Treachery (48 page)

I exhale slowly, trying to calm my pulse. My palms prickle with sweat. This is where it will come, I fear: the killer blow, out of the darkness behind the door. I can almost feel them waiting for me. The wind drops suddenly, as if holding its breath. I set down my unused lantern and undo the top buttons of my doublet, loosening my knife in its sheath so that I can draw it in one movement when I need to. I place a hand on the latch, and turn it. The door creaks open an inch.

In case anyone is hiding behind it, I kick the door hard so that it smashes against the wall behind and judders on its hinges. Nothing moves inside. I peer into the black maw of the chapel. After a long pause, I step forward on to the threshold.

Faint light from the windows slants across the worn flagstones. All else is smothered in a thick, velvet darkness. I breathe in the mineral smell of old stone. Then I hear it, or perhaps I sense it, the sound is so insubstantial, but it is there – a muffled, shallow breathing, quick and panicked, like a cornered animal. I take another step inside, slipping the knife silently from its cover. The sound grows stronger; I am not mistaken. I lower my hood, not wanting my vision obscured, and advance another two paces, blade held out before me. I jolt as I hear the swift creak and slam of the chapel door. I should have expected that: now I am trapped. Blackness closes around me; from somewhere there comes a brief, muffled cry, or perhaps a sob. I wheel around in the dark, pointing my knife this way and that, jabbing it from side to side, but it only slices through chill air. I can feel the fear rising in my chest, the dread that threatens to overtake my reason; with all the force of my will I fight it down and concentrate on straining my ears through the dark for any tell-tale sound.

In the silence, I catch the rasp of a flint striking; at the far end of the chapel, the small glow of a tinder-box sparking. I keep absolutely still. So one of them is directly ahead of me, but that leaves one to creep up from behind. The spark catches and a candle flame wavers into life. It moves, not towards me but to the side, and another orange petal of light blooms from it, followed by another, and another, until there is enough light to make out a figure passing down the side of the chapel, lighting the stubs of candles in wall sconces. Finally he turns to me and takes a step closer. I hear a soft movement from my left and jerk around, hearing myself gasp aloud at the sight that greets me. In the dim, flickering light I see Lady Arden, her hands tied in front of her, a cloth bound over her mouth and a noose around her neck. The rope attached to it is slung over a beam in the rafters. Her feet rest precariously on a rickety wooden trestle. There is barely any slack in the rope. If she lost her balance, or if the bench were to be kicked from under her, she would begin to choke immediately. Her eyes bulge with terror; she makes a whimpering noise, stifled by her gag.

The figure with the candle makes his way towards me, though he stops a good few feet from the range of my blade and fixes me with a knowing smile. He is instantly recognisable. Rowland Jenkes must have suffered the pox badly as a young man; his face is pitted with the marks of it. Livid scar tissue swells around the holes where he cut off his own ears after he was nailed to the pillory in Oxford. Despite all this, England’s most notorious dealer in forbidden books must once have been a handsome man; above his high, sharp cheekbones, those extraordinary eyes still exert a strange pull. Warm, dancing eyes that invite you to fall into them, so at odds with the ravaged landscape of his face. But the warmth is deceptive, as I learned two years ago.

Jenkes shakes his head in slow disbelief, still smiling, looking me up and down as if I am a long-lost brother, thought missing or dead. He does not appear to be armed, though this too may be a deception.

‘Well – you are not Sir Francis Drake, but what an unexpected pleasure.’ His droll tone tells me it is anything but. His voice, like his eyes, does not belong with his alarming appearance; it is refined, cultured, soothing. ‘Welcome to the chapel of St Michael, Giordano Bruno.’ He sweeps a hand around. ‘Of all the places we could choose to be reunited. Who would have thought? The Lord’s design truly is a mystery, don’t you think? I was just saying to Lady Arden here,’ he continues, conversationally, never taking his eyes from mine, ‘how we go back, you and I. Some might call it coincidence, but I say it is the working of Providence.’ The smile fades a touch. ‘It was impossible for me to return to Oxford, after your visit. I had to leave behind a lucrative business. I resented that.’

‘Please accept my apologies,’ I say, in a voice like ice.

