S.J. Parris by Heresy

Author:Heresy
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9780385531290
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2010-10-31T05:00:00+00:00

I HAD NOT expected the door even to work, the place looked so derelict from the front, but when I turned the handle it groaned open to allow me a glimpse of one low-ceilinged room smelling of must and damp and furnished with a few rickety tables and benches. A pervasive chill hung in the air; the hearth that filled one wall was piled with cold ashes and the handful of customers conversed in muted tones, hunched over their pots of beer as if they were half ashamed to be found in such a place. It was not an inn to welcome passersby. Blood pounding in my chest, I closed the door gently behind me and took a seat at a table in a dingy corner next to the serving hatch, aware that my entrance had attracted the attention of the other guests. With a stab of surprise I recognised, in a group of four men across the room who were staring and whispering behind their hands, the pock-faced man with no ears who I had seen outside the Divinity School before the disputation—the man I was certain James Coverdale had also recognised. “No one of significance,” Coverdale had said. The earless man did not join in with the muttering of his companions but merely regarded me, unblinking, over their heads with that same cool, insolent gaze, as if he knew me. I met his look for a moment before looking quickly away, noticing that his eyes were as striking as his face; a blue so pale and translucent they seemed almost lit from within, the way sunlight shines through water in the Bay of Naples.

His stare was so disconcerting that I lowered my own eyes, anxious not to provoke any confrontation, but it was clear that this was not a place where a stranger could take a quiet drink without his presence arousing an unspoken but palpable reaction. When I looked up again, a sturdy woman of perhaps forty in a stained apron was standing in front of me, her arms folded. She had stringy greying hair scraped back from her square-jawed face and her brown eyes were sceptical.

“What’ll you have, sir?”

“A pot of ale?”

She nodded curtly, but continued to stand there appraising me. “You are not a familiar face, sir. What brings you to the Catherine Wheel?”

“I was hungry, I saw your sign and thought to stop for dinner.”

Her eyes narrowed further. “You are not from hereabouts, I think.”

“I was born in Italy,” I said, meeting her stare as frankly as I could.

She pursed her lips and nodded. “Friend to the pope?”

“Not personally,” I said, and finally her face softened a little and she almost smiled.

“You understand my meaning, sir.”

“Will my answer determine whether or not you bring me the beer?”

“Just like to be sure we have the right kind of people here, sir.”

I looked around the taproom; a less salubrious crowd it would be hard to picture. I was reminded of the roadside inns I had been forced to make use of during my flight from San Domenico.

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