by Paul Walker
I say, ‘I have a small observatory on the roof of my house. We do not have a horizon, but the sun is out and it may serve to give a taste of its handling.’
Three of us make our way to my observatory. The winter sun is strong enough to cast a shadow and allows Hawkins to manipulate the instrument in the correct manner. Both my guests express themselves pleased with the demonstration and we return to the receiving room in good spirits. There is a discussion about when the first proving of the instrument is to be undertaken, and it is decided that Hawkins will take his ship out for two days this week with several of his captains.
Sir George says, ‘We have twenty-two ships, William. If the trial is satisfactory we will require that number of instruments for the start of the expedition. It is planned that all our ships will muster at Dartmouth in the middle days of February, so they will sail from here the week before. Will that allow sufficient time for their manufacture?’
A quick mental calculation produces a figure of little more than three days for each instrument, which will provide Master Chap with a stern task, but not an impossible one. There is a half-formed thought at the back of my mind about the timing and place of assembly, but I cannot unravel its significance now. ‘It is a demanding schedule and I will make enquiries tomorrow on its feasibility. There is also the cost to consider.’
Morton waves a hand and dismisses the financial consideration as insignificant weighed against the potential enhancement to the prospects for the venture. As our discussion continues, I find myself carried along with growing enthusiasm for the venture. The prospect of sailing with the fleet is no longer an invitation to decline with polite regret, but one that offers excitement and challenge that may be difficult to resist. The midday bells ring and I interrupt our conversation to invite them to dinner. Sir George accepts readily, saying that our discussions have provided the foundation for good food and drink.
We are joined by Mother, Helen and John, making our number the largest party at our dining table since father died. Although it is unplanned, I note that my mother has the situation under control and the table is laid with our best tableware and glasses. She clearly takes pleasure in the gentle hum and activity generated by our company. I am overcome by a sense of how quiet and empty our house has become in normal times and I should make an effort to rectify this in future, for Mother’s sake.
John’s introduction has a diverse effect on our other guests. It seems that he and Hawkins have met before and their exchange is cordial, but reserved. Sir George expresses delight at the company of a scholar with such a lofty reputation, while Helen merely offers him a modest curtsey. Most of the conversation is monopolised by Sir George who has trouble in containing his eagerness to inform about the great adventure to the New Lands and his praise for my invention.
‘Its effectiveness is yet to be tested,’ I remind him.
‘Ah, I have no doubt that the Captain General will return from his proving with positive news, William. The recently renewed acquaintance of our families was indeed a stroke of good fortune.’ He turns to Mother. ‘I am delighted to note that you are recovered from your illness, Mistress Amy.’
‘I have your daughter and Rosamund to thank for my wellbeing, Sir George, and to your generous spirit in allowing Helen to attend here. My son had the good sense to seek their advice when his ministrations failed to effect a cure.’
Morton acknowledges the compliment with raised knife while working on a mouthful of roast tongue, then says, ‘I understand that you also suffered an ailment, Doctor Foxe.’
‘Indeed, I have much to be thankful for, as I am recovered from the worst effects of congestion. This is a house that warms with kindness and good company.’
Mother bows her head to John in appreciation of his comment. She asks Hawkins if he will tell more about his experiences of the New Lands and in particular the character of the natives to be found there. Hawkins describes them as docile creatures with little fighting spirit, prone to sickness and malaise. He portrays them as akin to cattle and this raises protests from Mother and Helen. John joins the argument and asks if they are amenable to conversion from their heathen state to our Christian faith. Hawkins asserts that they are not men and women like us, but a subspecies that have little understanding of the nature of God. John stiffens, but does not respond and there is an uncomfortable quiet. I wonder if this has been a source of disagreement between Hawkins and John in their previous meetings.
It is mid-afternoon when our guests depart taking the instrument with them. I should be cheered by the enthusiastic reception accorded my invention, but my spirits are dampened by the lack of opportunity to engage with Helen in private. It was tantalising and frustrating to have her so close, unable to exchange any word or sign of affection.
I retire to my library and am deep in thought about possible improvements to the instrument when Mistress Hilliard knocks and enters. My mind has wandered, I realise that the fire has died and I have been sitting in a chill room for some time. I ask Mistress Hilliard to make up the fire and I gather my cloak from a hook on the door to wrap around my shoulders.
‘Let me help you, sir. You are shivering and ‘tis no wonder; this room is no warmer than the courtyard.’
She lifts my cloak over my left shoulder and I pull it around me. She makes to leave, then hesitates and turns to face me. I tilt my head as an invitation to speak her mind. She swallows and casts her head down. I invite her to sit and pull up a stool next to mine.
‘I have talked to Rosamund, sir.’
‘Yes.’
‘Begging your pardon, but you were discussed. You and the lady, Helen.’
‘Did you discover anything of note about her birth?’ I am too anxious and have broached the subject too soon. She hunches her shoulders and bows her head as if unwilling to continue. I lean over and touch her hand in, what I hope will be interpreted as, reassurance.
