The School of Night: A Novel

By Louis Bayard

An ancient mystery, a lost letter, and a timeless love unleash a long-buried web of intrigue that spans four centuries

In the late sixteenth century, five brilliant scholars gather under the cloak of darkness to discuss God, politics, astronomy, and the black arts. Known as the School of Night, they meet in secret to avoid the wrath of Queen Elizabeth. But one of the men, Thomas Harriot, has secrets of his own, secrets he shares with one person only: the servant woman he loves.

In modern-day Washington, D.C., disgraced Elizabethan scholar Henry Cavendish has been hired by the ruthless antiquities collector Bernard Styles to find a missing letter. The letter dates from the 1600s and was stolen by Henry's close friend, Alonzo Wax. Now Wax is dead and Styles wants the letter back.

But the letter is an object of interest to others, too. It may be the clue to a hidden treasure; it may contain the long-sought formula for alchemy; it most certainly will prove the existence of the group of men whom Shakespeare dubbed the School of Night but about whom little is known. Joining Henry in his search for the letter is Clarissa Dale, a mysterious woman who suffers from visions that only Henry can understand. In short order, Henry finds himself stumbling through a secretive world of ancient perils, caught up in a deadly plot, and ensnared in the tragic legacy of a forgotten genius.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Macmillan Publishers
• Release date: Mar 29, 2011
• ISBN: 9781429965552

Louis Bayard

A writer, book reviewer, and the author of Mr. Timothy and The Pale Blue Eye, Louis Bayard has written for the New York Times, Washington Post, and Salon.com, among other media outlets. He lives in Washington, D.C.

Book preview

Part One

Three new marriadges here are made

One of the staffe and sea Astrolabe

Of the Sonne & Starre is an other

Which now agree like sister & brother

And charde and compasse which were at bate,

Will now agree like a master & mate.

—THOMAS HARRIOT,

    Three Sea Marriages

WASHINGTON, D.C. SEPTEMBER 2009

1

AGAINST ALL ODDS, against my own wishes, this is a love story. And it began, of all places, at Alonzo Wax’s funeral.

Now I’d known Alonzo pretty much all my adult life, but in the months after his death, I learned a surprising number of things about him. For instance, he chased his morning shots of Grey Goose with Rocky Road. He had never read a word of Alexander Pope—too modern—but he followed every single comic strip in The Washington Post (even Family Circus). He was a sneak and a liar and a thief and would have slain every grandmother he had for an original edition of Bussy d’Ambois. And he loved me.

But in those early months of mourning—or whatever it was we were doing about Alonzo—the biggest surprise was this: He had become Catholic. And had never gotten around to telling his parents, loosely observant Rockville Jews who found the baptism certificate while sorting through his filing cabinets. After some family debate, Alonzo’s sister Shayla began shaking the trees for priests, until a friend told her that suicide was a mortal sin for the Church. So she opted to hold the memorial service at the Folger Shakespeare Library, which, in addition to being marble, was home to the world’s largest collection of printed Shakespearean works and to a small mountain of preserved and cataloged Elizabethiana. The Folger, in other words, was engaged in roughly the same business as Alonzo had been: ransacking boxes and chests for centuries-old documents that were, in most cases, considered highly disposable by the original writers.

Shayla was glad to have missed the incense, but something else struck her as she stood greeting mourners at the entrance to the great hall.

Henry, she whispered. I forgot. I hate lutes.

It could have been worse, I reminded her. The last memorial service I’d attended at the Folger was for a Buddhist restaurateur, and we were subjected to an hour of Tibetan music: finger cymbals and skull drums and, glowering over everything, a massively built throat singer, swaddled in goatskin, belching up chord after chord.

And besides, I added, the lute quartet was your idea.

You know, I thought maybe they’d bring a viol. Or an hautboy.

That’s how it works. An Elizabethan collector dies, out come the lutes.

More than lutes. Significant People had come to pay respects to Alonzo, and here and there, framed by long swords and halberds, one could make out the graven profiles of More Than Usually Significant People. An assistant librarian of Congress, a Smithsonian undersecretary, an ambassador from Mauritius … even a U.S. senator, longtime friend and beneficiary of the Wax family, who worked the room as deftly as if it were a PAC breakfast. Alonzo, I thought, would have been appalled and flattered all at once.

Did I mention you’re his executor? Shayla said.

She turned just in time to catch the look on my face.

If you want to pass, she said, I’ll understand.

No. I’m honored.

"There’s some money in it, I think. Not a lot…"

Does it matter if I don’t know what I’m doing?

No, she said. Your remarks—that’s all you need to worry about today.

She narrowed her eyes at me. The stripe of unretouched hair along her scalp shone like war paint.

"You did prepare, right, Henry? Alonzo hated stammering; you know that."

For that very reason, I had written my remarks on index cards, but as I laid them in ranks across the podium, they filled me with a strange revulsion. And so, at the last instant, I decided to wing it. I gazed out across those three-hundred-plus mourners, spread across nearly three thousand square feet of terra-cotta tile, under a massively vaulted strapwork ceiling … and I went deliberately small. Which is to say, I spoke about meeting Alonzo Wax.

It was the first day of our freshman year, and Alonzo was the very first student I met, and because I didn’t know any better, I thought all students were like him. (I’m sorry now they weren’t, I said.) The first thing Alonzo did was to offer me a tumbler of Pimm’s—he kept it in a tiny cut-glass container in his hip pocket. And when he found out I was planning to major in English, he demanded my opinion of A Winter’s Tale. I got out maybe three sentences before he cut me off and told me how benighted I was. (‘Benighted’ was the exact word.) And when I told him I’d never read Chapman—well, I thought he was going to wash his hands of me then and there. Instead, he invited me to dinner.

"It was a real dinner, I said. With courses. He explained to me that university food was a known carcinogen. ‘Of course, the science has been suppressed,’ he said, ‘but the findings are unanimous. That shit will kill you.’"

Before I could retrieve them, the words—kill you—went shivering through the climate-controlled air. And in that moment, yes, I wished I could turn the clock back to Elizabethan days, when this great hall would have been a hive of distraction. Masques and plays and dances. Rushes covering the floor, dogs roaming free, a smell of agriculture everywhere. My voice just one thread among many.

Alonzo, I hurried on, paid for our meal, as he usually did. The tip was about the same size as the bill. And he allowed as how my ideas on Winter’s Tale weren’t quite so daft as he first thought. But I should still read Chapman.

‘You’ll never get anywhere,’ he said, ‘until you find a nice minor poet.’

I stacked my unused index cards in a nice little pile. I squinted down at the finish line.

