Prophecy

Chapter Eighteen

Mortlake

1st November, Year of Our Lord 1583

In Mortlake, the trees and hedgerows stand silvered with frost along the riverbank, motionless as painted backgrounds from a playhouse under the hard blue sky. The path from the river stairs is brittle underfoot, where the night frost has turned the pitted mud track rigid as if all its markings were carved from sparkling granite. The sun hangs low but bright, brushing the landscape and the crooked roof of Dee’s house with a sheen of pale gold. But my heart is heavy as I open the garden gate, and when Jane Dee opens the front door to me, I see she has been crying. She embraces me briefly, then gestures over her shoulder.

‘You talk sense to him, Bruno, because I cannot.’ Her words come out clipped with pent emotion.

I hesitate, but decide it is probably better not to ask her any questions yet.

The laboratory looks denuded; today nothing breathes or bubbles or stinks or smokes, and a number of the stills have been emptied and dismantled. Dee stands by his work bench, haphazardly throwing books into an open trunk. I clear my throat and he looks up, then his face creases into a wide smile in the depths of his whiskers.

‘Bruno!’ He hops over a crate packed with glass bottles, which clinks alarmingly as he catches it with his foot, and enfolds me in a bear hug.

‘You’re in good spirits,’ I observe. I hope I don’t sound too bitter.

‘How could I not be, my friend?’ He grips me by the shoulders and looks me in the face, his eyes gleaming. ‘Bohemia, Bruno. Can you picture it? Prague! Even you have not seen Prague in your travels. The court of a philosopher emperor, himself a seeker of hidden truths, where those of us who pursue ancient knowledge not written in the books of the church fathers are not persecuted and condemned but revered and encouraged!’ He gives my shoulders a little shake, as if this will clarify his vision. ‘The Emperor Rudolf is the most enlightened ruler in Europe. They say his court is filled with rare marvels. Wooden doves that really fly, and —‘

‘You don’t have to go, you know,’ I break in. ‘Henry Howard is under house arrest and shortly to be removed to the Fleet Prison. Fowler is arrested on suspicion of the court murders. Your name is clear now.’

‘It is not so simple as that, as you must know.’ He looks down, regretful. ‘I had a visit yesterday from the Earl of Leicester’s secretary.’

‘What did he want?’

‘He brought me a gift from the queen. Forty gold angels, if you can believe it.’

‘Then you are still in her favour!’ I say, brightening.

‘Hers, yes.’ He pulls at his beard. ‘But not the Privy Council’s. It was a going-away present, Bruno, and I would be a fool to regard it otherwise. A token of her esteem, yes, but also a way of thanking me for making her course simpler by leaving quietly. After this recent business at court, Burghley will draft yet more laws against astrologers and those who lay claim to prophecy and revelations — she could not continue to show me favour publicly. She has offered me a way out and I accept it with gratitude. I am fifty-six years old — is this not an extraordinary opportunity for me?’ He forces the enthusiasm back into his voice.

‘But what about —?’ I wave a hand vaguely around the room. What about me, is what I really want to say, and chide myself for being so selfish. The prospect of London without Dee, now that Sidney has also become so distant, is a bleak one for a foreign heretic in exile. Seeing his laboratory stripped down like this, his books in the chest, I realise how much I will miss him. ‘All your books,’ I finish, unconvincingly.

‘Jane’s brother will live here and take care of the library,’ he says airily. ‘Of course, you must use it whenever you wish, Bruno, don’t worry about that.’

I am tempted to ask him whether Jane sees this as an extraordinary opportunity, the chance to uproot her family and travel halfway across Europe with two small children. From her face I know the answer — but I do not know what she expects me to say. Dee is right; the rumours that still persist about the murders at court, the unrest over the prophecies — all this must be quashed by the government if order is to be restored. What other choice has he? My friend would automatically find himself on the wrong side of the new laws; Elizabeth is subtly banishing him to save his life and his reputation. It is to his credit that he has determined to embrace this banishment as a new beginning. It is what I have tried to do for the past seven years, but it becomes harder with each year. Age and distance bring a yearning for home that all the freedom I enjoy in England — to read, to write and to publish without fear of the Inquisition — cannot quite outweigh.

