The Second Sleep

by Robert Harris

  He closed the door on the secretary’s protests and locked it again, then took a torch from its holder. A flight of steps disappeared down into the gloom. ‘Watch thyself, Father. ’Tis as steep a descent as the path to Hell.’

  The sheriff led the way, holding the torch low so that Fairfax could see where to put his feet. It was awkward having to carry the bag with its fragile cargo at the same time as ducking to avoid the low ceiling. He put his hand out to the wall to steady himself. His palm touched dampness. From somewhere below came the sound of a man’s hacking cough. They reached the bottom. At the end of a short passage was a heavy door with a small iron-barred window, a stool beside it, and another torch in a wall holder, its flame feeble in the damp air.

  The sheriff checked the occupant of the cell through the window. ‘Old man? Thou has a visitor.’ He unlocked the door. ‘Go on, Father, and good luck with him. I’ll just be out ’ere when ye’ve saved ’is soul. What’s in the bag?’

  ‘Only what I require to offer communion.’ Fairfax stepped into the cell. He could just make out Shadwell’s figure, in his velvet suit and cap, seated on the straw in the corner, his hands manacled in front of him, his right leg attached by a chain to a ring in the wall. ‘Could we not remove his fetters?’

  ‘Against the rules, Father. But it won’t be for long – magistrate’s on ’is way.’

  ‘Then might we at least have some light?’

  ‘Aye, I expect I can provide that.’ The sheriff fitted the torch into a holder and withdrew, locking the door behind him.

  There was nothing in the cell apart from the prisoner and a chamber pot. Shadwell’s back was resting against the wall, his arms wrapped around his knees. He regarded Fairfax briefly through his tinted spectacles and turned his head away. Immediately he started coughing again, and fumbled in his sleeve for the red-dotted handkerchief, into which he spat more blood.

  Fairfax waited for the spasm to finish, then cleared his throat. ‘Dr Shadwell, my name is Christopher Fairfax, and I am very sorry indeed to see you in this condition.’

  Shadwell inspected his handkerchief. ‘Are you indeed? Well, as it is your Church that has put me in this – this – condition …’ He resumed coughing, a terrible convulsive fit, much more violent than the first, that shook his entire body. After it had passed, he leaned back against the wall, took off his spectacles and wiped his eyes. His voice, when he was able to resume, was a croak. ‘As it is the Church that has persecuted me, I attach scant value to your sorrow.’

  ‘I understand, but I am here to offer more than just soft words. A wealthy local man, Captain John Hancock, is prepared to put up the bail to try to free you.’

  ‘His time is wasted. They’ll never grant bail for heresy.’

  ‘He is a man with power in this town.’

  ‘More power than Bishop Pole? I doubt it!’

  ‘Still, he is willing to try.’

  ‘And why would he do that?’

  ‘Because he believes in the importance of your work, as do we all. Only last night I was reading Antiquis Anglia.’

  For the first time he aroused a flicker of interest. Shadwell turned his head to study him. ‘I’m amazed a copy still exists.’

  ‘Well, one does. And this morning I went up into the hills to investigate the Devil’s Chair.’

  ‘That’s an odd construction, as I remember.’ He paused and then added, plainly curious despite himself, ‘Was there much to see?’

  ‘Human bones, exposed by the recent storms.’

  ‘Clustered together, or separated?’

  ‘Together.’

  ‘Together? That’s interesting.’ He stared thoughtfully into the distance. The straw on the opposite side of the cell rustled and a large brown rat with a tail as long as Fairfax’s forearm ran along the edge of the wall and disappeared into a hole. The sight seemed to recall the prisoner to his predicament. ‘Well, please thank Captain Hancock on my behalf, but tell him I’ve no time for such matters now. Old Shadwell’s work is finished, and old Shadwell with it.’

  Fairfax glanced over his shoulder at the cell door. He lowered his voice. ‘It is our belief that something of great significance may lie buried there. May I?’ He took a couple of paces towards the old man and kneeled on the straw beside him, keeping his back to the door. How tiny Shadwell was, he thought, how frail, with those glittering dark suspicious eyes, like an injured bird cornered and at one’s mercy. The fetters hung loose around his skinny wrists and ankle. ‘It’s also my conviction that Father Lacy’s death was no mere matter of chance – as you rightly declared at his burial – but came about because someone wished to put an end to his searching.’ He undid the straps on the saddlebag and lifted out the glass cylinder. ‘This was found in the same spot some years ago.’ He unwrapped it from the shawl.

