Giordano Bruno 01 - Heresy

by S. J. Parris

  “Can you see from here everyone who comes in and out at night, then?” I asked.

  “As long as I’m awake,” said Cobbett, with a husky laugh that quickly turned into another round of coughing.

  There was more I wanted to ask, but I sensed my questions were making him suspicious, so I turned to the door.

  “Thank you for your help, Cobbett—I must be getting along.”

  “Doctor Bruno,” he called, as I opened the door. I turned back. “Please do not repeat what I said about the grove, will you? As much as it pains me, I must do as the rector instructs and say the blame was mine.”

  I assured him that I would not mention our conversation. His face slumped with relief.

  “I will gladly tell you more of locks and keys another time if you care to know,” he added, casually twirling Mercer’s keys in his stubby fingers. Then he reached beneath the table and pulled out an earthenware flagon, waving it meaningfully in my direction. “But it is thirsty work, all this jawing. Conversation flows all the better for a bit of refreshment, if you catch my meaning.”

  I smiled. “I will see what refreshment I can find for when we next converse, Cobbett,” I said. “I shall look forward to it.”

  “And I, Doctor Bruno, and I. Leave the door open, if you’d be so kind.”

  He reached down and ruffled the dog’s fur between its ears. I could hear him chuckling to himself as I left the lodge and stood in front of the high main gate, wondering.

  I RETURNED to my chamber, glad to rid myself of the shirt and breeches, now stiff with Roger Mercer’s blood, and to take the book out of my breeches, where its corners were digging uncomfortably into my stomach. Clad only in my underhose, oblivious to the chill of the room, I took a tinderbox from the mantelpiece and lit one of the cheap tallow candles with which the room had been provided; the room quickly filled with its acrid smoke as I took Mercer’s almanac and opened it, this time at the back. There were several blank pages bound into the covers, and one of these was oddly stiff, the paper slightly warped as if it had got wet and then dried out. I sniffed it closely; here the smell of oranges was most insistent. Carefully, so as not to scorch it, I held the page up close to the candle’s flame and watched as, slowly, a series of marks in dark brown began to grow visible. Moving the paper up and down past the flame, it gradually revealed its secret writing: a sequence of letters and symbols, with no logical pattern I could discern. Below this was a shorter series of the same symbols, though in a different order: grouped in two lots of three different symbols, then a group of five. It was evidently some kind of cipher, though I knew little of cryptography and had no idea how to begin decoding it. I wondered if Sidney might have a better idea, given that he had had more contact than I with such work, so I took a piece of paper and a quill and made a copy of the symbols exactly as they appeared on the page, thinking I would give this to him to work on. But as I copied the first three lines, it became clear that the symbols were arranged in a sequence of twenty-four, and that this sequence was repeated three times.

  I paused. There were twenty-four letters in the English alphabet, but surely no cipher could be that obvious? Nonetheless, I thought it worth a try, and on my copy I wrote out the alphabet underneath the first sequence of twenty-four symbols. If this was a basic substitution cipher, then according to this system the groups of letters underneath might mean something. I copied out the first group of three symbols according to the alphabetical substitution, and as I saw the result, O-R-A, I felt my pulse quicken. Hurriedly I translated the remaining letters of the short phrase, and drew my breath in sharply. I had written the words Ora pro nobis.

  Folding the copy carefully and hiding it under my pillow, I laid my head down gratefully, trying to imagine why Roger Mercer had written those words—the refrain from the Catholic Litany of the Saints—invisibly in the back of his almanac. But I had to put the puzzle from my mind; there were more pressing matters for my attention. I had intended only to close my eyes for a few moments before gathering my thoughts and setting them to concentrate on the evening’s disputation, which was supposed to be the crowning glory of my first visit to Oxford, but I was awakened all of a sudden by a furious hammering on the door and sat upright, confused and bleary.

  “Open up, for Christ’s sake!” a man’s voice bellowed, and for a moment my bowels clenched: Had there been another violent death? The door handle rattled urgently as I struggled out of my sheets and into a clean shirt, and when finally I wrenched the door open, there stood Sidney, quiffed and impatient, dressed head to foot in green velvet, with a neck ruff that made his head look as if it were perched on a platter.

