But that is that, for soon enough we were entering the Borough of Chelsea, having gone steadily enough along the West Road, it now being quite dark and still clear. The road here was narrow through ill-lit streets that varied in their sort between new-built houses of merchants and older buildings. It had been raining heavy during the previous days, and despite today’s sunshine the way was still a mire. And soon enough we got to the part where there were taverns and stews and a playhouse, and much activity, with folk coming to and fro, some wearing pattens, or stilted shoes, to keep their feet out of the mud and shit of the streets. Now my mind turned quite away from the Doctor to the loud bawdy all about, for here and there I saw a pretty girl or boy, and thought again how I might stop at a stew for the night on the way back. Then Doctor Dee, coming down from his height to notice my wandering eye, remarked:
“Well, Sir Humfrey, I hear the whoreshops here are reckoned of an altogether better class than those of Hoxton and Clerkenwell.”
I marked a handsome lad who lounged in a doorway and met my eye boldly as he clattered by.
“It is true,” I said. “They’re mostly safe from the great pox here, and I’ve been commended to the house of Mistress Hotbun, who apparently keeps a physician always to hand, ready to treat the earliest sore with elixir of mercury.” I turned to him. “Perhaps later you will feel like a little sport?”
“It is not for me,” the Doctor said. “I am lately married, and content with what I have, in this regard at least. But tell me, if you will,” he went on, “or not if you will not: do your tastes not distress your good lady wife, and do you not run great risk? For the pox is virulent and epidemic!”
“My wife accepts that I am what I am,” I said shortly. “When my fire needs release, as it does when I am tense, then I take what I find. As for the pox, this can be got as much by common kiss of greeting as by fucking, so where’s the odds?”
“It is most interesting,” mused Dee. “I hear at the French Court it is so common a curse that any man of breeding who has not had it is generally considered ‘ignobilis et rusticans,’ beneath contempt.”
“That’s the French for you,” I replied with a brief laugh. “They make virtues to be vices, and vice versa.”
“I heard something interesting the other day from a doctor of Padua,” Dee went on, “about the origin of this great pox.”
“Yes. The sailors of Columbus brought it into Spain, who gave it to the French, who passed it on to everyone else.”
“That’s what I thought. But this doctor told me there is an African sickness called yaws, which was carried into Europe on the skin of slaves seized by the Spanish and Portuguese. He said that this yaws, taken into colder climate and affectionately nourished on bodies not naked but fully-clothed, has degenerated into the great pox that scourges us now. But I can find nothing of it in Frascatoro’s De Contagione et Contagiosis Morbis, nor in his long poem Syphilis sive Mobus Gallicus.” He turned to me with his bright-eyed, mordant look. “Nonetheless, Sir Humfrey, please take care. Last year the surgeon Will Clowes told me that fifteen out of every twenty cases at St. Bart’s are folk sick of the great pox, to say nothing of the smaller pox. As for boys, don’t forget the law of 1563!”
I shrugged, my eyes roaming again.
“It’s not enforced,” I said. “Even that Papist scapegrace is not to be executed, though charged not only with buggery but also atheism and intent to murder the Earl of Leicester and Sir Philip Sidney.”
“You mean the Earl of Oxford?”
“Yes, and of course there’s that madman Marlowe.”
“He’ll not live long,” said Dee thoughtfully. “I met him. He’s too bright and fevered, he lives in a brawl, and…”
But then we were interrupted by a horrid shower from an upstairs window. And there is something now I wish to state plainly:
I felt no guilt for liking men. Yet I had the pain of contradictions in heart and soul, and the tension of a dream despised by most of the world. These contradictions, and this tension, I used to spur me harder in pursuit of my goal of America. It was my foolishness to hope America might lie beyond the tempestuous sphere of my human nature. Deep down I hoped for an imaginary land of Golden Ships! What a fool! Yes! And what a reward I got that night!
