by S. J. Parris
‘But what about —?’ I wave a hand vaguely around the room. What about me, is what I really want to say, and chide myself for being so selfish. The prospect of London without Dee, now that Sidney has also become so distant, is a bleak one for a foreign heretic in exile. Seeing his laboratory stripped down like this, his books in the chest, I realise how much I will miss him. ‘All your books,’ I finish, unconvincingly.
‘Jane’s brother will live here and take care of the library,’ he says airily. ‘Of course, you must use it whenever you wish, Bruno, don’t worry about that.’
I am tempted to ask him whether Jane sees this as an extraordinary opportunity, the chance to uproot her family and travel halfway across Europe with two small children. From her face I know the answer — but I do not know what she expects me to say. Dee is right; the rumours that still persist about the murders at court, the unrest over the prophecies — all this must be quashed by the government if order is to be restored. What other choice has he? My friend would automatically find himself on the wrong side of the new laws; Elizabeth is subtly banishing him to save his life and his reputation. It is to his credit that he has determined to embrace this banishment as a new beginning. It is what I have tried to do for the past seven years, but it becomes harder with each year. Age and distance bring a yearning for home that all the freedom I enjoy in England — to read, to write and to publish without fear of the Inquisition — cannot quite outweigh.
‘Come,’ Dee says, beckoning me through to his private study, where I had once stood by and watched Ned Kelley invent the apocalyptic words of spirits. Here too, Dee’s magical paraphernalia is in the course of being packed up and boxed for travel. The showing-stone and wax seals lie in a decorated casket wrapped in the square of crimson silk; the notebooks and diaries are stacked beside it.
‘Tell me, then,’ he says, patting the lid of one of the chests and motioning for me to sit down. ‘Have they charged Howard?’
‘He is still being questioned. All they have against him is the map of safe harbours and the list of Catholic nobles they found on Throckmorton when he was intercepted on the road. They want to claim these are in Howard’s hand, but he denies it, of course. And the queen is anxious to proceed carefully with him.’ Elizabeth’s caution is a source of great anxiety to me, though I do not tell Dee this. Her refusal to allow what she pleases to call ‘hard questioning’ of Howard has left him and the Privy Council at an impasse, and if he is not formally charged with offences of treason there is every chance she may choose to free him to appease her Catholic subjects. If that were to happen, I have no doubt that he would waste no time in looking for me.
‘But they must have searched Arundel House?’ Dee continues to potter about, lifting objects, replacing them, seemingly disconcerted among his half-packed belongings.
‘Top to bottom, Walsingham told me.’ I hesitate. ‘They didn’t find the book, John. He would have mentioned it if they had, I’m sure.’
Dee shakes his head in sorrow.
‘To think you held it in your hands. Listen, while I am in Bohemia, Bruno, I will seek out every treatise, every last manuscript and antiquarian tract on cryptography that I can find. I will consult the Emperor Rudolf’s most celebrated scholars. And in the meantime you must get the book back.’ He points a finger at me.
‘There was no evidence to incriminate Philip Howard when they searched Throckmorton’s house,’ I say. ‘The earl and his wife have wisely retired from court until his uncle’s fate is decided. I would wager any money Henry gave him the book for safe-keeping before his arrest.’
Dee tilts his head and considers this. ‘Well — there is a task for you while I am gone.’ He smiles sadly. ‘Throckmorton will hang, I suppose? And Fowler?’
‘When they have finished with them in the Tower,’ I say, and we both fall silent. Fowler, true to his word, has confessed nothing; the Tower’s most skilled interrogators could not persuade him to repeat the boast he made to me in the back room of that Southwark tavern. As a precaution, Walsingham is to undertake a diplomatic mission to Scotland after Accession Day, in the hope of prising the young King James away from the vying factions of advisers and persuading him that peaceful relations with Elizabeth will serve his kingdom best. For now, all the Privy Council’s energies are bent on discovering whether anyone else might have taken up the supposed Accession Day assassination plot.
