Whose bones were they? Walsingham smiled as he watched my widening eyes.
Ah. So the body in the tomb was a substitute?
No one knows for certain. But the legend persists that in 1538 some among the priory monks, knowing the sword was about to fall on the cathedral shrine, hid the real body of Becket to save it from destruction. Since then, custody of his bones has passed down to a small number of guardians, who are preserving it in secret until the great Catholic reconquest that many would like to believe is inevitable, when the shrine can be rebuilt. You understand?
I nodded slowly.
If people believe the holy relics of Becket are still safe, they have a focus for their resistance.
Precisely. The bones of Saint Thomas are said to have miraculous powers. Some claim they have even raised the dead. For those who believe, they can certainly raise the city of Canterbury back to prosperity again.
But you have no idea where the body might be hidden?
We have no idea if the story is even true, Walsingham replied, a little curtly, as if I had cast aspersions on his efficiency. But the fact that it exists at all is a problem. Someone with enough cunning could wave around the thigh-bone of an ox, claiming it was Beckets, and there are plenty who would flock to it if it promised them prosperity and salvation.
And is there a suggestion that this could happen?
There are always rumours, he said, with a dismissive wave. Most of my work is sifting through rumour and speculation, hoping to chance upon a grain of truth like a gem in a dungheap. You have seen for yourself how the English love their superstitions and prophecies. He gave a quiet snort and resumed his pacing. And Canterbury is significant, in that it is close to the Kent coast. If the city was sympathetic, it could be of great assistance to a Catholic invading force. I have a man there inside the cathedral Chapter, Harry Robinson, who keeps an eye on those we suspect of disloyalty and reports back to me.
But Harry grows old now, Sir Francis, and his eyes and ears are not what they were, Sidney persevered. And there are many places he cannot tread, given his position. He made his voice persuasive, but Walsingham looked unmoved.
This is not a good time to be a foreigner in England, Philip. The poor harvest, the threat of plague and now there will be more refugees arriving from the Netherlands if the Spanish come down harder on them. Her Majesty would not countenance closing our ports to Protestants fleeing persecution, though there are those on the Privy Council who would argue for it. But the feeling among the common people is that there are just too many incomers now, taking bread and work from Englishmen. Resentment stews until it erupts in violence. Saving your presence, Bruno. But you would be a good deal safer if you stay at Salisbury Court.
Not if the plague comes, Sidney argued, with a note of triumph. Besides, you cannot rely on Harry to tell you the truth about the money.
What money? I looked at Walsingham.
He sighed. Do you know how much the cathedral foundations of England are worth, Bruno? I shook my head. More than thirty-five thousand pounds, put together, he continued. And what are they? For the most part, that money does nothing but support small communities of learned men to live in fine houses debating theology among themselves over a good dinner. While the poor parishes all around are served by barely literate priests, and superstition and popery are allowed to flourish. Englands cathedrals have become no better than the monasteries they replaced. With sufficient evidence of mis-spending, it would be quite admissible to close some of them down.
My father-in-law wants to do for the cathedrals what Lord Cromwell in the Queens fathers time did for the religious houses, Sidney said, with a mischievous glance at Walsingham. To pay for the Dutch war.
Walsingham looked exasperated, and seemed about to reprimand him when we heard a sharp knock at the door.
Yes? Walsingham snapped, and his steward put his head apologetically through the smallest possible gap.
There is a gentleman at the door says he must see you, sir.
What gentleman?
He will not give his name, but he says you will want to hear his message.
I was touched to see how Sidney rose instantly, his hand reaching instinctively to his left side, where he would carry his sword if he were more formally dressed.
Should I come?
He has been searched, Sir Philip, and he is not armed, the steward assured him.
Walsingham laughed then, and I read affection in the way he looked at his son-in-law. Peace, Philip. I have survived this long without you guarding my every step. Besides, there are armed men at the gate.
It was true; given the number of Catholics who would like to run the Queens Principal Secretary through with a dagger, Walsinghams house was as well guarded as if he were a royal heir.
Dont go anywhere, he said, with a warning finger directed between us, while I see whether this messenger brings a gem, or more dung.
