Giordano Bruno Thriller Series Books 1-3: Heresy, Prophecy, Sacrilege

‘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 whom, 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 the servant 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 well-born 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 wise woman – 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.