Free Heresy by S.J. Parris Page A

kind of fame to my name. For my part, I had made the most of such opportunities as came my way in Paris, but since Morgana’s death I had metno woman with equal wit and spirit to catch my heart as well as my eye. But the rector’s daughter sounded intriguing, and I must confess that the prospect of meeting her had piqued my interest, even though I knew I could hardly afford distractions in Oxford with so much at stake and so few days.
    I grinned at my reflection in the glass, ran my hands through my hair, and shook my head briefly at my own foolishness, before making my way down the staircase to the archway in the east range where I had been told I would find the rector’s lodgings. As I entered its shadows, my eye was caught by a glimpse of green from the other end of the passageway, which ran the width of the building; following it to the end, I emerged through an open gate of iron bars into a walled garden at the back of the college, not over-cultivated but left as an orchard, the grass grown tall and thick with wild-flowers under apple trees, with wooden benches set at intervals along the path that ran around by the walls. In better weather this would be a pleasant place for scholars to sit and read, I thought, though it was empty now as the rain battered at the leaves. I returned to the passageway and found the door that proclaimed the rector’s name on a plaque, straightened my clothes, and prepared myself for my first taste of Oxford hospitality.
    The first thing I noticed as I waited to be admitted was that the animated conversation I could hear from behind the door was pitched slightly too loud, in the way that men in a group will compete to outdo one another if they want to impress a woman. An old servant with a pinched face opened the door and showed me straight through into a fine high room with tall arched windows in two facing walls, the rest panelled in dark wood and hung with portraits and tapestries. Immediately I understood the source of this braggadocio. At the far side of a long table set with grand sconces of candles sat a young woman of about nineteen years, dressed in a plain dove-grey gown with a straight embroidered bodice and with her long dark hair unbound. Like the rest of the guests already seated, she stopped her conversation and turned her attention to me as I approached, her eyes skimming me up and down with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. This,then, was Sophia Underhill, and I understood her father’s urgent wish to marry her off; she had a striking, feline face with keen light-brown eyes and her presence in the college must have proved a sore distraction for the young men trying to bend their minds to their books. The rector rose from his chair at the head of the table with bustling importance and reached out to shake my hand.
    “Welcome, Doctor Bruno, welcome to my table. Please be seated, and I shall introduce you to some of the college’s senior Fellows and my family.”
    He gestured to the seat on his left hand, which I was pleased to note was almost opposite his daughter’s. I nodded politely to her in greeting before glancing around at the rest of the guests assembled at the table. We were ten in number, all men dressed in academic gowns, with the exception of the girl and a tired-looking woman of middle years seated at the other end of the table, opposite the rector.
    “Allow me to introduce my wife, Mistress Margaret Underhill,” he began, gesturing toward her.
    “Piacere di conoscerla,”
I said, bowing my head. The woman smiled weakly; despite her husband’s earlier words, she did not look especially delighted at the prospect of entertaining.
    “And my daughter, Sophia,” the rector continued, unable to keep the note of pride from his voice. “You see that I gave her the Greek name for wisdom.”
    “Then her suitors may truly call themselves ‘philosophers,’” I replied, smiling at her. “Lovers of Sophia.”
    There was a sharp intake of breath from her