Heresy

by S. J. Parris

COBBETT HAD LEFT the door to his lodge open and stood with his back to it, arranging his keys in the little wall cupboard. The room still smelled strongly of vomit. He glanced over his shoulder as I entered.

  "Another death, they're saying," he grunted. "In the chapel itself, this time. I've been instructed to keep the gates locked now. He was a good boy, that Ned, proper hardworking. Who would do such a thing? I begin to wonder if this isn't the Devil's work after all, Doctor Bruno."

  "Sophia Underhill," I said, pressing the door shut behind me, "did you see her leave college this morning, Cobbett?"

  "Aye," Cobbett said noncommittally, turning back to his key cupboard. "Slipped out in all the commotion, right after Master Slythurst went back up to the tower. When her mother come down a few minutes later, I just told her Mistress Sophia must have gone on ahead."

  "And you haven't seen her return at any time?"

  "No. Is she not back?"

  "She hasn't been seen all day," I said. "Did she tell you where she was going?"

  "No," he said shortly. "But she'll not have got far."

  "Not in this weather," I agreed. "Not in her condition."

  He shuffled back painfully to his chair behind the desk and looked at me expectantly. I stared at him in disbelief, feeling as if time itself had slowed down almost to a standstill.

  "What condition? Do you mean that she is ill?"

  Cobbett raised an eyebrow to indicate what he thought of my naivete.

  "Come on, Doctor Bruno, you haven't been in the cloisters that long."

  "You mean, she-? No." I shook my head; surely this was some malicious gossip the old porter had picked up from the servants. "How can you be sure?"

  "My wife had ten, sir, God rest her. Do you think I can't spot the signs? A good three months in, I'd say, poor girl."

  My head was reeling with the magnitude of this revelation. If Sophia was indeed with child, the fear she had confided to me seemed all the more urgent. But then who was it that she feared-her father or the child's father? Was that the danger she had mentioned?

  "But who-? Did she confide in you whose child it was?" I heard the note of panic rising in my voice.

  "She confided nothing, Doctor Bruno, I just use the eyes God gave me, unlike most round here. I seen her meeting someone in the library Saturday evening, while all the college was out at the disputation. Least, I seen her going up there and some feller following not long behind."

  "Who, though?" I cried, exasperated.

  Cobbett shrugged, his expression ruminative. "He had a cloak on with a hood up. Could have been anyone. I do know I didn't see him come through the gateway, so whoever he was must have been in college already."

  I paused, pinching the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger as I struggled to make this latest information fit. So Sophia had been one of the people in the library whom Ned had overheard. But who had she met there, while the college was almost empty?

  "Does her father know?" I asked Cobbett.

  "You are joking, aren't you? Her father would barely notice if she gave birth to it right in front of him, and Mistress Underhill's no better. If you ask me, they've only themselves to blame-both behaving like the world ended when young John was killed, as if his sister was of no matter to them. Mind you," he said, leaning in, "I was wondering how she was going to keep it from the rest of the world once she couldn't do up her corset, and that day wasn't so far off. Perhaps that's why she's chosen to run away now."

  "I didn't know you had ten children, Cobbett," I said, pausing at the door and looking at the old man with renewed respect.

  "Well, I haven't now," he said, philosophically. "Good Lord saw fit to take most of ' em back. Got two daughters left, one married a farmer out Abingdon way, the other's a laundress."

  "I'm sorry," I said, redundantly.

  "Nothing to be sorry about, it's the way of things. Anyhow, listen to me prattling, I almost forgot-I have a letter for you." He pulled open a drawer from his table and rummaged around until he came up with a folded piece of paper, which he held out to me.

  Intrigued, I turned it over; my name was written in an elegant, unfamiliar hand and I quickly opened the letter to see that it was written in flawless Italian.

  "He left it with me this morning," Cobbett said, "and in all the upheaval over poor Doctor Coverdale and now this latest, I clean forgot to hand it over. I do apologise."

