by S. J. Parris
I would have a ready audience: before the whole courtroom and the queen’s justice I could announce that I knew the killer of Sir Edward Kingsley and Doctor Sykes. I could tell them that the weaver’s son, Olivier Fleury, had used his father’s key to take a crucifix from the crypt, lain in wait for Sir Edward, and struck him down as he walked from the Archbishop’s Palace to John Langworth’s house, knowing he was expected there after supper. But there was my problem. When the justice asked why Olivier would have wanted to kill the magistrate, I would have to explain that he did it for his lover, the woman Canterbury knew as Mistress Kate Kingsley, to free her from her husband and ensure that she would inherit his estate. They meant for Nicholas Kingsley to be blamed—they even sent a false message ensuring he would be seen at the cathedral at the right time—but Tom Garth had complicated their plan by planting evidence that meant Mistress Kingsley was accused instead. Fortunately—and here my voice would grow thick with the bitterness of betrayal—Mistress Kingsley found a solution; she knew a credulous fool, a man the king of France once declared cleverer than all the doctors of the Sorbonne put together, but a fool nonetheless, who would be all too willing to solve this difficulty for her.
And Doctor Sykes? the justice would ask. Why would Olivier Fleury want to kill Sykes? And I would have to say, because he learned that Sykes had killed his sister’s son. He learned this yesterday morning from his sister, who learned it from Mistress Kingsley, who in turn learned it from me as I sat on the bed we shared at the house of Doctor Harry Robinson who, yes, has been harbouring a fugitive all this time. If Hale gave me the benefit of the doubt, both Olivier and Sophia would both be arrested.
I gripped the bar in front of me and stared at my hands as the knuckles turned white. A cold, hard knot lodged in the top of my chest when I thought about Sophia; her easy lies, her softness, her false affection. She brought me here to serve a purpose, to put her original plan back on track, to prove Nick Kingsley guilty of his father’s murder so that she could inherit. So that—what? She could run away with Olivier? The thought caught me like a blow to the stomach; I doubled over with the force of it and heard Hale say, “Look to the prisoner there! Are you well enough to stand, my man?”
I raised my head and nodded; his face was creased with concern and unexpectedly I felt my eyes fill with tears, so that I had to look away in case he took it as a confession.
“Fetch him a drink,” Hale barked, and after some fuss one of the army of black-gowned clerks came forward with a tankard of small beer. I took a sip, breathed deeply, and tried to compose myself.
More witnesses were called: the locksmith, who embellished his tale with details of how shifty I looked, how he had thought there was something suspect about a stranger wanting keys cut, how I had slipped him an extra penny not to mention it. Someone has certainly slipped you an extra penny or two, I thought, and my heart sank; if the witnesses had been bribed, why not the jury? Rebecca tried valiantly to defend me when her turn came, but as I had predicted, her breathless enthusiasm for my innocence began to sound overdone. “She has a liking for the Italian tongue, that one,” someone called out from the back of the crowd, and the room dissolved in ribald laughter and catcalls. Nick Kingsley took the floor with relish to tell how I had talked my way into his house then attempted to break into his father’s cellar and nearly beaten him to death when he tried to stop me. Finally Edmonton rose to give his account of finding a bag of money taken from the cathedral treasury in my room at Harry Robinson’s house, a tale he spun with such lingering pleasure that Hale had to call him to order and ask him to hurry it up. By the time he had finished, the din from the spectators and the jurymen had swelled to a level that meant the bailiff had to pound his staff again and call for silence.
“Well, prisoner.” Hale looked at me from under the ledge of his thick brow. “How do you answer?”
“Not guilty, Your Honour.” A chorus of boos and hisses went up from the room. I waited for it to subside. “These are false charges. Every one. And the testimonies you have heard against me.”
“You are suggesting that all these witnesses, including the late Doctor Sykes, have deliberately perjured themselves? What have you done, that so many in this town would falsely accuse you, knowing the consequences?”
