Execution

by S. J. Parris

  ‘Don’t struggle, you’ll only make it worse.’ The voice spoke gently, and I recognised it as Weston’s. I tried frantically to communicate through the gag. He moved around to where I could see him and looked at me with his head on one side.

  ‘If I take it off, will you promise not to make a noise?’ he asked.

  I nodded furiously; this might not be as hard as I had feared. I was glad Ballard had not left me with the real Prado; I’d have been lucky to wake up with any fingernails left. Weston was a more English type of Jesuit; he regarded me now with an expression that suggested he was very disappointed in my behaviour.

  He loosened the gag and I sucked in air; salt saliva flooded my mouth and for a moment I feared I would vomit. When I could raise my head, he crouched and took a long look at my face. I could see two of him, and both looked pained.

  ‘Oh dear,’ he said. I tried to give him a rueful smile, though my split lip and bruised jaw made this harder. I ran my tongue around my teeth to check whether I had lost any. Contrition was my best hope with Father Weston, I decided.

  ‘Where are we?’ My voice came out sticky and hoarse.

  ‘It’s a secret room at the top of the Unicorn. They’ve hidden priests here in the past.’

  ‘Ironic,’ I said. ‘Are you going to interrogate me?’

  ‘Oh, goodness, no,’ he said, straightening up again. I caught a flash of something glinting between his hands, but could not focus clearly enough to see. I hoped it was not a blade. ‘No – I persuaded Father Ballard that that was not what you needed at this point.’

  I squinted and made out that the object he was turning between his fingers was a gold crucifix. ‘What do I need, then?’ I asked warily.

  ‘Dr Bruno. I know all about you.’

  ‘I’m flattered.’

  He folded his arms, the cross dangling on its chain from his fingers.

  ‘Heresies and blasphemies as severe as yours come from one source.’

  ‘Copernicus?’ My voice sounded slurred; my head felt too heavy, like a stone ball balanced on the slender stem of a plant.

  He laughed uncertainly. ‘No. Though he may have been seduced in his turn. I’m talking about the Father of Lies. Satan himself.’

  ‘Uh.’ I nodded; a dull pain throbbed behind my eyes.

  ‘You’re possessed by demons,’ he said firmly.

  ‘That explains a lot.’

  ‘Well, don’t worry – I’m going to perform an exorcism to drive them out of you, but it may take a little time. Yours is a severe case.’

  ‘Where’s Ballard?’ I asked, stumbling over the words. Memories were beginning to gather shape through the fog in my head – I had to be somewhere—

  ‘Father Ballard has gone to warn the others that the conspiracy is discovered,’ he said, kneeling beside my chair. ‘Pray God they have time to flee before the pursuivants go after them.’ He laid a hand on my arm. ‘But I know it’s not your fault you have betrayed Christ and the Holy Church and your brothers.’

  I nodded again, and looked humble. ‘It was the demons.’

  ‘That’s right. And I’m going to cast them out, so you can be reconciled.’

  ‘Thank you, Father.’

  His eyes shone – for a moment I thought he might actually cry – as he raised his crucifix towards my face.

  ‘Wait – might I kneel and pray with you?’

  ‘Well…’ He glanced over his shoulder. I could see no obvious door, but I guessed there must be some secret entrance hidden on the far wall. ‘Father Ballard was quite adamant that I must not in any circumstances be persuaded to loose your bonds. He said you are a most devious and cunning man. Besides, it is advisable that you should be bound, in case the demons make you lash out during the ritual.’

  ‘What if you just untied my legs, Father, so that I can kneel in prayer? Besides, I’m so weak from the drug I don’t think I could lash out at a fly.’

  He havered, obviously doubting my sincerity. Eventually, the state of me after Ballard’s beating and the opium must have convinced him I was no threat. When he untied the rope holding my legs to the chair and they splayed out as if the bones had turned to jelly, I feared he might be right. He helped me to my knees, and I bowed my head, my hands still tied behind my back.

