by Paul Walker
The house is a busy contrast to the stillness and cold of the garden keep. Workmen are plying their trade. Their voices and the working of hammer, chisel and saw bring a warm and cheery feel to the place. I am guided through to the back of the house and the door opens on to a handsome, wood-panelled room with two sides given over to shelving for books and manuscripts. There must be over three hundred volumes – an impressive number for a private collection – and I have a sense of eagerness to examine their nature and quality. John is asleep in a chair by a small fire covered with a blanket of sheepskin. I will not disturb him as he looks rested and at peace.
I spend a pleasant two or three hours looking through the books and manuscripts in the library. I am not surprised to find some of John’s works in the collection, including his Actes and Monuments or Book of Martyrs as it is popularly known. I will not open this book as I know that some of the illustrations will recall the scene of Godfrey’s mutilated body. The notable manuscripts of Luther are here as is the popular tome by Calvin, Institutes of the Christian Religion. The coverage of subjects is broad with a large section on matters of law and governance; a number of books relating to mathematics; medicine; nautical charts; and, unsuspected, a small selection of poetry and other entertainments such as Lyly’s Euphues: Anatomy of Wit and Dante’s Commedia. I can find no reference to the Hebrew or Aramaic language to help with our task.
John is stirring from his sleep and his chest crackles as he takes in deeper breaths. His eyes open and meet mine.
‘William, have you been here for some time?’
‘I have browsed the books and manuscripts for a few hours. I hope that I did not disturb you?’
‘No, I have dozed for too long. I must be about…’
Something falls from his hand as he moves and I stop to pick it from the floor. It is a small round piece of glass, smooth at the edges and concave in shape.
‘Is this a glass of magnification?’ I ask, as I return to him.
‘Yes, it is useful for small and indistinct scripts. My eyes worsen with age.’
‘It could assist our investigation, John. Before we discuss that matter further, I wonder if you would like me to prepare you a potion to relieve your mucus and soothe your chest.’
He lowers his head in assent. I leave the library and easily find my way to the kitchens by following the rich odours of roasting meat. The large kitchens hum and clatter with activity. There are about twenty hands scurrying, cutting, pouring and basting. I guess they are preparing food for the workmen and soldiers. A maid approaches and curtsies. I explain that I have need of certain ingredients, together with pots, cups and a hook for heating on the fire. She understands well enough and says that my requests will be taken to the library within the half hour.
I return to find John sat at a table, poring over a book with the glass to his eye.
‘What are you reading, John?’
‘Ah, you have caught me deep in an act of conceit. I am examining my own writings. Not because of any self-indulgent pride, but to lament the printing errors that it contains. I must be more diligent in my inspection before printing the next edition.’
I move a chair and sit next to him. ‘I have examined the box and the Aramaic script was a mystery to me for the most part. Do you have a good knowledge of these ancient Hebrew symbols, John?’
‘I have studied them, but my understanding is far from perfect.’
‘I will wager that yours is on a higher level than mine, but let us hope that together we may determine the meaning of those symbols.’
He nods his head slowly and then returns to his book. Again, I am somewhat surprised at his apparent lack of urgent curiosity. Perhaps his age and sagacity lend him this disposition. With no more conversation to be had on this topic, I wander the room and decide to examine some of Mercator’s charts. I have always had a fascination for maps and charts and I am lost in admiration of a chart of the New Lands when the door is knocked and two servants enter with my requisition from the kitchens. I clear my throat to gain John’s attention, point to the newly arrived items and inform him that I intend to manufacture a natural potion to soothe his chest.
I place more logs on the fire, then grind an onion and dried nettles to make a paste. I squeeze in the juice of two lemons, add a little honey, a pint of water and transfer the mixture to a hooked pot over the fire. When I am satisfied that the mixture is properly infused, I pour through a clean gauze into another pot. I see that John is watching me with an amused interest.
‘I am relieved to note that you have not included the dung of a pregnant ewe in your concoction, William.’
‘Ha. There is nothing magical or noxious in this potion, John. It will not effect an instant cure, but I hope that it will relieve some of the soreness around your lungs.’ I am pleased that his infirmity does not hold back a dry wit.
I pour a measure into a cup, which takes in both hands, swirls and takes a few gentle sips. He smiles his thanks and continues to drink slowly and carefully. I return to my musings over the chart of the New Lands and I am reminded again of the presentation with Doctor Dee in ’sixty-eight when we offered new methods to assist navigation to those intrepid adventurers of the western seas. My recent observations of the stars have brought to mind some improvements to the mathematics and techniques of sighting, which I will set down in a paper in the New Year.
‘That was good, thank you, William; warming and flavoursome.’ He interrupts my train of thought as he replaces his cup on the table. ‘I do not expect that we will have to stretch our knowledge of Hebrew script overmuch,’ he says, licking his lips, ‘I have an inkling of its intention.’
