Читать книгу Giordano Bruno Thriller Series Books 1-3: Heresy, Prophecy, Sacrilege - S. J. Parris - Страница 18

The Divinity School was the most breathtaking building I had yet seen in Oxford; inside its high wooden doors a magnificent fan-vaulted ceiling of blond stone arched over a plainly furnished room perhaps ninety feet long, bathed in natural light from the ten great arched windows that reached from floor to ceiling the full length of the room, so that the north and south walls seemed almost entirely of glass. These windows were surmounted by elegant tracery and their panes decorated with designs of coloured shields and heraldic devices of benefactors and university dignitaries, according to the custom. From the supporting arches at the top of the windows the ribs of the vault fanned out in symmetrical patterns across the ceiling before dovetailing again in points decorated with elaborately carved bosses and pendants inset with statues, drawing the eye constantly upward and inward to the centre. There was a pungent smell of warm wax from the plentiful candles, lamps and torches that had been set blazing along the walls, and their light was welcome despite the grand windows, for the sky was still overcast and the day already fading.

At the west end of the hall a stage had been erected and high-backed chairs set with plump velvet cushions placed there for the most eminent persons – the palatine sat in the centre, with Sidney on his left side and the vice-chancellor in his ermine-trimmed robes on his right, their chairs surrounded by the other university dignitaries in their crimson and black gowns and the velvet caps of professors, ranged according to their degree. Below this, tiered seating had been built facing the length of the hall towards the east doorway, and was now filled with the figures of senior men in Fellows’ gowns, while in the second of the five grand bays from the west end, two carved wooden pulpits were set opposite one another on the north and south walls, where Doctor Underhill and I now prepared to take up our positions for the confrontation.

Further towards the eastern end, rows of low benches had been set out for the undergraduates, who were even now still pouring into the hall, jostling and shoving one another to take their places amid a great murmur of animated conversation. For a moment my stomach tightened as I mounted the steps to the lectern that was to be my platform for the next hour, but as I cast my eyes over the expectant rows of faces I was buoyed up again by the old thrill of public performance, my first in England, and found I was anticipating the coming debate just as a sportsman might relish the challenge of a good fencing match.

I glanced at the stage to my left and caught Sidney’s eye; he winked encouragement. The palatine slumped next to him, legs akimbo, picking his teeth with his thumbnail and examining whatever he extracted with more interest than he seemed prepared to devote to the coming argument. I noticed Coverdale, Slythurst and William Bernard sitting in the centre of the second row; Coverdale cast only a brief glance at me with complete composure, while Slythurst allowed his cold gaze to slide over me before pointedly turning away. Bernard cracked his bony hands together and nodded to me once; I chose to interpret this as encouragement. Doctor Underhill climbed his podium opposite and leaned forward over his lectern, fixing me with a combative stare. A stillness fell over the assembled crowd. I cleared my throat.

Earlier that afternoon, at a quarter to five, a student had been sent to escort me to the Divinity School from my chamber, a stocky and sensible-looking undergraduate with dark hair who introduced himself as Lawrence Weston and explained that the rector had sent him to show me the way to the place of our disputation, as he, the rector, had gone on ahead. This seemed a courteous gesture, and I followed young Weston across the quadrangle to the tower gatehouse. As we drew nearer, I noticed two servants coming from the tower-room staircase hefting a large wooden chest between them; behind them followed another, his arms laden with books.

‘They are clearing Doctor Mercer’s belongings already?’ I asked Weston, trying not to reveal the alarm in my voice. The boy shrugged, as if the matter were not for the likes of him to question.

Outside, in St Mildred’s Lane, we came upon Cobbett the porter, who stood looking on as his old dog pissed copiously against the wall of the college.

‘Afternoon, Doctor Bruno!’ he called cheerfully, raising a hand in salute. ‘Off to bandy words with the rector?’

‘Buona sera, Cobbett.’ I gestured casually to the gatehouse behind us. ‘I see they are clearing the tower room.’

