Sacrilege

Chapter 17

Sophia lay sleeping in a slant of sunlight, her lips parted, one hand slightly curled against the sheet beside her face like a child’s. I stood in the doorway, hardly liking to wake her, torn between the need for some words of comfort, some recognition of all that I was facing on her behalf, and the desire to leave her in what might be her last untroubled moments. If I was found guilty at the assizes, there would be no more bail, no avuncular generosity from the justice unless I could find a means to speak to him in private, but it would be easy for them to deny me that. I would be taken directly to the gaol to await my punishment and then it would only be a matter of time before she was found and sentenced, and Harry with her as an accomplice.

I stole across the room and slid the wooden casket containing the book from my leather satchel, all the while keeping my eyes fixed on Sophia. At least if the house was searched they would not find this. With my knife, I levered up the nails holding one of the floorboards next to the bed, so that I could prise it up far enough to slide the box into the cavity above the rafters. After it I pushed my purse containing what remained of my money, the fragments of the letters I had taken from Fitch’s hearth, Langworth’s keys, and the dead boy’s Saint Denis medal; those, too, needed to be kept safe until I could put them into the right hands, and I suspected anything I owned would be taken from me before the trial. Especially a weapon, I thought, reluctantly placing my bone-handled knife in its sheath on top of the casket and fitting the board back into place, its nails loosely resting in their holes.

I lowered myself onto the bed beside her and leaned my newly shaven cheek towards her face. She stirred; the long dark lashes fluttered and those leonine eyes slowly focused on me. Briefly she smiled, then it was as if a cloud passed overhead, driven by a strong wind, and her face altered as she recalled the day.

“Wish me luck,” I whispered, stroking a finger gently along the line of her collarbone. “Whatever happens, do not move from here until I come for you.”

“And if you cannot?”

“Then you wait for Harry.”

“Will he go to the courthouse with you?”

“I think he must. It would look odd if he stayed away, after he has paid my bail.”

Her eyes flickered to the door.

“The man downstairs …?”

“He is secure, don’t worry.” I glanced at the floor under the window. “Harry’s poker is still there, just in case.”

“Don’t joke about it, Bruno.” She placed her hand over mine. “You have risked your life for me.” Tears welled silver against her lashes. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“When this is over, if we survive—perhaps there is something we could talk about.”

She rolled her eyes in mock resignation: of course, what else could a man want. I shook my head.

“Not that.” I smiled. “Although that too. But something else.”

“What?”

I hesitated. In the hour before dawn, when I had kept my silent vigil in the kitchen with Harry, I had weighed his words and almost persuaded myself it might be possible. With my pension from King Henri of France and the money I earned from Walsingham, might I not have enough to keep a wife, if we lived modestly? And if my book were presented to Queen Elizabeth, if she saw fit to patronise it, the sales might give me a steady income … I could live quietly, give up these misadventures I seemed to fall into as other men fall in and out of alehouses; write my books, keep an eye on the French ambassador for Walsingham, make a place I could call home. If, if, if. If Sophia would say yes.

“It will keep. Let us unravel this Gordian knot first.” I kissed her on the forehead and stood. At the door I paused. “Pray for me?”

She sat up and looked at me with a sad smile. “I don’t pray anymore, Bruno, and neither do you.”

“Still. Today of all days, it might be worth a try.”

AT SEVEN O’CLOCK, Harry stood in the hallway, fully dressed, considering his face in a small mirror that hung by the front door.

“You’ve not done a bad job,” he said, tilting his head to one side and rubbing his chin. “If needs must, you could scrape a living as barber.”

“It may yet come to that.” I looked at him. “And how do I look? Like a felon, or a friend to kings and courtiers?”

“One may be both,” Harry said, with a faint smile. “You still look like a handsome pirate, Bruno—I fear no barber can solve that for you. It’s something about your eyes.” Then his face grew serious. “I have been thinking. This business with Langworth and Becket and the dead boys—” He broke off and shook his head. “I fear it is too sensitive for the public assizes. You have not seen the way the crowds gather, as if it were for a bearbaiting. If they learn that the bones of their saint are still beneath the cathedral, there may be a riot. They could tear up the crypt in pursuit of him. And we are talking about matters of treason—the security of the realm. Matters that should reach Walsingham’s ears before anyone else’s.”

“Walsingham is not here.” I sighed. “I have done my best, Harry. Either my first letter has reached him or it has not.”

“We need to tell the justice who you are and what you are doing here,” Harry said.

“How am I to do that? They will hardly grant me a private audience with him.”

“No, but he might admit me. If I can get near him in time.”

A rap at the door, on the stroke of seven; Edmonton and his armed guards stood outside in the morning sun. The constable looked particularly pleased that he was finally allowed to do his job; he seized my sleeve and manhandled me down the step to the path. I pulled my arm free and he glared at me with distaste.

“You are a prisoner like any other today, sir,” he said, wrinkling his nose as if I still smelled of the gaol. “Any trouble and you will be clapped in chains until you stand at the bar, bail or no bail. And that includes speaking with disrespect to officers of the law.”

“I will walk with you to the gate,” Harry said, taking up his stick and casting a last anxious glance up the stairs before closing the door behind him. “Then I shall make my way to the courthouse, see if I can be admitted.”

At the gatehouse Edmonton stopped us and disappeared into Tom Garth’s lodge, leaving us with the guards on either side, their pikestaffs raised as if to look official.

“One thing I find curious,” I said, lowering my voice and leaning in to Harry while I had the chance. “Do you think Langworth meant for Nicholas Kingsley to be blamed for his father’s murder?”

“What makes you say that?” Harry whispered back.

“Tom Garth said the boy was convinced his father had sent for him that evening, while he was dining with the dean. But Nick wasn’t even admitted to the Archbishop’s Palace, so his father clearly didn’t. Was it Langworth who sent Nick a message in order that he would be seen in the cathedral precincts the night his father was killed?”

“Possible, I suppose. Although I don’t see that it helps you now.”

“If we could find the person who carried the message to Nick, he could say who sent him.”

“I fear you may be too late for that now, even if Nick Kingsley were inclined to help you.” He laid a hand on my arm. “God go with you, my boy. I wish I could accompany you all the way, but they will not walk at my pace.”

“And I wish I did not have to leave you here with a fugitive and a would-be assassin,” I whispered in his ear as I embraced him. “And you have not even had your breakfast.”

He laughed. “I shall have to hope that French girl comes back. I might persuade her to fetch me some bread.”

“What French girl?” I said, drawing back and looking at him.

