Giordano Bruno 03 - Sacrilege

by S. J. Parris

  “Same as you—looking for something to drink.”

  “In there?” His face hardened and he took a step towards me as I watched an idea struggling to take shape in his fuddled mind. “Have you been stealing my father’s wine?”

  I held up my hands to placate him.

  “I have touched nothing. I only wanted water.”

  “You lie.” He pointed at me as he took an unsteady step closer. “Do you think me a fool? Your hair is covered all over in cobwebs—you’ve been in that cellar! Devil take you—I told Bates I wanted no thieving foreigners in my house, but he would have you along for the sport.”

  “You are drunk,” I said, turning away from him in disgust. He lunged at me, aiming a punch at my jaw, but his judgement was muddied by drink; from the corner of my eye I saw his fist swing and put up my left arm to block it, then landed a blow to his stomach with my right. He staggered back, winded, against the large table in the centre of the kitchen, cursing and spluttering, but I sprang forward on the balls of my feet, fists clenched, challenging him to try again. His head was clear enough to see that he would not come out of a fight well; instead he clutched at his gut and glared at me, his thick features twisted with hatred.

  “Get out of my house,” he hissed. “And when my friends are up we shall make you pay for your thieving, you filthy cur.”

  I should have taken my leave then, but I hesitated, looking at his blunt insolent face, thinking of how he had treated Sophia, how he had spoken to old Meg, and it was as if all the pent-up anger of that night rose in me and exploded. I half turned towards the door, then, almost with an impetus of its own, my fist drew back again and before I was even conscious of having decided on the action, it flew forward and connected squarely with his face. He was caught so much off guard by the blow that he lost his footing, slipped, and fell backwards, his head glancing off the corner of the heavy oak table. He hit the floor and lay there, quite still, blood trickling from his nose.

  “Oh, Jesu! What have you done?” Meg cried, hastening to kneel by the motionless figure.

  “I—I didn’t mean—” I stepped back, rubbing my bruised knuckles, aware only now that I was shaking violently. “Is he breathing?”

  The old woman bent her head over Nick’s face. My heart seemed to slow to a standstill in the silence that lasted an eternity while I waited for her answer.

  “Just—thanks be to God. Help me to sit him up, or the blood in his nose will choke him.”

  Together we pulled him upright against the leg of the table, where he slouched sideways, head lolling, his mouth hanging open as blood dripped down his chin and onto his chest. Meg held the corner of her shawl to his nose.

  “Looks worse than it is, I hope,” she whispered, in a tone of reproach. “Dear God, you could have killed him. Why did you not stay hidden?”

  “The way he spoke to you—” I stared at the youth’s battered nose and the stream that bubbled over his swollen lip. For one moment of fury I might have been facing my own trial for murder.

  She looked up with a rueful smile.

  “You mean well, sir, I see that. The Lord knows I have no affection for this boy, but no one will be helped by breaking his skull.” Her face grew serious. “You should go. If he recalls what happened when he wakes, the lot of them will turn on you. They are foolish youths, but they swagger about with swords for all that.”

  “He may think you were helping me to steal.”

  “Leave me to worry about him. I’ve known him since he was an infant. You get yourself back to the city before first light. There have been enough horrors this night.”

  I hesitated, but saw that she was right. On an impulse, I leaned forward and planted a kiss on the top of her head. Her white wisps of hair felt discomfitingly like cobwebs.

  “Keep yourself safe, Meg,” I whispered. “When your mistress is free to return here, she will take care of you, I have no doubt.”

  The old woman laid a bony hand over mine for a moment, and I saw the sheen of tears in her eyes before she blinked them away.

  “Get you gone,” she said. “And remember what I told you, sir—I knew nothing of this dreadful business. God knows I speak the truth.” She glanced in the direction of the cellar.

  I nodded, squeezing her hand a last time, hoping she had wit enough to avoid the belligerent anger of Nick Kingsley and the infinitely more dangerous calculations of Langworth and Sykes.

