Act of Faith (9 page)

‘They are better at it than I,’ said Master de Aquila. ‘It is their own language, and I cannot rid myself of the Spanish inflection, nor Isabella her English accent.’

‘You have an accent even in German?’ Willem asked.

‘Of course. I have an accent in every language but my own. Although, I have lived away from Spain so long, perhaps I have a Dutch accent when I speak Spanish — I cannot tell.’

‘I never thought about that before,’ Willem said.

Master de Aquila laughed gently. ‘Come,’ he said, ‘keep walking. You must not be so overwhelmed by people’s ability in the language of their birth, or we shall make very slow progress through Europe.’

Willem didn’t move. ‘What about Latin?’

‘We all have an accent in Latin,’ I said. ‘Possibly even Romans. If you ever bothered to master Latin, you would have some kind of mangling Netherlandish accent,’ I teased.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Willem retorted. ‘I don’t have an accent.’

‘Everyone does,’ I said.

‘But you only sound strange because you are foreigners.’

‘We are all foreigners now, Willem,’ said Master de Aquila. ‘Even you.’

‘Lord in Heaven! Really?’

Master de Aquila’s smile vanished. ‘It’s about time you put more effort into your languages, boy, if you want to be a printer.’

‘I know, I know.’

‘Then learn a little of all the major tongues — at least enough to know when your translators are defrauding you.’

‘But I’ll still have an accent?’ Willem asked.

‘I can’t believe that comes as a surprise to you,’ I said, genuinely astonished. ‘Amsterdam is full of people from different lands.’

‘But they are strangers,’ he replied. ‘I’m not.’

‘Anywhere but Amsterdam, you are undoubtedly strange,’ I said. ‘And even there you have your moments.’

He wondered if he could hit me in public. I saw it in his eyes.

So did Master de Aquila. ‘Enough! You two will have us arrested for brawling in the street. The good burghers of Cologne are not tolerant of delinquency. So if you don’t stop bickering, I’ll slap you in the stocks myself.’

He gave Willem a clip across the ear. ‘Now get out of everyone’s way.’

That afternoon, the serious business of book buying and selling began. First, I sewed a circular yellow badge onto Master de
Aquila’s cloak — here, in the German cities, Jews had to wear it at all times.

‘It may be like the mythical wheel of fortune,’ he told us. ‘It may bring me luck.’

‘Good luck or bad?’ asked Willem.

‘I will know that when it arrives,’ said Master de Aquila.

He gathered up an armful of his works, and he and Willem left to make appointments with booksellers and printers. As an apprentice, Willem had to learn all the boring aspects of the business: the cost and weight of paper, the viscosity of ink, the heft of ream and bale. He was welcome to it.

I knew I would never be a master printer. A girl — a woman — had no place in the trade. Besides, I only liked the feel of the paper and the smell of ink once they combined into letters and words. I loved the impression the blocks and type made on the skin of the paper; the shapes and form and meaning that made a book; the feel of the pages in my hand, and the impact of the words on my mind. I loved the idea, above all, that the words left our ink-stained world and went out into the streets and shops, like the word of God Himself, to be pored over by firesides and candlelight in houses and cities I had never seen. One day, perhaps, some other girl in a little village in Flanders or Scotland or Persia would sit in her bedchamber and read out loud to herself the very letters I made — we made.

A week later, we were back on the river, headed to Mainz and then Basel.

‘This ship,’ I announced, ‘is my last.’

‘We know,’ Willem and Master de Aquila said together, and then, ‘It’s not a ship, it’s a boat.’

‘It has sails. It is surrounded by water. Ergo, it’s a ship.’

‘Boat,’ Willem insisted.

There was no point arguing. We sailed — there is no other word for it, ship or boat — through narrow gorges, then forested valleys and wide plains where cattle drank at the river’s edge. In some places there were low-roofed, stone villages; other, more prosperous, villages boasted tall timber houses and even the occasional squarish church.

