Is it the end of the Protestant movement? Is the Lord Protector betraying his faithful followers?
It may be I have done a foolish thing. It is never wise to make common cause with the mob. However you try to extricate yourself, some mud always will stick.
And yet on reflection I find I should not blame myself. My information from the camp of the Reformers is reliable: there is no going back for them either. The Lord Protector ... (here the page is torn) ... for the conquest of Greenland. If this bold venture to the northern lands should become necessary, what other men could I gather together in haste than desperate mariners and soldiers of fortune?!
I shall obey my star! There is no point in idle thoughts.
Maundy Thursday.
A curse on my fears! They trouble me more and more every day. Truly, if a man could be completely freed from his fears, even from those that lie hidden within him, I think he might work miracles. I think even the Powers of Darkness would be compelled to obey him. – – – Still no news of Mascee. No news from London.
My last contributions to Bartlett Greene’s warchest – oh, that I had never heard that name! – were too great a drain on my resources. I can do nothing unless gold arrives from London.
Today I read a report of the most insolent attack on a Papist lair that the said Greene ever carried out. The Devil may have made him proof against blade or bullet, but his followers are not! A most ill-considered enterprise.
Should Greene be victorious the consumptive Mary will never reign. Elizabeth! Then shall my star rise!
Good Friday.
Has that cur in the glass awoken once more? Doth thou stare at me again, thou drunken wretch? What has made thee drunk, hell-hound?
Burgundy wine?
No, confess it, thou craven heart, thou art drunk with fear.
Lord! Lord! My premonitions! The Ravenheads are doomed. They are surrounded.
The Governor, his Lordship ... I spit in his face – – –
Pull thyself together, John. I will lead the Ravenheads myself! The Ravenheads, my children. For England and St. George!
Be fearless, John, fearless!
Fearless!
Easter Sunday 1549.
What is to be done? – – –
This evening, as I sat over Mercator’s maps, the door to my chamber opened as if of its own accord and an unknown man entered. He bore no device, no seal, no weapon. He came up to me and said:
“John Dee, it is time to leave this place. Things go badly for thee. Thy way is beset with enemies, thy goal is ever more distant. There is only one course open to thee – cross the sea.”
Without a farewell the man left as I sat there paralysed.
At last I leapt up, rushed along passageways, down stairs: there was no sign of my visitor. I asked the gate-keeper, “Fellow, who didst thou let in at such a late hour?”
“No-one that I know of,” was the gate-keeper’s reply.
Wordlessly I returned to my room, and since then I have been sitting here, thinking, thinking ...
The Monday after the Feast of the Resurrection of Our Lord.
I cannot make up my mind to flee. – Across the sea? That would mean to leave England behind, to abandon my hopes, my plans and – I must say it aloud – my Elizabeth!
The warning was true. I hear the Ravenheads have been defeated. The Catholics will say that the desecration of St. Dunstan’s grave has brought his curse down upon them! Will it strike me, too?
What of it? Courage, John! Who will dare to accuse me of conspiring with outlaws? Me, Doctor John Dee, Lord of the Manor of Gladhill?
I confess it was rash, foolish even. But be fearless, John! I have never left my study where I devote myself to the ancients, I am a respected nobleman and scholar.
I cannot rid myself of my doubts. The Angel of Fear has many weapons at his disposal. Would it not be better to leave the country for a while? But – curses on Bartlett Greene – these latest subsidies have left me completely without means. And yet, I could ask Guilford, he would lend me money.
Agreed! Tomorrow morning I will – – –
By the Lord and all the Saints, what is that outside? Who is – what is that clash of weapons outside the door? Is that not the voice of Captain Perkins giving orders, Captain Perkins of the Bloody Bishop’s police?
I breathe deeply and force myself to continue writing until the last moment. Hammers are beating against the oaken door. Calm, my friend, it will not give way that easily and I must finish my writing.
There follows a note in the hand of my cousin, John Roger, to the effect that our ancestor, John Dee, was arrested by Captain Perkins, as can be seen from the letter appended below:
Original of a letter from John Dee’s papers, a report from Captain Perkins to His Lordship Bishop Bonner in London.
Date illegible.
“Report to Yr. Lordship that we have taken John Dee in his house at Deestone. We surprised him studying geographical maps. His quill was in the ink-well, but we could find no written matter. I ordered that the house should be searched most thoroughly.
He was taken to London that same night.
I locked the prisoner in no. 37 as that is the strongest, most secure cell in the Tower. That will, I believe, cut our captive off from his many influential connections, but if I am compelled to report his capture, I will give his cell number as 73 – the power of some of his friends is too great. Also the goalers cannot always be relied upon since some are greedy for gold, with which the heretics are well supplied.
John Dee’s connection with the bloody Ravenheads is as good as proven; the rack will do the rest.
Yr. Lordship’s obedient servant
Guy Perkins, Captain.
St. Patrick’s