Cobbett chuckled.

‘They don’t hang about with these matters, the senior rooms are great prizes here. Doctor Coverdale wants to move in as soon as possible.’

‘He is to take over as sub-rector, then?’

‘It’s not official yet, but that won’t stop him. Come on, now, Bessie, home again.’ The old dog had finished her business and was hobbling painfully towards the gate, Cobbett ushering her gently along. ‘Oh, by the bye, Doctor Bruno – here is another mystery for you …’ He grinned, showing decayed gums.

‘What is that?’ I turned back, eager for information.

‘That spare key to Doctor Mercer’s room I said had been taken from my lodge – well, Master Slythurst brought it to me this morning. Found it on the north-west staircase just outside the tower room, he says. Whoever took it must have let it fall there the day before and not noticed – it is gloomy on those stairs at the best of times. Well, at least I have the full complement back again ready for our new sub-rector.’

‘On the staircase? But how did the bursar come to find it there?’ I asked, wondering how Slythurst had covered this lie.

‘I suppose he was on his way to the strongroom.’ He shuffled to the gate and pushed it open, then turned back to me. ‘Good luck with your disputation, sir,’ he added. ‘And may the best man win.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, but I was distracted by this new information. It now seemed almost certain that Slythurst had taken that missing key and used it to let himself into Mercer’s room: if he had truly been there on official business he would have had no need to confect such a story for the porter.

‘Sir, we – ah – do need to hasten our steps, you are expected at five,’ Weston said awkwardly. I nodded and ran my hands through my hair as if to untangle my thoughts; it would not do to have my brains running on locks and keys while I was supposed to be disputing the laws of the cosmos in front of all Oxford.

‘Yes – I am sorry. Let us make haste – you lead the way,’ I said.

‘They were saying you were right there this morning, sir, when Gabe Norris shot the dog. Did you see the whole thing?’

Weston spoke with a boyish excitement, looking at me eagerly as he showed the way into Brasenose Lane, a narrow alley running along the north side of the college. Here the ground was muddy underfoot and the alley smelled as if it were a favourite place to piss. I took a deep breath and followed him.

‘I was there, yes. But we were all too late – something for which I cannot forgive myself. Young Norris is a true shot – if we had been just a few moments earlier, poor Doctor Mercer might have stood a chance.’

Weston pursed his lips.

‘Aye, well – the likes of Gabe Norris have nothing else to do with their time except practise their sports. It won’t matter a jot to him whether he even takes his degree – Oxford is just one more amusement to his sort, strutting about in his London finery. Not so for we poor scholars obliged to go into the Church, alas.’ He laughed bitterly.

‘You don’t like him, I deduce?’ I said, smiling.

Weston appeared to relent.

‘Oh, he’s all right. I resent the commoners in principle – in a community of scholars one should feel oneself among equals, and their presence reinforces the notion of degree. And it is galling the way most of them don’t care for their studies at all. But Gabe Norris is not the worst – he is quite generous with his fortune really, and not as stupid as some. Do you know, he has his own horse, sir?’ Weston paused, shaking his head with a young man’s envy. ‘A roan gelding, the finest creature you ever saw. He stables it outside the city walls, for students are not supposed to keep their own mounts. But he does what he likes, for who would punish him?’

‘He does seem very sure of himself,’ I agreed. ‘I imagine he gets more than his fair share of women, too, with that face.’

Weston only turned his head to glance at me, a sly grin curling at the corners of his mouth.

‘You might imagine so, aye,’ he said, and his peculiar emphasis, together with the mischievous smile, caught my attention.

‘Ah,’ I said, guessing at his meaning. ‘You mean to say that women are not Master Norris’s principal area of interest?’

‘I would speak no slander against him, sir. I have no idea what he does in private, it is only what is said.’

‘Much may be said in envy,’ I observed as we walked. ‘Why is it said of him, do you know?’

Weston looked down, embarrassed.

‘Well, for one, he does not like to visit the bawdy-houses, sir.’

