Giordano Bruno 03 - Sacrilege

by S. J. Parris

  “For shame, Doctor Robinson, is that how one canon of God’s church should speak to another? I fear you have been infected by the company you keep.”

  At the front door, the two armed men closed in on either side of me. I looked up at the one I recognised from before.

  “Hello. I begin to feel we are old friends.”

  He smiled, then quickly straightened his face when he caught Langworth’s piercing look.

  But outside in the precincts, by the Christ Church gate, our little procession was impeded by another, grander entourage coming in the opposite direction, from the gatehouse towards the cathedral. People clustered around a group of men, guarded as I was by liveried attendants with pikestaffs, but a good many more of them. Edmonton held up a hand and we slowed. Dean Rogers approached the mass of people from the direction of the Archbishop’s Palace, arms held wide, his usual anxious expression replaced by one of restrained delight.

  The crowd parted, the men with pikestaffs moved aside, and from among them a tall, corpulent man in a black robe emerged into the light, his arms held out towards the dean. From his shoulders hung a cloak of black silk that rippled like molten metal.

  “Richard,” he boomed, smiling broadly, in a voice that carried across the open ground to the cathedral and beyond. “As ever, your table and your company remain my one genuine pleasure at the end of this long road.”

  He embraced the dean and kissed him on both cheeks. When he stepped back his fleshy face was running with sweat; he extended a peremptory hand behind him and one of the legion of young men in clerk’s robes jumped forward with a handkerchief.

  “Welcome, Charles, welcome.” Dean Rogers clasped his hands. “It has been too long since you graced my table with your conversation, that is certain. But I fear you find our town in the grip of terrible events. The angel of death has descended on us with scant regard for estate or person …” He cast his eyes down, as if he expected to be chided for this dereliction of duty.

  The big man rubbed his hands together with unseemly relish. “Yes, I heard about Kingsley, poor devil. And Ezekiel Sykes, only this morning. Canterbury is grown lawless since I was last here.”

  As if it were not already obvious, Langworth turned to me with satisfaction and nodded towards the man in black.

  “Justice Hale. There you see him. He dines tonight at the Archbishop’s Palace with the dean and all the city dignitaries.”

  “Those that are left,” I said.

  The dean looked around at the people jostling to have a sight of the justice. Over their heads his eyes fell on our party and his face collapsed in dismay.

  “Canon Langworth? Constable? What is this—you are arresting Doctor Savolino a second time?”

  Justice Hale looked at me with interest. Then he chuckled deeply, and the flesh around his eyes crinkled.

  “God’s wounds, the man must be a shocking felon to need arresting twice. And hiding out in the cathedral precincts. Did he slip from your grasp the first time, Constable?”

  Edmonton turned puce and began to stutter a response, but Langworth held up a restraining hand.

  “This man was bailed on the wishes of the dean, Your Honour,” he said with a little bow, his voice smooth as cream. “While under the care of Doctor Robinson here, he contrived to rob my house and the cathedral treasury. Constable Edmonton is returning him to the gaol where he can do no more harm until he faces Your Honour tomorrow.”

  Dean Rogers exchanged a look with Langworth and for the first time I saw at close quarters how much these two highest officials of the cathedral detested each other. I recalled what Harry had said about Langworth’s ambition to be elected dean and how he had been narrowly beaten by Rogers and his moderate supporters; clearly the rivalry between them was undiminished, and Rogers seemed determined not to be humiliated by Langworth in front of the justice. Silently, I thanked providence that Dean Rogers still appeared well disposed to me, even if just to spite Langworth.

  “Robbed the treasury, eh?” The justice looked impressed. “I see you are an audacious fellow, whatever else you may be.”

  He looked at me frankly and I held his gaze, my eyes steady, hoping to convey that I had no reason to fear him. He was perhaps nearing sixty, though his grey-flecked hair was thick beneath his hat and his size gave him a hearty air; he must have a strong constitution to be riding about the country several times a year to hear the assizes. Though his cheeks were webbed with crimson threads from fine wine, his eyes were sombre and flickered over my face as if with long practice; I sensed that beneath his good cheer was a steely will. I could only hope there was also wisdom and compassion.

