Heresy

by S. J. Parris

  "But why?" I asked, turning to Thomas as I tried to revise all the conclusions I thought I had made. "What made you kill a man in such a manner, when you could not even be certain of the outcome?"

  "Martyrs," Thomas spat, as though the very word disgusted him. "It is become their obsession. They all wanted to be martyrs for their faith, or at least they claimed they did. The highest glory." His voice was rising to a manic pitch; he shook his head in fury. "Even my father seeks a martyr's crown, it seems. What kind of a religion is that, Doctor Bruno, that makes men fall in love with death over life? Where is love, then? Where is human kindness?"

  I could have pointed out that a man who would set a starving hunting dog on his father's closest friend may not be the best placed to talk of human kindness, but I kept silent. Thomas gestured at Sophia. "To have the love of a woman like Sophia, the prospect of new life in her womb-"

  "Thomas!" Sophia cried, stepping forward, but Jerome held out a hand to restrain her.

  "But this… creature"-Thomas exploded, stabbing a finger at Jerome-"throws it all aside, he saves all his desire for the executioner's blade!" His pointing finger trembled with pent-up passion. "Well then, let them try martyrdom, I thought, see how they like it. The rector had just given a sermon on the death of Saint Ignatius. The teeth of wild beasts. It seemed as good a way as any to send Roger to meet his God." He produced a strange, high-pitched laugh that chilled my blood. "After the pain my father suffered for his sake, it was the least he deserved."

  An unnerving silence followed this outburst as the echo of his words died away. Sophia, Jerome, and I stared at Thomas in rapt horror for a moment.

  "And with every member of the college under increasing scrutiny, I was afraid my cover would be at risk. Which was your intention all along, was it not, my friend?" Jerome added softly, raising his head to look at Thomas, who only continued to return his stare, unblinking. I watched them both, still feeling all my nerves taut as a bowstring; I didn't know if Thomas was more disturbing when he was pulsing with manic energy or in this strange new stillness, as if he were a cat waiting to pounce.

  "So you went to Mercer's room to get your hands on those papers before Thomas did?" I asked, turning back to Jerome. He made a brief, impatient movement with his head.

  "I had no idea that Thomas knew about them. After Mercer threatened to expose me, I knew I would always be vulnerable while those letters-all Edmund Allen's correspondence with Rheims about my mission, and the Regnans in Excelsis papal bull-were not in my own hands. But I barely had time to search his room before I saw you through the window, crossing the courtyard toward the tower staircase. I had to hide myself up on the roof of the tower before you came in. That was when I knew your true business in the college." He nodded significantly, planting his hands on his hips.

  "I had no business," I said, my heart pummelling at my ribs, "other than an interest in finding out how a man could have met such a horrific death-an interest none of his colleagues seemed to share. I only wanted to find some clue as to who he planned to meet and why he carried a full purse."

  Jerome cast his eyes down, his face guilty for the first time.

  "Thomas asked only that I lure Mercer to the grove that morning. I had told him I felt I should return to France in the circumstances. I asked him to meet me to return some of the money he held for me on behalf of the mission so that I could travel."

  "But then what of Coverdale?" I asked, looking from Jerome to Thomas. "Did he also find out about Sophia?"

  "You had better ask Thomas about Coverdale," Jerome said, setting his jaw.

  "That snake," Thomas whispered, his soft voice making me jump after his long silence. "Coverdale petitioned the rector for my removal from the college. He feared I knew too much and thought I would betray them out of revenge. The rector at least had some compassion and let me stay on, but it was Coverdale's fault that I lost my scholarship and had to depend on his charity." He jerked his head toward Jerome. "Well, James Coverdale learned what revenge looked like. He was ever a coward-he cried like a girl child when I showed him the razor, and pissed himself."

  "So you decided to make a martyr of him too, because you despised his faith?"

  Thomas smiled, looking at me from the corner of his eye like a child caught out in some mischief.

