The Angel of the West Window Page 4

  My head is clear again, but I feel it is about to burst whenever I think of last night and of what happened! It needs cool reflection and a precise account. A servant led me home from the carousal with which Guilford Talbot had celebrated my elevation to the degree of Master of Arts, though God knows how he managed to bring me here. If that was not the noblest quaffing since England began ... Enough, it is enough that I was drunk as never before in my life. Noah himself cannot have been worse drunk.

  The night was mild and damp. That added spice to the wine. I must have crawled home on all fours, my filthy garments bear eloquent witness to that.

  When I was back in my chamber I sent my servant about his business, for I do not care to be coddled like a child when I wrestle with the wine demon, nor do I suffer another to cover my nakedness as did Father Noah.

  I tried to undress myself and succeeded. It was with pride that I stood before my mirror.

  There, grinning out at me was the most vile, most wretched, most filthy face I have ever encountered: a fellow with a high forehead but with his hair straggling down in greasy locks, as if to make manifest the base desires that proceed from a degenerate mind. Blue eyes that were not regal and commanding, but glazed over with alcohol, narrow and insolent; a loose, drunkard’s mouth hanging open over the grimy goatee beard instead of the thin, imperious lips of a descendant of Rhodri the Great; a fat neck, sagging shoulders – in brief, the very travesty of a Dee, Lord of Gladhill.

  I threw my shoulders back and screamed in fury at the fellow in the looking-glass:

  “Thou filthy cur, soiled from head to toe from the midden, art thou not ashamed to show thy face to me?! Hast thou never heard it said: Ye shall be as gods? Look at me; dost thou in the least resemble me? Me, the scion of the line of Hywel Dda? No! thou misbegotten, misshapen apology for a noble knight, thou blown-up scarecrow that would be a Magister liberarum artium, no, I will stand thy insolent gaze no more. I will smash thee and thy mirror in a thousand fragments before me!”

  I raised my arm to deliver the blow. And the figure in the mirror raised his. To my heated mind it seemed like an appeal for mercy, and I was seized with sudden pity for this Jack i’ the glass so that I said:

  “John – if thou still deservest that name of honour, thou cur – John, I beseech thee by St Patrick’s Purgatory, examine thy soul. Thou must repent thy ways, thou must be reborn in the spirit if thou value my companionship! Pull thyself together, thou wretch – – –!”

  And at that instant the figure in the mirror stood erect with a proud toss of the head, just as any sober man would have expected. But in my drunken state I took my Jack i’ the glass’s abrupt straightening up for a sign of his desire for improvement and, much moved, I addressed him thus:

  “Ah, my Lord of the Midden, at least thou dost acknowledge that things cannot go on in this manner. And right pleased I am, Sir, that thou seekest spiritual rebirth, for” – tears of heartfelt pity were coursing down my cheeks – “what would otherwise become of thee?”

  And now the one I thus addressed was also shedding tears, which only served to strengthen my foolish belief that I had said something of the utmost significance. And so I called to the repentant sinner:

  “Truly, Heaven has favoured thee, my fallen friend, that it hath caused thee to reveal thyself to me this day in all thy wretchedness. Awake now and do what thy innermost soul desireth; for – this I tell thee now – I will – from this day forth – no more – – no more – – –”

  – I gasped and choked as a retching fit brought on by the over-indulgence in wine smothered my voice.

  But then – Oh! the icy terror of it – I heard, as if through a long tube, my Jack i’ the glass speaking in soft tones:

  “... shall know neither rest nor repose till the coasts of Greenland, where the Northern Lights glow, shall be conquered, – till I have set my foot on Greenland and Greenland is subject to my power. He who holds the Green Land in fief, to him shall the Empire beyond the sea be given, to him shall be given the crown of England!” -

  With that the voice fell silent.

  I no longer know how, in my drunken state, I managed to get to my bed. Thoughts poured over me in a wild frenzy; there was no resisting them, but they poured over me and rushed on, without entering my mind, it seemed. I could feel them above me and yet I could not direct them.

