Kitabı oku: «Heresy», sayfa 5

THREE

I dressed for dinner in a clean shirt with a plain black doublet and breeches and paused for a moment to consider myself in the mottled glass that had been left resting on my mantelpiece. My hair and beard were a little too long, it was true, and the weather had left them more unruly than usual, though I had long ago decided at the Parisian court that I had neither the time nor the vanity to compete with gentlemen of fashion in matters of dress. But at thirty-five, I thought, I could still make myself presentable. My reflection looked back from large dark eyes pooled in shadow; our scuffle on the road had left a graze on my cheek, but perhaps a young woman confined in a college cloister might find that intriguing. I knew that women found enough in my appearance to please them, even though I was no prospect for a serious attachment, having neither property nor title but only a dubious kind of fame to my name; for my part, I had made the most of such opportunities as came my way in Paris, but since Morgana’s death I had met no woman with equal wit and spirit to catch my heart as well as my eye. But the rector’s daughter sounded intriguing, and I must confess that the prospect of meeting her had piqued my interest, even though I knew I could hardly afford distractions in Oxford with so much at stake and so few days.

I grinned at my reflection in the glass, ran my hands through my hair and shook my head briefly at my own foolishness, before making my way down my staircase to the archway in the east range where I had been told I would find the rector’s lodgings. As I entered its shadows, my eye was caught by a glimpse of green from the other end of the passageway, which ran the width of the building; following it to the end I emerged through an open gate of iron bars into a walled garden at the back of the college, not over-cultivated but left as an orchard, the grass grown tall and thick with wild flowers under apple trees and wooden benches set at intervals along the path that ran around by the walls. In better weather this would be a pleasant place for scholars to sit and read, I thought, though it was empty now as the rain battered at the leaves. I returned to the passageway and found the door that proclaimed the rector’s name on a plaque, straightened my clothes, and prepared myself for my first taste of Oxford hospitality.

The first thing I noticed as I waited to be admitted was that the animated conversation I could hear from behind the door was pitched slightly too loud, in the way that men in a group will compete to outdo one another if they want to impress a woman. An old servant with a pinched face opened the door and showed me straight through into a fine high room with tall arched windows in two facing walls, the rest panelled in dark wood and hung with portraits and tapestries. Immediately I understood the source of this braggadocio. At the far side of a long table set with grand sconces of candles sat a young woman of about nineteen years, dressed in a plain dove-grey gown with a straight embroidered bodice and with her long dark hair unbound. Like the rest of the guests already seated, she stopped her conversation and turned her attention to me as I approached, her eyes skimming me up and down with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. This, then, was Sophia Underhill, and I understood her father’s urgent wish to marry her off; she had a striking, feline face with keen light brown eyes and her presence in the college must have proved a sore distraction for the young men trying to bend their minds to their books. The rector rose from his chair at the head of the table with bustling importance and reached out to shake my hand.

‘Welcome, Doctor Bruno, welcome to my table. Please be seated, and I shall introduce you to some of the college’s senior Fellows, and my family.’

He gestured to the seat on his left hand, which I was pleased to note was almost opposite his daughter’s. I nodded politely to her in greeting before glancing around at the rest of the guests assembled at the table. We were ten in number, all men dressed in academic gowns, with the exception of the girl and a tired-looking woman of middle years seated at the other end of the table, opposite the rector.

‘Allow me to introduce my wife, Mistress Margaret Underhill,’ he began, gesturing towards her.

‘Piacere di conoscerla,’ I said, bowing my head. The woman smiled weakly; despite her husband’s earlier words, she did not look especially delighted at the prospect of entertaining.

‘And my daughter Sophia,’ the rector continued, unable to keep the note of pride from his voice. ‘You see that I gave her the Greek name for wisdom.’

‘Then her suitors may truly call themselves “philosophers”,’ I replied, smiling at her. ‘Lovers of Sophia.’

There was a sharp intake of breath from her mother at the end of the table and a suppressed laugh from the men present, but the girl returned my smile and blushed pleasingly before lowering her eyes. The rector forced a smile.

‘Ah, yes, I was warned that the men of your country are experts in the art of flattering ladies,’ he said tightly.

‘Especially the monks,’ grunted the elderly man seated to the right of Sophia, and the guests all laughed.

