Giordano Bruno 01 - Heresy

by S. J. Parris

  “I never said I wished to learn love spells,” she said, affecting hauteur, “that was your assumption.” But the sudden colour in her cheeks gave the lie to her protest.

  “I only wondered why a wellborn young lady would occupy herself with the idea of practical magic.”

  “I am fascinated by the idea that a person could master forces beyond our understanding and turn them to her own purpose. Isn’t everyone? Because I have always thought magic must be immensely powerful, mustn’t it? I mean, it must work, or the Church would not be so anxious to keep it out of the hands of ordinary people.”

  I hesitated. “There are undoubtedly forces of great power in the universe, but to draw them down demands long and profound study. The Hermetic magic of which Agrippa writes is not a matter of mixing a few herbs and muttering incantations like a village wisewoman. It requires knowledge of astronomy, mathematics, music, metaphysics, philosophy, optics, geometry—I could go on. Becoming an adept is the work of a lifetime.”

  “I see.” Her mouth set tight, and she clasped her hands together on her knees. “And you mean to say that I have not the wit for it, being only a woman?”

  “I mean nothing of the kind.” I held up a hand in protest; how quick she was to take offence on this subject! Then I remembered the impotent anger I had felt in the Divinity School at her father’s repeated insinuations that my nationality was synonymous with stupidity; at least I could find parts of Europe where such prejudice would not be current, but to my knowledge there was nowhere in Christendom where a woman like Sophia would be suffered to learn or converse with men as an equal, no matter how sharp her mind or how widely she read. Only in a queen was such an intelligence tolerated. “I meant only that to devote one’s life to the study of Hermetic magic requires enormous sacrifice, and I would not lightly recommend it. For a start, it could likely see you burned as a witch.”

  She appeared to consider this for a moment, then lifted her head suddenly to look at me, her eyes lit with a vivid anguish.

  “Then is there no way of learning any magic that might work?” she burst out.

  “Work for what?” I said, taken aback at the force of her expression. “You seem to have something very specific in mind, but if you will not say what, I cannot advise you.”

  She turned her face back to the fire and sat without speaking for a while. I cut a lump of cheese and waited to see if she decided to trust me.

  “Did you never love anyone who could not return your love?”

  “No,” I said, frankly. “But I have loved someone I could not have, so perhaps I understand a little.”

  She nodded, still staring into the weaving flames, then raised her head and fixed me with those clear, tawny eyes. “Who was she?”

  “A French noblewoman, when I lived in Toulouse. She also scorned the pursuits of ladies and hungered after books. In fact, she was a lot like you in spirit and beauty,” I added, gently.

  She ventured a shy smile. “Did you want to marry her?”

  I hesitated. “I wanted to go on loving her, certainly. I wanted to be able to talk to her, and hold her. But marriage—it was so far from possibility. Her father intended her to make a match that would suit his ambitions, not hers. I was not it.”

  “Like my father,” she said, nodding again, her hair tumbling around her face as she rested her chin on her hand and continued to look intently at me. “So you were forced to part?”

  “Her father wanted to separate us. On top of that, Toulouse was then in the grip of religious conflict between the Catholics and the Huguenot Protestants, and it was safer for me to leave. That has been my life for the past few years, I’m afraid. I have had to move around so much and shift for myself, perhaps it has made me unfit for a settled life with a wife and family.”

  “That is sad. But I’m sure you would not be short of admirers here, Bruno. No Englishman has eyes like yours.”

  I was so surprised by this compliment that I could not think of an immediate reply. Sophia looked embarrassed and hastily turned her attention back to the fire.

  “You have travelled so much, you cannot imagine how envious I am. You must have had so many adventures. I have not left Oxford in six years. Sometimes I feel so restless”—she poked the fire vigorously—“I fear I shall never see anything of the world, unless I can make some dramatic change happen. Oh, sometimes I just want to shake this life I have into pieces! Do you ever feel like that?” She looked at me earnestly, her eyes full of feeling.

