Giordano Bruno Thriller Series Books 1-3: Heresy, Prophecy, Sacrilege. S. J. Parris
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into the spirit of the legend.
‘Well, I don’t know about that, sir. All I know is good Christian folk cross the road if they see Rowland Jenkes in this town, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll do the same.’
‘What about the seditious books? Is he still in that trade?’
‘Who knows what he does, sir – I told you, everyone leaves him alone now. I dare say he gets up to all sorts, but what jury would dare bring him to trial now?’
He refilled his cup and made a show of offering to pour some for me, but was clearly pleased at my refusal.
‘What was his punishment?’ I asked.
‘Nailed by the ears to the pillory,’ Cobbett said with relish. ‘And you know what he did?’
I had already guessed, but didn’t want to deprive him of this part of the story, so I shook my head and looked expectant.
‘Stayed there an hour, he did. Then one of his acquaintance brought a knife, and calm as you like, he cut his own ears off in front of all the gathered townsfolk and walked free. They said he didn’t even cry out. Left his ears still hanging on the post, if you can imagine.’
I winced; Cobbett nodded sagely.
‘That’s the kind of man Rowland Jenkes is. Don’t get mixed up with that lot, Doctor Bruno.’
‘Which lot? Do you mean the Catherine Wheel tavern?’
Cobbett stared at me as if I had cursed his entire family to his face.
‘Christ alive – what have you been up to, Doctor Bruno? Seriously, sir – even mentioning the name of that place will bring you trouble.’
‘How do you mean?’ I said, thinking that to play the ignorant foreigner might serve me best here.
‘Listen.’ Cobbett dropped his voice to a whisper and beckoned me closer. ‘Folk that go to the Catherine Wheel don’t go there for the food or the beer, if you take my meaning.’
‘I have learned that much for myself,’ I said, with feeling. ‘But do you know if any of the Fellows or students of Lincoln might ever go there?’
Cobbett narrowed his eyes, sucked in his jowly cheeks and considered me for a moment, as if weighing up how much he should reveal to this funny, nosy outsider. He seemed about to answer, when the door to the lodge was flung open and Rector Underhill strode in, his gown billowing about him. Surprise flickered briefly over his face at the sight of his guest drinking beer with the porter, but he composed himself quickly and smiled.
‘Good afternoon, Doctor Bruno,’ he said, warily polite. ‘Cobbett, I wondered if you might have seen anything of Doctor Coverdale today? It seems he is not to be found anywhere, but he gave me no warning that he would be away.’
‘I’ve not seen hide nor hair of him, sir, not since last night,’ Cobbett said, moving the bottle and cups to the floor under his chair, rather too late to hide them from the rector’s notice.
Underhill flared his nostrils in irritation.
‘Well, the moment you see him pass through that gate, would you kindly tell him to come straight to my room, I wish to speak to him urgently.’
‘Will do, sir,’ Cobbett said dutifully.
‘Might I have a brief word with you outside, Doctor Bruno?’ Underhill said, turning to me with a pointed glare.
‘Certainly.’ I rose with some effort from the rickety stool, nodded to Cobbett, who sent me a broad wink in return, and followed the rector into the tower archway.
‘I would appreciate it if you didn’t encourage the servants to drink while they are at work. That one in particular needs no help.’ He pursed his lips. I opened my mouth to protest, but he held up a hand to forestall me. ‘I hope you will join us for supper in Hall tonight? We are all rather subdued since the death of poor Roger and your presence would certainly enliven High Table.’
‘Thank you, I would be delighted,’ I replied, matching his tone of polite insincerity.
‘Good. We dine at six thirty, but you will hear the bell, I’m sure.’
Before he disappeared into the archway by the hall that led to his lodgings, I called him back.
‘Rector Underhill? I was wondering – I went for a walk this morning, after chapel, to get some air and admire your beautiful city better.’
He folded his hands together and watched me carefully.
‘I hope you found the experience gratifying?’
‘Oh, yes. But I went outside the city wall and got myself somewhat lost, I’m afraid. I passed through the gate by the Lady Chapel and took a right turn, and after a short distance of passing fields and orchards, the road turned to the left and I saw a very fine manor house beside a little church that appeared very ancient. I only wondered what the place might be?’
The rector thought for a moment, then appeared to judge this question innocent enough to merit a straight answer.
‘By the Smythgate? I believe you must mean the church of St Cross, which is indeed of great antiquity. The house would be Holywell Manor, it is the only residence of any size in that direction. The well itself is supposed to be Saxon. It used to be a place of pilgrimage but obviously that papist custom is discontinued.’
‘Ah. Well, thank you for satisfying a tourist’s curiosity. A seat of the local gentry, I suppose?’
Underhill pursed his lips.
‘Well. They are gentry of sorts, I suppose, but they are hardly well-regarded in Oxford society. It is owned by the Napper family – the father was once a Fellow of All Souls, but he is long dead, and the younger son, George, lies in prison at the Wood Street Counter in Cheapside.’
‘Really? For what crime?’
He frowned, perhaps now suspicious of my interest.
‘For refusing to attend church, I believe. But really, I cannot stand here gossiping like a laundress, I must prepare to take Evensong at All Saints.’ At the archway to his lodgings, he turned back to me. ‘Oh, and – Doctor Bruno? I shall see Magistrate Barnes this evening at church, so I hope we shall know by tomorrow when to expect the inquest into poor Doctor Mercer’s accident. Let us pray it is soon,’ he added, smiling thinly. ‘I should not wish to detain you in Oxford any longer than is necessary.’
‘Nor should I wish to impose on your hospitality,’ I said, equally coldly. ‘And please do convey my respects to Mistress Underhill and your daughter.’
‘Indeed,’ he said, touching his fingertips together for a moment as he considered whether to follow this up, but instead he turned on his heels and disappeared into the shadows of the archway.
The bell tolled for dinner no less mournfully than it had for Matins, jolting me out of my distracted thoughts, jotted on the notes now scattered across the table in my chamber. After my exchange with the rector I had walked to Christ Church to find, with some relief, that I had indeed missed Sidney’s hunting party. I left him a note apologising and explaining that I had been detained by other pressing business, then returned to Lincoln and retired to my room, where I spent an hour or so lying on the bed trying to make the new pieces fit the puzzle. If the unguarded words of Humphrey Pritchard and Cobbett’s dark warning implied that the Catherine Wheel was the focal point for Oxford’s secret Catholic fraternity, the obvious conclusion must be that Roger Mercer knew something about that group – the days in the almanac marked with the wheel could signify meetings at the inn. Could Mercer have been planning to expose them, just as he had testified against his former friend and colleague Edmund Allen, which meant that he had to be silenced? If that