Sacrilege

Chapter 6

I took a narrow road leading off the High Street in the direction of the cathedral tower, keeping my kerchief tied close around the lower half of my face in the hope of avoiding too much attention. As I walked, I glanced about me as unobtrusively as I could. Now that Fitch had mentioned the presence of the constables I felt even more conscious of how oddly I must stand out. Where the street opened into a small market square with a stone cross in its centre, I noticed a ginger-haired man in dark breeches and doublet loitering with an air of purpose, restless eyes flitting from right to left along the streets branching away from the square, hand lightly on the hilt of his sword. Was this one of the parish constables? Behind him, incongruous between two ordinary-looking houses, rose a great gatehouse with two octagonal towers four storeys high, built of pale stone intricately carved in the perpendicular style, a row of escutcheons and Tudor emblems painted in bold heraldic colours spanning the width of it above the gateway. Through the larger of the two open doors, a central arch high enough to admit horses and carts, I glimpsed for the first time the precincts of the famous cathedral.

I pulled the cloth from my mouth and stepped into the shade of the gatehouse, conscious of the man with the sword watching me from across the square with less than friendly curiosity. I met his eye briefly and looked away to find myself face-to-face with a tall, broad-set man in a rough tunic, who barred my way through the gate, crossed his thick arms over a barrel-like chest, and demanded to know my business in the cathedral.

“I am here to see the Reverend Doctor Harry Robinson,” I offered, with an ingratiating smile.

“Expecting you, is he?” He didn’t move.

“Yes, he is. And I carry a letter of recommendation from a mutual friend at the royal court in London.”

His round face twitched with uncertainty; I guessed he was in his mid-twenties, though there were already creases at the corners of his eyes that deepened with anxiety. I brought out the paper and pointed at the imposing wax seal.

“The crest of Sir Philip Sidney, nephew to the Earl of Leicester,” I added, for effect. He glanced uneasily over his shoulder, then nodded.

“Do you go armed, sir?”

I held my palms out, empty. “Only this little knife.” I indicated the sheath at my belt.

“I must ask you to leave it with me. No weapons in the cathedral precincts, by order of the dean. Not after …” He hesitated, then appeared to think better of it and held out his hand for the knife. I noticed his left hand was wrapped in a dirty bandage with rust-coloured patches of blood on it.

“There was a murder, I understand.” I unstrapped the knife from my belt and passed it over.

“Yes, sir.” A guarded expression tightened his features. “The dean has taken precautions now, though. There is a watchman who patrols the precincts after dark, and the gate is always kept locked, so you need not be concerned on that account.”

“A little late for the poor fellow who was struck down,” I remarked lightly. “Robbers, I suppose?”

“I couldn’t say.” He shifted his large bulk uneasily from one foot to the other, scratching at his patchy stubble. “If you go to the right of the cathedral, past the conduit house, you will see a row of narrow lodgings before you get to the Middle Gate. Doctor Robinson’s is the fourth along.” He pointed through the gateway; unlike the apothecary, he showed little appetite for talk of the murder.

“Thank you. What is that handsome building opposite?” I gestured towards a large red-brick mansion visible through the archway, just to our left.

“The Archbishop’s Palace.”

“I heard he is never here.”

“You heard right. The dean lives there mostly.”

He fell silent again, squinting up at the sky and absently weighing my knife in his hands.

“Take care of that. I am very attached to it.”

He frowned, as if I had insulted his competence, and stepped aside to let me pass, though I could feel him watching me as I entered the sacred precincts of what had been one of the greatest churches in Christendom.

Stepping out of the gatehouse into sunlight, I almost forgot my purpose as I took in the sight before me. I am no stranger to beauty in architecture; my travels have taken me through many of the finest cities of Europe—though not always by choice. I have taken Mass in the towering basilicas of Rome and Naples, walked the streets of Padua, Geneva, and Toulouse, attended services at the magnificent cathedral of Notre Dame de Paris in the company of the king of France. But the austere beauty of this proud monument to England’s faith made my breath catch in my throat. The spires of its great towers rose perhaps two hundred feet above me, stone pale as ivory against the fierce blue of the summer sky, gilded by the afternoon sun so that it seemed lit as if by divine light. Its height, its severe perpendicular lines, its vast windows all contributed to an overwhelming grandeur that could not help but make you shrink into yourself a little. What effect must its splendour have had on the hundreds of thousands of pilgrims who first set eyes on this view after days of dragging their weary feet across the English downs? A cathedral such as this one, I thought, was intended to humble onlookers; a testament to the glory of God, perhaps, but more obviously to the might of the Church that built it. Standing at the foot of its bell tower, you could never forget your own insignificance. By the same token, might not the men who held positions of authority here also develop a distorted sense of their own power?

The precincts were empty, shadows stretching out across the dusty path that curved around the length of the cathedral. I glanced up at the sky; it must be midafternoon, not yet late enough for Evensong, but it seemed odd to see so little activity in what, to judge by the number of lodgings crowded around the inner wall of the precincts, must still be a busy community. The gatekeeper’s directions led me to a row of tall, narrow houses, well-kept but plain, with small leaded windows facing the cathedral and a stretch of garden in front separating them from the walkway. At the fourth, I followed the path that led alongside the garden—which boasted two scrawny apple trees and what appeared to be a vegetable patch—and knocked firmly on the door.

After some moments it was opened by a tall man with a narrow face and thinning black hair. He was perhaps nearing forty, and looked at me down the length of his nose with an expression that suggested I had interrupted something important.

“Doctor Robinson?”

“He’s not at home.” He moved as if to close the door; I took a stride forward and laid a hand on it to keep him from doing so. Though he was bigger than me he flinched slightly, as if he feared I might force my way in, and immediately I regretted my action; people here must be nervous, so soon after a violent killing in what was supposed to be a place of sanctuary.

“Forgive me,” I said hastily. “May I wait for him? He is expecting me.”

“He’s not expecting anyone.” His voice was oddly nasal; it scraped at your ears like a nail on glass.

“Who is it, Samuel?” The call came from somewhere in the depths of the house. I raised an eyebrow at the man Samuel, who merely flicked his eyes over his shoulder and made an impatient noise with his tongue. Ungraciously, he opened the door a little wider and I glimpsed a figure in the shadows, shuffling towards the light. Samuel stood back to reveal a white-haired man about my own height, his loose shirt untucked from his breeches and his chin bristling with silver stubble. He leaned heavily on a stick but his green eyes took the measure of me, keen and alert as a hunting dog’s.

“So. You must be the Italian. Forgive me—if I’d known you were arriving today I’d have had a shave.” He spoke with an educated tone, his manner neither friendly nor hostile; merely matter-of-fact.

I gave a slight bow. “At your service.”

“Are you, now? Come in, then—don’t hang about on the doorstep. Samuel, fetch our guest some fresh beer.”

The manservant, Samuel, held the door for me, unsmiling, a chill of dislike emanating from him as I crossed the threshold. I wondered why his immediate response had been to lie about his master’s absence. Whatever his reason, he made no apology, nor did he seem at all sheepish at being exposed in a falsehood. He merely closed the door and trod silently behind me as I followed Harry Robinson into an untidy front parlour, airless and choked with the day’s accumulated heat.

Harry waved me to one of the two high-backed chairs by the empty hearth. Against the far wall stood an ancient wooden buffet and under the small window a table was covered with books and papers, more books piled high on the floor to either side. Through the leaded glass, sunlight still painted the façade of the cathedral gold, though the room was all sunk in shade and I blinked as my eyes adjusted. The old man’s shock of hair and bright eyes stood out against the gloom as he settled himself into the chair opposite me with difficulty, narrating the business with little grunts and huffs of discomfort as he tried to ease his stiff leg into position. When he seemed satisfied, he peered closer, reading my face, and nodded as if to seal his silent judgement.

“So Walsingham has sent you to see if I am still up to the job?”

“Not at all—that is, I …” I faltered and saw a smile hovering at the corners of his mouth. He had wrong-footed me with the bluntness of his question, not only because it had not occurred to me that he might regard my presence in this light but also because the servant Samuel had entered the room at the same moment and could not have avoided overhearing. Flustered, I glanced up at him as he set a pitcher down on the buffet and poured two cups of beer, smiling to himself.

