Heresy

by S. J. Parris

  "Now, now, Roger," said the rector hastily, "there is to be no talk of any matter touching the disputation at table. My esteemed guest and I must preserve our arguments for the debating chamber, is that not so, Doctor Bruno? We must, as they say, keep our powder dry."

  I nodded my assent. Roger Mercer held up his hand in protest. "Fear not, Rector-I spoke only as a prelude to telling Doctor Bruno how I have been curious to meet him since I read his book, On the Shadows of Ideas, that was published in Paris last year."

  "Did not the sorcerer Cecco d'Ascoli, who was burned for necromancy, make mention of a book with the same title, a book of forbidden magic which he attributed to Solomon?" Doctor Bernard leaned around Sophia once more to make this interjection, his trembling extended finger pointing almost in her face, though aimed at me. She moved her chair back to accommodate him, flicking her hair over one shoulder while continuing her conversation with the irrepressibly enthusiastic Florio. From the odd phrase I could catch, he appeared to be treating her to further rhyming aphorisms. Reluctantly I turned my attention back to Bernard.

  "The book Cecco mentions has never been found," I said, raising my voice so that the old man might hear me clearly. "It seemed a shame to waste a good title, so I borrowed it. But mine is a treatise on the art of memory, based on the memory systems of the Greeks-no necromancy, gentlemen." I laughed, perhaps too hard.

  Roger Mercer eyed me thoughtfully. "And yet, Doctor Bruno, your memory system makes use of images that seem to correspond precisely to the talismanic figures described by Agrippa in his De occulta philosophia, that he claims can be invoked in the rituals of celestial magic to draw down the powers of angels and demons."

  "But these are images that correspond to the signs of the zodiac and the mansions of the moon, familiar to many mnemonic systems," I said, hoping not to betray my unease. "They are popular because they are based on regular numerical divisions, which aids in recall, but in the end they are merely images."

  "Nothing is merely an image to the magician," Bernard snapped back. "All are signs pointing to hidden realities, as your title implies. Especially not those images derived from the ancient astrology of the Egyptians, as Agrippa well knew, for he was quoting from his master, Hermes Trismegistus, who was condemned by Saint Augustine for summoning demons!"

  His voice rose on this last word; a cold hand gripped the base of my spine. I drew myself up to answer, but before I could speak, Sophia Underhill drew her chair nearer to the table, looked directly at me, and asked, cutting off Florio in mid-sentence, "Who is Hermes Trismegistus?"

  The company fell silent; all eyes turned to me.

  "I have read passing reference to his name in works of philosophy," she continued, with an innocence I did not quite believe, "but I can find none of his books in our library here, and I don't have permission to enter the university libraries."

  "Nor should you, since you are not a scholar," chided her father, looking around the table as if embarrassed by her boldness. "I permit you to improve your mind by reading in our library as long as you keep your studies to what is fit for a lady's understanding."

  I felt he said this for the benefit of the company; Sophia appeared about to protest, but then swallowed her words into a petulant expression. Her mother tutted again loudly.

  "You will find no works of Hermes the Thrice-Great in Oxford now," Bernard said in a sonorous voice, shaking his head. "Before, we had them-before the great purge of the libraries in '69. Translated out of the Greek by the Florentine Ficino a century ago, at the dying request of Cosimo de' Medici. You know Ficino's version, Doctor Bruno?"

  "I have read Ficino's translation," I said. "But I have also read the original Greek manuscripts, though the collection is incomplete. The fifteenth book was lost. Do you read Greek, Doctor Bernard?"

  Bernard fixed me with those bright, accusing eyes. "Yes, I read Greek, young man, we are not all barbarians north of the Tiber. But the missing book is a myth-it never existed," he added briskly. Then he went on, in a softer tone. "I read Ficino too, when I was young, and Agrippa. There was not such a fear of the ancient writers then. But so many books are lost to us now, carried away by the tides of reform. Centuries of learning burned to ashes…" He trailed off and it seemed he had travelled deep into memory.

