by Jane Johnson
Ah, but you may be the night and she the moon, a little voice encourages coaxingly, and who knows what possibilities may be offered by that conjunction?
I am brought out of this reverie rather sharply by a sudden twinge of the damaged molar, and, although I think I have successfully stifled the groan it elicits, a gentleman in a tumbling brown wig leans over and asks after my well-being. ‘Just a little toothache,’ I explain. ‘I cracked one this morning on some rather hard bread.’
‘Goodness me: austerity measures at the palace must be rather more severe than I thought!’ He introduces himself to us as a Mr Ashmole, up from Oxford for the meeting, and questions me most genially about my origins and the Tinker about Moorish customs, explaining that he is something of a collector of antiquities and unusual items, and is indeed in the process of setting up a museum to share his collections with the world at large. He sighs. ‘How I would love to travel more. It seems the world is enlarging day by day – Africa, America, China… Imagine the wonderful treasures that might be gleaned on such trips, the artefacts from so many different cultures… We have the most remarkable flayed skin of a native Indian king to display, and the saddle used by Genghis Khan himself.’
Ben Hadou grimaces. ‘I’m afraid I can’t offer you anything so grand, but I have a pair of fine Moorish spurs you might like for your collection.’
Ashmole looks thrilled. ‘That would be most splendid. But I can’t possibly take them without offering something in exchange.’ He thinks for a moment, then declares, ‘Maybe a magnifying glass you could take back to your country with you; and in the same house I have a friend who can mend this gentleman’s tooth.’
Ben Hadou’s eyes gleam. ‘I’m sure Nus-Nus does not need to bother your friend, but I must say I would dearly love one of these magical glasses.’
‘I cannot promise you it will be as strong as Mr Hooke’s microscope, but I think you will be pleased to have it. Come with me after the meeting to Mr Draycott’s house and I’ll see what we can do. It is not far from here, just to the south of Fleet Street.’
I can see the Tinker is greatly torn, but in the end he declines politely, explaining that he has duties back at the palace. It is arranged that I am to go with Mr Ashmole to fetch the glass and am dismissed from my duties for the rest of the day.
Mr Ashmole proves to be excellent company. He insists on walking from the college, rather than taking a chair or carriage, pointing out curiosities as we go. ‘At my age you have to keep moving, you know, for fear of what will happen if you stop.’
I raise my eyebrows, but say nothing. He cannot be more than fifty, and moves with as much speed as the king, his walking stick no more than a stylish accessory: yet he speaks as if he is an old man. We are making our way down Chancery Lane at a trot when the heavens open.
‘Goodness,’ says my companion, looking up from under the dripping brim of his hat. ‘I fear your headcloth will be quite ruined. I never thought to bring an umbrella.’
‘Can’t stand the things,’ I assure him cheerfully.
We duck into the Black Spread Eagle tavern and wait for the worst of the deluge to pass. The inn is noisy with custom and full of smoke and smells, but the sight of me seems to attract considerable attention and an uneasy quiet falls.
Then someone bursts out with, ‘By Gad, what a monster!’ and there is general laughter, and more catcalls.
‘Is it real, or paint, do you think?’
‘We don’t want no negards in here!’
‘Hoi, Othello, get back on the stage!’
Mr Ashmole looks appalled. ‘By my soul, Mr Nus-Nus, I do apologize for the rudeness of my countrymen. Better we brave the rain, I think.’
We are just making our way out again when a man grabs me by the arm. ‘Oi there, Mustapha, remind your mistress she still owes me eighty quid from the tables!’
I turn and look down at the speaker, a richly dressed but dissolute-looking young man with a sparse beard, badly trimmed. ‘I am not Mustapha.’
He screws his face up, perplexed. ‘Can’t be two of you such a size and hue. You just tell her, you hear? Tell her Mr Jakes sends his compliments and reminds her of her debt. I’ll see her at the opening of The City Heiress, right?’
Out in the street, the rain is still falling like spears. Mr Ashmole takes me by the arm and walks me quickly away, tutting. ‘Theatre folk, quite dreadful. This used to be such a nice area.’
