Heresy

by S. J. Parris

  "Perhaps when you hold your child in your arms, even for a moment, you may hate me less," I said, looking steadily at her. She brushed a loose strand of hair from her face and met my gaze.

  "I do not hate you, Bruno," she said wearily. "I hate the world. I hate God. I hate religion and the way it makes men believe that they alone are right."

  "You sound like Thomas Allen," I said, and instantly regretted what sounded like an attempt at levity. To my surprise, though, she gave a weak smile.

  "And we have seen where that may lead. Poor, poor Thomas. No, life is too short for hating."

  "Your faith will not survive interrogation, then?"

  She almost laughed then, her face briefly lighting up.

  "My faith, as you call it, was only ever a way to please him. I would have worshipped the moon and the sun and sacrificed a cockerel to the Devil at midnight if that would have made him love me better."

  "I well remember-you asked my advice on it once," I said. "But I would advise you not to say as much when you are interviewed."

  "No, Bruno." She shook her head. "Have no fear for me on that account. When I saw that gaol today, I knew without doubt that I could never endure years in such a place for love of the pope. For Jerome, yes, but he would not be here to appreciate it, would he? And the child must survive. That is all that matters now." She fell silent then and stared down at her folded hands for a long while. I didn't dare to move. Eventually she reached into a pocket sewn into her dress and drew out a folded scrap of paper. Stepping across the room toward me, she took my bandaged right hand and pressed the paper into it, holding my hand between hers for a few moments while she looked intently into my eyes. Despite everything, my heart gave a foolish jolt and I was seized by a desire to take her in my arms. The cruelty of the fate that she described reminded me painfully once again of Morgana; I had sentenced a young woman of spirit and beauty to be crushed beneath the wheels of propriety and the injustice of it clutched at my heart. I still clung to the belief that I had saved Sophia's life, but I would always live with a tiny kernel of doubt: What if Jerome Gilbert really had meant to escort her to safety in France? I would never be wholly sure and neither would she; that uncertainty bound us together, and I felt an overwhelming sense of responsibility for her. If there was anything I could do to help her now, I determined that I would not let her down again.

  "Write to me," she whispered, glancing nervously at the door in case her father should overhear. "Tell me how he died, what he said on the scaffold. That is all I wish. This is the address of my aunt in Kent. I will be taken there tomorrow and I do not think I will ever return to Oxford."

  "Surely your father would not banish you for good?"

  She shook her head, her lips pressed tight. "You do not know my father. If you could do this one thing…" She let the sentence trail away and squeezed my hand gently; I tried not to wince.

  "I will."

  "Thank you, Bruno." Her wide eyes roved over mine as if searching for something. "If you had only come to Oxford two years ago-how different everything might have been. Perhaps we…But it is no good dwelling on what might have been. It is too late now for me." She leaned forward and kissed me softly on the cheek, so gently that I might have imagined the brush of her lips over my skin. She squeezed my hand once more and let go.

  As I turned toward the door, my heart so heavy I felt stooped by the weight of it, she whispered, "Write!" I looked back to see her miming writing on the palm of her hand, her face stretched into a brave attempt at a smile. I nodded and turned my back on her for the last time.

  When I closed the door behind me, the rector was still standing in the same position, silhouetted against the window, but he had turned to face the room and kept his arms folded across his chest, his small beady eyes fixed on me.

  "So, Doctor Bruno, I have you to thank for delivering the college from a brutal murderer and a seditious Jesuit." His tone was still oddly unemotional, as though all capacity for feeling had drained out of him. I could not tell if he was pleased by this or not, and the ambiguity of his words made me pause.

  "You know, Rector, that the two were not the same person?"

  "I know that Gabriel Norris-I cannot think of him any other way-is to be charged with the murders of Roger Mercer, James Coverdale, Ned Lacy, and Thomas Allen, and with treasonable intent toward Her Majesty's person. I have learned, too, that there are other accusations made against him, perhaps of less interest to the Privy Council but nonetheless of considerable significance to my own family."