  My heart plummeted as I skimmed the letter; in a very elaborate style, it begged my assistance in recommending its author to the service of the French ambassador as a tutor of languages to his children, as he wished to marry soon and his tenuous university post would not allow him to keep a wife.

  "This is from Master Florio?" I asked with a sigh, glancing at the foot of the letter where it was signed with only an initial so curlicued and ornate that it could have been anything.

  "Course. Does it not say?"

  So this was the letter he had mentioned so furtively; Florio was not, then, the mysterious correspondent who had first set me on the trail of the Catherine Wheel. Another blind alley, and I was no closer to finding the one person in the college who had known about the Foxe connection before any of us.

  "Damn him," I muttered, crushing the letter in my fist, though I was not sure if I was damning Florio for his innocence or the anonymous letter-writer for being so cryptic. "Cobbett-might I ask you a favour?"

  "I shall do my best to oblige, sir."

  "I need to leave college late tonight. I have an…errand that I must see to. Would you leave the gate open for me, say at half an hour to midnight?"

  The old porter's brow creased in consternation. "I would like to help you out, sir, but the rector has given strict instructions for the gate to remain locked now with these latest deaths, and no one to be allowed in or out after dark. I dare not go against his word-if there is another attack I will be out on my ear for neglecting my duty."

  "I understand," I said quickly. "Perhaps, then, I could knock for you, and you could let me out and lock the gate again behind me?"

  He looked doubtful. "Well, I could, sir. And would I have to keep awake until you returned?"

  "I don't know how long it will take, but I could knock on the window for you to let me back in."

  "We can try that if you like, sir," he said, still sounding unconvinced. "But you must swear no one in Lincoln will hear of it or I will be for the chop."

  "I swear it. I will vanish like a thief in the night." I thanked him and stepped out into the damp quadrangle, still shadowed by a heavy grey sky, my head aching with these new revelations.

  Chapter 16

  A damp chill hung over the courtyard as I peered out from the mouth of my staircase at twenty minutes to midnight, though the heavy clouds that had brought the day's punishing rain had broken at last to allow the merest glimmer of moonlight to illuminate the slick flagstones. I was grateful for the pale light, since it had allowed me to read the clock on the north range from my window-I had been pacing my room in a state of pent-up anticipation since the end of supper-but I was now anxious that I should not also find myself lit up like a spectacle as I tried to leave the college unobserved. Keeping close in to the shadows, I crept the length of the south-range wall and then along the west toward the tower, praying that Cobbett would be awake. Twice I started at a noise, thinking I had heard something stirring in the opposite corner, pressing myself tight against the damp stone, but eventually convinced myself that I had heard nothing except for the nocturnal antics of a fox or owl outside the walls, a noise now dulled by the thudding of my own blood in my ears. All the windows facing the courtyard were dark, save for a flickering light in the upper storey of the rector's lodgings; if Sophia had still not come home, I thought, no wonder the poor man could not sleep. As I passed the west range, I wondered if Gabriel Norris and Thomas Allen had returned; neither had been present at supper and it seemed strange that both should have disappeared after the discovery of Ned's body. William Bernard was also missing, an ab
sence more noticeable for the fact that none of his colleagues had mentioned it at high table, despite the frequent glances at his empty place.

  Under the tower archway, I tapped gently on Cobbett's little arched window; I was pleased to see that candlelight burned within and to my surprise, the door opened almost immediately. Pressing a grimy finger to his lips, the old porter shuffled with painful slowness toward the gate, a small lantern in his right hand, glancing fearfully out at the shadowy courtyard as he did so. He handed me the lantern and I watched as his arthritic fingers sorted expertly through the enormous bunch of keys hanging from his belt, selecting one with barely a sound. The gate creaked in complaint as it opened, the sound like nothing so much as the trunk of an ancient tree bending in a storm, and we both froze for a moment until we were satisfied that there was no movement from the buildings behind us.

  Cobbett motioned to me to keep the lantern.

