wonders, my friends, in the days to come. Our world will change beyond recognition. We shall bear witness to a new era.’ Dee is trembling, his eyes moist.
‘Then – the spirit in the stone – he came to remind us of this prophecy?’ Kelley asks, his face full of wonder.
‘And to point to its special significance for England,’ Dee adds, his voice heavy with meaning. ‘For what can it signify but the overthrowing of the old religion once and for all in favour of the new, with Her Majesty as the light of reason and understanding?’
‘I had no idea,’ Kelley says, dreamy.
I watch him closely. There are two possibilities here. One is that he truly has a gift; I do not yet discount this, for though it has never been granted to me, in other countries I have heard of men who speak with those they call angels and demons through just such showing-stones, or else a speculum made for the purpose, like the one of obsidian that Dee keeps above his hearth. But in my years of wandering through Europe I have also seen plenty of these itinerant scryers, these cunning-men, these mediums-for-hire, who have a smattering of esoteric learning and for the price of a bed and a pot of beer will tell the credulous man anything they think he wants to hear. Perhaps this is snobbery on my part; I cannot help but feel that if the Egyptian gods of time chose to speak to men, it would be to men of learning, philosophers like myself or John Dee, the true heirs to Hermes – not to such a man as Ned Kelley, who wears his ragged cloth cap pulled down to his brow even indoors, to disguise the fact that he has one ear clipped for coining.
But I must be careful what I say to Dee touching Ned Kelley; the scryer has had his feet firmly under Dee’s table since long before I arrived in England, and this is the first time Dee has allowed me to take part in one of these ‘actions’, as he calls them. Kelley resents my recent friendship with his master; I see how he regards me from under the peak of his cap. John Dee is the most learned man in England, but he seems to me unaccountably trusting of Kelley, despite knowing almost nothing of the medium’s history. I have grown fond of Dee and would not like to see him hoodwinked; at the same time, I do not want to fall from his favour and lose the use of his library, the finest collection of books to be found in the kingdom. So I keep my counsel.
With a sudden draught, the study door is thrown open and we all start like guilty creatures; Kelley, with surprising quickness, throws his hat over the showing-stone. None of us is under any illusion; what we are engaged in here would be considered witchcraft, and is a capital offence against the edicts of Church and State. It would only take one gossiping servant to catch wind of Dee’s activities and we could all be facing the pyre; the Protestant authorities of this island, more tolerant in some matters than the church of my native Italy, still strike with force against anything that smells of magic.
Dusty evening sunlight slants through from the passageway outside, and in the doorway stands a little boy, not more than three years old, who looks from one to the other of us with blank curiosity.
Dee’s face crinkles with tenderness, but also with relief.
‘Arthur! What are you about? You know you are not supposed to disturb me when I am at work. Where is your mother?’
Arthur Dee steps across the threshold and at once gives a great shiver.
‘Why is it so cold in your room, Papa?’
Dee casts me a look of something like triumph, as if to say, You see? We were not deceived. He flings wide the shutters of the west window and outside the sun is setting, staining the sky vermilion, the colour of blood.
Barn Elms, House of Sir Francis Walsingham
21st September, Year of Our Lord 1583
The wedding feast of Sir Philip Sidney and Frances Walsingham threatens to spill over into the next day; dusk has fallen, lamps have been lit and above the din from the musicians in the gallery and the laughter of the guests, the young woman with whom I have been dancing tells me excitedly that she was once at a marriage party that lasted four days altogether. She leans in close when she says this and presses her hand to my shoulder; her breath is laced with sweet wine. The musicians strike up another galliard; my dancing partner exclaims with delight and clutches eagerly at my hand, laughing. I am about to protest that the hall is warm, that I would like a cup of wine and a moment’s respite in the fresh air before I return to the fray, but I have barely opened my mouth when the wind is knocked out of me by a fist between the shoulder blades, accompanied by a hearty cry.
‘Giordano Bruno! Now what is this I see? The great philosopher throwing off his scholar’s gown and lifting a leg with the flower of Her Majesty’s court? Did you learn to dance like that at the monastery? Your hidden talents never cease to astonish me, amico mio.’
Recovering my balance, I turn, smiling widely. Here is the bridegroom in all his finery, six feet tall and flushed with wine and triumph: breeches of copper-coloured silk so voluminous it is a wonder he can pass through a doorway; doublet of ivory sewn all over with seed-pearls; a lace ruff at his neck so severely starched that his handsome, beardless face seems constantly straining to see above it, like a small boy peering over a wall. His hair still sticks up in the front like a schoolboy hastened out of bed. In all the tumult I have not exchanged a word with him since the morning’s ceremony, he and his young bride have been so comprehensively surrounded by high-ranking well-wishers and relatives, all the highest ornaments of Her Majesty’s court.
‘Well,’ he says, grinning broadly, ‘aren’t you going to congratulate me, then, or are you just here for the food from my table?’
‘Your father-in-law’s table, I had thought,’ I answer, laughing. ‘Or which part of the feast did you buy yourself?’
‘You can leave your debating-hall pedantry at home today, Bruno. But I hope you have had enough meat and drink?’
‘There is enough meat and drink here to feed the five thousand.’ I indicate the two long tables at each end of the great hall, spread with the detritus of the wedding banquet. ‘You will be eating left-overs for weeks.’
‘Oh, you may be sure Sir Francis will see to that,’ Sidney says. ‘Today, generosity, tomorrow – thrift. But come, Bruno. You have no idea how it pleases me that you are here.’ He holds his arms wide and I embrace him with sincere affection; I am the perfect height to have his ruff smack me directly in the nose.
‘Watch the clothes,’ he says, only half-joking. ‘Bruno, allow me to introduce you to my uncle Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester.’
He steps back and gestures to the man who stands a few feet away, at his shoulder; a man of about Sidney’s own height, perhaps in his mid-fifties yet still athletic, his hair steel grey at the temples but his face fine-boned and handsome behind his close-clipped beard. This man regards me with watchful brown eyes.
‘My lord.’
I bow deeply, acknowledging the honour; the Earl of Leicester is one of the highest nobles in England and the man who enjoys greater influence over Queen Elizabeth than any alive. I raise my head and meet his shrewd appraisal. It is rumoured that in their youth he was the queen’s only lover, and that even now their long-enduring friendship is more intimate than most marriages. He smiles, and there is warmth in his gaze.
‘Doctor Bruno, the pleasure is mine. When I learned of your courage in Oxford I was eager to make your acquaintance and thank you in person.’ Here he lowers his voice; Leicester is the Chancellor of the University of Oxford, charged with enforcing the measures to suppress the Catholic resistance among the students. That the movement had gathered so much momentum on his watch had been a matter of some embarrassment to him; my adventures with Sidney there in the spring had helped to disarm it, at least temporarily. I am about to reply when we are interrupted by a man dressed in a russet doublet, with a peasecod belly so vast it makes him look as if he is with child; the earl nods politely to me and I turn back to Sidney.