Sacrilege (53 page)

S
ophia lay sleeping in a slant of sunlight, her lips parted, one hand slightly curled against the sheet beside her face like a child's. I stood in the doorway, hardly liking to wake her, torn between the need for some words of comfort, some recognition of all that I was facing on her behalf, and the desire to leave her in what might be her last untroubled moments. If I was found guilty at the assizes, there would be no more bail, no avuncular generosity from the justice unless I could find a means to speak to him in private, but it would be easy for them to deny me that. I would be taken directly to the gaol to await my punishment and then it would only be a matter of time before she was found and sentenced, and Harry with her as an accomplice.

I stole across the room and slid the wooden casket containing the book from my leather satchel, all the while keeping my eyes fixed on Sophia. At least if the house was searched they would not find this. With my knife, I levered up the nails holding one of the floorboards next to the bed, so that I could prise it up far enough to slide the box into the cavity above the rafters. After it I pushed my purse containing what remained of my money, the fragments of the letters I had taken from Fitch's hearth, Langworth's keys, and the dead boy's Saint Denis medal;
those, too, needed to be kept safe until I could put them into the right hands, and I suspected anything I owned would be taken from me before the trial. Especially a weapon, I thought, reluctantly placing my bone-handled knife in its sheath on top of the casket and fitting the board back into place, its nails loosely resting in their holes.

I lowered myself onto the bed beside her and leaned my newly shaven cheek towards her face. She stirred; the long dark lashes fluttered and those leonine eyes slowly focused on me. Briefly she smiled, then it was as if a cloud passed overhead, driven by a strong wind, and her face altered as she recalled the day.

"Wish me luck," I whispered, stroking a finger gently along the line of her collarbone. "Whatever happens, do not move from here until I come for you."

"And if you cannot?"

"Then you wait for Harry."

"Will he go to the courthouse with you?"

"I think he must. It would look odd if he stayed away, after he has paid my bail."

Her eyes flickered to the door.

"The man downstairs ...?"

"He is secure, don't worry." I glanced at the floor under the window. "Harry's poker is still there, just in case."

"Don't joke about it, Bruno." She placed her hand over mine. "You have risked your life for me." Tears welled silver against her lashes. "I don't know how to thank you."

"When this is over, if we survive--perhaps there is something we could talk about."

She rolled her eyes in mock resignation: of course, what else could a man want. I shook my head.

"Not that." I smiled. "Although that too. But something else."

"What?"

I hesitated. In the hour before dawn, when I had kept my silent vigil in the kitchen with Harry, I had weighed his words and almost persuaded
myself it might be possible. With my pension from King Henri of France and the money I earned from Walsingham, might I not have enough to keep a wife, if we lived modestly? And if my book were presented to Queen Elizabeth, if she saw fit to patronise it, the sales might give me a steady income ... I could live quietly, give up these misadventures I seemed to fall into as other men fall in and out of alehouses; write my books, keep an eye on the French ambassador for Walsingham, make a place I could call home. If, if, if. If Sophia would say yes.

"It will keep. Let us unravel this Gordian knot first." I kissed her on the forehead and stood. At the door I paused. "Pray for me?"

She sat up and looked at me with a sad smile. "I don't pray anymore, Bruno, and neither do you."

"Still. Today of all days, it might be worth a try."

A
T SEVEN O'CLOCK
, Harry stood in the hallway, fully dressed, considering his face in a small mirror that hung by the front door.

"You've not done a bad job," he said, tilting his head to one side and rubbing his chin. "If needs must, you could scrape a living as barber."

"It may yet come to that." I looked at him. "And how do I look? Like a felon, or a friend to kings and courtiers?"

"One may be both," Harry said, with a faint smile. "You still look like a handsome pirate, Bruno--I fear no barber can solve that for you. It's something about your eyes." Then his face grew serious. "I have been thinking. This business with Langworth and Becket and the dead boys--" He broke off and shook his head. "I fear it is too sensitive for the public assizes. You have not seen the way the crowds gather, as if it were for a bearbaiting. If they learn that the bones of their saint are still beneath the cathedral, there may be a riot. They could tear up the crypt in pursuit of him. And we are talking about matters of treason--the security of the realm. Matters that should reach Walsingham's ears before anyone else's."

"Walsingham is not here." I sighed. "I have done my best, Harry. Either my first letter has reached him or it has not."

"We need to tell the justice who you are and what you are doing here," Harry said.

"How am I to do that? They will hardly grant me a private audience with him."

"No, but he might admit me. If I can get near him in time."

A rap at the door, on the stroke of seven; Edmonton and his armed guards stood outside in the morning sun. The constable looked particularly pleased that he was finally allowed to do his job; he seized my sleeve and manhandled me down the step to the path. I pulled my arm free and he glared at me with distaste.

"You are a prisoner like any other today, sir," he said, wrinkling his nose as if I still smelled of the gaol. "Any trouble and you will be clapped in chains until you stand at the bar, bail or no bail. And that includes speaking with disrespect to officers of the law."

"I will walk with you to the gate," Harry said, taking up his stick and casting a last anxious glance up the stairs before closing the door behind him. "Then I shall make my way to the courthouse, see if I can be admitted."

