‘Canterbury is not an immediate priority,’ Walsingham said at length, with a tone of finality.
‘We do not know how much of a priority it is, since Harry’s letters are so patchy,’ Sidney said, without pausing for breath. ‘Remember how well Bruno served Her Majesty in Oxford?’ he added, with a subtle smile.
‘I have not forgotten, Philip. But neither have I forgotten that he helped save England from an invasion of Catholic forces last year, and he did that from within the French embassy.’
‘I still think Bruno has a talent for making friends and gaining confidences in places neither you nor I nor Harry can go. He may uncover more than a murderer in Canterbury, given the chance.’ Sidney folded his arms across his chest and sent Walsingham a meaningful look; I recognised the stubborn cast to his jaw and knew that he did not mean to back down in this argument. While I appreciated his willingness to square up to his father-in-law on my behalf, I was not entirely sure what he was petitioning for. Too conspicuous for what?
‘Forgive me,’ I said, as they continued to glare at one another, ‘but who is Harry?’
Walsingham turned to me, sighed, and waved me towards a chair. Then he pushed his own chair back, stood up from behind his desk, and moved in front of the fireplace, diamonds of bright sunlight patterning his neat black doublet and breeches as he paced, rubbing his beard with his right hand.
‘What do you know of Canterbury, Bruno?’
I shrugged. ‘Only that until the English Church broke with Rome, it was one of the most important pilgrim shrines in Europe.’
‘And one of the most lucrative. The monks of the former priory raked in a fortune from pilgrims through their trade in relics and indulgences, and the rest of the city profited greatly from the vast numbers of the faithful – hostelries, cobblers, farriers, every industry that serves those who travel long distances.’ He set his mouth in a grim line. ‘There are a great many in that city who have seen their incomes dwindle and their family’s fortunes fall since the shrine was destroyed.’
‘So there are plenty who hanker after the old faith, I imagine?’
‘Exactly. Remember, the shrine was only destroyed in 1538. Forty-six years is not long for a city to forget or forgive such a loss of status. There are plenty still living who carry bitter memories of what the Royal Commissioners did to the abbey and the shrine, and hand that resentment down to their children and grandchildren.’
‘Who watch and wait, clinging to the belief that one day soon England will have a Catholic sovereign again, and the shrine of Canterbury will be restored to its former glory,’ Sidney cut in.
‘Except that lately we fear they have been doing more than merely watching and waiting,’ Walsingham added.
‘But the Archbishop of Canterbury is the most senior prelate of the English Church,’ I said. ‘Surely he is extra careful about religious obedience in his own See?’
‘The Archbishop is never there,’ Walsingham replied. ‘He is too busy politicking in London. The Dean and the canons have de facto power in the city, and one never knows how many of them may hold secret loyalties in their hearts.’
‘One in particular,’ Sidney added darkly.
‘Who has connections to some of those involved in the conspiracy against the Queen last autumn.’ Walsingham looked at me. ‘Including your friend Lord Henry Howard.’
I recalled Sophia saying that her late husband had been a lay canon at the cathedral. If there were plots brewing there, might he have known something of them, given his penchant for secrecy?
‘Then there is the cult of the saint,’ Walsingham added, lowering his voice as if to begin a ghost tale. ‘Do you know the story of Thomas Becket, Bruno?’
‘Of course – we had shrines to him even in Italy. The former archbishop who was murdered in the cathedral.’
Walsingham nodded. ‘He was a great friend of the King – Henry II, this is – who thought he could use Becket to promote his own interests against the Church. But Becket refused the King’s demands. In 1170 their quarrel came to a head.’
‘“Will no one rid me of this turbulent priest?”’ Sidney declared, with relish. ‘So the King said, according to the legend, and four of his knights chose to take that as a direct command.’
‘They murdered him as he knelt at prayer, if I remember right?’ I said.
‘Struck him down with their swords.’ Sidney’s eyes gleamed; he had not lost his schoolboy fascination for the details of violent death. ‘Cut off the crown of his head, so his brains spilled all over the stone floor.’
‘The King was stricken with remorse, of course,’ Walsingham continued, but I was staring open-mouthed at Sidney.
‘What did you say?’
He looked surprised.
‘They struck him down with a sword.’
‘After that. His brains.’
He made a ghoulish face. ‘An eyewitness account said the knights trod the whites of his brains across the flagstones, all churned up with his blood. Sorry to upset you, Bruno – I forget you have never been to war.’ He meant it as a joke, but his smile faded when he saw that I was not laughing with him. Sophia’s description of her husband’s murder had echoed dimly in my memory, but now it was clear; I had been thinking of the death of Thomas Becket. To cut a man down in the precincts of Canterbury Cathedral in the same manner as its most famous murder victim seemed a grim coincidence. But did it signify any more than that?
‘Are you all right, Bruno?’ Walsingham asked, leaning closer, his sharp eyes missing nothing.
‘Yes, your honour.’ I quickly composed my expression. ‘I was remembering the story.’
He looked at me shrewdly for a moment, then continued:
‘Becket’s body was buried under the floor of the crypt, for fear it would be stolen. Before long, the tales of miracles began and grew in the telling, as martyrs’ legends will, and the monks realised they were sitting on a pot of gold. If they could keep inventing stories of miraculous healing by the power of Saint Thomas’s body, the penitent would keep bringing their offerings.’
‘Until the tomb was destroyed,’ I said, almost in a whisper.
‘Well, that, of course, is the great question.’ Walsingham folded his arms and looked at me expectantly.
‘It was not destroyed?’ I turned to him, confused.
‘The shrine was smashed, certainly, and all its gold plate and jewels taken for the royal treasury,’ he said.
‘And the bones in the tomb were scattered on the ground with every last fragment crushed to dust,’ Sidney added.
‘Then what is the question?’ I asked, looking from one to the other.
‘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