I looked at him and then around me at the faces staring expectantly, weighing up how much I might say. Harry was right; it would cause more harm than good to denounce Langworth in front of all these people. His plans for Becket had to remain a secret. Langworth must be dealt with privately.
“I can only presume that foreigners are not much liked in this town, Your Honour. We are easy scapegoats. Anything can be blamed on our barbarous ways—it is so much easier than acknowledging one of our friends or neighbours could be a murderer. As for the witnesses—words can be bought.”
Another wave of outraged roars and cries of “For shame!” from those standing. Hale tilted his head to one side.
“You seem to be suggesting that someone in this town would have paid people to speak against you under oath. Who do you suppose that person to be?” His eyes bore into me. “Bearing in mind that this would be a very serious accusation indeed.”
I glanced at Langworth, whose lizard tongue flicked nervously over his lips. Hale’s gaze followed mine. A deathly silence hung over the room.
“I make no such direct accusation, Your Honour.”
Hale picked up his pen, examined its nib for a moment, replaced it. “Have you anything else to say?”
I hesitated. Olivier and Sophia. I could publicly accuse them both now; I owed them nothing. Olivier: my jaw clenched at the thought of his curled lip, his hauteur. Were they already lovers, or was he just another poor credulous fool like me, persuaded to risk everything for the promises held in those mesmerising amber eyes? She was clever. I had always known she was clever—was that not what drew me to her, more than her beauty? I should have seen it in her that day at Smithfield; after all, she had told me the truth with her first words. The dreamy-eyed, romantic girl I had met in Oxford was dead; life had replaced that softness with something cold and hard, a shard of ice in her heart. She had loved once; she would not make that mistake again. I did not truly believe she had room for Olivier in her imagined future any more than she had room for me. But her plan had failed. Neither of us had managed to deliver what she wanted—her husband’s money, legitimately inherited. So what would she do now?
“Did you hear me, Doctor Savolino? I asked if you have anything to add.”
Hale puffed his cheeks out; his patience was wearing thin.
I could deliver them both to their deaths now, if I chose, in revenge. Or I could show mercy.
“Nothing, Your Honour. Except to assure you that I am innocent.”
“Very well. For myself, I am not remotely satisfied by the evidence for the murder of William Fitch. But the attack on Master Kingsley and the business of the stolen money are more difficult to dismiss, I grant. Nevertheless, I do not say these testimonies nor the evidence shown are conclusive.” He drew himself upright in his great high-backed chair, resting his elbows on its ornately carved arms, and turned the full severity of his stare on the jury. “Goodmen of the inquest. You have heard what these witnesses say against the prisoner. You have also heard what he says for himself. Bear in mind that he is an educated man, with connections at Her Majesty’s court, his reputation defended by the dean of the cathedral and one of the canons, who stood bail for him. Have an eye to your oath and to your duty. If you stand in any doubt as to the prisoner’s guilt, an acquittal is the appropriate verdict. Discharge your consciences well on this matter.” He began to shuffle his next batch of papers. “Let the prisoner stand down. Call the next.”
As I was hurried away from the bar, he looked up and met my eye and gave me the briefest nod.
I was bundled back into the holding pen while the other prisoners’ cases were heard: larceny, coining, theft of livestock. They were dealt with briskly, as if speed were
all that mattered. Sunlight striped the walls of the hall; its bulging plaster, its peeling whitewash. All around me, the other prisoners scratched at the lice in their ragged clothes. It was a sordid, dispiriting business; little wonder, I thought, that the justice felt the need to surround the occasion with such pomp and feasting. I kept my eyes to the ground, wondering what that nod was supposed to signify.
When the charges against all ten prisoners had been heard, the jurymen were given a note of each man’s name and his crime and retired to consider their verdict.
“Do not give them food or drink while they are out,” Hale directed the bailiff. “I want this over quickly. Tell them no more than twenty minutes or we shall be sitting all night.”
