S.J. Parris - Sacrilege

“Whether she is really a widow is the subject of much debate in the town.”

“Ah.”

“Some say she was a wealthy courtesan, that her son is really a bastard prince, that she is a disgraced royal cousin—you know what idle gossip is. I pay no attention, myself.”

“Of course not.”

“But she keeps to herself, the widow, and she is beautiful and evidently has means, so naturally people feel entitled to make up her story for her. Now—wait here.” He shuffled away into the chapel to our left. I waited, wondering if it was possible I had met the Widow Gray in another place or time. She had looked at me as if she knew me, but it seemed impossible. Harry returned a few moments later with a stub of candle.

“Borrowed from the altar. They won’t notice. Hold this.”

I took the candle while he fumbled in the pouch at his belt for a tinderbox and struggled painfully to light it with arthritic fingers. I had to bite my lip and resist the urge to snatch the box from him and finish the job myself. Finally, he conjured a spark, a small flame blossomed from the wick, and he nodded to a rounded archway beside the site of the martyrdom, where a flight of worn steps led down to an open door and smudges of shadow concealed what lay beyond.

A faint line of light touched the darkness ahead of us as we descended. I kept close to Harry, one arm half extended in case he should need help, though not so obviously as to offend him, but he seemed to know the stairs into the bowels of the cathedral by touch alone, and it was I who almost missed my footing as we reached the bottom. The air felt denser here, cold and mineral, as if it had stood still in this unlit sanctum for centuries.

As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I peered around and began to make out the dimensions of this vast crypt, which seemed to stretch ahead in an endless maze of columns and arches, disappearing tunnellike into the obscured distance and fanning overhead into vaults that bore traces of coloured patterns in cobalts and crimsons, untarnished by the passing of ages. Some of the columns had been carved with twisting, concentric designs, their capitals wrought with fantastical creatures: dragons and horned beasts, green men of pagan legend and gryphons seizing winged serpents in their jaws, men with tails fighting creatures with the heads of wolves and the bodies of dragons, that seemed to wink and shift shape in the dancing flame. To either side these vaulted arches branched out, repeating in parallel rows of thick pillars as broad as the trunks of oak trees, drawing the eye always forward. Some of the spaces between had been filled in with tombs, where stone effigies reclined prayerfully, their royal or episcopal features erased by time so that they wore the distorted expressions of lepers or the victims of fire.

Neither Harry nor I had spoken since entering the crypt. It was a place of silence thick as shadow, a silence ancient and brooding as the great stones. As my gaze roamed over the walls, I thought I heard a soft noise intrude into the stillness; an unexpected breath of cold air touched the back of my neck and I shivered violently. Harry, ahead of me with the candle, kept walking, noticing nothing; I turned sharply, but behind me there was only darkness. Yet as I followed the wavering light down the avenue of stone columns, I could not shake the sense that someone was watching.

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?”