  After a final few moments of resistance, Shadwell looped the steel arms of his eyeglasses back around his ears. He took the cylinder carefully between his manacled claw-like hands and at once let out a long and appreciative sigh, full of strange wheezes and creaks that threatened to turn into another coughing fit. ‘Oh my, sir, what an exquisite piece!’ He stroked it with his bony thumbs. ‘Such miraculous precision! What genius they possessed! Are there more? There should be many more, I think.’

  ‘Yes, there are – dozens of them, all in the hands of a private collector. How do you know there are more? What are they?’

  Shadwell continued to gaze at it, enraptured. ‘If this is what Lacy wrote to me concerning, well then, I believe it to be part of what the ancients called a laboratory – a word we have lost: from the Latin laborare, “to work” – which may have been removed from an ancient site of learning called Imperial College in London.’

  The guard banged on the door and shouted, ‘Time’s up, Father!’

  Fairfax shouted back, ‘A few more minutes, if you please!’ He tried to retrieve the cylinder from Shadwell. ‘Please, sir, I must stow it before he comes in.’

  But the old man was reluctant to let it go. ‘For well nigh twenty years I have searched for this. Odd to see it now, and in such straits as these – cruel, one might say.’ At last, reluctantly, he released it, and watched as Fairfax wrapped it in the shawl and replaced it in the bag. ‘What do you propose to do?’

  ‘I am unsure as yet. Search the area properly, I suppose. That is why we require your help. When did Father Lacy write to you?’

  ‘Two weeks back, or thereabouts. He said he had that day made the discovery of the glassware. We came straight from Wilton directly I read it. But scarcely had we arrived in Axford than word reached us of his death.’

  ‘And you believe the glass came from this Imperial College – the same place from which Morgenstern wrote his letter?’

  Shadwell looked at him in surprise. ‘How do you know of Morgenstern?’

  ‘Father Lacy had a volume of the proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries by his bedside when he died.’

  ‘By God, then I envy you even more! It was my belief that every copy had been tracked down and destroyed. They took my library, more precious to me than life itself, and burned it in Exeter marketplace.’

  ‘I remember it. I attended the blaze as a boy. But clearly not all was burned, for there is a full set of the society’s papers at Addicott Parsonage, and many other volumes besides.’

  ‘Well, that is the best news I have heard in years.’ Shadwell suddenly put his claw on Fairfax’s wrist and gripped it with surprising force. ‘Give them to me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If I walk free from here, give them to me, and in return I’ll help you. That’s my offer. They’re no use to anyone else now that Lacy is dead – nobody would dare take possession of them in any case.’

  ‘But they are not mine to give.’

  ‘What will you do with them otherwise? Hand them to Bishop Pole so he can burn them? Would Lacy have wanted that?’

  Fairfax finished fastening the straps. The sheriff hammered on the door again. ‘Father?�
�� His face appeared at the barred window and moved from side to side like a pale round pendulum as he tried to make out what they were doing at the far end of the cell.

  ‘Pray with me,’ said Fairfax. Shadwell looked at him with disgust. ‘Pray,’ he repeated, ‘quickly.’ After a moment or two the old man bowed his head and Fairfax placed his hand upon it. He could feel the narrow skull through the velvet cap. ‘O Lord,’ he said loudly, ‘we beseech thee, mercifully hear our prayers, and spare all those who confess their sins unto thee, that they, whose consciences are by sin accused, by thy merciful pardon may be absolved.’ He whispered, ‘I’ll give you the books,’ then finished loudly: ‘Through Christ our Lord. Amen.’

  ‘Amen,’ muttered Shadwell, ‘and tell your friend I am at his disposal.’

  It was not until he was out of the cell and halfway up the steps following the sheriff that Fairfax recognised the enormity of the sin he had just committed.