It took them little over ten, by my count, though the spectators had already grown restless and noisy by the time they returned. The bailiff stamped; Hale looked up, unhurried, from his paperwork and steepled his fingers together expectantly. The foreman of the jury rose to pronounce the verdict.
“The monk known as Brother Anselm—guilty.” Whoops from the crowd. “John Mace of Canterbury—guilty.” The man accused of horse theft slumped like a marionette with its strings cut; the people cheered again. “The Italian, Filippo Savolino—” He had trouble reading it from the sheet. He paused for effect and looked up, enjoying his moment of playing to the crowd. “Guilty, of all charges.”
The spectators screamed in triumph; hats were thrown in the air, and a chant of “Hang the papist!” went up from those standing, who began to stamp their feet like the beat of a victory drum. It’s not personal, the guard had said, but as my gaze raked across those rows of faces, I saw raw hatred there; lips snarled back, teeth bared, fists pounding the air, eyes blazing bloodlust. I was the jewel of this assizes, the star attraction, and they felt this verdict as a triumph for—for what, exactly? A triumph of theirs over everything they wanted me to represent: murdering papists, foreigners who took bread from the mouths of good Englishmen, those who believed their connections put them above the law. I was all these things to them, and I realised in the din that they would not have accepted any other verdict. Langworth folded his arms and smiled, a death’s-head grin. I stared up at Justice Hale, questioning. He gave a minute shake of his head, barely perceptible.
The remaining verdicts were read. All ten prisoners were declared guilty; the spectators seemed ready to carry us on their shoulders to the gallows that very instant if they were given the chance. Justice Hale stood; the bailiff banged for silence.
“The court has heard the verdict.” Hale surveyed the court and adjusted his black cap. “It remains for me to pass sentence of death by hanging on those prisoners found guilty …” The spectators crowed again; beside me, Brother Anselm gave a low moan and one of the other prisoners cried out to Jesus for mercy. I laid a hand on the old monk’s bony shoulder, but my chest was tight and I struggled to catch my breath.
“Except,” Hale continued, and the cheers turned to noises of protest. “Except,” he repeated, raising his formidable voice to a shout, so that even the rowdiest onlookers subsided, “those for whom I see special reason for leniency. In the case of the former monk Anselm and the Italian Savolino, I will allow benefit of clergy.”
I slumped back against the wooden partition, afraid my legs would no longer support me. Brother Anselm fell to his knees with a hiccupping sob of relief. Benefit of clergy, as far as I understood, was an ancient loophole in English law that allowed clemency to those who could read; in place of execution they might hope for a fine or a prison term.
“But Your Honour—murder is not a clergyable offence!” Langworth cried, stepping forward.
“I preside over this court, Canon Langworth, not you,” Hale said, with steel in his voice. “Perhaps I could refer this case back to Westminster instead. Would that be better, do you think—that Doctor Savolino should make his defence in the Star Chamber, before the Privy Council?”
Langworth turned white; his Adam’s apple bounced in his throat as he tried to swallow his rage and I knew then that Harry must have reached the justice and told him what he knew. But the crowd were not to be deprived of their prize. A low roar began to swell among them, like the rumble of a great wave, until it seemed their force could not be contained; as the outcry reached a crescendo, some among those standing surged forward, knocking the dignitaries on their benches, jostling the clerks at their tables, and they were joined by others, swarming in from the entrance hall towards the pen where the prisoners were held. The guards did their best to hold the mob back, but they were outnumbered and they seemed reluctant to use their weapons for anything more than ineffectual buffeting. The bailiff climbed on a table and pounded with his staff, calling in vain for order, until he was pulled down by the spectators into the crush. More people seemed to be pressing in from outside the courtroom and a great cry went up from the street; I heard women screaming as I felt hands close over my arms, dragging me through the other prisoners into the tumult. Faces blurred in front of my eyes and I felt a fist strike me on the jaw as the mob bayed for the hangman; fear pulsed in my throat as I was pulled out into the courtroom, into the hands of the crowd. Did they mean to hang me themselves, to dispense the justice they felt Hale had denied them? I could not see the justice now, though I thought his was among the voices bellowing from above me.
