Giordano Bruno 01 - Heresy

by S. J. Parris

  “But was their correspondence not intercepted by the college authorities too? Did they not think it suspicious that Mercer continued to write to the man he had helped condemn?”

  “Doctor Mercer did not send his letters through the college post, sir.” Thomas’s voice was now barely audible. “He paid to send them privately, through someone in the town who had the means of carrying letters overseas.”

  “Ah. A book dealer, perhaps?”

  “Perhaps. I did not ask—that was his business,” Thomas said evenly, but his eyes were evasive. Then he suddenly leaned forward so that he was almost lying across the table and grabbed my sleeve. “I am not responsible for my father, sir, nor for any communications he may or may not have sent, as I have tried to tell everyone for the last year. I just want to live quietly, to leave Oxford and study the law at the Inns of Court in London, but I fear I shall never be allowed a career as a lawyer, nor any wife of good family, for as long as I am regarded as my father’s son. Especially once he joins the Jesuits,” he added, with an extra dose of self-pity. “For the Privy Council has spies even in the seminaries and will learn of it soon enough. Unless someone with influence will speak on my behalf.”

  He looked at me with imploring eyes, but I looked back unseeing, my mind occupied elsewhere. If Edmund Allen was taking holy orders in Rheims, he must be in some way connected to the mission to England. That would certainly explain the ransacking of Mercer’s room; Allen’s letters to him, if they contained any such matter, might be evidence enough to condemn anyone associated with them. But that still did not explain why Roger had been killed. Had he threatened to betray the cause? Had he crossed someone? Did the letters between Roger Mercer and Edmund Allen name others who wanted to protect themselves at any cost? The “J” in his calendar on the day of his murder might very well stand for Jenkes, I reflected; anyone who could cut off his own ears without flinching surely wouldn’t hesitate to remove a man who threatened his business—unless I was falling prey to Cobbett’s legends. There were too many questions, while the possible answers were all frustratingly unclear. I put my head in my hands and stared at the table.

  “Are you all right, Doctor Bruno?”

  “I wondered if Mercer was killed by a Catholic,” I murmured, barely aware that I had thought aloud and only belatedly looking up to find Thomas regarding me with an odd expression.

  “Doctor Mercer was killed by a dog,” he reminded me.

  “Oh, come on, Thomas—do you believe that? How often have you known feral dogs to attack men in the streets of Oxford, never mind a locked garden?”

  “I do not know, sir,” he said, avoiding my eye. “I only know what the rector told us. The door was left open, the dog wandered in.”

  He made a show of looking into his empty tankard as if hoping more beer might appear if he only peered in hard enough.

  “Another drink, Thomas?”

  He nodded eagerly, and I summoned the serving girl to bring us another two pots of beer. When she had gone, I leaned across the table and waited for him to meet my eye.

  “Was this what you wanted to confide in me, that you could tell no one else, this news about your father?”

  Thomas resumed his scratching at the boards of the table.

  “That first day, when I thought you were Sir Philip,” he said quietly, “you were kind when Rector Underhill tried to shame me. I thought—perhaps it was foolish, but I thought if you had the ear of men like Sir Philip, you might intercede for me.”

  “What is it you wish me to say?”

  He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, his eyes fixed on his hands. “I want to leave Oxford, sir. I am afraid. When my father was deprived, I was questioned twice by the Chancellor’s Court. They would not believe that I knew nothing of his secret life, and the questioning was hard—they would not accept a word I said, they kept pressing me and pressing me on the same points until I found I was contradicting myself.”

  I noticed his hands were shaking and his breathing had quickened; the memory was obviously difficult for him.

  “Did they use force?”

  “No, sir. But they argued as lawyers do, they twisted every answer I gave until it sounded like the opposite meaning, and I became so confused and afraid I found myself agreeing to statements that I knew were not true. It is strange the way that someone who wants to find you guilty can start to make you believe in your own guilt, even when you know you are innocent. I was afraid I would condemn myself by mistake, sir. It was a horrible experience.”