  Satisfied that I would not attempt to kick him or run, Weston made the sign of the cross and took a vial from the purse at his belt. He sprinkled me with holy water and began intoning the Litany of the Saints; automatically, I muttered the responses back to him. While his eyes were closed, I bent backwards until my hand touched the heel of my right boot, and opened the compartment, coughing to cover any sound. I slid the penknife out, terrified that my sweating hands would cause me to drop it; once I had managed to unfold it and grip the handle between my shaking fingers, I worked the blade upright and began cutting through the rope that bound my wrists. Weston was rattling through the saints at an impressive clip; I took up a fervent prayerful muttering that I hoped would disguise the sawing. The pressure on my wrists eased little by little as the strands frayed.

  Weston was rising to a climax. He placed a hand on my head.

  ‘I command you, unclean spirit, whoever you are, along with all your minions now attacking this servant of God, by the mysteries of the incarnation, passion, resurrection and ascension of our Lord Jesus Christ, that you tell me by some sign your name, and the day and hour of your departure—’

  I ripped my hands apart as the last strand snapped, and with all the force I had left, grabbed him around the knees so that, caught off-guard, he toppled forward and landed half on top of me. While I had the advantage of surprise, I flipped him on to his back and sat astride his chest, the little penknife pointed at his neck.

  ‘My name is Giordano Bruno, and I’m departing now,’ I said, through my teeth; pain was flaring up my right side in jagged flashes so intense I thought I might pass out.

  ‘I am speaking to you directly, unclean spirit,’ Weston spluttered valiantly, as I held his arms above his head. ‘I command you to obey me to the letter, I who am a minister of God, despite my unworthiness—’

  ‘I don’t want to have to hurt you, Weston, you seem like a good man,’ I said, grabbing the length of rope that had held my legs and pushing him on to his face. Though my sight remained blurry, I managed to twist his hands behind his back and secure them to his ankles with a knot that I hoped would hold until I had had a chance to get some distance away.

  ‘I adjure you, ancient serpent,’ he shouted, so I fastened the gag around his mouth with an apology, and tucked the knife back into my boot heel.

  ‘You won’t be here for too long,’ I said, pulling myself to my feet for the first time and gasping as the pain needled its way into every part of my body. I leaned against the wall to steady myself, and began feeling my way along the upright wooden beams in the spot where Weston had glanced earlier. He carried on making outraged noises through the gag; I gestured to the wall and his eyes widened in righteous indignation, so I kept going. Finally, I felt a yielding; one of the timbers had been built on a pivot, and swung smoothly outwards when I pushed. I gave Weston a parting nod and crawled out through the gap into the top floor corridor of the Unicorn.

  More than once on my way down the first staircase I had to stop and hold on to the wall as my legs buckled and the floor threatened to tilt and slide under me; my vision blurred and I gasped shallow breaths through the pain bursting up my right side. As I reached the next landing, I heard a small scream; the serving girl Dorothy stood clutching a pile of fresh sheets and staring in horror. I must have looked worse than I thought. I pressed a finger to my lips.

  ‘What happened to you?’ she asked, recovering a little as I limped towards her.

  ‘I had a disagreement.’

  She glanced at the stairs; I wondered if she knew Captain Fortescue’s reputation. ‘You should get that seen to,’ she said, gesturing vaguely to my face. ‘Shall I fetch Madam Rosa?’

  ‘No,’ I said quickl
y. ‘Is Leila here?’

  She hesitated, then nodded. ‘I’ll take you to her. Better use the back stairs – don’t want the customers seeing you like that. This is supposed to be a respectable house.’

  She led me down to the cellar, where she knocked on a closed door. After a moment I heard a lock turn and Leila opened it, took in my appearance with a practised glance and swept me inside, telling Dorothy to bring hot water as quickly as possible. I found myself in a small room lit with oil lamps; there was a bed against one wall, covered by a clean sheet; a table and a cabinet, much like the room she used for seeing patients at her home.

  ‘Who did you upset this time?’ she asked, guiding me to sit on the bed and tilting my face to the light with one hand.

  ‘Captain Fortescue learned that I am not who he thought I was. He gave me some of your opium.’

