Heresy

by S. J. Parris

  "I fear Doctor Coverdale had more important matters to attend to than my poor speech," I said, unable to disguise the resentment in my voice.

  "Well, I hope God sends you good rest tonight, sir," Cobbett said, handing me the lantern, its flame jerking with the motion. "I suppose you will be staying with us until the enquiry now? You will be feeling quite at home here before long."

  "I'm sure I will," I replied flatly, and bade Cobbett a good night, realising the import of his words. How long would I be detained here, I wondered, and would I be obliged by law to stay behind and testify even if Sidney and the palatine left on the appointed day?

  All around the small quadrangle the umber light of candles burned in various windows, giving out a friendly glow, but I could not shake the sense of unease that had followed me from London. Something cruel was at work here, and I had a horrible intimation that it was not yet over. As I paused to look around me at the blank windows, I prickled with the sense of being watched.

  My staircase was silent and so dark that without Cobbett's lantern I would have had to feel my way as a blind man; so dark that I would have missed the paper that had been slipped under my door, had I not stepped on it and heard an unexpected rustle as I entered the room. I bent to retrieve it-one leaf, folded neatly in half-and when I opened it another, smaller slip of paper no wider than a ribbon fluttered out and fell to the floor. By the dim light of the lantern, I made out a series of concentric circles on the larger sheet of paper. Intrigued, I impatiently set about lighting the candles in the sconces around the room to give me more light by which to examine this strange missive. Once I could see it clearly, my puzzlement only grew: the substance of the diagram was clear enough, but not its meaning. For this was unmistakably a drawing of the Copernican universe, made by a skilled hand, with the seven planets tracing their orbits around the sun; at least, so it seemed at first, but there, in the centre, where the figure of Sol should have been, was a representation not of the sun but of a small circle with spokes, the exact symbol I had found dotted through Roger Mercer's almanac.

  Utterly perplexed, I reached for the second slip of paper, which had almost become lost between the floorboards, and saw that there was writing printed on it; on closer inspection, it was clear that it had been very neatly cut from a book, and the sentence that had been so carefully excised made me gasp aloud:

  I am the wheate or grayne of Christ, I shall be grounde with the teethe of wilde beastes, that I may be found pure bread.

  Chapter 7

  My hammering on the door of the rector's lodgings was so frantic as to bring the servant running to open it with an expression of expectant dread, as if he feared news of another tragedy.

  "I must speak with the rector immediately," I gasped, brandishing my papers in his face.

  "He dines at Christ Church tonight, sir, with all the senior men." He regarded me anxiously, his hand trembling slightly as he held up a candle to see my face, sending shadows skittering up the walls. "Has something happened?"

  Of course-I had forgotten how early it still was; Underhill would be celebrating his triumph this evening and may not return for some hours yet.

  "It is a matter of great urgency," I said, trying to catch my breath. "I can wait for him, but I must speak to him tonight."

  The servant, a severe man perhaps in his late fifties, eyed me with some suspicion.

  "You may call back at a later hour, sir, but it would not be proper for me to allow you to wait in the rector's lodgings with the ladies here alone."

  "I intend them no harm-I wish only to be sure not to miss him."

  "Who is it, Adam?" called Sophia's voice within, and then she appeared behind the servant, her slender figure illuminated by the candles, a book in her hand.

  "'Tis the foreign gentleman, Mistress Sophia, come to see your father. I have told him to call again later."

  "Nonsense-let him wait in the warm, I am sure Father will not stay out long. Conviviality is not his strong suit," she said, smiling to me over the servant's shoulder. "Doctor Bruno, good evening-please do come in."

  The servant glanced from me to her with consternation.

  "I do not think your father would approve, Mistress-" he began, but Sophia waved a hand to interrupt.

  "Doctor Bruno is my father's guest, Adam, and a philosopher of most prestigious reputation-I'm sure Father would be appalled if I did not extend to him the proper hospitality. Perhaps you would be kind enough to take Doctor Bruno's cloak and fetch some wine?"

