Heresy (39 page)

“You soon learned your lesson there, I think. Though it was mischievous of you to tell young Humphrey that you would not give that food even to your dog.” He stopped laughing just as abruptly as he had begun, leaving a sudden silence hanging in the air.

“You speak Italian?”

“I speak seven languages, Doctor Bruno, though you would not think it to look at me, would you? I do not have the visage of a scholar, I know. But then you know better than to judge a man by his looks. I fancy you are another who is more than he seems. Do you know what they say of me in Oxford?”

“I do not,” I said bluntly. He clearly took pride in his notoriety and I had no wish to flatter his vanity further. I was gratified to see that he looked a little disappointed.

“They call me a disciple of the Devil, Bruno,” he informed me, a half smile playing about his thin lips. “Folk songs are made about me to frighten children. They say I killed three hundred men with a single curse. What do you say to that?”

“I say that gaol fever spreads rapidly in certain conditions,” I replied evenly.

“You are right, of course. But how, then, was I not touched?”

“Evidently you have the constitution of an ox,” I said, glancing at the whorls and knots of scarred skin where his ears had once been. “You are no more a sorcerer than I am, or Florio here.”

“No more a sorcerer than you?” Jenkes watched me for a moment, then burst into another of his sudden gales of laughter. “I like your friend, Signor Florio, he is quite the comedian,” he said, with an air of indulgence. Poor Florio seemed quite uncomfortable with the undercurrent of antagonism between me and Jenkes, and continued to glance nervously between us.

“Have you my Montaigne, Master Jenkes?” he asked mildly. “I do hope so, for I have come out in this treacherous weather for it.”

“Treacherous indeed,” Jenkes said, sending me the briefest flash of his cryptic smile. “Two volumes arrived with a cargo at the end of last week, my dear Florio, and despite this apocalyptic weather, the cart made its way through from Plymouth on Saturday. Let it never be said that I disappoint those who place their faith in my abilities. If you will bear with me a moment, I will find them.” He gave another brief bow and, keeping his head low, ducked through the doorway into the workshop behind him.

Florio turned to me.

“
I MUST BEG
from you an oath of secrecy, Bruno,” he whispered, laying a hand on my arm, his eyes wide and earnest. I nodded breathlessly, thinking he was still referring to the matter of his note, in which we had been interrupted.

“I have decided to take upon myself a great and solemn task, which will commit my name to posterity as well as that of the great humanist genius I serve—a far greater work, I may say, than my own silly collections of proverbs could ever be.” He clutched my sleeve tighter, his eyes shining. “I am going to bring the essays of Michel de Montaigne to English readers!”

“Does he know?” I asked.

He lowered his gaze, somewhat subdued. “I have written to the great man proposing my humble services as his translator, but as yet I do not have his imprimatur, it is true,” he said. “I have asked Master Jenkes to order the French editions for me so that I could send Monsieur Montaigne a sample, in the hope of winning his approval. But as I’m sure you can imagine, until it is complete, this is a labour of love that will be both time-consuming and expensive, and so you understand now why I had to write to you as I did—”

“Any book you desire, from any country—just ask Rowland Jenkes, and if I cannot find it, it does not exist,” Jenkes announced, springing from the shadows like a showman and holding up a slim volume in each hand, each bound in dun calfskin and tied with leather strings. He fixed me with a conspiratorial eye.
“Any
book, Doctor Bruno, for the right price.” His eyes wandered pointedly to my belt, where Walsingham’s purse was hidden beneath my jerkin. I made no move to acknowledge the look, but I felt suddenly exposed; he already seemed to know more about me than I would have credited, and I wondered if his source was Bernard.

He handed the volumes to Florio, who cradled one in the crook of each arm and looked down at them as lovingly as if they were newborn twins.

“You bring in a good many books from the Low Countries, then?” I asked, as casually as I could.

