Heresy (23 page)

“And you have read it?” she asked, in a whisper, leaning in eagerly.

“His Majesty eventually allowed me to see the manuscript, after I solemnly swore that I would not copy any part of it. He apparently forgot that I am one of the foremost practitioners of the art of memory in all of Europe.” I allowed myself a modest smile; Sophia ignored it.

“So what is in this
Picatrix?”
she demanded.

“It is a manual of astral magic, a treatise on the art of drawing down the powers that animate the stars and planets by means of talismans and images.” I lowered my voice and glanced round to check that the door was closed. “It works on the principle that the infinite diversity of matter in the universe is all interconnected, part of One Unity, animated by the Divinity, so the adept with the requisite knowledge can create links between the elements of the natural world and the celestial powers to which they correspond.”

Sophia frowned. “But how does it
work?”
she insisted.

“You are determined to know,” I said, smiling. “Well, for example—suppose you wanted, for the sake of argument, to secure the love of another person.” I watched her reaction; her cheeks were flushed and her lips slightly parted in anticipation, but she held my gaze almost defiantly. “Then you need to capture the power of the planet Venus, so you must know what plants, stones, and metals belong to the influence of Venus. You would also need to learn the most powerful images of Venus, and inscribe these on a talisman made from the appropriate materials, on a day and hour most conducive to the astrological influence of Venus, with the correct invocations, names, and numbers—you see it is immensely complex.”

“Can you teach me?” she whispered.

“Do you know what you are asking?” I responded, dropping my voice even further. “For me to teach you what many consider diabolical sorcery—
do you know what the risk would be? Besides, I must confess that I have never attempted to use this practical magic—my interest has always been in the hieratic, intellectual element. But Sophia,” I spread my palms out wide, an advocate of common sense, “if the object of your affection does not return it, would it not be simpler just to set your sights elsewhere?”

She reached across and laid her hand on mine for a moment, a sad smile hovering at her lips.

“Yes, it would be simpler,” she agreed, in a soft voice. “But the heart does not always listen to reason, does it? You should know, Bruno.”

I looked at her for a long time then as my own heart lurched unexpectedly, and I realised that I was in serious danger of growing attached to this thoughtful, spirited young woman with the fiery eyes. I could not tell whether she was attracted to me or saw me only as someone who would listen and take her seriously; in the same moment I felt a sudden unreasonable jealousy that all this depth of feeling on her part might be wasted on a peacock like Gabriel Norris.

I was wondering whether to question her on that scrap of hearsay, and how to broach the subject, when an unmistakable thud was heard outside the door on the other side of the study, as if someone had lost his footing and stumbled into the jamb. Sophia snatched her hand away, threw her chair back, and leaped to her feet, glaring angrily at the door, but as she took a step toward it her legs suddenly buckled under her and she gave a little cry, grasping at the chair to keep her balance. Alarmed, I jumped up and held out an arm to steady her; she gripped my shoulder gratefully and leaned on me for a moment, breathing heavily.

“Are you unwell?” I asked—unnecessarily, as her face had turned pale as ash.

“I … I don’t know what happened, I’m sorry,” she faltered. “I must have stood up too fast, I felt suddenly very faint. Perhaps this wine is stronger than I thought. Damn that old busybody Adam—I should have guessed he’d be listening at the keyhole.”

“We spoke very softly—he may not have heard the substance of the conversation,” I whispered, though I could not dampen the fear that crept up my spine.

“I’m sure he heard enough to tell my father,” she muttered through clenched teeth.

For what seemed like a long while, neither of us moved. She continued to clutch the fabric of my doublet with her left hand, while I gently supported her right arm; her hair was almost touching my cheek and smelled warmly of woodsmoke and chamomile. I could hear the blood pounding in my ears, hardly daring to catch my breath, until eventually she raised her head with a great sigh.

“Forgive me, Bruno—I need to sit.” Her voice was subdued; she was still very white.

I helped her back to her chair, and from the corridor beyond there came the sound of a door slamming firmly and two male voices in conversation.

Sophia lifted her head.

“That is my father returned. I had better go and explain your presence, before Adam fills his head with suspicions.” She took a deep breath and pushed herself up again, pausing to steady herself.

“Are you still faint?” I asked, reaching out a hand. She passed me without taking it, turning back only at the door.

“I will be fine. Good night, Bruno, and thank you for listening to my foolishness. We will speak again soon.” She smiled, and slipped out into the passageway, closing the door behind her.