We make a right on to Fleet Street, then cross it and enter a road flanked on either side by tall houses, at the bottom of which the river can be glimpsed slinking by like a great serpent. A few yards further down he turns right into a narrow alleyway, and we mount steps to a door with a brass knocker in the form of a lion’s head and are ushered inside by a pink-faced man with a pair of spectacles strapped to his head, the glass of which makes his eyes look vast and aquatic, like fishes in a bowl of water. ‘Elias!’ he cries. ‘Back so soon?’
‘I hope we have not interrupted some essential process.’
‘I am in the middle of transmuting water and dried leaves into a potable libation,’ Mr Draycott says, smiling. ‘Perhaps you and your guest would join me for a cup of tea?’ He leads us into a dark parlour, where a kettle hangs from a hook over a small fire. The entire room is grimy with soot and littered with papers and books: it is hard to know where to sit, especially in a white robe, so I hunker down African-style.
As we drink this English tea (a bitter, execrable brew), my companion explains that I have a cracked tooth that needs mending and our host rubs his hands in glee. ‘A patient? How excellent.’
‘Not paying, I fear, Nathaniel. As a favour to me, if you would be so kind.’ I watch Mr Draycott’s face fall. ‘I have money,’ I say quickly, but he shakes his head. ‘No, no. I cannot take money from a friend of Mr Ashmole: everything I have I owe to him, including this house.’
‘Nonsense, my dear Nathaniel: it is our shared venture, this laboratory: where else would I practise my experiments?’
We go down a flight of rickety wooden stairs into a long, low-ceilinged cellar lined with shelves on two sides. Upon the shelves are piles of books and papers, and as many labelled bottles and pots as in an apothecary’s shop. Leaning towards them I read: ‘viper’s flesh’, ‘goa stones’, ‘hiera picra’, ‘spider silk’ and half expect to come upon a jar containing mouse eyelashes or dragon’s teeth: it reminds me of Sidi Kabour’s stock. Against one wall sits a large cylindrical furnace, the coals within glowing red and around its base heaps of dark matter, metal tailings, powders and ashes. The room is gloomy and smells sulphurous; there are dishes and crucibles on the tables, retorts and melting-pots, mortars and pestles, all stained with a variety of substances. On one of the tables a collection of vials containing larvae and foetuses of animal origin; and a rodent is pinned to a board, displaying its vital organs and skeleton. I think of Zidana’s secret chamber and the hairs prickle on the back of my neck.
‘Perhaps I should see a chirurgeon with this tooth, have it taken out by the root.’
‘Nonsense, dear fellow: no need to give yourself over to barbarians with pincers and levers. Nathaniel has perfected a wonderful amalgam that permeates every hole and crack and sets as hard as stone.’
Giving words to my thoughts, I ask, ‘Are you are an alchemist, sir?’
‘I’d rather be called a natural philosopher,’ Nathaniel says cheerfully. ‘Making rigorous inquiry into the hidden laws of the universe.’
‘Though the word “alchemist” is by no means an insult to men of vision such as ourselves, seeking evidence of the pure essence of the Lord’s creation.’ Mr Ashmole pats my shoulder. ‘Now, sit down here and let’s take a look. Hand me that candle, Nathaniel.’
They peer curiously into the cave of my mouth. ‘Remarkable teeth,’ says Ashmole. ‘They’d take some drawing: the roots will have a powerful hold.’
‘A cracked grinder on each side: couldn’t be simpler!’ exclaims Mr Draycott. ‘A swift coating with my patent
ed mixture and they’ll be as good as new.’
‘It really isn’t hurting much any more,’ I lie. ‘I’m sure I can live with it.’
But Mr Draycott is already mixing up his ingredients with a terrible briskness of purpose. ‘A little tin and zinc,’ he murmurs, ‘a touch of copper, and a drop of vitriol—’ The crucible gives off a violent hiss and the flames of the spirit-burner flare green, then blue, and a horrible stink fills the air. Mixing frenetically, he moves it off the heat and reaches for a heavy flask. ‘And now to let it cool a moment before we add the quicksilver…’
The fumes are disquieting: I leap to my feet and the flask goes flying, and suddenly there are globules of metallic silver everywhere. The sight of what should surely have been a liquid, now bouncing and rolling in balls of bright argent down my robe and across the floor, has me staring in wonder.
