Sacrilege (26 page)

I had to trust to luck in climbing out of Langworth's back window, but fortunately no one passed along the path while I was making my
escape and I emerged from behind the row of houses unobserved, as far as I could tell. The air felt thick and heavy with humidity and the blue of the sky had grown hazy with a thin gauze of cloud. Samuel was right, I thought; it seemed we would have a storm soon. I decided to take the letter I had borrowed from Langworth back to my room at the Cheker, make the copy, and decipher it as quickly as possible. I recalled Sophia mentioning that the Huguenot weavers travelled regularly to London to sell their cloth; perhaps one of them could be persuaded to take a letter to Sidney for a fee.

I
n the privacy of my chamber at the inn, with the door firmly locked against the solicitous attentions of the landlady, I sat on the low bed, my legs crossed under me, hunched over a new sheet of paper with the letter and the cipher spread out before me, but when I applied myself to the first lines, I had another surprise. As I pressed on, it became clear that Langworth's correspondent was writing to him in Spanish. This was curious in itself, given that it was dated from Paris, but as the sense slowly emerged from the mass of numbers like a picture appearing out of fog, I felt a smile stealing across my face as I guessed at the identity of the author. More than once I had to pause, wiping lines of sweat from my brow and shaking my head in disbelief at what I read.

More pious exhortations followed, to trust in God and continue to serve him with patience in this matter.

I sat back on my heels and breathed out slowly to steady myself. "Bernadino de Mendoza," I whispered into the stifling air of my small room, as if speaking his name aloud would provide confirmation of my suspicions. For who else would be writing in his mother tongue from Paris but the gruff Spanish ambassador whom I had met the previous autumn at Salisbury Court? It was the nobleman Mendoza who had brought the promise of King Philip's support to the invasion conspiracy, giving the fantasies of Henry Howard and the Duke of Guise some prospect of becoming reality. Queen Elizabeth had expelled him from London at the beginning of this year when his part in the plot was discovered, and I knew King Philip had sent him directly to Paris, where he had joined forces with Guise and his Catholic League, as well as those exiled English Catholics who still dreamed of putting Mary Stuart on the English throne.

So Langworth was corresponding with Mendoza. Harry Robinson must be ignorant of this, or Walsingham would have mentioned it. I pursed my lips and breathed out slowly. The conspirators who had gathered at Salisbury Court the previous autumn had been routed, but it seemed those who had driven the plot were still trying to keep it alive, waiting for the right moment to revive it. Langworth had as good as said so to Samuel. Now, this letter implied, the murder of William of Orange would hasten that moment; if the queen sent English troops
to support the Protestants in the Netherlands, England's own defences would be weakened against a joint attack by Spain and Guise's French army.
We will pray most fervently for a miracle from Saint Thomas
, Mendoza had underlined. A pious figure of speech, or something more concrete? And what was the "holy oil"?

Whatever the meaning, I needed to send the information to Walsingham as quickly as possible. I carefully folded the original ciphered letter together with my translation of it and the code I had copied and tucked them all back into my purse, lest anyone should find their way into my chamber. For obvious reasons, I had little faith in locks, though I turned the key anyway. In the passageway downstairs I was intercepted by the landlady, Marina, before I could reach the door. She gave a squeal of delight, as if I were a long-anticipated surprise, and scolded me playfully for my absence at breakfast.

"Why, we hardly see you, Master Savolino, you are so busy with your affairs. Quite the mystery, you are. What can keep you abroad in the city at all hours, I wonder?" She sent me a look laden with innuendo from beneath her eyelashes. I returned a patient smile. "And here you are off out again! Where to this time, may I ask?"

I was tempted to reply that she may not, but knew from experience that it is prudent to keep on the right side of your host.

"I have a sudden desire to eat an orange," I said. "I was going out to the market--unless you sell them here?" I raised my eyes in the direction of the taproom. She swatted at me in mock outrage.

"Do I look like an orange-girl to you?"

Orange-sellers, at least in London, were widely regarded as prostitutes. I glanced down at the mound of bosom straining against her corset and back up to her garishly painted mouth. With a basket of oranges under her arm she would not have looked out of place in a London theatre or pleasure-garden, save perhaps for her age, which was hard to judge under the makeup.

"Not at all. I meant no offence."

"None taken." She giggled again, then beckoned me back along the
passage. "But just for you, I'm sure I can find an orange tucked away somewhere. They're expensive, mind."

"I will pay, of course."

"Oh, you can make it up to me later." She winked.

God in heaven. I smiled again, more nervously this time, and followed her along the shadowy corridor towards the kitchen, wondering what price she had in mind.

"Here," she said, pushing past the cook and kitchen maid and bending to rummage in a large basket before emerging triumphant, a small, wizened orange in her hand. "Careful eating that in your room, Master Savolino," she said, making her voice husky. "You could get
very
sticky. Let me know if there's anything else I can do for you, won't you?"

I thanked her, then hurried back to my room as fast as I could, aware that she was watching me until I reached the stairs. Marina was harmless, I was sure, but the mere fact that she had decided to take a special interest in me was a disadvantage when I had hoped to pass unobserved at the inn.

With the door to my chamber locked again, I worked quickly, squeezing the juice from the orange into the shallow dish that had held the candle by my bed. I took a quill and new sheet of paper from my bag and dipped the sharpened nib into the juice. While it was still fresh, I copied out the decoded letter, noting that it was sent to Langworth and reproducing the author's signature symbol, in the hope that Walsingham would be able to corroborate it as Mendoza's. Underneath I wrote out the cipher, so that he would have it for future reference.