‘Come,’ Dee says, beckoning me through to his private study, where I had once stood by and watched Ned Kelley invent the apocalyptic words of spirits. Here too, Dee’s magical paraphernalia is in the course of being packed up and boxed for travel. The showing-stone and wax seals lie in a decorated casket wrapped in the square of crimson silk; the notebooks and diaries are stacked beside it.

‘Tell me, then,’ he says, patting the lid of one of the chests and motioning for me to sit down. ‘Have they charged Howard?’

‘He is still being questioned. All they have against him is the map of safe harbours and the list of Catholic nobles they found on Throckmorton when he was intercepted on the road. They want to claim these are in Howard’s hand, but he denies it, of course. And the queen is anxious to proceed carefully with him.’ Elizabeth’s caution is a source of great anxiety to me, though I do not tell Dee this. Her refusal to allow what she pleases to call ‘hard questioning’ of Howard has left him and the Privy Council at an impasse, and if he is not formally charged with offences of treason there is every chance she may choose to free him to appease her Catholic subjects. If that were to happen, I have no doubt that he would waste no time in looking for me.

‘But they must have searched Arundel House?’ Dee continues to potter about, lifting objects, replacing them, seemingly disconcerted among his half-packed belongings.

‘Top to bottom, Walsingham told me.’ I hesitate. ‘They didn’t find the book, John. He would have mentioned it if they had, I’m sure.’

Dee shakes his head in sorrow.

‘To think you held it in your hands. Listen, while I am in Bohemia, Bruno, I will seek out every treatise, every last manuscript and antiquarian tract on cryptography that I can find. I will consult the Emperor Rudolf’s most celebrated scholars. And in the meantime you must get the book back.’ He points a finger at me.

‘There was no evidence to incriminate Philip Howard when they searched Throckmorton’s house,’ I say. ‘The earl and his wife have wisely retired from court until his uncle’s fate is decided. I would wager any money Henry gave him the book for safe-keeping before his arrest.’

Dee tilts his head and considers this. ‘Well — there is a task for you while I am gone.’ He smiles sadly. ‘Throckmorton will hang, I suppose? And Fowler?’

‘When they have finished with them in the Tower,’ I say, and we both fall silent. Fowler, true to his word, has confessed nothing; the Tower’s most skilled interrogators could not persuade him to repeat the boast he made to me in the back room of that Southwark tavern. As a precaution, Walsingham is to undertake a diplomatic mission to Scotland after Accession Day, in the hope of prising the young King James away from the vying factions of advisers and persuading him that peaceful relations with Elizabeth will serve his kingdom best. For now, all the Privy Council’s energies are bent on discovering whether anyone else might have taken up the supposed Accession Day assassination plot.

‘This country,’ Dee begins, and then spreads his hands as if he cannot find the words. ‘When I was your age, Bruno, I believed that Elizabeth Tudor would make us truly free from the superstitions and the tyranny of Rome. But when I see what they are willing to do to preserve that freedom, I must question what we have gained. Walsingham would say you cannot defend the good of the many without spilling blood, but I don’t know.’ He sighs. ‘I can only say I will not be sorry to leave this island behind me for a while. Except that I shall miss our conversations, Bruno.’

‘And I,’ I reply, with feeling. I want to say more, to let him know how he has become the nearest thing to a father in my exile, but at this moment I catch a movement behind me and see his gaze flicker over my shoulder to the doorway; he nods in recognition. I turn, and for a moment I doubt the evidence of my eyes, for there is Ned Kelley, a fraying red scarf tied around his neck and a crate of books in his arms.

‘This one’s ready to go,’ he says. ‘Oh, hello, Doctor Bruno. How’s your head? I heard you took quite a blow.’ He breaks into a sly grin, showing his crooked teeth.

‘You little shit.’ My anger boils over; I rush at him, grabbing him by the shirt front so that he drops his box and the books tumble to the floor. I swing my right arm back; Kelley bleats something, but it is Dee’s hand that closes over my clenched fist before I can land it in the scryer’s mocking face.

‘Now, Bruno. I understand your feelings. But Ned and I have spent long hours dissecting everything that has passed between us, and he has repented.’

‘Repented?’ I drop Kelley and turn to Dee, incredulous. ‘He sold you! He took money from Henry Howard to destroy you — and you still let him into your house? In God’s name, John — have you lost your mind?’