“The one that came yesterday morning when you were out. Came to see your friend upstairs,” he added, barely audible. “I didn’t like to let her in, but there was no one around to see, and she was very insistent.”

“Hélène?” I frowned. “Sophia didn’t mention it.”

“I don’t know her name. I recognised her though, nice girl. The minister’s daughter.”

“Minister?”

“Try not to repeat everything like a simpleton when you’re at the bar, won’t you? The Huguenot minister. I forget his name.”

I stared at him as if he had suddenly begun speaking the language of the Turks.

“But what did …?” I began, but Edmonton strode over and interrupted, his hands behind his back.

“Sorry to break up your sentimental farewell, gentlemen, but this prisoner must be taken without further delay. And since the people like to know that things are done properly in this town, I’m afraid you must walk through the streets as befits one charged with capital offences.” With a triumphant smile, he brought out a set of manacles from behind his back, joined with a thick chain.

I held out my hands without protest, still staring at Harry, my mind spinning so fast I barely felt the pinch and snap of metal around my wrists. It seemed to me that time had slowed to a trickle, so that I could see the earth turning moment by moment, all the pieces falling into place as if through water, one by one. A gull cried overhead and I looked up to see thin drifts of white cloud chased across a perfect blue sky. Now I understood—and I had to decide what I would do with that understanding. I turned as the guards nudged me towards the gate to see Harry leaning on his stick, his lips moving in what I supposed was silent prayer. In that moment I envied him the certainty of his faith; mine had shattered. I bowed my head and prepared to be led in chains past the jeering crowds.

THE ASSIZES WERE to be held in the Guildhall, being the only public building of sufficient size to contain the justice, his retinue of clerks and associates, the mass of accused prisoners, and the hordes of townspeople who came to watch for want of any better entertainment. The Buttermarket was already filling up with onlookers as we emerged from the shadow of the gatehouse; I had barely stepped into the sunlight when something whizzed past my ear and struck the guard on my right in the shoulder. I ducked out of instinct, turning to see him retrieve a limp cabbage and hurl it back where it came from.

“It’s not personal,” he said, in a matter-of-fact tone. “They just like to make a noise and throw things. You could be anyone in chains, they wouldn’t care. It’s part of their day out, you know.”

“Thank you,” I said, swivelling my head from side to side on the alert for missiles.

“You will be taken into the holding room with the other prisoners who have been brought from the gaol,” Edmonton explained as we walked, evidently taking pride in airing his knowledge and quite unconcerned by the intermittent bombardment of vegetables. “The prosecutors and witnesses will be sworn in by the marshal. After this, the prisoners are called to the bar to hear the charges read. Cases of blood always take precedence,” he added, with a smirk.

I could barely concentrate. Harry’s last words to me had had the effect of opening a shutter and allowing a shaft of light into a dim room, so that everything that had once been only outline and shadow now stood clearly illuminated. And the result was horrifying. I caught Edmonton’s last phrase and looked up.

“Cases of blood?”

“Crimes for which the punishment is death.” The smirk widened into a sideways smile. “Then you make your plea, guilty or not guilty—”

“Not, as I have said a thousand times.”

“—after which the jury will hear witnesses, the justice will direct them to a verdict, they retire to consider, then they return their verdict and the justice will pass sentence on those found guilty. He is efficient, Justice Hale. I’ve seen him work through as many as fifty cases in a day.”

“Fifty? But how can they possibly weigh the evidence for each one in that time?”

Edmonton only gave an unpleasant laugh, as if my naïveté were comical.

“And I?” I asked. “When do I see my counsel?”

“Your what?” He turned to look at me, mouth open, as if I had made a great joke.

“A man of law who will speak for me against the charges.” I heard my voice rise, panicked. Edmonton stopped still in the street, hands on his hips, his neat moustaches trembling with suppressed laughter.

“Oh dear—did you really think …?” He shook his head indulgently, as if at a slow child. “I’m afraid English law does not permit counsel for those accused of capital crimes. Now, if you stood accused of stealing five shillings, you would have a man of law to speak for you. But not for murder. It is one of those funny little quirks. The idea being, I suppose, that to hang a man the evidence must be so clear that there can be no defence.”

“But the evidence against me is all fabricated,” I said, through my teeth. “I must be allowed to challenge it!”

“You will have the chance to answer the charges,” he said, in a soothing tone, resuming his pace. “But you would be well advised not to raise your hopes.”

The crowds lining the street grew denser as we approached the Guildhall. Outside the main door, a handful of men on horseback in city livery did their best to hold back the press of people, but it was almost impossible to get in the door. Men stood on each other’s shoulders, straining for a glimpse in the windows, while women shrieked vague generic abuse as we passed.

“They are ripe for a hanging,” Edmonton murmured as our guards used the shafts of their weapons to encourage a path through the crowd. “Too many acquittals at the last assizes, they went home disappointed. People do like to see justice done, don’t they?”

“Well, they have not much hope of that here,” I said.

“Your quick tongue will avail you nothing with Justice Hale,” he said over his shoulder as he tried to elbow his way through to the door. He spoke as if the justice were an old drinking partner, a friend he had known for years. “He likes proper decorum in his courtroom. For pity’s sake, good people, let us through or there will be no trial today at all!” he bellowed at the broad goodwives in their best caps and bonnets, dressed up as if for a carnival.

On the threshold I lifted my hands, the chains rattling, and clutched at Edmonton’s sleeve.

“Constable? May I have one request?”

He turned to me with a face of incredulity and brushed my fingers away from his arm as if they might leave a stain. “What do you think you are, a nobleman in the Tower? Even now, you think you merit special treatment just because Harry Robinson was fool enough to pay your bail?” When I did not respond, he sighed. “Well, what is it?”

“I wish to speak to Dean Rogers.”

“Before you are called? Impossible. Why?”

“I would like him to pray with me. I am sure he would not refuse.”

Edmonton hesitated.

“If my friends at court should learn that I was refused that comfort, it will go the worse for you.”

“Yes, yes. Your friends at court. Sing another song.” But he looked uncomfortable. “Make way for the prisoner there!” he called out, as the guards drove back the spectators to allow us to enter the Guildhall.

The crush of people was even greater in the entrance hall, and small skirmishes were breaking out as the crowd fought with one another for access to the main hall. I was dragged through to an anteroom guarded by two solid-looking men holding pikestaffs at a slant across the doorway. A clerk of the court with a portable writing desk slung around his neck stood outside and looked up, enquiring, his pen poised.

“Filippo Sav— What is your name, Italian?” Edmonton snapped, turning to me.

