The Ringed Castle (68 page)

The shining globe of Mercator was standing, ruffed with papers, on the uncarpeted floor. John Dee, sinking slowly, sat on his hunkers before it, and with his big hands began to turn it, slowly, gazing on the uneven marks as they passed. He said, ‘He explained it to you?’

‘He explained how one might use it to get something close to great circle sailing. A class with one ill-informed student. But he used it to lay a course coming home, and there were some notes taken which were rescued with my chests—these.’

He carried the packet at his belt. He withdrew it now and laid it on Dee’s desk. Dee, rising slowly took them and said, ‘I thought we should hear nothing …’

Lymond said, ‘I think they will ask you to approve the appointment of Jenkinson.’

Dee said, ‘This is not Diccon’s writing.’ He looked up. ‘It is not the comprehension
of
a student, either. Chancellor knew I favoured Jenkinson after himself.’

‘Yes. He told me,’ said Lymond. And as Dee went on staring at him he said, ‘I said that you clearly found lecturing tedious. Not that you were less than a brilliant teacher. On the same note of guarded ambivalence.…’

‘You are a mathematician,’ John Dee said.

‘I am a musician,’ said Lymond. ‘Or was. I believe the cast of mind is the same. Orontius opened another door, but I had never been
through it, except with books, until Chancellor taught me to assemble what I knew. It doesn’t matter, except to explain that there might be some profit in conference, with yourself, Digges—anyone else who might care to know how his thought was developing. I should like to see these journeys extended, and bettered. If you like, Chancellor deserves that sort of monument.’

Dee did not answer. He stood, looking at the stained packet held tight in his hands, then turned abruptly and went out of the room, leaving Lymond alone, with the globe and the clock and the mirrors.

When he returned, he bore a pair of beakers in one capable hand, and in the other a large flask, unstoppered. ‘I wish to drink,’ said John Dee. ‘You will come back to this house and meet the men you have been told about, and we shall hear what you have to say, and question you, and in turn you will hear what is happening in our world. I wish to drink to celebrate another proof of something I hold to be true: that what is mathematical is divine, and what is divine is mathematical, and that a transfusion of both creates the flame which is known as beauty.’

He poured the wine and handed it, patches of wet standing unashamedly under his eyes. Lymond said, ‘I believe I should like prior warning of that statement, or a little more leisure. I think neither of us, in spite of the logical spirit, has displayed a great deal of percipience this morning.’

‘I do not ask,’ said Dee. ‘You note I do not ask—but I would swear, by all I have learned, that you are Scorpio.’

‘With the sting in the tail?’ Lymond said. ‘You are probably right.’

‘Then since you have given me this mark of confidence,’ said John Dee, refilling his glass, ‘I shall ask you for another. I am bidden to dinner, where I am welcome and my affairs are well known. I have been asked to bring my guest with me. The house is not far—you see it across the yard there, and the postern by which we shall enter. It belongs to the Sidneys, and the bidding is from Lady Mary. What is your answer?’

It promised interest, and it seemed, then, innocuous enough. So his answer was in the affirmative.

*

Master Dee had, it appeared, a gown of superior appearance with a velvet cap, which he placed on top of the other, collecting at the same time a number of manuscripts which he tucked under one arm before taking Lymond with the other to lead him out of the house in Threadneedle Street and across the crowded courtyard with its pump, its straw and its barrels to the gardens and the low back entrance to
the Sidneys’ big gabled house in Broad Street, once part of the religious foundation of St Anthony’s.

There they were obviously expected. A pretty maid in a blue cloth gown and an apron led them through kitchen and passage and up the twisting steps of a carved wooden staircase to a long room lit on one side by bright latticed windows and decorated from ceiling to the low panelled wainscoting by a design of floral and geometric paintings, done in white and dark green and rose to blend with the tapestry on the long table and the velvet upholstery of the cushions and tall chairs and stools.

The salt was on the table, and the covers set with covered bowls and gilt standing cups, all with the porcupine crest or the bear and ragged staff of the Dudleys. And Lady Mary herself, a soft, fair-skinned woman with a light voice, came forward smiling and said, ‘You are just in time. I am being taken to task by my kitchen. Come to table. And this is Mr Crawford? Or do I call you M. le Comte de Sevigny, since there are no Spaniards present?’

