Prophecy

by S. J. Parris

  ‘And you agreed?’

  ‘He was a talented scholar, and he paid generously, perhaps because he wanted it well hidden that he was coming to me. But . . .’ Dee spreads his hands in a gesture of regret. ‘The great mysteries of the ancient philosophies must be approached with humility. I soon saw that Henry Howard’s ambition far outstripped his wisdom.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘He became obsessed by the lost book of Hermes. Ah, I see you smiling, Bruno. Aren’t we all, you are thinking? But I ask you – that lost fifteenth book, what do you understand it to contain?’

  ‘No one knows for certain,’ I say. ‘That is its irresistible lure. We know only that the great philosopher and astrologer, Marsilio Ficino, refused to translate it for Cosimo de’ Medici because he was afraid of the consequences for Christendom.’

  ‘Precisely. Because the lost book is believed to set forth the mystery of man’s divinity. It is the culmination of the Hermetic magic.’

  ‘They say it holds the secret of becoming equal to God,’ I whisper, picturing Howard’s pointed face, his beady eyes.

  ‘But where you and I understand that to mean through enlightenment or gnosis, Howard’s interpretation was much more literal,’ Dee says, leaning further in with a meaningful nod. ‘That was what troubled me.’

  ‘Literal, in what way?’

  ‘It was not divine knowledge Howard aspired to.’ He lowers his voice. ‘It was divine immortality.’

  We fall silent for a moment, watching one another. Twice I open my mouth to say this is impossible, but each time something about Dee’s earnest grey stare deters me. His faith in magic, if by that we mean a world that lies beyond the bounds of our present knowledge or philosophy, is simpler and more trusting than my own. If the universe is infinite, as I believe, then it must surely contain an infinite number of possibilities that we have not yet imagined or attempted to harness, but the more I consider this, the more I discover in myself an instinctive scepticism towards the easy claims of alchemists and mountebanks and those who perform tricks of mind-reading from the backs of carts to a willing crowd. Could a man truly achieve immortality? And could one book really contain the key to open that door? Rumours and mythologies grow around lost books; they acquire extraordinary powers in their absence. But the lure of immortality – I can see how that would draw a man like Henry Howard.

  ‘So what happened?’

  Dee sucks in his cheeks.

  ‘It was not just the Hermes book. It became increasingly clear that Howard’s interest in magic was not about knowledge but about power.’

  ‘Does the one not lead to the other?’ I say, with a sly smile.

  ‘For those who have the wisdom to use both judiciously. But not in the simplistic way he imagined. His elder brother had just been executed, don’t forget – the Howards had lost the best part of their lands and titles. He wanted a means of controlling and manipulating his way back to eminence. I glimpsed in him a ruthlessness that made me deeply uneasy. In the end, I told him that I could not go on teaching him.’

  ‘I imagine he took that badly.’

  ‘Oh yes. The Howards do not like to be thwarted. First, he offered more money. When I continued to refuse, he threatened me.’

  ‘With violence?’

  Dee tugs at his beard and raises his head towards the window, a weight of great sorrow in his eyes.

  ‘Nothing so crude. He simply said he would destroy me. He said he would work against me like a subtle poison, so that not even those I counted my friends would acknowledge me. He dared me to put him to the test.’

  ‘But that was ten years ago,’ I say, meaning to be reassuring.

  ‘Yes, and here I still am. Oh, there has been much muttering against me over the years by the ignorant and the envious – that I conjure demons, speak with the dead, perform any number of forbidden and grisly rituals at dead of night with mummified corpses or stillborn children or I know not what. Thus far, Her Majesty has never paid attention to such foolishness.’ He lays a hand on my arm. ‘But I have never imagined that Henry Howard forgot his hatred or his threat. People like you and me, Bruno – we walk as if on fragile ice. We work at the very edge of knowledge, and that frightens many people. We can never know when the ground might fall away beneath our feet.’

  He looks so melancholy that I press my hand over his and clasp it for a moment.

  ‘So, Howard’s response was to turn violently against all forms of occult knowledge?’ I say, indicating the book. Dee frowns.

