J. A. Downes

Resurrection

The Heresy of a Jesuit

(A prequel to the Predestination Series)

First independently published in 2024

20240205

Copyright © J. A. Downes 2024

All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction, characters’ motives and actions are the product of the author’s imagination.

Visit www.jadownes.com to read more about the author, this book, and his other book projects.

Engage in the online discourse exploring the world depicted herein.

Cover art by JD Smith.

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Cover art © JA Downes and JD Smith 2024

Prologue

The Magical Vanishing Act

England had been a Catholic state for almost a thousand years. It had obediently followed all the rites and customs of the See of Rome from St Augustine’s evangelisation of the Kingdom of Kent in 597 AD through to King Henry VIII’s Act of Supremacy in 1534.

Catholicism was full of magic, saints and miracles. The congregations were awed by the magic and prayed to the saints, while learned scholars sought to understand the miracles.

As the religious reformation gained ground, the Protestants slowly removed the magic and eliminated the saints from church doctrine, to the despair of the Catholics.

In 1542, the fifteen-year-old John Dee entered St John’s College, Cambridge University. A trickle of leading Catholic humanists were already leaving St John’s to continue their studies in Leuven University, in the Hapsburg-controlled Netherlands. That trickle steadily increased in the subsequent years. Leuven was a bastion of Catholic theology, indeed its university had been the first institution to condemn statements contained in Martin Luther’s ninety-five theses back in 1519.

In 1546, after four years of study, Dee gained his bachelor’s degree. However, the dominant Protestant faction at St John’s refused to elect him as a Fellow of the college due to his Catholic magical beliefs, thus denying him the meagre stipend that came with Fellowship. Such accusations of demonic conjuring would follow Dee for the rest of his life, impugning his character and casting doubt on his respectability.

At this time, King Henry VIII was founding a more conservative faculty, Trinity College. He required Catholic scholars for the college and appointed Dee as one of the founding Fellows, thus providing him with a small income.

In January 1547, Henry VIII died and Edward, his son by Jane Seymour, succeeded him.

At Edward’s coronation, Thomas Cranmer, the Archbishop of Canterbury and the architect of England’s reformation, called Edward a second Josiah and urged him to continue the reformation. He needn’t have worried, Edward would soon show himself to be an enthusiastic Protestant.

Dee arranged to study in Leuven with the famous Gerard Mercator, supported by funding from Trinity. He returned bearing examples of Mercator’s globes and astronomical instruments as gifts for the college and soon after, he was awarded his Master of Arts.

His colleagues at Trinity College considered his sojourn in Leuven a great success, and so a second trip was arranged…

Dramatis Personæ

John Dee and his associates

Hamza Vallesquez, courier

John Dee, student of mathematics, astrology, and cartography

Gerard Mercator, cartographer and instrument maker

Gemma Frisius, cartographer and instrument maker

Guido de Brès, craftsman

Medart, apprentice bookbinder, previously a grocer

Pierre de La Ramée, Professor at the Collège de Navarre

Denis Delacroix, bookbinder

Madeleine Delacroix, herbalist and closet alchemist

Guillaume and Claude, apprentice bookbinders

Pierre de Ronsard and Pontus de Tyard, Brigade poets

Jean de Hussey, Treasurer of the Knights Hospitaller, Paris Langue

Jesuits and Catholics

Francis Faber, leader of Manus Dei, a Jesuit splinter group

Arrabella de Nemours, Manus Dei intelligencer

Petrus Faver, founding Jesuit priest and theologian (deceased)

Andrea and Jacopo, Roman hirelings

Bishop Piero del Tramazzo, Grand Inquisitor of Paris

Scholars

Oronce Finé, Professor of Mathematics

Pascal du Hamel, assistant to Professor Finé.