  "Doctor Bernard," said the rector, a warning note in his voice again, "you know very well that the Royal Commission of '69 was sent to seek out heretical books acquired in the old monastic times, lest they infect the minds of our young men with their unholy ideas-a danger we senior Fellows must guard against still. I am sure you would not wish to disagree with such a prohibition."

  Bernard gave a short, croaking laugh. "Books prohibited to scholars? How then should men of learning sharpen their intellect, or learn to discern between truth and heresy? And do those who proscribe not have the wit to realise that forbidden books lure men more potently than the lewdest temptress?" Here he cast a sideways glance at Sophia. "Oh yes-but a forbidden book will always find its way in through the cracks and the mouse-holes, do you not know that, Rector? If one only knows where to look." He cackled to himself as if this were a great joke, and I noticed his fellow scholars shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

  "What happened to the books that were purged from the libraries then?" I asked, perhaps too urgently, for my question seemed to provoke a sudden hostility from Bernard; his eyes narrowed and he pulled himself stiffly upright.

  "It was a long time ago," he said brusquely. "Burned or taken away by the authorities, who knows? I am old now, and I have forgotten those days."

  He did not quite meet my gaze and I knew he was lying; a man who spoke so passionately about books would surely have remembered a public bonfire of them, even if it was so many years ago. But if the forbidden books were not burned, they must have passed into someone's hands, and I wondered if the old man knew whose.

  "Doctor Bruno, you have still not answered my question," Sophia cut in, leaning across to tap my hand while fixing me with her wide-set, tawny eyes. The hint of a smile played around her full mouth, as if she too knew a great joke and was considering letting us in on it. "Who was he?"

  I took a deep breath and returned her expectant gaze as steadily as I could, aware that the whole table had fallen silent, awaiting my answer, and that there was every chance my next words might be considered blasphemy.

  "Hermes Trismegistus, called the Thrice-Great, was an Egyptian high priest of great antiquity," I began, turning over a piece of bread in my fingers. "He lived after the time of Moses, long before Plato or Christ. Some say he was the Egyptian god Thoth, the divinity of wisdom. In any case, he was a man of unusual insight who achieved, through profound contemplation of the cosmos and experimentation with the properties of the natural world, the wisdom to unlock the secrets written in the book of nature and the heavens. He claimed to have entered and understood the Divine Mind." I paused. "He claimed he could become equal to God."

  There was a collective gasp from around the table; these men knew that this was indeed dangerous ground to tread, and I quickly added, "He is called the first philosopher, the first theologian, and he was also a prophet-Lactantius credited him with foretelling the advent of the Christian faith, in the very words of the Gospel."

  "And Augustine said he had his foreknowledge from the Devil," Roger Mercer said eagerly, his face reddening further as half-chewed meat fell from his mouth and lodged in his beard, though he appeared not to notice. "For does Hermes not write of how the Egyptians animated the idols of their gods in magical rites by calling down the powers of demons?"

  "I have never believed the account of the demons and the statues," I said lightly. "Men have always created mechanical toys and automatons and claimed to have endowed them with the gift of life, like the brazen head possessed by Roger Bacon that was reported to prophecy. But this is merely conjuring and skilled craftsmanship."

  "Hermes Trismegistus was no magician, then?" Sophia said softly, still looking at me. She seemed disap
pointed.

  "He wrote at length on the hidden properties of plants and stones and the arrangement of the cosmos," I replied. "There are some who call this alchemy or natural magic, and others who call it scientific enquiry."

  "When it is done for the purpose of seeking forbidden powers, it is called sorcery," the rector put in, sternly.

  "But did he discover any magic that worked?" she persisted, ignoring her father.

  "How do you mean, worked?" I asked.

  "I mean, was he able to use this natural magic to influence the world-to change people's thoughts or deeds, for example, and did he write of how it is done?" Her eyes were bright and impatient now as she leaned closer.

  "Recipes for spells, you mean?" I laughed. "I'm afraid not. The Hermetic magic, if you want to give it that name, is concerned with teaching the adept how to penetrate the mysteries of the universe through the light of the intellect. He cannot teach you how to make your sweetheart fall in love with you or keep him true-for that you had better consult some village wisewoman."