  "Tap on the street window when you come back," he reminded me in a hoarse whisper. "Never fear, I shall hear you. And take care abroad in the streets, sir. Have your wits about you." His face in the candlelight was unusually serious, so I nodded with equal solemnity as I stepped through the gate into the mire of St. Mildred's Lane. The hinges groaned mightily again as Cobbett heaved the gate closed behind me, and a moment later I heard his key turning in the lock with an ominous finality.

  I had barely passed the walls of Jesus College and was almost upon the place where St. Mildred's Lane meets Sommer Lane when I whipped around sharply on my heels, my hand on the knife, convinced now that I had heard the unmistakable sound of a footstep in a puddle somewhere at my back. I held the lantern up, peering frantically into the blackness of the lane I had just walked along, but its circle of light barely reached beyond the length of my arm and only made the darkness seem more impenetrable. I almost called out for whoever was there to show himself but stopped myself at the last moment, thinking it best not to draw more attention to myself.

  I trudged on through the muddy street, staying close to the solid blackness of the city wall on my right as I followed its line down Sommer Lane toward the north gate. Again, the quiet splash of a footfall behind me, like the ones my own boots were making in the brimming ruts left in the road from the day's rain; again I spun around, this time drawing the knife, hissing "Who's there?" in so low a voice as to be barely audible. This time I was sure I detected something in the deep shadows; not so much a movement as a stirring of the air, the chill mist reassembling itself into the space where a man had been moments earlier. I had no doubt now that someone was following me, but only a few yards ahead I saw the reassuring bulk of St. Michael's church hard against the city wall, and beside it the lights on the watchtower over the gate. I took a deep breath and, replacing the knife at my belt, reached inside the pocket of my breeches for the few coins I had earlier taken out as bribes for the watchmen, thinking it best not to let them see the full purse I carried.

  Two young men carrying pikes and smelling strongly of ale stepped forward halfheartedly as I neared the gate.

  "State your business," the taller one said, as if he did not care either way. He ostentatiously bit the groat I handed him in front of me, while I anxiously glanced over my shoulder for any sign of my pursuer, but I could see nothing beyond the spheres of lamplight. When my bribe was judged authentic, I was ushered through the gate and found myself alone outside the city wall.

  THE INN YARD was shrouded in shadow, overhung by a muffled silence which seemed taut with anticipation. I could see no light in any of the windows, and the only illumination came from my little lantern. From somewhere in the dense dark to my right came the soft whinney of a horse, the shifting of its weight in slumber, close by. I held up the light to see where I should go.

  "Put that out, you fool. Would you have the watchmen on us?" hissed a man's voice at my ear, his breath warm against my cheek. My heart leaped and I almost dropped the lantern with the shock, but managed to reach inside the glass and snuff out the candle. The figure who had spoken overtook me and crossed the yard without hesitation, his cloak swishing around his legs as he walked. A sliver of moonlight penetrated the clouds and in its thin gleam I saw other shadows come to life, more figures gliding silently through the still air to the back of the inn building, all cloaked and hooded. For a moment the sight reminded me of rising for Matins in the early hours at San Domenico, the hooded figures looking like nothing so much as the monks among whom I had spent my youth. I followed the shapes I could barely see and reached a small door, which closed just as I reached it. I could just make out the shape of a grille at head height, so I leaned toward it and whispered, "Ora pro nobis." For a moment there was only silence, but then the door opened a crack and out of the shadows a pale hand beckoned me inside.

  I slipped through the gap into a narrow passageway which, from the smell of stale food, appeared to run alongside the inn's kitchen. From his sheer size, I guessed that the person who had admitted me was young Humphrey Pritchard, the potboy; whether he had recognised me, I did not know. He ushered me along the passage, which ended in a rickety-looking staircase that curved around to the next floor. One tallow candle burned low in a sconce halfway up, filling the narrow stairwell with its bitter smoke. Footsteps creaked on the stairs behind me and I hastened my climb, emerging onto a landing with a low, beamed ceiling and uneven floor. I noticed the small windows had been hung with black cloth to prevent the candlelight from showing to the world outside. Still unsure of where to go, I followed the landing to its end, where a low door stood ajar; tentatively pushing this open, I found myself in a small room crowded with hooded figures who stood expectantly, heads bowed, all facing a makeshift altar at one end, where three wax candles burned cleanly in tall wrought-silver holders before a dark wooden crucifix bearing a silver figure of Christ crucified.

