S. Parris - Sacrilege

I pulled the cloth from my mouth and stepped into the shade of the gatehouse, conscious of the man with the sword watching me from across the square with less than friendly curiosity. I met his eye briefly and looked away to find myself face to face with a tall, broad-set man in a rough tunic, who barred my way through the gate, crossed his thick arms over a barrel-like chest and demanded to know my business in the cathedral.

‘I am here to see the Reverend Doctor Harry Robinson,’ I offered, with an ingratiating smile.

‘Expecting you, is he?’ He didn’t move.

‘Yes, he is. And I carry a letter of recommendation from a mutual friend at the royal court in London.’

His round face twitched with uncertainty; I guessed he was in his mid-twenties, though there were already creases at the corners of his eyes that deepened with anxiety. I brought out the paper and pointed at the imposing wax seal.

‘The crest of Sir Philip Sidney, nephew to the Earl of Leicester,’ I added, for effect. He glanced uneasily over his shoulder, then nodded.

‘Do you go armed, sir?’

I held my palms out, empty. ‘Only this little knife.’ I indicated the sheath at my belt.

‘I must ask you to leave it with me. No weapons in the cathedral precincts, by order of the Dean. Not after …’ He hesitated, then appeared to think better of it and held out his hand for the knife. I noticed his left hand was wrapped in a dirty bandage with rust-coloured patches of blood on it.

‘There was a murder, I understand.’ I unstrapped the knife from my belt and passed it over.

‘Yes, sir.’ A guarded expression tightened his features. ‘The Dean has taken precautions now, though. There is a watchman who patrols the precincts after dark, and the gate is always kept locked, so you need not be concerned on that account.’

‘A little late for the poor fellow who was struck down,’ I remarked lightly. ‘Robbers, I suppose?’

‘I couldn’t say.’ He shifted his large bulk uneasily from one foot to the other, scratching at his patchy stubble. ‘If you go to the right of the cathedral, past the conduit house, you will see a row of narrow lodgings before you get to the Middle Gate. Doctor Robinson’s is the fourth along.’ He pointed through the gateway; unlike the apothecary, he showed little appetite for talk of the murder.

‘Thank you. What is that handsome building opposite?’ I gestured towards a large red-brick mansion visible through the archway, just to our left.

‘The Archbishop’s Palace.’

‘I heard he is never here.’

‘You heard right. The Dean lives there mostly.’

He fell silent again, squinting up at the sky and absently weighing my knife in his hands.

‘Take care of that. I am very attached to it.’

He frowned, as if I had insulted his competence, and stepped aside to let me pass, though I could feel him watching me as I entered the sacred precincts of what had been one of the greatest churches in Christendom.

Stepping out of the gatehouse into sunlight, I almost forgot my purpose as I took in the sight before me. I am no stranger to beauty in architecture; my travels have taken me through many of the finest cities of Europe – though not always by choice. I have taken Mass in the towering basilicas of Rome and Naples, walked the streets of Padua, Geneva and Toulouse, attended services at the magnificent cathedral of Notre Dame de Paris in the company of the King of France. But the austere beauty of this proud monument to England’s faith made my breath catch in my throat. The spires of its great towers rose perhaps two hundred feet above me, stone pale as ivory against the fierce blue of the summer sky, gilded by the afternoon sun so that it seemed lit as if by divine light. Its height, its severe perpendicular lines, its vast windows all contributed to an overwhelming grandeur that could not help but make you shrink into yourself a little. What effect must its splendour have had on the hundreds of thousands of pilgrims who first set eyes on this view after days of dragging their weary feet across the English downs? A cathedral such as this one, I thought, was intended to humble onlookers; a testament to the glory of God, perhaps, but more obviously to the might of the Church that built it. Standing at the foot of its bell tower, you could never forget your own insignificance. By the same token, might not the men who held positions of authority here also develop a distorted sense of their own power?

The precincts were empty, shadows stretching out across the dusty path that curved around the length of the cathedral. I glanced up at the sky; it must be mid-afternoon, not yet late enough for Evensong, but it seemed odd to see so little activity in what, to judge by the number of lodgings crowded around the inner wall of the precincts, must still be a busy community. The gatekeeper’s directions led me to a row of tall, narrow houses, well-kept but plain, with small leaded windows facing the cathedral and a stretch of garden in front separating them from the walkway. At the fourth, I followed the path that led alongside the garden – which boasted two scrawny apple trees and what appeared to be a vegetable patch – and knocked firmly on the door.

After some moments it was opened by a tall man with a narrow face and thinning black hair. He was perhaps nearing forty, and looked at me down the length of his nose with an expression that suggested I had interrupted something important.

‘Doctor Robinson?’

‘He’s not at home.’ He moved as if to close the door; I took a stride forward and laid a hand on it to keep him from doing so. Though he was bigger than me he flinched slightly, as if he feared I might force my way in, and immediately I regretted my action; people here must be nervous, so soon after a violent killing in what was supposed to be a place of sanctuary.

‘Forgive me,’ I said hastily. ‘May I wait for him? He is expecting me.’

‘He’s not expecting anyone.’ His voice was oddly nasal; it scraped at your ears like a nail on glass.

‘Who is it, Samuel?’ The call came from somewhere in the depths of the house. I raised an eyebrow at the man Samuel, who merely flicked his eyes over his shoulder and made an impatient noise with his tongue. Ungraciously, he opened the door a little wider and I glimpsed a figure in the shadows, shuffling towards the light. Samuel stood back to reveal a white-haired man about my own height, his loose shirt untucked from his breeches and his chin bristling with silver stubble. He leaned heavily on a stick but his green eyes took the measure of me, keen and alert as a hunting dog’s.

‘So. You must be the Italian. Forgive me – if I’d known you were arriving today I’d have had a shave.’ He spoke with an educated tone, his manner neither friendly nor hostile; merely matter-of-fact.

I gave a slight bow. ‘At your service.’

‘Are you, now? Come in, then – don’t hang about on the doorstep. Samuel, fetch our guest some fresh beer.’

The manservant, Samuel, held the door for me, unsmiling, a chill of dislike emanating from him as I crossed the threshold. I wondered why his immediate response had been to lie about his master’s absence. Whatever his reason, he made no apology, nor did he seem at all sheepish at being exposed in a falsehood. He merely closed the door and trod silently behind me as I followed Harry Robinson into an untidy front parlour, airless and choked with the day’s accumulated heat.

Harry waved me to one of the two high-backed chairs by the empty hearth. Against the far wall stood an ancient wooden buffet and under the small window a table was covered with books and papers, more books piled high on the floor to either side. Through the leaded glass, sunlight still painted the façade of the cathedral gold, though the room was all sunk in shade and I blinked as my eyes adjusted. The old man’s shock of hair and bright eyes stood out against the gloom as he settled himself into the chair opposite me with difficulty, narrating the business with little grunts and huffs of discomfort as he tried to ease his stiff leg into position. When he seemed satisfied, he peered closer, reading my face, and nodded as if to seal his silent judgement.