‘It does not follow that he is therefore a sodomite.’ Privately, though, it would not surprise me to learn that it was true of Norris, with his dandyish ways. I remembered the curious look he had given me when I mentioned St Bernardino’s tirade against sodomites. ‘And you should be careful with such gossip – sodomy is a hanging offence in this country, is it not?’

‘Yes, sir. You are right, of course.’ Weston looked chastened. ‘But we have all noticed it. If a beautiful girl makes eyes at you like a calf, while you show yourself so entirely indifferent, it cannot be that you have a man’s blood, would you not say, sir?’ His cheeks were flushed crimson, and I guessed from this outburst that he was speaking of matters close to home. Since there was only one female in the immediate orbit of the young scholars, it was not hard to fathom who he meant.

‘You are talking of the rector’s daughter?’ It should not have surprised me; as the only young woman in the college, why should she not set her fancy at the handsomest of the rich young men there? Yet I felt somehow disappointed by the revelation, as if I had imagined a girl with Sophia’s quick mind would not be blinded by such superficial qualities. ‘She has confided in you?’

‘Oh no, sir – and I have said too much already.’

He tried to change the subject but at that moment I stopped abruptly, realising that we were now at the end of Brasenose Lane and the wall running to our right was the wall of Lincoln Grove. The thick wooden door set into the wall was firmly shut. This must have been where the dog was released into the garden.

‘Wait a moment,’ I said, crouching down to examine the mud around the base of the door. It was undoubtedly churned up, but the passage of feet in the wet ground since the morning had obliterated any clear trace of prints and I cursed myself for not having had the wit to go and look for evidence straight away. I stood up and tried the handle to the door; it was locked. I was about to turn away when something caught my eye among the tufts of grass growing at the foot of the gate. I crouched again and drew out a thin leather strap, torn at one end – the kind of strap one might use for muzzling a dog. I did not know what use it might be, but I slipped it into my pocket just in case.

‘Sir, we shall be late.’ Weston seemed agitated, but I had noticed him watching me with curiosity as I pocketed the strap. ‘Just at the end of the lane, and we are almost there.’

We passed into a wide square bordered by St Mary’s Church to the right and, just visible to the left, above the wall of Exeter College garden, the pinnacles of the Divinity School. Ahead I could see the bulk of the city wall, its crenellated battlements outlined against the sky. Rounding the corner, we were dwarfed by the spectacular façade of the Divinity School and I paused to admire it, craning my neck up to the turrets above the grand arched window. Usually only ecclesiastical buildings were designed in such splendour, but here was a secular edifice built like a cathedral, consecrated to the pursuit of knowledge, quite equal to the grand church of San Domenico Maggiore in Naples where I had first learned the art of disputation. To think that my ideas would join the echoes in its magnificent vaults was almost humbling, and I was about to make a remark to that effect to my guide, when I prickled with the discomfiting sense that I was being watched. I turned, and saw, leaning up against the blackened stone of the city wall, a tall man with folded arms, staring at me quite blatantly. He was dressed in an old leather jerkin and breeches of worn brown cloth, his hair was severely receded on top but long at the back, leaving his large forehead bare, and his face was pitted with the marks of pox; he might have been my own age or he might have been fifty, but the most striking aspect of his appearance was that he had no ears. Ugly welts of scar tissue surrounded the holes where they would once have been, betraying the fact that he had at one time been brought to justice as a petty criminal. He continued to watch me with a cool, level gaze in which I could discern no malice, rather a kind of mocking curiosity. I wondered if he was staring at me in particular, or if he were an opportunist pickpocket or some such, on the lookout for opportunity among the crowds gathering for the disputation. I had noted on my travels through Europe how petty thieves always seem to assume that men of education are necessarily also men of wealth; in my experience the two are rarely found together. If so, the man was bold; a further arrest for theft and he would risk the rope.

