Heresy (53 page)

“That’s him, sir,” said another voice. I looked up to see the man who had given me passage through the east gate of Oxford, still in his watchman’s livery.

“Now,” said the fox-faced man. “Where is your accomplice?”

I stared up at him, uncomprehending.

“Answer me, you papist dog,” he said, kicking me soundly in the stomach.

“I don’t understand,” I gasped, the little breath I had recovered knocked out of me once more.

“What did you say?” The fox-faced man stepped forward with sudden interest, crouching so that his face was close to mine. “Speak again in the queen’s English, you filthy piece of shit.”

“I have no accomplice,” I managed to croak.

“What accent is that you have?”

“I am Italian. But I—”

“As I thought. Sent by the Jesuits in Rome, no doubt. Well, we have found your hiding place now, Padre. I’m afraid not all of Lady Tolling’s servants are as loyal as she might have hoped. Do you know who I am?”

“No, but I am no Jesuit—” I began, but the man lifted a hand and slapped me soundly around the face.

“Silence! You will have time enough to make your defence hereafter, when you have told us where to find your friend. I am Master John Newell, county pursuivant of Oxfordshire. State your name—and do not waste our time with one of your aliases. We will have the truth from you sooner or later.”

Relief flooded over me, despite my smarting face. The man was obnoxious, but at that moment I could have thrown my arms around him and
kissed him. His presence here with armed men could only mean that my message had reached Sidney and he had alerted the authorities—though it sounded from the pursuivant’s words as if they had arrived too late to stop Jerome and Sophia from leaving.

“I am Doctor Giordano Bruno of Nola,” I said, attempting to sit up and recover some dignity, “a guest of the University of Oxford travelling with the royal party.”

“You lie,” he said coldly. “You are one of Lady Tolling’s priests. But where is the other? The servant we persuaded to talk said there was an Englishman, tall and fair. Where is he hiding?”

“He is fled,” I said, my tongue tripping over the words in my haste, “he travels with a young woman, Sophia Underhill, toward the coast. They will board a ship to France where she will be killed. Hurry, you must stop them!”

The pursuivant laughed unpleasantly. “It does not take much to make you squeal, does it, Jesuit?” he mocked. “You will be an easy job for my men. There is the loyalty of papists for you,” he added, looking up, and the men standing about laughed sycophantically.

“I am no Jesuit,” I insisted. “Where is Sidney? He will tell you who I am—let me see Sidney.”

“Who is Sidney?” asked the pursuivant.

“Sir Philip Sidney, nephew to the Earl of Leicester,” I said, my confidence faltering. “Did he not call you here, on my instructions? Is he not with you?”

“Sir Philip Sidney?” The pursuivant seemed to find this vastly entertaining. “Oh, ho! And are we to expect Her Majesty herself to arrive any moment to intervene for you? No, my Romish friend, I was not called by Sir Philip Sidney, nor anyone so grand, but by Master Walter Slythurst of Lincoln College, who had reason to believe a notorious papist and murderer was fleeing the city of Oxford in the direction of Great Hazeley, most likely seeking protection.”

“Oh, God, Slythurst,” I moaned, burying my face in my still-bound
hands. “He has it all wrong, you must believe me—I am no murderer, nor a papist. I live with the French ambassador in London, for God’s sake! I was trying to save Sophia when the real priest threw me in that hide.”

“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 Doctor 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.”