The Bones of Avalon E-Book

Phil Rickman

• Herausgeber: Corvus
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2010

Beschreibung

Religious strife, Glastonbury legends, the bones of King Arthur and the curse of the Tudors... can astrologer John Dee help the young Queen Elizabeth to avoid it? It is 1560, and Elizabeth Tudor has been on the throne for a year. Dr John Dee, at 32 already acclaimed throughout Europe, is her astrologer and consultant in the hidden arts... a controversial appointment in these days of superstition and religious strife. Now the mild, bookish Dee has been sent to Glastonbury to find the missing bones of King Arthur, whose legacy was always so important to the Tudor line. With him - hardly the safest companion - is his friend and former student, Robert Dudley, a risk-taker, a wild card... and possibly the Queen's secret lover. The famously mystical town is still mourning the gruesome execution of its Abbot, Richard Whiting. But why was the Abbot really killed? What is the secret held by the monks since the Abbey was founded by Joseph of Arimathea, uncle of Christ and guardian of the Holy Grail? The mission takes Dee to the tangled roots of English magic, into unexpected violence, necromantic darkness, the breathless stirring of first love... and the cold heart of a complex plot against Elizabeth.

Leseprobe

Copyright

First published in the UK in 2010 by Corvus, an imprint of Grove Atlantic Ltd.

Copyright © Phil Rickman, 2010. All rights reserved.

The moral right of Phil Rickman to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, organisations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Corvus

An imprint of Grove Atlantic Ltd

Ormond House

26-27 Boswell Street

London WC1N 3JZ

www.corvus-books.co.uk

First eBook Edition: January 2010

ISBN: 978-1-848-87789-4

Contents

Cover

Copyright

JOHN DEE

Matters of the Hidden

PART ONE

I: Lest Graves Be Open

II: Hares

III: His Second Coming

IV: Stability of the Realm

V: Bones

VI: The Holy Heart

VII: Awe and Stupor

VIII: Without the Walls

IX: Called into Service

PART TWO

X: Relics

XI: Delirium

XII: Watchtower

XIII: Elixir

XIV: A Mortifying of the Flesh

XV: Maggots

XVI: Love the Dead

XVII: Crazed Bitch

XVIII: The First Age of Light

XIX: Beyond Normal

PART THREE

XX: Our Sister

XXI: What Constitutes Sorcery

XXII: Black as Pitch

XXIII: Lowest Form of Doctoring

XXIV: Fungus Dust

XXV: Trade

XXVI: Le Fay

XXVII: A Sister of Venus

XXVIII: The Great Unspoken

XXIX: The Storm

XXX: Like to the Sun

XXXI: Haze

PART FOUR

XXXII: The Word

XXXIII: A Man’s Path

XXXIV: Venus Glove

XXXV: Black Energy

XXXVI: What’s Coming

XXXVII: The Heresy

XXXVIII: Old Bones, New Bones

XXXIX: Nothing to Hide

XL: A Different Canon

XLI: Who Fears For His Immortal Soul…

XLII: Twin Souls

XLIII: Drawings for Children

XLIV: Harlot

XLV: Eye

XLVI: The Vision of Heaven

XLVII: Little Bear

XLVIII: Black Hearts

PART FIVE

XLIX: His Diversion

L: Emanation

LI: Reward

LII: Abominations

LIII: In the Night Garden

LIV: A Cold Inversion

LV: Tainted

LVI: Brown Blanket

LVII: The Void

ENDWORD

Notes and Credits

Oh my God, how profound are these mysteries …

John Dee,

Monas Hieroglyphica.

JOHN DEE

A note on the background.

Born in 1527, John Dee grew up in the most volcanic years of the reign of Henry VIII, at whose court his father was employed as a ‘gentleman server.’ John was eight when the King split with Rome, declaring himself head of the Church of England and systematically plundering the wealth of the monasteries.

Recognised by his early twenties as one of Europe’s leading mathematicians and an expert in the science of astrology, John Dee was introduced at court during the short reign of Henry’s son, Edward VI.

But Edward died at only sixteen, and Dee was lucky to survive the brief but bloody reign of the Catholic Mary Tudor.

Mary died in 1558 and was succeeded by the Protestant Elizabeth, who would always encourage John’s lifelong interest in what he considered science but others often saw as sorcery.

Caught between Catholic plots and the rise of a new puritanism, he would feel no more secure than would Queen Elizabeth herself.

1560 was… a difficult year.

Matters of the Hidden

A foreboding.

I MUST HAVE been the only man that morning to touch it. They’d gathered around me in the alley, but when I put a hand into the coffin they all drew back.

A drab day, not long after the year’s beginning. Sky like a soiled rag, sooted snow still clinging to the cobbles. I’d walked down, for maybe the last time, from my lodgings behind New Fish Street, through air already fugged with smoke from the morning fires. A stink of sour ale and vomit in the alley, and a hanging dread.

‘Dr Dee…’

The man pushing through the ring of onlookers wore a long black coat over a black doublet, expensive but unslashed. Mole-sleek hair was cut close to his skull.

‘You may not remember me, Doctor.’

His voice soft, making him younger than his appearance suggested.

‘Um…

’ ‘Arrived in Cambridge not long before you left.’

I was edging a cautious thumbnail over the yellowing face within the coffin. All the people you’re supposed to recognise these days. Why? They’re something then nothing, here then gone. Waste of study-time.

‘Quite a big college,’ I said.

‘I think you were a reader in Greek at the time?’

Which would have made it 1547 or ’48. I hadn’t been back to Cambridge since, having – to my mother’s fierce consternation – turned down a couple of proffered posts there. I looked up at him, shaking my head and begging mercy, for in truth I knew him not.

‘Walsingham,’ he said.

Heard of him. An MP now, about five years younger than me, so still in his twenties. Ambitious, they said, and courting Cecil for position. His messenger had been banging on my door before eight, when it was yet dark. I hadn’t liked this; it put me on edge. It always does, now.

‘Lucky to catch me, Master Walsingham. I was about to leave London for my mother’s house in Mortlake.’

‘Not permanently, I trust?’

I looked up, suspicious. A week earlier, the tight-arse who owned the house where I was lodging had finally raised the rent beyond my means – maybe under the impression, as many now seemed to be, that I was a man of wealth. It was as if this Walsingham knew the truth of my situation. How was that possible? There was also an assumed authority here which I doubted that he, as a mere MP, had any right to exercise.

Still, this matter intrigued me, so I was prepared to indulge him for a while.

