Heresy (18 page)

“You know about hunting,” I said, cutting myself another brick of the pie. “Could a hound like that be trained to attack a particular person, follow a scent?”

Sidney considered.

“I suppose—if it can be trained to follow the scent of a boar or a wolf, why not a man? If it was given one of his garments, perhaps. The Irish used to use them in battle—apparently they could pull an armoured knight off his horse. And you say it had been kept hungry, so its instincts would be all the keener.” He leaned his elbows on the table and rested his chin on cupped hands. “It’s as if the dog were part of some kind of show, as if it were done to create a spectacle. And what a way to die—locked in with a bloodthirsty animal. Makes me think,” he said, putting another hunk of bread into his mouth, “of how the Romans used to execute the early saints, by throwing them into an arena with wild beasts. The way John Foxe describes it in that grisly
Book of Martyrs.”

I stopped, a piece of meat halfway to my mouth, and stared at him, slack-jawed.

“What?” Sidney stopped chewing.

“Foxe’s
Book of Martyrs
. The rector of Lincoln has a great interest in him—he has been preaching sermons in chapel with Foxe as his text.”

Sidney frowned.

“You think someone wanted to get rid of this Mercer and took inspiration from Foxe for his method?” His expression betrayed his scepticism.

“It does seem far-fetched. Perhaps I am reading too much into it.” I passed my hands over my face. “You are right—it was probably just a bad debt or trouble over a whore. No wonder the rector wants it covered up while a royal visitation is in town.”

Sidney was silent for a moment. Then he banged a palm down on the table.

“No, Bruno—I think you are right to be suspicious. The dog was loosed into the garden by someone who had a key, which suggests one of the Fellows or someone else with access to the college keys. And at least two people wanted something from his room, but not money. Perhaps something that might be dangerous to them. And if everyone in the college has recently heard stories of the saints’ gruesome deaths from Foxe’s book, thanks
to the rector, perhaps in some way it was staged as a deliberate copy. The question is, why? Did you find nothing in his room?”

“Only this. Take a look,” I said, extracting the slim almanac. “What do you notice first?”

Sidney turned a couple of pages, then looked up at me, his face serious.

“Gregorian calendar. Was our man a secret papist after all, like his friend Allen?”

“I wondered. I heard him cry out to Mary before he died.”

“I’d cry to Mary if a dog that size was snapping at my arse,” said Sidney bluntly, turning the book over in his hands. “That signifies nothing. But this calendar—you would only need this if you were corresponding with someone in the Catholic countries. Especially if you needed to coordinate movements. Edmund Allen went to Rheims, did he not? Wasn’t he related to William Allen, who founded the English College there?”

“A cousin, they said. Mercer could still have been in touch with him, you mean?”

Sidney glanced to either side and lowered his voice. “Remember why we are here, Bruno. These seminaries in Rheims and Rome are Walsingham’s greatest headache at the moment—they have vast funds from the Vatican and are in the business of training dozens of priests for the English mission, many of them former Oxford men.” He pulled his beard into a point as he thought, then picked up the book again. “What is this little circle here?” he asked, pointing to the wheel symbol that marked the previous day’s entry in Mercer’s calendar.

“I don’t know. It appears often. I wondered if it might be a code.”

Sidney peered closer, then shook his head. “I recognise it, but I can’t think from where. Looks like one of your magical symbols, Bruno.”

I had not liked to say so, but the thought had crossed my mind; Roger Mercer had secretly confided an interest in magic. Even so, the symbol was not one I recognised, and so it intrigued me.

“It’s not an astrological symbol, that is certain,” I said. “But that is not the most important thing. Smell the book.”

Sidney frowned indulgently, but brought the book close to his face. “Oranges?”

“Yes. Look to the back.”

He flicked through the pages, then looked up at me, nodding with something like admiration.

“Good work, Bruno. That is an old trick, the invisible writing in orange juice. Have you found some secret message?”

“A cipher. I made a copy—here.” I pushed my piece of paper across the table at him. “You see what he has written at the bottom?”

“Ora pro nobis
. Well, well.” Sidney folded the paper carefully and handed it back to me. “‘Pray for us.’ Could be some sort of password or secret sign.”

