by SJ Parris
The knocking came again, more impatient this time. ‘Monsieur Bruno!’
‘J’arrive, madame.’ I opened the door with a flourish, so that she almost fell over the threshold.
‘What did I tell you about having women in this house?’ she said, without preamble.
‘What?’ I stepped back from the doorway and swept my arm around the room to demonstrate its emptiness. ‘No women here, more’s the pity.’
‘There’s one downstairs asking for you. I don’t like the look of her.’ She wrinkled her nose.
‘Did she give a name?’ I felt a little stab of fear. Would Guise send a female assassin? It would be a clever move; a woman could more easily gain access, slip past a bodyguard. Then, a slim blade between the ribs… ‘Where is Simon?’
‘Having his supper. It’s not the same one as last time. This one says she’s an old friend. We all know what that means.’ She leaned in. ‘Foreign,’ she confided, in a stage whisper.
I stared at her for a moment, then bounded down the stairs two at a time to find Sophia standing on the doorstep, shivering despite the fur hat she wore pulled down over her ears. She looked at me warily, her eyes bright with cold.
‘I have something for you,’ she said, matter-of-factly.
‘Come in.’ I led her up the stairs, past Madame de la Fosse and her indignant spluttering, and closed the door behind us.
‘Here.’ Sophia reached inside her cloak and took out my Damascus steel knife in its scabbard. I was so delighted to see it – and her – that I darted in and kissed her impulsively on the cheek. We both drew back, alarmed.
‘I am in your debt,’ I said, turning it over in my hands.
‘You certainly are,’ she said, walking over to the window and pulling off her gloves. ‘You don’t know what I had to do for it.’ She turned with an impish grin, enjoying my shock, leaving me hanging for a few moments. ‘You’re right to make that face. I had to walk in the gardens with the Duke of Montpensier for an hour, listening to his poetry. In this weather.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, adopting a grave expression. ‘I don’t know how I can make it up to you.’
‘Oh, you can never compensate me for that.’ She leaned back against the wall and folded her arms. ‘Shall we say we are even now? For the book, I mean?’
‘Agreed. The slate is wiped clean.’ I strapped the knife on to my belt and immediately felt more like myself with its familiar weight resting against my hip.
‘To start over,’ she said thoughtfully, looking back to the window. Her reflection rippled as she moved, distorted in the bubbled glass. A long silence unfolded. Neither of us seemed to know quite what to say, but I had the sense that she was not in a hurry to leave. I poked at the edge of a rug with the toe of my boot. She looked back to me and held my gaze with a questioning look. I watched her, trying to find the right words, the ones that would make her understand without scaring her away. I thought about Jacopo’s distinction between brave and foolhardy.
The silence was broken by the bells of Saint-André striking seven. I started, glancing guiltily at the door.
‘Do you have to go somewhere?’
‘No. Well, yes.’ I rubbed at the back of my neck. ‘I’m supposed to meet someone. But it can wait.’
‘A woman?’ She raised an eyebrow.
‘No! A colleague.’
‘You’re working in Paris, then?’
‘I may be. I have the offer of a job, anyway. At the Collège de Cambrai. Lecturing again.’
She nodded. ‘Sounds like a good position.’
‘It is. The King arranged it.’
‘But you don’t sound as if you want it.’
I hesitated. ‘I’m not sure whether I should stay in Paris.’
A flicker of anxiety crossed her face. ‘Where else would you go?’
‘I don’t know. I was thinking of Prague, perhaps. The Emperor Rudolf is more tolerant of free thinkers at his court. He collects them. My friend John Dee is there now.’
‘Prague.’ She rolled the word around her mouth like a strange delicacy and gazed into the distance, as if she might glimpse new worlds beyond the black rooftops of the rue du Cimetière. ‘How lucky you are, having the freedom to travel anywhere you choose.’
‘It’s not exactly luck. More necessity. And I’m not free to travel to the one place I really wish to go.’
‘Where is that?’
‘Home.’
She looked at me as if searching for something in my face. ‘Still. If you were a woman, you would think it enviable.’
