Heresy (24 page)

As I pulled on my shirt and breeches, a single bell began the doleful call to Matins and I recalled with a sinking heart that it was Sunday. The servants would probably have a day off. I would be unlikely to find anyone able to help me locate the horse and in any case, I would have to return it to the stables at Windsor and how I might make my way back from there to London alone on a Sunday, I had no idea. In the unsparing daylight, my planned flight began to look as ill-judged as it was cowardly. I poured some water from the pitcher left on the small table and washed my face slowly; if I had to stay for one more day, I could at least try to put it to some profitable use and I would start by attending chapel. I had no wish to hear the English service for its own sake—while I found no spiritual nourishment in the Roman Mass, at least it put some effort into its theatrics, and I found the English prayer book as bland as uncooked dough beside it—but it would be a useful
opportunity to observe the whole college community gathered in one place. If one of them had sent me the strange message last night, as seemed likely, it was possible that he might give himself away by looks or gestures. I thought of him now, as I splashed my face, with irritation. If he had any useful information to impart, why not make himself clearer?

James Coverdale had mentioned at the first night’s dinner that the rector was preaching a series of sermons based on Foxe’s book; if Roger Mercer’s killing was some twisted parody of martyrdom, as someone clearly wanted me to believe it was, it was possible that the killer had taken inspiration from the rector’s sermons. It was even possible that he would be among the congregation that morning. I shivered, pulled on my boots, and as the bell continued its solemn clang, I hurried to join the black-gowned figures heading for the central archway of the north range, under the clock, which showed the hour to be almost six.

T
HE CHAPEL OCCUPIED
the larger portion of the first floor of the north range, to the right of the archway, and I filed dutifully up the dim stairs among the students and Fellows, the only light offered by a candle lantern suspended from the landing above. By the door I noticed a stoup for holy water, long dry, as we passed into a modest, limewashed room with a wooden-beamed roof, the floor strewn with rushes. A small altar stood at the farthest end, opposite the door, with a lectern to the right of it; candles burned on each side of the chapel and on the altar, and the men arranged themselves along the rows of hard oak benches apparently designed for maximum discomfort, to prevent anyone from drowsing during sermons. Narrow arched windows of plain glass on both sides of the small chapel filled it with early-morning light that gleamed from the white walls and on the long dark hair of Sophia Underhill, who was seated on the front pew by the lectern, where she would be under her father’s watchful eye. I wondered
that he allowed her to attend chapel with the scholars; her presence seemed guaranteed to distract young men from pious prayer. Then I noticed that her mother was seated beside her, thin shoulders hunched beneath the white coif which bound her hair. Around her the senior Fellows were ranked along the front benches, with the older students—those proceeding to master’s or doctor’s degrees—seated in the rows behind them, and the undergraduates at the back. As I hovered by the door, wondering where I should properly take my place, I had a chance to see just how small the college community was. There could not have been more than thirty men, including the senior Fellows; with lives spent in such close proximity, surely one among them had some knowledge of what had really taken place in the grove the previous morning. Taking in the room in a swift glance, I spotted Thomas Allen and Lawrence Weston among the undergraduates, though there was no sign of Norris or the loud commoner friends he had brought to the tavern—I presumed that Matins was yet another college rule they were able to buy their way out of. William Bernard and Richard Godwyn sat on the front bench, and I noticed John Florio in the middle, whispering animatedly to his neighbour. These were the only men I had met personally in the college, yet there was every possibility that my mysterious correspondent was someone who had yet to introduce himself. But he must have been a member of the college, to have known where to find my chamber. I turned to glance again at the young men seated behind me, and those in my line of sight returned my stare with mild curiosity; these English boys all looked the same—pale, underfed, and anxious. One among them knew something he wanted to impart to me and was afraid to say outright, but which one?

I had intended to find a seat that would give me a vantage point over all those gathered, but Godwyn, seeing me hesitating at the door, smiled and gestured to a place next to him on the front bench. I could hardly refuse. Conscious of all the eyes on me, including Sophia’s, I walked down the short central aisle and sat beside Godwyn, who welcomed me in a whisper as we
bent our heads to pray. I could not help noticing that both Walter Slythurst and James Coverdale were absent. When the men were all seated, they rose again as one, as the rector processed the short distance from the door to the altar, followed by four young men in the white surplices of choirboys.

Looking up, I caught the rector’s eye; if he was surprised to see me among his congregants or repented of his hard words the night before, his face gave no sign of it. Instead he merely bowed his head and intoned the Our Father.

“O Lord, open Thou my lips,” he began.

And the congregation dutifully responded, “And my mouth shall show forth thy praise.”

I was not familiar enough with the order of the responses to follow them fluently, and kept my voice to a whisper to avoid drawing unwelcome attention to my mistakes. Godwyn rose to read the first lesson from the Gospel of Matthew, and after he was seated again, the small choir sang a four-voice version of the Te Deum laudamus in English, which was remarkably sweet for all its plainness.

“Yesterday, gentlemen,” the rector went on, staring resolutely over the heads of his congregation, apparently excluding his wife and daughter from his address, “sudden violent death intruded most horribly into our little community. I know that the tragic attack on our dear friend Roger Mercer as he walked at prayer in the grove has shaken all of us to the core, and I know too that when such a dreadful accident occurs, we can too easily allow our brains to grow heated with the shock and indulge in all manner of wild speculation.” Here he flashed a pointed glance at me, so quickly as to go almost unnoticed. Doctor Bernard cracked his bony knuckles; the snap was startling in the still room.

