FOURTEEN

      The room we now entered was built below street level, so that we had to descend three stone steps on to flagstones strewn with rushes, which quickly soaked up the rainwater that streamed from our clothes. A low ceiling, ribbed with dark timbers, made the shop feel close and intimate; Florio and I, being short of stature, could stand upright but Jenkes had to hunch his shoulders so as not to clip his head, a posture that gave him a slightly obsequious air, as if he were permanently half-bowing. There was little light in the room, the grimy diamond-paned windows either side of the door admitting scant daylight in this gloomy weather, though a pair of candles burned in a wall-sconce behind the ware-bench opposite the door. They were of good wax, too, as they did not give off the filthy smell of the cheap tallow kind that lit my chamber at Lincoln. In fact, the narrow shop smelled more like home than any place I had been since my arrival in Oxford, for it smelled of books; a warm scent of new leather and paper, and the mustier traces of old vellum and ink, a heady mixture that brought on a sudden pang of nostalgia for the scriptorium at San Domenico Maggiore where I had spent so many hours of my youth.

      Carved wooden book stacks lined each side of the shop showing the bookbinder’s art: each was filled from floor to ceiling with volumes bound in coloured leather and organised according to size, placed with their fore-edge outwards so that the brass clasps glinted under the darting flames of the candles. Along the bench where Jenkes now stood, rubbing his hands and looking from me to Florio with an expression of greedy anticipation, examples of different types of binding and format were ranged, from the old-fashioned wooden boards encased in calfskin that would keep a parchment manuscript from cockling, to the newer Paris bindings of double paste-board for lighter books of paper, that needed no brass clasps but were tied together with leather thongs or ribbons. All were secured, like the books in Lincoln library, by a brass chain attached to a rod running beneath the bench. Behind this bench, opposite the street door, was another door which gave on to a larger interior room, no better lit than this one, which, from the little I could see within, appeared to be the workshop. I thought I glimpsed the shadow of someone moving, out of sight, and supposed that Jenkes must have apprentices at work.

      ‘And this is Signor Filippo Nolano, is it not?’ Jenkes greeted me with a feline smile, holding out a surprisingly delicate hand, which I shook with some reluctance, feeling Florio’s curious eyes on the side of my face. ‘I wondered when we would be seeing you here, after you followed me from the Catherine Wheel the other day.’

      ‘I – that is …’ I was unsure how to meet this accusation, especially with Florio’s amazed stare burning into me.

      Jenkes waved his hand as if to dismiss my small offence.

      ‘No matter. But Signor Nolano, I cannot help noticing that our friend here, Signor Florio, seems surprised to hear me address you so. Perhaps he knows you by a different name?’ He raised one eyebrow theatrically, steepling his fingertips together. He had a habit of speaking almost without moving his lips, so that every sentence had the air of a confidence that could not quite be spoken aloud.

      I looked him in the eye, feeling myself at a disadvantage; not only was I in his shop, soaked to the skin, but he had clearly made it his business to find out about me even as I had thought myself to be tailing him.

      ‘For many years I travelled in places where it was not safe to give one’s own name,’ I said, setting my shoulders back and attempting to hold myself with some dignity. ‘It has become a habit when among strangers, that is all.’

      Jenkes smiled.

      ‘A man would go to any lengths to avoid the Inquisition, I am sure, Doctor Bruno.’

      I nodded carefully, trying not to betray any surprise. Florio continued to frown, bemused.

      ‘I hope you will not long think of us as strangers. But there are places even in our glorious free realm where a man would do well to watch his words. What drew you to the Catherine Wheel, I wonder?’

      I shrugged.

      ‘I was hungry. I saw the sign and went to look for hot food.’

      At this, Jenkes threw his head back and guffawed, revealing his crooked teeth.

      ‘You soon learned your lesson there, I think. Though it was mischievous of you to tell young Humphrey that you would not give that food even to your dog.’ He stopped laughing just as abruptly as he had begun, leaving a sudden silence hanging in the air.

      ‘You speak Italian?’

      ‘I speak seven languages, Doctor Bruno, though you would not think it to look at me, would you? I do not have the visage of a scholar, I know. But then you know better than to judge a man by his looks. I fancy you are another who is more than he seems. Do you know what they say of me in Oxford?’

      ‘I do not,’ I said bluntly. He clearly took pride in his notoriety and I had no wish to flatter his vanity further. I was gratified to see that he looked somewhat disappointed.

      ‘They call me a disciple of the Devil, Bruno,’ he informed me, a half smile playing about his thin lips. ‘Folk songs are made about me to frighten children. They say I killed three hundred men with a single curse. What do you say to that?’