Heresy (56 page)

“There is one favour I must ask of you in return,” I said, as we approached the door. He looked at me with mild surprise. “I have learned that Cobbett has been suspended from his duties.”

“That is correct,” the rector said. “Master Slythurst made a most serious complaint that he deliberately disregarded orders to hand over sensitive documents and allowed a thief to escape college who might otherwise have been detained.”

I stared at him, incredulous. “But surely you know, Rector, that the thief he describes was me? And if Cobbett had not disobeyed Slythurst to get an urgent message to Sir Philip, I would be dead by now, and so would your daughter!”

“Nevertheless,” said the rector, in the same flat voice, affecting to become
absorbed in a loose thread on his gown, “Master Slythurst is a senior Fellow of this college, and as a college servant, Cobbett’s duty was to obey his orders, not those of a visitor who had been found removing items from a student’s room. For that dereliction of duty he has been punished.”

“Those papers, in Sir Philip’s hands, saved your daughter’s life,” I said, lowering my voice. “In Slythurst’s hands, they might not have done so in time. Cobbett acted according to his conscience and for this he should be rewarded.”

Underhill stopped picking at his gown and fixed me with a direct stare. “In your opinion,” he replied, enunciating each word carefully and precisely.

I could not believe what I was hearing.

“His actions saved Sophia from being murdered,” I repeated, more slowly in case he had not understood the first time. “And your grandchild,” I added deliberately, since this did not seem to provoke a response. “You do not think that is worth rewarding?”

For a moment he did not answer but continued to look at me with something like pity.

“It has never occurred to you that I might rather have rewarded the man who could have spared my family all this?”

It took the space of a heartbeat for me to comprehend what he was saying; when I did, I could hardly credit it.

“You would have wished me not to interfere?” I shook my head in disbelief. “You do understand that he meant to kill her? Jerome Gilbert—Gabriel Norris, whatever you want to call him? His intention was to have her drowned on the way to France to spare himself the ignominy of discovery. In time, you and your wife would have received a letter saying she had run away to join a religious order and you would have been none the wiser.”

“And you do not think her mother would have found that easier to bear?” He took a step toward me, and I saw that all his poise was on the
verge of shattering; his hands trembled violently and he clasped them until his knuckles turned white. “We could at least have gone into our old age benignly deceived. Instead, my daughter is arrested in the company of a Jesuit missionary and escorted back to Oxford by the sheriff’s men. I have to go to the Castle prison in person to pay for her release, where I find her in the company of thieves and whores. Then I must escort her back to college in full view of all the town, I must endure their jeers and whispers as we pass, as my wife will endure them should she ever venture out of her room again, which is doubtful. I would be a fool to believe the rumours are not already in full flood. I will be known hereafter as the father of a Jesuit’s whore, grandsire to a papist bastard. My reputation in the university is finished, and her mother’s nerves will not bear this new assault, I fear.”

I looked at him with contempt.

“Better she had been quietly murdered, and your reputation survived unblemished?” I said, through my teeth.

“No doubt you think me a monster for saying so,” he replied, with no trace of apology. “But you have no children, so you cannot know the pain of losing them. My daughter is dead to me in any case, Bruno. Better she had been lost at sea and her mother spared this shame. Yes, I think so. Better for Sophia, too. She will have no kind of a life after this.”

“And you would rather have gone on harbouring a Jesuit in the college and living well from his fees, if it meant an easy life? Or perhaps you knew about Norris all along?”

“No—that is a lie!” he cried, springing forward. “I had no idea about Norris. Perhaps that in itself is a grave failing, but I would never knowingly have tolerated an active missionary in the college, it is absurd to suggest so. I pray you, do not repeat that suggestion to your friend Sir Philip. Norris paid his way and he was granted no more or less licence than the other commoners.”

“Norris was recommended for a place here by Edmund Allen,” I said, “a man you already knew to be a secret Catholic. And Norris never attended chapel—did that not strike you as suspicious?”

“The sons of gentlemen are not used to rising early. It is one of their privileges that they are not expected to.”

