‘Once again, it behoves me to say that I do not think our eminent guest has travelled all the way here to listen to us griping about college matters,’ Slythurst interrupted in a voice smooth as ice. He tucked a limp strand of hair behind his ear and turned to me, smiling with his teeth. ‘Tell us, Doctor Bruno, something of your travels in Europe. I understand you have taught at many of the famous academies across the continent. How do you find Oxford by comparison?’
Returning his smile with equal insincerity, for the remainder of that course, and the almond custard and jellied fruits that followed, I told them of my wandering years as the candles burned lower, leaving out what I thought politic and subtly flattering my new companions with what they wanted to hear – namely, that none of the European universities could hold a candle to the great scholarship and wisdom of the men of Oxford.
‘How long do you stay in Oxford, Doctor Bruno?’ asked Coverdale, sitting back in his chair and wiping his lips as the servants cleared away the last plates and cups.
‘I believe the palatine, in whose party I travel, intends to stay a week,’ I said.
‘Then I hope you will attend chapel with us here in the college. The rector is delivering a most erudite series of sermons on John Foxe’s Acts and Monuments, are you familiar with it?’
‘The Book of Martyrs? Naturally,’ I replied, suspecting that this was some sort of test. ‘Many consider it a most inspiring work.’
‘Doctor Bruno is not genuine in his admiration, I fear,’ said Slythurst, glancing from me to his colleagues. ‘I never met a Catholic yet who admired Foxe’s dreadful accounts of what was done to the Protestant martyrs.’
‘Does he not also give many examples of Christian martyrs from the earliest centuries of the faith, when Christians suffered at the hands of pagans and unbelievers, before we began persecuting one another?’ I replied. ‘And are these not martyrs whom all Christians may honour, and whose sufferings may remind us of a time when we lived in unity?’
‘That was not Foxe’s intention,’ Slythurst began, but Coverdale interrupted.
‘Well said, Bruno. Believers on both sides have suffered for Christ, and only He knows who shall stand with Him at the Last Judgement.’
‘That is the first time I have ever heard you advocate tolerance, James,’ Slythurst said, his eyes narrowing even further. Coverdale ignored the provocation.
‘Let us have some more wine here, ho!’ he cried to a serving boy, clapping his hands. I declined another glass, for I wanted to reflect on my notes for the disputation before I went to bed and needed to keep a clear head.
By the time the meal was over, it was fully dark outside the windows and the guests all rose, taking their leave with much handshaking and compliments to the rector on the food, which I understood had been greatly superior to the usual fare of the college hall supper. The Fellows all shook my hand warmly, repeating their welcome to Oxford and wishing me a good night’s rest in anticipation of the great disputation the following day, which they were all, they said, much looking forward to. Richard Godwyn invited me to make use of the library whenever I chose, for which I thanked him, John Florio expressed in perfect Italian his eager hopes that we might spend some time together before I left, and even Doctor Bernard rose unsteadily and clasped my fingers between his two bony hands.
‘Tomorrow night, Sorcerer,’ he hissed, with a toothless grin, ‘you will contradict their pious certainties, and I shall be there in the front row applauding you. Not because I support your heretical notions, but because I admire men who are not afraid. There are too few left in this place.’
Here he glanced pointedly at the rector, who affected not to notice. Only Slythurst did not trouble himself to express a welcome; he merely acknowledged me with a curt nod as he disappeared through the doorway, and only then because I caught him looking at me with those cold eyes. I felt again his dislike of me, though I tried not to view it as a personal slight; I noticed that he left without saying goodnight to his colleagues either, and surmised that he was one of those men, common enough among academics, who was simply not blessed with an easy social manner.
When I said goodnight to Sophia, she extended her hand demurely and I kissed it respectfully under her father’s watchful eye, but he was then distracted by Doctor Bernard loudly fretting about where he had left his coat, and while the rector was reassuring Bernard that he had not brought any coat, Sophia leaned close to me and laid a hand on my arm.
‘Doctor Bruno, I should very much like to continue our earlier conversation – you remember? The book of Agrippa? Perhaps when the disputation is over, you may have more leisure to talk. I can often be found in the college library,’ she added. ‘My father allows me to read there in the mornings and the early evenings, when most of the scholars are attending lectures and disputations.’
‘So that you do not distract them from their books?’ I whispered back. She blushed, and gave me a knowing smile.
‘But you will come? There is much I would ask you.’
She looked up at me with a surprising urgency in her eyes, her hand lingering on my arm; I nodded briefly as her father appeared at her shoulder and looked at me enquiringly. I shook his hand, thanked him for the meal and bade the company good night.
I was glad to emerge into the cool of the passageway; the rain had stopped and the night air smelled fresh and inviting after the heavy warmth of the rector’s lodgings. I thought I might walk in the orchard garden to clear my head and digest before retiring, but before I reached the end of the passageway I realised that the iron gate had been closed. When I tried the ring set as a handle, I found it was firmly locked.
‘Doctor Bruno!’ called a voice behind me, and I turned to see Roger Mercer standing at the other end of the passage, by the rector’s door. He took a few paces towards me. ‘You wished to take a turn in the Grove?’ He gestured towards the closed gate.
‘Is this not permitted?’
‘The Grove is for the use of the Fellows only,’ he said, ‘and only we and the rector have keys. It is kept locked at night, for fear the undergraduates would make use of it for all manner of improper trysts. No doubt they find alternative places, if they can slip past the main gate,’ he added with an indulgent smile.
‘They are not allowed out of the college at night?’ I asked. ‘That does seem a hard confinement on men in the prime of youth.’
‘It is meant to teach them self-discipline,’ Mercer said. ‘Most of them find ways around the rules, though – I know I did at their age.’ He chuckled. ‘Cobbett the porter is a good old man, he’s been here for years, but he is willing to look the other way for a few coins if the young ones come back from town after the gates are locked. He likes a drink, too, Cobbett – sometimes I think he conveniently forgets to lock the gate altogether.’
‘Does the rector not discipline him?’
‘The rector is severe in some matters, but in others he shows a shrewd understanding of how best to manage a community of young men. A rod of iron is not always the wisest course – sometimes good leadership is a matter of knowing when to turn a blind eye. Young men will go to taverns and whorehouses whether we like it or no, and the greater the force used in prohibition, the greater the allure.’
‘As Doctor Bernard said about forbidden books,’ I mused.
Mercer glanced at me sideways as we emerged from the other end of the passage into the open courtyard, where the clock on the north range proclaimed the hour to be almost nine.
‘You must excuse Doctor Bernard some of his harshness,’ he said, apologetically. ‘He has had to change his religion three times under four different sovereigns. He was ordained priest in his youth, you know, before the queen’s father broke with Rome. But he grows more and more outspoken of late, and I begin to suspect