  There was some amusement at this from those at our end of the table, but the girl coloured violently and I suspected that my joke had accidentally struck the truth, so to cover her embarrassment I continued, hastily. "But the German alchemist Henry Cornelius Agrippa does speak of such things, in his treatise on the occult sciences that Doctor Mercer mentioned earlier. He writes that as well as the celestial images used in magic, we may create our own fitting to our purpose. For example, he says that to procure love, we may create an image of people embracing."

  "But how-?" Sophia began, just as the rector coughed loudly and the servants entered to clear away the first course.

  "Well, this has been a most illuminating discussion, Doctor Bruno-I knew your conversation and your unusual ideas would enliven our little college society," the rector said, patting me on the shoulder with considerable insincerity. "But I have devised that we should all change places for each course, so that you may become acquainted with some of the other important officials of the college. Much as I would like to continue with our theme," he added.

  Now he rose from his seat and fussed around the table, officiously rearranging the seating plan so that I found myself at the opposite end, surrounded by the three men to whom I had not yet spoken. The servants brought in silver dishes steaming with richly scented beef and a stew of vegetables, and in the course of all this activity, the rector's wife, who had barely spoken, took the opportunity to excuse herself with a headache, apologising profusely to me for being such a poor hostess. She seemed a melancholic and sickly woman, but I recalled what the rector had told me about their son; I had seen such symptoms previously in women who had lost a child, often years after the death, as if the mind itself had been taken with some wasting sickness from which it could not recover, and I felt profoundly sorry for her. It was hard to credit that such a forlorn creature could have been the author of the lively girl at the other end of the table.

  The second half of the meal passed with considerably less interest than the first, now that I had been removed from Sophia's company. My new dining companions introduced themselves. Opposite me sat Master Walter Slythurst, the college bursar, a bony, thin-lipped man of my own age with narrow, suspicious eyes and lank hair that fell in curtains around his face. Beside him was Doctor James Coverdale, a plump man of about forty with a great sweep of dark hair, a close-cropped beard, and an air of complacency, who explained that he was the proctor, the official responsible for the students' discipline. To my right was Master Richard Godwyn, the librarian, who appeared older, perhaps fifty, and whose large, drooping features reminded me of a bloodhound, as though his skin were too big for his face, though his gloomy countenance was transformed when he allowed a brief smile to illuminate it as he shook my hand. All were courteous enough, but I could not help but wish that I had been allowed to continue my discussion with Sophia. It was clear that the tenor of our conversation had angered her father; she was now seated next to him, on the same side of the table as me, so that I could not see her without rudely leaning around my neighbour Godwyn and drawing attention to myself.

  "I fear you have had to suffer the sharp end of William Bernard's tongue up there, Doctor Bruno," said James Coverdale, leaning across the table.

  "He seems disappointed with the world as he finds it," I observed, checking to see that Bernard had been moved far enough away to be out of earshot.

  "It is often the way with old men," Godwyn said, with a sombre nod. "He has weathered a great many changes in his seventy winters, it cannot be easy."

  "If he continues to speak his mind as plainly among the undergraduates as he does among his fellows, he will soon go the way of his friend," said Slythurst, in a clipped tone that suggested he would not be displeased at such an outcome. I do not like to judge men on appearance and so little acquaintance, but there was something about the bursar that did not invite respect. He had been staring at me intently from the moment I sat down, and I sensed that the look was not friendly.

  "His friend?" I asked.

  Coverdale sighed. "It is a sorry business, Doctor Bruno, and a source of shame to the college-the former subrector, Doctor Allen, was deprived of office last year after he was discovered to have"-he hesitated, looking for a diplomatic expression-"perjured himself in swearing the Oath of Supremacy. It seemed he was still a devout communicant of the Roman church."

  "Really? How was he discovered?"