  Here he drew in a great shuddering breath that seemed as if it would wrack his very soul. Briefly his eyes met mine and I saw in them a weight of sorrow that I understood would burden him the remainder of his natural life. I also understood, in that moment, that Sophia had spoken the truth; there was a degree of coldness in the rector that would allow him to cut her off for good if he felt it necessary. In his eyes I saw the grief of a man who has already lost both his children. I wanted to intercede with him, to plead on her behalf, but decided to hold my tongue; my interference in the business of this college and especially this family was perhaps sufficient.

  "I do not think we will see you in Oxford again, Doctor Bruno," he said stiffly, holding out a hand for me to shake as he walked across to the main door, the boards creaking under his feet in the silence. "In the light of recent events, I regret not confiding in you sooner, but here in Oxford we are not accustomed to regarding foreigners as-well, you see my position." He held the hand out more insistently and I reached to take it, whereupon he grasped my hand between both of his and fixed me with an imploring stare. Sophia had been fortunate, I thought as we looked at each other, that she had taken all her looks from her mother. Or perhaps not so fortunate; had she been less beautiful, her situation now might be very different.

  "Among my many regrets, Doctor Bruno," he continued, seeming to crumple slightly as he held tight to my hand, "I could wish I had been a more gracious host and friend to you. Had I known of your connections- but I have much to reprimand myself for, as you may imagine. Perhaps if you have the opportunity to convey to the Earl of Leicester that I have only ever tried to serve him and the university to the best of my ability, that would not be too much to ask? I expect to hear from him concerning these events, and I am not at all sure of how he will receive the news." His eyes grew wide with fear as he wrung my arm urgently, unaware that he was even doing so.

  "I would help you if I could, but I'm afraid you mistake my intimacy with the earl-I have never met him in my life." Seeing his disappointment, I quickly added, "But I'm sure that if I discuss these matters with Sir Philip, he will not be ignorant of your loyalty."

  The rector nodded solemnly and released my hand.

  "Thank you. It is more than I deserve. You were a most worthy adversary in the debating hall, Doctor Bruno. I only wish we might have had the opportunity again."

  You have a short memory, I thought, as I smiled politely; I was your superior in substance and conduct, though it pleased you to ridicule me before the entire congregation of the university. But that humiliation seemed a trivial thing now.

  "There is one favour I must ask of you in return," I said, as we approached the door. He looked at me with mild surprise. "I have learned that Cobbett has been suspended from his duties."

  "That is correct," the rector said. "Master Slythurst made a most serious complaint that he deliberately disregarded orders to hand over sensitive documents and allowed a thief to escape college who might otherwise have been detained."

  I stared at him, incredulous. "But surely you know, Rector, that the thief he describes was me? And if Cobbett had not disobeyed Slythurst to get an urgent message to Sir Philip, I would be dead by now, and so would your daughter!"

  "Nevertheless," said the rector, in the same flat voice, affecting to become absorbed in a loose thread on his gown, "Master Slythurst is a senior Fellow of this college, and as a college servant, Cobbett's duty was to obey his orders, not those
of a visitor who had been found removing items from a student's room. For that dereliction of duty he has been punished."

  "Those papers, in Sir Philip's hands, saved your daughter's life," I said, lowering my voice. "In Slythurst's hands, they might not have done so in time. Cobbett acted according to his conscience and for this he should be rewarded."

  Underhill stopped picking at his gown and fixed me with a direct stare. "In your opinion," he replied, enunciating each word carefully and precisely.

  I could not believe what I was hearing.

  "His actions saved Sophia from being murdered," I repeated, more slowly in case he had not understood the first time. "And your grandchild," I added deliberately, since this did not seem to provoke a response. "You do not think that is worth rewarding?"

  For a moment he did not answer but continued to look at me with something like pity.

  "It has never occurred to you that I might rather have rewarded the man who could have spared my family all this?"

  It took the space of a heartbeat for me to comprehend what he was saying; when I did, I could hardly credit it.