"Alonzo’s self-assurance seemed to me something colossal. I was just this kid from the burbs, and here was this guy my own age carrying himself like a professor. And the real professors, they were as scared of him as I was, and why wouldn’t they be, he was—"

He was what? I can’t now remember what I was going to say because she, in effect, finished the sentence for me. Or began another one altogether. Just by walking into the great hall.

At least forty minutes late.

To this day I’m not sure I would have noticed her if she’d dressed properly. Like the rest of us, I mean, in our black wool and crepe. She was wearing an old-fashioned A-line dress, cotton—scarlet!—tight in the bust, loose and jovial in the skirt. She walked like somebody who was used to wearing such a dress. She looked more comfortable than anyone else in the room.

Nobody said a word to her. We were all probably just waiting for her to see her error. Oh, the wedding’s across the street! At the Congregational church!

But she gave no sign of having come to the wrong place. She took a seat at the end of the third row and, without embarrassment, turned her attention on the speaker.

Who was me.

I had briefly forgotten this.

Alonzo, I said, "was a—a great collector, we all know that. That’s why there are … so many of us here, right? But to me, nothing in his collection was … ever as unique as he was. So…"—Finish. Finish—so that’s what I’ll remember.

Who spoke after me? I couldn’t tell you. By the time I sat down, I was gathering data. A tough job, because she was two rows behind me and slightly northward, which meant I had to wheel about in my seat at regular intervals and pretend I wasn’t being the most irksome guy in the room. Somehow, through the heads and hats, sections of her came back to me. A profusion of dark hair. A creamy arm, draped across the back of her chair. And, most enticing of all, a ledge of collarbone, striking a note of pioneer resilience against the slenderness of her neck.

And then, from the podium, came the throbbing contralto of Alonzo’s mother.

My heart is so full, she said. "So very full to see all these people gathered to honor my son."

You might suppose I felt guilt. Given that, in this moment, I wasn’t honoring her son. You would be half right. But here’s the thing. You can get just as lucky at a funeral as at a wedding. In fact, luckier. Someone always needs to be comforted.

And Alonzo, more than anyone else, would have guessed how complicated the act of grieving him would be. He’d left behind no children. He’d never courted sentiment, he’d never courted anything—or anybody. But all the same he understood me. Just come back when you’re done, I could hear him saying. There’s a letter I want to show you in the Maggs and Quaritch catalog. Written to the Laird of Craighall …

And so, by the time the service was over, I believed I had his full dispensation to proceed. But as I stood up, another woman’s voice rang after me.

Henry!

Lily Pentzler. Short-waisted and long-abiding. Braced like a professional wrestler, tufts of gray hair straggling over carob eyes, a stack of cocktail napkins in each hand. An air of harassed charity, not specific to this occasion.

Do you need help? I asked.

Do I need help?

Lily was Alonzo’s amanuensis. I use that word because that’s how it was printed on her business cards. It means picking up the master’s scraps, she once explained. Exactly what she was doing now.

The security kept us waiting for nearly an hour, she told me. "The florist screwed up and sent lilies. Alonzo hated lilies. The caterer just got here. Just. Got. Here. People, before they go and, you know, harm themselves in some definitive way, should be required—and I’m talking beyond congressional mandate, Henry, a level of divine mandate that says, ‘Know what? Before you do it, organize your own memorial service, ’kay? Buy the wreath, set up the open bar. Hire the fucking caterers and then kill yourself.’"

I can see your point.

This—the piles of napkins began to teeter—this will have the effect of ending suicide as we know it.

Do you need any help? I asked again.

She looked at me.

We’ve missed you, Henry. You haven’t been by to see us lately.

Oh, yeah. Kinda busy. Teaching gig. The freelance thing. This, that…

The next thing, she said, eyeing me closely.

Yep.

Well, come by later, anyway. There’s a wake at five. We’re taking over the top floor of the Pour House, and Bridget is going to sing something mawkish and out of period. ‘Last Rose of Summer,’ I think. On second thought, save yourself.

She smiled then, just a little bit, and, pivoting slowly, labored toward the banquet table, which was nearly as tall as she was.

By now, no more than a minute had passed, but it was enough. The woman in scarlet was nowhere to be found. Through the great hall I wandered, half inspecting the crossbow bolts and the digitalized First Folio with the touch screen that made the pages turn like magic, and I was aware only of my own defeat, growing around me.

Until at my eastern periphery, like dawn, a long pale arm materialized, pushing against the oaken entrance door.

She was leaving. As quietly as she had come.

And here again fate intervened. Not Lily Pentzler this time but Alonzo’s grandfather, ninety-eight, who believed I was his great-nephew and couldn’t be told otherwise. Loosening his ancient-mariner grip required the intervention of the actual great-nephew, a pet insurance salesman from Centerville, Virginia. I took three long strides into the entry hall, I shoved open the door, stood there in the blinding heat.…

She was gone.

No one but me standing on those marble steps in the early-September blast. Sweat tickled through my collar, and around me rose a smell like burning tires. Magnolias were growing, crape myrtles, and not much else.

Hard to explain the dejection that swept over me. I was a man in my mid-forties, wasn’t I? Disappointment was my daily gruel. Back on the wheel, Henry.

And then I heard someone call after me:

Well, there you are!

So much familiarity in the tone that I braced myself for another of Alonzo’s relations. (The Waxes were a mighty tribe in their day.) This was someone else, a man in early winter: silver-haired, handsome and rawboned, and erect. Hale with a vengeance: his skin looked like someone had gone at it with pumice. He took my hand and held it for perhaps a second too long, but his smile was benign and vaguely dithering. In a BBC sitcom, he’d have been the vicar. He’d have ridden in on a bike with big panniers.

Mr. Cavendish, he said (and indeed the accent was British), I wonder if I might have a word with you.

What about?

This is where my little track of linearity breaks down. Because when he next spoke, it was as if he’d already spoken. And it was as if Alonzo was speaking, too, from his watery grave. And maybe some part of me was chiming in. All of us in the same helpless chord, not quite in tune but impossible to disaggregate.

The School of Night.

2

HAVE I SAID anything wrong? asked the old man. His gaze was no longer quite so dithery.

No.

I only ask because you seem to have taken a fright.

Oh, no, it’s just— I ran a hand down my scalp. It’s been a long—the whole day has been … for a second there, it was like Alonzo’s ghost was passing by.

And who says it wasn’t?

Humming to himself, the old man reached inside his suit jacket and brought out an umbrella, black and utilitarian, that exploded open at a touch of the thumb.

The sun disagrees with me, he said.

Excuse me, I don’t think I caught your name.

Bernard Styles, he said.

There lay, beneath his expensive accent, the faintest traces of Celtic, like tobacco fumes clinging to a reformed smoker’s clothes.

