S. PERRY - The Heretic’s Mark

‘Excuse me, most reverend sir,’ Lumley interjects with a discreet cough. ‘A word–’

‘My lord?’ the chaplain says, turning his head in Lumley’s direction.

‘That is a very large Bible, and the accused’s manacles will prevent him from opening it fully. I would like to offer the court my own, personal one.’ He holds it up, a neat little volume bound in calfskin, with worked brass cornerpieces. ‘I have taken the liberty of opening it to the appropriate place – for the court’s convenience.’

‘That is very generous of you, my lord,’ says the chaplain. With a wave of his hand, he dispatches a clerk to retrieve it. Rose can feel her heart thumping as the man carries Lumley’s open Bible towards Ned.

And then the clerk stops.

Rose knows by the hunching of his shoulders that something is troubling him. He turns to face the chaplain. He shows him the open pages.

‘As you may see, sir, it is a true Bible.’

The chaplain leans forward to study the offering. Satisfied, he nods gravely.

‘But it should be presented shut,’ says the clerk.

‘Is that strictly necessary?’ Lumley enquires.

The clerk’s eyes remain fixed upon the chaplain. ‘It has been known for an appellant who is illiterate to memorize the psalm, in order to deceive the court,’ he says.

‘Oh merciful Jesus ,’ Rose whispers into her hand.

‘It is the law, my lord,’ the chaplain says to Lumley, with the faintest trace of an arched eyebrow. Then to the clerk, ‘Please be so kind as to continue, Master Broxton.’

Her mouth as dry as dust, Rose stares helplessly as the clerk closes the Bible. The slap as the pages come together has a dreadful finality that makes her shudder. She can barely bring herself to watch as he hands the book to Ned, a smile of officious triumph dancing on his weak lips. She offers up a silent, desperate prayer. If God can’t hear me in this place, she thinks, there is no hope to be had anywhere.

His great fiery face impassive, Ned Monkton takes the little book in his huge hands. He flips through the pages one way, then the other. Then he starts again at the beginning.

‘Is the accused having… difficulty … finding the correct psalm?’ the chaplain asks Ned.

Ned does not answer. He carries on shuffling the pages. To Rose, the noise of the parchment turning sounds like the flapping wings of a vulture descending upon its prey.

And then Ned stops. He opens the Bible to its full extent. To Rose’s mind, he seems to grow another couple of inches, dwarfing the trio behind the desk even more. He begins to speak, his voice clear and resolute:

‘ Have mercy upon me, O God, according to thy great mercy… And according to the multitude of thy tender mercies blot out my iniquity… Wash me yet more from my iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin. ’

He never once stumbles. He doesn’t even appear to draw breath. His deep basso-profundo voice rolls around the chapel as though he were delivering a sermon to God Himself. After a few more lines, the chaplain says, ‘I think we have heard enough. The plea of Benefit of Clergy is accepted. The sentence of the ecclesiastical court is that the guilty man be removed to the Marshalsea prison to suffer a branding upon the thumb. After that, he is free to go.’

Rose has never embraced a baron before, and it is likely Lord Lumley has never had a plump, curly-headed maid of the lower orders hurl herself upon him like a demented spaniel. But both put aside their social constraints for just long enough to celebrate the joy of the moment.

As Ned is led away, Rose calls out across the chapel, ‘Be brave, sweet!’ Then, as a practical afterthought, ‘If the hurt proves too much, I still have some of the balm we used for burns when the Jackdaw burned down.’

‘’Tis little but a trifle, Wife,’ Ned calls back with a grin. ‘A bee sting is worse.’

As Rose and Lumley make to leave the benches, the chaplain comes over to speak with them.

‘A satisfactory outcome, I trust, my lord?’

‘We sought only justice, most reverend sir.’

‘The slate of our obligations to each other is wiped clean, I trust.’

‘Spotless.’

The chaplain gives Lumley a wry smile. ‘I wouldn’t have taken him for such an educated man, my lord.’

‘It’s a common mistake.’

‘Well, from now on I shall presume that Ovid and Virgil are common fare amongst the reprobates on Bankside.’

‘I don’t know what you mean, reverend sir,’ says Lumley.

The chaplain gives him the briefest hint of a knowing look. Then he says, ‘For such a fellow to read the fifty-first psalm so cogently is one thing, my lord. But to give a faultless translation in English of a text that was printed on the page in Latin – now, that truly is remarkable.’

John Lumley waits until he and Rose are safely outside. A blustery wind tugs at the hem of his gown. There are goosebumps on Rose’s arms, but she’s too ecstatic to notice.

‘My dearest Rose, can you ever forgive me?’ Lumley says as he steers her through the St Paul’s churchyard towards Paternoster Row. ‘I almost undid everything .’

‘Why say you that, my lord?’

‘I thought I had it all in hand. I checked the width of his manacles before he was led before the court. I even put a little dab of gum arabic on the appropriate page of my Bible, so that he might find it, should the book be closed. But it had never occurred to me that you would school him in English, while my Bible is printed in Latin.’

‘No harm was done by it, m’lord,’ Rose says. ‘My Ned is returned to me, and for that I thank you from the depths of my soul. I just ’ope your conscience isn’t troubled by ’aving to lie to the court.’

Lumley smiles, something Rose has hardly ever seen him do before.

‘It was a very small deceit, Rose.’

‘But a deceit in God’s own house, nonetheless.’

Lumley takes her arm in his. ‘Fear not, Goodwife Monkton. The court is adjoined to the Protestant Church, whereas I am a Catholic. Therefore what I say in it doesn’t count.’ He raises his eyes heavenwards. ‘Besides,’ he says, ‘I think the Almighty would approve of a very small deceit, if it was made in order to save the life of a good man.’

Madonna Antonella has agreed the Beguines may attend the horse race planned for tomorrow, the feast day of the Holy Rosary. ‘To give charity and counsel to the poor amongst the crowd, mind – not to gamble,’ she says sternly. ‘Or… Sister Agnes’ – and here she sends a cautionary glance in the direction of the oldest member of the order of Beguines – ‘to lust over the handsome riders.’ This causes much amused twittering, most of all from Sister Agnes herself, a sweet-faced biddy of eighty who, even on tiptoes, stands less than five feet tall.

Madonna Antonella dismisses the Sisters to their duties, reminding them not to let their excitement make them late for Vespers. As they scatter into the cloisters, Hella pulls little Carlotta into the cover of the doorway to the refectory. It is time to put the last pieces of her plan into motion.

‘Do you have the two messages I gave you?’ she whispers. ‘Have you kept them safe?’

‘As safe as if they were my own honour,’ says Carlotta, laying her hand just below the neckline of her plain cloth gown to show where she has hidden them.

‘You haven’t read them?’

‘Of course not! You made me swear an oath not to.’