‘Bruno.’ His voice is sad and gentle as ever; he lays a hand on my arm. ‘Ned was too much under the influence of that woman. Now she is gone, he is returned to himself, and I have forgiven him, as I would a prodigal son. I think you can understand as well as anyone how a man might be diverted from his good conscience by the charms of a woman?’

‘It was the charms of Henry Howard’s purse and you know it.’ I shake his hand from my arm. So this is what Jane meant about talking sense. All the affection I felt for Dee a moment ago seems strangled by my fury at his obstinate faith in Kelley. ‘And he tried to kill me, while you were at the palace. He threw a rock at my head.’ I rub my temple, now healed but for a crooked red scar.

‘That’s slander, that is,’ Kelley says, stepping back out of my reach. ‘You’ve got no proof.’

‘Are you really so deluded?’ I say, turning back to Dee. ‘He has no gift, John. He has no special language to speak to spirits. He is no more than a sideshow charlatan — I see it, your wife sees it, why cannot you?’

I had not meant to raise my voice to him; he looks hurt, and I am both remorseful and glad. I do not want to make this my farewell, but I cannot apologise for what I know to be true.

Kelley stoops to pick up his fallen books and dusts them off. ‘Are we taking all of these, sir?’

‘I don’t know.’ Dee passes the back of his hand across his forehead. His earlier cheer seems to have evaporated and he sounds weary and confused. ‘Put them on the desk, Ned, I will go through them in a moment. Perhaps you could leave us for now?’

Kelley bobs his head and scurries away with a last triumphant smile at me. I stare at Dee.

‘You are not taking him with you?’

‘I am. Oh, do not roll your eyes at me like that, Bruno. Ned has a volatile temperament — it goes with his gift. But he has confessed his deception and cut all ties with Howard and Johanna. Now he is determined to continue our previous work. He says he feels he is channelling a renewed energy from the spirits. They are eager to communicate.’

‘The only thing he is channelling is an eagerness to leave England before he is picked up by the constables for his debts,’ I say, with venom.

‘Oh, my dear Bruno. I know we shall never agree on Ned, but let us not part like this,’ he says, and I see he will not be turned from his course. ‘I have a gift for you.’ He rummages on his desk among the papers and emerges with a volume beautifully bound in tawny calfskin, which he passes to me, almost bashfully. I open it to examine the flyleaf and discover that it is a copy of the Commentaries of Erasmus, the same book I was obliged to throw into the privy on the night I had to flee my monastery in Naples, seven years ago. Dee had always enjoyed that story and asked me to tell it repeatedly.

‘I thought you should have your own edition,’ he says, not quite meeting my eye. ‘It is not forbidden here. Mind you don’t drop it in the privy.’

‘It’s beautiful.’ I stroke the cover and this time I have to look away, to hide the fact that I am blinking back tears. At the door I turn and watch him there, among the implements of his magic, his long beard illuminated in the sunlight streaming through the window, and I wish I had the gift of painting; I would capture him like this, as he stands now — stubborn, perplexed, a little sad and wiser than most — just in case I do not see him again in this life.

In the hallway, Jane embraces me again. Little Arthur clings to her skirt.

‘I must love him, Bruno, or why would I put up with it?’

‘Maybe Kelley will fall overboard on the journey,’ I say.

She laughs, and rubs away a tear with the back of her hand before it has a chance to spill.

‘He might if I have anything to do with it.’ She pauses, twisting her apron in her hands. ‘Go with God, Bruno. You’re a good man. Christ knows there are few enough of those.’

‘Look after the one in your care, then,’ I say, with a bow. ‘And raise up another.’ I ruffle Arthur’s hair and he ducks behind his mother, giggling.

‘And mind you keep yourself out of trouble.’

‘If only I knew how to do that. I do not seek danger, Jane — it follows me.’ As I say this, I recall Fowler’s warning about Douglas, as I recall it every night when I lie down to sleep. The murders are solved and the invasion averted — for now, but the danger has not passed. I wonder if I will ever know what it is to live without fear of the knife at my throat — but I tell myself not even the Queen of England knows that peace. This is the nature of our age, and it needs no ancient prophecy nor conjunction of planets to explain it.