‘Oh, that is gracious of you. Well, no matter. I am used to moving on. As are you. We have that in common too – neither of us welcome in our own countries for our beliefs. I spent a year in France, making myself useful, buying and selling books, keeping my eyes open. Until one day I heard rumours of a very special volume. One that I had been told did not exist. Do you recall, Bruno, you came to me in Oxford looking for a book that was supposed not to exist?’ The smile peels back; his teeth glint in the light. ‘Well, here was another. One of the English recusants had been imprisoned in the Marshalsea with a gentleman sailor, a man who had travelled around the world with Sir Francis Drake and as his reward found himself charged with treason, though he was innocent of any offence save pursuing justice for his murdered brother.’ He shakes his head again, in exaggerated sorrow. ‘In prison, this desperate sailor told stories of his travels. One of those stories concerned a Coptic manuscript and a murdered Jesuit.’ His eyes flit to the bag under my arm; his tongue darts quickly over his thin lips in anticipation. ‘Most of the other prisoners thought he was raving, but one, this Catholic recusant, believed him. On his release, this man fled to join the English Catholics in Paris, where he told the sailor’s story. When the rumour reached my ears – no, I never find that any less funny – I returned to London to seek out this gentleman sailor. But I forget – you have already met.’ I see his gaze move beyond my shoulder. From behind me comes the unmistakable click of metal on metal. Another stifled squeal from Lady Arden. I turn slowly to see a figure step out of the shadows, and recognise immediately the man who had burst in on me at the House of Vesta.

Doughty plants himself between me and the chapel door. He is holding over his arm an ornately carved wheel-lock pistol. Its muzzle points directly at me. No wonder Jenkes appeared so at ease in the face of my knife.

‘A pleasure to meet you again, Doctor Bruno. You left without saying goodbye the last time. I only wanted to talk.’ Doughty offers a cold smile, showing the gaps in his mouth. ‘Look at all the trouble you could have saved us if you hadn’t run off like a skittish hind.’ He gestures towards Lady Arden.

I hold his gaze as steadily as I can, to show that I will not be intimidated by him this time, though it is difficult to ignore the pistol. He has an intelligent face, but he wears a hunted look, the eyes deep-set in shadowed sockets and always flickering away from me, as if waiting for a blow to fall from some unexpected quarter.

‘John and I found we had common cause,’ Jenkes continues, moving around to the edge of my line of sight.

‘You are Catholic, then?’ I ask Doughty, turning back to him. My voice sounds less steady than I would have liked.

He shakes his head. ‘I care nothing for any prelate in Rome. I never betrayed my country, whatever they said – it was England betrayed me. All I desire now is to see Francis Drake suffer as my family has suffered. If that means siding with the French or Spanish, well – I have already been punished for that before the fact.’ He smiles, stretching his mouth back to show off the price he paid.

I have had enough of them amusing themselves at my expense. I swing the bag with the book around to my front and lift the flap. ‘Shall we make this fair exchange you speak of, Jenkes? Then we can all be on our way.’

He responds with a thin smile. ‘Put the knife down first, Bruno, there’s a good boy, you’ll have someone’s eye out.’ When he sees me hesitate, he strolls casually across to the bench where Lady Arden balances, rests one foot on it and gives it a little nudge as if testing its solidity. I see her raise her eyes to heaven as tears spill down her cheeks. I drop the knife; it clatters to the stone floor and Jenkes removes his foot, nodding approval at me. He saunters back, picks it up and studies the carved bone handle. ‘Nice craftsmanship. They know how to fashion a weapon, your countrymen.’ He runs a forefinger appreciatively along its length and tests the point of the blade against the tip of his finger. A wash of cold courses through me. Now I am naked, with no defence except my wit, and I do not know how that will fare against a knife and a pistol. ‘I worry, you see, Bruno,’ Jenkes says, looking up, in the manner of one making small talk. ‘I worry that Francis Drake does not understand the concept of a fair exchange. Even now, I fear that he has surrounded the island with armed men waiting to fire on us as soon as we show our faces.’

He watches me closely for a reaction. I guard my expression.

‘Sir Francis will keep to the terms of your proposal,’ I say, evenly.

‘Evidently he will not,’ Doughty says, indignant. ‘We stated clearly he was to come in person.’