  “I can imagine,” I said, with feeling, remembering the fear that had gripped at my guts when the abbot had told me I would be questioned by the Inquisition all those years ago. “And you are afraid you will be questioned again if it becomes known that your father is to become a Jesuit priest?”

  He nodded, finally looking directly at me. “If they refused to believe me before, how much worse will it be when they know he is part of the Jesuit mission? What if they take me to London for questioning? I have heard tales of what they do there to get the information they want. They can make you say anything.”

  I remembered my conversation with Walsingham in his garden and shivered involuntarily. Thomas’s narrow, pointed face was stretched tight with fear, his skin so pale that a tracery of blue veins stood out at his temples like a river delta inked on a map. There was no doubt that this fear was real and vivid.

  “The authorities would believe you know enough to make hard questioning worthwhile?” I asked.

  “I know nothing, sir!” he protested, his cheeks flaming again with emotion. “But I am not brave—I do not know what I might be capable of saying if they hurt me!”

  “Tell me the truth, Thomas,” I said firmly. “I cannot help you if you do not. Are you afraid that you will betray your father’s secrets, and the secrets of his confederates, if you are threatened with torture?”

  “I never wanted this knowledge, sir,” he whispered, his voice cracking as he blinked back tears. “I told my father so, but he wanted me to share in it. He was determined to bring me to the Roman faith, he wanted me to go with him to France, so he wouldn’t have to choose between his son and his church. I suppose he thought if he confided in me about his meetings, I would feel some complicity, some loyalty toward his friends. Instead I am trapped by all these secrets I never asked to be told. I am suffering for a faith I don’t even share!” he cried, bringing his fist down on the table.

  “You have never thought of offering up these secrets voluntarily?” I ventured. “You must know the Earl of Leicester would surely reward anyone who could give him such information about the Catholic resistance in Oxford as you must have.”

  Thomas stared at me as if it was taking him some time to process the meaning of my words.

  “Of course I have thought of it. Have you ever seen the execution of a Catholic in England, Doctor Bruno?”

  I confessed that I had not.

  “I have. My father took me to London to see the death of Edmund Campion and his fellow Jesuits, in December of 1581. I think he wanted me to understand what was at stake.” He passed a hand across his brow and squeezed his eyes hard shut, as if this might blot out the scenes he had witnessed. “They were sliced open like pigs in the slaughterhouse and their guts torn from their living bodies, wound around a spindle to pull them out slower. You can hear them still crying out to God while their entrails are held aloft to please the crowd and their hearts thrown in the brazier. I could not bear to watch, Doctor Bruno, but I looked at my father’s face and he was rapt, as if it were the most glorious spectacle he had ever witnessed. But I could not willingly deliver anyone to that fate. I don’t want anyone else’s blood on my hands, sir, I just want to be left alone!” His voice rose to a frantic pitch and he clutched at his bandaged wrist.

  “Thomas,” I began, and broke off as the serving girl arrived with fresh tankards of beer. When she had set them down, I leaned in, carefully lowering my voice. “Are there other Catholics here in Oxfor
d who know that your father told you about them? I mean, people who know you do not share their faith, and might be afraid that you would betray them if you were questioned?”

  Immediately he looked away.

  “Are you also afraid that those people would try to silence you before you could hurt them? Like they did with Roger Mercer?”

  “I can’t say any more, Doctor Bruno.” His voice was trembling now. “I swear, you don’t want that knowledge either. I only wanted to ask if you might find a time to speak on my behalf to Sir Philip, to beg his patronage and assure him that I am a true Englishman, loyal to the queen and to the English church.”

  “I thought you had stopped believing in God,” I said, with a smile.

  “What has the Church to do with God?” he countered, almost smiling in return. From somewhere beyond the windows, a church bell began to peal distantly. Thomas jumped as if he had been stung. “Doctor Bruno—I hope this won’t seem ungrateful, but I should get back to college. Gabriel will be returning from lectures soon and I have work still to do.”