“Savolino,” I said to the clerk. He ran a finger down his list and nodded.

“Murder, attempted murder, and grand larceny,” Edmonton added with emphasis, as if I might be confused with another Filippo Savolino there on lesser charges. The clerk made a mark in his register and nodded to the guards, who lowered their weapons and allowed us to pass.

The stench in this room hit you like a fist in the throat, the sick-bed, sewer stink of the gaol; at least fifty men and women were packed together as tight as cattle in a market, staring large-eyed at the door with blank faces. Seeing them here, in stark daylight instead of the gloom of the West Gate cell, they reminded me of pictures of the damned I had seen in frescoes; gaunt with hunger, misshapen with disease, their eyes already dead. For many of them, I supposed, this was death’s waiting room, the trial a mere shuffling of papers on their way to the gallows. They were curiously silent, the only sounds a muffled weeping and the slither and clink of chains whenever any of them moved. Looking at some of them, it was hard to feel death would not be a kindness.

Edmonton had his sleeve pulled across his mouth against the foul air, so that his words could barely escape.

“Get in. Now you wait here to be called. Use the time to pray for mercy, I should.” Behind his arm he was smirking again.

“And Dean Rogers?”

He made some dismissive noise and turned on his heel. The door was closed after him.

I was forced to stand, pressed in on either side by the mass of prisoners. Across the room I saw the old monk, Brother Anselm, and sent him an encouraging smile, but he only stared, unfocused. I suspected his eyesight was not good enough to recognise me. Either that, or he was beyond encouragement, like most of those manacled together in here. I closed my eyes and retreated into my theatre of memory, that system of corresponding wheels and images that had made my name in Paris and brought me to the notice of King Henri, which in turn had led to his sending me to London, which had brought me here, to face trial at a provincial assizes alongside coiners and horse thieves. All for a woman and a book, as Sidney had said.

I knew now who had killed Sir Edward Kingsley and Doctor Sykes. I just had to make certain. And then I had to decide what I would do about it.

Minutes stretched out; I do not know how long I waited there. One of the older women passed out and fell, dragging down those manacled to her; someone else pissed themselves where they stood, past any care for human dignity. Hemmed in on both sides, I retreated into my thoughts, feeling that a hole had been ripped through me, as if with cannon-shot.

After a while the door opened a crack and the clerk’s face appeared in the opening.

“Where is the Italian?” he said.

I shuffled forward, raising my hands. The chains were growing heavier and my shoulders ached from the weight of holding them. He beckoned me forward and stepped back as I passed him, as if to avoid contagion.

Dean Rogers stood outside, his long face tight with anxiety.

“They said you wanted to pray?”

So Edmonton was afraid of my connections after all. I nodded. “I also needed to ask you something.”

“Whatever I can do.” He glanced around, then leaned closer. “I have spoken to Justice Hale on your behalf. But—the evidence …” He trailed off uncertainly.

“I understand. I just need to know if anyone apart from you has a key to enter the crypt.”

The dean frowned.

“Normally, no one but myself. Although,” he added, with a dismissive wave, “some weeks ago I did give a copy to the minister of the Huguenot Church, for access to their little chapel, but in practice he does not need to use it. They hold their services during the hours when the crypt is unlocked. Why do you ask?”

“What is his name, the Huguenot minister?” My mouth had dried and the words came out cracked.

“He is a lay minister only, but he is ordained. Pastor Fleury. Jacques Fleury, the master weaver. But has this anything to do with your case?” he asked, concern in his eyes.

“I—” I looked up at him. “Will you pray with me now?”

“Of course.” He laid a hand on my shoulder and embarked on some benign platitudes in his pleasant, soothing voice. I was grateful for the sentiment, but my thoughts were elsewhere. When he had finished, the clerk cleared his throat and opened the door into the anteroom.

“The prisoner ought to go back until he is called,” he said, apologetically.

“Have you seen Harry? Is he here?” I whispered to the dean, as the guards ushered me towards the door.

He shook his head. “Not yet. I fear he may not be able to get through the crowds with his leg. Now I must take my seat in the courtroom. God be with you, Doctor Savolino.”

I thanked him and submitted to being returned, none too gently, to my fellow prisoners. Had Harry found his way to Justice Hale in time to explain everything? I would only know the answer when I stood to face him.

I was crushed next to one prisoner whose head hung towards the floor as if he had fallen asleep standing up.

“Are you a Canterbury man?” I asked, nudging him in the ribs.

He raised his head slowly and stared at me, amazed at being spoken to. I recoiled a little at the running pustules around his mouth.

“Born and bred. And shall die here today, most like,” he said, as if it no longer mattered.

“Where is St. Radigund’s Street?” I asked. He blinked slowly.

“Out by the old Blackfriars. You know,” he said, when I looked blank. “Crosses the river a little way past the weavers’ houses.”

“The weavers’ houses,” I repeated, nodding. The man looked at me for a moment longer, then hung his head again. He did not ask why I wanted to know. When you are facing the gallows, such things have no importance.

THE COURTROOM ITSELF was less chaotic than the entrance hall and anterooms; here, at least, benches were provided along one side of the room for citizens of status, though people were packed standing into the spaces behind and to every side. The air was smoky and smelled strongly like the apothecary’s shop; in each corner, braziers stood on tall tripods burning aromatic herbs to ward off gaol fever. It must have been near to midday by the time I was led in along with nine other prisoners, including the old monk, all of us indicted for cases of blood; we were hustled into a corner behind a low wooden barrier. At the far end of the room a raised dais had been built, where Justice Hale sat at a broad table covered with piles of papers and surrounded by his retinue of earnest, black-robed clerks and juniors. Around his neck he wore a silver chain with a round pomander, which he raised frequently to his nose as protection against the pestilence. To his right, twelve grim-faced men shifted on their benches, arms folded. This, I guessed, was the jury; they did not have the look of men you would turn to for compassion. The murmur of conversation swelled as we filed in, chains clinking rhythmically like a tolling bell; I glanced up and saw that Hale was looking at me. Our eyes met and he held my eye for a moment with a grave expression, but he gave nothing away.

The prisoners were taken up one by one to the bar to face the prosecutor and hear the charges against them read. The old monk, Brother Anselm, was the first to be called; as the guards unfastened him from the chain and shoved him to his place, I glanced around the courtroom. Dean Rogers was seated among the city dignitaries, as was Langworth, his brow drawn, the scar pressed white with apprehension. I had not missed the expression that flashed across his face when I was led into the hall; if he had depended on my being found dead in my bed this morning, he allowed his displeasure to show for only for a moment. He would have some other weapon up his sleeve, I had no doubt. Among the onlookers standing I saw Tom Garth and the Widow Gray; Rebecca and Mistress Blunt; Nicholas Kingsley and his hangers-on. There was still no sign of Harry. I closed my eyes, as if that might shut out the pain in my chest. Twice the justice tried to speak over the din of conversation, but the crowd were so animated, talking and pointing (for the most part, I was conscious, at me), that the court bailiff had to shout for order and thump his staff on the floor several times before Hale could make himself heard.