The river ran deep and fast through the lowlands. At times, the horse teams gave up and the ship took to sail power, endlessly tacking to and fro across the water, making its slow, erratic way towards the mountain lands of the Swiss.

Basel was a university town. I recognised it at once. The cloisters, the bells, students in their gowns running — why do students always run? Of course, there were dozens of booksellers here, too, and after a week Master de Aquila had sold almost all the books he had brought with him and distributed all his contraband books.

‘At a nice profit, too,’ he said. ‘I will keep your father’s percentage of the
Discourse
sales safe for your dowry.’

He’d also managed to buy a dozen more books.

‘No matter,’ he said. ‘I will ship these back to Amsterdam, and ask Paul to send another consignment of our own books on to Venice. We’ll sell them there.’

When it came to it, though, he couldn’t bear to part with most of his new purchases and only a very small package of books that he’d already read was sent off downriver towards home.

In Basel, at last, we left the river and took to the road again. Willem was despatched to find us some new horses and another three ponies for the luggage.

He handed me the reins of a rather despondent-looking grey horse. ‘This is yours.’

‘What’s his name?’ I asked.

‘Who cares?’

‘A horse must have a name,’ I said. ‘I can’t ride him all the way to Venice without being introduced.’

Willem snorted and turned away.

‘It seems you must give him a name,’ said Master de Aquila.

‘Very well.’ I raised my hand over the horse’s forehead. ‘I name thee Innocent.’

Master de Aquila chuckled. ‘I hope you mean it as an honour to the Pope to name a horse after him.’

Willem wasn’t so sure. ‘I think it’s probably blasphemous in some countries,’ he said. ‘Don’t let anyone hear you call him that.’

‘I’m afraid that’s the least of our crimes in many eyes,’ said Master de Aquila.

How right he was.

We fell quickly back into our old pattern of riding and resting, although the roads were rougher here, and much steeper as we wound our way up into the mountains. After a few days on horseback our muscles were accustomed to the work, and we could ride for longer as the days lengthened into summer. We covered greater distances, but it was dreadfully boring.

‘If only I could read in the saddle,’ said Master de Aquila one afternoon.

‘I can’t think of anything worse,’ said Willem.

‘Nonsense!’ said Master de Aquila. ‘It would be good for you. You could learn your letters.’

‘I know enough already.’

‘You have Bible Latin, that’s all. That rabble that passes for clergy in your church has taught you nothing.’

‘They have taught me the Word of God. That is all I need to learn.’

‘Is that what they told you? Nonsense! What would become of the world if that were true? Your hero, Luther, was a great scholar and highly educated, and yet his followers would have you ignorant of the world outside their own. You must know more.’

‘All right,’ said Willem. ‘But only so that I can be a master printer one day.’

‘Indeed, you shall, my boy,’ said Master de Aquila. ‘In the meantime, Isabella can teach you Latin as we ride.’

‘Isabella!’

‘Who better?’

‘It doesn’t seem right, learning Latin from a girl,’ said Willem.

‘Please do talk about me as if I weren’t here,’ I said. ‘I don’t mind.’

They did.

‘You have much to learn, and you must take your lessons wherever you can find them,’ said Master de Aquila. ‘This will fill in the hours for you, and provide endless entertainment for me, I’m sure.’

‘Can’t you teach me, Master?’

‘Isabella’s Latin is much better than mine,’ said our master. ‘So is her temper.’

‘What about Greek?’ asked Willem.

‘Conquer one world at a time, lad,’ said Master de Aquila. He clicked his tongue and his horse headed off along the dusty road.

I trotted after him. ‘
Properatus
,’ I called over my shoulder.

‘What’s that mean?’ said Willem crossly.

‘It means “Hurry up, lazy — the last one to the top of the hill has to look after the horses tonight!”’

