The Secrets of Life and Death

by Rebecca Alexander

  When the servants let down the steps of the carriage, the giant swung himself off his charger, and strode forward. A manservant left the coach first, carrying various bags. Then the count reached in, and lifted a pale figure wrapped in an embroidered cloth, its head falling onto his arm, no bigger than a child. The white skin, a shade not seen in the living, spoke of death, yet the head turned upon his arm, and the bear bent his head to hear what it said. As he carried his burden – surely sick unto death – across the yard to the great doors beneath us, a linen cap fell into the mud, and a sheet of hair tumbled across his cradling arm and almost to his knees. It was a woman.

  When I returned to our room, Dee had news for me.

  ‘Edward. We are summoned to dine. I am to entertain many noble visitors from Poland and Saxony with some “magical” tricks.’ The tone of his voice was acid, I knew how much he hated performing, although he was a good stage trickster. Almost as good as myself.

  I sat on the bench and looked at the meticulous map he was annotating. ‘Master Dee, shall you wear the black doublet?’

  He looked up, and stood, stretching his back. ‘The red, I think. Then you may wear my black and we shall both look like gentlemen of her Majesty’s court, and less like vagabonds.’

  I opened the press, and began unpacking his clothes, shaking out hose and shirts. The queen had made him a gift of a number of courtly dresses, and he had chosen a doublet in the latest fashion and hose from Italy. The scarlet doublet was tailored to make him look bigger, and fell onto his lean thighs. It would have dwarfed me, and I was glad to tie on the sleeves and ease the shorter jacket about me. I brushed the fine brocade, smoothing off the creases from my packing.

  Dee froze at another creak outside our door. ‘Are they there to confine us, or guard us, do you think?’ He blew upon his notebook to dry the ink and replaced it in its calfskin satchel. He looked around for the leather bucket provided instead of a night stool. ‘This isn’t the king’s principal residence,’ he said, over his shoulder, as he pissed. ‘But it is big enough to confer with many of his soldiers and nobles. He has two regiments here on leave from the Turkish front.’ The sultan’s troops, never far away, were capturing territory in Istvan’s homeland of Transylvania.

  I laced the doublet, in sober black but with some good-quality embroidery, as the door opened. I smoothed my cap over my ears, as was my custom, to hide the notches there. A moment’s incaution in my youth found me accused of coining. I grew my curly hair long to reduce comment, for it was a cruel injustice.

  An armed man, taller even than Dee and filling the doorway, barked a command in Polish. Dee bowed his head, but did not hurry. I held out the coat and fussed about the buttons. He picked up his cane and placed his round hat upon his bushy hair. I ran a comb through his long beard and looked up at him, as he spoke softly.

  ‘Edward. You know I have eschewed all sorcery.’

  ‘Indeed, sir.’

  ‘But seeing you in such danger today, I called upon forces of magic, endangering our immortal souls. We must guard against such necessity. Better that we were both dead than condemned for ever.’

  I was still heartily glad not to be resting in the bellies of a dozen wolves, and my face must have shown it.

  He smiled. ‘But I am glad you survived, all the same. Come, dear friend.’ His eyes twinkled in the light of the fire. ‘Let us see how the court of King Istvan Báthory compares with that of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth.’

  The feasting hall was a long room with a vaulted, smoke-darkened ceiling. It rang with voices and few of the noblemen gave us more than a covert glance. German and Latin were spoken freely, as well as Polish. A huddle of brown-skinned men – Istvan’s vassals from Transylvania, I imagined – spoke in a dialect as full of hissing and spitting as kettles over a fire. They were seated behind the king, and along his left flank. They seemed to dress as if for riding even here, at table, but the Polish noblemen wore trimmed beards, velvets and embroideries, much as in England. Beside the king sprawled the Black Bear, Lord Nádasdy, in courtly attire.

  King Istvan, in green velvet dress and a collar of rubies, rose and nodded to us.

  ‘Doctor Dee,’ he said, in Latin. ‘The court bids you welcome. Please: sit, eat, drink.’

