by J. C. Hanna
“I have witnessed many spectral forms in my lifetime, but this entity was… Was somehow more real than most. As she stood before me I could see every part of her garments and they were as real as you are real to me now. So too with the flesh of her face. She was solid, or gave the appearance of being such. When she delivered her message unto me, she walked into the wall, and she was gone. The strictly corporeal cannot carry out such acts.”
Dee barely reacted to what he heard. When he spoke, his voice was tranquil.
“And what message did the phantom communicate?”
“It spoke about my mother. It said that she had practiced witchcraft. It praised her bravery. You see my concern? Why praise my beloved mother, and yet condemn her as a witch? Though… Yes… More praise than condemnation. I do not know, John. Did the spirit mean to frighten me? To warn me? To soften my heart towards magic and witchcraft? I will never understand why messengers from the other realm cannot speak plainly.”
Dee’s brow furrowed. She was clearly in the throes of an intense mental anguish. He was her only means of relief, and yet he did not know how to provide her with the comfort that she so desperately sought.
“Hmm,” he mused. “It is not uncommon for spirits to pass on messages from the other side. I would not dwell too long on what you have witnessed. These messages are often sent to confuse and to cause worry; and if you pay them no heed, they will fail in their intent.”
“Yes, but I spoke to it. And it replied. It was not a senseless spectre. A mere projection. There was intelligence behind the human disguise.”
“That is less common. I shall consult my books, but it does not appear to be anything that should trouble you. Unsettling, I know, but the phantom did not seem to mean you harm. None at least beyond the anguish of slandering the good name of your dear mother.”
“I do not believe its words were meant to inflict a slander on my mother. I do not know what the phantom’s purpose was, but its words have caused me but a small measure of distress. What frightens me is the ease with which the phantom came and went. It meant me no harm, last evening. Should I be so fortunate in my next encounter?”
“No matter,” Dee said, confidently. “I shall consider it further. I fear that this spectre may have unsettled your mind more than you are willing to acknowledge.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Your face is as pale as highland snow. The phantom’s message must have chilled you to the core. And I have never witnessed you wearing gloves before. Not even in the deepest grip of winter.”
Elizabeth rubbed her gloved hands together. That she had slipped them on to conceal the strip of silk cloth that covered the demon’s bite was information that she was not yet ready to share with Dee. Less still, the deal struck with the creature.
“I shall go away to my books,” Dee said. “And if, as you say, the phantom’s words have brought you some measure of comfort, then hold on to that comfort until the holy oil has anointed your head. If you can illuminate the streets of London with the radiance of your smile, then surely such confidence will make all but the foolhardiest princes, or unseen dark forces think twice about invasion or attack?”
Elizabeth smiled at Dee’s words. Dee bowed once again, and then he left the room.
As he crossed the courtyard to the main tower, where he had established a temporary study in one of the empty prison cells, his mind worked feverously. His older self from the scrying stone at Hatfield had mentioned a young woman. A witch. A protector who would appear whenever the queen’s life was in danger. If the phantom and witch were one and the same, then peril was close.
As the queen and her entourage left The Tower for the Abbey, Dee remained in the cell. A small cauldron of coal tar, affixed to an iron tripod, sat bubbling on the stone floor over a modest fire. The sweet fumes from the black liquid filled the air and dizzied Dee’s senses. Dee stood directly over the cauldron when the fire had burned itself out. The surface of the liquid fell still and it took on the appearance of glass. As he stared down on the cooling liquid he saw Elizabeth, on the throne, in the Abbey. The Crown of State sat proudly upon her head. She was assuredly destined to bear that crown well, mused Dee.
Silently, he called on the liquid to reveal all mortal dangers close to the queen’s person. There was no change in the thick, black liquid. He next called on the dark substance to reveal mortal dangers to the queen’s person anywhere in the city. No change. Finally, he enquired after any mortal dangers, wherever they might be. The black surface instantly revealed a hideous form. The demon looked out at Dee, then beyond the magician as if observing something behind him. The demon then fixed its gaze directly on Dee. The liquid began to boil in the absence of the heating flames. The vessel vibrated and shook; and then, in a violent instant, the black liquid ejected from the cauldron. Dee turned smartly to shield his face from the sticky eruption. The back of his black velvet cloak took the worst of the angry mess.
Chapter Twenty-two: Listening at Doors
Richmond Palace, 12th July 1560
One year and six months following her coronation, Elizabeth’s confidence in her God-given right to rule had become absolute. Robert Cecil, Earl of Salisbury, and trusted advisor to the queen did all the political worrying on behalf of his sovereign. Dee took care of everything else. The fact that she had failed to instruct him on the matter of her diabolical deal made his task more difficult.
The calm that had settled over the kingdom, and the lack of menace from the otherworldly realm, Dee had attributed to his mastery of the dark arts. He felt as assured in the power of his abilities as his Mistress felt in her primacy over England.
