Free Heresy by S.J. Parris Page B

mother at the end of the table and a suppressed laugh from the men present, but the girl returned my smile and blushed pleasingly before lowering her eyes. The rector forced a smile.
    “Ah, yes, I was warned that the men of your country are experts in the art of flattering ladies,” he said tightly.
    “Especially the monks,” grunted the elderly man seated to the right of Sophia, and the guests all laughed.
    “Former
monks,” I said emphatically, holding the girl’s gaze. This time she did not look away, and something in the frankness of her look reminded me so sharply of Morgana that I had to catch my breath, caught off guard by the resemblance.
    “I must protest in defence of my countrymen,” declared the dark-haired young man seated to my immediate left, who did indeed look distinctly Italian, though he spoke with no trace of an accent. “My father’s countrymen, I should say. I do not know how we have come by this reputation among the English as great seducers—I have certainly not inherited any such talent, alas.” He held out his palms in a gesture of defeat and the company laughed again. I suspected the young man of false modesty in this regard—he was blessed with handsome features and obviously dressed carefully, his beard and moustache neatly trimmed. He turned to me and extended a hand. “John Florio, son of Michelangelo Florio of Tuscany—I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Doctor Bruno of Nola. Your reputation precedes you.”
    “Which one?” I said, to more laughter.
    “Master Florio is a greatly respected scholar and tutor of languages, as was his father,” said the rector, “and he is engaged in compiling a book of proverbs from various countries. I am sure that later he will not hesitate to regale us with some.”
    “It is, and ever was, a woman’s fashion, To love a cross, and cross a loving passion,” Florio said obligingly.
    “He speaks the truth,” Sophia said, with feigned dismay, and Florio beamed at her.
    “Thank you,” said the rector, his smile growing increasingly strained. “I must confess, Doctor Bruno, I did not know how easily you would converse in English and I thought you might feel more at home with a fellow Italian speaker to hand.”
    “That was kind of you,” I said. “I learned my English from travellers and scholars over the years, but I fear it is unpolished.”
    “My father also fled Italy in fear of the Inquisition after he converted to Reform,” Florio said eagerly, leaning in close. “He came to London, ended up in Lord Burghley’s household, and was later Italian tutor to Lady Jane Grey and the Princess Elizabeth.”
    “Not such a cursed exile, then,” I said.
    “Exile is always a curse,” the elderly man next to Sophia cut in, with surprising vehemence. “A cruel fate to inflict on any man, do you not agree, Roger?” Here he leaned around to glare at the man seated on the other side of Sophia, directly opposite me, a large, broad-featured man in his late forties, with a full beard just turning to grey and a ruddy complexion, who looked away uncomfortably. “Particularly on one’s friends,” the old man added. A tense silence descended over the gathering.
    “My father was indeed fortunate in his patrons,” Florio continued hastily, attempting to cover the interruption, “though we were exiled again from England when I was just an infant and Bloody Mary came to the throne.”
    “God rest her soul,” interjected the elderly man, reverently. This time the rector moved to intervene.
    “Please
, Doctor Bernard.”
    “Please what, Rector?” Doctor Bernard gestured at me, his wild white hair fanning out around his head like the crest of a bird. “Must I guard my words for this renegade monk? Why, will he denounce me to the Earl of Leicester?” He turned to look at me and I understood that, though he had few teeth left and must have been at least seventy, his rheumy eyes still saw shrewdly. The hollows of his face seemed more