  Adam seemed extremely put out, but allowed himself to be commanded, bowing curtly to me and standing aside to let me enter with a further look of distaste. Sophia smiled again, and gestured for me to follow her through the high dining room we had occupied the previous evening to a door on the other side. She was wearing a plain green gown and her dark hair fell in ripples down her back as she walked, with the kind of self-possession that comes from natural beauty. My spirits greatly cheered by the unexpected prospect of her company, I followed her into a dark-panelled room, warmed by a low fire and dominated by a great oak desk under the window, piled high with books and papers.

  "This is my father's study-you may wait for him here," she said politely, ushering me to one of the tapestried chairs that bordered the hearth. She watched me for a moment. "You did not wish to celebrate with the Fellows at Christ Church this evening then, Bruno?"

  "I was not in the mood for a feast. I'm afraid to say your father carried the audience with him tonight." I eased into my seat and leaned nearer to the twisting flames. "In that, at least, he may consider himself the victor."

  "Did he ride roughshod over your every point without taking the trouble to actually listen?" she asked, smiling with a bitter sympathy. "My father has no skill in debate, Bruno," she went on, without waiting for me to respond, "he has only the unshakable conviction of his own rightness, yet it is surprising how effective that can be in rebutting argument. I used to think it was a mark of arrogance, but as I grow older I begin to suspect it may be fear."

  I raised a questioning eyebrow, thinking how perceptive she was for such a young woman.

  "He has been so dependent all his life on the favour of great men like the Earl of Leicester, as academics and clergymen are," she continued, a note of pity in her voice, "and he knows well how capricious such preferment can be. So he lives in constant fear of losing his position-and there have been so many factions in the university these past few years, so many people denounced for being seen in the wrong company, reading the wrong books, making a chance remark that could be maliciously interpreted." She sighed. "Poor Edmund Allen's fall shook him badly."

  "Why-does he secretly favour Rome too?"

  "Oh no! God, no, he is the last person-" She shook her head fiercely, as if to underline how preposterous the idea was. "But to see how the Fellows rushed to close ranks against Allen, against all ties of friendship, in case they should be tainted by association. An accusation need not be true to stick, you know, in these times. My father craves stability more than anything, and believes that change is always for the worse. He is not a bad man, but he is constantly glancing over his shoulder, and that makes him defend his certainties like a mother bear defends her cubs. This, I think, is why he appears so pompous."

  She grinned, and leaned forward to poke the fire. There was a soft knock on the door and the servant Adam came in with a pitcher of wine and two cups, which he set on a low wooden footstool near the fire.

  "Thank you, Adam. Would you send to the kitchens for some bread and cheese and any cold pie they might have? I suspect our guest may be hungry."

  I nodded my grateful agreement, only now realising that my affronted withdrawal from the dinner at Christ Church meant that I had missed supper, and my stomach was beginning to complain.

  Adam bowed, shot me another look to signify his disapproval, and pointedly left the door open when he went out. Sophia rose to close it, brushing down her dress. I poured us both a cup of wine.

  "Yo
u were banging on the door fit to wake the dead there, Bruno," she said, settling herself again in the chair opposite, tucking her feet neatly under her like a cat, "and your face was pale as the grave-I feared you brought us news of more horror."

  "Nothing so terrible, I assure you," I said, taking a long drink.

  "Then what brings you here with such urgency? Have you thought of some brilliant riposte that you forgot to make during the disputation and brought it round so my father can hear it late rather than never?" She smiled mischievously, indicating the paper I still clutched.

  "No-that will come to me during the night," I said, only half joking, as I passed it to her. "What do you make of this?"

  She skimmed her eyes briefly over it and looked up at me, puzzled.

  "But this is a map of the heavens according to your Copernicus, is it not?"

  I nodded.

  "But why bring it to him now in such haste, after the debate is over?"

  "Nothing strikes you as odd about it?"

