Giordano Bruno 01 - Heresy

by S. J. Parris

  “Strange. I noticed the bursar, Master Slythurst, was also absent,” I added lightly.

  Godwyn made a dismissive gesture as he closed the door behind me.

  “Slythurst is often away, it’s part of his duties—he has to check the college’s estates regularly, and they are scattered about the country, some several days’ ride. I believe he left for Buckinghamshire this morning as he has some business there, but we expect him back tomorrow. Now then—here we are.” He spread his arms expansively to encompass his domain and smiled encouragement, as if urging me to admire it as much as he did.

  The library took up the first floor of the north range on the west side of the central staircase, directly opposite the chapel but slightly smaller in proportion. Like the chapel, it had a rush-covered floor and wooden beams in the roof, and was laid out in the style of the last century, with long wooden lecterns at which readers would stand to study the large manuscript books secured by brass chains to a brass rod running beneath the desks. There were four of these lecterns on each side of the chapel, secured to the wall between the arched windows. At either end of the room, wooden benches stood against the wall and at the far end, a small writing desk was placed under the last window overlooking the courtyard; Godwyn strode toward it and carefully placed his keys beside an inkwell before turning to me to retrieve his candle.

  “Which books are of particular interest to you, Doctor Bruno, or shall I just begin by showing you our most valuable manuscripts?” he asked over his shoulder, as he made his way methodically down the length of the room, lighting candles in the holders at the end of each lectern and in the wall niches between the windows.

  “This is not your whole collection, surely?” I asked, gesturing to the books that lay chained to the reading desks.

  “Oh, goodness, no—these are only the older books that must be chained up, I regret to say, for fear of theft, and the ones the students use most frequently. They are largely works of scholastic theology and are extremely valuable, many of them part of our original benefactor’s gift.”

  “Dean Flemyng, from his travels in Italy,” I said thoughtfully, nodding. “And where do you keep the prohibited books?”

  Godwyn blanched and stared at me, a puzzled frown creasing his high forehead. He looked almost frightened. “But we keep no prohibited books here, Doctor Bruno. What can you mean?”

  “Come now, Master Godwyn,” I said, holding out my palms to show I meant no offence. “Every university library I have known keeps some books away from the inquisitive eyes of the students. Books that only the senior members are judged able to understand?”

  Godwyn’s relief was visible.

  “Oh! Yes, of course—we have a number of books available only to the junior and senior Fellows, which they may borrow and take away to read in their own rooms. We keep them in the chests in this room here.” He crossed to a door in the wall behind his desk and opened it, revealing a small chamber annexed to the library. Though it was shadowy inside, by the faint light of his candle I could make out several large trunks lining the walls. “I thought for a moment you referred to heretical books,” he added, with a self-conscious laugh.

  “No, no—I understood those had been rooted out by the queen’s commissioners some time ago.”

  He nodded, a little sadly. “There was a great purge of the university libraries in ’69. Anything that had survived the previous purges under Her Majesty’s father, and then her brother and sister, was taken away. Books that, between you and me, Doctor Bruno, were no more heretical than any other, but there was great suspicion cast over the university after the Catholic resurgence in Bloody Mary’s time, and the colleges must all be seen to expel anything with so much as a taint of unorthodoxy. The collection here was badly depleted, I’m sorry to say.”

  “The notion of heresy changes with reliable frequency according to who happens to be in charge,” I agreed. “But what happened to the books that were deemed dangerous?”

  He looked at me blankly, as if he had not considered the question before.

  “I presume they were burned, though if they were, it was not publicly. I doubt they could have been sold openly once they were on the forbidden list. I was an undergraduate then, so I was only dimly aware of the commission—too busy sweating over my Greek and trying not to think about girls—but I would have remembered if there had been a book burning.” He smiled fondly at the image of his younger self. “You would need to ask William Bernard—he was librarian at the time.”

  “Really?” This was indeed valuable news, and I thought it curious that Bernard had not mentioned it during our discussion about books at the rector’s table on my first night. My blood quickened. Could that irascible old man have squirrelled away somewhere a cache of books judged too dangerous for the minds of young men destined to shape the future of England? And was there the ghost of a chance that among his acquisitions from a certain Florentine bookseller more than a hundred years earlier, Dean Flemyng might have picked up a manuscript whose value he did not recognise, but whose existence William Bernard had seemed unusually eager to deny?

  I breathed deeply, trying not to betray my agitation. It was almost certainly too much to hope that the manuscript I sought was here, but it was not beyond the bounds of possibility. If anyone knew whether an uncatalogued Greek book had been part of the dean’s original bequest, it would be William Bernard, who had been in the college longer than anyone, who read Greek and would know exactly what he had in his hands, should he have unearthed it. The challenge would be persuading him to confide in a stranger; the old man was wily as a stoat and already suspicious of me for my apparent disobedience to all religions.

  Godwyn had finished lighting his candles and turned to me, clasping his hands like an anxious host.

  “Perhaps you would like to see our copy of Cicero’s De officiis, which Dean Flemyng copied in his own hand?” he ventured, gesturing to one of the lecterns at the far end. “I light the candles because, although it is Sunday, many of the scholars like to spend it here in quiet study. The undergraduates may not take books to their rooms, you see.”

