Heresy (40 page)

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.

“I was told it was a place one might go to meet … like-minded people,” I said quietly.

Jenkes nodded encouragingly. “Told by whom?”

“A contact.”

“In London or Oxford? Or abroad?”

“Oxford,” I said, without a pause.

“His name? Or hers,” he added, as an afterthought.

“I prefer not to say.”

“Then how am I to know you are not lying to me, Bruno?” he asked, his face now inches from mine, so that all his pox scars seemed magnified.

“He grew quickly intimate with young Allen, as I told you—they were seen together this morning at the Flower de Luce,” Bernard interjected from the other side of the room. Jenkes narrowed his eyes; I could almost see his calculations as he weighed this news.

“So Thomas Allen has been sharing his confidences with you, has he? I fear he may give you a bad impression of our little group, Bruno. Was it he who directed you to us?”

Realising that Thomas could be in danger if Jenkes believed he had been telling me Edmund Allen’s secrets, I knew I had to deny his involvement, even though I had no idea what effect my next words would have on the two men now watching me.

“It was not Thomas who suggested I visit the Catherine Wheel,” I said. “It was Roger Mercer.”

Jenkes frowned, letting go of my shoulder. He seemed genuinely wrong-footed.

“Mercer?”

“It is true that I saw him deep in conversation with Mercer in the courtyard, the night before Roger died,” Bernard confirmed. “I was watching from my window.”

“How did the Catherine Wheel enter your conversation?” Jenkes asked, pointing a long finger into my face.

I raised a hand and gently moved his finger aside before speaking. “I asked if he knew of any place in Oxford where I might hear Mass said.”

“You just asked? And he sent you to the Catherine Wheel, just like that?” Jenkes looked as though he could not decide whether to be incredulous or furious; he twisted his hands together until the knuckles cracked.

“He suggested I would find friends there, but that I should exercise discretion,” I said.

“Discretion—as if he knew the meaning of the word! He was ever a damnable fool. His loose tongue would have seen us all dead eventually. To tell a stranger, William, and one who travels with a royal party—can you credit it?” Jenkes wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “Though I was sorry to hear of his cruel death, of course.”

“It hardly matters now,” Bernard said, before piously adding, “God have mercy on his soul.”

Jenkes gave me another long, hard look, then appeared to decide in my favour.

“Well, then, Doctor Bruno—let poor Mercer be proved right. You have found yourself among friends. Come tonight—at half past midnight. Use the rear door, through the inn yard, not the street door. Humphrey will be there—say the password and he will admit you. Wear a cloak with a hood, keep it drawn over your face and take care you are not followed.”

“Will there not be watchmen at the north gate? Surely they will want to know my business at that hour.”

“Give them a groat and they will not give two shits for your business,” he said, his eyes flicking again to my belt. “But have a care for your purse walking the streets so late. Have you a weapon?”

I replied that I did not carry one. He picked up the little silver-handled knife from the workbench and held it out to me.

“Take it for tonight. It is only small but it cuts through leather well enough—I am sure it could do some damage if you were set upon. Better than an empty scabbard, anyway.”

“Thank you—but in any case I will not need my purse for such a meeting, will I?” I replied.

“Oh, but you must bring your purse tonight,” Jenkes said, his expression suddenly concerned; seeing my look of suspicion, he leaned in with a sly smile. “For I do not give away my books for nothing, Master Bruno, not even to my brother Catholics.”

My heart quickened. “Books?”

“You are interested in a book, are you not? A Greek book, brought out of Florence by Dean Flemyng a century ago, bequeathed to the library of Lincoln College, removed by our friend Doctor Bernard here during the purge by the Royal Commission of ’69. Am I correct?”

“Do you have this book?” I whispered, hardly daring to breathe.

He replied with the same slow, infuriating smile.

“I do not have it here. But I have held it in my hands, and I can direct you to it. I’m sure we can work out an arrangement that will suit us both, Doctor Bruno. Be sure to bring your purse.”

“You said the book did not exist,” I said, turning to Bernard with a note of triumph.

“I said so for the sake of those fools gathered around the rector’s table that night,” he said, dismissively. “It would have raised too many questions. Underhill is a puppet of the chancellor and the Privy Council—he would not know the value of such a book, but I did not wish to awaken his old anxieties. If he had his way, he would purge the library until there was nothing left upon the lecterns but the Bishops’ Bible and the volumes of Master Foxe.” For a moment I thought Bernard might spit on the floor, so bitter was the contempt in his voice as he spoke the name, but he restrained himself.
I wondered what Jenkes had meant when he said that Mercer’s loose tongue would have had them all killed.

“We must not detain you any longer, Doctor Bruno,” Jenkes said, turning back toward the shop and reaching for the keys at his belt. “You will be wanting to catch up with your friend Florio. By the way—it goes without saying that you do not breathe a word of our conversation to anyone. I am the only one who can tell you who to trust in this town where matters of religion are concerned. You understand the dangers, I’m sure.”

I nodded, as he unlocked the door to the street and I saw with some relief that the rain had finally begun to thin.

I turned back to see him standing in the doorway, arms folded across his chest, with an air of satisfaction.

“And the book?”

“I will tell you all about the book when we next meet.”

“You have forgotten one thing,” I said, in a low voice. “The password.”

Jenkes’s pitted face creased into a lopsided smile.

“Why, you have already been told, Doctor Bruno,” he whispered, before mouthing the words,
“Ora pro nobis.”

A
chill wind chivvied the dark rain clouds in drifts across the sky, revealing a higher layer of pearl-grey cloud as the rain thinned and finally ceased altogether. I walked through the muddy lanes back to Lincoln barely aware any longer of my damp clothes chafing at my skin, my head caught up in whirling thoughts. As I passed under the tower archway I heard the bell tolling its melancholy summons to Evensong, but I was unprepared for the sight that greeted me as I emerged into the quadrangle. Groups of students and Fellows stood huddled together around the entrance to the staircase that led to the library and the chapel, staring up at the windows, all seemingly transfixed by something. An eerie silence hung over the quadrangle, the men gathered there exchanging only muted whispers and frozen glances. The air was taut with unspoken fear. I slowed my steps and approached the nearest knot of students to find out the reason for this sombre
congregation, when Richard Godwyn pushed his way through to greet me unsmiling, relief etched on his face.