Stephanie Merritt: Conspiracy

I turned it over. The seal on the thick wax showed the two crossed keys and crown of the Papal insignia. I felt a cold punch of dread to the stomach; even now, the symbols of the Church’s authority could leave me mute with fear.

Doctor Giordano Bruno , it began, in the neat hand of an Italian clerk.

Before his untimely death, Père Paul Lefèvre wrote to me on your behalf to convey your penitence with regard to the events that led to your excommunication, namely your abandoning holy orders without permission and your many heretical writings, together with your wish to be reconciled in humility and obedience to Holy Mother Church. I have, accordingly, written to Rome to acquaint His Holiness with your desire and I ask you to call on me so that we may speak further on this matter.

I have also informed the Catholic League in Paris that, while your excommunication is under review, your safety is Rome’s concern and until His Holiness has considered your situation, you must be regarded as a penitent and not an enemy.

It was signed Girolamo Ragazzoni , with a flourish. I allowed my breath to escape slowly. For all his self-righteousness, Paul had kept his word. I did not like the part about humility and obedience, but it had at least bought me a temporary reprieve from Guise, or so I hoped.

‘I wouldn’t expect too much, if I were you,’ Paget said, with a wolfish smile. ‘Ragazzoni’s already been recalled to Rome.’

‘What? Why?’

‘He was appointed by the last Pope. Now the new Pontiff is having a clean sweep, replacing all his legates in Europe. He’s a much less forgiving man, Pope Sixtus, in matters of religious orthodoxy. I doubt Ragazzoni will have much clout with him.’

‘Then I will have to pray hard.’

‘Yes. That would be wise.’ He made no move to leave, his eyes shining dangerously. I was still holding the dagger. One lunge, I thought; he appeared to be unarmed. One stroke and I could incapacitate most of the plots against England and Queen Elizabeth; without Paget they would all collapse, at least for the near future. We watched one another in the leaping candlelight, that smile still playing around his lips as if he knew exactly what I was thinking.

I sheathed the knife. I could not kill a man in cold blood, and in any case I would be signing my own death warrant; no Vatican emissaries would protect me from Guise’s revenge if I did that.

‘You would have let Guise kill me that night, wouldn’t you?’ I said through my teeth.

‘I couldn’t have stopped him, if that’s what you mean,’ he said frankly. ‘I’m rather pleased you escaped, though. I begin to think Paris would be terribly dull without you, Bruno.’

We both turned at the sound of thundering footsteps on the stairs outside, followed by a hammering on the door.

‘You all right, sir?’ Simon called from outside. ‘Is someone there?’

‘Oh look, your dancing bear has woken. Did you pull on his chain?’

I opened the door. Simon’s jaw dropped when he saw Paget.

‘How the fuck did he get in here? I was by the door the whole time.’ He seemed to take the intrusion as a personal affront. It was the most words I had ever heard him speak in one go.

‘Master Paget was just leaving,’ I said. ‘Show him out, would you, Simon?’

Paget turned halfway down the stairs. ‘I shall see you soon, Bruno,’ he said. ‘Be sure of it.’

‘Not if I see you first,’ Simon replied, with grim resolve, giving him a little nudge in the back with the handle of his sword. I would not wish to understate the pleasure it gave me to see Paget stumble and miss his step, all his poise forgotten as he hurried for the door.

As soon as I heard the front door slam behind him, I locked myself into my room and stood on a chair to check my secret cavity above the rafters. Relief washed through me as I examined each bundle of papers and found nothing missing or apparently disturbed. The book was still where I had left it, wrapped in its velvet cloth, though I knew I needed to find a safer home for it, away from damp or mice or prying eyes and quick fingers. The fact that Paget had broken in so easily once meant he would do it again; though I was sure he was looking for copies of ciphers or letters that might be of interest to Guise, he would not fail to realise that the very act of hiding the book away in the rafters proclaimed that it was either illegal or valuable, or both. I thought of Berden’s advice and wondered if it would be safer hidden in plain sight, among the other volumes on my shelves, where its worn calfskin binding would not catch anyone’s eye.

I sat on the bed and opened it in my lap. This book had been brought to Italy out of the ruins of Byzantium in the last century by a monk working for Cosimo de Medici, who had commissioned a translation into Latin by the great philosopher Marsilio Ficino. I had searched for it in Oxford; found it, lost it, tracked it down to Canterbury, lost it again and now I could hardly believe I held it in my hands. People had murdered for this book. This was a copy of Ficino’s translation of the fifteenth and final volume of the writings of the ancient Egyptian sage and magician Hermes Trismegistus, the only one of his works as yet unknown. I had been told by an old Venetian bookseller, for whom the book was no more than a legend, that when Ficino read the manuscript, he feared that the secret knowledge it contained was so dangerous he could not make it public, in case it should fall into the wrong hands. Instead he had translated it into a cipher no one but initiates could read.

I had drawn on the writings of Hermes in creating my memory system, but this was the book that had eluded me. It was supposed to contain the secret of man’s divine origin, together with the knowledge that would allow him to regain that divinity. Some said it contained a magic that would bestow the secret of immortality. I could not credit that, but I did believe that the secrets locked within its cryptic pages must be powerful enough to threaten the established church, for why else would it have been suppressed, and sought for over a century by men who pursued occult knowledge? My friend John Dee had once been in possession of this book for less than a day when he was beaten almost to death by hired thieves, who had stolen it for a rival.

Although I had assured Catherine that I had the skills to break the cipher, I was growing less sure now that I was able to examine the book more closely. The more I considered it, the more convinced I became that I would not be able to solve this mystery without Dee’s help. I had two clear choices before me, it seemed: the lonely life of a university teacher in Paris, with a steady income but excluded from the world of the court, and always looking over my shoulder for the blade of Guise or Paget flashing in a dark street – or the future I had proposed to Sophia, albeit without her. I could travel to Prague, find Dee, offer my services to the Emperor Rudolf with this book as my means of introduction; no other ruler in Europe would recognise its value as he would, or so I had been led to believe. Sophia was right; there was no guarantee of a place for me there, but at least there was a hope, and perhaps that was enough.

I held the book to my chest and walked to the window. All the lights were out, across the city; I could distinguish nothing except the faint white rise and fall of the snow-covered rooftops stretching out into the black distance. Maybe my future lay beyond these streets now, I thought. Perhaps this book would open the door to a new chapter in my life – one that would make it worthwhile to leave everything behind once again. Perhaps another journey would bring me one step closer to home.