Epilogue

Palace of Whitehall, London

17th November, Year of Our Lord 1583,

Twenty-fifth Year of the Accession of Her Majesty Elizabeth

Regina to the Throne of England

The royal standard is raised aloft; for a moment it ripples sharply in the breeze, crimson and gold against the watery blue of the sky, and the crowd audibly draws breath together. Time seems suspended, fates hang in the balance — until the standard falls and from either end of the tiltyard comes a crescendo of hooves and a blur of primary colours as the contestants gallop towards one another full pelt, the elaborate plumage on their helmets and harnesses coursing out behind them. I brace myself for the moment of impact; I have never learned to like this as a sport, though today of all days I am willing to be swept up in the collective celebration, the pageantry, the near-hysterical atmosphere of adulation for the woman who sits high above the skirmish in her gallery overlooking the Tiltyard, her head dwarfed by an enormous stiff lace collar. From our seats in the stands, her every movement is a scattering of light as her jewels wink in the sun.

Beside me, Castelnau also tenses; the rider nearest us, his horse decked out in an azure-and-white chequered costume, raises his shield expertly to deflect his opponent’s lance; there is a sickening crack as the other is caught squarely in the shoulder; he tries, for agonising moments, to hold his seat but the momentum is too strong and he topples back, landing with a crunch of metal in the sand. A roar of applause breaks out; we the spectators rise to our feet, whooping and stamping, so that the wooden stands shake precariously beneath us. The victorious rider slows his horse and reins it around, trotting casually back up the field before removing his helmet and bowing deeply to the queen in his saddle. From somewhere further east a peal of church bells joins the cacophony.

I glance up at the gallery window. We are too far away to see the royal party in any great detail, though as a foreign dignitary Castelnau has been given advantageous seats for the tournament. But I can make out Elizabeth in the centre, surrounded by her maids of honour, all dressed in white. I lower my head for a moment and close my eyes, not in prayer but in silent tribute to Cecily Ashe. If her conscience had not triumphed over her infatuation with the man she believed to be the Earl of Ormond, the Tudor line might have ended this very morning. And if she had never met Fowler, I think, if she had not harboured a girl’s passing grudge against the queen, if he had been less persuasive or she more guarded, she might have been sitting at Elizabeth’s side now in her white dress. Abigail Morley, too; if she had not been Cecily’s confidante, if she had never met me or passed on the ring, she might be clapping her hands and shrieking with delight in the gallery with the rest of the girls. If, always if.

Glancing around the great crowd in the Tiltyard, I wonder if anyone else has noticed the number of armed guards amid the heralds, the guildsmen in their liveries, the aldermen and lawyers in their gowns of office, the bishops and nobles arrayed behind the queen, wreathed in gold chains. In the past month, the searchers at every port along the south coast have been kept busy picking up young Englishmen and Scots coming out of France or the Low Countries; one who was caught trying to bring a loaded pistol through customs at Rye also carried Catholic relics concealed in his belongings, but Fowler’s stubborn silence persists even in the Tower, so there is no way to be certain whether he was bluffing about finding a replacement assassin or whether, even now, some shadowy figure might be moving among the thousands of spectators or waiting patiently among the thousands more Londoners gathered behind the barriers that have been erected all along Whitehall and the Strand, where the queen will process after the jousts to hear a sermon at St Paul’s. She may carry herself as gracious and poised as ever, but for Walsingham, Burghley and Leicester, until she is safely delivered to her chamber this evening, this day will be one of the most fraught they have known. Walsingham pleaded with her to abandon the public procession, but she insisted her people must see her, radiant, proud and strong, undaunted by threats either from planets or Catholics.

We climb down from the stands, a laborious business among so many guests, all vying to take their places along the route by the Holbein Gate for a better view of the queen as she begins her procession.

‘Marie would have enjoyed this,’ Castelnau remarks, as we shuffle forward in slow increments, pressed on all sides by eminent citizens in their furs.

‘You must miss her,’ I say. We are so close in the crowd that I feel his torso rise and fall as he sighs.

‘It was better for everyone that she return to Paris. When they arrested Throckmorton and Howard, I knew they would be knocking on our door next. I felt I had a better chance of keeping the embassy in the clear if Marie were not questioned. Besides —‘ he glances around and lowers his voice — ‘my wife has been absent to me for a long time, whether she is under the same roof or not. It was a mistake to bring her here. I do not doubt there are others at Salisbury Court who feel her absence more keenly than I do.’

