Shadow of Night (47 page)

“Now, Jane,” John chided, “His Majesty did give us a book in return.”

“Which book was that?” Matthew said carefully.

“A rare text,” Dee said unhappily, watching his wife’s retreating form as she headed for the table.

“Nothing but gibberish!” Jane retorted.

It was Ashmole 782. It had to be.

“Master Plat told us about just such a book. It is why we are here. Perhaps we might enjoy your wife’s hospitality first and then see the emperor’s book?” Matthew suggested, smooth as a cat’s whisker. He held out his arm to me, and I took it with a squeeze.

While Jane fussed and poured and complained about the cost of nuts over the holiday season and how she had been brought to near bankruptcy by the grocer, Dee went in search of Ashmole 782. He scanned the shelves of one bookcase and pulled a volume free.

“That’s not it,” I murmured to Matthew. It was too small.

Dee plunked the book on the table in front of Matthew and lifted the limp vellum cover.

“See. There is naught in it but meaningless words and lewd pictures of women in their bath.” Jane harrumphed out of the room, muttering and shaking her head.

This was not Ashmole 782, but it was nonetheless a book I knew: the Voynich manuscript, otherwise known as Yale University’s Beinecke MS 408. The manuscript’s contents were a mystery. No code breaker or linguist had yet figured out what the text said, and botanists hadn’t been able to identify the plants. Theories abounded to explain its mysteries, including one suggesting that it had been written by aliens. I let out a disappointed sound.

“No?” Matthew asked. I shook my head and bit my lip in frustration. Dee mistook my expression for annoyance with Jane, and he rushed to explain.

“Please forgive my wife. Jane finds this book most distressing, for it was she who discovered it among our boxes when we returned from the emperor’s lands. I had taken another book with me on the journey—a treasured book of alchemy that once belonged to the great English magician Roger Bacon. It was larger than this, and contained many mysteries.”

I pitched forward in my seat.

“My assistant, Edward, could understand the text with divine assistance, though I could not,” Dee continued. “Before we left Edward in Prague, Emperor Rudolf expressed an interest in the work. Edward had told him some of the secrets contained therein—about the generation of metals and a secret method for obtaining immortality.”

So Dee had once possessed Ashmole 782 after all. And his daemonic helper, Edward Kelley, could read the text. My hands were shaking with excitement, and I concealed them in the folds of my skirt.

“Edward helped Jane pack up my books when we were ordered home. Jane believes that Edward stole the book away, replacing it with this item from His Majesty’s collection.” Dee hesitated, looked sorrowful. “I do not like to think ill of Edward, for he was my trusted companion and we spent much time together. He and Jane were never on good terms, and at first I dismissed her theory.”

“But now you think it has merit,” Matthew observed.

“I go over the events of our last days, Master Roydon, trying to recall a detail that might exonerate my friend. But everything I remember only points the finger of blame more decidedly in his direction.” Dee sighed. “Still, this text may yet prove to contain secrets of worth.”

Matthew flipped through the pages. “These are chimeras,” he said, studying the images of plants. “The leaves and stems and flowers don’t match but have been assembled from different plants.”

“What do you make of these?” I said, turning to the astrological roundels that followed. I peered at the writing in the center. Funny. I’d seen the manuscript many times before and never paid any attention to the notes.

“These inscriptions are written in the tongue of ancient Occitania,” Matthew said quietly. “I knew someone once with handwriting very like this. Did you happen to meet a gentleman from Aurillac while you were at the emperor’s court?”

Did he mean
Gerbert?
My excitement turned to anxiety. Had Gerbert mistaken the Voynich manuscript for the mysterious book of origins? At my question the handwriting in the center of the astrological diagram began to quiver. I clapped the book shut to keep it from dancing off the page.

“No, Master Roydon,” Dee said with a frown. “Had I done so, I would have asked him about the famed magician from that place who became pope. There are many truths hidden in old tales told around the fire.”

“Yes,” Matthew agreed, “if only we are wise enough to recognize them.”

“That is why I so regret the loss of my book. It was once owned by Roger Bacon, and I was told by the old woman who sold it to me that he prized it for holding divine truths. Bacon called it the
Verum Secretum Secretorum.”
Dee looked wistfully at the Voynich manuscript. “It is my dearest wish to have it returned.”

