Giordano Bruno Thriller Series Books 1-3: Heresy, Prophecy, Sacrilege. S. J. Parris
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realised that in my anticipation I had grasped the boy’s shoulders and was half shaking him. He regarded me with a puzzled frown.
‘Well – he did, sir. Doctor Coverdale, I mean.’
‘What? That makes no sense.’
Ned shrugged.
‘That’s all I know, sir. Before we left college on Saturday night, he cornered me and gave me a groat – he is not so generous as you, sir … I mean, was not – to call him out of the disputation halfway through, on the pretence of an urgent message.’
‘Did he say why?’
Ned shook his head.
‘Only that he had to return to college early but he needed an excuse to walk out.’
‘He did not say if he was meeting someone?’
Ned wriggled impatiently under my hands.
‘He said nothing else, sir. I took my groat and did as I was bid, and that was all I knew of it until just now.’ Suddenly his eyes grew large with the drama of the event. ‘Do you think that’s when they got him, sir, when he came back to college early?’
‘You didn’t see if he met anyone outside the Divinity School after you gave him the message? A man with no ears, perhaps?’
‘No, sir, but I know the man you mean,’ Ned said, his freckled face lighting up as if he had answered a difficult examination question. ‘But it was Master Godwyn was meeting him outside the Divinity School, not Doctor Coverdale.’
‘Godwyn?’ I repeated, uncomprehending.
‘Yes, I saw him meet the man you mean, the bookseller Jenkes, outside the Divinity School while I was waiting to give the false message to Doctor Coverdale. But then I followed Doctor Coverdale all the way back to college after that. I thought I’d take the chance to skip off early myself – no offence, sir,’ he added, looking suddenly guilty; I shook my head briefly.
‘You missed nothing, I assure you. But Coverdale – you saw him go straight to his room?’
‘Yes, sir. That’s to say, I saw him going into his staircase.’
‘And you saw nothing else unusual? No one abroad in the college?’
‘No, sir. Only—’
‘What?’ I asked, my voice rising higher as I shook him urgently.
‘Well – I have a room above the library, as I have serving duties there and in the chapel. It’s how I pay for my studies, sir,’ he explained, a little sheepishly. ‘Well, as I was climbing the stairs to my room, I heard voices from behind the door.’
‘In the library? Whose voices?’
‘I don’t know, but I heard a man’s voice raised as if he was angry. I couldn’t catch the words, though. I just crept past the landing up to my attic as quiet as I could, but they must have heard my tread on the stairs because they fell silent for a moment. Then when I heard the library door close a few minutes later, I tried to look down from my window into the quad to see who it was so I could report them to Master Godwyn.’
‘Could it have been Master Godwyn himself, returned early?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know. They both had cloaks on with hoods up, so I couldn’t tell.’ He shrugged, as if it was of no great interest.
‘Thank you, Ned.’
Defeated, I let go of his shoulders and rummaged again in my purse for another shilling. Next time I needed information, I thought, I would remember to make it a groat. Ned snatched it gladly and grinned; as his fist closed around it, I glanced across the courtyard to see Slythurst emerging from the stairway that led to the library and chapel. He shot me a look of pure loathing and hurried through the curtain of rain in the direction of the rector’s lodgings. So Godwyn had also left the disputation early, in order to meet Jenkes. Could they have returned to the college together in search of Coverdale? Or might they have had other business in the library, perhaps involving those illegal books?
People continued to shove and press around us as they peered out into the courtyard, trying to decide whether to wait for the rain to ease. I braced myself and skittered across the courtyard into the downpour, weaving around the dispersing crowd of students. Under the tower archway, a small crowd had gathered to watch with interest the arrival of three men in long cloaks and tricorn hats, shaking the water from their shoulders. One carried an official-looking staff with a brass carved head, and I supposed these must be the constables and the coroner, come to retrieve the body. Rector Underhill stood behind them, twisting his hands fretfully while Slythurst tried to keep the undergraduates at bay. I wondered if the rector would tell the coroner about the martyrdom of St Sebastian, or leave him to draw his own conclusions.
‘Dio buono, amico mio – what a day!’ exclaimed a voice behind me. I turned to see John Florio pulling a cloak tightly around his shoulders as if preparing to brave the weather. ‘You never saw rain like this in Naples, I’ll wager?’
‘Not even Noah saw rain like this,’ I replied grimly, casting a glance heavenwards.
‘Are you going out?’ he said, taking my arm and fixing me with an oddly expectant look as I followed him through the gate into St Mildred’s Lane. ‘Perhaps we could walk together,’ he went on eagerly, without waiting for an answer, ‘I am headed for Catte Street to enquire after some French books I have ordered from a dealer there, and I must say, I will be glad to get away from the college even for an hour, despite this weather. This dreadful attack has left us all quite shaken. Why don’t you come with me? His shop would interest you, I think – his real trade is bookbinding, but he has good contacts with printers in France and the Low Countries and there are often interesting imports to be found, obscure texts that you won’t find elsewhere, if you can tolerate the man himself.’
We fell into step through the filthy streets, Florio speculating wildly in Italian about the assault on Coverdale, gesticulating with his hands as he talked, while I nodded and murmured agreement in the few pauses he left to draw breath. At the corner of St John Street and Catte Street, I suddenly heard shouting and peals of coarse laughter rang out across the street; we both turned to see a gang of apprentice boys by the Smythgate jostling one another and pointing in delight, jeering and calling out insults. Florio steered me by the elbow away from them as they yelled, ‘Papist whoresons! Get out of England!’
‘Ignore them,’ Florio muttered, quickening his pace as one of the boys reached down to throw a stone and another spat in our direction. They followed us for a few paces but did not have the nerve for more than shouting and eventually grew bored with their baiting.
‘They are not over-fond of foreigners here,’ I observed as we ducked gratefully into the scant shelter of the overhanging upper storeys of the houses in Catte Street. Florio gave me a rueful glance.
‘It is an excuse to make trouble. To the ignorant, all foreigners are Catholics who want to slaughter them in their beds. I live with this all the time, and I was born here. Forget about it, amico mio. Look, we are almost here.’
‘What is this book dealer’s name?’ I asked, though I had already guessed.
‘Rowland Jenkes,’ Florio called over his shoulder, since there was not room for us to walk two abreast and still have the meagre respite offered by the eaves. ‘You will hear of him before long, I’m sure. He is greatly reviled in the town – they call him a necromancer – but you know how people gossip. Jenkes will find you books that could not be had without travelling to France yourself – and that is of particular value to me. There are those who would not step foot in his shop and will spread malicious talk about any Fellow who does, but I try to close my ears to all that. I have enough trouble here already as un inglese italianato, as you have seen. Here we are,’ he finished, pointing to the low shop front where I had seen William Bernard and Jenkes enter the day before. The shutters were open now, but the windows looked no less dark and forbidding.
Florio