He threw his head back and laughed openly; the sound must have rattled around the high arches, leading any penitents to wonder what kind of confession was taking place here. ‘Enfin! The great free thinker Giordano Bruno finds he cannot survive without the support of Rome.’
‘It’s unbecoming to see a man of God gloating so openly, Paul. Can you help me or not?’
‘Me? I am a mere parish priest, Bruno.’ The false humility grated. ‘Only the Pope has the power to restore you to the embrace of the Church.’
‘I know that.’ I tried to curb my impatience. ‘But with your connections, I thought perhaps you could secure me an audience with the Papal nuncio in Paris. I hear he is a man of learning and more tolerant than many in Rome.’
The fabric of his robe whispered as he crossed and uncrossed his legs.
‘I will consider what may be done for you,’ he said, after some thought, as if this in itself were a great concession. ‘But my connections would want some reassurance that their intercession was not in vain. You would need to show public contrition for your heresies and a little more obvious piety. Come to Mass here this Sunday. I am preparing a sermon that will shake Paris to its foundations.’
‘Now how could I miss that?’ I stopped; forced myself to sound more tractable. ‘And if I show my face – you will speak for me?’
‘One step at a time, Bruno.’
He could not quite disguise the preening in his voice. It would have been satisfying to remind him then of the many occasions I had bested him in public debate when we were both Readers at the University of Paris, but I had too much need of his help. How he must be enjoying this small power. The boards creaked again as he stood to leave.
‘Where will I find you?’ he asked, his back to me.
I hesitated. ‘The library at the Abbey of Saint-Victor. I take refuge there most days.’
‘Writing another heretical book?’
‘That would depend on who is reading it.’
‘Ha. Good luck finding a printer. As I say – you will find Paris greatly changed.’ He lifted the latch; the door swung open with a soft complaint. ‘And – Bruno?’
‘Yes?’
‘I know it does not come naturally to you, but try a little humility. You may have enjoyed the King’s favour once, but that means nothing now. I wouldn’t go about proclaiming your sins with such relish, if I were you.’
‘Oh, I only do that in the sanctity of the confessional. Father.’
‘And you only do that once in nine years, apparently.’
His laughter grew faint as he walked away, though whether it was indulgent or scornful was hard to tell. I sat alone in the closeted shadows until the tap of his heels on the flagstones had faded completely, before stepping into the chilly hush of Saint-Séverin.
I did not know then that this would be the last time I spoke to Père Paul Lefèvre. Within a week of our meeting, he had been murdered.
PART ONE
ONE
They found him face down in the Seine at dusk on November 26th, two bargemen on their way home after the day’s markets. The currents had washed him into the shallows of the small channel that ran south from the shore of the Left Bank along the line of the city wall, close to the Abbey of Saint-Victor; near enough that, being outside the wall and since he was wearing a black cassock that billowed around him in the murky water, the boatmen turned first to the friars, thinking he was one of theirs. It was only when they hauled him out of the river that they realised he was not quite dead, despite the gaping wound on his temple and the blood that covered his face.
I was reading in my usual alcove in the library that evening, a Tuesday, two days after Paul preached the sermon he had promised all Paris would remember, when a young friar flung open the door and cast his eyes about the room in a state of agitation. I watched him exchange a few urgent words in a low voice with Cotin, the librarian. They were both looking at me as they spoke; Cotin’s jaw was set tight, his eyes apprehensive. My presence in the library was not entirely official.
‘You are Bruno?’ The young man strode down the aisle between the bookcases, his face flushed. When I nodded, half-rising, he turned sharply, beckoning me to follow. ‘You must come with me.’
I obeyed. I was their guest; how could I refuse? He led me at a brisk trot across the main cloister, his habit flapping around his legs. Though it was not much past four in the afternoon, the lamps had already been lit in the recesses of the arcades; moths panicked around them and the passages retreated into shadow between the pools of light. I followed the boy through an archway and across another courtyard, wondering at the nature of this summons. I had done nothing to attract unwelcome attention since I arrived in Paris two months ago, or so I believed; I had barely seen any of my previous acquaintance, save Jacopo Corbinelli, keeper of the King’s library. At the thought of him my heart lifted briefly: perhaps this was the long-awaited message from King Henri? But the young man’s evident anxiety hardly seemed to herald the arrival of a royal messenger. Wherever he was taking me with such haste, it did not imply good news.
At the infirmary block, he ushered me up a narrow stair and into a long room with a steeply sloping timber-beamed ceiling. The air was hazy with the smoke of herbal fumigations smouldering in the corners to purify the room