Guillaume Postel, linguist, astronomer, cartographer

Isaac Luria, Jewish rabbinic scholar and mystic

Locations

Leuven, Brabant, Spanish Netherlands

Oude Markt, a lively marketplace

Grote Markt, the central town square

House and workshop of Gerard Mercator

Mons, Brabant, Spanish Netherlands

The Pride of Hainaut inn

Reims, France

The Blue Cockerel inn

Paris, France

Collège Royal

Les Halles (market)

Le Gland (a cabaret)

The martyrium of Montemartre Abbey

The Holy Innocents’ cemetery

Saints-Innocents church

Notre-Dame cathedral

Maps

South-east England and the European coast

Part I

“All the world’s a stage,

And all the men and women merely players;

They have their exits and their entrances;

And one man in his time plays many parts”

- William Shakespeare. As You Like It.

Chapter 1 - Obligation

Monday the 2nd of June 1550

Leuven, Brabant

The leap

They plunged across the stream, man and horse in perfect harmony, galloping for their lives.

His tattered and mud-splattered cape streamed behind him, and his breeches bore the scratches and rips that headlong flight through dense woodland had inflicted.

And yet, his mind sang with exhilaration that approached ecstatic joy. He lived for this. The Chase.

Of course, he grudgingly thought. Normally, I am doing the chasing.

Up a sandy path, slipping and sliding as hooves dug deep, shredding the sparse turf in their fury, climbing from the valley bottom toward the ridge that loomed above.

Atop the crest, they raced, twisting and turning through the trees, leaping over fallen logs. Thorny brambles grasped longingly at expensive breeches and slick horseflesh.

Finally, the way was clear and straight, so he hazarded a glance over his shoulder.

Despite his efforts, the pursuers had gained ground.

Terpsichore was tiring.

He could feel it in the slower beat of her hooves, in the cadence of her rise and fall, in the snort and whistle of her laboured breathing.

She had given her all, and then some more, but it had not been enough.

It was not the mare’s fault; it was his own. He was the one who had overstretched their limits, trying to reach the next town before dark.

The posse of brigands had charged from a shadowy stand of trees, whooping and hollering like heathens. The fastest two had pinned him between them as they galloped together across the broad meadow. One had reached over to grab his reins, stupidly exposing himself to a punch that unhorsed him. His compatriots had been too close to avoid his tumbling body, and his muffled cries had abruptly cut off.

It took skill to fight on horseback, and he was a veteran whilst his assailants were clearly amateurs. Unfortunately, even fools can land a lucky blow if they have sufficient chances. And these fools did. One managed to slice his side with a dagger. He judged that the wound itself was not fatal, but it was streaming blood and his strength was draining with it.

I refuse to die from a puny scratch, he thought angrily. I would never live it down!

Then he heard the characteristic twang of a crossbow.

That would be more acceptable.

But I cannot allow it - I swore an oath!

His back stiffened, bracing for impact, even though he knew a direct hit was nearly impossible, at this distance and at this speed.

From the corner of his eye, he saw movement. Time slowed to a crawl as he turned and watched the quarrel fly sedately past at head height. It seemed slow enough and close enough for him to just reach out and pluck it from the air. It would be the easiest thing to throw it back at his pursuers like brave Achilles tossing a javelin.

He blinked a tear from his eye and the bolt sped away at normal speed to hit a tree trunk square on and bury its barbarous head several inches into the dense wood. He rode through a shower of bark, realising then how close death had been.

Not that he feared death.

Not while he served the Order.

But this mission couldn’t fail. He couldn’t fail.

They are relying on me.

He feared failure far more than bodily hurt. So he bent low over his horse’s neck and whispered in her ear, “Fly, sweet Terpsichore, dance for me a little longer.”

He realised his error as soon as he straightened up.

The ridge was angling sharply to the right, but Terpsichore was showing no intention of turning.

With a mighty thrust of her hind legs, she launched them both from the clifftop and out toward the darkling sky.

I didn’t mean literally fly, he thought, before the horror of certain oblivion blanked his mind.

They separated as they fell, six legs flailing and two arms hugging a satchel. Whatever happened next, he was not losing the satchel.

The whites of Terpsichore’s rolling eyes signalled the terror she was feeling. He squeezed his own eyes tight in an attempt to contain his own dread.

There was an explosion of sound, then extinction claimed him. Or so it seemed at first.

Dark and silent.

So, this is it?

