Prophecy

by S. J. Parris

  She smiles, cat-like, and arranges her hands in her lap. I breathe out slowly; it seems that, for now, the questioning is over.

  ‘Well, then – let us see if we can liven it up. Come, Bruno. You are the master and I your acolyte. I am in your hands. Mould me as you will.’

  Her expression is all sweetness; only the dangerous glitter in her eyes betrays a mischief I prefer not to dwell on. The only way through this is for me to appear as naïve and as literal as possible, to keep all conversation on the surface and pretend to be so block-headed as to miss any implied double meanings on her part.

  Then there is the matter of my memory system, and how much I should impart. The rumours that chased me from the Parisian court were all true, of course; my ars memoria is so much more than a useful tool for orators or those who wish to improve their powers of recall. It is an art of deep magic, refined over years of study, worked on through all my long months as a fugitive in Italy and later in the libraries and archives of Geneva, Toulouse and Paris. It is, though I say so myself, a profound achievement, though few will have the capacity to comprehend it fully; my system is the first of its kind to marry the classical art of memory with the system taught by Thomas Aquinas and passed down in the teachings of my former order, the Dominicans, but to add to these the most powerful ingredient of all, the ancient Egyptian wisdom of Hermes Trismegistus. Without this element of magic, my work would have held no interest for King Henri of France, a man who hungers after esoteric knowledge with an enthusiasm that almost makes up for his lack of talent. Marie de Castelnau was a confidante of King Henri’s wife; how much, then, might she already know? Again, the sense that this is some kind of trick hangs over me, setting my teeth on edge.

  Even so, we must start somewhere. I hold out to her a large sheet of paper on which I have drawn a diagram, and sit back with some satisfaction while she takes it and reads, turning it this way and that as she narrows her eyes to make out the tiny inscriptions.

  ‘In God’s name, Bruno,’ she says, at last, having turned the paper in a full revolution. ‘How is anyone supposed to make sense of this?’

  ‘It is not for all to understand.’

  She appears to like this.

  ‘That I can see. It is only for adepts, so King Henri says. I want to become an adept.’ She flicks the paper with a finger, then crosses her ankles and rests her chin on her hand. ‘Where do we begin?’

  Where indeed? For a moment I am tempted to laugh. My system is infinitely complex; I have not fully penetrated its mysteries myself. The diagram, laid out according to the rules I explained in my book On the Shadows of Ideas, published in Paris shortly before I left (and one of the principal reasons for my flight), shows a series of concentric wheels, divided according to the twelve signs of the zodiac, separated further into subdivisions, which can be arranged in seemingly limitless configurations to embrace the sum of human knowledge. On these wheels are represented the properties of elements in the natural world – plants, animals, minerals; on a higher plane come the inventions of men, the spectrum of all the arts and sciences; beyond these, the images of the mansions of the moon, the planets, the constellations and the houses of the zodiac. Finally, and most powerful of all, there are the names and images of the thirty-six decans of the zodiac, which no man before me has dared invoke; it was this element that had the learned doctors of the Sorbonne and the ecclesiastical authorities in Paris muttering against me for sorcery, because they lacked the light of true understanding. My system, correctly understood, becomes a means of connecting all that is contained in the universe, in one golden chain of ascent from the lowest substance through the imagination of man and up to the gods of time, who inhabit the infinite space beyond the spheres of the planets, who move and influence everything we know as the heavens and the Earth. And the man who can fully embrace the knowledge contained in this system therefore holds the entirety of the known universe within his own mind, and can rediscover his own divine nature, that part of himself that once communicated freely with the Divine Mind and with the gods of time, before that knowledge was lost to us. He would become more than an adept – he would become like God.