A witness stepped up to say he had found the old monk beside the dismembered body of a young boy on a midden outside the city wall one morning when he was bringing his cart in for the market; Brother Anselm tried to explain to the bench what he had told me, but in his distress he became incoherent, clutching at his clothes and lapsing into Latin. When he spoke his plea of not guilty there was a chorus of loud boos and hisses from the onlookers. I watched, dismayed, as three of the jurymen turned to confer among themselves with barely disguised contempt. Another seemed more interested in the movements of a fly on the ceiling, leaning back with his hands folded behind his head, and another was quite brazenly falling asleep, his chin slumped onto his chest. Occasionally he would jerk upright and look around, as if unsure where he was, before his lids began to droop again. To sit through fifty or more of these cases unpaid would test any man’s patience, I supposed, but my gut twisted with anger at the thought that any man could be so casual with another’s life. Hale nodded for the old man to stand down. As he was taken from the bar, his eyes cast around wildly and landed on me, wide and pleading. “Speak for me, brother!” he cried out, as he was led back to us. “You know the truth!” I nodded, hoping to offer him some comfort, but that only caused more whispering and pointing in my direction.

Hale shuffled papers, made notes, replaced his quill carefully in its stand, sniffed his pomander, and eventually looked up from his list.

“The Italian, Filippo Savolino.”

I was led out to the bar accompanied by a groundswell of murmuring that rose to such a crescendo that again the bailiff had to bang his stick for silence. I confirmed my name on oath, thinking as I did so that I had already perjured myself, so in a sense I was at liberty to say anything.

“One count of murder and robbery, of the apothecary William Fitch. One count of attempted murder and robbery, of Master Nicholas Kingsley. Two further counts of robbery—of keys from the house of Canon John Langworth and money to the value of ten shillings from the treasury of Christ Church cathedral. Quite a tally, for a man who has not been in the city a week, is it not, Master Savolino?” He raised an enquiring eyebrow, then glanced again at the paper in front of him. “Forgive me—Doctor Savolino.”

I bowed my head in acknowledgement.

“What are you a doctor of?”

“Theology.”

“Well.” He laid one large hand flat on the desk. “It will please the goodmen of the jury to know that I will not test this claim by engaging you in theological debate.” There was a smattering of polite laughter. He gave me a long, steady look, but his face was still unreadable. “Either you are a most heinous felon, travelling under false credentials and taking advantage of good men of this town to work your foul purposes”—here he left a little pause, enough to allow a hum of approval from the crowd—“or there are people here intent on making you appear so. We had better hear the witnesses to these charges before you give your plea.” He lifted the paper in front of him and checked it. “Unfortunately, as most of you will know, the principal witness in the murder of Master Fitch, Doctor Ezekiel Sykes, is unable to testify before this court, having been himself the victim of a terrible murder only yesterday.”

“Not guilty,” I said, unable to resist. A ripple of laughter ran through the audience, in spite of themselves. Hale sent me a stern look, recalling Edmonton’s words about the judge’s dislike for sharp wits in court, though I fancied I saw the corner of his mouth twitch before he sucked it back to solemnity.

“Instead the court will hear the deposition Doctor Sykes gave to Mayor Fitzwalter the morning of Fitch’s death.”

Fitzwalter took the floor without looking at me, cleared his throat, and began to read. Whether the words had truly come from Sykes or been invented later by Langworth, it hardly mattered; the whole was based on the lie that Sykes had been present in the shop when I entered and had left me there alone with Fitch, rather than the other way around. Those of the jurymen that were still alert nodded sagely to one another; the spectators gasped and tutted at appropriate moments, like the audience at a play. I hardly listened; it hardly mattered. All my thoughts were bound up with what I should say when I was given the opportunity to speak.

I would have a ready audience: before the whole courtroom and the queen’s justice I could announce that I knew the killer of Sir Edward Kingsley and Doctor Sykes. I could tell them that the weaver’s son, Olivier Fleury, had used his father’s key to take a crucifix from the crypt, lain in wait for Sir Edward, and struck him down as he walked from the Archbishop’s Palace to John Langworth’s house, knowing he was expected there after supper. But there was my problem. When the justice asked why Olivier would have wanted to kill the magistrate, I would have to explain that he did it for his lover, the woman Canterbury knew as Mistress Kate Kingsley, to free her from her husband and ensure that she would inherit his estate. They meant for Nicholas Kingsley to be blamed—they even sent a false message ensuring he would be seen at the cathedral at the right time—but Tom Garth had complicated their plan by planting evidence that meant Mistress Kingsley was accused instead. Fortunately—and here my voice would grow thick with the bitterness of betrayal—Mistress Kingsley found a solution; she knew a credulous fool, a man the king of France once declared cleverer than all the doctors of the Sorbonne put together, but a fool nonetheless, who would be all too willing to solve this difficulty for her.

And Doctor Sykes? the justice would ask. Why would Olivier Fleury want to kill Sykes? And I would have to say, because he learned that Sykes had killed his sister’s son. He learned this yesterday morning from his sister, who learned it from Mistress Kingsley, who in turn learned it from me as I sat on the bed we shared at the house of Doctor Harry Robinson who, yes, has been harbouring a fugitive all this time. If Hale gave me the benefit of the doubt, both Olivier and Sophia would both be arrested.

I gripped the bar in front of me and stared at my hands as the knuckles turned white. A cold, hard knot lodged in the top of my chest when I thought about Sophia; her easy lies, her softness, her false affection. She brought me here to serve a purpose, to put her original plan back on track, to prove Nick Kingsley guilty of his father’s murder so that she could inherit. So that—what? She could run away with Olivier? The thought caught me like a blow to the stomach; I doubled over with the force of it and heard Hale say, “Look to the prisoner there! Are you well enough to stand, my man?”

I raised my head and nodded; his face was creased with concern and unexpectedly I felt my eyes fill with tears, so that I had to look away in case he took it as a confession.

“Fetch him a drink,” Hale barked, and after some fuss one of the army of black-gowned clerks came forward with a tankard of small beer. I took a sip, breathed deeply, and tried to compose myself.

