The Queen's Bastard

by Robin Maxwell

  As I rode in thro the city gates I was at first unimpressed with the town, it seeming no more or less grand or downtrodden than any other European city I had seen in my recent travels. But as I rode into the central environs where the Palace stood I became gradually aware of an odd atmosphere pervading the place. Not so much the buildings, for they were unremarkable, but the broad mixture of voices, languages and accents I overheard — German, Italian, Muscovy, French, English, Italian, Arabic. There were small groups of students and of older men, even women congregated, their heads bent together in an attitude of passionate discourse, or poring over an open book on a garden table. Twas entirely enchanting to know that here in Prague was a melting pot of cultures, ideas, education. It seemed all at once, despite its grey stone walls and dirty streets, nothing less than a city of light.

  By the time I found Doctor Dee in the Palace courtyard — he was a long nosed, long bearded elder with the piercingest eyes I had ever seen — I was already in a state of wonder. All round were gardens planted in the most intricate of geometrical patterns, elaborate sundials, green grottos enlivened with statues of mythical gods, horned and winged creatures, and other worldly mechanical contraptions. Dee clearly enjoyed my rapturous appraisal of the Palace grounds, and after the briefest of introductions, he endeavored to give me a tour of the place.

  He was clearly more than a visitor here. He was a close confidant of King Rudolph, and had been given complete freedom to roam the castle at will. As we explored Dee began a discourse in which he opened him self to me — a measure of his trust in the man who had brought us together, Lord Leicester.

  “One would never guess King Rudolph is a Hapsburg,” said Dee as we entered a small but impressively stocked library. “His nephew Philip of Spain finds him very queer indeed, his interest in the occult and the sciences nothing short of madness.”

  I kept silent, as I had also heard that Rudolph was altogether balmy and, too, that Dee himself was of questionable character.

  “All who travel to this city are blessed for having such a safe haven for ideas of every nature,” he continued. He looked away pensively, surveying the carven shelves laden with leatherbound volumes. “My own library at Mortlake was recently looted by a mob of Puritan zealots. And of course Spains influence is not altogether absent here. My associate Edward Kelly and I were detained by the religious authorities — arrested in deed. They wished to send us to Rome for interrogation regarding our magickal practices, but Kelly is a good talker. He talked the papal nuncio out of all thoughts of persecution — for the time being at least.” He fixed me with those piercing eyes. “One must always take care, Arthur, even in Prague.”

  Now he pointed out to my surprise that the books in this library — every one — were of a mystical nature. He pulled out an ancient volume and paged thro it almost tenderly.

  “Your magickal practices,” I asked. “Can you tell me more about them?”

  “You must understand that there is a difference between malificarum, black witchcraft of which I have been accused, and magica, the study of Natures hidden powers of which I am a devoted adherent. From Nature can be extracted all manner of science, and in science lies the future, yes!” His mood seemed suddenly to have been lifted by the subject, and his voice grew strong and passionate.

  “Knowledge of science — technologia — must be learnt by everyone, artisans in particular. There is no limit to what can be done with such knowledge, none! I believe entire countries can be soundly defeated without the use of an army, yes!”

  So preposterous was that statement that my politely curious mien turned to one of utter shock, but before I could ask him how such a thing could be accomplished he had changed the subject, asking after Lord Leicester. As I related his news I could see how affectionately Dee felt towards my Father. Part of me wished to declare my parentage, for I knew the truth would be safe with him, but I had promised to tell no one, and so I remained silent.

  As our tour of the Palace took us into one of Rudolphs wonder rooms — outfitted no doubt by the Doctor himself — I observed all manner of intrigue from the astrolabes, globes, retorts of the alchemical laboratory equipment, to a crystal showstone which purportedly revealed the future, to the charted horoscopes of every monarch on the Continent. By the time he suggested we retire to his home I was dizzied with the sights and sounds, and ideas, and readily accepted his invitation.

