S Parris - Prophecy

Again, the shock of the cold strips me of breath and as I kick back to the surface, it takes a moment to regain my bearings.

‘There!’ calls the boatman, hanging precariously over the side with his lantern aloft and pointing; I turn, snatching shallow mouthfuls of air, to see through the white webs of mist a sleek black shape break the water’s surface a little way downriver. I strike out after him; although the current is carrying him, he cannot make much progress with the arrow still in his shoulder, even if he had been exaggerating his weakness. In a few strokes I have almost caught him; he seems to flag and his head begins to sink below the surface. Filling my chest with air, I plunge after him; there, in the silent, swirling blackness, my hands grasp blindly and make contact with something solid. Fingers close over my arm; I battle for the surface, but he has a fistful of my sleeve and won’t let go, and his weight is greater than mine. I fight to get one arm under his shoulder, kicking wildly to try and lift him up with me, but he claws at me with his other hand and I realise, too late, that he was not trying to escape but to avoid the punishment to which I’d delivered him, to protect his secrets from Walsingham’s expert probing by taking them with him to the bottom of the river. Perhaps he even anticipated that I would throw myself impetuously after him. His hand gropes at my face; he does not mean either of us to reach the air again. I flail against him, and my hand collides with the wooden shaft of the crossbow bolt, still jutting from his shoulder; I wrench it hard to one side, his grip loosens and I give an almighty kick with my legs, reaching the air just as my lungs begin to burn. Snatching breath, I gulp down a quantity of foul Thames water and choke violently; I fear I shall go under again, but something bumps against my shoulder and I clutch at it in desperation with my right hand, my left still clinging to a fragment of Fowler’s garment as his weight drags him back under.

‘Take hold!’ cries a voice, and I blink the water away to see the boat, now with two of the guards at the helm; it is one of the oars that they have pushed out to me. My hand slips, but he manages to drag me close enough to the boat to grasp a handful of my doublet at the back; between them, they haul me over the side like a landed fish, where I am doubled over, coughing up water.

‘F-F —‘ I cannot make my voice obey me, my teeth are rattling too hard; instead I point frantically to the water, where one of the guards pokes impotently at the waves with his oar. I lurch forward; they must not give up now, Fowler must not be allowed to triumph by choosing his own way out. I have let too many vital pieces of evidence slip away from me in pursuit of him; he will not rob me of this final proof. Half-crazed with anger, I am almost ready to throw myself over again in pursuit, but the guard who pulled me out takes a firm hold of my arm, just as his companion shouts out and the ripple of light spreads over a black shape, bobbed to the surface. Fowler, despite his best efforts, is more buoyant than he anticipated. The guards pull the boat nearer, and reach over to grab the sodden bundle, almost overturning the little craft in their efforts.

‘Is he dead?’ I manage.

‘Don’t know. Sit back,’ says one, who has evidently dealt with such matters before. He turns Fowler over and presses hard several times on his stomach. There is no response. The guard leans down harder, tries again, and lifts Fowler’s torso upright as a feeble spluttering breaks from his lips, followed by a watery stream of vomit. By the time the other guard has pulled us back against the tide to the landing stage, I am satisfied that Fowler is still tethered to this world by a fragile thread.

The guards manhandle him on to the boards and lift him between them; Walsingham gives him a cursory glance as they pass.

‘Does he live?’

‘Aye, your honour.’

He nods, then stretches out one leather-gloved hand to me. Shaking, I step on to the jetty and my legs buckle beneath me. Walsingham crouches beside me and lays a hand on my shoulder.

‘If I didn’t know better, Bruno, I’d swear you’d made a pact with the Devil himself. You’re indestructible. But I don’t think the Devil would have the nerve to take the bet. He’d be afraid you’d outwit him.’

I try to reply but I am so cold I cannot stop the violent convulsions shaking my frame. Walsingham smiles, and gives my shoulder a fatherly squeeze.

‘Oh, I know you don’t believe in the Devil any more than you believe in God,’ he whispers. ‘You’ve done well, Bruno, once again. I will put you into the care of the Earl of Leicester, and when you are warm and rested, I’ll hear this story.’

He rises to his feet; I tug at his cloak and draw him back.

‘I believe in evil,’ I manage, through my teeth, when his face is level with mine.

He nods once; stands, turns and is gone. A guard with a torch holds out his hand to help me up, crooks my numb arm around his shoulders, and leads me into the palace.

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.