Ormond House - The Bones of Avalon

‘Yes,’ I said, humbled. ‘I expect it was.’

A hanging moment.

And then the Queen tilted her head back and laughed, and it was like to a flock of skylarks upon the air. After a breath, the whole company erupted, as if everyone’s throat had been released from some social ligature. Only Blanche Parry kept on watching me, unsmiling, as the Queen laid a gloved hand on my arm and steered me meaningfully away from her train.

‘I shouldn’t tease you, John.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘That’s what it was.’

‘Sometimes,’ she said, as we passed into the orchard, ‘I think you know me – through your art, no doubt – better than anyone.’

My art? Dear God.

‘Though also,’ she said quickly, ‘through experiences of adversity which are common to us.’

I nodded, grateful for that. Her father’s daughter and her sister’s sister, and yet, unlike either of them, Elizabeth had heard the key turning from the other side. All too aware, at the time, of the black cards dealt to the Lady Jane Grey, at just sixteen. Awakening to the swish of the phantom axe, just as I would roll from the flames’ roar. How secure was she feeling, even now? Did she even know about the wax doll?

‘John, you invited me once, as I recall, to see your library.’

‘Um… yes, I believe I did… yes.’

Thinking at the time that she’d taken it the wrong way, or at least feigned as much. At twenty-six, she was only a few years younger than I.

‘The truth of it is,’ she murmured, ‘I had been most strongly advised to avoid your library.’

‘Avoid my… books?

Because of their heretical content?

‘Advised by someone who was recalling your efforts to persuade my late sister of the benefits of a national library.’

‘Oh…’

Breathing again. So that was it. The cost. It hadn’t worked on Mary, and I could certainly think of members of the present Privy Council for whom the provision and maintenance of a Library of England would be regarded as good money down the jakes.

‘It just seemed to me a tragedy,’ I said, ‘how many valuable works have disappeared in the years since the Reform. Many of them secretly sold by unscrupulous abbots and the like. But there’s no doubt that the, um, the founder of a national library would forever be remembered as the greatest patron of learning that this country had ever-’

‘ Tush, John-’ The Queen punched me on the upper arm. Her eyes dancing with merriment, a modest cluster of red-gold curls escaping from the fur hat. ‘It will happen. When we have sufficient funds to spare to do it properly. Meanwhile, we applaud your private efforts… how many books is it now?’

‘Nine hundred… and twelve.’

‘And twelve, ’ the Queen said solemnly. ‘A goodly collection.’

I may have blushed. It seemed ridiculous that I could remember the exact number. Most of them were scattered all over my mother’s house and my aim, when I could raise the money, was to build an extension to accommodate thousands more essential volumes.

‘John -’ the Queen, her moods ever mercurial, was looking into my eyes now with a sudden concern – ‘you seem tired.’

‘Working long hours, Your Highness, that’s all.’

‘To what end? May I ask?’

The Queen had long been fascinated by matters of the hidden, and we were well out of the hearing of her company. She and I alone in my mother’s high-walled orchard, not more than twenty yards from the riverbank, the sun making pin-lights among the ice-pearled apple-tree boughs.

Idyllic, except for the pikemen guarding its entrance. You could never lose the bloody pikemen.

‘John, last year we spoke of the Cabala. You gave me to think that the old mysticism of the Jews… that this would help us penetrate the innermost chambers of the heavens.’

I hesitated. My present work did, in part, have its origins in that rich and complex Hebrew mechanism for communion with higher realms. And, yes, my aim – never a secret – was to discover the levels to which the essence of earthly things, the composition and structure of all terrestrial matter, is ordered by the heavens. I was now in search of a code, maybe a single symbol which would explain and define this relationship. But many a score of candles would burn through the night before I was ready to publish my findings and formally inscribe the mystical glyph upon the frontispiece.

‘Your Highness-’

‘Are you yet equipped to call upon the angels, John?’

After the religious turbulence of the past two decades, it would be of prime importance to the Queen that any intercourse with a spiritual hierarchy should be firmly under her control. I played this one carefully.

‘Any of us can call upon them. I think, however, for the Cabala to work for us, it will be necessary to interpret it in such a way that it will be seen as part of the Christian tradition.’

‘Oh yes, that’s a very good point, but -’ the Queen had clasped her long fingers together and now shook them as if attempting to dislodge some essential thought – ‘is there not an English tradition, John?’

‘For communion with angels?’

‘Well -’ a quick, impatient shake of the head, a parting of the hands – ‘yes.’

An interesting question from an educated woman, but the answer would not be a safe one.

‘Christianity, as Your Highness is obviously aware… is not of English origin, and so-’

‘Well, then, should I say British, rather than English, you and I being both of Welsh stock?’

Born and bred in England, I’d never, to be honest, thought of myself as particularly Welsh, although my father would forever prate at me – and anyone else who’d listen – about our great linguistic and cultural heritage. Which, having learned some Welsh to please him, I had planned to spend some time investigating, in case he should be right. However…

‘All the evidence suggests, Your Highness, that the Welsh religious tradition – which is to say the bardic or Druidic tradition – was not, in its essence, a Christian one.’

‘But did it not change when the Christian message was brought to these shores? Or when, as it is said, Our Saviour himself came to England?’

‘Um… mercy?’

‘With Joseph the Arimathean. His uncle.’

‘Oh.’

‘You do know of this-’

‘Of course. That is, I’ve read of it.’

‘So you have books dealing with it… in your library?’

‘Um… it’s possible. That is… Yes, I do.’

‘And Arthur? What of him?’

‘Arth-?’

‘ King Arthur?’ A smile. ‘Our royal ancestor?’

‘Oh him, certainly. Several.’

‘I should like to see these books,’ the Queen said.

‘Of course. It would be my-’

There was a sudden, sharp movement in her body, as if in response to a twinge of pain. I thought she was staring at me, but no, it was at something beyond me, her eyes grown still. I didn’t like to turn, and so waited for her to speak again. She didn’t.

I coughed lightly.

‘Your Highness…?’

The Queen blinked.

‘Do you have hares,’ she said, ‘in your orchard?’

‘I… no. At least…’ Dear God, who had she been talking to? ‘Your Highness has seen a hare?’

‘I don’t… know,’ the Queen said.

I grew tense, for I had not seen a hare here. Not this year, nor last. And where she was looking… there was nothing.

The Queen smiled – and yet it was a smile like a wafer moon in a cold and smoky dawn. And the hare…

The hare, as you know, because of its curious behaviour, the way it sometimes stands on hind legs to fight with another, as men use their fists, the way it seems to respond to the moon… the hare might be seen as ominous.