Very nice to meet you, I said.

You’ve heard of me, perhaps?

I don’t get out much.

Well, then, he said easily, I should tell you I’m in the same collecting line as poor Alonzo. Only in a different sphere of influence.

As in England?

Buckinghamshire. Not so very far from Waddesdon Manor.

Well, in that case, it’s very kind of you to come all this way.

Oh, said Bernard Styles. I wouldn’t have missed it.

No obvious change in his tone or demeanor. The change was all in my skin—a barometric tickle.

Can you believe it? he said, giving his umbrella a slow twirl. This is my very first time in your nation’s capital. Everything looks quite fantastical to me.

I thought he was overdoing it with the fantastical, but then I turned to my left and saw the Washington Monument emerging like a thought cloud from the Capitol’s brain.

Oh, I said. I see what you mean. Sorry about the heat.

Yes, it’s quite wretched. One can’t altogether breathe. Perhaps we might go inside, after all.

The way was blocked, though, by a tall man with a brow like a fender.

This is Halldor, said Bernard Styles.

A Scandinavian name but no clear race. His once-tawny skin had peeled away into islets of beige, and his neck looked almost ivory against the black of his vicuña coat. The coat hung loosely off a T-shirt that read, in large cherry lettering: I ♥ DC. It was frightening to think T-shirts came in that size.

Halldor, I fear, is the only one who thrives in this sort of miasma. Myself, I prefer your highly efficient American air-conditioning. Shall we, Mr. Cavendish?

Some of the heat came in with us, and for a second or two the air seemed to be ionizing around us. Halfway down the hall, I could see Lily Pentzler going head-to-head with the caterer. Pausing to reload, she flicked her eyes toward me—and then toward Styles. A crease bisected her forehead, and then she began muttering into her sleeve, like a madwoman.

Perhaps we might talk in the theater, the old man said. The upper gallery, I think. More private. His step was sure and even as he climbed the carpeted steps, talking as he went.

Such a nice little pastiche. Of course, a true Elizabethan theater wouldn’t have a roof, would it? Or such comfortable chairs. All the same, quite charming. I wonder what play they’re putting on now.

"Oh, it’s … Love’s Labour’s Lost."

Well, isn’t that apropos?

Is it?

"I wonder if it’s modern-dress. No, I don’t wonder at all. On that particular question, I have been quite driven from the field. Everywhere one goes now it’s Uzis at Agincourt, Imogen in jeans, the Thane of Cawdor in a three-button suit. Next thing you know, Romeo and Juliet will simply text each other. Damn the balcony. OMG, Romeo. LOL. ILY 24–7. Oh, chacun à son goût, that’s what I hear you saying, but does it rise even to the level of goût? I consider it, on the contrary, mere squeamishness. I have seen far more fearful things in my life than a doublet and hose. The sooner we inoculate our children against these terrors, the stronger we will make them."

Seating himself in the gallery’s front row, he raised his eyes to the ceiling, where a blue Elizabethan sky had been meticulously painted—far lovelier than the sky outside. A dusky silence fell over him. He laced his hands over the balcony rail.

You’ve known Alonzo quite a long time, he said at last.

"Knew him, yes."

I believe you also have the honor of being his executor.

I looked at him.

Apparently so, I said.

In that case, I think you might be of great use in resolving a little problem I have.

That would depend on the problem.

Wrinkles fanned out from his eyes and mouth as he began to polish the balcony rail.

A document, he said, recently left my possession.

I’m sorry to hear that.

It’s a document I’m rather keen on recovering.

All right.

Silence grew around us until at last, in my politest tone, I asked:

And you’re coming to me because…?

Oh! Because Alonzo was the one who borrowed it, you see.

I stared at him. Borrowed it?

Well, generally speaking, I prefer to take charitable constructions of men’s acts. I’m sure that poor Alonzo, had he lived, would have returned the document to me in due time. Now, of course, he’s shuffled off this mortal coil. He waved softly at the ceiling. Such a loss.

Was the document valuable? I asked.

Only to an old sentimentalist like me. Although it does have a certain historical piquancy. As you might appreciate better than most, Mr. Cavendish. He leaned over and, in a conspiratorial tone, added, You were a redoubtable Elizabethan scholar in your day, were you not?

The air grew significantly cooler in that moment, or maybe my face was just getting warmer.

I’m flattered you think so, I said. I’m flattered you even remember my name.

Confound the man’s modesty! How could I fail to recall the paper you read at Oriel College back in ’ninety-two? ‘Empire and the Silver Poet.’

You were there?

Oh, yes, I found it quite a welcome blow against the idea of Ralegh as dabbler. And chauvinist that I am, I was surprised that an American such as yourself could grasp the true Englishness of Ralegh’s character. Only Shakespeare, I think, was more English. He clucked his tongue. All in all, a charming—a comprehensive lecture. I’m sure I wasn’t alone in expecting great things of you.

Then I’m sorry to have disappointed you.

Oh, but you haven’t, he answered. "Not yet, anyway. But given your background and your long friendship with Alonzo—well, I can’t think of a fellow better suited to help me find my little document."

Still he kept polishing that rail. Back and forth, back and forth.

But what is it? I asked. A deed? A tradesman’s bill?

A letter, that’s all.

Who received it?

Unclear. Only the second page survives.

"Okay, who wrote it?"

He said nothing at first. Only a slight trembling in his hands showed he had even heard the question. He turned to me at last with a smile broad as a river.

Oh, God, I murmured. Ralegh.

The very man! he said, clapping his hands in delight. And imagine. The letter turned up just nine months ago. A solicitor’s office in Gray’s Inn Road was clearing out its archives—several centuries’ worth; you know how far back these things can go. Having heard something of my reputation, they called me in to appraise its contents and to see if I might be willing to offer them anything for it. Of course, they had no inkling of what they had, so I was able to acquire the letter for quite a reasonable sum.

No mistaking the satisfaction in his voice. Some collectors spend money like oxygen—Alonzo was one. Others hoard every last atom.

Mr. Styles, I said. You’ll forgive me, but I’ve learned to distrust any document with Ralegh’s name on it. Having been burned before…

I should be wary, too, if I were you. In this case, I can assure you it’s authentic.

And you can assure me Alonzo took it?

Oh, yes. A slow bobbing of his silver head. He hid his tracks beautifully, I’ll give him that. For several weeks, we didn’t even know the thing was missing. And then, when we spotted the substitution, we had to dig very deeply into our security archives before we found the—the exculpatory evidence. He smiled. Even on grainy security video, there’s no mistaking such a distinct figure as Alonzo’s.