“Perhaps I can be of some use,” Matthew said.

“You, Master Roydon?”

“If you would permit me to take this book, I could try to have it put back where it belongs—and have your book restored to its rightful owner.” Matthew pulled the manuscript toward him.

“I would be forever in your debt, sir,” Dee said, agreeing to the deal without further negotiation.

The minute we pulled away from the public landing in Mortlake, I started peppering Matthew with questions.

“What are you thinking, Matthew? You can’t just pack up the Voynich manuscript and send it to Rudolf with a note accusing him of doubledealing. You’ll have to find someone crazy enough to risk his life by breaking into Rudolf’s library and stealing Ashmole 782.”

“If Rudolf has Ashmole 782, it won’t be in his library. It will be in his cabinet of curiosities,” Matthew said absently, staring at the water.

“So this . . . Voynich was not the book you were seeking?” Henry had been following our exchange with polite interest. “George will be so disappointed not to have solved your mystery.”

“George may not have solved it, Hal, but he’s shed considerable light on the situation,” Matthew said. “Between my father’s agents and my own, we’ll get Dee’s lost book.”

We’d caught the tide back to town, which sped our return. The torches were lit on the Water Lane landing in anticipation of our arrival, but two men in the Countess of Pembroke’s livery waved us off.

“Baynard’s Castle, if you please, Master Roydon!” one called across the water.

“Something must be wrong,” Matthew said, standing in the prow of the barge. Henry directed the oarsmen to proceed the extra distance down the river, where the countess’s landing was similarly ablaze with beacons and lanterns.

“Is it one of the boys?” I asked Mary when she rushed down the hall to meet us.

“No. They are well. Come to the laboratory. At once,” she called over her shoulder, already heading back in the direction of the tower.

The sight that greeted us there was enough to make both Matthew and me gasp.

“It is an altogether unexpected
arbor Dianæ,
” Mary said, crouching down so that she was at eye level with the bulbous chamber at the alembic’s base that held the roots of a black tree. It wasn’t like the first
arbor Dianæ,
which was entirely silver and far more delicate in its structure. This one, with its stout, dark trunk and bare limbs, reminded me of the oak tree in Madison that had sheltered us after Juliette’s attack. I’d pulled the vitality out of that tree to save Matthew’s life.

“Why isn’t it silver?” Matthew asked, wrapping his hands around the countess’s fragile glass alembics.

“I used Diana’s blood,” Mary replied. Matthew straightened and gave me an incredulous look.

“Look at the wall,” I said, pointing at the bleeding firedrake.

“It’s the green dragon—the symbol for
aqua regia
or
aqua fortis,
” he said after giving it a cursory glance.

“No, Matthew.
Look
at it. Forget what you think it depicts and try to see it as if it were the first time.”

“Dieu.”
Matthew sounded shocked. “Is that my insignia?”

“Yes. And did you notice that the dragon has its tail in its mouth? And that it’s not a dragon at all? Dragons have four legs. That’s a firedrake.”

“A firedrake. Like . . .” Matthew swore again.

“There have been dozens of different theories about what ordinary substance was the crucial first ingredient required to make the philosopher’s stone. Roger Bacon—who owned Dr. Dee’s missing manuscript—believed it was blood.” I was confident this piece of information would get Matthew’s attention. I crouched down to look at the tree.

“And you saw the mural and followed your instincts.” After a momentary pause, Matthew ran his thumb along the vessel’s wax seal, cracking the wax. Mary gasped in horror as he ruined her experiment.

“What are you doing?” I asked, shocked.

“Following a hunch of my own and adding something to the alembic.” Matthew lifted his wrist to his mouth, bit down on it, and held it over the narrow opening. His dark, thick blood dripped into the solution and fell into the bottom of the vessel. We stared into the depths.

Just when I thought nothing was going to happen, thin streaks of red began to work their way up the tree’s skeletal trunk. Then golden leaves sprouted from the branches.

“Look at that,” I said, amazed.

Matthew smiled at me. It was a smile still tinged with regret, but there was some hope in it, too.

Red fruits appeared among the leaves, sparkling like tiny rubies. Mary began to murmur a prayer, her eyes wide.

“My blood made the structure of the tree, and your blood made it bear fruit,” I said slowly. My hand went to my hollow belly.

“Yes. But why?” Matthew replied.

