

“Langworth didn’t kill him,” I said, leaning my elbows on the table and pressing my fingers to my temples. I could hardly begin to see where this latest news fit into the tangle of deaths and plots. “You could see it in his face. Unless he is the most skilled actor I have ever witnessed. He looked as if he’d taken a blow to the balls when he heard the news.”

“Besides,” Harry said, pouring out three glasses and knocking back his own in one draught, “he was within our sights almost all morning.”

“Sykes was alive this morning,” I said, trying to piece it together. “He was called out to the Kingsley house to confirm the old housekeeper dead—”

“Sir Edward’s housekeeper is dead?” Harry blinked. “Old Meg? That is sad news—she was a good woman.”

“My sister was fond of her,” Tom said, without looking up.

“It’s more than sad,” I said. “And it was no accident. But that is another matter. So Sykes left St. Gregory’s in time for the news to have made it to the marketplace by about eight o’clock this morning. Where did he go after that?”

“Into the river,” Tom said, helpfully.

“Not of his own will he didn’t, not with a stone—oh, Mother of Christ!” I looked at Harry. He nodded.

“I thought as much when the fellow said it.”

“ ‘But whoso shall offend one of these little ones, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea,’ ” I murmured. “It was a punishment.”

Tom lifted his head.

“I know that Scripture. A punishment for what?”

I looked at him for a moment, then fished in my purse.

“Tom—Doctor Robinson is near faint with hunger and likely to murder me if he doesn’t eat soon. Is there any chance you could send to the inn for some dinner? Here’s money—beef stew if they have any, and maybe a pie, and pickled beetroot. Oh, and bread. And get yourself a beer. I would go, but I should wait here in case Canon Langworth comes back with those apes.”

Tom took the shilling I held out and turned it admiringly in the light, as if impressed that someone like me could so easily lay hands on ready money.

“I will, sir. And would you like me to check on that outbuilding on my way, explain the situation?”

I clutched my head. Poor Sophia—I had almost forgotten her in the drama of Sykes’s death. Now we had no way of knowing when Langworth and Edmonton would be back to search the house, and she could not return until they had done so. At least she had something to read, I thought, and the hairs on my arms stood up to think of her trying to unlock the secrets of that book with her scant Greek.

“Thank you, Tom. Very much appreciated.”

“Least I can do really,” he said, with a sheepish smile, and stood up, knocking over his stool. It was difficult not to like this big, clumsy man, despite the fact that he had tried to condemn Sophia to save his own neck. I hoped I was not wrong to take him at his word.

After we heard the door slam closed behind him, Harry poured us each another glass and I continued to study the table, chin on my fist, as if the answer might be written in the coarse grain of the oak.

“It’s not a coincidence. It can’t be. Someone knew about the children. That’s what the stone was for.”

“Sure you’re not reading too much into it, Bruno? If you throw a body in a river, you want to make sure it sinks.”

“Then you would use a bigger stone. Someone wanted this gesture to be seen. But who in God’s name was it, Harry? Who knew about the children? Only you and me, and Old Meg, but she is dead. After that, only Langworth himself. And if the Widow Gray is right, the mayor is the fourth guardian, but could the mayor of Canterbury stab a man in broad daylight and throw his body in a river in the centre of town?”

“Could anybody, for that matter?” Harry peered into his glass. “You told the Widow Gray?”

“That’s where I was this morning.”

“When you should have been buying my bread.”

“Yes. Sorry. I wanted to test the theory of the miracle. She is the only one left who could testify to it before a judge.”

“You won’t get her to say a word against Langworth, no matter how often you bow and wink your big dark eyes at her, my friend,” he said, tracing the rim of his glass with a forefinger.

“I don’t suppose she could have …?”

Harry laughed.

“Sykes was three times the size of her. Stabbed him and rolled him into the river, on her own?”

“Then who else? The millstone—it was the verse the old monk quoted to me in prison, about the boys. It has to be. But who else knew about the boys? Could Langworth have confided to Nick Kingsley when he was there last night?”

“Langworth wouldn’t confide to Nick Kingsley where he keeps his ale.”

