by David Walton
When they reached the foothills of the mountains, the mossy trees thinned and were replaced by stout shrubs like umbrellas with sprays of root anchoring them to the bare rock. Herds of a mouse-like creature with multiple grasping trunks scattered from the shade as their troop passed through. She saw goats, too, with hooks on their hooves that could pass into solid rock and latch on. In this way, they could run up cliff faces or even upside-down on the roofs of caves and overhangs.
They were moving in a general northeasterly direction, toward the center of the island, with the tallest mountain always somewhat to their left. Several times they had circled far out of their way to avoid a low-lying region of ground, and she wondered if these were more quintessence blights.
Where had the blights come from? Were they related to the dwindling availability of salt? Manticores were quick to blame the humans—and not without reason—but the humans were also the most likely to be able to figure out what these blights were and where they had came from. If the manticores would just tell them what they'd seen and give them access to the sites, Catherine was confident they could discover the reason behind them. Did they always form in the areas of lowest altitude? Could it be caused by a miasma, something heavier than air seeping up from a chasm underground? Given the chance to experiment, they just might find out.
At the rate it was spreading, though, it might cover the island before they got a chance. But no, she didn't have enough information to estimate that. Without knowing the cause, she couldn't tell if the rate of spread should be measured by distance on the ground, like a moving object, or by volume, like a spreading flood, or even if the rate was constant. It might be months before it reached the settlement, it might be only weeks, or it might never get there at all.
The manticores brought her higher, up steep slopes where there were no more trees, sometimes actually climbing up cliff faces. Her precarious litter lurched as invisible hands dragged her higher, and more than once she thought they would lose hold, and she would fall to her death.
By the time they stopped for the night, she was exhausted and crying with hunger. She begged Rinchirith for food, or at least to untie her hands, which were still lashed painfully behind her back. His voice came out of the darkness, speaking in English. "You do not need food. Food comes from the earths, and they will judge you. They can feed you just as easily as they can kill you."
"What do you mean, the earths? You're not making any sense."
"Because your language is a child's language, with no way to say what must be said." He switched to his own language, and rattled off a clatter of sharp syllables too fast for Catherine to understand.
"What are you going to do with me?"
He switched back to English. "Me? I will do nothing. It is not for me to decide your fate."
She closed her eyes. Whatever was to come in the morning, she wanted to have her full senses working for her. She hoped she would be able to sleep despite her hunger and discomfort. Moments later, however, pincered hands closed around her arms and yanked her to her feet again. They untangled her from the netting and forced her to walk forward. Apparently she was not yet allowed to rest.
It was never entirely dark on Horizon. As the stars drew close in the western sky, they grew enormous, casting as much light as the full moon in England. The place where they'd stopped, however, was high on the eastern face of a mountain, and the peak blocked most of the western stars. It was darker outside than she had seen in two years, which, combined with the invisibility of her captors, made her suddenly very afraid. She was led forward, but she couldn't see where she was going.
The manticores jerked her to a halt just as her leading foot felt air instead of ground. She felt forward with her toes, but could feel nothing. In front of her, a deeper darkness seemed to suck the air from around them, breezing her hair gently forward. It wasn't a cliff. It was a hole in the mountain.
"Mighty lords of the earth," Rinchirith said in his own language. He spoke slowly and gravely, so Catherine was able to make out the words. "We have seen your wrath in the deep places. Judge if this creature and her kin are the cause. We sacrifice her to your pleasure, that your anger may abate, and your life power spring up again from the earth."
He shrieked, a long, ululating cry that echoed far below her feet, gradually more distant until the sound faded. Then, without warning, he pushed her over the edge.
CHAPTER 5
IT TOOK a week to travel from Valladolid, landlocked in the center of Spain, to the harbor at Cádiz, and another several weeks to make the trip to England. They sailed on a huge galleon at the head of a small fleet. Ramos was uncomfortable for much of the time, appalled by the language and manner of the sailors, and sickened by the poor food. Nevertheless, he cared for Antonia's needs, feeding her and changing her and continually speaking to her in both Spanish and Latin in the hopes that she might understand. Many on the ship, seeing his priest's cassock, came to him for confession or spiritual advice, and he was glad to listen to them.