  It seemed to me that he was suddenly anxious to end the conversation; perhaps he had not anticipated so many questions in return for the favour he wanted. I drained the last of my beer and paid the landlord, feeling a twinge of guilt as I saw the undisguised envy with which Thomas watched me take coins from Walsingham’s plump purse. If he knew that I had been given this money by the very people whose attention he feared, for the exact purpose of winkling out the kind of secrets his father kept, whatever respect he professed for me would vanish like yesterday’s mist.

  Out of the thick warmth of the tavern, the rain had set in again and a chill wind drove it sideways into our faces. Thomas pulled his gown tighter around him as we walked along the High Street under the shadows of the dripping eaves in silence, sunk deep into his own thoughts while I tried to fit what I had just learned with the matter of Mercer’s and Coverdale’s deaths. We had almost reached the turning to St. Mildred’s Lane when I remembered there was something else I had wanted to ask him.

  “You said you have no friends here, Thomas, but do you not count Mistress Sophia Underhill?” I said, slowing my pace so that we would not arrive at the college gate before he had a chance to answer.

  He looked at me with some surprise.

  “There was a time, I suppose, when I considered her a friend. But I think she regards me rather as she does her dolls—something that amused her in childhood, but which she outgrew and put aside.”

  “Because of your father’s disgrace?”

  “No.” Thomas sidestepped a puddle that had formed in the rutted lane, the sole of one of his shoes flapping open with each step he took. “She grew out of me long before that. When my mother died and my father decided to come back to Oxford at the earl’s request, I was made to lodge with a family in the town—you know only the rector may live with a wife and family in college, the other Fellows are supposed to be bachelors. But the rector’s family took pity on me, and my father and I were often invited to dine at their table—I was supposed to be company for young John, the son who died, but of course I noticed Sophia.” He sighed and appeared to stoop even further, as if the memory of those days was a physical weight on his shoulders. “Then John was killed and Sophia’s father decided to rein her in. He had ambitions for her to make a grand marriage and her mother was supposed to be preparing her by taking her into society, but Mistress Underhill took ill with her nerves after John’s death, and Sophia was left to herself with no company but the men in college. There were governesses but they never lasted long.” He laughed ruefully. “I do not blame them—I should not like to try and teach Sophia anything against her will.”

  I nodded, remembering the way she had dealt with Adam, the censorious servant.

  “No indeed. You still care for her, I think?”

  He glanced at me, his face suddenly guarded. “What does it matter? She will not have me now.”

  “Does she have someone else?”

  His face set hard and something like anger flashed in his eyes.

  “Whatever you have heard, it is a lie! She has an affectionate nature, but she is easily deceived—” He stopped abruptly, his voice thick with emotion, and I thought for a moment he might cry, but he took a deep breath and composed himself. “But if you want to know, then yes—I will always care for her, and I would do anything to protect her. Anything.”

  I halted abruptly at the ferocity of his last words and turned to face him.

  “Protect her from what? Is she in danger?”

  Thomas took a step back, apparently disconcerted by the intensity of my expression.

  “I didn’t mean—that is, I only meant if she were in need, she knows that she could always depend on me.”

  I grabbed him by the wrist and he yelped; I had forgotten his injury. I let go and grasped his gown instead, leaning in until my face was less than a foot from his.

  “Thomas, if you know of any danger to Sophia, you must tell me!”

  His eyes narrowed and I saw his jaw stiffen; again he stepped back, but with more composure this time, and his voice took on a new distance.

  “Must I, Doctor Bruno? What would you offer her—your own protection? Or something else? And when you are gone back to London with your party in a couple of days, what will she be left with then?”

  “I only meant that you have a duty to report any danger to those who might be able to help her,” I said, attempting to sound detached as I released his gown from my fist, but I knew it was too late; I had betrayed my affection for Sophia and revealed myself as a rival.

  Thomas straightened his gown, then turned and began walking down St. Mildred’s Lane toward Lincoln College gatehouse, his arms wrapped around his thin torso.

