Giordano Bruno 01 - Heresy

by S. J. Parris

  Florio turned to me.

  “I MUST BEG from you an oath of secrecy, Bruno,” he whispered, laying a hand on my arm, his eyes wide and earnest. I nodded breathlessly, thinking he was still referring to the matter of his note, in which we had been interrupted.

  “I have decided to take upon myself a great and solemn task, which will commit my name to posterity as well as that of the great humanist genius I serve—a far greater work, I may say, than my own silly collections of proverbs could ever be.” He clutched my sleeve tighter, his eyes shining. “I am going to bring the essays of Michel de Montaigne to English readers!”

  “Does he know?” I asked.

  He lowered his gaze, somewhat subdued. “I have written to the great man proposing my humble services as his translator, but as yet I do not have his imprimatur, it is true,” he said. “I have asked Master Jenkes to order the French editions for me so that I could send Monsieur Montaigne a sample, in the hope of winning his approval. But as I’m sure you can imagine, until it is complete, this is a labour of love that will be both time-consuming and expensive, and so you understand now why I had to write to you as I did—”

  “Any book you desire, from any country—just ask Rowland Jenkes, and if I cannot find it, it does not exist,” Jenkes announced, springing from the shadows like a showman and holding up a slim volume in each hand, each bound in dun calfskin and tied with leather strings. He fixed me with a conspiratorial eye. “Any book, Doctor Bruno, for the right price.” His eyes wandered pointedly to my belt, where Walsingham’s purse was hidden beneath my jerkin. I made no move to acknowledge the look, but I felt suddenly exposed; he already seemed to know more about me than I would have credited, and I wondered if his source was Bernard.

  He handed the volumes to Florio, who cradled one in the crook of each arm and looked down at them as lovingly as if they were newborn twins.

  “You bring in a good many books from the Low Countries, then?” I asked, as casually as I could.

  “France, the Low Countries—Spain and Italy sometimes, if there is demand. There are many in Oxford who crave certain material that cannot be got except from abroad. And occasionally the opportunity to traffic the other way arises too.” He continued to level at me the same half-meaningful, half-mocking stare, as if appraising me for some employment. “But I expect you have heard that already, Bruno. Perhaps that explains why you followed me?”

  I did not reply; Florio had begun hopping from one foot to the other in agitation, his face pent up as if he might burst into tears at any moment.

  “Whatever is the matter, my dear Florio?” Jenkes asked.

  “I …it is only that I did not expect two volumes at once, Master Jenkes, and I fear I cannot …that is, I may need to leave one in your care for a month or two, though I beg you not to sell it, for I will have the money eventually, but—”

  Jenkes waved the apology aside.

  “I have not the space for unclaimed books, Florio—better you take both now and pay me when you can.”

  Florio’s face lit up with the surprise of a child given sweetmeats.

  “Thank you, Master Jenkes—I assure you that you will not have to wait long for your payment, especially if certain developments unfold as I hope.” Here he threw me an encouraging glance, as if to imply that I understood his meaning; he was mistaken, however, for I remained in the dark. If this was a reference to his enigmatic note, did he mean to imply that he hoped to profit from the deaths at Lincoln? I could only stare blankly at him in response as he fumbled at his belt for the coins he had brought.

  “Well, then, Bruno, our business is done,” he said, when the payment had been made and his new purchases wrapped carefully in oilskin against the weather. “Shall we brave the flood once more?”

  “A moment, please,” Jenkes intervened, as I turned to look at the torrents still sluicing down the windowpanes. The sky seemed to have grown even darker. “I would not wish to detain you longer, Master Florio, but there are matters of business I would discuss with Doctor Bruno, if he could spare me a moment of his time?” He raised the snaking eyebrow again to convey that he meant more than he was willing to say in front of Florio, who hesitated briefly, then appeared to remember the generous credit Jenkes had just extended and decided to take the hint.

  “Of course—I must be back at college in any case. Doctor Bruno, if we do not drown on the journey, shall we speak further this evening?”

