by S. J. Parris
I watched Babington turn to the guards to ask if he was standing in the right place, as if taking care to please his captors now might make some difference to the outcome. Ballard was half-carried to the platform by a sturdy soldier, who held him upright while he was allowed to make his final address to the crowd. Though his body was broken, something of his old defiance revived as he looked out over the mass of faces; his voice rang out clear and bold as he prayed that England would repent and turn back to the true faith. The crowd jeered and booed at this; he made the sign of the cross as best he could and was pushed up the ladder so the noose could be fastened around his neck. I wondered if anyone had told his mother in Putney.
He swung for a couple of minutes, eyes and tongue bulging, while the executioner in his black hood slashed the front of his shift and with one deft stroke cut off his genitals; the priest barely had a chance to scream before his stomach was sliced across and his guts spilled, steaming, on to the boards. At the sight of this, Babington began howling and convulsing as if he were already being butchered, and had to be restrained by two guards while Ballard was cut down and laid on the block so that the executioner and his men could set about winding out his entrails and hacking off his limbs. Sophia edged close to me again and I felt her body grow rigid against my arm, but she did not look away. I feared I might be sick, and clenched my jaw tight until the waves of nausea had passed; the stench of blood and offal reached us even at the back. The crowd had turned deathly silent; the only sound now was Babington gibbering and begging for mercy as he slipped in his friend’s blood on his way to the ladder. When they came for him with the cleaver, Sophia turned her face into my shoulder and remained there, breathing hard. Behind Babington was a dark-haired young man I had not seen before, whose name was read out as Thomas Salisbury, and whose final prayer was barely audible; only days before he had been at liberty, riding about the country with the wind in his hair and no notion that he would arrive straight into the arms of the pursuivants. When they kicked the ladder away, his expression was one of indignant amazement, as if he still couldn’t quite process how this had come to pass.
Titch, when his time came, seemed as if he were already elsewhere; given the chance to speak his last words, he began to recite a poem he had written in prison to his wife, but the presiding official cut him off, saying there was no time. I was glad Clara had not been here to witness it; she had travelled with Frances to join Philip Sidney in Flushing shortly after the conspirators were arrested. It was a difficult journey in her condition, but the child had not yet begun to show, and the intention was for Clara to wait out her confinement in the household of one of Sidney’s trusted officers, to avoid any scandal. Her future after the birth was less certain, according to the letter I had received from Frances. Walsingham was willing to permit Clara’s return to the Sidney household, but not with the bastard of an executed traitor in tow, and Clara insisted she would not be separated from her child, so for now the matter stood at an impasse. I stole a glance at Sophia and thought of her son, taken from her at birth for similar reasons, and how she felt his absence every day like an open wound that nothing would heal. I hoped Clara would find a better way to resolve her situation, though it was hard to see how.
Savage made no farewell speech; merely looked straight ahead as he was pushed from the ladder, and I recalled the catch in his voice when he told me the story of Ballard saving his life on the riverbank. For a moment I saw them all as they were around the table at The Castle, the night we swore our oath: their laughter, their nerves, their passion and faith and doubt and friendship. I remembered Ballard handing out food to the homeless men in Paul’s churchyard, and the pure fury in his eyes when he swung his fist at my jaw; I pictured Titch, defiant and bright-eyed and smelling of sex, and the look of understanding I had exchanged with Savage, when he spoke of his dead child. I thought of Babington wrapped up naked with Robin, and the way he had raised his glass at The Castle with that tell-tale tremor, the candles gilding his hair as he declared ‘perform or die’ with a courage he did not quite own. All those dreams and fears and loves, brought to this chaos of blood and meat at the executioner’s feet. I thought of Mary too, in her lonely room at Chartley Manor, pinning her desperate hopes on wild promises of freedom and finding instead the long, slow walk to the block. My legs buckled under me and I stumbled back. Walsingham was right; it takes ruthlessness to do this work. I was no longer sure I had the mettle for it.
‘Are you all right?’ Sophia whispered, looking up. ‘You’ve gone deathly white.’
‘I’ve seen enough.’
‘Me too. Let’s find somewhere to sit.’ We walked away from the crowd to the churchyard of St Giles and sat on the ground under an oak tree. I placed a hand on my stomach and felt, with a kind of awe, the pulse of blood under the skin, the heat and strength of my aliveness.
‘I wish I had not seen that,’ Sophia said, her voice tight.
‘Has it changed your mind about working for him?’