‘Former monks,’ I said emphatically, holding the girl’s gaze. This time she did not look away, and something in the frankness of her look reminded me so sharply of Morgana that I had to catch my breath, caught off-guard by the resemblance.

‘I must protest in defence of my countrymen,’ declared the dark-haired young man seated to my immediate left, who did indeed look distinctly Italian, though he spoke with no trace of an accent. ‘My father’s countrymen, I should say. I do not know how we have come by this reputation among the English as great seducers – I have certainly not inherited any such talent, alas.’ He held out his palms in a gesture of defeat and the company laughed again. I suspected the young man of false modesty in this regard – he was blessed with handsome features and obviously dressed carefully, his beard and moustache neatly trimmed. He turned to me and extended a hand. ‘John Florio, son of Michelangelo Florio of Tuscany – I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Doctor Bruno of Nola. Your reputation precedes you.’

‘Which one?’ I said, to more laughter.

‘Master Florio is a greatly respected scholar and tutor of languages, as was his father,’ said the rector, ‘and he is engaged in compiling a book of proverbs from various countries. I am sure that later he will not hesitate to regale us with some.’

‘It is, and ever was, a woman’s fashion / To love a cross, and cross a loving passion,’ Florio said obligingly.

‘He speaks the truth,’ Sophia said, with feigned dismay, and Florio beamed at her.

‘Thank you,’ said the rector, his smile growing increasingly strained. ‘I must confess, Doctor Bruno, I did not know how easily you would converse in English and I thought you might feel more at home with a fellow Italian speaker to hand.’

‘That was kind of you,’ I said. ‘I learned my English from travellers and scholars over the years, but I fear it is unpolished.’

‘My father also fled Italy in fear of the Inquisition after he converted to Reform,’ Florio said eagerly, leaning in close. ‘He came to London, ended up in Lord Burghley’s household and was later Italian tutor to Lady Jane Grey and the Princess Elizabeth.’

‘Not such a cursed exile, then,’ I said.

‘Exile is always a curse,’ the elderly man next to Sophia cut in, with surprising vehemence. ‘A cruel fate to inflict on any man, do you not agree, Roger?’ Here he leaned around to glare at the man seated on the other side of Sophia, directly opposite me, a large, broad-featured man in his late forties, with a full beard just turning to grey and a ruddy complexion, who turned away uncomfortably. ‘Particularly on one’s friends,’ the old man added. A tense silence descended over the gathering.

‘My father was indeed fortunate in his patrons,’ Florio continued hastily, attempting to cover the interruption, ‘though we were exiled again from England when I was just an infant and Bloody Mary came to the throne.’

‘God rest her soul,’ interjected the elderly man, reverently. This time the rector moved to intervene.

‘Please, Doctor Bernard.’

‘Please what, Rector?’ Doctor Bernard gestured at me, his wild white hair fanning out around his head like the crest of a bird. ‘Must I guard my words for this renegade monk? Why – will he denounce me to the Earl of Leicester?’ He turned to look at me and I understood that, though he had few teeth left and must have been at least seventy, his rheumy eyes still saw shrewdly. The hollows of his face seemed more pronounced in the flickering shadows of the candlelight; it was a face to frighten children. ‘I was appointed by Queen Mary herself, thirty years ago now, when those of the new faith were almost purged altogether from the university, and here I have remained through the storms, though my friends are all long dead or deprived of office, and I have long since renounced the old ways.’ Here he laughed, as if in self-mockery, then pointed at me, suddenly grave. ‘But I think you are of the Catholic faith, are you not, Doctor Bruno?’

‘I am an Italian,’ I replied evenly, ‘raised in the church of Rome.’

‘Well, I’m afraid you will find no one to say the Roman Mass with you here, sir. There are no Catholics left in Oxford, oh no. No man here cleaves to the old faith.’ He shook his head solemnly, but his voice was filled with bitter sarcasm. ‘Here we all sign the Declaration of Belief to save our skins, and swear our oath to the English Church as we are commanded, for we are all obedient subjects, are we not, gentlemen?’

There was an awkward murmur of assent; I saw that the rector was growing agitated.

‘William, I beg you.’

‘So we all seem. But no man in Oxford is what he seems, Doctor Bruno, keep that in mind. Not even you, I suspect.’