  Dean Rogers stepped close to the justice and whispered in his ear. Hale nodded, listening, and when the dean straightened up, he looked back at me with a hint of admiration in that appraising glance.

  “Friend of the Sidneys, are you? Young Philip is a great favourite of the queen, of course. I knew Sir Henry a little, when we were younger. Now there was a fellow who could talk himself out of any scrape. England never had a finer diplomat. Well, tomorrow we’ll see if you have the same gift, won’t we?” His smile seemed genuinely amiable; we all have our parts to play in this pageant, he seemed to be saying, don’t take it personally.

  I bowed my head in acknowledgement. The dean leaned in and whispered further; Hale looked from me to Langworth and Edmonton and frowned.

  “I understand bail has already been paid for this man, is it not so?”

  “If it please Your Honour, he has breached the terms of his bail by committing another grievous crime,” Edmonton said, tearing off his hat with anxious deference.

  “Well, we don’t know for certain that he has, do we? That is what tomorrow’s process will determine, unless I very much misunderstand the law. Who has stood surety for this man?”

  “I did, Your Honour.” Harry stepped forward.

  Hale peered at him.

  “And you would be …? A brother canon, I see. I’m sure we must have met.”

  “Doctor Harry Robinson, Your Honour. Resident canon of the cathedral. I had the pleasure of dining with Your Honour at the dean’s table last year.”

  “Did you? Age has addled my memory, I fear,” he said, smiling, then turned to Edmonton, his face abruptly serious. “I think, Constable, that if this man is bound over to appear before my court tomorrow and Doctor Robinson has already stood bail and is willing to vouch for him, there is no need to make him spend the night in gaol. I imagine it’s quite crowded enough there as it is, no?”

  “Your Honour—” Edmonton began, flushing scarlet again, but Langworth cut in, taking a step towards Justice Hale as if to reason with him, man to man.

  “With the greatest respect, Your Honour, Dean Rogers and Doctor Robinson have had their heads turned by this man. He is a plausible talker. If you leave him at liberty tonight, I predict he will commit some new harm against our community.”

  “Why—do you have another one planned for me?” I shot back.

  Justice Hale fixed me with a stern look, as you might give a precocious child.

  “You would do better to hold your tongue for the present, sir. You shall have opportunity enough to entertain us with your plausible talk tomorrow.” I thought I detected a twinkle in his eye, but perhaps that was wishful thinking. “Italian, are you, by the sound of you?”

  “Yes, Your Honour.”

  “E cosa la porta en Inghilterra?” he asked.

  I smiled, impressed.

  “Trovo la sua nazione piu illuminata su questioni religiose, mio signore.”

  He laughed again. “You are a Protestant, then, I deduce? Well, that’s a good start. He says he finds our country more enlightened in matters of religion,” he added, for the benefit of those listening.

  I took the fact that he spoke Italian as a favourable sign. Clearly he was educated, and had a broader outlook than many of his countrymen, who considered all foreigners sons of the same Catholic whore. He was interrupted by a great cascade of
bells that exploded from the cathedral tower like the thunder of the previous night, heralding the beginning of divine service.

  “Ah, there we are—time for Evensong. Stand down your armed men, Constable, and let us go in and worship together like good Christians. Send them back to collect him tomorrow morning at seven o’clock—I’m sure Doctor Robinson will keep a close watch on him until then.” He turned to the dean. “Now, tell me, Richard,” he said, in a tone that declared an official change of subject, “is your choir still as celestial as I remember it? The music here is one of my chief pleasures on these visits, as you know—second only to your table, of course.” He hooked a heavy arm around the dean’s shoulders as they set off towards the west door and did not give us another look.

  Edmonton glanced helplessly at Langworth, who turned to me, his sunken eyes lit with righteous anger.

  “Do not imagine you have won.”

  He stalked away, his robe snapping in the chill breeze that he seemed to generate himself. Edmonton, deflated, made a gesture to the guards; bemused, they lowered their pikes and stood awkwardly, looking around at the milling congregation as if uncertain as to their next orders.

