2

‘Master, master wake up!’ the Moor boy pleaded. ‘Master, there’s a prince here to see you!’

Heinrich Bunting pulled himself out of a dream; a dream about angels and kings and death. ‘Amir, what is it? Is it still night?’

‘It is a prince, master! He is waiting for you,’ urged the boy, his dark eyes flashing in the candlelight.

Bunting sighed, rolled off his straw mattress and knelt beside the bed. He turned towards his servant. ‘Amir, tell the visitor that I will be with him shortly.’

When the young Moor had gone, Bunting brought his hands together in front of his face and bowed his head, causing his thin blond hair to tumble over his fine features.

‘Lord, I thank you for delivering me through the darkness,’ he intoned. ‘If it be your will Lord, I beseech you to give me the strength and wisdom to serve you in truth. Amen.’

Finishing his prayer and rising to his feet, the tall young priest recovered his senses from being woken from a deep sleep. A prince? What was Amir talking about? His daily visitors might include an occasional landowner or shopkeeper, but usually just local town workers and peasants … and never at night! The aristocracy and richer inhabitants of Magdeburg tended to frequent the Cathedral of Saint Catherine and ignore his less auspicious church. He had accepted his predicament. His humiliation. So why would a prince be visiting this place in the middle of the night?

Amir had lit the lanterns in the study by the time Bunting had washed the sleep from his intense blue eyes, donned a grey cassock and walked the few paces down the dark corridor. The embers of the previous night’s fire still glowed softly in the hearth.

The visitor stood with his back to the dying fire. He did, indeed, have a certain princely bearing. His attire was not of Magdeburg, though, nor of the county. In fact, Bunting suspected the man was not of any of the Germanic States. His black hat was tall with a small brim, and a white feather jutted out from a gold, braided band. Golden stars adorned his crimson coat which was lined, Bunting noticed, with ermine. Black pantaloons ballooned above gold-buckled shoes. A white neck frill contrasted starkly with his close-cut beard.

‘Thank you, Amir. You may leave us now,’ said Bunting gently, motioning the servant to the door. The Moor backed slowly, head bowed, out of the room.

The stranger removed his cape with a flourish. Shadows danced on the brick walls as he draped it over one of the wooden chairs. ‘Forgive the late hour of our visit, Padre. We have travelled many days and nights.’

Italian, Bunting thought. The stranger confirmed this.

‘I am Duke Ottavio Farnese di Parma, Gonfaloniere of the Church,’ he introduced himself.

Not my church, thought Bunting, but said: ‘You are my guest. You are welcome in the Church of St Ulrich and Levin, this house of God. How can I be of service to you? Are you lost in our small town, perhaps, and in need of direction?’

‘No, Padre. Our matter is with you.’

‘Forgive me. I am but a simple priest, whose daily concerns are with the common folk of this town …’

‘Yet your writings say the opposite,’ a voice growled from the far corner of the dark room. Only then did Bunting notice the crumpled figure of an old man, slouched in the shadows. ‘Why would you write these words? These are not the words of a man consumed only by his daily duties to the ignorant and the unworthy.’

‘Sir,’ Bunting responded sharply. ‘The ignorant and unworthy, as you so unkindly describe them, are as entitled to the grace of God as any man, however highborn he may be.’

‘Even so,’ the voice from the dark continued, ‘your writings are heretical, are they not?’

‘Sir, Magdeburg’s conversion to Protestantism was over forty years ago. It defied any attempt to accept Catholicism as the one true belief. This town has been a refuge for the hunted, the persecuted and the displaced. This is not a place where the Inquisition has any standing. You are wrong to think that the methods of the Old Church can prevail here.’

‘No, you misunderstand me, Herr Bunting. It is because of your words that I believe we can work together, for the sake of the ignorant and unworthy; to save them from further pain in this world and perpetual punishment in the hereafter.’

‘Sir, you have me at a loss,’ he demurred. ‘It is the middle of night and you speak in riddles. Your very Catholic position is apparent and you must know that it is anathema to me. If you know my writings, you know that. Who are you, sir? Why have you come to Magdeburg, to the Church of Saint Ulrich and Levin, and what is your business with me?’

The old man looked up at Bunting and sighed. ‘Herr Bunting, I am Seniori Ugo Boncompagni, formerly of Bologna, of Trent, of Toledo and now of Rome.’

The Duke, who had been silent during this exchange, glanced towards his companion and then turned slowly towards Bunting. ‘Padre, you are in the presence of Pope Gregory XIII, Vicar of Christ on Earth and the Supreme Pastor and Teacher of all the Faithful.’