I looked up and met Doctor William Bernard’s eye. This spiky and gnomic old man gave the distinct and alarming impression of being able to read the secret thoughts of others, and he was nearer to the truth than I liked, so I merely inclined my head and searched for a distraction as his pale grey eyes continued to bore into me. Fortunately, one was provided by the arrival of servants bearing plates laden with the first course: boiled capons with damsons and calves’-foot jelly accompanied by a good claret.

As they bustled around the table, heaping our plates from each dish, I leaned forward with the intention of engaging Sophia Underhill in conversation, but at the same moment the bearded man opposite addressed me, and I saw Florio take the opportunity to claim the girl’s attention.

‘Roger Mercer, Doctor of Divinity and sub-rector of the college,’ the bearded man said in a rich baritone, with an accent that I believed came from the west parts of England. He extended a hand across the table. ‘We are indeed glad to make your acquaintance, Doctor Bruno, and there has been much anticipation here for your disputation with the rector tomorrow night.’

‘Now, now, Roger,’ said the rector hastily, ‘there is to be no talk of any matter touching the disputation at table. My esteemed guest and I must preserve our arguments for the debating chamber, is that not so, Doctor Bruno? We must, as they say, keep our powder dry.’

I nodded my assent. Roger Mercer held up his hand in protest.

‘Fear not, Rector – I spoke only as a prelude to telling Doctor Bruno how I have been curious to meet him since I read his book, On the Shadows of Ideas, that was published in Paris last year.’

‘Did not the sorcerer Cecco d’Ascoli, who was burned for necromancy, make mention of a book with the same title, a book of forbidden magic which he attributed to Solomon?’ Doctor Bernard leaned around Sophia once more to make this interjection, his trembling extended finger pointing almost in her face, though aimed at me. She moved her chair backwards to accommodate him, flicking her hair over one shoulder while continuing her conversation with the irrepressibly enthusiastic Florio. From the odd phrase I could catch, he appeared to be treating her to further rhyming aphorisms. Reluctantly I turned my attention back to Bernard.

‘The book Cecco mentions has never been found,’ I said, raising my voice so that the old man might hear me clearly. ‘It seemed a shame to waste a good title, so I borrowed it. But mine is a treatise on the art of memory, based on the memory systems of the Greeks – no necromancy, gentlemen.’ I laughed, perhaps too hard.

Roger Mercer eyed me thoughtfully.

‘And yet, Doctor Bruno, your memory system makes use of images that seem to correspond precisely to the talismanic figures described by Agrippa in his De Occulta Philosophia, that he claims can be invoked in the rituals of celestial magic to draw down the powers of angels and demons.’

‘But these are images that correspond to the signs of the zodiac and the mansions of the moon, familiar to many mnemonic systems,’ I said, hoping not to betray my unease. ‘They are popular because they are based on regular numerical divisions, which aids in recall, but in the end they are merely images.’

‘Nothing is merely an image to the magician,’ Bernard snapped back. ‘All are signs pointing to hidden realities, as your title implies. Especially those images derived from the ancient astrology of the Egyptians – as Agrippa well knew, for he was quoting from his master, Hermes Trismegistus, who was condemned by St Augustine for summoning demons!’

His voice rose on this last word; a cold hand gripped the base of my spine. I drew myself up to answer, but before I could speak, Sophia Underhill pulled her chair nearer to the table, looked directly at me and asked, cutting off Florio in mid-sentence,

‘Who is Hermes Trismegistus?’

The company fell silent; all eyes turned to me.

‘I have read passing reference to his name in works of philosophy,’ she continued, with an innocence I did not quite believe, ‘but I can find none of his books in our library here, and I don’t have permission to enter the university libraries.’

‘Nor should you, since you are not a scholar,’ chided her father, looking around the table as if embarrassed by her boldness. ‘I permit you to improve your mind by reading in our library as long as you keep your studies to what is fit for a lady’s understanding.’

I felt he said this for the benefit of the company; Sophia appeared about to protest, but then swallowed her words into a petulant expression. Her mother tutted again, loudly.

‘You will find no works of Hermes the Thrice-Great in Oxford now,’ Bernard said in a sonorous voice, shaking his head. ‘Before, we had them – before the great purge of the libraries in ’69. Translated out of the Greek by the Florentine Ficino a century ago, at the dying request of Cosimo de’ Medici. You know Ficino’s version, Doctor Bruno?’

