by S. J. Parris
My heart was heavy as I entered the inn yard. Sophia was just a few streets away, yet it seemed impossible for me to see her until this business was all over, my innocence proved, and the real murderers brought to justice—if such a conclusion was even possible. As an accused man facing trial in a few days, my comings and goings would be noticed around the city; I could not risk visiting the weavers’ houses and drawing the people’s attention to them by so doing. I cursed quietly under my breath; Sophia was out of reach to me until I had found the killer—or killers—and all the while, I imagined Olivier at her side in that attic room, whispering his reassurances into her ear. Even if I were able to clear her name and my own in the assizes, would she not owe him almost as great a debt of gratitude by now?
The stable hands were busy across the yard and I was able to slip into the stall where my horse stood patiently chewing at his hay, his animal smell all the sharper in the heat, but strangely welcoming and wholesome after the foul stench of human waste I had endured in the gaol. He whickered softly at my approach and I laid my head against his neck for a moment as the full weight of my exhaustion began to seep through my body. My eyes drifted closed; I could have sunk to the floor right there and slept, but I caught the scratch of a broom on the cobbles in the yard and roused myself. I felt behind the straw bale and for an awful moment my stomach lurched as I feared the purse had been taken. But more frantic searching revealed that it had only slipped farther down; perhaps the horse had shifted the bales with its movements. I almost wept with relief as I drew it out and tucked it inside my breeches.
Before I reached the door of the inn, one of the stableboys caught sight of me and rushed inside, so that Marina was already waiting for me on the stairs as I entered. She came forward with her arms outstretched as if to embrace me, but drew back at the last minute at the smell, for which I was grateful.
“I knew they would have made a mistake,” she cried, though her face was still anxious. “I was going to give it until tomorrow morning before I let your room to another.”
“That was good of you,” I said. “A whole day.”
“This isn’t an almshouse.” She folded her arms and looked me up and down. “I sent a boy with your message to Doctor Robinson—was that how they let you go?”
“It must have been.” I smiled then, with genuine gratitude. As I had guessed, the constable would have let me rot until the assizes without ever taking word to Harry. I wondered if he was in Langworth’s pay as well. On an impulse, I took her hand between mine and kissed it extravagantly. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
Marina giggled like a girl and gave me a slow, lewd wink. “I daresay we’ll think of something. You’ll be wanting to clean up, I suppose?”
“I would like that more than anything.”
She nodded. “And the rest of my guests will thank you for it, too. I’ll have some hot water fetched up to your room, and fresh towels. Bring those clothes down and I’ll give them to the laundress—with luck she can have them drying by this evening. We’ll have a storm tonight for sure.”
“Thank you. Oh, and—may I have another orange?”
She shook her head indulgently, as if at a demanding child.
“You have not paid me for the last one yet. Go on with you, I’ll send it up with the rest. Anyone would think you were a great lord, the way you have me fetching and carrying.”
I thanked her, forcing myself to smile patiently, and took the stairs to my room. While I waited for the water, I found a clean sheet of paper and wrote a short note to Walsingham using the cipher I was accustomed to use in my communications with him. The orange would be an extra precaution; there was no way of knowing how proficient Samuel might be with ciphers, so I kept the content of my letter to the facts of my wrongful arrest, in case he should work out how to read it along the way. A serving girl arrived with an orange and a bucket of hot water; when she had gone I squeezed a little of the juice into the candle holder as I had before, crammed the flesh into my mouth, and along the bottom of the letter, below where I had signed off with the symbol of the planet Jupiter, I wrote, using the juice, “Arrest the bearer of this letter on suspicion of murder.” I had no great faith that this note would ever find its way to Walsingham, but it was worth a try. As the ink was drying, I stripped off my filthy clothes and tried as best I could to scrub the filth of the past night and day from my skin.
* * *
DRESSED IN CLEAN shirt and breeches, damp hair clinging to my face and with a full stomach, I waited in the inn yard while a stableboy saddled my horse and loaded him up with my packs. Marina had feigned great offence that I was leaving, but I soothed her by settling my account with a generous tip and assuring her that I would take my supper there the following day when I came to collect my clean clothes. The wind had risen further and I shielded my eyes against the grit blowing in gusts from the flagstones; above me gulls wheeled and shrieked in a sky that had taken on a lurid, shifting light behind the clouds, such as you find sometimes out at sea. A horse whinnied; I turned and caught sight of a figure skulking at the gate of the yard. He leaned against the gatepost and wore a cap with a peak pulled down low over his eyes; in the shadow of the stable building I could not get a clear look at his face.
My stomach clenched; since the previous night I had feared that Nick Kingsley and his friends would not let my ill-judged attack on him go unpunished. I felt the familiar quickening of the pulse, the prickling of my nerves as my hands balled into fists; would I have to stand and fight here, in the yard, and would anyone come to my aid? But as I squinted at the man, breath catching in my throat, I realised that he was alone, and that he was looking at me in a shifty manner from under his cap, as if he was waiting for my attention. He was too tall and rangy for Nick Kingsley; curious, I took a step in his direction and he nodded sharply, as if to beckon me. I glanced over my shoulder; the boy was still occupied with my horse and paid me no attention. I took another step towards the man and he slipped into the open doorway of an empty stall close to the gate. Bending slowly, I removed my knife from its sheath and followed him.