“That’s what I thought. Should we inform Walsingham?”

Sidney thought for a moment, then shook his head. “We have nothing to tell him yet, except that we suspect a man, who is already dead, of Catholic affiliations. He would not thank us for wasting his time, and I cannot spare the expense of a messenger to London until we have something better. No—I think you should pursue this as discreetly as you may,” he continued, closing the book and handing it back. “Especially if you say Rector Underhill seems keen to have it hushed up—he may know more than he lets on. Just because he was appointed by my uncle it does not follow that he can be trusted—the earl has made mistakes in his judgment before now.” He set his lips in a tight line. “And who is this J—have you any thoughts?”

“I have met only three men whose names begin with J,” I said. “John Florio, the Anglo-Italian, James Coverdale, the proctor, and John Underhill, the rector. But it may not signify a name. Perhaps it is another coded symbol.”

Sidney nodded grimly.

“Perhaps. There is much to think about. But for now, my dear Bruno,” he said, suddenly smiling, “you must think only about this evening’s disputation.
You must dazzle all Oxford with the new cosmology, and put this business from your mind. Lizzy—let me settle this account!” he called, as the serving woman glanced in our direction. “And I will take a large bottle of your strongest ale for the road,” he added genially, counting coins from his purse. When she had gone to fetch one, he leaned in and winked. “A little gift for you to take your new friend the porter. I’ll tell you this about Oxford—the porters guard more secrets than anyone in the university. Befriend your porter and he will quite literally open doors for you. And now, Bruno,” he said, clapping me on the back, “you must go and settle this small matter of whether or not the earth moves around the sun.”

I was about to rise and take my leave when a great gale of laughter and chatter erupted from behind us as the taproom door opened to admit a group of four tall young men, all dressed expensively in jerkins of buff leather, silk peasecod doublets, and short slashed breeches to show off their legs in fine silk stockings, all sporting bright starched ruffs above their collars and short velvet cloaks over one shoulder. They carried themselves with an identical swagger, talking loudly in cultured voices, making crude jokes to the serving girl, and when they turned around I realised that the tallest of them was Gabriel Norris. He recognised me and raised a hand in greeting.

“Ah,
il gentil doctore!”
he cried, beckoning his friends over to our table. “Come, boys, meet my new friend, the renowned Italian philosopher Doctor Giordano Bruno, and—” He stopped suddenly as he looked at Sidney for the first time and smartly executed a low bow, then turned to me expectantly and I realised I was supposed to effect the introductions.

“This is Master Gabriel Norris,” I announced, as Norris bowed again, “who so expertly dispatched the mad dog in the garden this morning. This is my friend Sir Philip Sidney.”

“You are the brave huntsman, then?” Sidney said, arching an eyebrow in amusement.

“I cannot claim too much praise for that feat, sir—the dog was barely
yards from me. I prefer more of a challenge when I draw my bow,” Norris replied, with a self-deprecating laugh. “There is good hunting to be had at Shotover Forest, though, Sir Philip, if you are looking for some sport during your stay.”

“I’d welcome the chance, if this weather clears,” Sidney said. “Norris, you say? Who is your father?”

“George Norris, gentleman, of Buckinghamshire,” Norris said, effecting another bow. “But he lived most of his later life in France and Flanders.”

Sidney appeared to be consulting some kind of mental register to see if the name meant something. Eventually he shook his head politely.

“Don’t know him. France, eh? Exile, was he?”

“Oh, no, Sir Philip.” Norris laughed again. “He was a merchant. Cloth and luxury goods. He was exceptionally good at his business.” He gave Sidney a broad wink and rubbed his fingers together in the international sign for money. His manner was beginning to grate on me.

“Will you stay and drink with us?” he continued eagerly, already reaching into his purse for coins. “Hie, girl—over here!” he called, gesturing imperiously at Lizzy. “My friends plan to try and wrest some of that money from me at a few hands of bone-ace, but I am unbeaten yet this term. Are you a gambling man, Sir Philip? How about you, Doctor Bruno?”

I held up my hands in apology, but I saw the light of adventure spark in Sidney’s eyes, and he rubbed his hands together, shunting over on the bench to make room for Norris.

