Giordano Bruno 01 - Heresy

by S. J. Parris

  Cobbett motioned to me to keep the lantern.

  “Tap on the street window when you come back,” he reminded me in a hoarse whisper. “Never fear, I shall hear you. And take care abroad in the streets, sir. Have your wits about you.” His face in the candlelight was unusually serious, so I nodded with equal solemnity as I stepped through the gate into the mire of St. Mildred’s Lane. The hinges groaned mightily again as Cobbett heaved the gate closed behind me, and a moment later I heard his key turning in the lock with an ominous finality.

  I had barely passed the walls of Jesus College and was almost upon the place where St. Mildred’s Lane meets Sommer Lane when I whipped around sharply on my heels, my hand on the knife, convinced now that I had heard the unmistakable sound of a footstep in a puddle somewhere at my back. I held the lantern up, peering frantically into the blackness of the lane I had just walked along, but its circle of light barely reached beyond the length of my arm and only made the darkness seem more impenetrable. I almost called out for whoever was there to show himself but stopped myself at the last moment, thinking it best not to draw more attention to myself.

  I trudged on through the muddy street, staying close to the solid blackness of the city wall on my right as I followed its line down Sommer Lane toward the north gate. Again, the quiet splash of a footfall behind me, like the ones my own boots were making in the brimming ruts left in the road from the day’s rain; again I spun around, this time drawing the knife, hissing “Who’s there?” in so low a voice as to be barely audible. This time I was sure I detected something in the deep shadows; not so much a movement as a stirring of the air, the chill mist reassembling itself into the space where a man had been moments earlier. I had no doubt now that someone was following me, but only a few yards ahead I saw the reassuring bulk of St. Michael’s church hard against the city wall, and beside it the lights on the watchtower over the gate. I took a deep breath and, replacing the knife at my belt, reached inside the pocket of my breeches for the few coins I had earlier taken out as bribes for the watchmen, thinking it best not to let them see the full purse I carried.

  Two young men carrying pikes and smelling strongly of ale stepped forward halfheartedly as I neared the gate.

  “State your business,” the taller one said, as if he did not care either way. He ostentatiously bit the groat I handed him in front of me, while I anxiously glanced over my shoulder for any sign of my pursuer, but I could see nothing beyond the spheres of lamplight. When my bribe was judged authentic, I was ushered through the gate and found myself alone outside the city wall.

  THE INN YARD was shrouded in shadow, overhung by a muffled silence which seemed taut with anticipation. I could see no light in any of the windows, and the only illumination came from my little lantern. From somewhere in the dense dark to my right came the soft whinney of a horse, the shifting of its weight in slumber, close by. I held up the light to see where I should go.

  “Put that out, you fool. Would you have the watchmen on us?” hissed a man’s voice at my ear, his breath warm against my cheek. My heart leaped and I almost dropped the lantern with the shock, but managed to reach inside the glass and snuff out the candle. The figure who had spoken overtook me and crossed the yard without hesitation, his cloak swishing around his legs as he walked. A sliver of moonlight penetrated the clouds and in its thin gleam I saw other shadows come to life, more figures gliding silently through the still air to the back of the inn building, all cloaked and hooded. For a moment the sight reminded me of rising for Matins in the early hours at San Domenico, the hooded figures looking like nothing so much as the monks among whom I had spent my youth. I followed the shapes I could barely see and reached a small door, which closed just as I reached it. I could just make out the shape of a grille at head height, so I leaned toward it and whispered, “Ora pro nobis.” For a moment there was only silence, but then the door opened a crack and out of the shadows a pale hand beckoned me inside.

