Giordano Bruno 01 - Heresy

by S. J. Parris

Humphrey looked at me doubtfully, his big good-natured face pained, as if caught between duty and compassion.

  “He says you will bring down the Earl of Leicester and all the queen’s soldiers on our heads,” he whispered, his eyes growing wide, “and we shall be taken to the Tower and racked, even the women. Even Widow Kenney, and I won’t let you do that,” he added, suddenly determined.

  “You are fond of Widow Kenney, then?” I asked softly.

  Humphrey nodded emphatically. “She took me in when I first came to Oxford,” he said earnestly, in his lilting voice. “Six years ago. I didn’t have a penny. Now I have a home and a good job, and it is as if I have a family.”

  “I am sure you are of great value to her. Were your own family Catholics?” I asked, between painful coughs.

  He shook his head, again with the same exaggerated movement a child might make, his lips pressed firmly together.

  “Widow Kenney and Master Jenkes taught me all I know of the true faith. That is why I know we must fight to keep it safe from the heretics.”

  “You said ‘the women,’” I said, after a while. “Are there many women who come to these meetings?”

  Humphrey looked at me hesitantly.

  “Come now—I will be dead in a few hours, Humphrey, what harm can it do to pass the time by talking to me a little?” I cajoled. “You will be doing me a kindness.”

  This seemed to sway him, because he shuffled closer on his backside and adopted a conspiratorial tone.

  “There are some women from the town. Not gentlewomen, though—they hear Mass at one of the manor houses in the countryside along with their own sort, mainly. Except for one.” A kind of softness spread over his face and I sensed I was near my target.

  “Sophia?”

  He blinked in surprise. “Do you know Sophia?” When I nodded, he beamed. “She does not come so often now, but I always know it’s her, even under her hood. She walks like a sort of—like a tree in a breeze, do you know what I mean? Like the willows by the river.”

  “I do. And tell me—does Sophia have friends among the group here? I mean, friends she might go to if she were in trouble?”

  “Why, should she be in trouble, sir?” he asked innocently, and I found it almost touching that he still called me “sir” even though I was bound hand and foot and he was keeping guard over me with a knife. When I did not reply, he only frowned and shook his head. “I do not know her friends. The only one she was close to was Father Jerome, but then everyone loves Father Jerome. It was he who brought her here first.”

  “Who is Father Jerome?” I asked, sitting up, my interest piqued. “I thought Father William Bernard was your priest here?”

  “Oh no,” Humphrey said, proud of his superior knowledge. “Father William hardly ever says Mass since Father Jerome came, only if Father Jerome has to be out of town. He goes quite often to Hazeley Court, you know, out in Great Hazeley on the London road, where the grand Catholic families come to hear Mass. I expect he has gone there tonight.”

  My mind was working furiously, but I tried to keep my face and voice even so as not to betray my thoughts.

  “And this Father Jerome—is he an Oxford man?”

  Again, the exaggerated headshake. “He came from the college in France.” He looked stricken. “Though that is a great secret and I should not have told you. I beg you, do not tell Master Jenkes I said it, will you?”

  “Of course not. And what is he like, Father Jerome?”

  Humphrey’s face took on a dreamy cast. “Like—like I imagine Our Lord Jesus would be if you met him. He makes you feel—I can’t explain it—like he thinks you’re the most special person he ever met, do you know what I mean? Though I don’t understand a lot of the Mass—I have never had book learning, you see—I love to listen when he says it. I like it better than when Father William comes,” he added, his face creasing into a pout. “When Father Jerome speaks, it sounds like music.” He sighed happily, one hand toying with the knife at his belt.

  “Is he a young man?” I said, leaning forward and moving onto my knees to ease the stiffness in my legs. The movement startled Humphrey out of his reverie; he jerked upright, but when he was certain that I was not attempting anything, he relaxed back against the wall.

  “Father Jerome has the face of an angel,” he said reverently. “I’ve seen a picture of one,” he added, presumably lest I think the comparison unfounded.