Blank nothingness?

No angels, nor archangels?

No clarion call to my Lord’s presence?

Just endless darkness and shameful regret gnawing my soul?

I miserably failed my brothers in arms.

My oath is unfulfilled.

And the ignominy: Bested by a handful of ruffians.

I throw myself on our Lord’s mercy and embrace his grace.

Ah, my chest explodes!

I welcome the end.

His clothing ballooned out and with a bubbling rush a powerful force thrust him upwards from behind, while a blinding light pierced his eyes.

His arms and legs thrashed, echoing the chaotic ramblings of his mind. A primitive need to breathe drove him upwards towards the light.

He broke the surface of the lake and drew in a long, rattling breath.

All thoughts of death and failure were expunged from his mind.

Shaking the hair from his eyes, he twisted left and right, desperate to find Terpsichore. She was already paddling toward the shore. He lunged forward and grabbed the pommel of the saddle, then half swam and half dangled as they jointly struggled toward the bank.

She limped out through squelching mud, while he dropped to his knees and crawled, dragging the satchel like an anchor through the reeds, until the ground was firmer, and he allowed himself to flop, bedraggled, to the sand.

Coughing out water, he rolled and hauled himself upright. Discipline drove his body more than any conscious thought.

Terpsichore shook herself violently, scattering water and pond life for several feet around.

He clawed the freshly deposited grasses from his face and cast a sardonic glance at the horse.

In the distance, screams and snapping branches indicated that at least one of his pursuers had attempted the same leap from the ridgeline. Perhaps lacking conviction, they had failed to clear the stand of trees, to their own loss. The sounds abruptly died away, and he lowered his head and traced the sign of the cross with his right hand.

The setting sun lowered behind the hill, throwing the three remaining riders into stark silhouette. He watched them wheel about and canter back the way they had come.

He was not comforted.

Their tenacity had marked them out as more than casual brigands. Perhaps agents of a foreign power, or enemies of the Order? Either way, he suspected they were not giving up the chase, merely looking for a safer path down. Besides, with two of their number dead, they were too invested to leave him be.

How far to Leuven? Not more than five miles, surely? I have strength enough.

But brave Terpsichore cannot make that journey tonight, not with that limp, even though I must.

She stood still, too exhausted to move, as he drew his sharpest knife and approached. She eyed him warily, this trusted human that she had spent the last two weeks carrying from Antwerp.

With a quick movement, he sliced deep and sure, trusting the keenness of the knife that had bloodied countless enemies over the years.

The leather parted, and the bridle fell away. Next, the saddle slid off her back, slick with pond-slime and horse-sweat.

He pulled a cloth from his bag and used it to rub her down; stroking her trembling muscles and wiping away the remaining water. He let the gentle mare nuzzle his neck, and reciprocated by resting his forehead against her cheek, while whispering a prayer to keep her safe.

Lord, I pray you take care of this, your noblest of creatures, as I, Hamza Vallesquez, your humble servant, continue my mission.

She seemed to sense the imminent parting of their ways; that tearing at the heart when you separate from one you love and trust, however short the acquaintance. She nickered softly and pawed at the ground before limping away into the forest.

He belted on his sword, threw his satchel over his shoulder, and trudged away toward the nearby town, leaving Terpsichore to her well-deserved freedom.

Not my problem

John Dee loved the city of Leuven;

He loved the quality of the evening light.

He loved the grand buildings and the tolerant population.

He loved the Catholic university with its hundreds of students.

Here he felt important and useful, more so than he ever did in dreary Cambridge.

Cambridge: he shivered at the memory of the sleet-laden wind scouring across the fens from the North Sea. Yes, it had even more glorious buildings, but the students were mostly impoverished, as indeed was he.

In Leuven, he could almost feel the energy of new discoveries in the air. There were hundreds of students researching theology, law, mathematics, astronomy, and so much more. It was the very centre of modern learning; he had no doubt.

In June, however, the city was a comparative oasis of tranquility. Many undergraduates returned home for the summer, leaving just the resident clergy, professors, and the post-graduate research students, like himself.