‘This country,’ Dee begins, and then spreads his hands as if he cannot find the words. ‘When I was your age, Bruno, I believed that Elizabeth Tudor would make us truly free from the superstitions and the tyranny of Rome. But when I see what they are willing to do to preserve that freedom, I must question what we have gained. Walsingham would say you cannot defend the good of the many without spilling blood, but I don’t know.’ He sighs. ‘I can only say I will not be sorry to leave this island behind me for a while. Except that I shall miss our conversations, Bruno.’
‘And I,’ I reply, with feeling. I want to say more, to let him know how he has become the nearest thing to a father in my exile, but at this moment I catch a movement behind me and see his gaze flicker over my shoulder to the doorway; he nods in recognition. I turn, and for a moment I doubt the evidence of my eyes, for there is Ned Kelley, a fraying red scarf tied around his neck and a crate of books in his arms.
‘This one’s ready to go,’ he says. ‘Oh, hello, Doctor Bruno. How’s your head? I heard you took quite a blow.’ He breaks into a sly grin, showing his crooked teeth.
‘You little shit.’ My anger boils over; I rush at him, grabbing him by the shirt front so that he drops his box and the books tumble to the floor. I swing my right arm back; Kelley bleats something, but it is Dee’s hand that closes over my clenched fist before I can land it in the scryer’s mocking face.
‘Now, Bruno. I understand your feelings. But Ned and I have spent long hours dissecting everything that has passed between us, and he has repented.’
‘Repented?’ I drop Kelley and turn to Dee, incredulous. ‘He sold you! He took money from Henry Howard to destroy you — and you still let him into your house? In God’s name, John — have you lost your mind?’
‘Bruno.’ His voice is sad and gentle as ever; he lays a hand on my arm. ‘Ned was too much under the influence of that woman. Now she is gone, he is returned to himself, and I have forgiven him, as I would a prodigal son. I think you can understand as well as anyone how a man might be diverted from his good conscience by the charms of a woman?’
‘It was the charms of Henry Howard’s purse and you know it.’ I shake his hand from my arm. So this is what Jane meant about talking sense. All the affection I felt for Dee a moment ago seems strangled by my fury at his obstinate faith in Kelley. ‘And he tried to kill me, while you were at the palace. He threw a rock at my head.’ I rub my temple, now healed but for a crooked red scar.
‘That’s slander, that is,’ Kelley says, stepping back out of my reach. ‘You’ve got no proof.’
‘Are you really so deluded?’ I say, turning back to Dee. ‘He has no gift, John. He has no special language to speak to spirits. He is no more than a sideshow charlatan — I see it, your wife sees it, why cannot you?’
I had not meant to raise my voice to him; he looks hurt, and I am both remorseful and glad. I do not want to make this my farewell, but I cannot apologise for what I know to be true.
Kelley stoops to pick up his fallen books and dusts them off. ‘Are we taking all of these, sir?’
‘I don’t know.’ Dee passes the back of his hand across his forehead. His earlier cheer seems to have evaporated and he sounds weary and confused. ‘Put them on the desk, Ned, I will go through them in a moment. Perhaps you could leave us for now?’
Kelley bobs his head and scurries away with a last triumphant smile at me. I stare at Dee.
‘You are not taking him with you?’
‘I am. Oh, do not roll your eyes at me like that, Bruno. Ned has a volatile temperament — it goes with his gift. But he has co
nfessed his deception and cut all ties with Howard and Johanna. Now he is determined to continue our previous work. He says he feels he is channelling a renewed energy from the spirits. They are eager to communicate.’
‘The only thing he is channelling is an eagerness to leave England before he is picked up by the constables for his debts,’ I say, with venom.
‘Oh, my dear Bruno. I know we shall never agree on Ned, but let us not part like this,’ he says, and I see he will not be turned from his course. ‘I have a gift for you.’ He rummages on his desk among the papers and emerges with a volume beautifully bound in tawny calfskin, which he passes to me, almost bashfully. I open it to examine the flyleaf and discover that it is a copy of the Commentaries of Erasmus, the same book I was obliged to throw into the privy on the night I had to flee my monastery in Naples, seven years ago. Dee had always enjoyed that story and asked me to tell it repeatedly.