As soon as the door had shut, Sidney turned to me and grinned broadly, stretching his legs out on the window seat and clasping his hands behind his head again. He will let you go, fear not. He only objects to remind you who is in charge, and because he hates the idea of changing plans without due consideration.
Well, I thank you for your efforts on my behalf, I said, loosening my collar and flapping the material of my shirt to create a semblance of a breeze. Anyone would think you wanted rid of me, I added, returning his smile. I was curious as to why he would run the risk of displeasing Walsingham in order that I should have my own way.
Listen, Bruno He yawned, stretched his long limbs, and fixed me with an earnest look. It would do you good to get out of London. God knows, I feel the need for it myself. But you have been confined to the embassy for a year, spending all your time with that book of yours. I dont like to see you brooding so much.
I prefer to call it thinking, I said. I am a philosopher, after all.
Call it what you will, I think you could do with a bit of adventure in every sense. You need to live a little. He gave a crude thrust of his hips and winked.
I had my share of adventure during my first six months in England. I cheated death more than once. Besides, I added, I am not the one idling around the house growing fat while my wife embroiders my shirts.
He jumped to his feet and I thought he would feign a punch in my direction, but instead he looked down at himself in alarm, both hands laid flat across his stomach.
Oh, God, you speak the truth, Bruno. I am grown soft. He appeared so stricken that I had to smile.
I was only baiting you. But you are happy?
He glanced at the door, then gave a half-shrug. I have an eighteen-year-old wife and my debts are settled. What man would not be happy? But there was an edge to his voice that I could not miss.
And yet you want to go to war?
And yet, yes, it seems I have this inexplicable longing to torment the Spanish. I just want to be doing something, Bruno, you understand? He clenched and unclenched his fists and after a moments silence produced a tight laugh. But I had better not go to war until I have got myself an heir, had I? Just in case. And there seems no sign of that, despite my best efforts. Anyway, he sat down again, patted his belly and forced a lightness into his tone, we were not talking about me. You should get yourself a woman, Bruno, you spend too much time alone. I see how your face changes when you talk about the Rectors daughter no, dont deny it. She matters to you. Youve saved her life once already, at the risk of your own.
Then I abandoned her to a fate she didnt deserve.
Well then, dont make the same mistake twice, he said, matter-of-factly. I will work on Walsingham. But be prepared to find yourself hunting for the corpse of a dead saint as well as a murderer.
Since I seem to have a knack of stumbling over corpses wherever I turn, perhaps I am the man for the job, I said. But again the similarity between Sophias words and Sidneys pricked at my thoughts, and I pictured the dead mans brains spilling out of his shattered skull across the worn flagstones.
I hoped Sidneys optimism was well founded. Their story about the secret cult of Saint Thomas had piqued my interest in the city of Canterbury yet further, but above all I wanted to visit Sophia at the tavern that evening with good news, to see the colour in her face and hope in her eyes. Two impossible tasks to find a dead saint and a living murderer but, as Sidney said, it was better than sitting idle, waiting for fate to unfold its design around you.
CANTERBURYFOUR
The road out of London towards Kent, known as Watling Street, was still busy with traders and drovers, though the traffic of pilgrims had long since stopped. We set out early, but weeks without rain had baked the unpaved track hard as stone and before we had even reached Southwark my eyes and throat were stinging from the clouds of dust flung up by hooves and cartwheels. Every traveller we passed wore a cloth tied around his or her mouth and nose, and I resolved to buy something similar in whichever town we came to next.
Sophia rode beside me, the peak of her cap pulled low over her face. She had barely spoken since we set out and, though I could see little of her expression, the tense line of her jaw betrayed her anxiety at the journey we were now undertaking. Perhaps, after pinning so much hope on its outcome, she had finally begun to appreciate the grave danger she would face when she rode back through the gates of the city that wanted her arrested for murder. Now and again she would clear her throat and I would turn expectantly, waiting for her to speak, but she would only smile wearily and indicate the dust.