  “The face of an angel,” I repeated slowly, trying to keep as still as possible. I had discovered that the cords binding my ankles were not as tight as those around my wrists; sitting on my heels, I was able to work one finger slowly inside the knot that held them. If I could keep Humphrey talking, he might not notice my surreptitious movements. “Tell me about Hazeley Court, then,” I said, lightly. “It sounds a grand place.”

  “Oh, I have never seen it, but I believe it is very fine. The owner, Sir Francis Tolling, is now in Bridewell Prison in London for attending private Mass, and his wife uses the house to shelter those who need it, that’s all I know.”

  “Missionary priests, you mean?”

  “Any who labour in the English vineyard and need somewhere safe, out of sight.” He shifted his weight nervously. “There is one among our number, Master Nicholas Owen, who is a master carpenter—he was here tonight, in fact, though you would not have known him under his hood. But he is employed in all the great houses of the faithful, they say, to build secret rooms.” He leaned in, looking carefully from side to side before lowering his voice further. “In the attics, the chimneys, the sewers, the staircases, even inside the walls, so God’s workers can hide from the searchers. Is it not cunning?” He rubbed his hands together and beamed with delight. “Though I should not have said that either—you won’t tell Jenkes, will you? Are you all right, sir?”

  “What? Oh—yes, it is nothing. My shoulder pains me a little, that is all.” I realised that I had been screwing my face up and clenching my jaw in concentration as I tried to poke one end of the knot through with only one finger. It was so close to coming free, it would not do for Humphrey to suspect me now. He nodded in sympathy, and glanced furtively at the door.

  “I wonder if I might loosen your bonds a bit, sir,” he said, his eyes flitting again to the door as if Jenkes might burst through at any moment. “Not altogether, I mean, just so you’re not in pain. After all, it’s not as if you’d get very far is it, you being so little, and me with the knife and all?” He laughed, though I detected a note of anxiety, and I joined in heartily at the absurd idea of my overpowering him. In truth, I had no idea of how I might proceed, even if I did manage to free my legs; without the use of my arms I could do nothing, and even with them I did not much rate my chances in a fight against Humphrey, with or without a knife. While he deliberated about whether to loosen my ropes and I continued my own attempt as best I could behind my back, there came the unmistakable creak of a tread in the corridor outside and we both froze. My throat contracted; I had not expected Jenkes to return so soon, and my escape plan faded before it was even fully formed. I took a deep breath, as well as I was able with my heart thudding in the back of my mouth. So this was it, I thought. Back in Italy, at San Domenico Maggiore, I had invited a death sentence for the sake of a book; now, after running from it all these years, I faced death again, all because I was too foolishly greedy for a book. Well, I thought, I would try whatever means I could to fight, and if I must die, at least I would not die like a coward under Rowland Jenkes’s mocking glare.

  Humphrey gathered his wits as the footsteps drew closer, snatching up Jenkes’s linen scarf and shoving it back into my mouth, though more loosely than it had been before, just as I felt the end of the rope pop through and the knot at my ankles subtly slacken under my scrabbling fingers. The footsteps halted outside the door and there was a tentative knock, followed by a woman’s voice.

  “Humphrey? Is that you?”

  Humphrey deflated visibly with relief, and scrambled to his feet to open the door. Wid
ow Kenney stood outside in her nightgown, holding a candle, a woollen shawl around her shoulders. She looked first at Humphrey, then at me in my sorry state, bundled into a corner on the floor, and exhaled with exasperation.

  “That Jenkes,” she said, still looking at me with a reproving little moue, as if Jenkes were a naughty cat and I a dead mouse he had dropped on her clean floor. “What is he making you do now, Humphrey?”

  The boy hung his head and Widow Kenney beckoned him toward the door.

  “Let me speak with you a moment.” She studied me briefly as if assessing the danger of leaving me unattended, then appeared to decide I was harmless. “I have told him, I will not have bloodshed in my inn,” she hissed at Humphrey as she ushered him into the corridor, “and you should know better, Humphrey Pritchard.” I did not catch his protest but the murmur of their urgent exchange was audible beyond the closed door.

