through fifty or more of these cases unpaid would test any man’s patience, I supposed, but my gut twisted with anger at the thought that any man could be so casual with another’s life. Hale nodded for the old man to stand down. As he was taken from the bar, his eyes cast around wildly and landed on me, wide and pleading. “Speak for me, brother!” he cried out, as he was led back to us. “You know the truth!” I nodded, hoping to offer him some comfort, but that only caused more whispering and pointing in my direction.
Hale shuffled papers, made notes, replaced his quill carefully in its stand, sniffed his pomander, and eventually looked up from his list.
“The Italian, Filippo Savolino.”
I was led out to the bar accompanied by a groundswell of murmuring that rose to such a crescendo that again the bailiff had to bang his stick for silence. I confirmed my name on oath, thinking as I did so that I had already perjured myself, so in a sense I was at liberty to say anything.
“One count of murder and robbery, of the apothecary William Fitch. One count of attempted murder and robbery, of Master Nicholas Kingsley. Two further counts of robbery—of keys from the house of Canon John Langworth and money to the value of ten shillings from the treasury of Christ Church cathedral. Quite a tally, for a man who has not been in the city a week, is it not, Master Savolino?” He raised an enquiring eyebrow, then glanced again at the paper in front of him. “Forgive me—
I bowed my head in acknowledgement.
“What are you a doctor of?”
“Theology.”
“Well.” He laid one large hand flat on the desk. “It will please the goodmen of the jury to know that I will not test this claim by engaging you in theological debate.” There was a smattering of polite laughter. He gave me a long, steady look, but his face was still unreadable. “Either you are a most heinous felon, travelling under false credentials and taking advantage of good men of this town to work your foul purposes”—here he left a little pause, enough to allow a hum of approval from the crowd—“or there are people here intent on making you appear so. We had better hear the witnesses to these charges before you give your plea.” He lifted the paper in front of him and checked it. “Unfortunately, as most of you will know, the principal witness in the murder of Master Fitch, Doctor Ezekiel Sykes, is unable to testify before this court, having been himself the victim of a terrible murder only yesterday.”
“Not guilty,” I said, unable to resist. A ripple of laughter ran through the audience, in spite of themselves. Hale sent me a stern look, recalling Edmonton’s words about the judge’s dislike for sharp wits in court, though I fancied I saw the corner of his mouth twitch before he sucked it back to solemnity.
“Instead the court will hear the deposition Doctor Sykes gave to Mayor Fitzwalter the morning of Fitch’s death.”
Fitzwalter took the floor without looking at me, cleared his throat, and began to read. Whether the words had truly come from Sykes or been invented later by Langworth, it hardly mattered; the whole was based on the lie that Sykes had been present in the shop when I entered and had left me there alone with Fitch, rather than the other way around. Those of the jurymen that were still alert nodded sagely to one another; the spectators gasped and tutted at appropriate moments, like the audience at a play. I hardly listened; it hardly mattered. All my thoughts were bound up with what I should say when I was given the opportunity to speak.
I would have a ready audience: before the whole courtroom and the queen’s justice I could announce that I knew the killer of Sir Edward Kingsley and Doctor Sykes. I could tell them that the weaver’s son, Olivier Fleury, had used his father’s key to take a crucifix from the crypt, lain in wait for Sir Edward, and struck him down as he walked from the Archbishop’s Palace to John Langworth’s house, knowing he was expected there after supper. But there was my problem. When the justice asked why Olivier would have wanted to kill the magistrate, I would have to explain that he did it for his lover, the woman Canterbury knew as Mistress Kate Kingsley, to free her from her husband and ensure that she would inherit his estate. They meant for Nicholas Kingsley to be blamed—they even sent a false message ensuring he would be seen at the cathedral at the right time—but Tom Garth had complicated their plan by planting evidence that meant Mistress Kingsley was accused instead. Fortunately—and here my voice would grow thick with the bitterness of betrayal—Mistress Kingsley found a solution; she knew a credulous fool, a man the king of France once declared cleverer than all the doctors of the Sorbonne put together, but a fool nonetheless, who would be all too willing to solve this difficulty for her.