She shook her head, but her lips were pressed together in a white line. ‘No. Because someone will always die. He told me that if they had succeeded, if Mary Stuart came to the throne and the Spanish invaded, they would slaughter innocent people in their beds. At least those men were not innocent.’
‘Walsingham is wrong,’ I said, and I heard the anger in my voice. ‘It’s not true that someone always has to die – only if both sides keep insisting that there can be no compromise. Do you think God sanctions what we just saw, any more than He smiled on the massacre of Protestants in Paris?’
She flinched at my vehemence. ‘I was only telling you what he said.’
‘Then try thinking for yourself. I had this same argument with Gifford. He wouldn’t listen – just kept bleating about heresy.’
‘What happened to Gifford?’ she asked.
‘He fled to France,’ I said, glad to avoid an argument. ‘He didn’t want to testify publicly at the trial – he was afraid it would make him a target for revenge attacks by English Catholics. Walsingham thought it easier to let him go – this way the Catholics still think he’s one of theirs. Walsingham says he might come in useful in Paris at some point.’ Gifford had fled because he feared being rounded up with the others; whatever he was doing in Paris now, I imagined him always looking over one shoulder, wondering when his double life would catch up with him. Prado had also been sent back to Paris, bundled on to the next ship out, to avoid a diplomatic incident. Weston had been arrested and imprisoned at Wood Street gaol, where he would probably stay for years. At least, by keeping clear of the conspiracy, he had avoided the same fate as Ballard and his friends.
‘What about you?’ she said, leaning against my shoulder. ‘Will you go back to Paris?’
‘Not in a hurry,’ I said. ‘There are at least five people there who would kill me as soon as set eyes on me.’
‘Only five? That’s quite good odds for you, isn’t it, Bruno?’
I smiled. ‘Should I stay in London, then?’
In truth, I had no idea of what to do next; I was waiting for word from Walsingham, as always, like a maid hanging on in hope of a marriage proposal. He had made sure I was financially rewarded for the part I had played, which was something; I had stayed on in the rooms at Herne’s Rents to see what more he would offer, but his time had been taken up entirely with the trial of the Babington group, and now there was the infinitely more significant matter of what their convictions meant for Mary Stuart. While I did not think he had forgotten me, I knew that it might be months before I had his attention again. I had tried to work on my book over the past few weeks, but my concentration was scattered and I ended up hating my own clumsy words, tearing every attempt at a beginning into shreds and throwing it into the fire. Alberico Gentili had written to me from the University of Wittenberg, reminding me that the offer of a position remained open, and I had begun to think, as so often in my life, that my best hope might be to move on. I still could not work out whether this was cowardi
ce or optimism.
‘If you stay in London, it should be because you want to,’ Sophia said, carefully. ‘Not because of Walsingham – or anyone else.’
‘It wouldn’t bother you, then, if I thought of going to Germany?’ I tried to keep the hurt out of my voice, but whatever skills I possessed for dissembling had never worked with her.
She slipped her hand under my arm and twined her fingers through mine. ‘You know that if they told me tomorrow that my son was in Scotland, or York, or Cornwall, I would pack up and leave in a heartbeat without saying goodbye. So I wouldn’t expect you to stay here for me, if you have better prospects elsewhere.’ She paused, her eyes on the ground. ‘Don’t pin your happiness on me, Bruno. I don’t want that responsibility.’
I nodded. I did not trust myself to speak. There would be no cottage with roses and children playing at our feet, and perhaps it was time for me to accept that this was all we had. I could have told her again that I loved her, but she already knew, and I had some pride left. Instead I raised her hand to my lips and held it there, and we sat in silence, listening to the relentless thud of the execution drum.
* * *
I did not want to return to my empty rooms alone. After Sophia left for the Cavendish house, I decided to get drunk, though it was not yet midday. I walked back to the Saracen’s Head to find the place deserted. Dan Hammett was in the yard, picking leaves from a bush in the small garden. He turned and wiped his hands on his apron when he heard my footsteps.
‘How was it?’
‘Brutal. Worse than usual.’ I pushed my hair out of my eyes; it had grown long again in the past weeks. ‘The crowd didn’t like it, you could tell.’
He whistled. ‘That’s badly done, if you lose a London crowd. You look like you need something strong. Oh – there’s a woman here to see you. She’s a looker. Mind you,’ he said, holding up the foliage in his hands, ‘I asked her what she wanted to drink and she said an infusion of mint leaves. An infusion! What’s that when it’s at home, eh?’
I smiled and turned towards the tap-room. ‘Just put them in boiling water and leave them to steep for a while.’