On another occasion I might have challenged his insolent stare, but there was no time to spare, so I turned towards the great porch of the Divinity School and was about to mount the stairs when I saw Doctor James Coverdale hurrying down them, pushing his way against the tide of young men in black gowns crowding to get in. He noticed me and stopped, a look of relief on his face; from the corner of my eye, I saw the figure in brown against the wall stir himself and take a step forwards. Coverdale also noticed; he froze for a moment and stared at the man with no ears, who looked directly at him and appeared to nod. It was clear that they recognised one another; Coverdale glared at him for a moment, his expression divided, it seemed to me, between irritation and concern, then he pasted on a smile for my benefit and guided me gently by the elbow to the right of the doorway, away from the man’s inquisitive gaze.

‘Thank you, Weston, for delivering our guest safely – you may join your friends inside,’ Coverdale said pleasantly to my young guide, though his face had turned pale. Weston bowed to me before galloping up the steps and into the throng.

‘Doctor Bruno, I wondered if I might have a brief word before we go in?’ Coverdale murmured. ‘Don’t worry, we have time – our royal visitor is not yet arrived and it cannot go ahead without him.’

I nodded; it would be typical of the palatine not to bother arriving on time on my account. I adopted an air of polite attention; Coverdale seemed uncomfortable with what he needed to say.

‘There is to be an inquest into the death of poor Doctor Mercer, you understand, and those who were first to arrive on the scene will be required to give evidence,’ he began, his hand still clutching my elbow; I could not tell if this was supposed to be reassuring or menacing. ‘I understand you were there early, together with the rector and Master Norris.’

‘Yes, and I will gladly recount what I saw for the inquest, though I hope it will be before my party has to return to London,’ I said expectantly, for I was sure there was more to come.

‘It is only that – ah …’ Here he faltered, and produced a little nervous laugh. ‘The rector mentioned that you believed the garden gate into Brasenose Lane was locked when you all found poor Roger.’

‘Yes, I tried it and it was locked fast. As were both the other gates.’

‘Well, when I heard that, it occurred to me that of course you are not familiar with our college, so you would not have known that the gate to the lane has a very stiff handle on the inside.’

I raised an eyebrow to indicate my scepticism.

‘Yes,’ he went on, not quite looking me in the eye, ‘it is very hard indeed to turn and requires a particular knack of twisting it to the right, just so. I only mention it because if you were to suggest at the inquest that the gate had been locked – well, you can see it would add all manner of complication to what is really a very simple and tragic explanation. The porter forgot to lock the gate, a feral stray got in, poor Roger paid the price for someone else’s carelessness. It is dreadful, quite dreadful –’ here he pressed his palm to his breast, his fat face worked up into a mask of sorrow – ‘but all this talk of locked gates will, I fear, create alarm of some conspiracy where none exists.’

I could not quite believe what I was hearing. I removed my arm from his grip and moved to face him; students were still pressing up the stairs around us and I lowered my voice accordingly.

‘Doctor Coverdale, the gate was locked – I cannot be in any doubt about that fact. I tried it myself. And even if it were only closed, the dog did not close it after it strayed in.’

‘The wind could have blown it shut,’ Coverdale said dismissively.

For a moment I was incredulous; did he really imagine I could so easily be persuaded to doubt the evidence of my own eyes?

‘A heavy wooden gate like that? I was there, Doctor Coverdale – I went through all the possibilities with the rector,’ I protested, sotto voce.

‘The rector has had time now to reflect on this morning’s events with sober judgement,’ said Coverdale smoothly, ‘and he has concluded that in the mist and panic it was hard to discern anything for certain. It was he who remembered how stiff the handle can be from the inside, and how that might confuse a foreigner. Any coroner conducting an inquest would certainly take into account that you could not be expected to know your way around the college. I mention it because for you to insist that there is some mystery will only prolong and complicate a process which will already be most distressing to Doctor Mercer’s friends and colleagues. There is nothing to be gained by adding spurious fancies and suspicions to a tragic accident.’