  The sky was already edged with pink light in the east as I retraced my steps through the priory burial ground towards the gate, casting a last glance back at the ominous shape of the dirty white mausoleum with its stone angel about to take flight. Red streaks showed between dark banks of clouds at the horizon and a welcome breeze lifted my hair and dispelled a little the foul vapours that I imagined still clung to me from the night’s encounter. I passed unremarked under the North Gate and in the yard of the Cheker, as I walked by the water pump, on impulse I stripped to the waist and stuck my head and shoulders under the flow, letting the cold water wash the cobwebs and filth from my hair and face, until I could almost believe I was clean again. When I was done, I held my bruised fist in the water to bring down the swelling, bitterly regretting that I had not shown a greater degree of self-control with Nick Kingsley. Now I had two enemies in Canterbury and it would be all but impossible to make any further investigations at St. Gregory’s, with Nick and his friends looking for the chance to give me a bloody nose or worse in return.

  Shivering as I dried myself with my shirt, I realised the inn was still locked up for the night, and I would have to wait until the servants rose for their early chores—unless I wanted to get Marina out of bed, a prospect I did not greatly relish. Instead I crossed to the stables and found my horse dozing quietly in his stall. I squeezed in beside him, murmuring gentle nonsense, and lay down on a bale of hay. As I drifted towards an uneasy sleep, my fingers closed around the silver medallion of St. Denis in my purse and the decaying face of the Huguenot boy rose, livid, behind my eyelids, seeming to ask what in God’s name I meant to do next.

  Chapter 11

  I dreamed fitful dreams in those early hours; of skeletal hands ragged with rotten flesh reaching out of a dark tomb to clutch at my clothes. At one point I imagined one of these hands took hold of my shoulder and began shaking it roughly as the foul air of the burial chamber breathed cold into my face, until I could stand it no longer and woke with a fearful cry—to find myself staring blearily into the face of Constable Edmonton, whose morning breath smelled of stale beer and onions through his ginger moustache.

  “Get up, you,” he ordered.

  I tried to sit, and the night’s excesses caught me like a fist to the head; I leaned forward and exhaled slowly while I regained my balance.

  “What are you doing in here?” Edmonton said, in the same peremptory tone.

  “Sleeping,” I said. “At least, I was.”

  “Well, you can get up now. You’re under arrest.”

  “What?” I pushed myself upright and winced as I leaned my weight on my bruised hand. A vivid image of Nick Kingsley’s bloodied face flashed in my memory. “Is it a crime to sleep in the stables?”

  Edmonton allowed himself a little sarcastic laugh.

  “Not compared to what you’re accused of, no.”

  It began to dawn on me that he might be serious. I looked past him and saw Marina shifting anxiously at his shoulder.

  “You didn’t come back last night,” she said, reproachfully. “I didn’t know where to find you, otherwise—” She glanced at the constable and held out her hands in a gesture of helplessness in the face of the law.

  “This is absurd,” I said, remaining seated and tucking my bruised fist into my armpit. I could only assume young Kingsley had accused me of theft and assault. Just in case, I reached down with my left hand and began surreptitiously untying the leather pouch from my belt. If I were to be searched, I did not want anyone finding the copied keys or the papers I had taken from Fitch’s fireplace.r />
  “Don’t make difficulties,” Edmonton said, as if the prospect wearied him. Then he moved to the door, shielding his eyes against the dawn light, and uttered a barking command. In the instant that his back was turned, I pulled the pouch from my belt and stuffed it firmly down behind the straw bale I was sitting on, until it was out of sight. There was just time to tuck my hands between my knees before two tall young men carrying pikestaffs appeared in the doorway of the stable.

  “Are you going to walk with us of your own accord, eh?” Edmonton jerked his head towards the guards.

  I stood up and felt my legs buckle beneath me for a moment. I hoped Edmonton had not noticed.

  “Can you tell me what am I arrested for?”

  “Murder,” he said, shortly.

  A ripple of panic spread through me. Had Nick Kingsley died from his injury in the night?

  “No—there is some mistake,” I protested. “Whose murder?”

  “The apothecary William Fitch.” There was a note of satisfaction in Edmonton’s voice.