  ‘I see. Let’s get you cleaned up.’ She poured a liquid that smelled of pine resin into a basin and dipped a cloth that she pressed to my jaw with more force than I would have liked; I clenched my teeth and tried not to look weak.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Gone ten,’ she said. ‘Keep still.’ She felt along my jawbone. ‘I don’t think you’ve broken anything. Where else does it hurt?’

  I pointed to my side as I tried to get up. ‘Christ, I’ve been out for hours, I need to go. I don’t suppose you’ve heard any news of Joe?’ Seething Lane; Robin; Lady Sidney and baby Lizzie – it all rushed back at me in an instant. I might be too late already.

  ‘Nothing. And you can’t go anywhere in this state.’ She pushed me back into the chair. ‘You won’t get far, you’re too groggy. I’ve got something that will help.’ She poked her way down my torso until I bit down on a cry. ‘Hm. Cracked rib, I think. Can’t do much about that, but we can clean up the rest of it.’ She finished scrubbing at my face and dabbed a vicious stinging salve on the bruises, assuring me that it would feel worse before it felt better. A few moments later, Dorothy knocked softly on the door and brought in a pan of hot water before retreating; Leila turned the lock behind her and busied herself at the table, grinding something in a mortar.

  ‘I have to go,’ I said. ‘Can I borrow that jacket again, the one I just returned? They took mine. And could you get my dagger? I had to leave it at the door.’ I realised, too, that in recovering his doublet, Prado had unwittingly taken the floor-plan of Seething Lane, the one solid piece of evidence I had against Robin Poole. I could only hope the Spaniard did not find it in the lining before he was arrested.

  ‘In a minute.’ Leila had her back to me, but her tone preempted all argument. I heard the sound of water being poured and an unusual aroma filled the room, rich and savoury. I lifted my head and breathed in as if I might taste it. She turned back to me with a tiny cup of steaming brown liquid, which she stirred briskly with a wooden spatula. ‘Drink this. It will help with the effects of the drug.’

  I took a sip and grimaced; it was thick and bitter and tasted as I would imagine the sweepings of a fireplace might if mixed with water.

  ‘God, that’s disgusting. What is it?’

  ‘The Turks drink it. They call it kahve. You’re supposed to put sugar in but I don’t have any. But you’ll see – it has stimulating properties that can be useful. It’s becoming popular in Venice, I hear. There’s a merchant who brings it to London from Constantinople in small quantities, I know a man who buys it from him and is confident that one day it will catch on here.’

  ‘I sincerely doubt that.’ Even brimful of sugar, I couldn’t imagine anyone touching the stuff out of choice.

  ‘Finish it up while I fetch those things for you.’

  I swallowed the liquid down, and when she returned with the jacket and my dagger I followed her as she led the way along a servants’ passageway and out to the yard.

  ‘This urgent task you have,’ she asked. ‘Does it have anything to do with Joe?’

  I hesitated as I strapped the knife to my belt; I didn’t want to get her hopes up in vain. ‘I’ll let you know the moment I find out anything,’ I said. She nodded, and turned quickly away so that I could not see her face.

  The night was clear and cold; a silver half-moon rose over the river among a scattering of bright stars. As I waited for the stable boy to bring out my horse, I realised that Ballard must have taken my purse as well as the doublet. All credit to Leila and her strange concoction; the feeling that my head was stuffed with wet wool had begun to recede, and my vision was sharp again. I could even open both eyes. Despite the pain in my side and my jaw, I felt a restless energy that had me tapping my foot with impatience. After this was all over, I thought, I might ask her if this man could get me some kahve; at that moment a hand touched my elbow and I leapt a foot in the air. A slight figure materialised at my side with a lantern.

  ‘Dio porco, Ben, you scared the life out of me. What are you doing here?’

  ‘Master Thomas sent me here this afternoon to follow that Captain Fortescue bloke. I saw my dad’s horse and realised you must be here too. When I’d finished, I came back to find you. I wanted to know if I was right about the pictures – Shoreditch and Rose and all that. You owe me a shilling if I was.’ He held the light up and scanned my face. ‘The fuck happened to you?’

