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 qui
te 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.
Sacrilege gb-3 Page 13