‘I didn’t do it, Lord!’ he prayed. ‘I am innocent!’
The sculpted, carved face of the Saviour stared blindly back. Passerel heard the hubbub in the street below grow. He went to the window and peered out. A group of scholars, most of them from the Welsh counties, now thronged below. Passerel recognised many of them. Some wore gowns bearing a crudely sewn sparrow, the badge of the Hall. Their leader, David ap Thomas, a tall, blond-haired, thickset, young man, was busily lecturing them, his hands flailing the air. Even the blind beggar, who usually stood on the comer of the alley with his pittance bowl, had gathered his clammy, dirty rags about him and drawn closer to listen. Passerel tried to compose himself. He went back to the list he was compiling of Ascham’s personal effects: the scarlet gown with tartan sleeves; the green cushions; the silk borders; mazers; gilt cufflets; silver vestments; saucers; dishes; pater nosters; amber beads and breviaries. For a while, despite the distraction of the growing clamour below, Passerel worked on. However, as the clamour grew to shouts and yells of defiance, he heard his own name called. He stole furtively to the casement window and stared out. His heart sank and beads of sweat turned his skin clammy. The crowd was now a mob. They were shouting and yelling, shaking their fists: their leader, David Ap Thomas, standing with hands on hips, glimpsed Passerel peeping through the window.
‘There he is!’ he yelled, his voice ringing like a bell. ‘Ascham’s assassin, Passerel the perjurer! Passerel the murderer!’
The words were taken up: fistfuls of mud and ordure were hurled at the window. A brick smashed through the mullioned glass. Passerel whimpered, gathering his cloak about him. He jumped as the door was flung open. Leonard Appleston, Master of Divinity in the hall, lecturer in the schools, burst in. His square, sunburnt face was ashen, his mouth tight with fear.
‘William, for the love of God!’ He grabbed the bursar by the arm. ‘You must flee!’
‘Where to?’ Passerel’s hands fluttered.
‘Sanctuary,’ Appleston replied. He grasped the bursar and pulled him closer. ‘Take the back stairs, quickly. Go!’
Passerel looked round the chamber at his books, his beloved manuscripts. He, a scholar, was being forced to flee like a rat up a drain. He had no choice. Appleston was already bundling him out of the room, pushing him along the gallery. In the stairwell he passed Lady Mathilda Braose, her thin, waspish face startled; beside her was the deaf mute Master Moth who followed her everywhere like a dog. She cried out but Appleston pushed Passerel past her. The bursar, fear now lending him speed, scurried through the kitchen and the scullery, out across the urine-stained hall. A mangy cat slunk up, its back arching. Passerel lashed out and looked back through the gateway. Appleston was standing at the door urging him on.
‘Why should I flee?’. Passerel’s lower lip quivered. ‘Why should I?’ he shouted.
He heard a sound at the mouth of the alleyway and looked up. His stomach clenched in fear. A group of students had gathered there. Passerel hoped that, in the poor light, they might not see him. He flattened his bulk, closing his eyes, praying to Saint Anne, his patron saint.
‘There he is!’ a voice cried. ‘Passerel the murderer!’
The bursar fled down the alleyway. He stopped at the end. Which way should he go? Down Bocardo Lane? Perhaps reach the castle? He heard the sound of pounding feet and changed direction. He ran as fast as he could, pushing his way past students, merchants, knocking aside children playing with an inflated pig’s bladder. He gasped with relief when he saw the lych-gate of St Michael’s Church. Behind, shouts of ‘Harrow! Harrow!’ echoed as the hue and cry was raised. He thought he had outwitted his pursuers until a clod of earth sped past his head. Passerel hurried on through the cemetery and threw himself through the doorway of the church. He slammed the door behind him, pulling across the bolt.
‘What do you want?’ a woman’s voice sang out above him.
Passerel, drenched with sweat, peered into the darkness. He stared up at the light flickering through a slit in a wooden partition above the door. At first he thought he’d heard a ghost until he realised there was an anchorite’s cell built just above the main porch. Passerel heard the sound of shouts and blows from outside.
‘I seek sanctuary!’ he gasped.
‘Then ring the bell to your left,’ the anchorite ordered. ‘And hurry! The church has a side door and they’ll cut you off!’
Passerel groped in the darkness and pulled at the rope. Above him the bell began to toll like the crack of doom.
‘Run!’ the anchorite shouted.
Passerel needed no second bidding. He fled up the nave, slipping and slithering on the smooth, greystone floor. He reached the oaken rood screen, heavy and squat. He stumbled through the entrance into the sanctuary and grasped the altar. The bell, still rolling from the force of his pull, clanged on. Passerel, weeping like a child, crouched in the darkness. He stared up at the red sanctuary light, a little lamp within a red glass bowl, which flickered on a shelf beneath the silver pyx holding the host. The side door opened with a crash. Passerel whimpered with fear.
‘What do you want? What do you seek?’
Passerel screwed up his eyes: a cowled figure stood in the entrance to the rood screen. A tinder was lit and a candle bathed the sanctuary in a pool of light. The face above it was gentle with straggly, spiked hair, and sad eyes in a wrinkled ageing face. Passerel sighed with relief as he recognised Father Vincent, the priest of St Michael’s.
‘I seek sanctuary,’ Passerel whimpered.
‘For what crime?’
‘For no crime,’ Passerel said. ‘I am innocent.’
‘All men are innocent,’ the priest replied, ‘in the eyes of God.’ He lit a candle on the altar as well as two large ones on the offertory table near the lavabo bowl. ‘Stand up! Stand up!’ Father Vincent ordered. ‘You are safe here!’
Passerel did so, trying to keep his legs from trembling.
‘I am Master William Passerel,’ he announced. ‘Bursar of Sparrow Hall. They have accused me of the murder of Robert Ascham the archivist.’
‘Ah!’ The priest came closer. He lifted his hand around which was wrapped a string of polished, black rosary beads. ‘I have heard of Ascham’s death and that of the Regent Sir John Copsale. They were both good men.’
‘No man is good!’ the anchorite shouted from the back of the church.
‘Shush, shush, Magdalena!’ the priest answered. ‘Sir John Copsale gave generously to our alms box. I have heard of Ascham’s death and the doings of the Bellman.’
The priest’s voice, like every sound, echoed round the church — small wonder the anchorite could hear it.
‘The Bellman came here!’ Magdalena boomed. ‘Pinned his proclamation to the church door he did. Creeping he came: mouse-eyed and close-mouthed. A goblin of wit!’
‘Shush! Shush!’ The priest brought his hand down on Passerel’s shoulder. ‘Your pursuers have gone. I heard the bell toll and came out. Bullyboys, the lot of them.’ He added, ‘Swaggering swains, empty vessels always make the most sound.’ The priest smiled. ‘I ordered them out of God’s acre. They had no right to bring their violence here but they are keeping watch on the lych-gate and around the cemetery. If you leave, they will kill you.’ The priest drew himself up, eyes wide. ‘That’s what happened to the last man who fled here. He came and went like a thief in the night. They caught him near Hog Lane and chopped his head off.’
Passerel moaned in fear.
‘However, you are safe here,’ the priest added kindly. ‘Look.’ He grasped Passerel by the arm and led him across to a recess in the wall. ‘This is the place of sanctuary. I’ll bring a bolster, some blankets, wine, bread and cheese. You can stay here for forty days.’ He watched as Passerel clutched his stomach. ‘If you have to relieve yourself, go out at the side door. There’s a small drain near one of the graves. But mind your step.’ He chuckled. ‘Don’t fall in and take no light with you.’