Heresy Read Free Page A

the Bishops of Winchester was built of red brick in the English style around a courtyard, its roof decorated with ornate chimneys over the great hall with its rows of tall perpendicular windows facing the river. In front of this, a lawn sloped down to a large wharf and landing place where I now saw, as I approached, a colourful spectacle of people throngingthe grass. Snatches of tunes carried through the air as musicians rehearsed, and half of London society appeared to have turned out in its best clothes to watch the pageant in the spring sunshine. By the steps, servants were making ready a grand boat, decked out with rich silk hangings and cushions tapestried in red and gold. At the front were seats for eight oarsmen, and at the back an elaborate embroidered canopy sheltered the seats. Jewel-coloured banners rippled in the light wind, catching the sunlight.
    I dismounted, and a servant came to hold the horse while I walked toward the house, eyed suspiciously by various finely dressed gentlemen as we passed. Suddenly I felt a fist land between my shoulder blades, almost knocking me to the ground.
    “Giordano Bruno, you old dog! Have they not burned you yet?”
    Recovering my balance, I spun around to see Philip Sidney standing there, grinning from ear to ear, his arms wide, legs planted firmly astride, his hair still styled in that peculiar quiff that stuck up at the front like a schoolboy hastened out of bed. Sidney, the aristocratic soldier-poet I had met in Padua as I fled through Italy.
    “They’d have to catch me first, Philip,” I said, smiling broadly at the sight of him.
    “It’s
Sir
Philip to you, you churl—I’ve been knighted this year, you know.”
    “Excellent! Does that mean you’ll acquire some manners?”
    He threw his arms around me then and thumped me heartily on the back again. Ours was a curious friendship, I reflected, catching my breath and embracing him in return. Our backgrounds could not have been more different—Sidney was born into one of the first families of the English court, as he never tired of reminding me—but in Padua we had immediately discovered the gift of making each other laugh, a rare and welcome thing in that earnest and often sombre place. Even now, after six years, I felt no awkwardness in his company; straightaway we had fallen into our old custom of affectionate baiting.
    “Come, Bruno,” Sidney said, putting an arm around my shoulders and leading me down the lawn toward the river. “By God, it is a fine thing to see you again. This royal visitation to Oxford would have been intolerable without your company. Have you heard of this Polish prince?”
    I shook my head. Sidney rolled his eyes.
    “Well, you will meet him soon enough. The palatine Albert Laski—a Polish dignitary with too much money and too few responsibilities, who consequently spends his time making a nuisance of himself around the courts of Europe. He was supposed to travel from here to Paris, but King Henri refuses to allow him into the country, so Her Majesty is stuck with the burden of his entertainment awhile longer. Hence this elaborate pageant to get him away from court.” He waved toward the barge, then glanced around briefly to make sure we were not overheard. “I do not blame the French king for refusing his visit, he is a singularly unbearable man. Still, it is quite an achievement—I can think of one or two taverns where I am refused entry, but to be barred from an entire country requires a particular talent for making yourself unwelcome. Which Laski has by the cartload, as you shall see. But you and I shall have a merry time in Oxford nonetheless—you will amaze the dullards there with your ideas, and I shall look forward to basking in your glory and showing you my old haunts,” he said, punching me heartily on the arm again. “Although, as you know, that is not our whole purpose,” he added, lowering his voice.
    We stood side by side looking out over the river, which was busy with