by S. J. Parris
‘Better that I know the situation.’ I paused. ‘If your group has been betrayed, there must be nothing to connect Spain with it – the diplomatic consequences are unthinkable. I should take my master’s money and leave quietly.’
He fastened his hand around my wrist. ‘No need to be hasty, my friend. You have sworn your oath as one of us, remember? Besides, we don’t yet know all the facts.’
‘You mean, you could be mistaken? It might have been a jilted lover, perhaps?’
‘I did not know the girl well. I concede she may have had other lovers. I count it unlikely, though – she seemed a good, modest girl, devout in her faith, from what I saw.’
‘Other lovers? You mean, besides whatever attachment she had in your group?’
He glanced at me; I caught the shine of his eyes and teeth in the dark. ‘As I have already said, Prado, that is speculation. Look, you must understand it. You and I have taken our vows, we are practised at mastering our urges.’
‘I suppose you could not spend so much time in a brothel if not.’
He did not smile. ‘Those boys, you saw them, Babington and Titch. They are young pups, eager for adventure. They do not have the vocation. If they are sometimes distracted by the promptings of the flesh, I try not to condemn.’
‘They might take their money elsewhere if you did.’
‘God sees the heart, and I do not think their commitment to our cause any the less for a youthful indiscretion.’
‘Do they confess their sins to you?’
He gave me a reproving look. ‘You know I cannot speak of the confessional. Of course,’ he added, in a brisker tone, ‘your friend Weston would not agree with me on this matter. He thinks any sin is a conduit for the Devil.’ This was said with a knowing chuckle, as if expecting agreement. ‘He would have them exorcised on the spot for even glancing sidelong at a woman. Tell me, are you all so severe?’
I laughed with him, to cover my anxiety, but my pulse was running again. Who was Weston? ‘You all’ made me guess that he must be another Jesuit – or possibly another Spaniard? – but the friend part worried me more; if Prado had friends in London, that was surely something Walsingham should have ascertained before he sent me into the fray. My biggest fear had been that I would run into someone – Archibald Douglas, for example – who would recognise me as Bruno. It had not occurred to me that I might encounter anyone who knew the real Prado.
‘Are you all right?’ Ballard asked, releasing his grip on my arm. ‘You seem tense.’
‘I thought I heard someone behind us.’ I looked back and pulled my cloak closer around my face. It was not entirely untrue; all along Cheapside I had sensed shadows stirring in our wake, and my neck prickled with the familiar uneasy sense of being watched. It was a feeling I had known for years, the legacy of running from the Inquisition. You never knew who might creep up on you in a crowd, or a dark street.
Cheapside was a sea of bobbing lights as men in pairs or small groups passed us east and west, coming from the taverns. Snatches of song and laughter trailed behind them, peppered with an occasional curse as someone trod in horseshit or worse. We had drawn level with the row of goldsmiths’ shops at the west end of the street, their painted signs creaking in an eerie chorus. Ahead, behind the Cheapside Cross, the vast bulk of St Paul’s church reared up like a beached ship, dwarfing even the five-storey townhouses on either side.
‘You’re right to be on your guard,’ Ballard murmured. ‘London is not a safe place at night, though no worse than any other city and better than some. But we need not jump at shadows, eh, you and I? We do God’s work, and we must trust that He will protect us. I suppose you will see Weston while you are here?’
He would not let the Weston business drop. I decided it was time for Father Prado to become cagey. If I had learned anything from court politics in France and England, it was that the best defence is to meet a question with another question. ‘Is that important?’
He took a moment before answering. ‘We have kept our plan very close, as I told you. We have not involved Weston because – it pains me to say this, but there has not always been perfect accord in the English mission, between the secular priests like myself and your brethren in the Jesuit order. They like to – how can I put this – manage things.’
I bowed my head, to show that I understood. ‘Then perhaps it is best if Weston does not know I am here, for the moment,’ I said. He looked relieved, though not as relieved as I felt. I made a mental note to find out from Phelippes if this Weston was really a friend of Prado; I could hardly ask Ballard if he had been using the term literally. The last thing I needed was a Jesuit turning up to reminisce about the good old days.