Mr Draycott laughs at my surprise. ‘Ah, sir: mercury is the most remarkable element, neither a liquid nor yet fully a solid: it is the First Matter, from which all other metals derive. But, more than that, it is the transcending principal of transmutation, like Hermes himself, moving between heaven and earth, bringing life, and death. As calomel, it is the most powerful medicine, able to cure even our most debauched rakes; but expose it to sunlight and it becomes a fatal poison.’
‘By the Ancient One, I do not wish to have such a deadly element in my mouth,’ I declare firmly.
Mr Ashmole brings the candle close to his face and shows me a set of metal-covered back teeth. ‘Fifteen years I’ve had these. I was Nathaniel’s first patient, and by God he’s been a life-saver. Not just the teeth either: he’s mended a broken bone in my writing hand and warded off the tertian ague with his necklace of spiders.’
Necklace of spiders? I can see that Mr Draycott and Zidana would get along well.
Seeing my hesitation, Mr Ashmole smiles indulgently. ‘What age would you say I have, sir? Do not be afraid to insult me: I shall not take it badly.’
‘Fifty, maybe fifty-two?’ I hazard.
‘Sixty-five!’ he crows exultantly and slaps Mr Draycott on the back. ‘All down to his tonic mixture, which I take every day: if you had seen me fifteen years ago you would not have recognized me, for I was dwindling fast, but his spagyrical tincture has put flesh on my bones and kept my muscles supple; and as for my hair: well, pull on that, sir. Do not be afraid to give it a good yank.’
Tentatively I tug on his wig, and am amazed to find the luxuriant locks are sturdily anchored.
‘You see? Why he is not a celebrated man, I cannot imagine.’
Mr Draycott blushes. ‘Now, now Elias, I am no miracle worker, all I have done is to refine the recipe. It has long been recognized that the Primum Ens Melissae is a most powerful tonic, as much for women as for men.’
‘He gave it to his servant, Agnes,’ Mr Ashmole confides, ‘a woman of gone sixty, and all her hair fell out till she was as bald as an egg—’
‘About which she was not happy!’
‘But then it grew back as black and lustrous as it had been in her youth, and she started to menstruate again for the first time in two decades. Last year she gave birth to a fine lad: and if that is not a miracle, then I don’t know what is!’
The prickling feeling now runs from my neck down the length of my spine. Have I found Zidana’s elixir? It seems too fortuitous to be true, and yet moment by moment as the pair of them talk on, I find belief taking root. The long and short of it is, I let the alchemist treat my teeth, which is by no means as unpleasant an experience as I have feared, and am even able to chew my way painlessly through a meagre supper of bean soup, cold lamb and bread with the gentlemen as I ponder my next step. By the time I come to leave it is full dark. Over my shoulder I carry a cloth bag containing the promised magnifying glass and a small cork-stoppered flask of a yellow liquid as bright as sunlight. Mr Ashmole insists on accompanying me to White Hall: ‘It is on my way back to Lambeth; and perhaps I might collect the Moorish spurs the ambassador so generously offered this morning in exchange for the glass.’
As we walk in the Temple Gardens, the moon shines on the river through a gap in the clouds, silvering it with a mercury glow and, caught up in the triumph of my run of good luck, I am just thinking I have never seen a lovelier sight, when we are set upon by footpads. There are two of them, big fellows with their faces muffled for disguise.
‘Give me that bag, you black bastard!’ one shouts at me.
The other faces off Mr Ashmole. ‘And you: jewellery, money, whatever you have.’