  I slipped through the gap into a narrow passageway which, from the smell of stale food, appeared to run alongside the inn’s kitchen. From his sheer size, I guessed that the person who had admitted me was young Humphrey Pritchard, the potboy; whether he had recognised me, I did not know. He ushered me along the passage, which ended in a rickety-looking staircase that curved around to the next floor. One tallow candle burned low in a sconce halfway up, filling the narrow stairwell with its bitter smoke. Footsteps creaked on the stairs behind me and I hastened my climb, emerging onto a landing with a low, beamed ceiling and uneven floor. I noticed the small windows had been hung with black cloth to prevent the candlelight from showing to the world outside. Still unsure of where to go, I followed the landing to its end, where a low door stood ajar; tentatively pushing this open, I found myself in a small room crowded with hooded figures who stood expectantly, heads bowed, all facing a makeshift altar at one end, where three wax candles burned cleanly in tall wrought-silver holders before a dark wooden crucifix bearing a silver figure of Christ crucified.

  From the anonymous depths of our hoods, my fellow congregants and I furtively regarded one another, though in the dim candlelight all the faces I glimpsed wore the same masklike effects of the dancing flames, features elongated, eyes submerged in pools of shadow. Then suddenly a tall figure across the room turned toward me; the light caught his face for a moment as his eyes met mine, and I recognised with a jolt Master Richard Godwyn, the librarian of Lincoln College. Surprise and fear registered on his face in the instant before he dropped his eyes to the floor, folding his hands prayerfully in front of him. I wondered how many of these others, if I could only see them clearly, would turn out to be men I already knew, creeping through the sleeping city under cover of darkness to live their secret forbidden life. I could not help but admire their courage, though I no longer shared their faith; after all, had I not also once risked my life in defying the beliefs the authorities prescribed for me? Was I not, in a sense, still doing so? In that moment, glancing around the little congregation of fourteen souls, I was seized by the enormity of my own task there. I was the wolf in sheep’s clothing, the one who wore the same uniform and would speak the same responses, but beneath my right arm I felt the weight of Sir Francis Walsingham’s purse—money I carried to betray these defiant faithful people to prison or perhaps to death. It was all very well for Walsingham to talk in the abstract about the threat to the realm, but could this little Mass really be considered treason? I found it hard to believe that any of the ordinary people gathered here in the night to celebrate a rite denied them on pain of death were secretly plotting to assassinate the queen or tip off French forces. Was their faith alone sufficient reason to deliver them up to the Privy Council’s version of justice, I thought, and could I justify that to my own conscience? I remembered Thomas Allen’s palpable fear of the interrogation methods the queen’s ministers used against those it accused of treason. I felt suddenly horribly exposed, as if my treacherous intent could be visible to those around me; at that moment a hand closed tightly around my wrist and I raised my eyes to find myself staring into the luminous blue eyes of Rowland Jenkes. He gave me a hard look, then nodded at me once in what I took to be affirmation, an almost-smile flickered over his lips, and he let go of my arm, turning expectantly toward the door through which we had entered.

  A stillness descended on us, an audible intake of breath as the door began to open and I felt in that small room, as I had not for many years, a tiny shiver along my spine at the old magic of the Mass. These people among whom I stood, disguised, truly believed that they were in the presence of a holy mystery, believed it with a pure faith that I had long forgotten, and it was this, I thought, that a man like Walsingham could not hope to understand. It was the belief in this miracle that would draw them back time after time, despite the threats of death and punishment, defiantly to keep this flame alive, and the honesty of their faith was a little humbling.

  The priest who had entered wore a white garment like an alb that reached to
his feet, though it was hooded and the hood drawn up, obscuring his face. A green stole hung around his neck. He took his few steps to the altar with solemn dignity, eyes downcast but his bearing erect, holding out the veiled chalice before him. Upon reaching the altar, he made a deep bow, and I saw from the manner of it that he was not a young man and that the physical gesture cost him. But I could not prevent myself from gasping when he straightened and drew back his hood; the celebrant priest was Doctor William Bernard.

  He laid the chalice reverently on the left side of the altar, lifted a green velvet burse from on top, and with forefinger and thumb removed the delicate corporal from the burse, unfolded and laid the white linen square in the centre of the altar. Then he placed the veiled chalice carefully on top. The server who accompanied him shuffled nervously; he could not have been more than nineteen, a student, I guessed, and could not help flicking nervous glances around him as he stood, bareheaded, at Bernard’s shoulder, as exposed in all this hooded company as if he had been naked.