  She frowned at the paper again, and then her eyes widened, just for a moment, before she raised her head again. "That is a strange way to represent the sun," she said lightly.

  "Yes."

  "Like a wheel. But it is very elegantly drawn," she added, handing the paper back.

  "It is, but I cannot claim the credit for that-it is not my work."

  "Then…whose?" Her voice faltered for a moment. "Where did you get it?"

  "It was sent to me. By who, I don't know, but it may have a hidden meaning. I thought I would ask your father's advice."

  A strange laugh tumbled from her, as if in relief. "You came haring round here, pounding on the door as if the world were ending, just to show him this? If you would take my advice, Bruno, I would guess that someone is playing a joke at your expense, making fun of Copernicus. My father may not like you wasting his time with such trifles."

  "Perhaps you are right," I said neutrally, folding the paper and smoothing it between my hands. "All the same, I will wait for him, if I may?"

  She nodded briefly. What, I wondered, was the expression that had flitted so briefly across her face a moment ago when she looked a second time at the diagram? Had it been recognition, or even fear? It seemed improbable that she could know anything of the hidden meaning of the little symbol but then, I reflected, the life of the college was so close-knit that perhaps there were no secrets here. If the symbol meant something to Roger Mercer and to my unknown correspondent, why should it not be known to others, Sophia among them?

  "Tell me"-I leaned back on my chair and indicated the large chests against the wall-"does your father have an edition of Foxe?"

  Sophia rolled her eyes.

  "That, my dear Bruno, is like asking if the pope owns a crucifix. My father has copies of all three of Master Day's editions, the latter two running to twelve books apiece, and I believe there is a new edition to be printed this year, so I'm sure he will soon add that to his collection. Foxe is one thing we do not lack in this house. Which edition did you particularly seek?"

  "I don't know." I paused, running my eye over the books on the desk before turning back to face her. "'I am the wheat or grain of Christ, I shall be ground with the teeth of wild beasts, that I may be found pure bread.'"

  She looked at me with an expression of polite confusion. "Pardon?"

  "Is that Foxe, do you know?"

  "Oh. A quotation. Truly, I wouldn't know-my father is the martyrologist, not me. To tell the truth, Bruno, I have only briefly looked into Master Foxe's book and I detested what I found there. What kind of man devotes his life to recording endless lists of tortures and brutalities done to other human beings? And in such lavish detail? I got the sense he thoroughly enjoyed his own descriptions. Some of those woodcuts gave me nightmares." She shuddered and screwed up her face.

  "He meant to encourage the faithful, I suppose, and looked for the strongest images with which to do so."

  "It is nothing but propaganda, for no purpose but to inspire hatred of Catholics!" Sophia spat, and I was amazed at the vehemence in her voice. Catching my look of surprise, she blushed, and added, in a more moderate tone, "As if there were not enough discord and division between Christians already, without books like that to fan the flames of hate."

  I regarded her with renewed curiosity as, perhaps embarrassed by her outburst, she turned her attention back to the fire. She was so unusually outspoken and unpredictable in her opinions that I did not wonder her father despaired of marrying her well. Such independence of mind went against everything that was expected of a modest wife, yet it was this spirited refusal to keep her proper place that I most admired about her. What could she have meant by this last protest, for instance? While I was contemplating pressing her further on the subject of Foxe, the door was again opened and Adam laid out, with pointed slowness, a platter of bread and cold cuts beside the jug of wine.

  "I do not think your father would like food to be taken in his study," he began primly, but Sophia was already ripping into the bread.

  "He has his supper in here all the time," she said. "Thank you, Adam, that will be all now."

  He hesitated. "Mistress Sophia, I wonder if your mother-"

  "My mother took to her bed yesterday evening at dinner and has not stirred from it since. When her nerves are bad she wishes to be left alone. Thank you, Adam." She smiled pleasantly, but there was steel in her voice.

