The Heretic's Mark

by S. W. Perry

  Then Vaesy gives a very small sigh of resignation. He goes back to the desk, takes up a sheet of paper and a quill from the inkpot and begins to write. ‘Who shall we call this fellow, the one who told me about Shelby?’ he asks after he’s written a few words.

  ‘Call ’im what you like,’ says Ned. ‘Call ’im Tom-o-Bedlam. Call ’im nothing at all. Just so long as you write that you’re sure now that he was talkin’ about someone other than Dr Nicholas Shelby.’

  Vaesy writes on. He signs with a flourish and hands Ned the sheet of paper.

  Ned stares at the words. He lets his eyes run over them, back and forth in a random sweep. Though they mean nothing to him, he understands how crucial they are to Master Nicholas, and so he sees every stroke of the nib, the ink still gleaming, as a man dying of thirst might see the opening raindrops of a sudden and unexpected shower. He barely hears Vaesy give a sharp, contemptuous laugh.

  ‘You can’t read it, can you? You haven’t the skill with letters.’

  Ned looks down at Vaesy across the slope of the letter. Even now he doesn’t take the bait. He turns surprisingly lightly on his heels and heads towards the door, calling over his shoulder, ‘My Rose will tell me if you’ve played me false. In which case, I will see you again.’

  Vaesy allows him three paces before he says coldly, ‘You’re as ignorant as a beast from the bear-garden, Monkton. You just dance tricks, to impress with your strength.’

  Without breaking stride, Ned replies, ‘An’ I remember what Dr Shelby said about you not being able to tell an ’amstring from an ’ernia. Master Nicholas would be ten times the physician you are, even if he’d never studied medicine at all, Sir Fulke Vaesy.’

  The ‘sir’ is delivered with as much thick sauce of contempt as Ned can ladle. He doesn’t consider the effect it will have on Vaesy, because inside he is glowing with satisfaction. He’s thinking there’s no need to trouble Rose with reading the letter to ensure Vaesy hasn’t gulled him – he can take it straight to Lord Lumley’s town house on Woodroffe Lane for forwarding to the Privy Council. If Lumley is at Nonsuch, his London steward can authenticate it. With luck and a following wind, he could be back on Bankside within two hours. He pictures Rose’s smile when he tells her what he’s accomplished.

  He is almost at the door when it opens of its own accord. Ned pauses, one hand out for the latch, the other holding tight to the letter that will bring Master Nicholas and Mistress Bianca back home. Ditworth is standing on the other side of the frame, his face full of relieved expectation that this huge intruder is on his way out, hopefully never to be seen again. He lets his hand fall from the latch, flattens himself against the wall in case Ned thinks he might try to stop him leaving.

  And then his expression changes from meekness to one of astonished fear.

  In the same instant Ned hears movement in the study behind him. He wonders if Vaesy has changed his mind and is about to try to snatch the letter from him. He turns, ready to flick the man away as easily as he might a persistent fly.

  Vaesy is already halfway across the space between the desk and the spot where Ned is standing, and if Ned were a man given to philosophical contemplation, he would see that in those eyes the bitterness, the blame, the resentment at all the lowly, worthless fools who have helped topple his once-great edifice of self-importance have spilled over.

  In their place is murderous revenge. In Vaesy’s hand, a gleaming stiletto – the sort a rich and successful knight of the realm might wear at his belt in a happier life.

  23

  The Valais, Switzerland, 13th August 1594

  They are climbing into the heavens. Bianca thinks there should be cherubs up here, blowing golden trumpets. If she raises her hand, she will surely touch God’s fingers. Yet in all the hours they have been travelling the mountain tops seem not to have come one inch closer. Not that they can see them now, the darkening clouds have bitten off the peaks. Behind them, the ragged track curves away into the purple shadows of the valley. To look down makes her stomach lurch and her head spin. Down there, the chiming of steeple bells marks the hours with distant voices barely heard over the sighing of the wind. But up here time seems an inconsequential thing, humbled by the vast emptiness. Great hunks of grey stone jut fiercely on either side of the worn path, like the tumbled ruins of ancient temples smashed down by a spiteful god.