I looked at him for a moment. So they had decided to rewrite the circumstances of Mercer’s death in a way that would avoid any scandal to the college – and a murderer would go free. Were they protecting someone in particular, or was it for them simply a matter of collectively saving face? I wondered if the rector would keep to his promise to investigate the matter privately, but I doubted it; he was the most anxious of all about the college’s public standing.

‘I feel that I must report to the inquest what I believe I saw this morning,’ I said. ‘If I was mistaken, you are right – I will look a fool, but I will have to take that chance. I would not sleep easily knowing I had not given all the evidence.’

Coverdale narrowed his eyes, then appeared to accept my statement.

‘Very well, Doctor Bruno, you must act according to your conscience. Shall we go in?’ He motioned to the steps up to the porch of the Divinity School, where the crowd had begun to thin to a trickle; most of the audience were now inside. ‘Oh, but – there is one rather curious thing,’ he added breezily over his shoulder as he climbed the first step. ‘Master Slythurst told me he was on his way up to the strongroom this morning when he heard noises from inside Doctor Mercer’s chamber – and when he looked in, he found the place turned upside down and who should be there, going through Mercer’s belongings, but our esteemed Italian guest? Trying to open his strongbox, no less. And the porter said you brought back a set of keys you had removed from the body.’

I cursed my stupidity in falling asleep that morning; I had forgotten to take the clothes to the rector with my poor excuse and now, as I feared, Slythurst had covered his own tracks by suggesting I was no more than a common thief. I noticed his version omitted the detail of his having a key to Mercer’s room.

‘There is an explanation,’ I began, but Coverdale held up his hand to forestall me.

‘Oh, no doubt, Doctor Bruno, no doubt. But it might be that to a magistrate such behaviour would look extremely odd – not to say suspicious – and here among the townspeople there is such dislike of foreigners, you understand, especially of the Romish sort,’ he said, affecting an apologetic tone, ‘that judgement can often be clouded by blind prejudice. And if the inquest is made more complicated than it need be, these are just the kind of difficult details that might come to light.’

We were now on the threshold of the Divinity School; I glanced inside and saw that the auditorium was full and students were finding themselves places along the window-ledges and standing at the back. Coverdale was smiling expectantly up at me after delivering this direct threat. I studied his face for a moment and then nodded.

‘I understand your meaning, Doctor Coverdale, and will certainly give some thought to the matter.’

‘Good man,’ Coverdale said agreeably. ‘I’m sure you will see the sense in it. Shall we go in?’

I paused at the doorway and glanced over my shoulder in the direction of the city wall; the man with no ears was still lounging there, still casually watching us. I touched Coverdale’s elbow.

‘Who is that man?’ I gestured with my head in his direction.

Coverdale looked, blinked, then shook his head.

‘No one of significance,’ he said abruptly, and held the door for me to pass through.

I tried to put this conversation from my mind as I prepared to speak; a great hush descended upon the hall, broken only by the usual shuffling, coughing and rustling of gowns from the audience. I cleared my throat, and leaned forward over my lectern to begin my address.

‘I, Giordano Bruno the Nolan, doctor of a more sophisticated theology, professor of a more pure and innocent wisdom, known to the best academies of Europe, a proven and honoured philosopher, a stranger only among barbarians and knaves, the awakener of sleeping spirits, the tamer of presumptuous and stubborn ignorance, who professes a general love of humanity in all his actions, who prefers as company neither Briton nor Italian, male nor female, bishop nor king, robe nor armour, friar nor layman, but only those whose conversation is more peaceable, more civil, more faithful, and more valuable, who respects not the anointed head, the signed forehead, the washed hands, or the circumcised penis, but rather the spirit and culture of mind which can be read in the face of a real person; whom the propagators of stupidity and the small-time hypocrites detest, whom the sober and studious love, and whom the most noble minds acclaim – to the most excellent and illustrious vice-chancellor of the University of Oxford, many greetings.’