  Facing the altar, Bernard made the sign of the cross from forehead to breastbone and from left shoulder to right with his right hand.

  “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”

  The air in the small room seemed charged, all of us poised there as if on a knife edge, our nerves taut with the danger involved in this rite unfolding before us, of which we were all part—even I, who also stood outside it, I too was implicated. Every sudden unfamiliar noise—the cry of an owl, the creak of the inn’s old timbers—caused a stiffening among the congregation, an invisible wave of fear that caught and held us for a moment, before the soft hush of breath cautiously released.

  “Introibo ad altare Dei,” pronounced Bernard, quiet authority in his voice.

  The wind gusted suddenly through the wooden shutters, billowing out the black cloths over the windows and making the candles gutter wildly; the young server swivelled his head around in panic, as if someone might have entered, but Bernard proceeded, solemn and imperturbable, with the ceremony he performed as if its every word and gesture were ingrained in his very nature.

  There was no music, and the responses of the congregation were muted, barely whispered, as if someone might be listening at the door. We knelt as one as the Mass progressed according to its prescribed rhythms, and I remembered again, with a stab of nostalgia, how those words and gestures had framed my own life for so many years; now, as I repeated the phrases, it was as if they no longer had life in them. Bernard took the Host from a small brass pyx, and after he had elevated it and drunk from the chalice, he turned to face the congregation.

  “Ecce Agnus Dei, ecce qui tollit peccata mundi,” he intoned, and I raised my head to find his watery eyes boring directly into me. My breath caught in my throat; in that moment it seemed he had penetrated my disguise and seen straight through to the very secrets of my soul. In case I had mistaken the look, beside me Jenkes laid a warning hand on my arm. I understood his meaning; though I had been admitted among the faithful that night, Jenkes and Bernard had not forgotten that I was excommunicate. I was not to think of taking the Host with the rest. They need not have feared; I had not taken communion since I left the monastery, out of some vestige of respect or superstition, or both. But as the small congregation rushed forward, dropping to their knees with mouths hungrily gaping open like baby birds, I shrank back toward the wall, afraid that my nonparticipation would mark me out clearly as a spy; this was, after all, the heart of the rite and abstinence would immediately provoke suspicion. But perhaps Jenkes had warned them beforehand, because although my withdrawal attracted a few curious glances, these were fleeting, and I blended back into the group, muttering “Deo gratias” to Bernard’s “Benedicamus Domino.”

  With the Mass said, the atmosphere of charged anticipation seemed to dissolve, and the congregation appeared restless and anxious to be gone. I kept my place by the door as they began to file out, peering as closely as I could into hooded faces as they passed me, dropping my eyes if they returned my gaze. Jenkes’s long fingers closed around my wrist, signalling me to stay while the others left. One of the last to leave, a short figure with his hands tucked beneath his cloak in a monkish posture, paused and looked directly at me; at that moment the candles guttered again and I gasped as the sudden surge of light showed me his face. Adam, the rector’s servant, stared back at me, mirroring my own expression of disbelief. He hesitated a moment, as if unsure whether to speak, but Jenkes gave him a hard look and he hurried through the door with the rest.

  At last I was left alone with Jenkes, who removed his hood, and the tall, solid figure of Humphrey Pritchard, who began to busy himself tidying the room and putting away the trappings of the ceremony. He left the altar candles, now burning lower and with feeble light. Jenkes looked at me appraisingly.

  “So, to business,” he said softly. “Please, take off your cloak. You are among friends now. Did you bring your purse, Doctor Bruno?”

  I lowered my hood and held his gaze steadily. “Did you bring the book, Master Jenkes?”

  His ruined face cracked slowly into a smile. “The book. First tell me what you are willing to pay for this manuscript?”

  “I would need to see it first,” I said, evenly. “What do you ask for it?”

  “That is a difficult question, Bruno. For the worth of an object—any object—depends wholly on another’s desire for it, does it not? This book, for instance. I have only met one other man who wanted it as much as you appear to, and he was willing to pay me a great deal. More, perhaps, than you carry in your bulging purse.” He eyed my doublet, a hungry glint in his eye.