For as Ned took us along the narrow street, we came under a gabled house just as an upper window opened and a woman cried out “’Ware below!” But she didn’t look, and didn’t care, for as soon as she had shouted she heaved out the contents of her jake. There were laws against this, but many did it anyway. Dee and I were not directly struck by the filth, for the main load of it plummeted into the mire to one side of the coach, but in so doing it sent a fountain of nasty liquids in all directions, so that my cloak and the sleeve of my doublet were splattered, and the whole side of our carriage. Furious, I leapt out to make trouble for the lazy slattern, hammering at her door and shouting at her to come out while a crowd gathered to shout and heckle boisterously at the fuss I made. I think many of these low people had been soaked in the shit much worse than I, but none of them cared, they were used to it. I turned and commanded them to stop their comedy at my expense, but they would not, so that I became even more angry, particularly as the woman refused to open the door and show herself, which was most sensible of her—for I know not what I would have done! “Come out, you shitter!” I shouted, hammering, and could scarcely make myself heard above the clamour of catcalls and boos and vulgar advice. They were laughing at me! There was one big tow-haired fellow with a smith’s apron and arms like gateposts, who came up and jabbed his thumb in my chest. “Ey, you, master,” he demanded, “cannot the gentry take a dip in muck the same as honest folk?” And this was greeted by a great jeer of approval, so that I determined to make an example of this fellow, and would have drawn my blade—but then Doctor Dee intervened:
“SILENCE! I SEE A DREADFUL FATE IN STORE!”
At first I could not associate this gargantuan, vibrant bellow with Doctor Dee, for I had never heard such a shout from anyone before, not even in battle. Nor it seemed had anyone else, for the obedience was immediate and the silence complete, except I remember for shocked pigeons whirring out of the deafened eaves, and a cur that started howling mournfully seconds after the unnatural silence began. And we stood there, all of us, staring at the commanding figure of Doctor Dee, who had stood up from his seat, the carriage being stopped, and ordered us with his bellow. There were murmurs of awe. The Doctor was tall and impressive in his black gown, his white-bearded visage as stem as an ancient druid’s. Slowly, with everybody including myself standing frozen, he turned to me.
“Come, Sir Humfrey!” he said sharply. “We must leave. Our clothes will be cleaned at Cooke’s house. What does a little shit matter with an empire to be won?”
I hesitated, being still angry, but then, with the cur still howling enough to madden a rock, I heard the little whisperings and mutterings of frightened but angry recognition starting up. “Ere, that’s Doctor John Dee!”
“You mean the wizard what tells the Queen’s own stars?”
“They say he fucks corpses and sprites at midnight!”
“My wife tole me ee cast a spell on…”
The Doctor’s eyes were insistent. I agreed. I abandoned my quarrel and joined him in the carriage. Ned pulled us away through the slowly parting crowd, and not a word was spoken after us.
So we continued to Wichcross Street, stinking, pomanders to our noses, and I remained furious.
“That was a great shout, good Doctor! But we should not have left without recompense!”
“The other day,” mused the Doctor, mild and philosophical again, and completely ignoring my anger, “I spoke with Sir John Harrington, who is justly famous for the high style of his low wit. He is concerned to find a practical answer to this great stench in our houses and streets. He says that a year ago he seriously considered hiring a gang to fire the whole city as the only solution. But this being, as he admitted, a trifle extreme, he
has set himself instead to the invention of a device to solve the problem of jakes in modern overcrowded cities. He calls this device a ‘water-closet,’ and showed me his most ingenious scheme. ‘But alas!’ he said, ‘folk so love and prefer their existing stench they’ll not easily give it up and try something new. So, I must dedicate my life to creating an even greater stench, to end this stench, and I will do this with japes and jokes and sonnets on jakes, and on the Privy Council and such—and so I shall in time be remembered as a great public benefactor!’” The Doctor chuckled. “A most remarkable man!”