  "Denounced by an anonymous source," Coverdale said, as if relishing the intrigue. "But when his room was searched, he was found in possession of a quantity of banned papist literature. And of course the subrector holds the second-highest office in the college, and is in charge whenever the rector is absent, so you may imagine the scandal. A number of us here had to testify against him in the Chancellor's Court."

  "The university holds its own legal sessions to enforce discipline," explained Godwyn in a lugubrious tone. "Though in a matter of such import the Privy Council also took an active interest. The Earl of Leicester-our chancellor, you know-has repeatedly charged the heads of colleges to rid themselves of all suspicion of popery, so the rector had to be seen to strike swift and hard against Allen."

  " Rector Underhill was formerly the Earl of Leicester's own chaplain, as he has no doubt boasted to you already," added Slythurst. "He could not have pardoned Allen and kept his own position."

  "Yet Allen hoped for a pardon," Coverdale interjected. "And for better loyalty from his friends. In that he was badly disappointed."

  "I think the rector did his duty with a heavy heart, James," Godwyn said, with a meaningful look at Coverdale. "Indeed it grieved all of us to have to bear public witness to his errors."

  "Roger Mercer gave his testimony quickly enough," said Coverdale, glancing with barely concealed anger down the table to where Roger was laughing merrily with Florio. I saw Slythurst roll his eyes, as if he had heard this grievance many times before. "And he was supposed to be Allen's closest friend. Still, he got his thirty pieces of silver, did he not?"

  "Silver?" I asked.

  "His testimony was crucial to condemning Allen, and for that he was given Allen's position when he was deprived," Coverdale said bitterly.

  "Perhaps I should clarify for Doctor Bruno that, traditionally, it is the proctor who succeeds as subrector, just as the subrector goes on to become rector," Godwyn explained. "This is the way it has always been done-there is a congregation of the Fellows, of course, but the vote is really a formal seal of approval on the established succession."

  "But since the present rector was placed here by the Earl of Leicester, to do his bidding," Coverdale hissed, hunching down in his seat so that he would not be heard, "he shows scant regard for tradition and appoints those he finds most pliable. And we all know why Leicester forced through Underhill's election," he added significantly.

  "James," said Slythurst, a warning in his voice.

  "I understood it was to enforce propriety in religion," I said. "C
ut out the canker of popery."

  "Oh, that is the official reason." Coverdale waved a dismissive hand. "But the college owns substantial manors and parcels of profitable farmland in Oxfordshire, you understand-many of which are now leased at a most advantageous rate to friends of Leicester, are they not, Master Bursar?"

  "You forget yourself, James," Slythurst said smoothly. "Doctor Bruno here is a friend of the Earl of Leicester."

  "Indeed, I have never met him," I said hastily. "I merely travel with his nephew."

  "In any case," Coverdale continued, warming to his theme, "the college loses valuable profit and must struggle to make ends meet by admitting legions of these so-called gentlemen commoners-paying students who have neither the inclination nor the talent to be scholars and gad about the town wenching and gambling and bringing the university into disrepute."

  "This is not an appropriate subject for the supper table," said Slythurst, in a voice thick with cold anger, bringing down his palm flat against the board just firmly enough to signal his displeasure. "There is nothing improper about those leases, but the disbursal of college funds can be of no interest to our guest, I am sure. A little discretion, if you please, gentlemen."

  The Fellows looked down, embarrassed; an uncomfortable silence loomed.

  "Doctor Coverdale," I said, turning to the proctor with a diplomatic smile, "you were telling me about the trial of Edmund Allen-please do go on."

  Coverdale exchanged a look with Slythurst that I could not read, then folded his hands together.

  "I was saying only that Mercer's testimony against Allen carried great weight in the trial, not least because he was Allen's closest confidant. The rector needed Mercer's cooperation, and in return Mercer was given Allen's position."

  "Which should have been yours," I prompted.

  Coverdale placed a plump hand on his breast and assumed a face of unconvincing modesty. "It is not for my own merits that I say an injustice has been done, Doctor Bruno," he said, "but for the violation to tradition. This university is founded on tradition, and if individuals feel that they are not obliged to respect it because their personal patronage carries more weight, the fabric of our community will crumble."