  “What?” I shook my head. “It was I who found him dead! You were there! How can anyone think—?”

  “Your name was written in his ledger from the day before.”

  “With many others, surely—”

  “Doctor Ezekiel Sykes has given testimony that he was leaving Fitch’s shop when you arrived. There is no name after yours in the ledger. That makes you the last person to see him alive, and the first to see him dead.”

  “But that is not true!” I grasped at his sleeve in alarm. “It is the other way around—I was leaving as Sykes arrived. He asked Fitch to lock the shop door so they could talk in private.”

  Edmonton merely raised an eyebrow.

  “You are asking me to believe that our Doctor Sykes is deliberately lying to the law? And why would he do that, do you suppose? What would he gain?”

  I pressed my lips together tightly. There seemed only one possible answer to that; Sykes was sharp enough to point the finger at me before I had a chance to tell anyone that he had been Fitch’s last visitor on the evening he was killed, knowing that the word of a stranger and a foreigner would not stand against that of a respected physician. Which meant—what? That Sykes had killed Fitch himself? At the very least it suggested he was implicated. I stared at the constable, knowing that to accuse the physician of lying would only make my situation worse. A legion of confused thoughts chased one another through my clouded brain. There was the half-burned page from the ledger in the fireplace showing Sykes’s purchase of—what had it been? I ransacked my memory, trying to picture the torn paper. Then I realised.

  “Dio mio,” I whispered, my eyes fixed unseeing on Edmonton’s face. Mercury and antimony salts. I recalled reading somewhere that solutions of mercury and antimony were used in the East to embalm bodies—the connection had not occurred to me when I first found the page, but in the light of the previous night’s discovery … Edmonton must have caught my expression because he gripped my wrist and pulled my face close to his.

  “What did you say?”

  “I only said, ‘My God,’ in my own tongue.”

  “Huh.” He regarded me for a moment, then reluctantly dropped my wrist. “Praying won’t help you now, and neither will blasphemy. Take him away,” he added, nodding to the guards. The taller of the two stepped forward and made as if to grab hold of my arm; I shook him off, grasping at Edmonton’s shirt.

  “Wait—you can’t arrest me, I have done nothing! Fetch Doctor Harry Robinson at the cathedral—he will vouch for me. Or Dean Rogers. They will tell you I am a friend and a respectable scholar.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “I have friends at the royal court.”

  “And I’m the King of Cockaigne.”

  Edmonton brushed my hand away, wrinkling his mouth in irritation, as the guards moved in to grasp me hard by the arms. I realised there was little point in struggling; my best hope was to submit and rely on Harry’s standing to protect me. He would not be pleased at the unwelcome attention I had once again drawn to him, but I was sure he would do everything possible to help me. At least, I had to hope so. Was this what Langworth had in mind when he spoke to Samuel of an idea to keep me out of trouble? I caught Marina’s eye over Edmonton’s shoulder.

  “Doctor Robinson at the cathedral—let him know what has happened. Please?”

  She wagged a finger in mock reproach, as if this whole business were a great joke.

  “If you will go wandering about at night, sir. You have still not paid me for the orange.”

  “When I get back,” I called, as the soldiers dragged me towards the gate. “But tell Harry Robinson.” She winked, and I hoped she would at least carry out my request; I had no faith that Edmonton would. At that moment, I would have paid almost any price.

  I was marched through the streets towards the West Gate. Grey morning light only just brushed the sky; I was fortunate that not many people were about. Even so, I kept my head down, trying to hide my face. At the foot of one of the vast drum towers, we stopped and one of the guards rapped briskly on a door set into the wall. The other deftly removed my belt with my knife and handed it to Edmonton. There came a jangling of keys and the door was opened by a squat man in a dirty smock with shoulders like an ox and his front teeth missing.

  “For the love of God, Constable, I’ve no more room,” he complained, looking me up and down and turning to Edmonton. “They’ve brought prisoners in from all over the county for the assizes next week. Where am I supposed to put him?”

  “Put him in with the other murderers. Make sure you lock him up soundly—he’s dangerous.”