He had spent a dull day studying civil law in the library, and felt he truly deserved an evening of good company and golden beer. He ambled through the Oude Markt. As he weaved between partially dismantled stalls, he recognised where his subconscious was leading him; to his favourite café, Engele’s.

At Engele’s, the beer was strong, the company was boisterous, and the staff were attractive. Particularly Odriana, Engele’s eldest daughter, who often served in the bar. The last time I visited Engele’s I’m sure Odriana had been flirting with me, hadn’t she?

There was a shout of alarm to his left, pulling him from his reverie.

He turned and saw a runaway handcart barrelling down an incline toward him, being chased by a frantic dark-haired youth crying out in Flemish, “Look out! My cart!”

He leapt backwards out of its path, and the cart narrowly missed him. Instinctively, he reached forward and grabbed at the closest handle, trying to slow the laden cart, but it slipped from his grip, barely slowing at all. It did, however, swing off its previous course and now veered toward a stall that was still partly stacked with unglazed pottery.

“Nooo,” yelled the boy as he careened past Dee, arms windmilling and sandalled feet slapping on the cobbles.

Dee flinched as the cart crashed into the stall and half a dozen pots were thrown from the shelves onto the ground, smashing into hundreds of shards. Simultaneously, loose vegetables were catapulted from the upper boxes on the cart and whistled through a shallow arc. With a patter of repeated thuds, they pelted a group of market traders who had been warming themselves around a brazier. Sparks flew as a turnip landed amongst the coals and one trader yelped in fright as his cape caught fire. Throwing it to the ground, he and his friends hastily stamped on it to extinguish the flames, ruining it beyond measure.

The cries of rage from the bombarded men alarmed Dee, who avoided conflict assiduously, especially since his contentious final days at St John’s. The peaceful atmosphere of the market had turned ugly in a moment. Paying for the damages was out of the question for his humble purse, and besides, it was hardly his fault, was it?

Keeping his head down, he slipped through the growing crowd and hurried away without a backward glance, soon disappearing into the gathering dusk. The last he heard from behind him was a chorus of profanity-laden accusations, accompanied by yelps of pain. Presumably the furious stallholders were venting their displeasure on the unfortunate young grocer. After all, he was the only remaining target for their anger.

A grudging oath

Leaving the chaos behind him, John Dee soon entered the new Grote Markt, the large plaza at the centre of the town.

He paused and admired the buildings.

Directly ahead of him was St Peter’s church. Its bulk heaved heaven-ward, with arched windows that he estimated were easily forty feet tall. The west façade was surmounted with an incomplete tower that Dee believed would be magnificent if it were ever finished. Completion was not at all assured, as construction had been paused while the city worthies struggled to allocate sufficient funds, and perhaps more worryingly, concerns had been raised about the stability of the foundations. Even in its foreshortened state, Dee felt the church trumpeted the glory of God.

Just to his right, and facing St Peter’s, was the Town Hall. It rose an elegant three stories, topped by a steep roof with elaborate turrets at each corner. It was as tall as St Peter’s and far more ornate. Although he admired the building’s architecture, Dee felt it was disrespectful to locate it so close to St Peter’s.

His eyes roamed the three tiers of windows, each window having two inner arches and being bracketed by fluted columns and highly decorated niches.

He gazed at the empty niches in particular and wondered whether one day a marble statue of himself would adorn one of them. It’s possible, he thought; Leuven values higher learning and, despite the availability of candidates, none of the niches are occupied yet. They could label it ‘John Dee. Pre-eminent English Lawyer’. He replayed the phrase through his mind several times and thought it sounded rather grand.

Behind him, angry shouts drifted up from the Oude Markt. It sounded like a brawl had broken out.

A wave of shame rippled through him at having just walked away from the accident. But what could he do now? It was too late, wasn’t it?

He shivered as he realised that they could easily label the future statue ‘John Dee. Trouble-maker. Hanged here in ignominy. 1550’

His stomach growled, a reminder that to reach Engele’s, he would have to retrace his steps toward the maelstrom that he had helped to start.

No. No matter how guilty he was feeling, that didn’t seem a very viable option.

