at the grass distractedly.
‘I suppose your disputation today will be postponed because of this?’ she asked, gesturing vaguely towards the mound of Roger Mercer’s body as if she did not much care either way.
‘No indeed – your father is determined not to disappoint the royal guest. We shall go ahead as planned, he says.’
Her face lit up with anger again – her temper was as changeable as the weather over Mount Vesuvius, it seemed – and she rose to her feet, brushing down her dress with quick, furious strokes.
‘Of course he does. No matter that someone has died, terribly – nothing must interrupt college life. We must all pretend nothing is amiss.’ Her eyes burned with fury. ‘Do you know, I never saw my father shed one tear when my brother John died, not one. When they brought him the news, he just nodded, and then said he would be in his study and was not to be disturbed. He didn’t come out for the rest of that day – he spent it working.’ She spat this last word.
‘I have heard,’ I said hesitantly, ‘that Englishmen find this mask necessary to hide what they feel, perhaps because it frightens them.’
She made a small gesture of contempt with her head.
‘My mother hides in her sheets, my father hides in his study. Between them, I am sure they have almost managed to forget they had a son. If only they did not have the inconvenience of my presence to remind them.’
‘I am sure that is not the case—’ I began, but she turned away and set her mouth in a terse line. ‘What is this work in which your father buries himself?’ I asked, to break the silence.
‘He is writing a commentary on Master Foxe’s Actes and Monuments of these Latter and Perillous Days,’ she said, with some disdain.
‘Ah, yes – the Book of Martyrs,’ I said, remembering that someone at dinner had mentioned the rector preaching on this subject. ‘Does it need a commentary? Foxe is quite prolix enough on his own, as I recall.’
‘My father certainly thinks so. Indeed, my father thinks its need for a commentary is more pressing than any other business in the world – except perhaps his endless meetings of the College Board, which are nothing but an excuse for gossip and back-biting.’ She pulled a handful of leaves from the branch overhead with special vehemence as she said this, then lifted her head to look at me. ‘These are supposed to be the cleverest men in England, Doctor Bruno, but I tell you, they are worse than washerwomen for the pleasure they take in malicious talk.’
‘Oh, I have been around enough universities to know all about that,’ I smiled.
She seemed about to say more, but there was a noise from the direction of the courtyard, where two sturdy men in kitchen aprons approached.
‘I had better go,’ Sophia said, glancing once more with a fearful expression at the corner where the bodies lay. ‘I am sorry that I will not be able to attend the disputation, Doctor Bruno. I am not permitted, but I should have liked to see you best my father in a debate.’
I raised an eyebrow in mock surprise, and she smiled sadly.
‘No doubt you think that disloyal of me. Perhaps it is – but my father has such fixed ideas about the world, and its ordained order, and everyone’s place in that order, and sometimes I think he believes these things only because he has always believed them and it is less trouble to go on the same way.’ She bit anxiously at the knuckle of her thumb. ‘I would just dearly love to see someone shake his certainties, make him ask himself questions. Maybe if he can accept even the possibility that there might be a different way of ordering the universe, he might learn to see that not everything in that universe has to stay as it has always been. That is why I want you to win, Doctor Bruno.’ With these last words she actually gripped my shirt and gave me a little shake. I nodded, smiling.
‘You mean that if he can be convinced that the Earth goes around the Sun, he might also be persuaded that a daughter could study as well as a son, and that she might be allowed to choose her own husband?’
She blushed, and returned the smile.
‘Something like that. It seems you are as clever as they say, Doctor Bruno.’
‘Please, call me Giordano,’ I added.
She moved her lips silently, then shook her head. ‘I cannot say it properly, my tongue gets all tangled. I shall just have to call you Bruno. Win the debate for me, Bruno. You shall be my champion in this joust of minds.’ Then she lowered her eyes to the bloodstained grass and her smile quickly faded. ‘Poor Doctor Mercer. I cannot believe it.’
She cast a long look at the mounds of the bodies beneath the trees, her expression unreadable, then turned and ran lightly over the grass towards the college, throwing me a last glance over her shoulder as the burly man who now drew level with me lifted up a capacious sack and said,
‘Right, matey – where’s this dog wants buryin’ then?’
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