Sacrilege

‘Careful, it’s hot. That’s sixpence for the whole – I haven’t charged you for the fennel,’ he added.

I fished in my purse for the appropriate coin, which he examined closely, holding it up to the light.

‘No offence,’ he said, seeing me watching, ‘but we get all sorts of foreign types passing through from the Kentish ports, and I can’t trade with their coins. Not that I have anything against you lot, though many do. I like variety – keeps life interesting, doesn’t it?’ He tucked the coin into a moneybag at his belt. ‘I’d have liked to travel myself, if I’d had the means.’ He reached to a shelf under the bench and produced a large ledger, which he opened and thumbed through to the current page. Dipping the pen in the ink, he recorded the transaction meticulously. ‘May I take your name?’

‘My name?’

I must have reacted more suspiciously than I intended, because he looked taken aback.

‘Just for my shop records, signor. Helps me to remember what was sold and when, in case of any shortfall. I’ve a dreadful memory, you see.’ He tapped the side of his head and offered an encouraging smile.

‘Oh.’ I hesitated. ‘Savolino.’

Beside the amount received he dutifully inscribed ‘Savolino’, then glanced up and smiled again, as if to prove to me that this had had no ill effect.

‘Did they ever find the lover?’ I asked, sipping at the steaming cup. The concoction smelled refreshing and tasted pleasant enough, though the heat made more beads of sweat stand out on my face.

‘Well.’ He folded his arms and leaned against the bench as if settling in for the tale. ‘The son made a great noise, pointing his finger hither and yon, but nothing came of it. If he had a better character himself, his accusations might have stuck, but he’s been in so much trouble, that one, it was only ever his father’s money and position that kept him safe from the law. He’s not respected in the town. You couldn’t keep Master Nicholas Kingsley out of the Three Tuns long enough to notice what was going on under his own roof. Supposed to be studying the law himself, he was, up in London – well, that was a good joke. He was thrown out of his studies for drink and brawling. Ended up back here doing exactly the same at his father’s expense, God rest him.’

I drained the beaker. ‘It must have been a sore disappointment to his father.’

‘Well, they always were an odd family,’ Fitch said, squinting into the middle distance where spirals of dust eddied in the sunlight, as if trying to remember something.

‘How so?’

He shook his head dismissively. ‘Ah, goodwives’ gossip, most of it. His first wife was wealthy – she died of an ague, oh, ten years back. People whispered, as they always will, that he’d done her in, though as far as I know they had no reason to say so. But then maybe a year later he hired a maidservant, Sarah Garth, young girl from the town, and she’d not been there more than a few months when she took sick and died as well.’

‘Sickness is common enough everywhere, is it not?’ I tried to keep my voice casual.

‘Aye, of course, but folk found it strange that neither Sir Edward nor his son took ill with whatever she had. Still – in his defence, he brought in Doctor Sykes to treat the girl at his own expense. But they’ve taken no servants from that day to this, except their old housekeeper, Meg Turner. And there’s another thing.’ He leaned further across the bench and lowered his voice. ‘My late wife’s niece, Rebecca, she helps out Mistress Blunt on her stall at the bread market.’

He paused for effect; I bent towards him and nodded conspiratorially, as if I were quite familiar with the relationships of all these people.

‘Not more than six months past, Rebecca was asked to run an errand, take a package of bread out to Sir Edward Kingsley’s house – you know, the old priory out past the Northgate.’

‘I don’t know it, I’m afraid.’

‘Oh, he leased the prior’s house of St Gregory’s as was. Grand old building – the only bit of the priory left standing now, apart from the burial ground. Anyhow, she was walking through the graveyard to the door, and that’s where she heard it.’

‘Heard what?’

‘A dreadful cry.’ He gazed at me solemnly to let his words take effect. ‘She’ll swear to it – freeze your blood, she says. So frightened, she was, she dropped the bread and ran all the way back to the Blunts’ shop.’

My chest tightened; surely it could only have been Sophia, crying out as her husband administered one of his beatings. Again I pictured it, and the stoical, dull-eyed expression on her face when she related the story. I made an effort to unclench my jaw.

‘A woman screaming, was it?’

‘No.’ He held up a forefinger as if to admonish me. ‘That’s just it – she said it wasn’t like any human sound she’d heard. When she told the story, she was fairly shaking for pity. Well, of course, the graves are still there, so you can imagine how a young girl’s imagination runs wild. She said the noise came from beneath her feet, from the very graves themselves.’ He smiled indulgently. ‘Anyhow, she wouldn’t set foot near the place again. Mind you, nor will any other maid in Canterbury since Master Nicholas came back from London – he’ll do his best to grope any woman he can get his hands on, even in broad daylight.’ He frowned in disgust and I mirrored his expression in sympathy.

