The Heresy of Dr Dee

‘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 A Sense of the Ominous

WHEN 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.

‘You’re also interested in mathematics, Master Vaughan? Astrology, perhaps.’

‘I suppose… to a level. But that was not what I— That is, you’re said to be better qualified than anyone in