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.
The Queen shook her head lightly, swallowed.
‘The books,’ she said briskly. ‘You must-’
Breaking off again, for Mistress Blanche Parry was upon us, her nose wrinkled in distaste at the pervading stench of fermenting hops from the building where ale is brewed, not a hundred long paces from my mother’s house. Blanche, who must have been lurking closer than either the Queen or I had known.
‘Not now, John,’ the Queen said quickly. ‘You must bring the books to me.’
‘Of course.’
‘We’ll sup together. Soon.’ She found a brittle laugh. ‘ If your health permits it.’
‘Madam…’ Blanche Parry at her elbow. ‘ If I may remind you, you have an appointment for discussion with Sir William Cecil at three.’ Blanche nodding curtly at me. ‘Dr Dee.’
‘Good morning,’ I said, ‘cousin.’
Blanche frowned. The Queen tutted. I said nothing, recognising the interruption for what it was.
‘What a shame.’ The Queen smiled. ‘I was only just saying to Dr Dee that I’d hoped to visit the school before we left.’
On her previous visit, she’d spoken of inspecting the nuns’ school for poor children, later expressing regret that there would be insufficient time. She glanced at me with half-closed eyes, tacitly confirming that I’d be sent for, and then turning sharply away. Blanche Parry, however, remained for a moment longer, a spindle of a woman, past fifty now, grey-haired and severe.
‘Dr Dee, Sir William also wishes to speak with you.’ Not even looking at me. ‘Tomorrow at ten in the morning, at his town house on the Strand. If that is convenient.’
As if there was the remotest possibility, despite my workload, that it would not be. I nodded, wondering if this could be linked to the discovery of the encoffined effigy of the Queen. Of which, never a mention since. Maybe they’d managed, after all, to keep it from her. I’d made discreet inquiries about Walsingham, but nobody knew if he was in Cecil’s employ.
Hoar frost was glittering upon the spidery winter branches of the apple trees, and I felt the movement of hidden tides.
Made no move until the last wherry in the royal fleet had rounded the bend in the Thames, and then I went into the house. A fire of fragrant applewood was ablaze in the entrance hall. I’d built the fire myself, my mother adding more logs, in case we should be honoured. I passed by the pastries, all untouched, and found her sitting forlorn in the small parlour, watching the Thames through the poor, milky glass which in summer would protect us from the river’s stink.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
Throwing my coat over a chair, tired and more than a little cast down.
‘There was a time when Mistress Blanche Parry would have made time for me.’ My mother turned away from the grey-brown water, arose and patted her skirts. ‘Not any more, apparently.’
‘Blanche is jealous of her position at court. It’s not your fault. It’s me she doesn’t trust.’
‘Being protective of the Queen’s interests and welfare,’ my mother said, ‘is how she would see it.’
‘Also more than a little apprehensive of the advance of the sciences.’
My mother, Jane Dee, looked as if she’d bitten into a onion.
‘What?’ I said.
‘Would Mistress Blanche call it science, do you think?’
‘Maybe not.’
Avoiding my mother’s eyes, I noticed that the panelling on the walls was flaking for want of varnish, while the red-brocaded fabric of my mother’s chair looked all tired and worn. I noticed also that a sleeve of her dark brown dress had been patched in two places.
She had asked nothing about what the Queen had said or the reason for the visit. I could have told her that Elizabeth, already renowned as a demanding and expensive guest at the finest homes, would be unlikely to enter one that was conspicuously more lowly. In this case, I was sure, mindful and considerate of our poverty.