Lymond smiled at Sir Henry Sidney’s wife and made, automatically, the right impression in the right kind of way while he glanced at the rest of the company. There were no more than a dozen all told. Some of them, he guessed, were members of the Sidney household; companion, secretary, chaplain. The others, handsomely dressed, must be either relatives or close friends: the Sidneys were far too wise to expose Dee or himself to risk or discomfort.

Then he saw that he was wrong, and that there were in the room two people who were neither kinsfolk of the house nor inclined to be well disposed to himself, whether called Crawford or Sevigny.

One, standing by the window with his hands firmly clasped behind his well-cut doublet, was Austin Grey, Marquis of Allendale, whom he had last left standing trembling in the snow outside the inn where he had met … where he had spoken to Kate when in Berwick.

And the other was his wife, Philippa Somerville.

‘I hope,’ Lady Mary was saying, ‘you do not object to surprises? Philippa could not call on the Muscovy Ambassador and she is so dear to her mistress that she is seldom free for those of us who wish to see more of her. Austin Grey I believe you have already met?’

Bowing, Austin Grey failed to offer his hand. Lymond turned smoothly to Philippa.

It was, of course, the girl he had left at Volos, remarkably tidied, in a square necked gown with a great many chains and medallions, and a brimless black beret and crespin, which was a little alarming when one remembered the brown hair, in Kate’s fashion, sticking to her neck and her cheeks. But she now had the best excuse, naturally, for indulging in all the fashions forbidden to the well-brought up single girl. He smiled at her suddenly, on this thought, because she was staring at him with Kate’s eyes, starkly distended, and because he was aware of how much he had changed, and of the two thousand miles of age and culture and experience which divided them now; and took her hand, and said, ‘I may hold you to your marriage if you continue to make such impressive improvements. Does that terrify you as it should?’

‘It doesn’t bear thinking about,’ Philippa said briefly. It had to be brief, because she could feel Austin’s protective anxiety like a feather mattress beside her and her breath had leaked away somewhere into the recesses of her buckram-lined bodice.

She had had a cup of wine before this particular meeting. She had come indeed fortified in every direction, and prepared for a full spectrum of Mr Crawfords, ranging from a rather nauseating opium addict she had once observed with her mother in Newcastle to a gentleman like the Duke of Alva, who would browbeat her one moment and try to pinch her the next.

There was also the little matter of her interference. At intervals of roughly two hours over the preceding three months, Philippa Somerville had wished she had never been seized with the idea of investigating Mr Crawford’s past history, and that, having done so, she had never, never written that letter and given it to Lychpole to send him.

On the other hand, it had been a reasonable letter, placing the whole matter in quite a proper perspective, and to a rational human being, these days, bastardy was no slur and at least it had given him, she thought, no reason to think less of his mother. Or so she believed until Austin had come back with the news of what had happened at Berwick.

And Austin must have been mistaken. That was her first thought when the door opened and John Dee came in, and then the man one remembered so well, in the saddle, talking to Kate at Flaw Valleys, at the whipping-post at St Mary’s; rolling over and over with Graham Malett before the high altar at St Giles and again, confronting Graham Reid Malett in Stamboul in the chess game where Kuzúm was nearly lost, and the other child died. And who, without touching her, had shared a bed with her in Stamboul, on the night forced upon them by malice, which had resulted in his prosaic offer of temporary marriage.

Since then, he had grown in authority. Used to assessing those in authority around her, she could feel the strength of his presence; the concealed blaze of nervous energy, lightly controlled. In everything he was sharper and brighter and harder than she had remembered and the shock when he smiled was such that she was sure, staring back at him, that Austin had misconstrued what happened at Berwick. And then realized that, of course, her letters had probably never come near to reaching him.

He said something, and she said, ‘It doesn’t bear thinking about,’ and then, as he was turning away she said, ‘Did you get my letters?’