  “Do you, by any chance, keep a copy of Master Foxe’s book among your loan collection?” I asked as I followed, in as offhand a manner as I could.

  “The Actes and Monuments?” He looked surprised. “Yes, I have the 1570 edition, the second printing, though it may be out with someone at the moment. Did you want to see it?”

  “May I? I was interested in reading further after the rector’s sermon this morning.”

  “You are welcome to read it,” he said, doubtfully, “though I’m afraid you will not find Foxe very generous to those of your faith. But I must ask you to look at it here in the library—only the Fellows are permitted to sign the books out, you see. That way we have some surety if they come back the worse for wear.”

  “The books, or the Fellows?” I said.

  Godwyn laughed politely, and led the way to one of the large wooden trunks in the small back room. As he crouched to lift out a pile of books, I noticed a smaller chest, tucked away into the corner and fastened with a padlock. Godwyn stacked the volumes carefully on the floor, then reached again into the chest and handed me a fat volume, plainly bound in cloth.

  “I have seen a copy in the library in Paris,” I said, turning the book over in my hands, “but I have not read it in detail. The rector’s sermon whetted my appetite. And the story of Ignatius—that too is among the tales of the early martyrs?”

  “Yes, indeed—the ten primitive persecutions under the Romans,” he said, tilting his head slightly as if he found my question strange. “All in Book One.”

  Just then the door opened, and all the candles wavered along the lecterns as the red-haired young man who had been tidying the chapel earlier leaned in and coughed nervously.

  “Master Godwyn, sir? Rector Underhill wants to speak with you about a private matter if you have a moment.”

  Godwyn looked anxiously at me, then back to the boy. />
  “You would not mind if I step out for a minute, Doctor Bruno? I am sure I may trust you not to steal the books.” He laughed self-consciously.

  I waved a hand, eager to examine the Foxe.

  “Your books will be safe with me, Master Godwyn.”

  “Might I ask you to wait until I return, then? The library must not be left open and unattended, you see.” He looked apprehensive. I assured him that I would guard the place with my life, and with an anxious backward glance, he followed the red-haired boy out.

  I settled myself at Godwyn’s large desk and opened the volume of Foxe at Book One, but as I did so, I realised that the librarian had left his bunch of keys behind. A thought struck me. Glancing briefly at the closed door, I grabbed the keys and found among them a small iron key of the size to open a padlock. In the back room, I knelt by the locked chest and fitted it to the lock; to my surprise, it sprung open smoothly to reveal a pile of black cloth. As I lifted this out, I saw that it was an academic gown, placed there to conceal the books beneath. I picked up the topmost volume; it was bound in aged calfskin and felt fragile to the touch, its corners frayed, but it was the title page that caused me to draw a sharp breath and check instinctively to make sure I was alone.

  It was a copy of the executed Jesuit Edmund Campion’s “Ten Reasons,” and the printer’s mark showed it had come from Rheims. There was no doubt that this tract, Campion’s staunch defence of the Catholic faith, was prohibited in England, and certainly in Oxford. Beneath it I found other texts and pamphlets, equally distasteful to the English authorities, by Robert Persons, William Allen, and other Catholic writers out of Europe. I leafed through them for a moment, my pulse quickening, until I was startled by a creaking timber from the library behind me and remembered that Godwyn would soon be returning. I searched quickly to the bottom of the chest but there were no books in Greek; these were forbidden books of a different sort. Replacing them quickly and re-covering them with the gown, I locked the chest in haste and returned the keys, then seated myself quickly at Godwyn’s desk in case he should return.

  I concentrated my attention on the Foxe, flicking hastily through the pages in search of the story of Ignatius. The task was not difficult; there, on page forty-six, I found what I had anticipated—a gap in the paper the length of two lines of print, cut so neatly as to leave the surrounding text intact. Only the text that had been pushed under my door was missing, the incision as precise as only a bookbinder’s knife or similar instrument could make. Or a penknife, I thought suddenly, catching sight of Godwyn’s quill and inkwell on the desk in front of me. But that could hardly narrow the search; every scholar in the college must own one of those.

  The latch clicked softly and Godwyn reappeared, closing the door behind him and shaking his head to himself.

  “I am sorry to abandon you, Doctor Bruno—Rector Underhill wanted to discuss which of poor Roger Mercer’s books should be given to the library’s collection. Did you find what you wanted?” he asked pleasantly.

  “I fear the rats have been at your books, Master Godwyn,” I whispered, beckoning him closer and turning to the ravaged page forty-six, which I held open in front of him. He looked from me to the book with incomprehension for a moment, before a flush of outrage spread over his sagging features.

  “But whoever would do such a thing?” he exclaimed, then glanced over his shoulder as if someone might have overheard. “How did you know—?”

  “I found the missing lines pushed under my door last night.”

  “But—why?” Godwyn continued to stare at me as if he feared my wits had fled.

  “Look at the passage,” I whispered.

  He raised the book closer to his face and skimmed the page. When he looked up at me again his expression was one of severe shock.