  “Who?” I asked, a cold fear spreading through my stomach. “You didn’t sell it?”

  At that moment, the door opened; I started, but it was only William Bernard, no longer wearing his vestments but dressed again in his shabby academic’s gown and a thin cloak, his hands clasped behind his back.

  “I was just telling Doctor Bruno of the man who wanted to buy the Greek manuscript from Dean Flemyng’s collection—the one you saved from the purge of ’69,” Jenkes informed him. Bernard nodded slowly.

  “I discovered the manuscript buried in an old chest when I first became librarian of Lincoln,” Bernard explained. “My predecessor had been either unable to read it or unaware of what it was, but I recognised it immediately and understood that in the right hands it could be extremely valuable—and extremely dangerous.”

  “So you stole it?” I asked.

  Bernard frowned. “I did no such thing. The college took an annual inventory of the library’s collection—any disappearance would have been noticed. But the Lord provides to those who keep the faith—in 1569 the king’s visitors carried out a purge of the college libraries, as you know, and in their haste to remove offending items it was a simple matter to spirit away some of the unwanted manuscripts. I had already told Rowland that I had found the lost writings of Hermes Trismegistus, the book Ficino refused to translate because he would not be responsible for the consequences to Christendom. I am not sure he believed me until I was able to place it into his hands, though.”

  Jenkes held up a hand as if to absolve himself. “As soon as I read the book, I did not doubt it could be genuine,” he said. “This was the book Cosimo de’ Medici had paid a fortune to have fetched from the ruins of Byzantium, yet he never got to read it. I knew there was one man who would pay me whatever I demanded to have this book in his library.”

  “You may know him,” Bernard said slyly, “for he was tutor to your great friend Philip Sidney. I speak of the sorcerer John Dee, astrologer to the heretic bastard Elizabeth.”

  “Then”—I looked from one to the other, my hopes collapsing as I spoke—“then John Dee has the book? You sold it to him?”

  “No, and yes,” Jenkes said, stepping forward with his palms spread wide to demonstrate his helplessness in the matter. “I sold him the book for a very large sum—we had exchanged letters and Dee travelled to Oxford personally to make t
he transaction. But there was an unfortunate intervention—either by Providence or some other power.”

  “What do you mean?” I was impatient now, and tiring of this game of cat and mouse. From the corner of my eye I could see Humphrey Pritchard lolling against the wall by the blacked-out window, picking bits of communion wafer from his teeth. I wondered, with a sense of apprehension, why he was still there, watching us with detached curiosity, and why Jenkes and Bernard did not object to his presence.

  “On the road back to London, Dee was set upon by highwaymen and most brutally assaulted. He was fortunate to escape with his life, but his possessions were all stolen, including the manuscript he carried.”

  Jenkes related this with perfect unconcern; at the same time he gave an almost imperceptible flick of his fingers and Humphrey moved away from the window toward us.

  “And this was your doing?” I asked, turning to keep Humphrey in my sight. “Did you have the manuscript recovered?”

  “I?” Jenkes affected affront. “You think me capable of such underhanded dealings, Bruno? I assure you, I am nothing but honest in my business affairs, nor am I such a fool as to make an enemy of one so close to the queen’s favourites.” He gave me an odd look as he said this, then exchanged a glance with Bernard. “No—it appeared that Doctor Dee was not the only person with an interest in the subject, who was prepared to obtain the manuscript at any cost.”

  “Then where is it now?” I demanded, snapping around to face him. “If you do not have it, why this charade of asking me to bring my purse?” But even as I spoke, the knowledge of what was to come spread through my veins like icy water; I whipped around toward Humphrey but I was not fast enough and he had both my arms pinioned behind me before I could duck away from his grasp. In the same instant, it seemed, Jenkes had lunged forward and snatched the silver-handed knife from my belt; with its tip pressed to the base of my throat, he reached inside my doublet, first one side and then the other, until he found Walsingham’s purse. Bringing it into the light, he threw it casually in the air and caught it again with his free hand, testing its weight. Bernard simply stood and watched with his arms still hidden behind his back and his face impassive.