  I nodded; Florio clutched his parcel closer to his chest, pulled up the hood of his cloak, and, with a final meaningful glance at me, stepped out into the downpour.

  Left alone in the small shop with Jenkes, I shuddered involuntarily as the door banged shut behind Florio; the draught had chilled me in my wet clothes, but not as much as the intense stare the bookbinder now turned on me in the wavering shadows of the candles.

  “Come—you will catch a fever standing there and the world will say I cursed you,” he said with a dry smile, gesturing for me to pass through the door behind the ware bench. “In here we may speak freely, Doctor Bruno, and you may warm yourself. I will heat some sweet wine.” He crossed to the street door, took a ring of keys from his belt, and locked it. Seeing me hesitate, he turned back, one hand on the doorjamb. “You may watch me drink it first, if you prefer. But I thought you did not believe in my diabolical powers?”

  The watchful glint in his eye was momentarily displaced by self-mockery; despite myself, I returned his smile and followed him as he ducked through the doorway into the back room. Perhaps I should have been more apprehensive, but though I did not believe the superstitious gossip about the Black Assizes, I found something mesmerising about Rowland Jenkes, so much so that I was willing to be locked into a room alone with him in the hope of learning more about him. But we were not alone. As I crossed the threshold, from the corner of my eye, I caught the movement of a shadow; there, by a fire that blazed in a hearth on the left-hand wall, stood Doctor William Bernard, his thin arms folded across his chest.

  “My workshop—and you are acquainted with Doctor Bernard, of course,” Jenkes said, taking in the room with a sweeping gesture and paying Bernard no more heed than if he were one of the fittings. Along three walls, long benches lay covered with quires and manuscripts in various states of disrepair; portions of leather, calfskin, and cloth were spread out with patterns marked for cutting. Some books were being fitted for linen chemises, outer covers to keep the calfskin bindings clean, while others were halfway through having new brass bosses and cornerpieces fitted to cover frayed or damaged edges. Some of the manuscripts that caught my eye appeared to be of great antiquity, the bookbinder’s skill now preserving and renewing them, being made ready to continue their journey through the world for the coming generations. In the corner opposite the hearth, two large ironbound chests stood at right angles to each other, both heavily padlocked.

  “You have business with a number of the Lincoln College Fellows, I see,” I remarked, nodding a greeting to Bernard.

  “I am a bookbinder and stationer, Doctor Bruno, of course I have business with the doctors of the university. How else should I make my living?”

  “Master Godwyn, the librarian of Lincoln—he is a customer of yours too?”

  “Of course,” Jenkes replied smoothly, his strange translucent eyes never leaving mine. “I am often charged with repairing the books of his collection when need arises.”

  “And James Coverdale?”

  Jenkes exchanged a glance with Bernard.

  “Ah, yes. Poor Doctor Coverdale. William was just telling me he had been the victim of a violent assault. To think of such things happening in Oxford.” He pressed a hand to his chest and shook his head ruefully; there was something in his manner that suggested he was mocking me. I wanted to ask further about his connections with Godwyn and Coverdale, but Bernard’s hawklike glare made me hesitate.

  “Here is a sight to make your heart bleed, Doctor Bruno,” Jenkes said, turning aside and lifting a small volume from one of t
he benches, which he placed into my hands. It was a little Book of Hours in the French style from the beginning of the century, and had clearly once been an expensive piece; gingerly I turned over a few pages to reveal richly coloured illuminations in cobalts and crimsons and golds, the borders of each page of text decorated with intricate tracings of leaves, flowers, and butterflies against a background of primrose yellow.