  "You would have wished me not to interfere?" I shook my head in disbelief. "You do understand that he meant to kill her? Jerome Gilbert-Gabriel Norris, whatever you want to call him? His intention was to have her drowned on the way to France to spare himself the ignominy of discovery. In time, you and your wife would have received a letter saying she had run away to join a religious order and you would have been none the wiser."

  "And you do not think her mother would have found that easier to bear?" He took a step toward me, and I saw that all his poise was on the verge of shattering; his hands trembled violently and he clasped them until his knuckles turned white. "We could at least have gone into our old age benignly deceived. Instead, my daughter is arrested in the company of a Jesuit missionary and escorted back to Oxford by the sheriff's men. I have to go to the Castle prison in person to pay for her release, where I find her in the company of thieves and whores. Then I must escort her back to college in full view of all the town, I must endure their jeers and whispers as we pass, as my wife will endure them should she ever venture out of her room again, which is doubtful. I would be a fool to believe the rumours are not already in full flood. I will be known hereafter as the father of a Jesuit's whore, grandsire to a papist bastard. My reputation in the university is finished, and her mother's nerves will not bear this new assault, I fear."

  I looked at him with contempt.

  "Better she had been quietly murdered, and your reputation survived unblemished?" I said, through my teeth.

  "No doubt you think me a monster for saying so," he replied, with no trace of apology. "But you have no children, so you cannot know the pain of losing them. My daughter is dead to me in any case, Bruno. Better she had been lost at sea and her mother spared this shame. Yes, I think so. Better for Sophia, too. She will have no kind of a life after this."

  "And you would rather have gone on harbouring a Jesuit in the college and living well from his fees, if it meant an easy life? Or perhaps you knew about Norris all along?"

  "No-that is a lie!" he cried, springing forward. "I had no idea about Norris. Perhaps that in itself is a grave failing, but I would never knowingly have tolerated an active missionary in the college, it is absurd to suggest so. I pray you, do not repeat that suggestion to your friend Sir Philip. Norris paid his way and he was granted no more or less licence than the other commoners."

  "Norris was recommended for a place here by Edmund Allen," I said, "a man you already knew to be a secret Catholic. And Norris never attended chapel-did that not strike you as suspicious?"

  "The sons of gentlemen are not used to rising early. It is one of their privileges that they are not expected to."

  "Every dispensation may be bought here," I said, looking at him with scorn. "It reminds me so much of Rome. But you knew about the others, too, didn't you?"

  He sighed. "I knew about William Bernard. But everyone in Oxford did-it was no secret that he kept to the old ways, though he took the Oath of Supremacy. But he was a recalcitrant old man and judged harmless. He is fled, by the way, but I don't think there will be too much of a hunt put out for him. To put a white-haired old fellow like that in gaol or stand him on a scaffold does not play well with the people, as the Privy Council knows. And the others-Roger Mercer, I knew, but he was a good man. Coverdale was a surprise. There are others-I suppose when I am questioned about Norris I must reveal their names."

  "I do not think that will be necessary," I said, still reeling from his callous words about Sophia. "The names of the worst offenders are already known."

  He studied me as he reached for the door handle.

  "You have too much compassion, Doctor Bruno, to be embroiled in this business. I know that you lied to spare my daughter a public trial. Just as I could have handed the Catholics here, the whole lot of them, over to the pursuivants years ago, but I thought we could all rub along together. I see now one has to be ruthless, and for men like us, it is not in our character. You are like me in that regard," he added, with a hint of self-satisfaction.

  "No, sir," I said quietly, as he held the door open for me to pass. "I am nothing like you. Had I a daughter, I hope I would not wish for her death rather than my own dishonour." He opened his mouth as if to protest, but I cut him off. "She is no whore. She is a woman of mettle, and she deserves your care and protection, not your contempt."

  I left him standing in the doorway, his mouth still gaping wordlessly like a fish, and strode purposefully across the quadrangle of Lincoln College for the last time. At the gatehouse I turned to take my final look, and saw the outline of Sophia at the first-floor window of the rector's lodgings, her figure distorted by the patterned glass, one hand raised in farewell.