“France, the Low Countries—Spain and Italy sometimes, if there is demand.
There are many in Oxford who crave certain material that cannot be got except from abroad. And occasionally the opportunity to traffic the other way arises too.” He continued to level at me the same half-meaningful, half-mocking stare, as if appraising me for some employment. “But I expect you have heard that already, Bruno. Perhaps that explains why you followed me?”

I did not reply; Florio had begun hopping from one foot to the other in agitation, his face pent up as if he might burst into tears at any moment.

“Whatever is the matter, my dear Florio?” Jenkes asked.

“I …it is only that I did not expect two volumes at once, Master Jenkes, and I fear I cannot …that is, I may need to leave one in your care for a month or two, though I beg you not to sell it, for I will have the money eventually, but—”

Jenkes waved the apology aside.

“I have not the space for unclaimed books, Florio—better you take both now and pay me when you can.”

Florio’s face lit up with the surprise of a child given sweetmeats.

“Thank you, Master Jenkes—I assure you that you will not have to wait long for your payment, especially if certain developments unfold as I hope.” Here he threw me an encouraging glance, as if to imply that I understood his meaning; he was mistaken, however, for I remained in the dark. If this was a reference to his enigmatic note, did he mean to imply that he hoped to profit from the deaths at Lincoln? I could only stare blankly at him in response as he fumbled at his belt for the coins he had brought.

“Well, then, Bruno, our business is done,” he said, when the payment had been made and his new purchases wrapped carefully in oilskin against the weather. “Shall we brave the flood once more?”

“A moment, please,” Jenkes intervened, as I turned to look at the torrents still sluicing down the windowpanes. The sky seemed to have grown even darker. “I would not wish to detain you longer, Master Florio, but there are matters of business I would discuss with Doctor Bruno, if he could spare me a moment of his time?” He raised the snaking eyebrow again to convey
that he meant more than he was willing to say in front of Florio, who hesitated briefly, then appeared to remember the generous credit Jenkes had just extended and decided to take the hint.

“Of course—I must be back at college in any case. Doctor Bruno, if we do not drown on the journey, shall we speak further this evening?”

I nodded; Florio clutched his parcel closer to his chest, pulled up the hood of his cloak, and, with a final meaningful glance at me, stepped out into the downpour.

Left alone in the small shop with Jenkes, I shuddered involuntarily as the door banged shut behind Florio; the draught had chilled me in my wet clothes, but not as much as the intense stare the bookbinder now turned on me in the wavering shadows of the candles.

“Come—you will catch a fever standing there and the world will say I cursed you,” he said with a dry smile, gesturing for me to pass through the door behind the ware bench. “In here we may speak freely, Doctor Bruno, and you may warm yourself. I will heat some sweet wine.” He crossed to the street door, took a ring of keys from his belt, and locked it. Seeing me hesitate, he turned back, one hand on the doorjamb. “You may watch me drink it first, if you prefer. But I thought you did not believe in my diabolical powers?”

The watchful glint in his eye was momentarily displaced by self-mockery; despite myself, I returned his smile and followed him as he ducked through the doorway into the back room. Perhaps I should have been more apprehensive, but though I did not believe the superstitious gossip about the Black Assizes, I found something mesmerising about Rowland Jenkes, so much so that I was willing to be locked into a room alone with him in the hope of learning more about him. But we were not alone. As I crossed the threshold, from the corner of my eye, I caught the movement of a shadow; there, by a fire that blazed in a hearth on the left-hand wall, stood Doctor William Bernard, his thin arms folded across his chest.

“My workshop—and you are acquainted with Doctor Bernard, of
course,” Jenkes said, taking in the room with a sweeping gesture and paying Bernard no more heed than if he were one of the fittings. Along three walls, long benches lay covered with quires and manuscripts in various states of disrepair; portions of leather, calfskin, and cloth were spread out with patterns marked for cutting. Some books were being fitted for linen chemises, outer covers to keep the calfskin bindings clean, while others were halfway through having new brass bosses and cornerpieces fitted to cover frayed or damaged edges. Some of the manuscripts that caught my eye appeared to be of great antiquity, the bookbinder’s skill now preserving and renewing them, being made ready to continue their journey through the world for the coming generations. In the corner opposite the hearth, two large ironbound chests stood at right angles to each other, both heavily padlocked.

