“How do you prepare it?” – there is a tremor in the Emperor’s voice.
“According to the instructions of the sacred book from the grave of St. Dunstan, as Your Majesty heard some time ago from Kelley.”
“Give me the book!”
“The book, Your Majesty ...”
The Emperor’s yellow neck extends, making him look more than ever like a lappet-faced vulture.
“The book! Where is it?”
“I cannot – for the moment – hand the book to Your Majesty, because I have not got it with me. It would not have been very safe in the pocket of an unaccompanied man on foot in the Bohemian Forest.”
The Emperor hisses, “Where is the book?”
I recover my composure as I reflect on my reply.
“The book, Your Majesty – we ourselves are not always able to read it ...” the Emperor scents a trick – – how can I make the Angel’s assistance sound credible? One thing is clear: I cannot, at least not yet ... Rudolf must only be allowed to see the book when ... when we have mastered the mysteries.
“Where is the book?” Rudolf spits out the question and again interrupts my hasty calculations. The eagle eyes glare an unmistakable threat. Have I ensnared myself!? I answer:
“Your Majesty, the book is in safe keeping, but the lock which guards St. Dunstan’s precious gift can only be opened by Kelley and myself together: I have one key, he the other – both keys are necessary to open the iron chest. But if Kelley were here and the two keys at hand and the chest ... Your Majesty, what guarantee would ...
“Vagabond! Rogue! Gallows-meat!” The beak hacks at me.
I summon up all my dignity:
“Then I would ask Your Majesty to return the red powder. It is obviously nothing but worthless dust to Your Majesty, for how could vagabonds, rogues and gallows-meat come into possession of the thrice sacred secret of the lapis transformationis?”
Rudolf stops short, grunts. – I continue:
“Nor do I wish to enjoy the dishonourable security of knowing Your Majesty is protected by the inviolability of Your person from offering me satisfaction for the insult to my honour – the honour of an English gentleman ...”
My overbold words have the desired effect on the Emperor. His fingers clasp the box with the red powder even more tightly; he hesitates, then exclaims:
“Do I have to keep on telling you that I am no thief?! When will the book be in my hands?”
Play for time, is the one thought in my mind. Aloud, I say:
“When Your Majesty commanded my presence, Kelley was about to leave to attend to important affairs. When he returns I will persuade him to make St. Dunstan’s book available to Your Majesty.”
“And when will this Kelley be back?”
I pluck a day out of the air: “In a week’s time, Your Majesty.” (Now it is done.)
“Good. Ten days from today report to my Constable, Prince Rosenberg. I will make all the arrangements myself. But no more excuses!! You have already been excommunicated by the Church. Cardinal Malaspina has excellent eyes. Can you smell the bonfire, Doctor Dee? My power ends at the frontiers of Bohemia – and you will see those frontiers from the other side if I do not see St. Dunstan’s book and receive instructions from you in its use by the agreed day. Is that understood? Good.”
The chapel starts to spin. So this is the end? Within ten days I must learn to read St. Dunstan’s book or we are lost, revealed as charlatans, expelled from the country, a prey to the servants of the Inquisition! – – Within ten days the Angel must come to our aid. Within ten days I must know the meaning of the cryptic lines of the parchment manuscript. Would that the pages had never been stolen from the Bishop’s tomb! Would that my eyes had never seen them! And who was it who despoiled St. Dunstan’s grave. Was it not I who did it when I sent gold to the Ravenheads and encouraged them in their desperate deeds? Guilt will out, judgment comes in the end. Now come to my aid, thou who alone can help, Saviour of my honour, my life, my toil, O Angel of the Lord, thou miracle-worker of the West Window!
One smoky lamp gives off a dim light in the room. After days and nights of studying, waiting, pondering I can scarcely keep my eyes open: they are inflamed and burn, just as my soul burns – for peace ...
Kelley is back. I have told him of my desperate efforts to understand St. Dunstan’s book. I have painted to him in clear colours the terrible fate that awaits us if we cannot satisfy the Emperor’s demands.
Kelley is slouching half asleep in the armchair where I had spent hours torturing my brain. His face has a pinched look, occasionally I feel a tremor of fear as his eyes glint under the half-closed lids: what are the thoughts going through this man’s mind, what plans is he hatching? And what should I do?
My limbs shake with feverish anxiety. My blood runs hot, then cold, and I can hardly stop my teeth from chattering. I say in a hoarse voice:
“Now you know what the situation is, my friend. In three days we must have the recipe for the preparation of the tincture, the secret of the powder from St. Dunstan’s book, otherwise we will be regarded as common tricksters and treated accordingly. We will be handed over to the Inquisition and in a few days we will burn like ... like ...” – the words force themselves out between my lips – “like Bartlett Greene in the Tower.”
“Give His Majesty the book, then.” Kelley’s languid reply is more infuriating than the most cutting mockery.
“I cannot give him the book if I cannot read it, nor even decipher it myself!” –