But there are other Ralegh letters already in circulation. Why would Alonzo go to such trouble to steal this one?

I would guess he was intrigued by this particular letter’s content.

Styles let that settle in for a while and then, in a fit of mock astonishment, smacked his brow.

Oh, but I quite forgot! I’ve a copy to show you.

The barest flutter of his fingers, and Halldor was standing over us, paper in one hand, flashlight in the other.

When I first acquired the document, I took the precaution of having it digitized. I assume, Mr. Cavendish, you have no objection to reading it yourself?

None.

Then by all means, said Bernard Styles, unfolding the paper.

It was absolutely quiet in that balcony, and yet everything around me registered with the force of sound. The poplarlike altitude of Halldor. The slight inclination that Styles’s head made toward mine. My own hand, bathed in the flashlight’s puddle. The words themselves, which seemed to be scratching across the paper as I read them.

Hee wold not be the first louer so to be served by Kit, who wold burn Hotte and Cold in the space of but one breth and who cold conjure up proofs for the Deuil or our Savior, howsoever the winde tourned him. Many was the time Chapman grew most greeued at some heresie, only to bee asured that Kit spoke but in jeste, as was his wont.

Yew will excuse mee, I trust, for laboring in this veyne. I cold faynde noe bettere plaster for my woundes than memorie. In parlous Times, it is grete joye to thincke vppon our homelie Schoole, where wee were glad to gathere, and where your tvtelarie Genius outsvnned ever Star.

Accompanyed with my best wishes, from

And even before I got to the closing, I could see that all-too familiar signature:

Your most asured frinde and humbell sarvant,

W Rawley

Derum Howse

This 27 of March

Walter Ralegh, I said faintly.

I looked up. In the half-light, the old man’s eyes glittered like fish scales.

Oh, it’s much more, Mr. Cavendish. It’s what you and Alonzo have been searching for all your lives.

Ah, well, as to that—

My dear boy, there’s no need to take that air with me. I’ve just shown you definitive proof that the School of Night existed.

So it would seem, I allowed. On first inspection.

"And tenth and twentieth inspection, too, I assure you. Say what you like, Mr. Cavendish, this is an exceptional historical find. I suspect it might form the springboard for quite a—quite a splendid academic treatise. Such as might restore a man’s career."

He paused, before carrying on in a breezier vein.

"Unfortunately, neither you nor I can restore anything with a mere digitized copy. A nine-year-old could produce the same thing on his family’s computer. No, to forward our joint purposes, we will, I’m afraid, require the original."

I stared down at that paper, checkered with creases. The digitized words rose up once more: Our homelie Schoole, where wee were glad to gathere.

And then again I remembered Alonzo’s last message to me.

May I keep this? I asked faintly.

Of course.

It went straight into the pocket of my jacket. I gave it two quick pats; I almost thought I heard it coo.

Well, Mr. Styles, I can promise you this. Over the next few days, as you know, I’ll be sorting through Alonzo’s papers. If your document is there—well, let’s just say I’ll keep a weather eye out. How does that sound?

"Weather eye, he said, musingly. That’s a lovely expression. To my ear, it lacks urgency."

I could be more urgent, I said. If the situation called for it.

A brief pause. And then a laugh, bounding across the Tudor beams.

With the right incentive, is that what you mean, Mr. Cavendish? I should have thought an entrée back into academia was incentive enough.

Who says I want to go back?

He grinned at me, frankly admiring. So academia’s loss is commerce’s gain. Very well, I shall offer you a retainer of ten thousand dollars. Another ninety thousand dollars when you return the document to me. Or perhaps, in light of the prevailing exchange rates, you’d prefer euros?

But once I heard those numbers, I was beyond considering exchange rates—or even Walter Ralegh. In no particular order, I was thinking about the rather terse letter from my landlord’s attorney; my ’95 Toyota Corolla, which needed a new belt transponder and which was not strictly speaking mine; the glove compartment of said car, currently crammed with overdraft notices. (In certain moods, I used them for Kleenex.)

Dollars will do, I said.

He leaned toward me.

"And you’re sure you don’t have weightier projects to command your attention?"

This was my first taste of Bernard Styles’s savagery.

Nothing that won’t keep, I said.

Another fluttering of his fingers, and Halldor was there with a leatherbound checkbook and a Cross pen. The greater you are, they say, the smaller your signature. The old man’s, at any rate, was a couple of Japanese strokes. In the very next moment, the check was resting in my hand.

Chemical Bank, he told me, rising to his feet. It should clear instantly. The rest, as I’ve said, will be yours when you deliver the document. In person.

Where will you be staying?

With friends, he said simply, for another week or so. I assume that will give you sufficient time to finish the job.

How do I reach you?

He tucked his umbrella under his arm. "I’ll reach you. And now I must be off, I’m afraid. I’ve been promised a private tour of the archives. If it’s not too much trouble, please do convey my deepest sympathies to Alonzo’s family. Such a loss to the world. And now—he rose in a straight line—at the risk of sounding tasteless, Mr. Cavendish, it’s been a pleasure doing business with you."

And with you, I said.

No final handshake. He sealed our compact with a nod and an almost bashful smile. Only in the act of leaving did a new thought strike him.

Do you know, I’ve carried off some of my best transactions at funerals? From death springs life, I always say.

3

MY INTRODUCTION TO the School of Night I owe to Alonzo Wax’s elbow.

It came at me in the winter of our freshman year, about two hours and twenty minutes into a student production of Love’s Labour’s Lost, which he and I were attending for entirely different reasons. Alonzo was testing his theory that the American dialect was better suited to Shakespearean English. (Elizabethans loved their consonants, Henry.) I was warm for the junior playing the Princess of France. Once, in the act of asking me for my Chaucer notes, she had smiled at me, and in this smile lay such a world of promise that I honestly wasn’t listening to the King of Navarre confess his love for the Princess. I was just waiting for the Princess to come

Reviews for The School of Night

[bcrowl399 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

 This book was well written, suspenseful and written for folks who know a lot more about Shakespeare than I do. I think some of it was lost on me for that reason, my own ignorance and nothing more. I loved the characters. I loved the Margaret and Hariot story especially. So touching and sad at the same time. I also liked the ending in that the reader doesn't have all the answers. Usually that's a feature I dislike in books, but it works well this time.

