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Giordano Bruno 01 - Heresy

Page 36

by S. J. Parris


  “Merda!” I was about to close the lid when I noticed a small corner of the wood cut away in the floor of the chest, barely wide enough to slip in a fingernail. Setting down the candle, I pulled Humphrey’s kitchen knife from my belt, leaned into the trunk, and was just able to insert the tip of the blade into the gap and work it upward, my heart pounding. There was a soft click, and I felt the wood loosen. I pushed down and the false bottom lifted up easily; reaching into the compartment beneath, my fingers brushed a sheaf of papers before closing on something sharp that pricked my skin, making me draw my hand back quickly in case it was a trap. Reaching in again, more gingerly this time, I pulled out the offending object into the dim light and gave a low whistle when I realised what I held.

  It was a short-handled whip with perhaps forty or fifty cords tied to the end, each cord the length of about half a yard and studded with hard knots. Through each of these many knots was threaded a short piece of crooked wire bent into a hook, and many of these hooks bore traces of dried blood and torn flesh. I shuddered at the cruelty of the instrument, while at the same time it was as if the scales fell from my eyes and the suspicions that had formerly floated in thick fog suddenly emerged in almost total clarity.

  I reached again into the secret compartment and pulled out the sheaf of papers I had felt earlier. It proved to be a package of dog-eared letters, dirty and tied with fraying ribbon. The topmost paper bore the unmistakable imprint of a bloody thumb. One glance at the faded ink of the uppermost letter confirmed that these were written in a combination of symbols and numbers, but I did not need to decipher them to know that these were the letters for which Roger Mercer and James Coverdale’s room had been searched. Tied together with the bundle of letters was another document, this one on older vellum and sealed with wax. The seal was still intact and in the fading light its mark was indistinct, but I hesitated only a moment before breaking the seal and unfolding the document, holding it next to the candle stub. The flame was so faint now that it barely illuminated the elaborate curling script, but the first line was enough to make my breath seize for a moment in my throat.

  “Pius Bishop, servant of the servants of God, in lasting memory of the matter: Regnans in excelsis,” it began, and I almost dropped it, my hands had begun to shake so hard. I knew immediately what I held. This was perhaps the most damning paper an Englishman could possess: a copy of the papal bull issued by Pope Pius V some thirteen years ago, declaring Queen Elizabeth of England a heretic and containing her sentence of excommunication from the Catholic church. It ended by forbidding the queen’s subjects from recognising or obeying her as monarch; in those words, Pius had all but called for her to be overthrown. This was the papal bull that some of the more extreme Catholics in the European seminaries regarded as a licence to assassinate the queen in God’s name; even to bring a copy into this country was high treason and would earn the one who carried it a traitor’s death. I exhaled slowly, then froze as I thought I heard a scuffling sound outside the window. Had I walked directly into another trap? Whoever had ransacked this room had undoubtedly been looking for these papers, just as he had been searching for them in Mercer’s room, yet he had not found the chest’s secret compartment. Perhaps he was still watching the room and had seen my candle. I held my breath and caught another distinct movement outside; then a high, unearthly scream rent the air, followed by another, a sound like nothing so much the shriek of an infant in pain, and I sank back to the floor, trembling and laughing at my own skittishness; it was only a pair of foxes fighting in the lane.

  But the disturbance had brought me to my senses and reminded me that there was no time to waste. I tied the package of letters in one of the linen shirts from the chest, where I also found a travelling cloak that I hastily fastened around my shoulders, my own having been left at the Catherine Wheel. After some scrabbling I located an inkwell under the detritus on Norris’s desk and scribbled a hasty note to Sidney explaining where the items had been found and where I was going. This done, I reached inside my shirt and pulled out the sheet of paper with the copy of the code from Mercer’s almanac; this I folded inside the note to Sidney and sealed it as best I could with the sealing wax I had found in the drawer, though I had no ring to imprint on it. Then I grabbed the package, blew out the guttering candle, lifted the latch of the door to the stairwell and found it locked fast. Whoever had turned over the room in Norris’s and Allen’s absence must have let himself out afterward with his own key, unless he too had climbed in the window. Cursing again, I wrestled open the window above the desk that gave onto the courtyard, struggled onto the sill, encumbered now by my bandaged hand and the package I was trying to hold secure under the other arm, and eased myself through, unfortunately catching the cloak on the window latch at the last minute and falling through sideways with a thud and a muffled cry.