  "When Jerome sent me to take his longbow and arrows to the strong room, I had the idea of Saint Sebastian. I thought if the deaths looked like a pattern, it would frighten them even more. I asked Doctor Coverdale if I could speak privately with him later and he told me he would arrange to leave the disputation early. He feared I had come to bargain with him, but he never expected what happened next." He was hugging himself tightly, rocking slightly, his mouth wide in a silent laugh. "I needed those letters too. That room used to be my father's, remember? I knew if I could put them into the right hands, he would be finished." He pointed again at Jerome with a flourish.

  "But I don't understand," I said. "If you wanted to expose Jerome, why not just tell the rector what you knew, long before this? You could have saved two innocent lives."

  Thomas gave me a scathing look. "And lose my own? I took you for a clever man, Doctor Bruno. I was dependent on him-don't you see that? I could do nothing until I was assured of another place by some means. And perhaps you do not know the laws of our land. To aid, comfort, or maintain a Jesuit is a felony, punishable by death. To live as his servant, to take his shilling, to maintain his disguise-what is that if not aiding? And if the law did not kill me, that whoreson Jenkes would have done it first if I betrayed Gabriel. Gabriel-ha! He even took the name of an archangel-is that not hubris?"

  "The face of an angel," I murmured, echoing Humphrey Pritchard's words. "But if someone else were to discover him, then you could not be implicated. All you had to do was point them in the right direction, with your quotations and your diagrams." I let the words hang in the air. Thomas only looked at me, his teeth grinding together unconsciously. "And poor Ned? Did he also betray your father?"

  "Ned?" Sophia, who until now had been listening to Thomas's confessions with an expression of increasing horror, suddenly reached out and clutched Jerome's arm. "Little Ned Lacy, the Bible clerk? He is not dead too?"

  I nodded grimly, watching Thomas. Sophia pressed her hands over her face.

  "He saw me with Sophia in the library while everyone was at the disputation, before I went to Coverdale's room," Thomas said, with a shrug. "I was trying to persuade her not to run away with Jerome." His brow creased briefly and he rubbed his eyes. "Then I saw you giving Ned money, I didn't know what to do. If he had not come back early, he would not be dead. It was his own fault."

  "But you couldn't resist visiting a martyrdom on him as well?" I said, my revulsion growing as I watched his apparent coldness. Thomas smiled slowly.

  "It was a way of punishing the rector. Didn't you always say, Sophia, that your father loved Foxe's book more than his family? I swore I would make him hate that book. For you," he added. "It was all for you. One day you will see that."

  "Enough!" Sophia cried, her voice thick with emotion. "Enough talking, all of you-it is almost full daylight and no doubt they will have the watch out looking for me by now. We must leave, Jerome. What's done is done, and it will all be for nothing if we do not get away while we can." She pulled urgently at his sleeve.

  Thomas suddenly sprang to life as if a fire had been lit under him.

  "You will not go to your death, Sophia," he breathed, planting his feet firmly and fixing her with his furious gaze, his trembling hand still pointed at Jerome. "You think he will take you safe to France? Five years of training and the best part of his inheritance he has given to this mission-you really believe he will give it all up for you? No, he craves the glory of martyrdom like the rest of them. He means for you to meet with an accident at sea."

  "Your mind is addled, Thomas," Jerome began, taking a step toward him, his hand held out in a placatory gesture. Thomas sprang away.

  "But I wi
ll not let that happen," he cried, his voice high and strangulated, "and if you will not heed my warning-"

  He left the threat unspoken as, instead, he pulled the razor from under his cloak and, in the same movement, lunged at Jerome. I slipped Humphrey's knife from my belt but the Jesuit was soundly trained; before I could move, he had pushed Sophia behind him and aimed a kick at Thomas's outstretched arm. Thomas lost balance for a moment, though he did not drop the razor, but his slip gave Jerome the chance to bend and pull a knife from the side of his boot. Both circled warily, facing each other, eyes locked and weapons drawn, while Sophia stifled a scream and I hovered uselessly at the edge of this duel, wondering how I might intervene. But I did not have the chance; at that moment the door burst open and Barton ran into the room, his poker held aloft. Thomas wheeled around with blazing eyes and, faster than you could blink, slashed wildly at the man's arm with his razor before he could strike. Barton howled and dropped the poker, clutching at his wound, and Thomas, seemingly crazed, leaped upon him and slashed at his neck with the razor over and over again. I threw myself at Thomas, wrapping myself around his back and pulling at his arm but he was surprisingly strong for such a wiry boy, and it seemed his fury had lent him supernatural strength. He attempted to shake me off, but I was unable to restrain him and Barton's last guttural cries were drowned by Sophia's screams as his lifeblood gushed from the open wound over the brick floor and his dying breath faded as he clutched at Thomas's cloak and then slumped to the ground.

