Sacrilege (17 page)

At the heart of the crypt stood a small enclosed chapel amid the arches, with a plain altar at the front and tombs to either side.

"Is the crypt used for worship?" I asked.

"The French Huguenots use the chapel at this end once a week. Her Majesty gave it to the community when they first arrived so they would have somewhere to hold their services in their own tongue. They brought their own pastors and deacons. The eastern end is only used for storage now." Harry paused and held up his candle. "You know, the priory monks hid Becket's body down here in the years after his murder, for fear it would be stolen," he whispered.

I glanced around again.

"Perhaps he is still here. After all"--I gestured to the tombs that surrounded us--"where better to hide a tree than in a forest?"

Harry shrugged. "Even if we opened every tomb, how would we know? The man has been dead for four centuries. His bones will look like anyone else's."

"Except that the top of his skull is missing." I shook my head. "Someone knows."

"I have sometimes wondered--" Harry began, when a noise to our
left made him break off, his face alert; he reached out and laid a hand on my arm, as if for reassurance.

By instinct my right hand flew to my belt, though even in the act of reaching for it I remembered that my little knife was in the care of the gatekeeper. Out of the shadows behind the tomb, a figure took shape as if from the darkness and approached, seeming to glide across the pavement with no sound other than the ripple of his black robe. Harry held up the candle and as the man moved closer its light revealed a bony face composed of hard angles, stern eyes that fixed on me with restrained curiosity, a close-shaved skull whose stubble glinted silver-grey. It was a severe face, not without dignity, lined by perhaps fifty winters, with a thin scar that ran from his nose to the corner of his mouth, causing his lip to curl upwards in an unfortunate sneer. I fought the impulse to step back under the force of that direct stare.

The man folded his hands together in front of him and turned to Harry, inclining his head with a polite smile.

"Doctor Robinson. It is rare to find you down here. I hope I am not disturbing a moment of private devotion?"

It was clear even to a stranger that Harry disliked this man intensely, despite returning his smile with an equally chilly civility. In nearly two years I have not yet managed to understand this about the English; in Naples, if a man despises another, he spits in his face openly or insults his family, and then a fight ensues. Here, they shake each other's hand, dine together, smile with their teeth only, and wait until the other's back is turned before striking their blow, and this agreed deception is called etiquette. Watching these two men, I had the sense that Harry would gladly knock this tall bony fellow to the ground in the blink of an eye. Instead, he returned the cursory bow.

"I was showing my visitor the historical wonders of our church, Canon Treasurer. May I present Doctor Filippo Savolino, a scholar from Italy and a friend of the Sidney family?"

The tall man turned his unhurried gaze back and arched his brow as he studied me.

"Savolino, you say? A pleasure." He reached out one hand and I took it, reluctantly; his fingers felt bloodless and dry against mine and I had for a moment the impression that he had just stepped out of one of the tombs. "John Langworth, canon treasurer. We have few visiting scholars here, Doctor Savolino. I wonder what could interest you about our little community."

"I am making a study of the history of Christendom," I replied, glancing at Harry. "Naturally I could not miss the opportunity to visit the site of one of the greatest shrines in all of Europe."

"You are about fifty years too late, my friend," he said, pressing his lips together so that the scar whitened. "Nothing of greatness remains to be seen here."

"Your magnificent church, for a start," I said, trying to sound placatory.

He made a dismissive noise.

"You may find more impressive basilicas throughout Europe. It is a long way to travel for some stone and glass."

I didn't like the note of suspicion in his voice, so I merely smiled in the English manner.

"All relics of the church's history are of interest to me, Canon Langworth."

"Well, you will find this an empty reliquary. How long do you intend to stay?"

"Until I have seen all I wish to see."

"I cannot imagine you will find much to detain you. What is your faith? I mean no offence," he added, though his tone suggested he did not care if any had been taken. "But one should never make assumptions."

Harry sucked in his breath audibly through his teeth. I merely inclined my head.