‘I have read Ficino’s translation,’ I said. ‘But I have also read the original Greek manuscripts, though the collection is incomplete. The fifteenth book was lost. Do you read Greek, Doctor Bernard?’

Bernard fixed me with those bright, accusing eyes.

‘Yes, I read Greek, young man, we are not all barbarians north of the Tiber. But the missing book is a myth – it never existed,’ he added briskly. Then he went on, in a softer tone, ‘I read Ficino too, when I was young, and Agrippa. There was not such a fear of the ancient writers then. But so many books are lost to us now, carried off by the tides of reform. Centuries of learning, burned to ashes.’ He tailed off and it seemed he had travelled deep into memory.

‘Doctor Bernard,’ said the rector, a warning note in his voice again, ‘you know very well that the Royal Commission of ’69 was sent to seek out heretical books acquired in the old monastic times, lest they infect the minds of our young men with their unholy ideas – a danger we senior Fellows must guard against still. I am sure you would not wish to disagree with such a prohibition.’

Bernard gave a short, croaking laugh. ‘Books prohibited to scholars? How then should men of learning sharpen their intellect, or learn to discern between truth and heresy? And do those who proscribe not have the wit to realise that forbidden books lure men more potently than the lewdest temptress?’ Here he cast a sideways glance at Sophia. ‘Oh yes – but a forbidden book will always find its way in through the cracks and the mouseholes, do you not know that, Rector? If one only knows where to look.’ He cackled to himself as if this were a great joke, and I noticed his fellow scholars were shifting uncomfortably in their seats.

‘What happened to the books that were purged from the libraries then?’ I asked, perhaps too urgently, for my question seemed to provoke a sudden hostility from Bernard; his eyes narrowed and he pulled himself stiffly upright.

‘It was a long time ago,’ he said brusquely. ‘Burned or taken away by the authorities – who knows? I am old now, and I have forgotten those days.’

He did not quite meet my gaze and I knew he was lying; a man who spoke so passionately about books one moment would surely have remembered a public bonfire of them, even if it had occurred many years ago. But if the forbidden books were not burned, they must have passed into someone’s hands, and I wondered if the old man knew whose.

‘Doctor Bruno, you have still not answered my question,’ Sophia cut in, leaning across to tap my hand while fixing me with her wide-set, tawny eyes. The hint of a smile played around her full mouth, as if she too knew a great joke and was considering letting us in on it. ‘Who was he?’

I took a deep breath, and returned her expectant gaze as steadily as I could, aware that the whole table had fallen silent, awaiting my answer, and that there was every chance my next words might be considered blasphemy.

‘Hermes Trismegistus, called the Thrice-Great, was an Egyptian high priest of great antiquity,’ I began, turning over a piece of bread in my fingers. ‘He lived after the time of Moses, long before Plato or Christ. Some say he was the Egyptian god Thoth, the divinity of wisdom. In any case, he was a man of unusual insight who achieved, through profound contemplation of the cosmos and experimentation with the properties of the natural world, the wisdom to unlock the secrets written in the book of nature and the heavens. He claimed to have entered and understood the Divine Mind.’ I paused. ‘He claimed he could become equal to God.’

Here there was a collective gasp from around the table; these men knew that this was indeed dangerous ground to tread, and I quickly added,

‘He is called the first philosopher, the first theologian, and he was also a prophet – Lactantius credited him with foretelling the advent of the Christian faith, in the very words of the gospel.’

‘And Augustine said he had his foreknowledge from the Devil,’ Roger Mercer said eagerly, his face reddening further as half-chewed meat fell from his mouth and lodged in his beard, though he appeared not to notice. ‘For does Hermes not write of how the Egyptians animated the idols of their gods in magical rites by calling down the powers of demons?’

‘I have never believed the account of the demons and the statues,’ I said lightly. ‘Men have always created mechanical toys and automatons and claimed to have endowed them with the gift of life, like the brazen head possessed by Roger Bacon that was reported to prophesy. But this is merely conjuring and skilled craftsmanship.’

‘Hermes Trismegistus was no magician, then?’ Sophia said softly, still looking at me. She seemed disappointed.

