Heresy. S. J. Parris
to himself, his brows knit in perplexity.
‘Is it not a watch dog, to keep out intruders?’ I asked, now puzzled myself. ‘Could it not be some thief who has scaled the wall, perhaps?’
‘But there is no watch dog,’ the rector said, his voice tight with panic. ‘The porter has a dog, but it is an old, blind creature that has only the use of three legs and it sleeps in his lodge by the main gate. No one else in college is permitted to keep an animal.’ He shook his head, unable to make sense of the evidence of his own ears; the beast in the garden went on making its hellish noise.
‘Step aside there,’ said a calm voice behind us, and the gaggle of students crowded in the passageway parted to reveal a tall young man with shoulder-length fair hair, dressed incongruously in a fine doublet and breeches, black silk slashed to show a rich crimson lining and topped with an elaborate ruff, looking for all the world as if he were off to a dance or a playhouse in London, not hastily risen like the rest of us in all the confusion. In one hand he carried an English longbow, of the kind the nobility use for the hunt, taller than himself and ornately carved with gilded inlays and green and scarlet tracery. In the other he held a leather quiver of arrows decorated with the same design of curlicued vines and gilt leaves.
‘Gabriel Norris!’ exclaimed the rector, staring at the longbow. ‘What is this?’
‘You must open the gate, Doctor Underhill,’ commanded the young man, ‘there is no time to lose, a man’s life is in danger.’
He spoke in measured tones, despite the urgency of the situation, as if he and not the rector held the authority here; half-dazed, the rector unlocked the gate and the young man stepped through, fitting an arrow to his bow as he did so. I followed him hesitantly, and the rector fell in behind me, keeping close to the wall.
The mist hung heavily between the twisted trunks of the apple trees, playing tricks on my eyes with its shifting shapes. Stepping cautiously through the blue shadows, I glimpsed suddenly towards the furthest north-east corner the movement of a large, long-legged dog – by its shape a wolfhound of sorts, I thought, though I could not see clearly. I kept close to the wall as this Gabriel, conspicuous in his gaudy clothes, advanced in steady paces towards the animal, which was still growling and shaking between its teeth a limp black object at its feet. As I moved closer, the mist thinned and I was able to see the animal clearly; its jaws were bloody and daubed with shreds of torn flesh. My heart sank then and my stomach convulsed, for I knew we were too late. The young man paused a few paces away; the dog, catching a scent or a sound, paused in the mauling of its prey and raised its head. For the briefest moment, its snarling ceased and it made a movement towards the young man; as it did so, he let the arrow fly. He was a good shot, despite the thick air, and the animal crumpled to the ground as the arrow-head tore through its neck.
As soon as it fell, Gabriel dropped his bow and we both rushed to the black heap that lay up against the wall, beside the animal’s corpse. It was the body of a man, lying face down, his black academic gown spread out around him, the grass all torn and soaked with a quantity of blood around the body. I helped Gabriel roll the man over, and cried out suddenly in shock. Here was Roger Mercer, his head bent at a hideous angle, eyes staring to the sky, his throat quite torn out – a flap of flesh hung open, raw tissue protruding from the wound. Instinctively I reached out to staunch the blood that still seeped down his neck and breast, but it was too late – the eyes were motionless, fixed forever in a stare of terror. Gabriel Norris jumped back from the bloody corpse, checking anxiously to see that he had got no gore on his clothes, as if this were his only concern. Preening little peacock, I thought in disgust – then remembered where I had heard his name before; Mercer himself had referred to him the night before in exactly the same terms. I crouched in disbelief by the body, taking in the ravaged hands – two of the fingers near bitten off where he had tried to fight the animal away – the chunks of flesh torn from the legs and ankles where it had dragged him to the ground, that horrifically mauled gullet.
The rector came cautiously towards us, a handkerchief clutched over his mouth.
‘Is he …?’
‘We came too late, God have mercy on his soul,’ I said, more from custom than piety. The rector moved close enough to identify the mutilated body of the man who had sat at his right hand only the night before at dinner, and was immediately sick. The young man called Gabriel seemed to have recovered himself, and was probing the corpse of the dog with his toe.
‘A giant of a beast,’ he said, with a note almost of pride, as if he were displaying it as a hunting trophy. Peering more closely, it struck me: hunting was the apt image.
‘This is a hunting dog,’ I said, kneeling beside it. ‘And look, here.’ I pointed to where its ribs protruded painfully under its wiry grey pelt. ‘See how thin it is – it looks as if it was starving. And look at its leg.’ A ring of raw flesh ran around the top of the dog’s left hind leg where the skin had been brutally chafed by a tether of some kind. The fur around the wound was patchy and torn, as if the dog had tried repeatedly to tear off its fetter with its own teeth. ‘It has been chained up, I think – you see? No wonder it went so crazed.’
‘What was it doing in the garden, though?’ the young man asked, looking at me expectantly. ‘And why was Doctor Mercer here with a dog?’
‘Perhaps he was walking his dog and it suddenly turned on him – dogs are sometimes unpredictable,’ I suggested, unpersuaded by my own hypothesis.
‘But Roger didn’t have a dog,’ the rector said in a weak voice, wiping his mouth with his handkerchief. ‘I told you – no one in the college, save the porter, is allowed to keep an animal. No – no, gentlemen, there is nothing to see here!’ he cried suddenly, as the scholars began crowding through the narrow gate into the garden, intent on seeing the spectacle. ‘Back to your rooms, all of you! Chapel at six as normal – back to your rooms and make yourselves ready, I say!’
The students reluctantly turned and shuffled back through the gate, casting glances over their shoulders and murmuring among themselves in animated tones. The rector turned then to the young man, who stood contemplating the corpses, the quiver still dangling from his shoulder; an expression of disbelief spread over the rector’s face, as if he were only now seeing the young man clearly for the first time.
‘Gabriel Norris!’ he exploded, flapping a hand frantically. ‘What in God’s name are you wearing?’
Norris looked down at his flamboyant doublet and hose, then shifted his feet as if embarrassed.
‘I think now is not the time, Doctor Underhill,’ he began, but the rector cut him off.
‘You know perfectly well the Earl of Leicester’s edict about the rules of dress for undergraduates! And I am charged with enforcing it – would you have us both disciplined by the Chancellor’s Court, after all that has happened?’ His face had turned the shade of beetroot, his voice strangulated; I could not help but think that this was an overreaction, in the circumstances. ‘No ruffs, no silks, no velvets, no cuts in doublet or hose!’ he continued, his pitch rising with every item. ‘And no weapons! You deliberately flaunt every rule laid down regarding apparel! This is a community of scholars, Master Norris, not some ball at court for you to flaunt your wealth!’
The young man pursed his lips and looked surly. Even in this attitude of petulance, I saw that he was exceptionally handsome and was clearly used to having his own way.
‘This community of scholars could not do without my wealth, as you well know, Rector. And you overcharge us as it is – I am forced to eat like a pauper here, must I also dress like one?’
The rector, chastened, lowered his voice.
‘You must dress as the Earl of Leicester deems fitting for an Oxford man,’ he said. ‘Now please make haste and change – if you are reported we will both be in trouble and how shall I explain …?’ He broke off there, looking around him helplessly at the two bodies, and I saw that his hands were shaking badly; I suspected he was in shock.
Gabriel Norris looked at me for a moment, as if reluctant to leave