Phil Rickman - The Heresy of Dr Dee

And then Prys Gethin, too, on one of his dark pilgrimages to Pilleth, betwixt cattle raids. No one more likely to have murdered and mutilated the man twice buried by Stephen Price, in grotesque and would-be magical re-enactment of the events of 1402. What I could not yet imagine was how the unknown man’s unquiet spirit had been invested with the base instincts of his killer.

My split head could hold no more. All logic and learning was collapsed into the midden of superstition, as we returned to the tomb. Watching Prys Gethin, so still on the hillside below us, small as a toad from here, as Venus gleamed, first signal of the coming dawn.

In my old life, which surely had ended this night, ghosts were neither good nor bad, and all they could give me was the knowledge of their existence. Fear had no role to play, for I’d not been able to understand fear of the unknown which, to me, was a wondrous thing which I’d approached eagerly with my arms spread wide.

I looked at Thomas Jones, the butcher’s knife betwixt his knees, his hands on its string-wound wooden hilt.

He leaned back, stretched, sighing.

‘He doesn’t know, boy. Doesn’t know where they are. He’s waiting for them to find him. That’s why he made no attempt to conceal his arrival. When they know he’s free, they’ll know it’s not a trick and their side of the bargain can be met without fear of reprisal.’

‘Meaning Dudley yet lives?’

‘Who can say? We don’t know where they might have him. We don’t know how many of them are holding him. If we wait for them to find him and take him to the place, yes, we can follow them. But how do we stop them putting an end to it? Prys’s moment of blood-drenched triumph. What do we do about this, John?’

‘Can only wait,’ Vaughan said, returning from his prayers. ‘What other choice do we have?’

‘The other choice is to make sure they never find Prys. Go down there now, three against one. And this…’

Thomas Jones thumbed the butcher’s blade. Roger Vaughan drew back in alarm with a rattling of bushes.

‘I’m a man of the law .’

‘So’s Legge.’

‘Master Jones, it’s one thing for a man to be legally hanged—’

‘Heroes we’d be, in Presteigne.’

‘Jesu!’

Only a hiss from Vaughan, but it was too loud, and I thought I saw Gethin’s head move, though he was too distant for me to be sure.

Thomas Jones held out a dagger to me. I took it. I saw Roger Vaughan’s eyes close momentarily.

‘Roger, you know this place. Go around the church, into the pines, wait for a while to be sure you’re not seen, then quietly follow the path back.’

‘To Nant-y-groes?’

‘Indeed,’ Thomas Jones said, catching on. ‘Fetch Price and however many sons he has over the age of six.’

‘What about you?’

‘Just do it, eh?’

Vaughan hesitated for a moment and then turned and was gone. Thomas Jones took a long breath, parted the bushes separating us from the pale hillside, peered through for a moment then let the bushes swing back and picked up his butcher’s knife from the tomb.

‘This is it, then, boy. Don’t forget your magic.’

White and amber strands in the east suggested that the moon’s dominion would end before long, and I was glad of this. The moon might be your friend on a night ride, but it meddles too much with your mind and senses.

We’d moved about fifty paces to the other end of the churchyard before easing ourselves through the bushes, so that he would not at first see us. Walking slowly towards him, for a swifter pace might have implied an attack.

Thomas Jones plucked off his green hat.

‘ Bore da , Prys.’

Good morning .

A thin white line on the horizon, but the morning must be more than an hour away.

A SILENCE FORMED, allowing me to observe Gethin for the first time.

He was perhaps a little over medium height with long, tangled, greying hair and a face like from a misericord, its lines chiselled deep in varnished oak.

My gaze was drawn inevitably to the open cavity where the left eye had been, a knot hole in the wood.

‘Twm Siôn Cati,’ he said. ‘Well, well.’

His wide lips fell easily into a loose smile, and then he spoke in Welsh so rapid that I could understand not a word of it.

Thomas Jones nodded.

‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘However, in the presence of an Englishman, I ever think it polite – for those who can – to use his language. Indeed, I’m told that Owain Glyndwr himself, when he was at the English court, was oft-times mistaken for an Englishman.’

‘While Elizabeth of England, who claims descent from Arthur’ – Prys Gethin speaking rapidly, as though his mastery of the neighbouring tongue had been impugned – ‘speaks not a word yn Gymreig .’

His voice was unexpectedly high and surprisingly melodious, like to a bladder-pipe.

‘Not entirely true,’ I said.

Foolishly. In truth I was far from sure that, for all her linguistic skills, the Queen had more than a few words of Welsh, but I’d always instinctively take her side.

‘Is it not?’ Prys Gethin glanced across at me. ‘And who are you to say, sirrah?’

Thomas Jones threw a swift warning look in my direction, but I caught it too late.

‘John Dee.’

‘ Oh. ’ Prys Gethin’s one eye lit up and, for a moment, I had the disturbing sensation that I was also viewed by some organ of perception behind the empty socket of the other, a secret sight which might penetrate my thoughts. ‘Her conjurer. ’

I shrugged.

‘So the Queen of England saw fit to dispatch her sorcerer to Wales… along with the father of her bastard child.’

‘She doesn’t have a—’ I shook my head, and my lips tightened with the pain. ‘No matter.’

No matter, indeed, for I knew that in one sentence he’d confirmed what, until that moment, had been only an elaborate theory.

‘Where is he?’ I said.

He glanced briefly at me then looked away.

‘Where are you holding Lord Dudley?’

No reply.

‘We know why you were freed,’ I said. ‘We know about the agreement.’

Gethin spoke in Welsh to Thomas Jones, who at once translated.

‘John, he invites us to kill him.’

Gethin smiled.

Thomas Jones raised the butcher’s knife. Gethin did not flinch.

The whole texture of the night was altered. I watched the start of a dangerously delicate courtly dance in the remains of the moonlight: Prys Gethin tossing a question in Welsh at Thomas Jones, who gave no answer, Gethin then addressing him at length, still in Welsh, Thomas Jones listening without a word, hands on hips, then turning to me, his voice mild.

‘Prys wonders, John, why I’m working with the enemy.’

‘And he is not?’

Realising, too late, my possible mistake. If Gethin believed his task had been assigned by Cecil, then he might see it as some peculiarly Welsh alliance between the two of them. How much he knew of Cecil’s reasons for not wanting the Queen wed to Dudley, an Englishman, I could not say. Nor whether, from a Welsh standpoint, a Spaniard or a Frenchman would be preferable as a consort.

More Welsh from Gethin, Thomas Jones listening, then slowly shaking his head.

‘No, boy. Myself, I’ve never considered that accepting an English Queen’s pardon was any kind of treachery. But equally, I’m under no illusion about the continuing Welshness of the Tudor line.’

Silence for a while, only the call of a distant owl at night’s end. Then Gethin brought his attention to me.

‘Do you know where you are standing, Dr Dee?’