“No. Of course, the only one still at large is Samuel.” I raised my head and looked at him. He made a gesture of resignation.

“You hold no hope of him being on the road to London, then?”

“I don’t think he’s anywhere near London. Langworth wouldn’t let him. But I don’t see why he would need to kill Sykes, unless it was at Langworth’s order.”

“Perhaps Langworth feared Sykes would not be able to hold his counsel if he was questioned about the Becket plot. Perhaps he now thinks the only way to manage this is to do so alone.”

“But Sykes was essential to the whole scheme. Besides, to silence him would be one thing. Why the millstone? It draws attention to the business with the boys.”

“Only to us, who know.”

I sighed. “Perhaps you are right. I cannot make sense of it, Harry. God, what I would not give to search Sykes’s house. I’ll wager Langworth is there even now, tidying away anything that would expose him.”

“Before he comes back and throws my papers to the four winds,” Harry muttered.

WE DID NOT leave the house until Evensong. Harry tried to read, though his eyes were more often fixed on the looming shape of the cathedral through the window than on the page. I paced endlessly, trying to piece together the disparate parts of my defence for the assizes the next day. By now I hardly knew whether I should be defending myself and Sophia, or bringing charges against Langworth for the murder of the two boys. The more I tried to make a coherent case, the more ensnared I felt; I could not mention the dead boys without explaining the plot to revive the shrine of Becket, and that was part of information so sensitive it properly belonged to Walsingham’s ears alone. He would not thank me for airing it in a public courtroom with all the citizens of Canterbury looking on, agog. If enough of them learned that their beloved saint was still among them, they might even start a riot. But without an explanation of the boys’ murders, how could I hope to incriminate Langworth for the deaths of Fitch and Edward Kingsley? And I had no firm proof that Langworth killed Kingsley, except that he knew Kingsley was on the way to his house and he was the only person who could have gained access to the crypt to get hold of the crucifix.

Langworth and the constable returned with their armed guard shortly before Evensong. The canon treasurer was ghostly pale, his face grimmer than usual. He did not seem a man to shed tears, even for a friend; Sykes’s death seemed rather to have sparked in him a fiercer hostility. He carried himself now with the air of a man whose will has been thwarted, and who considers this a monstrous injustice for which someone must be made to pay. They tore the house apart with undisguised relish; I stood by with a hand on Harry’s arm as he stoically watched Langworth scattering his papers, rifling through his clothes, knocking his few ornaments to the ground. The only moment’s grace was when the canon attempted to poke about in the chimney breast in search of hiding places and dislodged a fall of soot on his own head. Stifling my laughter, I climbed the stairs to see what Edmonton was doing. I found him in my chamber, surrounded by scattered straw; he had slit the thin mattress open with a knife. When he heard my tread on the landing outside he started like a guilty creature and wheeled around, holding up a bag of money with a forced expression of triumph.

“As we suspected,” he said, bouncing it in his palm so that the coins chinked. “There must be at least ten shillings in here. That qualifies as grand larceny in a court of law. Grand larceny is a hanging offence, as you surely know.”

“Oh, please.” I leaned against the doorjamb, affecting a nonchalance I did not feel. “You took that from inside your own doublet this very moment.”

His ginger moustache twitched and he looked away. “Naturally you would try to deny it. Canon Langworth!” he shouted down the stairwell.

“It is laughable. I predicted this.”

“Oh, really? Because you knew you were guilty.”

“Not even a simpleton would be fooled by this trick. Do you take the queen’s justice for a fool?”

Langworth appeared behind me on the stairs.

“It may interest you to know that there is a locksmith in the town who will swear on oath that the other day you came in and asked him to make a copy of four keys. Keys you could only have stolen from my house, one of which is to the cathedral treasury. How do you answer that, signor—I’m sorry, I forget your name. You have so many, do you not?”

“I say it is pure speculation. But if you wish me to confess publicly to having been in your house and in the treasury, or rather beneath it, that could lead to an interesting discussion before the queen’s justice.”

Langworth flicked a glance at Edmonton, who looked from one to the other of us, perplexed.