  Harry gave a brusque laugh and clapped me on the shoulder.

  “Come. You had better be seen at Evensong, praying for God’s mercy.”

  WE RETRIEVED SOPHIA from the outbuilding at dusk, when the congregation had dispersed and the senior canons gone to the dean’s banquet in honour of the justice, bundling her through the shadows and into Harry’s hall. She looked numb and shivered inside her shapeless cloak, despite the fact that it was a warm night. I left them alone in the kitchen and went to the inn around the corner for hot food, carrying the covered dishes back myself rather than risking the serving boy coming anywhere near the house. Sophia gulped it down like a beggar, the way I had seen her eat that first day in London. I watched her, wishing for a moment that she had not found me again. I brushed the thought away.

  “I may as well have been thrown into prison,” she said, looking morosely into her bowl. “I spend my life being shut into small rooms as it is.”

  “What I don’t understand, Mistress Kingsley,” Harry said, wiping a piece of bread around his plate, “is why you would return to Canterbury when you had already made it safely to London? Knowing there was a price on your head?”

  “Because I didn’t want to live the rest of my life as a fugitive,” she said, raising her head, her eyes bright. She pinched the rough cloth of the skirt she wore and held it up. “In borrowed clothes. Looking over my shoulder, fearing someone would recognise me. I wanted my name cleared, for good. I thought Bruno would be able to find the person who did it. And then I would be free.” She sighed, and rested her cheek on her fist, as if the possibility of this was receding by the moment.

  “And rich, I suppose,” Harry said casually, still looking at his bread.

  “If I were cleared of murder, I would inherit the greater part of my husband’s estate, yes,” she said, defensive. “And it would be small recompense for what I suffered at his hands, I assure you.”

  “Madame, I meant no harm,” Harry said mildly. We finished the meal in silence.

  Later, when I blew out the candles in the upper room, she turned away from me and climbed under the sheet still wearing her shift. It seemed pointless in the circumstances to undress myself, so I moved in beside her in my shirt and underhose.

  “Bruno,” she said, refusal in her voice before I had even reached for her, “I am exhausted, and afraid. I have spent all day in a shed with nowhere to piss but at my own feet, fearing every creak of the boards in the wind. Could we just …” She let the meaning hang in the air.

  “Of course,” I murmured into her hair, allowing her to settle herself against my shoulder, willing myself to a gallantry I did not feel. “Did you read the book?” I asked, mainly to distract myself from the pressure of her left breast against my rib cage.

  “I tried. It was impossible to understand.”

  “All Greek to you.”

  “That is the point—it is not all Greek. My Greek is poor but I can usually make out some of the meaning. Part of this book is written in a language I have never seen.”

  I laughed.

  “It is a cipher. The book was translated into Greek from a very ancient manuscript in Egyptian. The translator believed the knowledge it contained was so powerful that it should not be made visible except to a very few adepts.”

  “Magic?” She raised her head an inch and I heard the animation in her voice.

  “Beyond magic. I believe this book contains the last great secret of the Egyptian sage Hermes Trismegistus—the truth of how man can become like God.”

  She whistled softly; I felt her breath tickle my neck.

  “It must be very valuable.”

  “Only a handful of people could recognise its true worth.” I pictured them: my friend John Dee, now living in Prague at the court of Emperor Rudolf; Lord Henry Howard, who had once almost killed Dee in pursuit of this book, and would have sent it down here to Langworth for safekeeping when he knew he was to be sent to prison and his house raided. “My patron, King Henri of France, is a great collector of occult manuscripts. I can barely imagine what he would be willing to pay for it. But I do not mean to sell it at any price,” I added.

  “Have you broken the cipher?”

  I smiled. “You have had more leisure to read that book than I ever have. But I will.”

  “If anyone can, Bruno, it is you.” She laid her hand on my chest and I rested my cheek on her hair. For a moment it was possible to imagine that this was real, that tomorrow I would not be on trial for my life. “What will happen to us?” she whispered, as if reading my thoughts.