[jimgysin_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A fun thriller centered around another gaggle of modern-day book hunters (Elizabethan and Shakespearean this time around) and their 17th-century quarry. The contemporary protagonist is Henry Cavendish, a likable and scholarly loser surrounded by friends who may or may not share his goals. And who may not be his friends at all, for that matter. The part of the story set in the early 1600s revolves around Thomas Harriot, a close friend of Walter Raleigh and beer buddy of Christopher Marlowe and that whole gang. Harriot has a servant girl who impresses him and becomes much more as he delves into his own research on the usual (for that group) topics of alchemy, astrology, paganism and the like. The contemporary story is a chase to nail down the provenance and legitimacy of a particular document which has all the makings of launching an all-out treasure hunt. How things are resolved is not at all given away prematurely, and lots of interesting twists take place in both timelines. I really, really liked the understated and subtle wit throughout, and the final plot turn on the contemporary front was especially good. Overall, a fun and very interesting read for fans of the book hunter theme and fans of that particular period of history.

[hardlyhardy · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Novelist Louis Bayard likes to build his fiction around real people (Edgar Allan Poe, Theodore Roosevelt, Abraham Lincoln), although in “Mr. Timothy” he imagines a famous fictional character, Tiny Tim, all grown up. In his 2010 effort, “The School of Night,” his focus rests on Thomas Harriot, a prominent 17th century English scientist who is little remembered today, although a recent biography may help.Harriot knew William Shakespeare, at least according to the novel, and was a pal of Sir Walter Ralegh (the novel includes an interesting discussion of why this spelling is favored here over the more familiar Raleigh). Harriot, Ralegh and other prominent men of the day used to meet at night to discuss topics frowned upon when discussed during the day, such as atheism. This they called the School of Night, which surprisingly has relatively little to do with Bayard’s plot.It seems that Harriot has left behind a treasure map so vague that it isn’t even clear if the treasure, whatever it might be, is in the United States (he had once visited the colonies) or England. People die, or in some cases appear to die, while scholars compete to find the prize.Bayard shifts his story back and forth from 2009, where the treasure hunt takes place, to 1603, where we find Harriot discovering love with a servant girl almost as brilliant as he is.My enthusiasm for Bayard’s novel seemed to rise and fall as the pages turned. Sometimes it seemed wonderfully clever and other times contrived.

[jwhenderson_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I enjoy historical novels especially when they involve mystery and intrigue. An Instance of the Fingerpost by Ian Pears comes to mind as a particular favorite. Bayard's novel is similar while adding a contemporary mystery with its counterpart set at the end of the Elizabethan era.Henry Cavendish is a disgraced Elizabethan scholar, fooled by a forgery of a poem supposedly written by Walter Raleigh. As a result, Henry has chosen to turn to tutoring and odd jobs in Washington, D.C. As the story begins he has reconnected with Alonzo Wax, a college friend and a book collector. The eccentric Wax, perhaps the most interesting character in the novel, has purloined part of a letter that sheds light on the fabled "School of Night", a secret congregation of illustrious Elizabethan-era intellects like Raleigh, Christopher Marlowe and a brilliant but little-known scientist named Thomas Harriot. The school delved into theology, philosophy and science perhaps bordering on alchemy, in a manner thought traitorous and blasphemous. Wax apparently commits suicide, but he also reveals his discovery to Cavendish, and to Clarissa Dale, a woman Wax met at a lecture who claims psychic visions of Harriot, and to another antique book collector. At Wax's memorial service, Henry is approached by the supposed owner of the letter, an English antiquities collector named Bernard Styles, and offered a handsome sum to find and return the letter. No sooner than he starts to inquire about this Wax's devoted assistant is murdered and Wax's collection is stolen. Henry and Clarissa uncover clues that lead them to the Outer Banks of North Carolina, near where Harriot studied Native Americans during the failed attempt to establish an English colony. There they find Wax in hiding, claiming the letter points to a treasure. Clues then lead the trio to Syon House in England, the ancestral seat of the Earl of Northumberland, where Harriot once lived. Through all of the contemporary adventures there are flashbacks provided in interpolated chapters set in the historical Elizabethan era featuring Thomas Harriot and his love, Margaret Crookshanks. The combination of the ancient mystery, lost treasure, and suspenseful intrigue, make this an historical novel that I can recommend to all.

[sharrona_4 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

A treasure hunt, coded map deciphering, familiar and intriguing historical figures -- sounds like a good read. But what a disappointment! I expected so much more from an author whose previous books have been enjoyable. This story was slow and boring. Perhaps the greatest flaw was the characters -- not a single one was strong enough to inspire either like or dislike.

[sar96-1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

The School of Night was an engaging page-turner. It reminded me somewhat of Shadow of Night by Deborah Harkness because of the School of Night and some of the same characters. What is the treasure? Who Killed Who? Where does the map lead? What was the letter about? Who was Walter Ralegh? Who was Thomas Harriot? What is or was the School of Night? Why is it back in session? Follow the story; follow the map; intrigue, mysteries, answers, treasure, and love is found within.

[4leschats · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

When his old friend, Alonzo, commits suicide, Harry finds himself thrust into a mystery relating to an old letter from Sir Walter Raleigh, a resurrection of the old, nighttime scholarly pursuits, and two romances, one from the past and his own which may be more than he can survive.

[jan0fleming · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Synopsis

“A shared quest and a mysterious cabal, four centuries apart . . .

When Henry Cavendish attends the funeral of an old friend, the last thing he expects is to be given a business proposition. A handsome sum to retrieve a document that was in his friend’s possession when he died ; a letter from Sir Walter Ralegh. Henry accepts the challenge, despite severe misgivings about his sinister new employer.

Four centuries earlier, in Elizabethan England, another quest is playing out. Thomas Harriot, once a member of the mysterious School of Night, a group whose members included the toast of Elizabethan society, has shut himself off from the world. Working day and night, he devotes himself secretly to his experiments.

As both searches deepen, the two men realise that there are forces at work against them. Harriot’s work is threatened by discovery and Henry’s search becomes a deadly one, when someone close to him dies in mysterious circumstances. The School of Night is the story of a quest that spans centuries, of alliances forged in unexpected circumstances and of men who will stop at nothing to get what they want.”

I have always been a fan of Louis Bayard beautifully written historical thrillers but I have to say I was a little disappointed with this one.

The dual narrative worked well, weaving the past and present into a deftly plotted story, except I MUCH preferred the Elizabethan sections to the modern day treasure hunt. The Elizabethan characters Thomas and Margaret are compelling and empathetically engaging. I strongly felt their modern day counterparts and their story was not drawn as well. In fact thinking about it, it is the modern day thread that caused me not to enjoy it as much as I was expecting, I found I was racing through Henry and Clarissa’s story to get back to the characters I really cared about, Thomas and Margaret

I can understand other reviewers saying the modern sections reads like a better written version of The Da Vinci Code and unfortunately I agree with them. Louis Bayard’s previous works include The Pale Blue Eye (which follows a young Edgar Allen Poe solving a very dark and terrible mystery and Mr. Timothy, a literary masterpiece continuing the story of Dickens' Tiny Tim. Maybe if I had not read his previous works I would not have such high expectations but I found The School of Night rather light, not up to the author’s previous standard.