  ‘Publicly, yes. But I have always wondered if he hasn’t secretly pursued his desire, using his piety against it as a cover. Henry Howard is nothing if not tenacious. Some fourteen years ago, it was thought that a copy of the lost manuscript of Hermes had been found. This part of the story you know, Bruno, from that rogue Jenkes.’

  I nod, with feeling; Rowland Jenkes, the dealer in esoteric and forbidden books who had tried to kill me in Oxford.

  ‘Well, then,’ he continues, ‘you remember that Jenkes thought he had found the book buried in an Oxford college library. He wrote to me, knowing of my collection, and I travelled to Oxford to meet him. From what he let me see of the manuscript, I was sufficiently convinced to pay him a high price for it.’

  ‘You read it, then?’ I sit forward eagerly.

  ‘Only a small part of it,’ he says. ‘I can’t say for certain, but I believed it was by Hermes Trismegistus. My plan was to bring it back to London and immediately make a translation. Only I never had the chance. As you know, my servant and I were brutally set upon and robbed on the road the moment we left Oxford, and the book was taken.’

  ‘Jenkes told me about that,’ I say, nodding. ‘But he swore the theft was not his doing.’

  ‘At first I assumed it must have been, so that he could sell the book again,’ Dee says, absently rubbing at the back of his head as if the tale has opened the old wound. ‘I returned to Oxford to recover – I was quite badly injured in the attack – and confronted him, though of course he denied everything. But as time passed, it occurred to me that there were others besides Jenkes who wanted that book, and who would have had the means to pay spies in my household and villains to steal it from me on the road.’

  ‘Henry Howard?’ I look down at the book in my hands.

  ‘I have no proof. It is only a suspicion. But for years afterwards I asked everyone I knew, every collector and dealer in antiquities and manuscripts in England and all those I knew in Europe, and no one had heard any further word of the Hermes book. You can bet that if Jenkes had hired thieves to get it back, he would have attempted to trade it on for more profit. Which makes me believe it was stolen from me by someone who had no interest in selling it, but who wanted to keep it, to study its content.’

  ‘I suppose the only way to be certain is to try and kill Henry Howard,’ I say, keeping my expression serious. ‘If he proves to be immortal, we may reasonably assume he took the book and found it to be authentic.’

  Dee chuckles softly. ‘Don’t tempt me, Bruno. In any case, this brings us no nearer to solving my dilemma.’

  ‘I thought that was your dilemma?’

  ‘I’m afraid it is more specific. Yesterday –’ he hesitates, glances at the door – ‘Ned Kelley had a horrifying vision. He fears that the spirits have granted him sight of what will come to pass, and I must decide whether to warn the queen.’

  I want to tell him not to be a fool; my cynicism about Kelley tightens in my chest like a hard bud, but Dee’s eyes are wide and his lips trembling slightly. More gently, I lean in towards him.

  ‘Go on.’

  He takes a deep breath.

  ‘In the showing-stone, much as it was the time you observed, a spirit appeared to Ned as a red-haired woman in a white gown, with the symbols of the planets and all the signs of the zodiac embroidered on it. In her right hand she held a book and in her left a golden key.’

  Kelley’s figures are always holding a book, I think to myself. Perhaps his
imagination is running dry. ‘This is no figure I recognise,’ I say, shortly, though the moment he mentioned a red-haired woman my mind snapped instantly to Abigail Morley.

  ‘But there is more. She did not speak, but in the vision she unlaced her bodice and opened it for him –’

  ‘I bet she did.’

  ‘Don’t mock, Bruno,’ he says, hurt. ‘Wait until you hear. On her breast she had a symbol engraved in blood . . .’

  ‘Was it the sign of Jupiter, by any chance?’ I say, unable to keep the sarcasm from my voice. But Dee looks stricken.

  ‘Sweet Jesus. No – but you are close. It was the sign of Saturn. How on earth could you know?’

  I rise, infuriated, cross to the window and turn sharply back to him.

  ‘He has plucked this detail straight from the murder at court! Come, John – the man is a charlatan. He is playing you like a harp – can you not see it?’

  ‘But Ned goes nowhere near the court or those circles. How would he learn of a detail like that?’