  “I don’t know. The justice seems a sensible sort of man. He is friends with the dean, and the dean is anxious not to offend my connections at court, so perhaps it will go well for me. I still have hope that my letter will have reached my friend Sidney in time.”

  I did not think they would dare to execute me on the spot, which meant there was still time for an intervention. If my letter had found its destination, I thought, with a brief wave of despair; the weavers would not know the urgency. They may spend two or three days in town attending to their own business before they remembered they had a message to deliver.

  “And me?” she asked, in a small voice.

  “If Tom Garth will find the courage to speak, it will weaken the case against you to know that the gloves were not yours. There is no other evidence against you.”

  “Except that I ran, and took his money,” she murmured. “And that I gain most from his will. I thought you would find the real killer easily, like you did in Oxford.” There was a faint hint of accusation in her voice, and I bridled at it.

  “Because you thought the answer was simple. You thought it was Nicholas. But I can only think it was Langworth, for some complex reason connected with the experiments on the boys and their plans regarding Becket. But I cannot prove it for certain. Not by tomorrow, anyway.” I took a deep breath. “I am sorry if you think I have failed you.”

  “No.” She stroked a finger along my collarbone. “Perhaps it is I who have failed. I have failed all along, all my life. I must have been born under a very bad aspect.”

  “You were just born to the wrong station in life,” I whispered into the top of her head. “A spirit like yours would have been better suited to being a princess.”

  She laughed, a gentle bubbling sound against my chest. “Please, Bruno, aim higher. Queen, I think.”

  “And yet, you know the queen of England lives every day in fear of her life too?”

  “At least she has never been forced to take a husband,” she said, with feeling.

  I slept; at least, I drifted in and out of sleep as the moon drifted among its violet tatters of cloud, its blue light slowly moving the shadows on the wall each time my eyes half opened. Sophia slept easily against my chest, her breathing rhythmic and soft, her face flushed
and smooth as her eyelids twitched. The arm I had under her head grew numb but I kept still for fear of waking her. Hours passed. The moon was hidden, revealed, hidden again. And then, I heard it: a tread on the stair. The faintest of movements; as if a cat had approached the door. But my nerves sprang alive, the hairs on my arms prickled; in my gut I felt a sudden inkling of danger. Gingerly I retrieved my arm from under Sophia’s head and pushed myself upright, trying to keep quiet; might it only be Harry, shuffling about on the floor below, fumbling for his piss-pot in the dark? But the movement had sounded too close at hand. I felt for my knife and realised I had unbuckled it and left it with my belt and breeches on a chair against the far wall.

  I was easing myself upright slowly when the door was pushed open and the shadow of a man loomed across the white wall opposite the bed. I made to move but he was at the end of the bed before I could shake off the sheet and in the thin light I caught the unmistakable glint of a knife. I hardly needed the moon to reveal him; the long nose, the gleam of his pale domed head.

  “Well, well.” Samuel nodded at Sophia’s sleeping form. “Two birds with one stone, you might say. And you will die with your sins on you, which is no more than you deserve, you heretic dog.”

  Sophia stirred and opened her eyes at the sound of his voice; dazed, she took a moment to comprehend the scene, but when she did she gave a little scream, which she stifled with her hand.

  “Why didn’t you kill me sooner, if you meant to?” I asked, hearing the tremor in my voice.

  Samuel considered this.

  “We didn’t know how much you knew. But now you cannot be permitted to air your theories in a public courtroom.”

  “How will you explain my death?”

  He shrugged. “Not for me to explain. I am on the road to London, remember? I expect it will look as if Harry killed you in self-defence and then died of his own wounds.”

  “Oh, God, no.” My stomach lurched and I tasted bile. “You have not killed Harry?”

  “Not yet. But he cannot be left at liberty to repeat your suppositions to Francis Walsingham or anyone else.” His voice was remarkably calm. But then a man who could drop a dismembered child out of a sack onto a rubbish heap must be unusually free of emotion. “Now then.” He looked from me to Sophia with lascivious anticipation. “What would give you the greatest suffering, Bruno—to watch me kill her first, or to die yourself knowing I mean to have some sport with her while you bleed your life out on the floor like a slaughtered calf?”