Act of Faith (6 page)

He smiled. ‘Here in Amsterdam we Jews are welcome, and a book such as this, which allows men of different religions to comprehend each other’s faith, should meet with approval, at least in scholarly circles.’

‘And in other cities? Other circles?’

‘In Rome or Spain, I could burn for it. There, it is a crime for a non-Christian to print books of faith at all, let alone in Hebrew. Even in London —’ He slapped the page down on top of the pile on his desk. ‘I don’t know why I ever showed it to you. A moment of vanity. Now that you know, you can help me check the English sheets. But you must not tell anyone what you have seen.’

I flinched at the sudden change in his voice. ‘I won’t — I promise.’

‘Simon knows, of course. He’s helping me print it. But not another living soul.’

‘Nobody would wish to harm you, Master.’

‘Perhaps not,’ he said. ‘Yet we are never truly safe.’

‘What do you mean?’

He rubbed his eyes. ‘Be off now. I’m tired.’

I left him then, poring over his papers and muttering, as men do when their minds are uneasy.

But I paid no heed to his words. Instead I sat by the fire, wrapped tight in my quilt, and thought no more about it — God help me.

Those first few months were good for me. When life is quiet and ordered, there is little space for the chaos of grief; and there is nothing in the world so ordered as the regular thud of the press, the shuffle of pages, the click of type, the scratch of a nib. The only disordered thing in the household was my master’s temper.

‘Isabella!’ His voice thundered down the staircase.

By the time I reached his office, he was grumbling with impatience. ‘Where have you been? My grandmother moves more quickly than you.’

‘Perhaps your grandmother would like to come and wait upon you, then.’

‘If angels fly, then it may be possible,’ he said. ‘Even from her grave she would be less trouble than you. Not so cheeky, either. Now, I have a message to be taken to Fra Clement — he is staying with a friend in the city.’

‘Yes, Master.’

‘Give the message to no one but Fra Clement. Speak to no one else on the way there or back. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, of course.’

He handed me a sealed letter. ‘It’s the red house on Keizersgracht, next to the mansion with those ridiculous heads all over the façade.’

‘I know the one.’

‘Go quickly, then. And remember —’

‘Don’t speak to anyone.’ I tucked the letter into my sleeve. ‘I know.’ It was always the same.

It was cold out. The wind needled my face until my head ached. I clutched my heavy cloak tightly about me and walked as fast as I could, alongside the canal and over the bridge. The sounds of the city were clear as a choir this morning: the wooden soles of my shoes clattering on the cobblestones; gulls shrieking over scraps; chestnut vendors shouting in the square; and the eternal pounding of hammers and chisels.

Everywhere, stone masons and carpenters built new houses for merchants along the canals, so they could row quickly from their front doors to their ships moored in the port or the vast warehouses on the quay.

Every week, it seemed, another ship docked and unloaded a cargo of goods so precious that guards, brandishing pikes, stood along the wharf. Other ships spirited whole villages away forever to the new colonies in the Americas. For those were the great years of Amsterdam, the Venice of the north. Its merchants sailed across the globe, trading spices from the East, furs from the American colonies, jewels from the Indies or slaves from Africa for bolts of cloth, barrels of herring and yellow grain from the Baltic.

It was said there was more sugar in Amsterdam than in the rest
of the whole world, although my master never saw fit to buy very much of it. The fabulous wealth of the Golden Age passed us by. We lived frugally on fish, eggs, bread and a few vegetables, unless Fra Clement or Simon came for supper. Then, there’d be a flurry of shopping and Gerda and I would slave over the fire, stirring pots of thick fish soup and turning chickens on the spit. Gerda baked turkey pies and buns studded with currants, and I fetched bowls of raisins from the pantry. Those precious raisins had come all the way from Siena, to somehow find themselves in a stone pitcher on a shelf in Amsterdam, waiting to be served to an Italian monk and a Spanish Jew — by an English orphan and a Dutch widow. It was a remarkable world. I had never thought about it before. An odd world — dangerous and unforgiving — but remarkable all the same.

I always presumed that most of my master’s messages, with which I scurried all over town, were merely supper invitations. But perhaps not. He always made them seem so mysterious and urgent. Yet what secrets could the Spanish Jew and Italian monk possibly share? I was tempted, for once, to peek at the contents of the letter I carried. Instead I pushed my curiosity away, tucked my hands under my cloak and trudged on.