  “Christ alive, Bruno, I came as soon as I heard!” He strode past me into the room, stripping off his gloves with a businesslike air. “I had barely breakfasted this morning when what should I hear from the servants but that all of Christ Church cloister is aflame with the news that a savage beast stalks Lincoln College, dragging innocent men to their doom.” He looked me up and down, eyes wide in mock terror. “Well—at least you still have all your limbs, God be praised.”

  “Philip—a man died in front of me this morning,” I said, wearily.

  “I know—I want to hear all about it,” he said. “Come on, dress yourself, man—I have come to take you out to dinner.”

  “What time is it?” I said, suddenly panicked; clearly I had slept much longer than I intended and my stomach was crying out with hunger, but I had not yet even begun my preparation for the disputation at five.

  “Just past one.” Sidney sauntered around the room, picking up books and considering them idly while I rummaged for clean hose and a plain doublet. “One lad at Christ Church said a wolf had got into the college—I thought that seemed unlikely. Did you see what happened?”

  “By tomorrow they’ll be saying it was a lion,” I said. “These students seem starved of incident here, they will make legends out of any matter. But I will be glad to tell you all, for there is much that troubles me, and I have something to show you. Let us find some food first, though.” I took the almanac from under my pillow and tucked it inside my doublet before fastening the buttons, Sidney watching me curiously as I did so.

  The air was still damp though the sky was lighter as we passed under the tower gate into St. Mildred’s Lane, then south past the tall spire of All Hallows Church. At the High Street we paused to let two riders on horseback pass, then crossed between piles of dung and straw that littered the muddy thoroughfare, churned up after all the rain. I was glad I had put on my riding boots. Young men in short black gowns hurried past us in groups, chattering over one another. At the corner of a narrow lane edged by low timber-framed houses, Sidney turned and led me to a two-storey building with gabled roofs which bore a painted sign creaking above its door: PECK-WATER INN.

  The cobbled yard was busy as we passed under the gate; men led horses toward a stable block at the back as others unloaded heavy-looking barrels from a high cart. The building occupied three sides of a quadrangle, with two levels of balconies on each side overlooking the yard.

  Inside, the taproom was dim and a fire burned in a stone hearth at one end. Long, rough-hewn tables and benches were set around the edges of the room, many of them already occupied by busy diners talking and eating at once; a serving hatch was built into the wall opposite the fireplace, and a red-faced woman in an apron scuttled between it and the tables ferrying wooden platters and pewter tankards, pausing occasionally to brush a strand of damp hair from her face with the back of her hand. When she noticed us, her harried expression changed to one of delight and she rushed over, wiping her hands on her apron.

  “Sir Philip! What a pleasure—we heard you were back in town,” she said, with a wink. “They said there was a great procession in your honour.”

  “It was a very wet procession, and the honour was not mine, Lizzy,” Sidney said, removing his hat and making a solemn bow. “May I present my dear friend from Italy, Doctor Giordano Bruno?”

  “Bu
ongiorno, signorina,” I said, playing up to Sidney’s exaggerated courtliness.

  “Pleasure, I’m sure,” the tavern mistress giggled, her considerable bosom quivering.

  “Now then, Lizzy—we’d like a quiet table, a jug of beer when you have a moment, your best game pie, and some fresh bread, if you please.”

  She beamed up at him.

  “You best take the corner table, you won’t be disturbed there,” she said, and bustled off to the kitchen.

  “I used to come here all the time,” Sidney explained. “The inn is hard by Christ Church and there was more varied company to be had here than inside the college when I was a student, if you know what I mean. We will be well treated in any case, they know I tip generously. Now then, Bruno—tell your tale.”

  He sat back and folded his hands with the air of one who expects to be entertained. I could not help feeling he was taking a man’s death rather lightly, treating it as material for an exciting anecdote; in that he reminded me of Gabriel Norris. Perhaps it is a trait of rich boys, I thought: craving adventure in a life made dull by the absence of daily cares. I was about to launch into my account when Lizzy arrived with a jug of beer, two tankards, and a loaf of bread that Sidney ripped into immediately, handing me the first piece.

