Published by HarperCollinsPublishers
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2016
Copyright © Stephanie Merritt 2016
Cover design by Holly Macdonald © HarperCollinsPublishers 2017
Cover illustrations © George Peters/Getty Images (crow); Mary Evans Picture Library (city). Lettering by Stephen Raw
Stephanie Merritt asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780007481279
Ebook Edition © 2016 ISBN: 9780007481262
Version: 2017-05-10
Contents
Copyright
Map
Prologue
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Part Two
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Keep Reading …
About the Author
Also by S. J. Parris
About the Publisher
Paris, November, 1585.
‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been nine years since my last confession.’
From beyond the latticework screen came a sharp inhalation through teeth, barely audible. For a long time, it seemed as if he would not speak. You could almost hear the echo bouncing through his skull: nine years?
‘And what has happened to keep you so far from God’s grace, my son?’
That slight nasal quality to his voice; it coloured everything he said with an unfortunate sneer, even on the rare occasions where none was intended.
‘Ah, Father – where to begin? I was caught reading forbidden books in the privy by my prior, I abandoned the Dominican order without permission to avoid the Inquisition, for which offence I was excommunicated by the last Pope; I have written and published books questioning the authority of the Holy Scriptures and the Church Fathers, I have publicly attacked Aristotle and defended the cosmology of Copernicus, I have been accused of heresy and necromancy—’ a swift pause to draw breath – ‘I have frequently sworn oaths and taken the Lord’s name in vain, I have envied my friends, lain with women, and brought about the death of more than one person – though, in my defence, those cases were complicated.’
‘Anything else?’ Openly sarcastic now.
‘Oh – yes. I have also borne false witness. Too many times to count.’ Including this confession.
A prickly silence unfolded. Inside the confessional, nothing but the familiar scent of old wood and incense, and the slow dance of dust motes, disturbed only by our breathing, his and mine, visible in the November chill. A distant door slammed, the sound ringing down the vaulted stone of the nave.
‘Will you give me penance?’
He made an impatient noise. ‘Penance? You could endow a cathedral and walk to Santiago on your knees for the rest of your natural life, it would barely scratch the surface. Besides—’ the wooden bench creaked as he shifted his weight – ‘haven’t you forgotten something, my son?’
‘I may have left out some of the detail,’ I conceded. ‘Otherwise we’d be here till Judgement Day.’
‘I meant, I have not yet heard you say, “For these and all the sins of my past life, I ask pardon of God.” Because, in your heart, you are not really contrite, are you? You are, it seems to me, quite proud of this catalogue of iniquity.’
‘Should we add the sin of pride, then, while I am here? Save me coming back?’
A