Sacrilege

“Tacere et fidere, my friend.” Langworth’s voice grew impatient. “The threads are all unravelled. We can only bide our time and wait for news. For now, the best thing we can do is to have faith, and keep our mouths shut.”

“We must experiment further, if we hope for success,” his companion said, lowering his voice. “There are other places to buy—”

“In time,” Langworth snapped back. “There have been enough deaths lately, the town is alert. They will blame a vagrant for Fitch and hang him at the assizes in a few days. Then they will forget. Meanwhile, have you not seen the tide of refugees fleeing the plague rumours?” He folded his long fingers together and cracked his knuckles. “There will be chance enough for experiments in the days to come. God will provide. Besides,” he added, moving back towards the desk and out of my sight, “nothing can be done while the Italian is here, prying. You saw him this morning, I suppose?”

“Not today. Was he here?”

The second man spoke sharply and as he stepped forward and I was able to glimpse him, my stomach constricted and I swear for a moment my heart stopped beating. It was Samuel, Harry Robinson’s servant. A chill washed my whole body, as if I had been hit by a cold wave, as I realised the implications of this: Langworth knew exactly who I was. When he greeted me politely by my false name at the gate, he had been mocking me; if Samuel was his confidant, he must have known my identity even before I arrived. The Italian. My careful pretence was meaningless; I already had an enemy in the heart of the cathedral, an ally of Henry Howard’s who must know my part in his patron’s imprisonment. This changed everything; I could no longer imagine that I was passing unnoticed through Canterbury. Langworth must be as suspicious of me as I was of him and would be waiting for an opportunity as we danced around each other, trying not to reveal our hands.

“I saw him by the gatehouse this morning, as I was leaving,” Langworth said, his voice sharp. “He said Harry was taking him to the library.”

“He has not called,” Samuel said. “Harry is at home. Perhaps he went by himself.”

“Well, let him occupy himself there if he wishes, he can do little harm,” Langworth said, dismissive. “It will serve to keep him above ground, at least. Watch him. What does Harry make of him thus far, out of interest?”

Samuel was now directly beneath me; I saw him shrug.

“Harry is wary of him.”

“And rightly so.”

“He fears this business with Kingsley’s murder is a pretext. There are rumours from London, you know, that the queen will send forces to the Netherlands.”

“Let us hope they are true. This is just the news our friends in Paris are waiting for.”

“They say Walsingham plans to dissolve the richest cathedral foundations to raise money for this war. Starting with Canterbury, to set an example.”

Langworth appeared again beneath my spy-hole.

“And the last thing Harry wants is for the foundation to be dissolved. Where else would he find so comfortable a situation?” His voice was cold.

“All Harry cares about is preserving things as they are. He fears the Italian is really here to find evidence of his own incompetence.”

“So poor Harry finds himself caught between the Devil and the deep sea,” Langworth mused, without a trace of sympathy. “The spy fears he is spied on by his own spymaster.” He gave a dry laugh. “What a fitting irony.”

“He has warned the Italian away from you,” Samuel added.

“I doubt that will stop him,” Langworth said, folding his arms and cupping his chin in his right hand. “Do not make the mistake of underestimating our friend Bruno, as my lord Howard did. He is devilishly clever and sly as a fox.”

“Nevertheless, if he is determined to unearth Kingsley’s murderer …”

“Yes. That could be awkward.” Langworth paced across the room and was again lost to my narrow field of vision. Samuel turned to follow his direction, and I found myself looking down onto the shiny disk of pink skin at his crown, barely covered by the meagre strands of black hair he scraped over it. I felt an instinctive revulsion. Langworth’s voice continued, from over by the window. “How much did the wife know, that is the question.”

“Nothing, Kingsley always said.”

“I’m not sure I believe that. She may have been sharper than Kingsley realised. After all, the damned fool didn’t even have the wit to look behind him on a dark night,” Langworth added, an unmistakable anger in his tone. “Walsingham would not send someone like Giordano Bruno here for the murder of a provincial magistrate, you can be sure of that. It can only be that the girl told him something significant—something she may have observed without Kingsley’s knowledge. And there are others at St. Gregory’s whose silence cannot be taken for granted.”

“The boy, you mean?”

Langworth snorted.

“Nicholas has eyes only for whores and cards. No, I am thinking of the housekeeper. If anyone has seen what they should not, it would be that beady old bird.” He fell silent for a moment, then clapped his hands together briskly, as if he had come to a sudden decision. “I had better pay another visit to St. Gregory’s. Before the Italian asks too many questions. Find Sykes for me—I may have need of his skills.”

“And then should I follow the Italian?”

Langworth paused, weighing up his alternatives.

“Damnation—I had forgotten that there is a meeting of the chapter today at one, and I have certain accounts that must be arranged beforehand.” He shook his head impatiently. “And I dine with the mayor tonight. No—St. Gregory’s will have to wait until tomorrow. Take a message to Sykes, tell him I want him here after Evensong. Watch the Italian, by all means, report his conversations with Harry. I have an idea of how to keep him out of trouble, if we need to.”

“And where shall I find you?”

“In the treasury. I shall go there presently, once I have put this in a safe place.” I could not see what he meant by “this,” but as he crossed the room again I saw that he had picked up the packet he had been holding when he first came in. “By the cross, this heat is too much.”

“We shall have a storm soon,” Samuel observed.

Langworth grunted assent and I heard the sound of the latch being drawn on the front door. I tried to swallow but my throat felt as if it were filled with dust; Langworth would be coming up here at any moment and would surely notice anything awry. I wanted urgently to check that I had rearranged the tapestry over the door just as it had been, but I dared not move a muscle.

“God will reward your loyalty, Samuel,” Langworth said, on the threshold.

“I hope not to wait quite so long,” Samuel replied, and both men gave a low, knowing laugh. The door closed, and my bladder tightened as I heard the first creaking tread on the staircase.

Langworth’s worn leather shoes passed directly in front of me as he crossed the room to the door behind the tapestry. I breathed out as silently as I could, watching the small bloom of dust that rose under my nostrils as I did so. I kept my lips pressed tightly together so that I should not sneeze. A bunch of keys jangled in his hand, then I heard the sound of one being fitted into the lock. One more heartbeat and Langworth would discover that his secret room had been left unlocked; one more—but before I heard the click of the key turning, there came a peremptory knock at the door from downstairs. Langworth appeared to hesitate, but the banging came again, more urgently. I heard him tut, then he threw the packet onto the bed and hurried down the stairs. It was only when I heard him lift the latch on the front door that I realised how much I was shaking.

“Dean Rogers. Good morning. To what do I owe the honour?” Langworth’s voice rose from the room below; he sounded surprised and not at all pleased to see his visitor.

“John—sorry to disturb, I’m sure you’re busy. It’s about the chapter meeting this afternoon.” The dean’s tone was apologetic. “I wondered if I might have a quick look at the accounts ledgers ahead of the meeting?”

“Well—I shall be presenting the accounts myself this afternoon—I’m not sure that it would be particularly —”

“If it’s not too much trouble,” the dean said pleasantly, but firmly. “I’m afraid I don’t have a head for figures, John, not like you, and there’s always so much to take in at these meetings. I thought it would be easier for an