  “Ignatius,” he whispered. “‘I am the wheat of Christ’—I forget the exact words, but that is the missing part, is it not? Something about the teeth of wild beasts.”

  I nodded. He looked at the book again and exhaled carefully, as if trying to control his response. “Ah. You think this is a reference to Roger’s death?”

  “I think that is what whoever sent me those lines wants me to conclude, yes.”

  He closed the book and frowned, so that the lines in his brow formed deep runnels. “Why you, Doctor Bruno, if that does not seem rude?”

  I hesitated again, unsure again how much to reveal.

  “I was among the first to arrive in the grove yesterday morning after Doctor Mercer was attacked by the dog.” I dropped my voice even further until it was barely audible. “On the evidence of what I saw, I suggested that his death may not have been an accident.”

  Godwyn’s eyes widened until his eyebrows threatened to disappear. “But …they said the gate was unlocked …the wild dog strayed in—”

  “My hypothesis was not widely taken up by your colleagues. But it seems that someone else wants to strengthen my conviction that his death was by design.” I gestured to the book in his hands. Godwyn scrutinised its cover with as much disbelief as if it had spoken aloud, then turned his keen eyes back to me.

  “You think someone is trying to imply that Roger was martyred?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Someone certainly wants me to notice a similarity in the manner of his death, but why should Doctor Mercer be considered a martyr?”

  Godwyn looked at me in silence for a long while as my whispered question hung in the air.

  He shook his head sharply. “I cannot think.”

  “Who would have access to the books in that back room?” I asked.

  “Well, all the Fellows have a key to the library, but they are not supposed to take any books on loan without first checking with me and signing the ledger. The students may only use the library when I am present to keep an eye on them, but …well, I am not always as scrupulous as I might be in that regard.” He looked guilty for a moment. “If I need to pop out and there are a few students here deep in their work, it seems harsh to lock them out if only for a short while. It’s not as if they can easily steal a book, and I would trust them to take care of the library.”

  “Well, it seems your trust in someone was misplaced,” I said.

  Godwyn’s face clouded, as if he was only now registering the gravity of the assault on library property. “But I was here in the library until about quarter to five yesterday afternoon, when I locked up and left for the disputation, along with the students who were here.”

  “And you did not leave the library unattended before a quarter to five?”

  “Anyone would think you were a magistrate, Doctor Bruno, with all these questions,” he said, forcing a smile, but his eyes were guarded. “I may have had to go and use the privy during that time, I really can’t remember, but I’m sure I would not have been gone long enough for anyone to achieve this.” He banged the cover of the Foxe with his palm. “It has been very carefully done, I do not think it was a rushed job by someone looking over his shoulder all the while.”

  “No,” I agreed. “And no one could have come in while you were at the disputation?”

  “Well, as I say, the Fellows all have keys, but they were at the disputation too,” he said, but his eyes swerved away from mine as he said it.

  All except James Coverdale, I thought, but I had already dismissed him as the person most eager to persuade me away from the theory of murder.

  “No one else at all has a key?”

  “Only the rector. Oh—and, of course …” Here he hesitated and his demeanour became awkward.

  “Who?” I pressed.

  “Mistress Sophia has the use of her father’s key sometimes,” he said, cupping a fist against his mouth as if he were about to cough. “She has a fancy that she can be as good a scholar as any and he indulges her in it. I suspect it comes of the loss of his son—though, of course, that is his business.” He shook his head. “Mind you, I would not allow any daughter of mine such freedom, if I had one, for women’s minds are not made for lear
ning and I confess I fear for her health—but I must be thankful that he only permits her to visit at times when the scholars are unlikely to be present. Otherwise she has them all panting after her like dogs in season, Doctor Bruno, and I don’t want my library used for that sort of thing—at least with her own key, she can come in when the young men are out at public lectures.”

  “Does she use the library when you are not here to supervise?”

  “Oh, I expect so,” Godwyn said, as if the matter were out of his hands. “If she has her father’s permission I can hardly gainsay him—besides, she is not going to steal the books, is she?”

  No, I thought, but might she have used her key to gain access last night, knowing the whole college would be at the Divinity School for over an hour? She had not betrayed a flicker of recognition when I mentioned the quotation last night, but that was not in itself proof of ignorance. But why on earth would Sophia write to me anonymously and then feign ignorance when she had a chance to discuss the matter with me alone? The person who had written to me was clearly anxious not to be identified as the source of the information, scant as it was. Could it be that Sophia knew something about someone in the college, but could not be seen overtly to denounce him? Could that someone be her own father?

  “Thank you, Master Godwyn,” I said, rising from his chair to take my leave.

  “Oh, but I have not yet shown you our illustrated manuscript of Saint Cyprian’s letters which Dean Flemyng also brought out of Florence,” he began, his eyes lit with disappointment. I studied his face as I apologised for leaving, reflecting that those large, melancholy eyes lent him an air of disarming frankness. But I now knew that Godwyn was also a man hiding his own secrets, and I reminded myself that I must not trust the face that any of them presented to me or to the world. As William Bernard had so pointedly told me that first night, no man in Oxford was what he seemed.