Harry Robinson barked out a dry laugh.

“Don’t mind Samuel—he knows all my business, and he knows who you are,” he said. “Who else would carry my correspondence to London? There’s no talk hidden from him in this house. I’d trust him with my life.”

Samuel shot me a fleeting glance, ripe with self-satisfaction. I felt I would not trust him to hold my coat, but I nodded politely.

“Doctor Robinson, my visit here has nothing to do with your own work, which I am certain—”

“Don’t condescend to me, son. And call me Harry.” He shifted his weight laboriously from one side of the chair to the other, rubbing his stiff leg. “If Her Majesty’s principal secretary is sending men from London to look into the murder of a provincial magistrate, it is only because he believes there is some matter here of wider significance to the realm, and that I cannot be relied upon to discover it without help. Not so?”

“It is more that—”

“But I question where he has this intelligence,” he continued, regardless. “I had mentioned the unfortunate death of Sir Edward Kingsley in my most recent letter—I thought it of interest because he associated with those among the cathedral chapter strongly suspected of disloyalty to the English church—but that letter cannot have reached London yet, can it, Samuel?”

“No, sir,” Samuel replied, handing each of us a cup with his eyes demurely lowered. He retreated as far as the window, where he stood with his hands clasped behind his back, apparently surveying the cathedral close. I wished he would leave the room, but he clearly felt entitled to eavesdrop on the conversation and Harry seemed content to behave as if his servant were merely a part of the furnishings.

“So whose suspicions brought you here, Doctor Giordano Bruno, I ask myself?” Harry leaned forward on his stick and fixed me with those stern eyes. I cleared my throat, glanced at Samuel’s unmoving back, and pulled my chair a little closer.

“I have a personal interest, you might say.” I hesitated, before lowering my voice even further. “I knew his wife.”

Harry took a moment to absorb this, then he sat back and nodded. He seemed pleased by this idea.

“Well, well. So she escaped to London, did she? Canny of her—the gossipmongers here had her on a boat to France. We are not far from the Kentish ports, you see, and there is a good deal of trade with Europe. Easy for a fugitive to get out.”

“And secret priests to get in, so I hear,” I said.

“Very true. They apprehended a pair of them last month at Dover.” He tilted his head to one side, studying me. “So you are here for the wife’s sake? Gallant of you, Doctor Bruno. You are probably the only person in this entire county who cares to find out whether she is innocent. If she’s caught, she’ll burn, and I doubt it would spoil the crowd’s enjoyment a jot if she hadn’t done it. They like a crime of passion, especially where there’s a spirited young woman involved. If she’s gone to London, she had better stay well hidden. Of course, I never thought it was her.”

“Why not?”

He rubbed his chin.

“I saw the corpse when they found him. Not the work of a woman. Apart from the gore, a woman wouldn’t have the strength to wield a weapon like that. Besides, if a wife wanted to kill her husband, as plenty do, surely she’d look for an opportunity closer to home? Poison his supper or some such? That’s a woman’s way.” He shook his head.

“Who do you think killed him, then?”

“Ah, Doctor Bruno, I have not the evidence even to hazard a guess. That is your task, is it not? I will help you as much as I can with information on our late magistrate and his associates, but you will need to tread carefully. The friends of Sir Edward Kingsley have powerful interests in this town and they may not appreciate a stranger poking too closely into their business. Foreigners are not much liked here, I’m sorry to say, for all that this city had its greatest prosperity from visitors.”

I watched him for a moment as I took a drink of small beer, grateful for the sensation of liquid in my dusty throat.

“You mentioned Sir Edward was involved with papists?”

Harry laughed again, an abrupt bark.

“Papists. You make it all sound so black and white. Walsingham said in his letter you once professed the Roman faith yourself.”

I bowed my head in acknowledgement. “I was in the Order of Saint Dominic.”

“And why?” He pointed a finger at me.

“Why did I enter a monastery?” I looked at him, surprised; it was rare that anyone asked me this. “Simple—my family was not rich. It was the only way for me to study.”

“Precisely.” He sat back. “So you understand that what we call faith may spring from many motives, not all of them purely pious. Particularly in Canterbury.” He paused to take a draught from his cup. “There are many in this city whose loyalty to the English church is only skin-deep, and not even that, sometimes—a few of them within the chapter itself. But if they are nostalgic for the old religion, it is less from love of Rome than from attachment to their own Saint Thomas and the glory he brought.”

“So I understand. The queen’s father tried to wipe out the saint’s cult completely,” I mused, remembering suddenly a Book of Hours I had seen in Oxford, the prayer to Saint Thomas, and the accompanying illumination scraped from the parchment with a stone.

“Folly,” Harry pronounced, shaking his head. “They say that before the Dissolution there were more chapels, chantries, and altars in this land dedicated to Thomas Becket than any other saint in history. You can’t erase that from people’s minds, especially not in his home town, not even by smashing the shrine. You just drive it into the shadows.”

“Not even by destroying the body?”

He regarded me shrewdly and smiled.

“You’ve heard the legend of Becket’s bones, then?”

“Is it true?”

“Quite probably.” He emptied his cup, bent awkwardly to set it on the floor, and leaned forward, one hand on his stick. “Yes, I’d say it’s very likely the body they pulverised and scattered to the wind was not old Thomas. Those priory monks were no fools, and they knew the destruction was coming. But in a sense the literal truth of it doesn’t matter, you see? If enough people in Canterbury believed that Saint Thomas was still among them, it might put fire in their bellies.”

“And do they believe it?”

He made a noncommittal gesture with his head.

“Everyone knows the legend. I daresay many of them believe it in an abstract sense. What they really need, though, is a sign. That would rouse them.”

“A miracle, you mean?”

“The cult of Thomas began with a miracle—here, in this cathedral, less than a week after he was murdered—and it could be revived by one too. Imagine the effect among so many disaffected souls. Like throwing a tinderbox into a pile of dry kindling. And Kent is a dangerous place to risk an uprising, as Walsingham knows all too well. Last time Kentish men rebelled they marched on London, captured the Tower, and beheaded the Archbishop of Canterbury and the royal treasurer.”

“Really?” I stared at him, wide-eyed. “I had not heard—when was this?”

Harry laughed.

“Two hundred years ago. But Kentish men are still made of the same stuff. And the coast here is so convenient for any forces coming out of France—it’s not a place they want to risk a popular rebellion against the Crown. The queen needs to keep Canterbury loyal.”

He fell silent and stared into the fireplace while my thoughts scrambled to catch up.

“Do you believe in miracles?” I asked, after a few moments.

He looked up from his reflections, his eyes bright.

“Do I believe that Our Lord can perform wonders to show His might to men, if He chooses? Yes, of course. But He chooses very rarely, in my view. If you ask, do I believe that a four-hundred-year-old shard of rotting skull can heal the sick, then I would have to say no.” He shifted position again, rubbing at his leg. “When I was six years old, in 1528, there was a terrible outbreak of the sweating sickness in England. My parents and my five brothers and sisters all died; I did not even take ill. Was that a miracle?”

He fixed me with a questioning look; I made a noncommittal gesture.

“My relatives certainly thought so—they gave me up to the Church straightaway, and here I have dutifully remained, to the age of sixty-two years, because I was told so often as a child how God had spared me to serve Him. But who really knows?”

I caught the weight of sadness in his voice and wondered how often in his life as a young churchman he had stopped to wonder at the different paths he might have taken, only to be trapped by the obligation to this great miracle of his survival, God’s terrible mercy. That could have been me, I thought, with a lurch of relief, if I had not taken the opportunity to flee the religious life: white-haired and slowly suffocating in the monastery of San Domenico Maggiore, rueing the life I might have lived if I had only dared to try. I wanted to reach out and touch his crooked hand, so brittle with its swollen joints, to show that I understood, but I suspected this might alarm him. The English do not like to be touched, I have learned; they seem to regard it as a prelude to assault.

“One need not be a doctor of physic to observe that some are better able to resist sickness than others,” I said softly.

“True. But one might be considered impious for failing to acknowledge the hand of God in such an occurrence.”