More witnesses were called: the locksmith, who embellished his tale with details of how shifty I looked, how he had thought there was something suspect about a stranger wanting keys cut, how I had slipped him an extra penny not to mention it. Someone has certainly slipped you an extra penny or two, I thought, and my heart sank; if the witnesses had been bribed, why not the jury? Rebecca tried valiantly to defend me when her turn came, but as I had predicted, her breathless enthusiasm for my innocence began to sound overdone. “She has a liking for the Italian tongue, that one,” someone called out from the back of the crowd, and the room dissolved in ribald laughter and catcalls. Nick Kingsley took the floor with relish to tell how I had talked my way into his house then attempted to break into his father’s cellar and nearly beaten him to death when he tried to stop me. Finally Edmonton rose to give his account of finding a bag of money taken from the cathedral treasury in my room at Harry Robinson’s house, a tale he spun with such lingering pleasure that Hale had to call him to order and ask him to hurry it up. By the time he had finished, the din from the spectators and the jurymen had swelled to a level that meant the bailiff had to pound his staff again and call for silence.

“Well, prisoner.” Hale looked at me from under the ledge of his thick brow. “How do you answer?”

“Not guilty, Your Honour.” A chorus of boos and hisses went up from the room. I waited for it to subside. “These are false charges. Every one. And the testimonies you have heard against me.”

“You are suggesting that all these witnesses, including the late Doctor Sykes, have deliberately perjured themselves? What have you done, that so many in this town would falsely accuse you, knowing the consequences?”

I looked at him and then around me at the faces staring expectantly, weighing up how much I might say. Harry was right; it would cause more harm than good to denounce Langworth in front of all these people. His plans for Becket had to remain a secret. Langworth must be dealt with privately.

“I can only presume that foreigners are not much liked in this town, Your Honour. We are easy scapegoats. Anything can be blamed on our barbarous ways—it is so much easier than acknowledging one of our friends or neighbours could be a murderer. As for the witnesses—words can be bought.”

Another wave of outraged roars and cries of “For shame!” from those standing. Hale tilted his head to one side.

“You seem to be suggesting that someone in this town would have paid people to speak against you under oath. Who do you suppose that person to be?” His eyes bore into me. “Bearing in mind that this would be a very serious accusation indeed.”

I glanced at Langworth, whose lizard tongue flicked nervously over his lips. Hale’s gaze followed mine. A deathly silence hung over the room.

“I make no such direct accusation, Your Honour.”

Hale picked up his pen, examined its nib for a moment, replaced it. “Have you anything else to say?”

I hesitated. Olivier and Sophia. I could publicly accuse them both now; I owed them nothing. Olivier: my jaw clenched at the thought of his curled lip, his hauteur. Were they already lovers, or was he just another poor credulous fool like me, persuaded to risk everything for the promises held in those mesmerising amber eyes? She was clever. I had always known she was clever—was that not what drew me to her, more than her beauty? I should have seen it in her that day at Smithfield; after all, she had told me the truth with her first words. The dreamy-eyed, romantic girl I had met in Oxford was dead; life had replaced that softness with something cold and hard, a shard of ice in her heart. She had loved once; she would not make that mistake again. I did not truly believe she had room for Olivier in her imagined future any more than she had room for me. But her plan had failed. Neither of us had managed to deliver what she wanted—her husband’s money, legitimately inherited. So what would she do now?

“Did you hear me, Doctor Savolino? I asked if you have anything to add.”

Hale puffed his cheeks out; his patience was wearing thin.

I could deliver them both to their deaths now, if I chose, in revenge. Or I could show mercy.

“Nothing, Your Honour. Except to assure you that I am innocent.”

“Very well. For myself, I am not remotely satisfied by the evidence for the murder of William Fitch. But the attack on Master Kingsley and the business of the stolen money are more difficult to dismiss, I grant. Nevertheless, I do not say these testimonies nor the evidence shown are conclusive.” He drew himself upright in his great high-backed chair, resting his elbows on its ornately carved arms, and turned the full severity of his stare on the jury. “Goodmen of the inquest. You have heard what these witnesses say against the prisoner. You have also heard what he says for himself. Bear in mind that he is an educated man, with connections at Her Majesty’s court, his reputation defended by the dean of the cathedral and one of the canons, who stood bail for him. Have an eye to your oath and to your duty. If you stand in any doubt as to the prisoner’s guilt, an acquittal is the appropriate verdict. Discharge your consciences well on this matter.” He began to shuffle his next batch of papers. “Let the prisoner stand down. Call the next.”

As I was hurried away from the bar, he looked up and met my eye and gave me the briefest nod.

I was bundled back into the holding pen while the other prisoners’ cases were heard: larceny, coining, theft of livestock. They were dealt with briskly, as if speed were all that mattered. Sunlight striped the walls of the hall; its bulging plaster, its peeling whitewash. All around me, the other prisoners scratched at the lice in their ragged clothes. It was a sordid, dispiriting business; little wonder, I thought, that the justice felt the need to surround the occasion with such pomp and feasting. I kept my eyes to the ground, wondering what that nod was supposed to signify.

When the charges against all ten prisoners had been heard, the jurymen were given a note of each man’s name and his crime and retired to consider their verdict.

“Do not give them food or drink while they are out,” Hale directed the bailiff. “I want this over quickly. Tell them no more than twenty minutes or we shall be sitting all night.”

It took them little over ten, by my count, though the spectators had already grown restless and noisy by the time they returned. The bailiff stamped; Hale looked up, unhurried, from his paperwork and steepled his fingers together expectantly. The foreman of the jury rose to pronounce the verdict.

“The monk known as Brother Anselm—guilty.” Whoops from the crowd. “John Mace of Canterbury—guilty.” The man accused of horse theft slumped like a marionette with its strings cut; the people cheered again. “The Italian, Filippo Savolino—” He had trouble reading it from the sheet. He paused for effect and looked up, enjoying his moment of playing to the crowd. “Guilty, of all charges.”

The spectators screamed in triumph; hats were thrown in the air, and a chant of “Hang the papist!” went up from those standing, who began to stamp their feet like the beat of a victory drum. It’s not personal, the guard had said, but as my gaze raked across those rows of faces, I saw raw hatred there; lips snarled back, teeth bared, fists pounding the air, eyes blazing bloodlust. I was the jewel of this assizes, the star attraction, and they felt this verdict as a triumph for—for what, exactly? A triumph of theirs over everything they wanted me to represent: murdering papists, foreigners who took bread from the mouths of good Englishmen, those who believed their connections put them above the law. I was all these things to them, and I realised in the din that they would not have accepted any other verdict. Langworth folded his arms and smiled, a death’s-head grin. I stared up at Justice Hale, questioning. He gave a minute shake of his head, barely perceptible.

