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

‘A Catholic himself, is he not?’

Godwyn looked aghast.

‘Well – yes, he is, but that is not why I admire him,’ he said quickly. ‘If the queen can tolerate his faith for the sake of his music, I do not see why we should not do the same.’

‘Quite. And of course, your own reading of the gospel was given with true poetic expression,’ I added, in a devout tone.

‘Thank you. That duty should fall to the sub-rector, but Doctor Coverdale did not arrive for Matins this morning, so the rector asked me to step in at the last moment.’

Instead of following the crowd of undergraduates down the stairs, he crossed the landing to a low wooden door opposite the chapel’s entrance, one hand still cupped around his candle, and gestured to me to follow.

‘I remember you expressed an interest in our library, Doctor Bruno – would you like to take a look, now you are here? Unless you are impatient to break your fast, of course,’ he added. ‘Perhaps you would not mind holding this for a moment?’

He handed me the candle and took a ring of keys from his belt, selecting the largest.

‘I should be delighted,’ I said, following him, though I was more interested by his news about Coverdale. ‘Is Doctor Coverdale away, then?’

‘Well, if he is, he gave no one any warning,’ Godwyn said, sounding piqued as he turned the key stiffly in the lock and pushed open the heavy door, which groaned as if in complaint at being disturbed.

I remembered the boy who had come to summon Coverdale in the middle of the disputation the previous evening, and Cobbett’s report that Coverdale had returned to college as if in an almighty haste. It was curious, then, that Cobbett had not mentioned his leaving again – unless he had somehow slipped away in the night, or early in the morning. I wondered if his disappearance could have anything to do with the inquest into Roger Mercer’s death and his threats to me over my testimony.

‘Strange. I noticed the bursar, Master Slythurst, was also absent,’ I added lightly.

Godwyn made a dismissive gesture as he closed the door behind me.

‘Slythurst is often away, it’s part of his duties – he has to check the college’s estates regularly, and they are scattered about the country, some several days’ ride. I believe he left for Buckinghamshire this morning as he has some business there, but we expect him back tomorrow. Now then – here we are.’ He spread his arms expansively to encompass his domain, and smiled encouragement, as if urging me to admire it as much as he did.

The library took up the first floor of the north range on the west side of the central staircase, directly opposite the chapel but slightly smaller in proportion. Like the chapel, it had a rush-covered floor and wooden beams in the roof, and was laid out in the style of the last century, with long wooden lecterns at which readers would stand to study the large manuscript books secured by brass chains to a brass rod running beneath the desks. There were four of these lecterns on each side of the chapel, secured to the wall between the arched windows. At each end of the room, wooden benches stood against the wall and at the far end, a small writing desk was placed under the last window overlooking the courtyard; Godwyn strode towards it and carefully placed his keys beside an inkwell before turning to me to retrieve his candle.

‘Which books are of particular interest to you, Doctor Bruno, or shall I just begin by showing you our most valuable manuscripts?’ he asked over his shoulder, as he made his way methodically down the length of the room, lighting candles in the holders at the end of each lectern and in the wall niches between the windows.

‘This is not your whole collection, surely?’ I asked, gesturing to the books that lay chained to the reading desks.

‘Oh, goodness, no – these are only the older books that must be chained up, I regret to say, for fear of theft, and the ones the students use most frequently. They are largely works of scholastic theology and are extremely valuable, many of them part of our original benefactor’s gift.’

‘Dean Flemyng, from his travels in Italy,’ I said thoughtfully, nodding. ‘And where do you keep the prohibited books?’

Godwyn blanched and stared at me, a puzzled frown creasing his high forehead. He looked almost frightened.

‘But we keep no prohibited books here, Doctor Bruno. What can you mean?’

‘Come now, Master Godwyn,’ I said, holding out my palms to show I meant no offence. ‘Every university library I have known keeps some books away from the inquisitive eyes of the students. Books that only the senior members are judged able to understand?’

Godwyn’s relief was visible.

‘Oh! Yes, of course – we have a number of books available only to the junior and senior Fellows, which they may borrow and take away to read in their own rooms. We keep them in the chests in this room here.’ He crossed to a door in the wall behind his desk and opened it, revealing a small chamber annexed to the library. Though it was shadowy inside, by the faint light of his candle I could make out several large trunks lining the walls. ‘I thought for a moment you referred to heretical books,’ he added, with a self-conscious laugh.

‘No, no – I understood those had been rooted out by the queen’s commissioners some time ago.’

He nodded, a little sadly.

‘There was a great purge of the university libraries in ’69. Anything that had survived the previous purges under Her Majesty’s father, and then her brother and sister, was taken away. Books that, between you and me, Doctor Bruno, were no more heretical than any other, but there was great suspicion cast over the university after the Catholic resurgence in Bloody Mary’s time and the colleges must all be seen to expel anything with so much as a taint of unorthodoxy. The collection here was badly depleted, I’m sorry to say.’