“In Paris, I once saw a man at a fair make a wooden dove fly over the heads of the crowd, and that was accounted a miracle by all who witnessed it. To those of us who knew better, it was an ingenious employment of optical illusion and mechanical expertise.”

Harry raised one gnarled finger, as if to make a point.

“But there you have it, Bruno. If it looks like a miracle, most are content to believe it is so.”

I was about to answer, but the closeness of the room and the weariness of days in the saddle conspired to make me suddenly dizzy and I almost fell, silver lights swimming before my eyes, clutching at the seat of the chair for fear I should faint. Harry peered at me, concerned.

“Are you unwell?”

“Forgive me.” My voice sounded very far away. “Could we open a window?”

He frowned.

“Too hot? I suppose it is hot in here. Samuel never complains and I don’t notice—it’s a curious thing about age, one is always cold. Come—we will take a walk around the close and you can see where this monstrous deed occurred.” He straightened the stick, took a deep breath, clenched his teeth, and with an almighty effort began to rouse himself to his feet. I extended a hand to him, though I still felt unsteady myself, but he brushed it away impatiently.

“Not on my deathbed yet, son. While I can stand on my own two feet, leave me to it. I call it independence. Samuel calls it stubbornness. What time is it, Samuel?”

The servant, who had remained motionless gazing out of the window and doubtless taking in every word, now turned back to the room.

“About half past three, I think, sir.”

“Then we have time. I’ll want a shave before Evensong, if you could have the necessaries ready when I return.”

“You don’t wish me to accompany you, sir?” Samuel turned dubious eyes on me, as if the prospect of allowing his master out alone with me would be a dereliction of duty.

“I’m sure you have things to attend to here,” Harry said. “We shall probably manage a turn around the close. I dare say Doctor Bruno will pick me up if I fall over.”

“If you’ll let me,” I said, and when I saw the twinkle in his eye, I knew that, despite his gruff manner, he was warming to me. Samuel looked at me with a face like storm clouds.

“My doublet, Samuel,” Harry said, waving a hand. “Here, hold this, will you?” He handed me the stick and planted his legs wide to balance himself while he tucked his shirt into his breeches. “Wouldn’t want to run into the dean, looking like a vagrant,” he muttered, with a brief smile. “You never know who’s about in this place. That reminds me—” he looked up. “Your story, while you’re here. The reason for your visit—what do we tell people? They’re an overly curious lot, especially the dean and chapter.”

“I’m a Doctor of Divinity from the University of Padua, exiled to escape religious persecution and lately studying in Oxford, where I heard much praise for the cathedral of Canterbury and wanted to take this opportunity to see it for myself.”

He considered my rehearsed biography and grunted.

“They will accept that readily enough, I should think. And how do you and I know each other?”

“A letter of introduction from our mutual friend, Sir Philip Sidney.”

Harry smiled at this.

“Ah, little Philip. He was about four years old when I last saw him. Turned out well, I hear. His mother was a great beauty in her day, you know.” His gaze drifted to the window, as though he was seeing faces from years long past. Samuel came in with a plain black doublet of light wool and helped his master into it. “Well, then.” Harry gestured to the door. “What name do you travel under here? I had better get used to it in case I am obliged to introduce you to anyone.”

“Filippo Savolino.”

“Savolino. Huh.” He repeated it twice more, as if to accustomise himself to the feel of it.

“It is unlikely that anyone in Canterbury would know my reputation, but—”

“We do read books here, you know. We’re not entirely cut off from learned society.”

“No, I didn’t mean to imply—”

“There’s quite a trade in books from the Continent, too, being so near the ports. Legal and otherwise. Including plenty from your country.” He regarded me thoughtfully. “Padua, eh? I have never travelled beyond England, though as a young man I dreamed of doing so. I would have liked to see Italy for myself. A country of wild beauty, I am told.”

“I think no man can say he has seen beauty until he has watched the sun set over the Bay of Naples, with the shadow of Mount Vesuvius in the background.”

“A volcano. I can hardly imagine a volcano,” he said, with simple longing.

“Perhaps you may see it one day.”

He slapped his bad thigh and barked out another laugh. “With this leg? No—while you are here, you must describe it to me and I shall be able to picture it. I do not think these eyes will ever look on the Bay of Naples.”

“Nor will mine again,” I said, and the weight of this struck me as I spoke the words, so that I heard my voice catch at the end.

We looked at each other, the moment ripe with regret. Harry shook his head briskly, as if to rid himself of sentiment.

“Come then, Savolino, we have work to do.”

AIR, REAL AIR, with the faintest hint of a breeze carrying the indignant cries of seagulls; I was so grateful that I stood still on the garden path, head spinning as I gulped down great lungfuls like a man who has narrowly escaped drowning. Harry shuffled ahead of me into the cathedral close and motioned to his right; when I had recovered and my blood felt as if it were pumping once more, I followed him. Samuel stood in the doorway watching us with an inscrutable expression in his eyes. I could not help noticing that Harry’s limp became less pronounced and his pace speeded up a little once we had rounded the corner and were out of his servant’s sight.

“Have you ever been married, Bruno?” he asked.

“No,” I said, surprised by the question. Shielding my eyes, I looked up to our left; sideways on, the cathedral had the appearance of a vast warship, ribbed with buttresses, its high windows so many gunports.

“Nor I,” he said. “When I entered the clergy, churchmen didn’t marry, and once it became acceptable, I had missed the boat. Instead I have Samuel—all the fussing and nagging of a wife, with none of the benefits.” He gave a deep, rasping laugh.

“He doesn’t like me, I’m afraid.”

“Don’t mind him, he doesn’t like anyone. He has a suspicious cast of mind and he’s jealous as a wife, too—likes to feel that I’m dependent on him. Can’t bear to share my attention. This way.”

The path passed through a gate by a block of stables and continued around the east end of the cathedral. Cut timber and logs were piled against its wall behind a makeshift fence, covered by oilskin cloths. To our right, a wooded area of thick oak trees in full leaf cast long shadows over the grass beneath, stretching back as far as the precinct walls, a relic from the priory that had stood on the site before the Dissolution, I supposed. Here the heat of the day had begun to subside; I loosened my collar and breathed deeply. The leaves stirred as the breeze lifted, sending light flickering through the foliage. The place seemed so at peace with itself, it was hard to believe it could be the setting for bloody murder. Perhaps Thomas Becket had once thought the same, I reflected.

Harry paused and craned his head back to look at the sky. “What a fine day. God’s bones, I should leave the house more often. I’m sure it would do wonders for my constitution.”

“You are confined by your health?”

He laughed again.

“By my work. When I arrived in Canterbury six years ago, I took it upon myself to compile a history of the cathedral from its foundation in the sixth century to the Dissolution.” He smiled at my expression. “I know—utter folly. My allotted span is almost up and I’ve only got as far as the martyrdom. Still another four hundred years to get through.”

“You may yet finish it.”

“Even if I had another score years left to me, that would not be enough to sort through the manuscripts in the cathedral library—hundreds of years’ worth of documents and papers buried there, but they’ve never been archived or catalogued properly, and I doubt they ever will, unless someone comes along prepared to dedicate his entire life to the job. There could be all manner of treasures gathering cobwebs.”

“Surely the librarian has some idea of what books are in his care?” I asked.

Harry gave that dry bark of laughter that I now recognised as cynicism.

“He may well. If so, it must suit him to keep them hidden from the rest of us.” He resumed his shuffling as the path curved around the eastern end of the cathedral. Here he raised his stick and pointed to the semicircular tip of the building. “The corona, they call this part. Built to house the reliquary that contained the fragment of Becket’s skull hacked away by his murderers. Come.” He waved me forward with his stick.

On the north side of the cathedral more houses had been built amid the ruined masonry of the old priory, as if in their haste to replace the old religious house the builders had not even bothered to clear its traces away. Naked arches stood stark against the sky like the ribs of a great decayed beast. Harry led me around into the shadow of the cathedral church. Just past these houses, where a small chantry chapel jutted out from the side of the main building, he paused and pointed with his stick to a spot on the path. A dark stain, though faded, could still be seen in the dust, like the outline of a puddle.

“There.”