‘I thought you should have your own edition,’ he says, not quite meeting my eye. ‘It is not forbidden here. Mind you don’t drop it in the privy.’
‘It’s beautiful.’ I stroke the cover and this time I have to look away, to hide the fact that I am blinking back tears. At the door I turn and watch him there, among the implements of his magic, his long beard illuminated in the sunlight streaming through the window, and I wish I had the gift of painting; I would capture him like this, as he stands now — stubborn, perplexed, a little sad and wiser than most — just in case I do not see him again in this life.
In the hallway, Jane embraces me again. Little Arthur clings to her skirt.
‘I must love him, Bruno, or why would I put up with it?’
‘Maybe Kelley will fall overboard on the journey,’ I say.
She laughs, and rubs away a tear with the back of her hand before it has a chance to spill.
‘He might if I have anything to do with it.’ She pauses, twisting her apron in her hands. ‘Go with God, Bruno. You’re a good man. Christ knows there are few enough of those.’
‘Look after the one in your care, then,’ I say, with a bow. ‘And raise up another.’ I ruffle Arthur’s hair and he ducks behind his mother, giggling.
‘And mind you keep yourself out of trouble.’
‘If only I knew how to do that. I do not seek danger, Jane — it follows me.’ As I say this, I recall Fowler’s warning about Douglas, as I recall it every night when I lie down to sleep. The murders are solved and the invasion averted — for now, but the danger has not passed. I wonder if I will ever know what it is to live without fear of the knife at my throat — but I tell myself not even the Queen of England knows that peace. This is the nature of our age, and it needs no ancient prophecy nor conjunction of planets to explain it.
Epilogue
Palace of Whitehall, London
17th November, Year of Our Lord 1583,
Twenty-fifth Year of the Accession of Her Majesty Elizabeth
Regina to the Throne of England
The royal standard is raised aloft; for a moment it ripples sharply in the breeze, crimson and gold against the watery blue of the sky, and the crowd audibly draws breath together. Time seems suspended, fates hang in the balance — until the standard falls and from either end of the tiltyard comes a crescendo of hooves and a blur of primary colours as the contestants gallop towards one another full pelt, the elaborate plumage on their helmets and harnesses coursing out behind them. I brace myself for the moment of impact; I have never learned to like this as a sport, though today of all days I am willing to be swept up in the collective celebration, the pageantry, the near-hysterical atmosphere of adulation for the woman who sits high above the skirmish in her gallery overlooking the Tiltyard, her head dwarfed by an enormous stiff lace collar. From our seats in the stands, her every movement is a scattering of light as her jewels wink in the sun.
Beside me, Castelnau also tenses; the rider nearest us, his horse decked out in an azure-and-white chequered costume, raises his shield expertly to deflect his opponent’s lance; there is a sickening crack as the other is caught squarely in the shoulder; he tries, for agonising moments, to hold his seat but the momentum is too strong and he topples back, landing with a crunch of metal in the sand. A roar of applause breaks out; we the spectators rise to our feet, whooping and stamping, so that the wooden stands shake precariously beneath us. The victorious rider slows his horse and reins it around, trotting casually back up the field before removing his helmet and bowing deeply to the queen in his saddle. From somewhere further east a peal of church bells joins the cacophony.
I glance up at the gallery window. We are too far away to see the royal party in any great detail, though as a foreign dignitary Castelnau has been given advantageous seats for the tournament. But I can make out Elizabeth in the centre, surrounded by her maids of honour, all dressed in white. I lower my head for a moment and close my eyes, not in prayer but in silent tribute to Cecily Ashe. If her conscience had not triumphed over her infatuation with the man she believed to be the Earl of Ormond, the Tudor line might have ended this very morning. And if she had never met Fowler, I think, if she had not harboured a girl’s passing grudge against the queen, if he had been less persuasive or she more guarded, she might have been sitting at Elizabeth’s side now in her white dress. Abigail Morley, too; if she had not been Cecily’s confidante, if she had never met me or passed on the ring, she might be clapping her hands and shrieking with delight in the gallery with the rest of the girls. If, always if.