At the gatehouse Edmonton stopped us and disappeared into Tom Garth's lodge, leaving us with the guards on either side, their pikestaffs raised as if to look official.

"One thing I find curious," I said, lowering my voice and leaning in to Harry while I had the chance. "Do you think Langworth meant for Nicholas Kingsley to be blamed for his father's murder?"

"What makes you say that?" Harry whispered back.

"Tom Garth said the boy was convinced his father had sent for him that evening, while he was dining with the dean. But Nick wasn't even admitted to the Archbishop's Palace, so his father clearly didn't. Was it Langworth who sent Nick a message in order that he would be seen in the cathedral precincts the night his father was killed?"

"Possible, I suppose. Although I don't see that it helps you now."

"If we could find the person who carried the message to Nick, he could say who sent him."

"I fear you may be too late for that now, even if Nick Kingsley were inclined to help you." He laid a hand on my arm. "God go with you, my boy. I wish I could accompany you all the way, but they will not walk at my pace."

"And I wish I did not have to leave you here with a fugitive and a would-be assassin," I whispered in his ear as I embraced him. "And you have not even had your breakfast."

He laughed. "I shall have to hope that French girl comes back. I might persuade her to fetch me some bread."

"What French girl?" I said, drawing back and looking at him.

"The one that came yesterday morning when you were out. Came to see your friend upstairs," he added, barely audible. "I didn't like to let her in, but there was no one around to see, and she was very insistent."

"Helene?" I frowned. "Sophia didn't mention it."

"I don't know her name. I recognised her though, nice girl. The minister's daughter."

"Minister?"

"Try not to repeat everything like a simpleton when you're at the bar, won't you? The Huguenot minister. I forget his name."

I stared at him as if he had suddenly begun speaking the language of the Turks.

"But what did ...?" I began, but Edmonton strode over and interrupted, his hands behind his back.

"Sorry to break up your sentimental farewell, gentlemen, but this prisoner must be taken without further delay. And since the people like to know that things are done properly in this town, I'm afraid you must walk through the streets as befits one charged with capital offences." With a triumphant smile, he brought out a set of manacles from behind his back, joined with a thick chain.

I held out my hands without protest, still staring at Harry, my mind spinning so fast I barely felt the pinch and snap of metal around my
wrists. It seemed to me that time had slowed to a trickle, so that I could see the earth turning moment by moment, all the pieces falling into place as if through water, one by one. A gull cried overhead and I looked up to see thin drifts of white cloud chased across a perfect blue sky. Now I understood--and I had to decide what I would do with that understanding. I turned as the guards nudged me towards the gate to see Harry leaning on his stick, his lips moving in what I supposed was silent prayer. In that moment I envied him the certainty of his faith; mine had shattered. I bowed my head and prepared to be led in chains past the jeering crowds.

T
HE ASSIZES WERE
to be held in the Guildhall, being the only public building of sufficient size to contain the justice, his retinue of clerks and associates, the mass of accused prisoners, and the hordes of townspeople who came to watch for want of any better entertainment. The Buttermarket was already filling up with onlookers as we emerged from the shadow of the gatehouse; I had barely stepped into the sunlight when something whizzed past my ear and struck the guard on my right in the shoulder. I ducked out of instinct, turning to see him retrieve a limp cabbage and hurl it back where it came from.

"It's not personal," he said, in a matter-of-fact tone. "They just like to make a noise and throw things. You could be anyone in chains, they wouldn't care. It's part of their day out, you know."

"Thank you," I said, swivelling my head from side to side on the alert for missiles.

"You will be taken into the holding room with the other prisoners who have been brought from the gaol," Edmonton explained as we walked, evidently taking pride in airing his knowledge and quite unconcerned by the intermittent bombardment of vegetables. "The prosecutors and witnesses will be sworn in by the marshal. After this, the prisoners are called to the bar to hear the charges read. Cases of blood always take precedence," he added, with a smirk.

I could barely concentrate. Harry's last words to me had had the effect of opening a shutter and allowing a shaft of light into a dim room, so that everything that had once been only outline and shadow now stood clearly illuminated. And the result was horrifying. I caught Edmonton's last phrase and looked up.

"Cases of blood?"

"Crimes for which the punishment is death." The smirk widened into a sideways smile. "Then you make your plea, guilty or not guilty--"

"
Not
, as I have said a thousand times."

"--after which the jury will hear witnesses, the justice will direct them to a verdict, they retire to consider, then they return their verdict and the justice will pass sentence on those found guilty. He is efficient, Justice Hale. I've seen him work through as many as fifty cases in a day."

"
Fifty?
But how can they possibly weigh the evidence for each one in that time?"

Edmonton only gave an unpleasant laugh, as if my naivete were comical.

"And I?" I asked. "When do I see my counsel?"

"Your
what?
" He turned to look at me, mouth open, as if I had made a great joke.

"A man of law who will speak for me against the charges." I heard my voice rise, panicked. Edmonton stopped still in the street, hands on his hips, his neat moustaches trembling with suppressed laughter.