Neither of us had to tend to the horses that evening — which was lucky as Willem was still in a foul mood. The inn on top of the mountain provided both stabling and an ostler, who bustled around with brushes and feed and could hardly wait for us to
dismount before he led our weary horses into the warmth. It had been a long day.

Master de Aquila dozed off by the fireplace in the parlour after supper, snoring behind a new book on Africa that he’d bought in Cologne. From the other side of the door came a low hum of voices and the clatter of flung dice. Willem sat brooding for a while, then at last stomped into the bar room for a drink with the other travellers and mountain men.

‘Goodnight,’ I called out as he went.

The tavern noise followed me up the stairs — oh, Lord, how my legs ached — and along the narrow corridor. The candlestick almost slipped from my hand as a chilling gust of wind swept along the hallway. Strange. A door on the left was open a crack — my master’s bedchamber.

I pushed the door open slowly, expecting to find a thief going through his luggage, or perhaps rats scurrying into the corners. Nobody there. The wooden manuscript chest sat on the bed, alongside a pile of books. The precious Hebrew Bible manuscript was open on the table. Master de Aquila hadn’t unpacked, and yet it did feel as if someone had been in here and just left the room; as if someone had flicked through the books, and cast them aside as if they didn’t matter. As if they had tried to open the chest, and failed.

But perhaps not.

I tiptoed across to the bed and lifted the lid of the manuscript chest. It opened easily.

Inside was a large parcel, wrapped in the palest silk. Book-shaped. I lifted it out carefully and laid it on the bedspread. The fabric fell away, as if it had been wrapped too hastily, and there, nestled in the bedclothes, lay the most exquisite book cover I had ever seen.

The leather was unimaginably soft under my fingers. I lifted a corner of the cover gently, slowly, as if I only intended to peek at the edge of the page. Inside, I could see a grand title page and frontispiece — elaborate engravings of the kind only seen in holy texts. I cast a quick glance at the door and listened for footsteps. Nothing. I opened the cover wide. My gasp sounded like a shriek in the silence.

This was no normal book. The title page announced its intention loudly and clearly, should the reader be in any doubt of its significance.

Below it was Master de Aquila’s familiar printer’s mark and publisher imprint.

I leafed quickly through the pages. The book was incomplete — that much was clear — and not yet bound, but those creamy pages contained thousands of words and hundreds of engravings of antiquities, of men and women, beasts and devils. At a glance I could see there were passages from the Old Testament in Latin,
Greek, French and English, and pages in both Arabic and Hebrew; extracts from Herodotus and Cicero; images of the ancient gods of Greece, and modern cities; trees and birds; stars in the sky. There were maps, finely etched, of a world I’d never seen before. Here was Jerusalem, there London; Amsterdam, a dot at the top of the circle that was the earth. No Heaven on this map — no Hell. Just oceans and lands and cities, as if seen by a bird. Or by God.

I held the whole world in my hands. I held a heresy in my hands.

‘Master,’ I whispered, ‘what have you done?’

We should not try to explain the world, that’s what the priests and preachers said, no matter what their doctrine.

‘What have you done?’ The words echoed in the room — this time in my master’s voice.

I slammed the book shut and turned to face the door. He was staring at me with wide eyes as if I were an archangel or a thief — or worse.

‘I have seen it,’ I whispered. ‘I have read it — your almanac. I saw the maps, everything.’

‘Then you know.’ He walked into the centre of the room and turned his face towards the fire. ‘That’s good. I’m tired of secrets. But how did you break open the chest?’

‘It was open.’

‘That’s strange,’ he said. ‘I could have sworn —’

It only took two quick steps for me to reach him, to grab at his hand. ‘What is it? What does it mean?’

‘It means you can help me, that’s all,’ he said gruffly. ‘I’m checking the translations.’

‘Did you write it all?’ I asked. ‘Fra Clement, did he help?’

He shook his head. ‘No, not Clement. He is a lover of books, but not a writer of them. Scholars from all over the world have
contributed to this work — many of them long dead, of course, but it is all here.’

