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Giordano Bruno 01 - Heresy

Page 37

by S. J. Parris


  As I pulled the horse to a standstill a man in city livery brandishing a pikestaff stepped out from the gatehouse.

  “Who goes there?” he barked, levelling it at me and taking a step forward. The horse whinnied in alarm.

  “Royal messenger,” I panted. “I carry an urgent message from Sir Philip Sidney.”

  “A shilling to pass before first light.”

  “I do not have a shilling. My orders are to take a message to the Privy Council in London without delay.” I drew myself up on the horse, hoping that an authoritative manner would distract from my appearance. “And if this message does not get through, the Earl of Leicester will have your balls nailed to this gate as a warning, I swear it.”

  I glanced again over my shoulder, certain I could hear noises from farther up the High Street. The watchman hesitated for a moment, then laboriously began to unbolt and heave open the solid wooden gate while I reined the horse in tightly; he could sense my impatience and tension and was growing restless.

  As I crossed the city boundary there came a distinct shout from behind me of “Hie! Stop that rider!”

  I kicked my heels into the horse’s flanks and urged him into a canter. Though the ground was still soft beneath his hooves, the road was at least wider, this being the main highway out to London, and the darkness was thinning a little, the stars growing paler as dawn light edged the eastern horizon toward which I rode. Wind caught the horse’s mane as he obligingly thundered through the ruts of cartwheels and potholes, just as it stung my own eyes and nose as I crouched low over his neck, trying to keep my grip without a saddle, occasionally glancing behind me to see if anyone was following. He was a fast horse, and soon it seemed that we had covered enough distance to make it extremely difficult for anyone to catch us. Now that I could breathe again, I found room for doubts about the sense of my plan. It had seemed obvious, when I was talking to Humphrey, that I would find the missing pieces of the puzzle at Hazeley Court, but now that I was out of the city with no real idea of how to find the place, I wondered if I had only made a wild guess that would come to nothing, while the drama played itself out to the last by another route altogether.

  I had ridden for perhaps half an hour, the sky growing lighter all the time and the birdsong more insistent with it, while a damp mist rose from the hedgerows, obscuring the distant fields. The scent of wet earth rose in my nostrils. There was no sign of any settlement and I began to grow fearful that I had made a terrible mistake; not only might I fail to find Thomas and Sophia before it was too late, but now I could not turn back. If Jenkes or Slythurst had pursued me from the city and caught up with me on this forsaken road, there would be no one to come to my aid.

  I rounded a corner in the road between hedgerows, our pace now slowed to a steady trot, when the horse almost stumbled over a flock of sheep being driven in the direction of Oxford by an old man with a misshapen crook in his hand.

  “Sir, could you tell me where I might find the manor house of Hazeley Court? Am I on the right road?” I called.

  The drover looked up, suspicious. “What you say?”

  I took a deep breath and repeated my question, in the clearest English I could manage.

  He pointed back in the direction he had come. “Another half mile or so—you’ll see two large oaks on the left and between them a cart track. Follow that to the manor house. What business have you there?” he asked, eyeing me curiously.

  “Official business,” I said, since this had served me well before.

  “They are all papists there, you know,” he muttered, as my horse picked his way between the sheep. I thanked him for the warning and, as soon as we were free of the flock, kicked the horse to pick up his pace. My back and legs were aching brutally now and the reins were chafing at my burned hand, but I was heartened to learn that the house was nearby. Perhaps there I would find the answers I was looking for.

  Chapter 19

  The cart track sloped gently downhill and eventually widened into a long carriage drive approaching the front of the great manor house. From the crest of the hill, through the thin mist that hung above the trees, all shadowed in the grey light, I glimpsed tall red-brick chimneys, turrets, and crenellations. The house was surrounded by woodland on three sides, a steep and densely wooded slope rising behind it. Under cover of the trees it would be possible to approach very near to the manor itself, but gaining access would be another matter. For now I could only go forward. Against his better judgment, I nudged the horse off the cart track and into the woodland, where I dismounted in a clearing and fastened his harness to a low-hanging branch, so that he could at least reach his head down to the grass underfoot. Patting him soundly and reassuring him that I would be back soon, I crept away as silently as I could, down the slope toward the grounds of Hazeley Court.

  At the edge of the woodland where it opened out into lawn, I crouched in the shadows of the trees and gazed across at the building opposite. The mist was thinner here and I had a clear view of the house in the half-light. It had evidently been built to withstand assault, though its fortifications seemed part of its character, elegant rather than forbidding. It had been built in a square formation around a central courtyard, the entrance guarded by a magnificent turreted gatehouse of two octagonal towers at least a hundred feet high, twice the height of the walls and topped with battlements. All these splendidly decorative fortifications had not saved their owner from prison, I reflected. If the Crown was short of revenues, then to seize the houses and lands of Catholic families who resisted the religious edicts must seem an easy source of profit. If missionary priests should be found within these walls, all this estate would be forfeit and this beautiful house given to whichever of the queen’s favourites proved most deserving on the given day—fortunes snatched away and parcelled out to others whose loyalty needed to be bought, under cover of defending the faith. I shivered and pulled the cloak tighter around me. I was risking my life here, I knew, and who would profit from it, if I was right? Would I? Would Walsingham? Some other courtier whose advancement depended on the fall of the people within those handsome walls? But I was now convinced that Sophia was in there, and that the people she was trusting to help her were the very people who would do her the most harm.