  As we rode slowly through the town and out the city gates into the lush countryside, Dee inquired after another of his students very dear to him — Philip Sidney. I had learnt during that first night in my Fathers rooms that his now deceased sister Mary Sidney was the Mother — and therefore I the cousin — of the much loved poet, Philip. The young man, who had married Francis Walsinghams daughter Frances, had been given a commission in the Netherlands as Governor of Flushing. I could now add to that the knowledge, gleaned from my correspondence with Leicester, that Philip Sidney the soldier was engaging in open warfare with Parmas Spanish troops, and had distinguished him self with feats of courage and bravery in the field.

  I saw Dees face grow dark and asked to know what troubled him.

  “I do not like Philips stars,” he said simply. “They bode very evil. And yet … what can be done?” He looked at me very closely then and I wondered if he saw my future in my eyes. Then I thought, no, he has not cast my horoscope, he has not consulted his dark crystal, he knows nothing about me except what I have told him.

  We reached the magnificent estate of Trebona, where Dee and his associate Kelly had lived for more than a year as the guests of Villem Rozmbeck. I was shown to a lovely chamber overlooking a flower bedecked pond, and after some simple refreshment I found the Doctor most eager to continue our conversation. We left the main house and wandering thro some overgrown garden paths, finally came to a small cottage, the top half of its wooden door open, a skinny, middle aged man dressed simply in wool breeches and a linen shirt, bent over a table doing some manner of close work.

  “Here is Kelly,” said Dee. The man looked up. He had shaggy brown hair and a bright, open face with a large smile, marred by the loss of one tooth on the bottom and its mate on the top. “Meet Arthur Southern, Edward. A friend of Lord Robert.”

  I entered and within moments the three of us were engaged in the liveliest and most unusual conversation that I have ever experienced. Whereas I had believed, in my naivete, that the substance of Doctor Dee’s philosophy had been explained to me at King Rudolphs castle, I now discerned he had barely scratched the surface of the brilliant crystal that was his mind. Here in the private and protected sanctity of his laboratory Dee began to speak of the real reason for his presence at Rudolphs Court. He was one of Walsinghams spies.

  “I may be a magician, but above all I am a patriot,” he explained to me, running his hand absently over the page of a large open volume, “and I have learnt a way of using the magick arts … as a tool of State policy. I began many years ago when I cast a horoscope for Princess Elizabeth to determine the most auspicious day for her coronation. Later I used my gazing crystal to discover the mode of transmission of treasonous correspondences between Mary Queen of Scots and her conspirators. Twas in the wine bottles,” he added mischievously. “You see, my boy, I believe in an incomparable and unconquerable United British Empire with the Queen its Emperor, overruled by God, and armed with the invincible weapons of magica and technologia.”

  Kelly spoke up in a voice that was mellifluous and commanding, and touched with more than a bit of cynicism. The very timbre of it caused me to attend carefully, and I could see how he might easily sell a rag to a ragpicker. “The good Doctor contends that our Queen is a direct descendant of King Arthur of Camelot, and that the Tudor State is a restoration of his very kingdom.”

  I turned to look questioningly at Dee — for Kellys statement was stunning to me and I suddenly wondered at the name my Mother had given me. Was it merely coincidence? I found Dee staring intently at my self.

  “Did my …�
�� I was flustered, flushed red. Doctor Dee pierced me with those eyes. “Does the Queen know this theory of yours?”

  He nodded slowly, never taking his eyes from me. I wished to ask for how long she had been aware, and if she concurred, but I dared not hold open my hand that wide for his scrutiny.

  Kelly went on, the edge of sarcasm sharpened to a point. “I do believe my associate sees himself as Elizabeths own Merlin.”

  Dee was perturbed neither by this revelation nor the tone of Kellys voice. He said, “Kelly and I converse with the Angels, Arthur, in an attempt to bring Heaven and earth into Divine harmony. The Angels tell me that my work alone preserves England from Gods wrath and destruction.”

  In deed, I had heard tell of these “conversations” with angelic personages. Twas this, more than anything, which had soured Dees reputation in England and made him a laughingstock everywhere but in freewheeling Prague.