He was free from the Inquisition, summoned by the greatest monarch in Christendom to do a great work, but he grew more melancholy as the trip progressed. Of all the Geminis Ramos had found, only King Philip had escaped the madness. If he had been spared, why not Antonia? Was he more righteous than she? Perhaps Philip was vital to the Lord's work, and had thus been granted special mercy.
He brooded on the meaning of the nova, what had caused it to appear, and why it had brought such grief. Most people considered it a harbinger, merely a portent of the madness, rather than its direct cause. Ramos didn't think that way. When two unlikely things occurred at the same time, he assumed one was probably the cause of the other. That or both were the effect of a third cause, as yet unseen. He wasn't content to shrug and blame the whims of an unknowable God. Instead, he spent his days in prayer and meditation, following the spiritual exercises taught him by his mentor years before, and asking God for insight.
Finally, they arrived in England, where a river guide came on board and guided the ship's captain through the ever-changing currents and shoals of the Thames. They tied up at Greenwich, where a vast shipping yard crawled with workers. The air was filled with the sounds of ringing hammers, creaking pulleys, splashing water, and the shouts of men. Ramos held Antonia's hand and stood on the dock, blinking in the sunlight.
"Ramos? Ramos de Tavera!" A thin Spaniard with a trim, triangular beard rushed forward and gripped Ramos by both shoulders. He kissed Ramos on both cheeks and laughed. "My old friend, you look half starved."
Ramos grinned. It was Juan Barrosa, secretary to the king, and an old friend. He returned Barrosa's embrace and introduced Antonia.
"Antonia! I remember you when you were no bigger than my knee. My, what a beauty you've become."
Antonia seemed pleased, but whether she understood the words or not, Ramos couldn't tell. "I've never been to Africa. It must be a fascinating place," she said.
"Ah," Barrosa said sadly. "She is . . ."
"Yes," Ramos said.
"I am so sorry."
Ramos was bursting with questions about his summons by the king, but Barrosa waved them away. First they had to get back on a boat, he said, a wherry this time, and travel the rest of the way down the Thames into London. Once they were aboard, he continued to shrug off Ramos's questions, saying only that the king wanted Ramos to cast Queen Mary's horoscope.
"Truly? It is permitted to forecast for the queen?" In Spain, it was illegal to cast the king's horoscope or predict the day of his death.
Barrosa shrugged. "It is if their Majesties command it."
"Are there no trained astronomers or physics in all of England, that he dragged me a thousand miles from home for so simple a task?"
"Do not press me, friend. There is much more to tell, but without the king's permission, I dare not speak."
Ramos remembered that for Barrosa, coming here with the king was something of a homecoming. Though a Spaniard, he had been born in England to one of the
ladies-in-waiting of Queen Katerina, the Spanish first wife of Queen Mary's father, Henry VIII. He wondered how much of the country Barrosa remembered.
The watermen pulled on their oars with the strength of a lifetime plying their trade. The wherry rounded the Isle of Dogs, and London came into view. It was Ramos's first sight of the world's largest city, and he wasn't impressed. Sprawling, dirty, and vast, it had none of the glory of Madrid or Granada. The decaying St. Paul's Cathedral was big, certainly, but with none of the pure white splendor of the cathedral in Toledo. London Bridge sagged out over the river, top-heavy with layers of shops and houses. The massive starlings that held up the bridge were so wide they nearly dammed the river, leaving a visible difference in the water level from one side to the other. The water sluiced through the passage, forcing the wherry to fight its way against the current, lurching sickeningly and throwing up sprays of water. Ramos gripped the side and clutched his stomach, but in a moment they were through. On the far side, they maneuvered through a labyrinth of boats and approached Whitehall Palace, where the queen's swans sailed gracefully near the bank, snapping up morsels tossed to them by the royal swanherd.
The wherry pulled up to the palace dock and was met by servants who took their ropes and tied them fast. Barrosa stood to disembark, and Ramos noticed what he should have seen earlier.