So, with a regretful glance backwards, he proceeded instead to the nearby Brabghia Inn. He swallowed hard as he read the prices on the chalkboard. They were easily twice those at Engele’s.

With a surreptitious grasp at his purse, to confirm sufficient coins, he sat alone at an outdoor table with a view across the plaza.

The service was fast, and within a few minutes he was supping a hearty beef and beer stew, and greedily mopping up the thick gravy with a hunk of bread. A tankard of dark beer awaited his attention.

As he supped his beer, he let his eyes wander over the row of grand guild houses on the opposite side of the square, nearer the town hall. They were very handsome, though perhaps overly ostentatious. Some even had statues on the roof gables, holding spears or sets of scales. One even had a little sailing ship at the peak. Another statue was of a kneeling man sighting down a gun barrel! Really, that is ridiculous over-decoration, thought Dee, as he returned his attention to his beer.

Crack.

A muffled report echoed around the market.

Was that…a gunshot? No, surely not.

Dee urgently looked up and down the square.

There! What’s that?

A puff of smoke was already dissipating from near the rooftop statue that held the musket.

The statue stood! It shouldered the weapon, then scrambled up the steep roof and slid down the other side, before repeating the pattern on the next house’s roof, passing the little ship statue as it went. Three houses away, another figure emerged from the shadows of a chimney pot and limped away slowly.

The musketeer quickly gained on the shadow and soon Dee heard the frantic clash of steel on steel and could just make out the flash of the blades in the moonlight as the men duelled on the roof. Leaving a few coins at his table, Dee ran across the plaza, but before he even reached halfway, he heard a ragged cry. He looked up in time to see the pursuer fall backwards off the roof, disappearing from view. He cheered silently, though he had no reason to prefer one fighter to the other, except perhaps an inclination to support the underdog, in this case the man who had been fired upon.

Still peering up into the gloom, he gasped in alarm as the victor doubled over and collapsed, sliding down the valley between two roofs, then hurtling off the eaves, heading for the cobbles of the square.

Fortunately, a large awning was stretched over the ground floor entrance to the building and the man hit it plumb in the middle, bounced a little, then came to rest.

Dee let out the breath that he hadn’t realised he had been holding.

Too early.

A loud ripping sound was followed by a sickening thud as the dark shape fell the last ten feet to the ground, just visible beneath the tattered remains of the canopy.

Dee redoubled his speed and raced towards the body, but stopped after a dozen strides.

One part of him wanted to sprint away and avoid commitment, like he had for so many years. The other part of him felt morally obliged to help, because there just wasn’t anyone else available.

Avoiding commitment seemed like the best idea, so he turned back to the safety of the Brabghia.

The man groaned out a plea. “Arghhh. Help me…”

With a groan almost as loud as the fallen man, Dee turned again toward the body, then reluctantly jogged the last few steps to its side.

Gingerly, he pulled on the shoulder and rolled the body onto its back. He recoiled in horror from the bloody visage that was revealed. The nose was smashed and the front teeth broken. The man’s jerkin had a jagged tear down one side, soaked in thick dark blood that suggested a deep stab wound, and one leg was bent at an unnatural angle. Dee thought the knee looked shattered, perhaps by a musket ball, perhaps by the fall. He wasn’t a doctor, and he didn’t have experience in such things.

He wanted to look away, but couldn’t summon the will to move.

Suddenly, the man’s eyes jerked open and swivelled toward Dee’s face. The ragged mouth expelled air and a few bloody bubbles, but no sound. A swollen tongue flickered over the lips.

He tried again, “Art thou … a true Christian soul?”

Not what Dee had been expecting.

Dazed, he nodded, then found his voice, “Of course, of course. Are you hurt?”

This last produced a rasping chuckle.

“Help me up.” It wasn’t a request, more like an order.

Dee struggled to haul the man to his feet, amazed that he was breathing, never mind considering walking.

Grunting, he thrust a heavy satchel into Dee’s hands.

“Swear in the name of God and all that is holy, that you will deliver this package to Jean de Hussey, 85 Rue Saint-Jacques, in Paris, before October.”