  “Your work. What is your work, Doctor?” I demanded, surprised at my own audacity.

  “Symbols,” he answered simply. “The devising of our own secret cyphers, and the decyphering of the enemys.”

  I gawked at him, and suddenly all I could think of was Partridge poring over his first stolen book of cyphers.

  Dee turned the pages of the book under his hand to its frontpiece. I could see the title was “Monas Hieroglyphia” and the author was himself. There was an odd symbol mid page, a looped cross surrounded by other equally esoteric figures and signs.

  “You are a secret agent, Arthur, and you must therefore know that spying depends entirely upon the effectiveness of cyphers. For years we all — Walsingham, Leicester, Cecil, Elizabeth — used the Alberti manual. Then I discovered a long lost text by Trithemius. Twas called the ‘Steganographia’ and it was esoteric beyond measure, but from this book I learnt unimaginable secrets and techniques, in no time at all. Only then was I able to write my book. No one at the universities understands ‘Monas’. Before, the world believed I was a black magician. Now they think me a lunatic.” He stopped, smiled ironically. “Let them think it. We who must understand the book, do. The Queen supports me entirely.”

  “I wish to learn its use,” I said with all the urgency of a starving man set before a trestle covered in savory foods.

  “You have not the time, my boy,” replied Dee. “You have important work to do elsewhere. Come.”

  He took me by the arm and led me out the back door of the cottage into a walled yard. There stood a rather undistinguished Greek statue standing in a tub of water. Twas stained, both arms and the nose broken off, and the yellow afternoon sun was just beginning to fall in angled light upon it. As it did I thought I heard a faint moaning sound emanating from the statue, but just then I felt Dee drape an arm round my shoulder.

  “I have a son named Arthur,” he said gently. I turned to him and saw his eyes were closed, the lids fluttering. Suddenly his grip tightened and I felt his body shuddering subtly. “Your Mother and Father …” he said slowly, “are very dear to me, you know.”

  Now my body began to tremble, and the droning sound became louder. I was torn, not knowing whether to keep my eyes on this strange man who had uttered so stunning a remark, or to turn my gaze on the singing statue. I turned. The angled light had crept farther onto the stone shape. The sound was clearly growing louder as the light moved across its face. I forced my self to look back at Dee. His eyes had opened.

  “I was told you had died at birth,” he said.

  He knew who I was! “So were my parents told,” I fairly croaked. “My Mother still has no idea I am alive.”

  “That is wise. Yes, very wise. Tell me, Arthur, do you know the date and time of your birth? I should like to cast the horoscope of another of King Arthurs descendants.”

  I was suddenly mute and motionless, my mind whirling. How had he known? Did I so resemble my Parents? Had his mere touch probed inside my very mind and extricated the truth? A descendant of the Great King. I stared at Doctor Dee stupidly, then back at the fully illuminated statue, now droning loudly and discordantly. Finally I found my voice.

  “How is it done? You must tell me!” I cried, never knowing which of his strange experiments I was demanding he explain.

  Dee smiled, his long teeth glowing ivory in the setting sun. “Magick, my boy. Tis simply magick.”

  Thirty-seven

  “Sir.”

  Francis Walsingham turned to see the messenger standing before him. He had come seeking the Secretary in the Great Hall of his London house, now made into an elaborate cypher department. “A letter from Lord Leicester.”

  Walsingham took the sealed parchment and ripped it open. It was not in cypher, but in his friend’s regular hand.

  Walsingham moved to a window for some good light. But after reading the first several words he stopped, thinking that from this moment on there would indeed be less light in the world.

  My dear Francis,

  It is with the deepest sorrow that I write to you with grievous news of your much beloved son-in-law. This day Philip Sidney died of his wounds suffered in the battle of Zutphen. I appreciate your shock at this morbid change in events, as my last letter assured you that the bullet wound to his thigh was healing well, with no signs of blood poisoning. Your sweet daughter Frances, though six months gone with child, was nursing him assiduously. His appetite was good and he slept easy. We were all therefore unprepared when, ten days ago, Philip lifted the bedclothes and smelt the odor of putrefaction. Gangrene had set in. Everything possible was done, but it was, alas, hopeless, and whilst still in good mind he made his will. He spoke his last words to his brother Robert, saying, “Love my memory.”

