Sacrilege

Walsingham stood, making a show of sorting the papers on his desk into two piles and arranging them neatly side by side.

‘Well, we will put that to Castelnau when I summon him to an audience with the Queen. Tell him to give it some thought, Bruno. Meanwhile, I am intrigued to hear about your pilgrimage. What attraction can Canterbury hold for you, hmm?’

I hesitated again. There was a risk in telling Walsingham the truth; he might forbid me outright, for any number of reasons, and to make the journey against his express wishes would result in my being dismissed from his service, which I could not afford either in terms of income or patronage. But there was a greater risk in not telling him, since he would discover the truth anyway; no one kept secrets from Walsingham, not even the King of Spain or the Pope himself. So I stepped forward, as if taking my place on a stage, and gave them a brief précis of the story Sophia had told me, leaving out any details that I thought might compromise her. When I had finished, Sidney was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, staring at me with new admiration, while his father-in-law looked fiercer than ever.

‘I remember the Rector’s daughter,’ Sidney said, with a lascivious grin. ‘You sly dog, Bruno.’

Walsingham’s face remained serious. ‘You have had your head turned by this woman before, I think, Bruno. What proof have you that she didn’t murder her husband?’

I spread my hands wide. ‘No proof except her word, your honour. But I am willing to take the risk.’

‘So I see. But I’m not sure that I’m willing for you to put yourself in that position.’ He cupped his chin in his hand, his long fingers stretched across his mouth as he continued to regard me with a thoughtful expression. It was a familiar gesture of his, one he employed when he was weighing up a situation, as if his hand were a mask to hide any tell-tale emotion. ‘There was some doubt over her religion, as I recall?’

I paused briefly before looking up and meeting his eye.

‘I assure you that she follows no unorthodox religion now, your honour.’ I refrained from adding that she followed no religion at all.

Walsingham scanned my face with his practised gaze, as if for any twitch of a nerve that might betray a lie. My throat felt dry, and I reminded myself that I was still on the same side as Walsingham, even if on this matter I needed to bend the truth a little. What must it be like to be interrogated by him, I wondered. That steely, unswerving stare could break a man’s defences even without the threat of torture – a measure he did not shy from in the interest of defending the realm.

This scrutiny seemed to last several minutes until, with a flick of his hand, he dismissed the idea.

‘Impossible, anyway. I need to know what is unfolding in France the minute King Henri writes to his Ambassador. We can’t afford to have you away from the embassy.’

I bowed my head and said nothing; from the corner of my eye I noticed Sidney looking at me with concern.

‘With respect, Sir Francis – Bruno is not our only source of intelligence from France,’ he said, his former languor all brushed away and his tone serious. ‘And he could be useful in Canterbury.’

Walsingham looked taken aback at this unexpected mutiny and a small furrow appeared briefly in his brow, but when he realised Sidney was in earnest his expression changed to one of cautious curiosity.

‘That is the first time I have heard you express any interest in your constituency.’ He turned to me. ‘You know Sidney was returned as Member of Parliament for Kent this year? Though I don’t think the people of Kent could accuse him of being over-attentive to their needs.’

‘Never been,’ Sidney said, with cheerful insouciance. ‘Bruno can report back for me. That way I’ll be fully briefed in time for the autumn session.’

‘Bruno would be too conspicuous,’ Walsingham said, after a moment’s reflection.

‘Not necessarily,’ Sidney countered. ‘No one knows him there. He might have an easier time of it than Harry. Besides, if men of standing in the city are being murdered – you never know …’

Walsingham frowned again and I swivelled my head between them, trying to follow this new direction. Sidney glanced across and gave me an almost imperceptible nod of encouragement while Walsingham was deep in thought.

‘Canterbury is not an immediate priority,’ Walsingham said at length, with a tone of finality.

‘We do not know how much of a priority it is, since Harry’s letters are so patchy,’ Sidney said, without pausing for breath. ‘Remember how well Bruno served Her Majesty in Oxford?’ he added, with a subtle smile.

‘I have not forgotten, Philip. But neither have I forgotten that he helped save England from an invasion of Catholic forces last year, and he did that from within the French embassy.’