We approached the precincts of St Paul’s. Beyond the walls, the darkness thickened, broken by points of lights from braziers or torches. I could not help another look behind me; I wondered how it must be to walk the streets with Ballard’s delusional confidence in God’s protection. You ran a risk visiting the churchyard here even in daylight. The place was a notorious haunt of thieves and cut-purses, newsmongers, handbill sellers, vagrants and fraudsters; in the north-east yard, at the foot of the walls, lean-to wooden structures with canvas awnings had become permanent fixtures where London’s less reputable booksellers and printers laid out their wares for the crowds who gathered to hear preachers in the elevated outdoor pulpit they called Paul’s Cross. Hostel agents touted rooms to rent; while they explained their prices with a friendly arm around the shoulders of newcomers to the city, their associates would relieve these poor dupes of their luggage and valuables. From wooden booths around the walls, card-sharps competed for the attention of the crowds with foolproof tricks that always left the volunteers marvelling at the loss of their coins. If you could walk from one side of Paul’s churchyard to the other without your pocket picked, without being arrested for reading illegal pamphlets or drawn into a brawl, you could count yourself blessed. At night, you would be lucky to come out alive.
As if following my thoughts, Ben faltered at the gates to the churchyard. ‘You’re going in there?’ he asked, in disbelief.
‘You can go now, boy.’ Ballard fished a penny out from somewhere inside his doublet.
Ben darted a questioning look at me for the space of a heartbeat, but I could make no signal. He bit down on Ballard’s coin, nodded to us and slipped away into the dark, his torch burning low. I watched with regret as he disappeared.
Ballard laid his hand between my shoulder blades and steered me into the churchyard. Without Ben’s light I was walking blind at first, but as my eyes began to adjust I made out the hexagonal outline of Paul’s Cross ahead, at the same time as I became aware of the many shapes slipping invisibly through the shadows around us, into drifts of woodsmoke from the braziers. As we passed huddles of men, some barefoot, all in patched and ragged clothes, I caught the glint of watchful eyes following us. These were the people who went unseen by day in the streets of London; the vagrants, the workless men, the lame and those who begged or stole food, but I was in their domain now, the kingdom of the invisible. I saw how the anonymous eyes boldly appraised my boots, my hat, my jacket, weighing up how much they would fetch; I tensed inside the unfamiliar suit and wished again that Prado’s chosen disguise had been something less flamboyant. As we moved further into the churchyard, they began slowly to draw closer; I realised, belatedly, that we were surrounded by a circle of men: silent, holding back, but clearly waiting for some signal. My nerves grew taut as I tried to keep a focus on all the figures at once, my hand near enough to the knife at my belt for a quick draw, though not so close as to provoke them.
Ballard – whose attire was even more ludicrously extravagant and expensive – seemed untroubled; I had the impression that he was known here. He stopped, glanced around at the men who had gathered, then reached into his leather bag and pulled out loaves of bread, legs of chicken, dried apples – all leftovers from our supper that he must have collected from the kitchen after the plates had been cl
eared. He distributed what he had brought and the men passed it around wordlessly, until the bag was empty. There was no shoving, no complaint that one had more than another – they took care that no one was missed out. The business was done in no more than five minutes and, without speaking, the men melted back into the shadows. Ballard took out a kerchief to wipe his hands and ushered me towards the church, into a space between two of the booksellers’ kiosks.
‘Can’t stand to see food thrown away while people are going hungry,’ he said brusquely, as if I had demanded an explanation.
‘Couldn’t you ask Babington to buy those men bread?’
‘I have. He says he gives out alms on his estate at home, and that’s enough. He’s afraid I’ll end by asking him to feed all the beggars in London.’
‘He has the money to spare, as I understand.’
‘Not so much glory, is there, in using your money to put bread in poor men’s mouths, when you could spend it on an army to overthrow the Tudor?’
I murmured my understanding and we stood in silence for a few minutes. All around us, the darkness crackled with unseen footsteps, the low mutter of voices, the pop and hiss of damp wood in the braziers. Ballard continued to peer into the blackness, as if expecting someone.