I look over my shoulder to where Courcelles trails behind, separated from us in the crush by a handful of people. He catches my eye and gives me the sulky, defiant look that has become his permanent expression since Marie left. I wonder if Castelnau guesses that he has sent his wife straight back into the arms of the Duke of Guise, whose ambitions, I feel sure, are only thwarted temporarily. I would wager Courcelles certainly knows it, and tortures himself with the thought daily.

‘Still, we have been fortunate, Bruno,’ Castelnau says, as if to convince himself. ‘My interview with Francis Walsingham was the most uncomfortable moment of my career, I don’t mind telling you. As I feared, it seems they had been watching Throckmorton’s movements for some time, and we do not yet know how much of the correspondence he carried was intercepted. But so far I have not been directly accused of anything. I feel I have got off very lightly,’ he adds, and I hear the tremor in his voice.

More lightly than he knows, I think; when Throckmorton was arrested, as well as the map of safe havens and the list of names, he was also carrying Castelnau’s last, rash letter to Mary, in which he assured her of his loyalty to her cause against Howard’s accusations. It was only my arguments to Walsingham on his behalf, and the queen’s reluctance to create a diplomatic storm with France, that have kept the ambassador from more severe repercussions.

‘Mary was always shrewd enough never to make any outright acknowledgement in her own hand of the plot to free her,’ I reassure him. ‘Let them conclude the whole thing was a reckless fantasy cooked up by her supporters in Paris. If they had anything against you they would have used it by now.’

He shakes his head, his lips pressed into a white line.

‘They have barely started with poor Throckmorton. I dread to think what they are doing to him, and what more may come out. If King Henri should be brought into this, Bruno — can you imagine the consequences?’

I can well imagine the consequences of the French king discovering from the Queen of England that his ambassador has been involved in a Guise plot to topple her. But then King Henri will be fully occupied with the Duke of Guise’s designs on his own throne, I reflect. I pat Castelnau’s shoulder and murmur reassurance.

‘All because I cannot say no to my wife,’ he says bitterly. I could tell him he is far from being alone in this failing, but I doubt it would be much comfort. ‘She thought it was you, you know,’ he adds, turning to me.

‘Thought what was me?’

‘The traitor in our midst — she and Courcelles were adamant you were the one who betrayed us. But you know what I pointed out to them?’

‘What?’ I aim to keep my face as neutral as possible.

‘Where is Archibald Douglas? Eh?’ He nudges me, pleased with his own powers of deduction. ‘No one has seen or heard from him since the arrests. There’s your answer, right there. And he’s just the sort whose loyalty could be bought for a shilling. Don’t you think?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘No, I never trusted him. Mind you, there is William Fowler arrested on suspicion of the murders of those girls at court, though I cannot imagine how they came to that conclusion. I always thought him such a mild man. And who knows what he might tell them on the rack.’ He sucks in his cheeks. ‘I shall not feel safe from accusation in England, Bruno, not for a long time. That, I suppose, is the price of a guilty conscience. But I tell you this — I shall never again involve myself or His Majesty’s embassy in secret dealings of this nature, no matter who tries to persuade me.’ He sighs. ‘Sometimes I doubt whether it is ever possible to know the truth of another man’s mind behind the face he shows.’

I murmur in agreement, turning my own face aside so that I do not have to look him in the eye.

As we near the end of the Tiltyard, there is a jostling among the crowd; people fuss and complain as someone attempts to shove his way through towards the gate. When he draws level with us, he turns and I realise it is Mendoza, the Spanish ambassador, with a face like granite behind his black beard. He jabs one hairy forefinger almost into Castelnau’s face.

‘My sovereign is furious,’ he spits, through his teeth.

Castelnau draws himself up with dignity.

‘When is he not?’

‘I am summoned —‘ Mendoza lowers his voice further, the effort of suppressing his fury turning his face puce — ‘I, Don Bernadino de Mendoza, am summoned to stand before a committee of Privy Councillors to account for myself like a schoolboy! Are you?’

‘Not yet,’ Castelnau says evenly, as we funnel through the gate and into the street, where official stewards and more armed guards usher us into orderly lines to pass under the Holbein Gate to a place behind the barriers.