I crouched to look at the bloodstained ground. So this was the spot where Sophia’s vicious husband had lain for his last minutes, lifeblood leaking away into the dust, surprised by the blow that came out of the darkness. Had Sir Edward seen who stepped towards him, weapon held aloft? Would he have known his killer, or known why that person had come for him? I traced a line in the reddish dirt with the tip of my forefinger. It was hard to summon any pity for the man when you knew his history. Sitting back on my haunches, I peered up, trying to imagine the last sight he would have seen: the towering walls of the cathedral on one side, the houses among the priory ruins on the other. I noticed that the path continued around the side of the chantry chapel and disappeared.

“Where was he coming from?” I asked, trying to work out the dead man’s last route.

“He dined with the dean in the Archbishop’s Palace that night,” Harry said, leaning on his stick. “I was there.”

“The Archbishop’s Palace is directly opposite the main gatehouse, though, at the western end of the cathedral, is it not? Why would he come around the back of the cathedral on his way home, then? Is there another way out?”

“He mentioned at table he was going to take a glass with the canon treasurer after supper. They were friends. But I was tired and went home early that night so I didn’t see if he left the Archbishop’s Palace alone.”

“Whoever attacked him must have known he would come this way,” I said. “You don’t cut a man down like that by chance. And you say anyone at the dinner could have heard him mention where he was going. What else is this side of the cathedral, apart from the cloister?”

Harry considered.

“The Chapter House, but that is only used for official meetings. And the library, which is housed in a disused chapel just behind us, the other side of this chantry. Then there are more of the canons’ residences.” He hesitated. “The canon treasurer’s house is on this side, of course.” He rubbed his stubbled chin.

“Are the cathedral doors locked at night?”

He shook his head.

“God’s house should be open around the clock, according to the dean. Not to just anybody, of course—the precinct gates are closed so the town can’t get in. Only the crypt is locked after Evensong, by the dean himself, as some of the more valuable ornaments are stored there. He is the only one with a key. But any of the residential canons may go into the main church and pray at any time of the night. Provided they’re not afraid to brave the ghosts.” That rasping laugh again; he fluttered his free hand in an approximation of spectral movement.

“You have ghosts?” I glanced at him, amused.

“Oh, naturally we have ghosts. Several, I should think. The south-east end of the cathedral precincts was formerly the monks’ cemetery, and beyond it the lay cemetery. The dead of centuries are piled up under our feet. Not to mention our most famous murder victim.”

“Perhaps your most recent one too.”

“I’m sure he has joined the queue. Do you believe in spirits, Bruno?”

I hesitated, considering how to answer this without compromising myself.

“I have seen nothing to persuade me that the spirits of the dead walk among us, if that’s what you mean.”

He smiled.

“Nor I. Yet there are plenty who are persuaded, and not just among the simple folk.” He gestured towards the cathedral. “There are stories of candles lit at night, statues that shift shape, human figures that form themselves from the very shadows. I know good stout Protestant canons who will not walk the precincts after dark for fear of what might come out of the mist.”

“A pity Sir Edward Kingsley didn’t have the same qualms—he might have kept his head intact.”

Harry gave an irreverent chuckle. “Do you want to take a look inside?”

I agreed eagerly, keen to see the interior of the great church, though my thoughts were distracted. I had even less idea since arriving in Canterbury of how to proceed with the business of Edward Kingsley’s murder. Seeing the place where he had died had only led to more questions, just like my encounter with Fitch the apothecary.

Harry shuffled his way along as the path rounded the chantry chapel and we found ourselves in a small courtyard with the cathedral on our left and a smaller chapel on our right. Ahead of us was a well-kept cloister, a stretch of green lawn visible through the range of rounded arches that enclosed it on all four sides. I followed at Harry’s frustrating pace, thinking as I watched him that his physical health must surely restrict his ability to gather information, even if his position in the cathedral chapter did give him intimate access to the dealings of the dean and the other canons. If he was confined to his house with his head buried in historical manuscripts most of the time, I wondered how much use he could be here to Walsingham.

We passed into a flagstoned passageway touched with a sharp smell of damp, where the sudden cool of the shade made my skin prickle like gooseflesh. The passage ran between the body of the cathedral church and a majestic building on our right that Harry pointed out as the Chapter House, before opening out into the cloister. He turned left along the tunnel of columns branching into delicately traced vaults overhead and we found ourselves in front of a small door into the cathedral. Harry turned the handle and we stepped through into the reverent silence of ancient stone. The metallic click of the door closing behind us echoed a hundred feet above us in the vast arches of the ceiling. I craned my head upwards, realising only belatedly that I was holding my breath.

“Right here.” Harry lowered his voice; the place seemed to demand it. “This is where they killed Becket.” He pointed to the floor in front of a blank wall of white stone, to the right of an elaborately carved screen into a private chapel.

Though sunlight still streamed through the high windows on the other side of the cathedral, licking the walls above our heads, this little corner was sunk in shadow. There was nothing remarkable about it; when I had learned the story of Becket’s murder as a young novice, I had pictured the saint struck down by the gang of knights before the high altar, in the heart of the church, not in some side chapel that was barely more than a vestibule. Harry moved to stand beside me and we remained in respectful silence for a moment; one sound Protestant churchman and one heretical ex-monk, both of us derisive of the superstition that attended saints’ cults, yet both apparently caught by the sense that this famous death demanded acknowledgement.

I was distracted from my thoughts by the sensation that we were not alone. I glanced up and was startled by the sight of a woman standing just behind us, tall and slender, dressed in the mourning clothes of a widow, her face veiled in black. Beside her stood a thin boy with large eyes. They seemed to have been watching us. The woman lifted her veil to reveal an expression of curiosity. She was perhaps my own age, with delicate features and haughty blue eyes that roamed over my face mercilessly. Her skin was white as a marble effigy against the black of her dress.

“Mistress Gray,” Harry said, with a polite bow. “Good day to you.”

The woman dipped her head, her eyes still on me. Then, without a word, she reached for the boy’s hand and swept past us towards the door, giving me a nod on the way out as if to suggest that we knew each other. Something in her penetrating look made me uncomfortable.

“Who is that woman?” I asked, when she had gone, still looking at the door.

Harry smiled. “That is the Widow Gray. A woman of mystery.”

“Really?”

“Whether she is really a widow is the subject of much debate in the town.”

“Ah.”

“Some say she was a wealthy courtesan, that her son is really a bastard prince, that she is a disgraced royal cousin—you know what idle gossip is. I pay no attention, myself.”

“Of course not.”

“But she keeps to herself, the widow, and she is beautiful and evidently has means, so naturally people feel entitled to make up her story for her. Now—wait here.” He shuffled away into the chapel to our left. I waited, wondering if it was possible I had met the Widow Gray in another place or time. She had looked at me as if she knew me, but it seemed impossible. Harry returned a few moments later with a stub of candle.

“Borrowed from the altar. They won’t notice. Hold this.”

I took the candle while he fumbled in the pouch at his belt for a tinderbox and struggled painfully to light it with arthritic fingers. I had to bite my lip and resist the urge to snatch the box from him and finish the job myself. Finally, he conjured a spark, a small flame blossomed from the wick, and he nodded to a rounded archway beside the site of the martyrdom, where a flight of worn steps led down to an open door and smudges of shadow concealed what lay beyond.

A faint line of light touched the darkness ahead of us as we descended. I kept close to Harry, one arm half extended in case he should need help, though not so obviously as to offend him, but he seemed to know the stairs into the bowels of the cathedral by touch alone, and it was I who almost missed my footing as we reached the bottom. The air felt denser here, cold and mineral, as if it had stood still in this unlit sanctum for centuries.

As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I peered around and began to make out the dimensions of this vast crypt, which seemed to stretch ahead in an endless maze of columns and arches, disappearing tunnellike into the obscured distance and fanning overhead into vaults that bore traces of coloured patterns in cobalts and crimsons, untarnished by the passing of ages. Some of the columns had been carved with twisting, concentric designs, their capitals wrought with fantastical creatures: dragons and horned beasts, green men of pagan legend and gryphons seizing winged serpents in their jaws, men with tails fighting creatures with the heads of wolves and the bodies of dragons, that seemed to wink and shift shape in the dancing flame. To either side these vaulted arches branched out, repeating in parallel rows of thick pillars as broad as the trunks of oak trees, drawing the eye always forward. Some of the spaces between had been filled in with tombs, where stone effigies reclined prayerfully, their royal or episcopal features erased by time so that they wore the distorted expressions of lepers or the victims of fire.