“Don’t try to threaten me,” Langworth said, lowering his voice. “You will spend the night in gaol for this. Your friends in high places cannot reach you now.” His mouth curved into a slow smile, stretching his scar silver. I closed my eyes. I had thought I would have one last night with Sophia; if I were taken to the gaol, who would fetch her from the outbuilding? Who would protect her if Langworth and his thugs chose to come back unannounced and search the house again when I was out of the way?

Edmonton pushed me lightly, his finger between my shoulder blades.

“Let us go. Once again.”

Langworth turned and began to descend ahead of me, still wearing his cold smile. I saw no choice but to follow.

Harry turned pale and gripped the banister when he saw my face. I nodded to the bag in Edmonton’s hand. “Told you.”

“We are taking your houseguest back to the West Gate, Doctor Robinson,” Langworth informed him, with impeccable politeness. “I fear that money you put up for his bail has been wasted. Never mind—perhaps you will learn to be a better judge of character in future.”

Harry set his jaw and flexed his hands into fists. In spite of everything, I smiled; I could see how much he would have liked to punch Langworth in the mouth.

“I shall go to the dean right away,” he said to me.

“Doctor Robinson, this man has been caught stealing from the cathedral treasury—do you think the dean will want to vouch for his character now?”

“You are a snake, John Langworth,” Harry said, between his teeth.

“For shame, Doctor Robinson, is that how one canon of God’s church should speak to another? I fear you have been infected by the company you keep.”

At the front door, the two armed men closed in on either side of me. I looked up at the one I recognised from before.

“Hello. I begin to feel we are old friends.”

He smiled, then quickly straightened his face when he caught Langworth’s piercing look.

But outside in the precincts, by the Christ Church gate, our little procession was impeded by another, grander entourage coming in the opposite direction, from the gatehouse towards the cathedral. People clustered around a group of men, guarded as I was by liveried attendants with pikestaffs, but a good many more of them. Edmonton held up a hand and we slowed. Dean Rogers approached the mass of people from the direction of the Archbishop’s Palace, arms held wide, his usual anxious expression replaced by one of restrained delight.

The crowd parted, the men with pikestaffs moved aside, and from among them a tall, corpulent man in a black robe emerged into the light, his arms held out towards the dean. From his shoulders hung a cloak of black silk that rippled like molten metal.

“Richard,” he boomed, smiling broadly, in a voice that carried across the open ground to the cathedral and beyond. “As ever, your table and your company remain my one genuine pleasure at the end of this long road.”

He embraced the dean and kissed him on both cheeks. When he stepped back his fleshy face was running with sweat; he extended a peremptory hand behind him and one of the legion of young men in clerk’s robes jumped forward with a handkerchief.

“Welcome, Charles, welcome.” Dean Rogers clasped his hands. “It has been too long since you graced my table with your conversation, that is certain. But I fear you find our town in the grip of terrible events. The angel of death has descended on us with scant regard for estate or person …” He cast his eyes down, as if he expected to be chided for this dereliction of duty.

The big man rubbed his hands together with unseemly relish. “Yes, I heard about Kingsley, poor devil. And Ezekiel Sykes, only this morning. Canterbury is grown lawless since I was last here.”

As if it were not already obvious, Langworth turned to me with satisfaction and nodded towards the man in black.

“Justice Hale. There you see him. He dines tonight at the Archbishop’s Palace with the dean and all the city dignitaries.”

“Those that are left,” I said.

The dean looked around at the people jostling to have a sight of the justice. Over their heads his eyes fell on our party and his face collapsed in dismay.

“Canon Langworth? Constable? What is this—you are arresting Doctor Savolino a second time?”

Justice Hale looked at me with interest. Then he chuckled deeply, and the flesh around his eyes crinkled.

“God’s wounds, the man must be a shocking felon to need arresting twice. And hiding out in the cathedral precincts. Did he slip from your grasp the first time, Constable?”

Edmonton turned puce and began to stutter a response, but Langworth held up a restraining hand.