  Philip should have no worry on that account, for my nephew was as well loved a man as ever I have known. All here mourn bitterly, and there is a story of his selflessness that is circulating amongst the troops that I know you would like to hear. After he was wounded and had ridden two miles to my camp with much blood lost, he was at last taken off his horse. He was desperately exhausted and thirsty and was about to take a drink of water when he saw another soldier — a dying man — being carried past on a litter. Philip hobbled over and put the flask to the man’s lips and said, “Take this. Your need is greater than mine.”

  Oh Francis, this is an uncompassable tragedy, for young Sidney was not merely beloved to family and friends, but in his talent and greatheartedness was a national treasure more precious than diamonds and gold. I weep for your sorrowing daughter who has lost a husband and her unborn child a Father. For my own part I have lost, besides one of the main comforts of my life, a most priceless help in my service here in the Netherlands.

  Lastly, I send you all of my strength for helping you to convince the Queen to pass a sentence of death upon her cousin Mary, lawfully convicted as an intriguer and compasser of Her Majesty’s destruction. England will never be safe whilst that evil woman lives. Force the Queen’s assent if need be, but have it done!

  So I end with hope for your own good health, a reminder that poor Philip is at last with God in Heaven, and a prayer that our own efforts will bring England through the coming storm.

  Yours in Christ and your faithful friend,

  R. Leicester

  Thirty-eight

  I had spent some time in Italy, as it was the best listening post for Spain in all of the Continent. Countless ships from Spanish and Portuguese ports crisscrossed the astonishingly blue Mediterranean, anchoring in the many bustling seaport cities of the boot. Parma’s reinforcements marching into the Low Countries travelled through Milan. Genoese money supported Philips war, and without Naples Spain would have been bereft of its greatest shipbuilders. The Vatican believed itself vastly powerful, but of course twas little more than a pawn of Spain. Philip was, after all, more pious than Pope Gregory himself, and victory over the English infidel would certainly land the Spanish King in Heaven before the Pope.

  In Italy I learnt the language, hardly difficult with all my Latin. I made acquaintance of the local forgers
who were some of the best in the world, and learnt the trade which I would claim for my own once in Spain — that of an Italian merchant, seller of the most exotic spices from the East.

  During my stay I managed to gain regular entry to the Vatican, replacing one of the Swiss Guards. There I listened to all the palace gossip — of the Pope, Cardinals, Bishops and their households — and found it more lewd and perverse than any I have been privy to in any country before or since. And I watched and waited for the moment I might do some disservice to Gregory himself, a man who had urged upon all Catholics of the world the assassination of my good Mother, saying that whosoever dispatched “that guilty woman of England” not only did not sin, but gained merit in the eyes of God.

  I learnt thro one of Walsingham’s spies at Rome, Francesco Pucci, that the Pope was in possession of a letter from King Philip discussing Gregorys suggestions on the invasion of Ireland to build up a force preparatory to war against England. The missive lay in Gregorys private cabinet. It needed copying, but I had been assigned nowhere near the Popes inner chambers. I conceived of a plan which I executed with great care one Saturday evening.

  My shift over, I marched up the great stairs looking properly official in my Swiss Guard uniform — one which I had come to hate, feeling more like an outlandish court jester than a soldier. At the Papal apartments I assailed Giorgio Odotto, one of the gentlemen of the bedchamber, with great good greetings and some bottles of claret. His master was out for the evening — whoring, said Odotto — so we sat in the Holy Fathers fine gilt chairs drinking into the night. When Odotto was drunk I administered an herb potion obtained from a local chemist to a fresh glass of wine, and once quaffed the gentleman fell deep asleep and snoring. I rifled thro the Popes numerous cabinets filled with official papers until I found the one I sought, and sat by candlelight copying it by hand painstakingly, word for word.