  ‘It is the talk of London!’ I cry, exasperated. ‘He only has to step out of doors to hear people gossiping about it in the streets. He has picked up a handbill from somewhere, read the lurid descriptions and thought it would make a neat picture for his next invention! Do not lose sleep over it, for heaven’s sake.’

  ‘Now, Bruno.’ He looks weary. ‘I know you do not like Ned, but really – he is a very gifted scryer and you insult me to suggest otherwise. He speaks with the spirits in their own heavenly language. I have heard him.’

  ‘He is a criminal! Have you not seen his ears? That’s what they do to those who forge coins, is it not? And if he can counterfeit money, why not visions, and languages?’

  ‘Ned has led a hard life and has made his mistakes, but all that is in the past. He is an honest fellow now, Bruno. It is not for us to judge.’

  I run my hands through my hair, grasping at handfuls; there will be no reasoning with him. ‘Christ’s body, John! You are entitled to make some judgement of a man if he is living off you. You are too soft-hearted.’

  Dee smiles fondly. ‘This from the man who could not bear to hurt a mouse.’

  We stare at each other, the mouse suddenly remembered. Dee rouses himself with surprising speed from his chair and hurries back through to the laboratory, his robe whipping behind him; I follow at a clip. Here among the stills, with their soft, intestinal murmurings, the atmosphere is more humid now, and more fetid. The room smells like a farm in a midsummer thunderstorm.

  Dee lifts the lid and holds the small wooden box up to the lamp. The mouse lies motionless, its tiny feet splayed outwards. A pool of thin, watery shit spreads around its tail, a similar one of a reddish liquid around its head. Its eyes bulge unnaturally, like the glass eyes of a stuffed creature.

  ‘Interesting,’ Dee muses, nodding as if pleased with this result, his head almost touching mine as we lean in. ‘The substance has worked quickly – see, where it has voided its stomach from both ends. I must confess I was not persuaded by your theory, Bruno, but it seems you were right.’

  ‘What substance would have this effect?’ I ask, peering closer, half-hoping to see the mouse convulse or twitch.

  ‘Hard to say. Something like yew, or black bryony possibly, both easy to come by at this time of year, easy to extract.’

  ‘And would it work in the same way on a person?’

  ‘Not so quickly, especially if it was diluted with rosewater. But in essentials, I should think so, in a large enough dose. It’s clearly had a violent purgative effect. I’ll cut this creature up and have a close look at the innards, although I won’t have time before I go this evening. But Bruno –’ he turns to me, his eyes wide again with dawning fear – ‘if your guess is correct, someone must warn the queen immediately.’

  ‘No!’ It comes out more sharply than I intended. ‘I mean to say – all we know for certain is that a bottle of poison was given to one of the queen’s maids in the guise of perfume. That girl is now dead, but we know nothing of who gave it to her or why. Until we have some definite ideas, it is best the queen should not be alarmed and the court thrown into uproar. She is already heavily guarded. Besides,’ I add, ‘the person who gave me the perfume might be compromised.’

  ‘You don’t understand, Bruno.’ He clasps my shoulders and gives them a little shake. ‘Ned’s vision, the red-haired woman, her downfall. It all fits. I fear Her Majesty is in terrible danger.’

  I do not want to ask, but know I must. ‘What was the end of the vision?’

  ‘After she revealed her breast with the sign of Saturn carved into her flesh, she held the book and key aloft and opened her mouth as if to give a great speech, but before she could utter a word, she was pierced through the heart by a sword and then swept away by a raging torrent.’ His grip tightens and his eyes wildly search mine; clearly he expects a better response.

  ‘Well, he certainly has a sense of drama. Where is Kelley, by the way?’ I glance around the laboratory, as if the scryer might be hiding behind one of the larger stills.

  ‘Oh, I have not seen him since yesterday evening. He was so shaken by the vision that he needed to go away for a while to recover.’ He sees my eyes narrow. ‘He has done it before, Bruno. If the session with the spirits has taxed him too hard, he will disappear for a few days so that he can come back refreshed.’

  ‘Really. It must be exhausting for him.’ I frown. ‘And he never tells you where he goes?’