“This man was bailed on the wishes of the dean, Your Honour,” he said with a little bow, his voice smooth as cream. “While under the care of Doctor Robinson here, he contrived to rob my house and the cathedral treasury. Constable Edmonton is returning him to the gaol where he can do no more harm until he faces Your Honour tomorrow.”

Dean Rogers exchanged a look with Langworth and for the first time I saw at close quarters how much these two highest officials of the cathedral detested each other. I recalled what Harry had said about Langworth’s ambition to be elected dean and how he had been narrowly beaten by Rogers and his moderate supporters; clearly the rivalry between them was undiminished, and Rogers seemed determined not to be humiliated by Langworth in front of the justice. Silently, I thanked providence that Dean Rogers still appeared well disposed to me, even if just to spite Langworth.

“Robbed the treasury, eh?” The justice looked impressed. “I see you are an audacious fellow, whatever else you may be.”

He looked at me frankly and I held his gaze, my eyes steady, hoping to convey that I had no reason to fear him. He was perhaps nearing sixty, though his grey-flecked hair was thick beneath his hat and his size gave him a hearty air; he must have a strong constitution to be riding about the country several times a year to hear the assizes. Though his cheeks were webbed with crimson threads from fine wine, his eyes were sombre and flickered over my face as if with long practice; I sensed that beneath his good cheer was a steely will. I could only hope there was also wisdom and compassion.

Dean Rogers stepped close to the justice and whispered in his ear. Hale nodded, listening, and when the dean straightened up, he looked back at me with a hint of admiration in that appraising glance.

“Friend of the Sidneys, are you? Young Philip is a great favourite of the queen, of course. I knew Sir Henry a little, when we were younger. Now there was a fellow who could talk himself out of any scrape. England never had a finer diplomat. Well, tomorrow we’ll see if you have the same gift, won’t we?” His smile seemed genuinely amiable; we all have our parts to play in this pageant, he seemed to be saying, don’t take it personally.

I bowed my head in acknowledgement. The dean leaned in and whispered further; Hale looked from me to Langworth and Edmonton and frowned.

“I understand bail has already been paid for this man, is it not so?”

“If it please Your Honour, he has breached the terms of his bail by committing another grievous crime,” Edmonton said, tearing off his hat with anxious deference.

“Well, we don’t know for certain that he has, do we? That is what tomorrow’s process will determine, unless I very much misunderstand the law. Who has stood surety for this man?”

“I did, Your Honour.” Harry stepped forward.

Hale peered at him.

“And you would be …? A brother canon, I see. I’m sure we must have met.”

“Doctor Harry Robinson, Your Honour. Resident canon of the cathedral. I had the pleasure of dining with Your Honour at the dean’s table last year.”

“Did you? Age has addled my memory, I fear,” he said, smiling, then turned to Edmonton, his face abruptly serious. “I think, Constable, that if this man is bound over to appear before my court tomorrow and Doctor Robinson has already stood bail and is willing to vouch for him, there is no need to make him spend the night in gaol. I imagine it’s quite crowded enough there as it is, no?”

“Your Honour—” Edmonton began, flushing scarlet again, but Langworth cut in, taking a step towards Justice Hale as if to reason with him, man to man.

“With the greatest respect, Your Honour, Dean Rogers and Doctor Robinson have had their heads turned by this man. He is a plausible talker. If you leave him at liberty tonight, I predict he will commit some new harm against our community.”

“Why—do you have another one planned for me?” I shot back.

Justice Hale fixed me with a stern look, as you might give a precocious child.

“You would do better to hold your tongue for the present, sir. You shall have opportunity enough to entertain us with your plausible talk tomorrow.” I thought I detected a twinkle in his eye, but perhaps that was wishful thinking. “Italian, are you, by the sound of you?”

“Yes, Your Honour.”

“E cosa la porta en Inghilterra?” he asked.

I smiled, impressed.

“Trovo la sua nazione piu illuminata su questioni religiose, mio signore.”

He laughed again. “You are a Protestant, then, I deduce? Well, that’s a good start. He says he finds our country more enlightened in matters of religion,” he added, for the benefit of those listening.

