The courtroom had all but collapsed into a riot. My head began to swim and I fought for breath in the crush as I was pulled down; for a moment I feared I would black out, but quite suddenly through the confusion and noise sounded one clear note of a herald’s trumpet. The sound seemed to startle the mob; the press of bodies and hands clawing at me began to subside, and I was hauled to my feet by the collar to find myself staring into the face of a bearded young man wearing a soldier’s helmet. The shouting died down to a simmering murmur and a strange calm descended on the hall. When I was able to focus I realised that one of the onlookers who had dragged me out was lying prone on the floor and the crowd were drawing back, staring at his unmoving body with fear; another soldier stood over him, sword held aloft, looking around with menace as if to ask who else dared try their luck. There were six or more of these armed men in the hall, and they were not wearing the livery of the guards who had fetched me that morning but different colours. The man who had helped me up nodded and stepped back and it was only then that I realised the badge on his coat was the arms of Queen Elizabeth.
There was a jostling among the crowd towards the door and as I watched they parted to admit a tall figure in a sweat-soaked shirt and riding breeches, hair sticking up in spikes, face haggard and dust-smeared from the road, holding out a piece of paper. The soldiers moved to keep the people away from him at sword point; most obediently shuffled back. I almost wept to see who it was; my legs buckled again and the young soldier caught me as I fell against his chest.
Justice Hale straightened his cap, regained his composure, and addressed the newcomer with an attempt at dignity.
“Sir Philip. You have a constituency of barbarians, it seems.”
For once, Sidney did not smile.
“Justice Hale, I have seen tavern brawls conducted with more dignity than your courtroom.” He turned to me, colour rising in his cheeks. “What in God’s name is going on here? Get that man out of chains now. I have ridden through the night,” he added, pointing at me, though he made it sound like an accusation. “I have ridden through the night,” he said again, louder, in a voice that encompassed the whole courtroom, “with a warrant signed by Her Majesty for the arrest of Canon John Langworth on charges of high treason.”
The gasp that echoed through the hall could not have been better performed if it had been played on a stage. People swivelled their heads around, looking for the object of this exciting new development.
“Where is Canon Langworth?” Hale demanded, still on his feet, his voice sonorous with authority once more. “Constable?”
Edmonton looked around, helpless. “I cannot see him here, Your Honour.”
“He must have slipped out some back way in the tumult,” I said to Sidney. My voice sounded hoarse. “You must get your men after him. If he is not in his own house, try the crypt.”
“This court is adjourned,” Hale announced, and the bailiff struck his staff three times. “I will pass sentence when we are again in session. Have the prisoners taken back to the gaol. Not the Italian or the monk, Constable—I want them brought to my lodgings at the Cheker. You—blow your trumpet,” he said irritably to the herald in an aside. “Clear the courtroom!” he shouted, when the note had sounded. “I will retire to my lodgings to speak with Sir Philip. Mayor Fitzwalter, you will accompany me. Have your men clear the way. Where is Dean Rogers?”
The dean rose from his seat, pale and shaken. Hale gave him a hard look.
“You had better get yourself back to your cathedral, Richard. Sir Philip Sidney may need your assistance there.”
The trumpet sounded; Fitzwalter called his guards to make way for the justice. Perhaps emboldened by the example of the queen’s soldiers, they shoved more brusquely with their pikestaffs this time and the spectators, chastened, moved back for Hale and his retinue to pass, following Sidney and his men. I watched them leave, hardly daring to believe that Sidney was here at all, let alone with a retinue of royal soldiers. Edmonton approached with a face like a bull mastiff, holding out a key.
“Sorry to disappoint you,” I said, as he took the manacles from my wrists and then from Brother Anselm’s. The old monk’s hands were bleeding where the iron had torn his papery skin. He touched his wounds in wonder.
“Am I pardoned?” he asked, blinking up at me and then at Edmonton. “Am I not to hang after all?”
“Not today,” the constable said, sucking in his cheeks.
“You are safe, brother,” I said, taking Anselm’s arm to steady him. His milky eyes filled with tears.
“I thought those people would tear us apart where we stood,” he whispered. “But blessed Saint Thomas heard our prayers.”
“Well. He has a lot to answer for,” I said.
“Filippo?” A woman’s voice at my shoulder; I turned, my pulse quickening, to find the Widow Gray twisting her hands together, her eyes anxious. I raised my eyebrows: yes? “I want to come with you to the justice. I think it is time I made my deposition.”
“YOUR HONOUR, COULD I—before we—I must go back to Doctor Robinson’s house in the cathedral precincts. He may have need of me.”
“Don’t worry about Harry,” Hale said, his eyes still skimming his papers. Four o’clock in the afternoon; the light soft and golden where it fell in scattered shapes on the panelled walls. With his entourage he had taken over an entire floor of the Cheker, its grandest rooms; the one we now sat in was furnished with silk cushions and embroidered curtains. Brother Anselm had been led away by one of Hale’s clerks to be fed, washed, and rested before he gave his deposition, in the hope that it might be more coherent. The Widow Gray was waiting outside the door for her turn. Mayor Fitzwalter had been arrested by the justice’s men as he stepped through the door of the Cheker, to avoid further public unrest. Now Hale sat behind a desk, his back to the open window, radiating calm, a glass of wine in his hand. Beside him, another clerk scribbled a note of every word that was spoken. Whenever a serving boy came in with food, the room fell silent, recognising that these were matters not to be overheard.
“I sent two of my assistants to Harry’s house after he came to me this morning,” Hale continued. “Nearly killed himself trying to get here before I left for the hearing. He told me everything.”
“Everything?” Did he mean Sophia?
“Langworth’s plot. Becket. The dead boys. Monstrous! And the attempt on your own lives last night. The servant Samuel will be removed to more appropriate conditions until he is well enough to be questioned.”
“Will he live?”
“Let us hope so. We will need his testimony.” He paused to sip his wine. “It is a great blessing that Sir Philip is here with the queen’s pursuivants—I understand that was your doing. You are a brave man, Giordano Bruno. Reckless, perhaps, but undoubtedly useful.”
“Still—I must go back to see Harry Robinson, as a matter of urgency—”
Hale glanced up; his brow seemed to bristle at the presumption.
“I sent Harry home to rest. This will not wait, Doctor Bruno—my assize is only adjourned. I have at least twenty more criminal cases to hear today, not to mention all the minor petitions. We shall be sitting until midnight as it is. Take a drink and let us begin on your deposition.” He paused at the sound of the door. “Ah, Sir Philip.”
The door was closed behind Sidney, who strode over and squeezed my shoulder. He looked as exhausted as I felt.
“Langworth is taken,” he said, throwing himself into a chair and clicking his fingers at one of the clerks for a glass of wine. “Found him in his house trying to light a bonfire of his letters. Thankfully he had not progressed very far—should be enough to make interesting reading. But the bad news is that Becket is gone.”