‘Wax?’ he said.

Squatting down in the mud on the other side of the coffin, which was laid across a stone horse-trough. Putting out a forefinger to the face, but then drawing it back.

‘Let’s see,’ I said.

And then, impatient with all this superstition, placed both hands inside the coffin and lifted out the bundle, prompting a gasp from someone as I bent my head and sniffed.

‘Beeswax.’

‘Stolen from a church, then?’

‘I’d guess. Shaped over a flame. See the fingermark?’

What had lain in the box was naked upon a cloth of dark red, edged in gold. It was a foot in length, three inches in thickness. The eyes were jagged holes, the mouth a knife-slit smeared red. The smudged print was on one over-plump breast and another small glob of red made a dark berry in the cleft between the legs.

‘An altar candle?’ Walsingham said.

‘Could be. It was you who found it?’

‘My clerk. I live not far away, along the river. He thought at first it must be some nun’s still-born babe. When he—’

‘Don’t they usually just get dropped in the river wrapped in rags?’

‘—when he finally found the balls to take off the lid, he returned at once. Had me roused.’

I looked around: two constables, a man of the Watch, a couple of whores and a vagrant near the entrance to the alley. A dying pitch-torch smouldered by the door of a mean tavern on the corner, but the buildings either side were all tight-shuttered, no smoke from the chimneys. Warehouses, most likely.

‘Found exactly as . . .?’

‘No, no. The foul thing was in a most conspicuous position out on the quayside, where anyone might chance upon it. I had it moved here, then sent the Watch to knock on doors. A man walking the streets with a coffin in his arms can’t have gone entirely unseen.’

I nodded. Probably some drunkard out there still fearing for his sanity. I laid the waxen effigy back in the box and hefted the whole thing. It was quite light – pine maybe, ’neath the tarry black.

‘And then you summoned me,’ I said. ‘Can I, um, ask why?’

The question was left on the air; he tossed another at me.

‘Dr Dee, given that we both know who it represents, how is it supposed to work?’

I eased what I now saw to be a wooden crown from the hair of plaited straw. I picked it up. Not well carved, but from a distance...

‘And if it is fashioned from an altar candle,’ Walsingham said, ‘would that be considered to enhance its, ah, efficacy?’

‘Master Walsingham, before we take this further—’

Walsingham raised a hand, stood up, waved to the constables and retainers to move further away and then made motion toward a doorway opposite the trough. I scrambled up and followed him. He leaned back into a door frame which was flaking and starting to rot. A man drawn to damp and shadows.

Who evidently thought the same of me.

‘My understanding, Dr Dee, is that you’re our foremost authority on what we might call matters of the hidden.’

A sudden skreeting of seagulls over the river. Walsingham waited, bony face solemn, eyes sunk into hollows. I was wary now. How I’d served the new Queen was no secret, but it carried more risk than profit; anyone given leave to part dark curtains inevitably drew the suspicions of the vulgar.

But what could I say? I shrugged and acknowledged an academic interest. Reticent, though, because he still hadn’t given reason why a wax doll in a babe’s coffin should be an MP’s affair.

‘Seems to me, Dr Dee, that in seeking the provenance of this artefact we have two directions.’

We?

‘The first… some kind of papist pretence, to spread alarm. Hence its public display.’ He nodded toward the two constables. ‘See their faces. They fear for their very souls through being in its proximity.’

‘Which you do not?’

Fairly sure in my mind, now, that the Walsinghams were a strong reformist family, with a link to the Boleyns and, presumably, a hatred of idolatry in any form. Hence his disdainful use of nun for a street-woman.

‘And the second direction,’ he said, ‘would, of course, be toward Satan himself.’

These midnight questions, I approach them daily. Yet with care.

Know this: a few of us are endowed with abilities like to the angels. Some can see the dead or pluck thoughts from the minds of others. And to some are gifted the means to bring about change in the natural order of things.

All this I know, and yet, if you thought to detect there an element of self-reference, then you must needs forget it. Mine’s the scholar’s way. A commitment to finding and charting pathways towards lights both beyond us and within us. Which, let me tell you, is never easy, for the paths are all overgrown with barbs and briars, and we are ever led by false lights.

I’ve oft-times followed them, too, those false lights, but I’m more cautious now.

‘What we both know,’ I said, ‘is that London’s full of cunning villainy.’

Walsingham sniffed tightly.

‘Quite. But does this thing have satanic power, or not?’

‘It evidently has the power to arouse fear and anxiety.’

I looked at the constables, murmuring one to another now. Muted laughter to disguise a primitive terror. I wished I could take the effigy and its box for further examination but decided it was inadvisable to demonstrate too much interest.

‘It’s clear someone’s gone to some considerable effort,’ I said. ‘The coffin’s passably well made. The doll itself… hardly a work of high art. And yet…’

‘What?’

‘The one odd thing is that, apart from the fingermark, there’s no… I mean, normally an image like this might be pricked with pins. The clear intention being to arouse pain, whether in mind or body, in the person it represents. There’s nothing like that here that I can see.’

‘It’s laid out as a corpse in a coffin! How clear do you—?’

‘Death, yes, sure, but what kind of death?’

‘A prediction, then? An omen?’

‘The quality of the cloth and the general workmanship suggest… well, a certain wealth and a serious intent. The crudeness of the eyes and mouth conveying, rather than a lack of artistic skill, a simple contempt for the subject. Which is further emphasised by that smirched fingermark upon the, um, breast.’

No accident, that.

‘It’ll get back, of course,’ Walsingham said.

‘To court?’

‘Too many people know already. I can swear every one of those men to secrecy – and I shall – but it’ll still get back. Could be pamphlets on the street before the week’s end.’

‘I can be available,’ I said, ‘to offer some reassurance to the, um… should it be required.’

‘I’m sure you can, Dr Dee. Meanwhile, what’s to be done with it? Melt it on the fire?’

‘Um… no.’ I took a step back. ‘I wouldn’t do that. Not in the first instance. I’d have its… its inherent darkness… dispersed. By a bishop, if possible. Do you know any bishops, Master Walsingham?’

‘I will by tonight, if necessary.’

‘Good. He’ll know what to do.’

I nodded and was about to walk away, when Walsingham said, ‘Suppose there’s another.’

‘Like this?’

‘They could be all over London. A spreading rash of evil. Where can we find you?’

I couldn’t see it; a multiplicity of effigies would somehow reduce the insidious effect.