  I let go of Thomas and turned, expecting to find Sophia hysterical from the scene she had just witnessed, but I saw that in the confusion Jerome had seized her from behind and was now holding her with one arm hooked around her chest, his knife pointed at the soft white skin of her throat.

  "Put the razor down, Thomas," he said, slowly and clearly, again sounding as calm as if he were a schoolmaster addressing a room full of mischievous boys. Thomas only stared slack-jawed, his face, arms, and hands sprayed with the servant's blood, then he took a step forward and Jerome jerked the knife closer to Sophia's neck; she bit back a cry and squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head with tiny movements.

  "Let her go," I said, trying to match Jerome's tone of calm authority.

  "Let her go? Or what will you do, Bruno?" He kept the knife tilted at her throat, regarding me as if I were a tiresome distraction. "Did you bring reinforcements?"

  "No one knows I am here," I said, not knowing if I spoke the truth. If Cobbett's messenger had managed to get the bundle of papers to Sidney, would he gather some men and come to look for me at Hazeley Court? How long would it take them to arrive, if he did? But the chance that Slythurst had let any messenger leave the college unhindered was tiny.

  As if reading my mind, Jerome shook his head impatiently.

  "Well, no matter. They will be too late. Once and for all, throw your weapons down on the floor or your quest will have been in vain." He lifted the elbow of the arm that held the knife, as if to plunge it. Thomas gave me a brief glance, then cast his razor onto the floor in front of him, where it clattered in the silence until it became still. I looked at Sophia, who had opened her eyes now and was watching me with an expression of mingled despair, fear, and disbelief, then I too threw down my knife.

  Jerome nodded.

  "Good. Now you will stay here, still and quiet, before anyone else gets hurt." He was manoeuvring Sophia toward the door that led to the western tower staircase, his knife still in place at her neck. Roughly he wrestled her forward, kicking the door shut behind him; as it swung, Thomas gave a cry of rage and ran at the doorway.

  "You will not succeed," Thomas cried in ragged breaths, racing to follow them; to my surprise, Jerome was forcing Sophia up the stairs instead of down, and as Thomas reached them Jerome kicked out and caught him on the jaw, making him fall back into me, his mouth bleeding.

  Undeterred, he picked himself up and launched himself onto the narrow staircase, trying to grab at Jerome's heels as Jerome tried to kick back at him, while I followed close behind, pausing only to pick up my knife from the floor. Somewhere above us, echoing from the curving stone, we suddenly heard Sophia scream as if at a sharp pain, and I slapped at Thomas's ankle from below.

  "He still has a knife at her back," I hissed. "For God's sake, do nothing hasty."

  The climb was relentless; at one point I thought I heard Sophia cry, "I cannot," and Jerome answer, "Trust me," but the voices were muffled by the echoes. My battered legs began to tremble as we climbed higher, intermittently passing small cruciform windows that offered views over the manor's parkland and forest, and still Jerome forced Sophia up, and we followed, until I felt a draught of chill air on my face and understood that he was leading us to the very battlements of the tower. My stomach convulsed slightly as I tried to imagine what he might have in mind, and whether all four of us would return alive.

  I emerged through a low doorway behind Thomas onto a platform perhaps twelve feet wide, enclosed by eight crenellated walls the height of a man's chest. Beyond them I could see the carriage drive and the cart track by which I had approached the house, the woods that bordered the path spread out far below us like a green canopy, and behind them, the line of distant blue hills, still misted in the early light. At this height, more than a hundred feet above the ground, the wind was shrill in my ears, slicing across the roof of the tower. On the far side, Jerome once again held Sophia at the point of his knife, his hair whipping over his face. He beckoned to Thomas with his eyes.