  I had to act quickly. Without the need to conceal my movements from Humphrey, I tugged at the loosened end of the knot binding my ankles and it came loose in my hand; shaking my legs free of the cord as fast as I could, I struggled painfully to my feet and hobbled across the room to the small makeshift altar, where the candles had almost burned down to the sticks. With my back to the altar, I tried to position the knot fastening the bindings around my wrists over the flame, hoping it would burn through, but the cord was sturdier than it looked and the flame feeble; though I could smell it beginning to singe, I doubted whether the knot would break before Humphrey came back and caught me. Outside in the passageway, the voices grew louder in heated argument. Because I could not see what I was doing, I kept scorching my hands on the flame and was grateful this time for the cloth in my mouth that muffled my cries as I did so. My greatest fear was that I would knock the candle and set my clothes alight; to escape a burning at the hands of the Inquisition only to bring one on myself by accident would be beyond irony, I thought, as I twisted the cord first one way and then another over the flame, trying to arch my arms as far as I could from my body. The cord crackled suddenly and I felt a rush of fierce heat on my right hand; the knot had caught fire, and I screamed into the cloth as the flame seared my hand and sleeve, but the knot had loosened enough for me to pull my hands out. The flaming coils of cord fell to the floor and I stamped on them furiously, clutching my burned hand to my chest and catching a whiff of scorched flesh as I did so. The voices outside the door silenced abruptly and I knew I would only have one chance at getting past them. Ignoring the pain of my stretched and blistered skin, I grabbed the heavy silver candlestick from the altar, blew out the guttering flame and held it aloft just as Humphrey flung the door open and paused for the briefest moment, his mouth gaping at the sight.

  His hesitation was just long enough; before he could raise his arms, I swung the solid base of the candlestick at his temple. My aim was good; there was a sickening crunch and he fell backwards, blood spurting from the gash, matting his fair hair. His large body crumpled to the floor; he appeared to be knocked out cold. The widow held up her hands in fright and shook her head violently, her mouth working in terrified silent protest; holding the candlestick aloft again so that she cowered into a corner, I wrested the knife from Humphrey’s belt, threw the candlestick back at her feet with a last warning look, and darted through the door into the corridor. All down the crooked stairs and across the inn yard I fully expected to see Jenkes at any moment and kept the knife levelled in front of me lest he appear, while glancing back over my shoulder to see if Humphrey might have revived to pursue me, but it seemed fortune was on my side at last; I emerged from the gates of the inn yard into the street without seeing a soul. The sky was still dark, etched with streaks of moonlight between the clouds, and I rested for a moment against the wall of a house to catch my breath, realising that in all the frenzy I had not stopped to remove the scarf gagging me. Now I extracted it and, holding one end in my teeth, wrapped it gingerly around my burned hand. The pain made me briefly dizzy, so that I feared my legs might buckle beneath me, and once the temporary exhilaration of my escape had subsided, I realised with a falling sensation that my purse had been stolen and I had no means of getting past the watchmen at the north gate. Worse still, I thought, what if they knew Jenkes well and had been tipped by him to watch out for me? In this city, it was impossible to know who was a friend.

  The square tower of St. Michael’s church at the north gate rose above the battlements of the city wall, its silhouette a landmark as I crept along under the eaves of houses until I was forced to break my cover and run across the broad street that lay parallel to the city wall. I looked wildly from side to side as I dashed over, anticipating the sight of Jenkes at any moment, but the street was still and empty. At the gate I paused, but could think of no other means of gaining the city again; the wall was far too high and sheer to be scaled and all the other gates would be guarded too at this hour. My only choice was to wait until first light, when the gates would be opened to traders, by which time Jenkes or Humphrey would likely have caught up with me, or to try and persuade the watchmen I had already paid to let me back. I banged with the flat of my good hand on the small door set into the high oak gates but there was no reply. I hammered harder and called out, and at last a bleary face appeared behind the small iron grille. Eventually I heard the scrape of a bolt and the small door opened.