“As much a buffoon as Adrian, I hear,” I muttered sourly. “Laughs at everyone and everything! As for this water-closet, the sooner the better! I could have killed somebody!”
“It would not have aided your fund-raising,” said Dee, drily.
After that I kept silent. Soon, stinking, where I’d hoped to impress, we arrived at Cooke’s imposing new house on Wichcross Street.
Cooke was a new man, a successful merchant, importing glass and Rhenish stoneware and porcelain and whatever else he could sell, for now many in England were getting rich, and there was a market for all sorts of luxuries that not even kings had required before. And it was difficult for me, to enter this large house, for to start with I was not pleased by the evidently false Coat of Family Arms which Cooke had erected on a shield above his front door. No doubt he had spent twenty pounds for it. Inside the considerable hallway, which was cluttered to the ceilings with monumental pieces of oak furniture, I was humiliated when the boy who took our cloaks could not resist a wrinkling of his nose at mine, though he quickly hid it when I looked at him. He led the Doctor and myself through a succession of anterooms, as though to audience with the Queen herself, and I suspect it was a roundabout route to impress us. But I was in no mood for it. It all seemed most vulgar, every room as cluttered as the hallway, crammed with embroideries and carpets, silverware and furniture, and pompous moralisms scribed in Italic above every door—“Waste Not Want Not,” and so on.
“Coming to beg in such a state, and in such a place!” I muttered at Dee, so that he looked at me, warningly.
“The man gives to the poor, and supports Discovery!”
My temper was not improved when at last we were brought to the inner chamber where Cooke and his pretty wife awaited us by their well-laden supper-table, with a roaring fire behind them, because the moment Cooke smelled my doublet he broke into loud laughter.
“Judgement from on High!” he roared, his chins and belly wobbling as he advanced to offer kiss of greeting, apparently undisturbed by the stench. “Sirs, how unfortunate, it has happened to me, many many times, for shit sticks to me like flies to a…”
“John! Please!” cried his wife angrily, and came forward to us, most fetching in a red satin half-farthingale of the sort called the “bum-roll.”
“Doctor Dee! Sir Humfrey! Gentlemen, yes, this is indeed unfortunate, I don’t know what you can think of our neighbourhood! Please, I will show you myself to our bathroom. Our servants will have your clothing clean and dry and as good as new by the time you leave, and for now I will find you robes from my husband’s closet, if you will?”
We thanked her. She was pretty and dark and calm and never once wrinkled her nose, which impressed me, and arranged matters quickly, remembering Ned and the coach, so that shortly Dee and I were washed and properly scented (the Doctor having also been splattered, though not as severely as I), and dried, save for our hair and beards, and each drowned in one of Cooke’s gargantuan fur-lined robes, of which we had choice from a closet containing somewhat over fifty. Doctor Dee chose a black-and-silver item, and I would have selected red, but Dee said, “Sir Humfrey, pray, wear green tonight, be pacific, put your martial temper aside!” And I listened to him.
Thus and in borrowed slippers (also much too big), we shuffled into supper and were quickly seated, with a chair for each of us, and the huge fire roaring. And the meal before us improved my temper greatly, for on Cooke’s table that night was roast lamb and veal and boiled beef, soused pig, moorcock pie and baked calves’ feet, a leg of mutton, chicken roasted with bacon, and bread, sauce, sops, and parsley, also dulcets and tarts, and ale, small beer, claret, and white wine. And amid all these steaming dishes I saw what looked very much like a numble pie, of the entrails of a deer, and so it proved to be! We dove in heartily, Cooke’s wife leaving us to it, and if the wealth of his table, sparkling with silver and glass, contrasted too brightly with the dull pewter on my own table at Limehurst, well, I told myself that hungry beggars cannot be choosers, and put it out of mind for the time at least. And this was not too hard to do, at least not until Cooke, who was gobbling three mouthfuls for every one of mine, chewing and gnawing and drinking like a distempered demon with bottomless pit for a gut, began telling us through his eating of a miracle new purgative he got from Doctor Bell of Bermondsey, thinking not at all of our feelings and recent misfortune, but persisting, describing between each gulp and bite the size, number, and colour of stool it gave him.