  "Come, then, Thomas," he called, "will you save her?"

  Thomas hesitated a moment and I saw his body stiffen as he gathered his resolve, perhaps trying to judge how quickly he could move compared to Jerome. Sophia whimpered softly, her eyes flicking wildly from Thomas, to me, to the man whose arms now held her close, not for the first time, but now with very different intent. From the confusion and terror in her expression I could tell that she did not know if Jerome was serious or playacting to trap Thomas. I reached out a hand to restrain Thomas, but in that moment he made up his mind and threw himself once again at his former master, bending to hurl his full weight at Jerome's midriff. The priest, pushing Sophia roughly to the ground, tried to stick Thomas with his knife, but Thomas twisted aside at the crucial moment, grabbing Jerome's raised arm in midair. For a moment their arms were raised aloft in the shape of an arch, locked together and trembling with the force of their opposing efforts, the knife flashing silver as it twisted in the air. Then Thomas jerked a knee sharply upward into Jerome's groin; the priest yelped and doubled over, the tension in his arm momentarily lost, and in that second's lapse Thomas bit him hard on the wrist, causing him to drop the knife. But before Thomas could pick it up, Jerome had grasped him by the hair, yanked his head back, and punched him hard in the face. Thomas attempted to hit back, blood coursing down his nose, but Jerome caught him again with a fist hard in the jaw and Thomas stumbled backward, dangerously close to the parapet.

  Sophia had wriggled away to the shelter of the wall. I crouched beside her and motioned to the stairway, but she shook her head, her eyes glassy with fear and still riveted on the life-or-death struggle before us. Slowly, so as not to attract attention, I reached out and scrabbled Jerome's fallen knife toward my hand, keeping my eyes on the fighting pair all the time. Thomas, now badly bruised and bleeding, mustered one last burst of energy and thrust a hand forward to grip Jerome by the throat; Jerome, his face contorted with rage, let go of Thomas's hair and clamped both his hands around the boy's neck. They swayed together in this oddly intimate dance, matching each other's steps, now one pushing forward, now the other, both choking and gasping through gritted teeth until it seemed that both must expire in the same moment, so fierce and determined were their crimson faces, when Jerome, who had the advantage of weight and strength, managed to force Thomas a few steps farther back, into a gap between the battlements. Thomas felt the wall against his back and appeared to tighten his hold on Jerome's neck; Jerome leaned all his weight forward,
pushing Thomas so that he was hanging backward through the gap, and for a moment I thought they would fall to their deaths together, when suddenly Sophia leaped to her feet, grabbed Jerome's knife from my hand before I realised what she was doing, and ran across to the fighting pair where she stabbed the knife, just once, into Thomas's right hand, still clamped fast around Jerome's throat.

  Thomas cried out and released his grip involuntarily; in the same moment Jerome also let go of Thomas's throat and, bracing himself against the brick parapet, gave Thomas one almighty shove in the chest. With a harrowing scream, the boy flailed for a moment, his hands grasping furiously at nothing, before he toppled backward and vanished from our sight, that terrible last cry echoing fainter and fainter as he fell seven tiers to the waiting ground. The impact was so dull that we barely heard it from the roof. I wanted to lean over and look but kept my distance from the parapet, afraid to turn my back to Jerome. Sophia collapsed into his arms, sobbing and shaking violently. Gently he prised the knife from her fingers and rested his chin on the top of her head, breathing hard in ragged gasps. He looked across at me, the fury drained from his face and in its place only a bone-deep exhaustion. He rubbed his throat and twisted his neck from side to side as if to ease the pain.

  "It had to come sooner or later," he croaked, his voice barely audible. "He would have been found out eventually, and then he would have taken me down with him."

  "We have killed him," Sophia sobbed, raising her tear-streaked face from Jerome's shoulder. "Oh, God, we have killed him! Poor Thomas-he was my only friend once. Will God ever forgive us his blood?" She looked up to the sky, now streaked with bands of blue, the worst of the rain clouds scurrying away toward the horizon.