‘He wrote at length on the hidden properties of plants and stones and the arrangement of the cosmos,’ I replied. ‘There are some who call this alchemy or natural magic, and others who call it scientific enquiry.’

‘When it is done for the purpose of seeking forbidden powers, it is called sorcery,’ the rector put in, sternly.

‘But did he discover any magic that worked?’ she persisted, ignoring her father.

‘How do you mean, worked?’ I asked.

‘I mean, was he able to use this natural magic to influence the world – to change people’s thoughts or deeds, for example, and did he write of how it is done?’ Her eyes were bright and impatient now as she leaned closer.

‘Recipes for spells, you mean?’ I laughed. ‘I’m afraid not. The Hermetic magic, if you want to give it that name, is concerned with teaching the adept how to penetrate the mysteries of the universe through the light of the intellect. He cannot teach you how to make your sweetheart fall in love with you or keep him true – for that you had better consult some village wise-woman.’

There was some amusement at this from those at our end of the table, but the girl coloured violently and I suspected that my joke had accidentally struck the truth, so to cover her embarrassment I continued, hastily:

‘But the German alchemist Henry Cornelius Agrippa does speak of such things, in his treatise on the occult sciences that Doctor Mercer mentioned earlier. He writes that, as well as the celestial images used in magic, we may create our own fitting to our purpose. For example, he says that to procure love, we may create an image of people embracing.’

‘But how –’ Sophia began, just as the rector coughed loudly and the servants entered to clear away the first course.

‘Well, this has been a most illuminating discussion, Doctor Bruno – I knew your conversation and your unusual ideas would enliven our little college society,’ the rector said, patting me on the shoulder with considerable insincerity. ‘But I have devised that we should all change places for each course, so that you may become acquainted with some of the other important officials of the college. Much as I would like to continue with our theme …’ he added.

Now he rose from his seat and fussed around the table, officiously rearranging the seating plan so that I found myself at the opposite end, surrounded by the three men to whom I had not yet spoken. The servants brought in silver dishes steaming with richly scented beef and a stew of vegetables, and in the course of all this activity, the rector’s wife, who had barely spoken, took the opportunity to excuse herself with a headache, apologising profusely to me for being such a poor hostess. She seemed a melancholic and sickly woman, but I recalled what the rector had told me about their son; I had seen such symptoms previously in women who had lost a child, often years after the death, as if the mind itself had taken some wasting sickness from which it could not recover, and I felt profoundly sorry for her. It was hard to credit that such a forlorn creature could have been the author of the lively girl at the other end of the table.

The second half of the meal passed with considerably less interest than the first, now that I had been removed from Sophia’s company. My new dining companions introduced themselves: opposite me sat Master Walter Slythurst, the college bursar, a bony, thin-lipped man of my own age with narrow, suspicious eyes and lank hair that fell in curtains around his face. Beside him was Doctor James Coverdale, a plump man of about forty with a great sweep of dark hair, a close-cropped beard and an air of complacency, who explained that he was the proctor, the official responsible for the students’ discipline. To my right was Master Richard Godwyn, the librarian, who appeared older, perhaps fifty, and whose large, drooping features reminded me of a bloodhound, as though his skin were too big for his face, though his gloomy countenance was transformed when he allowed a brief smile to illuminate it as he shook my hand. All were courteous enough, but I could not help but wish I had been allowed to continue my discussion with Sophia. It was clear that the tenor of our conversation had angered her father; she was now seated next to him, on the same side of the table as me, so that I could not see her without rudely leaning around my neighbour Godwyn and drawing attention to myself.

‘I fear you have had to suffer the sharp end of William Bernard’s tongue up there, Doctor Bruno,’ said James Coverdale, leaning across the table.

‘He seems disappointed with the world as he finds it,’ I observed, checking to see that Bernard had been moved far enough away to be out of earshot.

‘It is often the way with old men,’ Godwyn said, with a sombre nod. ‘He has weathered a great many changes in his seventy winters, it cannot be easy.’

‘If he continues to speak his mind as plainly among the undergraduates as he does among his fellows, he will soon go the way of his friend,’ said Slythurst, in a clipped tone that suggested he would not be displeased at such an outcome. I do not like to judge men on appearance and so little acquaintance, but there was something about the bursar that did not invite respect. He had been staring at me intently from the moment I sat down, and I sensed that the look was not friendly.

