Sacrilege

only ever tried to serve Him faithfully, though He has seen fit to send me so much suffering at the hands of heretics.”

I laid a hand over his and a silent tear trickled down his hollow cheek. His words reminded me of Hélène’s, and I felt suddenly overwhelmed by the weight of their grief and bewilderment; all over our bloody continent, Catholics and Protestants alike went on dying at one another’s hands, all looking up to heaven and crying out to their God, Whose side are You on? While their God remains deaf, saying nothing, because on both sides they have failed to understand who or what He is, as they spill more blood in His name.

Hours passed, or what felt like hours. The old monk leaned against my side and I watched with almost filial concern as his papery eyelids fell and his ragged breathing slowed. I may have dozed myself for a while; it was hard to tell, in that half-light and filth, what was real. The only means of telling that time had passed at all was the way the light fell at a different angle through the arrow slit in the wall opposite. I rested my head back against the dank stone and repeated the old man’s words over to myself, trying to fit them into the puzzle.

Eventually there came the sound of a key grinding in the lock and the prisoners stirred as one from their stupor. The door opened a crack and the gaoler’s face appeared.

“You. The Spaniard.” He pointed his stick at me. “Get up.”

“I am Italian,” I said wearily.

“You’re a lucky bastard, is what you are. Don’t keep them waiting.”

I disentangled myself from the old monk, who clutched at my shirt in alarm.

“Frater!” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “Don’t leave me.”

“I will come back,” I told him, with a stab of guilt; still his hand flailed at me and I had to shake him off. As I stood, the gaoler gripped me tight around the arm and dragged me through the narrow gap to the top of the stairs. When he had locked the door behind me, he pointed his stick at my chest and motioned downwards.

“Follow me and don’t try anything. You’re wanted at the Guildhall.”

I had no idea of what this might mean, but his mention of luck kindled a small flicker of hope in my breast. Had my message reached Harry, and had he been able to use his influence with the authorities?

Edmonton awaited us at the foot of the stairs, his face tight with anger. The same two guards stood beside him and took up their places flanking me with their pikestaffs as I stepped out of the door, squinting into the shade beneath the gate, but this time they did not hold my arms. I was escorted back up the High Street, where curious shoppers and traders paused to follow our party with their eyes, leaning in and whispering to their neighbours. I did not meet their eyes, but kept walking in a straight line, following Edmonton’s stiff back. He had not said a word to me, but the contained fury of his demeanour encouraged my hopes further; he had the face of a man who is about to have a prize snatched out of his hands and can do nothing to prevent it. He strode on ahead of me and my guards, head set high, enjoying the appearance of control and the deference his position seemed to elicit from the townspeople. Let him have his little parade, I thought, as long as I walk free at the end of it. Above us the sky was still overcast, with rows of clouds bunched like dirty wool, and the heat trapped beneath it felt thick and stale, as if the air could not move. The sun was no more than a pale gleam; it was hard to tell what time of day it might be. I guessed at early afternoon.

Edmonton stopped in front of an imposing building in the old style, with crooked beams of black timber and stone pillars either side of the main door. He gestured brusquely with his head and I followed him up the steps, through a high tiled entrance hall where he paused for a brief exchange in low voices with a man in the robes of a clerk. This man glanced at me warily throughout the conversation, which I could not hear, at the end of which we were led through a small antechamber into a larger room with a high ceiling and a series of leaded windows. My gaze fell first upon two familiar faces—Dean Rogers and Samuel, who stood to the left of a broad oak desk. The dean took a half step forward as I was ushered in by the guards, his face creased with concern, but it was Samuel’s eyes I met and held with my own, wanting to see what might be written there. But the look he gave me was empty of any emotion, except perhaps insolence, as if he knew I was waiting for him to betray himself and did not mean to give me the satisfaction.

“You are the prisoner Filippo Savolino?” A clear, precise voice cut across my thoughts. Reluctantly I switched my attention from Samuel to the speaker, the man seated behind the desk, and noticed for the first time that he wore a heavy gold chain of office around his neck. He was perhaps in his early fifties, with fair hair that receded from his high forehead but compensated by curling down over his collar, and a beard thickly flecked with grey. He might have been a handsome man if his eyes had not been curiously small, as if he were permanently squinting into a strong light.

“I am,” I said, then, glancing at his chain, added, “Your Worship,” with a deferential lowering of my head. I did not get out of Geneva without learning how to deploy a little judicious humility. So this was the mayor Meg had warned me about. Also a friend of Edward Kingsley, according to Sophia.

The mayor’s face visibly softened at this recognition of his status, though I noticed he winced slightly every time he caught the stench coming off me.

“Well, Savolino. I am Humphrey Fitzwalter, Mayor of Canterbury, as you have divined. Dean Rogers tells me you are a distinguished scholar and an esteemed guest of one of his canons, with letters of introduction from one of the first families of Her Majesty’s court. Yet Constable Edmonton here seems to believe you are a dangerous brigand and murderer. Naturally, I am inclined to respect the dean’s judgement, but I am nonetheless curious as to how you could have given the constable reason to suspect you?”

“I fear my face and my voice are reason enough, Your Worship,” I said, again lowering my eyes.

“Your Worship,” Edmonton cut in, breathless, “I have sworn testimony from Doctor Sykes himself that this man was the last to enter the apothecary Fitch’s shop before he was beaten to death.”

“This is a lie.” I folded my arms. “I was the first to find the apothecary, as the constable knows. Perhaps this testimony was meant to draw attention away from the real perpetrators.” I glanced at Samuel as I said this, but he merely returned my look with that same level stare and I found myself gripped by a sudden urge to punch his inscrutable face.

The mayor looked from me to Edmonton with an expression of mild curiosity.

“Well,” he said, stretching out his arms on the desktop and clasping his hands together. On the little finger of each he wore a fat gold ring. “You are fortunate in your connections, it seems, Savolino. Doctor Harry Robinson has agreed to stand bail for you and Dean Rogers himself has come in person to attest to your good character. So I am persuaded to grant you your liberty, on condition that you do not leave the city. You may answer the accusations against you at the assizes in two days’ time.”

“It is absurd that I should have to answer any charges at all,” I said, drawing back my shoulders and looking him in the eye with as much dignity as I could muster in my present state. “This accusation is no more than malicious prejudice.”

Fitzwalter blinked.

“That statement could be construed as slander. The law must take its course, and the innocent have nothing to fear from its process.”

I gave a dry laugh. “In my country, the Holy Office says this to men it means to burn.”

Fitzwalter’s eyes narrowed until they were no more than red-rimmed slits in his pale face, and I glimpsed a hardness beneath the affable exterior.

“If I were you, Savolino, I would show a little more gratitude to the friends who bought your freedom, and a little more respect for authority while you are a visitor here, especially one whose name is not yet cleared.” He shuffled some papers on his desk and nodded curtly at the dean, as if to show we were dismissed. “I would also suggest you clean yourself up. You have the smell about you of a seven-day-old corpse.”

“I smell of the gaol where men are made to lie in their own filth among the rats. Your Worship,” I added, emphasizing the words.

“Oh? Would you have us provide them with feather beds?” He drew himself up, needled.

“No. But clean straw might let them feel they were still regarded as fellow men. You would not stable your horse in such conditions, I am sure.”

“No, sir, I would not. But then my horse has not murdered anyone. Dean Rogers, this man is released into your care. Against my better judgement, I will allow his knife to be returned to him. Now please get him and his peculiar ideas out of my office.”

The dean smiled nervously and bustled me out of the room, pressing my knife in its sheath into my hands. In