  This is what Dee and I mean when we speak of entering the Mind of God, though we disagree about the nature of the decans. He, afraid to stray too far from the conventional forms of the Christian religion, calls these spirits ‘angels’; it is these he seeks to speak to through his misguided faith in Ned Kelley’s scrying. But I know that the likes of Kelley will never find a means to reach the decans. Before the great civilisation of Egypt crumbled and so much of its wisdom was lost, priests and Magi knew the secret of communicating with the gods of time and of harnessing their powers. These secrets were closely guarded in the temple archives, and when the last priests fled, they carried the scrolls that preserved their knowledge with them to far corners of the known world. One of these priests was Hermes Trismegistus – who some believe was the deity Thoth, scribe of the gods. So the names of the decans have been passed down to us through the writings of Hermes, though his precise instructions for communication and ascent are still lost to us, contained – I believe – in the missing fifteenth book of his writings, the book Dee believes could be in the possession of Henry Howard. My memory system is the closest approximation I can devise without the great key described in that book. Even so, it is sufficiently steeped in ancient knowledge to see me burned, as King Henri and I both knew.

  Marie is still looking at me. Firelight softens the right side of her face, licking a warm glow along her cheek and collar bone. The room is too dim, or the day is; there is something too intimate about the shadows, the amber light. I lean across, pointing to the outermost wheel of the diagram, uncomfortably aware of her intense gaze in the stillness.

  ‘Any memory system is based on symbolic pictures, since our minds are better suited to recalling images,’ I begin, not quite meeting her eye. ‘These images here are classified according to their common properties. So, for example, in this circle you see arranged the stones and minerals associated with the planet Mars –’

  ‘There was much talk of your knowledge in Paris, you know,’ she interrupts, twisting a stray curl around her finger. ‘They said you were teaching King Henri to call down demons, so that he could side with the heretic Elizabeth against the pope.’

  ‘Well, the ignorant have to fill their time somehow. Now, these wheels can be turned to create different series of connections –’

  ‘It was one of the things the Duke of Guise used to stir up unrest against the king,’ she interrupts again. ‘He said you were manipulating Henri by sorcery, converting him to your heresies so that he would protect you from the Inquisition. That was one of the reasons King Henri banished you from court. Did you know that?’

  ‘King Henri didn’t banish me,’ I say, needled. ‘I wanted to visit England. The idea was mine.’

  She laughs, mocking.

  ‘If that’s what you want to believe. Henri was afraid of the Duke of Guise. The French people do not want a weak king, Henri knows this. They want a sovereign who will defend the Catholic faith, not one who humours Protestants and dabbles in witchcraft. Oh, yes, there was much talk about you in Paris, Bruno, even after you left. Some said you killed a man in Rome.’ She tilts her chin and raises an eyebrow, as if daring me to confess.

  ‘Do I look like a murderer to you, madame?’ I smile, but my palms are prickling with sweat. Philip Sidney had made a joking reference to this once, but he had heard the story in Italy; I had not thought it had pursued me through Europe and across the sea.

  She laughs again, this time with more warmth.

  ‘No. But then you do not look like I imagine a sorcerer either, nor a heretic, nor a monk.’

  ‘Because I am none of those things, madame.’

  ‘Oh, do stop the madame. It makes me feel a hundred years old. I am Marie. Just Marie.’ She studies her fingernails for a moment, then raises her eyes to meet mine again, a curious half smile playing about her
lips. ‘Who are you, Bruno? No one knew in Paris. No one knows at Salisbury Court. Everyone wants you at their supper table, for your wit and your daring ideas, and all the women try to catch your eye, but you keep your distance from everyone, you will not let anyone close enough to see you truly. So stories grow to fill the spaces in our knowledge.’

  ‘I am only the man you see before you,’ I say, spreading my arms and holding out my hands as if to prove that I have nothing concealed. ‘No mystery.’

  She looks at me for a long time, as if trying to read something encrypted in my eyes. Determined not to seem suspicious, I hold her gaze. There is only the sound of the logs crackling in the hearth and the rise and fall of our breathing. I realise afresh how very beautiful she is, how confined she seems here and how dissatisfied with her lot: her ageing husband, preoccupied with affairs of state, and her young daughter. I remembered how brittle her movements had seemed when I saw her with her child, how forced, as if she were performing the role of mother unwillingly. For a moment I consider the path set out for a young woman of noble birth: how briefly she is allowed to shine, to be publicly paraded and admired among her own kind, for precisely as long as it takes to find her a suitable husband. Her wedding day is the zenith of her short flowering; after that she is expected to fade again into the background, to cover her hair and content herself with the reflected glory of her husband and children. For a woman like Marie, such self-effacement must fit like a hairshirt.

