The Heresy of Dr Dee (37 page)

And then the King made God smaller.

Not the first time that Goodwife Faldo’s words in Mortlake church had come back to me.

XLIII

N
O MEMORY OF
falling back across the truckle, but that was where I lay until the moon, having shed all its cloud, awoke me with its brilliance. Or maybe
it was the whispers rising like hissing steam from the mews.

The light was so bright that I sprang unsteadily to my feet, at first thinking in panic that morning was come. Slowly realising, as the moon’s position in the window was unchanged, that I
could only have slept – thank Christ – for an hour or so. There was a pain in my chest from how I’d lain as I leaned out into the chill night and took breath after long breath,
hanging over the sill, my hair fallen over my face and eyes.

‘John, boy…’

‘Huh?’

Raking away my hair, as he came out of shadow and stood looking up at me, removing his green, small-brimmed hat and holding it in both hands at waist level.

Thomas Jones.

Twm Siôn Cati. Plump, very Welsh, ever half-amused.

‘The inn’s all locked up. What kind of bloody inn’s all locked up before midnight?’

‘What the hell are you doing here? Time is it?’

‘Maybe not yet midnight, maybe just after. You mean you didn’t get my message?’

Oh God, it all came back, the note he’d left for me with the ostler. Seemed like weeks ago.

‘I… left very early this morning.’

‘You should know I’m not a man to waste paper, John.’

‘Beg mercy. Listen… my friend… Dudley…’ No point at all in maintaining the
Master Roberts
conceit. ‘You seen him this night? Or earlier?’

‘You mean he’s not here?’

‘Missing.’

‘Since when?’

‘Not sure.’

He was silent for a moment. I looked over to the stables; we must surely have disturbed the night ostler in his loft.

‘All right,’ Thomas Jones said. ‘As you seem to be wearing your day apparel, if I were you, I’d come down.’

‘From the window?’

‘Unless you want to rouse everyone. We can’t talk like this, people will think we’re lovers.’

I raised myself up in the window, threw a tentative leg over the sill and then slid back into the bedchamber and grabbed the shewstone from the board. Stowed it away in my jerkin, and then,
before I could think too hard about it, was out into the night, holding to the ivy.

Which came away in my hands, halfway down, and I tumbled to the cobbles, stifling a cry.

Thomas Jones stood looking down at me, not assisting.

‘Not used to this, are you, John?’

‘Not broken into as many houses as you.’

Picking myself up, hoping the moon would not expose my swollen eyes or any other evidence of how close I’d been to parting with my mind.

‘Fetch your horse,’ Thomas Jones said. ‘Quietly.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘To begin with, somewhere we can talk in normal voices.’

‘In relation to Dudley?’

I must have sounded like a child.

‘Who knows, boy? I fear we’re close to the heart of something quite unpleasant.’

We
had
disturbed the night ostler, but half the money in my purse secured, I hoped, his silence. He helped me saddle up and we went out to where Thomas Jones’s
horse was tethered at the entrance to the mews. Riding out of Presteigne on a moon-barred road that now was become all too familiar to me.

‘Would’ve told you this the other night,’ Thomas Jones said, as we dismounted a mile from town. ‘But not in front of that cocky scut.’ He sniffed. ‘Even if
he’s dead, I might not take that back.’

‘Dead?
’

‘I don’t
say
that he’s dead, but these are not the kindest of men.’

‘Who?’

He made no reply, leading his horse along the side of the road. Without too much reference to Dudley’s private and public troubles, I’d explained to him why we’d come here. His
only reaction had been a slow nodding of his head.

Could I trust this man, you might ask. Well… he was betrothed to my cousin and had been pardoned by the Queen. There were those I’d trust less.

‘Men?’ I said. ‘Not the kindest?’

‘I’ll get to it.’

If you’re wondering about the true nature of his knavery, I know little, preferring the legend of a Welsh Robin Hood who, for a brief period, would prey upon the Norman dynasties holding
the best farmland in the far west of Wales. All of it stolen, Thomas Jones would allege, and who was I to argue? Wales was, they said, a land ruled at every level by brigands. Some of them in
London now.