The remaining verdicts were read. All ten prisoners were declared guilty; the spectators seemed ready to carry us on their shoulders to the gallows that very instant if they were given the chance. Justice Hale stood; the bailiff banged for silence.

“The court has heard the verdict.” Hale surveyed the court and adjusted his black cap. “It remains for me to pass sentence of death by hanging on those prisoners found guilty …” The spectators crowed again; beside me, Brother Anselm gave a low moan and one of the other prisoners cried out to Jesus for mercy. I laid a hand on the old monk’s bony shoulder, but my chest was tight and I struggled to catch my breath.

“Except,” Hale continued, and the cheers turned to noises of protest. “Except,” he repeated, raising his formidable voice to a shout, so that even the rowdiest onlookers subsided, “those for whom I see special reason for leniency. In the case of the former monk Anselm and the Italian Savolino, I will allow benefit of clergy.”

I slumped back against the wooden partition, afraid my legs would no longer support me. Brother Anselm fell to his knees with a hiccupping sob of relief. Benefit of clergy, as far as I understood, was an ancient loophole in English law that allowed clemency to those who could read; in place of execution they might hope for a fine or a prison term.

“But Your Honour—murder is not a clergyable offence!” Langworth cried, stepping forward.

“I preside over this court, Canon Langworth, not you,” Hale said, with steel in his voice. “Perhaps I could refer this case back to Westminster instead. Would that be better, do you think—that Doctor Savolino should make his defence in the Star Chamber, before the Privy Council?”

Langworth turned white; his Adam’s apple bounced in his throat as he tried to swallow his rage and I knew then that Harry must have reached the justice and told him what he knew. But the crowd were not to be deprived of their prize. A low roar began to swell among them, like the rumble of a great wave, until it seemed their force could not be contained; as the outcry reached a crescendo, some among those standing surged forward, knocking the dignitaries on their benches, jostling the clerks at their tables, and they were joined by others, swarming in from the entrance hall towards the pen where the prisoners were held. The guards did their best to hold the mob back, but they were outnumbered and they seemed reluctant to use their weapons for anything more than ineffectual buffeting. The bailiff climbed on a table and pounded with his staff, calling in vain for order, until he was pulled down by the spectators into the crush. More people seemed to be pressing in from outside the courtroom and a great cry went up from the street; I heard women screaming as I felt hands close over my arms, dragging me through the other prisoners into the tumult. Faces blurred in front of my eyes and I felt a fist strike me on the jaw as the mob bayed for the hangman; fear pulsed in my throat as I was pulled out into the courtroom, into the hands of the crowd. Did they mean to hang me themselves, to dispense the justice they felt Hale had denied them? I could not see the justice now, though I thought his was among the voices bellowing from above me.

The courtroom had all but collapsed into a riot. My head began to swim and I fought for breath in the crush as I was pulled down; for a moment I feared I would black out, but quite suddenly through the confusion and noise sounded one clear note of a herald’s trumpet. The sound seemed to startle the mob; the press of bodies and hands clawing at me began to subside, and I was hauled to my feet by the collar to find myself staring into the face of a bearded young man wearing a soldier’s helmet. The shouting died down to a simmering murmur and a strange calm descended on the hall. When I was able to focus I realised that one of the onlookers who had dragged me out was lying prone on the floor and the crowd were drawing back, staring at his unmoving body with fear; another soldier stood over him, sword held aloft, looking around with menace as if to ask who else dared try their luck. There were six or more of these armed men in the hall, and they were not wearing the livery of the guards who had fetched me that morning but different colours. The man who had helped me up nodded and stepped back and it was only then that I realised the badge on his coat was the arms of Queen Elizabeth.

There was a jostling among the crowd towards the door and as I watched they parted to admit a tall figure in a sweat-soaked shirt and riding breeches, hair sticking up in spikes, face haggard and dust-smeared from the road, holding out a piece of paper. The soldiers moved to keep the people away from him at sword point; most obediently shuffled back. I almost wept to see who it was; my legs buckled again and the young soldier caught me as I fell against his chest.

Justice Hale straightened his cap, regained his composure, and addressed the newcomer with an attempt at dignity.

“Sir Philip. You have a constituency of barbarians, it seems.”

For once, Sidney did not smile.

“Justice Hale, I have seen tavern brawls conducted with more dignity than your courtroom.” He turned to me, colour rising in his cheeks. “What in God’s name is going on here? Get that man out of chains now. I have ridden through the night,” he added, pointing at me, though he made it sound like an accusation. “I have ridden through the night,” he said again, louder, in a voice that encompassed the whole courtroom, “with a warrant signed by Her Majesty for the arrest of Canon John Langworth on charges of high treason.”

The gasp that echoed through the hall could not have been better performed if it had been played on a stage. People swivelled their heads around, looking for the object of this exciting new development.

“Where is Canon Langworth?” Hale demanded, still on his feet, his voice sonorous with authority once more. “Constable?”

Edmonton looked around, helpless. “I cannot see him here, Your Honour.”

“He must have slipped out some back way in the tumult,” I said to Sidney. My voice sounded hoarse. “You must get your men after him. If he is not in his own house, try the crypt.”

“This court is adjourned,” Hale announced, and the bailiff struck his staff three times. “I will pass sentence when we are again in session. Have the prisoners taken back to the gaol. Not the Italian or the monk, Constable—I want them brought to my lodgings at the Cheker. You—blow your trumpet,” he said irritably to the herald in an aside. “Clear the courtroom!” he shouted, when the note had sounded. “I will retire to my lodgings to speak with Sir Philip. Mayor Fitzwalter, you will accompany me. Have your men clear the way. Where is Dean Rogers?”

The dean rose from his seat, pale and shaken. Hale gave him a hard look.

“You had better get yourself back to your cathedral, Richard. Sir Philip Sidney may need your assistance there.”

The trumpet sounded; Fitzwalter called his guards to make way for the justice. Perhaps emboldened by the example of the queen’s soldiers, they shoved more brusquely with their pikestaffs this time and the spectators, chastened, moved back for Hale and his retinue to pass, following Sidney and his men. I watched them leave, hardly daring to believe that Sidney was here at all, let alone with a retinue of royal soldiers. Edmonton approached with a face like a bull mastiff, holding out a key.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” I said, as he took the manacles from my wrists and then from Brother Anselm’s. The old monk’s hands were bleeding where the iron had torn his papery skin. He touched his wounds in wonder.

