S.J. Parris - Sacrilege

“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.

“JOHN LANGWORTH 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.”