  A space appeared on the nobles’ bench and Dee climbed into it. I looked around and saw an area full of soldiers, and insinuated myself onto the end of the seat.

  The meal was much as you would have at a hunting lodge in England. There was beef and venison and wine. The bread was almost black, and inedible until soaked in either the meat juices or in drink. Spiced sweetmeats followed the viands, and good cheeses rolled in herbs were brought with dried apples and little cakes.

  Finally, the king stood again. The conversations fell away, to leave the sound of the crackling of the fire and the splintering of bones by half a dozen wolfhounds.

  The king started speaking in Latin, and dropped in a few words of German and Polish. I got the meaning. The renowned scholar from the court of Queen Erzsébet of England would now demonstrate something. I didn’t catch quite what, but Dee stood up, and walked to the middle of the room.

  ‘Your Gracious Majesty, my lords.’ He spoke in what we called his theatre voice, in precise Latin. ‘That nature of the universe that we think of as commonplace is far richer and full of mysteries than we see. Take, for example, this cup of wine.’

  He held up the horn goblet he had been using, and turned in a flash and threw the contents in the fire. He had moved too fast for some of the Magyars, who jumped to their feet, their weapons half out of their scabbards. The wine hissed like the belly of a dragon, and two of the dogs shrank back, teeth bared. I held my breath, but Dee turned around with a flourish.

  He held the goblet at an angle to show the inner surface. It glowed with the brightness of pure gold. The nobles started whispering to each other, leaning forward to see the gilded interior.

  ‘Some might think: magic, sorcery, witchcraft,’ he intoned.

  With each word, the atmosphere in the room stilled further.

  Dee continued. ‘But, this, your Majesty, my lords, is natural science. A few drops of a rare alchemical, shared with me by the goldsmiths of Venice, is placed in water, and a pinch of salt is added. The gold, hidden in the liquor, is forced out by the purifying action of the salt and gilds any surface it touches.’

  Dee offered the cup to the king who, after a moment, took it. Few others would hold the cup. Clearly, the idea of sorcery was still in their heads.

  Some sense of self-preservation made me look around, perhaps a draught was coming from the doorway. A man stood there, leaning against the wall, his dark eyes intent on Dee. His cloak was wet, and covered his dress down to his Italian-style leather boots.

  The king leaned back in his chair and smiled. He had a long face, with a strong nose and a weak chin, partly concealed behind his beard. ‘My men tell me that you summoned a circle of flame on the road, which burned without wood. Was that science also?’

  Dee bowed. ‘That, your Majesty, is a trick I learned from an Arab on the southern coast of France, an expert in natural science.’ The lies rolled off his tongue.

  The man against the wall stepped forward, lifted back his hood, and reached for the cup.

  ‘Natural science?’ His black beard was close-cropped and framed his mouth, which flashed with even teeth when he grinned. ‘When I hear of flames with no wood, I think of the inferno of hell, and the trickery of demons.’

  He placed the cup back on the table. I noticed the Magyars had closed ranks even more, and were staring at the man with a mixture of contempt and fear.

  Dee’s voice was serene. ‘No demons, sir, but a secret formula known to the Arabs since Emperor Leo the Wise.’

  ‘As described in the Tactica?’ The man bowed to the king, placing his hands inside the sleeves of his cloak. ‘A book of military strategies, your Majesty. I believe the doctor refers to some formula for Greek fire, much used in the Byzantine e
ra.’

  Dee smiled at the man, and bowed. ‘You have the advantage of me, sir.’

  The man bowed back like a courtier. ‘The name of the great scholar and alchemist Doctor Dee has reached all the courts of Europe.’ He held his hands aloft, and turned in my direction. ‘And young Master Kelley, who speaks with angels.’ This time his voice had an edge of irony. I stood, nevertheless, and bowed low.

  ‘Your servant, sir,’ I ventured, in my best Latin. ‘How may we address you, my lord?’

  He turned to Dee, again flashing that mouthful of white teeth.

  ‘I am Reichsritter Johann Konrad von Schönborn.’