  A chill had arrived with the dawn and I realised my legs were still trembling from the bareback ride. I eased myself back to standing, stretched my aching limbs, and crouched again by the thick trunk of an old oak. The façade was adorned with elaborate carved window bays, though the windows on the sides I could see were all shrouded in darkness. There would be no getting through that gatehouse; a manor house this size would be well staffed with servants even if the master was in prison, and the front of the house was too exposed. My best hope, I decided, was to keep to the edge of the woodland and make my way around to the rear where I might find a postern or servants’ entrance that would be easier to breach. I fingered Humphrey’s old kitchen knife at my belt, reflecting that a judicious use of it might be my best hope of persuading the servants to answer my questions.

  Still bent low, I began to stalk along the fringe of the trees, watching the house closely for any sign of movement or light in the windows, when suddenly I heard a twig snap behind me. I wheeled around, drawing the knife, but could see no movement in the depths of the wood, the trunks and undergrowth still shrouded in bluish mist. My breath quickened, gathering in small clouds around my face as I moved sideways, trying to keep my head turned in the direction from which the noise had come. The need to keep my own movements as silent as possible seemed less urgent than the need to move quickly; I strained to hear any further sounds beyond the crackling of sticks and leaves under my own feet, but though I heard nothing, I had the distinct sense that I was not alone in the wood.

  At that moment I caught the soft crunch of a horse’s hooves over gravel and paused in the shadow of a thick oak to peer out. Below me, a small high-sided cart pulled by a hunched pony was making its way up the carriage drive toward the gatehou
se tower, a man perched at the front bent over the reins. I watched as it rounded the side of the house, when suddenly a hooded figure broke from the cover of the trees, tearing across the sloping lawn toward the little cart, now on the point of disappearing around the back of the house. I moved as fast as I could through the trees, trying to keep them both in sight, careless of my own cover; as the figure in the cloak reached the cart, he hurled himself at the unsuspecting driver, pulling him from his seat and wrestling him to the ground. The pony, which looked as if it would struggle to reach the end of the carriage drive again, barely registered the activity, its head sagging. I charged out of the trees and ran toward them, my legs still protesting, and reached them just as I saw the man in the cloak, who had one hand clamped over the other’s mouth and was kneeling on one of his arms, pull out a blade.

  I threw myself at him, knocking him sideways and gripping the hand that held the blade; with a cry of fury, the hooded figure turned to me and I saw, with a stab of shock, that it was Thomas Allen. His face also froze in an expression of bewilderment.

  “You?” he said. “But—”

  The fallen driver tried to back away from the scrummage; he was perhaps in his fifties, plump-faced and plainly terrified, shaking his head and whimpering while he implored me with bulging eyes.

  “Who is this?” I whispered urgently to Thomas. “Why do you fly at him with a knife?”

  He frowned at me; I glanced at his hand where I still had him hard by the wrist and realised that it was not a knife he held after all, but an open razor.

  “He is come for Sophia,” Thomas said, through gritted teeth. “He is charged with helping her escape. But she must not go with him—it is a trap.”

  “Then she is here?” I looked from Thomas to the driver, feeling a great wash of mingled relief and fear; if I had guessed that correctly, then the danger was not over.

  The fellow nodded, looking from one to the other of us, his eyes terrorstruck.

  “Wait—I know this man,” Thomas said, gripping his razor again and peering closely at the terrified driver. “He serves the Napper household. He cannot be allowed to return—he will raise the alarm.”

  The man spluttered and shook his head more violently. I drew Humphrey Pritchard’s old kitchen knife from my belt and held it up to his face.

  “Your services are no longer needed here, friend,” I said. “Get yourself home and say you were set on by highwaymen. Now!” I added, giving him a shove as he continued to lie there, dumb with fright; that jolted him into gathering his wits, and he scrambled to his feet and ran off into the trees, casting nervous glances over his shoulder as he fled. Thomas turned to me, his eyes flashing.

  “You should not have done that, Bruno. Now he will return to Oxford and they will send more men after us.”

  “Peace, Thomas—it will take him at least an hour to walk back to the city, and there are more than enough men after me already. Tell me what is happening.”

  Thomas breathed deeply, then nodded, rose to his feet, and jerked the placid pony’s head upright.

  “I have come to save Sophia,” he said, his bony face taut with determination. I saw a strange, hectic glitter in his eyes and his hands moved incessantly in nervous agitation.

  “From whom?”

  “From those whose safety she threatens.”

  “Because of the child she carries?”

  He snapped his head around and stared at me. “So you know about that? How came you to be here, Doctor Bruno?”

  “Guesswork,” I said, setting my jaw. “I think you too may be in danger, Thomas.”

  He gave a short, bitter laugh. “Did I not tell you that already?”