She was sure of his answer. She was still happily sure of it as he stopped, and the faint smile left his lips to be replaced slowly by a delightful one, full of open-eyed candour. ‘Yes,’ Lymond said. ‘The first
and
the second. What infinite trouble you took with them. If there was a third, it must, I’m afraid, have eluded me. Unless you sent it direct to my mother?’

And he turned to the table leaving her, silent, to find her place opposite him.

Through the first part of that meal Austin held her hand, and she needed it. She drank her wine and had it refilled, smoothly, by Lady Mary’s expert men servants as the conversation flowed easily all about her. They were asking questions, naturally, about Russia and as the answers caught her attention her hand slid out of Austin’s and her composure came back; sufficiently at least to allow her to catch the talk when it veered in her direction, and finally to ask a question or two herself.

Lymond neither avoided her nor singled her out in the course of it. Because it was an informed and intelligent gathering, the conversation was never monopolized, and moved lightly among matters concerning them all for which the Russian parallel became only the springboard: the philosophy of government, the use of power, the place of religion and education, the exploitation of natural resources. They discussed the strategic problems of moving large armies across empty steppeland, where none could live off the country and the violent changes of climate made communication a hazardous thing at the
best. Master Dee propounded his theories on the use of the burning-glass and tried to impress on the tapestry, until halted by his dinner partner, a design for a new form of traction. The question of health arose, and they pondered, with fascination, the treatment employed by the Samoyèdes. Dr Dee said to Philippa, in an uncompromising aside, ‘I also have been attacked as a marauder. It is because of the letters?’

It was not a subject she intended being questioned about. ‘Yes,’ Philippa said.

‘You touched on something personal. An odd flaw in an otherwise rational being. If you will take my advice, peace may be restored by referring to Richard Chancellor. There was some friendship, I would collect. At least it will place you on neutral ground.… I don’t suppose you happen to know the date and time of his birth?’

‘Mr Chancellor’s?’ Philippa said. ‘No, I’m afraid that I don’t.’ And restored to combat raised her voice at last directly for Lymond’s attention. ‘Did you have a physician, Mr Crawford?’

He glanced at her. ‘They are hard to come by. I am hoping the company will send one with the next voyage. There was an elderly German, Grossmeyer, attached to my household, and he taught some of my staff. Also we had Ludovic d’Harcourt, whom you haven’t met so far, who was trained in the Hospital in Birgu.’

‘A Knight of Malta?’ Lady Mary observed, covering with fine social ease the two words
my household
. ‘Philippa, you must have old Lady Dormer to meet him.’ She smiled at Lymond. ‘Jane’s grandmother. Two of her brothers were knights, and she has Commander Felizes staying with her at present.’

‘Mr Crawford knows Malta well,’ Philippa said. ‘And Tripoli. Which reminds me. How is Kiaya Khátún? Robert Best came back perfectly dazzled.’

‘Exactly as she was in Stamboul,’ Lymond said. ‘Well-behaved.’

‘Can a man have several wives also in Russia?’ Philippa said.

‘Not concurrently. He can however,’ said Lymond pleasantly, ‘keep his legitimate wife under lock and key without comment as long as he pleases, and beat her as often as she offends him. To signify which, on the eve of marriage he sends her a small box containing whip, needles, thread, silk, linen and shears, and she sends him in return a shirt and handkerchiefs of her own making.’

‘A hair shirt?’ Philippa said. ‘Or does remorse play no part in this amiable society?’

Lymond viewed her with calmness. ‘We may lack some polish,’ he said. ‘But distrust the society which displays overmuch dangerous charm.
Chi te carezza piu che far’ no’sude
——
‘

‘… o che gabbato t’ha, o che gabbar’ te voule
. I am sure,’ said Philippa, ‘that not even the Russians could deceive the commander
of St Mary’s and the Tsar’s own private envoy to England. Perhaps you think of yourself now as Russian?
Chi beve bianco
, they say——’

With extreme swiftness, Lymond interrupted her. ‘They may, but not in this company. Lord Allendale, you require to keep your fiancée in order.’

The murmur of laughter increased. Lady Mary said, ‘I declare you both out of order. Philippa can hardly be betrothed when she is married.’

Austin Grey had flushed deeply and then become rather pale. He said, ‘Marriage does not seem to impede Mr Crawford.’