  ‘Long story. You were right about the pictures, and you’ll get your shilling as soon as I get my money back. Where did Captain Fortescue go?’

  ‘Went to Herne’s Rents with his mate, the one with the funny eyes, and a dark-haired bloke, looks a bit like you. Fortescue went in and came straight out again, cursing.’

  Looking for Gifford, I thought. ‘Then what?’

  ‘They walked west in a big hurry as far as the Charing Cross. Then they hired horses and rode out westwards, I couldn’t keep up so I came back. I told Master Thomas all this.’

  ‘Right.’ At least Ballard and the conspirators were out of the way for now. ‘Can I borrow your lantern? I have urgent business.’

  ‘Where you going?’ His eyes gleamed in the dark. ‘I’ll come too.’

  ‘I don’t know, Ben – it might be dangerous.’

  ‘You’ll need me, then. Look at the state you get in the minute I leave you alone.’

  I smiled, and winced. ‘You have a point. But it’s late, I don’t think your father would thank me—’

  ‘He will if you pay me,’ Ben said. I had started to find his pragmatism endearing.

  ‘Do you have your knife?’

  ‘Always.’ He patted the back of his breeches. ‘I’d better ride – you look like you’d fall off at a sharp corner.’

  For once I didn’t have the energy to assert myself. I climbed into the saddle behind him, taking the lantern, and when the stable boy held his hand out for payment, I told him to put it on Captain Fortescue’s bill, as Ben wheeled the horse out of the gate.

  Across the bridge, the City of London was quiet, the streets almost empty; Ben pushed the horse to a fast trot, slowing when we saw the men of the watch patrolling the streets. If they flagged us down to ask our business, he had a swift reply, delivered in such rapid London slang that I often didn’t catch the meaning, but each time they nodded us through without question; many of them seemed to know him, and waved him on his way with a grin and a mock-salute. I realised I would never have made it across the bridge without being stopped if I hadn’t agreed to take him.

  We rode up past the church of St Dunstan in the East and along Tower Street to the corner of Seething Lane, where we tethered the horse and walked the rest of the way to Walsingham’s house. I could see no lights visible anywhere, and this immediately sharpened my instinct for danger: it was possible the entire household had retired early, but I would have expected some signs of life even at this time of night, if only candles in the upstairs servants’ windows.

  ‘No guards,’ Ben whispered. I had been thinking aloud on the journey how best to gain entry to the house. Robin Poole would have walked in without hindrance; he was known here, and trusted, the guards would have
waved him through. I had doubted whether they would show me the same courtesy; if I was lucky enough to encounter one of the men who had admitted me when I first arrived, he might remember me and take a message, but since Walsingham would have a number of guards working shifts, the chances of that were slim. Given the state of my face and the fact that I already looked like a Catholic assassin, I had worried that I would be detained for a while at the gate, and had suggested Ben might try to find another way over the wall while I kept the guards talking. But it appeared no such strategy would be needed; the house was unattended, and my nerves wound a notch tighter.

  I tried the gate to find it locked. It seemed unwise to climb over in full view of the street, in case any neighbours happened to glance out. Instead we followed a path around the garden wall and found a place to scale it towards the rear of the buliding, by a little side door. Ben scrambled over, nimble as a cat; I forced every aching muscle to obey as I got a foothold on the gate handle and hauled myself up, the edge of the wall scraping my cracked ribs as I rolled over and landed with a jarring thud that left me swearing and hopping in the shadows on the other side. Ben motioned for me to be silent; we waited a few moments, and when no one came, we crept across the lawn towards the back of the house.

  I had not explained the full situation to Ben, only told him that I thought a woman and a child might be in danger. I had not expected chivalric instincts from him – I knew he was only in this for the money – but he had seemed indignant that anyone could want to harm an infant, and spurred the horse on faster. He had put out the lantern at the foot of the wall, and now we had to feel our way as our eyes grew accustomed to the dark. The house remained ominously silent.

  ‘Where do we go?’ he hissed.

  I paused, trying to bring the image of the floor plan back to my memory. Rooms had been marked; which ones?

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘Let’s see if we can get inside first and who we can find.’