The Heresy of Dr Dee (14 page)

Both her hands bleeding freely from wrenching carelessly at the brambles. She slides a knife under a thick stem bristling with savage thorns and lifts. Up it comes, all of a sudden, bringing
with it smaller shoots, and all is peeled away from the dead man’s thighs.

‘Oh,’ Anna says.

Of course, she’s heard the tales, still told in the alehouses of Presteigne, tales spat out like bile from the gut.

About what happened after the battle between Mortimer’s cobbled-together army of untrained English peasantry and the hungry Welsh, serving their fork-bearded wizard. On windy nights, they
say, the last cries of dying men still are heard, bright threads of agony woven into the fabric of the storm.

This hill of faith and death. This holy hill soiled by slaughter and an old hatred that never quite goes away because this is border country and its air is ever ajangle with bewildered, jostling
ghosts.

Anna Ceddol sees the dead man’s mouth is a mash of shattered teeth, though nothing parts them but a bloody pulp.

Betwixt his thighs, however…

Anyone can tell
that’s
not done by the crows.

XVI

I
WAS THROWN
back at the sight of several dozen men with pikes and crossbows and a half-concealed firearm or two. And a dozen laden carts, all gathered
under a whelk-shell sky in the field beyond London Bridge.

Seemed at first like an advance guard for the Queen, and it was only when I left the wherry that I marked the absence of flags, music or any hint of merriment. And saw that the shabby-clad man
approaching me was Dudley.

‘Dr Dee.’ He shook my hand with formality. ‘Master Roberts. Remember me?’

First I’d seen of him since that night in my workroom. When I’d taken up his offer for me to lie at his house in Kew until our departure for Wales, he’d been absent the whole
time. A bedchamber had been prepared for me and my meals made daily by the servants, while I spent long hours in solitary book-study. No one in the house appeared to know where Dudley had gone.

Master Roberts?

The name he’d been known by on our mission to Glastonbury at the end of the winter. An indication that discretion was to be exercised on this journey, for him if not for me, and
yet…

…Jesu.
I surveyed the clattering assembly with dismay. This was his idea of discretion? Before I could question it, Dudley led me across the well-trodden field, away from the
throng.

We stopped close to the bridge itself, where it was quiet.

I said, ‘Have the trumpeters been delayed?’

The crow-picked head of a man had fallen from one of the poles and lay in the grass near our feet. I wondered if it had belonged to some executed traitor I might recognise, winced and looked
away as Dudley kicked the head down the bank, then grinned.

‘All this… it’s not for me, you fool.’

Close up, I realised that shabby had been a wrong impression. If the mourning purple was gone and had not been replaced by his customary gilded splendour, his leathery apparel was still of good
quality. Country landowner-class, at least, except for the exceptionally beautiful riding boots, possibly a small gift from the Queen at a time when there were no thousand-acre estates to
spare.

‘It’s for the judge,’ Dudley said. ‘Sixty armed guards.’

He explained. It seemed the trial in Radnorshire was for some Welsh felon, of whom an example must needs be made. Dudley said a London judge had been requested by the Council of the Marches in
Ludlow to make sure it was handled
efficiently and robustly.

Well, I knew what that meant, but a
London
judge? Was that usual?

‘It is,’ Dudley said, ‘when the local judiciary fears for the health of its wives and children and safety of its property.’

The man on trial was the leader of
Plant Mat
, a brotherhood of violent cattle-thieves, highway-robbers and killers lodged in the heart of Wales. Well organised, controlling trade,
smuggling goods from France, running several inns at which travellers were habitually robbed or held for ransom.

‘I’ve never heard of this. Plant Mat? Children of Matthew?’

Dudley shrugged.

‘It’s Wales. Where they seem to be regarded as heroes for the obvious reason that they’ve been preying, whenever they can, on the English. Or so they claim.’

‘Hence the guard?’

‘Procured with the full agreement of Cecil, I’d guess. Despite his being Welsh.’

I tensed.

‘That means Cecil knows we’re travelling with them?’

‘Of course not. We’re here through Blount’s connections.’

Thomas Blount, his steward, was a former attorney.

‘There’s a handful of others also travelling with us,’ Dudley said. ‘All of them well-investigated, no doubt, to make sure none are too… shall we say
too
Welsh?
’

When he smiled, I saw that his moustache had been trimmed close to his face, his beard cut back to little more than stubble. Hardly distinguished but it was wise enough, under these
circumstances. A ransom for Lord Dudley would be not inconsiderable.

‘Sure you’re quite happy with this, Robbie?’

‘Welsh banditry? God’s bollocks, John.’ Dudley sniffed in contempt and began to walk back up the field. ‘Come on, we need to fix you up with a horse. Oh, and while I
remember… if anyone should ask, Dr John Dee is journeying, as he often does, in pursuit of old books and also to inspect his family’s property in the borderlands. Assisted by his old
friend, Master Roberts, the antiquary. That sound plausible to you?’

Highly plausible, and it had worked in Glastonbury. Several dozen significant rare books and manuscripts in my library at Mortlake had come from the libraries of dissolved monasteries. When
religious houses are plundered for treasure, either by common thieves or the Crown, the books are oft-times flung aside as worthless.

I caught him up.

‘Who knows the truth?’

‘Nobody knows the
truth
, John. Though obviously Legge knows who Roberts is and can think what the hell he likes about my reasons for getting out of London for a while.’

I stopped, grasping his arm.

‘Legge?’

‘The judge.’

‘
Christopher
Legge?’

‘
Sir
Christopher Legge. If you paid proper attention to the lists you’d know these things.’ Dudley scrutinised me. ‘History here?’

‘In a way.’