  “You have no idea what you are talking about,” he said eventually, looking straight ahead as if he were not speaking to me at all, but thinking aloud. Then he dropped his gaze apologetically, and clasped my hand between both of his. “Thank you for listening to me, Doctor Bruno. And I’m sorry if I spoke out of turn on occasion—I am still afraid of saying the wrong thing. You will remember my request, if it’s not too much trouble?”

  “I will, Thomas. I am glad we have talked.”

  “I need to leave Oxford,” he said, gripping my hand urgently. “If I could get to London and begin a life there—you will tell Sir Philip that? A recommendation from him would ease my path, and I would swear my loyalty to him and the earl for life.”

  “I will do my best for you,” I promised, and meant it, though I was still certain he had not told me all he knew. “And take care of that wound on your wrist.”

  He bowed slightly and then scuttled away through the gate to his duties.

  THE RAIN CONTINUED to blow across the courtyard in endless diagonal lines, the sky now darker than when I had first ventured out. I glanced up at the small window at the top of the tower and shivered to think of Coverdale’s blood-soaked body still dangling from the sconce, those arrows mockingly protruding from his chest and stomach. I had once visited the basilica of San Sebastiano fuori le mura in Rome, in whose catacombs the saint’s remains are buried. The great icon there, with his expression of pious agony and the arrows sticking out like the spines of a porcupine, had struck me then as exaggerated and unreal in his torment, like a scene from a play, garishly painted, and I realised I had had the same response on seeing James Coverdale’s body. The grisly tableau had appeared almost as a practical joke; I had hardly been able to believe him dead until I saw the great wound in his throat. As I pulled my jerkin up again around my face and prepared to put my head down into the rain, I remembered suddenly a phrase from the rector’s Foxe quotation: “By his own soldiers.” Sebastian, a captain of the Praetorian guard, had been executed on the orders of the emperor Diocletian by his own men. Had the murderer kept that detail in mind? Had James Coverdale also been killed by someone who was supposed to be on his side? And what side might that be, in this place of tangled loyalties?


  I had barely stepped out into the courtyard from the gatehouse when I saw the rector emerging from the archway opposite, followed closely by Slythurst. Both had the hoods of their gowns pulled close around their faces and were hurrying toward me; when the rector caught sight of me, he beckoned hastily for me to join them. In the shelter of the gatehouse, he huddled closer, out of earshot of the little group of students taking refuge from the rain.

  “You saw my daughter this morning, did you not, Bruno, in the porter’s lodge?” Underhill demanded.

  “Yes—she was waiting for her mother to go out,” I said, caught by the trace of urgency in his voice.

  “Did you see her leave?”

  “No—Master Slythurst arrived with his terrible news and I came to fetch you.”

  “Then, she must have—” Underhill shook his head, with an expression of vague confusion. “It is no matter. She was ever defiant. She will be back.”

  “What has happened?” I pressed him.

  “When my wife arrived at the gatehouse, Sophia was no longer there,” he said, looking around the courtyard as if in hope that she might appear at any moment. “Margaret thought she must have gone on ahead to the house of her acquaintance, so she set off herself, but when she got there, they had seen no sign of Sophia either. Margaret is fretting, as she is wont to do, but I am inclined to believe Sophia has taken it upon herself to go off walking without telling anyone—she complains often of being cooped up here. She thinks she should have the liberty to go wandering the lanes and fields outside the city for the best part of the day, just as she used to with her brother. Well, that was different. She will learn the manners proper to a young lady, even if she will not learn them willingly.” His face clouded for a moment. Then he glanced around again, distracted, as if hoping the events of this day might have gone away of their own accord.

  “Surely she would not have chosen a day such as this to go out walking?” I said, gesturing to the relentless sky and trying to keep my own voice even. Only the night before, Sophia herself had told me she believed she was in danger, and Thomas Allen had just implied something similar. Now she had disappeared. I hoped fervently that the rector was right, but I sensed that he had told this story to persuade himself because he could not cope with any more worries on top of Coverdale’s murder and all it implied for the college.