  From the mirror on the wall a ray shot down – that was what all these milling thoughts were at heart, shooting stars! – the ray struck me and continued along the track of the future, shining on all my descendants. A fountainhead is created for centuries to come! – – – My mind grasped a fragment of the message and my trembling hand committed it to my diary. Then I carried off the long line of kings – all of my blood and in some mysterious way hidden within me – to my sleep.

  Today I know: should I become King of England – and what can hinder me from turning this miraculous revelation, incorporeal and yet plain to my senses, into reality? – should I become King of England, then shall my sons and grandsons for generations to come sit upon the throne that I shall mount. Behold, I have my salvation! By the flag of Saint George, I see the way! I, John Dee.

  The Feast of St. Paul 1549.

  Thought long and hard about the way to the crown.

  Grey and Boleyn are names on my family tree. There is kingly blood in me. Edward, the King, is wasting away. He will soon have coughed his last. Two women stand in line for the throne. Surely a sign from God! Mary? – in the hands of the Papists. The priests are no friends of mine. Moreover, Mary has the same maggot in her chest as her brother Edward – she coughs. Her hands are cold and damp. God forbid.

  So, then, a bargain with God and fate: Elizabeth! Her star is in the ascendant, in spite of the machinations of the Antichrist.

  What has been achieved thus far? We have met. Twice in Richmond. Once in London. In Richmond I picked a water-lily for her and ruined my shoes in the marsh.

  In London ... I did fasten a ribbon for her that was hanging loose from her bodice and for thanks she slapped me across the face. That, I think, will suffice me for the moment.

  Have sent a reliable messenger to Richmond. I must find a suitable opportunity to ...

  Good news has come of Lady Elizabeth’s disposition. She tires of being schoolmastered and seeks excitement. If only I knew where to find the Muscovite, Mascee!

  Today was sent to me from Holland a map of Greenland, engraved by my friend and master cartographer, Gerardus Mercator.

  The Feast of St. Dorothy.

  Today Mascee suddenly appeared at my door. Asked me if there was anything I needed. Said he had wondrous objects from Asia. – – Was mightily surprised to see him as it was not long since I had enquired after his whereabouts in vain. He swore his arrival had gone unnoticed. It is no light thing to have him in my house. I am risking my neck. The eyes of Bishop Bonner are everywhere.

  He showed me two small ivory spheres, the one red and the other white, each formed of two halves screwed tight together. They are nothing special. I bought them off him, in part out of impatience, in part to keep him well-disposed towards me. And he promised to serve me well. I asked him for a powerful potion, such as would bring forth love – and good fortune for him that blessed the potion. He said he knew not how to prepare such a potion, but would procure one. – That is all one to me. He that would make haste toward his goal, needs take the shortest route. – As for the ivory spheres, a mood did suddenly take me to scratch strange signs upon them and then, of a sudden, I was taken with fear of them and threw them out of the window!!

  For the love potion Mascee, the Tutor to him that doth call himself “Czar”, asked me for hair, blood, spittle and – – it doth offend me, but he has that which he requires. Loathesome; but wholesome if it bring me nearer my goal.

  The Feast of St. Gertrude 1549.

  It is remarkable: today my mind is filled with amorous thoughts of Lady Elizabeth. That is something new. Until now I have been completely in
different to her charms. – I only obey the prophecy from the mirror. I am sure I have not been deceived. The reality of those moments is still branded on my soul as if it were yesterday.

  But today all my thoughts flutter around one flame, around – – by St. George, I will write it down – – around my bride! My Elizabeth!

  What does she know of me? Nothing, most likely. Perhaps that I got my feet wet when I went fishing for water lilies; perhaps that she slapped my face.

  Certainly nothing more.

  And what do I know of the Lady Elizabeth?

  She is a strange child. Both hard and soft. Upright and plain-spoken, but reserved and withdrawn. I mind how she used to treat her maids and the girls she played with – sometimes my hand itched to thrash her, as if she were a boy in woman’s clothing.