  “Certainly. I spent thirteen years of my youth in a monastery—I knew more about restlessness and that desire for new horizons than anyone. But be careful what you wish for, Sophia. I have also learned that adventure is not always something to seek for its own sake. You don’t realise the value of a home until you no longer have one,” I added quietly.

  “My father said you lived at the court of King Henri in Paris—you must have met many beautiful ladies of fashion there, I suppose?”

  “There were beautiful faces, certainly, and many beautiful costumes, but I never found much beauty of mind at court.”

  “Still, I expect you dazzled them all with your ideas,” Sophia said, her eyes reflecting the crackling flames.

  “I don’t know that my ideas were of much interest to the ladies at court.” I gave her a rueful smile. “Few women there cared to read or trouble themselves with ideas. Most of them had little grasp even of the politics of their own city, and I’m afraid I could never feign interest in a woman whose conversation is limited to court gossip and fashions. I am too intolerant of stupidity.”

  She sat up then, looking at me with curiosity. “Then you would value in a woman the capacity to form her own opinions and express them?”

  “Of course, if they are well-informed. Otherwise she is no more than an ornament, however lovely. Better to buy a painting if you just want something beautiful in a corner of your parlour. And a painting’s value increases with age.”

  Sophia smiled and shook her head. “You are not like most Englishmen, Bruno. But then I saw that when I first met you. My father assures me that no man values a strong mind in a woman, and that if I want a husband I would do well to smile prettily and keep my thoughts to myself.”

  “Then his understanding of his fellow men is as wrongheaded as his cosmology.”

  She laughed then, but it was not reflected in her eyes.

  “And your inamorato?” I prompted. “What does he value?” When she did not answer, I continued. “Because I cannot believe that a young woman so favoured by nature should even need to consider magical arts to secure any man’s affection. With the greatest respect, I can only imagine that your inamorato is either blind or an idiot.”

  “There is no inamorato,” she snapped, folding her arms across her chest and turning pointedly away from me. “Don’t make fun of me, Bruno. I had thought you were different.”

  “Forgive me.” I poured another glass of wine and sat back, stifling a smile. If she wanted to confide in me, I reasoned, she would do so in her own time. We sat in silence for a while, with only the spitting of the logs and the lulling rhythm of the flames for company.

  “To answer your question, Agrippa had his knowledge of practical magic from an ancient manuscript known in Europe by the name of Picatrix,” I began, to break the silence when it appeared that she was not going to speak. “Its true name is the Ghayat al-Hakim, the Goal of the Wise, and it was transcribed by the Arabs of Harran about four hundred years ago. In fact, it is a translation of a much older work, from before the destruction of Egypt, thought to be inspired by Hermes Trismegistus himself.” I paused to take a sip of wine, confident that I had now won back her attention; she was staring at me, rapt, her chin cupped in her hands. “This book is forbidden by the church of Rome and has never been printed—it would be too dangerous to do so—but it was translated into Spanish at the order of King Alfonso the Wise and then into Latin, so for some years there have been a small number of manuscript copies in circulation. One of
these was imported in secret to Paris by King Henri ten years ago. He has a fancy for collecting obscure books of esoterica, but he does not know how to use them once he has them.”

  “And you have read it?” she asked, in a whisper, leaning in eagerly.

  “His Majesty eventually allowed me to see the manuscript, after I solemnly swore that I would not copy any part of it. He apparently forgot that I am one of the foremost practitioners of the art of memory in all of Europe.” I allowed myself a modest smile; Sophia ignored it.

  “So what is in this Picatrix?” she demanded.

  “It is a manual of astral magic, a treatise on the art of drawing down the powers that animate the stars and planets by means of talismans and images.” I lowered my voice and glanced round to check that the door was closed. “It works on the principle that the infinite diversity of matter in the universe is all interconnected, part of One Unity, animated by the Divinity, so the adept with the requisite knowledge can create links between the elements of the natural world and the celestial powers to which they correspond.”