I picked up the Copernican map and studied it again. Sophia had seen something in that mysterious symbol, I was certain, and I instinctively folded the paper away. Perhaps it would be wiser not to alert her father until I could win her confidence enough to draw out whatever she knew. From the passageway beyond I heard voices—Sophia’s and the rector’s—raised in heated discussion, though I could make out only the odd word: “improper” and “papist” on his part, “absurd” and “hospitality” on hers. Then Sophia
burst out in a tone of fierce exasperation. “And how should I not conduct myself as mistress of this house when you are never here and the true mistress will not leave her bedchamber? Who else is going to take care of the household?”

“Take yourself to your room, daughter, and reflect on your place and your duty—or do you wish that I should send you to your aunt in Kent? Or perhaps I should engage another governess to fill your hours of idleness and teach you proper womanly obedience?” the rector spluttered, as he flung open the door to the study and strode in, turning a face purple with fury (and, I suspected, the good wine of Christ Church hall) in my direction. Immediately his manner changed; he clasped his hands together and half bowed, not quite meeting my eye.

“Ah—Doctor Bruno—you have rather taken me by surprise at this hour.” All trace of his earlier superiority seemed to have vanished and he would not quite meet my eye, which gave me some satisfaction. It is one thing to sneer at a man in front of five hundred people certain to take your part, I thought, and quite another when you must stand three feet away from him alone. He seemed defensive, perhaps fearing that I had come to reopen the debate. “I assure you that this evening—”

“Rector Underhill.” I barely knew where to begin. “I must seek your advice on another matter altogether—the death of Roger Mercer.”

Immediately the colour drained from his face and his eyes became watchful. He wiped his brow with his sleeve.

“Yes. The talk at Christ Church was of little else, but I am confident that we have put all malicious rumour to rest.” He grew thoughtful. “Perhaps tomorrow the morning service in chapel should be a service of remembrance, especially since the funeral will have to wait until after the inquest—which I learned at dinner cannot be for a few days, as the coroner is away. You will be able to stay in Oxford to testify, Doctor Bruno, I presume?”

I did not answer. Instead I passed him the slip of paper with the quotation that had been cut from a book. “Do you recognise this?”

He peered closely at the small type, then slowly raised his head to fix me with an expression of uncomprehending fear.

“The wheat of Christ,” he said softly. “Ignatius. What is this?”

“It is from Foxe, then?”

He nodded slowly. “The martyrdom of Saint Ignatius—or, rather, Bishop Ignatius of Antioch, we should call him, martyred under the emperor Trajan. Foxe quotes these as his last words as he is thrown to the wild beasts.” He handed the paper back to me with an expression that might almost have been anger, although his hand was trembling.

“This paper was pushed under my door while I was at the disputation. It seems that someone wanted to draw my attention to the manner of Doctor Mercer’s death.”

“By cutting up a book? Who would do such a thing? I’m afraid I don’t follow your reasoning at all, Doctor Bruno.”

“Not for the first time today,” I muttered, but forced myself to be polite. “You and I both saw this morning that Roger Mercer had been locked into that garden with a savage dog. I have wondered, Rector Underhill, if his death was intended by someone who lured him there on the pretext of a meeting, and then set the beast on him in some kind of perverse parody of martyrdom. And it seems this message has been sent to me as a clear indication that someone here knows why he was killed, and perhaps by whom.”

Underhill gestured frantically for me to lower my voice, glancing fearfully at the study door. He was undoubtedly shocked, but after a moment he composed his features and produced a choked, nervous little laugh.

“Dear God, what a fevered imagination you Italians do have, Bruno!” He shook his head dismissively. “I fear that in the confusion and horror of this morning’s tragedy we allowed ourselves to rush to somewhat hysterical conclusions. We must not allow our natural shock and grief to spin improbable fancies out of a terrible accident. As for this paper, it rather looks as if someone is toying with you, feeding these wild fancies of yours with
the intention of making a fool of you. Better not to give them the satisfaction of rising to the bait.”

I turned to leave, furiously trying to quell my boiling blood. When I spoke, it was with all the self-control I could muster, my nails biting into the palms of my hands with the effort.

“I was an eyewitness, Rector Underhill. I was examining Roger Mercer’s body and the scene of his violent death while you were vomiting over your shoes like a woman. My testimony will be of more value to any inquest than yours.”

At this he bristled and his tone was of open hostility. “Oh, you imagine so? The word of a foreigner? A Catholic? A man reported to practise magic, who openly believes the earth goes around the sun?”