‘I’ll be leaving today, as I said, for my mother’s house. If you get word to Lord Dudley, he’ll have a messenger sent to me.’

Taking care to throw in that mention of Dudley. Even though his odour was not good in certain circles, his was yet a potent name. Walsingham nodded and bent over to the coffin and this time he put a finger very close to the wax, as if he might be touching it, though I thought not.

‘Is that blood?’

The smear of red across the knife-slit mouth. I’d wondered about that. And, more significantly, the glob of red between the legs – preferring to say nothing about this lest my supposition of its intent as regards future childbearing be wrong.

‘If it’s the blood of whoever made this,’ I said, ‘it might be thought to carry the essence of that person’s hatred to… she who’s represented here. Blood was also seen by the ancients as an agent for the, um, materialising of spirits.’

‘For conjuring?’

Never my favourite word.

‘It’s a matter of will. The harnessing of the human will to something from another… level of existence.’

‘Something demonic?’

‘If the Queen’s appointed by God…’

‘If? You doubt that?’

The question lightly posed, his eyes half lidded.

Jesu.

‘No, no,’ I said. ‘Obviously not. What I’m saying is that the corruption of an altar candle could, as I think you’ve already suggested, be an attempt to subvert the power of God in this respect.’

‘Breaking the sacred thread within the line of monarchy?’

‘Which might itself be considered already weakened by—’

‘The sex of the monarch?’

This man thought too fast for my liking.

‘This is only my own—’

‘Of course,’ Walsingham hissed. ‘That’s why you’re here.’

I looked at him closely.

‘Who are you?’ I said. ‘What are you?’

‘What do I look like?’

‘You look,’ I said, ‘like walking darkness.’

And he smiled and nodded, quite clearly pleased at this.

When I’m asked how it all began, this is the incident I recall: the first example, in my own witness, of a malevolence – an intelligent malevolence – directed at the Queen.

You must needs be aware of its effect on me. In my way, I’ve loved this woman for whom I’ll part any dark curtains, seek answers to the most forbidding of midnight questions. For if this is the time for an uncovering of universal mysteries, then I’d like to think she has made that possible by displaying a manner of tolerance which many of us had feared we might never see again.

After all is said, should it not be man’s most ardent desire to see into the very mind of God? Does not God himself challenge us to interpret His art?

A silence.

Heresy, you whisper.

Burn him.

As they nearly did. A few years ago, in another reign – you may know something of this – I was close to being left as cinders upon a hearth of baked earth. Thoughts of it still sear my dreams, lie smouldering in my lower mind. The charges were manifestly unjust, but when did that ever matter?

Yet I survived, and now the wildfire of another dawn is kindled over the river, and I sit here in my mother’s parlour and throw up my hands – for what else is the charge of heresy but a brutal blindfold for the farsighted?

And I must needs set down what happened. Recount the whole bitter episode before it’s murked by memory and rendered impenetrable to the common man by my own exhaustive analysis – oft-times it being said that few can comprehend my writings, full weighted as they are with scientific terms, befuddled by diagrams and arcane symbols. The very tradecraft, some will say, of the devil.

So I’ll relate this story as simply and directly as it comes to memory. I shall not, as is my usual custom, carefully dissect and prod over each sentence or avoid what it tells of my inner nature… about what I was and what I am become.

But, before I begin, know this…

…there is a shape and pattern to it all. A universal geometry, the changing angles and rhythms of which, through mathematics and the study of the stars, we’re learning to calcule again, as men did in ancient times. Twin journeys: above and below, without and within. I try to chart them daily, whilst knowing that I am, in divers ways, no more than an onlooker.

And helpless.

For although some may have abilities like to the angels, yet they are not angels.

I’ve learned this, and in the cruellest of ways.

PART ONE

Yet some men say in many parts of Inglonde that kynge Arthure ys nat dede but had by the wyll of our Lord Jesu into another place, and men say that he shall com agayne and he shall wynne the holy crosse.

Sir Thomas Malory,

Le Morte d’Arthur.

I

Lest Graves Be Open

Mortlake, February, 1560.

MY MOTHER’S ONLY servant disappeared on the night we needed it least. The eve of the Queen’s visit. And of Candlemas.

Catherine Meadows had been a quiet maid. Efficient, demure and, more important, discreet. The first servant I’d let dust, or even enter, my library. Given the afternoon for herself, she’d left the house shortly before noon.

Less than an hour, this was, before the Queen’s messenger had come to alert us of her arrival here on the morrow. The Queen! God, my poor mother had gone wild: so much to do, and no servant to do it!

No more peace for me this day, then. By six, the moon was over the river, cold-haloed, and then came the first wash of stars, and still no sign of Catherine Meadows. Although I work best at night, when all is quiet, by half past eight I was obliged to close my books, douse my candles, unhook my long brown coat and venture into the bone-raw February night to inquire after her.

Maybe, in some inner vessel of my being, I had the inkling of an approaching menace. Who can truly say? I’ve oft-times wished such occult portents were more clear and direct, but – nature’s bitter irony – it’s rarely been that way for me.

A well-lit night – on the edge of a thaw, I felt, yet still hard as crystal. Hoar frost swelling the twigs and branches of our orchard as I walked out, without a lantern. Out towards the edge of the village and London town, calling first at a smoky old tavern, where I knew the man I sought spent an hour or so most evenings. But he was not amongst the drinkers this night, and hard-faced men were staring at me, so I slipped away and went further along the road to his cottage and found him there.

‘Ah, now, as it happened, Dr John, she come to me mid-afternoon. About her gran, Goodwife Carter – took bad.’

Jack Simm, once an apothecary, now my mother’s occasional gardener. His cottage, on the edge of a copse of oak and thorn, was strong-built and snug and far warmer than our house – unwise, therefore, to go in, lest I end up passing the whole night before his fire.

‘Bad how?’

We always fear the worst. Smallpox, usually.

‘Back trouble,’ Jack Simm said. ‘Bits of her spine took a walk, I reckon. Not my field, really. I left some wintergreen balm and give Cath a message to take to Gerald. The bone-twister?’

‘Who’s that, Jack?’ A woman’s voice from the firelit, herb-smelling interior. ‘Who’s out there?’

‘Dr John, Sarah. No problem.’ White-bearded Jack stepping out of the doorway, stained sacking belted around his waist, no boots. ‘You want me to ride out to their farm for you, Dr John? Won’t take—’

‘No, no. Too many robbers about. She’ll be back at first light, I’m sure. Go to your fire, Jack, and your wife. I’m sorry to have bothered you.’

