Giordano Bruno Thriller Series Books 1-3: Heresy, Prophecy, Sacrilege

I smiled, but looked away.

‘The fact that she thinks she may be in danger is my only concern,’ I said, ignoring his snort of derision. ‘She would not say, but I suspect it may be connected to the murder of Roger Mercer, and if that in turn is connected to this nest of Catholic conspirators at the Catherine Wheel—’

‘Then you must investigate the Catherine Wheel at the first opportunity,’ Sidney said, passing the bottle back, considerably lighter. ‘That is a job I cannot do – my face is too well-known. It was for this that Walsingham wanted you, Bruno – you can pretend to be one of them. Gain their trust, work your way in among them. You have some excellent leads, I must say. The books, that boy parroting the Litany of the Saints. They may simply meet to say Mass, or they may be plotting against the government with the backing of France or Spain. Find out what you can.’

I nodded, though the thought of trying to dupe Jenkes and his hard-faced cohorts at the Catherine Wheel was not one to take lightly.

‘And now,’ Sidney continued, standing and stretching his long arms above his head, ‘I have some news for you. The Keeper of Shotover Forest is indeed missing a hunting dog. One of five Irish wolfhounds hired for a hunting party a week ago – the gentleman in question reported that the dog had been startled by a noise and taken flight. Apparently they searched the forest for it but to no avail.’

‘Did he tell you the gentleman’s name?’ I asked eagerly.

‘He certainly did,’ Sidney said, leaning casually on the mantelpiece, proud of his information. ‘It was a Master William Napper of Holywell Manor, Oxford. But any huntsman will tell you that a trained wolfhound wouldn’t just bolt like that – they have better discipline than most of the queen’s soldiers.’

‘Napper?’ I jerked my head up, surprised. ‘That is strange.’

‘Why so?’

‘Your new friend Master Norris – I think he stables his horse at Holywell Manor. I saw him heading there this morning.’

Sidney put his head on one side to consider this, and at the same moment I noticed something that made my heart drop like a stone.

‘That is a coincidence. The family are well known, of course,’ he continued, ambling back to the window to peer across the courtyard, ‘but William Napper has always been what we call a church papist – he toes the line, attends service like a good citizen, even if everyone knows he holds a different faith in his heart. It is the younger brother, George, who has gone looking for trouble. He studied in Rheims and is currently detained at the Wood Street Counter in Cheapside. Curious that young Norris should associate with them. I suppose we must keep an eye on him as well.’ He turned to face me. ‘Bruno, are you even listening to me?’

‘One moment, Philip.’ I was not the neatest of men, but I was certain I had not left the books and papers on the desk in the state of disarray that I now observed. Rising quickly from the bed, I lifted a few sheets to confirm my suspicion, then began frantically rifling through the papers that remained. Someone had already searched my desk; Roger Mercer’s almanac and all the theories I had jotted down about his death were gone.

‘Sophia,’ I whispered, disbelieving.

ELEVEN (#ulink_9a49a2af-3338-5f63-9987-2f1446b68021)

The rain’s steady rhythm against my window panes woke me early on Monday morning even before the chapel bell had summoned the men of Lincoln to Matins. A thick cover of cloud had returned in the night and the sky was the colour of slate, the quadrangle slick with puddles; again I had been too preoccupied to sleep well. Sidney and I had sat up late into the night exchanging theories, but we had only a cat’s cradle of speculation and nothing conclusive to untangle one thread from another. I needed to find a means of speaking to Sophia Underhill before the day was much older; either she had taken Mercer’s almanac and my notes from my desk, or someone had seen her leave my room and taken his chance, surmising that the door would be unlocked.

As I swung my legs over the side of the bed, I glimpsed something white on the floor beneath it and reached down to retrieve a piece of paper. Turning it over, I saw that the writing on it was my own; it was the copy I had made of the strange code at the back of Mercer’s calendar, and my efforts to write some basic sentences using it, a task I had set myself before falling asleep the night before last. The paper must have slipped under the bed and escaped the attention of whoever – I was reluctant to believe it could have been Sophia – had taken all the other notes from my desk while I was at dinner. At least, then, I still had a copy of the code – but I was no closer to tracking down any letters Roger Mercer might have written or received using it. I was now certain that the person who searched Mercer’s room before me, and perhaps Slythurst after me, had been looking for just such letters or documents; what I did not know was whether either searcher had found them.