I raise my eyebrows at this revelation and ask him to explain further. He suggests that we move back to the garden keep so that we have the object in front of us while he explains. That cold, damp room will not be good for John’s health and I open the door to summon a house servant to make up the fire and light the candles there before we transfer. As an afterthought, I request bread, cheese and beer to sustain us both while we wait.
After an hour of rest, feeding and some idle talk we are reluctant, but ready, to leave the comforts of the library. The night has begun early and there is a dankness in the air as we make our way to the keep. The room is well lit and the fire has a welcoming aspect, but it is still cold and I feel John shiver as he enters. I guide him to one of the chairs around the table and put on the white gloves before handling the box. I place it before him and watch as he puts the glass to his eye and peers closely at the engravings. He offers no comment and passes me his glass and invites me to inspect using its assistance. It takes a little time to become accustomed to the positioning of the glass to see a clear enlargement, but once I have its measure I am impressed by the precision of view it presents.
‘Do you see?’ he asks.
‘I see a section of the script and under the glass and it is clear that the engraving is recent. The edges are sharp and unaffected by the passage of time and smoothing of hands.’
He sits back in his chair and replies, simply, ‘Yes.’
I understand. He wants me to make my own deductions without taking account of his own. I take up the glass and look closely again. I take my time and study it from all angles and finally place it on top of the box and stand back a few paces to take in a wider perspective.
Finally, I announce my conclusions. ‘On first viewing the container is moderately pleasing as an object and Moorish in design. A detailed examination displays fine craftsmanship and I have rarely seen a more intricate mechanism than the lock. The edges to the carvings are sharp and unworn suggesting recent manufacture, which begs the question, why is there ancient script on a modern box? I believe that the script on one side may be translated as ruler or king, but I am defeated by the other symbols. I have not examined the chart, but at this stage it would be reasonable to assume that the text on the box and the chart are linked in some way.’
I pass the glass to John, he declines
the offer of the gloves and moves in to scrutinise the box, turning it slowly in a clockwise motion. He runs his finger along the top, opens it to examine the inner and lifts the whole to examine the base. He fixes the glass to his eye, peers closely back and forth along the top, transfers his attention to the base, then each side in turn. He undertakes the same routine another three times before removing his eyeglass and straightening his back with some difficulty.
‘Perhaps if you inspect the astrological chart it may help with our overall appraisal, William.’
I have resisted any attempt to study the chart until now, because to make any proper assessment of its accuracy or interpretations would require access to my books and astronomical references. In these circumstances, however, it is unlikely that I am to be allowed a lengthy postponement before passing an initial judgement. It is in a fair hand, in the English language and well-drawn with all symbols and houses clearly-defined. Notes are inscribed around the outside in a poorer hand. There is no name on the chart, but date, time and place of birth are clearly marked and thus there will be no difficulty in checking its thoroughness and accuracy when I have the tools. The sun is in Virgo, the Moon in Taurus and natal occurred forty-five years in the past, so the present time is somewhat late for analysis of the chart to be useful. Wait… am I missing something? My hidden senses have been pricked, suggesting a significance that escaped my cursory examination. Natal is recorded as mid-afternoon on the seventh day of September in the year of 1533 at Greenwich. I recoil from the table. My mouth is open, breaths coming in shallow gasps. I turn to John who eyes me directly with an expression of mild concern.
‘It is our Queen!’
John nods slowly, but does not reply.
‘The chart – unless I am mistaken the natal on the chart matches our sovereign.’ It is treason to create or read such a thing, and even idle conjecture about our queen’s future is an offence.
‘Yes,’ John replies.
‘You are not surprised?’
‘I know nothing of your stars and charts, but the inscriptions on the box and the fact that it was seized from a follower of Rome signalled some mischief directed at Her Majesty.’
‘What of the inscriptions?’
‘There are four around the sides and I can offer you my understanding of three. Malikah refers to a queen; Purqana deliverance; and there can be no doubt that Rhum refers to Rome.’
‘And the symbols on the fourth side?’
‘That is a more troublesome matter.’ He settles in his seat and attempts to suppress a cough, which is only partially successful. ‘I believe that the Aramaic is Niqubta, but the meaning of this term is obscure.’
‘Can you hazard an approximation?’ John heaves his chest in an attempt to clear an obstruction. It is painful to observe and I cannot stop myself from gently rubbing his back to aid relief. After a few moments his fit subsides and he waves his hand to indicate that I should stop.
‘I believe that the word may refer to a mystery, most particularly of the female kind. It may be necessary to seek confirmation from a learned source.’ He pauses, then adds, ‘There is more. The Moorish design is an arrangement of much smaller Aramaic symbols that represent a female birth – a daughter, a ruler and a far-away land which may be distant in its span on the earth or time.’ He pauses to calm his breath. ‘It is in the form of a prophecy and the author is named as Hamuda of Judea. There may be one or more dates, but I cannot be certain.’ He leans over to inspect the chart. ‘What can we learn from the notations around the edge of this elaborate and decorative representation?’
