All this I know, and yet, if you thought to detect there an element of self-reference, then you must needs forget it. Mine’s the scholar’s way. A commitment to finding and charting pathways towards lights both beyond us and within us. Which, let me tell you, is never easy, for the paths are all overgrown with barbs and briars, and we are ever led by false lights.
I’ve oft-times followed them, too, those false lights, but I’m more cautious now.
‘What we both know,’ I said, ‘is that London’s full of cunning villainy.’
Walsingham sniffed tightly.
‘Quite. But does this thing have satanic power, or not?’
‘It evidently has the power to arouse fear and anxiety.’
I looked at the constables, murmuring one to another now. Muted laughter to disguise a primitive terror. I wished I could take the effigy and its box for further examination but decided it was inadvisable to demonstrate too much interest.
‘It’s clear someone’s gone to some considerable effort,’ I said. ‘The coffin’s passably well made. The doll itself… hardly a work of high art. And yet…’
‘What?’
‘The one odd thing is that, apart from the fingermark, there’s no… I mean, normally an image like this might be pricked with pins. The clear intention being to arouse pain, whether in mind or body, in the person it represents. There’s nothing like that here that I can see.’
‘It’s laid out as a corpse in a coffin! How clear do you-?’
‘Death, yes, sure, but what kind of death?’
‘A prediction, then? An omen?’
‘The quality of the cloth and the general workmanship suggest… well, a certain wealth and a serious intent. The crudeness of the eyes and mouth conveying, rather than a lack of artistic skill, a simple contempt for the subject. Which is further emphasised by that smirched fingermark upon the, um, breast.’
No accident, that.
‘It’ll get back, of course,’ Walsingham said.
‘To court?’
‘Too many people know already. I can swear every one of those men to secrecy – and I shall – but it’ll still get back. Could be pamphlets on the street before the week’s end.’
‘I can be available,’ I said, ‘to offer some reassurance to the, um… should it be required.’
‘I’m sure you can, Dr Dee. Meanwhile, what’s to be done with it? Melt it on the fire?’
‘Um… no.’ I took a step back. ‘I wouldn’t do that. Not in the first instance. I’d have its… its inherent darkness… dispersed. By a bishop, if possible. Do you know any bishops, Master Walsingham?’
‘I will by tonight, if necessary.’
‘Good. He’ll know what to do.’
I nodded and was about to walk away, when Walsingham said, ‘Suppose there’s another.’
‘Like this?’
‘They could be all over London. A spreading rash of evil. Where can we find you?’
I couldn’t see it; a multiplicity of effigies would somehow reduce the insidious effect.
‘I’ll be leaving today, as I said, for my mother’s house. If you get word to Lord Dudley, he’ll have a messenger sent to me.’
Taking care to throw in that mention of Dudley. Even though his odour was not good in certain circles, his was yet a potent name. Walsingham nodded and bent over to the coffin and this time he put a finger very close to the wax, as if he might be touching it, though I thought not.
‘Is that blood?’
The smear of red across the knife-slit mouth. I’d wondered about that. And, more significantly, the glob of red between the legs – preferring to say nothing about this lest my supposition of its intent as regards future childbearing be wrong.
‘If it’s the blood of whoever made this,’ I said, ‘it might be thought to carry the essence of that person’s hatred to… she who’s represented here. Blood was also seen by the ancients as an agent for the, um, materialising of spirits.’
‘For conjuring?’
Never my favourite word.
‘It’s a matter of will. The harnessing of the human will to something from another… level of existence.’
‘Something demonic?’
‘If the Queen’s appointed by God…’
‘ If? You doubt that?’
The question lightly posed, his eyes half lidded.
Jesu.
‘No, no,’ I said. ‘Obviously not. What I’m saying is that the corruption of an altar candle could, as I think you’ve already suggested, be an attempt to subvert the power of God in this respect.’
‘Breaking the sacred thread within the line of monarchy?’
‘Which might itself be considered already weakened by-’
‘The sex of the monarch?’
This man thought too fast for my liking.
‘This is only my own-’
‘Of course,’ Walsingham hissed. ‘That’s why you’re here.’
I looked at him closely.
‘Who are you?’ I said. ‘ What are you?’
‘What do I look like?’
‘You look,’ I said, ‘like walking darkness.’
And he smiled and nodded, quite clearly pleased at this.
When I’m asked how it all began, this is the incident I recalclass="underline" the first example, in my own witness, of a malevolence – an intelligent malevolence – directed at the Queen.
You must needs be aware of its effect on me. In my way, I’ve loved this woman for whom I’ll part any dark curtains, seek answers to the most forbidding of midnight questions. For if this is the time for an uncovering of universal mysteries, then I’d like to think she has made that possible by displaying a manner of tolerance which many of us had feared we might never see again.
After all is said, should it not be man’s most ardent desire to see into the very mind of God? Does not God himself challenge us to interpret His art?
A silence.
Heresy, you whisper.
Burn him.
As they nearly did. A few years ago, in another reign – you may know something of this – I was close to being left as cinders upon a hearth of baked earth. Thoughts of it still sear my dreams, lie smouldering in my lower mind. The charges were manifestly unjust, but when did that ever matter?
Yet I survived, and now the wildfire of another dawn is kindled over the river, and I sit here in my mother’s parlour and throw up my hands – for what else is the charge of heresy but a brutal blindfold for the farsighted?
And I must needs set down what happened. Recount the whole bitter episode before it’s murked by memory and rendered impenetrable to the common man by my own exhaustive analysis – oft-times it being said that few can comprehend my writings, full weighted as they are with scientific terms, befuddled by diagrams and arcane symbols. The very tradecraft, some will say, of the devil.
So I’ll relate this story as simply and directly as it comes to memory. I shall not, as is my usual custom, carefully dissect and prod over each sentence or avoid what it tells of my inner nature… about what I was and what I am become.
But, before I begin, know this…
…there is a shape and pattern to it all. A universal geometry, the changing angles and rhythms of which, through mathematics and the study of the stars, we’re learning to calcule again, as men did in ancient times. Twin journeys: above and below, without and within. I try to chart them daily, whilst knowing that I am, in divers ways, no more than an onlooker.
And helpless.
For although some may have abilities like to the angels, yet they are not angels.
I’ve learned this, and in the cruellest of ways.
PART ONE
Yet some men say in many parts of Inglonde that kynge Arthure ys nat dede but had by the wyll of our Lord Jesu into another place, and men say that he shall com agayne and he shall wynne the holy crosse.
Le Morte d’Arthur.
I