“Sir!” I said stiffly. “Surely we can discuss another matter?”
“If I cannot rest easy on my bowels,” boomed Cooke, “how may I think with my head?”
“This is very true,” said Doctor Dee quickly, before I could speak, “and I have often wondered if there may not be some undiscovered equation to relate quantities and humours of foods to humours of particular bodies, thus inducing clarity of mind. You, sir,” he said to Cooke, “are sanguine, given to much hot moist meat, as are many of us British, which amazes foreigners.”
“It is known,” came Cooke’s voice through a mouthful of lamb, “the heat of English stomachs is of greater force… and we need more nourishment than folk in hotter regions.”
“Perhaps,” replied Dee. “It is also noted that diseases which plague us meat-eaters spare those who eat fruits and green vegetables.”
“Green vegetables?” I laughed sharply. “Good Doctor, you’ll have us drinking milk next! Vegetables are for the lower sort!”
“Then,” said the Doctor, “rickets, and green sickness in young women, and the sore eyes you suffer must be exclusively for the upper classes, and constipation too. Clearly there is insufficient balance of humours in meat alone, as is known at sea, where on long voyages a supply of citrines is always needed against scurvy.”
Cooke did not pick this up, to talk of the sea and my hopes. He continued his intestinal discourse until at length we pushed back our chairs and sat near the fire with full bellies and clouded brains. His wife came in to direct the clearing of the table, leaving behind the ale and the wine, then left us again.
I decided I must speak. I sat up, as firmly as I could.
“Mr. Cooke, I will be blunt, and hope not to offend you. My enemies wish to stop me sailing again. The Muscovy Company wants to steal my rights. I need your help, if you’ll give it—because before God I mean this thing to succeed! I’ll not be defeated in this!”
“You’ll have my aid,” said Cooke steadily, flatly.
I thanked him, and waited, but he did not specify.
“Never worry, Sir Humfrey,” said Dee. “You’ll reach America.”
“Your scrying tells you that?” I felt suddenly glum.
“Please!” Cooke insisted quickly. “No such talk in my house! I have no wish to bring misfortune under my roof!”
“It is nothing of the sort,” said Dee, going to the table to fill his glass: as he carried it back, full, it sparkled like ruby in the mellow lamplight. “Tell me,” he asked Cooke, “this is one of Verzelini’s glasses, is it not?”
“It is!” declared Cooke with great pleasure, “He is a master!”
“Yes,” agreed the Doctor, and sat, facing me. I was between the pair of them, gazing into the fire. “Sir Humfrey, you’ll reach America because you’re determined. And when Drake returns—I’ve heard Portuguese report of his rich approach—there’ll be great enthusiasm for merchant adventuring, and you’ll profit from it. Yo
u’ll get your new chance,” he said encouragingly.
I said nothing, did not look up from the fire. I thought I saw a burning ship. Dee inclined his austere face and regarded me thoughtfully as Cooke belched and went for more ale, I myself wanting no more drink. “Have you made other land-grants?” Dee asked me.
“Yes,” I said stiffly. He knew very well. “Sir George Peckham wants one and a half million acres, Sir Philip Sidney says he wants three million, and Gerrard is also interested.”
“I hear,” boomed Cooke, thumping himself down again, “talk that Papists may be let out of England to settle the New World. Peckham and Gerrard are Papists, aren’t they? Sir Humfrey, my advice is to have nothing to do with such a flaming issue. King Philip needs our Catholics here so he can accuse us of persecuting them. Mendoza will dog you if you get involved in such a scheme: the risk of you suffering Jean Ribault’s fate will deter investors.”
“Ribault tried too far south! I’ll go north of Spain, to the Newfoundland, where English fishers have the upper hand.”
Fire in the Abyss Page 9