I waved the paper, watching as the juice dried and the words slowly faded to nothing, leaving the sheet blank, if a little warped. It was an old trick, well known to those familiar with secret correspondence; if the letter were to fall into the hands of anyone suspicious of its contents the first thing they would do would be to hold it up to the flame of a candle to see if there was a hidden message. I could only hope that no one would suspect the weavers of carrying intelligence to London, if they agreed to take the letter.

When the paper was dry, I wiped the nib of the quill, took some real ink, and scribbled a short note to Sidney on the other side, one that would not look unusual if anyone were to glance at the letter. "I am enjoying the sights of Canterbury and have hopes that my research into ecclesiastical history will soon bear fruit," I wrote, hoping he would pick up on the mention of fruit. "I expect to be here a little longer as there is much work still to be done and it would cheer me to hear from you soon. Your messenger will find me at the Cheker of Hope, where I have much news for him." I paused, the pen hovering over the paper, wondering if I should add more. The crucial thing was that Walsingham should know the invasion conspiracy was still active in Paris; it might make the queen think twice before committing troops to the war in the Netherlands. By suggesting that Sidney send his own private messenger with any letters, I was also implying that the usual channels of communication with Canterbury were not to be trusted. I signed the letter "Filippo" and sealed it.

This time it was Olivier's sister Helene who opened the door at the weavers' house. She ushered me in quickly, her face pinched with anxiety. From behind her I heard the rhythmic clatter of the looms and women's voices.

"Wait here. I will fetch my brother."

"I'm sorry if I upset you earlier," I said, as she turned towards the stairs. "I didn't know about your son."

She lowered her eyes, twisting her fingers together.

"How could you? No one here cares to know." She fell silent for a moment, then raised her eyes and I saw they were full of tears. "Why does God test us like this?" she burst out, her fists clenched. "When all we have ever done is try to defend His truth?"

I shook my head. "I cannot defend or explain Him, I'm afraid. That's why I gave up theology."

"Sometimes it begins to look as if He is on the side of the Catholics after all. May God forgive me," she added quickly, glancing around in case anyone had overheard.

"I often think He has turned His back on our petty squabbles altogether."

She gave me a brief, sad smile.

"My Denis. He was all I had," she whispered, the sudden passion gone out of her, seeming to shrink her again. "Why would they take him?"

"What makes you think someone took him?" I asked.

She shrugged, helpless.

"I don't know ... Another boy was found dead not long before. On a rubbish heap. Cut in pieces."

"I had heard. But there is no reason to suppose they are connected, is there?"

"The worst is not knowing. It makes you imagine ..." She rubbed brusquely at her cheek with the sleeve of her dress. "But it does no good to dwell on it. Let me find Olivier."

Olivier, when he arrived, seemed irritated to see me again, but he reluctantly agreed to pass on my letter to one of the weavers who would be leaving for London the following day. I handed him some coins for the man's trouble and told him the message must be carried urgently to Sir Philip Sidney at Barn Elms, assuring him that the letter was a request for more resources that would allow us to leave Canterbury all the sooner. I asked after Sophia, and he told me curtly that she was sleeping.

"You can't keep coming to this house," he said as I was leaving, his hand resting on the latch. "My father is afraid you will be noticed. Tomorrow morning I will come and find you at the Cheker and you can give me your news then."

I strongly suspected that this was a ruse to keep me away from Sophia, but for the moment, with her safety still dependent on his family's goodwill, there seemed little point in arguing. I merely nodded and asked him to find me there at breakfast.

It was almost time for me to dine with Harry, but on my way back through the town I made a detour in search of a locksmith. The keys
I had taken from Langworth's hidden chest were weighing down my pouch. I could only hope that the treasurer had been so occupied with the dean's interest in his ledgers that he had not had time to return to his secret room and notice anything was missing. If I could make copies of the keys and restore the originals to the strongbox while Langworth was out at the chapter meeting, there was a chance that my theft might go undiscovered for the moment. Without any clue as to what the keys might open, I was guessing in the dark, but the fact that they had been so carefully hidden meant they must have some significance. There was always a chance that one had been taken from Sir Edward Kingsley's belt as he lay dying. Somehow, I must contrive to find a means of trying the lock of his mysterious cellar during my visit to St. Gregory's later that night.

Tom Garth waved me through the main gate into the cathedral precincts, after I had held up my hands to show him I had no knife at my belt. This time I had thought it prudent to tuck the knife inside my boot. Now that I knew I had an enemy within the cathedral, I had no intention of making myself any more vulnerable than I already felt, working here alone, a stranger and a foreigner with Harry Robinson my only ally--Harry, whom I was not sure I could trust and who I knew did not trust me.

It was not yet noon and I had hoped for a chance to talk to Harry alone while Samuel was preparing the meal, but before I could reach his house I spotted him by the Middle Gate, leaning on his stick and deep in conversation with a tall man, almost completely bald and wearing a black clerical robe. Harry nodded a greeting and his companion turned with a flustered expression, his hands folded inside the sleeves of his gown.

"Good day to you," Harry announced with a cheerful smile as I approached. "Dean Rogers--may I introduce you to the esteemed Doctor Filippo Savolino, a scholar of Padua and Oxford and friend of the Sidney family, who is visiting me from London for a few days?" He gave a little flourish with his outstretched hand; I had the impression that he relished the chance to remind the dean of his connections at court.

I bowed to Dean Rogers, curious to see the man who had unknowingly saved me from discovery in Langworth's bedchamber earlier. He had a long, equine face, large brown eyes and a harried air about him, as though he were constantly worried that he ought to be somewhere else. He smiled as he shook my hand.