‘The queen accuses King Philip of conspiring against her,’ Mendoza continues. ‘You realise I could be expelled over this?’

‘As could I.’

‘But I do not see you being questioned. And yet it was someone at Salisbury Court who betrayed our plans to Walsingham.’

‘Walsingham arrested Throckmorton. They searched his house. As I understand it, he was carrying as many letters between you and Mary as he was from me. Perhaps your letters were less cautious.’ Castelnau remains admirably calm. Mendoza bristles and turns his glare on me.

‘I am not the one who keeps a known enemy of the Catholic Church under my roof. I have said this before, Michel — you are being played for a fool. If I am banished from England, my sovereign will make sure you and your king pay a high price for it.’

I am about to defend myself, when I glance across the street to the crowd on the other side and my heart misses a beat; among the massed faces, I am certain that I saw him: the briefest instant, a flash of recognition, that mocking grin under the peak of an old cap, the laconic wink, and then he is gone, slipped away in the tide of people. I blink, try to find him again, but there is no sign, so that I wonder if I conjured his face out of my night-terrors. But I cannot take the risk; I duck behind Castelnau, pushing my way through irritated spectators to the fringe of the human stream, until I can grab at the sleeve of the nearest guard.

‘Find Walsingham,’ I gasp, shaking him.

‘Eh? Who are you? Get your hands off me.’ He moves to lower his pikestaff; I hold my hands up.

‘Please — you must get to Sir Francis Walsingham. Tell him Douglas is here. Tell him the queen must not pass through the streets — you must find him urgently. Her life is in danger. Tell him the Italian says so.’

He looks at me in confusion for a long moment as he weighs up how seriously to take this; I nod frantically, urging him to act. Eventually, he raises his pike and calls out, ‘Make way, there! Make way, quickly now!’

By the time I am assured he means to convey my message, I have lost Castelnau and Mendoza in the crowds. I slip into the press of people unnoticed, my eyes darting from face to face, my hand, as ever, resting on the handle of my knife under my cloak.

Later, in the Great Court at Whitehall Palace, I stand in the shadows with my neck craned back, breathing frosty air as fireworks scatter orange-and-gold sparks against the ink-blue curtain of the sky, plumes of coloured fire that flare briefly and dissolve into smoke as the guests coo and squeal like children. This display is almost the finale of the day’s celebrations; once it is over, we will retire to the Great Hall to watch a series of pageants, variations on the theme of Elizabeth’s greatness and likeness to various mythical heroines. I wanted to go home, but Castelnau would not hear of it; what is required, I am told, is a show of faultless devotion to the queen for as long as the ambassador is obliged to try and win back a place in her favour. But Elizabeth is still alive, and that is worth celebrating; her procession, though delayed through my intervention, went ahead at her insistence, but passed without incident, and from the sounds of riotous street parties from beyond the walls and the incessant clamour of church bells across the city, her subjects are united in noisy celebration of their devotion. Perhaps Douglas was never there today; perhaps this is how I will live now, imagining his face in every crowd, skittish as poor Leon Dumas, and look how much good that did him.

I raise my eyes beyond the glitter of the fireworks to the infinite sky beyond. The night is clear and the stars so bright they seem to pulse. What would I need to calculate their distance, I wonder?

‘How many new worlds have you discovered, Bruno?’

I start from my reverie and wheel around to see Sidney leaning against a wall, a glass of wine in his hand. Guiltily, I glance about me to see if Castelnau is nearby, but there is no sign of him.

‘Infinite numbers,’ I say, feeling my shoulders relax.

‘Where is God to be found, then, if there is no sphere of fixed stars?’ He speaks in a whisper. ‘Beyond where the universe ends?’

‘An infinite universe by definition does not end, you dullard,’ I point out with a grin.

‘Then where? Beyond the stars?’

‘Or in them, perhaps. In the stars and the planets and the rain and these stones under our feet, and in us. Or perhaps nowhere.’

‘Well, you had better keep ideas like that out of your book,’ he says, ‘because Her Majesty is anxious to read it.’

‘What?’