If anything could tell us about the mysterious transformation that occurred when witch and
wearh
combined their blood, it would be Ashmole 782’s strange pictures and mysterious text.

“How long did you say it would take you to get Dee’s book back?” I asked Matthew.

“Oh, I don’t imagine it will take very long,” he murmured. “Not once I put my mind to it.”

“The sooner the better,” I said mildly, twining my fingers though his as we watched the ongoing miracle that our blood had wrought.

T
he strange tree continued to grow and develop the next day and the next: Its fruit ripened and fell among the tree’s roots in the mercury and
prima materia.
New buds formed, blossomed, and flowered. Once a day the leaves turned from gold to green and back to gold. Sometimes the tree put out new branches or a new root stretched out to seek sustenance. “I have yet to find a good explanation for it,” Mary said, gesturing at the piles of books that Joan had pulled down from the shelves. “It is as if we have created something entirely new.”

In spite of the alchemical distractions, I hadn’t forgotten my witchier concerns. I wove and rewove my invisible gray cloak, and each time I did it faster and the results were finer and more effective. Marjorie promised me that I would soon be able to put my weaving to words so other witches could perform the spell.

After walking back home from St. James Garlickhythe a few days later, I climbed the stairs to our rooms at the Hart and Crown, shedding my disguising spell as I did so. Annie was across the courtyard fetching the clean linen from the washerwomen. Jack was with Pierre and Matthew. I wondered what Françoise had procured for dinner. I was famished.

“If someone doesn’t feed me in the next five minutes, I’m going to start screaming.” My announcement as I crossed the threshold was punctuated by the sound of pins scattering on the wooden floorboards as I pulled free the stiff, embroidered panel on the front of my dress. I tossed the stomacher onto the table. My fingers reached underneath to loosen the laces that held my bodice together.

A gentle cough came from the direction of the fireplace.

I whirled around, my fingers clutching at the fabric covering my breasts. “Screaming will do little good, I fear.” A voice as raspy as sand swirling

in a glass came from the depths of the chair that was drawn up to the fireplace. “I sent your servant for wine, and my old limbs do not move fast enough to meet your needs.”

Slowly I came around the bulk of the chair. The stranger in my house lifted one gray eyebrow, and his gaze flickered over the site of my immodesty. I frowned at his bold glance.

“Who are you?” The man was not daemon, witch, or vampire but merely a wrinkled human.

“I believe that your husband and his friends call me the Old Fox. I am also, for my sins, the lord high treasurer.” The shrewdest man in England, and certainly one of its most ruthless, allowed his words to sink in. His kindly expression did nothing to diminish the sharpness of his gaze.

William Cecil was sitting in my parlor.
Too stunned to dip into the appropriately deep curtsy, I gawped at him instead.

“I am somewhat familiar to you, then. I am surprised my reputation has reached so far, for it is clear to me and many others that you are a stranger here.” When I opened my mouth to reply, Cecil’s hand came up. “It is wise policy, madam, not to share overmuch with me.”

“What can I do for you, Sir William?” I felt like a schoolgirl sent to the principal’s office.

“My reputation precedes me, but not my title.
‘Vanitatis vanitatum, omnis vanitas,’
” Cecil said drily. “I am called Lord Burghley now, Mistress Roydon. The queen is a generous mistress.”

I swore silently. I’d never taken any interest in the dates when members of the aristocracy were elevated to even higher levels of rank and privilege. When I needed to know, I looked it up in the
Dictionary of National Biography
. Now I’d insulted Matthew’s boss. I would atone by flattering him in Latin.

“‘Honor virtutis praemium,’”
I murmured, gathering my wits about me.
Esteem is the reward of virtue
. One of my neighbors at Oxford was a graduate of the Arnold School. He played rugby and celebrated New College victories by shouting this phrase at the top of his lungs in the Turf, to the delight of his teammates.

“Ah, the Shirley motto. Are you a member of that family?” Lord Burghley tented his fingers before him and looked at me with greater interest. “They are known for their propensity to wander.”

“No,” I said. “I’m a Bishop . . . not an actual bishop.” Lord Burghley inclined his head in silent acknowledgment of my obvious statement. I felt an absurd desire to bare my soul to the man—that or run as far and fast in the opposite direction as possible.

“Her Majesty accepts a married clergy, but female bishops are, thanks be to God, outside the scope of her imagination.”