  ‘I never ask.’

  I place my hands on his shoulders in return; we stand for a moment locked in this half-embrace while I look into those melancholy grey eyes, so full of wisdom and yet, in some ways, so blind.

  ‘Do not, under any circumstances, try to tell the queen about this vision this evening,’ I say gently, as if admonishing a child. ‘If any harm really were to befall her, they would say you foresaw it by the power of the Devil, and in the much more likely event that nothing happens, you will be taken for a false prophet, no better than these pamphleteers. I do not pretend to understand Kelley’s motives, but we do better to concentrate on what we know of real dangers to the queen –’ I nod towards the perfume bottle on the work bench – ‘than on whatever dreams he may or may not see in the stone.’

  Dee is about to protest, but suddenly it seems a great weariness comes on him, and he hangs his head instead.

  ‘Perhaps you are right, Bruno. Better not to give my enemies more arrows to aim at me.’

  I glance sideways at the stiff little body of the brown mouse in the box, remembering its pulse in the palm of my hand. How quickly a life is snuffed out, I think. If only we could catch the soul as it took flight, follow its journey and return to chart the territory, like the adventurers to the New World, like Mercator with his globes. But the mouse has not been sacrificed in vain. It has proved, if nothing else, that the queen’s enemies almost managed to reach into her bedchamber. But how to begin to find them?

  As I am taking my leave at his front door, I suddenly remember a question that Dee, if anyone, might be able to answer.

  ‘The seventeenth day of November – has it some astrological significance? I have tried to think, but I don’t have charts with enough detail here to calculate whether it will be the occasion for anything of note in the heavens.’

  Dee chuckles. ‘I don’t know about the heavens, but any Englishman will tell you that here on the ground it is Accession Day. The anniversary of Her Majesty’s accession to the throne, you know – since 1570 she has declared it a public holiday, with pageants and processions to celebrate her glorious reign. Street parties and so on. It should be a sight worth seeing this year, being the twenty-fifth since her coronation. Why do you ask?’

  I hesitate, wondering if I should tell him about the paper hidden inside Cecily Ashe’s mirror, but I fear he would come instantly to the same conclusion as I, except that he would tie it to Kelley’s ridiculous invention and feel compelled to warn the queen, in that slightly hysterical way he sometimes h
as. My mind turns over quickly, even as Dee looks at me expectantly. Did whoever gave Cecily a vial of poison disguised as perfume also send her the date on which he intended her to use it? Was Elizabeth’s twenty-fifth Accession Day supposed to be the day of her death? The uproar this suggestion would cause at court would create such noise and smoke as to obscure any trace of the real plot; besides, something had obviously gone badly wrong if that was the intention. Cecily Ashe was dead, and the poison safe in Dee’s laboratory. Did this mean the would-be assassin would find another means to strike at the queen on Accession Day? There is no doubt in my mind now that Cecily was killed by the man who gave her those gifts, who had involved her in a plot to poison the queen and then left her corpse holding an effigy of Elizabeth stabbed, a reminder of the task she had somehow failed to carry out.

  ‘Bruno? You look troubled.’ Dee’s frown grows fatherly with concern. ‘Is something the matter?’

  ‘No, no – I heard the date mentioned by one of the embassy servants and wondered why it was important.’ I search his face and am seized by a sudden affection for him; impetuously, I grip him by the shoulders and kiss him on both cheeks. He looks surprised, but pleased. ‘Remember – no mention to the queen of any visions,’ I add over my shoulder, as I turn to go.

  I had paid the boatman who brought me to Mortlake to wait, since wherries are harder to come by this far upriver. We have progressed perhaps twenty minutes on our journey back towards London, when I notice another small boat keeping pace with ours at a distance of about fifty yards. It has only one passenger, a man, as far as I can tell, wearing a travelling cloak and a hat pulled down around his face, but they are too far away for me to see him clearly.

  ‘Has that boat been behind us all the way from Mortlake?’ I ask the boatman, who squints at it from under his cap.

  ‘That one? Yes, sir – it was moored up just along the bank from where you come down.’

  ‘All the time I was on shore?’