Giordano Bruno Thriller Series Books 1-3: Heresy, Prophecy, Sacrilege. S. J. Parris
her face had turned pale as ash.
‘I – I don’t know what happened, I’m sorry,’ she faltered. ‘I must have stood up too fast, I felt suddenly very faint. Perhaps this wine is stronger than I thought. Damn that old busybody Adam – I should have guessed he’d be listening at the keyhole.’
‘We spoke very softly – he may not have heard the substance of the conversation,’ I whispered, though I could not dampen the fear that crept up my spine.
‘I’m sure he heard enough to tell my father,’ she muttered through clenched teeth.
For what seemed like a long while, neither of us moved. She continued to clutch the fabric of my doublet with her left hand, while I gently supported her right arm; her hair was almost touching my cheek and smelled warmly of woodsmoke and chamomile. I could hear the blood pounding in my ears and at my throat, hardly daring to catch my breath, until eventually she raised her head with a great sigh.
‘Forgive me, Bruno – I need to sit.’ Her voice was subdued; she was still very white.
I helped her back to her chair, and from the corridor beyond there came the sound of a door slamming firmly and two male voices in conversation.
Sophia lifted her head.
‘That is my father returned. I had better go and explain your presence, before Adam fills his head with suspicions.’ She took a deep breath and pushed herself up again, pausing to steady herself.
‘Are you still faint?’ I asked, reaching out a hand. She passed me without taking it, turning back only at the door.
‘I will be fine. Good night, Bruno, and thank you for listening to my foolishness. We will speak again soon.’ She smiled, and slipped out into the passageway, closing the door behind her.
I picked up the Copernican map and studied it again. Sophia had seen something in that mysterious symbol, I was certain, and instinctively I folded the paper away; perhaps it would be wiser not to alert her father until I could win her confidence enough to draw out whatever she knew. From the passageway beyond I heard voices – Sophia’s and the rector’s – raised in heated discussion, though I could make out only the odd word: ‘improper’ and ‘papist’ on his part, ‘absurd’ and ‘hospitality’ on hers. Then Sophia burst out in a tone of fierce exasperation:
‘And how should I not conduct myself as mistress of this house when you are never here and the true mistress will not leave her bedchamber? Who else is going to take care of the household?’
‘Take yourself to your room, daughter, and reflect on your place and your duty – or do you wish that I should send you to your aunt in Kent? Or perhaps I should engage another governess to fill your hours of idleness and teach you proper womanly obedience?’ the rector spluttered, as he flung open the door to the study and strode in, turning a face purple with fury (and, I suspected, the good wine of Christ Church hall) in my direction. Immediately his manner changed; he clasped his hands together and half-bowed, not quite meeting my eye.
‘Ah – Doctor Bruno – you have rather taken me by surprise at this hour.’ All trace of his earlier superiority seemed to have vanished and he would not quite meet my eye, which gave me some satisfaction; it is one thing to sneer at a man in front of five hundred people certain to take your part, I thought, and quite another when you must stand three feet away from him alone. He seemed defensive, perhaps fearing that I had come to reopen the debate. ‘I assure you that this evening—’
‘Rector Underhill –’ I barely knew where to begin – ‘I must seek your advice on another matter altogether – the death of Roger Mercer.’
Immediately the colour drained from his face and his eyes became watchful. He wiped his brow with his sleeve.
‘Yes. The talk at Christ Church was of little else, but I am confident that we have put all malicious rumour to rest.’ He grew thoughtful. ‘Perhaps tomorrow the morning service in chapel should be a service of remembrance, especially since the funeral will have to wait until after the inquest – which I learned at dinner cannot be for a few days, as the coroner is away. You will be able to stay in Oxford to testify, Doctor Bruno, I presume?’
I did not answer. Instead I passed him the slip of paper with the quotation that had been cut from a book.
‘Do you recognise this?’
He peered closely at the small type, then slowly raised his head to fix me with an expression of uncomprehending fear.
‘The wheat of Christ,’ he said softly. ‘Ignatius. What is this?’
‘It is from Foxe, then?’
He nodded slowly.
‘The martyrdom of St Ignatius – or, rather, Bishop Ignatius of Antioch, we should call him, martyred under the Emperor Trajan. Foxe quotes these as his last words as he is thrown to the wild beasts.’ He handed the paper back to me with an expression that might almost have been anger, although his hand was trembling.
‘This paper was pushed under my door while I was at the disputation. It seems that someone wanted to draw my attention to the manner of Doctor Mercer’s death.’
‘By cutting up a book? Who would do such a thing? I’m afraid I don’t follow your reasoning at all, Doctor Bruno.’
‘Not for the first time today,’ I muttered, but forced myself to be polite. ‘You and I both saw this morning that Roger Mercer had been locked into that garden with a savage dog. I have wondered, Rector Underhill, if his death was intended by someone who lured him there on the pretext of a meeting, and then set the beast on him in some kind of perverse parody of martyrdom. And it seems this message has been sent to me as a clear indication that someone here knows why he was killed, perhaps by whom.’
Underhill gestured frantically for me to lower my voice, glancing fearfully at the study door. He was undoubtedly shocked, but after a moment he composed his features and produced a choked, nervous little laugh.
‘Dear God, what a fevered imagination you Italians do have, Bruno!’ He shook his head dismissively. ‘I fear that in the confusion and horror of this morning’s tragedy we allowed ourselves to rush to somewhat hysterical conclusions. We must not permit our natural shock and grief to spin improbable fancies out of a terrible accident. As for this paper, it rather looks as if someone is toying with you, feeding these wild fancies of yours with the intention of making a fool of you. Better not to give them the satisfaction of rising to the bait.’
I turned to leave, furiously trying to quell my boiling blood. When I spoke, it was with all the self-control I could muster, my nails biting into the palms of my hands with the effort.
‘I was an eye-witness, Rector Underhill. I was examining Roger Mercer’s body and the scene of his violent death while you were vomiting over your shoes like a woman. My testimony will be of more value to any inquest than yours.’
At this he bristled and his tone was of open hostility.
‘Oh, you imagine so? The word of a foreigner? A Catholic? A man reported to practise magic, who openly believes the Earth goes around the Sun?’
I took a deep breath and waited until the urge to hit him had passed, before opening the study door back to the dining room.
‘Thank you for your time, Rector. I will not impose upon you any longer.’
‘One thing more, Bruno. I don’t know what customs you keep in Italy, but in England it is not considered proper for an unmarried woman of good reputation to converse alone with a man, even a gentleman. Therefore I forbid you any further private conversation with my daughter.’ He folded his arms pompously. I paused in the doorway.
‘With the greatest respect, Rector, do not presume to command me as if I were one of your undergraduates. But if you wish, you may send for a governess to teach me obedience. I might benefit from that,’ I added, with a wink, and closed the door behind me, my heart pounding hard with indignation. The servant, Adam, handed me my cloak and bade me good