“Every dispensation may be bought here,” I said, looking at him with scorn. “It reminds me so much of Rome. But you knew about the others, too, didn’t you?”

He sighed. “I knew about William Bernard. But everyone in Oxford did—it was no secret that he kept to the old ways, though he took the Oath of Supremacy. But he was a recalcitrant old man and judged harmless. He is fled, by the way, but I don’t think there will be too much of a hunt put out for him. To put a white-haired old fellow like that in gaol or stand him on a scaffold does not play well with the people, as the Privy Council knows. And the others—Roger Mercer, I knew, but he was a good man. Coverdale was a surprise. There are others—I suppose when I am questioned about Norris I must reveal their names.”

“I do not think that will be necessary,” I said, still reeling from his callous words about Sophia. “The names of the worst offenders are already known.”

He studied me as he reached for the door handle.

“You have too much compassion, Doctor Bruno, to be embroiled in this business. I know that you lied to spare my daughter a public trial. Just as I could have handed the Catholics here, the whole lot of them, over to the pursuivants years ago, but I thought we could all rub along together. I see now one has to be ruthless, and for men like us, it is not in our character. You are like me in that regard,” he added, with a hint of self-satisfaction.

“No, sir,” I said quietly, as he held the door open for me to pass. “I am nothing like you. Had I a daughter, I hope I would not wish for her death rather than my own dishonour.” He opened his mouth as if to protest, but
I cut him off. “She is no whore. She is a woman of mettle, and she deserves your care and protection, not your contempt.”

I left him standing in the doorway, his mouth still gaping wordlessly like a fish, and strode purposefully across the quadrangle of Lincoln College for the last time. At the gatehouse I turned to take my final look, and saw the outline of Sophia at the first-floor window of the rector’s lodgings, her figure distorted by the patterned glass, one hand raised in farewell.

London
July 1583

Under a sky barely touched by the first streaks of dawn, through a thin drizzle that misted on my hair and on the horse’s mane, I rode west out of the ambassador’s residence at Salisbury Court along Fleet Street, away from the City of London, a cloak tucked around me against the damp and my chest as tight as if it were bound by iron hoops. I would not have chosen to make this journey, but I had received word from Walsingham that he expected my presence and I thought it better not to argue. Steam clouded from the horse’s nostrils in the morning air as I turned him north at the great monument of Charing Cross, onto the spur road that led out of London and into open country to the northwest. Here the road grew busier; small groups of people on foot heading in the same direction, chatting eagerly among themselves and sharing drinks from leather flasks, while pie sellers moved quickly alongside them, calling out their wares to the expectant crowd, all making for the morning’s spectacle. Nearer to our destination,
people had lined the streets, children hoisted on their fathers’ shoulders to witness the passing of the procession.

At the place they call Tyburn, a wooden platform had been erected at the height of a man’s head to ensure all the crowd had a clear view. On this scaffold the executioner’s table had been set, an oversize butcher’s block all laid out with various knives and instruments, and beside it, a fire had been lit to heat the water in a large cauldron. Those at the front of the crowd pressed closer, stretching out their hands toward the warmth of the flames; though it was July, the damp had left a chill in the early-morning air, and people stamped their feet and rubbed their hands together impatiently as they waited. At the side of the scaffold a wooden gallows had been built and a cart stood empty underneath it. I turned the horse and made my way around the back of the crowd; at the far side, nearest to the gallows, I could see a number of gentlemen on horseback keeping their distance from the jostling throng and guessed I would find Sidney among them. As I guided the horse around, city officials with pikestaffs passed through the crowd, clearing a path in front of the scaffold.

I found Sidney with a group of young mounted courtiers close to the gallows. Though his companions seemed in high spirits and talked loudly among themselves, he kept his horse reined in tight, making it step impatiently on the spot as he surveyed the crowd, his mouth set in a grim line. Catching sight of me, he nodded without smiling.

“Let us move to one side, Bruno,” he said quietly. “I am not inclined to be among those who would treat this as if it were a country fair.”

