Heresy (44 page)

At last I was left alone with Jenkes, who removed his hood, and the tall, solid figure of Humphrey Pritchard, who began to busy himself tidying the room and putting away the trappings of the ceremony. He left the altar candles, now burning lower and with feeble light. Jenkes looked at me appraisingly.

“So, to business,” he said softly. “Please, take off your cloak. You are among friends now. Did you bring your purse, Doctor Bruno?”

I lowered my hood and held his gaze steadily. “Did you bring the book, Master Jenkes?”

His ruined face cracked slowly into a smile. “The book. First tell me what you are willing to pay for this manuscript?”

“I would need to see it first,” I said, evenly. “What do you ask for it?”

“That is a difficult question, Bruno. For the worth of an object—any object—depends wholly on another’s desire for it, does it not? This book, for instance. I have only met one other man who wanted it as much as you appear to, and he was willing to pay me a great deal. More, perhaps, than you carry in your bulging purse.” He eyed my doublet, a hungry glint in his eye.

“Who?” I asked, a cold fear spreading through my stomach. “You didn’t sell it?”

At that moment, the door opened; I started, but it was only William Bernard, no longer wearing his vestments but dressed again in his shabby academic’s gown and a thin cloak, his hands clasped behind his back.

“I was just telling Doctor Bruno of the man who wanted to buy the Greek manuscript from Dean Flemyng’s collection—the one you saved from the purge of ’69,” Jenkes informed him. Bernard nodded slowly.

“I discovered the manuscript buried in an old chest when I first became librarian of Lincoln,” Bernard explained. “My predecessor had been either
unable to read it or unaware of what it was, but I recognised it immediately and understood that in the right hands it could be extremely valuable—and extremely dangerous.”

“So you stole it?” I asked.

Bernard frowned. “I did no such thing. The college took an annual inventory of the library’s collection—any disappearance would have been noticed. But the Lord provides to those who keep the faith—in 1569 the king’s visitors carried out a purge of the college libraries, as you know, and in their haste to remove offending items it was a simple matter to spirit away some of the unwanted manuscripts. I had already told Rowland that I had found the lost writings of Hermes Trismegistus, the book Ficino refused to translate because he would not be responsible for the consequences to Christendom. I am not sure he believed me until I was able to place it into his hands, though.”

Jenkes held up a hand as if to absolve himself. “As soon as I read the book, I did not doubt it could be genuine,” he said. “This was the book Cosimo de’ Medici had paid a fortune to have fetched from the ruins of Byzantium, yet he never got to read it. I knew there was one man who would pay me whatever I demanded to have this book in his library.”

“You may know him,” Bernard said slyly, “for he was tutor to your great friend Philip Sidney. I speak of the sorcerer John Dee, astrologer to the heretic bastard Elizabeth.”

“Then”—I looked from one to the other, my hopes collapsing as I spoke—“then John Dee has the book? You sold it to him?”

“No, and yes,” Jenkes said, stepping forward with his palms spread wide to demonstrate his helplessness in the matter. “I sold him the book for a very large sum—we had exchanged letters and Dee travelled to Oxford personally to make the transaction. But there was an unfortunate intervention—either by Providence or some other power.”

“What do you mean?” I was impatient now, and tiring of this game of cat and mouse. From the corner of my eye I could see Humphrey Pritchard lolling
against the wall by the blacked-out window, picking bits of communion wafer from his teeth. I wondered, with a sense of apprehension, why he was still there, watching us with detached curiosity, and why Jenkes and Bernard did not object to his presence.

“On the road back to London, Dee was set upon by highwaymen and most brutally assaulted. He was fortunate to escape with his life, but his possessions were all stolen, including the manuscript he carried.”

Jenkes related this with perfect unconcern; at the same time he gave an almost imperceptible flick of his fingers and Humphrey moved away from the window toward us.

“And this was your doing?” I asked, turning to keep Humphrey in my sight. “Did you have the manuscript recovered?”

“I?” Jenkes affected affront. “You think me capable of such underhanded dealings, Bruno? I assure you, I am nothing but honest in my business affairs, nor am I such a fool as to make an enemy of one so close to the queen’s favourites.” He gave me an odd look as he said this, then exchanged a glance with Bernard. “No—it appeared that Doctor Dee was not the only person with an interest in the subject, who was prepared to obtain the manuscript at any cost.”