“Philosophers are notoriously bad at cards,” Sidney said, waving a hand at me to move over and make room for Norris’s friends beside me.

“All the more reason for Doctor Bruno to stay and join our game,” Norris said, smiling widely at me. He reached into his doublet and drew out a pack of cards, which he proceeded to shuffle expertly with the ease of long practice. I realised with a prickle of discomfort why he bothered me: it was not so much that I resented the hearty backslapping bonhomie of English upper-class gentlemen, for I could tolerate it well enough in Sidney on his
own. It was the way Sidney fell so easily into this strutting group of young men, where I could not, and the fear that he might in some ways prefer their company to mine. Once again, I felt that peculiar stab of loneliness that only an exile truly knows: the sense that I did not belong and never would again.

Norris snapped the pack against the flat of his hand and began swiftly to deal three cards to each player, two facedown and one faceup.

“Shall we put in a shilling each to begin? If you hope to hold on to any of your money, Tobie,” he remarked to the dark-haired young man seated opposite, “you had better start praying to Saint Bernardino of Siena, the patron saint of gamblers, for I am feeling lucky today.”

“Praying to saints, Gabe?” said the young man named Tobie with a sly grin, picking up his cards and considering them. “Do not let anyone overhear you encouraging that, or they will think you gone over to Rome.”

Norris snorted.

“I speak in jest, you dull-wit. Gentlemen should never debate theology at the card table. But am I not right, Doctor Bruno, that your countryman is said to intercede for gamblers? By those who believe that kind of folly,” he added, throwing a handful of coins into the middle of the table.

“Actually, in Italy, he is more renowned for his tirades against sodomites,” I replied, rising from the table. Norris looked up sharply from his hand and regarded me with interest.

“Is that so?”

“He lamented that in the last century the Italians were famed throughout Europe as the greatest nation of sodomites.”

“And are you?” he asked, a smile twitching at the edge of his mouth.

“We are the greatest nation at everything, my friend,” I said, returning the half smile.

“Bruno spent most of his life inside a monastery,” Sidney said, leaning over to dig Norris in the ribs. “He should know.”

The group fell into raucous laughter then as Lizzy slapped two large pitchers of ale down on the table. I decided it was time to leave.

“Well, I will leave you to rob one another with the blessing of Saint Bernardino,” I said, attempting to sound lighthearted. “I have more pressing business.”

“Bruno must reorder the cosmos before five o’clock,” Sidney said, though he was intent on the cards he held.

“We are all most eager to hear it,” Norris said, his head still bent to his cards, then he flung down an ace of diamonds with a great cry of triumph and swept all the coins from the table as the others exploded in a riot of cursing. None of them looked up as I left.

T
he Divinity School was the most breathtaking building I had yet seen in Oxford. Inside its high wooden doors a magnificent fan-vaulted ceiling of blond stone arched over a plainly furnished room perhaps ninety feet long, bathed in natural light from the ten great arched windows that reached from floor to ceiling the full length of the room, so that the north and south walls seemed almost entirely of glass. These windows were surmounted by elegant tracery and their panes decorated with designs of coloured shields and heraldic devices of benefactors and university dignitaries, according to the custom. From the supporting arches at the top of the windows the ribs of the vault fanned out in symmetrical patterns across the ceiling before dovetailing again in points decorated with elaborately carved bosses and pendants inset with statues, drawing the eye constantly upward and inward to the centre. There was a pungent smell of warm wax from the plentiful candles, lamps, and torches that had been set blazing along the walls, and
their light was welcome despite the grand windows, for the sky was still overcast and the day already fading. At the west end of the hall a stage had been erected and high-backed chairs set with plump velvet cushions placed there for the most eminent persons—the palatine sat in the centre, with Sidney on his left and the vice-chancellor in his ermine-trimmed robes on his right, their chairs surrounded by the other university dignitaries in their crimson-and-black gowns and the velvet caps of professors, ranged according to their degree. Below this, tiered seating had been built facing the length of the hall toward the east doorway, and was now filled with the figures of senior men in Fellows’ gowns, while in the second of the five grand bays from the west end, two carved wooden pulpits were set opposite each other on the north and south walls, where Rector Underhill and I now prepared to take up our positions for the confrontation.