They come at us, swinging clubs and one knocks Mr Ashmole down. As I move to defend him, the other thumps me hard in the midriff with his weapon, stealing my wind. He tries to snatch the cloth bag from me, but I hold on grimly. It is a mistake: another blow takes my legs out from under me and I land with an ominous crash on the bag. The unmistakable sound of broken glass greets me as I move, and so enraged am I at the loss of the valuable magnifying glass that I catapult myself to my feet. As my attacker comes at me again, I catch hold of a club and wrench it out of his grasp with such force that he spins off-balance. A well-placed foot sends him cartwheeling across the grass, to smash up against a tree. Turning, I find Mr Ashmole is laying about the second man with his stick. Seeing me coming with the club raised, the footpad makes off, swearing; and after a moment the other scrambles up and follows him, limping heavily.
‘Are you all right, sir?’
Mr Ashmole examines a rip in his coat. ‘One of my better suits, damn them. But other than that, no great damage. And yourself?’
I shake the bag, demonstrating the tell-tale tinkle of broken glass. On further investigation it turns out that the magnifying glass is in pieces.
*
We part at Westminster, Mr Ashmole apologizing over and over for his foolish choice of route, the gardens being well known for robberies after dark. He hails a boatman to carry him across the river to Lambeth, and I walk the remaining few hundred yards alone, feeling much deflated after my earlier euphoria. The palace guards stare at me curiously, and one says something to his companion that I do not catch; they both laugh. Up in the embassy’s accommodation all is quiet. I decide I had better report the matter to ben Hadou and get that unpleasantness out of the way, and am about to knock at his door when it opens and a woman tumbles out, giggling and trying to stuff her honey-coloured hair back into her cap. She has her stockings over her arm: there can be little doubt what has been going on.
‘Hello, Kate.’
Her hand flies to her mouth and she goes a deep red, then grabs up her skirts and flees towards the stairs leading down to the small kitchen.
Ben Hadou tries, and fails, to stare me down. ‘It is all quite innocent,’ he protests.
‘It is none of my business, sidi, what you do.’ Despite everything, I cannot help but grin.
He looks pale. ‘You must say nothing of this to anyone, do you understand? It is not what it seems: we are going to be married.’
‘Married?’
He nods. ‘Yes, but not a word: if it gets out there will be trouble.’ We lock eyes, then his gaze travels downward. ‘Good God, Nus-Nus, have you pissed yourself?’
I look down. Where the flask broke my white robe is stained a lurid, incriminating yellow. The excitements and discoveries of the day have been excessive: I decide there is no point in explaining the circumstances after all. My room feels unnaturally silent without the presence of either Momo or Amadou. I sit on the edge of the bed for a long while, thoughts tumbling wildly. Then I try my best to wash the stain from my robe, but, as if determined to prove its transforming prowess, the tincture resists all my efforts.
36
5th February 1682
I wake early the next day, filled with an unaccountable optimism and energy. Today I shall present Alys’s son to the king, and once that is achieved all will be well.
After enduring a tedious meeting between the ambassador and his majesty’s ministers about the proposed treaty, more long-
winded and even less decisive than the last one, I am finally dismissed by ben Hadou and it is nearing midday. So much the better, I think: there will be less time during which I have to keep Momo hidden. I make my way via the maze of corridors and galleries towards the Duchess of Portsmouth’s apartments, and am just rounding the final corner when I meet Jacob coming the other way. When he sees me, his face takes on an almost comically tragic expression.
‘I was coming to find you.’
‘I was coming to see you,’ I return brightly. ‘I am to present Momo to the king tonight, privately, in his chambers.’
‘Oh. He is gone. That’s what I was coming to say.’
‘Gone?’
‘I asked madame where he was and she waved her hand at me and said, “Il n’est plus à moi.”’
‘What?’ The pit of my stomach feels as if I have swallowed a cannonball.
‘She will not tell me. Perhaps she will tell you.’
Louise is sitting in her dressing room, flicking through the pages of a gazette, surrounded by fussing attendants. When she sees me, she offers a dazzling smile. ‘Monsieur Nus-Nus! How charming. Come, sit with me. What do you think of this new style of fontange? Is it too high for me, do you think? Will it make my face look too long?’ She turns the magazine – Le Mercure Galant – towards me and I am greeted by the sight of a woman wearing a lacy headdress that makes her look like some ridiculous crested parrot.