I had hired two strong horses at considerable expense, paid for partly out of the purse Walsingham had sent to cover my stay in Canterbury. Eventually he had relented, according to the messenger who had been waiting for me in the street outside the embassy with an encrypted letter two days after my visit to Barn Elms. In it Walsingham had included a fully stamped travel licence, without which I would risk arrest for vagrancy, and instructions that I was not to travel under my own name, nor was I to reveal it under any circumstances to anyone in Canterbury except Harry Robinson.
My host, the French Ambassador, had been reluctant to let me go, but he acknowledged that he had no power to forbid me from travelling, since I did so (he believed) at his sovereigns expense. He bade me farewell with genuine affection and regret in the midst of his own arrangements for moving the embassy household to the countryside, and I felt a pang of sadness at leaving, though it was outweighed by the delight on Sophias face as she flung her arms around my neck when I told her the news.
Now she was riding at my side as the sun climbed higher into a sky of untouched blue and the road stretched out before us, and I could not suppress a swelling sense of anticipation. Sophias future depended on the outcome of this journey; if I could clear her of the charges of murder, I could also clear my own conscience of the guilt that had hung heavy on any thought of her since the events in Oxford. Freed of these burdens, might we not begin again, as if on a fresh page?
There was also the prospect, after almost a year spent at a desk buried in books and astronomical charts, of proving my worth again to Walsingham and the Queen. The goodwill of princes was fickle, as every courtier knew, and an ambassador could be recalled or expelled at a moments notice. I was certain that my own best prospects, if I wanted to go on writing my books without fear of the Inquisition, lay at the court of England, not France, but to ensure myself a future there I needed Walsingham to value me for my own skills and not merely for my useful connection to the French embassy.
Sophias horse gave an impatient little whinny and tossed its mane, making her start in the saddle. I turned, but she recovered her poise and purposefully ignored my expression of concern, her eyes fixed on the road. She rode competently enough, though she looked uncomfortable astride the horse, her long legs pressed tightly against its sides. I tried not to dwell on this thought. She was unused to riding like a man, I supposed, and the stiffness of her posture in the saddle could give her away. One more small trap to avoid, if her boys disguise were to hold up. I concentrated my gaze again on the tips of my horses ears. There would be danger in this for both of us; I was not so caught up in dreams of adventure as to pretend otherwise. If Sophia was recognised within the city walls of Canterbury, she would be arrested to await trial for her husbands murder, and if my search for the evidence to vindicate her did not succeed before the assizes, she would face certain execution. There were other dangers too; if the real killer was still in the city and thought he had escaped blame, he would not thank a stranger for asking awkward questions. Anyone who could strike a man down with such force that his brains spilled over the ground would surely not hesitate to dispatch those who seemed overly curious. And as for the legend of Beckets corpse, I could not help but remember that my last attempt to infiltrate the underground Catholic resistance had very nearly ended fatally.
The one consolation was that no one knew me in Canterbury; I was free to present myself in any guise I chose. At my belt I wore a purse of money, with another inside my riding boots and another wrapped in linen shirts in the panniers slung over my saddle. Across my back I carried a leather satchel containing my travel licence and a letter sealed in thick crimson wax with Sidneys coat of arms, recommending me as a visiting scholar to his former tutor, the Reverend Doctor Harry Robinson, and requesting that he make me welcome during my stay in Canterbury. The letter was a cover, naturally, in case I needed to explain myself to any inquisitive authorities along the road. Robinson had never been Sidneys tutor, though he was apparently acquainted with the family of Sidneys mother, but the Sidney coat of arms ought to be sufficient protection against the bullying of petty officials. So that I might travel anonymously if I should be searched, Walsingham had sent a fast rider ahead to Harry Robinson two days earlier with an encrypted letter explaining who I was and the true nature of my business in Canterbury, and requesting Doctor Robinson to assist me for Walsinghams sake as best he could.
What I was to do with Sophia was another matter, I thought, glancing over at her as she rode, head bowed, teeth gritted. I had omitted to mention to either Walsingham or Sidney that I was planning to take her to Canterbury with me I already knew all the arguments they would make against such folly. My belt held a sheath for the bone-handled knife that had saved my life more than once, and which a more superstitious man might have been tempted to regard as a good-luck charm.