S. Parris - Sacrilege

‘His son knew, I am certain, but we detested one another. And there was a housekeeper, Meg, she’d been with Sir Edward for years – I’m sure she must have known, though she never spoke of it. She was afraid of him too. But she showed me small acts of kindness. Other than that, I only had one friend I could confide in.’

‘And I suppose she could do little to help you.’

‘ He ,’ she said, and took another long draught of her ale. Immediately something tensed inside me, a hard knot of jealousy I had no right to, and for which I despised myself. Of course it was absurd to think that Sophia could have lived for months in a new city without attracting the attention of some young man, but whoever this friend was, I resented his invisible presence, the fact that he had been there to comfort her. Had he been a lover? On the other hand, I tried to reason against that voice of jealousy, where was he now, this friend? Had she not found her way to London, in her hour of desperation, in search of me? I composed my face and attempted to look disinterested.

‘ He , then. He could not help?’

She shook her head. ‘What could anyone have done? Olivier listened to me, that was all.’

Was it really, I thought, and bit the unspoken words down. I felt as if I had a piece of bread lodged in my throat.

‘Your husband did not mind you having friends who were …?’ I left the sentence hanging.

‘French?’

‘I was going to say, men.’

Sophia’s teasing smile turned to scorn.

‘Well, of course he would, if he’d known. He didn’t even like me to leave the house, but fortunately he was out so often at his business that I sometimes had a chance to slip away on the pretext of some chores. Olivier was the son of French weavers – his family came as refugees to Canterbury twelve years ago, after the massacre of Saint Bartholomew’s Day.’

I shivered, despite the stuffy air; the mention of that terrible event in 1572, when the forces of the French Catholic League rampaged through the streets of Paris, slaughtering Protestant Huguenot families by the thousand until the gutters ran scarlet with their blood, never failed to chill me to the bones. The memory of it was kept fresh in England, as a warning of what could be expected here if a Catholic force were ever to invade.

‘I had heard that many Huguenots came to England to escape the religious persecution,’ I said.

‘Canterbury is one of their largest communities. They are really the best of people,’ she added warmly, and instantly I disliked this Olivier all the more.

‘But tell me how your husband died, then,’ I said, wanting to change the subject.

Sophia passed a hand across her face and held it for a moment over her mouth, as if gathering up the strength for this part of the story. Eventually she laid her hands flat on the table and looked me directly in the eye.

‘For six months, I endured this marriage, if that is what you want to call it. I was known as Kate Kingsley, and my official history was that my father, a distant cousin of Sir Edward’s, had recently died, leaving me an orphan with a useful parcel of land in Rutland. I suppose he thought that was far enough away that no one would be likely to check. When I appeared with him in public, I was demure and well turned-out, which was all anyone seemed to expect of me. And at home, I was regularly beaten and forced to endure what he called my wifely duty, which he liked to perform with violence, though he was always careful never to leave marks on my skin where it might show.’ She flexed her hands, trying to keep her expression under control.

‘How did you bear it?’

She shrugged.

‘It is surprising how much you can bear, when you are obliged to – as you must know, Bruno. My greatest fear was that I would get another child, he forced himself on me so often, and I knew I could never love any child of his. With every month that passed, I worried my luck would not hold. Lately I had started to think about running away. Olivier was going to help me.’

I’m sure he was, I thought, uncharitably.

‘Did your husband suspect?’

‘I don’t think so. He was always preoccupied with his own business. In fact, from the first days in that house, I’d begun to notice odd things about my husband’s behaviour.’

‘Aside from his violent streak, you mean?’

‘Odder than that, even. He was often out of the house at strange hours, leaving in the dead of night and returning towards dawn. Once I asked him where he’d been when he got into bed with the cold air of night still on him, and he fetched me such a slap to my jaw that I feared I would lose a tooth.’ She rubbed the side of her face now at the memory of it. ‘After that, I always pretended to be asleep when he came in.’

‘So he was a man with secrets. Women, do you suppose?’

She shot me a scornful look.

‘When he had a whore ready at his disposal in the comfort of his own home, at no extra charge?’ She shook her head. ‘I told you, my husband didn’t like to part with money if it could be avoided. No, there was something else he was up to, but I never found out what. Underneath the house there was a cellar that he always kept locked, with the key on a chain at his belt. And sometimes his friends would come to the house late at night.’ Her face darkened. ‘By his friends, I mean some of the most eminent men of the city. My husband was a lay canon at the cathedral, as well as being magistrate, so he was a person of influence. They would shut themselves in his study and talk for hours. Once I tried to listen at the door, and it seemed they were arguing among themselves, but I could not stay long enough to hear anything useful – the old housekeeper found me there in the passageway and shooed me off to bed. She said Sir Edward would kill me if he caught me there, truly kill me, and she had such fear in her face that I believed it was a serious warning, honestly meant.’ She paused to take another bite of bread. ‘But two weeks ago he had been up to the cathedral, to a meeting of the Chapter, as he often did, and afterwards he was to take his supper with the Dean. He never came home.’

‘What happened?’

‘One of the canons appeared at my door, about nine o’clock at night, with two constables. He had found Edward’s body in the cathedral precincts. He must have been on his way home when he was attacked.’

‘How did he die?’

‘Struck down with a heavy weapon from behind, they said, and beaten repeatedly while he lay there until his skull smashed. They said his hands were all broken and bloodied, as if he’d been trying to cover his face.’ She pressed her lips together. ‘I wasn’t sorry – the man was a brute. But it must have been a dreadful way to die. His brains were all spilled over the flagstones, they told me.’

‘His brains …’ The detail sounded familiar, as if I had heard the description before, but I could not place it. ‘You did not have to see it, I hope?’

‘No, they took the body away. It was a vicious act. The killer must have been someone who violently hated him.’

‘Were there people who hated him that much?’

‘Apart from his wife, you mean?’ She gave me a wry glance.

I acknowledged the truth of this with a dip of my head. ‘But you said no one knew how he treated you in private. So how did they come to suspect you?’

She poked at a piece of bread and leaned in.

‘I had the wit to realise when the canon came that if I didn’t give him a good show of shock and grief he would find that curious, to say the least. He handed me the sword that my husband had been wearing, still sheathed, and his gold signet ring, all daubed in blood. I played the distraught widow, thinking that would make them go away.’