‘What do we do now?’ I asked, trying to keep my voice even.
‘We wait.’ His eyes flitted to mine with the relish of one who knows a secret, and a hint of a smile touched the corners of his mouth. In that moment, I realised my folly in allowing him to corner me here. He had seen through me the instant he walked into The Castle, I was sure of it; he had been toying with me all night, and now he had brought me here to kill me. All I had was the knife at my belt; whatever the priest tried, and however many of these masterless men he could command to set on me, I would not go down without doing some damage.
Before I could ask what we were waiting for, it all happened faster than the speed of thought: I became aware, unmistakably, of a silent presence at my back in the dark; I sensed rather than saw the lift of the man’s arm; before he could bring it down I had ducked and wheeled around; I stood in one sudden movement, smashing the top of my head into his chin before he could step back. As he reeled from the impact, I drove a fist into his stomach – it was like punching a wall, but he was knocked off balance enough for me to slip a foot between his ankles and trip him so that he fell heavily on to his back; almost before he had hit the ground I was astride him, sitting on his chest with the point of my dagger at his throat.
My would-be assailant raised his hands in surrender, turning his head to the side and spitting blood. In the scrap his hat had fallen, and I found myself looking into the blue and brown eyes of Jack Savage.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he said, with feeling, and spat again; he had bitten his tongue when I headbutted him. I kept the blade at his throat; I could not seem to make my shaking hands understand the need to move it. My breath came in jagged gasps and the top of my head throbbed. Behind me, Ballard laughed. He sounded impressed.
‘My God. Which seminary did you learn that in?’ When I did not answer, he laid a gentle hand on my shoulder and coaxed the knife from me. ‘Don’t kill Jack on your first day, Prado, we should be hard put to find a replacement for him at such short notice. You can let him up now,’ he added, more firmly. ‘He’s not going to hurt you.’
‘Not tonight, anyway,’ Savage muttered. I allowed Ballard to take my elbow and lift me to my feet. Savage stood, rubbing a trail of blood from his mouth.
‘There was me thinking I was the one with the temper,’ Ballard remarked mildly.
‘Forgive me…’ My voice sounded strangled. ‘He came up behind me so suddenly, I didn’t realise—’
‘No harm done,’ Ballard said, though Savage’s eyes told me I could expect to be paid back some time. ‘Useful to know you have such skills,’ he added. ‘Mendoza did not mention that you were a fighter.’
‘I spend a lot of time on the road, as you know.’ I turned away as I brushed myself down, hoping they would not see how I was trembling. ‘I have had to defend myself more than once.’ When I trusted my expression, I faced them again. ‘Your pardon, Master. It was an instinctive reaction. Nothing personal.’
Ballard was still watching me with the same intent look, somewhere between admiration and suspicion. ‘There’s not many men could get the better of Jack,’ he said.
‘He caught me off-guard,’ Savage said, glaring. ‘In a fair fight, I’d crush the fucker.’
I acknowledged the truth of this with a bow of my head.
‘Peace, Jack. We are all friends here.’ Ballard tilted his head towards me. ‘Except that you clearly thought I had led you here to have you attacked?’
‘I am a foreigner in a strange city.’ I offered him an apologetic shrug. ‘Experience has taught me to be alert.’
‘Of course. Though it is not always an asset to have a man so jumpy. We’ll say no more of it for now. Here.’ He handed my knife back. ‘You’d better put that away. We shall be careful not to upset you.’ His eyes gleamed in the dark. ‘Perhaps I should have explained our business here. Do you have anything for us, Jack?’
Savage grunted, and spat again. ‘One up at Shoe Lane, another St Laurence’s Hill.’
‘What nature?’
‘Dying, I think. The first, anyway. St Laurence, it was garbled. Childbed – could go either way.’
‘Right.’ Ballard thought for a moment. ‘Take Prado to Shoe Lane, I’ll do the other.’
‘What’s happening?’ I asked.
‘We have a night’s work ahead of us, my friend. Here – this is for you.’ He reached inside his doublet and drew out a black silk purse. ‘Open it.’