‘The notion of heresy changes with reliable frequency according to who happens to be in charge,’ I agreed. ‘But what happened to the books that were deemed dangerous?’

He looked at me blankly, as if he had not considered the question before.

‘I presume they were burned, though if they were, it was not publicly. I doubt they could have been sold openly once they were on the forbidden list. I was an undergraduate then, so I was only dimly aware of the commission – too busy sweating over my Greek and trying not to think about girls – but I would have remembered if there had been a book-burning.’ He smiled fondly at the image of his younger self. ‘You would need to ask William Bernard – he was librarian at the time.’

‘Really?’ This was indeed valuable news, and I thought it curious that Bernard had not mentioned it during our discussion about books at the rector’s table on my first night. My blood quickened; could that irascible old man have squirrelled away somewhere a cache of books judged too dangerous for the minds of young men destined to shape the future of England? And was there the ghost of a chance that among his acquisitions from a certain Florentine bookseller more than a hundred years earlier, Dean Flemyng might have picked up a manuscript whose value he did not recognise, but whose existence William Bernard had seemed unusually eager to deny?

I breathed deeply, trying not to betray my agitation. It was almost certainly too much to hope that the manuscript I sought was here, but it was not beyond the bounds of possibility. If anyone knew whether an uncatalogued Greek book had been part of the Dean’s original bequest, it would be William Bernard, who had been in the college longer than anyone, who read Greek and would know exactly what he had in his hands, should he have unearthed it. The challenge would be persuading him to confide in a stranger; the old man was wily as a stoat and already suspicious of me for my apparent disobedience to all religions.

Godwyn had finished lighting his candles and turned to me, clasping his hands like an anxious host.

‘Perhaps you would like to see our copy of Cicero’s De Officiis, which Dean Flemyng copied in his own hand?’ he ventured, gesturing to one of the lecterns at the far end. ‘I light the candles because, although it is Sunday, many of the scholars like to spend it here in quiet study. The undergraduates may not take books to their rooms, you see.’

‘Do you, by any chance, keep a copy of Master Foxe’s book among your loan collection?’ I asked as I followed, in as off-hand a manner as I could.

‘The Actes and Monuments?’ He looked surprised. ‘Yes, I have the 1570 edition, the second printing, though it may be out with someone at the moment – did you want to see it?’

‘May I? I was interested in reading further after the rector’s sermon this morning.’

‘You are welcome to read it,’ he said, doubtfully, ‘though I’m afraid you will not find Foxe very generous to those of your faith. But I must ask you to look at it here in the library – only the Fellows are permitted to sign the books out, you see. That way we have some surety if they come back the worse for wear.’

‘The books, or the Fellows?’ I said.

Godwyn laughed politely, and led the way to one of the large wooden trunks in the small back room. As he crouched to lift out a pile of books, I noticed a smaller chest, tucked away into the corner and fastened with a padlock. Godwyn stacked the volumes carefully on the floor, then reached again into the chest and handed me a fat volume, plainly bound in cloth.

‘I have seen a copy in the library in Paris,’ I said, turning the book over in my hands, ‘but I have not read it in detail. The rector’s sermon whetted my appetite. And the story of Ignatius – that too is among the tales of the early martyrs?’

‘Yes, indeed – the ten primitive persecutions under the Romans,’ he said, tilting his head slightly as if he found my question strange. ‘All in Book One.’

Just then, the door opened and all the candles wavered along the lecterns as the red-haired young man who had been tidying the chapel earlier leaned in and coughed nervously.

‘Master Godwyn, sir? Rector Underhill wants to speak with you about a private matter, if you have a moment.’

Godwyn looked anxiously at me, then back to the boy.

‘You would not mind if I step out for a minute, Doctor Bruno? I am sure I may trust you not to steal the books.’ He laughed nervously.

I waved a hand, eager to examine the Foxe.

‘Your books will be safe with me, Master Godwyn.’

‘Might I ask you to wait until I return, then? The library must not be left open and unattended, you see.’ He looked apprehensive. I assured him that I would guard the place with my life and he followed the red-haired boy out with an anxious backwards glance, closing the door softly behind him.

I settled myself at Godwyn’s large desk and opened the volume of Foxe at Book One, but as I did so, I realised that the librarian had left his bunch of keys behind. A thought struck me; glancing briefly at the door, I grabbed the keys and found among them a small iron key of the size to open a padlock. In the back room, I knelt by the locked chest and fitted it to the lock; to my surprise, it sprung open smoothly to reveal a pile of black cloth. As I lifted this out, I saw that it was an academic gown, placed there to conceal the books beneath. I picked up the topmost volume; it was bound in aged calfskin and felt fragile to the touch, its corners frayed, but it was the title page that caused me to draw a sharp breath and check instinctively once more to make sure I was alone.