“Then where is it now?” I demanded, snapping around to face him. “If you do not have it, why this charade of asking me to bring my purse?” But even as I spoke, the knowledge of what was to come spread through my veins like icy water; I whipped around toward Humphrey but I was not fast enough and he had both my arms pinioned behind me before I could duck away from his grasp. In the same instant, it seemed, Jenkes had lunged forward and snatched the silver-handed knife from my belt; with its tip pressed to the base of my throat, he reached inside my doublet, first one side and then the other, until he found Walsingham’s purse. Bringing it into the light, he threw it casually in the air and caught it again with his free hand, testing its weight. Bernard simply stood and watched with his arms still hidden behind his back and his face impassive.

“Cry out and I will slit your gizzard like a pig before the sound has left your throat,” Jenkes hissed, pressing the knife in closer.

“It was all a lie, then?” I asked through gritted teeth, as I struggled uselessly against Humphrey Pritchard’s iron embrace. “The story about the book?”

“Oh, no.” Jenkes looked almost hurt. “The story is true in every particular, Bruno. The book was stolen from Dee by one who must have known he was carrying it—but whoever attacked him was not in my employ, and I do not believe Dee ever found out where it was taken, or why. That is no longer my concern. No, I have not lied to you, Doctor Bruno. But I do not think you can say the same.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said, panic rising in my voice as the tip of Jenkes’s knife pricked against my skin. “In what do you think I have lied?”

“Where did you get this money?” he hissed, holding up the purse and shaking it, all traces of his unctuous politeness vanished. “How does an exiled, itinerant writer come to Oxford with a purse this full, I ask myself? Who pays you?”

“I have a stipend from King Henri of France,” I spat, still trying to wrest my arms free; Humphrey only pulled them tighter behind me, and I realised that all I would achieve in struggling would be to dislocate my own shoulders. I stopped moving and slumped forward, still holding Jenkes’s stare. “I travel under his patronage—anyone will tell you that.”

“You travel with Sir Philip Sidney, who has the patronage of his uncle, Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, lover of the whore Elizabeth. And Dudley’s whole interest, like that of all the Privy Council, lies in ridding Oxford of those who remain loyal to the pope, whom you are charged with rooting out for him like a pig after truffles. Is it not so?” He stepped closer to me and raised his elbow, so that I had to force my head as far back as I could to keep the knife from piercing my throat.

“I know nothing of the earl’s interests—I have never laid eyes on him!” I croaked, a sharp pain shooting down the side of my neck from the strain.

“You dissemble well, Bruno—I expected as much. It must be an exceptional man who can keep ahead of the Inquisition for seven years. But you do not fool me. You are a schismatic and a heretic and you seek to prosper and revenge yourself on the Catholic church by betraying those who keep the faith you scorned.”

“You have no reason to think so,” I protested, genuinely alarmed now by the fierce light in Jenkes’s eyes. “On what grounds do you accuse me?”

“On what grounds?” He gave a short, hacking laugh and took a step back, relaxing his arm, though he did not lower the knife from my throat. “What—apart from your intimacy with Sidney and the money you use to bribe your informers? Explain for me, then, your interest in the deaths at Lincoln College. For whose sake do you concern yourself so diligently with finding the killer?”

“What informers?” I lurched forward again unintentionally and felt something pull sharply in my shoulder as Humphrey wrenched my arms back tighter. “I was not convinced by the account of Doctor Mercer’s death, that is all—I thought others might be in danger if the killer was not found. Which proved to be the case,” I added pointedly.

“What touching charity,” Jenkes said, almost without opening his lips. “Well, then, let us try another question. Why did you invite Thomas Allen to eat with you?”

My face must have betrayed my surprise, because he smiled thinly and tilted his head to one side.

“Have you never observed, Bruno, how a blind man can develop the hearing of a dog, to compensate for his lost faculty? Just so I, who have no ears, make up for my loss by having many eyes, that see into every corner.” He laughed drily at this, as if he had rehearsed it earlier and found it pleasing. When I failed to show my appreciation, he lunged again, needling the knife tip in closer. “What were you asking Allen? What did he tell you?”