He tilted his hat over his eyes, for the moon was become oppressively bright.

‘Some of the company I kept in my former life, John, was, ah…’

‘You need not explain,’ I said.

‘Kind of you.’

‘Get to the point.’

‘The point is that there is no such thing as a free pardon.’

‘You mean you once thought there
was
?’

‘I was therefore quietly approached for intelligence about our friends in Plant Mat.’

‘Who made the approach?’

‘I won’t answer that, and it matters not. Suffice to say that some of your masters in London have kin this side of the border. Let’s say I was approached by a friend, who
has… other friends.’

‘Sir William Cecil has family in Wales.’

‘Does he?’

‘You’re now
a spy for Cecil
?’

‘How would I know that?’

He wouldn’t. I’d thought of Cecil several times on the way here, my mind more alert in the open air, under stars. Thoughts turning, inevitably, to the content of the letter from Amy
Dudley’s London dressmaker. It was said there had been a number of meetings over the past few months between Cecil and the Spanish ambassador, la Quadra. Who, if they had but one aim in
common, it would be to keep the Queen and Dudley out of wedlock.

But, dear God… to have Amy murdered lest she suffered from some fatal malady or was of a mind to take her own life?

And why, in God’s name, would Cecil want to know about Plant Mat? I stared up into the night for enlightenment. Compared with the twisting mesh of London politics, the formation of the
stars seemed constant and reassuringly familiar.

‘And were you able,’ I asked, ‘to supply the intelligence?’

Thomas Jones blew breath through his teeth.

‘Why does every bastard think that if you have a history of thieving you’re part of some hidden body of neckweed-contenders, all known to the others? Even
I
wouldn’t
have dealings with Plant Mat.’

‘So you had nothing to tell them?’

‘On the contrary, boy, I had a great to deal to tell them. Particularly about Gwilym Davies, who likes to call himself Prys Gethin. Who also calls himself a gentleman farmer and collects
land with the alacrity of a Norman baron after the conquest. Well… buying some of it, of course, but where’s the money come from? But I’ll get to him. Plant Mat, yes… oh,
how the romantic legends are formed around them. Like graveyard mist, boy.’

‘Do Plant Mat even exist, now? Legge’s verdict might suggest not.’

‘Indeed they exist. And profess themselves driven by love of their country. Don’t fool yourself, boy, there’s a good deal of hatred in Wales for the English. And for so-called
Welsh towns like Presteigne, where the old language is let rot by English pouring in, looking to increase their ill-grown wealth.’

‘Hatred? Despite the Tudor line? Jesu, Jones, we’re all of us ruled by Welshmen, now.’

‘Ach!’ He waved a hand as if to swat a fly. ‘What a prime piece of English rookery that is. Even though most of us are content to float with it. Arthurian descent? Bollocks.
The truth is that Wales is yet a Catholic country, and as long as little Bess permits Catholic worship, she’ll get no shit from this side of the border.’

‘Except from Plant Mat?’

‘All right, let me tell you.’

The original Plant Mat, he said, were the three children, two sons and a daughter, of an innkeeper in his own home town of Tregaron. The family had become famous robbers, gathering others to
them and inhabiting a cave, with an entrance so narrow that only one man at a time might pass through. A cave in a place laden with legend, which people kept away from because it was said the devil
himself climbed those rocks.

‘The cave was their… what’s the word in English…
temple
? Certainly of some almost ritual significance. They were inside the land, see… in the heart of
Wales. I don’t know what they did in there, maybe just got drunk. But the legend of that cave grew – that they drew their power from the land around them. Thus, out of the past. Out of
their heritage.’

They’d use a glove to identify themselves, passed one to another. Always a sense of ritual, a mystery which they encouraged. For years they’d been simply robbers, even if some
victims had lost their lives as well as their goods. But when it came to the planned murder of a judge at Rhayader…

‘All wrongdoers in the heart of Wales were pleased to have the assize court in Rhayader, see – where they had control, justices in their pockets and no jury that did not include a
few of their own. Maybe they thought that if they killed an English judge the judiciary would get the message and leave them alone, I don’t know. Madness.’