“Am I pardoned?” he asked, blinking up at me and then at Edmonton. “Am I not to hang after all?”

“Not today,” the constable said, sucking in his cheeks.

“You are safe, brother,” I said, taking Anselm’s arm to steady him. His milky eyes filled with tears.

“I thought those people would tear us apart where we stood,” he whispered. “But blessed Saint Thomas heard our prayers.”

“Well. He has a lot to answer for,” I said.

“Filippo?” A woman’s voice at my shoulder; I turned, my pulse quickening, to find the Widow Gray twisting her hands together, her eyes anxious. I raised my eyebrows: yes? “I want to come with you to the justice. I think it is time I made my deposition.”

“YOUR HONOUR, COULD I—before we—I must go back to Doctor Robinson’s house in the cathedral precincts. He may have need of me.”

“Don’t worry about Harry,” Hale said, his eyes still skimming his papers. Four o’clock in the afternoon; the light soft and golden where it fell in scattered shapes on the panelled walls. With his entourage he had taken over an entire floor of the Cheker, its grandest rooms; the one we now sat in was furnished with silk cushions and embroidered curtains. Brother Anselm had been led away by one of Hale’s clerks to be fed, washed, and rested before he gave his deposition, in the hope that it might be more coherent. The Widow Gray was waiting outside the door for her turn. Mayor Fitzwalter had been arrested by the justice’s men as he stepped through the door of the Cheker, to avoid further public unrest. Now Hale sat behind a desk, his back to the open window, radiating calm, a glass of wine in his hand. Beside him, another clerk scribbled a note of every word that was spoken. Whenever a serving boy came in with food, the room fell silent, recognising that these were matters not to be overheard.

“I sent two of my assistants to Harry’s house after he came to me this morning,” Hale continued. “Nearly killed himself trying to get here before I left for the hearing. He told me everything.”

“Everything?” Did he mean Sophia?

“Langworth’s plot. Becket. The dead boys. Monstrous! And the attempt on your own lives last night. The servant Samuel will be removed to more appropriate conditions until he is well enough to be questioned.”

“Will he live?”

“Let us hope so. We will need his testimony.” He paused to sip his wine. “It is a great blessing that Sir Philip is here with the queen’s pursuivants—I understand that was your doing. You are a brave man, Giordano Bruno. Reckless, perhaps, but undoubtedly useful.”

“Still—I must go back to see Harry Robinson, as a matter of urgency—”

Hale glanced up; his brow seemed to bristle at the presumption.

“I sent Harry home to rest. This will not wait, Doctor Bruno—my assize is only adjourned. I have at least twenty more criminal cases to hear today, not to mention all the minor petitions. We shall be sitting until midnight as it is. Take a drink and let us begin on your deposition.” He paused at the sound of the door. “Ah, Sir Philip.”

The door was closed behind Sidney, who strode over and squeezed my shoulder. He looked as exhausted as I felt.

“Langworth is taken,” he said, throwing himself into a chair and clicking his fingers at one of the clerks for a glass of wine. “Found him in his house trying to light a bonfire of his letters. Thankfully he had not progressed very far—should be enough to make interesting reading. But the bad news is that Becket is gone.”

“Under the floor,” I said, “at the eastern end, between two marble columns. I can show you the place.”

“No need.” He twisted his mouth in distaste, though I could not tell if it was at the wine or the outcome. “We found the place. The coffin is empty. Not so much as a holy toenail to be seen.”

“Langworth has moved him, then. He will tell you where.”

Sidney gave a grim laugh.

“Let us hope. When he is in the Tower he will be encouraged to tell us all manner of things.”

I winced. “Langworth must have told someone. There are no more guardians left—Kingsley and Sykes are dead, Fitzwalter is arrested.”

“Unless Fitzwalter was not the fourth guardian,” Hale said. “He swears he knows nothing of any relics. Admits to taking bribes from Langworth and Kingsley to smooth their financial interests, but nothing more. Of course, Fitzwalter is a coward,” he added, pursing his lips in disapproval. “He will say anything to spare himself hard questioning. We may yet learn something of use.”

“So there could be another guardian,” I mused. “If Langworth will not talk, we may never know where Becket is buried.”

“Oh, he will talk eventually,” Sidney said, as if there could be no dispute. He threw back the last of his wine and stood. “The pursuivants are all over Langworth’s house—I should go and see what more they have found. Then, Bruno, you and I deserve the finest supper this town can provide. We have much to talk about.” He gave me a meaningful look, stretched his arms above his head and cracked his neck from side to side, then swept out of the door again.

“I’ll tell you another thing—it’s a damned shame the physician Sykes was killed before he could be questioned,” Hale remarked, reading over his notes. “Now that is a curious business. Was it Langworth’s doing, do you think, Bruno? Stop him talking? Seems bizarre, if it was. You’d have thought Sykes was essential to the whole miracle plot.”

I hesitated. No one had yet mentioned Sophia. That meant only one of two things; either she was still hidden at Harry’s, or she had taken her chance to escape while the whole town was gathered at the assizes.

“Sykes’s housekeeper kept his appointment book, apparently,” Hale continued, in a tone of mild curiosity. “He made a note of all his patients so that he wouldn’t miss a fee. He was supposed to see the Widow Gray the morning he died but he never got there. The housekeeper says someone came to the door crying that there was an emergency, begged him to go with her there and then. She says Sykes didn’t even stop to write down the name of the patient or pick up his jacket, just went out like that in his shirtsleeves, with his bag of remedies.”

“It was a woman? At the door?”

“The housekeeper didn’t see, but she says it sounded like a woman’s voice. Curious. Well,” he put the paper aside and looked up, his jowls creasing into a weary smile. “I cannot worry about that now. Let us hear your story, Doctor Bruno, as quick as you can make it, so I can get back to my adulterers and coiners. Justice will not wait.” He rolled his eyes. “You,” he barked at the clerk to his right. “Sharpen your quill for this man’s words.”

SO I GAVE my deposition from the beginning; how I had come to Canterbury at Sophia’s request; how Walsingham had asked me to keep an eye on Langworth; how Sir Edward Kingsley had led me to the murdered boys and the plot to revive the cult of Becket. I did not mention at any point that Sophia had travelled to Canterbury with me. Hale interrupted only once.

“Where is she now? This woman—Kingsley’s wife?”

I paused, weighing up my answer. Was this a test? Had Harry already told them she was at his house? Would the men who came to take Samuel have found her? Lying to the justice would not serve me well; I had lied for Sophia once before and Walsingham had given me strong words for it.

