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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2016
Copyright © Stephanie Merritt 2016
Cover design by Holly Macdonald © HarperCollinsPublishers 2017
Cover illustrations © George Peters/Getty Images (crow); Mary Evans Picture Library (city). Lettering by Stephen Raw
Stephanie Merritt asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authorâs imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780007481279
Ebook Edition © 2016 ISBN: 9780007481262
Version: 2017-05-10
Paris, November, 1585.
âForgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been nine years since my last confession.â
From beyond the latticework screen came a sharp inhalation through teeth, barely audible. For a long time, it seemed as if he would not speak. You could almost hear the echo bouncing through his skull: nine years?
âAnd what has happened to keep you so far from Godâs grace, my son?â
That slight nasal quality to his voice; it coloured everything he said with an unfortunate sneer, even on the rare occasions where none was intended.
âAh, Father â where to begin? I was caught reading forbidden books in the privy by my prior, I abandoned the Dominican order without permission to avoid the Inquisition, for which offence I was excommunicated by the last Pope; I have written and published books questioning the authority of the Holy Scriptures and the Church Fathers, I have publicly attacked Aristotle and defended the cosmology of Copernicus, I have been accused of heresy and necromancyââ a swift pause to draw breath â âI have frequently sworn oaths and taken the Lordâs name in vain, I have envied my friends, lain with women, and brought about the death of more than one person â though, in my defence, those cases were complicated.â
âAnything else?â Openly sarcastic now.
âOh â yes. I have also borne false witness. Too many times to count.â Including this confession.
A prickly silence unfolded. Inside the confessional, nothing but the familiar scent of old wood and incense, and the slow dance of dust motes, disturbed only by our breathing, his and mine, visible in the November chill. A distant door slammed, the sound ringing down the vaulted stone of the nave.
âWill you give me penance?â
He made an impatient noise. âPenance? You could endow a cathedral and walk to Santiago on your knees for the rest of your natural life, it would barely scratch the surface. Besidesââ the wooden bench creaked as he shifted his weight â âhavenât you forgotten something, my son?â
âI may have left out some of the detail,â I conceded. âOtherwise weâd be here till Judgement Day.â
âI meant, I have not yet heard you say, âFor these and all the sins of my past life, I ask pardon of God.â Because, in your heart, you are not really contrite, are you? You are, it seems to me, quite proud of this catalogue of iniquity.â
âShould we add the sin of pride, then, while I am here? Save me coming back?â
A further silence stretched taut across the minutes. His face was pressed close to the grille; I knew he was looking straight at me.
âFor the love of God, Bruno,â he hissed, eventually. âWhat are you