I bowed low towards the stage where the vice-chancellor sat, anticipating the volume of applause such an opening would invite in the European academies, and was taken aback when finally I realised that the susurration reaching my ears was that of mocking laughter. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Sidney; he grimaced and made a chopping motion across his throat as if to imply that my speech had been too much. I could not understand this; in Paris, a disputation was hardly considered worth the name unless the rhetoric reached absurd heights of grandiosity, but it seemed that in this, as in so much else, the English preferred to hide behind a plain and self-effacing style. I could hear them sniggering quite openly now – and I mean the Fellows, not the students, though they were beginning to pick up the cue from their elders; I heard a number of them mimicking my accent like schoolboys. Across the hall, Rector Underhill was leaning on his podium with a smile that suggested he was enjoying the spectacle; evidently he seemed to think he had already won. The palatine yawned loudly and ostentatiously.

‘I reject absolutely,’ I cried, banging a fist on the lectern and then raising my hand for emphasis as the laughter died away to a startled silence, ‘the notion that the stars are fixed on the tapestry of the heavens! The stars are no more nor differently fixed in the universe than this star the Sun, and the region of the Bear’s tail no more deserves to be called the Eighth Sphere than does that of the Earth, on which we live. Those with sufficient wisdom will recognise that the apparent motion of the universe derives from the rotation of the Earth, for there is much less reason why the Sun and the whole universe of innumerable stars should turn around this globe than it, on the contrary, should turn with respect to the universe. Let our reason no longer be fettered by the eight or nine imaginary spheres, for there is but one sky, immense and infinite, with infinite capacity for innumerable worlds similar to this one, rounding their orbits as the Earth rounds its own.’

I paused for breath, better pleased with this opening salvo, and Underhill took the opportunity to jump in.

‘Do you say so, sir?’ he countered, that self-satisfied smile playing at his lips. ‘It seems to me that, rather than the Sun standing still and the Earth running around it, it is your head which runs around and your brains which do not stand still!’

He turned to the audience of Fellows for congratulation and was not disappointed; a chorus of guffaws erupted and it was some moments before I could make myself heard in response.

The disputation, I am sorry to say, was not a success, and I will not trouble my reader with any more of its substance. It continued in much the same manner; Rector Underhill advanced nothing but the old, tired arguments in favour of Aristotle – claiming no more scientific proof than the weight of scholastic authority in placing the Earth at the fixed centre of the universe, as if authority has never been mistaken, and at one point suggesting that Copernicus had never meant his theory to be taken literally but had only developed it as a metaphor to aid mathematical calculation. All these arguments I had heard and rebutted many times before, in better society than this, but I was barely given the chance that afternoon, since Underhill’s main concern was not to persuade the audience by his own skill in debate (most of them were already squarely of his opinion and had not the courtesy even to listen to my arguments) but to ridicule me and expose me as often as possible to the mockery of his peers. This, it seemed, was their idea of entertainment, and the manners of the crowd were so poor that for the most part they chattered and commented throughout both our speeches. I was part way through an impassioned argument involving complex mathematical propositions when I was interrupted by an alarming noise that sounded like the low growl of a dog; overly sensitive to such sounds since the morning’s events, I started visibly and turned, only to discover it was in fact the palatine noisily snoring, but by then, the thread of my argument was badly frayed. A few moments later, we were disturbed by a great scuffle as an undergraduate pushed his way through the ranks of the seated Fellows to attract the attention of one of them; it turned out that he sought Doctor Coverdale who, apparently responding to a summons, immediately left his place in the middle of a row, apologising in a theatrical whisper to all those between him and the door who were obliged to rise in their seats to allow him through. I would not have expected Coverdale to show any restraint on my behalf, but I was surprised that he would behave with so little courtesy to his own rector as to leave in the middle of the debate.