  Sophia frowned. “But how does it work?” she insisted.

  “You are determined to know,” I said, smiling. “Well, for example—suppose you wanted, for the sake of argument, to secure the love of another person.” I watched her reaction; her cheeks were flushed and her lips slightly parted in anticipation, but she held my gaze almost defiantly. “Then you need to capture the power of the planet Venus, so you must know what plants, stones, and metals belong to the influence of Venus. You would also need to learn the most powerful images of Venus, and inscribe these on a talisman made from the appropriate materials, on a day and hour most conducive to the astrological influence of Venus, with the correct invocations, names, and numbers—you see it is immensely complex.”

  “Can you teach me?” she whispered.

  “Do you know what you are asking?” I responded, dropping my voice even further. “For me to teach you what many consider diabolical sorcery—do you know what the risk would be? Besides, I must confess that I have never attempted to use this practical magic—my interest has always been in the hieratic, intellectual element. But Sophia,” I spread my palms out wide, an advocate of common sense, “if the object of your affection does not return it, would it not be simpler just to set your sights elsewhere?”

  She reached across and laid her hand on mine for a moment, a sad smile hovering at her lips.

  “Yes, it would be simpler,” she agreed, in a soft voice. “But the heart does not always listen to reason, does it? You should know, Bruno.”

  I looked at her for a long time then as my own heart lurched unexpectedly, and I realised that I was in serious danger of growing attached to this thoughtful, spirited young woman with the fiery eyes. I could not tell whether she was attracted to me or saw me only as someone who would listen and take her seriously; in the same moment I felt a sudden unreasonable jealousy that all this depth of feeling on her part might be wasted on a peacock like Gabriel Norris.

  I was wondering whether to question her on that scrap of hearsay, and how to broach the subject, when an unmistakable thud was heard outside the door on the other side of the study, as if someone had lost his footing and stumbled into the jamb. Sophia snatched her hand away, threw her chair back, and leaped to her feet, glaring angrily at the door, but as she took a step toward it her legs suddenly buckled under her and she gave a little cry, grasping at the chair to keep her balance. Alarmed, I jumped up and held out an arm to steady her; she gripped my shoulder gratefully and leaned on me for a moment, breathing heavily.

  “Are you unwell?” I asked—unnecessarily, as her face had turned pale as ash.

  “I … I don’t know what happened, I’m sorry,” she faltered. “I must have stood up too fast, I felt suddenly very faint. Perhaps this wine is stronger than I thought. Damn that old busybody Adam—I should have guessed he’d be listening at the keyhole.”

  “We spoke very softly—he may not have heard the substance of the conversation,” I whispered, though I could not dampen the fear that crept up my spine.

  “I’m sure he heard enough to tell my father,” she muttered through clenched teeth.

  For what seemed like a long while, neither of us moved. She continued to clutch the fabric of my doublet with her left hand, while I gently supported her right arm; her hair was almost touching my cheek and smelled warmly of woodsmoke and chamomile. I could hear the blood pounding in my ears, hardly daring to catch my breath, until eventually she raised her head with a great sigh.

  “Forgive me, Bruno—I need to sit.” Her voice was subdued; she was still very white.

  I helped her back to her chair, and from the corridor beyond there came the sound of a door slamming firmly and two male voices in conversation.

  Sophia lifted her head.

  “That is my father returned. I had better go and explain your presence, before Adam fills his head with suspicions.” She took a deep breath and pushed herself up again, pausing to steady herself.

  “Are you still faint?” I asked, reaching out a hand. She passed me without taking it, turning back only at the door.

  “I will be fine. Good night, Bruno, and thank you for listening to my foolishness. We will speak again soon.” She smiled, and slipped out into the passageway, closing the door behind her.