Eventually she says, ‘I was sworn to secrecy. I made a holy oath that I would tell no-one of the circumstances she described.’ She sighs deeply and shakes her head. ‘I am in a bad place. I know that you are an honourable man and your intentions are pure, but… but it would be a sin to break my word given freely to Rosamund.’
Ah, this is a pickle. Is there a way around this conundrum? I cannot beg her to break her oath; she is a woman of firm convictions and would do nothing that would bring disfavour in the eyes of her God.
‘You gave word that you would “tell” no-one.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Perhaps, you could write a few words that would serve to satisfy my enquiries. I know that you can write a little and you made no mention that your oath concerned writing.’
She lifts her head. Her eyes water with the beginning of tears and she has an expression of hope. ‘Would that be a sin? Surely, God would regard it as a measure of trickery?’
‘To my mind, God will look for an exactness in the words you swore and there will be no sin in writing.’
She is undecided. She shakes her head and purses her lips as though the proposition is distasteful. How can I persuade her? I think of John. She holds him in high regard and his word on a matter of religion would sway her. But John must not know of my reasons for searching into the history of the Morton family. Will he judge in my favour and will he be happy to pronounce without knowing the full details? It seems I will have to take that chance.
I say, ‘Would you take account of Doctor Foxe’s opinion on this matter? He is close to God and would surely offer sound and holy advice.’
She nods her head dumbly and I go in search of John. He is in his study at his books. He looks up with surprise at my entrance and welcomes me warmly.
‘I have a favour to ask of you, John.’
‘I will be glad to oblige, William, unless you wish me to take your place on a ship to the new Lands. I fear I am too old for adventures on the high seas.’
I smile at his little jest and pull up a stool. ‘I… or rather Mistress Hilliard, wo
uld have your advice. She has information she wishes to convey to me, but has had to swear not to speak of this material.’
‘What is the nature of this information?’
‘That I cannot say.’
‘Cannot or will not?’
‘It concerns a matter of the heart and it would not be proper to mention the character of the enquiry or a name at this stage.’
He nods his head slowly as if this brings a measure of understanding. ‘I see. How will I be expected to advise?’
‘She wishes to avoid sin in the eyes of God. Her oath concerns not speaking of the information and is eager to know if writing of certain words for my eyes only would break this holy oath.’
‘I think I understand. I will speak with her, but cannot promise you the outcome you desire.’
‘That is all I ask for, John. You will find her in my library. I will remain here and await your return.’
The waiting is hard to bear. I pace the room trying to avert my thinking to other matters, but without success. I flick through pages of John’s books, but the text does not register any comprehension. I sit and close my eyes. The tension in my body will not ease and I pace the room again. How long will he take to express a short opinion? It has been more than a half hour… The door opens. He has returned alone. He will not relay any detail of his counselling and bids me to go directly to Mistress Hilliard.
A fire has been made in the library and she is tending it as I enter. Her face is flushed. Is it from the heat of the fire or an embarrassment at the denial she must give to me?
‘Well, Mistress Hilliard, I hope you have had a fruitful consultation with Doctor Foxe?’
‘Indeed, sir, I thank you for the thought and it was most comforting. I am satisfied that I may write a few words without breaking my oath. The Doctor advises it would be best if the writings were burned before we leave this room.’
My breath has been held and I exhale loudly at these words. I must take care not to be overeager and make her wary.
She says, ‘I am sorry that my writing is not good and some of the words I must use are unfamiliar. Those that I know are mundane and concerned with the household.’
I present her with a sheet of paper, dip a quill in the ink well and hand it to her. I am wondering whether to prompt her when she begins to write. Her handle trembles and the scrawling is painfully slow. I move away from her and turn my back in case I inhibit her attempts.
After a few minutes she announces it is done. I turn around and she hands me the paper. There are seven words written. It reads: “Nees dead”; “babe Helen”; “dopded”; “father tewter.” I scan the text trying to unravel the meaning behind the scrawl.
I say, ‘Does this signify that Helen was adopted?’
She bows her head in agreement.
‘The father’s name – no not a name; he was a tutor.’
Another assent. Who is dead? Helen was adopted and her father was a tutor – to who? I read the words again, imagining Mistress Hilliard speaking them.
‘Ah, I think I have it. A niece of the Morton family died, in childbirth perhaps, and the babe was adopted by Sir George and his wife. The father was a tutor… a tutor to the niece.’
She remains silent, but nods her head, more vigorously this time.
‘Do you have the name of the tutor?’ She bows her head and clasps her hands. ‘Please, Mistress Hilliard, this is my last request. If the name is known to you, please write it.’
She hesitates then takes the paper quickly and writes two words – “Tomas Gore”.