There was little daylight inside the stall, but I heard him moving to the left of the doorway, his feet scratching on the straw.
“Who are you?” I hissed, the knife held out before me.
“Shh! Viens ici.” He stepped forward and I lowered the knife with relief.
“Olivier. Why are you skulking about like a thief?”
“Because I don’t want to be seen with you. Listen.” He leaned closer, glancing over my shoulder towards the doorway as if fearful we might be overheard. “She cannot stay with us any longer. It is too dangerous.”
“It is only two more days, until the assizes. Please—”
“You don’t understand. You have made it impossible.” His words came sharp and urgent, as if he might impel me by the force of them. “The constable came to our house this morning. Someone told him you have been seen at our door—he asked my father a lot of questions about who you were, how we knew you.”
“Merda. I am sorry for that. What did he say?”
Olivier made a noise of contempt. “Don’t worry, my father is practised at thinking on his feet. He said you had come to pay your respects because you had known Protestant friends of ours when you lived in Paris.”
“And the constable believed him?”
He shrugged.
“How do I know? It was only as he was leaving that he told us you had been arrested for murder.” He curled his lip at me. “My father said he was sure there was some misunderstanding. But after the constable left—you can imagine.”
I nodded, picturing the distress of those good, beleaguered people. I had no affection for Olivier, but I could not deny how much his family had risked for Sophia. Now I had unwittingly brought the constable to their door while they harboured another murder suspect in their attic.
“My mother has not stopped weeping and wringing her hands,” Olivier said. “They fear it is only a matt
er of time before your arrest becomes an excuse to harass us further. And if they search our house and find her …” He did not need to finish the sentence. The whole family could be executed along with Sophia to make an example.
“What can we do?”
“My father says we must give her into your care. You brought her back to Canterbury, after we had got her safely away.” He gave me a hard look.
“I have only been allowed out of prison on bail, on condition that I lodge inside the cathedral precincts until the assizes.” I held out my hands in a show of helplessness.
“Exactly. They will not think to look for her in the house of a cathedral canon.”
I hesitated. With Samuel out of the way, it was almost conceivable, though the prospect of proposing such a plan to Harry chilled me; he had a duty to me because of our shared service to Walsingham, but Sophia was no part of that. Walsingham had no idea that I had brought her to Canterbury, and I suspected he would be furious if he knew I had compromised my own safety and Harry’s for her sake.
“My father says he will have no choice but to put her out on the street if you will not take responsibility for her this time,” Olivier added, sensing that I was wavering.
“And you would let him do that? You care for her, I think.” I met his gaze frankly for a moment but he looked away.
“I care for my family also. My parents have lived most of their lives in the shadow of death. Here they thought to escape it. They should not have to fear it again because of me.” He spoke quietly, but his voice was tight with feeling.
Because of me. What did he mean by that? Because he loved Sophia? I watched Olivier as he kept his eyes fixed on the ground, scuffing patterns in the dust with the toe of his threadbare shoes. He was not helping Sophia out of Christian charity, but because he hoped for a reward at the end of this ordeal—presumably the same reward I wanted. Which of us would win?
I pushed my hair back off my face and nodded. “Well, then. She cannot be left on the street. But how will you bring her to the cathedral without being noticed?”
“Our church holds a service this evening in the crypt, at the same time as Evensong in the cathedral. We could bring her there in disguise and hand her over to you.”
I paused to consider the implications.
“Not disguised as a boy, she will be too obvious here. Dress her as an old woman, heap her with scarves and shawls. She can walk crook-backed—it would be less noticeable. But I have to eat at the dean’s table tonight, I can’t take her back after Evensong.”
“Then when?”
“Wait, I am trying to think.” My hand closed around the purse at my belt and the shape of Langworth’s keys inside it. Into my mind flashed the image of the map I had found in the library, with the treasury and its sub-vault clearly marked. The crypt. I could not shake the sense that everything centred on the crypt, and tonight I would be inside the cathedral precincts with three untried keys in my possession. I recalled the old monk’s story about the exchange of coffins in the last days of the priory. If Thomas Becket was anywhere, he was down there, in some unmarked grave, and Langworth almost certainly knew where. Tonight I would find him, and anything else Langworth might have hidden down there with him. I turned to Olivier with renewed purpose.
“After your service ends, find a place to hide her in the crypt. There are nooks and crannies, side chapels, alcoves and shadows. Find somewhere. Tell her after dark I will come for her.”
He looked doubtful.
“The crypt is locked after dark.”
“Trust me.”
“I don’t like it. What if she should be found before you get there?”
“A moment ago you were ready to put her out on the street.” I folded my arms. “If she hides herself well, that won’t happen. Tell her to wait for me, keep silent until I call her by name, and have faith.”