“Yes. No. Is there something I can do for you, my lord?” I repeated, a deplorable note of desperation creeping into my tone. I gritted my teeth.

“I think not, Mistress Roydon. But perhaps I can do something for you. I advise you to return to Woodstock. Without delay.”

“Why, my lord?” I felt a flicker of fear.

“Because it is winter and the queen is insufficiently occupied at present.” Burghley looked at my left hand. “And you are married to Master Roydon. Her Majesty is generous, but she doesn’t approve when one of her favorites marries without her permission.”

“Matthew isn’t the queen’s favorite—he’s her spy.” I clapped my hand over my mouth, but it was too late to recall the words.

“Favorites and spies are not mutually exclusive—except where Walsingham was concerned. The queen found his strict morality maddening and his sour expression unendurable. But Her Majesty is fond of Matthew Roydon. Some would say dangerously so. And your husband has many secrets.” Cecil hauled himself to his feet, using a staff for leverage. He groaned. “Go back to Woodstock, mistress. It is best for all concerned.”

“I won’t leave my husband.” Elizabeth might eat courtiers for breakfast, as Matthew had warned, but she was not going to run me out of town. Not when I was finally getting settled, finding friends, and learning magic. And certainly not when Matthew dragged himself home every day looking as if he’d been pulled backward through a knothole, only to spend all night answering correspondence sent to him by the queen’s informants, his father, and the Congregation.

“Tell Matthew that I called.” Lord Burghley made his slow way to the door. There he met Françoise, who was carrying a large jug of wine and looking disgruntled. At the sight of me, her eyes widened. She was not pleased to find me home, entertaining, with my bodice undone. “Thank you for the conversation, Mistress Roydon. It was most illuminating.”

The lord high treasurer of England crept down the stairs. He was too old to be traveling about in the late afternoon, alone, in January. I followed him to the landing, watching his progress with concern.

“Go with him, Françoise,” I urged her, “and make sure Lord Burghley finds his own servants.” They were probably at the Cardinal’s Hat getting inebriated with Kit and Will, or waiting in the crush of coaches at the top of Water Lane. I didn’t want to be the last person to see Queen Elizabeth’s chief adviser alive.

“No need, no need,” Burghley said over his shoulder. “I am an old man with a stick. The thieves will ignore me in favor of someone with an earring and a slashed doublet. The beggars I can beat off, if need be. And my men are not far from here. Remember my advice, mistress.”

With that he disappeared into the dusk.

“Dieu.”
Françoise crossed herself, then forked her fingers against the evil eye for good measure. “He is an old soul. I do not like the way he looked at you. It is a good thing
milord
is not yet home. He would not have liked it either.”

“William Cecil is old enough to be my grandfather, Françoise,” I retorted, returning to the warmth of the parlor and, finally, loosening my laces. I groaned as the constriction lessened.

“Lord Burghley did not look at you as though he wanted to bed you.” Françoise glanced pointedly at my bodice.

“No? How
did
he look at me, then?” I poured myself some wine and plopped down in my chair. The day was taking a decided turn for the worse.

“Like you were a lamb ready for slaughter and he was weighing the price you would bring.”

“Who is threatening to eat Diana for dinner?” Matthew had arrived with the stealth of a cat and was taking off his gloves.

“Your visitor. You just missed him.” I took a sip of wine. As soon as I swallowed, Matthew was there to lift it from my hands. I made an exasperated sound. “Can you wave or something to let me know you’re about to move? It’s disconcerting when you just appear before me like that.”

“As you’ve divined that looking out the window is one of my tells, I feel honor bound to share that changing the subject is one of yours.” Matthew took a sip of wine and set the cup on the table. He rubbed tiredly at his face. “What visitor?”

“William Cecil was waiting by the fire when I came home.”

Matthew went eerily still.

“He’s the scariest grandfatherly person I’ve ever met,” I continued, reaching for the wine again. “Burghley may look like Father Christmas, with his gray hair and beard, but I wouldn’t turn my back on him.”

“That’s very wise,” Matthew said quietly. He regarded Françoise. “What did he want?”

She shrugged. “I do not know. He was here when I came home with
madame
’s pork pie. Lord Burghley asked for wine. That daemon drank everything in the house earlier today. I went out for more.”

