‘Giordano Bruno! Come in, come in. What’s happened, man? You look as if you’ve seen the Devil himself.’ Charlewood flung open the door of his lodgings, took in my appearance with one practised glance, and gestured for me to come inside. ‘Here – I will have the housekeeper bring us something to drink. Are you in trouble?’
I waved his question aside; he called down the corridor while I went through into his front parlour and began the task of unpacking my manuscript from its satchel and linen wrappings.
‘Well?’ He followed me in, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. ‘Is the masterpiece finally ready? We don’t want to keep Her Majesty waiting, do we?’ He grinned, stroking his pointed beard.
What I liked most about Charlewood was not his willingness to print and distribute books of radical and potentially inflammatory ideas, nor that he was well travelled, spoke several languages and had a much broader mind than many of the Englishmen I had met; it was the fact that he was an unapologetic rogue. A slightly built man of about forty-five, with reddish hair and mischievous eyes, Charlewood so crackled with restless energy that he seemed barely able to stand still for five minutes together, and was constantly picking, fiddling, hopping from one foot to another, tugging at his sleeves or his beard or the little gold ring he wore in his right ear. He cared nothing for what was said about him and he was as unscrupulous as the business required; more than once he had been in trouble for printing illegal copies of books to which he had no licence, and he was happy to dress up any book with invented credentials if he thought it would help the sales. But to his authors he was always loyal, and he was fiercely opposed to any censorship of books; on that point, we agreed wholeheartedly. His latest innovation was to publish works by Italian authors for what was still a small but elite aristocratic readership in England. I had been introduced to him by my friend Sir Philip Sidney, the unofficial leader of the little group of liberal-minded intellectuals at Queen Elizabeth’s court who gathered to read one another’s poetry and discuss ideas that many would regard as unorthodox or even dangerous. It was Sidney who had told Charlewood that the Queen was interested in reading my work-in-progress; naturally the printer saw an opportunity for his own advancement and had gone so far as to create a fictitious Venetian imprint to add authenticity. Queen Elizabeth was fluent in Italian, as she was in many of the languages of Europe, and was reported to possess a formidable intellect and an unusual appetite for new and experimental ideas in science and philosophy, but even her broad mind might baulk at the audacity of my latest work. I looked at the carefully written pages in my hands and wondered if Charlewood really had any idea of what he was undertaking.
Laying aside the linen cloth that had wrapped the manuscript, I handed him the bundle, bound with a silk tie. He accepted it reverently, smoothing the topmost page with the palm of his hand.
‘La Cena de le Ceneri. The Ash-Wednesday Supper.’ He looked up, his brow furrowed. ‘We might need to work on the title, Bruno. Make it a little more …’ He waved his fingers vaguely in a circular motion.
‘That is the work’s title,’ I said firmly.
He grinned again, but did not concede anything.
‘And will it be wildly controversial? Will it set the cat among the pigeons in the academies?’
‘You are hoping the answer will be “yes”, I can see,’ I said, smiling.
‘Well, of course,’ he said, loosening the tie that held the pages. ‘People love the thought that they are reading something the authorities would rather they didn’t see. On the other hand, a royal endorsement …’
‘She has not said she will endorse it,’ I said, quickly. ‘She has only expressed an interest in reading it. And she doesn’t yet know of its contents.’
‘But she must know of you by reputation, Bruno. The whispers that followed you from Paris …’ His eyes glinted.
‘And what whispers are those, John?’ I asked, feigning innocence, though I knew perfectly well what he was talking about.
‘That you dabble in magic. That you are neither Catholic nor Protestant, but have invented your own religion based on the ancient wisdom of the Egyptians.’
‘Well, I have been excommunicated by the Catholic Church and imprisoned by the Calvinists, so I suppose that much is true. But it would take a man of extraordinary arrogance to dream of creating his own religion, would it not?’ I raised an eyebrow. One corner of his mouth curved into a smile.
‘That is why I can believe it of you, Bruno,’ he said, giving me a long look from under his brows. He tapped the pages with the back of his hand. ‘I will take this with me to Suffolk to read over the next few weeks. There will be no business done in London anyway until this blasted heat abates and the plague threat is over. But come the autumn, we will produce a book that will cause the biggest stir in Europe since the Pole Copernicus dared to suggest the Earth is not the centre of God’s creation. Let us hope no one else is assassinated in the meantime to steal its thunder. Agreed?’
He held out his hand and I shook it in the English fashion. The door creaked open and his housekeeper appeared, head lowered, carrying a tray with an earthenware pitcher and two wooden cups, which she placed on the oak dresser that stood against the back wall of the room. Charlewood laid my manuscript on a stool and crossed to the dresser.
‘Here, Bruno.’ He poured a cup of small beer and passed it to me. ‘This weather, the dust sticks in your throat, does it not? It is a little early for good wine, but let us drink to a successful partnership. The manuscript is not your only copy, I trust?’
‘No.’ I took a welcome sip of beer. Though warm, it was at least fresh-tasting. ‘I made another which I have locked up at home.’
‘Good. Keep it safe. I will guard this with my life, but with so many travelling out of London at this time, there are plenty of cutpurses and bandits on the roads. You do not mean to stay in London, do you?’
‘The Ambassador would like to move the household near to the court if he can find somewhere. I am in no hurry to leave.’ I shrugged. ‘I see no evidence of plague.’
Charlewood shook his head.
‘By the time you’ve seen the evidence, it’s too late. Take my advice – get out of the city. We cannot have you struck down at – what age are you now?’
‘Thirty-six.’
‘Well, then. You want to be alive to present this book to the Queen in person, don’t you? And the next one, and the next. A dead author is no use to me.’
I laughed, but my mind flashed back to that stone rolling in the dust at my feet and the unseen presence that had been haunting my steps for the past days. If my pursuer had his way, I would be lucky to see the autumn, plague or no plague.
I left Charlewood’s house with a lighter heart, encouraged by his enthusiasm. The streets around the Barbican were still unusually empty, the sun overhead bleaching colour from the red-brick houses that lined the roads. Behind the rows of chimney stacks, the sky was a deep cloudless cobalt, almost as blue as the skies I remembered from childhood over the village of Nola, at the foot of Monte Cicada. I had not known England was capable of such a sky. My shirt stuck to my back with sweat and I loosened the lacing of it at the collar as I walked, glad that I had always avoided the English fashion for wide starched neck-ruffs; the young dandies at court must be desperately uncomfortable in this heat.
As I crossed Aldersgate Street and was about to turn into Long Lane, I sensed it again: a flicker of a shadow, the merest hint of a sound. I spun around, hand to my knife, and for the first time I caught a glimpse of him, perhaps fifty yards away, just before he