  To have lied to the bishop was grievous enough; to have gone against the teachings of the Church worse still. But to have abused the sacredness of the penitential prayer? To have recited it without a thought of God, but merely as a means of whispering an illegal offer to a heretic? That was a mortal crime against the faith – and he had done it, moreover, without a qualm, without a moment’s hesitation.

  The revelation of how far he had strayed from his former life made him feel quite faint. When he reached the landing, he had to lean against the wall for support. What have I become? Had it not been for the presence of the guard unlocking the door to the court, he would have slid to his haunches and covered his head with his hands. I should be down in the cell with Shadwell, down among the dead men, down among the dead men, down among the dead men …

  The sheriff opened the door and said something to him he did not hear. As he stepped into the court, he was conscious of a change in the pressure of the atmosphere, of a subdued noise, a blur of faces. Sarah Durston and Captain Hancock were where he had left them, seated at the front, but behind them the empty benches had filled. They were a rougher lot than the audience at the lecture. Word must have got around Axford that a heretic was in the building. There was an air of anticipation. First a hanging, and now this! They were expecting to see the accused emerge, the entertainment to begin. Instead they saw a man of God – or imagined they did – and some groaned in disappointment. What a fraud I am, Fairfax thought.

  He walked across the well of the court and took his place next to Sarah Durston. Hancock leaned across her and demanded, ‘What was his reply?’

  ‘Oh, he will do it. Naturally he will do it!’

  His inner turmoil must have been evident in his voice, because Sarah looked at him with concern. ‘Are you all right, Mr Fairfax?’

  He could not bring himself to reply. ‘Where’s Quycke?’

  ‘Gone to settle their account at the Swan,’ said Hancock, ‘so he can retrieve their wagon and have it ready outside the court. Shadwell must be got away as fast as possible, before anyone can stop him.’

  ‘He says they’ll never grant bail for heresy.’

  ‘We’ll see about that. I’m told the justice they have sent for is Sir William Trickett. He keeps a thousand head of sheep at Yarnton and I buy nearly all his wool. I believe he will do me a favour, if he can.’

  Fairfax turned away. Above the judge’s bench hung a portrait of the king wearing his olive-green military uniform hung with entrails of gold braid and rows of medals, a simple crown upon his head, his expression at once benevolent and stern. In his sacred personage was combined state and Church – the glory of Old England restored after the chaos of the Apocalypse, along with all its ancient machinery of justice. Beneath the painting was a board with the motto of the common law: Life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burning for burning, wound for wound, stripe for stripe.

  The Church had its own tribunals of inquisition to try religious offences. Hence the reason for the hearing: to effect the handover of Shadwell from the sheriffs to the bishop’s men. Let him be taken off to Exeter today, Fairfax prayed. Let bail be refused and let this whole business be ended here and now. And then he thought of the old man in his chains and he despised himself for his cowardice.

  Presently, the door at the back of the judge’s bench opened and a clerk appeared, followed by an immensely fat red-faced man in black robes and a tall brimless hat – Trickett, presumably. The court stood. Trickett thumped himself down in his high-backed chair. He looked flustered and irritated in equal measure – a man who had been summoned unexpectedly from his Friday supper for reasons he neither understood nor appreciated. Everyone in the courtroom resumed their seats. The clerk said, ‘Bring up the prisoner.’

  The sound of Shadwell’s coughing could be heard before the accused himself appeared. His shackles had been removed, although the sheriff kept a grip on his arm as he walked him to the dock. The old man stepped up into it and looked around. Such was his short stature, the wooden sides came up to his chest. The clerk said, ‘Uncover your head in the justice’s presence,’ and after a moment’s hesitation Shadwell took off his cap and calmly folded it. A gasp of delicious horror went round the room. Branded in the centre of his forehead, darkened by the powder that was used to ensure the scar stayed visible for life was the mark of the heretic – the letter H. Fairfax had heard of the punishment, but it was the first time he had ever seen it. He wanted to look away, but his gaze stayed fixed upon it.

  The clerk said, ‘State your name.’

  ‘Nicholas Shadwell.’

  ‘Your address?’

  ‘The village of Wilton in the county of Wiltshire.’