Matthew disappeared. He returned at a more sedate pace, looking relieved. I shot to my feet.
The attics—and all the secrets hidden there.

“Did he—”

“No,” Matthew interrupted. “Everything is exactly as I left it. Did William say why he was here?”

“Lord Burghley told me to tell you he called.” I hesitated. “And he told me to leave the city.”

Annie entered the room, along with a chattering Jack and a grinning Pierre, but after one look at Matthew’s face, Pierre’s smile dissolved. I took the linens from Annie.

“Why don’t you take the children to the Cardinal’s Hat, Françoise?” I said. “Pierre will go, too.”

“Huzzah!” Jack shouted, delighted at the prospect of a night out. “Master Shakespeare is teaching me to juggle.”

“So long as he doesn’t try to improve your penmanship, I have no objection,” I said, catching Jack’s hat as he tossed it in the air. The last thing we needed was the boy adding forgery to his list of skills. “Go and have your supper. And try to remember what your handkerchief is for.”

“I will,” Jack said, wiping his nose with his sleeve.

“Why did Lord Burghley come all the way to the Blackfriars to see you?” I asked when we were alone.

“Because I received intelligence from Scotland today.”

“What now?” I said, my throat closing. It was not the first time the Berwick witches had been discussed in my presence, but somehow Burghley’s presence made it seem as though the evil was creeping over our threshold.

“King James continues to question the witches. William wanted to discuss what—if anything—the queen should do in response.” He frowned at the change in my scent as the fear took hold. “You don’t need to know what’s happening in Scotland.”

“Not knowing doesn’t keep it from happening.”

“No,” Matthew said, his fingers gentle on my neck as he tried to rub the tension away. “Neither does knowing.”

The next day I came home from Goody Alsop’s carrying a small wooden spell box—a place to let my written spells incubate until they were ready for another witch to use. Finding a way to put my magic to words was the next step in my evolution as a weaver. Right now the box held only my weaver’s cords. Marjorie didn’t think my disguising spell was quite ready for other witches yet.

A wizard on Thames Street made the box from the limb from the rowan that the firedrake gave me the night I made my
forspell.
He’d carved a tree on its surface, the roots and branches weirdly intertwined so that you couldn’t tell them apart. Not a single nail held the box together. Instead there were nearly invisible joints. The wizard was proud of his work, and I couldn’t wait to show it to Matthew.

The Hart and Crown was oddly quiet. Neither the fire nor the candles in the parlor were lit. Matthew was in his study, alone. Three wine jugs stood on the table before him. Two of them were, presumably, empty. Matthew didn’t normally drink so heavily.

He picked up a sheet of paper. Thick red wax clung to its folds. The seal was cracked across the middle. “We are called to court.”

I sank into the chair opposite. “When?”

“Her Majesty has graciously permitted us to wait until tomorrow.” Matthew snorted. “Her father was not half so forgiving. When Henry wanted people to attend him, he sent for them even if they were in their bed and a gale was blowing.”

I had been eager to meet the queen of England—when I was back in Madison. After meeting the shrewdest man in the kingdom, I no longer had any desire to meet the canniest woman. “Must we go?” I asked, half hoping Matthew would dismiss the royal command.

“In her letter the queen took pains to remind me of her statute against conjurations, enchantments, and witchcrafts.” Matthew tossed the paper onto the table. “It would seem Mr. Danforth wrote a letter to his bishop. Burghley buried the complaint, but it resurfaced.” Matthew swore.

“Then why are we going to court?” I clutched at my spell box. The cords inside were slithering around, eager to help answer my question.

“Because if we are not in the audience chamber at Richmond Palace by two in the afternoon tomorrow, Elizabeth will arrest us both.” Matthew’s eyes looked like chips of sea glass. “It won’t take long for the Congregation to learn the truth about us then.”

The household was thrown into an uproar at our news. Their anticipation was shared by the neighborhood the next morning when the Countess of Pembroke arrived shortly after dawn with enough garments to outfit the parish. She traveled by river, having taken her barge to the Blackfriars—although the actual distance was no more than a few hundred feet. Her appearance on the Water Lane landing was treated as a public spectacle of enormous importance, and for a few moments a hush fell over our normally raucous street.

Mary looked serene and unperturbed when she finally stepped into the parlor, allowing Joan and a line of lesser servants to file in behind her.