[sogamonk · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

well written with extreme attention to detail.Great historical fiction, and a mystery to boot.

[winterfox-392140 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

There's a whole lot of history out there that one doesn't really get a chance to run into in the course of just living life, and one of the nicer things about historical fiction is that it can draw your attention to interesting characters and events you were unaware of. This is the case with The School of Night, which drew my attention to Thomas Harriot, an English scientist and natural philosopher of the late 16th to early 17th century, who really did a remarkable amount of cool scientific things for someone that I'd never heard of; look him up if you want to see. He's really a sign of why it's important to publish; if he had published anything of his discoveries, he'd probably be a household name.The titular School of Night is interesting as well, a group including some famous names - Marlowe, Raleigh - led by Harriot, who purportedly discussed all sorts of matters scientific and religious, including atheism, a dangerous matter for the times. So there would seem to be quite a book here to be told about this... and yet, in a real sense, this isn't the story that Bayard wants to tell. The School of Night does come up, but it's far from the focus of the story, and more of its impetus.So what is the focus? It's a treasure hunt, led by a current (i.e. 2009) disgraced English professor, Henry Cavendish, who is executor of the estate of his old friend, the book collector Alonzo Wax's, after Wax's suicide. Cavendish is further hired by another collector, Bernard Styles, to find a letter by Raleigh that Wax had allegedly taken. And in the course of executing Wax's estate and finding this document, Cavendish and a female associate, Clarissa Dale, get involved in looking for a treasure hidden long ago by Harriot, a quest that takes them to some surprising places and to some interesting discoveries.Clarissa is also possessed of visions of Harriot and some people of his era, and so we also get pieces of what's going on at Syon House, the seat of the Earl of Northumberland. This is written in a different style, and you do get a hint of what Harriot was likely up to research-wise at the time, which was interesting; one feels that this book by itself , with Harriot and his female assistant Margaret and the people of their time, would have been more interesting, if taken up and developed more thoroughly. As it is, between everything, the book is a bit of a muchness, and not in a positive way.I don't want to take that too far, though; for this sort of book, which wants to be a historical fiction thriller with some romance, I'd really like to see some more that's not just a conventional story. There are a number of twists to the tale, but by and large, they weren't surprising if you've read this sort of thing before; some of them were really quite obvious, and didn't feel like they were meant to be so. Even in the side with dealing with Harriot, by and large, the story was altogether predictable, if well written. It's a fast and fluid read, and there's something to be said for that, but you definitely won't be breaking any new land.All told, this is a competently written book, enjoyable enough for what it is, and I like knowing about Harriot now, but I'd only really recommend it if you're a fan of these sorts of stories and want another one to try. Otherwise, I'd look elsewhere.

[capfox · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

There's a whole lot of history out there that one doesn't really get a chance to run into in the course of just living life, and one of the nicer things about historical fiction is that it can draw your attention to interesting characters and events you were unaware of. This is the case with The School of Night, which drew my attention to Thomas Harriot, an English scientist and natural philosopher of the late 16th to early 17th century, who really did a remarkable amount of cool scientific things for someone that I'd never heard of; look him up if you want to see. He's really a sign of why it's important to publish; if he had published anything of his discoveries, he'd probably be a household name.The titular School of Night is interesting as well, a group including some famous names - Marlowe, Raleigh - led by Harriot, who purportedly discussed all sorts of matters scientific and religious, including atheism, a dangerous matter for the times. So there would seem to be quite a book here to be told about this... and yet, in a real sense, this isn't the story that Bayard wants to tell. The School of Night does come up, but it's far from the focus of the story, and more of its impetus.So what is the focus? It's a treasure hunt, led by a current (i.e. 2009) disgraced English professor, Henry Cavendish, who is executor of the estate of his old friend, the book collector Alonzo Wax's, after Wax's suicide. Cavendish is further hired by another collector, Bernard Styles, to find a letter by Raleigh that Wax had allegedly taken. And in the course of executing Wax's estate and finding this document, Cavendish and a female associate, Clarissa Dale, get involved in looking for a treasure hidden long ago by Harriot, a quest that takes them to some surprising places and to some interesting discoveries.Clarissa is also possessed of visions of Harriot and some people of his era, and so we also get pieces of what's going on at Syon House, the seat of the Earl of Northumberland. This is written in a different style, and you do get a hint of what Harriot was likely up to research-wise at the time, which was interesting; one feels that this book by itself , with Harriot and his female assistant Margaret and the people of their time, would have been more interesting, if taken up and developed more thoroughly. As it is, between everything, the book is a bit of a muchness, and not in a positive way.I don't want to take that too far, though; for this sort of book, which wants to be a historical fiction thriller with some romance, I'd really like to see some more that's not just a conventional story. There are a number of twists to the tale, but by and large, they weren't surprising if you've read this sort of thing before; some of them were really quite obvious, and didn't feel like they were meant to be so. Even in the side with dealing with Harriot, by and large, the story was altogether predictable, if well written. It's a fast and fluid read, and there's something to be said for that, but you definitely won't be breaking any new land.All told, this is a competently written book, enjoyable enough for what it is, and I like knowing about Harriot now, but I'd only really recommend it if you're a fan of these sorts of stories and want another one to try. Otherwise, I'd look elsewhere.

[beserene · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Louis Bayard plays with the holes in history, taking inspiration from fact and fiction and utilizing the open mysteries of the past as much as the verifiable records that we actually have. The result, particularly in this case, is a quick, loose novel that has a strong modern sensibility. Of course, that pace and tone are also influenced by the dual narrative of this text. I have been a fan of Bayard since reading his 'Mr. Timothy' a while back, but this is the first time I have seen him weave together modern and historical narrative lines. The first line takes place in the first decade of the 21st century, while the second goes back to the 1600s, the time of Thomas Harriott (a contemporary of Christopher Marlowe and Walter Ralegh). The plot concerns a document from the 1600s that was recently "obtained" by one antiquities collector and subsequently "stolen" by another (the particular verbs depend on the perspective from which one is viewing the event); that document and its movements lead to suicide, murder, and even treasure hunting as the novel unfolds. Bayard has done the mystery/thriller story before and is a deft hand at shaping it, but this most recent novel also has elements of adventure which work well, though a few of the twists fit a bit strangely.And there are twists. Twists galore, in fact. The best reveal -- at least for those of us who appreciate Bayard's literary sensibilities -- is at the very end, of course, but the novel has more than enough reveal and counter-reveal throughout to keep everyone on tip-toes. One thing to know about Bayard's books, however, is that they rarely wrap up on a happy note. Those who like their mysteries cozy and their thrillers straightforward in the end may not like the heavy irony and even melancholy notes that dominate the final pages of this book. But then, we can't all have happy endings, can we?Overall, this was an enjoyable historical-literary mystery-thriller (can we fit any more genre descriptors in there?) that successfully balances its dual narratives and thoroughly engages the reader right to the bitter end.