“You have business with a number of the Lincoln College Fellows, I see,” I remarked, nodding a greeting to Bernard.

“I am a bookbinder and stationer, Doctor Bruno, of course I have business with the doctors of the university. How else should I make my living?”

“Master Godwyn, the librarian of Lincoln—he is a customer of yours too?”

“Of course,” Jenkes replied smoothly, his strange translucent eyes never leaving mine. “I am often charged with repairing the books of his collection when need arises.”

“And James Coverdale?”

Jenkes exchanged a glance with Bernard.

“Ah, yes. Poor Doctor Coverdale. William was just telling me he had been the victim of a violent assault. To think of such things happening in Oxford.” He pressed a hand to his chest and shook his head ruefully; there was something in his manner that suggested he was mocking me. I wanted to ask further about his connections with Godwyn and Coverdale, but Bernard’s hawklike glare made me hesitate.

“Here is a sight to make your heart bleed, Doctor Bruno,” Jenkes said,
turning aside and lifting a small volume from one of the benches, which he placed into my hands. It was a little Book of Hours in the French style from the beginning of the century, and had clearly once been an expensive piece; gingerly I turned over a few pages to reveal richly coloured illuminations in cobalts and crimsons and golds, the borders of each page of text decorated with intricate tracings of leaves, flowers, and butterflies against a background of primrose yellow.

“Here.” Jenkes took the book from my hand and opened it at a page where both the text and the facing picture had been attacked with a sharp implement, perhaps a knife or a stone, in an attempt to erase them from the vellum. The illumination remained almost intact, showing a kneeling Saint Thomas Becket being stabbed at the altar with only his face blanked out; the accompanying prayer had been scrubbed to a ghostly trace. “Criminal, isn’t it?” Jenkes remarked. “The edict was King Henry’s, near fifty years ago now, but these come into my hands quite often, with all the saints and indulgences obediently cut or rubbed away. If I can restore it, this will fetch a handsome price in France. Good French workmanship, you see? God’s death, I hate to see a book violated like that, at the whim of a heretic prince! Father to another heretic bastard.” His lip curled back as he said this, revealing his brown teeth, but his long white fingers stroked the page as if comforting it. This display of sentiment toward his books did nothing to make Jenkes more appealing.

“Will you report me now for seditious words, Doctor Bruno?” He smiled his thin smile, his eyes never leaving mine. “I have no more ears to lose, as you see.”

“I will not report any man for his words,” I said evenly, meeting his gaze to show him I was unafraid. “I came to your country to think and speak and write freely—I assume every citizen here wishes the same.”

“But to write freely about what?” Bernard peeled himself away from the wall by the fire, unfolding his arms and peering at me with his faded eyes.

“About anything I choose,” I replied, turning to face him. “That is what freedom means, does it not?”

Jenkes was carefully replacing the little Book of Hours on the workbench beside the small knives and implements he would need for its restoration. It occurred to me, watching the neat, almost obsessive way that he laid out his tools, that a bookbinder’s knife would certainly be sharp enough to cut a man’s throat.

“Do you send many books to sell in Europe?” I asked, indicating the Book of Hours and trying to keep my voice casual. Jenkes missed nothing; he looked up sharply, then exchanged a glance with Bernard.

“It sometimes happens that books fall into my hands which could see a man condemned to prison or worse in this country,” he said, rubbing the edge of his thumb along his lower lip. “Then I can find a ready market overseas. But in truth there is no shortage of customers in Oxfordshire and London. Men like yourself, who do not accept the prohibition of books, who believe God gave us reason and judgment to weigh what we read, and who are willing to run the risk for the sake of knowledge.” He gave a soft laugh and raised his head again to look across at Bernard. “You were right, William. Doctor Bernard told me you had a special interest in rare books. Especially those believed lost.”