‘What about you? Will you stay in Paris?’
She shrugged. ‘For now. There are fewer options available to me.’
‘But this is not enough for you, surely? Living here, being a governess?’
It was the wrong thing to say; her expression hardened. ‘How would you know what is enough for me? There’s no shame in honest work. I came to Paris with nothing.’
‘Apart from my book.’
A faint hint of a smile. ‘Yes, all right. But things could have ended very badly for me. I have been fortunate. Sir Thomas is a generous employer, who doesn’t try to take advantage, which sets him apart from many. His daughters are pleasant enough children. I’m paid reasonably, I have a comfortable room and I am allowed to use the library. What other life is there for a woman like me, except to become someone’s wife?’
‘And that is not an option you would consider?’ I asked carefully.
‘That is a mistake I would not make again in a hurry,’ she said, in a voice like a blade.
‘But you must have suitors,’ I persisted, though I knew I should let the subject drop. ‘Young Gilbert Gifford seems keen.’
‘Gilbert Gifford?’ She let out a burst of laughter, eyes wide with incredulity. ‘Please. Such an earnest boy. He is going to save England for the Catholic faith, you know.’
‘Is he really?’
‘Oh yes.’ Her eyes danced with mischief. ‘He’s going back soon. He claims he’s been entrusted with important letters for the Queen of Scots.’
‘He told you that?’
She brushed a loose strand of hair out of her face. ‘I thought he was probably showing off. He wants me to think he’s an important player in the crusade against Elizabeth, like his hero, Paget.’
‘You’re right – it sounds like an idle boast to me,’ I said, carelessly, while thinking I would need to add a quick postscript to the letters in my pocket.
‘But in answer to your question, no,’ she said.
‘No what?’ I frowned; my mind was still on Gifford.
‘There are no suitors.’ She fixed me with a level stare, the wide-set amber eyes cool and knowing, revealing nothing but a hint of challenge. I was not sure how I was supposed to respond, so I remained silent.
‘Well, you should not keep your colleague waiting,’ she said quickly, after a pause, her gaze swerving away, and I had the sense that I had somehow missed an opportunity.
‘You could come to Prague with me,’ I said, startling myself. The words seemed to be in the air before the thought had even formed in my head.
She let out that same laugh of disbelief. ‘Are you mad?’
I tried to cover my embarrassment. ‘Why not? I saw the light in your eyes when I mentioned it. You crave adventure, you know you do. This life – it may be comfortable enough but it will stifle you in the end. Travel with me. We can leave Paris and start again.’
She put her hand on her hip, cocked her head to one side. ‘And what would I do in Prague? How would I earn a living?’
‘The Emperor Rudolf is a generous patron of philosophers and alchemists,’ I said, warming to the idea as it took shape. ‘John Dee says there is money to be gained from the kind of books I write, and prestige. I could find a place at his court, I am sure of it.’
Again, her face closed up. ‘I asked you what I would do. I have told you, Bruno – I will not be dependent on a man ever again.’ Seeing my expression, she peeled herself away from t
he wall and crossed the room to me, taking both my hands in hers. ‘It is one of the things I have always liked about you,’ she said, her smile edged with regret. ‘You dream something and you see no reason why it should not happen the way you dream it. But life has dealt me too many blows for me to share that view.’
‘Jesus, Sophia. You’re only twenty-one. Do you think I haven’t seen my dreams broken into pieces, over and over? But you have to believe in the possibility of a different life, otherwise you just…’ I shook my head, let the sentence drift.
‘What?’
‘Give up and get a job teaching in Paris, until you grow old and die of boredom.’
She looked offended at first, but gradually her face softened and I saw the twitch of a smile.
‘Given the state of things in Paris, growing old and dying of boredom might be considered a luxury.’
‘True.’ I thought briefly of Paul, lying on the table in the abbey infirmary, and Léonie’s limp body carried into the gallery by soldiers. I squeezed her hands. ‘We could make this work, I believe it. Don’t be afraid of being dependent. We would be equals. We wouldn’t even have to get married, if you’re set against the idea.’ My words tumbled out in a rush, but I could not read her expression.