Puritans are known to frown upon explorations into the influence of stars on our lives and a hint of mockery in the tone of his voice is unmistakeable.
‘Do you disapprove of such charts, John?’
‘It would be impolite in the extreme to dismiss them outright in your presence, William, but it is true that I distrust reliance on the interpretations from schematics such as these. In my opinion, they touch the edge of magic and associated heresies. Nonetheless, I do not discount them entirely, and I know of good men who have faith in astrological divinations.’
I am thankful for his statement on two counts. First, it confirms that he doesn’t have a closed mind. Second, he managed to complete his short oration without interruption from that terrible, rasping cough.
We turn our attention to the writing on the periphery of the chart. There are five notations and to my eyes they are hurried and somewhat crude; certainly, a different hand to the one that drew the chart itself. As we assume the chart was prepared for those ill-disposed to its subject, it is no surprise to see annotations reading ill-favoured, melancholic and promiscuous. Of more interest is the writing of the word motherhood and this would be a common interpretation for a woman of Saturn placed within the sign of Cancer. The final annotation reads issue hidden accompanied by a date.
‘What does this signify?’ John tilts his head to a questioning pose and points to this last pair of words.
‘It is written against the fifth house, which is the house of children. The signs there are inconclusive – neither fruitful, nor barren. There is a more positive indication for bearing a child in the eleventh house and some of the markers in the first house can be taken as an indication of a troubled or hidden birth. The placing of Saturn and Cancer at natal may also be taken as a sign of motherhood in the subject, or it could indicate the subject’s strong attachment to their birth mother.’
‘I understand your reason for not wishing to offer an exact interpretation, William. The writer on the chart had no such misgivings it seems. It declares that our queen is a mother and either that the child was stillborn, or put in a secret place. Is that how you read it?’
‘Yes, there can be no other reasoned conclusion of the thought behind the notations, although I should caution that we don’t know that the chart itself is accurate, or that the notations offer a fair reflection. The writing is in the English language, so we must also conclude that the chart was prepared by a scholar from our country.’ It is a dangerous heresy to suppose that our queen is not a virgin. Of course, there were rumours many years ago, but these were largely forgotten or discredited. ‘A date of 1560 on the seventh day of August presumably refers to the birth date of the child.’
John settles back in his seat with a thoughtful expression, but offers no comment. I examine the chart again to try and discern any flaws in the annotations. I know of no way to forecast a date of birth with any accuracy and the date noted must have some other source – or it could be entirely spurious. John is inspecting the box again with his eyeglass. His demeanour in comparison to mine, reveals my naivety in bringing an open mind to this task. I should have suspected a matter of high consequence, daring and danger because of the man who brought me here.
‘We must try to make sense of our findings, William.’ John’s statement lifts me from my musings. I incline my head to suggest that he should begin our analysis. He leans back, clasps his hands together and begins. ‘To the common man this is nothing but a decorative box. We agree that it was made recently and the ancient script may be there to confuse or, more likely, add weight to the contents by its fake history and association to the time of Christ. The so-called prophecy touches the claims in the chart and a full reading of the script will no doubt bring them close together.’
‘I agree, John. Your translation of the Aramaic is clear in its plan to reflect or complement the analysis of the chart contained in the box.’ I pause and look again at the box. ‘The thought that our Queen may have a hidden child is disturbing and I understand why enemies of our state would wish to spread such an idea, but it seems…’
‘Seems?’
‘It appears to be an over-elaborate way to present such a fanciful and scurrilous notion. Surely, this cannot be the entire mischief in this matter.’ John is about to comment, but a rasping in his throat progresses to another bout of coughing. ‘Come, John, let us depart from this cold room and seek our ease
in a corner of Mister Secretary’s house where we can discuss these matters further.’
At the house, we are shown into Mister Secretary’s parlour by his housekeeper, Mistress Goodrich. We are advised that this is his preferred area for contemplation, reading and dining when there are no guests. I ask her if Sir Francis is in attendance. She replies that he is expected in the morning and that she has been tasked with ensuring our contentment this night. I accept her offer of cold meats and some wine, but John demurs and as an afterthought requests an orange if one can be found without much trouble. He smiles sweetly at Mistress Goodrich and it is plain that she is much taken with his politeness and warmth.
Together, we spend the early night in light conversation. We have both visited Antwerp and exchange stories from that fair city, although I choose my narrative carefully so as not to offend his Puritan sensibilities. John relates his meetings with John Calvin in Geneva and the controversy surrounding reforms to Protestantism. Walsingham’s parlour is comfortable, the wine is good and the heat from the fire has a dulling effect on the atmosphere in the room. John’s eyes begin to close and he is soon asleep. I find Mistress Goodrich and ask her to prepare the bedrooms while I pay one more visit to the keep before retiring.