But Jack Simm was pulling the door shut behind him and shambling out to join me at the roadside. Rubbing his hands together and wincing as he shifted from one unshod foot to the other on the frozen mud.

‘God’s bones, I’ll be bleedin’ glad to see some sign of a warming.’

‘Candlemas tomorrow,’ I said. ‘The first gleaming of spring in the olden days.’

‘Yeah, well, the sun was kinder in the olden days. Dr John—’ Clearing rough phlegm from his throat, lowering his voice. ‘There’s things I wouldn’t say in front of Sarah, a good woman but she gossips. Don’t mean to but she does. Here’s the truth of it. The Meadowses… A religious family, now. If you understand me.’

For the past two years, at summer’s close, Jack Simm had harvested herbs for me, including the small mushrooms which, when brewed, can bring on visions. We understood one another well.

‘The father,’ he said. ‘Always the bleedin’ father, innit?’

‘Hot gospel?’

‘Of an extreme kind.’

‘Is there another kind?’

Used to be only priests; now any man might think himself chosen by God as a device. Jack talked, in some dismay, of Abel Meadows – built like a chimney stack, Bible brandished as a weapon.

‘You mean he’s finally realised who his daughter’s working for,’ I said. ‘That’s what this is about?’

‘Comes here day ’fore yesterday, blethering about the end of time, like we got maybe weeks. Then he’s asking about the habits of Mistress Dee.’

‘Mistress Dee? The bastard!’

‘I says, Master Meadows, I says, you’ll find that woman in church four times on Sundays and a good hour every weekday.’

‘True. Thank you. And, um… the son of Mistress Dee?’

Both of us knowing with what pious delight a religious extremist would delve amongst ill-informed rumour.

‘He never spoke your name,’ Jack Simm said.

It felt very cold now, the woods all acrackle with the movement of some night creature. I opened my hands to the freezing air.

‘All right. What are they saying?’

‘They’re just ignorant folk, Dr John.’ Jack Simm took a step back, blew out a steam of breath. ‘Spells?’

‘And divination?’

‘Yea, yea. And conjuring of spirits from out the darkness – the nights, naturally, being a whole lot darker around your ma’s house when you’re there. ’Tis said that no man who fears for his immortal soul oughta go past your place beyond sunset, nor walk in Mortlake churchyard lest graves be open. Tell me when you’ve heard enough.’

God. Slowly shaking my head. You come home at Christmas, applause from the lecture halls of Europe still resounding in your ears, to find you’ve become a figure of fear and opprobrium in your own neighbourhood.

‘You know what didn’t help?’ Jack said. ‘The owl.’

‘It’s a toy.’

‘Go to! Twice the size of a real owl and its eyes all lit up? And it’s making… wooh… wooh…?’ Jack flapping his arms as the owl would with his wings.

‘The village children liked him.’

‘Yeah, whilst their parents thought demons lived in him.’

‘All that’s in him–’ I sighed ‘– is a cunning system of small pulleys and hidden hinges, and the eyes are an arrangement of shards of mirror-glass and—’

‘That don’t bleedin’ matter! It’s what they see, innit? Sometimes you don’t help yourself is all I’m saying. Rumour and gossip, Dr John, rumour and gossip.’

The real demons. Jack Simm had given up his shop in the city because of fears of persecution during Mary’s reign by Bishop Bonner who was now – God help us all – my friend.

‘Oh, and Meadows… he says he’s heard as how you’re building a temple to worship the moon?’

‘Observatory.’

‘Temple.’

‘To watch the paths of the stars.’ I sighed. ‘Or at least… one day. When I raise the money.’

Both of us standing there, dismayed. Much shaking of heads. Star temple, worship of the moon. Jesu. At length, Jack Simm clapped me reassuringly upon the shoulder.

‘Nah, listen, she’ll be back.’

‘Catherine?’

‘The goodwife finks of the money. Meadows buggered that up, he’d get some real stick. What you reckon: wrath of God or a vengeful wife?’

I nodded. A close call, even for a Bible man.

‘Anyhow, what I told him.… I said you was working on secret navigation devices for the navy. Reminding him how highly you was rated by the—’

‘Jack…’

‘What?’

An icicle cracked above the doorway.

‘She comes here tomorrow.’

‘Who?’

I said nothing. Jack let go a thin whistle. Might’ve been admiration but pity seemed more likely.

‘Again? It was me, I tell you, I’d be spending the rest of the night shivering in me privy. But I suppose when you’ve known her since she was young…’

‘Young still, Jack.’

‘Nah, they grows up fast under a crown. All fresh and dewy on the outside; underneath, skin like a lizard. What’s the occasion?’

It was over a month now since the incident of the effigy and not a word, so it seemed unlikely to be that.

‘I don’t truly know,’ I said. ‘She has an interest in my work…’

‘The navigation, this would be?’ He may have winked. ‘Well, best be going in. Can’t seem to feel me toes no more. Good luck to you, Dr John.’

For some reason, Jack Simm found me amusing.

Walking away, my left boot slid across a frozen wheel-rut, and I stumbled. An old man had broken his leg not far from here just a fortnight ago and was not found until morning. Dead by then of the cold.

No use hurrying, anyway; there’d be time for no more work this night. I’d need to help my mother prepare our house for the visit of the Queen… even though I knew the Queen would not enter it.

Hobbled into Mortlake High Street, past the school run by nuns for poor children – well intentioned, but a poor child with a little education would often simply be sold by its parents at the first opportunity. Candles still aglow far back in the school chapel, but the nearby Church of St Mary was black. A big modern church only slightly more interesting amid night shadow than it was by daylight. I should have liked to see a proper steeple – some symbol of a soaring spiritual ambition.

Not that anyone in recent years has dared soar. Not since I was a child. Nowadays, only a fool kneels before God without first glancing over his shoulder, or prays too long with eyes closed. All is confusion. Vision and spirit are fled. How quickly can rational thought progress now in England, with zealots like Abel Meadows on the march, warning of a fast-approaching apocalypse? For which, of course, there’s no scientific evidence whatsoever.

Candlemas tomorrow. Feast of the Purification of the Blessed Virgin Mary, when the candles were blessed. And no-one knows what to do about it any more. In some churches the blessing of candles is a secret ritual.

Pausing now, by the coffin gate. In the icy night, the stars – the energy of stars – felt real and close. Bright orbs, each one familiar, dancing in a formal complexity as satisfying to me as a well-wrought knot garden in the heavens. My garden.