‘Ah, Bruno,’ she said, after a pause. She bent her head forward until it was resting on my shoulder. I slipped my arms around her waist and held her, hardly daring to breathe, tense with the almost-certain knowledge of what she was going to say next. She drew her head back so that she could look me in the eye. ‘If I was going to run away to Prague with anyone, it would be you. And I don’t suppose I will ever find another man who would treat me as an equal. But…’ she paused and dropped her gaze to my chest, her fingers plucking distractedly at the buttons of my doublet. ‘It’s not about Prague, or marriage, or even you, in the end. There is a greater claim on me. You understand that. I am saving every penny I earn here. If I go on working, in a year or so I will have enough to return to England.’
‘To find your son?’ I said, my throat tight.
She nodded. ‘He will be two years old now. I need to see him, Bruno. I’m his mother. I can’t bear to think he doesn’t know me. It’s like an ache, here, that never eases.’ She balled her fist and struck the base of her ribcage. I could hear the desperation in her voice.
‘But…’ I left my objection unfinished. The son she had borne from her forbidden love affair in Oxford had been given away to a respectable family at birth; she had no way of knowing how to find him, or whether he had even survived infancy – so many children did not – but she did not need me to tell her that.
‘It’s the one thing I cling to,’ she whispered, as if reading my thoughts.
I nodded and took a deep breath, arranged my face. This is bravery, Jacopo, I thought, as I made my voice light-hearted. ‘Think, though. Another year of Montpensier’s poetry.’
She laughed again, but it did not disguise the sadness. ‘No. I only did that for you.’
Then she leaned in and kissed me, her mouth warm and yielding as I remembered it, but it was a valedictory embrace, I could not deceive myself.
‘I should go,’ I said, when she eventually broke away. ‘I hope you find what you are looking for, Sophia.’
‘And you, Bruno. I hope you find your way home.’
‘If I do, I will come back for you. And your boy. You would love the Bay of Naples.’ I could not speak through the tightness in my throat.
‘Do that, then.’ I saw the glisten of tears in her eyes. ‘Come back for us, one day.’
Sometimes, I thought, the stubborn clinging to an improbable hope is just enough to keep your head above the tide of despair. I held her a while longer, reluctant to let go.
TWENTY-NINE
I returned from the Swan just as the bells were striking midnight, stumbling into the darkness of the hallway with Simon, one lantern between us. I was a little drunk, he was reassuringly solid and sober, taking the candle from the lantern as I leaned against the bannister, lighting his own and then handing it to me while he settled himself in his makeshift bed. Berden had been brief and efficient in exchanging the letters, but I had stayed on at the tavern after he left, buying drinks for Gaston and the students from the money Henri had given me, trying to hold that hollow sense of loss at bay with noise and empty camaraderie, until eventually Gaston had bellowed that it was time to lock up and Simon had taken me gently but firmly by the arm and steered me home.
I wished him goodnight and climbed the stairs to my rooms, where I fumbled with the lock and stumbled inside, kicking the door shut and crossing as I always did to light the candles in the window.
‘You’re out late tonight, Bruno,’ said a smooth, English voice behind me. ‘Celebrating something?’
I started, dropping the light, and let out a cry as I whipped around to see Charles Paget sitting calmly in a chair, his feet resting on my desk, a sheaf of papers in his lap. I stamped on the candle and drew the dagger from my belt, my hand shaking with shock.
‘Oh, put that away, Bruno. If I’d come to kill you I’d have been waiting behind the door with a knife, wouldn’t I?’
The realisation of how easily this could have happened sent goosebumps prickling up my spine. I tried to keep my composure, wishing I had drunk less.
‘How did you get in?’
‘I waited until dear Madame had popped round to her neighbours while you and your dancing bear were out drinking. You’re not the only one who knows how to break a lock, you know.’
I watched him flick the corners of the papers in his lap. I hoped it was something he had found on the desk. It took all my self-control not to glance up at the ceiling to see if my hiding place had been violated.
‘What do you want, then?’ I lowered the dagger, but did not sheath it.
