S.J. Parris - Sacrilege

“Wait here. I will fetch my brother.”

“I’m sorry if I upset you earlier,” I said, as she turned towards the stairs. “I didn’t know about your son.”

She lowered her eyes, twisting her fingers together.

“How could you? No one here cares to know.” She fell silent for a moment, then raised her eyes and I saw they were full of tears. “Why does God test us like this?” she burst out, her fists clenched. “When all we have ever done is try to defend His truth?”

I shook my head. “I cannot defend or explain Him, I’m afraid. That’s why I gave up theology.”

“Sometimes it begins to look as if He is on the side of the Catholics after all. May God forgive me,” she added quickly, glancing around in case anyone had overheard.

“I often think He has turned His back on our petty squabbles altogether.”

She gave me a brief, sad smile.

“My Denis. He was all I had,” she whispered, the sudden passion gone out of her, seeming to shrink her again. “Why would they take him?”

“What makes you think someone took him?” I asked.

She shrugged, helpless.

“I don’t know … Another boy was found dead not long before. On a rubbish heap. Cut in pieces.”

“I had heard. But there is no reason to suppose they are connected, is there?”

“The worst is not knowing. It makes you imagine …” She rubbed brusquely at her cheek with the sleeve of her dress. “But it does no good to dwell on it. Let me find Olivier.”

Olivier, when he arrived, seemed irritated to see me again, but he reluctantly agreed to pass on my letter to one of the weavers who would be leaving for London the following day. I handed him some coins for the man’s trouble and told him the message must be carried urgently to Sir Philip Sidney at Barn Elms, assuring him that the letter was a request for more resources that would allow us to leave Canterbury all the sooner. I asked after Sophia, and he told me curtly that she was sleeping.

“You can’t keep coming to this house,” he said as I was leaving, his hand resting on the latch. “My father is afraid you will be noticed. Tomorrow morning I will come and find you at the Cheker and you can give me your news then.”

I strongly suspected that this was a ruse to keep me away from Sophia, but for the moment, with her safety still dependent on his family’s goodwill, there seemed little point in arguing. I merely nodded and asked him to find me there at breakfast.

It was almost time for me to dine with Harry, but on my way back through the town I made a detour in search of a locksmith. The keys I had taken from Langworth’s hidden chest were weighing down my pouch. I could only hope that the treasurer had been so occupied with the dean’s interest in his ledgers that he had not had time to return to his secret room and notice anything was missing. If I could make copies of the keys and restore the originals to the strongbox while Langworth was out at the chapter meeting, there was a chance that my theft might go undiscovered for the moment. Without any clue as to what the keys might open, I was guessing in the dark, but the fact that they had been so carefully hidden meant they must have some significance. There was always a chance that one had been taken from Sir Edward Kingsley’s belt as he lay dying. Somehow, I must contrive to find a means of trying the lock of his mysterious cellar during my visit to St. Gregory’s later that night.

Tom Garth waved me through the main gate into the cathedral precincts, after I had held up my hands to show him I had no knife at my belt. This time I had thought it prudent to tuck the knife inside my boot. Now that I knew I had an enemy within the cathedral, I had no intention of making myself any more vulnerable than I already felt, working here alone, a stranger and a foreigner with Harry Robinson my only ally—Harry, whom I was not sure I could trust and who I knew did not trust me.

It was not yet noon and I had hoped for a chance to talk to Harry alone while Samuel was preparing the meal, but before I could reach his house I spotted him by the Middle Gate, leaning on his stick and deep in conversation with a tall man, almost completely bald and wearing a black clerical robe. Harry nodded a greeting and his companion turned with a flustered expression, his hands folded inside the sleeves of his gown.

“Good day to you,” Harry announced with a cheerful smile as I approached. “Dean Rogers—may I introduce you to the esteemed Doctor Filippo Savolino, a scholar of Padua and Oxford and friend of the Sidney family, who is visiting me from London for a few days?” He gave a little flourish with his outstretched hand; I had the impression that he relished the chance to remind the dean of his connections at court.

I bowed to Dean Rogers, curious to see the man who had unknowingly saved me from discovery in Langworth’s bedchamber earlier. He had a long, equine face, large brown eyes and a harried air about him, as though he were constantly worried that he ought to be somewhere else. He smiled as he shook my hand.

“It is a pleasure to welcome you to Canterbury, Doctor Savolino,” he said. “I hope we will have the honour of seeing you at divine service here during your visit?”

“I look forward to it. I have heard glowing reports of your music.”

“Mm.” He looked vaguely up at the towers of the cathedral behind me. “You will find our services conducted according to the letter of the queen’s edicts. You know, the archbishop says there has been talk of Her Majesty visiting Canterbury as part of her summer progress next year. Perhaps a favourable report from her friends at court may help to influence her in that direction?” His smile grew brighter, but his eyes were sharp.

I inclined my head in acknowledgement.

“It is some years since she has favoured us with a visit,” he persisted, “but I’m sure she would appreciate the many ways in which we endeavour to maintain the preeminence of our cathedral, while also fulfilling our duties in the community—ah, education of the poor, and so on …” His words trailed off into a little nervous laugh; it sounded as though he had rehearsed this speech and used it before.

They are all afraid of losing their place, I thought. No wonder my presence here makes Harry nervous.

“I’m sure she would,” I said, “and I will mention as much to the Sidney family on my return.” The dean smiled gratefully and I could not resist adding, “Though she may like to postpone her visit until there are fewer unnatural deaths here.”

He blanched.

“I pray you—our recent tragedy is no matter for joking, Doctor Savolino. It was a dreadful shock to everyone that one of our most respected citizens could be struck down on hallowed ground, but I can assure you that such an occurrence is quite without precedent—”

“Saving Thomas Becket, of course,” Harry remarked.

The dean looked irritated.

“There is no need for anyone to fear on that account—our magistrate was killed by his wife in cold blood, for profit, and she will pay the price as soon as she is found. As for the unfortunate death of the apothecary this morning, to which I suppose you refer—it is a clear case of robbery and assault, of which I’m sure you see far worse in London. I’m afraid the influx of refugees makes such things a hazard.” He smiled again, as if everything were now cleared up, but the way he twisted his fingers together betrayed his agitation. “Well, I have much to do before this afternoon’s chapter meeting. You must do me the honour of dining at my table soon, Doctor Savolino. We are always glad of new company.”

I glanced at Harry; he sucked in his cheeks and looked away. Why was he so set against the idea of my sharing a table with the dean and the other canons, I wondered.