A familiar wild excitement arose in me, like to a moon-drawn tide. Closing my eyes, holding out my hands into the palpitating air, open to the nudging, flittering interplay of invisible vibrations, sensing sacred splinters of ice-white light in flow through my body – rendered, in my imagination, transparent in the cold blue night.

Thus, failing to see my mother until she was upon me.

‘Head in the stars, as ever, when it’s not in a book. Well? Did you find her?’

Jane, the widow Dee. A tallish woman, still straight, although nearing sixty years. She held up her lantern to my face as if to be full sure that it actually was me.

‘No.’ I relieved her of the lamp as we walked. Not the time to tell her about the madness of Abel Meadows. ‘But I did find out that she has troubles at home. Illness in the family.’

‘Plague?’

My mother taking a rapid step back. The rushing of breath into her throat.

‘No, Mother… no suggestion of that. She went to get help for her grandmother – to the bone-twister. Probably didn’t get back home before it was too dark to return here safely.’

‘Well then, she ought to have sent word.’

How? I was about to ask her, but the night was too advanced for argument.

‘Yes,’ I conceded. ‘It’s not like her not to send word.’

‘Now I shall have no sleep.’ My mother expelled a martyr’s sigh. ‘We should have two servants. Always used to.’

I said nothing. There was nothing to be said. I was a scholar, and the monetary rewards for learning were yet meagre.

‘Someone older.’ My mother was winding her winter cloak tight around her. ‘With such a young woman on the throne, lesser young women seem to think they have some new freedom to behave as they like.’

I had to smile. By young woman she meant flighty, irresponsible. A queen who was laughing openly in the teeming streets on her coronation day and waving in glee to the crowd. Acknowledging the common horde – what was our society coming to?

My own heart, I should assure you, had been alight that coronation day, relishing the rush of such spontaneous goodwill as I’d never known in a public place, even at Christmas. Sunday, the fifteenth of January, Fifteen Hundred and Fifty Nine. Just over a year ago. The choice of this auspicious date having been made by the heavens and interpreted through my charts, and I’d been weak with relief, for if the day had gone badly…

‘What’s more –’ Jane Dee refusing to let it go – ‘it was market day today. Now we have no fresh fare. On this, of all days.’

‘We’ll get by.’

‘Get by?’ My mother, horrorstruck, let the hem of her heavy cloak fall to the road. ‘Oh yes – as if the body can be sustained by lofty intellect and little else. Your poor, blessed father, if he could hear you now—’

Exasperated, she stalked across the frost-furred street to enter through our open gate. In truth, my poor blessed tad would have understood too well – all the stories he’d told us of the titanic quantities of waste scraped from the late King Harry’s boards. Like stoking a particularly temperamental furnace, he’d remarked once, memorably, after too much wine.

I stood for a moment in the middle of the lane. No movement in the shining night, not even a slinking fox. Few candles still burning behind our neighbours’ frozen windows. The richer houses here are set back further from the river. Our own, not the most graceful of dwellings, is built partly on stilts because of the threat of flooding. I called out, across the roadway.

‘Mother, you know she won’t come in. She never comes in.’

When I was last here, in the autumn, Elizabeth had arrived at this gate with her company, and I’d gone out to her, and that was where we’d remained. When I’d wanted her to see my books, she wouldn’t. Didn’t have time. Had to be off. Queenly things to do.

Still, given the size of her train, if we’d had to feed them all we’d’ve been on stale bread and small beer for a month.

‘John… are you part of this world?’ My mother spinning at the gateway, her cloak a billowing of shadow. ‘Just because she hasn’t passed our threshold thus far, who’s to say that on such a cold winter’s morn she won’t find herself in sore need of sustenance and a hot drink? Who’s to say?’ She sniffed. ‘Probably not you, who sees only the need to feed his learning.’

Always in two minds about my career, Mistress Jane Dee.

And who truly could blame her?

For an hour or more beyond midnight, I lay open-eyed in my bedchamber, one of the house cats curled up at my feet, and thought about the nature of time, how we might make more of it. One lifetime was never going to be enough. A flimsy thing, a stuttering from a candle, then gone. If not extinguished prematurely by some… miscalculation.

In Paris, in the week I was preparing to leave, all the talk had been of an elixir of life. I didn’t believe it. If there’s a method of prolonging existence, it will never come in a stoppered flask but will be part of some inner process. When I was sent up to Cambridge, at fifteen, I decided one simple step towards an extension of time was to minimise the hours of sleep.

I knew I was lucky to be at the college, for Tad was not as rich as he liked everyone to think. Also knew, too well, that we lived in dangerous times and that the King he served, like to a huge bellows, blew hot and then deathly cold. I was certainly under no illusion that I’d be allowed to remain long at Cambridge, and so I’d hurled myself into study, reducing sleep to little more than three hours a night, all fatigue flattened under the urgency of learning.

Thus, I can still work long hours without sleep, when it’s called for. But now I’ll accept that this is partly because… well, because I’m a little afraid of it. Afraid of sleep, which is death’s bedfellow. And of dreams, which give form to the deepest of fears.

BANG…

And did, by means of sorcery, attempt to kill or grievously harm Her Majesty…

BANG…

Take him.

Lurching up in bed, breathing hard.

For God’s sake, it’s a different queen.

No such accusations against my tad, but his Protestant’s fall, under Queen Mary’s purge, had been total. They took everything he owned, except for this house. By that time, I was almost famous in Europe, for my learning. In Paris, they’d stood on boards and crowded outside open windows to hear me lecture on Euclid. Famous men had come to consult me at Louvain. Whilst in England…

In England, even living once again in my mother’s house, I couldn’t afford to build an observatory, nor pay more than a single servant fulltime.

This is yet a backward country.

Next summer, in July, I would be thirty-three years old. My God, the journey perchance more than half over, and so much left to do, so much yet to know.

The cold moon lit my wall betwixt the timbers. The cat purred. The scent of pastry still lay upon the air – my mother having laboured until close to midnight in the kitchen, baking and making what preparations she could in case the only surviving child of the late Harry should deign to cross our threshold with half an army in attendance. Me trying to help her but being sent away, in the end… for how could I welcome the Queen to Mortlake all wrinkle-eyed and slow from lack of rest?

So, I slept and fell into the worst of my recurring dreams.

My hands are tied behind me, my back is hard against the wood, my eyes are closed and I’m wondering when they’ll do it.

Listening for the crackle, waiting for the heat.