  From the anonymous depths of our hoods, my fellow congregants and I furtively regarded one another, though in the dim candlelight all the faces I glimpsed wore the same masklike effects of the dancing flames, features elongated, eyes submerged in pools of shadow. Then suddenly a tall figure across the room turned toward me; the light caught his face for a moment as his eyes met mine, and I recognised with a jolt Master Richard Godwyn, the librarian of Lincoln College. Surprise and fear registered on his face in the instant before he dropped his eyes to the floor, folding his hands prayerfully in front of him. I wondered how many of these others, if I could only see them clearly, would turn out to be men I already knew, creeping through the sleeping city under cover of darkness to live their secret forbidden life. I could not help but admire their courage, though I no longer shared their faith; after all, had I not also once risked my life in defying the beliefs the authorities prescribed for me? Was I not, in a sense, still doing so? In that moment, glancing around the little congregation of fourteen souls, I was seized by the enormity of my own task there. I was the wolf in sheep's clothing, the one who wore the same uniform and would speak the same responses, but beneath my right arm I felt the weight of Sir Francis Walsingham's purse-money I carried to betray these defiant faithful people to prison or perhaps to death. It was all very well for Walsingham to talk in the abstract about the threat to the realm, but could this little Mass really be considered treason? I found it hard to believe that any of the ordinary people gathered here in the night to celebrate a rite denied them on pain of death were secretly plotting to assassinate the queen or tip off French forces. Was their faith alone sufficient reason to deliver them up to the Privy Council's version of justice, I thought, and could I justify that to my own conscience? I remembered Thomas Allen's palpable fear of the interrogation methods the queen's ministers used against those it accused of treason. I felt suddenly horribly exposed, as if my treacherous intent could be visible to those around me; at that moment a hand closed tightly around my wrist and I raised my eyes to find myself staring into the luminous blue eyes of Rowland Jenkes. He gave me a hard look, then nodded at me once in what I took to be affirmation, an alm
ost-smile flickered over his lips, and he let go of my arm, turning expectantly toward the door through which we had entered.

  A stillness descended on us, an audible intake of breath as the door began to open and I felt in that small room, as I had not for many years, a tiny shiver along my spine at the old magic of the Mass. These people among whom I stood, disguised, truly believed that they were in the presence of a holy mystery, believed it with a pure faith that I had long forgotten, and it was this, I thought, that a man like Walsingham could not hope to understand. It was the belief in this miracle that would draw them back time after time, despite the threats of death and punishment, defiantly to keep this flame alive, and the honesty of their faith was a little humbling.

  The priest who had entered wore a white garment like an alb that reached to his feet, though it was hooded and the hood drawn up, obscuring his face. A green stole hung around his neck. He took his few steps to the altar with solemn dignity, eyes downcast but his bearing erect, holding out the veiled chalice before him. Upon reaching the altar, he made a deep bow, and I saw from the manner of it that he was not a young man and that the physical gesture cost him. But I could not prevent myself from gasping when he straightened and drew back his hood; the celebrant priest was Doctor William Bernard.

  He laid the chalice reverently on the left side of the altar, lifted a green velvet burse from on top, and with forefinger and thumb removed the delicate corporal from the burse, unfolded and laid the white linen square in the centre of the altar. Then he placed the veiled chalice carefully on top. The server who accompanied him shuffled nervously; he could not have been more than nineteen, a student, I guessed, and could not help flicking nervous glances around him as he stood, bareheaded, at Bernard's shoulder, as exposed in all this hooded company as if he had been naked.

  Facing the altar, Bernard made the sign of the cross from forehead to breastbone and from left shoulder to right with his right hand.