I took the fact that he spoke Italian as a favourable sign. Clearly he was educated, and had a broader outlook than many of his countrymen, who considered all foreigners sons of the same Catholic whore. He was interrupted by a great cascade of bells that exploded from the cathedral tower like the thunder of the previous night, heralding the beginning of divine service.

“Ah, there we are—time for Evensong. Stand down your armed men, Constable, and let us go in and worship together like good Christians. Send them back to collect him tomorrow morning at seven o’clock—I’m sure Doctor Robinson will keep a close watch on him until then.” He turned to the dean. “Now, tell me, Richard,” he said, in a tone that declared an official change of subject, “is your choir still as celestial as I remember it? The music here is one of my chief pleasures on these visits, as you know—second only to your table, of course.” He hooked a heavy arm around the dean’s shoulders as they set off towards the west door and did not give us another look.

Edmonton glanced helplessly at Langworth, who turned to me, his sunken eyes lit with righteous anger.

“Do not imagine you have won.”

He stalked away, his robe snapping in the chill breeze that he seemed to generate himself. Edmonton, deflated, made a gesture to the guards; bemused, they lowered their pikes and stood awkwardly, looking around at the milling congregation as if uncertain as to their next orders.

Harry gave a brusque laugh and clapped me on the shoulder.

“Come. You had better be seen at Evensong, praying for God’s mercy.”

WE RETRIEVED SOPHIA from the outbuilding at dusk, when the congregation had dispersed and the senior canons gone to the dean’s banquet in honour of the justice, bundling her through the shadows and into Harry’s hall. She looked numb and shivered inside her shapeless cloak, despite the fact that it was a warm night. I left them alone in the kitchen and went to the inn around the corner for hot food, carrying the covered dishes back myself rather than risking the serving boy coming anywhere near the house. Sophia gulped it down like a beggar, the way I had seen her eat that first day in London. I watched her, wishing for a moment that she had not found me again. I brushed the thought away.

“I may as well have been thrown into prison,” she said, looking morosely into her bowl. “I spend my life being shut into small rooms as it is.”

“What I don’t understand, Mistress Kingsley,” Harry said, wiping a piece of bread around his plate, “is why you would return to Canterbury when you had already made it safely to London? Knowing there was a price on your head?”

“Because I didn’t want to live the rest of my life as a fugitive,” she said, raising her head, her eyes bright. She pinched the rough cloth of the skirt she wore and held it up. “In borrowed clothes. Looking over my shoulder, fearing someone would recognise me. I wanted my name cleared, for good. I thought Bruno would be able to find the person who did it. And then I would be free.” She sighed, and rested her cheek on her fist, as if the possibility of this was receding by the moment.

“And rich, I suppose,” Harry said casually, still looking at his bread.

“If I were cleared of murder, I would inherit the greater part of my husband’s estate, yes,” she said, defensive. “And it would be small recompense for what I suffered at his hands, I assure you.”

“Madame, I meant no harm,” Harry said mildly. We finished the meal in silence.

Later, when I blew out the candles in the upper room, she turned away from me and climbed under the sheet still wearing her shift. It seemed pointless in the circumstances to undress myself, so I moved in beside her in my shirt and underhose.

“Bruno,” she said, refusal in her voice before I had even reached for her, “I am exhausted, and afraid. I have spent all day in a shed with nowhere to piss but at my own feet, fearing every creak of the boards in the wind. Could we just …” She let the meaning hang in the air.

“Of course,” I murmured into her hair, allowing her to settle herself against my shoulder, willing myself to a gallantry I did not feel. “Did you read the book?” I asked, mainly to distract myself from the pressure of her left breast against my rib cage.

“I tried. It was impossible to understand.”

“All Greek to you.”

“That is the point—it is not all Greek. My Greek is poor but I can usually make out some of the meaning. Part of this book is written in a language I have never seen.”

I laughed.

“It is a cipher. The book was translated into Greek from a very ancient manuscript in Egyptian. The translator believed the knowledge it contained was so powerful that it should not be made visible except to a very few adepts.”

“Magic?” She raised her head an inch and I heard the animation in her voice.