  With my mouth half full, I told him of all that had happened since I was first awakened by the dog’s fearsome noise at dawn. When I came to the part about the locked gates, his complacent expression vanished and he leaned forward eagerly, his eyes alert.

  “You suspect foul play?” he asked, as the tavern mistress arrived again with a platter of thick game pie.

  When she had gone, I told him of my visit to Roger Mercer’s room, the interruption by Slythurst, and my subsequent conversation with the old porter. When I had finished, Sidney whistled through his teeth.

  “Extraordinary business,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “So you surmise someone set that dog on him on purpose, then ransacked his room looking for something valuable?”

  “That is the mystery,” I said. “It can’t be valuable in the usual sense, because whoever did it had no interest in the ten pounds he was carrying, or the chest of gold in his room. But that is what I can’t fathom—someone lured him to the garden on the pretext of a meeting, clearly someone to whom he owed money. So why didn’t they take the money and then kill him?”

  “Not necessarily a debt,” Sidney said, his mouth full. “Might it not have been someone who had something to sell?”

  I frowned.

  “But what would he be buying at that hour, in the grove? Something contraband, you think?”

  Sidney was regarding me with amusement, a knowing smile playing about his lips. “Think, Bruno—what might a man want to buy under cover of darkness?”

  I looked back at him blankly, then caught his meaning.

  “Whores, you mean? But in that case, how much simpler—and warmer—just to find a whorehouse in town.” I shook my head. “Even if he was whoring—someone else knew to find him there at that time, someone who had a key to the grove. And it still doesn’t explain who went through his room, or why. Whatever they were looking for must have been of value to the person who wanted it—the place was torn to shreds, as if they sought it with utmost urgency.”

  “But you say at least two people wanted whatever it might have been—the bursar and the other fellow who got there before you.” Sidney’s brow creased for a moment and he took a long draught of beer. “One thing is strange, though. It’s such a cowardly way to kill a man, and so imprecise, too. If you want a man dead, why not just run him through with a sword, especially if you know where to find him alone and unarmed. But a dog is so unpredictable.”

  “You know about hunting,” I said, cutting myself another brick of the pie. “Could a hound like that be trained to attack a particular person, follow a scent?”

  Sidney considered.

  “I suppose—if it can be trained to follow the scent of a boar or a wolf, why not a man? If it was given one of his garments, perhaps. The Irish used to use them in battle—apparently they could pull an armoured knight off his horse. And you say it had been kept hungry, so its instincts would be all the keener.” He leaned his elbows on the table and rested his chin on cupped hands. “It’s as if the dog were part of some kind of show, as if it were done to create a spectacle. And what a way to die—locked in with a bloodthirsty animal. Makes me think,” he said, putting another hunk of bread into his mouth, “of how the Romans used to execute the early saints, by throwing them into an arena with wild beasts. The way John Foxe describes it in that grisly Book of Martyrs.”

  I stopped, a piece of meat halfway to my mouth, and stared at him, slack-jawed.

  “What?” Sidney stopped chewing.

  “Foxe’s Book of Martyrs. The rector of Lincoln has a great interest in him—he has been preaching sermons in chapel with Foxe as his text.”

  Sidney frowned.

  “You think someone wanted to get rid of this Mercer and took inspiration from Foxe for his method?” His expression betrayed his scepticism.

  “It does seem far-fetched. Perhaps I am reading too much into it.” I passed my hands over my face. “You are right—it was probably just a bad debt or trouble over a whore. No wonder the rector wants it covered up while a royal visitation is in town.”

  Sidney was silent for a moment. Then he banged a palm down on the table.

  “No, Bruno—I think you are right to be suspicious. The dog was loosed into the garden by someone who had a key, which suggests one of the Fellows or someone else with access to the college keys. And at least two people wanted something from his room, but not money. Perhaps something that might be dangerous to them. And if everyone in the college has recently heard stories of the saints’ gruesome deaths from Foxe’s book, thanks to the rector, perhaps in some way it was staged as a deliberate copy. The question is, why? Did you find nothing in his room?”