“I don’t know,” I answered, truthfully.

His eyes rested for a moment on my face with a practised scrutiny, then he nodded for me to continue.

When I had told my story—as much of it as I felt necessary for a deposition—he folded his hands together and pushed his chair back.

“An audacious scheme,” he murmured, shaking his head. “You almost have to admire them for it. To revive the shrine of Saint Thomas with a miracle of resurrection—extraordinary presumption. Ha!” A sudden laugh erupted as if from deep in his chest, and his clerks echoed it with polite titters. “That a man should think to mock the powers of God Almighty. Beggars belief.”

“Your Honour, the Catholic Church has been doing this for years. Red powder you shake up to make the blood of Christ. Statues of the Virgin with mechanisms that make them weep on Good Friday. Man is ingenious when it comes to aping miracles.”

“And others are more than apt to believe in them. By God, Doctor Bruno—the longer I do this job, the more I feel nothing could surprise me when it comes to the baseness of human nature. It’s a wonder Our Lord bothers with us at all.” He stretched out his legs under the desk and leaned back. “I wish some miracle would relieve me of this day’s business. I will have two armed men escort you to Harry Robinson’s, in case the mob are still restless.”

THE STREETS were lively with people; the town seemed to have given itself a day’s holiday in honour of the assizes. If the crowds had been disappointed at being deprived of a spectacle at the gallows, they seemed mollified by the drama of the queen’s own soldiers coming to town to arrest their canon treasurer. This time there were no flying vegetables as I passed along the High Street in the company of my guards, but I felt the stares as I passed, the muted whispering, as if I were somehow more dangerous now that they did not know what to make of me.

Harry opened the door and his face gave me the answer I needed. The guards took their place unquestioningly outside and I stepped into the hall.

“She was gone when I came back from seeing the justice this morning,” he said, leaning heavily on his stick.

I nodded, summoning all my remaining strength to keep my jaw tight, my face steady.

“I have not had a chance to thank you for that,” I said. “You must have almost killed yourself getting there in time.”

“I knew he would not leave his lodgings until the last minute. His assistants did not want to admit me but I told them the safety of the realm was at stake. I may have mentioned the Privy Council.” He shifted position and sucked in a sharp breath, his face pinched with pain.

“You should get some sleep, Harry,” I said. “You look exhausted.”

“My leg is bad today. I have not walked so fast nor up so many stairs for months, and I can’t remember the last time I nearly killed a man in the middle of the night.” He tried to laugh but it ended with another wince. “Did you know she would be gone?”

“I guessed.”

“But you don’t know where?”

I shook my head and leaned against the wall, the exhaustion of the day and the previous night settling on my shoulders like a lead cloak. She must have realised that there was little hope of her being able to claim her inheritance as Kingsley’s widow if no one could be found guilty of his murder; perhaps she suspected that I would eventually piece together the truth. But the killing of Sykes had not been part of her plan. Had Olivier decided on that course alone after Sophia had related to Hélène what I had told her about finding Denis’s body? I pressed my palm to my forehead. Like Tom Garth, Olivier had believed there was no justice for people like him under the law. He had dispensed his own hot-blooded justice to Edward Kingsley and to Sykes, and part of me understood how a man might be driven to that. I could tell Hale, have the hue and cry sent after them, but what would it achieve, in the end, if they were caught and hanged for the murder of two men whose actions—some might argue—had deserved a sentence of death? I sighed. In Oxford, I had stopped Sophia from running away because I thought I was saving her life. This time, I would let her go. There was a kind of justice in that, I thought.

“This might give you some idea,” Harry said. I looked up to see that he was holding out a letter, folded in quarters, unsealed. “I have not read it,” he said, quickly. “It was left on your mattress.”

“Thank you.” I took the letter and turned it between my fingers. “I—I think I will read it in my room. You should lie down. You look terrible.”

“Sleep won’t cure that,” he said, with an attempt at a grin, and shuffled away to the parlour, his breath rasping in his chest with every step.

The room was as she had left it, the bedsheet crumpled so that I almost fancied I could see the imprint of her body in it. I sat down and opened the letter.

Dear Bruno

By the time you read this your trial will be over. I cannot help but believe it will go your way; you can talk your way out of anything. Besides, you have a knack for survival, as I do. I had hoped you could talk me out of a murder charge and into my inheritance, but I see now that this was too much to ask. My best hope is to begin again, with a new name. I am growing so practised at this that I hardly know who I am any-more; I invent myself from day to day. You understand this, I think. You have understood me better than anyone, so you will understand, I hope, that just as I no longer have faith in God, neither can I trust in any man. Please do not think I am oblivious to everything you have done for me, and why. I do not think I can love again. The part of me that knew how to love was destroyed when my son was taken from me. You will say that I betrayed you; I still say you betrayed me in Oxford. You will find this hard to believe after what I have done, but I will miss you.

Perhaps we will meet again—I would like to think so. I cannot help but feel our destinies are tangled together somehow. Though if we do, I imagine you will want to murder me.

Yours

S.

I let the letter fall to my lap. To kill her? No. Perhaps. I placed one hand on the sheet beside me, as it might still contain some trace of her, and wondered where she would have run to with no money, no possessions … Then I closed my eyes. A cold realisation crept over me; I crumpled the letter in my fist and hurled myself across the bed to the corner where I had prised up the floorboard. The nails lay loosely scattered. I dug my fingers in and pulled the board away, tearing my fingernails in my haste. The wooden casket was gone. So was my purse, though it was a small consolation to see that she had left my little knife. I drew it out, weighed it in my hands for a moment. With a raw moan of rage I took the stairs two at a time; it was not too late to find them. I would go to Sidney, get him to order out the hue and cry; with men on every road out of Canterbury it would take no time to run them to ground like foxes, leave them cowering in a corner, begging for mercy. If she thought she could betray me twice, she would learn that I was not another of her doe-eyed boys, to be used and thrown away as it suited her. She would learn…

I stopped at the front door. If the hue and cry caught them, they would die for certain. In my anger I might wish Sophia to pay for deceiving me, but with her life? To exchange two young lives for a book; could I live with myself? I leaned my forehead against the wall, pushed my hands through my hair, called down all the curses I knew in every language I had ever learned until they all merged into incoherent, racking sobs. I did not lift my face away from the wall even when I heard that familiar shuffle-and-drag and felt a hand rest on my shoulder.

Harry did not speak until I had exhausted myself into silence.

“You will mend, son,” he said, looking past me to the window. “I did. Safer, in the end, to travel alone.”