“Majesty,” Cecil said. “I must urge you to consider your actions carefully. Princes from all the great kingdoms of Europe are seeking an opportunity to call on you. Those to whom you have granted such permission, you have blown hot, and then cold. They like it not. There is much chatter amongst the diplomatic class about a growing impatience with what they perceive as a cruel game on your Majesty’s part. If no be your answer, then say no. Do not lead them by the nose. Great men do not tolerate such sport; not even when the game is being played by one so gracious as thee.”
Dee didn’t need a scrying glass or an astrological chart to predict how his Queen would react to Cecil’s forwardness, or to his insolent instructions. Dee took a step back.
“Lord Robert,” she began, firmly, but with more tolerance than Dee had been expecting. “In most matters, I value your counsel above that of any man; and I always will. On matters of the heart, you would be well advised to withdraw a pace or two and allow your Queen the time and space that she needs to make up her mind. That we often return to this same topic is beginning to grow tiresome. When I am good and ready, Robert. And only when I am good and ready.”
“But this isn’t a matter of the heart, Majesty,” insisted Cecil. “A considered choice of a husband could prove beneficial to the kingdom.”
Dee winced at Cecil’s words. The queen began to pace. A lesser advisor would have instantly felt the full force of her rage, but given Cecil’s special nature, he was afforded some shelter from that storm.
“Robert,” she said, firmly. “If I marry a Spanish prince, then the French will be at war with me. Not to mention the uproar amongst the Protestant populous at the prospect of a Catholic king ruling by my side. A French selection will have an armada of Spanish warships off the south coast of England before I finish speaking my wedding vows. There is no good choice. Keeping them dangling on my lines serves the nation better than if I were dangling on the line of some foreign prince. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Cecil recognised the lethal nature of her tone. He backed down in that moment, but not for once and for all.
“As you wish, Majesty,” Cecil conceded.
“I do wish, Robert. Now, if you would be so good as to excuse yourself, I was rather hoping for a quick word with Dee before the hunt? I trust that he will have the good sense to stay away from matters that
do not concern him?”
“Majesty,” Cecil said, as he bowed his head.
He withdrew from Dee and the queen.
Elizabeth beamed widely at Dee when Cecil left the room.
“My Lord fusses so,” she said. “His face flushes cardinal red when he does not get his way. He still treats me like a child to be schooled. But his heart is in the right place. If it were not, then his head would be in the wrong place—on a spike at The Tower.”
“I believe that he has your very best interests at heart and that his head serves you better attached to his shoulders.”
“And on the matter of my heart; what have you to report?”
“There is no match amongst the princes of Europe that does not end in catastrophe. It is the degree of the catastrophe that you must consider if you must choose from that pitiful pool. Every chart that I cast informs me thus. As for Dudley…”
“Proceed, John.”
“As for Robert Dudley; the charts indicate a minor ripple.”
“A what?” snapped Elizabeth.
“Bess, this is by no means exact…”
“Pfft John. You have never been wrong. What of this ripple?”
“There will be a little discontent amongst some of your subjects. The noble men are an altogether different prospect. Why not one of them? They will whine. Your lowly subjects love you and they will support you in whatever choice you make. Like I say, a ripple. But if you ask me for a purely objective assessment, then marrying Robert Dudley would be the best option. At least it will not lead to war.”
Elizabeth smiled with relish.
“I would, however, recommend sticking to hunting stags, for now,” Dee added. “My Lord Dudley is a married man. Reports say that his wife is gravely ill. It may not please the lowest in the land if you were to steal the husband of a dying woman. Give it some time, Bess. Your heart will be complete, but only when the moment is right. I feel that the moment is close.”
Elizabeth nodded her head in agreement.
“As you say, John. Amy Dudley is not long for this world. If he were to divorce her now, then he would be forever cast in an evil light.”
Dee and the queen left the room. From a door at the other side of the chamber, Lady Amy Dudley and the demon entered. She was visibly upset. She turned to the demon. Anger welled deep within her, and then it exploded.
“Destroy them,” she spat. “They have made a fool out of me and I want them dead!”
“When the time is right, you will destroy them,” returned the demon, with sinister calm. “But only when the time is right.”
“When!” snapped Amy.
“Soon, dear lady. Soon,” reassured the demon.
Chapter Twenty-three: The Reservations of a Saint
Tara: Seat of the High Kings of Ireland, 441 AD
The ignorance of the pagans was a source of sorrow to the holy man; they did not know any better. The lack of belief that was creeping into the hearts of his followers was much more troubling—how could he hope to win over an entire nation to the one true faith when he couldn’t even convince his own people? The question vexed him. The answer did not come easily.
Wearily, he stood up and walked down to the small stream by the limits of the camp. Nesting comfortably in a small hollow of the steep bank that ran down to the water, hidden from Patrick’s followers, Tarish sat on a small rock. There was a bored expression on his tiny face.
“You look troubled, boy,” said Tarish, scornfully.
“I am not troubled, old friend; but my companions are deeply worried by what is to come.”
“They have a lot to be worried about,” said Tarish.
Patrick looked at Tarish with mild concern. The little being had the uncanny knack of seeing trouble beyond anything that Patrick could reckon on, and with the confrontation with the old faith only hours away, Patrick had figured on a lot of trouble.
“They do?” asked Patrick.