[cfk_3 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

What a wonderful blending of murder mystery, literary treasure hunt and a story within a story. The back story is centered on historical figures--King James I of England, Walter Raleigh, Kit Marlowe, Shakespeare and Thomas Harriot, a true Renaissance Man. Harriot writes a letter which will set off a sequence of events 400 years later. Henry Cavendish, a disgraced Elizabethan scholar, follows the letter's trail back to Harriot's home in England and uncovers the true treasure. Suicide, murder, misguided friendship, romance and visions are all part of the journey.

[melissas09 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

An interesting read, moving back and forth between twentieth century scholars and the sixteenth century mystery they're trying to solve. Not a truly solid storyline, and it feels disjointed at times. I was disappointed by some of the plot twists near the end, but overall it kept me interested enough to keep reading.

[casualfriday_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I have enjoyed all of Bayard's historical thrillers, but this one disappointed me. He took an interesting historical premise: a secretive group of humanist thinkers meeting to discuss radical ideas in science, religion and politics - and Da Vinci Coded it up with a cardboard villain, his hulking sidekick, and too many improbable feats of derring-do. I know the reading public loves a fast-paced book, but this one bought its face pace at the expense of the development of a truly intriguing story. I hoped to learn a lot more about the ideas of Walter Ralegh, Christopher Marlowe, Thomas Harriot. This is the first of Bayard's novels set - partly - in contemporary times, and his modern-day characters were nowhere near as colorful and interesting as the historical characters Bayard usually creates. For me, the book only came alive during the historical bits, and they were too short.

[tibsboys · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The School of Night by Louis Bayard weaves two story lines together to structure the overall story. The novel opens with a current day Henry Cavendish contending with the funeral of his friend, the assignment to find a missing collectible letter and a mysterious female. The second story line involves a group of Elizabethan England academics (including Sir Walter Raleigh) and their formation of the School of Night--a group that met at night to discuss ideas regarding religion, the dark arts and politics--that were considered dangerous during the time period. One member of the School of Night, Thomas Harriot, authored the now missing letter; believed to point towards a treasure. Plot twists, alternating story threads, and a couple of murders keep readers following along. Readers that enjoy treasure hunting themes and historical fiction, especially of Elizabethan England, will enjoy this book.

[suetu_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This School hasn’t mastered all its lessonsSometimes when I see a novel as well-reviewed as this one is, I have to wonder, “Have I been reading these books too long?” For with many a thriller, the thrill is gone. Now, I don’t want to give you the impression I’m trashing this novel. Aspects of it were very good, but my response overall was mixed.Normally, this is where I’d launch into a detailed synopsis of at least part of the plot, but the potential for spoilers is so great that I’m going to be more circumspect than usual here. The School of Night opens with a funeral. Protagonist Henry Cavendish is eulogizing Alonso Wax, one of his oldest friends. No one can understand why Alonso killed himself. He was an intellectual, a bibliophile, and a passionate collector. During the funeral, Henry spots an attractive woman he does not know. (Hmm, I wonder if we’ll see her again?) And afterwards, the disgraced scholar learns that he is the executor of Alonso’s will. In the course of those duties, many suspicious facts and characters come to light. Then the bodies start piling up. What was Alonso up to before his death?So begins a mystery/treasure hunt set in the present day. The mystery being researched intimately involves the historic figure Thomas Harriot. And a second narrative thread, unfolding alternately with the contemporary tale, is set in Harriot’s time. To be honest, I think I enjoyed the historic tale more than present-day tale that frames it. For starters, Harriot was a fascinating figure about whom I knew nothing previously. He was a contemporary of Walter Raleigh, Kit Marlowe, William Shakespeare, and several other major figures. He was a brilliant and accomplished intellect. As written by Bayard, he was also a very sympathetic character—which is more than I can say for the contemporary characters, who were fairly unlikeable and unappealing to a man. It’s awfully hard to get invested in characters if you don’t like them. It’s a significant flaw. Another was the fact that major “revelations” were so well-telegraphed that you’d have to be fairly obtuse not to see them coming. I just mentioned two issues that may lead you to believe the writing of this book was not strong, but, actually, it was. The writing and use of language was above average. As with many other such novels, there was a romantic sub-plot. Two, in fact; one in the present and one in the past. I found the historic relationship engaging, interesting, and moving. I found the present-day relationship laughable, and I’m not the only one. When the lady first tells the gentleman, “I love you,” Bayard writes, “To which my first response, I’m ashamed to say, was a guffaw.” Yes, a proclamation so ridiculous that even the object of her affection can’t take it seriously. How can the reader?I think that Mr. Bayard is a talented writer, but that his skills don’t lie in the contemporary thriller genre. If he sticks to the period fiction, I’ll be back for more. Especially if he returns with equally fascinating characters living in such a pivotal time!

[julieandpruitt · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Lost treasures and secret societies are not new subjects to the literary world, but Louis Bayard has managed to uncover a literary and historical figure with a background just mysterious enough to keep readers turning pages, but that hasn’t been done before. The School of Night is Louis Bayard’s latest work of historical fiction/literary thriller that weaves a modern hero’s quest in with Thomas Herriot’s life as a member of the underground group The School of Night.Disgraced Herriot professor Henry Cavendish finds himself executor of his good friend’s estate. After his friend’s funeral, Bernard Styles, a mysterious stop-at-nothing-to-get-what-he-wants antiques collector appears wanting something from the estate: a letter relating to a secret society called The School of Night. Soon, the beautiful Clarissa Dale appears inquiring about the same item. Suddenly, Henry is pulled into an adventure that takes him from Washington, DC, to the Carolinas and all the way to Thomas Herriot’s England.Bayard takes readers back to the early 1600s when an interest in alchemy was blasphemy and treasonous. His skilful transition between modern and older language styles makes the two stories come alive and feel real. His characters are engaging and lively. I enjoyed every aspect of this story. I found myself wanting to learn more about Herriot and his love interest than I did about Clarissa and Henry, but that is likely just the romantic in me.All in all, I would recommend this book to anyone who enjoys historical fiction and a good mystery. This book will keep you reading until the end!

