Giordano Bruno 01 - Heresy

by S. J. Parris

  “He is bound, sir,” pointed out the young soldier who had dragged me from the hide, somewhat nervously.

  “What?” Newell snapped around peevishly.

  “He was bound hand and foot and gagged in there,” the young man said, his voice wavering now. “It’s just—why would he do that to himself?”

  “They have all sorts of ruses you would never dream of,” said Newell, his lips pressed tightly together. He turned back to me. “You can plead your case before the Assizes when the time comes. A spell in the Castle gaol should clear your head. Meanwhile, you can tell me what you know of Sophia Underhill. Her father alerted the watch yesterday that she had been abducted. Is it the papists that have done this?”

  “They are en route to the coast,” I gasped, “though they went first to Abingdon. Every moment you waste here is a gift to him—you must send your men on the road after them.”

  “Don’t tell me how to command my men, you cur,” he spat in my face. He motioned to the soldier. “Arrest this man for the murder of two respected Fellows and one student of Lincoln College, and on suspicion of the murder of a young man thrown to his death from the gatehouse tower.” When I opened my mouth to protest he added, “And on suspicion of entering this country with treasonable intent to seduce the queen’s subjects to the church of Rome, and with meddling in affairs of state.”

  “No! I beg you, send for Sir Philip Sidney at Christ Church College, he will tell you I am innocent,” I cried, as the young soldier untied my ankles, took me by the elbow, and heaved me to my feet.

  “Oh yes—and stealing a horse,” added Newell, with malicious pleasure. “We found an animal of quality, wearing harness of royal colours, tied in the woods by the cart road.”

  “The horse is mine—it was lent me from the royal stables at Windsor.”

  “Is that so?” His moustaches twitched with cruel amusement. “I wonder that Her Majesty did not lend you her best carriage as well. Enough of this folly.”

  He stalked away through the large chamber over the gatehouse. At the staircase in the western tower he paused and turned.

  “Let Sir Philip Sidney come and pay your release from the Castle gaol if he is truly your friend,” he said, as if it hardly concerned him, before addressing the soldier. “Bring this man down to the courtyard—we will have him taken back to Oxford with us. Have some of your men stay here to sort the servants into those who will talk and those who will not.”

  The soldier nodded and pushed me toward the spiral staircase. As I fought to keep my footing on the narrow stairs, going down this time into the yard, I tried to consider my situation in the best light. It looked bleak, but surely Sidney or Rector Underhill could be called upon to vouch for me. Then I remembered the package of letters, and Bernard’s warning to me on my arrival in Oxford, that no man is what he seems. I had trusted Cobbett, but supposing he was yet another Catholic sympathiser? If he had destroyed the cache of letters between Edmund Allen and Jerome Gilbert, there would be no hard evidence to condemn Jerome but my word against his. My nationality and my former religion would be enough to damn me in many eyes, as I had often been reminded since arriving in Oxford. And might Underhill not find it convenient to allow me to shoulder the blame rather than acknowledge the presence of a Jesuit under his very nose for more than a year? Sidney was now my only hope, but if he had not had my message, he would have no idea where to find me until long after I had been thrown into a stinking gaol. On the bright side, I told myself, as I was bundled out through the gatehouse archway into the glare of the courtyard, if Jenkes had reached me before the pursuivant, I would surely be lying in a roadside ditch with my throat cut by now, so there was still hope.

  The sun was high overhead, intermittently shadowed by drifts of cloud. Around the courtyard, small groups of servants huddled nervously, whispering to one another as they watched the proceedings, each group attended by two or more armed men. I glanced around, recognising the stocky man who had brought me down from the tower, but he quickly looked away. I wondered if it was he who had pointed the pursuivant to the hide in the first place. If any of the household knew that the pursuivant had the wrong man, they were not willing to speak; presumably their loyalty lay with Father Jerome and they were happy to see me taken in his place.

  I was presented with a mounting block and helped onto a dun horse, my hands still tied in front of me. The lack of sleep and food and the night’s various injuries were beginning to tell hard on me; my head seemed filled with lead and I could barely sit upright. John Newell noticed how I slumped forward and hit me in the stomach with the handle of his sword.