Sidney was burdened for the day with the entertainment of the palatine, but had promised to look into Gabriel Norris’s connection with the Napper family and see what he could discover about William Napper’s hunting party when the dog went missing. My task was to visit Jenkes’s shop in Catte Street on the pretext of purchasing some books, to see what I could learn about his illicit business there, and then to brace myself for another meal at the Catherine Wheel in the hope of further conversation with Humphrey Pritchard. I suffered a slight twinge of conscience at the thought of manipulating the trust of a simple-minded pot-boy – but I had a job to do, and I tried to concentrate on the long view, as Walsingham had instructed. Unlike my employer, however, I was not a natural politician, and the idea of sacrificing individuals to the hazy concept of the greater good did not sit easily with me. Before I could turn my attention to any of this, however, I needed to find a way to speak to Sophia.

I had decided not to attend Matins – one show of piety during my visit was enough, I felt – and instead spent the early part of the morning trying to read by my window in the hope that I might see Sophia if she crossed the quadrangle on one of her regular visits to the college library. I knew that the rector would never admit me if I asked to speak to her directly, so my best hope was to wait and see if she would venture out when the students were all at public lectures – assuming that her father would still allow her that privilege. My stomach moaned at the lack of breakfast, but I dared not go in search of food in case I missed Sophia.

It was shortly before nine that I saw her emerge from the rector’s lodgings; my heart gave an involuntary leap and I quickly gathered my cloak to catch up with her, but she did not cross the courtyard towards the library. She was dressed more formally than usual, in an ivory gown with embroidered sleeves, the hood of her short cape drawn up around her face against the rain, and she walked with a determined step towards the gatehouse. Hastily I locked the door to my chamber, though I had left nothing there of value, just to be sure, and had folded the paper with the code inside my doublet. Walsingham’s purse hung heavy at my belt. If I should be attacked in the street, I would lose everything, I thought grimly, but at least it wouldn’t matter if the room was searched in my absence. I scrambled down the stairs and charged across towards the tower archway, slipping on the wet flagstones, but when I reached the main gate and stepped out into St Mildred’s Lane, there was no sign of her in either direction. She could not have moved fast enough to have disappeared from the street, I reasoned; concluding that I must have mistaken her destination, I returned to the college, closing the gate behind me, when I heard the low murmur of a woman’s voice coming from the porter’s lodge.

Knocking gently, I opened the door to see Sophia in all her fine clothes crouched on the damp floor with the old dog’s head cradled in her lap; as I entered she raised her head and smiled politely at me as if we had only a passing acquaintance, before returning all her attention to fondly mussing the dog’s ears. A low growl of contentment emanated from Bess’s throat as she nuzzled her head deep into Sophia’s skirts. Oh to be a dog, I thought, and immediately reprimanded myself.

‘Morning, Doctor Bruno,’ Cobbett said affably from his position of authority behind his table. ‘You seem in a rush today.’

‘Oh – no, I – good morning, Mistress Underhill,’ I said, bowing slightly.

Sophia looked up briefly, but this time her expression was preoccupied and she did not smile.

‘Doctor Bruno. I think poor Bess is growing blind, Cobbett,’ she said, barely looking at me. I guessed she must be ashamed of what had happened the night before.

‘Aye, she’s not long for this world,’ Cobbett agreed, as if he had long been resigned to the idea. ‘Sophia loves that dog,’ he added, for my benefit. I blinked, surprised at the familiarity with which he, as a servant, referred to the rector’s daughter in her presence. Sophia noticed my look and laughed.

‘You are shocked that Cobbett does not call me Mistress, Doctor Bruno? When I first arrived at Lincoln College, I was thirteen years old and my brother fourteen. We had no company of our own age and the Fellows of the college were not used to having children around, they made it very clear they disliked our presence. Cobbett and his wife were the only ones who were kind to us. We spent half our time in here chatting and playing with Bess, didn’t we, Cobbett?’