Neither Harry nor I had spoken since entering the crypt. It was a place of silence thick as shadow, a silence ancient and brooding as the great stones. As my gaze roamed over the walls, I thought I heard a soft noise intrude into the stillness; an unexpected breath of cold air touched the back of my neck and I shivered violently. Harry, ahead of me with the candle, kept walking, noticing nothing; I turned sharply, but behind me there was only darkness. Yet as I followed the wavering light down the avenue of stone columns, I could not shake the sense that someone was watching.

At the heart of the crypt stood a small enclosed chapel amid the arches, with a plain altar at the front and tombs to either side.

“Is the crypt used for worship?” I asked.

“The French Huguenots use the chapel at this end once a week. Her Majesty gave it to the community when they first arrived so they would have somewhere to hold their services in their own tongue. They brought their own pastors and deacons. The eastern end is only used for storage now.” Harry paused and held up his candle. “You know, the priory monks hid Becket’s body down here in the years after his murder, for fear it would be stolen,” he whispered.

I glanced around again.

“Perhaps he is still here. After all”—I gestured to the tombs that surrounded us—“where better to hide a tree than in a forest?”

Harry shrugged. “Even if we opened every tomb, how would we know? The man has been dead for four centuries. His bones will look like anyone else’s.”

“Except that the top of his skull is missing.” I shook my head. “Someone knows.”

“I have sometimes wondered—” Harry began, when a noise to our left made him break off, his face alert; he reached out and laid a hand on my arm, as if for reassurance.

By instinct my right hand flew to my belt, though even in the act of reaching for it I remembered that my little knife was in the care of the gatekeeper. Out of the shadows behind the tomb, a figure took shape as if from the darkness and approached, seeming to glide across the pavement with no sound other than the ripple of his black robe. Harry held up the candle and as the man moved closer its light revealed a bony face composed of hard angles, stern eyes that fixed on me with restrained curiosity, a close-shaved skull whose stubble glinted silver-grey. It was a severe face, not without dignity, lined by perhaps fifty winters, with a thin scar that ran from his nose to the corner of his mouth, causing his lip to curl upwards in an unfortunate sneer. I fought the impulse to step back under the force of that direct stare.

The man folded his hands together in front of him and turned to Harry, inclining his head with a polite smile.

“Doctor Robinson. It is rare to find you down here. I hope I am not disturbing a moment of private devotion?”

It was clear even to a stranger that Harry disliked this man intensely, despite returning his smile with an equally chilly civility. In nearly two years I have not yet managed to understand this about the English; in Naples, if a man despises another, he spits in his face openly or insults his family, and then a fight ensues. Here, they shake each other’s hand, dine together, smile with their teeth only, and wait until the other’s back is turned before striking their blow, and this agreed deception is called etiquette. Watching these two men, I had the sense that Harry would gladly knock this tall bony fellow to the ground in the blink of an eye. Instead, he returned the cursory bow.

“I was showing my visitor the historical wonders of our church, Canon Treasurer. May I present Doctor Filippo Savolino, a scholar from Italy and a friend of the Sidney family?”

The tall man turned his unhurried gaze back and arched his brow as he studied me.

“Savolino, you say? A pleasure.” He reached out one hand and I took it, reluctantly; his fingers felt bloodless and dry against mine and I had for a moment the impression that he had just stepped out of one of the tombs. “John Langworth, canon treasurer. We have few visiting scholars here, Doctor Savolino. I wonder what could interest you about our little community.”

“I am making a study of the history of Christendom,” I replied, glancing at Harry. “Naturally I could not miss the opportunity to visit the site of one of the greatest shrines in all of Europe.”

“You are about fifty years too late, my friend,” he said, pressing his lips together so that the scar whitened. “Nothing of greatness remains to be seen here.”

“Your magnificent church, for a start,” I said, trying to sound placatory.

He made a dismissive noise.

“You may find more impressive basilicas throughout Europe. It is a long way to travel for some stone and glass.”

I didn’t like the note of suspicion in his voice, so I merely smiled in the English manner.

“All relics of the church’s history are of interest to me, Canon Langworth.”

“Well, you will find this an empty reliquary. How long do you intend to stay?”

“Until I have seen all I wish to see.”

“I cannot imagine you will find much to detain you. What is your faith? I mean no offence,” he added, though his tone suggested he did not care if any had been taken. “But one should never make assumptions.”

Harry sucked in his breath audibly through his teeth. I merely inclined my head.

“Raised Catholic, like all my countrymen. But now that I live as a subject of Queen Elizabeth, I worship as she commands.” Seeing his eyes narrow, I added, “I have more interest in what our different faiths hold in common. There is as much to bind us together as to divide us, I believe.”

Langworth pursed his lips. Those cold, steady eyes did not waver from mine.

“Ah. You are an ecumenist. Some would say that is the surest way to heresy. You will not find many here would agree with you. Nor in Catholic Europe, I doubt. Still”—his face relaxed a little and he peered closer at me in the candlelight—“your views would make for an interesting discussion at the dean’s supper table. You should speak to Dean Rogers, Harry—have your friend invited to dinner while he is here. We are always glad of anything to enliven our debates,” he added, turning back to me. “I’m afraid we are rather starved of news from the outside world.”

I glanced at Harry; he wore a pinched expression, as if Langworth’s suggestion had angered him. Perhaps he resented the treasurer’s interference, or perhaps he was anxious that my presence might somehow compromise his position. There was a moment’s awkward silence.

“Well, I shall leave you to your historical tour,” Langworth said lightly, though I could see he had also noted Harry’s reluctance. “I can’t imagine what you hope to see down here, mind—this part of the crypt is only used for storage. I look forward to talking with you again, Doctor … Savolino, was it?” He paused and waved his long fingers in the direction of the tombs. “Try not to disturb the dead while you are looking around—they are only sleeping until the last trumpet.” His strange, curved smile flashed briefly before he glided away towards the steps as soundlessly as he had arrived.

Harry watched without speaking until he was sure Langworth had left. He rounded on me, anger burning in his eyes.

“Do not give that man an inch, Bruno,” he hissed, barely audible. He gripped my arm for emphasis. “John Langworth is slippery as a snake and just as dangerous.” He paused, glaring at the shadowy staircase where Langworth had disappeared.

“Why?”

Harry hesitated, still looking towards the stairs, as if to make sure Langworth had really gone.

“He has his position at the cathedral by royal gift, you know, though he has been suspected of popery for years. But he boasts powerful friends at court—his patron is Lord Henry Howard. It was he who pressed the queen to appoint Langworth.”

“Henry Howard?” I felt the hairs on my arms prickle; even after all these months, the name still inspired a chill of fear. So this was the man Sidney had mentioned.

“You know him, I believe?” Harry raised an eyebrow.

“Our paths have crossed. But he is in the Fleet Prison now.”

“This was seven years ago. Howard worked hard to regain the queen’s favour after the execution of his brother, the Duke of Norfolk, for treason. She gave Langworth the prebendary when it became vacant as a goodwill gesture to Henry Howard, to show he had not lost her trust.”

“He’s lost it now.”

“Aye, we heard the news before Christmas.” Harry set his jaw. “The timing could not have been worse for Langworth. He was favoured to become the next dean of Canterbury, but the fall of his patron worked against him. When the old dean died at the beginning of this year, the College of Canons elected Doctor Richard Rogers instead. I gather the archbishop leaned heavily on a number of the canons to prevent Langworth’s election.”

“Because he’s known to have Catholic sympathies?”

“Exactly. That was Howard’s whole purpose in having him appointed here—that he should one day become head of the chapter. But Langworth lost only by a very narrow margin—it would be a mistake to underestimate his influence.”

“Why did you say he was dangerous? Because of his beliefs?”

Harry glanced over his shoulder. The candle was burning lower and as its circle of light diminished, the darkness at the edges of the crypt seemed to press in on us. He waved with his stick towards the steps.

“Come—let us talk of this where we will not be overheard. I should be getting home for my shave in any case. A good shave wouldn’t hurt you either, if you don’t mind my saying,” he added, squinting at my face. “I can ask Samuel to do you after.”