  I picked up the Copernican map and studied it again. Sophia had seen something in that mysterious symbol, I was certain, and I instinctively folded the paper away. Perhaps it would be wiser not to alert her father until I could win her confidence enough to draw out whatever she knew. From the passageway beyond I heard voices—Sophia’s and the rector’s—raised in heated discussion, though I could make out only the odd word: “improper” and “papist” on his part, “absurd” and “hospitality” on hers. Then Sophia burst out in a tone of fierce exasperation. “And how should I not conduct myself as mistress of this house when you are never here and the true mistress will not leave her bedchamber? Who else is going to take care of the household?”

  “Take yourself to your room, daughter, and reflect on your place and your duty—or do you wish that I should send you to your aunt in Kent? Or perhaps I should engage another governess to fill your hours of idleness and teach you proper womanly obedience?” the rector spluttered, as he flung open the door to the study and strode in, turning a face purple with fury (and, I suspected, the good wine of Christ Church hall) in my direction. Immediately his manner changed; he clasped his hands together and half bowed, not quite meeting my eye.

  “Ah—Doctor Bruno—you have rather taken me by surprise at this hour.” All trace of his earlier superiority seemed to have vanished and he would not quite meet my eye, which gave me some satisfaction. It is one thing to sneer at a man in front of five hundred people certain to take your part, I thought, and quite another when you must stand three feet away from him alone. He seemed defensive, perhaps fearing that I had come to reopen the debate. “I assure you that this evening—”

  “Rector Underhill.” I barely knew where to begin. “I must seek your advice on another matter altogether—the death of Roger Mercer.”

  Immediately the colour drained from his face and his eyes became watchful. He wiped his brow with his sleeve.

  “Yes. The talk at Christ Church was of little else, but I am confident that we have put all malicious rumour to rest.” He grew thoughtful. “Perhaps tomorrow the morning service in chapel should be a service of remembrance, especially since the funeral will have to wait until after the inquest—which I learned at dinner cannot be for a few days, as the coroner is away. You will be able to stay in Oxford to testify, Doctor Bruno, I presume?”

  I did not answer. Instead I passed him the slip of paper with the quotation that had been cut from a book. “Do you recognise this?”

  He peered closely at the small type, then slowly raised his head to fix me with an expression of uncomprehending fear.

  “The wheat of Christ,” he said softly. “Ignatius.
What is this?”

  “It is from Foxe, then?”

  He nodded slowly. “The martyrdom of Saint Ignatius—or, rather, Bishop Ignatius of Antioch, we should call him, martyred under the emperor Trajan. Foxe quotes these as his last words as he is thrown to the wild beasts.” He handed the paper back to me with an expression that might almost have been anger, although his hand was trembling.

  “This paper was pushed under my door while I was at the disputation. It seems that someone wanted to draw my attention to the manner of Doctor Mercer’s death.”

  “By cutting up a book? Who would do such a thing? I’m afraid I don’t follow your reasoning at all, Doctor Bruno.”

  “Not for the first time today,” I muttered, but forced myself to be polite. “You and I both saw this morning that Roger Mercer had been locked into that garden with a savage dog. I have wondered, Rector Underhill, if his death was intended by someone who lured him there on the pretext of a meeting, and then set the beast on him in some kind of perverse parody of martyrdom. And it seems this message has been sent to me as a clear indication that someone here knows why he was killed, and perhaps by whom.”

  Underhill gestured frantically for me to lower my voice, glancing fearfully at the study door. He was undoubtedly shocked, but after a moment he composed his features and produced a choked, nervous little laugh.

  “Dear God, what a fevered imagination you Italians do have, Bruno!” He shook his head dismissively. “I fear that in the confusion and horror of this morning’s tragedy we allowed ourselves to rush to somewhat hysterical conclusions. We must not allow our natural shock and grief to spin improbable fancies out of a terrible accident. As for this paper, it rather looks as if someone is toying with you, feeding these wild fancies of yours with the intention of making a fool of you. Better not to give them the satisfaction of rising to the bait.”

  I turned to leave, furiously trying to quell my boiling blood. When I spoke, it was with all the self-control I could muster, my nails biting into the palms of my hands with the effort.