‘All of what?’

‘Besides,’ he went on, as if he hadn’t heard my question, ‘Clement may be a friend but he is also a monk. He is useful to us, and quite prepared to defend the odd errant philosopher, but I would not burden him with knowledge of this. It might test his loyalty more than he or I could bear.’

‘You keep so many secrets, Master.’

‘I’m afraid I must,’ he said. ‘I wish it were not the way of the world, but alas …’

I took hold of his arm and led him to the seat by the fireplace. He sat obediently, but his face wore a look of mischief. I sat on the low stool nearby.

‘Master, if you don’t tell me the whole truth now, I will scream.’

‘Please don’t. I’m tired.’

‘Then I will refuse to help you, and you will have to find that error in the Greek chapter for yourself.’

He sat up straight. ‘What error?’

I shrugged. ‘It’s obvious. I saw it straightaway.’ I made a sad tut-tut noise, to rub salt into the wound. ‘Nasty.’

He sighed. ‘You tease me, child. I see there will be no rest for me tonight until you have the entire story before you.’

I kneeled at his feet. ‘Go on.’

‘No interrupting.’

‘But —’

He raised one eyebrow. That’s all it takes sometimes.

‘All right. I promise not to interrupt if you promise not to take forever to tell me.’

He settled back in his chair. ‘It’s a brief story, don’t worry.
Young people nowadays — you just don’t appreciate the thrill of a good story. For you, everything must be immediate.’

‘And so?’

‘Imagine if you had the chance to sit at the feet of Moses after he’d come down from the mountain. Would you interrupt him?’

‘Possibly,’ I said. ‘There are a few things I’ve always wanted to ask him.’

He patted my hand. ‘Why I put up with you, I just don’t know.’

‘It must be my brilliant mind. Stop changing the subject.’

‘Very well. I will begin.’ He breathed so deeply through his mouth that his beard fluttered. ‘I have lived in many cities,’ he said. ‘I have travelled through many lands, and met many learned men — and even women —’

‘Is this going to be a parable?’ I asked.

‘Pay attention,’ he barked. ‘No interrupting. You promised, and you broke your vow after only a dozen words.’

‘I’m sorry. Go on.’

‘Where was I?’

‘Travelling.’

‘Ah, yes. There are so many fine minds in the world, learning and teaching so many great things. I spoke to an abbot in Canterbury who told me the meaning of the comets in the night sky. I heard a rabbi, many years ago now, asking questions about how to live a good life in an evil land. I saw the marbles of Athens and Rome. I sailed the seas, and even I, who am not a sailor, could tell that the land and the oceans were not as they are painted on the maps. If you, child, had seen all the places, all the libraries, all the people I have seen, you, too, would do as I have done.’

He paused.

‘What is it that you’ve done, Master?’

‘I have collected it all in one book, that’s all. All the interesting things in the world — all in one book — two volumes, of course, but one collection of mysteries and ideas and images. In this book, you can read the greatest words ever written by man or God, in many languages, and of many faiths and many times. You see? That is what I have done — compressed the universe between two layers of calfskin.’

He lifted the manuscript carefully, placed it on the rough wooden table underneath the window, and opened it at a page he had marked. ‘Now, where was that error you mentioned?’

A sudden thought struck me. ‘Who is that man in the attic? He’s part of this, isn’t he?’

Master de Aquila nodded, still squinting down at the sheaf of paper. ‘I lied to you, God help me. He’s not a translator.’

‘Well, I know that,’ I said. ‘He can barely speak English at all.’

He allowed himself the tiniest smile. ‘He’s a friend.’

‘A Jew? Is that why he’s hiding?’

‘No. What does it matter?’

‘He could be anyone, living under our roof.’

‘It’s my roof. I will place it over whomever I choose. Even pesky girls.’

‘Tell me! Is he a fugitive? One of those runaway Spanish priests?’