“Surely so,” began Tarish. “This is the biggest moment of your life, boy. Nothing is yet decided. Your God could bend all humanity to His will in a blink, but He does not. What makes you think that He will empower you to bend them to His will? That’s the same thing, child. That does not appear to be His plan. No, there is a lot that is still up in the air; spinning and whirling, and crashing towards this place.”
“Explain yourself, Tarish.”
“Your angel cannot help you this time. Well, he could try to help you, but his efforts would not go unchallenged,” said Tarish, dryly. “Once the sun has set on tomorrow, I may see you no more. That is what I fear.”
“And what does that mean?” asked Patrick. “Where is this feeling coming from?”
“As we speak, another being in the likeness of your angel is with the king,” explained Tarish. “When I look at Victoricus I see the most brilliant, pure white light. But the angel with the king is different. There is no light. A shadow surrounds him. As dark as night, and as deep and empty as the eternal fall to hell. He is old, and powerful, and spoiling for a fight. If your angel steps in to help you then the old one will bring hell to Earth. That will be the cost to fix the balance. And all the land can feel it. A vibration. A great power moving through every river and stream, and in the forests, and on the mountains. The entire world is shaking with this power. All that was, and all that is going to be, coming to this place to watch. To watch you. To watch them. None knowing how it might end. You against the gathering of ancient power. You. Boy. Alone.”
Patrick smiled to take the sting out of Tarish’s words. It was also an effort to reassure the little being.
“So, I’m on my own?” Patrick snorted.
The tiny creature grinned, though the expression took on the form of a grimace.
“And you protest that your followers have no faith,” said Tarish, with relish.
Patrick shook his head and then he smiled at the rebuke.
“I am fortunate indeed to have such a good friend to remind me of what is important,” said Patrick. “And who is important.”
“And I will be by your side,” Tarish said, without irony.
“So true, old friend. And there is no one who I would rather have by my side in this battle.”
The pair sat in silence as they mused on what was to come. The list of bad days was long and terrifying. There was one day that was much more terrifying than all the others. It changed the course of his life forever. His mind turned to that day for perspective and encouragement.
Chapter Twenty-four: Prey
The Welsh Coast, 421 A.D.
Patrick and his grandfather had been on the road for ten exhausting days. The purpose of the trip was twofold—trade, and holy pilgrimage. Patrick was there mainly for the trade—he had sourced a new strain of oats from a Scottish merchant three years back, and he had carefully cultivated the plants for two seasons. They were worth a few sheep, in Patrick’s humble estimation.
The village of Llynwen was stunning. The grey basalt cliffs, on which the village perched, looked out over the Atlantic Ocean. The villagers faced the relentless trade winds with a steely backbone. The harsh climate was as much a part of their little world as the ever-present, cliff-top church, with its ancient graveyard, and the thin oak grove that ran along the perimeter. The mighty trees were bent and twisted off the perpendicular by the merciless, incessant wind.
Rufus snagged a local sheep drover with the lure of a coin. The local agreed to take him to see around the church. The church was reputed to be the place of a great miracle. During a fierce storm, some ten years before, it was said that the archangel Michael came down from Heaven with a burning torch. The angel perched on top of the squat church tower and guided the local fishing fleet safely back to port. Patrick had his doubts, and so he left his excitable grandfather to seek the truth in it all.
“Begging your pardon,” Patrick began, to a man standing next to three fine Welsh sheep. “How much for the beasts?”
The wind-beaten, sun-ripened, owner of the animals
could not have looked any less interested in the query from the slender youth.
“There’s only one for sale. The other two have gone. And the one for sale will not go cheap,” said the man, dismissively.
“That is unfortunate. I was in the market for half a dozen sheep. I have top quality grain to trade,” said Patrick, with hope.
“Grain will not sell in these parts. Unless your grain can grow along the ground, or under the soil, you will have better luck elsewhere. It’s the wind, you see. Cuts the plants down in the green.”
The man was done talking—there was no profit to gain in the conversation with the eager boy. He turned away from Patrick. It was a setback, but Patrick still held onto hope. He walked on. He had only taken a dozen steps when someone tapped him on the shoulder. Patrick turned around to be greeted by a red-headed, red-bearded, smiling man, dressed in smart clothes.
“Did I hear that you were in the market for some sheep?” asked the man, with a thick Irish accent.
“Some Welsh sheep,” said Patrick, firmly.
He wanted to return home with a new flock, but he was not going to go home with just any old sheep. The Irish had a poor reputation when it came to livestock—thin, bony animals; more suited to sacrifice than to butchery.
“Then you are in luck,” said the man, as his smile widened. “I have a small flock on my boat. I picked up several Welsh ewes five years ago and brought them back to Ireland. They were very fruitful, and they multiplied many times. The air and grass of God’s own country have truly blessed them. And the rain and wind have hardened them to backbones of iron. You will not come across a hardier set of lasses in this heathen land.”
Patrick was unsure. His views on the Irish had been coloured somewhat by his upbringing. It was still a land of false gods and barbarians. They were a violent and untrustworthy race. At the height of its power and influence, the great Roman Empire had largely left the Irish in peace.