  This game she is playing with me – the flirtatious comments, the touches, the knowing way she parcels out her attentions between me and Courcelles – is all a means of creating some drama for herself, now that she is no longer centre stage. Briefly I pity her, until I remember how callously she had talked of holy war at the dinner table, and how she wears the Duke of Guise’s emblem as a badge of honour – the same emblem that was found with both the dead maids. Whether she knows it or not, Marie is somehow connected to the murders. But perhaps even this enthusiasm for the Franco-Spanish invasion is for her just another way to feel she is acting on the world, instead of hearing about it through the muffled walls of her tapestried rooms.

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ she says eventually, shaking her head with that same amused smile. ‘Whatever you are, Bruno, you are more than you seem on the outside. Though the outside is perfectly acceptable.’ She spreads out the paper with the diagram across both our laps and makes a show of studying it, tracing her finger slowly over the circles, her arm pressed against mine. My body is rigid with the effort of not responding. ‘Did you teach King Henri magic?’ she whispers, as if this proximity might persuade me to open up.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Does Elizabeth want you to teach her magic? Is that what your secret talks were about?’

  ‘No.’ So this is what she wants to discover, is it? I wonder if someone has put her up to it – Henry Howard, perhaps, to discredit the queen.

  ‘It is common knowledge she keeps an astrologer.’

  ‘This is not astrology,’ I tap the diagram. ‘It is a means of organising the mind.’

  Her fingertip lingers over the central circle.

  ‘Are these the names of demons?’

  I force a laugh; it comes out as a strangled squeak.

  ‘Again, no. These are the thirty-six decans of the zodiac, three faces for each sign. They are also symbols, memory pictures, if you like.’

  She murmurs some of the names softly, like a litany: Assican; Senacher; Acentacer; Acecath; Viroaso. The hairs on my neck prickle at the words in her mouth; the air seems to settle on us like velvet. Then she turns and slowly raises a hand to my face, her thumb running softly along my cheekbone, then along my lower lip, and there is such longing in her eyes that it startles and confuses me. The firelight is reflected as dancing points of light in the depths of her pupils; I am caught, motionless. Just as her face begins to move inevitably towards mine, and I know that I am helpless to resist the pull of it, a log collapses in the grate with a great crack and flare, spitting cinders over the stone hearth. We both jump at the noise; the spell is broken and I take the opportunity to stand abruptly, snatching the paper away in my haste.

  ‘Marie . . . I can’t. Your husband – I am a guest in his house. It would be –’ The sentences hang there, unfinished.

  She twists on the settle, her body squirming first one way, then the other; when she looks up, her eyes are flashing. Her pride is wounded, and so she turns her anger on me; her cheeks are flushed and her mouth pressed into a white line.

  ‘One word to my husband,’ she says, her voice tight as wire. ‘I only have to say one word of this, that you tried to touch me, and you would be thrown out of this house. Where would you go then?’ When I do not respond, she raises her head, defiant. ‘Back to Paris in disgrace. I could destroy you if I chose.’

  ‘I suppose you could. But what would that satisfy? I have done nothing to hurt you, Marie.’

  She says nothing, only looks away, her teeth clenched.

  ‘What is it you want from me?’ I say, as gently as I can.

  She shakes her head, still turned resolutely towards the fire. I cannot read her; my suspicion remains that she meant to use her charms to coax some secret or other from me, believing I would be weak enough to give in, but there is always the outside chance that she felt something sincere, or believed she did. Either way, no woman takes being scorned lightly, and a woman whose pride is hurt can be dangerous. I kneel on the floor before her, placing my hand lightly over hers. She does not remove it, though she still will not look at me.

  ‘Marie.’ I pause, choosing my words carefully. ‘I was a monk for thirteen years. I have learned a little about mastering desire. And however beautiful you are, and you are –’ here she deigns to look at me, finally, though her eyes are still cold – ‘I owe the duty of loyalty and respect to your husband and to King Henri, who is his master and mine. Nor would I wish to lose your respect.’ If I ever had it, I add, silently.