“He told me nothing of any worth,” I panted, trying to twist my neck
away from the point of the blade. “He talked of his studies, his worries about girls—the trivia of a young man’s mind only.”

“Do not lie to me again, Bruno,” Jenkes said through his teeth, his voice calm and cold. “You deliberately sought out the one man in Oxford who wants to see us all destroyed.” Then he jerked the knife swiftly to one side and there was a moment’s pause before a searing pain shot up my neck and he held up the knife to my eye level, its blade stained crimson. “Look how you tremble to see your own blood. It’s but a nick,” he said dismissively. “You’ve had worse shaving. But see how you bleed, even from a little cut. Think how your blood will stain the ground when I cut your neck right across.”

I closed my eyes, my mind spinning wildly as I tried to think of ways I might try to escape. None came obviously to mind.

“If Thomas Allen wishes to destroy your group, why would he not report what he knows?”

“Ah.” Jenkes studied me for a moment. “I see there is much you do not yet know, Bruno. It is not that simple. He cannot do it himself. But I cannot let you pass on whatever he has told you about us.”

“If you mean to kill me, then,” I said, keeping my voice as even as I could manage, “at least tell me why you killed those men at Lincoln. Satisfy that curiosity for me.”

Jenkes frowned, then looked over at Bernard as if for approval.

“What a strange last request, Bruno. And one I cannot satisfy, for I did not kill Mercer and Coverdale, nor the boy, and I do not know for certain who did. I am as curious to find the answer as you are.”

“Then why do you wish to prevent anyone finding out? They came here for Mass, did they not? Coverdale and Mercer—they were part of your group. Do you not care that they have been violently killed, and more of you may be in danger?” I asked, looking from one to the other in confusion, the cut in my throat now stinging fiercely.

“Their deaths have provoked too many questions,” Bernard said, in the same clear, solemn tone with which he had pronounced the Mass. “Oxford men would know well enough to leave those questions unanswered, but you are not an Oxford man and your insistence on ferreting out the truth would expose us all in the end. I’m sorry to say that your curiosity has been the undoing of you.”

He sounded genuinely sorrowful as he said this. For a moment I felt the room spin; my heart seemed to have stopped beating and I lost all sensation in my arms and legs as I realised without any doubt that they did mean to kill me and that it was quite possible I would not be able to talk my way out of it. My bowel gave a spasm at the same time, but I tensed every muscle and brought it under control. I would at least not shame myself that way.

“But,” I gasped, battling to catch my ragged breaths, “then this killer is
your
enemy—it is he who is causing these questions to be asked! He scrawled the sign of the Catherine Wheel on the wall in Coverdale’s blood—it is as if he wants to point the finger at you and your group, while it is your people he is killing! Surely, then, it can only help you if I try to find him?”

A sharp look passed between them at the mention of the symbol; Bernard’s face hardened into knowing anger and Jenkes seemed rattled for the first time since he had turned on me.

“Say that again,” he hissed, forcing the knife into the tender skin of the cut he had made so that I yelped in pain and bit my lip to stop myself crying out. Bernard took a step closer and shook his head almost imperceptibly; Jenkes withdrew the knife a very little. “On the wall, you say? How many people saw this?”

“Apart from me, only Rector Underhill and the bursar, Slythurst,” I said, almost in a whisper. “The rector had it removed before the coroner arrived.”

“Good.” Bernard nodded almost to himself. “Well, then, Rowland, let us get this thing done and be on our way, or we shall risk being seen.”

“No, wait!” I cried, as quietly as I could. “I can help you find him if you
let me go back to college and continue my search. Come—we are on the same side.”

Jenkes laughed abruptly. “We are not on the same side, Bruno,” he replied. “Do you not see? You think you are hunting this killer down but all the time he is using you to betray us. He wants to lead you to us, to make you connect the deaths to us and probe into the secrets of our network, so that you can take the knowledge back to Sidney and your friends in London and think it was your own conclusion.”

“You speak as if you know who he is,” I said, feeling that if I could only keep him talking I might deter him from the course of action he had decided. But Jenkes, it seemed, was tired of talking; he nodded at Bernard, who finally drew his hands out from behind his back to reveal a length of thin cord.