  “Here.” Jenkes took the book from my hand and opened it at a page where both the text and the facing picture had been attacked with a sharp implement, perhaps a knife or a stone, in an attempt to erase them from the vellum. The illumination remained almost intact, showing a kneeling Saint Thomas Becket being stabbed at the altar with only his face blanked out; the accompanying prayer had been scrubbed to a ghostly trace. “Criminal, isn’t it?” Jenkes remarked. “The edict was King Henry’s, near fifty years ago now, but these come into my hands quite often, with all the saints and indulgences obediently cut or rubbed away. If I can restore it, this will fetch a handsome price in France. Good French workmanship, you see? God’s death, I hate to see a book violated like that, at the whim of a heretic prince! Father to another heretic bastard.” His lip curled back as he said this, revealing his brown teeth, but his long white fingers stroked the page as if comforting it. This display of sentiment toward his books did nothing to make Jenkes more appealing.

  “Will you report me now for seditious words, Doctor Bruno?” He smiled his thin smile, his eyes never leaving mine. “I have no more ears to lose, as you see.”

  “I will not report any man for his words,” I said evenly, meeting his gaze to show him I was unafraid. “I came to your country to think and speak and write freely—I assume every citizen here wishes the same.”

  “But to write freely about what?” Bernard peeled himself away from the wall by the fire, unfolding his arms and peering at me with his faded eyes.

  “About anything I choose,” I replied, turning to face him. “That is what freedom means, does it not?”

  Jenkes was carefully replacing the little Book of Hours on the workbench beside the small knives and implements he would need for its restoration. It occurred to me, watching the neat, almost obsessive way that he laid out his tools, that a bookbinder’s knife would certainly be sharp enough to cut a man’s throat.

  “Do you send many books to sell in Europe?” I asked, indicating the Book of Hours and trying to keep my voice casual. Jenkes missed nothing; he looked up sharply, then exchanged a glance with Bernard.

  “It sometimes happens that books fall into my hands which could see a man condemned to prison or worse in this country,” he said, rubbing the edge of his thumb along his lower lip. “Then I can find a ready market overseas. But in truth there is no shortage of customers in Oxfordshire and London. Men like yourself, who do not accept the prohibition of books, who believe God gave us reason and judgment to weigh what we read, and who are willing to run the risk for the sake of knowledge.” He gave a soft laugh and raised his head again to look across at Bernard. “You were right, William. Doctor Bernard told me you had a special interest in rare books. Especially those believed lost.”

  Bernard had resumed his stance by the fire and remained motionless, merely offering the briefest of tight-lipped smiles. Of course: Bernard had been the Lincoln College librarian during the great purge of the Oxford libraries, when the authorities had tried to banish all heretical texts from the reach of impressionable young men, just as my abbot had at San Domenico.

  “I sense there is something you wish to ask, Doctor Bruno?” Jenkes said, cocking his head.

  “The books purged from the college libraries—did they pass through your hands?”

  “Many of them, yes.” Jenkes glanced at Bernard briefly, then leaned back against his workbench and folded his hands. “Some of the more zealous librarians burned the offending material to please the visitors, but those with more regard for the value of books brought them to me to redistribute.”

  I looked across to Bernard, who remained motionless.

  “And the books culled from Lincoln in the great purge—did those volumes come to you?”

  “I remember every book that passes through my hands, Doctor Bruno. You look sceptical, but I assure you that I do not make idle boasts. When you heard me tell Signor Florio that I could procure any book for the right price, that was also the truth.” His eyes darted hungrily again to the purse at my belt, and this time my hand moved instinctively to cover it, as if I were naked and covering my privates. “Tell me, then, is there a particular book you have in mind?”

  He was toying with me, and his repeated allusions to the money I carried made me suddenly uncomfortable; I cursed myself for not having been more discreet with Walsingham’s purse about the college. Well—I had allowed him to lock me inside his shop, so if he meant to rob me, there was little I could do except stand and fight. I checked the workbench beside me to see how quickly I could grab for one of the knives if the need arose. As if reading my thoughts, Jenkes casually reached out and picked up a little silver-handled blade and began cleaning the dirt from under his fingernails with its point.

  “You need have no fear of speaking here, Bruno—whatever the title, however dangerous the civil authorities or the Church, whichever church, deem it to be, you cannot shock me.”

  “You do not believe in the idea of heresy, then?” I asked, keeping my eyes on the knife in his hand.