[jenngv · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I love historical fiction and this book is right up my alley. There was enough action, self deprication, mystery, and prose. I thoroughly enjoyed this book.

[kathy_h_8 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

gets the job done, and quite well.

[ntempest_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I am a big fan of this type of literary/historical mystery adventure and this book did not disappoint. It weaves the stories of Thomas Harriot, a little-known scientist who was friends with Christopher Marlow, Walter Raleigh and others of that era, and a former English professor down on his luck who finds himself on a treasure hunt of sorts in modern times, following clues laid out by letters and other documents from Harriot's time. Bayard is a strong storyteller, but he also has a beautiful writing style that includes colorful descriptions and intriguing turns of phrase that made the reading experience delightful on many levels. I was familiar with his work in the sense that I knew of other books he had written, but had previously never read any of his efforts. After finishing The School of Night, I plan to go back and read some of his earlier works.

[dksthomson · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I did enjoy the liberties the author, Louis Bayard, took with the relationships among Raleigh, Marlowe, Harriot et al, although, I think Shakespeare and Marlowe may be rolling in their graves...or...maybe they would have a good laugh...lol. All in all, Bayard did a good job with this historical fiction and I would recommend it to anyone that likes the genre.

[karieh_2 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

By the end of “The School of Night”, I was surprised by how much I was enjoying it and how interested I was in seeing how the story ended. The parallel timelines, one in 1603 and one in 2009 both keep the reader guessing, and after a brief bit of struggle to find their voices, the characters in both centuries become intriguing. Scholars, certainly, but most of all the characters are very human, and become caught up in life’s most basic of dramas.“They would repeat it in unison and with glad hearts, because no matter how hard they had gone at it, they knew it was something of a miracle, finding – not like minds, exactly – like hungers. Whatever their differences in station or stature, they wished to know what could be known or couldn’t.”At times the driving energy seems to be in 2009, with Henry Cavendish and Clarissa Dale as they strive to uncover mysteries hundreds of years old. Henry himself is a bit of a mystery as he struggles to find a calling, a path forward. That path is forever changed by a woman he meets at a funeral, Clarissa Dale, and by a mystery that he is drawn into by forces both modern and long ago.“This is where my little track of linearity breaks down. Because when he next spoke, it was as if he’d already spoken. And it was as if Alonzo was speaking, too, from his watery grave. And maybe some part of me was chiming in. All of us in the same helpless chord, not quite in tune but impossible to disaggregate.”And then the focus of the book moves to the past, to a man struggling to find answers in his world, ones that he seems determined to pry from Nature…and instead, scientist Thomas Harriot encounters an even bigger natural force.“He sees her. He stammers, he half rises, the book tumbles from his lap, he stoops for it, then jerks upright. All these actions betray him, but more than anything else, it is his eyes, the way they receive her image and bend it and absorb it and send it back.”Historical fiction, when done well, can be compelling. “The School of Night” was a good example of a modern day treasure hunt and of romance across the ages. With only a few discordant notes (there was an oddly large amount of product placement…) this book gains speeds and then hooks the reader completely.

[oryan685 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A fantastic and very well balanced book. It had mystery, suspense, human drama, literary history, love, and even dashes of humor thrown in to serve up what is a spicy and filling narrative. I really enjoyed it, and I wasn't sure that I would when I initially recieved it in the mail. After I finished I just felt satisfied. The ending was great, it wrapped everything up so nicely and answered all of your questions. I hate it when authors forget to tell you something that is kind of important to the story or just don't bother with it. It didn't feel at all predictable to me, there was a great usage of foreshadowing that was intriguing without being obvious and although I did guess some of the conclusion there were definitely some surprises in there and I enjoyed the protagonists discovering what I had already surmised. It was, simply, a pleasure to read.

[vespasia_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The School of Night is a good book for fans of historical fiction mysteries with a hint of romance thrown into the mix. Other reviewers have covered the story so I'll just add Louis Bayard fans will not be disappointed.

[jensay_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The School of Night is a wonderful academic thriller. It tells the story of present day academics and the hunt for a missing document. Mixed in we are taken back in history to the origin of the mystery. I found this book to be a very quick read, and it reminded me a little bit of Carol Goodman's work- ie smart, suspenseful, some dark aspects. Definitely worth the read.

[jsprenger_4 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Thank you to Library Thing Early Reviewers. I am a big fan of historical fiction and romance, and this book fits those parameters. A School of Night is my first Louis Bayard novel, and I really enjoyed it. Although the book transitions from 2009 to 1603, Bayard does a wonderful job and doesn’t lose the reader. This book gets off to a slow start, but quickly picks up the pace. Once past the first few chapters, readers won’t be able to put it down. The plot is basic and predictable —untimely death of a friend, deceit, love and the potential of a buried treasure, but there are twists and turns that will surprise the reader. I am recommending this book to my friends and book club, and I will be reading Bayard’s previous novels shortly.

[jayde1599_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Date: 2011Pages: 338Read: 3/13/11-3/17/11Source: Early ReviewerSynopsis: Elizabethan scholar, Henry Cavendish has been hired to find a letter that his close friend Alonzo Wax seems to have stolen. The only problem is that Alonzo recently died. The letter is from the Elizabethan scholars who were part of the School of Night - a secret group of academics.Pros: Engaging and intriguing historical mystery. I had never heard of Thomas Harriot, who was a scientist and astronomer, before I read the book. My luck with ER books has not been stellar lately, but I think this book finally broke that streak!Cons: Some parts were predictable, but that did not bother me.Recommended!

[jennyo_587543 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I'm pretty picky about the books I request through the Early Reviewers program. I don't have that much time to read any more, so I want to make the most of it. That said, I was pleased when I got a copy of The School of Night. I'd heard lots of good things about Bayard, and actually saw a commercial for this book when I was watching The Daily Show. Those things plus the jacket description intrigued me.I took the book with me on a weekend vacation and was glad I did. It was a quick and thoroughly entertaining read. I sort of expected it to have more of the historical setting, but the balance between historical and present day worked for me. I enjoyed the interactions of the characters in both settings.I hate to write too much more about the book as it is largely plot-driven and has a few twists here and there. But I will say it was a great vacation read and would be perfect to take on a summer trip. Perfect escapist fare (with some literary history thrown in for fun).

[randalrh · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

If I were to break my rule of not reading books twice (because there are simply too many others to read), I might read this again. Not because I loved it so much, but because I'm just not sure at this point if it all hangs together or all falls apart. In any event, it's well-written, generally, with more than a standard count of interesting characters and a plot that moves very neatly between the present day and post-Elizabethan England. The mystery is engaging, but I can't escape the feeling that Bayard tries to slip a couple of things past the reader and doesn't quite manage it.