Five years back, when I’d been accused of conjuring against Queen Mary, several false charges had also been levelled against me by a lawyer, name of Ferrers, now himself held in suspicion
after a printing press producing pamphlets full of French lies about the Queen had been found on his premises. Ferrers had oiled his way out of the Fleet by convincing the court he’d had no
knowledge of the treasonous intent of a man renting his premises.

It seemed unlikely he’d yet have links with Christopher Legge who, as a young attorney, had helped process evidence against me for presentation to the Star Chamber. Evidence which, being
qualified in law and so conducting my own defence, I’d assiduously broken to dust.

Legge was now a
judge
? He must be a couple of years younger than me, maybe not even thirty. We’d never spoken and there was no reason to suppose he bore ill will towards me, if ever
he had. But, for the duration of this journey, I’d try to avoid him, nonetheless.

‘He’ll be on the Privy Council one day, from what I hear,’ Dudley said. ‘If he survives the trial.’

‘Why would he not?’

‘Just something I heard.’

He laughed, and I took the remark as being not too serious. Taking this opportunity to ask him where the hell he’d been while I was lying low at his house in Kew.

‘Later,’ Dudley said.

He walked away.

‘
Robbie…
’

Dudley stopped ten or so paces short of the first cart, looked over a shoulder and lowered his voice to a hiss.

‘Cumnor. I was at Cumnor.’

Rapidly, I caught him up.

‘Was that advisable?’

To my knowledge, until now he’d never been back to the house where Amy died since she was found. Would not have been seemly. Might have suggested he had traces to cover. On the surface,
he’d behaved impeccably, only sending Thomas Blount to record the circumstances on his behalf.

‘Why?’ I said. ‘Why risk it, with the inquest still in process?’

‘Could be months before the inquest returns its verdict. I’m to be held in purgatory till then?’

‘And was it worth it? Did you learn anything?’

‘Too much.’

Ahead of us, I could now see Sir Christopher Legge. Would not have marked him if I hadn’t known he was here. He’d changed. Narrow features, which had been gawky when last I’d
seen him, had hardened like a new-forged pike-head introduced to cold water. He was enclosed by a dozen attendants and minor attorneys but was somehow distant from them all.

‘Well?’ I said to Dudley.

Still unsure how far I trusted him.

‘I’ll tell you when there’s privacy.’

He began to walk up the riverside field towards the company of men and horses. His gypsy’s skin seemed darker under the pink-veined sky.

Of a sudden, he turned back.

‘There’s an evil here, John,’ he said.

XVII

W
HEN FIRST
I was known as the Queen’s astrologer, my services were in big demand, mainly from ambitious people wanting my name on their
child’s birthchart. In the euphoria following the coronation there were more of these requests than I could easily deal with.

But a few others – and they still come, on occasion – related to the less-easily defined aspect of my role –
adviser on the Hidden.
And therein lies a dilemma.

These approaches are, as you’d expect, more discreet and come from men who feel their homes or their families to be cursed by enemies or menaced by demons and ghosts. Coming to me as if
I’m believed equipped to dispel a nameless evil in the name of the Queen.

Dear God.
Oft-times, I’ll make an excuse and walk away, knowing there’s confusion about the nature of my profession. While I’m no sorcerer, neither am I a proper
priest.

When I was made Rector of Upton-upon-Severn, during the short reign of the boy king Edward, it was a lay appointment, designed to provide a firm income so that I might pursue my studies and also
eat. Later, I did take Holy Orders and during Mary’s reign could have passed as a Catholic priest – hence my time as Bonner’s chaplain. But it seemed to me no more than a
formality, little better than having conveyed a quiet gift of silver to someone like the former Abbot of Wigmore.

Even my mother fails to understand this and will, on occasion, berate me for giving up an income for life. But, dear God, I dread to think how many useless blessings have been given by unholy
priests invested for money. What you must needs know is that I never believed myself to have been
called
to it, and thus have ever refused to accept responsibility for the cure of souls. Or
the redemption of unquiet spirits.

A priest’s approach to the unseen must needs be single-minded. He must deem all ghosts satanic, attacking them with a passion, assailing them with missiles of liturgy. And must never let
himself become diverted from his task by tantalising and forbidden questions:
What is this? Does it exist only in my mind, or has it a chemical reality? What can it tell me about the afterlife?
What knowledge can it pass on about the hidden nature of things?

The questions of a natural philosopher, a man of science. Who may have a firm grounding in divinity and a full devotion to God, but should never in this world don the robes of a practising
priest.

So I must have shown little enthusiasm when, as we came towards Hereford, one of the minor attorneys, a young man called Roger Vaughan, rode alongside me and asked if I were here to offer
spiritual counsel.

It was the close of our third day on the road. Such a company as ours – with ten carts and sixty armed men, for heaven’s sake – would not hope to make good
progress. Neither did my relations with Vaughan get off to the most promising of starts.

‘
Siarad Cymreig
, Dr Dee?’

I’d picked up enough of the language from my tad to know what he was asking, but best for it to stop there.

‘No,’ I said. ‘My father spoke some Welsh, but I don’t. And never having been to Wales before—’

‘
Never?
Oh.’

Vaughan was a solemn young man with a half-grown gingery beard and a mild Welshness in his voice. I knew his family was long-established on the border, claiming descent from princes – as,
of course, did the Dees. Now he was telling me he’d been in London to study at the inns of court.

‘Indeed I was also hoping to study with you, Dr Dee, but… I was told you were away.’

‘I do spend a deal of time away. Which is one reason I’ve never had the time to visit Wales.’

Why would he want to study with me? Although qualified in the law, I’d never practised it except in my own defence. I steadied my horse before a small pond. With all the cattle drovers
passing through here, you’d surely expect these roads to be among the best in England.