"Your limp," Ramos said. "It's gone!" Barrosa had walked with a bad leg since childhood; now he crossed the uneven dock with ease.
"God has been good," Barrosa said, but an impish smile played across his face.
"What is it? What are you hiding?"
Barrosa's smile vanished. He helped Ramos step out of the boat, but held onto his arm, and his voice was grave. "When you read Her Majesty's horoscope, and the king asks you what you see, do not lie."
Ramos shrugged him off, stung. "Of course not."
But Barrosa didn't let go. "No matter what the horoscope shows you. Tell the truth."
THE QUEEN'S privy chamber was packed with courtiers: an ocean of silk, velvet, taffeta, camlet, pearls, tinseled satin, and cloth of gold. A few of the courtiers were the queen's attendants, loyal friends who had stood beside her in the difficult days when her father, King Henry VIII, had thrown her Spanish mother aside for the Protestant Anne Boleyn. Most, however, were Philip's gentlemen, the vast retinue of Spaniards who had traveled with him from home.
Queen Mary sat at one end of the room in a high-backed chair. She was a small, plain woman with red eyes and deep frown lines at the sides of her mouth. She was noticeably with child. Her dress was purple, embroidered with silver, and bulged forward over her abdomen. This pregnancy was crucial to the future of Philip and Mary's new dynasty, and the whole point of their marriage. A son would inherit the kingdoms of both Spain and England. Mary's eyes locked on Ramos, waiting to hear what he would say. Ramos swallowed, wishing for his quiet home in Valladolid.
Not far from Ramos stood a quiet man in his mid-thirties, tall and slender, with a long, pointed white beard draped over a gown like an artist might wear, with long hanging sleeves, and a black cap. Ramos recognized him as John Dee, the queen's astrologer and mathematician, essentially the same post that Ramos himself held under Philip. Why hadn't Dee been asked to cast this horoscope? Ramos had met him once, years before, in Paris. He had delivered a brilliant lecture about the use of new trigonometric ideas to calculate the distance to the stars. Why such a learned man would want to return to such a backward country as England, Ramos had no idea, but the man was certainly competent. Why was he overlooked in favor of Ramos? Didn't the king trust him?
Ramos was just stalling, and he knew it. He completed his calculations, and Mary's horoscope lay spread before him, as accurate as Dee or anyone in Europe could calculate it. The problem was, it held nothing but bad news. It made him wonder if Dee had somehow slyly avoided the job, for just this reason.
Barrosa's warning came back to him, and he had to admit he was tempted. He could say that all was well, that this pregnancy would end in joy and celebration. Who would know the difference? But Ramos was no flattering courtier, to tell the king and queen only what they wanted to hear. Philip had brought him all the way from Spain to cast this horoscope, so he would tell him and the queen exactly what he saw.
He looked down at his paper, took a deep breath, and spoke confidently. "I see no child. Not now or ever. I see two lines cut short, two pregnancies, but no children. Only sickness and sorrow. There will be no heir."
Queen Mary barely reacted. Her eyes grew distant and looked past him to some distant horizon. She was no stranger to grief, having spent most of her childhood abandoned and disgraced by her father and pushed to renounce her faith. She had endured those years, had held fast to the Church, had regained her rightful throne, had married Philip, all for this purpose: to bear a son who would rule in the name of the Church, as her father had not. Only there would be no son.
Ramos looked to King Philip, standing silently beside her, and tried to gauge his reaction. Philip was not tall, but he dominated the room, resplendent in a black cloak lined with leopard fur and a silvered doublet that reflected the light. His pale blue eyes missed nothing. This was the most powerful man in the world, the champion of Christendom, his armies devoted to driving out the Musselman threat in the south and the cancer of Protestantism eating its way through France, the Netherlands, and the Germanic states. His rage was fearsome, and Ramos had seen him punish messengers for bringing bad news.
But Philip did not look furious, or even surprised. He clapped his hands and waved his fingers in dismissal. The courtiers who jammed the room began to file out, Ramos along with them, but Philip stopped him. "Not you," he said in Spanish. "You stay."