  A knight of the Holy Roman Empire, in this mongrel court of Lutherans, Catholics and pagan gypsies. He swung his cloak off his shoulders in a flourish, revealing scarlet robes underneath, and a crucifix swinging against his embroidered breast.

  ‘But you may call me Father Konrad, his Holiness’s representative from the Vatican.’

  I felt a shudder run across my shoulders. Istvan had invited the Inquisition.

  Chapter 9

  ‘What do you mean, you were dead?’

  Jack had been able to drag a struggling Sadie into the warmth of the living room. The teenager had woken more alert this morning, and was installed on one of the two sofas. She seemed less afraid and more defiant now she had a little energy. Jack had no doubt she was looking for an opportunity to escape. Sadie had passed out briefly as she was carried between the circles of the priest hole and the lounge, but was now glowering over a tumbler of herbal decoction. Jack had made buttered toast, the bribe she had offered for choking down the malodorous brew.

  ‘Dead. Defunct. Expired.’ She lifted the plate of toast over to Sadie. ‘If you drink all the potion you won’t be sick when you eat.’

  The girl sipped the drink, her nose wrinkled and her eyes shut.

  ‘That’s disgusting.’ She put the empty glass down and balanced the plate on her lap. ‘You can’t have been dead.’

  Jack hesitated, trying to find the words to explain it to Sadie. ‘I was destined to die nearly twenty years ago. Maggie saved me using this special treatment. The same treatment we are giving you.’

  ‘What do you mean, destined?’ The girl was looking around the room, her gaze returning again and again to the shackle on the floor where the chain was anchored.

  Jack picked a couple of dog hairs off her buttery toast and took a bite while she tried to find the words to explain. ‘I don’t completely understand it,’ she said, ‘but most people just die when their time is up. A few people are special. Their death is almost certain but they can, in some circumstances, be saved.’

  Sadie scowled. ‘I don’t get it.’ She was like a robin, gaze flitting around the room, looking for a way out, perhaps. Her hand pulled at the metal cuff on her wrist, which had already rubbed a sore patch on the skin, despite the padding of an old sock.

  Jack pulled her feet up on the other sofa. The November wind was finding ways through the thin carpet, stretched over gaps between the boards. Each winter was harder to deal with.

  ‘Touch your pulse, like this,’ Jack said, pressing her wrist with a finger. ‘What does it feel like?’

  Sadie put her plate down and curled up into a ball, her knees tight against her chest. But her fingers pressed her wrist, moving, looking for a pulse.

  ‘It’s really slow.’ The girl’s face was surprised.

  ‘Your body temperature’s lower, too. Feel my hand.’ She stretched her arm within reach of the teenager.

  Sadie frowned, but reached out her fingers to touch Jack’s skin lightly for a second, then withdrew. ‘You’re cold.’

  ‘So are you. Your body temperature has dropped about two degrees. Mine is even lower.’

  Sadie felt her other wrist. ‘So, something’s wrong with me. Why aren’t I in hospital? They must have medicines …’

  ‘Not for what’s wrong with you. You need to be inside the sigils.’

  ‘What?’

  Jack leaned forward and caught the edge of the old carpet. Pulling it back she revealed the arc of symbols burned into the old wooden boards. Maggie had done it with a soldering iron when Jack was a child. ‘There’s a circle on the floor and another up there.’

  The girl looked up, squinting to make out the cream symbols painted on the yellowing white of the ceiling. ‘So these are what … magical? You believe they are some sort of … supernatural cure?’ She jingled the manacle on her wrist, the chain reaching through a hole in the centre of the carpet. Her voice was sceptical. ‘O … K.’

  Jack stroked the dog’s head. ‘You passed out between the priest hole and the middle of the circle, don’t you remember? Even a few seconds and your heart slows down. We had to draw the sigils all over your body just to keep you alive. We call it “borrowed time”.’

  Sadie pulled the jumper from around her neck, squinting inside the T-shirt underneath. ‘What … ? Who drew all over me?’