“I don’t want to put him to any trouble,” I said, privately thinking that I would rather be arrested for vagrancy than let the servant Samuel anywhere near my throat with a razor.

“Nonsense! Least we can do. I should be offering you hospitality. I’m sure Francis would expect it.”

“I shall have more independence to come and go if I stay at the inn, though I thank you for the offer.”

Harry grunted and continued to shuffle towards the light. I noticed his pace was slower than before. We had reached the foot of the stairs out of the crypt; a welcome shaft of sunlight lent the air a white glow above us. As unobtrusively as I could, I paused at the first step and extended my arm. Harry hesitated a moment, then grasped my elbow to steady himself for the climb. Both of us kept our gaze fixed resolutely ahead. At the top of the stairs he dropped my arm as if it had burned his fingers, leaned forward on his stick, and nodded brusquely, once, still without looking at me, before moving stiffly towards the open door of the cathedral.

“JOHN LANGWORTH is the one I was sent here to watch.”

Harry tilted his head back as Samuel, silent and impassive as ever, tied a white linen cloth around his neck. We were seated in his small kitchen, where a crackling fire heated the already stifling air. All the windows were closed. Even Harry wiped a bead of sweat from his brow as Samuel now lifted a pan of hot water from a hook over the flames and poured some into a porcelain basin. “Walsingham was concerned by Henry Howard’s involvement in Langworth’s appointment. He suspected that Howard and his Catholic supporters in France and Spain wanted Langworth here for some strategic reason. As dean he would have held significant power, not only over the cathedral but over the whole city. There was a time when Walsingham feared Langworth and his supporters could have inspired an outright rebellion in Canterbury—and if that were to coincide with a Franco-Spanish invasion …” He left the thought unfinished, looking at me with a decisive nod.

“Such as the one that was planned last autumn,” I mused.

“Exactly. But Howard scuppered his own plans by getting himself arrested just prior to the dean’s election,” Harry said. Samuel gently eased his master’s head back again before dipping his own hands in the basin and coating them with soap.

“Henry Howard is in the Fleet Prison because of me,” I said, my eyes fixed on Samuel’s hands as they moved in slow circles over Harry’s jaw, white lather blooming under his fingers.

“Ah. I wondered,” Harry said. He sat forward and spat the soap that had got in his mouth as he spoke. “Walsingham said in his letter that you had performed a great service for the queen and the realm last autumn. I guessed it might have been connected with that conspiracy.”

“Howard may have corresponded with Langworth from prison about it.”

“No doubt. The Earl of Arundel came to Kent before Christmas last year, not long after his uncle was arrested, and Langworth met him. We think he was bringing messages too sensitive to trust to paper.”

“Henry Howard’s nephew visited Langworth in person?” My mind was racing ahead, clutching at the possible implications. Perhaps messages were not all the Earl of Arundel had brought to Kent with him.

“It’s my understanding that Howard trusted Langworth with some of his affairs—that’s why he’s still an object of suspicion. He would certainly have known about the conspiracy last autumn. God’s wounds, man, don’t wave that thing so near my face when I’m trying to have a conversation!”

Samuel had opened a narrow, straight-bladed razor, which he now dipped in the hot water. “It might be easier for everyone, sir, if you were to break off your discussion just until I have finished,” he suggested mildly.

Harry grunted, but settled back in his chair. I watched Samuel’s deft strokes with the razor around the old man’s chin, but my mind was elsewhere. So it was likely that my reputation had preceded me to Canterbury after all—and in the worst possible way, from the pen of a man who wanted me dead. If Howard had named me to Langworth as his enemy, I would need to take extra care that no one in Canterbury should discover my real name—though being Italian and a friend of the Sidneys, I may already have aroused Langworth’s suspicions. And here my pulse quickened, because I could not prevent my imagination from wild leaps—if Howard trusted Langworth so implicitly, might he have entrusted the canon with the care of his most treasured possession, a book he would have wanted to spirit out of London, far away from the eyes of the searchers who came to arrest him? The book he had once allowed me to hold in my hands, only because he had believed he was going to kill me immediately afterwards? If his own nephew had travelled all the way to Kent in person to see Langworth, there must have been a good reason. Any courier could carry a message.

When Harry eventually sat up, a linen towel pressed to his pink face, he looked at me with concern.

“You appear troubled, Bruno. Worried Langworth might work out who you are?”

“We will have to be careful. It is a shock to find myself so near a close associate of the Howards. When you said Langworth was dangerous—did you mean violent?”

“Violent? No, he is too clever for that. But a man with money and powerful friends can be dangerous in other ways. Here—” Harry levered himself out of his chair and gestured to me to take his place. “Samuel, fetch some fresh water and see if you can make our guest look halfway respectable.”

“Really, there’s no need—”

“Don’t quibble, Bruno. You have the look of a Spanish pirate at the moment. If you want to gain people’s trust in Canterbury, you must tidy yourself up a little.”

Samuel favoured me with one of his long, withering looks from under his brows as he set about pouring a fresh bowl of water and wiping the razor. When I was nervously seated with a cloth tied around my throat, Harry pulled up a chair.

“Langworth is not a godly man. Rumours follow him—of mistresses, an illegitimate child, misappropriation of cathedral funds—this is quite apart from his suspected loyalty to the Church of Rome. But there has never been enough evidence to deprive him of his position.”

“Uh-huh.” I could only look up at the ceiling as Samuel smoothed the soap on to my face with a light touch. I gripped the arms of the chair tightly nonetheless.

“A couple of years ago, one of the minor canons who worked with Langworth in the treasury thought he had discovered fraudulent accounts relating to leases of some of the local manors owned by the cathedral. He went so far as to accuse Langworth of corruption.”

“And what happened to him?” I asked, through my teeth, knowing the story would not be good. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the flash and wink of steel in the sunlight.

“Shortly after he made this accusation, one of the serving boys in the dean’s kitchen accused this young canon of having improperly assaulted him. Another stable lad repeated a similar claim. Then the canon was arrested for brawling in the street outside a tavern—he insisted he was set upon by two thugs, but witnesses were found to say he had provoked a fight after losing money at dice. You see?”

I tried to nod, but Samuel’s hand clamped tightly under my chin. His grip was surprisingly strong.

“Head still, if you would, sir,” he murmured. I felt the kiss of the blade against my throat and flinched violently; an instinctive response, to my shame. I thought I heard Samuel snigger.

“You are skittish, Bruno,” Harry observed. “Bad experience with barbers?”

“Bad experience with knives,” I muttered, through clenched teeth. The memory of a blade levelled at my throat back in Oxford still pulsed vividly when I closed my eyes.

“I had no idea philosophy was such a dangerous profession.” He smiled. “In short, this young canon was deprived of his position in disgrace and his career in the church ended at a stroke. Since then no one has dared to repeat any such accusation against Langworth. For myself, I would appreciate it if your investigations here gave him a wide berth. I do not want his suspicions aroused against me—any more than they are already.”

“Is he capable of murder?” The razor feathered gently across my cheek; there was no denying that Samuel had a deft touch, but still I felt painfully vulnerable, my throat exposed, his left hand gripping my chin, and all my muscles were held taut as wire.

“Sir Edward Kingsley, you mean? No, they were friends. In fact it was Langworth who found the body, and he was visibly distressed by it, as far as I could see. Besides, staving in a man’s skull like that? I can’t picture it. Too vulgar for a man like Langworth.”

“He could have paid someone to do it, like he did with the tavern brawl. Friends can fall out, with violent consequences, if there is enough at stake. And what better way to avert suspicion than by finding the body with a show of grief? Besides, what was he doing alone in the crypt just now with no light? Surely—”

“You are allowing your imagination to run away, if I may say so.” Harry heaved himself to his feet again and came to loom over me as I sat. “Perhaps you didn’t hear clearly. You leave Langworth to me.” He sighed. “I will do what I can to help you while you are here, but I haven’t spent the last six years painstakingly watching him for you to compromise my work with rash suspicions. Is that clear?”

