S.J. Parris - Sacrilege

“Who do you think killed him, then?”

“Ah, Doctor Bruno, I have not the evidence even to hazard a guess. That is your task, is it not? I will help you as much as I can with information on our late magistrate and his associates, but you will need to tread carefully. The friends of Sir Edward Kingsley have powerful interests in this town and they may not appreciate a stranger poking too closely into their business. Foreigners are not much liked here, I’m sorry to say, for all that this city had its greatest prosperity from visitors.”

I watched him for a moment as I took a drink of small beer, grateful for the sensation of liquid in my dusty throat.

“You mentioned Sir Edward was involved with papists?”

Harry laughed again, an abrupt bark.

“ Papists. You make it all sound so black and white. Walsingham said in his letter you once professed the Roman faith yourself.”

I bowed my head in acknowledgement. “I was in the Order of Saint Dominic.”

“And why?” He pointed a finger at me.

“Why did I enter a monastery?” I looked at him, surprised; it was rare that anyone asked me this. “Simple—my family was not rich. It was the only way for me to study.”

“Precisely.” He sat back. “So you understand that what we call faith may spring from many motives, not all of them purely pious. Particularly in Canterbury.” He paused to take a draught from his cup. “There are many in this city whose loyalty to the English church is only skin-deep, and not even that, sometimes—a few of them within the chapter itself. But if they are nostalgic for the old religion, it is less from love of Rome than from attachment to their own Saint Thomas and the glory he brought.”

“So I understand. The queen’s father tried to wipe out the saint’s cult completely,” I mused, remembering suddenly a Book of Hours I had seen in Oxford, the prayer to Saint Thomas, and the accompanying illumination scraped from the parchment with a stone.

“Folly,” Harry pronounced, shaking his head. “They say that before the Dissolution there were more chapels, chantries, and altars in this land dedicated to Thomas Becket than any other saint in history. You can’t erase that from people’s minds, especially not in his home town, not even by smashing the shrine. You just drive it into the shadows.”

“Not even by destroying the body?”

He regarded me shrewdly and smiled.

“You’ve heard the legend of Becket’s bones, then?”

“Is it true?”

“Quite probably.” He emptied his cup, bent awkwardly to set it on the floor, and leaned forward, one hand on his stick. “Yes, I’d say it’s very likely the body they pulverised and scattered to the wind was not old Thomas. Those priory monks were no fools, and they knew the destruction was coming. But in a sense the literal truth of it doesn’t matter, you see? If enough people in Canterbury believed that Saint Thomas was still among them, it might put fire in their bellies.”

“And do they believe it?”

He made a noncommittal gesture with his head.

“Everyone knows the legend. I daresay many of them believe it in an abstract sense. What they really need, though, is a sign. That would rouse them.”

“A miracle, you mean?”

“The cult of Thomas began with a miracle—here, in this cathedral, less than a week after he was murdered—and it could be revived by one too. Imagine the effect among so many disaffected souls. Like throwing a tinderbox into a pile of dry kindling. And Kent is a dangerous place to risk an uprising, as Walsingham knows all too well. Last time Kentish men rebelled they marched on London, captured the Tower, and beheaded the Archbishop of Canterbury and the royal treasurer.”

“Really?” I stared at him, wide-eyed. “I had not heard—when was this?”

Harry laughed.

“Two hundred years ago. But Kentish men are still made of the same stuff. And the coast here is so convenient for any forces coming out of France—it’s not a place they want to risk a popular rebellion against the Crown. The queen needs to keep Canterbury loyal.”

He fell silent and stared into the fireplace while my thoughts scrambled to catch up.

“Do you believe in miracles?” I asked, after a few moments.

He looked up from his reflections, his eyes bright.

“Do I believe that Our Lord can perform wonders to show His might to men, if He chooses? Yes, of course. But He chooses very rarely, in my view. If you ask, do I believe that a four-hundred-year-old shard of rotting skull can heal the sick, then I would have to say no.” He shifted position again, rubbing at his leg. “When I was six years old, in 1528, there was a terrible outbreak of the sweating sickness in England. My parents and my five brothers and sisters all died; I did not even take ill. Was that a miracle?”

He fixed me with a questioning look; I made a noncommittal gesture.

“My relatives certainly thought so—they gave me up to the Church straightaway, and here I have dutifully remained, to the age of sixty-two years, because I was told so often as a child how God had spared me to serve Him. But who really knows?”

I caught the weight of sadness in his voice and wondered how often in his life as a young churchman he had stopped to wonder at the different paths he might have taken, only to be trapped by the obligation to this great miracle of his survival, God’s terrible mercy. That could have been me, I thought, with a lurch of relief, if I had not taken the opportunity to flee the religious life: white-haired and slowly suffocating in the monastery of San Domenico Maggiore, rueing the life I might have lived if I had only dared to try. I wanted to reach out and touch his crooked hand, so brittle with its swollen joints, to show that I understood, but I suspected this might alarm him. The English do not like to be touched, I have learned; they seem to regard it as a prelude to assault.

“One need not be a doctor of physic to observe that some are better able to resist sickness than others,” I said softly.

“True. But one might be considered impious for failing to acknowledge the hand of God in such an occurrence.”

“In Paris, I once saw a man at a fair make a wooden dove fly over the heads of the crowd, and that was accounted a miracle by all who witnessed it. To those of us who knew better, it was an ingenious employment of optical illusion and mechanical expertise.”

Harry raised one gnarled finger, as if to make a point.

“But there you have it, Bruno. If it looks like a miracle, most are content to believe it is so.”

I was about to answer, but the closeness of the room and the weariness of days in the saddle conspired to make me suddenly dizzy and I almost fell, silver lights swimming before my eyes, clutching at the seat of the chair for fear I should faint. Harry peered at me, concerned.

“Are you unwell?”

“Forgive me.” My voice sounded very far away. “Could we open a window?”

He frowned.

“Too hot? I suppose it is hot in here. Samuel never complains and I don’t notice—it’s a curious thing about age, one is always cold. Come—we will take a walk around the close and you can see where this monstrous deed occurred.” He straightened the stick, took a deep breath, clenched his teeth, and with an almighty effort began to rouse himself to his feet. I extended a hand to him, though I still felt unsteady myself, but he brushed it away impatiently.

“Not on my deathbed yet, son. While I can stand on my own two feet, leave me to it. I call it independence. Samuel calls it stubbornness. What time is it, Samuel?”

The servant, who had remained motionless gazing out of the window and doubtless taking in every word, now turned back to the room.