‘I still think Bruno has a talent for making friends and gaining confidences in places neither you nor I nor Harry can go. He may uncover more than a murderer in Canterbury, given the chance.’ Sidney folded his arms across his chest and sent Walsingham a meaningful look; I recognised the stubborn cast to his jaw and knew that he did not mean to back down in this argument. While I appreciated his willingness to square up to his father-in-law on my behalf, I was not entirely sure what he was petitioning for. Too conspicuous for what?

‘Forgive me,’ I said, as they continued to glare at one another, ‘but who is Harry?’

Walsingham turned to me, sighed, and waved me towards a chair. Then he pushed his own chair back, stood up from behind his desk, and moved in front of the fireplace, diamonds of bright sunlight patterning his neat black doublet and breeches as he paced, rubbing his beard with his right hand.

‘What do you know of Canterbury, Bruno?’

I shrugged. ‘Only that until the English Church broke with Rome, it was one of the most important pilgrim shrines in Europe.’

‘And one of the most lucrative. The monks of the former priory raked in a fortune from pilgrims through their trade in relics and indulgences, and the rest of the city profited greatly from the vast numbers of the faithful – hostelries, cobblers, farriers, every industry that serves those who travel long distances.’ He set his mouth in a grim line. ‘There are a great many in that city who have seen their incomes dwindle and their family’s fortunes fall since the shrine was destroyed.’

‘So there are plenty who hanker after the old faith, I imagine?’

‘Exactly. Remember, the shrine was only destroyed in 1538. Forty-six years is not long for a city to forget or forgive such a loss of status. There are plenty still living who carry bitter memories of what the Royal Commissioners did to the abbey and the shrine, and hand that resentment down to their children and grandchildren.’

‘Who watch and wait, clinging to the belief that one day soon England will have a Catholic sovereign again, and the shrine of Canterbury will be restored to its former glory,’ Sidney cut in.

‘Except that lately we fear they have been doing more than merely watching and waiting,’ Walsingham added.

‘But the Archbishop of Canterbury is the most senior prelate of the English Church,’ I said. ‘Surely he is extra careful about religious obedience in his own See?’

‘The Archbishop is never there,’ Walsingham replied. ‘He is too busy politicking in London. The Dean and the canons have de facto power in the city, and one never knows how many of them may hold secret loyalties in their hearts.’

‘One in particular,’ Sidney added darkly.

‘Who has connections to some of those involved in the conspiracy against the Queen last autumn.’ Walsingham looked at me. ‘Including your friend Lord Henry Howard.’

I recalled Sophia saying that her late husband had been a lay canon at the cathedral. If there were plots brewing there, might he have known something of them, given his penchant for secrecy?

‘Then there is the cult of the saint,’ Walsingham added, lowering his voice as if to begin a ghost tale. ‘Do you know the story of Thomas Becket, Bruno?’

‘Of course – we had shrines to him even in Italy. The former archbishop who was murdered in the cathedral.’

Walsingham nodded. ‘He was a great friend of the King – Henry II, this is – who thought he could use Becket to promote his own interests against the Church. But Becket refused the King’s demands. In 1170 their quarrel came to a head.’

‘“Will no one rid me of this turbulent priest?”’ Sidney declared, with relish. ‘So the King said, according to the legend, and four of his knights chose to take that as a direct command.’

‘They murdered him as he knelt at prayer, if I remember right?’ I said.

‘Struck him down with their swords.’ Sidney’s eyes gleamed; he had not lost his schoolboy fascination for the details of violent death. ‘Cut off the crown of his head, so his brains spilled all over the stone floor.’

‘The King was stricken with remorse, of course,’ Walsingham continued, but I was staring open-mouthed at Sidney.

‘What did you say?’

He looked surprised.

‘They struck him down with a sword.’

‘After that. His brains.’

He made a ghoulish face. ‘An eyewitness account said the knights trod the whites of his brains across the flagstones, all churned up with his blood. Sorry to upset you, Bruno – I forget you have never been to war.’ He meant it as a joke, but his smile faded when he saw that I was not laughing with him. Sophia’s description of her husband’s murder had echoed dimly in my memory, but now it was clear; I had been thinking of the death of Thomas Becket. To cut a man down in the precincts of Canterbury Cathedral in the same manner as its most famous murder victim seemed a grim coincidence. But did it signify any more than that?