“Whaa, what?”

“Swear it. Now. By all that is holy.

“Go on.”

He shook Dee by the shoulders until he elicited a response.

Dee stammered, “I… I swear it, I swear it. Paris, Rue Saint-Jacques, number 85.”

“Jean de Hussey, before October.”

“Yes. Yes. To Jean de Hussey”

“Before October. It is important!”

“Yes alright. Before October.”

“Repeat to me.”

“There’s no need to repeat, I’m a scholar and…”

“Repeat!”

“Alright. Deliver the package to Jean de Hussey, 85 Rue Saint-Jacques, Paris, before October. There. Now, can we get you to a surgeon? You’re bleeding to death.”

“You are a Christian man and have sworn an oath. You will burn in hell forever if you fail. Now go, leave me. There are others chasing me. I must lead them away. Go. Go!”

The stranger pushed Dee away and staggered westwards across the square, using his scabbard as a crutch, his ruined leg dragging behind him.

Dee realised he was still staring at the retreating back of a man who had fallen fifty feet and was still shuffling along quite quickly, unlike himself, who hadn’t moved at all. He glanced around the still deserted plaza, then hurried back to the Brabghia Inn.

Crouching near the steps of the town hall, a hooded figure had witnessed the whole encounter. A few minutes later, two burly men jogged into the middle of the square. The hooded figure rose and gestured west. The two men nodded and sped away on the trail of the battered stranger.

Wraith-like, the caped figure seemed to glide across the plaza toward the inn.

Dee went straight to the bar and ordered a large brandy, drinking it in one swallow. The coarse liquor burned down his throat and made his eyes water. He rocked his head as a shiver rippled through his body.

His mind whirred with questions. Who was that man? What have I just promised to do? How can I possibly go to Paris? It’s absurd. They lock the city gates against all traffic unless you have a signed royal warrant. Am I even considering doing this? I need to talk to someone…Gerard! He will help me understand. Yes, I will go to Gerard tomorrow morning. But now I must leave quickly, in case I am being followed.

Fearfully, he looked around the bar, and despite his fears, he judged that the late-night crowd was totally ignoring him.

Gripping the satchel tightly, he edged through the clientele to the back of the café. With a last glance around, he ducked through a low door to the rear courtyard and scuttled across as silently as he could.

He passed through several smaller alleys, then turned sharply into the normally busy Hallengang, deserted at this time of night.

He slipped into his boarding house and, as quietly as possible, he went up to his room.

In the pitch dark, he lay on his little bed, fully clothed, still gripping the bag. He replayed the events of the last hour over and over in his mind, until finally, exhausted, he fell asleep.

Chapter 2 - Consultation

Tuesday the 3rd of June 1550

Leuven, Brabant

Gemma Frisius

“Lebkuchen. Fresh this morning,” cried a boy holding a covered basket.

Unbidden, Dee remembered the delight that his friend, Mercator, found in these chewy gingerbread treats. He turned back toward the baker’s boy.

He immediately collided with a large man who must have been walking directly behind him. Before Dee could apologise, the man pulled his cap lower and hurried off without saying a word.

What strange behaviour!

“Still warm. Buy my fresh lebkuchen,” reminded the child, pulling Dee’s attention back to his errand.

Dee walked west toward the bulging curve of the river known locally as ‘Mother Superior’s belly’ on account of the local abbess who had got with child a hundred years before.

A chorus of birdsong accompanied him as a pair of redstarts flitted from tree to tree, keeping pace as he walked up the road. They helped take his mind off his worries, and for that, he was grateful.

Long after the birds departed, Dee whistled a cheery tune of his own as he approached a handsome three-storey house near the river. His employer and mentor, Gerard Mercator, rented the top floor.

He started up the stairs two at a time, but the satchel hanging from his shoulder swung wildly with each bound and caught him in the small of the back. He grimaced and continued upwards at a more sedate pace.

He entered Gerard’s suite without knocking and left his cape at the oak hallstand. His pulse quickened as he recognised an ebony cane with a polished spherical handle. The handle was carved like a miniature globe, showing the continents and oceans of the world.