I lifted my head to look at him and caught the stern expression in his eyes. I was too dependent on Harry’s goodwill and cooperation to make any argument; no one else in Canterbury could vouch for me or smooth my way while I tried to find Edward Kingsley’s murderer. I nodded obediently, before Samuel smothered the lower half of my face with a hot cloth, but I was already intrigued by Langworth’s friendship with the murdered man. And what had he meant when he told me not to disturb the dead? Was that a weak joke, or a warning?

Samuel patted my face dry and held up a small looking glass so that I could approve his work. I pushed my hair back from my face, tilted my head from one side to the other, and wondered what Sophia would make of me now. She was right; I did look younger. I thanked Samuel and received only a sarcastic smirk in return.

“Dine with me tomorrow at noon,” Harry said, as he saw me to the door. “You can let me know how your enquiries progress. If they are to involve prominent men in the city, it would be best for you to consult me first—I can advise you on sensitive matters and make introductions if necessary. You will be less suspicious if it becomes known in the town that you are my guest.” He leaned on his stick and reached out with his right hand to shake mine. “But remember what I said, Bruno. Leave Langworth alone. Whatever ideas you may form about him, forget them. It would do no good and might well do great harm.”

I bowed in reply, but said nothing. Behind Harry’s shoulder, Samuel’s eyes bored into me with silent resentment.

I PAID MY landlady at the Cheker fourpence extra to have a copper of hot water brought to my room—over the odds, but I was too tired and uncomfortable to haggle over the price. Once I had washed the grime of three days’ travelling from my hair and body and changed my clothes, however, I felt my spirits revive. As the cathedral bells rang out across the city for Evensong, I made my way downstairs to the taproom to take supper by myself and reflect on the few snippets of information I had gathered since our arrival.

John Langworth: I had only to picture the canon treasurer, with his angular face and grave, scrutinising gaze, for a chill to creep along my neck. I must be careful, I told myself; it would be all too easy for my enmity with Henry Howard to colour my judgement of Langworth, and I had been in danger of making such a mistake before. Was Langworth the reason Walsingham had insisted I use a false name? A known Catholic sympathiser, biding his time in Canterbury; if the French invasion which Henry Howard had been instrumental in plotting had succeeded last year, would Langworth have seized his opportunity, taken control of the cathedral, produced the corpse of Saint Thomas with a conjuror’s flourish, and rallied the town in a Catholic rebellion to greet the invading forces? It was not impossible to imagine. But the plot had failed, Howard was in prison, and Langworth had been beaten to the position of Dean of Canterbury; perhaps he was no longer a serious threat. Even so, I could not help wondering if Harry was watching him closely enough. The old man had certainly seemed defensive at my arrival; perhaps that was behind his insistence that I should not stir up any trouble around Langworth. But the latter’s friendship with Sir Edward Kingsley had piqued my interest. Was Langworth one of the powerful friends Sophia had mentioned, who had gathered at her late husband’s home to whisper behind closed doors?

The thought of her brought another sharp pang of longing; I would miss her presence in the room that night, despite the torments it provoked. After only three days it had come to feel quite natural; the rise and fall of her breathing in the dark, our instinctive modesty as we averted our eyes or covered ourselves, self-consciously trying to avoid the accidental intimacies that come from sharing a small space at night. I imagined her lying under the rafters of the weavers’ cottage and wondered if she would also miss me, but I had to close my eyes against the unbidden image of her by the light of a candle, turning the warmth of her smile on young Olivier and his pout.

Declining the entreaties of my landlady to stay and drink with her after my meal (it’s not every inn would be so welcoming to foreigners, she assured me, though for herself it was a rare treat to encounter such a well-mannered and handsome gentleman), I gathered a full purse and my bone-handled knife and set out into the dusty street. The heat of the day was abating as the sun slid down towards the horizon like a melted seal of crimson wax; at the corner of the street a group of children played a game that involved jumping over a crudely made grid scratched into the dirt. They fell silent as I passed and stared up at me with wide, unblinking eyes; one of the smaller ones crept behind an older child and peeped out with an expression very like awe.

“Where will I find the Three Tuns?” I called to the older boy.

He took a step back as I stopped, putting out a protective hand towards the little one clinging behind him. Mute, he pointed to his right.

“Watling Street.” His voice came out barely more than a whisper.

“Thank you.” I tossed him a penny; it landed in the dust at his feet, where he looked at it suspiciously for a moment before reaching down, never taking his eyes off me.

Their reaction puzzled me; did I look so unusual to them? I followed the direction of the boy’s pointing finger, and turned back at the end of the street to find them still staring, rooted to the spot. Children like novelty, I told myself, as I continued around the corner. But I couldn’t quite shake the uncomfortable sense that their response had been one of fear. Perhaps, even clean-shaven, I looked like one of the murdering Spanish pirates their mothers warned them about.

From the outside, the Three Tuns gave the impression that it had lost the will to keep up appearances; plaster cracked and peeled from the walls and the thatch of the roof suffered from threadbare patches. But the taproom was crowded, busy with the din of lively chatter, snatches of song, and the occasional shout of protest as one drinker knocked another in the crush; smoke hung thickly under the low beams of the ceiling, mixing with the yeasty scent of beer and warm bread. It was clearly not one of the better inns in the town, to judge by the dress and appearance of its customers, but its roughness held a certain appeal. I guessed it was the sort of place the law would knowingly overlook, where all manner of illicit activities might go on with a blind eye turned. There was an edge to the atmosphere, as if a fight might erupt at any moment.

In the corner farthest from the door, a group of young men were gathered around a long table playing cards. A pile of coins spilled across the board between them, glistening in a puddle of beer. I pushed through the drinkers standing around the serving hatch, fending off the attentions of a couple of bawds on the way, and found a spot where I could stand and observe the game alongside the handful of other onlookers. The six players had evidently been drinking for some time. I scanned their faces, waiting for the right moment.

A skinny young man with wild red hair knocked twice on the table and his fellows laid their cards faceup. A brief pause followed for calculation, then a cry went up from one curly-haired youth, who leaned forwards and scooped up the pile of coins. His friends cursed and thumped their fists on the table in a show of resentment as the red-haired boy gathered the cards, gave them a practised shuffle, and began to deal again. I was not a great connoisseur of cards—Sidney had tried to teach me without much success—but I knew enough to see that they were playing one-and-thirty, a reasonably simple game to follow. When each player had five cards, more coins were thrown into the middle, along with more spirited cursing and threats.

“If you keep on at this rate, Nick, you’ll have lost all your father’s legacy before you even get your hands on it,” remarked the young man with the curly hair, who had won the last hand. The boy opposite him glanced up sharply, frowning. He was unremarkable to look at, with light brown hair and a sparse beard over a solid jaw, thick eyebrows that met in the middle, and a nose that had once been broken. There was an angry cast to his features, as if he held a grievance against anyone who so much as looked at him.

“Don’t worry yourself about that, Charlie,” he said, slurring his words. “There’s plenty there to be going on with.”

“It’s not in your coffers yet, though,” said the red-haired boy, examining his new cards. He seemed the most sober of the lot.

“It will be as soon as they catch that bitch and burn her.”

“What if they don’t?”

“Jesus Christ!” The boy called Nick slammed his pot down hard on the table; beer sloshed across the cards. “I said I’m sick of talking about it. Are you going to play or sit there all night gossiping like a laundry woman?”

There was a smattering of laughter from the crowd, followed by a crash as the young man at the end of the table slumped sideways on his bench and fell to the floor.

“God’s blood! There’s Peter finished for the night. I’ve seen girl children hold their drink better than him.” The red-haired boy pushed his chair back reluctantly and knelt to haul his fallen comrade into a sitting position. “Leave him there, he can sober up in his own time. Damned if I’m carrying him home again.”

“Who will take his cards?” The curly-haired youth named Charlie turned expectantly to the little group standing by the table. “Anyone?”

“I’ve better things to do with my money than throw it to the likes of you,” muttered one man, with a broad grin. The other spectators laughed.

The boy looked disappointed; he cast his eyes around the group until finally his gaze came to rest on me.

“I will play, if you like.” I shrugged, unconcerned. The crowd fell silent and I felt their eyes on me, curiosity piqued by my accent. I looked only at the boy who had spoken. He raised an eyebrow, then glanced around at his friends for approval.