“Beyond magic. I believe this book contains the last great secret of the Egyptian sage Hermes Trismegistus—the truth of how man can become like God.”

She whistled softly; I felt her breath tickle my neck.

“It must be very valuable.”

“Only a handful of people could recognise its true worth.” I pictured them: my friend John Dee, now living in Prague at the court of Emperor Rudolf; Lord Henry Howard, who had once almost killed Dee in pursuit of this book, and would have sent it down here to Langworth for safekeeping when he knew he was to be sent to prison and his house raided. “My patron, King Henri of France, is a great collector of occult manuscripts. I can barely imagine what he would be willing to pay for it. But I do not mean to sell it at any price,” I added.

“Have you broken the cipher?”

I smiled. “You have had more leisure to read that book than I ever have. But I will.”

“If anyone can, Bruno, it is you.” She laid her hand on my chest and I rested my cheek on her hair. For a moment it was possible to imagine that this was real, that tomorrow I would not be on trial for my life. “What will happen to us?” she whispered, as if reading my thoughts.

“I don’t know. The justice seems a sensible sort of man. He is friends with the dean, and the dean is anxious not to offend my connections at court, so perhaps it will go well for me. I still have hope that my letter will have reached my friend Sidney in time.”

I did not think they would dare to execute me on the spot, which meant there was still time for an intervention. If my letter had found its destination, I thought, with a brief wave of despair; the weavers would not know the urgency. They may spend two or three days in town attending to their own business before they remembered they had a message to deliver.

“And me?” she asked, in a small voice.

“If Tom Garth will find the courage to speak, it will weaken the case against you to know that the gloves were not yours. There is no other evidence against you.”

“Except that I ran, and took his money,” she murmured. “And that I gain most from his will. I thought you would find the real killer easily, like you did in Oxford.” There was a faint hint of accusation in her voice, and I bridled at it.

“Because you thought the answer was simple. You thought it was Nicholas. But I can only think it was Langworth, for some complex reason connected with the experiments on the boys and their plans regarding Becket. But I cannot prove it for certain. Not by tomorrow, anyway.” I took a deep breath. “I am sorry if you think I have failed you.”

“No.” She stroked a finger along my collarbone. “Perhaps it is I who have failed. I have failed all along, all my life. I must have been born under a very bad aspect.”

“You were just born to the wrong station in life,” I whispered into the top of her head. “A spirit like yours would have been better suited to being a princess.”

She laughed, a gentle bubbling sound against my chest. “Please, Bruno, aim higher. Queen, I think.”

“And yet, you know the queen of England lives every day in fear of her life too?”

“At least she has never been forced to take a husband,” she said, with feeling.

I slept; at least, I drifted in and out of sleep as the moon drifted among its violet tatters of cloud, its blue light slowly moving the shadows on the wall each time my eyes half opened. Sophia slept easily against my chest, her breathing rhythmic and soft, her face flushed and smooth as her eyelids twitched. The arm I had under her head grew numb but I kept still for fear of waking her. Hours passed. The moon was hidden, revealed, hidden again. And then, I heard it: a tread on the stair. The faintest of movements; as if a cat had approached the door. But my nerves sprang alive, the hairs on my arms prickled; in my gut I felt a sudden inkling of danger. Gingerly I retrieved my arm from under Sophia’s head and pushed myself upright, trying to keep quiet; might it only be Harry, shuffling about on the floor below, fumbling for his piss-pot in the dark? But the movement had sounded too close at hand. I felt for my knife and realised I had unbuckled it and left it with my belt and breeches on a chair against the far wall.

I was easing myself upright slowly when the door was pushed open and the shadow of a man loomed across the white wall opposite the bed. I made to move but he was at the end of the bed before I could shake off the sheet and in the thin light I caught the unmistakable glint of a knife. I hardly needed the moon to reveal him; the long nose, the gleam of his pale domed head.

“Well, well.” Samuel nodded at Sophia’s sleeping form. “Two birds with one stone, you might say. And you will die with your sins on you, which is no more than you deserve, you heretic dog.”