There’s a silence. I’m thinking, they’ve gone. They’re not going to do it after all. I’ve been pardoned. I’m to be freed.

And open my eyes to a fine blue sky over London, with all its spires. Thinking to float away into it. Thinking of some way to free my hands and looking down…

…to find my thighs turned black and crisp, incinerated into flaking husks which, like Jack Simm and his frosted toes, I can no longer feel. My legs gone to blackened bone. The remains of my feet lying some distance away in the smouldering ash.

This is when I awake, down on the floorboards, having rolled away in a blind terror from the sudden roaring, guzzling heat and a ghastly sense of hell’s halo around my head.

II

Hares

WELL, SHE CAME.

Not long after eleven, the gilded company appeared on the river in a fleet of bright barges and wherries. Banners aloft, sunlight flashing on helms and blades, the air aquiver with frost.

Frost… and anticipation, a vibration never far removed, in my experience, from anxiety. Certainly not this day. By the time she was being assisted from her barge, up the steps to the bank, all the neighbours were at their windows and I, in a fresh doublet, was waiting by the gate.

My stomach grown taut for, unless engaged in intellectual exchange, the dissection of ideas, I was never good with people of any station.

My mother, unless summoned, would remain inside the house amidst her pastries and mulled wine. Neither of us had slept, although that was nothing to do with she who now peeled off a glove.

A wafting of rose-petal perfume, as I bent to kiss her hand.

Those long fingers, pale as pearl, pale as ice. An unnecessary number of pikemen behind her, gazing down, unmoving.

‘Well met, John. And how’s your health now?’

A voice still light and girlish. And yet almost, you might think, still a little unsure. Something I recognised in myself. Too much time spent with books, my tad would say – himself all Welsh and voluble.

‘I’m very well, Your Highness,’ I said. ‘And, um, I trust you also—?’

Looking up in time to perceive movement in her face, a small twist of a small, strawberry mouth. Nothing that could be construed as a smile.

‘So,’ she said, ‘your cold is better then?’

The high nose, the wide-spaced eyes. The hand had fallen away. Above her, the weak sun was trembling like the yolk of a fresh-cracked egg.

‘Um… cold?’

‘The ailment’ – her voice firmer now, the mouth suddenly resembling her father’s fleshy bud, but all I could think of was a knife-slash in wax – ‘which prevented you joining us last weekend.’

‘Ah,’ I said. ‘Better, yes, thank you, madam. Yes… much better.’

‘So worrying, a cold.’ The Queen wore a fur cloak over riding apparel, and a fur hat. ‘Especially when we perceive the long winter grinding to its end.’

‘Certainly best kept within one’s own walls,’ I said carefully. ‘That is… rather than taken out and, um, given to other people.’

‘Or bears,’ said the Queen.

Her dark grey eyes half-lidded. Shuttered rooms, and I thought, Oh dear God.

My friend, Robert Dudley, mocks me for it.

Merely what happens in the wild, John. Bears, dogs, they’re all killers, and so are we. Part of us. What we are. We’re a fighting race, everything we have we’ve fought for and killed for. Sometimes we’re the bear and sometimes the dogs, depending upon whether we’re fighting to keep what we have or to grab more.

I point out to him that successful warfare is, and always has been, about cunning, intelligence and invention rather than blind savagery. Reminding him of the machinery I’ve fashioned to this end, the navigational aids to speed our supremacy on the seas. I insist, with a passion, that we have nothing to gain from observing the conflict of bears and dogs and only our humanity to lose. In war, I say, we fight to get it over, not to prolong agony in the cause of amusement.

Dudley shrugs.

Admit the truth, John. You’re a man of books, you simply have no stomach for it.

Well, yes: the anguished roaring and the frenzied yelps, those pitiful echoes from the ante-chambers of Hades… such barbarity I can live without.

But then, with a benign, faintly sorrowful smile, my friend and former student chooses his spot and inserts his blade.

You should see the Queen, John. Clapping her little hands and bobbing in her chair at each snap of the bloodied jaws. Oh my, the Queen has ever loved a bear-baiting…

Let no-one forget, in other words, whose daughter this was. The feelings of pity and distaste, I can cope with those, suppress them when necessary. But some involuntary disclosure of contempt… who dares risk that?

Thus, when invited to a banquet, to be attended by Her Majesty and followed by bear-baiting, I’d swiftly developed a cold.

Her perfume coloured the air. Always roses, as if the wave of a royal hand could alter the seasons. I saw my older cousin, Blanche Parry, the Queen’s First Gentlewoman, staying well back amongst the company of guards and courtiers and smirking hangers-on. Watching us, like to a white owl in a tree. Blanche had ever mistrusted me.

‘I’m afraid that, with a cold, I wasn’t a pretty sight,’ I said lamely. ‘My nose—’

‘—was in a book, as usual, I expect,’ the Queen said.

‘Yes,’ I said, humbled. ‘I expect it was.’

A hanging moment.

And then the Queen tilted her head back and laughed, and it was like to a flock of skylarks upon the air. After a breath, the whole company erupted, as if everyone’s throat had been released from some social ligature. Only Blanche Parry kept on watching me, unsmiling, as the Queen laid a gloved hand on my arm and steered me meaningfully away from her train.

‘I shouldn’t tease you, John.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘That’s what it was.’

‘Sometimes,’ she said, as we passed into the orchard, ‘I think you know me – through your art, no doubt – better than anyone.’

My art? Dear God.

‘Though also,’ she said quickly, ‘through experiences of adversity which are common to us.’

I nodded, grateful for that. Her father’s daughter and her sister’s sister, and yet, unlike either of them, Elizabeth had heard the key turning from the other side. All too aware, at the time, of the black cards dealt to the Lady Jane Grey, at just sixteen. Awakening to the swish of the phantom axe, just as I would roll from the flames’ roar. How secure was she feeling, even now? Did she even know about the wax doll?

‘John, you invited me once, as I recall, to see your library.’

‘Um… yes, I believe I did… yes.’

Thinking at the time that she’d taken it the wrong way, or at least feigned as much. At twenty-six, she was only a few years younger than I.

‘The truth of it is,’ she murmured, ‘I had been most strongly advised to avoid your library.’

‘Avoid my… books?

Because of their heretical content?

‘Advised by someone who was recalling your efforts to persuade my late sister of the benefits of a national library.’

‘Oh…’

Breathing again. So that was it. The cost. It hadn’t worked on Mary, and I could certainly think of members of the present Privy Council for whom the provision and maintenance of a Library of England would be regarded as good money down the jakes.

