S Parris - Prophecy

‘Whereas you don’t know what conscience means, do you? What is your religion — aside from power?’

Fowler laughs unexpectedly at this, a rich, open laugh, and he sounds for the briefest moment like the man I had believed him to be.

‘There is no version of faith that cannot be interpreted to fit the desired political ends. I would have thought you’d learned that much on your travels, Bruno. Personally, I would advise young James to favour the Catholic Church, but only because that is where the balance of power lies in Europe, although —‘

‘ Enough now, William.’ Douglas brings his hand down flat on the table. ‘We need to finish this business.’

‘There’s a bar full of people the other side of that door,’ I say, raising my voice; it wavers a little mid-sentence. Douglas tilts his head and grins.

‘Do you not know where you are, Bruno? The Liberty of the Clink, this ward is called. Half a mile to the south-west, we’d be under the jurisdiction of the High Sheriff of Surrey. Half a mile north, across the river, they abide by the laws of the City of London. But this little patch of ground is governed by the Bishop of Winchester, and he doesn’t care. We’re all outside the law here, son. We could leave your body in the street outside a bawd-house and people will just step over you as you rot.’

Fowler adjusts his grip on the sword; I have barely the space of a heartbeat to make my decision. Before he can respond, I grab the oil lamp from the table and hurl it at him; he tries to jump back but the flame catches his sleeve and he lowers the sword as he bats at it with his free hand. Just as Douglas lunges at me from the other direction, I lift one end of the bench beside the table and push it at him; furious, he throws it aside but he is obstructed for the instant it takes me to pull myself to the window sill and hurl myself out. I land with a clatter among milk churns in a muddy storage yard; on the far side a gate leads out to a side street. Douglas jumps from the window just as I slam the gate behind me and take off blindly through the misty streets with no notion of where I am heading.

All I can do is run now, into the opaque night. I hear him — or both of them — close behind; several times I think I hear their breathing, or perhaps it is only my own, disappearing into the white mist as my heart hammers in my ears. The streets are no more than lanes here, ungravelled, churned by hooves and cartwheels; as I run, the cold air makes my eyes stream, but from the sounds and the drift of the mist I think I am running towards the river. Around a corner I collide with two men who bellow their indignation but are too drunk to do anything more; I disentangle myself and pray that they trip up my pursuers. At the end of this narrow street the houses give way to open ground; the mist is thinner and I can make out the shape of trees to my left. But there are pounding footsteps from behind and I plunge on, away from the buildings; a few yards ahead the ground appears to give way and I almost fall into an inlet, one of the channels cut inland from the river bank. A fierce stink of refuse and sewage comes off it; I skid to a halt and run along its bank instead, looking at the ground, until I find a narrow wooden bridge built across.

I keep on running, my chest aching fit to burst, determined not to glance behind me as a large building looms out of the mist on my right, like a high circular tower with walls of flint. A thick, sharp scent of animal excrement and blood rises from the ground, where straw is trodden into the mud underfoot. Of course; I must be at Paris Garden, the Southwark bear ring. This might afford me a place to hide. Keeping close to the wall, I scuttle around until I find a low double gate where the animals are brought in from their enclosures. This is easy enough to climb over, and I emerge into a broad ring, hung with skeins of mist. In its centre, a sturdy stake fixed into the ground, with chains wreathed limply over it, and in a circle all around, three tiers of wooden seating with a canopy overhead. Exhausted, I haul myself over the brick wall dividing the arena from the stalls and throw my aching body to the floor beneath the first row of benches. Face down, I listen to my ribs heaving against the floor, my ears pricked for the slightest sound.

It seems only a moment before I hear the timbers creak somewhere on the opposite side of the ring. Then the low murmur of voices, seemingly from the entrance behind me, though the mist distorts my perception.

‘That side.’ Douglas’s voice, low and urgent. ‘I’ll take the other.’ I hear footsteps on the wooden steps behind me; I decide that keeping still will help me more at this stage than trying to crawl away on my belly. The tap of steel on wood; the boards creak as he approaches, feeling with the point of his sword under the benches to either side. This must be Fowler, then. In a fair fight, man to man, I think I could overpower him, but he has a sword and I have only my short-handled dagger. Only the sons of gentlemen were taught to duel with swords where I grew up, nor was it part of my training as a Dominican novice; learning to fight with my fists and a knife became part of a necessary education when I lived as a fugitive in Italy, but it would be no match for a good swordsman with a sharp blade.

A bead of orange light bobs through the milky air; as the probing sword taps its way along the boards, I pre-empt my discovery by rolling out and kicking swiftly upwards, aiming for the lantern. I catch his arm; he curses, but keeps hold of it. I scramble to my feet and dart away over the wooden benches, climbing up to the next tier.

‘Over here!’ Fowler calls, and I see a second point of light pause in the stands opposite, then start a descent. But the scuffling I heard earlier came from above, on this side. There is no time to think about this now; Fowler moves nimbly over the benches and more than once I feel the whip of air as his sword shreds the mist only inches behind me. I climb downwards again until I reach the wall, meaning to roll myself over it into the arena. I have trapped myself here, I realise, cursing my own stupidity; I will be forced to fight the two of them like the bears that usually take to the ring here, backed up against the stake with a mob of baying dogs snapping at them from either side. I place one foot up on the barrier to jump over, but a hand catches my cloak and yanks me back; I lose my footing and fall over the side into the arena, landing hard on my side. The ground is sand and though I am winded I roll over as he jumps the barrier and lands a mere two feet from my head; he raises the sword, I cross my arms in front of my face and, in that moment, as I wait for the blade to fall, I find my mind grown suddenly lucid; in that moment I know for certain that the myths of the priests and the preachers are so many stories for children; that death, when it strikes, will not come as judgement but as liberation; in this moment I see myself standing as if on a threshold between worlds, on the brink of the known universe, ready to ascend through the orbits of the planets in their spheres, out to the infinite universe beyond with its million suns, that Hermes Trismegistus called the Divine Mind. I see my life briefly illuminated, and my body relaxes to receive the blow, when this trance-like state is pierced by a sharp whistle, a motion so fast it blurs past my eyes, and a blood-curdling howl from Fowler, whose sword falls from his hand, grazing my leg as he topples sideways, clutching his arm.

My instinct returns; I throw myself on him and pin him down; a crossbow bolt protrudes from his shoulder. He bellows for Douglas but the only response is a frantic scrabbling of feet towards the entrance. The other lantern lies motionless on the ground where it was dropped. Fowler struggles under me, moaning softly and clutching at his shoulder, but I draw my knife to his throat and he falls limp. There are footsteps in the seats overhead and then the thud of someone landing in the arena. I look up and flinch, as a tall young man in a leather jerkin crouches beside me and examines Fowler.