  I lay quietly for a moment in the hope that my movements had gone unheard, looking up at the marbled sky above the roofs, already turning from velvet black to a dark indigo behind the streaks of cloud. If the sky was growing lighter, I needed to get this business done and hurry out of the city before dawn. It was too dark to make out the hands of the clock; the quadrangle remained blanketed in the stillness of the dead hours. Nothing stirred. Somewhere distant the fox cried again, and I was about to pick myself up when I saw the lantern. It approached me at a quick pace from the buildings opposite, held up by a hooded figure who stopped, looming over me, and lowered the light to the level of my face.

  “Well, well, Doctor Bruno. Helping yourself again? This is becoming quite a habit. What will your explanation be this time, I wonder? I can hardly wait to find out.”

  I could not see Walter Slythurst’s face, but his malevolent smirk was apparent in every icy word.

  Chapter 18

  Slythurst tried to pull me up roughly by the arm, but I twisted away from him, curling my body around the package lest he try to wrench it from me.

  “You will explain yourself this time, Bruno,” he said, anger replacing his usual cold sarcasm as I struggled against his grip and he tried to reach for the package. It was too much of a coincidence that he should be awake and dressed at this hour of the night; he must have been watching Norris’s room. “What is it you have taken from that room? I must see it. I demand you hand it over to me.” There was a hectic urgency in his voice and I saw genuine alarm in his eyes as he looked at the bundle in my hand. Could it be that he knew the importance of what I carried?

  “Demand all you like,” I gasped, lashing out with my bandaged hand, “but I cannot give this to you.”

  “I am a senior Fellow of this college,” Slythurst spluttered, trying to keep his dignity, “and you must acknowledge my authority here. If you have taken something of value from a student’s room, it must be shown to the rector.” His tone was shrill with panic. Again he tried to snatch it; again I jerked away from him. I saw that he was determined to have it, and knew that it must not fall into the hands of the rector; both Slythurst and Underhill, I thought, were quite capable of destroying any evidence they thought might make things difficult for the college, and my discovery in Norris’s room would be the end of Underhill if it was made public. Slythurst studied me for a moment, his mouth set in a grim line, then he put his lantern on the ground and rushed at me with both hands free. He was surprisingly strong for a thin man and almost knocked me over as he lunged for the package, but I kicked backward while covering the bundle with both arms, my foot landing hard in his stomach. Winded, he doubled over, and before he could gather himself for his next assault, I threw a punch with my bandaged right hand, catching him on the chin and sending a bolt of pain up my arm. He stumbled back, then unexpectedly rallied and threw himself forward at my legs, knocking me to the ground. I heard my back crunch as I hit the flagstones and I tried to wrestle the package beneath me but he had the advantage of weight and quickly straddled me, pinning me to the ground. His face was almost in mine as he grasped the papers; I feared he would tear them as he tried t
o prise them from my grip and a sudden surge of anger redoubled my efforts to protect them.

  “Hand those to me, Bruno—you are meddling in matters you do not understand,” he hissed through his teeth; I could smell his sour breath in my nostrils.

  “You do not even know what I have here,” I spat back, clutching the papers to my chest.

  “Whatever you have removed from a student’s room is the property of the college in that student’s absence,” he whispered, still pompous even as he scrabbled at my hands.

  “Why do you want it so urgently?” I hissed back. “Because you didn’t manage to find it when you turned the room upside down yourself? Do you always help yourself to keys while Cobbett is sleeping?”

  “The question, Bruno,” he said, his nostrils flaring, “is how you knew what to look for and where to find it? It can only be that you are part of the papist conspiracy. But who would expect otherwise of an Italian? The rector is a gullible fool but I always saw through you.”

  “It is you who is out of your depth,” I grunted back, bucking my back to try and throw him off balance, “but I am no papist and those who matter know that.”

  “You will give me those papers, Bruno,” he panted, shifting his weight so that he was bending right over me, his nose almost touching mine, “or I will rouse the whole college. With three of our number newly dead, you will be locked up in the Castle prison before you have a chance to fashion your latest implausible tale.”