The courtroom had all but collapsed into a riot. My head began to swim and I fought for breath in the crush as I was pulled down; for a moment I feared I would black out, but quite suddenly through the confusion and noise sounded one clear note of a herald’s trumpet. The sound seemed to startle the mob; the press of bodies and hands clawing at me began to subside, and I was hauled to my feet by the collar to find myself staring into the face of a bearded young man wearing a soldier’s helmet. The shouting died down to a simmering murmur and a strange calm descended on the hall. When I was able to focus I realised that one of the onlookers who had dragged me out was lying prone on the floor and the crowd were drawing back, staring at his unmoving body with fear; another soldier stood over him, sword held aloft, looking around with menace as if to ask who else dared try their luck. There were six or more of these armed men in the hall, and they were not wearing the livery of the guards who had fetched me that morning but different colours. The man who had helped me up nodded and stepped back and it was only then that I realised the badge on his coat was the arms of Queen Elizabeth.
There was a jostling among the crowd towards the door and as I watched they parted to admit a tall figure in a sweat-soaked shirt and riding breeches, hair sticking up in spikes, face haggard and dust-smeared from the road, holding out a piece of paper. The soldiers moved to keep the people away from him at sword point; most obediently shuffled back. I almost wept to see who it was; my legs buckled again and the young soldier caught me as I fell against his chest.
Justice Hale straightened his cap, regained his composure, and addressed the newcomer with an attempt at dignity.
“Sir Philip. You have a constituency of barbarians, it seems.”
For once, Sidney did not smile.
“Justice Hale, I have seen tavern brawls conducted with more dignity than your courtroom.” He turned to me, colour rising in his cheeks. “What in God’s name is going on here? Get that man out of chains now. I have ridden through the night,” he added, pointing at me, though he made it sound like an accusation. “I have ridden through the night,” he said again, louder, in a voice that encompassed the whole courtroom, “with a warrant signed by Her Majesty for the arrest of Canon John Langworth on charges of high treason.”
The gasp that echoed through the hall could not have been better performed if it had been played on a stage. People swivelled their heads around, looking for the object of this exciting new development.
“Where is Canon Langworth?” Hale demanded, still on his feet, his voice sonorous with authority once more. “Constable?”
Edmonton looked around, helpless. “I cannot see him here, Your Honour.”<
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“He must have slipped out some back way in the tumult,” I said to Sidney. My voice sounded hoarse. “You must get your men after him. If he is not in his own house, try the crypt.”
“This court is adjourned,” Hale announced, and the bailiff struck his staff three times. “I will pass sentence when we are again in session. Have the prisoners taken back to the gaol. Not the Italian or the monk, Constable—I want them brought to my lodgings at the Cheker. You—blow your trumpet,” he said irritably to the herald in an aside. “Clear the courtroom!” he shouted, when the note had sounded. “I will retire to my lodgings to speak with Sir Philip. Mayor Fitzwalter, you will accompany me. Have your men clear the way. Where is Dean Rogers?”
The dean rose from his seat, pale and shaken. Hale gave him a hard look.
“You had better get yourself back to your cathedral, Richard. Sir Philip Sidney may need your assistance there.”
The trumpet sounded; Fitzwalter called his guards to make way for the justice. Perhaps emboldened by the example of the queen’s soldiers, they shoved more brusquely with their pikestaffs this time and the spectators, chastened, moved back for Hale and his retinue to pass, following Sidney and his men. I watched them leave, hardly daring to believe that Sidney was here at all, let alone with a retinue of royal soldiers. Edmonton approached with a face like a bull mastiff, holding out a key.
“Sorry to disappoint you,” I said, as he took the manacles from my wrists and then from Brother Anselm’s. The old monk’s hands were bleeding where the iron had torn his papery skin. He touched his wounds in wonder.
