“Bruno? Is it really you?”
From the mass of objects heaped up by the disused altar, a shape detached itself and approached, picking its way carefully through the debris. Bundled into a bulky cloak, the figure stopped in front of me and drew back its hood.
I swear she had never looked more beautiful to me; the sweet relief on her face when she saw me, after what must have been hours of fear alone in the dark; her fragility in that moment, the tears that sprang involuntarily to her eyes as they searched my face. Was that the moment when I knew I loved her, and would do whatever it took to make her love me? Perhaps; all I know is that when she threw herself on me and clung around my neck as if she would never let go, I felt I would have willingly endured any amount of time in that filthy gaol cell for the glory of feeling how much she needed me in that moment.
“Oh God, Bruno, I thought you would never come,” she murmured against my neck, and then a great sob welled up within her and erupted into my shoulder.
I felt her thin shoulders shaking as she gave vent to the tension and fear that must have been building during her hours of hiding in the darkness, not knowing who would find her first. I held her until her silent cries subsided as she pressed herself fiercely against me, and I don’t remember how it happened but suddenly her open mouth found mine and I was kissing her as I had once kissed her in Oxford, but this time she did not pull away. Instead she responded, as hot and hungry as I, knotting her fingers into the hair at the back of my neck to pull me closer; I felt the wetness of the tears on her face and the wetness of her mouth, and I was still holding the candle precariously away from us in my right hand, my arm outstretched, while with my left I scrabbled at the fastening of her cloak. As it fell to the floor I pulled at the strings that held the bodice of the rough dress she wore underneath and slipped it from one shoulder; she arched backwards with a soft moan as I bent my head to take her small breast in my mouth, and at that moment I heard, unmistakably, the sound of footsteps on stone.
We froze. It was Sophia who reacted first, while I stood, helpless, dazed by desire; she blew out the candle and grabbed at her cloak, pulling me by the other hand back to her hiding place behind the altar. But I was afraid we had made enough sound to draw the attention of whoever was down here. Sophia sank to the floor, her back against the altar; I felt her trembling beside me. Trying to regain my wits and silence my ragged breath, I shuffled into a position where, by craning my neck, I could just about see through the piles of boxes into the main body of the crypt. The wavering light of a lantern crept along the floor. I slid a hand into my boot and drew out my knife.
The footsteps grew closer, then stopped, as if the person was looking around. After a few moments the light moved away a little distance. Perhaps he had not heard us after all and was searching another part of the crypt. I continued to move cautiously towards the entrance to the chapel. From here I could see that it was Langworth, his gaunt black figure outlined against the glow of the lamp, pacing slowly, turning, his right hand held out before him holding something—what? He turned again and I saw it clearly; he had a dagger too. My stomach tightened; I would wager he knew how to use it. He paused, seeming to sniff the air like a dog and I froze, expecting that at any moment he would turn in my direction with his light and see me crouching on the threshold of the chapel. But instead his behaviour was more curious. He stopped between two of the delicate marble columns and genuflected, making the sign of the cross before kneeling with his back to me and lowering his face close to the stone floor, as if he was examining it. He set the lantern on the ground beside him and pressed both hands to the stones, feeling his way along. I watched him for a moment, intrigued, before I realised this was my best chance.
Rousing myself, I leapt to my feet and ran towards him. His head jerked up at the sound but he was not quick enough and I hurled myself at his kneeling form, throwing him to the ground. He lashed out with his dagger as I did so, catching me along the length of my left forearm, but in an instant I had my own knife to his throat and I grasped his wrist with my other hand, forcing him to drop his weapon.
“What will you do, Giordano Bruno—murder me here, on hallowed ground?” he hissed, as I pressed his head against the cold stone. “You think even your puppet master Walsingham could protect you from the consequences of that?”
“Did you think twice before you murdered in a place of sanctuary?”