I unknotted the strings to find a miniature glass bottle with a silver stopper, and a silver pyx. I understood then what was being asked of me. ‘Holy oil?’
He nodded. ‘Catholic priests are not so plentiful in England that we can afford to let one sit around idle. The faithful go on dying and giving birth and getting sick, and we are needed, whether our greater plans come off or no.’
‘But…’ I turned the pyx in my hand, running my thumbnail over the elaborate tracery on the lid. ‘This is dangerous, is it not? I mean to say – if we should be caught, what happens to the plan? I was not told this would be expected of me.’ I thought of Robin Poole’s boast that he had been imprisoned alongside Catholic suspects without giving away that he was Walsingham’s man, and the limp he had as a result. The pursuivants were vigilant in London; I knew they watched Catholic houses. If I should be taken giving someone extreme unction, would I be permitted to reveal my identity? Would they even believe me?
Ballard regarded me with a cold eye. ‘It was expected of you the day you were ordained,’ he said. ‘I know you Jesuits prefer to sit around disputing footnotes to codices rather than waste your intellectual gifts on the poor and the sick, but there are hundreds of people in this city who have need of a priest, and that is what we are. So hold your nose and get your hands dirty. You have a duty.’ Without another word, he turned and walked away into the night.
Savage grinned at me. ‘Shall we?’ He gestured to the gate. Reluctantly, I began walking, forcing myself not to glance over my shoulder, knowing he was deliberately keeping behind me. ‘And keep your hands where I can see them,’ he added, as we emerged into the street. ‘You might have fooled the rest, but I know exactly what you are, Prado.’ He said this in a low voice, so close to my ear that his hot breath made me flinch. I did not respond. Instead, I turned my thoughts inward, searching my memory for the rites for extreme unction, hoping I could remember all the words I had not said for a decade before we reached Shoe Lane.
* * *
If my conscience had troubled me over the idea of befriending Babington and his fellows in order to betray them to Walsingham, you may imagine how I felt deceiving the simple faith of people who were risking imprisonment or worse to bring the old rites to their dying grandmother or sick child. I hoped the rituals I m
anaged to perform without too many obvious errors would bring some comfort, and that they would never have cause to find out that the gentle Spanish priest whose hands they clasped with tears in their eyes was in fact an excommunicate heretic spy. Before I had even completed my novitiate I had abandoned any belief that there was magic in the host or the sanctity of the person intoning the prayers – God knows I had met enough priests and friars with worse sins on their souls than the people they were shriving – but the business made me uneasy all the same. It was not helped by Savage at my shoulder, his odd eyes fixed intently on my lips, as if recording my every word for a report. The families who had begged for a secret priest might not notice if I stumbled over the Latin form of the Viaticum, but I had a feeling Savage would, and that any slip would be noted as evidence.
After the old woman at Shoe Lane, there was an infant with a fever off Cowcross Street and a family in Hosier Lane who thought their mute daughter might be possessed. I had neither the energy nor the confidence to go through the charade of casting out demons, so I assured them she was not and left the poor girl with a blessing. The parents were evidently disappointed not to have the drama of a full exorcism, and I thought of Ballard’s words about this mysterious Weston, who was apparently eager to cast out spirits wherever he went. I sincerely hoped I would never run into him.
Savage said little as he led me between appointments. It was past two when I had finished with the last one; when he took me back to Holborn Bridge, handed me a lantern with a feeble stub of candle and pointed me in the direction of Herne’s Rents, muttering that I was free to go, I almost kissed him with gratitude born of exhaustion. My fear of being left alone with him had abated; for that night it seemed he was committed to his duty of shepherding me safely to the flock, but I was certain he had not forgiven me for humiliating him in front of Ballard, and that payment for that incident would be exacted at some point, when I was least expecting it. His veiled threat about knowing what I was still rang in my ears; it took all my determination not to ask him what he meant by it, lest that give away my fear of being unmasked. My head ached brutally from the effort of concentration and the impact of his chin earlier; by the time he left me, I could think only of falling into my bed and closing my eyes. Unfortunately I first had to write my report for Phelippes before the evening’s events faded.