Giordano Bruno Thriller Series Books 1-3: Heresy, Prophecy, Sacrilege. S. J. Parris
nodded.
‘I will wait a few moments and then slip out. They will all be in Hall by then.’
‘I meant – the danger you spoke of?’
She pressed a finger to her lips then and nodded, gesturing for me to go. I took a last look at her and closed the door behind me, silently furious with Florio for his ill-timed interruption.
Outside, the bell had stopped and the quadrangle was empty; a murmur of conversation drifted through the tall mullioned windows of the great hall, all lit with the glow of many candles as I followed Florio reluctantly towards the door, thinking of Sophia.
After the meal I returned to my chamber to consider how I might find an opportunity to speak again with Sophia. Her outburst earlier had troubled me greatly; if, as I had suspected, she knew more than she was willing to share about the circumstances of Roger Mercer’s death, then it was all too likely that she was in serious danger, especially if Mercer was killed to silence him. But who was this mysterious person she was being asked to trust with her life? And then there was that kiss. I stood before the fireplace and glared at the man in the glass, his unshaven chin and unruly hair, and frowned at him in disapproval. I had behaved like a boor, I told myself; she had come to me in distress because she believed I knew how to listen, and instead I had thrown myself on her like a stag. My reflection looked back with large, dark eyes that seemed to venture a counter-argument: she had wanted me to hold her, she had at first responded when I kissed her, before some pang of conscience or honour abruptly obliged her to step back. She felt drawn to me, she had said, and yet would not explain her sudden change of heart; was this obstacle that I could not understand her pre-existing affection for someone else? Was that connected to her fears? Damn Florio, I thought bitterly, though I had appreciated the young Anglo-Italian’s friendly manner and his breezy conversation, as the other Fellows seemed sunk in introspection and had spent the meal throwing apprehensive glances at Mercer’s empty chair.
I was still staring moodily into the mirror when the door to my chamber was flung open without ceremony and I turned with a start to see Sidney, his tall frame filling the doorway, a short green cape slung from one shoulder and a bottle of wine raised in his right hand.
‘I have escaped from the Pole for one evening only!’ he announced triumphantly, slamming the door behind him and pulling the cork from the bottle with his teeth while he scoured the room for drinking vessels.
Finding none, he eventually sat down on the chair beside the writing desk under the window and took a long swig from the bottle.
‘Just as if we were students again, Bruno,’ he smiled, brandishing the bottle at me in a mock toast. ‘So.’ He pointed a finger at me sternly. ‘You abandoned me to Laski all day, so you had better have some worthwhile news for me, Bruno, or I shall consider it poor sport of you. What the hell have you been up to?’
He held out the bottle and I drank gratefully, before giving him a brief account of all that had happened since the previous night. I showed him the papers I had found under my door, then told him of my discovery in the library, my unexpected stumbling across the Catherine Wheel inn, Cobbett’s curse of Rowland Jenkes, Coverdale’s threats to me and subsequent disappearance and finally Sophia’s fear that she may be in danger. I tried to convey this latter in a neutral tone, saying nothing of my interest in her nor of my badly judged attempt to kiss her, but still a smile curved across Sidney’s face and his eyes took on that old lascivious gleam.
‘No wonder you have shunned my company, Bruno, you sly fox,’ he said, cuffing me on the shoulder as he rose to reclaim the bottle. ‘So the rector has a daughter, eh? No such luck for me at Christ Church – all I have to look at are jowly old men and spotty boys. Are you practising the old Italian magic on her?’
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.
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