  Epilogue

  London July 1583

  Under a sky barely touched by the first streaks of dawn, through a thin drizzle that misted on my hair and on the horse's mane, I rode west out of the ambassador's residence at Salisbury Court along Fleet Street, away from the City of London, a cloak tucked around me against the damp and my chest as tight as if it were bound by iron hoops. I would not have chosen to make this journey, but I had received word from Walsingham that he expected my presence and I thought it better not to argue. Steam clouded from the horse's nostrils in the morning air as I turned him north at the great monument of Charing Cross, onto the spur road that led out of London and into open country to the northwest. Here the road grew busier; small groups of people on foot heading in the same direction, chatting eagerly among themselves and sharing drinks from leather flasks, while pie sellers moved quickly alongside them, calling out their wares to the expectant crowd, all making for the morning's spectacle. Nearer to our destination, people had lined the streets, children hoisted on their fathers' shoulders to witness the passing of the procession.

  At the place they call Tyburn, a wooden platform had been erected at the height of a man's head to ensure all the crowd had a clear view. On this scaffold the executioner's table had been set, an oversize butcher's block all laid out with various knives and instruments, and beside it, a fire had been lit to heat the water in a large cauldron. Those at the front of the crowd pressed closer, stretching out their hands toward the warmth of the flames; though it was July, the damp had left a chill in the early-morning air, and people stamped their feet and rubbed their hands together impatiently as they waited. At the side of the scaffold a wooden gallows had been built and a cart stood empty underneath it. I turned the horse and made my way around the back of the crowd; at the far side, nearest to the gallows, I could see a number of gentlemen on horseback keeping their distance from the jostling throng and guessed I would find Sidney among them. As I guided the horse around, city officials with pikestaffs passed through the crowd, clearing a path in front of the scaffold.

  I found Sidney with a group of young mounted courtiers close to the gallows. Though his companions seemed in high spirits and tal
ked loudly among themselves, he kept his horse reined in tight, making it step impatiently on the spot as he surveyed the crowd, his mouth set in a grim line. Catching sight of me, he nodded without smiling.

  "Let us move to one side, Bruno," he said quietly. "I am not inclined to be among those who would treat this as if it were a country fair."

  "I had much rather not have been here at all," I admitted, as we took up a position a little way off from the group of young men.

  "Walsingham was adamant that you should attend. He feels it is important that his people fully understand every aspect of their work. Those who fight wars are not spared the sight of gore, and neither are we boys playing at soldiers. Our struggle is real, and its consequences are bloody." He turned and fixed me with an earnest expression. "This execution is your triumph, Bruno. Walsingham is very pleased with you."

  "My triumph," I repeated softly, as a great cry went up from the crowd and they all stood on tiptoe to watch the arrival.

  It was almost fully light when two black horses appeared in the gap between the scaffold and the front row of the crowd as a group of women rushed forward to throw roses and lilies, the flowers of martyrdom, in the path of the horses, the officials jabbing with their pikes at those who pressed in too closely and threatened to impede progress. As if by common consent, the crowd drew solemnly back, the babble of conversation ceased, and the horses' hooves could be heard thudding quietly on the turf as the hurdle they drew behind them carved ruts into the damp ground. I stood in my stirrups and leaned forward, my stomach clenching at the sight.

  Jerome Gilbert was bound to the hurdle, feet uppermost, arms crossed over his chest, his head almost level with the ground so that his face and hair were spattered with mud. When the hurdle reached the gallows, two men stepped forward to untie him and his body slumped to the ground like a child's cloth doll; the men grasped him beneath his shoulders and hoisted him between them onto the cart. He had been stripped to his undershirt and hose, but now, as they lifted him up to an expectant murmur from the crowd, he reached inside his shirt and drew out a handkerchief to wipe the worst of the mud from his face. I winced to see that his left eye was so bruised and swollen he could not open it, but he scanned the crowd frantically with his good eye before throwing the handkerchief into the air, where it was deftly caught by a grey-haired man with a lugubrious face near the front.