Sophia stirred and opened her eyes at the sound of his voice; dazed, she took a moment to comprehend the scene, but when she did she gave a little scream, which she stifled with her hand.

“Why didn’t you kill me sooner, if you meant to?” I asked, hearing the tremor in my voice.

Samuel considered this.

“We didn’t know how much you knew. But now you cannot be permitted to air your theories in a public courtroom.”

“How will you explain my death?”

He shrugged. “Not for me to explain. I am on the road to London, remember? I expect it will look as if Harry killed you in self-defence and then died of his own wounds.”

“Oh, God, no.” My stomach lurched and I tasted bile. “You have not killed Harry?”

“Not yet. But he cannot be left at liberty to repeat your suppositions to Francis Walsingham or anyone else.” His voice was remarkably calm. But then a man who could drop a dismembered child out of a sack onto a rubbish heap must be unusually free of emotion. “Now then.” He looked from me to Sophia with lascivious anticipation. “What would give you the greatest suffering, Bruno—to watch me kill her first, or to die yourself knowing I mean to have some sport with her while you bleed your life out on the floor like a slaughtered calf?”

Sophia muffled a sob and pulled her shift tight around her legs, hugging her knees to her chest. I glanced over Samuel’s shoulder to where my knife lay; any attempt to lunge past him for it and he would stick his blade straight in me. My best hope was somehow to distract him and then to kick him in the arm holding the knife while his attention was divided. It was not the first time I had kept the threat of death at bay by talking; it was worth a try again.

“Why did you kill Sykes?” I blurted.

“What?” He sounded irritated by the question. “I did not kill Sykes, you fool.”

“Then who did?”

“You tell me.”

I stared at him, perplexed.

“I? What would I know? You killed him, surely, on Langworth’s order, like you killed Fitch.”

He made a small, impatient movement with his head.

“Fitch was becoming a problem. He didn’t know how to keep his mouth shut. When Sykes saw him talking to you that day, knowing who you were—we had to make sure he said nothing else.”

“So you killed him because of me?” I thought of the apothecary’s merry laugh.

“It would have happened sooner or later.”

“And Sykes?”

“I told you—I didn’t touch Sykes. Do not think to delay me with this. I will do what I came here to do.” He took a step closer to my side of the bed, his knife held out. I gathered my strength and kicked out at his hand, but he had anticipated the movement and circled it deftly away, the tip of the blade grazing my foot. “Save your energy for your prayers,” he said through his teeth, and took another step towards me, blade poised.

He was perhaps three feet away now; one good thrust and he could strike me from there: face, chest, stomach. In the dim light I saw the shine of his eyes as they flickered over me, anticipating the best spot for the first blow. Then, a sound, unexpected; I felt Sophia tense and sit up. Samuel must have heard it too; he hesitated for the space of a heartbeat, knife half raised, and almost turned. There was a movement, a slicing and a rush of air, then a sickening crack and he seemed to crumple like a straw effigy, first to his knees and then onto his side. Behind him, in the doorway, Harry stood in his nightgown, a poker clutched in his shaking hands.

“He would have killed you,” he mouthed, staring at Samuel’s prone form and his own makeshift weapon in amazement.

“I thought you couldn’t get up the stairs,” I said, feeling my own limbs beginning to tremble in the aftershock.

“Well, I can when I need to,” he said, transfixed by the scene in front of him, as if he could not quite believe it was his own doing. “I couldn’t sleep. I heard the key turning in the front door—my ears are still good, if nothing else. I knew it could only be him. He would have killed you,” he repeated, almost mechanically, and I realised he was justifying his actions to himself, reassuring his conscience, or his God, that he had had no choice.

Then, as suddenly as if he himself had been struck with a poker, his legs seemed to give way beneath him and he slumped against the wall, his free hand flapping in vain as if searching for his stick. Snapped out of my daze, I leapt across the bed and caught him under the arms before he fell, guiding him gently to sit on the bed. Sophia subsided into quiet sobs, her face pressed into her knees. I did not know which of them to comfort first.

“Let us thank God that we are all alive,” I said, exhaling slowly. “The question is—what do we do with him?”

