Giordano Bruno Thriller Series Books 1-3: Heresy, Prophecy, Sacrilege. S. J. Parris
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as he realised his slip.
‘You mean Doctor Mercer?’ I persisted. If he had learned the news three days ago, there could only be one person who now required the past tense.
Thomas nodded.
‘They continued to write to one another. My father always confided more in Roger Mercer; they were the closest of friends.’
‘But Mercer denounced him.’
‘I don’t think so. My father never knew who denounced him, but he was certain it wasn’t Mercer. Mercer only testified against him at the trial.’
‘Surely that would be enough to end a friendship? Your father must have an exceptional capacity for forgiveness.’
Thomas laid down his knife and was looking at me impatiently.
‘You don’t understand, do you? This is exactly what I was saying about faith – the cause is always more important. The natural laws of friendship must be sacrificed. My father would not have expected Roger Mercer to do otherwise – and he would have testified against Roger if their positions had been reversed. Both had a greater loyalty. If Roger had spoken in his defence they would likely both have been imprisoned or exiled, and then who would be left to carry on the fight?’
I stared at him.
‘You mean to say that Roger Mercer was also a Catholic?’ I whispered.
Thomas hunched lower over the table.
‘I suppose it will not hurt him now that I tell you,’ he said, ‘but do not repeat it to anyone, I beg you. It could only hurt his family.’
‘No, no, of course. But if Roger was a Catholic,’ I mused, my mind scurrying to catch up, ‘and your father was writing to him from Rheims, might he have confided details of the English mission? Might Roger even have played a part?’
‘I do not know the contents of their letters, sir,’ Thomas said, twisting uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Doctor Mercer only told me news he thought might affect me directly.’
‘But was their correspondence not intercepted by the college authorities too? Did they not think it suspicious that Mercer continued to write to the man he had helped condemn?’
‘Doctor Mercer did not send his letters through the college post, sir.’ Thomas’s voice was now barely audible. ‘He paid to send them privately, through someone in the town who had the means of carrying letters overseas.’
‘Ah. A book dealer, perhaps?’
‘Perhaps. I did not ask – that was his business,’ Thomas said evenly, but his eyes were evasive. Then he suddenly leaned forward so that he was almost lying across the table and grabbed my sleeve.
‘I am not responsible for my father, sir, nor for any communications he may or may not have sent, as I have tried to tell everyone for the last year. I just want to live quietly, to leave Oxford and study the law at the Inns of Court in London, but I fear I shall never be allowed a career as a lawyer, nor any wife of good family, for as long as I am regarded as my father’s son. Especially once he joins the Jesuits,’ he added, with an extra dose of self-pity. ‘For the Privy Council has spies even in the seminaries and will learn of it soon enough. Unless someone with influence will speak on my behalf.’
He looked at me with imploring eyes, but I looked back unseeing, my mind occupied elsewhere. If Edmund Allen was taking holy orders in Rheims, he must be in some way connected to the mission to England. That would certainly explain the ransacking of Mercer’s room; Allen’s letters to him, if they contained any such matter, might be evidence enough to condemn anyone associated with them. But that still did not explain why Mercer had been killed. Had he threatened to betray the cause? Had he crossed someone? Did the letters between Roger Mercer and Edmund Allen name others who wanted to protect themselves at any cost? The ‘J’ in his calendar on the day of his murder might very well stand for Jenkes, I reflected; anyone who could cut off his own ears without flinching surely wouldn’t hesitate to remove a man who threatened his business – unless I was falling prey to Cobbett’s legends. There were too many questions, while the possible answers were all frustratingly unclear. I put my head in my hands and stared at the table.
‘Are you all right, Doctor Bruno?’
‘I wondered if Mercer was killed by a Catholic,’ I murmured, barely aware that I had thought aloud and only belatedly looking up to find Thomas regarding me with an odd expression.
‘Doctor Mercer was killed by a dog,’ he reminded me.
‘Oh, come on, Thomas – do you believe that? How often have you known feral dogs to attack men in the streets of Oxford, never mind a locked garden?’
‘I do not know, sir,’ he said, avoiding my eye. ‘I only know what the rector told us. The door was left open, the dog wandered in.’
He made a show of looking into his empty tankard as though hoping more beer might appear if he only peered in hard enough.
‘Another drink, Thomas?’
He nodded eagerly, and I summoned the serving-girl to bring us another two pots of beer. When she had gone, I leaned across the table and waited for him to meet my eye.
‘Was this what you wanted to confide in me, that you could tell no one else – this news about your father?’
Thomas resumed his scratching at the boards of the table.
‘That first day, when I thought you were Sir Philip,’ he said quietly, ‘you were kind when Rector Underhill tried to shame me. I thought – perhaps it was foolish, but I thought if you had the ear of men like Sir Philip, you might intercede for me.’
‘What is it you wish me to say?’
He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, his eyes fixed on his hands.
‘I want to leave Oxford, sir. I am afraid. When my father was deprived, I was questioned twice by the Chancellor’s Court. They would not believe that I knew nothing of his secret life, and the questioning was hard – they would not accept a word I said, they kept pressing me and pressing me on the same points until I found I was contradicting myself.’
I noticed his hands were shaking and his breathing had quickened; the memory was obviously difficult for him.
‘Did they use force?’
‘No, sir. But they argued as lawyers do, they twisted every answer I gave until it sounded like the opposite meaning, and I became so confused and afraid I found myself agreeing to statements that I knew were not true. It is strange the way that someone who wants to find you guilty can start to make you believe in your own guilt, even when you know you are innocent. I was afraid I would condemn myself by mistake, sir. It was a horrible experience.’
‘I can imagine,’ I said with feeling, remembering the fear that had gripped at my guts when the abbot had told me I would be questioned by the Inquisition all those years ago. ‘And you are afraid you will be questioned again if it becomes known that your father is to become a Jesuit priest?’
He nodded, finally looking directly at me.
‘If they refused to believe me before, how much worse will it be when they know he is part of the Jesuit mission? What if they take me to London for questioning? I have heard tales of what they do there to get the information they want. They can make you say anything.’
I remembered my conversation with Walsingham in his garden and shivered involuntarily. Thomas’s narrow, pointed face was stretched tight with fear, his skin so pale that a tracery of blue veins stood out at his temples like a river delta inked on a map. There was no doubt that this fear was real and vivid.
‘The authorities would believe you know enough to make hard questioning worthwhile?’ I asked.
‘I know nothing, sir!’ he protested, his cheeks flaming again with emotion. ‘But I am not brave – I do not know what I might be capable of saying if