‘You must have known Drake would not come here alone.’ I turn to him, fighting to keep my voice calm. I pat the bag. ‘I have what you want here, Jenkes. Let the agreement stand.’ I look across at the book dealer, knowing my fear is visible but clinging to the absurd hope that he can be reasoned with. He assumes a thoughtful expression, pretending to consider this, as he moves back towards Lady Arden. My throat constricts.

‘I’m afraid John is right, Bruno – strictly speaking, Drake has already broken faith with us.’ He pauses to look regretful, then with one swift motion he kicks his heel back and knocks the bench from under her.

The rope jerks taut; a hideous choking sound explodes from her throat. In the space of a breath I hurl myself towards Lady Arden and grab her just below the knees, using all the strength left in my arms to lift her upwards to restore some slack in the rope. I struggle until she gets her knees on to my shoulder and hangs there, still choking, her bound hands clawing at the noose. I close my eyes, expecting at any moment to hear the explosion, smell the cordite, a heartbeat before the shot enters my brain. Instead, all I hear is Jenkes’s laughter.

‘Very quick reaction, Bruno,’ he says, tipping the bench upright again and indicating that I should set Lady Arden’s feet back on it. ‘Impressive. Just a little test for you.’

Her weight falls against me as I balance her. I glance up; her breathing is laboured and her face puce, her eyes unfocused. I fear that if I let go she will faint and her feet will slip again, until she is spinning slowly from the end of the rope.

‘I recall another woman you got yourself mixed up with, in Oxford,’ he muses. ‘Risked your life to save her too, didn’t you? You belong in an ancient tale of chivalry, Bruno. It quite breaks my heart to think of you wasting so many years in a monastery, denying womankind such gallantry.’ His attention is concentrated on scraping dirt from under his fingernails with the tip of my knife. From the corner of my eye, I see Doughty move around to my right, a cold gleam where the pistol is still levelled at me. Jenkes snaps his head up suddenly. ‘Give me the manuscript.’ He holds a hand out and clicks his fingers impatiently.

Gingerly, I let go of Lady Arden’s legs; she sways unnervingly, but seems to have recovered enough to find her footing, at least for now. I reach into the satchel and draw out the manuscript in its wrappings. Jenkes’s eyes glitter; he licks his lips again and holds his hand out. I hold it close against my chest; I will not put it into his hands, if I can help it, until I see Lady Arden cut down, or I have no means left to bargain.

‘As soon as I saw you at the Star that night I knew Drake must have brought you here to evaluate this. He proved particularly stubborn about selling it, though I offered a good price. I realised I would have to find another way.’ He steps closer, left hand outstretched, the knife still clutched in his right, though he lowers it to his side. His eyes are fixed on the manuscript with a wolfish greed. ‘When that helpful little maid at the Star brought me the translation you had been working on, I knew immediately that this was the real thing. The lost Gospel of Judas. Did you make another, by the way?’

I do not reply.

‘Well, I don’t suppose it matters,’ he continues. ‘A translation is worth nothing without the original to validate it. Though the Vatican will not like the idea of an unauthorised copy circulating.’

‘So that is your customer?’

He looks up to meet my eye and laughs. ‘Why, would you not have come if you had known? Would you have left her to swing rather than concede anything to your enemy? Do you still hate Rome so much?’ He does not wait for me to answer. Instead he tilts his head to one side, pats the manuscript and regards me with an eager curiosity. ‘Tell me, then, as one scholar to another – is it authentic?’

I hesitate barely the space of a breath before replying. ‘Almost certainly not. Second century, the usual gnostic teachings. Nothing the Church has not seen and put down a hundred times. It was not written by Judas Iscariot, if that is what you mean.’

Jenkes tips his head back and lets out that cracked laugh again; it echoes around the roof like flames on dry wood. ‘You are a good liar, Bruno, like all Dominicans, but not quite good enough. That you should feel the need to lie tells me all I need to know. Hand it over.’

He steps closer, nodding towards the package. The hand holding the knife hangs loosely at his side; his desire for the book has caused him to relax his guard. I calculate the action, the distance; bruised and aching as I am, I could kick him in the groin and have him on his back, pinned to the ground, a foot on his neck and the knife off him before he had time to react. It could be done. But not with John Doughty standing behind me, his pistol cocked; I would be dead in an instant, and Lady Arden would drop to a slow strangulation.