  “Should I have a sign made to hang around your neck, you Italian son of a whore?” he asked, squinting up at me into the sunlight. “Reading ‘Seditious Jesuit,’ like the one Edmund Campion wore when he was paraded back to London? Make sure he sits upright,” he barked at the soldier who held the horse’s reins. “Or he’ll fall off before we reach the end of the carriage drive and we shall never get him to Oxford.”

  “He might need a drink to keep him awake, sir, he looks a bit parched,” the soldier ventured, and I nodded at him gratefully; the man clearly had more compassion than most.

  “A drink?” Newell looked at the man as if he had just suggested I be provided with musicians and courtesans. “I see—shall I send for the best of Hazeley’s cellars for our dear guest? And, what, shall we roast a goose for him? Pay attention to your business, soldier, and do not tell me mine.”

  The soldier lowered his eyes, chastened, daring a quick glance of apology at me. I mouthed “thank you” at him through cracked lips when Newell had turned away to mount his own horse. He had just walked it around to lead the party that was apparently to parade me triumphantly back to Oxford, when the silence was shattered by a frantic clattering of hooves, and I looked up to see in the distance, at the top of the carriage drive, two horsemen leading a group of perhaps thirty armed men, in different colours from those already gathered in the courtyard. I confess I was astonished that they should think they needed so many reinforcements to subdue a couple of priests, but then I saw the county pursuivant turn to the captain of his group of men with a look of consternation; clearly he had not been expecting these new arrivals.

  It was only as the leading horseman galloped his mount right up to Newell before reining it in with a great whinny and scattering of stones, that I fully understood what was happening and my heart leaped.

  “What in Christ’s name have you done to my friend, you churl?” Sidney cried, jumping from his horse and running over to me, his sword drawn. “By God, I’ll flog the man who did this with my own hands! Untie him, soldier,” he yelled at the man holding my horse, who moved instantly to obey. I thought Newell might object, but when I glanced at him, I saw that he was eyeing the other horseman, Sidney’s companion, with a mixture of resentment and deference.

  “My Lord Sheriff,” Newell muttered, removing his hat, “I have captured a dangerous Jesuit out of Italy, bent on spreading the canker of popery and corrupting Her Majesty’s loyal subjects.”

  “I’m afraid you have not, Master Newell,” said the other man, calmly. He wore a broad hat with a feather and his beard was greying; a prominent coat of arms was embroidered on his crimson doublet. He had kindly eyes and a bearing that commanded deference. “This man is a renowned philosopher and a friend of Sir Philip Sidney here. You have let the real priest escape.”

  “My Lord Sheriff—” Newell bleated, but the sheriff waved a hand.

  “No matter—my men are already in pursuit of him, thanks to Sir Philip and our Italian friend here. He will not get far.”

  Sidney reached out and helped me down from the horse. I rubbed my wrists together, barely able to move my hands. Sidney hooked one of my arms over his shoulder and led me to his companion, supporting my weight with his arm around my waist.

  “Sir Henry Livesey, lord high sheriff of Oxfordshire,” Sidney announced, gesturing up at the man on the horse. “May I present D
octor Giordano Bruno of Nola—not, alas, at his best.”

  I attempted a bow, still clinging to Sidney’s neck, and the man on the horse smiled.

  “I … I had reason to believe Lady Tolling was sheltering a Jesuit priest,” Newell spluttered, looking anxiously at his superiors. “I found him in a priest hole—and he is an Italian,” he added, with a defensive air.

  “The Holy Office hates this man almost as much as it hates Her Majesty,” Sidney said, casting a withering look at Newell. “Is it not so, Bruno?” He cuffed me affectionately on my damaged shoulder and I shrieked in pain. “Sorry,” he said, rubbing at the spot no less heartily, but in a manner that I supposed was meant to be comforting. “Christ alive, you are a wreck, Bruno. We must have someone take a look at that.” He led me toward his horse and heaved me into the saddle, springing up himself in front of me and gripping the reins.

