Giordano Bruno Thriller Series Books 1-3: Heresy, Prophecy, Sacrilege. S. J. Parris
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I said, shaking my head. ‘I imagined all Englishmen to be as liberal-minded and curious about the world. I see I was badly mistaken.’
‘Mind you,’ he said, philosophically, ‘you don’t help yourself, Bruno – what was that opening speech all about?’
‘It served me well in Paris.’
‘No doubt. But it’s not really how we do things here. We tend not to warm to those who sing their own praises too fulsomely – I think that was when you lost your audience. And perhaps leave out the circumcised penises next time.’
‘I will bear that in mind,’ I said stiffly. ‘Though I doubt there will be a next time.’
‘It has not been much of a visit for you thus far, old friend, has it?’ he said, with an affectionate cuff on the shoulder. ‘First the company of that Polish oaf, then a man is brutally done to death outside your window, and now you suffer this indignity from fools who could not begin to comprehend your vision. I am sorry for it, truly. But perhaps from hereon we can concentrate on our real task,’ he added, dropping his voice. ‘In any case, we are all invited to dine at Christ Church tonight, so let us empty their wine cellars, forget all about this dreary business, and make a night of it – what do you say?’
I looked up at him, grateful for his efforts but thinking that his buoyant company was the last thing I wanted that evening.
‘Thank you, Philip, but I fear I would not be much of an addition to the table this evening. Let me retire to lick my wounds and I promise by tomorrow I will be ready for any adventure you propose.’
He looked disappointed, but nodded in understanding.
‘I will hold you to that. In fact, the palatine has a fancy for hunting or hawking in the Forest of Shotover if this rain breaks, and of course I must bend to his whim. But I do not think I can bear it if you are not one of the party.’
‘I will see how I feel. Why don’t you take your new friend Gabriel Norris?’
‘Oh, I did invite him, but he has another commitment tomorrow,’ Sidney said breezily, missing the barb in my tone. ‘Not that I’m too sorry – that young braggart is going home with half my purse. Remind me never to play cards with him again.’
‘Well, I will join you if I feel rested,’ I said.
Norris had suggested the wolfhound could have strayed from Shotover Forest; I was no huntsman, but it would be a chance to see if there was some connection. Sidney shook my hand, gave me another resounding thump between the shoulder blades – the English way of displaying manly friendship – and left me to wander the short distance back to the college alone.
‘Dio fulmini questi inglesi!’ I burst out as I rounded the corner into Brasenose Lane, kicking in fury at a stone in my path. ‘Si comportano come cani di strada – no, they are worse than dogs! Was ever a race so arrogant, small-minded and self-congratulating as the men of this miserable island? They could no more contemplate new philosophies or science than they could imagine eating food with flavour! It must be the endless rain that has turned their brains to pulp. To sneer at a man, not for the meat of what he says but because he had the good fortune to be born beyond these dismal shores! And how dare they presume to laugh at my pronunciation – where in God’s name do they imagine the Latin tongue came from in the first place? Asini pedanti!’ I cursed freely in this vein, in Italian, all the way to Lincoln gatehouse until my anger was partly vented; it was fortunate that there were no passers-by to take fright.
It was with a heavy heart that I pushed open the main gate and stopped by the porter’s lodge to ask Cobbett if I might borrow a lantern for my chamber. The old porter was dozing gently in his chair, a pot of ale on the table, the dog resting her head on his knee. I coughed and he spluttered awake, brushing himself down.
‘Oh, pardon me, Doctor Bruno, I didn’t hear you come in. I was deep in thought there.’ He winked and I mustered a smile.
‘Good evening, Cobbett. Might I trouble you for a spare lantern?’
‘Of course, sir.’ Cobbett heaved his great bulk effortfully upright and shuffled off towards one of the wooden cupboards that lined the walls. ‘You’re back early, sir, if I may remark – I thought there was to be a great entertainment at Christ Church tonight for the royal visitation?’
‘I was tired,’ I said, hoping to avoid any questions about the disputation.
Cobbett nodded in sympathy.
‘Not surprised, all the goings-on this morning. Let’s hope we can all sleep sound in our beds tonight, eh? Funny,’ he remarked, opening the lantern’s glass casing to light the candle from his own, ‘Doctor Coverdale come back early tonight as well. In a great tearing hurry, he was. I saw him rushing through the gate there and I said to myself, they must have finished proceedings in a rare haste tonight. Generally there’s no stopping them at these debates once they get a taste for the sound of their own voice – with the greatest of respect, sir. But then as no one else followed, I concluded he must have had business of his own.’ He finished with a throaty chuckle.
‘I fear Doctor Coverdale had more important matters to attend to than my poor speech,’ I said, unable to disguise the resentment in my voice.
‘Well, I hope God sends you good rest tonight, sir,’ Cobbett said, handing me the lantern, its flame jerking with the motion. ‘I suppose you will be staying with us until the enquiry now? You will be feeling quite at home here before long.’
‘I’m sure I will,’ I replied flatly, and bade Cobbett a good night, realising the import of his words. How long would I be detained here? I wondered, and would I be obliged by law to stay behind and testify even if Sidney and the palatine left on the appointed day?
All around the small quadrangle the umber light of candles burned in various windows, giving out a friendly glow, but I could not shake the sense of unease that had followed me from London. Something cruel was at work here, and I had a horrible intimation that it was not yet over. As I paused to look around me at the blank windows, I prickled with the sense of being watched.
My staircase was silent and so dark that without Cobbett’s lantern I would have had to feel my way as a blind man; so dark that I would have missed the paper that had been slipped under my door, had I not stepped on it and heard an unexpected rustle as I entered the room. I bent to retrieve it; one leaf, folded neatly in half, and when I opened it another, smaller slip of paper no wider than a ribbon fluttered out and fell to the floor. By the dim light of the lantern, I made out a series of concentric circles on the larger sheet of paper; intrigued, I impatiently set about lighting the candles in the sconces around the room to give me more light by which to examine this strange missive. Once I could see it clearly, my puzzlement only grew: the substance of the diagram was clear enough, but not its meaning. For this was unmistakeably a drawing of the Copernican universe, made by a skilled hand, with the seven planets tracing their orbits around the Sun; at least, so it seemed at first, but there, in the centre, where the figure of Sol should have been, was a representation not of the Sun but of a small circle with spokes, the exact symbol I had found dotted through Roger Mercer’s almanac.
Utterly perplexed, I reached for the second slip of paper, which had almost become lost between the floorboards, and saw that there was writing printed on it; on closer inspection, it was clear that it had been very neatly cut from a book, and the sentence that had been so carefully excised made me gasp aloud:
I am the wheate or grayne of Christ, I shall be grounde with the teethe of wilde beastes, that I may be found pure bread.
My hammering on the door of the rector’s lodgings was so frantic as to bring the servant running to open it with an expression of expectant dread, as if he feared news of another tragedy.
‘I must speak with the rector immediately,’ I