  ‘Maggie did. She’s the person who really saved you. She knows all about this stuff.’

  Sadie pulled her clothes back around her shoulders, crossing her arms over her chest. ‘So, why?’

  Jack rolled dog hair off her hands and onto the floor. ‘People like you and me, saved from death, we’re valuable. We are worth thousands to the right dealer.’

  The girl’s face paled and she froze, hands tight on the blanket. ‘Dealer? Like … selling me?’

  Jack shook her head. ‘Don’t be an idiot. Roisin – you don’t remember her, but she was here when you were really bad, she helped look after you – Roisin is a seer, she gets visions. She saw you, dying, in the city centre and told me to find you. To try and save you.’

  ‘But I didn’t die …’ Sadie’s voice was hard. She leaned back on her cushions, and looked around the room, gaze darting over the wall of bookcases, and the doors into the hall and kitchen. ‘When will I get better, then? When can I go home?’

  Jack stood up, opened a door on a cupboard, the top piled with papers. She took out a dog brush. ‘I never went home.’ She started grooming the dog’s thick pelt.

  The words seemed to hang in the air, over the sound of the crackling of the fire and the bristles sweeping through the dog’s coat.

  ‘You can’t keep me here for ever. I’ll get out.’

  ‘You’ll understand with time.’ Jack turned back to the girl, seeing her blue eyes staring at her, but brimming with tears.

  Sadie dashed her sleeve over her face and sniffed. ‘You have to let me go. If you don’t, I’ll get out, I’ll tell the police.’

  Jack felt a lurch in her chest at the memory of Carla saying much the same thing.

  ‘I can’t let that happen again.’

  ‘Again?’ The girl was sharp, jumping on every snippet of information.

  ‘The last girl here, was like you and me. The same sickness. She … bolted, she escaped. She didn’t understand, she wouldn’t listen. She died a few minutes after leaving the cottage.’ Her throat tightened, roughening her voice. ‘That was after months here. All you would have to do is step into the kitchen and your lungs will fill up and your heart will stop. It’s the way you were supposed to have died. Choking on your own vomit.’

  There was a long silence, then the girl broke it. ‘I’ve never even been drunk before.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter now, that was your old life. Now you have a new one. You’re on “borrowed time”. If we get one herb wrong, leave one sigil out or let you go out of the circle, you will choke to death.’

  Chapter 10

  ‘The lands of Europe are scourged by the Inquisition, at the expense of many a fine English or Dutch sailor or anyone who espouses the Protestant creed. Konrad von Schönborn, a knight of the Holy Roman Empire, is an inquisitor with the ear of cardinals. Yet no one who has met him could doubt that he wields a sword with as much force as his crucifix, and carries the authority of the Pope himself.’

  Edward Kelley

  16 November 1585


  Niepolomice

  In these barbaric lands, it was customary for travellers to share beds. Climbing between coarse sheets, next to my mentor, I had not expected to sleep well. I was grateful to be given a bed at all. My head was full of tales of English sailors tortured by the Inquisition. But the mattress was well stuffed with bracken and soon Dee’s soft breaths soothed me into sleep.

  I awoke to the scraping of the door over dry rushes. The fire’s embers still smouldered, the light glowing on a yard of steel advancing towards my nose. It is these moments when your body freezes, even as your mind races for your dagger. Another man followed the first, carrying a shuttered lantern.

  The form behind the broadsword was stocky and concealed within a cloak, and he stepped towards me on quiet soles. My horrified eyes were drawn to them, mud-stained calfskin riding boots, laced up the front. I was about to die as I had lived, the son of a shoemaker.

  I then realised that Dee too had woken. I pushed myself to sitting and flattened myself against the wall, away from the tip of the advancing blade. My fingers fumbled beneath the blanket for my stiletto.

  ‘How may we help you?’ Dee said, in courteous Latin.

  ‘Exsisto silens.’ Be silent. Something in the words froze any movement and the sound in my throat. It was the tone of command, coupled with the touch of the sword tip nudging my throat under my chin. It gleamed, the cold burning my skin like ice.