We proceeded laboriously towards an ending that was nothing like a conclusion; I put forward my own complex calculations to account for the relative diameter of the Moon, the Earth and the Sun in terms even an idiot could understand, and in response Underhill merely repeated the old scholastic misconceptions common to all those who conflate science and theology and believe the Holy Scripture to be the last word in scientific enquiry. He also made frequent pointed references to my status as a foreigner, implying that it necessarily bestowed inferior intelligence, and more than once noted that Copernicus too was foreign and therefore could not be expected to display the robust reasoning of an Englishman – apparently forgetting that the whole occasion for this sorry pretence at debate was to honour Copernicus’s royal countryman. I was glad to be done with it; I bowed tersely to the smattering of insincere applause and climbed down from my pulpit feeling bruised and belittled.

Afterwards, as the hall cleared, none of the departing Fellows would meet my eye. I remained seated morosely beneath the window, thinking that I would wait for them all to leave so as to avoid any further mockery – or, worse, commiseration – when I saw Sidney fighting his way down from the dais. He pushed through to me, shaking his head.

‘This evening I was ashamed of my university, Bruno,’ he exploded, two spots of crimson flaming with indignation on his cheeks. ‘Underhill is a weasel – he didn’t once engage with the substance of your argument! I call it shameful – it was a display of pure blind arrogance.’ He shook his head, his lips pressed together as if he were reprimanding himself. ‘It is our least attractive trait as a nation, this belief in our own superiority.’

‘I have been too fortunate in counting you and Walsingham among my acquaintance,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘I imagined all Englishmen to be as liberal-minded and curious about the world. I see I was badly mistaken.’

‘Mind you,’ he said, philosophically, ‘you don’t help yourself, Bruno – what was that opening speech all about?’

‘It served me well in Paris.’

‘No doubt. But it’s not really how we do things here. We tend not to warm to those who sing their own praises too fulsomely – I think that was when you lost your audience. And perhaps leave out the circumcised penises next time.’

‘I will bear that in mind,’ I said stiffly. ‘Though I doubt there will be a next time.’

‘It has not been much of a visit for you thus far, old friend, has it?’ he said, with an affectionate cuff on the shoulder. ‘First the company of that Polish oaf, then a man is brutally done to death outside your window, and now you suffer this indignity from fools who could not begin to comprehend your vision. I am sorry for it, truly. But perhaps from hereon we can concentrate on our real task,’ he added, dropping his voice. ‘In any case, we are all invited to dine at Christ Church tonight, so let us empty their wine cellars, forget all about this dreary business, and make a night of it – what do you say?’

I looked up at him, grateful for his efforts but thinking that his buoyant company was the last thing I wanted that evening.

‘Thank you, Philip, but I fear I would not be much of an addition to the table this evening. Let me retire to lick my wounds and I promise by tomorrow I will be ready for any adventure you propose.’

He looked disappointed, but nodded in understanding.

‘I will hold you to that. In fact, the palatine has a fancy for hunting or hawking in the Forest of Shotover if this rain breaks, and of course I must bend to his whim. But I do not think I can bear it if you are not one of the party.’

‘I will see how I feel. Why don’t you take your new friend Gabriel Norris?’

‘Oh, I did invite him, but he has another commitment tomorrow,’ Sidney said breezily, missing the barb in my tone. ‘Not that I’m too sorry – that young braggart is going home with half my purse. Remind me never to play cards with him again.’

‘Well, I will join you if I feel rested,’ I said.

Norris had suggested the wolfhound could have strayed from Shotover Forest; I was no huntsman, but it would be a chance to see if there was some connection. Sidney shook my hand, gave me another resounding thump between the shoulder blades – the English way of displaying manly friendship – and left me to wander the short distance back to the college alone.

‘Dio fulmini questi inglesi!’ I burst out as I rounded the corner into Brasenose Lane, kicking in fury at a stone in my path. ‘Si comportano come cani di strada – no, they are worse than dogs! Was ever a race so arrogant, small-minded and self-congratulating as the men of this miserable island? They could no more contemplate new philosophies or science than they could imagine eating food with flavour! It must be the endless rain that has turned their brains to pulp. To sneer at a man, not for the meat of what he says but because he had the good fortune to be born beyond these dismal shores! And how dare they presume to laugh at my pronunciation – where in God’s name do they imagine the Latin tongue came from in the first place? Asini pedanti!’ I cursed freely in this vein, in Italian, all the way to Lincoln gatehouse until my anger was partly vented; it was fortunate that there were no passers-by to take fright.