‘It just seemed to me a tragedy,’ I said, ‘how many valuable works have disappeared in the years since the Reform. Many of them secretly sold by unscrupulous abbots and the like. But there’s no doubt that the, um, the founder of a national library would forever be remembered as the greatest patron of learning that this country had ever—’

‘Tush, John—’ The Queen punched me on the upper arm. Her eyes dancing with merriment, a modest cluster of red-gold curls escaping from the fur hat. ‘It will happen. When we have sufficient funds to spare to do it properly. Meanwhile, we applaud your private efforts… how many books is it now?’

‘Nine hundred… and twelve.’

‘And twelve,’ the Queen said solemnly. ‘A goodly collection.’

I may have blushed. It seemed ridiculous that I could remember the exact number. Most of them were scattered all over my mother’s house and my aim, when I could raise the money, was to build an extension to accommodate thousands more essential volumes.

‘John –’ the Queen, her moods ever mercurial, was looking into my eyes now with a sudden concern – ‘you seem tired.’

‘Working long hours, Your Highness, that’s all.’

‘To what end? May I ask?’

The Queen had long been fascinated by matters of the hidden, and we were well out of the hearing of her company. She and I alone in my mother’s high-walled orchard, not more than twenty yards from the riverbank, the sun making pin-lights among the ice-pearled apple-tree boughs.

Idyllic, except for the pikemen guarding its entrance. You could never lose the bloody pikemen.

‘John, last year we spoke of the Cabala. You gave me to think that the old mysticism of the Jews… that this would help us penetrate the innermost chambers of the heavens.’

I hesitated. My present work did, in part, have its origins in that rich and complex Hebrew mechanism for communion with higher realms. And, yes, my aim – never a secret – was to discover the levels to which the essence of earthly things, the composition and structure of all terrestrial matter, is ordered by the heavens. I was now in search of a code, maybe a single symbol which would explain and define this relationship. But many a score of candles would burn through the night before I was ready to publish my findings and formally inscribe the mystical glyph upon the frontispiece.

‘Your Highness—’

‘Are you yet equipped to call upon the angels, John?’

After the religious turbulence of the past two decades, it would be of prime importance to the Queen that any intercourse with a spiritual hierarchy should be firmly under her control. I played this one carefully.

‘Any of us can call upon them. I think, however, for the Cabala to work for us, it will be necessary to interpret it in such a way that it will be seen as part of the Christian tradition.’

‘Oh yes, that’s a very good point, but –’ the Queen had clasped her long fingers together and now shook them as if attempting to dislodge some essential thought – ‘is there not an English tradition, John?’

‘For communion with angels?’

‘Well –’ a quick, impatient shake of the head, a parting of the hands – ‘yes.’

An interesting question from an educated woman, but the answer would not be a safe one.

‘Christianity, as Your Highness is obviously aware… is not of English origin, and so—’

‘Well, then, should I say British, rather than English, you and I being both of Welsh stock?’

Born and bred in England, I’d never, to be honest, thought of myself as particularly Welsh, although my father would forever prate at me – and anyone else who’d listen – about our great linguistic and cultural heritage. Which, having learned some Welsh to please him, I had planned to spend some time investigating, in case he should be right. However…

‘All the evidence suggests, Your Highness, that the Welsh religious tradition – which is to say the bardic or Druidic tradition – was not, in its essence, a Christian one.’

‘But did it not change when the Christian message was brought to these shores? Or when, as it is said, Our Saviour himself came to England?’

‘Um… mercy?’

‘With Joseph the Arimathean. His uncle.’

‘Oh.’

‘You do know of this—’

‘Of course. That is, I’ve read of it.’

‘So you have books dealing with it… in your library?’

‘Um… it’s possible. That is… Yes, I do.’

‘And Arthur? What of him?’

‘Arth—?’

‘King Arthur?’ A smile. ‘Our royal ancestor?’

‘Oh him, certainly. Several.’

‘I should like to see these books,’ the Queen said.

‘Of course. It would be my—’

There was a sudden, sharp movement in her body, as if in response to a twinge of pain. I thought she was staring at me, but no, it was at something beyond me, her eyes grown still. I didn’t like to turn, and so waited for her to speak again. She didn’t.

I coughed lightly.

‘Your Highness…?’

The Queen blinked.

‘Do you have hares,’ she said, ‘in your orchard?’

‘I… no. At least…’ Dear God, who had she been talking to? ‘Your Highness has seen a hare?’

‘I don’t… know,’ the Queen said.

I grew tense, for I had not seen a hare here. Not this year, nor last. And where she was looking… there was nothing.

The Queen smiled – and yet it was a smile like a wafer moon in a cold and smoky dawn. And the hare…

The hare, as you know, because of its curious behaviour, the way it sometimes stands on hind legs to fight with another, as men use their fists, the way it seems to respond to the moon… the hare might be seen as ominous.

The Queen shook her head lightly, swallowed.

‘The books,’ she said briskly. ‘You must—’

Breaking off again, for Mistress Blanche Parry was upon us, her nose wrinkled in distaste at the pervading stench of fermenting hops from the building where ale is brewed, not a hundred long paces from my mother’s house. Blanche, who must have been lurking closer than either the Queen or I had known.

‘Not now, John,’ the Queen said quickly. ‘You must bring the books to me.’

‘Of course.’

‘We’ll sup together. Soon.’ She found a brittle laugh. ‘If your health permits it.’

‘Madam…’ Blanche Parry at her elbow. ‘If I may remind you, you have an appointment for discussion with Sir William Cecil at three.’ Blanche nodding curtly at me. ‘Dr Dee.’

‘Good morning,’ I said, ‘cousin.’

Blanche frowned. The Queen tutted. I said nothing, recognising the interruption for what it was.

‘What a shame.’ The Queen smiled. ‘I was only just saying to Dr Dee that I’d hoped to visit the school before we left.’

On her previous visit, she’d spoken of inspecting the nuns’ school for poor children, later expressing regret that there would be insufficient time. She glanced at me with half-closed eyes, tacitly confirming that I’d be sent for, and then turning sharply away. Blanche Parry, however, remained for a moment longer, a spindle of a woman, past fifty now, grey-haired and severe.

‘Dr Dee, Sir William also wishes to speak with you.’ Not even looking at me. ‘Tomorrow at ten in the morning, at his town house on the Strand. If that is convenient.’

