Giordano Bruno Thriller Series Books 1-3: Heresy, Prophecy, Sacrilege. S. J. Parris
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of buildings; ahead the only masonry visible was the squat tower of a little church that, as I drew closer, I saw was very ancient. Norris passed around the side of the church; beyond it rose the pale stone wall of an impressive farmhouse, three storeys high with gabled windows set into the roof, its grounds encircled by a high wall of that same golden stone. From the corner of the church I watched as Norris approached a gate set into this wall at the side of the house, and after a short while was admitted, though I did not see by whom.
I had no choice then but to turn around and retrace my steps back to the city, reproaching myself for a wasted journey. I confess I would have been delighted to see Norris meeting with some young swain, but there was nothing eventful in the trip he had made; it was to be expected that a rich young man should have acquaintance among Oxford’s grander families, and the farmhouse looked as if it belonged to people of wealth. I had learned nothing of any use, and it was only as I walked back past the fields, taking my time now and savouring the scent of wet earth and fresh leaves that drifted to me from the orchards, that I remembered what Lawrence Weston had said about Norris keeping his own horse outside the city wall. No doubt he had been on his way off for a ride, and I felt particularly thankful that I had not been caught stalking him and been obliged to explain my own foolishness.
But I was enjoying the air after the rain and the sensation of freedom that the open countryside outside the city brought after the oppressive closeness of Lincoln College, with all its intrigues and undercurrents of malice that had somehow led to the death of poor Roger Mercer. I was not eager to return too soon to that walled-in quadrangle, with all those windows like so many hostile eyes, watching my every move, so I decided to walk back the long way around the outside of the great city wall and see what more I could discover of my surroundings while looking out for an inn that might serve me some hot food.
I was almost level with the old church of St Mary Magdalen, at the side of a crooked building that looked as if it might once have been a tavern but was now fallen into disrepair, when a sudden gust of wind ripped along the street, scattering the last few scraps of blossom from the nearby trees. I started at a violent creak from above and looked up to see an old painted sign swinging violently on its rusty hinges, groaning as if it might come loose at any moment; it was then that I jolted backwards with a cry of shock, because the sign over my head, though its paint was faded and flaking so badly that the picture was barely visible, depicted a spoked wheel, identical to the symbol in Roger Mercer’s calendar and the astronomical diagram slipped under my door.
I had not expected the door even to open, the place looked so derelict from the front, but when I turned the handle it groaned open to allow me a glimpse of one low-ceilinged room smelling of must and damp and furnished with a few rickety tables and benches. A pervasive chill hung in the air; the hearth that filled one wall was piled with cold ashes and the handful of customers conversed in muted tones, hunched over their pots of beer as if they were half-ashamed to be found in such a place. It was not an inn to welcome passers-by. I closed the door gently behind me and took a seat at a table in a dingy corner next to the serving-hatch, blood pounding in my chest, aware that my entrance had attracted the attention of the other guests. With a stab of surprise, I recognised, in a group of four men across the room who were staring and whispering behind their hands, the pock-faced man with no ears I had seen outside the Divinity School before the disputation – the man I was certain James Coverdale had also recognised. ‘No one of significance,’ Coverdale had said. The earless man did not join in with the muttering of his companions but merely regarded me, unblinking, over their heads with that same cool, insolent gaze, as if he knew me. I met his look for a moment before looking quickly away, noticing that his eyes were as striking as his face; a blue so pale and translucent they seemed almost lit from within, the way sunlight shines through water in the Bay of Naples.
His stare was so disconcerting that I lowered my own eyes, anxious not to provoke any confrontation, but it was clear that this was not a place where a stranger could take a quiet drink without his presence arousing an unspoken but palpable reaction. When I looked up again, a sturdy-looking woman of perhaps forty in a stained apron was standing in front of me, her arms folded. She had stringy greying hair scraped back from her square-jawed face and her brown eyes were sceptical.
‘What’ll you have, sir?’
‘A pot of ale?’
She nodded curtly, but continued to stand there appraising me.
‘You are not a familiar face, sir, what brings you to the Catherine Wheel?’
‘I was hungry, I saw your sign and thought to stop for food.’
Her eyes narrowed further.
‘You are not from hereabouts, I think.’
‘I was born in Italy,’ I said, meeting her stare as frankly as I could. She pursed her lips and nodded.
‘Friend to the pope?’
‘Not personally,’ I said, and finally her face softened a little and she almost smiled.
‘You understand my meaning, sir.’
‘Will my answer determine whether or not you bring me the beer?’
‘Just like to be sure we have the right kind of people here, sir.’
I looked around the tap-room; a less salubrious crowd it would be hard to picture. I was reminded of the roadside inns I had been forced to make use of during my flight from San Domenico.
‘I was raised in the Church of Rome,’ I said evenly. ‘I don’t know if that makes me the right kind of person, but I promise it does not affect the coins in my purse.’
She seemed to concede then, and half-turned as if to go.
‘What do you call yourself?’ she asked, as an afterthought.
‘Filippo,’ I said, surprised at the ease with which the name slipped out; it had come almost as a reflex. Perhaps it was the memory of those years as a fugitive, when I had travelled under my birth name, knowing that to own my identity could be fatal. Here, in this gloomy tavern among the sidelong glances and murmurs, instinct had prompted the same need for caution. ‘Filippo il Nolano.’
The landlady seemed satisfied. She nodded, unfolded her arms and made a slight dipping movement which might almost have been a curtsey.
‘Joan Kenney, widow, at your service. Will you eat, sir?’
‘What have you?’
‘Pottage,’ she said firmly.
I had by that time been in England long enough to know that pottage was a sludgy concoction produced by mixing oatmeal with the juice left over from stewing meat, something that should rightly be served to livestock but which the English seemed to find an indispensable addition to any table.
‘No meat?’ I asked hopefully. ‘It is Sunday.’
‘We have pottage, sir. You may take it or leave it.’
Reluctantly, I said that I would take it.
‘Humphrey!’ she called, and a door opened beside the serving-hatch to admit a young man with fair curly hair holding a dirty dishcloth in his hands. Though he was at least six feet tall and probably in his twenties, he looked first at the landlady and then at me with the blank, open face of a child eager to please, and I guessed he was probably slow-witted.
‘Fetch Master Nerlarno some pottage and a pot of ale quick as you can, and don’t even think of imposing on him with your idle chatter,’ she snapped, and Humphrey nodded furiously, with exaggerated up and down movements of his head as a child might, twisting the cloth in his hands as he looked at her. ‘He’s Welsh,’ the landlady added darkly, as if this explained much.
While the boy disappeared to the kitchen, the woman crossed the room and leaned over the table to whisper something to the earless man, who inclined his head and nodded sagely without taking his eyes off me.
The boy, Humphrey, returned promptly with a bowl of tepid grey slurry which he slopped half across the table, and a wooden cup of beer topped with a film of grease,