  I murmured my gratitude, glancing around again for signs of movement in the dark streets, and as soon as I was out of the guard’s sight, I picked up my pace and ran the short way up St. Mildred’s Lane, holding tight to the handle of Humphrey’s knife. Never had I been so glad to see the tower of Lincoln College looming above me. Gently I tapped on the narrow window of Cobbett’s room. After a pause, I tapped again.

  “Cobbett!” I hissed, as loudly as I dared. “It is I, Bruno—open the gate!”

  I was greeted only by silence. Hoisting myself up to the sill, I peered in and saw the old porter lolling in his chair, his chin slumped on his chest and his mouth gaping, a skein of dribble hanging from his lower lip.

  “Cobbett!” I called again, tapping the window harder, but he did not stir. Cursing under my breath, I stepped back and looked up at the college walls; all the windows were dark and I wondered whether I dared risk waking anyone else by calling louder. I did not want to be left in the street outside the college; that would be one of the first places Jenkes would choose to look for me. Then, as the clouds shifted and a thin ray of pearly moonlight broke through, I remembered another possibility and hoped my guess was right. The very furthest window on the west range belonged to Norris’s room; though it appeared closed, I managed to jam the fingers of my good hand inside the frame and found that it had indeed been left unlatched. As far as I could see into the darkness, the lane appeared to be empty in both directions. As I heaved myself up and levered myself sideways through the narrow opening, flinching as I scraped my burned hand against the frame, I prayed that neither of the room’s occupants had returned during the evening.

  I tumbled through the window, landing awkwardly on the large wooden chest beneath. I froze for a moment, listening for the sound of breathing or movement from the bedchamber beyond, but the stillness was that of an empty room, I was certain. The faint moonlight from the window facing into the quadrangle outlined the shapes of furniture. The floor seemed to be littered with debris and after some tripping and fumbling across the surfaces of dressers and tables, I managed to locate a tinderbox that had been left on an ornamental table under the window. Striking it, I lit a stub of candle on the desk and looked around to see the room in a state of chaos, just as Roger Mercer’s room had been on the morning he was killed. Clothes had been flung from the wardrobe, books and papers scattered, and all the drawers of Norris’s fine writing desk pulled open and emptied. I slumped down on the settle by the long-cold fireplace, its cushions all thrown about the hearth, and tried to make myself breathe calmly for the first time in what felt like hours as I gathered my frayed thoughts. My shoulders ached insistently, my b
urned hand was throbbing, and the cut at my throat stung, though it was not deep, but now that I was out of immediate danger I found I was able to think more sharply and clearly. Not that the danger had passed, of course; Jenkes had already decided that I knew too much to be left alone, and once he discovered my escape he would almost certainly try to track me down before I could speak to anyone. In case he succeeded, I needed to communicate everything I knew to Sidney as soon as possible. From my conversation with Humphrey, a theory had begun to take shape in the back of my mind about the murders, still hazy, like figures seen through fog. If my guesswork was correct, then I thought I knew where I might find the answers. And if Jenkes was to be believed, I had to get there before dawn, before Thomas Allen was silenced for good.

  First, though, I needed to get word to Sidney, so that he would at least know where I had gone and the suspicions that had led me there; my hope was that he would be able to follow if I did not return—even though I knew that by then it might be too late.

  Without wasting any more time, I began to comb through the mess of paper and books on Norris’s writing desk for a quill to set down my thoughts for Sidney as briefly as I could before setting off in pursuit, but I could find no ink. Inside the first open drawer, I discovered a stick of vermilion sealing wax and several sheets of fine-quality writing paper. The candle I had lit was burning low; as I glanced quickly around the room to see if there was another to hand, my eye fell on the chest beneath the window. The solid padlock that had secured it was hanging open; it had clearly been forced. Grabbing the dying candle, I prised open the heavy lid, but the trunk appeared to contain only linen undershirts. Undeterred, I rummaged through swathes of cloth until my fingers scraped the wooden base of the trunk and probed into all four corners, yielding nothing. I cursed silently; it seemed anything of value here had already been taken. I brought the candle close and flung out all the contents, scattering them about the floor until I could bring the candle into the depths of the chest and confirm that it was truly empty.