  “Only this. Take a look,” I said, extracting the slim almanac. “What do you notice first?”

  Sidney turned a couple of pages, then looked up at me, his face serious.

  “Gregorian calendar. Was our man a secret papist after all, like his friend Allen?”

  “I wondered. I heard him cry out to Mary before he died.”

  “I’d cry to Mary if a dog that size was snapping at my arse,” said Sidney bluntly, turning the book over in his hands. “That signifies nothing. But this calendar—you would only need this if you were corresponding with someone in the Catholic countries. Especially if you needed to coordinate movements. Edmund Allen went to Rheims, did he not? Wasn’t he related to William Allen, who founded the English College there?”

  “A cousin, they said. Mercer could still have been in touch with him, you mean?”

  Sidney glanced to either side and lowered his voice. “Remember why we are here, Bruno. These seminaries in Rheims and Rome are Walsingham’s greatest headache at the moment—they have vast funds from the Vatican and are in the business of training dozens of priests for the English mission, many of them former Oxford men.” He pulled his beard into a point as he thought, then picked up the book again. “What is this little circle here?” he asked, pointing to the wheel symbol that marked the previous day’s entry in Mercer’s calendar.

  “I don’t know. It appears often. I wondered if it might be a code.”

  Sidney peered closer, then shook his head. “I recognise it, but I can’t think from where. Looks like one of your magical symbols, Bruno.”

  I had not liked to say so, but the thought had crossed my mind; Roger Mercer had secretly confided an interest in magic. Even so, the symbol was not one I recognised, and so it intrigued me.

  “It’s not an astrological symbol, that is certain,” I said. “But that is not the most important thing. Smell the book.”

  Sidney frowned indulgently, but brought the book close to his face. “Oranges?”

  “Yes. Look to the back.”

  He flicked th
rough the pages, then looked up at me, nodding with something like admiration.

  “Good work, Bruno. That is an old trick, the invisible writing in orange juice. Have you found some secret message?”

  “A cipher. I made a copy—here.” I pushed my piece of paper across the table at him. “You see what he has written at the bottom?”

  “Ora pro nobis. Well, well.” Sidney folded the paper carefully and handed it back to me. “‘Pray for us.’ Could be some sort of password or secret sign.”

  “That’s what I thought. Should we inform Walsingham?”

  Sidney thought for a moment, then shook his head. “We have nothing to tell him yet, except that we suspect a man, who is already dead, of Catholic affiliations. He would not thank us for wasting his time, and I cannot spare the expense of a messenger to London until we have something better. No—I think you should pursue this as discreetly as you may,” he continued, closing the book and handing it back. “Especially if you say Rector Underhill seems keen to have it hushed up—he may know more than he lets on. Just because he was appointed by my uncle it does not follow that he can be trusted—the earl has made mistakes in his judgment before now.” He set his lips in a tight line. “And who is this J—have you any thoughts?”

  “I have met only three men whose names begin with J,” I said. “John Florio, the Anglo-Italian, James Coverdale, the proctor, and John Underhill, the rector. But it may not signify a name. Perhaps it is another coded symbol.”

  Sidney nodded grimly.

  “Perhaps. There is much to think about. But for now, my dear Bruno,” he said, suddenly smiling, “you must think only about this evening’s disputation. You must dazzle all Oxford with the new cosmology, and put this business from your mind. Lizzy—let me settle this account!” he called, as the serving woman glanced in our direction. “And I will take a large bottle of your strongest ale for the road,” he added genially, counting coins from his purse. When she had gone to fetch one, he leaned in and winked. “A little gift for you to take your new friend the porter. I’ll tell you this about Oxford—the porters guard more secrets than anyone in the university. Befriend your porter and he will quite literally open doors for you. And now, Bruno,” he said, clapping me on the back, “you must go and settle this small matter of whether or not the earth moves around the sun.”