Fra Clement was nowhere to be found. I waited on the doorstep of the red house until the midday bells rang, then began to trace my steps home. As I neared the market, I glimpsed a familiar scarlet cloak just inside the door of one of the coffee houses that opened onto the square.

‘Fra Clement!’

He turned, startled. He sat at a small table with a pasty-faced man in a black coat and dusty hat.

‘Isabella,’ he said graciously. ‘I didn’t know you frequented coffee houses — you are such an unusual young lady.’

‘I saw you from the street,’ I said. ‘I have a message.’

Fra Clement flicked his hand at the man sitting opposite him, who stood, pushed his chair back, bowed and walked off.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean to interrupt you and your friend.’

‘Not a friend — merely an acquaintance. Please, take a seat.’

I looked around me. Fra Clement was right. This was not really the sort of place where respectable young ladies — or respectable monks, for that matter — would normally come. It was a place of merchants, where the talk was all of business and cargoes, of prices and profits.

‘Never mind, you’re here now,’ he said, motioning to the proprietor. ‘You may as well try some of this new drink — chocolate, it’s called. Fresh from the New World, and quite delicious.’

‘If you are sure it’s all right.’

‘Goodness gracious, child. You’re with a man of God. What could be more decorous?’

While Fra Clement read the letter from my master, a man brought us two tiny cups of dark brown liquid. I sniffed at mine.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Fra Clement. ‘It’s quite harmless. You have to mix sugar into it, though. Here.’

He took a tiny wooden box from his bag, unlocked it and pushed it across the table. I spooned some sugar into the cup.

‘And another,’ he said, smiling.

‘I don’t like to —’

‘Please, Isabella,’ he said. ‘Take as much as you like.’

I tipped another spoonful into the cup and stirred it carefully. The contents looked like mud. I took a tentative sip. My mouth suddenly filled with sensation — a warmth and sweetness I had never dreamed existed. I laughed out loud.

‘At last,’ said Fra Clement, grinning. ‘I had feared we would never see you smile again.’

‘That’s incredible,’ I said. My mouth tingled. ‘How do they make it?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘I must get the recipe. Wait until I tell Master de Aquila.’

‘You have been a great help to him,’ said Fra Clement. ‘He’s lucky to have you. One of my better ideas, I think.’

‘I’m grateful to have a home, a place to sleep, enough to eat,’ I said.

‘And books.’

I smiled. ‘Of course.’

‘Special books, some of them,’ he said, returning my smile with a conspiratorial one of his own.

I nodded. ‘I’m re-reading
Utopia
at present — or, at least, I’m trying to. I don’t get much spare time.’

‘That’s not what I meant,’ said Fra Clement. ‘I was referring to the more sacred, secret books that dwell in that house.’

‘Secret? I’m not sure that I understand.’

Tell no one
, my master had said. Not even his close friend?

Fra Clement merely smiled at my confusion. ‘It’s all right, Isabella. No need to be alarmed.’ He patted my arm. ‘Surely you realise that Master de Aquila and I have no secrets from each other.’

I sighed, relieved.

‘Have you seen it, too, then?’ I asked.

‘Which one, child?’

‘The Hebrew Bible — the English version. The translation wasn’t particularly accurate, so far as I can tell, but it should turn out quite nicely. I’ve been working on it.’

‘You see how lucky your master is? Indeed, we all are, to have you in our midst.’

It seemed an odd thing to say to a girl who had lost everything, but I supposed he meant well.

‘And yet,’ he continued, ‘I do worry for him.’

The smile slid from my face. ‘Why?’

‘He is passionate, perhaps a little foolhardy.’

Those were not words I would ever have applied to Master de Aquila.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I said.

Fra Clement paused, perhaps to choose the right words. ‘He has these … ideas.’

‘Surely that’s not a bad thing?’

‘Generally, no … but some ideas are dangerous for those who believe in them, write them down — or print them.’

‘Nobody knows that better than I do,’ I said sharply.

‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘Forgive me if I trespass on your sorrows. But perhaps you will understand why I feel the need to protect your master from his more unorthodox enthusiasms?’

I nodded. I understood that perfectly.

‘Then I hope you will help me in this.’

‘Of course.’

‘Bless you, Mistress Hawkins.’ He tapped the tabletop lightly. ‘Please excuse me for just one moment.’ He stood up. ‘Finish your chocolate — I must conclude some business.’

He motioned to the man in the black coat, who, I now saw, stood waiting near the door. They stepped outside, where the sunlight slanted through bare trees onto the red of Fra Clement’s cloak.