Ramos waited, worried, while the room emptied. He noticed a finely-worked leather pouch around Philip's neck, black as night. Barrosa had worn an identical pouch. It looked out of place on both men: too elegant for Barrosa's dress and too plain for Philip's.
"Do not fear," Philip said to Mary in Latin. Since Philip spoke no English, and Mary only a little Spanish, they communicated mostly in Latin, and when that failed, fell back into French. "I bring you a relic from the chapel of Santiago de Compostela," Philip said. He took the odd leather pouch from around his neck and held it out by its chain. "It contains an ancient worm that once feasted on the flesh of Saint James. From that blessed flesh, it received such life and health that it has not died in over a thousand years." He draped the chain around Mary's neck. "For you. For the health of our son."
The moment he gave it to her, something twitched. Ramos wasn't sure what it was, but something in the corner of his vision had moved. He caught sight of his astrolabe on the table, and thought maybe it had moved in some subtle way, but he couldn't tell. Not again, he thought. Not another nova. Then his eyes drifted to the horoscope, and he saw the mistake.
It wasn't possible. He didn't make mistakes, certainly not one so basic as this. Venus would be ascendant in July, not Mars, as he had written. His eyes darted between paper, astrolabe, and almanac, trying to find an explanation, but there was none. The horoscope was wrong.
Heart hammering, he dipped his pen and drew a new line across the paper, correcting one he had made before. But no, that couldn't be right. He consulted his almanac, and found another discrepancy. Another blunder. But this couldn't be. Either he had been mad when he made these calculations, or he was going mad now. Could he have turned to the wrong page in the almanac?
Angry now, he flipped over the parchment and began again. He redrew the figures, accounting for the distortion caused by England's higher latitude. He worked in a fury, finding mistake after mistake, errors he could not possibly have made. A very different horoscope formed under his pen.
By the time he finished, he knew that some new miracle had happened, not another nova, but something else. Something far beyond the mathematical understanding of a simple astronomer-priest. He gazed back up at the king and queen, shaken. The black pouch rested against the purple and silve
r of Mary's dress, tiny and ordinary. Ramos believed in miracles, but he had never seen one before now. Somehow, at the moment Philip draped that tiny pouch around Mary's neck, the very lines of force in the universe had shifted. The sovereign will of God, communicated through the immutable revolutions of the heavenly spheres, had changed.
"I see a child," Ramos said, unable to keep his voice from trembling. "Your son will live."
WHEN the king dismissed him, Ramos returned to the apartments that had been given him in order to check on Antonia. He had hired a nurse to sit with her, and the old matron, three times a grandmother, was kind and gentle. Antonia had eaten her supper, and was calm for the moment. A half-buried idea that he would return to find her miraculously healed died, and he cursed himself for foolish hopes.
He left again and prowled the halls until he found Barrosa. He cornered him, snatched the pouch at Barrosa's neck, and held it in his face.
"What is this thing? What is happening?"
"Steady, brother," Barrosa said. "The king gave his permission to tell you everything. In the morning, I'll . . ."
"Morning? Look at me. Look at my hands. They haven't stopped shaking. My horoscope changed in front of my eyes. One moment, the lines were in one position, the next moment they had moved. I'm afraid to go out and look at the stars, because I don't know what I'll see. If you can explain what's happening, take pity on me."
Barrosa glanced up and down the passage. "All right. I can't explain all of it, but I can explain some. Tell no one where we go or what you see."
Whitehall Palace was a labyrinth—hundreds of sumptuous rooms that sprawled over acres of land in haphazard arrangement. Secret passages and shortcuts abounded, and Ramos had heard tales of plots and intrigues hatched in this royal warren. After a dozen turns, he was lost, and completely reliant on Barrosa to lead the way.
Barrosa opened a door to a cavernous library still decorated in the Italian Renaissance style. Palace renovations had begun under Mary's father, but had not yet reached this far. Tall gilded mirrors faced ancient portraits over acres of red carpet. On the ceiling, English kings of old in poses of regal glory stretched out their arms to grateful masses, while the twin cherubs Victory and Britannia looked on in approbation.