  But I like the bold, vigorous look in her eye. She is, I think, no respecter of persons, and will tread on the priests’ corns whenever she can.

  But she can wheedle like a cat when she has a mind to. Why else did I go crawling through the marsh?

  And that slap on my face was more than a gentle pat, but the hand that delivered it was as velvety as a cat’s paw.

  In summa, as the logicians say: regal!

  My quarry is a noble beast; even now, my blood runs hot at the very thought.

  Mascee has disappeared once more.

  Today I heard from one who is beholden to me how the Princess rode out on the Feast of St. Gertrude. It was the day on which I was visited by such strange thoughts. The Princess lost her way riding in the Forest of Uxbridge and Master Mascee directed the company to Mother Bridget’s hut on the moor.

  Elizabeth has drunk the love potion! The Lord’s blessing be upon the potion.

  Lady Ellinor Huntingdon would thwart the marriage, I guess; in her overweening pride she tried to dash the potion from the Princess’ hand, but the attempt failed.

  I hate this arrogant, cold-hearted Ellinor.

  I am burning with desire to go straight to Richmond. As soon as a certain piece of business is completed, as soon as I am free of certain obligations, I will find an excuse for my presence at Richmond.

  Then shall we meet again, Elizabeth!

  The Feast of the Sorrows of the Virgin.

  I am plagued with anxieties. I am much concerned at the most recent affairs of the Ravenheads.

  The Feast of St. Quirinus.

  I cannot understand why the Lord Governor of Wales is so half-hearted. Why is nothing done to protect the Ravenheads, to remove them from danger, if necessary?

  Is it the end of the Protestant movement? Is the Lord Protector betraying his faithful followers?

  It may be I have done a foolish thing. It is never wise to make common cause with the mob. However you try to extricate yourself, some mud always will stick.

  And yet on reflection I find I should not blame myself. My information from the camp of the Reformers is reliable: there is no going back for them either. The Lord Protector ... (here the page is torn) ... for the conquest of Greenland. If this bold venture to the northern lands should become necessary, what other men could I gather together in haste than desperate mariners and soldiers of fortune?!

  I shall obey my star! There is no point in idle thoughts.

  Maundy Thursday.

  A curse on my fears! They trouble me more and more every day. Truly, if a man could be completely freed from his fears, even from those that lie hidden within him, I think he might work miracles. I think even the Powers of Darkness would be compelled to obey him. – – – Still no news of Mascee. No news from London.

  My last contributions to Bartlett Greene’s warchest – oh, that I had never heard that name! – were too great a drain on my resources. I can do nothing unless gold arrives from London.

  Today I read a report of the most insolent attack on a Papist lair that the said Greene ever carried out. The Devil may have made him proof against blade or bullet, but his followers are not! A most ill-considered enterprise.

  Should Greene be victorious the consumptive Mary will never reign. Elizabeth! Then shall my star rise!

  Good Friday.

  Has that cur in the glass awoken once more? Doth thou stare at me again, thou drunken wretch? What has made thee drunk, hell-hound?

  Burgundy wine?

  No, confess it, thou craven heart, thou art drunk with fear.

  Lord! Lord! My premonitions! The Ravenheads are doomed. They are surrounded.

  The Governor, his Lordship ... I spit in his face – – –

  Pull thyself together, John. I will lead the Ravenheads myself! The Ravenheads, my children. For England and St. George!

  Be fearless, John, fearless!

  Fearless!

  Easter Sunday 1549.

  What is to be done? – – –

  This evening, as I sat over Mercator’s maps, the door to my chamber opened as if of its own accord and an unknown man entered. He bore no device, no seal, no weapon. He came up to me and said:

  “John Dee, it is time to leave this place. Things go badly for thee. Thy way is beset with enemies, thy goal is ever more distant. There is only one course open to thee – cross the sea.”

  Without a farewell the man left as I sat there paralysed.