“All right, stranger. Join us for one game and we’ll see how you go.”

“You mean, if you take my money, I can stay on.”

He grinned.

“See, he understands. There are men who travel from town to town making a living from cards—we want to be sure you are not one of those. Take Peter’s seat. Nick, shove up, will you, make room for—what’s your name, stranger?”

“Filippo.”

“Where are you from?” The boy called Nick turned his belligerent glare on me as I squeezed onto the bench beside him. He smelled sharply of sweat and drink; I clenched my fists under the table as I thought of him pawing at Sophia. For this could only be Nicholas Kingsley, the son of Sophia’s dead husband.

“Italy.” I pulled a handful of coins from the purse at my belt and tossed them on to the pile before consulting my cards and smiling at my new companions. I may not be much of a gambler, but years of travelling had taught me that no one makes friends quicker than a man known to be a gracious loser at the card table.

And so I proved to be. I let them take money from me on the first game, laughed at my own ill fortune, was duly invited to stay for the second, bought another pitcher of beer for the table, and another—though happily my companions were so far gone in drink themselves that they failed to notice I drank off one pot to every two or three of theirs. By the end of the night my purse was considerably lighter and my head reeling from the strong ale, but I had been pronounced “a good fellow” by the red-haired boy, whose name was Robin Bates and who seemed the self-appointed leader of the group—all sons of minor gentry or gentlemen farmers, in their early twenties, with a small allowance at their disposal and no apparent inclination as yet to apply themselves to any profession.

“You should play with us again tomorrow, friend,” Bates said when the night’s gaming was over, chinking his winnings in his palm with a nod of satisfaction. I was about to reply when I noticed a murmuring among the group of onlookers, which died away to a pregnant silence as they parted to make way for a newcomer. The curly-haired boy elbowed Nicholas Kingsley, who sat up, blearily focusing, before his face set hard.

“Where’s my money, Kingsley, you son of a whoremonger?”

I looked round and saw, with some surprise, that the speaker was the broad-shouldered gatekeeper from the cathedral. He appeared even larger in the low room, and it was clear that, despite their bravado, the man’s size and the grim look on his face were causing Nicholas and his friends to shrink back in their seats. No one spoke. Eventually Nicholas rubbed his forehead and sighed.

“Not this again. I owe you no money, Tom Garth.”

“Your family does.” The gatekeeper stepped closer to the table, jabbing a meaty finger an inch from Nicholas’s nose. His friends slid as far from him on their benches as they could manage. “Your father has owed my family reparation these past nine years, and now his debt passes to you, though you sit here gaming away money that isn’t yours to lose.” His voice shook with a rage he was struggling to master.

Nicholas shrugged, his eyes fixed firmly on the contents of his tankard.

“Take me to law for it, then.”

This seemed to have the effect of poking an angry dog with a stick.

“As if I could!” Spittle flecked Tom Garth’s lips; it was clear that he had taken a drink, though he was just drunk enough to be aggressive without losing control. “Your father was the law in this town—what chance did we have?” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “The law has no time for the likes of us. Is it any wonder we have to take it into our own hands?”

Nicholas looked up finally, a sneer spread across his face.

“Oh, you are become a lawyer now, are you, Garth?”

This was a mistake; Tom Garth seized Nicholas by the collar of his shirt, bunching it in his fist, and dragged him forward over the table until their noses were touching.

“I know what’s right and what’s wrong, you little shit. Your father was a murderer and you’re no better. Damned lucky for you your stepmother ran off the way she did, eh? Otherwise people might start asking what you were doing there that night.” He tightened his grip; Nicholas gave a little yelp.

“Now then, Tom Garth, let’s not have any trouble here.” The landlord had materialised beside our table, arms folded across his ample belly, his tone a practised mixture of calming and warning.

Garth glared at Nicholas for a long moment, then shoved him forcefully onto his bench; Nicholas hit the wall with a thump and slumped back, rubbing his neck.

“You lying churl bastard!” he managed to croak. “Say that again and I’ll have you in gaol for it. Your mother’s a witch and your sister was a whore, all Canterbury knows it.”

Garth made as if to step forward, but the landlord laid a restraining hand on his arm.

“Probably time you all turned in for the night, boys,” he added, turning to us, his tone amiable enough, though it was not a suggestion. “And you be on your way too, Tom.” He clapped the larger man gently on the shoulder in a manner that made clear where his sympathies lay. “If there’s any brawling in the street outside my inn, none of you’ll be coming back tomorrow, or the next day, or in a month of Sundays.” He looked carefully around the group to make sure we had understood.

We all nodded meekly, like chided schoolboys, and for a moment I wanted to laugh. Tom Garth ran a hand through his hair, directed a last scorching look at Nicholas, and strode to the door.

Outside in the street, no one spoke. My companions peered anxiously up and down the lane, as if afraid Tom Garth might leap at them from the shadows.

“That fellow has quite a grudge against you,” I remarked.

“He’s a drunk and a madman. My father should have had him locked up.” Nick Kingsley untied his breeches to piss up the wall, turning over his shoulder to his friend. “I shall stay with you tonight, Robin. I’m not walking home alone with that churl waiting to knock me down.”

“Again? What is the good of inheriting such a fine house if you are always too drunk to sleep in it?” Bates said, slapping his friend on the back.

“Why do you not hold the game at your own house to save you the walk?” I asked.

Nick focused his gaze sufficiently to glare at me. “Because there are no women there, of course.”

I shrugged and gestured around the group. “I don’t see any women here either.”

“Ha! Good point, my friend. It’s because he would have to provide the drink,” Bates said.

“It’s a good thought of the Italian’s,” said Charlie, leaning on Bates’s other shoulder. “Better than giving all our money to that arsehole Hoskyns for the watered-down cat’s piss he serves up.” He jerked his thumb towards the Three Tuns. “And no one to tell us when to leave. We could keep going till dawn, if we wanted. Your father must have left some fine barrels in his cellar, Nick—someone should make use of them.”

Nick rounded on him with a sudden lurch, pointing unsteadily.

“The house is not in my name yet, nor anything in it,” he blurted. “The attorney says—”

“Oh, the attorney says, the attorney says!” Bates rolled his eyes. “You bleat it like a catechism. Fuck the attorney—of course it’s yours! What are you, a child? Are you going to let that murdering bitch deprive you of your inheritance? Your father was hard enough on you when he was alive—the least you deserve is to enjoy his money now.”

“But I can’t touch it yet!” Nick wheeled about, looking from Bates to Charlie to the others until finally his wild gaze came to rest on me and I saw a dark flash of anger in his eyes, a hint of unpredictable fury.

This was a young man well capable of violence if provoked, I had no doubt, but the murder of Sir Edward, though brutal, was no hotheaded, sudden attack; the killer had planned it, waited for his opportunity, even planted evidence to condemn Sophia. I had yet to see whether this Nick was capable of such calculation.

He pointed a trembling finger at me, his eyes clouded with drink and rage.

“She will not take it from me,” he said, as if this were a personal threat. “Nor will that churl Tom Garth, nor the Widow Gray, nor any of them.”

I nodded in agreement, since this seemed the only possible response. Bates laughed.

“Poor Filippo has no idea what you are talking about, you arsehole,” he said. “Well then, it is settled—tomorrow we shall drink the night away at your house, Nick—and you must join us, friend.” He turned to me and winked. “Meet us here at seven—and be sure to bring a full purse.”

I punched him heartily on the arm by way of reply, a gesture I had learned from Sidney and which he seemed to appreciate. Silently, I congratulated myself; an invitation into the Kingsley house was more than I had expected on my first day in Canterbury. It would be something encouraging to tell Sophia, in any case, when I saw her the next day; a thought I comforted myself with that night as I lay alone on my straw mattress at the Cheker, sleep held at bay by questions. What was Tom Garth’s grudge against the Kingsley family? He must be a relative of the maid Fitch had mentioned, the one who had died, but what did he mean by taking the law into his own hands? What had he meant when he said Nicholas Kingsley was there that night? And what did the Widow Gray have to do with Edward Kingsley’s money? I sighed, turning uncomfortably to one side and then the other. Even the release that came from imagining Sophia stretched out beside me failed to bring the sweet oblivion of sleep.