  She purses her lips, as if weighing my speech, and eventually seems to approve it with a curt little nod. A thin wave of relief washes through me; I know as well as she how difficult she could make my life at Salisbury Court if she set her mind to it. For a moment I remain kneeling while I consider how to proceed, unwilling to make any sudden move that might inflame her anger again.

  ‘Perhaps it is best we leave the lesson for today?’ I suggest timidly; she nods and at that moment there comes a sharp knock at the door. I jump back, letting go of Marie’s hand, but not fast enough to be missed by Courcelles, who strides in without waiting for an invitation, his sharp eyes taking in the tableau at one sweep. Marie at least has the grace to look guilty for a moment, before a malicious smile curves across her face as she looks up at him.

  ‘Lesson going well?’ he asks, in a voice like satin wrapped around a steel blade.

  ‘Yes, thank you, Claude,’ Marie says lightly. ‘Did you want something?’

  ‘Yes, madame – the child Katherine’s governess has asked me to fetch you. She refuses to settle to her lesson.’

  I watch Marie’s face and note that her first, uncensored reaction is irritation. I see it tighten her features, before she remembers herself and arranges her expression into an approximation of motherly concern.

  ‘Does she expect me to do everything? What is she employed for?’ she says, standing and smoothing down her dress. She hesitates briefly, as if unsure whether to acknowledge me or not, then juts her chin forward and sweeps from the room without glancing at either of us. Courcelles turns to me with a look that could crack marble.

  ‘I thought your tutelage was supposed to improve her memory?’ He rests a hand on the latch. ‘It seems to be having rather the reverse effect – apparently neither of you remembered that she is a married woman. I wonder what her husband would say to that.’

  ‘No doubt we will learn when you tell him,’ I say without looking up, folding away the diagram of my memory wheels before he can see it.

  �
�Oh, it won’t be me who tells him, Bruno. I am discreet as the grave.’ He leaves a pause, perfectly timed. ‘Not unless you give me good reason to think my lord ambassador should be informed.’

  ‘There is nothing to tell,’ I say bluntly, rising to my feet.

  ‘I’m sure. But my lord ambassador is a sensitive man on that point, for obvious reasons. By the way, did you hear – there has been another murder at court, just like the first?’

  ‘So I heard. A great tragedy.’

  ‘Last night, if you can believe it, while we were all at the concert. Well – all except you, I should say.’

  ‘An extraordinary coincidence.’

  He produces a dry laugh. ‘No such thing as coincidence – isn’t that what you fairground stargazers say?’ With a final toss of his hair, he stalks out, leaving me with the uncomfortable knowledge that I am more vulnerable than ever at Salisbury Court.

  Chapter Ten

  City of London

  1st October, Year of Our Lord 1583

  ‘Mary Stuart won’t be happy.’

  Thomas Phelippes doesn’t raise his eyes as he makes this observation; instead I watch them flicker with quick lizard movements over the lines of numbers written in the letter he has just expertly unsealed. Walsingham once told me that Phelippes only had to read a cipher once or twice to have it by heart; he said this with almost fatherly pride. If he weren’t such a phenomenon as a code-breaker, Walsingham had added, with an indulgent laugh, he could make a fortune in a travelling fair with his feats of memory. Naturally, I am fascinated by the reports of this man’s prodigious powers of recall, but he doesn’t have the kind of demeanour that invites intimate conversation. In fact, he seems singularly ill equipped to deal with other people; he rarely looks directly at you, shifting uncomfortably unless he has been asked to explain some piece of his business, when he holds forth at length in his curious monotone, firing the information at you with barely a pause for breath. Here, in the dim back room of his house on Leadenhall Street, shuttered and lantern-lit even in the day, to protect his secretive work, he seems like a woodland creature, content to hide in its burrow. If Nature has blessed him with exceptional gifts of intellect, she has sought balance by withholding from him any physical charm; the man is short and squat, with a heavy jaw, a flattish nose and the scars of smallpox on his cheeks.