  “I will leave my men here to assist you, Newell,” the sheriff commanded, dismounting and motioning to the captain of his men to move forward. “I want all the servants interrogated. I will speak to Lady Tolling myself, kindly take me to her. Sir Philip,” he said, turning to us with a brief bow, “five of my men will escort you and Doctor Bruno back to Oxford. I am most sorry, sir,” he added, addressing himself to me, “that you have been so badly mistreated at the hands of the county pursuivant. Please accept my apologies and rest assured that he will be disciplined.”

  Newell blanched; I could barely rouse myself to do more than nod my thanks to the sheriff. Sidney wheeled the horse around and I held tight to his back as we rode up the carriage drive, followed by five of the lord high sheriff’s armed riders at a discreet distance.

  “You have acquitted yourself well, Bruno,” Sidney said in a low voice over his shoulder. “You have risked your life to track down a murderer and a priest without revealing yourself. The sheriff will take the credit for the arrests but Walsingham will be told it was down to your tenacity.”

  “I had given up hope of seeing you again,” I muttered to his back as he urged the horse to a brisk trot, a wave of exhaustion suddenly flooding over me. “I thought my message had not reached you.”

  “A kitchen boy from Lincoln brought your package in the hour before dawn,” he replied over his shoulder, his voice whipped away by the wind, “knocking on the gate of Christ Church as if it were the gates of Hell, apparently. He told the porter it was urgent—fought tooth and nail to get to me, they said—but the porter would not wake the dean before first light, and the dean would not wake me until after morning service, the pair of fools, hence the delay. The boy, to his credit, would not part with his package except into my own hands, however the dean tried to coax him. As soon as I saw what was inside, I knew you were in serious danger and had the dean rouse the high sheriff. We had no idea the pursuivant’s men would beat us to it.”

  “Slythurst sent them after me,” I said, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice. “He was determined to have those letters.”

  “I would guess he is a low-rank informer trying to prove himself,” Sidney said. “Walsingham has them placed all over the university, though he tends not to notify his people of one another’s existence. He thinks it keeps them on their toes.”

  “Where are the letters now?” I asked, keeping my voice low.

  “Safely on their way to London in the hands of the dean’s most trusted messenger,” Sidney said. “They will be decoded there and used as evidence at the trial. But from the little I could read, they will be enough to see Jerome Gilbert hanged for a traitor.” He paused, turning the horse out of the cart track and back onto the lane that led toward the city. “The attorney general will likely turn this to our advantage by adding four charges of murder. It will be a useful reminder to the populace of the Jesuits’ ruthlessness.”

  “But Thomas Allen killed the three Lincoln men,” I protested. “He confessed it.”

  “Well, he is not able to confess now, is he, and that version would have far less public impact than to blame the Catholic priest,” Sidney said. “Jerome Gilbert. He is the younger son of a wealthy Suffolk family—it was his brother, George, who provided all the funds for Edmund Campion’s mission. He fled to France when Campion was executed—his brother must have gone with him.” He shook his head angrily. “They should have been watched more closely.”

  “Will they catch Jerome, do you think?”

  “The sheriff has the hue and cry after them on every route out of Oxford. They will not get far.”

  “And Sophia?” I whispered anxiously.

  “She will be arrested with him,” Sidney threw over his shoulder with apparent unconcern. “The rest will depend on her. If she protests her loyalty to him, she will likely be taken for questioning.”

  “Tortured?” I sat up straighter, leaning close to his ear. “But she is with child.”

  I felt him shrug. “Then she may plead her belly, if her family will buy her release from gaol until the child is born. That will give her time to decide if her loyalty to Gilbert survives his execution. He will be taken to London to coax from him what more he knows. Where did you find the letters, anyway?” he asked casually, leaning back toward me.

  I hesitated, knowing that I was about to risk my credibility in Walsingham’s service, if Sophia should insist on telling the truth. But the thought of her suffering the kind of tortures Walsingham had detailed to me made me feel I had no choice.

  “Sophia gave them to me,” I said, hearing the hollow ring of falsehood in my own voice. I wondered if Sidney detected it too, because I felt his shoulders stiffen beneath my hands.