Excited, he acknowledged that Master Gemma Frisius was visiting as well.

Gerard will surely be in the workshop at the rear of the apartment, and Master Frisius will be observing him, he thought, knowing that the afternoon sun shone through the immense windows, perfect for illuminating the intricate instruments that they built and repaired.

The workshop, however, was deserted.

Dee walked around the workbench that dominated the centre of the room. He idly trailed his fingers along the edge, noting a fine layer of dust that suggested several days of disuse.

At the far end of the room were three terrestrial globes in their finely crafted mountings, the largest standing taller than his waist.

Frisius himself had constructed the smaller of the three, more than a decade ago, when Mercator had been his student and assistant. The other two were Mercator’s own creations. They were newer, larger, and had more detail. Their intricate detailing relied on observations and measurements supplied by countless sailors and travellers. Mercator meticulously collated the information to create his own maps.

These two globes were part of a consignment ordered by the Emperor Charles V to replace an earlier set he had lost in one of his wars. The Emperor had granted Mercator’s workshop his royal seal of approval. This endorsement allowed Mercator to sell instruments and maps at higher than normal prices and provided him with a substantial income. He spent a little of that wealth employing Dee as his assistant, ensuring a small but steady trickle of coins into Dee’s otherwise empty pockets.

Laid in the centre of the bench was a circular astrolabe. This example was fairly new, created by the French clergyman and astronomer Jean Fusoris. The backplate of the astrolabe was badly dented, making it impossible to operate the carefully inscribed instrument. Dee had expected Gerard to have already dissembled it ready for the repairs they had planned to make together, but it still lay where he had last seen it.

Nearby were several compasses and a set of astronomical rings. These seemed abandoned rather than being carefully stored, which was Mercator’s normal practice.

Steady footsteps approached from the direction of the living quarters, and with relief, he turned toward them.

Gemma Frisius entered the workshop. He had an over-large chin and a face that only a mother could love. Dee noticed that Frisius still hadn’t visited the barber he had recommended to him. He considered commenting as much, but stopped himself when he saw the grave look on the older man’s face.

“John, it is you. I had hoped it would be. I’m afraid there will be no work today. Gerard is indisposed.”

“Is it a sickness?”

“Of a sort. Call it melancholy, rather. Gerard falls into these fugues upon occasion, ever since his arrest and torture by the Inquisition.”

Dee knew that Gerard had been imprisoned and sorely tested some years ago, but he had never spoken about it. Not with Dee anyway. It was clear the experience had been more than a little unpleasant.

“He is not a Lutheran, you know,” said Gemma defensively.

“He is much too busy to dabble in religious politics, indeed he rarely even speaks of religious matters, as you may have noticed.

“However, he corresponds widely, including with Philip Melanchthon, who is of that persuasion. I warned him about such unguarded communication, but you know how cavalier he can be.”

He grimaced as he continued, “Melanchthon finds it hard to avoid injecting his Lutheran theology into everything he writes. I fear someone may have intercepted their correspondence. If that is so, they could easily misinterpret it.”

With a sigh, Gemma lowered himself into an easy chair beside the unlit fireplace, gesturing for Dee to take its twin.

He leaned forward and continued in a whisper, “Some theologians here at the university are senior members of the Inquisition. I believe they put Gerard’s name on the list last time. He is worried that they might have done so again. And I fear he may be right.”

A cloud must have drifted across the sun because the room darkened, and Dee felt a distinct chill.

Personally, he had never had the time or inclination to doubt the Catholic doctrine. His experience at St John’s College had reinforced his belief in orthodoxy, the reformists there had denied him a Fellowship after all.

Nonetheless, he had heard the stories. The Inquisition didn’t care whether its targets were guilty or innocent, so long as an example was made of them that sufficiently terrified the rest of the population.

Gemma shook his head sadly. “Last time they added Gerard’s name to a list of fifty-two supposed heretics. All the names belonged to people of learning or high station.”

He grimaced as he continued, “Two were burnt alive. One was beheaded. And two women were entombed alive, now presumed dead of course…the tomb has not been opened since that day.”