‘Aye – distracting me from my post,’ the old porter said gruffly, with obvious affection.

‘I didn’t know you had a wife, Cobbett,’ I said.

‘Not any more, sir. The good Lord saw fit to take her these five years back. She was the college laundress for years, and a damned fine one. Still, this is how the world turns. And soon my old Bess will be gone, too.’ He sniffed heartily and turned his face away to the window.

‘Don’t say that, Cobbett, she’ll hear you,’ Sophia said, pretending to cover the dog’s ears.

‘You are dressed very finely this morning, Mistress Underhill,’ I ventured.

She made a face.

‘My mother has roused herself sufficiently to go visiting,’ she said, in a tone that conveyed exactly what she thought of that idea. ‘We are to call upon an acquaintance of hers in the town whose own daughter, though two years younger than me, is recently betrothed to be married. So she and I will no doubt entertain one another on the lute and virginals, while our mothers extol the many blessings and virtues of marriage and we all revel in her success. As you may imagine, I can hardly contain my excitement.’ She said this with a perfectly straight face, though Cobbett misunderstood her sarcasm.

‘Why, Sophia, you have no need to feel hard done by – you know you may have any husband you wished if you would only put your mind to it,’ he said. He meant to be reassuring, but I did not miss the shadow that passed across her face then, as if his words caused her some secret pain.

I had no chance to speculate further, however, as at that moment there was a great thundering of footsteps on the flagstones outside and the door to the porter’s lodge crashed open with such force that it hit the wall behind and juddered so hard I feared it might splinter. In the doorway stood Walter Slythurst, the bursar, shaking like an aspen leaf, his face so deathly white and his eyes protruding with such terror that you would have thought someone had a knife at his back. He looked thoroughly drenched and dishevelled, and was wearing a thick cloak and riding boots all spattered with mud; I remembered that he had been away overnight and wondered if he had been attacked on the road.

‘Fetch …’ he choked, and the effort of speech made the veins in his neck stand out like knotted cords under the sallow skin. ‘Fetch the rector. The strongroom – he must see this – horror.’ Suddenly he leaned forwards and vomited on the stone floor, one hand grasping the wall to keep himself upright.

Cobbett and I exchanged a glance, then the old porter began ponderously to heave himself out of the chair. I stepped forward; it was clear that the situation required more urgency than Cobbett could give it.

‘I will go for the rector,’ I said, ‘but what should I tell him has happened?’

Slythurst shook his head frantically, his lips pressed into a white line as if he feared his stomach might rise again. He jerked his head towards Sophia.

‘A monstrous crime – one I cannot speak of before a lady. Rector Underhill must see …’ he broke off again, his breath suddenly coming in jagged gasps as his knees buckled beneath him and he began shivering wildly as if it were the depths of winter. I had seen these effects of a severe shock before, and knew he must be calmed down.

‘Sit him down, get him a strong drink,’ I said to Cobbett. ‘I’ll find the rector.’

‘I can go for him if you like, he is at work in his study this morning,’ Sophia offered, rising quickly to her feet; as she stood, she clapped a hand to her brow and stumbled just as she had before. I caught her arm and she clutched my shoulder gratefully, then quickly withdrew her hand as a glance briefly passed between us acknowledging our moment of intimacy last night. She leaned against the wall, but her face had turned almost as pale as Slythurst’s; the rank stench of his vomit was rising in the small room, and, perhaps prompted by the smell, Sophia tried to reach the door, but had only partly opened it before she too leaned forward and vomited in the doorway.

Cobbett rolled his eyes mildly, as if this were all part of the job.

‘Will you take your turn too, Doctor Bruno, before I go for a pail of water?’ he said wearily.

In truth, I could feel my own stomach rising with the smell, and I was glad to get out.

‘Do not move – I will be back with the rector in a moment,’ I said, from the doorway.

‘No one must go near the tower,’ Slythurst croaked. His violent shaking was beginning to subside; Cobbett had produced one of his bottles of ale and poured the bursar a good measure in one of his wooden cups.

My frantic hammering on the rector’s door brought Adam the old servant running to open it; when he saw it was me, his face twisted into a sneer of open dislike.

‘Back again, Doctor Bruno?’