  Adam, clearly believing himself the appointed defender of Sophia's honour, seemed about to find some other objection to our continued presence together in the rector's study, but after a moment's pause he dipped his head and retreated, this time closing the door behind him with a soft click.

  "Help yourself," Sophia said, indicating the food. "We can search through Foxe after, if you like."

  I took my place on the chair by the fire and gratefully tore off a hunk of the rough-grained bread.

  "Now then, Bruno," she began, lowering her voice and leaning forward purposefully, as if it were she who had summoned me, "you promised to teach me more of the magic book of Agrippa, and here we are with an unexpected opportunity for a lesson."

  "So I did," I replied, my mouth full, "but first you must tell me why you wish so fervently to know of spells and love talismans? These books are forbidden here and merely to possess such knowledge is considered dangerous."

  "I never said I wished to learn love spells," she said, affecting hauteur, "that was your assumption." But the sudden colour in her cheeks gave the lie to her protest.

  "I only wondered why a wellborn young lady would occupy herself with the idea of practical magic."

  "I am fascinated by the idea that a person could master forces beyond our understanding and turn them to her own purpose. Isn't everyone? Because I have always thought magic must be immensely powerful, mustn't it? I mean, it must work, or the Church would not be so anxious to keep it out of the hands of ordinary people."

  I hesitated. "There are undoubtedly forces of great power in the universe, but to draw them down demands long and profound study. The Hermetic magic of which Agrippa writes is not a matter of mixing a few herbs and muttering incantations like a village wisewoman. It requires knowledge of astronomy, mathematics, music, metaphysics, philosophy, optics, geometry-I could go on. Becoming an adept is the work of a lifetime."

  "I see." Her mouth set tight, and she clasped her hands together on her knees. "And you mean to say that I have not the wit for it, being only a woman?"

  "I mean nothing of the kind." I held up a hand in protest; how quick she was to take offence on this subject! Then I remembered the impotent anger I had felt in the Divinity School at her father's repeated insinuations that my nationality was synonymous with stupidity; at least I could find parts of Europe where such prejudice would not be current, but to my knowledge there was nowhere in Christendom where a woman like Sophia would be suffered to learn or converse with men as an equal, no matter how sharp her mind or how widely she read. Only in a queen was such an intelligence
tolerated. "I meant only that to devote one's life to the study of Hermetic magic requires enormous sacrifice, and I would not lightly recommend it. For a start, it could likely see you burned as a witch."

  She appeared to consider this for a moment, then lifted her head suddenly to look at me, her eyes lit with a vivid anguish.

  "Then is there no way of learning any magic that might work?" she burst out.

  "Work for what?" I said, taken aback at the force of her expression. "You seem to have something very specific in mind, but if you will not say what, I cannot advise you."

  She turned her face back to the fire and sat without speaking for a while. I cut a lump of cheese and waited to see if she decided to trust me.

  "Did you never love anyone who could not return your love?"

  "No," I said, frankly. "But I have loved someone I could not have, so perhaps I understand a little."

  She nodded, still staring into the weaving flames, then raised her head and fixed me with those clear, tawny eyes. "Who was she?"

  "A French noblewoman, when I lived in Toulouse. She also scorned the pursuits of ladies and hungered after books. In fact, she was a lot like you in spirit and beauty," I added, gently.

  She ventured a shy smile. "Did you want to marry her?"

  I hesitated. "I wanted to go on loving her, certainly. I wanted to be able to talk to her, and hold her. But marriage-it was so far from possibility. Her father intended her to make a match that would suit his ambitions, not hers. I was not it."

  "Like my father," she said, nodding again, her hair tumbling around her face as she rested her chin on her hand and continued to look intently at me. "So you were forced to part?"

  "Her father wanted to separate us. On top of that, Toulouse was then in the grip of religious conflict between the Catholics and the Huguenot Protestants, and it was safer for me to leave. That has been my life for the past few years, I'm afraid. I have had to move around so much and shift for myself, perhaps it has made me unfit for a settled life with a wife and family."