Giordano Bruno 03 - Sacrilege by S. J. Parris

Author:S. J. Parris [Parris, S. J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, Religion, Historical, Thriller
ISBN: 9780307947451
Google: jk51AXP5vvUC
Goodreads: 13531437
Publisher: Anchor
Published: 2012-04-09T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

I dreamed fitful dreams in those early hours; of skeletal hands ragged with rotten flesh reaching out of a dark tomb to clutch at my clothes. At one point I imagined one of these hands took hold of my shoulder and began shaking it roughly as the foul air of the burial chamber breathed cold into my face, until I could stand it no longer and woke with a fearful cry—to find myself staring blearily into the face of Constable Edmonton, whose morning breath smelled of stale beer and onions through his ginger moustache.

“Get up, you,” he ordered.

I tried to sit, and the night’s excesses caught me like a fist to the head; I leaned forward and exhaled slowly while I regained my balance.

“What are you doing in here?” Edmonton said, in the same peremptory tone.

“Sleeping,” I said. “At least, I was.”

“Well, you can get up now. You’re under arrest.”

“What?” I pushed myself upright and winced as I leaned my weight on my bruised hand. A vivid image of Nick Kingsley’s bloodied face flashed in my memory. “Is it a crime to sleep in the stables?”

Edmonton allowed himself a little sarcastic laugh.

“Not compared to what you’re accused of, no.”

It began to dawn on me that he might be serious. I looked past him and saw Marina shifting anxiously at his shoulder.

“You didn’t come back last night,” she said, reproachfully. “I didn’t know where to find you, otherwise—” She glanced at the constable and held out her hands in a gesture of helplessness in the face of the law.

“This is absurd,” I said, remaining seated and tucking my bruised fist into my armpit. I could only assume young Kingsley had accused me of theft and assault. Just in case, I reached down with my left hand and began surreptitiously untying the leather pouch from my belt. If I were to be searched, I did not want anyone finding the copied keys or the papers I had taken from Fitch’s fireplace.

“Don’t make difficulties,” Edmonton said, as if the prospect wearied him. Then he moved to the door, shielding his eyes against the dawn light, and uttered a barking command. In the instant that his back was turned, I pulled the pouch from my belt and stuffed it firmly down behind the straw bale I was sitting on, until it was out of sight. There was just time to tuck my hands between my knees before two tall young men carrying pikestaffs appeared in the doorway of the stable.

“Are you going to walk with us of your own accord, eh?” Edmonton jerked his head towards the guards.

I stood up and felt my legs buckle beneath me for a moment. I hoped Edmonton had not noticed.

“Can you tell me what am I arrested for?”

“Murder,” he said, shortly.

A ripple of panic spread through me. Had Nick Kingsley died from his injury in the night?

“No—there is some mistake,” I protested. “Whose murder?”

“The apothecary William Fitch.” There was a note of satisfaction in Edmonton’s voice.

“What?” I shook my head.

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