Glancing around the great crowd in the Tiltyard, I wonder if anyone else has noticed the number of armed guards amid the heralds, the guildsmen in their liveries, the aldermen and lawyers in their gowns of office, the bishops and nobles arrayed behind the queen, wreathed in gold chains. In the past month, the searchers at every port along the south coast have been kept busy picking up young Englishmen and Scots coming out of France or the Low Countries; one who was caught trying to bring a loaded pistol through customs at Rye also carried Catholic relics concealed in his belongings, but Fowler’s stubborn silence persists even in the Tower, so there is no way to be certain whether he was bluffing about finding a replacement assassin or whether, even now, some shadowy figure might be moving among the thousands of spectators or waiting patiently among the thousands more Londoners gathered behind the barriers that have been erected all along Whitehall and the Strand, where the queen will process after the jousts to hear a sermon at St Paul’s. She may carry herself as gracious and poised as ever, but for Walsingham, Burghley and Leicester, until she is safely delivered to her chamber this evening, this day will be one of the most fraught they have known. Walsingham pleaded with her to abandon the public procession, but she insisted her people must see her, radiant, proud and strong, undaunted by threats either from planets or Catholics.
We climb down from the stands, a laborious business among so many guests, all vying to take their places along the route by the Holbein Gate for a better view of the queen as she begins her procession.
‘Marie would have enjoyed this,’ Castelnau remarks, as we shuffle forward in slow increments, pressed on all sides by eminent citizens in their furs.
‘You must miss her,’ I say. We are so close in the crowd that I feel his torso rise and fall as he sighs.
‘It was better for everyone that she return to Paris. When they arrested Throckmorton and Howard, I knew they would be knocking on our door next. I felt I had a better chance of keeping the embassy in the clear if Marie were not questioned. Besides —‘ he glances around and lowers his voice — ‘my wife has been absent to me for a long time, whether she is under the same roof or not. It was a mistake to bring her here. I do not doubt there are others at Salisbury Court who feel her absence more keenly than I do.’
I look over my shoulder to where Courcelles trails behind, separated from us in the crush by a handful of people. He catches my eye and gives me the sulky, defiant look that has become his permanent expression since Marie left. I wonder if Castelnau guesses that he has sent hi
s wife straight back into the arms of the Duke of Guise, whose ambitions, I feel sure, are only thwarted temporarily. I would wager Courcelles certainly knows it, and tortures himself with the thought daily.
‘Still, we have been fortunate, Bruno,’ Castelnau says, as if to convince himself. ‘My interview with Francis Walsingham was the most uncomfortable moment of my career, I don’t mind telling you. As I feared, it seems they had been watching Throckmorton’s movements for some time, and we do not yet know how much of the correspondence he carried was intercepted. But so far I have not been directly accused of anything. I feel I have got off very lightly,’ he adds, and I hear the tremor in his voice.
More lightly than he knows, I think; when Throckmorton was arrested, as well as the map of safe havens and the list of names, he was also carrying Castelnau’s last, rash letter to Mary, in which he assured her of his loyalty to her cause against Howard’s accusations. It was only my arguments to Walsingham on his behalf, and the queen’s reluctance to create a diplomatic storm with France, that have kept the ambassador from more severe repercussions.
‘Mary was always shrewd enough never to make any outright acknowledgement in her own hand of the plot to free her,’ I reassure him. ‘Let them conclude the whole thing was a reckless fantasy cooked up by her supporters in Paris. If they had anything against you they would have used it by now.’
He shakes his head, his lips pressed into a white line.
‘They have barely started with poor Throckmorton. I dread to think what they are doing to him, and what more may come out. If King Henri should be brought into this, Bruno — can you imagine the consequences?’
I can well imagine the consequences of the French king discovering from the Queen of England that his ambassador has been involved in a Guise plot to topple her. But then King Henri will be fully occupied with the Duke of Guise’s designs on his own throne, I reflect. I pat Castelnau’s shoulder and murmur reassurance.