"Raised Catholic, like all my countrymen. But now that I live as a subject of Queen Elizabeth, I worship as she commands." Seeing his eyes narrow, I added, "I have more interest in what our different faiths hold in common. There is as much to bind us together as to divide us, I believe."

Langworth pursed his lips. Those cold, steady eyes did not waver from mine.

"Ah. You are an ecumenist. Some would say that is the surest way to heresy. You will not find many here would agree with you. Nor in Catholic Europe, I doubt. Still"--his face relaxed a little and he peered closer at me in the candlelight--"your views would make for an interesting discussion at the dean's supper table. You should speak to Dean Rogers, Harry--have your friend invited to dinner while he is here. We are always glad of anything to enliven our debates," he added, turning back to me. "I'm afraid we are rather starved of news from the outside world."

I glanced at Harry; he wore a pinched expression, as if Langworth's suggestion had angered him. Perhaps he resented the treasurer's interference, or perhaps he was anxious that my presence might somehow compromise his position. There was a moment's awkward silence.

"Well, I shall leave you to your historical tour," Langworth said lightly, though I could see he had also noted Harry's reluctance. "I can't imagine what you hope to see down here, mind--this part of the crypt is only used for storage. I look forward to talking with you again, Doctor ... Savolino, was it?" He paused and waved his long fingers in the direction of the tombs. "Try not to disturb the dead while you are looking around--they are only sleeping until the last trumpet." His strange, curved smile flashed briefly before he glided away towards the steps as soundlessly as he had arrived.

Harry watched without speaking until he was sure Langworth had left. He rounded on me, anger burning in his eyes.

"Do not give that man an inch, Bruno," he hissed, barely audible. He gripped my arm for emphasis. "John Langworth is slippery as a snake and just as dangerous." He paused, glaring at the shadowy staircase where Langworth had disappeared.

"Why?"

Harry hesitated, still looking towards the stairs, as if to make sure Langworth had really gone.

"He has his position at the cathedral by royal gift, you know, though
he has been suspected of popery for years. But he boasts powerful friends at court--his patron is Lord Henry Howard. It was he who pressed the queen to appoint Langworth."

"Henry Howard?" I felt the hairs on my arms prickle; even after all these months, the name still inspired a chill of fear. So this was the man Sidney had mentioned.

"You know him, I believe?" Harry raised an eyebrow.

"Our paths have crossed. But he is in the Fleet Prison now."

"This was seven years ago. Howard worked hard to regain the queen's favour after the execution of his brother, the Duke of Norfolk, for treason. She gave Langworth the prebendary when it became vacant as a goodwill gesture to Henry Howard, to show he had not lost her trust."

"He's lost it now."

"Aye, we heard the news before Christmas." Harry set his jaw. "The timing could not have been worse for Langworth. He was favoured to become the next dean of Canterbury, but the fall of his patron worked against him. When the old dean died at the beginning of this year, the College of Canons elected Doctor Richard Rogers instead. I gather the archbishop leaned heavily on a number of the canons to prevent Langworth's election."

"Because he's known to have Catholic sympathies?"

"Exactly. That was Howard's whole purpose in having him appointed here--that he should one day become head of the chapter. But Langworth lost only by a very narrow margin--it would be a mistake to underestimate his influence."

"Why did you say he was dangerous? Because of his beliefs?"

Harry glanced over his shoulder. The candle was burning lower and as its circle of light diminished, the darkness at the edges of the crypt seemed to press in on us. He waved with his stick towards the steps.

"Come--let us talk of this where we will not be overheard. I should be getting home for my shave in any case. A good shave wouldn't hurt
you either, if you don't mind my saying," he added, squinting at my face. "I can ask Samuel to do you after."

"I don't want to put him to any trouble," I said, privately thinking that I would rather be arrested for vagrancy than let the servant Samuel anywhere near my throat with a razor.

"Nonsense! Least we can do. I should be offering you hospitality. I'm sure Francis would expect it."

