I nodded; Florio clutched his parcel closer to his chest, pulled up the hood of his cloak, and, with a final meaningful glance at me, stepped out into the downpour.

Left alone in the small shop with Jenkes, I shuddered involuntarily as the door banged shut behind Florio; the draught had chilled me in my wet clothes, but not as much as the intense stare the bookbinder now turned on me in the wavering shadows of the candles.

"Come-you will catch a fever standing there and the world will say I cursed you," he said with a dry smile, gesturing for me to pass through the door behind the ware bench. "In here we may speak freely, Doctor Bruno, and you may warm yourself. I will heat some sweet wine." He crossed to the street door, took a ring of keys from his belt, and locked it. Seeing me hesitate, he turned back, one hand on the doorjamb. "You may watch me drink it first, if you prefer. But I thought you did not believe in my diabolical powers?"

The watchful glint in his eye was momentarily displaced by self-mockery; despite myself, I returned his smile and followed him as he ducked through the doorway into the back room. Perhaps I should have been more apprehensive, but though I did not believe the superstitious gossip about the Black Assizes, I found something mesmerising about Rowland Jenkes, so much so that I was willing to be locked into a room alone with him in the hope of learning more about him. But we were not alone. As I crossed the threshold, from the corner of my eye, I caught the movement of a shadow; there, by a fire that blazed in a hearth on the left-hand wall, stood Doctor William Bernard, his thin arms folded across his chest.

"My workshop-and you are acquainted with Doctor Bernard, of course," Jenkes said, taking in the room with a sweeping gesture and paying Bernard no more heed than if he were one of the fittings. Along three walls, long benches lay covered with quires and manuscripts in various states of disrepair; portions of leather, calfskin, and cloth were spread out with patterns marked for cutting. Some books were being fitted for linen chemises, outer covers to keep the calfskin bindings clean, while others were halfway through having new brass bosses and cornerpieces fitted to cover frayed or damaged edges. Some of the manuscripts that caught my eye appeared to be of great antiquity, the bookbinder's skill now preserving and renewing them, being made ready to continue their journey through the world for the coming generations. In the corner opposite the hearth, two large ironbound chests stood at right angles to each other, both heavily padlocked.

"You have business with a number of the Lincoln College Fellows, I see," I remarked, nodding a greeting to Bernard.

"I am a bookbinder and stationer, Doctor Bruno, of course I have business with the doctors of the university. How else should I make my living?"

"Master Godwyn, the librarian of Lincoln-he is a customer of yours too?"

"Of course," Jenkes replied smoothly, his strange translucent eyes never leaving mine. "I am often charged with repairing the books of his collection when need arises."

"And James Coverdale?"

Jenkes exchanged a glance with Bernard.

"Ah, yes. Poor Doctor Coverdale. William was just telling me he had been the victim of a violent assault. To think of such things happening in Oxford." He pressed a hand to his chest and shook his head ruefully; there was something in his manner that suggested he was mocking me. I wanted to ask further about his connections with Godwyn and Coverdale, but Bernard's hawklike glare made me hesitate.

"Here is a sight to make your heart bleed, Doctor Bruno," Jenkes said, turning aside and lifting a small volume from one of the benches, which he placed into my hands. It was a little Book of Hours in the French style from the beginning of the century, and had clearly once been an expensive piece; gingerly I turned over a few pages to reveal richly coloured illuminations in cobalts and crimsons and golds, the borders of each page of text decorated with intricate tracings of leaves, flowers, and butterflies against a background of primrose yellow.

"Here." Jenkes took the book from my hand and opened it at a page where both the text and the facing picture had been attacked with a sharp implement, perhaps a knife or a stone, in an attempt to erase them from the vellum. The illumination remained almost intact, showing a kneeling Saint Thomas Becket being stabbed at the altar with only his face blanked out; the accompanying prayer had been scrubbed to a ghostly trace. "Criminal, isn't it?" Jenkes remarked. "The edict was King Henry's, near fifty years ago now, but these come into my hands quite often, with all the saints and indulgences obediently cut or rubbed away. If I can restore it, this will fetch a handsome price in France. Good French workmanship, you see? God's death, I hate to see a book violated like that, at the whim of a heretic prince! Father to another heretic bastard." His lip curled back as he said this, revealing his brown teeth, but his long white fingers stroked the page as if comforting it. This display of sentiment toward his books did nothing to make Jenkes more appealing.

"Will you report me now for seditious words, Doctor Bruno?" He smiled his thin smile, his eyes never leaving mine. "I have no more ears to lose, as you see."

"I will not report any man for his words," I said evenly, meeting his gaze to show him I was unafraid. "I came to your country to think and speak and write freely-I assume every citizen here wishes the same."

"But to write freely about what?" Bernard peeled himself away from the wall by the fire, unfolding his arms and peering at me with his faded eyes.

"About anything I choose," I replied, turning to face him. "That is what freedom means, does it not?"

Jenkes was carefully replacing the little Book of Hours on the workbench beside the small knives and implements he would need for its restoration. It occurred to me, watching the neat, almost obsessive way that he laid out his tools, that a bookbinder's knife would certainly be sharp enough to cut a man's throat.

"Do you send many books to sell in Europe?" I asked, indicating the Book of Hours and trying to keep my voice casual. Jenkes missed nothing; he looked up sharply, then exchanged a glance with Bernard.

"It sometimes happens that books fall into my hands which could see a man condemned to prison or worse in this country," he said, rubbing the edge of his thumb along his lower lip. "Then I can find a ready market overseas. But in truth there is no shortage of customers in Oxfordshire and London. Men like yourself, who do not accept the prohibition of books, who believe God gave us reason and judgment to weigh what we read, and who are willing to run the risk for the sake of knowledge." He gave a soft laugh and raised his head again to look across at Bernard. "You were right, William. Doctor Bernard told me you had a special interest in rare books. Especially those believed lost."

Bernard had resumed his stance by the fire and remained motionless, merely offering the briefest of tight-lipped smiles. Of course: Bernard had been the Lincoln College librarian during the great purge of the Oxford libraries, when the authorities had tried to banish all heretical texts from the reach of impressionable young men, just as my abbot had at San Domenico.

"I sense there is something you wish to ask, Doctor Bruno?" Jenkes said, cocking his head.

"The books purged from the college libraries-did they pass through your hands?"

"Many of them, yes." Jenkes glanced at Bernard briefly, then leaned back against his workbench and folded his hands. "Some of the more zealous librarians burned the offending material to please the visitors, but those with more regard for the value of books brought them to me to redistribute."