There was a pause. Then the Magister said, ‘How long had the body lain undiscovered?’
‘Five, six weeks.’
‘And so the man was unrecognisable.’
‘Aye.’
Another pause, longer this time. The Magister’s eyes had become dull, as if his sight were turned inwards. Josse wondered if he was trying to decide what questions he could safely ask without giving away anything that he wanted to remain secret.
Eventually he said, ‘Was this corpse that of an old man, did they think?’
‘No. A man perhaps in his twenties, probably no older than that.’
The Magister said neutrally, ‘I see.’ What exactly he saw, clearly he was not going to reveal it to Josse.
Which meant that Josse was going to have to ask. ‘This Galbertius Sidonius,’ he said, with more aggression that he had intended. ‘Was — is he a young man?’
The Magister’s eyes turned towards him, staring at him for some time. Eventually he said, ‘No.’ There was a pause and, for a brief instant, an expression almost of wonder crossed the pale face. Then the Magister said softly, ‘Not young. Ancient.’
Josse felt his heart sink. How he would have liked to return to the Abbess and tell her that the mystery was solved! But it had been a faint hope; all along, the likelihood had been that his mission would prove that the dead man was not Sidonius rather than that he was.
The Magister spoke again; there was, Josse had noticed, a faint accent: Welsh? He said, still regarding Josse with those dark eyes, ‘You had reason to wish that your dead man was Galbertius Sidonius?’
‘Eh? No, not really.’ It was too difficult to explain about the Abbess, and wanting to help her by identifying the corpse, so he didn’t try. In fact, he said nothing further.
But the Magister had not finished with him. ‘You know of this man, this Sidonius?’ he probed. ‘For all that you told my lord the Prince that you do not.’
‘No!’ Josse protested vehemently. ‘Believe me, sir, I do not!’
A smile broke the pale, solemn face. ‘I do believe you,’ the Magister said. ‘I know when a man lies to me, and you, I see, speak true.’
Staring hard at him — the levity in his voice as he had made the reply seemed to permit a certain relaxation in his approach — Josse thought that there was something familiar about the older man. He said, ‘Forgive me, Magister, but have we met before? Were you perhaps at court when the King and his brothers were lads, in the time of King Henry, their father?’
‘I was.’
‘They call you Magister,’ Josse pressed on, ‘but may I know your name?’
‘It is no secret,’ the older man said mildly. ‘My name is John Dee.’
John Dee. .
The name, like the face, had a familiarity to it. Josse thought hard. Did he recall a man called Dee when he had attended the young princes? No. He did not believe he did. Brows descending in a frown of concentraton, he pushed his memory further back.
And, from nowhere, remembered Geoffroi, his father, telling tales beside the fire to his young sons. Of a man who read the future in the stars, who warned of events that were to come, who saw the wind with his deep, dark eyes and whom sailors — always a superstitious bunch — feared as a sorcerer.
Sorcerer. How the word had thrilled and scared the small boys crouched at their father’s knee! How they had both yearned for him to go on and tell them more, and prayed that he would stop before he frightened them so much that they would not sleep!
The sorcerer’s name had been John Dee.
‘My father knew you!’ Josse exclaimed. But no, that wasn’t quite right; Geoffroi told stories not of someone he had met, but of a legendary figure from the past. A man who had advised kings and princes, yes, but many years ago. The courts to which the John Dee of Geoffroi d’Acquin’s tales belonged had been those of the first William and, later, that of his ill-fated, short-reigning son, the second William, and his brother, Henry.
Kings who, or so it was whispered, kept at least one foot in the Old Religion. .
This man who now lay in the bed before Josse was far too young to be one and the same as that figure from the fireside tales! But he was probably a descendant.
‘I know of you, John Dee,’ Josse said, reverence in his voice; it was not every day you met the kinsman of a magician. ‘My father used to tell us tales of the John Dee who advised the first of the Norman kings, who, I would venture to conclude, was your ancestor?’
The Magister said nothing for a moment. Then, softly: ‘John Dee was always there, and always will be.’
Ah, yes, Josse thought. It was as he had thought; the post of court sorcerer, or magician, or seer, or sage, or whatever they called it, must be an hereditary one. Passed always from father to son, as was their traditional family Christian name of John.
He sat back on his stool, regarding the man in the bed with pleasure. ‘John Dee,’ he said, awe in his voice. ‘John Dee.’
Dee waited to see if he was going to add anything more challenging. When he did not, Dee said, ‘I do remember your father. For all that he told tales not of my present doings but of events from the past’ — there was a faint sparkle of humour in his eyes — ‘I did not hold it against him. A good man, Geoffroi d’Acquin.’ The humour vanished, to be replaced by a sharp, calculating look. ‘He lives still?’
‘No.’ Josse shook his head. ‘He died — oh, all of sixteen years ago, now. Back in ’76.’
‘Ah, yes.’
Staring at Dee, Josse had the strange sensation that he had known all along that Geoffroi was dead.
Why, then, ask?
As if to distract him from that vaguely disturbing thought, Dee was speaking, a hypnotic note in his voice that, against his will, instantly grabbed Josse’s attention. ‘Ah, what sorrow that was,’ he murmured, ‘for a man of but fifty summers to die, cut down, like the Corn King, with the harvest.’
‘Aye,’ Josse said softly, remembering. ‘That he was. We-’ But then his head shot up as, with a shiver down his back, he stared at Dee. ‘How did you know?’ he demanded. ‘I never mentioned that he died in the summer!’
But Dee was speaking again, the soft, lulling note stronger now; Josse, knowing himself to be disturbed over something but unable, for the life of him, to remember what it was, had no choice but to be quiet and listen.
‘His death was inscribed on the fabric of the past, present and future, as are those of us all,’ Dee whispered. ‘It is but as a book, to we who learn how to read it. Your father’s time came, and he was taken.’
‘Aye,’ breathed Josse. He felt as if he were dreaming, yet, at the same time, still awake. Awake sufficiently, anyway, to be aware of the smell of the herbs on the fire. The soft, comfortable padding of the stool beneath his buttocks.
Dee’s strange voice.
‘Your father’s death is the reason,’ Dee continued. ‘The reason why I tell you that the stranger must come to you.’
‘Nobody has come!’ Josse protested; the effort of speech was hard, and he felt as if he were pushing his words out through thick, muffling cloth.
Dee, appearing briefly surprised — was he not used to people answering him back when he held them in thrall? — made a smoothing, soothing gesture with his right hand. It wore, Josse noticed, a large, pale blue-green stone; in his head a distant voice said, aquamarine. The Seer’s stone.
And the right hand, he recalled as if from nowhere, was the power hand. .
Either the hand gesture or the ring — or both — worked on Josse as, presumably, Dee had intended. Mute, receptive, he sat waiting for what would happen next.
‘I say again,’ Dee murmured, ‘the stranger will come to you. Possibly not he himself — the picture is unclear — but one who comes from him.’
‘But-’ It was no use; whatever skill or power Dee was using was now too strong for Josse to fight.
‘He will come,’ Dee said, waving his hand again. ‘Only wait, and he will come.’
Josse felt his eyelids grow heavy. His head went down, chin tucked into his chest, and he saw darkness bloom before him. Then — he had no idea how long afterwards — he gave a sudden snort-like snore, and woke himself up.