Heresy by S.J. Parris

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, smiling with his teeth, turned to me. “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, as the candles burned lower I told them of my wandering years, 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. Therector is delivering a most erudite series of sermons on John Foxe’s
Actes 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 Judgment.”
    “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 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 expressedin 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 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