  “Sophia? Really? Then she betrayed him willingly?”

  “Yes. She discovered that he planned for her to meet with an accident on her passage to France. She asked for my help.”

  For a few moments, the only sound was the soft squelch of the horses’ hooves on the muddy turf and the jangling of the armed riders behind us. Sidney appeared to be weighing this up. After a few moments he craned his head back toward me.

  “Is this the truth, Bruno?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Then by that action she may just have saved herself. Though it will prove rather awkward if her story differs from yours. Something you may want to think about before you repeat it to anyone else.” He let the sentence hang in the air. I did not miss the note of warning.

  “What will happen to Lady Tolling?” I asked, keen to change the subject before he could press me further.

  “Her estates will be attainted. She and those Catholics among her household will be imprisoned. If she is willing to inform, she may be spared her life.”

  I thought of the tall, elegant woman, so calmly receiving us into her grand gatehouse chamber—a room that would not now belong to her heirs, because of me. Of the six people who had been present in that room, perhaps I would be the only survivor, once Lady Tolling, Jerome, and Sophia had been arrested and tried. I could only hope that Sophia would have the sense, once Jerome was arrested, not to try and prove her devotion by following him to martyrdom, for then, in trying to save her, I would have delivered her to a worse death, and Sidney and Walsingham would know that I was too easily moved to pity, that my truthfulness was liable to be compromised by my heart.

  “And what of us?” I asked, as the road became firmer and Sidney spurred the horse to a canter, causing me to slip sideways and grab frantically at his shoulders for balance.

  “We return to London by river, once you are rested,” he said. “The palatine is tired of Oxford, but I have persuaded him to stay another day for the luxury of returning by boat. Once Gilbert is arrested there will be no need for you to testify at the inquest into Roger Mercer’s death tomorrow. You had better keep your head down—the less you are publicly associated with the circumstances of Gilbert’s discovery and arrest, the better for your cover. But rest assured, my friend—you will be well rewarded,” he added, as if this must be my main concern.

  Well rewarded, I thought, as the outlying dwelli
ngs of Oxford became visible in the distance. I had narrowly escaped with my life, but others would not be so fortunate, and before I reached London I would have to decide how much I would tell Walsingham of what I knew. I still believed that Jerome Gilbert had intended to remove Sophia as an obstacle to his mission, despite his violent denials and her dogged faith in him, but I found it hard to believe that he was a danger to the English state, any more than I believed that Lady Eleanor Tolling, with her assiduous care for the missionary priests, was a traitor to her country. And while I would not be sorry to see Jenkes apprehended, would I also hand over good-natured, slow-witted Humphrey Pritchard to the torturers, or earnest Master Richard Godwyn? Walsingham had warned me that this kind of choice was part of his service, and I needed to repay his faith in me if I were to have any hope of gaining the queen’s patronage. Playing politics with the lives of others was part of the path to advancement, but that, as I was just beginning to understand, was the real heresy. The only reward I now wanted was to see Sophia take the chance of escape that my lie would offer her, and not to consider martyrdom as a substitute for love.

  Chapter 22

  I was woken the following day by the slamming of my chamber door as Sidney, dressed in a plum-coloured velvet doublet and short breeches with white silk stockings, threw it open without a knock, grinning broadly as he strode across and drew back the curtains with a flourish to let in the full force of the midday spring sun. At his insistence I had returned directly with him and was now lodged at Christ Church College, in an oak-panelled room adjacent to his own, several degrees of luxury above the chamber I had become used to at Lincoln. Here I had a soft bed, woollen blankets, fresh water for washing, and a jug of small beer by my bed, though I had barely had a chance to appreciate any of this comparative ease, as I had done nothing but sleep since we had returned from Hazeley Court the previous day.

  “And how do I find you this fine afternoon, my adventurous friend?” Sidney asked, pouring himself a cup of beer. I noticed that he was now quite openly wearing an ornamental sword at his belt, despite the university’s absolute ban on weapons. Clearly he had decided that the circumstances warranted a breach of etiquette.