  Nicholas has found three new mules to rent, from the village of Martigny. The animals must remain unnamed (no more a Cecil or an Essex, a Coke or a Popham) because levity belongs to the past. Laughter has no place amongst the mountains. A silent determination is required here. Besides, Nicholas is too aware of the tension between his wife and Hella Maas – still striding out a hundred yards ahead – to suggest anything so flippant as naming the mules.

  What Bianca said to Hella when she dragged her outside that morning in Montreux is still unknown to him. She has resolutely refused to answer his questions. From watching her rule over the Jackdaw tavern on Bankside, he suspects it will have been blood-curdling. He admires that resolve in her – her determination to protect those she loves. He thinks that to be on the receiving end of it would be terrifying.

  The last exchange between them on the matter occurred during a rest halt earlier in the day. While strange, matted beasts with curving horns watched them with disinterest from the crags, and Hella was picking mountain flowers some way off, Nicholas had said, out of the blue, ‘That morning – when I was abed – I’m sure she meant nothing improper. It was sisterly, that’s all. I think, underneath, she is frightened. She has no one else to turn to but us.’

  Bianca had refused to meet his eye. Instead she had replied tautly, ‘Why is it men can be so blind, even when the sun shines brightly?’ Then she had turned away from him, to tell him she had no need of any answer he might think of making.

  The chill between Bianca and Hella is now mirrored by the cold air of the mountains. For weeks they have been travelling under a hot sun, always grateful for a summer shower to wash the dust from their faces and refresh their parched throats. Now they could be back on Bankside in the chill of a late-autumn day. Nicholas is thankful that he took advice and purchased cloaks of coarsely woven kersey before leaving Montreux.

  For Bianca, the low moaning of the wind is a permanent accompaniment to a voice she seems unable to banish from her head for longer than an hour or so. I understand why you’re distraught, Mistress. But I am the last person you should blame… now that you are with child.

  How can the maid possibly know? Is it another of the tricks she plays – nothing but a wild guess aimed at unsettling the mind? Bianca does not feel as though she is pregnant. She has been called upon enough times – to mix the distillations, syrups and tinctures that ease the travails that come with pregnancy – to know the signs. And even if Hella is correct, her longing for a child with Nicholas has somehow suddenly faltered. What manner of creature would it be, if it has been conjured by someone else’s will, someone with a longing for death and judgement? The idea that Hella can influence her body fills Bianca with dread. She reminds herself that the maid is a fraud. She cannot allow herself to think otherwise. But when she glances at Hella driving herself ever onwards, the mountain chill is not the only thing that threatens to freeze her blood.

  Bianca Merton is not alone in trying to read another’s face at this moment. Because her Ned was born with a face to put the fear of God into his enemies – Rose sometimes likes to imagine that he popped out of the womb complete with his scowling, fiery complexion and bushy auburn beard – it has taken her a while to learn how to read its more complex emotions. But she is adept at it now, and she knows Ned is keeping something from her. Witness the way he changes the subject about what occurred between him and Sir Fulke Vaesy, when he went across the river without telling her and procured the treasured letter exonerating Master Nicholas.

  Where, she wonders, is the joy in him now? Why isn’t he dancing a happy measure at the prospect of Master Nicholas’s and Mistres
s Bianca’s return? Why did he sound so low-key when she finally prised out of him the few details he seemed prepared to vouchsafe to her? Yes, Vaesy had written the letter voluntarily. No, Ned hadn’t forced the quill into his trembling hand after beating him half-senseless. The letter is obtained. It is what they needed. It has been passed to Lord Lumley for presentation to the Privy Council, and if they won’t act upon it, then to the queen herself. There’s little more to be said.

  So why does he lie so still when he rolls over in their bed at night? Why does he wake in the small hours and pace their chamber like a caged bear when he thinks she’s still asleep?