‘Infusion,’ he muttered, shaking his head. ‘This is bloody Holborn.’
I found Leila sitting at one of the benches, looking out of the window, her hair falling loose around her face. She had put on a yellow dress to venture north of the river; I wondered if it was for my benefit. I had not seen her since she cleaned me up after Ballard’s attentions that night at the Unicorn. She smiled when she saw me, rising to kiss me on both cheeks.
‘I brought you a gift,’ she said, holding out a small hessian bag that made a satisfying rattling sound as she handed it over. ‘Kahve beans. The merchant was in town last week, I bought extra. You grind them up and pour hot water on. Take it with sugar, though.’
‘Thank you.’ I opened the bag and breathed in the scent. ‘These could be useful. I could stay awake all night writing with this.’
‘Writing.’ She gave me a wry smile. ‘That’s not the first thing most men think of when they learn there’s a drink that can keep you up all night.’
‘I can see it would have other uses too.’ I caught her eye and looked away, embarrassed. ‘How is Joe?’
‘He’s well. Not stolen any horses lately – he’s trying to keep out of trouble. Had enough adventure for one year, I think. He misses Lotte and Anneke, but he’s happy to have his grandfather home. And they gave the old man a generous compensation for his wrongful arrest, so he can retire. Now I don’t have to worry about either of them going to the Cross Bones at night any more.’ She shuddered. ‘Was that your doing?’
‘Not directly. But I’m glad for him.’
‘Joe told me everything that happened that night,’ she said, leaning across the table and lowering her voice. ‘I only wish—’ She broke off, and her hand curled into a fist.
‘What?’
‘That he had suffered more. The man who killed Lotte and Anneke, and would have killed Joe, and the baby. He should not have got off so lightly.’
‘He’s dead,’ I said bluntly. ‘There’s no point wishing he’d been punished differently.’
‘Do you know what qisas means, in my language?’
I nodded. ‘An eye for an eye.’
‘Retribution,’ she said quietly, looking at her fist closing and flexing on the table. ‘My father spoke of it all the time. He was the leader of a Morisco uprising against the Spanish. When you have seen what I have seen, you start to believe that might be a kind of justice.’
‘The man who would have killed Joe believed that too. But he was wrong.’
She pursed her lips and we sat in silence.
‘I’m not Spanish, by the way,’ I said, after a while. ‘I’m not a priest, either. Not for many years.’
She smiled. ‘I guessed all that. Where are you from?’
‘Nola. Near Naples.’
‘Ah.’ She nodded. ‘There were Neapolitan troops fighting for the Spanish when my parents were killed and I was captured.’
‘My father was a soldier,’ I said. ‘I don’t know if he was there – he never spoke much of his campaigns. I’m sorry.’
‘Well.’ She unclenched her fist and reached out to lay her hand over mine. ‘You brought Joe back, so we’ll say you’ve paid your debt. Look at us now. When my father was hiding in the caves of the Alpujarra, he could never have imagined that one day I would end up in London, friends with the son of a Neapolitan soldier.’
‘Nor mine.’
She held my look for a long moment, and I wondered what we proved, if anything: that people could have more in common than the old enmities that separated us, that the endless cycle of vengeance over religious difference could simply stop, in one generation? It seemed too much to hope, especially after the official spectacle of revenge I had witnessed that morning. But perhaps this was how it began: one friendship at a time. I determined that I would finish my book and see it put into the hands of Queen Elizabeth. Hope was worth clinging on to.
Dan intruded on my thoughts, bustling over with a steaming mug full of leaves. ‘Infusion for the lady,’ he said, as if the word denoted some exotic practice, setting it down with great ceremony in front of Leila. ‘And this is on the house, mate. You’ve had a long day already.’ He passed me a large tankard of wine and disappeared back to the kitchen.
‘Well, I am glad of your friendship…’ Leila picked up her mug and laughed, shaking her head. ‘I don’t even know your real name.’
‘Bruno,’ I said. ‘My name is Giordano Bruno.’ I raised my glass. ‘To friendship. And to the end of division.’ In that moment, I almost believed it.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
S. J. PARRIS is the pseudonym of Stephanie Merritt. She is the author of five previous novels in the Giordano Bruno mystery series, including Treachery and Conspiracy. She is also the author of the stand-alone thriller While You Sleep.
Visit S. J. Parris at www.sjparris.com.
By the same author
Heresy
Prophecy
Sacrilege
Treachery
Conspiracy
EXECUTION
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Copyright © 2020 by Stephanie Merritt
First Pegasus Books hardcover edition June 2020
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