It was with a heavy heart that I pushed open the main gate and stopped by the porter’s lodge to ask Cobbett if I might borrow a lantern for my chamber. The old porter was dozing gently in his chair, a pot of ale on the table, the dog resting her head on his knee. I coughed and he spluttered awake, brushing himself down.

‘Oh, pardon me, Doctor Bruno, I didn’t hear you come in. I was deep in thought there.’ He winked and I mustered a smile.

‘Good evening, Cobbett. Might I trouble you for a spare lantern?’

‘Of course, sir.’ Cobbett heaved his great bulk effortfully upright and shuffled off towards one of the wooden cupboards that lined the walls. ‘You’re back early, sir, if I may remark – I thought there was to be a great entertainment at Christ Church tonight for the royal visitation?’

‘I was tired,’ I said, hoping to avoid any questions about the disputation.

Cobbett nodded in sympathy.

‘Not surprised, all the goings-on this morning. Let’s hope we can all sleep sound in our beds tonight, eh? Funny,’ he remarked, opening the lantern’s glass casing to light the candle from his own, ‘Doctor Coverdale come back early tonight as well. In a great tearing hurry, he was. I saw him rushing through the gate there and I said to myself, they must have finished proceedings in a rare haste tonight. Generally there’s no stopping them at these debates once they get a taste for the sound of their own voice – with the greatest of respect, sir. But then as no one else followed, I concluded he must have had business of his own.’ He finished with a throaty chuckle.

‘I fear Doctor Coverdale had more important matters to attend to than my poor speech,’ I said, unable to disguise the resentment in my voice.

‘Well, I hope God sends you good rest tonight, sir,’ Cobbett said, handing me the lantern, its flame jerking with the motion. ‘I suppose you will be staying with us until the enquiry now? You will be feeling quite at home here before long.’

‘I’m sure I will,’ I replied flatly, and bade Cobbett a good night, realising the import of his words. How long would I be detained here? I wondered, and would I be obliged by law to stay behind and testify even if Sidney and the palatine left on the appointed day?

All around the small quadrangle the umber light of candles burned in various windows, giving out a friendly glow, but I could not shake the sense of unease that had followed me from London. Something cruel was at work here, and I had a horrible intimation that it was not yet over. As I paused to look around me at the blank windows, I prickled with the sense of being watched.

My staircase was silent and so dark that without Cobbett’s lantern I would have had to feel my way as a blind man; so dark that I would have missed the paper that had been slipped under my door, had I not stepped on it and heard an unexpected rustle as I entered the room. I bent to retrieve it; one leaf, folded neatly in half, and when I opened it another, smaller slip of paper no wider than a ribbon fluttered out and fell to the floor. By the dim light of the lantern, I made out a series of concentric circles on the larger sheet of paper; intrigued, I impatiently set about lighting the candles in the sconces around the room to give me more light by which to examine this strange missive. Once I could see it clearly, my puzzlement only grew: the substance of the diagram was clear enough, but not its meaning. For this was unmistakeably a drawing of the Copernican universe, made by a skilled hand, with the seven planets tracing their orbits around the Sun; at least, so it seemed at first, but there, in the centre, where the figure of Sol should have been, was a representation not of the Sun but of a small circle with spokes, the exact symbol I had found dotted through Roger Mercer’s almanac.

Utterly perplexed, I reached for the second slip of paper, which had almost become lost between the floorboards, and saw that there was writing printed on it; on closer inspection, it was clear that it had been very neatly cut from a book, and the sentence that had been so carefully excised made me gasp aloud:

I am the wheate or grayne of Christ, I shall be grounde with the teethe of wilde beastes, that I may be found pure bread.