  So Slythurst was against the papists, I thought, as his knee dug into my chest. Then why was he so keen to cover up evidence of the murders? What did he want with the papers I was now fighting to keep out of his grasp, that he had ransacked first Mercer’s and now Norris’s room in search of them? Whatever his purpose, I knew no one must have those papers but Walsingham, and that I must deliver them to Sidney by my own hand. As I felt the package begin to slide from my damaged hand, I mustered all the reserves of strength I had left. Clenching my jaw, I sat up as far as I could, my face so near to Slythurst’s that it might have seemed I was about to kiss him, then drew my head back slightly and jerked it sharply up, so that my forehead hit him squarely in the nose with a smart crack. He let out a howl, clutching both hands to his nose, and I took the opportunity to throw him off balance and roll away. A dull pain swam across my head and my vision blurred, but it seemed he had come off the worse; when he took his hand away I saw his nose was bleeding copiously. Above my head another light approached, swaying, accompanied by a slow shuffle of footsteps.

  “What in God’s name—?” Cobbett began, lifting his lantern and stopping with a frown of amazement to see me and Slythurst brawling like drunkards in the middle of the quadrangle. I noticed that in his other hand he carried a sturdy stick. “Doctor Bruno? Lord, you look a right state. How did you get in?”

  “Long story, Cobbett,” I said, hobbling to my feet. “I need your help.”

  “Seize him, Cobbett!” Slythurst cried, the words muffled by the hand still clamped to his broken nose. “He has stolen property—as a Fellow of this college, I order you to apprehend him!”

  Cobbett looked from Slythurst to me with some concern. I grabbed his sleeve and wheeled him away, out of Slythurst’s earshot.

  “You must believe me, Cobbett—this is a matter of utmost urgency. I think I know where to find the killer, and others may die tonight if I don’t act.” Seeing that he still looked uncertain, I added, in a whisper, “Sophia is in danger. I have to go this moment—tell me, where will I find my horse? He is in the rector’s stable, I understand.”

  “Cobbett, do not open the gate! This man must not leave the college buildings with that package, do you understand?” Slythurst sounded desperate now; lurching to his feet, he lunged unsteadily again at me, and though I was still dizzy from the impact of the last blow, I hurled myself at him, my teeth bared.

  “Ne vuoi di piu? Fatti sotto,” I snarled, pulling out the kitchen knife I had removed from Humphrey Pritchard and thrusting it before me. “Come on then, if you want some more.”

  Slythurst may not have understood my words but he could not mistake the meaning of the knife; he took a step back, stared at me defiantly for the briefest moment, then raised his head and screamed out “Murder!” with all the force of his lungs. On two sides of the quadrangle a number of windows creaked open and shadowy figures leaned out, alarmed by the disturbance.

  “I must go this instant,” I whispered to Cobbett, still holding the knife out toward Slythurst, who had clearly decided his best hope was to wake the whole college and set them to apprehend me.

  “He will have the watch on you,” Cobbett muttered, as Slythurst raised his cry of “Murder!” again. “You will need to ride fast if you hope to leave the city. The rector’s stable is almost directly opposite, on Cheney Lane. Come.” And the old porter ushered me toward the main gate, moving at a pace I had never seen from him before.

  “I must get these papers to Christ Church,” I hissed, as he unlocked the gate. Slythurst watched us but made no move toward us this time; he seemed to have decided to wait for reinforcements. “Which is the best way?”

  Cobbett shook his head. “If you ride to Christ Church now, they will apprehend you before you can leave the city,” he whispered, barely audible. “Give the papers to me—I will send a messenger I trust.”

  I glanced back at Slythurst, who was now calling up to someone leaning from a first-floor window. Cobbett moved so that his broad back was blocking me from Slythurst’s sight and motioned for me to hand over the papers.

  “They must get to Sir Philip Sidney without delay,” I mouthed. “No one else must see them. Men have died for these papers, Cobbett. Can you swear your messenger is trustworthy?”

  “On my life,” he grunted. “Now in God’s name, be on your way, Bruno, and God speed you. Bring back Sophia.” The sound of more footsteps rang out on the flagstones; Cobbett eased open the small door just a crack and I quickly passed him the package wrapped in Norris’s shirt, which immediately disappeared inside Cobbett’s capacious old coat.