Twenty-Five
I have spent the greater part of this morning with Master Chap. It was a satisfactory meeting. Naturally, Chap was delighted at the possibility of a large commission for the manufacture of instruments and he offered to accompany Hawkins and his captains on their proving passage later this week. I endorsed this suggestion and it relieved my feeling of guilt that I have not volunteered my own attendance. In other circumstances I would be glad of the diversion, but now I have other pressing matters which require my attention. The knowledge that Helen was an adopted child of a niece in the Morton family is a great relief, but I cannot rely on the scribbled words from the gossip of two housekeepers. I must find this man Gore and extract documented proof. My prime motive is selfish and personal, but the exclusion of Helen as a candidate for the hidden royal bastard will also contribute in a small way to the task of uncovering the astrology plot. I sit uneasily on the periphery of Walsingham’s investigation, not knowing how his work progresses and if the Morton family is under suspicion. I must work quickly in case events overtake my singular efforts.
I am with Mother and John in the parlour when Askham calls. It is another summons by Walsingham for John and me. This time we are to be taken to his house at Barn Elms and this is unwelcome news as it will entail at least one overnight stay there. I had intended to travel to Leadenhall with news from Master Chap and now I will have to rely on Hicks to undertake this task. There is another reason to be wary of this call. I cannot rid myself of a cloud of anxiety about Walsingham and the thought that one day an encounter with him might end with great upset.
Barn Elms is quieter than our last visit. The scaffolding remains and workmen ply their trade in restoration of the buildings, but the band of armed men that was gathered here has disappeared. There is a small pond at the side of the house. It is frozen and a group of small children are playing on the ice. This small touch of normality lifts my spirits as we enter the house. Perhaps this will not be a meeting with a sharp edge of fear after all.
Askham accompanies us to Walsingham’s chamber of business and stands by the door as we enter. Walsingham is sat at a large table with Mylles by his side and Mistress Goodrich standing in attendance. She says something to Walsingham then turns to leave, bobbing her head and smiling at John as she passes. Introductions are exchanged and we take seats at the table. Askham is invited to join us and takes a stool to one side. We are offered wine and no sooner have we replied than the silent, floating servant has appeared with a tray of bottles and glasses.
Walsingham says, ‘Doctor Foxe, I have taken the liberty of accepting Mistress Goodrich’s offer to prepare your hot soother.’
‘That is very thoughtful and it will be most welcome after the chill wind encountered on our journey.’ John clears his throat and adjusts his seat. ‘Thanks to William my health has improved, but I have acquired a taste for his soother and will continue to take it in the winter months.’
‘I am glad and that is well done, William.’ Walsingham shuffles papers on his table, then steeples his fingers before he continues. ‘The Captain’s men have discovered the lodgings of Christopher Millen; a place near St Giles. Others had been there before and it appeared that many items had been removed or destroyed.’ He pauses to give more weight to what is to come. ‘Nevertheless, our searchers were diligent and scraps of paper were found, which in themselves showed nothing.’ He stops there and waves a hand at Mylles to take up the story.
‘There were many torn pieces of paper of irregular size and I tried to place these together to make a whole. It was apparent after some hours that there was a belonging when letters and lines began to match. It was a long and tedious process, but eventually I was able to assemble this.’
He moves to a side table and takes hold of a flat plank of wood, about two feet square and carefully brings it over and places it before us. Scraps of paper are arrayed on the board, fixed loosely by a form of glue. There are missing pieces, but it is immediately apparent that it is a star chart, or the preparatory working for a chart. Walsingham and Mylles are looking to me to take a lead in its examination and I stand to get a closer view.
It is clear that this is not a finished chart. There are calculations, roughly made and marks to correct errors. A date is writ large in the top left corner – the twenty-fourth day of February, 1579. Lines are drawn from this date to the eighth, fourth and third houses, although most of the detail on the fourth hous
e is missing. The natal is recorded as the seventh day of September in 1533; so this is a transit chart for Queen Elizabeth and perhaps that was inevitable. The intention seems to be… I stand back to appraise the chart as a whole. The placement of the stars was accurate for the natal chart, but I cannot be sure the same applies to this chart. I lean in and scan the paper again to ensure my first thoughts have foundation. I stand back again and consider for a few moments how I should express my thoughts.
I say, ‘This is a chart which purports to represent a crisis in the life of Her Majesty. It is a rough draft and the working seems to be an attempt to fit transits of heavenly bodies to a predetermined event at a future date.’ I pause to gather my thoughts. ‘In the eighth house the moon is shown in transit with Neptune, the Sun, Pluto, Mars and Uranus. This may be interpreted as a major crisis, perhaps one that threatens life itself. However, there is sufficient evidence in the notations to doubt the accuracy of the observations.’
Walsingham glances around the table to determine if others wish to comment, then says, ‘If I understand you correctly then, this is the transit chart referred to in the coded message.’
‘It is a working model for the chart. The astrologer, Millen, has faced some difficulties in its preparation. Knowing the content of the coded message and the natal chart, there can be little doubt that this was an attempt to create a transit chart which foretells a deep crisis…’ Perhaps I am too cautious in present company, but I leave the rest unsaid.
John says, ‘It did not take long for you to question the observations. Will you need to consult your almanac to confirm this inaccuracy?’
‘No, it is clear to me that it is a deviant and clumsy attempt to create an event to match a date in February of next year. It may be that Millen was under instruction to conjure a complex fabrication to fit a timetable of the conspirators’ choosing.’