  “I’m not,” I said. “And I haven’t killed anyone.” The gaoler looked at me briefly and curled his lip.

  “If I had sixpence for every one of you that said that. Go on up, then, we’ll shove him in somewhere.”

  The guards pushed me in the back towards the door. Edmonton stood with his arms crossed, looking pleased with his morning’s work.

  “See you at the assizes,” he said.

  I stared at him.

  “You cannot leave me in here until the assizes!”

  He laughed. “Then you had better find someone to stand bail for you. Good luck with that.”

  “Harry Robinson will stand bail—you must send for him. And take care of that knife—I want it back!” I was dragged inside the prison door before I could finish the sentence. As it closed behind me, I caught a last glimpse of Edmonton with that infuriating smirk still painted on his face. He had no intention of sending for Harry if he could help it, I was sure. Had he not as good as told me that the appearance of justice counted for more than the truth of it in this town? The sight of a foreigner hung for Fitch’s murder would please the gallows crowd, but it would please Langworth more. I had no doubt that Langworth and Sykes were behind my arrest. Perhaps Edmonton had received money. I swallowed hard as I was led up a narrow spiral staircase inside the tower, and my throat hurt. I could only hope that Harry had the power—and the inclination—to save my neck.

  At the top of the staircase the gaoler unlocked a thick iron-clad door and barked something incomprehensible, his hand still on the latch; from behind it came a chorus of plaintive cries and a frenzied scuffling.

  “Get in,” he said to me, pushing the door open no more than a couple of feet, simultaneously kicking out at the bony hand that crept through the gap and flapped at his sleeve. “Hurry up, before these vermin try and get out.”

  The guards shoved me up the next step and, before I could protest, the gaoler had laid a thick hand on top of my head and was trying to force me into the room.

  “I have money,” I whispered, clutching at his tunic. If English gaols were anything like those in Italy, a prisoner’s comfort would depend entirely on his ability to hand out bribes. The gaoler’s fat face creased into a mocking smile, showing the hole where his teeth once were.

  “Have a little taste of West Gate hospitality, why don’t you, and we ca
n talk again about your purse when you’ve had time to reflect.” He winked grotesquely and pushed me hard in the chest, so that I fell through the half-open doorway onto a hard stone floor. I could not even pick myself up before the lock turned behind me.

  “Figlio di puttana!” I shouted at the indifferent door.

  Recovering my balance, I sat up and took in my surroundings. The room I had been hustled into was small and narrow. Thin arrow slits provided the only light, which fell in narrow shafts on the hunched shapes of perhaps nine or ten men, sitting in their own excrement in the drifts of filthy straw that covered the floor. Some had chains securing their hands or feet; all looked half starved. A hot, vivid stench of ordure and unwashed bodies filled the cell, together with a pervasive atmosphere of despair. These prisoners were facing the assizes in a few days’ time; if they were accused of murder, the only possible end would be the hangman’s rope, and you could see the knowledge of it in their dead eyes. My empty stomach heaved and I tasted bile at the back of my throat.

  As my eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, I began to make out the other prisoners’ faces. Opposite me sat an emaciated man with a beard like a hermit and wild, staring eyes that appeared to look beyond me, as if he spied a sight of mortal terror just over my shoulder. No one spoke. I pressed myself into a space against the wall, pulling my knees close to my chest so that I took up as little room as possible. With my forehead against my knees, I closed my eyes and tried to breathe through my mouth as I struggled to piece together everything that had happened since I arrived in Canterbury, largely to keep my thoughts away from my own prospects if Harry did not intervene. A youth spent in the shadow of the Roman Inquisition had not left me with any faith in the idea that innocence was a guarantee of justice. But I did have faith in my own ability to organise the human mind and the knowledge it accumulates—my own, at least. Hours spent devising my systems of memory had kept me from despair during many lonely days and nights on the road north through Italy and beyond. This was not the first time I had been in prison, either; in Geneva the Calvinists had learned what I was teaching in my public lectures and had me arrested as a heretic and disturber of the peace. Ironic, when I had only gone to Geneva because the Catholic Church was pursuing me as a heretic.