As if there was the remotest possibility, despite my workload, that it would not be. I nodded, wondering if this could be linked to the discovery of the encoffined effigy of the Queen. Of which, never a mention since. Maybe they’d managed, after all, to keep it from her. I’d made discreet inquiries about Walsingham, but nobody knew if he was in Cecil’s employ.

Hoar frost was glittering upon the spidery winter branches of the apple trees, and I felt the movement of hidden tides.

Made no move until the last wherry in the royal fleet had rounded the bend in the Thames, and then I went into the house. A fire of fragrant applewood was ablaze in the entrance hall. I’d built the fire myself, my mother adding more logs, in case we should be honoured. I passed by the pastries, all untouched, and found her sitting forlorn in the small parlour, watching the Thames through the poor, milky glass which in summer would protect us from the river’s stink.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

Throwing my coat over a chair, tired and more than a little cast down.

‘There was a time when Mistress Blanche Parry would have made time for me.’ My mother turned away from the grey-brown water, arose and patted her skirts. ‘Not any more, apparently.’

‘Blanche is jealous of her position at court. It’s not your fault. It’s me she doesn’t trust.’

‘Being protective of the Queen’s interests and welfare,’ my mother said, ‘is how she would see it.’

‘Also more than a little apprehensive of the advance of the sciences.’

My mother, Jane Dee, looked as if she’d bitten into a onion.

‘What?’ I said.

‘Would Mistress Blanche call it science, do you think?’

‘Maybe not.’

Avoiding my mother’s eyes, I noticed that the panelling on the walls was flaking for want of varnish, while the red-brocaded fabric of my mother’s chair looked all tired and worn. I noticed also that a sleeve of her dark brown dress had been patched in two places.

She had asked nothing about what the Queen had said or the reason for the visit. I could have told her that Elizabeth, already renowned as a demanding and expensive guest at the finest homes, would be unlikely to enter one that was conspicuously more lowly. In this case, I was sure, mindful and considerate of our poverty.

And thus I felt ashamed. Inadequate. I should have done better; I was my mother’s only child. My father had determined that I should receive the best education their money could buy. I might have become a bishop or even a lawyer, for which I had qualification, instead of… whatever I am become.

The river shone dully, full of animal and doubtless many human carcasses embedded in a city’s shit. The sun was pale and hard-looking, like marble.

Conjurer, I was called by some, when my back was turned, and by others even when it was not.

III

His Second Coming

RATHER THAN A crude summoner of spirits, a conjurer may, as you know, be seen in these more enlightened times as one who deals in illusion. And I’ve done that and found much delight there. Once, at college, for a piece of theatre, I fabricated a gigantic beetle which, through a system of pulleys and the employment of light and shadow, was seen to fly through the air. Spent many days in the making of it and many hours basking in the awe and mystification it inspired.

Nothing wrong with that. I was only a boy, and the beetle did not fly. Not as a bird flies, or an angel.

But now I am a man and more exercised by the true nature of angels. Fully accepting, however, that men like Sir William Cecil feel happier with what they know to be illusion, even if they know not how it’s done.

No frost today, only a sour sporadic rain as I boarded a wherry by Mortlake pier for my appointment. Low cloud stained with smoke and pricked by a hundred spires, the highest of them St Paul’s in the west.

We entered the city past the steaming midden of Southwark with its low-life amusements: bear-pits, cock-pits, whorehouses, gambling and theatre. I no longer noticed the impaled heads of criminals and traitors on London bridge; now that executions of the higher orders had become less commonplace, these crow-picked noddles were more of a grotesque attraction for visitors than a dread warning for the inhabitants.

As for Cecil’s new town house… all I understood was that it was on the Strand, where high-powered clergy once lived. But a wherrymen is a floating gazetteer, and mine knew precisely when to steer us to the bank, pulling in his oars by the footings of a new-built stone stairway.

‘Ain’t the biggest house inner row,’ he said. ‘But he got plans.’

‘The Secretary’s a personal friend of yours that you know of his plans?’

Hating at once, the way this must have sounded. Although I’d travelled with this same man seven times or more, I ever find difficulty in the exchange of common pleasantries.

The wherryman only grinned. At least I thought it was a grin, all his top teeth being gone – a fight, perchance, or he’d sold them to a maker of false sets, and I should have liked to ask, but…

‘One of his builder’s men’s marrying my youngest girl,’ the wherryman said. ‘They gets detailed orders, how he wants it done. Inspects every sodding brick.’

Cecil’s pastime, fashioning houses. I knew that. The tide had been with us, and when I found the house, three storeys high, behind a cage of builders’ wooden scaffolding, I was more than an hour early. Going in now would convey either over-eagerness or anxiety.

So I walked away from the Strand, arriving some minutes later in a street of brightly painted new shops selling fine furniture, tapestries and good lamps. You could tell how fashionable this quarter had now become by the apparel of the shoppers and the scarcity of children and beggars. Even the street stench here was less putrid, women carrying pomanders more as a declaration of status than to sweeten the air.

It had started to rain. I stepped into a covered shop doorway, from where the street-sellers’ cries were muted. Not that there were many of those around – with men as prominent as Sir William Cecil residing hereby, the security services would have seen to all that. If it hadn’t been for the rain, I might have wandered away into some other street and never heard—

‘—the future! Learn what is to come! Learn how the world will end with darkness and disease before… His Second Coming!’

Purple proclamations of apocalypse. Some pamphleteer. Ever cheaper now, the pamphlets. More ubiquitous and more lurid, spewing out their grossly illustrated accounts of murder, executions and devil worship. And end-of-time warnings now, from the puritans.

‘—for yourselves the terrifying new predictions of Her Majesty’s stargazer! Read the forecasts of Dr Dee!’

Jesu! Now I was out of the doorway and backing clumsily around an unattended cart, finding myself in a cramped alley, the man’s bellow seeming to pursue me into the piss-stinking shadows.

‘Know the future now… what’s left of it.’

Beginning to sweat as I peered out to observe quite a crowd gathering around the pamphlet man. Respectable-looking people, women in furtrim, men in the new-fashion Venetian breeches. All hot for revelations of turmoil in the heavens, discovery of unknown lands full of strange winged creatures, some new war in Europe.

All invention, of course, but too many people were ready to believe anything committed to print and…

…did they not know I did not do this?

Second coming? My role was to scribe charts indicating planetary influences on world affairs, the balance of the humours. Possible directions, opportunities, auspices. But never a claim to full-fledged prophecy. That way, until we know more, lies madness.

But why had no-one told me about this shit?

Rumour and gossip, Dr John, rumour and gossip.