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

‘About anything I choose,’ I replied, turning to face him. ‘That is what freedom means, does it not?’

Jenkes was carefully replacing the Book of Hours on the work bench beside the small knives and implements he would need for its restoration. It occurred to me, watching the neat, almost obsessive way that he laid out his tools, that a bookbinder’s knife would certainly be sharp enough to cut a man’s throat.

‘Do you send many books to sell in Europe?’ I asked, indicating the Book of Hours and trying to keep my voice casual. Jenkes missed nothing; he looked up sharply, then exchanged a glance with Bernard.

‘It sometimes happens that books fall into my hands which could see a man condemned to prison or worse in this country,’ he said, rubbing the edge of his thumb along his lower lip. ‘Then I can find a ready market overseas. But in truth there is no shortage of customers in Oxfordshire and London. Men like yourself, who do not accept the prohibition of books, who believe God gave us reason and judgement to weigh what we read, and who are willing to run the risk for the sake of knowledge.’ He gave a soft laugh and raised his head again to look across at Bernard. ‘You were right, William. Doctor Bernard told me you had a special interest in rare books. Especially those believed lost.’

Bernard had resumed his stance by the fire and remained motionless, merely offering the briefest of tight-lipped smiles. Of course: Bernard had been the Lincoln College librarian during the great purge of the Oxford libraries, when the authorities had tried to banish all heretical texts from the reach of impressionable young men, just as my abbot had at San Domenico.

‘I sense there is something you wish to ask, Doctor Bruno?’ Jenkes said, cocking his head.

‘The books purged from the college libraries – did they pass through your hands?’

‘Many of them, yes.’ Jenkes glanced at Bernard briefly, then leaned back against his work bench and folded his hands together. ‘Some of the more zealous librarians burned the offending material to please the Visitors, but those with more regard for the value of books brought them to me to redistribute.’

I looked across to Bernard, who remained motionless.

‘And the books culled from Lincoln in the great purge – did those volumes come to you?’

‘I remember every book that passes through my hands, Doctor Bruno. You look sceptical, but I assure you that I do not make idle boasts. When you heard me tell Signor Florio I could procure any book for the right price, that was also the truth.’ His eyes darted hungrily again to the purse at my belt, and this time my hand moved instinctively to cover it, as if I were naked and covering my privates. ‘Tell me, then, is there a particular book you have in mind?’

He was toying with me, and his repeated allusions to the money I carried made me suddenly uncomfortable; I cursed myself for not having been more discreet with Walsingham’s purse about the college. Well – I had allowed him to lock me inside his shop, so if he meant to rob me, there was little I could do except stand and fight; I checked the work bench beside me to see how quickly I could grab for one of the knives if the need arose. As if reading my thoughts, Jenkes casually reached out and picked up a silver-handled blade and began picking the dirt from under his fingernails with its point.

‘You need have no fear of speaking here, Bruno – whatever the title, however dangerous the civil authorities or the Church, whichever Church, deem it to be, you cannot shock me.’

‘You do not believe in the idea of heresy, then?’ I asked, keeping my eyes on the knife in his hand.

‘Oh, you mistake me,’ he said, taking a step towards me so suddenly that I involuntarily stepped back, alarmed at the flash of menace in those strange luminous eyes. ‘I believe in it without question. There is absolute truth, and all else is heresy. There is the true Church, founded by God’s Son upon the apostle Peter, and then there is the blasphemous abomination founded by a fat, crippled fornicator who could not keep his cock in his breeches, and which is now ruled by his heretic bastard. I do not believe that any book should be denied to the man who possesses the wisdom to understand it, Bruno, but that does not mean I am confused about where truth lies. The question is – are you?’

‘I do not understand your meaning,’ I said, but my shoulders tensed.

‘I think you do,’ he said, his voice light and pleasant but his eyes still steely, and he moved slowly to position himself between me and the door to the shop. Sweat prickled in my armpits despite the chill of my clothes; I glanced across at Bernard, who stood impervious by the fire as if he were not a part of the scene playing out before him. Draped in his long, black gown, with his thin neck and loose skin, he had the air of a great bird of prey, waiting to see what he might scavenge once the dust had settled.

‘I wish only to know whose side you are on, Bruno,’ Jenkes continued.

‘I was not aware that I was required to choose a side,’ I replied, turning to face him. ‘Perhaps I find the idea altogether too simplistic.’

He barked out that sudden laugh again; the sound echoed from the walls.

‘Is that what you will tell the recording angel on the Day of Judgement? When the Son of Man returns to divide the sheep from the goats, will you protest that you did not care to be either, that you found the choice too simplistic?’ Abruptly he cast the knife away from him; it landed with a clatter among the paraphernalia laid out on the bench, and he stepped closer, laying a hand gently on my shoulder. I braced myself, but did not move. ‘You are a conundrum, Doctor Bruno, do you know that?’ His limpid eyes raked over my face repeatedly, as though by this he might decode the puzzle. ‘You are excommunicate, yet you have the patronage of a Catholic monarch. You reject the supreme authority of the pope and preach the heretical theories of the Pole Copernicus, yet I am told you publicly declare yourself a Catholic. What is your faith, Bruno?’

I looked him in the eye. ‘I am a son of the Roman Church, Master Jenkes. You must be the only man in Oxford who doubts my religion – your fellow townsmen cross the street for the chance to spit upon me.’