  At last I leapt up, rushed along passageways, down stairs: there was no sign of my visitor. I asked the gate-keeper, “Fellow, who didst thou let in at such a late hour?”

  “No-one that I know of,” was the gate-keeper’s reply.

  Wordlessly I returned to my room, and since then I have been sitting here, thinking, thinking ...

  The Monday after the Feast of the Resurrection of Our Lord.

  I cannot make up my mind to flee. – Across the sea? That would mean to leave England behind, to abandon my hopes, my plans and – I must say it aloud – my Elizabeth!

  The warning was true. I hear the Ravenheads have been defeated. The Catholics will say that the desecration of St. Dunstan’s grave has brought his curse down upon them! Will it strike me, too?

  What of it? Courage, John! Who will dare to accuse me of conspiring with outlaws? Me, Doctor John Dee, Lord of the Manor of Gladhill?

  I confess it was rash, foolish even. But be fearless, John! I have never left my study where I devote myself to the ancients, I am a respected nobleman and scholar.

  I cannot rid myself of my doubts. The Angel of Fear has many weapons at his disposal. Would it not be better to leave the country for a while? But – curses on Bartlett Greene – these latest subsidies have left me completely without means. And yet, I could ask Guilford, he would lend me money.

  Agreed! Tomorrow morning I will – – –

  By the Lord and all the Saints, what is that outside? Who is – what is that clash of weapons outside the door? Is that not the voice of Captain Perkins giving orders, Captain Perkins of the Bloody Bishop’s police?

  I breathe deeply and force myself to continue writing until the last moment. Hammers are beating against the oaken door. Calm, my friend, it will not give way that easily and I must finish my writing.

  There follows a note in the hand of my cousin, John Roger, to the effect that our ancestor, John Dee, was arrested by Captain Perkins, as can be seen from the letter appended below:

  Original of a letter from John Dee’s papers, a report from Captain Perkins to His Lordship Bishop Bonner in London.

  Date illegible.

  “Report to Yr. Lordship that we have taken John Dee in his house at Deestone. We surprised him studying geographical maps. His quill was in the ink-well, but we could find no written matter. I ordered that the house should be searched most thoroughly.

  He was taken to London that same night.

  I locked the prisoner in no. 37 as that is the strongest, most secure cell in the Tower. That will, I believe, cut our captive off from his many influential connections, but if I am compelled to report his capture, I will give his cell number as 73 – the power of some of his friends is too great. Also the goalers cannot always be
relied upon since some are greedy for gold, with which the heretics are well supplied.

  John Dee’s connection with the bloody Ravenheads is as good as proven; the rack will do the rest.

  Yr. Lordship’s obedient servant

  Guy Perkins, Captain.

  St. Patrick’s Purgatory

  The jangling of the doorbell interrupts my reading of John Dee’s papers. I open the door. A street urchin hands me a letter from Lipotin.

  I dislike being disturbed when I am working and that made me commit what is almost a capital crime in our country: in my irritation I forgot to give the lad a tip. How can I make good my omission? Lipotin only occasionally sends me letters by messenger, but each time it is a different youth. Lipotin must have a wide acquaintance among the waifs and strays of the city. But to his note. Lipotin writes:

  1st May. The Feast of St. Socius.

  Michael Arangelovich is grateful for the doctor. He feels some relief.

  A propos, I forgot to mention that he says you must place the silver box as precisely as possible along the line of the meridian and in such a way that the stylised Chinese wave pattern engraved along the lid runs parallel to the meridian.

  What the point of all that is, I really cannot say; as he gave me the message for you, Michael Arangelovich started to cough blood once again and I could ask him no further details.

  Clearly the silver box needs to be parallel to the meridian and feels most comfortable in that position. Humour it, if you can! If that sounds mad, then you must excuse me. Someone like myself, who has spent his whole life looking after old – I’m even tempted to write: elderly – things, knows something of their habits, and gets a feeling for the hidden needs and little idiosyncrasies of these pernickety objects. I like to make allowances for them!