And Doctor Sykes? the justice would ask. Why would Olivier Fleury want to kill Sykes? And I would have to say, because he learned that Sykes had killed his sister’s son. He learned this yesterday morning from his sister, who learned it from Mistress Kingsley, who in turn learned it from me as I sat on the bed we shared at the house of Doctor Harry Robinson who, yes, has been harbouring a fugitive all this time. If Hale gave me the benefit of the doubt, both Olivier and Sophia would both be arrested.
I gripped the bar in front of me and stared at my hands as the knuckles turned white. A cold, hard knot lodged in the top of my chest when I thought about Sophia; her easy lies, her softness, her false affection. She brought me here to serve a purpose, to put her original plan back on track, to prove Nick Kingsley guilty of his father’s murder so that she could inherit. So that—what? She could run away with Olivier? The thought caught me like a blow to the stomach; I doubled over with the force of it and heard Hale say, “Look to the prisoner there! Are you well enough to stand, my man?”
I raised my head and nodded; his face was creased with concern and unexpectedly I felt my eyes fill with tears, so that I had to look away in case he took it as a confession.
“Fetch him a drink,” Hale barked, and after some fuss one of the army of black-gowned clerks came forward with a tankard of small beer. I took a sip, breathed deeply, and tried to compose myself.
More witnesses were called: the locksmith, who embellished his tale with details of how shifty I looked, how he had thought there was something suspect about a stranger wanting keys cut, how I had slipped him an extra penny not to mention it. Someone has certainly slipped you an extra penny or two, I thought, and my heart sank; if the witnesses had been bribed, why not the jury? Rebecca tried valiantly to defend me when her turn came, but as I had predicted, her breathless enthusiasm for my innocence began to sound overdone. “She has a liking for the Italian tongue, that one,” someone called out from the back of the crowd, and the room dissolved in ribald laughter and catcalls. Nick Kingsley took the floor with relish to tell how I had talked my way into his house then attempted to break into his father’s cellar and nearly beaten him to death when he tried to stop me. Finally Edmonton rose to give his account of finding a bag of money taken from the cathedral treasury in my room at Harry Robinson’s house, a tale he spun with such lingering pleasure that Hale had to call him to order and ask him to hurry it up. By the time he had finished, the din from the spectators and the jurymen had swelled to a level that meant the bailiff had to pound his staff again and call for silence.
“Well, prisoner.” Hale looked at me from under the ledge of his thick brow. “How do you answer?”
“Not guilty, Your Honour.” A chorus of boos and hisses went up from the room. I waited for it to subside. “These are false charges. Every one. And the testimonies you have heard against me.”
“You are suggesting that all these witnesses, including the late Doctor Sykes, have deliberately perjured themselves? What have you done, that so many in this town would falsely accuse you, knowing the consequences?”
I looked at him and then around me at the faces staring expectantly, weighing up how much I might say. Harry was right; it would cause more harm than good to denounce Langworth in front of all these people. His plans for Becket had to remain a secret. Langworth must be dealt with privately.
“I can only presume that foreigners are not much liked in this town, Your Honour. We are easy scapegoats. Anything can be blamed on our barbarous ways—it is so much easier than acknowledging one of our friends or neighbours could be a murderer. As for the witnesses—words can be bought.”
Another wave of outraged roars and cries of “For shame!” from those standing. Hale tilted his head to one side.
“You seem to be suggesting that someone in this town would have paid people to speak against you under oath. Who do you suppose that person to be?” His eyes bore into me. “Bearing in mind that this would be a very serious accusation indeed.”
I glanced at Langworth, whose lizard tongue flicked nervously over his lips. Hale’s gaze followed mine. A deathly silence hung over the room.
“I make no such direct accusation, Your Honour.”
Hale picked up his pen, examined its nib for a moment, replaced it. “Have you anything else to say?”