  “I mean immediate danger. This very night.”

  He opened his mouth to reply but at that moment a door opened in the rear range of the house and a voice called softly, “Who is there?”

  “Pull up your hood and put away your weapon,” Thomas hissed, drawing his own cloak over his head. “Do not speak if you can help it, until we are inside.”

  I saw no choice but to follow his orders as he picked up the pony’s reins and led the cart toward what looked like a servants’ entrance. The door was open a fraction and a tall, stooping man with sparse hair surveyed us through the gap with doubtful eyes.

  “I am come to carry a passenger to the coast, at the request of Lady Eleanor,” Thomas said, in a low voice, keeping his hood pulled down. There was a long pause, as if they were both expecting the other to speak.

  “There is a sign,” the man behind the door said eventually, with an embarrassed cough.

  “Oh. Ora pro nobis.” Thomas bit his lip.

  “I did not know there were to be two,” the servant said, still regarding us with open suspicion. “Well, then—step inside.” He opened the door a few inches wider and ushered us into a narrow passageway.

  “Wait here, I will tell Lady Eleanor you are arrived.” He turned abruptly and strode away up the passage, taking his candle with him and leaving us standing in semidarkness. I glanced at Thomas, who only shuffled anxiously from foot to foot and would not look at me. I wondered what we were walking into, and felt for the reassuring presence of Humphrey’s knife under my cloak.

  Presently the tall servant returned, his look still guarded, as if he was not convinced by Thomas’s performance.

  “Follow me,” he said curtly, gesturing to the passageway ahead. “They wish to see you for a moment, to go over the travel arrangements.”

  I imagined, rather, that this Lady Eleanor had heard there were two men present and had grown suspicious. I glanced uneasily at Thomas; once inside this warren of passageways, we were trapped. The servant, holding his candle aloft, led us along the flagstone passageway, up a narrow flight of stairs, and into a much grander, wood-panelled corridor where the boards were covered with scented rushes and early-morning light filtered through low windows. We walked for so long that I was sure the corridor must run the entire range of the house, and indeed eventually it turned sharply to the right and we reached a short flight of stairs ending in an imposing wooden door. The man knocked, and after a soft murmur from within, he pushed open the door and gestured us forward.

  I found myself in a high-ceilinged room that spanned the two towers of the gatehouse; by one window stood a woman who was perhaps in her forties, tall and elegant in a dark-red satin dress with a stiff embroidered bodice and wide skirt, her hair bound up in a coif. Behind her was a closed door set into the wall of the octagonal tower on the right, while the matching door into the left tower revealed a spiral staircase leading up. The servant crossed the room, his shoes clacking on the solid brick floor, and whispered something in her ear; she nodded briefly and leaned past him to regard us with an expression of inscrutable calm.

  “You come from William Napper?” she asked softly. Thomas nodded confidently, though I was standing close enough to feel how his arm was trembling inside his cloak.

  “Where is Simon?” She glanced sharply from Thomas to me.

  “He was taken ill, my lady,” Thomas said, barely opening his mouth.

  “Shut the door behind you, then,” she said, stepping forward. “We wish to be sure you are clear about the instructions. Barton, you will stay,” she added, nodding to the stooping servant who moved to position himself strategically between us.

  “My lady,” he murmured.

  I glanced around, aware that Lady Eleanor was studying us intently.

  “I would be grateful, my friends, if you would lower your hoods indoors,” she said softly. “I know we must all be cautious about showing ourselves, but in this household we may trust one another. Sophia!” She half turned to call over her shoulder.

  The small door in the eastern tower opened and Sophia Underhill stepped out, just as Thomas glanced once at me and drew down his hood with a flourish. Sophia gave a little scream and looked from Thomas to me, her hands flying up to her mouth. Reluctantly I lowered my own hood and her face seized in a strange rictus of disbelief. />
  “Bruno?” she whispered eventually, her eyes betraying her utter confusion. “How came you here? And Thomas?” She jerked her head toward Thomas; I noticed that the tall lady had stepped forward, gesturing to Barton to stand by her, her face calm but clearly alert to the tension of the situation.

  Before I could answer Sophia, she had turned to Thomas, her expression pleading.

  “Thomas, I know what you think but you are mistaken. If you care for me at all, you will let me go. Please,” she added, seeing the implacable look on his face, her voice cracking slightly.

  “Who are these people, Sophia?” asked the older woman with a hint of sharpness. “Do you know them? Are they here to hinder you?”

  Thomas turned to her and executed a brief, insincere bow.

  “Lady Tolling, we have only come to return Sophia safely to her family, who are sorely distressed by her absence. If she comes quietly with us now, nothing more will be said of this business.”

  “The same family who have threatened her life for her faith?” Lady Tolling replied evenly, giving Thomas an appraising glance from head to foot. “We are not so easily taken in, young man.”

  “But I fear you may have been, Lady Tolling,” Thomas said, with impeccable politeness, a dangerous glint in his eye. “I fear Mistress Underhill may not have told you the whole truth about her urgent wish to leave England.”

 

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