  Trickett regarded him with distaste, as if something unpleasant had been deposited on his plate. ‘What is the charge here?’ Even his voice – hoarse and breathless – was fat.

  The chief sheriff stood. ‘Heresy, Sir William. The prisoner held a public meeting this afternoon with the clear intent of spreading sedition.’

  ‘Not true, sir,’ said Shadwell. ‘Quite the opposite, in fact. My lecture was meant as a warning against the evil of heresy …’ His voice trailed off into another fit off coughing and he had to duck his head and search for his handkerchief.

  Trickett turned to the chief sheriff. ‘Ye don’t intend for him to be tried here, I assume?’

  ‘No, Sir William.’ He was a young man, thickly bearded, with a zealousness in his manner that reminded Fairfax of some of the fanatics in the seminary. ‘We ask the court to remand him in custody in Axford until Monday, when arrangements can be made to transfer him to Exeter to appear before the bishop’s court.’

  ‘Have ye anything to say, Mr Shadwell?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I stand ready to defend myself, as I have often done in the past. But my health is poor, as you can see’ – he held up his bloodied handkerchief – ‘and I would ask that I might be set free on bail, to surrender myself to the Church authorities when they come to fetch me. Otherwise there will be nothing to deliver to the bishop but a corpse.’

  ‘Ye have the financial means to post a bail bond?’

  ‘No, sir. After a lifetime of unpaid study, I am entirely without means.’ He peered around the court. ‘But I am told there is a person in this town who is willing to stand surety for me.’

  ‘And who is that?’

  ‘Me, Sir William.’ Hancock rose. From around the court came a hum of angry surprise.

  ‘Captain Hancock?’ Trickett folded his short ham-like arms and looked at him in puzzlement. ‘Are ye now a friend of heretics?’

  ‘No, Sir William, but I am an enemy of cruelty, and I believe that a sick man such as this, accused but not yet found guilty, should be lodged in better comfort than is provided in Axford Prison.’

  ‘And where, pray, would ye lodge him instead?’

  ‘Under my own roof, Sir William. At Addicott Mill House.’

  ‘Is he not a stranger to ye?’

  ‘He is. As God is my witness, I have yet to exchange a wo
rd with him, though I did attend his lecture and saw nothing in it that smacked of heresy.’

  ‘Well, never have I heard of such generosity – especially not from the owner of Addicott Mill! Sheriff – what do ye say?’

  ‘I object, Sir William, most strongly. Bail cannot be granted in so serious a case. With all respect to Captain Hancock, we have statements from witnesses who will swear that heresy did indeed take place and that devilish spirits were conjured forth. Shadwell himself is a most devious and practised blasphemer – observe the mark upon his forehead – and I have no doubt that he will make a run for it the moment he gets a chance rather than risk a trial in Exeter.’

  Hancock said, ‘I’ll lay a thousand pounds he won’t.’

  Gasps and whistles greeted this announcement. Trickett looked affronted. ‘This is a court of law, Captain Hancock, not a cock pit.’

  ‘Still, my offer stands.’

  Sarah whispered to Fairfax, ‘He will lose it for us by his foolish boasting.’

  Trickett said, in disbelief, ‘And can ye lodge such a sum with the court this afternoon?’

  ‘I can, Sir William. With thy permission?’ Hancock rose from his place, walked to the table in front of the judge’s bench and began emptying out his pockets. Every eye in the courtroom, including Shadwell’s, was on the growing piles of banknotes and coins, and when he had finished, he pushed it all towards the clerk. ‘There it is, sir. Ye may check it if ye wish, but I assure ye the sum is complete.’ He returned to his seat and left the money lying there, as if such an enormous amount – which would have taken one of his weavers more than ten years to earn – was nothing to him.

  Trickett gestured to the clerk to approach the bench. The two men held a whispered consultation. The chief sheriff was summoned to join them. Occasionally all three glanced across at Hancock. Finally, Trickett turned to address the prisoner. ‘Nicholas Shadwell, ye stand accused of a most heinous crime against God and our sovereign lord, the king, as Supreme Head of the Church of England, and it is our judgement that ye must be rendered to Exeter to stand trial.