‘Though he is a rich man now, I suppose, with his father dead. Some woman might be glad of his attentions eventually,’ I ventured.

‘Ha! He’s not got a penny till his father’s last testament is sorted out,’ Fitch said, as if pleased by the justice of this. ‘Sir Edward had lately changed his bequests, but I understand nothing can be cleared up until the wife is found and tried, since she is one of the beneficiaries. Naturally, if she’s proved guilty, it’s all forfeit to Master Nicholas, but the law must take its course.’ He rolled his eyes; I smiled in solidarity. If there is one thing that can unite men from all walks of life and all countries, it is a shared contempt of lawyers.

‘You are very well-informed, Master Fitch, I must say.’ I half-turned, reluctantly sensing that I could not prolong my visit much further.

‘Everyone gets sick, Signor Savolino,’ he said sagely. ‘Rich or poor – everyone in this city, or their servants, has to pass through my door at some point, like it or no. So there’s not much goes on that I don’t get to hear about.’ He tapped his nose and gave me a knowing wink.

I laughed, but his words made me uneasy. Was he implying something? The apothecary may prove a rich source of gossip, but it did not take much wit to realise that, if I were to stay in Canterbury, in a very short time he would make me his business too. I wondered what more he might know and whether his stores of knowledge were for sale to the right bidder.

I was about to wish him good day when the street door was flung open to admit a broad man dressed in the long robe of a physician, tied up at the collar despite the heat. Over his mouth and nose he wore a mask with a curved protuberance like the beak of an exotic bird, like a character in the commedia. Above the mask his eyes were small and beady; they rested on me with an air of suspicion.

After staring at me for a few moments, he turned to the apothecary and pulled the mask down to reveal a heavily jowled face glistening in the light.

‘Fitch, I expected you after dinner, did you not get my message? I sent a boy this morning.’ He gave me a brisk nod as he swept past and leaned his considerable bulk over the counter.

‘Very good, Doctor Sykes,’ the apothecary said, unruffled, inclining his head in a gesture of deference. ‘We were just talking about you. Still wearing your defence against the plague, then?’

The doctor narrowed his eyes, unsure if he was being mocked. ‘Well, I am not dead of it yet. Aromatic herbs,’ he said, for my benefit, pointing to his beak. ‘Keeps the plague miasma at bay. William, I must speak business with you.’ He tapped on the ware-bench, his voice impatient. ‘In private.’

‘I have not forgotten, Doctor Sykes – just let me finish up with my customer. I was telling our Italian visitor here how many prominent citizens you attend in Canterbury, and how your services are so much in demand.’

Sykes turned to look me full in the face at this, peering closer as if he were short-sighted. The ring of fat between his jaw and his collar protruded as he did so, putting me in mind of a toad puffing out its throat.

‘Quite so. Which is why I do not have time to stand about in idle chatter. Italian, you say? What brings you to Canterbury? Do you have friends here?’

‘I stay with Doctor Harry Robinson at the cathedral. We have friends in common and I wished to see your beautiful city.’

Sykes squinted, nodding. ‘Ah, yes, Harry. Well, you are welcome to Canterbury, sir. And now, if you would excuse us. Fitch – close the shop behind this gentleman, would you, while we go inside?’ He gave me an oily smile.

Fitch hurried to obey, ushering me towards the door with an apologetic gesture.

‘Come back first thing tomorrow, signor, if your stomach is not cured.’ He held the door for me, with another of his jerky little bows. ‘I will offer again my tonic and you won’t regret it, I swear.’

‘Thank you – I may take you up on that,’ I said, with every intention of revisiting the talkative apothecary as soon as possible.

As I stepped back into the dust and bustle of the street I heard Sykes hissing, ‘Who was that?’

SIX

I took a narrow road leading off the High Street in the direction of the cathedral tower, keeping my kerchief tied close around the lower half of my face in the hope of avoiding too much attention. As I walked, I glanced about me as unobtrusively as I could. Now that Fitch had mentioned the presence of the constables I felt even more conscious of how oddly I must stand out. Where the street opened into a small market square with a stone cross in its centre, I noticed a ginger-haired man in dark breeches and doublet loitering with an air of purpose, restless eyes flitting from right to left along the streets branching away from the square, hand lightly on the hilt of his sword. Was this one of the parish constables? Behind him, incongruous between two ordinary-looking houses, rose a great gatehouse with two octagonal towers four storeys high, built of pale stone intricately carved in the perpendicular style, a row of escutcheons and Tudor emblems painted in bold heraldic colours spanning the width of it above the gateway. Through the larger of the two open doors, a central arch high enough to admit horses and carts, I glimpsed for the first time the precincts of the famous cathedral.

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.

‘So Walsingham has sent you to see if I am still up to the job?’