I took a deep breath and waited until the urge to hit him had passed, before opening the study door back to the dining room.

“Thank you for your time, Rector. I will not impose upon you any longer.”

“One thing more, Bruno. I don’t know what customs you keep in Italy, but in England it is not considered proper for an unmarried woman of good reputation to converse alone with a man, even a gentleman. Therefore I forbid you any further private conversation with my daughter.” He folded his arms pompously. I paused in the doorway.

“With the greatest respect, Rector, do not presume to command me as if I were one of your undergraduates. But if you wish, you may send for a governess to teach me obedience. I might benefit from that,” I added, with a wink, and closed the door behind me, my heart pounding hard with indignation. Adam handed me my cloak and bade me good night with a condescending sneer. I snatched the garment up quickly without thanking him and hastened for the door, thinking that if I stayed another moment among those insufferable people there might well be another murder committed that day.

I
woke on Sunday morning before dawn and lay on the narrow wooden bed watching the patterns of pale light gradually spread across the ceiling from the chink in the window drapes. I had slept fitfully, knotted up with anger at the way I had been treated by Underhill and his colleagues. During the many hours of wakefulness I had determined that it was fruitless for me to stay in Oxford, regardless of the inquest or the royal visitation. I would seek out my horse from the rector’s stables at first light and find my way to London by any means possible. I was conscious that I had found out little of use to Walsingham yet, and he would surely not appreciate the explanation that I had left in a fit of pique because I had been publicly humiliated, but I was so clearly unwelcome here that it seemed unlikely I could ever carry out his plan of gaining the Fellows’ confidence and thereby learning anything useful. I sighed and turned on my side, wrapping myself tightly in the sheet against the draught, and allowed my thoughts to drift back to Sophia.
I had lain awake the previous night, my thoughts full of her. She was a compelling enough reason to stay in Oxford and an equally compelling one to leave. I realised that it had been some time since I had been as close to a woman as I had come the evening before when she had almost fainted into my arms, and the jolt of longing that shook me at that moment had left me profoundly disconcerted. I wondered if she had felt it too. There were moments while we talked when her frank gaze had locked with mine and it seemed she wanted me to read something there, but I knew that as a guest of her father’s I must take great care how I approached her. Besides, I reminded myself, had she not spoken with a kind of pitying regret of the way her father had spent his life dependent on the patronage of great men, and was I not in the same position? I had no means to marry, no money or property of my own, nothing to offer a young gentlewoman except my affection, and I knew from experience that a father places little value on that in his daughter’s suitors. So I could not court her respectably, and although that fleeting touch the night before had powerfully awoken my desire, I already knew that I liked her too much to think of a casual seduction. I wanted urgently to see her again, yet had no idea what I hoped might happen between us. My mind kept running back to the expression on her face when I showed her the Copernican diagram, the fleeting light of recognition in her eyes at the symbol of the wheel. What did Sophia know, and how could I persuade her to confide in me?

The chorus of birdsong became more insistent. I pulled back the sheet and crossed the room to draw the drapes and look out over the courtyard of Lincoln as the pink early light streaked across the sky in gaps between jagged clouds. The rain had given Oxford a temporary reprieve, though there was no guarantee the road to London would be passable after the weather of the past two days. The flagstones of the courtyard gleamed under the night’s rain, puddles reflecting slashes of pale rosy sky. I could not make out the hands of the clock from my window, but thought I may as well dress anyway. As soon as the college was up and stirring I could ask
Cobbett how I might go about recovering my horse. I wondered if I should say a formal goodbye to the rector, claiming I had pressing business to return to, but then I might learn that I had a legal obligation to stay and testify at the inquest. Better to leave first and plead ignorance later, I thought, and I did not want to give Underhill the satisfaction of seeing that he had driven me away. Perhaps I could leave a message for Sidney on my way out of the city. I was about to turn away from the window when a sudden movement in the courtyard caught my eye; a figure wearing a black cloak with the hood pulled up scurried from the southwest corner of the quadrangle and disappeared into the tower archway. Immediately I felt my muscles tense; I had not been able to make out who it was, but if I was quick to follow I might see who could be dashing about so furtively at such an hour. I grabbed for my shirt, and then paused, berating myself. Had I not already decided that whatever undercover comings and goings went on in this place were not my business? I would leave today, and if there was a murderer in the college they would just have to deal with it themselves; my attempts at finding the truth had been met with contempt and threats, and I wanted nothing more to do with it.