‘And they paid the price.’

‘Martyrs. The sons telling glorious tales of their dead fathers and all they’d done for Wales. And the name Plant Mat was anybody’s now – any band of brigands who wanted
to wear it like a black cloak. A cloak with all the weight of heritage. See?’

‘They yet live in a cave?’

‘Pah! Who lives in a cave? They live in good houses – some with big halls and spare chambers and a
bwddyn
or two in the grounds for the servants – like the estate of our
friend Gwilym Davies. Or Prys Gethin.’

‘He claimed in court,’ I said, ‘that the name was pressed upon him by the Sheriff of Radnorshire.’

‘Which your English judge never questioned. Curious, that.’

The road was passing through what had been a long wood, sporadic trees on either side and behind them, thickets, the stumps of felled oak and heaps of discarded twiggery all caged in
brambles.

I stopped walking.

‘What’s this about? Help me. Why are you telling me this now, and how does it relate to Dudley?’

Thomas Jones took off his hat.

‘Don’t think me self-righteous.
I
stole. I stole as a boy because my friends stole, and I stole as a man because I found I was good at it… and if I spread some of the
proceeds among the needy it didn’t seem so bad to be saving some aside to spend on books. To acquire an education. But don’t think me
self-righteous
. I’ll do my years in
purgatory, resigned to it, boy. But Prys…’

He stood in a shaft of moonlight betwixt the trees. He yet wore the russet doublet with the gold thread.

‘Prys,’ he said, ‘will one day be in the deepest chamber of hell. Though not, it seems, soon enough.’

XLIV

‘T
HEY SAY HE
once killed a man just to rape his wife.’

Thomas Jones was sitting amidst the fungus on a tree stump, legs apart, bunched hands swinging between his knees.

‘Not his first rape. Nor, needless to say, his first killing.’

I did not ask how the man known as Prys Gethin had remained alive and free.
This is Wales, boy.

‘Then he choked the life out of the wife.’ He shrugged. ‘Well, why not? Killing and rape are as natural to him as taking a piss. Would have been a soldier, if there was a Welsh
army. Like the man he believes possesses him.’

‘Possesses?’

‘It’s just a word, John. I only met him once, see. Some years ago, in an alehouse, both of us well into our cups. I recall that he invited me to join him in his work.’

‘Plant Mat?’

‘I suppose. Who knows where I’d be today if I hadn’t, at that moment, been compelled to go outside and throw up my supper? Never went back. Never saw him again.’

‘Then how,’ I asked, ‘do you know all this?’

‘Common knowledge where I come from, boy. Some of it, anyway. No one’ll touch him, see. He knows too much and he’s done too many favours. This is not London. Middle Wales is a
big village, full of mountains and rivers and lakes and waterfalls and miles of emptiness, around which the legends echo. Vast whispers in the wind.’

‘Jesu, Twm, is this a matter for poetry?’

‘I’m Welsh. It’s in the blood. His wife, now – did I tell you about his wife? Said to have fled within a month of their wedding. To England, I believe, which did not
improve his love of our neighbour. Word was that he liked to do her while covered in pig blood, still wet. She seems to have been a religious woman who would not have a child conceived in pig
blood.’

‘Did she also put out his eye before she left?’

‘Put it out himself, they say, in a drunken rage. Tell me when you’ve heard enough of this?’

‘Sounds like horseshit to me.’

‘Who am I to say otherwise? All right. In truth, little is known about the man. I do not, for example, believe that Gwilym Davies is his name any more than is Prys Gethin. The legend says
he was born in Tregaron, where Plant Mat began, all those years ago. I can tell you, boy, that he was not. He acquired an old farm in the hills near there, which he claims as his ancestral home. It
is not. I’m from Tregaron and I know.’