‘I have brought you some news I thought you might appreciate.’ He swung his legs to the floor and tossed the papers back on to the desk as if they were of little interest. ‘I dined at the Hotel de Guise last night.’
‘How is the Duke?’
‘Surprisingly mollified. He’s had a productive parlay with Catherine. Apparently the King has promised to field three armies against the Protestants in the south by the summer, though God knows where he thinks he will find the money. More Italian loans, I suppose. But by curious coincidence, Guise seems to have forgotten all about the murder of Joseph de Chartres.’ He gave a dry laugh. ‘So the world turns. Anyway, one of the other guests was Girolamo Ragazzoni, the Bishop of Bergamo. You might know of him.’
‘The Papal nuncio?’ I stared at him.
‘That’s right. Your name came up in conversation.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘Ah, but can you? I told him you and I were old friends. He asked me to pass this on.’ Reaching inside his doublet, he drew out a letter on thick cream paper, with a heavy wax seal. He held it out to me, then snapped it away at the last minute as I stretched out my fingers. ‘Sir Edward Stafford really is terribly anxious about what you might have said in that letter to Walsingham.’
‘Does he have reason to be anxious? Besides, the letter was not sent.’
Paget laughed. ‘There’s not a man in Paris who doesn’t have reason to be anxious about what others say of him, you should know that. Especially when it’s being said to someone like Walsingham. That copy wasn’t sent, but you’re a resourceful man, Bruno. I dare say you’ll find another way, if your news is urgent.’
I gave him a thin smile. If he had been hiding in my room all evening, he could not have seen me meeting Berden, but you could never take anything for granted with Paget. I had to hope he would not manage to decipher the letter before Gilbert Gifford left for England; if the boy really was carrying letters to Mary Stuart, it was imperative that they should be intercepted.
‘Are you going to give me that letter? Or was there something else? Because I’d like to go to bed now.’
‘Don’t let me keep you.’ He pushed the chair back and s
tood. ‘Nothing else for now.’ But I did not miss the way his eyes flitted around the room; I was certain he must have been searching for papers, though he had left no sign of his efforts. He held out the letter and nodded for me to open it.
I turned it over. The seal on the thick wax showed the two crossed keys and crown of the Papal insignia. I felt a cold punch of dread to the stomach; even now, the symbols of the Church’s authority could leave me mute with fear.
Doctor Giordano Bruno, it began, in the neat hand of an Italian clerk.
Before his untimely death, Père Paul Lefèvre wrote to me on your behalf to convey your penitence with regard to the events that led to your excommunication, namely your abandoning holy orders without permission and your many heretical writings, together with your wish to be reconciled in humility and obedience to Holy Mother Church. I have, accordingly, written to Rome to acquaint His Holiness with your desire and I ask you to call on me so that we may speak further on this matter.
I have also informed the Catholic League in Paris that, while your excommunication is under review, your safety is Rome’s concern and until His Holiness has considered your situation, you must be regarded as a penitent and not an enemy.
It was signed Girolamo Ragazzoni, with a flourish. I allowed my breath to escape slowly. For all his self-righteousness, Paul had kept his word. I did not like the part about humility and obedience, but it had at least bought me a temporary reprieve from Guise, or so I hoped.
‘I wouldn’t expect too much, if I were you,’ Paget said, with a wolfish smile. ‘Ragazzoni’s already been recalled to Rome.’
‘What? Why?’
‘He was appointed by the last Pope. Now the new Pontiff is having a clean sweep, replacing all his legates in Europe. He’s a much less forgiving man, Pope Sixtus, in matters of religious orthodoxy. I doubt Ragazzoni will have much clout with him.’
‘Then I will have to pray hard.’
‘Yes. That would be wise.’ He made no move to leave, his eyes shining dangerously. I was still holding the dagger. One lunge, I thought; he appeared to be unarmed. One stroke and I could incapacitate most of the plots against England and Queen Elizabeth; without Paget they would all collapse, at least for the near future. We watched one another in the leaping candlelight, that smile still playing around his lips as if he knew exactly what I was thinking.
