S Parris - Prophecy

‘Hm.’ A heavy silence. ‘Be wary of John Dee, Bruno.’

‘I thought he was your honour’s friend?’

‘Up to a point. In matters of cartography, or ciphers, or the reformation of the calendar, there is no one in the kingdom whose knowledge I prize higher. But lately his talk runs much on prophecies and omens.’

‘He believes we are living in the end times.’

‘We are living in times of unprecedented turbulence, that much is certain,’ he replies brusquely. ‘But Her Majesty has enough to fear without Dee whispering these apocalyptic forecasts in her ear because he wants to make himself indispensable to her. As do we all, I suppose, in our way,’ he concedes, with a sigh. ‘But then his influence filters down even to the Privy Council chamber and suddenly she will not allow any decision without first consulting a star-chart. It makes the business of government very difficult. Besides,’ he lowers his voice, ‘it is my firm belief that Almighty God has written some secrets into the Book of Nature that are not supposed to be unlocked. From what I hear, Dee’s newest experiments come dangerously close to crossing that line.’

There is no point in asking how he knows of Dee’s experiments; Walsingham’s eyes and ears encompass all of Europe and even the colonies of the New World. It should be no surprise that he knows what goes on a mile from his own house. Yet Dee has been so scrupulous about secrecy where his scrying is concerned.

‘There are some at court who feel he has too much influence over Her Majesty, and must be removed from favour,’ Walsingham continues.

‘Your honour included?’

His teeth shine briefly in the dark as he smiles.

‘I have a great respect for John Dee, and I would not do anything to hurt his reputation. The same is not true of some others on Her Majesty’s Privy Council. Lord Henry Howard is publishing a book, I am told, to be presented to the queen — a fierce attack on prophecy and astrology and all those who claim to tell the future, calling them necromancers, accusing them of speaking with demons. He does not mention Dee by name, but the intent is clear enough … If Dee can be tainted for witchcraft, so much the worse for those of us known as his friends — me, Sidney, the Earl of Leicester. The Howards are dangerously powerful, and the queen knows this well enough. You may like to mention this to Dee the next time you are using his library.’

I incline my head to show that the warning is understood. As I bow and prepare to take my leave, I glance up to see a figure haring across the grass to us, a short riding cloak flapping behind him. He drops breathlessly to his knees at Walsingham’s feet, and even in the thin silvered light I can make out the royal ensign on his livery, beneath the spattering of mud that shows he has ridden hard to get here. He mutters something about Richmond, a matter of urgency; there is alarm in his bulging eyes. I step away discreetly so that he may deliver his news privately, but Walsingham calls me back.

‘Bruno! Wait for me a moment, will you?’

I stand a little way off, stamping my feet against the chill and rubbing my hands while the man rises to his feet and imparts his news in frantic bursts, Walsingham canted over to receive it, his hands still folded immobile behind his back. Whatever news this messenger has brought from the royal household must be serious indeed to interrupt a man’s family wedding feast.

At length, Walsingham murmurs a response, the messenger bows and departs in the direction of the house with the same haste. Walsingham raises his hand to beckon me over.

‘I am needed at Richmond Palace on a most grave matter, Bruno, and I want you with me. It will be preferable to disturbing the celebrations. We must leave quietly, without attracting attention — that fellow is gone to instruct the servants to make a boat ready. I will tell you as much as I know while we travel.’ His voice is tight but controlled; if something distressing has befallen Her Majesty, Walsingham is the man she relies upon to bring order, discipline, calm.

‘Will you not be missed?’ I gesture in the direction of the wedding feast. He laughs, briefly.

‘So long as I leave my steward in charge with the keys to the wine cellar, I doubt anyone will notice. Come, now.’

He leads me around the back of the house and through the garden to the little wharf where lights are bobbing gently, reflected in the black water. I must wait for him to tell the messenger’s tale in his own time.

Richmond Palace, south-west London

21st September, Year of Our Lord 1583

‘A violent death, the fellow said.’ Walsingham has to raise his voice over the rhythm of the oars as the servant doggedly ploughs the small craft westward against the tide. The wind blows the spray sideways into our faces. In daylight we could ride the distance from Barn Elms to Richmond Palace in half the time, covering the ground as the crow flies across the deer park, but in darkness the river is the surest way, though it loops its course lazily around the headland.

‘But of some special significance, for them to disturb your honour?’ The wind snatches my words away even as they leave my mouth.

‘One of Her Majesty’s maids of honour, apparently, killed within a stone’s throw of the queen’s own privy apartments, under the noses of the yeomen of the guard and the serjeantsat-arms — you may imagine the entire household is in an uproar. But it is the manner of this death that makes my lord Burghley summon me with such urgency. We will learn more anon.’

He sits back and points up as the white stone facade of the palace looms ahead, a pale shadow under the moon, its chapel and great hall rising to an imposing height either side of the gatehouse with its warmly lit windows. From the range that flanks the river, a forest of slender turrets rises against the clouds, all topped with gilded minarets, onion-shaped, like the palace of an eastern sultan. A servant is waiting for us at the landing stage behind the palace where a row of wooden barques are tethered, the water slapping idly at their sides; he welcomes the Principal Secretary with a bow, but his face is strained. Here, where the royal apartments face the river, he shows us to a little postern gate set into the wall. By the door stand two men, each holding a pikestaff, who move aside to let the servant pass. He bangs hard on this door and calls out; a small grille is slid open and a series of brusque, whispered exchanges follow before the door is opened wide and a short, round-faced man with feathery white hair under a black skullcap strides through, his arms outstretched, his face creased in a harried frown. He embraces Walsingham briefly, then catches sight of me and the anxiety in his drooping eyes intensifies.

‘This is …?’

Walsingham lays a hand on his arm to placate him.

‘Giordano Bruno. A most loyal servant of Her Majesty,’ he adds, with a meaningful nod.

The older man considers me for a moment, then a light of recognition steals over his face.

‘Ah. Your Italian, Francis? The renegade monk?’

I incline my head in acknowledgement; it is not a compliment, though it is a title I wear with some pride.

‘So the Roman Inquisition likes to call me.’

‘Doctor Bruno is a philosopher , William,’ Walsingham gently corrects.

The older man reaches out a hand to me.

‘William Cecil, Lord Burghley. Francis has spoken highly of your talents, Doctor Bruno. You served Her Majesty well in Oxford this spring, I understand.’

I feel my chest swell and my face flush at this; Walsingham is miserly with his praise to your face, which makes you strive for it all the more, yet he has talked about me favourably to Lord Burghley, the queen’s High Treasurer, one of her most influential advisors. You fool, I chide myself, smiling; you are thirty-five years of age, not a schoolboy praised for his penmanship, though this is exactly how I feel. I continue to beam to myself even as Burghley’s face turns sombre again.