  Where the track levels a little, close to a tumbling stream that fills a black rockpool, Nicholas calls a halt. While Bianca wraps her cloak about her for warmth and seeks a little slumber on a bed of moss, Nicholas leads the mules to drink. He waits while they take their fill, staring tiredly into the mirror of the pool.

  ‘Why are you letting her lead you somewhere you don’t want to go?’ Hella Maas’s reflection says.

  Torn from his musings, he turns to her. ‘When have I said I did not wish to go to Padua?’

  ‘You haven’t. But I have sensed for some time that you are not sure in your heart it is truly what you want.’

  ‘It is not my home; that, I confess. And Bianca fled it several years past. But I have always thought the day might come when she would wish to return. And why should I not follow her? She is my wife and, for the present, Padua is as safe for us as anywhere.’

  ‘My sister Hannie thought Breda was safe. But I knew differently. I was warned. I should have spoken louder.’

  ‘Are you trying to warn me that Padua is unsafe?’

  ‘Nowhere is safe, Nicholas; Breda, Padua, this very spot…’

  He gives a sad, compassionate shake of his head. ‘You couldn’t have known what was to happen in Breda, Hella. You are not to blame for what the Spanish did there, any more than these mountains are.’

  In the mirror-glass of the pool, her face contorts into ugliness. ‘But I am. I knew.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Because I can read the signs. Remember, I was born when a new, bright star blazed in the night sky and men of learning scratched their heads in wonder at it. Many said it was a portent. And ever since I can remember, I have known when bad things were about to happen. I could see it in the fall of the numbers when my father played cards with my mother; in the harvests that failed; in the villages that emptied when the wool trade with England fell off; when the great winds came, when the rivers flooded, when the stars with long tails appeared in the sky. All these things are God’s warnings to us. Why will some people not see what is so clearly visible?’

  ‘If Padua is unsafe, Hella, then so is Rome. So is anywhere you choose to go. In which case, why did you come with us? Why not stay in Brabant?’

  ‘You know why – because eventually they would have burned me as a sorceress. And because I wanted to be with you, Nicholas.’

  He glances to where Bianca is sleeping on the moss, then back to Hella. A stab of alarm courses through him. ‘Me? Why me?’

  ‘Because we are the two poles of the same star. We have been in company a long time now, and I have heard you say how you mistrust the knowledge of medicine that you learned from ancient books and old professors – how it may harm as well as cure. I know you blame it for the death of your first wife and her child.’

  Nicholas has to stop himself from shouting, lest he wakes Bianca. ‘You’re wrong! I seek better knowledge – knowledge that can be trusted to save lives. You believe only that it will end them. I am not the other pole on this meridian of death you have set around yourself, Hella. I want no part of it. Unlike you, I have no idea what the future will hold. I don’t much care – just as long as it has Bianca in it.’

  Hella’s face is as cold as the mountains now, twisted half in fear, half in unbearable sorrow. ‘But you saw what was coming, in the painting of the Day of Judgement. How can you deny it?’

  ‘It was one man’s imagination! It was nothing but a nightmare retold in paint and pigment.’

  She grabs his arm. Nicholas almost gasps at the strength of her grip, at the alarming fervour in her eyes. ‘Take me to Padua. When the endtime comes, I don’t want to face it alone.’

  Nicholas pulls away. ‘Hella – go to Rome with the other pilgrims. You’ll be safe there. If the Pope and all his cardinals can’t give you peace, no one can.’

  And then he is looking into the crumpled, tearful face of a small girl, the survivor of a slaughtered family, a child who’s convinced herself that if she had tried, really tried, then she could perhaps have moved the world off its axis. She could have turned it, so that the day that brought her such pain had not dawned.

  ‘Please let me tell you one more truth, Nicholas,’ she says, fighting back the tears. ‘About Bianca. Did you know she is preg—’

  But he stops her dead, raising a hand as if to ward off a blow. ‘No! Enough! I will hear no more of this.’

  And he turns away, leaving Hella and her reflection in the rock-pool to the judgement of the mountains.