He had left the letter sitting on the table. I flicked at it with one
finger so that it spun around. And again. I glanced outside. The two men had moved out of sight.

I slid one finger under the fold of the letter and gently eased it open. Master de Aquila’s unmistakable scrawl filled the page.

So that was it. All these secret messages were part of the same struggle for freedom, for ideas, that had consumed my father.

I felt a breeze on my cheek as the door opened and Fra Clement waved farewell to his friend. I slid the folded letter back across the table, drained that gorgeous liquid from my cup, and took my leave.

That evening, over supper, I asked my master about Descartes. ‘I heard a rumour in the city,’ I lied, ‘that his new book has been banned by the Pope.’

He raised an eyebrow.

‘The Pope is an evil, evil man,’ said Willem.

‘He is a tyrant,’ said Master de Aquila. ‘But all popes are.’

‘He will perish in the fires of —’

Master de Aquila looked at him. ‘Have I taught you nothing, boy?’

‘But, Master —’

‘There may be great evils in the world. There may even be evil men —’

‘Then God will judge them,’ said Willem.

‘He may, but not you,’ said Master de Aquila. ‘Not any man.’

‘It’s not logical,’ I said, ‘for anyone to assume that he knows God’s will. Not you, Willem, nor the Pope.’

They both stared at me.

Master de Aquila smiled. ‘Well said. But my young friend is astonished. He is not accustomed to women who speak their minds, even though he has a mother who never shuts up.’

‘Martin Luther says —’ Willem began.

‘Luther wrote many great things, but he had no idea about women,’ I said.

‘Or about Jews,’ Master de Aquila added.

‘Or about education,’ I said.

‘Ah ha!’ Master de Aquila slapped his hand on the table. ‘At last, the legendary Mistress Hawkins awakens and stirs. Beware, Willem. You are in the presence of England’s best-trained female mind since Queen Elizabeth.’

I blushed madly. ‘Nonsense.’

‘So you’re some kind of genius, eh?’ Willem said later, when Master de Aquila had retired to his library.

‘Don’t be absurd.’

‘I had no idea I was living in such exalted company.’

‘Our master exaggerates.’

‘Rarely,’ said Willem. ‘But perhaps in this case …’

I knew he was needling me, but my nerves felt scrubbed raw so I snapped back.

‘Descartes is — was — a friend of my father.’ My tone was snooty but I didn’t care. ‘I have spent my life until now in a different world — one of philosophy and ideas.’

‘Sounds thrilling.’

‘A life unconsidered is —’

‘Thank you, Mistress Socrates, I don’t need you to lecture me about the classical authors.’

‘Someone should,’ I retorted. ‘Then perhaps you’d pay less attention to narrow-minded preachers.’

It was his turn to blush. ‘I preferred you when you were crying in your room.’

If Fra Clement found me working alone in the office, he would sometimes ask how we were getting on with the Hebrew Bible translation. I meant to mention his interest to Master de Aquila, but my head was so full of my work, I forgot.

We worked on the Bible every week, just the two of us, when Willem was asleep or in the tavern. It was tedious work, checking the translation, but I didn’t mind — it was much better than letting my mind wander back to our house in Cambridge and springtime and warm beds and my father asleep in his chair by the fire on a late afternoon.

Then one day my master made an announcement that shoved the Hebrew Bible — and everything else — completely out of my mind.

He waited until Willem had gone to bed.

‘Isabella, we are to have a guest.’

‘Here?’

‘Where else?’

‘But we have no spare bedchambers,’ I said. ‘Is it someone important? They can have my room.’

He waved his hands. ‘There’s no need for sacrifice on your part. This is a very important guest, but I think we’ll need to make room for him in the attic.’

‘Up there?’ I said, incredulous. ‘With all those mice?’

‘He won’t need much space,’ said Master de Aquila. ‘But what he needs above all is privacy.’ He paused. ‘And a level of secrecy.’

A secret and important guest?

‘Who is it?’ I whispered the question automatically.

My master laughed. ‘There’s no need to take things quite so seriously. He’s a translator, that’s all.’

‘But —’

‘He will help me with the Hebrew Bible so that you can get on with other work.’

‘I see.’ I tried not to sound too miffed. After all, revising the Hebrew Bible was an exceedingly boring task. But the hours that we worked on it together, my master and I, were as tranquil as I ever felt in this new life of mine. ‘What’s the name of this translator?’

‘Don’t you worry about that.’

‘How long will he be with us?’