He laughs. ‘That is your reward, my friend. Walsingham told her you were writing a book about the heavens. She asks that you have a copy bound and present it to her in person at court when it is finished.’ He slaps me on the shoulder and offers me his glass. ‘Her Majesty is a woman of prodigious intellect, it is well known, but I wish her luck trying to grapple with your theories.’ He looks up again to the tracery of milky vapour overhead. ‘If I try for one minute to imagine a universe that never ends, I fear that my brain will overheat and explode.’

‘Then don’t risk it.’ I take a drink and hand the glass back to him. ‘Please pass on my thanks. I am honoured.’

‘You should be. A royal endorsement will make this book the talk of every academy. Just try not to write anything too inflammatory.’

‘You know me, Philip.’

‘Yes, I do. Hence the warning. She won’t give her patronage to any writer who implies there is no God, no matter how many times you save her life.’

I acknowledge this with a nod, and for a long while we stand there, looking up at the vast unknown reaches above us.

‘I was sorry to hear of Dee’s departure,’ he remarks, eventually. ‘I didn’t have a chance to say goodbye. I shall miss the old conjuror.’

‘And I,’ I say, with feeling. ‘It seems hard, since he had done nothing wrong except be taken for a fool. The scryer Kelley had no connection with the murders, in the end. I read into that what I wanted to be true. Some things are just coincidence, though.’

‘But people gripped by fears of planets and prophecies will not believe that. Dee was too inflammatory a figure to be tolerated at court, even before this dreadful business.’ Sidney sighs and pushes a hand through his hair. ‘His hunger for hidden matters will be his undoing, I fear. As it will yours, amico mio.’

He turns to me and squeezes my shoulder briefly. For a moment we regard the sky again in silence.

‘Wouldn’t you give anything to rise up through the spheres, Philip, to travel beyond the reaches of the heavens and understand what is out there?’

‘Anything except my soul,’ he says, emphatically. ‘You have not given up, then. You still believe this book of Howard’s will teach you the means to do that?’

‘Howard believes it will make him immortal.’

‘It may be too late for him to test that, if he’s charged with treason. Where is the book now?’

‘I don’t know. Only Howard can tell us that. Or perhaps his nephew.’

He turns to look at me. The fireworks are almost ended now, and only the torches in brackets around the courtyard give any light. His face is patched with shifting shadows.

‘You already have it in your head to search for it, don’t you?’ When I do not reply, he claps a hand to his forehead and steps back. ‘Christ’s blood, Bruno — let it go, will you? You have the queen and her senior ministers in your debt, you have an income and the leisure to write a book that will send waves through Europe, like Copernicus before you. This is everything you wanted, isn’t it?’

I acknowledge the truth of it with a dip of my head.

‘Well, then! Don’t throw it away chasing will o’ the wisps. Howard’s already tried to kill you and Dee for that book, and I can’t keep watch over you all the time.’

‘You’re right, I know.’

‘Promise me you will let the Hermes book go? Henry Howard cannot touch it where he is, and the Earl of Arundel is too pious and cowardly to look into it himself, if he has it. It is out of harm’s way. So leave it alone.’

I hesitate. Sidney points a finger in my face, assuming the expression of a schoolmaster.

‘Very well then.’

‘Good man. Now I suppose I had better find my wife. Still no sign of an heir, you know,’ he adds, as if he can’t understand why someone doesn’t sort this out. ‘Not for want of trying, neither. Here, you finish this, I’ve had enough.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I say, as he hands me the glass. ‘Still, you’ve only been married two months.’

‘Huh. That ought to be plenty of time for the Sidney seed to do its work.’

I grimace, and he laughs, clapping me soundly on the arm again, then walks backwards a few steps. ‘Don’t forget what I told you,’ he calls. ‘I have your solemn oath.’

In the emptying courtyard I stand very still and look up again, my head as far back as I can stretch so that I am almost bent backwards, and I imagine the whole of the heavens spinning around as if on a wheel with me as the fulcrum. I have promised nothing, and as I watch a shooting star fire its trail across a constellation and wink into blackness, I recall the sensation of that leather binding, the stiff ancient pages, the coded truths in a hidden book that might one day show me what lies beyond the visible world, out there, among the mysteries of infinity. As I stare upwards, a final burst of fireworks pierces the dark with crimson light, scattering sparks like a shower of bright rain so that, for an instant, the sky is illuminated, stained the colour of blood.