‘Not at all – that is, I …’ I faltered and saw a smile hovering at the corners of his mouth. He had wrong-footed me with the bluntness of his question, not only because it had not occurred to me that he might regard my presence in this light, but also because the servant Samuel had entered the room at the same moment and could not have avoided overhearing. Flustered, I glanced up at him as he set a pitcher down on the buffet and poured two cups of beer, smiling to himself.

Harry Robinson barked out a dry laugh.

‘Don’t mind Samuel – he knows all my business, and he knows who you are,’ he said. ‘Who else would carry my correspondence to London? There’s no talk hidden from him in this house. I’d trust him with my life.’

Samuel shot me a fleeting glance, ripe with self-satisfaction. I felt I would not trust him to hold my coat, but I nodded politely.

‘Doctor Robinson, my visit here has nothing to do with your own work, which I am certain –’

‘Don’t condescend to me, son. And call me Harry.’ He shifted his weight laboriously from one side of the chair to the other, rubbing his stiff leg. ‘If Her Majesty’s Principal Secretary is sending men from London to look into the murder of a provincial magistrate, it is only because he believes there is some matter here of wider significance to the realm, and that I cannot be relied upon to discover it without help. Not so?’

‘It is more that –’

‘But I question where he has this intelligence,’ he continued, regardless. ‘I had mentioned the unfortunate death of Sir Edward Kingsley in my most recent letter – I thought it of interest because he associated with those among the cathedral Chapter strongly suspected of disloyalty to the English Church – but that letter cannot have reached London yet, can it, Samuel?’

‘No, sir,’ Samuel replied, handing each of us a cup with his eyes demurely lowered. He retreated as far as the window, where he stood with his hands clasped behind his back, apparently surveying the cathedral close. I wished he would leave the room, but he clearly felt entitled to eavesdrop on the conversation and Harry seemed content to behave as if his servant were merely a part of the furnishings.

‘So whose suspicions brought you here, Doctor Giordano Bruno, I ask myself?’ Harry leaned forward on his stick and fixed me with those stern eyes. I cleared my throat, glanced at Samuel’s unmoving back, and pulled my chair a little closer.

‘I have a personal interest, you might say.’ I hesitated, before lowering my voice even further. ‘I knew his wife.’

Harry took a moment to absorb this, then he sat back and nodded. He seemed pleased by this idea.

‘Well, well. So she escaped to London, did she? Canny of her – the gossipmongers here had her on a boat to France. We are not far from the Kentish ports, you see, and there is a good deal of trade with Europe. Easy for a fugitive to get out.’

‘And secret priests to get in, so I hear,’ I said.

‘Very true. They apprehended a pair of them last month at Dover.’ He tilted his head to one side, studying me. ‘So you are here for the wife’s sake? Gallant of you, Doctor Bruno. You are probably the only person in this entire county who cares to find out whether she is innocent. If she’s caught, she’ll burn, and I doubt it would spoil the crowd’s enjoyment a jot if she hadn’t done it. They like a crime of passion, especially where there’s a spirited young woman involved. If she’s gone to London, she had better stay well hidden. Of course, I never thought it was her.’

‘Why not?’

He rubbed his chin.

‘I saw the corpse when they found him. Not the work of a woman. Apart from the gore, a woman wouldn’t have the strength to wield a weapon like that. Besides, if a wife wanted to kill her husband, as plenty do, surely she’d look for an opportunity closer to home? Poison his supper or some such? That’s a woman’s way.’ He shook his head.

‘Who do you think killed him, then?’

‘Ah, Doctor Bruno, I have not the evidence even to hazard a guess. That is your task, is it not? I will help you as much as I can with information on our late magistrate and his associates, but you will need to tread carefully. The friends of Sir Edward Kingsley have powerful interests in this town and they may not appreciate a stranger poking too closely into their business. Foreigners are not much liked here, I’m sorry to say, for all that this city had its greatest prosperity from visitors.’

I watched him for a moment as I took a drink of small beer, grateful for the sensation of liquid in my dusty throat.

‘You mentioned Sir Edward was involved with papists?’

Harry laughed again, an abrupt bark.

‘Papists. You make it all sound so black and white. Walsingham said in his letter you once professed the Roman faith yourself.’

I bowed my head in acknowledgement. ‘I was in the order of Saint Dominic.’

‘And why?’ He pointed a finger at me.

‘Why did I enter a monastery?’ I looked at him, surprised; it was rare that anyone asked me this. ‘Simple – my family was not rich. It was the only way for me to study.’

‘Precisely.’ He sat back. ‘So you understand that what we call faith may spring from many motives, not all of them purely pious. Particularly in Canterbury.’ He paused to take a draught from his cup. ‘There are many in this city whose loyalty to the English Church is only skin-deep, and not even that, sometimes – a few of them within the Chapter itself. But if they are nostalgic for the old religion, it is less from love of Rome than from attachment to their own Saint Thomas and the glory he brought.’