  “Has Master Godwyn returned?” I hissed, as I slipped across the threshold. He frowned.

  “I’ve seen no one leave the college tonight except you. The gate has been locked all this time.”

  “Then he must have left by another way, the grove, perhaps.” So Godwyn too might still be at large, and I had a good idea of where I might find him.

  Cobbett nodded, then pushed me urgently out into the lane and I heard the lock snap swiftly shut behind me.

  I HARDLY DARED look over my shoulder as I ran as hard as I could into Cheney Lane, a narrow street that bordered Jesus College, almost opposite. Fortunately, buildings were sparse, and the brick stable block was not hard to find, even in the dark, by the smell and the soft noises of horses in sleep. I banged urgently on the gate, fearing that at any moment Slythurst and a gang of men from Lincoln might arrive to apprehend me for theft, while from the other direction I was still expecting Jenkes or any of his cronies, bent on killing me. After a few moments, a tousle-haired stableboy holding a candle opened the gate a crack, his eyes sleepy but scared.

  “Sir?” he murmured, but I pushed roughly past him into the stable yard.

  “I need my horse, son, this very instant. The one brought in last Friday, the grey—I am Doctor Bruno, of the royal party.”

  The boy’s eyes widened further and he bit his lip.

  “I am not supposed to let anyone take the horses out when Master Clayton is not here, sir. And he is a very fine horse.”

  “He is. From the queen’s own stables. But I swear I am not stealing him. Now, bring him, will you?”

  “I will be beaten, sir,” he said, pleadingly. I could not blame him for his caution; quite apart from the hour, I could not have looked less like a royal visitor with my bruised face and bleeding throat. I hated having to resort to this, but once again I lifted the knife from my belt and let him have a brief glimpse of it. The poor child looked around as if someone mi
ght come to his assistance.

  “Please,” I added, in a gentler tone, as if this might improve the situation.

  He hesitated for a moment, then appeared to decide that the prospective beating was the better option.

  “It will take a few minutes to saddle him.”

  “Then don’t. A harness only—but hurry, please, I do not have time to lose.”

  I wheeled around again to the door, thinking I heard footsteps, but there was only the shifting of the horses’ hooves in their stalls. But my fear had communicated to the boy; he gave a silent nod and hastened off to fit the horse’s halter. I stood, hopping from foot to foot and biting my lip as I watched the gate to the yard, careless of the pains in my hand, shoulders, throat, and now my back and head after my tussle with Slythurst; all that mattered was that I should not be detained. I hoped I had done the right thing in trusting Cobbett, but knew he was right; even if I rode to Christ Church myself, I would not be able to see Sidney at this time of night and could only leave my precious package with the porter there, while Slythurst would have alerted the constable and the watchmen that a thief had escaped from Lincoln and I would never get through the city gates. I could only pray that Slythurst did not intercept the papers before Cobbett’s messenger managed to despatch them.

  The boy appeared, anxiously leading my horse by his elaborate velvet harness, its brass trappings jingling loudly in the still air; the horse seemed sluggish and less than pleased to have been disturbed in the dark. I led him to a mounting block in the middle of the yard, then scrambled onto his back. He did a little dance of surprise and snorted in protest, but I held the reins firmly and he submitted. The boy held the gate open, and I kicked my heels into the horse’s flanks and wheeled him around, turning him to the left, in the opposite direction to Lincoln College.

  At the other end, Cheney Lane opened onto the North Street, and the faint pallor gradually staining the skyline to my left guided me eastward. Now I could just see enough to make out the covered stalls of the Corn-market ahead, and I urged the horse into a trot, though he seemed reluctant to quicken his pace, the miry ground slippery under his hooves. At the Car-fax crossroads I urged him left onto the High Street and presently saw the east gate ahead, where we had entered the city amid such pomp only five days earlier, its small barbican guarding the road out to London. The light of a lantern flickered in the ramparts of the tower and I knew that everything depended on my passing the watchmen here without being detained. Slythurst would have roused the college servants by now, and whoever had been sent in pursuit of me could not be far behind.

 

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