‘His friend?’ I asked.

Coverdale sighed.

‘It is a sorry business, Doctor Bruno, and a source of shame to the college – the former sub-rector, Doctor Allen, was deprived of office last year after he was discovered to have …’ he hesitated, looking for a diplomatic expression ‘… perjured himself in swearing the Oath of Supremacy. It seemed he was still a devout communicant of the Roman Church.’

‘Really? How was he discovered?’

‘Denounced by an anonymous source,’ Coverdale said, as if relishing the intrigue. ‘But when his room was searched, he was found in possession of a quantity of banned papist literature. And of course the sub-rector holds the second highest office in the college, and is in charge whenever the rector is absent, so you may imagine the scandal. A number of us here had to testify against him in the Chancellor’s Court.’

‘The university holds its own legal sessions to enforce discipline,’ explained Godwyn the librarian in a lugubrious tone. ‘Though in a matter of such import the Privy Council also took an active interest. The Earl of Leicester – our chancellor, you know – has repeatedly charged the heads of colleges to rid themselves of all suspicion of popery so the rector had to be seen to strike swift and hard against Allen.’

‘Doctor Underhill was formerly the Earl of Leicester’s own chaplain, as he has no doubt boasted to you already,’ added Slythurst. ‘He could not have pardoned Allen and kept his own position.’

‘Yet Allen hoped for a pardon,’ Coverdale interjected. ‘And for better loyalty from his friends. In that he was badly disappointed.’

‘I think the rector did his duty with a heavy heart, James,’ Godwyn said, with a meaningful look at Coverdale. ‘Indeed it grieved all of us to have to bear public witness to his errors.’

‘Roger Mercer gave his testimony quickly enough,’ said Coverdale, glancing with barely concealed anger down the table to where Mercer was laughing merrily with Florio. I saw Slythurst roll his eyes, as if he had heard this grievance many times before. ‘And he was supposed to be Allen’s closest friend. Still, he got his thirty pieces of silver, did he not?’

‘Silver?’ I asked.

‘His testimony was crucial to condemning Allen, and for that he was given Allen’s position when he was deprived,’ Coverdale said bitterly.

‘Perhaps I should clarify for Doctor Bruno that, traditionally, it is the proctor who succeeds as sub-rector, just as the sub-rector goes on to become rector,’ Godwyn explained. ‘This is the way it has always been done – there is a congregation of the Fellows, of course, but the vote is really a formal seal of approval on the established succession.’

‘But since the present rector was placed here by the Earl of Leicester, to do his bidding,’ Coverdale hissed, hunching down in his seat so that he would not be heard, ‘he shows scant regard for tradition and appoints those he finds most pliable. And we all know why Leicester forced through Underhill’s election,’ he added significantly.

‘James,’ said Slythurst, a warning in his voice.

‘I understood it was to enforce propriety in religion,’ I said. ‘Cut out the canker of popery.’

‘Oh, that is the official reason.’ Coverdale waved a dismissive hand. ‘But the college owns substantial manors and parcels of profitable farmland in Oxfordshire, you understand – many of which are now leased at a most advantageous rate to friends of Leicester, are they not, Master Bursar?’

‘You forget yourself, James,’ Slythurst said smoothly. ‘Doctor Bruno here is a friend of the Earl of Leicester.’

‘Indeed, I have never met him,’ I said hastily. ‘I merely travel with his nephew.’

‘In any case,’ Coverdale continued, warming to his theme, ‘the college loses valuable profit and must struggle to make ends meet by admitting legions of these so-called gentlemen commoners – paying students who have neither the inclination nor the talent to be scholars and gad about the town wenching and gambling and bringing the university into disrepute.’

‘This is not an appropriate subject for the supper table,’ said Slythurst, in a voice thick with cold anger, bringing down his palm flat against the board just firmly enough to signal his displeasure. ‘There is nothing improper about those leases, moreover the disbursal of college funds can be of no interest to our guest. A little discretion, if you please, gentlemen.’

The Fellows looked down, embarrassed; an uncomfortable silence loomed.

‘Doctor Coverdale,’ I said, turning to the proctor with a diplomatic smile, ‘you were telling me about the trial of Edmund Allen – please do go on.’