  “Oh, you mistake me,” he said, taking a step toward me so suddenly that I involuntarily moved back, alarmed at the flash of menace in those strange luminous eyes. “I believe in it without question. There is absolute truth, and all else is heresy. There is the true Church, founded by God’s Son upon the apostle Peter, and then there is the blasphemous abomination founded by a fat, crippled fornicator who could not keep his cock in his breeches, and which is now ruled by his heretic bastard. I do not believe that any book should be denied to the man who possesses the wisdom to understand it, Bruno, but that does not mean I am confused about where truth lies. The question is—are you?”

  “I do not understand your meaning,” I said, but my shoulders tensed.

  “I think you do,” he said, his voice light and pleasant but his eyes still steely, and he moved slowly to position himself between me and the door to the shop. Sweat prickled in my armpits despite the chill of my wet clothes. I glanced across at Bernard, who still stood impervious by the fire as if he were not a part of the scene playing out before him. Draped in his long, black gown, with his thin neck and loose skin, he had the air of a great bird of prey, waiting to see what he might scavenge once the dust had settled.

  “I wish only to know whose side you are on, Bruno,” Jenkes continued.

  “I was not aware that I was required to choose a side,” I replied, turning to face him. “Perhaps I find the idea altogether too simplistic.”

  He barked out that sudden laugh again; the sound echoed from the walls.

  “Is that what you will tell the recording angel on the Day of Judgment? When the Son of Man returns to divide the sheep from the goats, will you protest that you did not care to be either, that you found the choice too simplistic?” Abruptly he cast the knife away from him; it landed with a clatter among the paraphernalia laid out on the bench, and he stepped closer, laying a hand gently on my shoulder. I braced myself, but did not move. “You are a conundrum, Doctor Bruno, do you know that?” His limpid eyes raked over my face repeatedly, as though by this he might decode the puzzle. “You are excommunicate, yet you have the patronage of a Catholic monarch. You reject the supreme authority of the pope and preach the heretical theories of the Pole Copernicus, yet I am told you publicly declare yourself a Catholic. What is your faith, Bruno?”

  I LOOKED HIM in the eye. “I am a son of the Roman church, Master Jenkes. You must be the only man in Oxford who doubts my religion—your fellow townsmen cross the street for the chance to spit upon me.”

  “Do you attend Mass and confession?”

  �
�Am I on trial here? Are you my Inquisitor?”

  He merely continued his stony gaze, though his mouth twisted slightly with contempt. I sighed. “Yes, I attend Mass.”

  “Yet you travel in the company of Sir Philip Sidney, a lapdog to the bastard Elizabeth and an agitator against the Catholic cause.”

  “As does the palatine Laski. Do you also question his religion?”

  “Laski is a prince,” Jenkes said impatiently. “You are a runaway monk, a philosopher for hire—though evidently a successful one, given the amount of money I am told you flaunt around the town,” he added, his eyes again straying to my purse. “How did you find your way into the company of men like Sidney? Did he or his friends seek you out?”

  “I met him in Padua. He is a fellow writer. What is it you accuse me of, Jenkes?” I was growing tired of this game; only the possibility that Jenkes knew something about Dean Flemyng’s books and might have seen the lost treatise of the Greek Hermetic manuscript, the book Ficino would not translate, kept me from forcing my way out.

  “I accuse you of nothing,” he said, patting my shoulder reassuringly, his manner immediately changed. “But I thought you more than anyone would understand that a man must know to whom he speaks before he speaks too freely. My friends and I are not used to seeing strangers at the Catherine Wheel Inn, particularly not those who travel with a royal visitation and offer up false names—naturally, it makes us curious. So I will ask you again: What brought you there?”

  I hesitated; if I could persuade Jenkes of my sincerity, it was possible that he would open to me the secret world of the Oxford Catholics, whose contacts with the seminaries in Europe and knowledge of the English mission would be worth more than gold to Walsingham. Yet I sensed that if Jenkes even suspected that I had deceived him, he would despatch me with far less artistry than the Lincoln College killer had displayed.