We all looked at Samuel, who chose that moment to let out a guttural moan as blood bubbled from his nose. Sophia jumped back with another little scream.

“Better thank God that he is still alive too,” Harry muttered, but I could hear the relief in his voice. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve. He had feared the stain of murder on his soul.

“We must get him upright,” I said, picking up the knife that had fallen from Samuel’s hand. I shouldered him into a sitting position against the wall with a strange sense of familiarity; it seemed only moments since I had done the same for Nick Kingsley. “If they only knew—I haven’t murdered the man they claim I did, but I have nearly killed three others since I’ve been here.”

“I nearly killed this one, Bruno, don’t take all the glory.”

I looked at Harry and we both broke out laughing; after staring at us blankly for a moment, Sophia joined in and the three of us must have sounded like tavern drunks, doubled over and wiping tears from our faces in sheer relief, until Samuel groaned again, a throaty, bestial sound, and slid sideways.

“He must be kept safe somewhere until tomorrow,” I said, as if sobering up.

On the floor by the bed, Sophia had dropped the voluminous dress of Olivier’s grandmother; I found one of the underskirts made of a rough heavy linen and began to tear through it with Samuel’s knife, until I had cut it into long strips. With Harry holding Samuel’s body up, I bound the servant’s wrists tightly together behind him, did the same with his ankles, and tied three thick strips around his mouth.

“Can he breathe through that?” Harry asked, peering anxiously into Samuel’s unseeing face. “If his mouth is filled with blood?”

“We’ll have to take our chances. Come now, both of you—we’ll have to get him down the stairs and lock him in his own chamber. Keep him here until we are ready to have him fetched before the justice. And Langworth must not know Samuel was unsuccessful tonight, or he may try something else.”

Between us, Sophia and I manoeuvred Samuel’s limp body down the stairs to the first floor and into the small bedchamber he had used at the back of the house. It was plainly furnished, with no sign of personal belongings save a wooden chest in one corner, secured with a padlock. Sophia’s strength belied her slender frame, and we hauled Samuel until he was propped against a stool by the wall. I retied his hands around one leg of the stool; it was not fixed down, but it would make it harder for him to free himself. Harry took a ring of keys from his servant’s belt and clicked through them until he found the one he wanted. At the door, he paused to take a last, pitying look.

“Don’t be sentimental, Harry,” I warned, seeing his expression. “He meant to kill you after me.”

Harry sighed. “And yet he seemed a loyal servant for so many years.”

“Even while he was passing every detail of your business to Langworth for money. Come now,” I said, stifling a yawn, as Harry locked Samuel securely into the room, “I doubt we shall sleep more tonight. Let me warm some wine—we would all be glad of a drink.”

Downstairs, in the kitchen, when Sophia had returned to bed, Harry sat at the table swilling the dregs of his wine around the glass.

“You love that girl,” he remarked, not looking at me.

“I …” I looked away. It seemed fruitless to finish the sentence.

“Will you marry her? You should, you know,” he added, in a tone of mild reproach, when I did not reply.

“I have no means to support a wife, Harry. Besides, I don’t know if she would have me.” Even as I spoke, I felt I did know. Sophia did not want another husband. The point about Sophia, I wanted to tell him, was that you would never be sure you really had her. That was her appeal—beyond her beauty, it was this sense that she belonged wholly to herself, and always kept something in reserve. She was as elusive as the true meaning of that book upstairs in its wooden casket, and bred in me the same unsatisfied longing. But I was too tired to try and explain any of this.

“Even though she has married you in the sight of God?” He raised an eyebrow. Meaning, because I had taken her to my bed.

To my knowledge, Sophia had already married three men in the sight of God in that sense, and quite possibly more. For myself, I doubted God concerned Himself too far with such things; with Christendom still tearing itself apart over the true substance of a piece of bread and a glass of wine, did He really have time to count? I didn’t say this either. We sat in sympathetic silence, like two bruised survivors of a skirmish, until the dawn light filtered through the small casement and Harry suggested I heat a bowl of water for a shave.