He let out a hollow laugh, though it emerged strangled by the angle of his head. I had him pinned facedown against the stones, one hand holding his head, the other keeping my knife point at his throat, yet I had the strange sensation that he was not afraid of me.
“I have killed no one,” he said, with remarkable calm.
“What about Edward Kingsley?”
Again, that sardonic laugh, as if my ignorance amused him.
“Edward Kingsley was my friend. I am the very last person who would have had an interest in his death. In fact, it has caused me nothing but inconvenience. And sorrow, naturally,” he added, as an afterthought. “The only person whose blood I should not be sorry to have on my hands is yours.”
“You are very free with your threats for a man with a knife to his throat,” I said, nettled.
“You will not kill me. You cannot. You must present me to Walsingham alive so that I can be questioned in the Tower, is it not so? We both know you would not be forgiven for destroying such a valuable source of information. Besides, you need someone to answer for Kingsley’s murder at the assizes or his wife cannot be found innocent, and that is your whole purpose here, is it not?” The scar at the edge of his lips curved into a lascivious smirk. “I have no intention of letting you hand me to the queen’s torturers, by the way. Henry Howard warned me you were slippery, but I have allies in this town and you have none.”
I took a deep breath, keeping my knife steady. He was right; I could not kill him, here or anywhere, and if I hurt him it would only strengthen the case against me at the coming trial. I dug my knee harder into his back and he winced sharply, but would not give me the satisfaction of crying out.
“Where is Thomas Becket?” I hissed in his ear.
“Dead and gone,” he said, but I noticed his eyes flicker towards the place he had just been examining.
“You lie.”
By way of answer he laughed softly. My patience snapped; transferring my knife to my left hand, I hooked my right arm around his throat so that his Adam’s apple fitted in the crook of my elbow and began to squeeze gently. The movement took him by surprise and he tried to cry out but I was already crushing the breath from him. I could feel my arm trembling as I increased the pressure; I had learned this trick in Rome, where I had also learned that if you misjudge the timing by even a heartbeat it can be fatal. In barely a moment, Langworth’s eyes began to bulge and cloud over and his body went limp under me. I lowered him to the floor and tucked my knife away, heart thudding against my ribs. When I looked up, Sophia was standing beside me, her eyes wide with fear.
“Christ’s blood, Bruno, have you killed him?”
“I hope not.” I reached under Langworth’s slumped form and pressed my hand to his chest. At first I feared my gamble had not paid off, but after a moment’s groping I found the faint flutter of his heart. “No, thank God. He has passed out, but I don’t know how long before he comes round. We have to work quickly. Take this.” I handed her Langworth’s lantern. “See if there is anything stored in that side chapel we could use as a lever.”
I took the tinderbox and my spare candle from inside my doublet. When it was alight, I melted a little wax on the floor and stood the candle upright. Though the light was poor, I could make out traces on the flagstones where Langworth had been kneeling, the outline of an oblong shape where the stone felt of a different texture. He had made the sign of the cross here; his piety had given him away.
There was a narrow gap between the flagstones and I tried to prise one by inserting my fingers but it was too heavy. Impatiently, I watched Langworth’s face for flickers of life as I waited for Sophia to return. After a moment she appeared, triumphant, holding a rusting shovel in one hand and the light in the other.
“Better than I had hoped,” I said, taking the shovel from her. I inserted the digging edge under the flagstone, hoping it was not so fragile that it would snap with the weight. But the stone lifted easily, as if it was used to being moved. I motioned to Sophia to bring the lantern closer and my heart sank; in the cavity I could see only rubble.
“There might be something beneath that,” she said.
Kneeling, she began to scrape away the loose covering of stones and earth. I leaned in to join her, one eye still on Langworth, until eventually she gave a small cry.
“I can feel a sharp corner here,” she whispered. I brought the lantern in close and she brushed away the dirt with her hand; there, only a foot beneath the surface, was the edge of what looked like a marble coffin.
“We need to get up the other flagstones,” I said. I worked quickly; though the stones were heavy, I barely