  Later, as darkness falls, they see ahead of them torches burning like beacons from the walls of the monastery of St Bernard, signalling to the exhausted pilgrim that safety lies just a short distance ahead. Set beside a lake of meltwater at the highest point on the pass, it seems to carry the cold solitude of the mountains in its stones. They are welcomed by an ancient Augustinian monk who appears to make no gesture, speak no word that is not glacial.

  The mules are stabled; they will carry their riders no further. From here the journey will continue on foot. But at least it will be downhill.

  Inside the hospice the furnishings have a competitive frugality: pious restraint set against rustic simplicity. Meals are taken communally: men in one room, women in another. The fare is plain and limited, but Nicholas hears no complaint. If a traveller reaches here and thinks he’s had an easy journey, he’s either in the grip of a religious delirium or he’s been born without feeling in his legs.

  The dormitories are austere, but weary bones take comfort where they can. There is no provision for married couples, so Nicholas and Bianca must sleep apart. Instead of the reassuring sound of her breathing, he must endure the murmured prayers of the other pilgrims, their echoing flatulence and the occasional agonized grunt as cramp bites stiffening muscles.

  Matins is sung against the crashing of a violent summer storm. Lightning blazes in the darkness beyond the narrow windows of the dormitory. Nicholas shivers miserably under a thin blanket while he waits for sleep to claim him.

  He is troubled by what Hella said to him earlier. No matter how often he reminds himself of what Bianca believes – that she’s driven by the need to provoke, that her wild claims of precognition are nothing but the sleights of the street-trickster – he cannot now help but wonder if her performance by the rockpool really was just a masque. Could it be that there was truth in it? Occasionally he laughs at himself, the believer in the methods of the new learning losing his critical faculties to a young maid’s play-acting. But whether she can see the future or is merely deluding herself, in his heart Nicholas feels a deep sadness at the damage fate has inflicted on her, robbing her of even the slightest warmth of hope.

  Alone in her own darkness, Bianca lies awake and thinks of Hella’s unfathomable face caught in the lightning flash of another storm, and wonders if she is now – finally – rid of her malign influence.

  The monks rise before dawn. The stillness is oppressive after the thunder of the night. It is broken only by the murmur of prayer. Nicholas takes a plain breakfast of bread and water, the liquid like cold fire on his tongue. He sits apart from the other pilgrims, the only Englishman present. They are an unremarkable crew. Some have faces made rosy by a surfeit of holy fervour, others scowl with the intensity of the overtly pious or the thought of how many leagues remain between the mountains and St Peter’s in Rome. He would pay them little heed – we
re it not for one of their number who draws his attention like a beacon blazing on a dark shore.

  Alone, he sits stooped at his bench while he chews his bread, head lowered, his face almost hidden by his steepled hands. He wears a grey half-coat. His legs, clad in trunk-hose, fold back under the bench, the toes of his leather half-boots flexed against the flagstones as though ready for flight at the first sign of danger. And on his head is a floppy black cap that almost covers his ears. All in all – though a little dustier, a little wearier in the face – a man almost unchanged from the morning he stepped out in front of Hella Maas in the cathedral square at Reims, one hundred leagues and almost as many years ago.

  24

  The storm during the night has left the mountains so sharp that just looking at them pricks the eyes. From the hospice of St Bernard, the path descends in giddying coils like a serpent basking in the morning sunshine, down towards the valley of Aosta. From the flat ground beside the lake, Nicholas watches a group of pilgrims moving amongst the scree, making their way into Italy.

  ‘I must hurry if I am to catch them,’ Hella says. ‘You have been kind. I would have died in Den Bosch, had you not saved me.’ She turns to Bianca. ‘I am sorry if neither of you wanted to hear what I have say. I do not seek these revelations that come to me. I mean only to tell the truth of what I know.’

  Bianca, who has informed her husband that the maid has decided to attach herself to the group in the distance rather than wait until they reach Pavia and the road to Rome, affects an expression that says, It’s not my doing, if that’s what you think.

  Nicholas says, ‘Before you leave us, will you answer me one question? There was a man sheltering here last night. A man wearing a grey coat, black cap. Tall and thin, a little younger than I am. Did you see him, perhaps?’