"I shall have more independence to come and go if I stay at the inn, though I thank you for the offer."

Harry grunted and continued to shuffle towards the light. I noticed his pace was slower than before. We had reached the foot of the stairs out of the crypt; a welcome shaft of sunlight lent the air a white glow above us. As unobtrusively as I could, I paused at the first step and extended my arm. Harry hesitated a moment, then grasped my elbow to steady himself for the climb. Both of us kept our gaze fixed resolutely ahead. At the top of the stairs he dropped my arm as if it had burned his fingers, leaned forward on his stick, and nodded brusquely, once, still without looking at me, before moving stiffly towards the open door of the cathedral.

"J
OHN
L
ANGWORTH
is the one I was sent here to watch."

Harry tilted his head back as Samuel, silent and impassive as ever, tied a white linen cloth around his neck. We were seated in his small kitchen, where a crackling fire heated the already stifling air. All the windows were closed. Even Harry wiped a bead of sweat from his brow as Samuel now lifted a pan of hot water from a hook over the flames and poured some into a porcelain basin. "Walsingham was concerned by Henry Howard's involvement in Langworth's appointment. He suspected that Howard and his Catholic supporters in France and Spain wanted Langworth here for some strategic reason. As dean he would have held significant power, not only over the cathedral but over the
whole city. There was a time when Walsingham feared Langworth and his supporters could have inspired an outright rebellion in Canterbury--and if that were to coincide with a Franco-Spanish invasion ..." He left the thought unfinished, looking at me with a decisive nod.

"Such as the one that was planned last autumn," I mused.

"Exactly. But Howard scuppered his own plans by getting himself arrested just prior to the dean's election," Harry said. Samuel gently eased his master's head back again before dipping his own hands in the basin and coating them with soap.

"Henry Howard is in the Fleet Prison because of me," I said, my eyes fixed on Samuel's hands as they moved in slow circles over Harry's jaw, white lather blooming under his fingers.

"Ah. I wondered," Harry said. He sat forward and spat the soap that had got in his mouth as he spoke. "Walsingham said in his letter that you had performed a great service for the queen and the realm last autumn. I guessed it might have been connected with that conspiracy."

"Howard may have corresponded with Langworth from prison about it."

"No doubt. The Earl of Arundel came to Kent before Christmas last year, not long after his uncle was arrested, and Langworth met him. We think he was bringing messages too sensitive to trust to paper."

"Henry Howard's nephew visited Langworth in person?" My mind was racing ahead, clutching at the possible implications. Perhaps messages were not all the Earl of Arundel had brought to Kent with him.

"It's my understanding that Howard trusted Langworth with some of his affairs--that's why he's still an object of suspicion. He would certainly have known about the conspiracy last autumn. God's wounds, man, don't wave that thing so near my face when I'm trying to have a conversation!"

Samuel had opened a narrow, straight-bladed razor, which he now dipped in the hot water. "It might be easier for everyone, sir, if you were to break off your discussion just until I have finished," he suggested mildly.

Harry grunted, but settled back in his chair. I watched Samuel's deft strokes with the razor around the old man's chin, but my mind was elsewhere. So it was likely that my reputation had preceded me to Canterbury after all--and in the worst possible way, from the pen of a man who wanted me dead. If Howard had named me to Langworth as his enemy, I would need to take extra care that no one in Canterbury should discover my real name--though being Italian and a friend of the Sidneys, I may already have aroused Langworth's suspicions. And here my pulse quickened, because I could not prevent my imagination from wild leaps--if Howard trusted Langworth so implicitly, might he have entrusted the canon with the care of his most treasured possession, a book he would have wanted to spirit out of London, far away from the eyes of the searchers who came to arrest him? The book he had once allowed me to hold in my hands, only because he had believed he was going to kill me immediately afterwards? If his own nephew had travelled all the way to Kent in person to see Langworth, there must have been a good reason. Any courier could carry a message.