“Faith.” He spat the word out like a bitter fruit. In that moment I contemplated telling him that I had found the body of his nephew, if only to put an end to the pain of uncertainty, but the set of his jaw persuaded me against it; he was young and hotheaded and the boy’s body would be vital evidence, it must not be revealed until I was sure the right person could be punished for it.
“Master? Your horse is ready.” The voice of the stableboy cut through the sounds of gulls and wind, carrying across the yard outside.
“I must go. Do everything as we have said. And take care you don’t get caught. All our lives depend on it.”
Olivier looked at me coldly. “Do not take me for a fool,” he said, retreating back into the shadows as the stableboy called again and I slipped out of the door to the yard, my heart hammering against the vault of my ribs as I tried not to contemplate the enormity of what we were to attempt that night.
* * *
THE MARKETPLACE WAS emptying as I led the horse towards the Christ Church gate. Hot gusts of wind snapped at the stallholders’ canvas awnings; some cursed and struggled to tie their ropes tighter, while others—those selling fresh produce—sought to cover their goods with weighted cloths to protect them from the whorls of dust whipped up from the dry earth. A man in the motley of a jongleur crouched on the ground, packing his juggling balls and spent firebrands into a square of canvas. People moved aside for me, staring, as I passed the market cross; to either side I caught the low rumble of murmuring as neighbours turned to one another, though perhaps it was fortunate I could not hear their commentary. Defensive, I glanced around and saw the apothecary’s niece, Rebecca, hovering beside a bread stall, now almost empty. She had hooked a covered basket over one arm and smiled shyly when she caught my eye, looking quickly down and back to me, then glancing over her shoulder at the broad-hipped goodwife who was untying the colourful awning from its posts.
“Do you still tarry, good-for-nothing?” The woman straightened with a scornful look at the girl. “Get you gone, or we shall have rain and those loaves will be spoiled before ever they get there.”
“But Mistress Blunt, I had much rather—”
“Enough of your contrariness—I don’t want to catch sight of your apron strings next time I look up. Get on that road.” So saying, she went back to the dismantling of her stall. When the woman’s back was turned, I mimicked her pompous expression and manner and Rebecca pressed her sleeve to her mouth to stifle a giggle. But her face quickly fell sombre and reluctantly she raised a hand in farewell before turning towards the street that led east out of the marketplace. An idea struck me; instead of continuing to the cathedral, I waited until Rebecca was out of sight around the corner before gently easing the horse in the same direction. This gesture did not pass unnoticed among the observers in the market square, though thankfully the formidable woman on the bread stall was too occupied in her business to pay me any heed.
I caught up with Rebecca a little way along the next street. Her blush and ready smile told me she was pleased by the attention, though she bit her lower lip and looked anxiously past me towards the market we had just left, as if someone would appear at any moment to chide her for talking to me.
“You seemed downcast back there, Rebecca,” I said, keeping my voice light. “I wondered if there was anything I could do to help?”
“I ought not to speak to you, sir,” she whispered. “All the talk in the market is of how you were arrested for the killing of my uncle. Mistress Blunt says it’s no more than can be expected of foreigners who are little better than savages with no respect for God or the queen. Begging your pardon,” she added in a mumble, looking down.
“Mistress Blunt is a fat fool,” I said. Her hand flew to her mouth to cover a delighted gasp at the audacity of this. “You do not believe I killed your uncle, surely?”
Her eyes travelled my face for a moment as if uncertain. She shook her head.
“No. Why would you? Besides, no money was taken, so they said. You are right about Mistress Blunt, but I would not dare say so aloud. Like now, for instance.” She fell into step beside me, her talk more rel
axed, as if our shared view of Mistress Blunt eclipsed all previous concerns. “I am to take this basket to old Mother Garth out by the Riding-gate, though her son Tom is gatekeeper at the cathedral only spitting distance from our stall. I don’t see why it can’t be left with him, but no—Mistress Blunt says I must take it in person, though all Canterbury knows Mother Garth is mad as a hare and like as not to scream blue murder at you just for standing on her doorstep. I wouldn’t even be surprised if she was a witch and all.” She nodded a full stop, as if this were the definitive verdict.
I smiled.
“Well, then—how would it be if I were to accompany you to her door, and if she screams at you I shall shout back at her in Italian, see what she makes of that. And if she sees fit to turn me into a cat or a rat, I shall depend on you to use what you learned from your uncle and make a remedy to turn me back.”
Rebecca laughed, looking up at me with all her young untried yearnings transparent on her face. I had no interest in her outside what she might know of her uncle’s business, but I realised again how easy it is to flatter a giddy girl, and how easily a man with fewer scruples might use that to his advantage. I thought of the maidservant Sarah Garth and how Sir Edward must have beckoned her to his bed—and his son’s bed—with a few judicious compliments. A quick stab of anger knotted my gut at the idea; if I could feel outrage at my own sex on behalf of a girl I never knew, how much fury must her own brother still carry in his breast? Perhaps a visit to Mother Garth might yield more than the chance to quiz Rebecca undisturbed.