“It would be more profitable,” the rector continued over-loudly, as if he were speaking to a much larger gathering, “if, instead of unhelpful rumour, we allowed some good to come from this tragedy by concentrating our minds on the brevity of our lives in contrast to the vastness of eternity, and
looked to our own standing before God. Let us mourn Roger, as is right and proper, but let us also learn from his death and ask ourselves: Would we face death assured of our own salvation, if it should come upon us as suddenly?”

“It almost sounds as if he expects another tragedy,” I whispered to Godwyn. Underhill glanced up and frowned angrily from behind his lectern, though he could not have heard my words.

“Let us return, then, as we have in recent weeks, to Master Foxe’s account of the persecutions of the early believers, our forefathers in faith in the days when the Church was pure. Not so that we may pay them idolatrous reverence as saints, as the Roman church does, for they were only men and women like us, but so that we might emulate their faith and better understand the long and venerable history of suffering for Christ and of standing firm, as those martyrs of Reform have done in this troubled century of ours. Let us ask ourselves, as we consider today the story of Alban, the first English martyr, if we truly believe that the preservation of the faith is the highest good. For these are turbulent days, my friends,” he continued, his voice rising slightly as he leaned over the lectern to fix his listeners with a stern eye. “Our English church is besieged on all sides by those who would drag us back to Rome. You young men sitting before me today are the future leaders of Church and State, and you do not know how you may be called upon to fight for both in the years to come. Will you be resolute, even in the face of death? Will you defend our liberties from the idolaters and tyrants who would tear them from us? I pray it may be so.”

From the benches behind me, a collective movement could be heard; the sound of several rows of young men drawing themselves up proudly in response to this rallying cry. I found something disturbing in Underhill’s tone; there was a barely suppressed fanaticism to it, but his words reminded me of Walsingham’s.

The rector’s homily was more of a lecture than a sermon, though it was a relief to find that his talent for expounding on a text was greater than his
talent for debating ideas. But as he spoke, I became so lost in my own speculation that I barely noticed when he pronounced the final collect, and was only dislodged from my reverie by Godwyn nudging me apologetically as the men around me all stood. The rector and his choir filed out and the congregation shuffled and stretched as they made ready to leave. One young man with violently red hair and a face peppered with freckles, who looked barely old enough to be away from his mother, busied himself at the front of the chapel, tidying away the accoutrements of the service, closing the large Bible on the lectern and snuffing out the candles around us. As she drew toward me, Sophia smiled and seemed about to speak, but her mother, noticing the look that passed between us, pinned her daughter firmly by the elbow and led her to the door. Sophia glanced once over her shoulder and there seemed to be something imploring in her expression, but I might have imagined that.

“I am sorry to poke you so unceremoniously, Doctor Bruno,” Godwyn whispered, as the red-haired young man clearing the chapel approached us and handed Godwyn the last remaining flickering candle, “but I feared you were having some trouble following our Book of Common Prayer—the manner of our service must seem very strange to you.”

“Not so strange,” I replied, watching as Sophia passed out of sight before turning back to him with a smile. “You have borrowed a great deal of it from us, after all.”

He gave a small, polite laugh.

“But tell me, did you not think our little choir sings well?” he asked brightly as we walked to the door, making a shield of his hand to protect the candle as the draught from the stairs assaulted it.

“I have heard choirs twice their number make a poorer job of the psalms,” I said, truthfully.

“The arrangement is by Master Byrd, Her Majesty’s own composer,” he said, looking pleased at the praise.

“A Catholic himself, is he not?”

Godwyn looked aghast.

“Well … yes, he is, but that is not why I admire him,” he said quickly. “If the queen can tolerate his faith for the sake of his music, I do not see why we should not do the same.”

“Quite. And of course, your own reading of the Gospel was given with true poetic expression,” I added, in a devout tone.

“Thank you. That duty should fall to the subrector, but Doctor Coverdale did not arrive for Matins this morning, so the rector asked me to step in at the last moment.”

Instead of following the crowd of undergraduates down the stairs, he crossed the landing to a low wooden door opposite the chapel’s entrance, one hand still cupped around his candle, and gestured to me to follow.

“I remember you expressed an interest in our library, Doctor Bruno. Would you like to take a look, now you are here? Unless you are impatient to break your fast, of course,” he added. “Perhaps you would not mind holding this for a moment?”

He handed me the candle and took a ring of keys from his belt, selecting the largest.

“I should be delighted,” I said, following him, though I was more interested by his news about Coverdale. “Is Doctor Coverdale away, then?”

“Well, if he is, he gave no one any warning,” Godwyn said, sounding piqued as he turned the key stiffly in the lock and pushed open the heavy door, which groaned as if in complaint at being disturbed.

I remembered the boy who had come to summon Coverdale in the middle of the disputation the previous evening, and Cobbett’s report that Coverdale had returned to college as if in an almighty haste. It was curious, then, that Cobbett had not mentioned his leaving again—unless he had somehow slipped away in the night or early in the morning. I wondered if his disappearance could have anything to do with the inquest into Roger Mercer’s death and his threats to me over my testimony.

“Strange. I noticed the bursar, Master Slythurst, was also absent,” I added lightly.

Godwyn made a dismissive gesture as he closed the door behind me.

“Slythurst is often away, it’s part of his duties—he has to check the college’s estates regularly, and they are scattered about the country, some several days’ ride. I believe he left for Buckinghamshire this morning as he has some business there, but we expect him back tomorrow. Now then—here we are.” He spread his arms expansively to encompass his domain and smiled encouragement, as if urging me to admire it as much as he did.