“I had much rather not have been here at all,” I admitted, as we took up a position a little way off from the group of young men.

“Walsingham was adamant that you should attend. He feels it is important that his people fully understand every aspect of their work. Those who fight wars are not spared the sight of gore, and neither are we boys playing at soldiers. Our struggle is real, and its consequences are bloody.” He
turned and fixed me with an earnest expression. “This execution is your triumph, Bruno. Walsingham is very pleased with you.”

“My triumph,” I repeated softly, as a great cry went up from the crowd and they all stood on tiptoe to watch the arrival.

It was almost fully light when two black horses appeared in the gap between the scaffold and the front row of the crowd as a group of women rushed forward to throw roses and lilies, the flowers of martyrdom, in the path of the horses, the officials jabbing with their pikes at those who pressed in too closely and threatened to impede progress. As if by common consent, the crowd drew solemnly back, the babble of conversation ceased, and the horses’ hooves could be heard thudding quietly on the turf as the hurdle they drew behind them carved ruts into the damp ground. I stood in my stirrups and leaned forward, my stomach clenching at the sight.

Jerome Gilbert was bound to the hurdle, feet uppermost, arms crossed over his chest, his head almost level with the ground so that his face and hair were spattered with mud. When the hurdle reached the gallows, two men stepped forward to untie him and his body slumped to the ground like a child’s cloth doll; the men grasped him beneath his shoulders and hoisted him between them onto the cart. He had been stripped to his undershirt and hose, but now, as they lifted him up to an expectant murmur from the crowd, he reached inside his shirt and drew out a handkerchief to wipe the worst of the mud from his face. I winced to see that his left eye was so bruised and swollen he could not open it, but he scanned the crowd frantically with his good eye before throwing the handkerchief into the air, where it was deftly caught by a grey-haired man with a lugubrious face near the front.

“Keep an eye on that fellow,” Sidney whispered. “Most likely he is another of the Jesuits, or a supporter, come to give comfort in the last hour. Gilbert marked him out to catch the handkerchief.”

“Should we follow him?” I asked anxiously. Sidney shook his head.

“Walsingham will have men in the crowd to shadow all those who dive for relics of his clothes and any other such business.” He stopped suddenly; Jerome was being held up while the executioner climbed into the cart and fastened the noose about his neck before attaching it to the crossbeam and checking it was secure. I realised that the two men were still standing either side of him because he could not support himself, and my jaw clenched tight; he must have been racked so severely that his legs were beyond use.

“What have they done to his hands?” I whispered to Sidney, indicating the mass of congealed blood as Jerome lifted a hand feebly to try and push his matted hair from his face.

“Torn out his fingernails,” Sidney said, his voice tight, and I could not read anything beneath his outward composure.

A portly man dressed in royal colours stepped onto the scaffold and unfolded a piece of parchment.

“Jerome Gilbert, Jesuit,” he declaimed in a clear voice that carried across the silent crowd, “you have been found guilty on four counts of murder and of seducing the people away from the queen’s allegiance, of plotting with others in Rheims and Rome to assassinate the queen, and of being privy to plans of foreign invasion. What say you?”

With enormous effort, the noose still slack around his neck, Jerome summoned what little strength was left in his ravaged body, raised his head, and replied in a surprisingly strong voice, “I am guilty only of trying to bring wandering souls back to their Maker. I pray God forgive all those who have been accessory to my death. God save the queen.” Here his eye roved the crowd again and came to rest on me; for a moment we held each other’s gaze and he added, his solemn voice carrying over the clearing, “One day you will stand where I stand.”

“Silence!” called the official, thinking this a threat to the English Protestants, but I was gripped by a terrible shudder; I could not escape the chilling sense that he had been speaking directly to me. I recalled his words in the hide at Hazeley Court: “You and I are similar men …you go to your
death defiant, as I will when the appointed time comes.” He had been right about himself, at least, I thought; though his beautiful face had been destroyed by the torturers and he could not stand unaided, in these last moments he was magnificently, fiercely defiant.