No wonder Gerard doesn’t want to talk about his captivity at their hands, Dee thought. He shivered, suddenly cold. Taking up a flint from the hearth, he tried unsuccessfully to light the fire several times before giving up and turning his attention back to Frisius.

In Protestant England, Dee’s biggest concern had been missing election as a Fellow at St John’s, because he was too Catholic. That accusation and outcome both seemed mild indeed compared to Europe’s dread of the almost arbitrary Inquisition and its potentially deadly consequences.

Dragging his thoughts back to the present, he asked earnestly, “What can I do to help?”

Despite his own surprise at making the offer, which seemed feeble and inadequate to his ears, Gemma beamed.

“Gerard said you would offer your help. He thinks very highly of you and now I can see why.”

An urgent delivery

Dee raided the pantry while Frisius lit the fire, and they lunched comfortably on bread and hard cheese, complete with a small beer, of course.

Dee didn’t want to further burden Frisius, who was clearly worried by Mercator’s melancholia, but he was desperate for advice.

He lifted his satchel to his lap. “Can I ask your advice on a different matter?”

The older man continued chewing and gestured; Of course.

Dee recounted the previous night’s adventure, only omitting the intended recipient and his address in Paris.

From the bag, he withdrew an object swaddled in a multi-coloured cloth. He quickly unwrapped it and placed it on the table beside the beer jug.

It was a statuette of a bird of prey, seemingly made of solid gold, with two small rubies for the eyes. It sat glinting in the late morning sunlight.

Frisius was too shocked to speak. He reached out and, following a nod from Dee, he picked up the bird. He weighed it in his hand, then gazed at it with eyes as big as apples.

Eventually, he muttered disbelievingly, “A man fought on a rooftop, then fell to your feet, bleeding profusely. He gave you a bag containing a golden falcon weighing about four pounds. He extracted a promise from you to take it to Paris for him. Then he limped off into the shadows, where you suspect his assailants would catch up with him and complete the job they had started by murdering him. Is that the gist of it?”

“As God is my witness,” said Dee, crossing himself.

Frisius gazed at the earnest younger man for a moment, then nodded, “Ja, I believe you.”

Dee continued to relate his difficulties. “But look. Even if I could leave my studies for a couple of months, there is a travel ban. The city gates are locked and guarded, and no one can travel without a signed warrant from Mary of Hungary or one of her senior generals. All this because the Scottish privateers have taken ships from the herring fleet again and brazenly attacked a boat that was moored at Terneuzen, less than a day’s travel from here.”

Dee’s voice rose in volume as he reached his climax, “And I stupidly swore an oath that I can’t possibly fulfil.”

Frisius leaned back in his chair. And smiled.

Dee stared at him. Has he not understood my dilemma?

“Hear me out, John.

“I thought, if you are willing, that you could help Gerard by delivering a lecture in his stead, because he is indisposed. Do you think you could do that for him, John?”

Dee’s face showed his confusion and not a little anger. “Yes, yes. Of course I can. I am ready to help Gerard in any way I can. But right now I have this other problem and I cannot see how I am going to solve it.”

Frisius calmed Dee with a placatory gesture. “The lecture will solve your problem, John.”

“I don’t understand how that can be. The two things are unrelated.”

“The Administrator of the Collège Royal has requested this lecture,” he paused, “The Collège Royal, in Paris, that is.”

Dee gaped, still not quite comprehending.

“Did you know the Collège Royal is modelled on the Collegium Trilingue here in Leuven? No? Well, it is. There is a well-established relationship of visiting lecturers between the colleges, and even our Hapsburg Governor, Mary of Hungary, feels obliged to support it.

“Gerard agreed to deliver two lectures in Paris on Euclid’s Elements, the ancient Greek mathematics that is still the foundation of geometry, even today.

“The lectures are to be given in August. But now he is indisposed and can’t travel, and perforce must break his word, unless…” he gazed shrewdly at Dee.

“Unless someone else takes his place,” said Dee.

“Yes. And that someone will be you, John. You are Gerard’s most promising cartography student, and an expert in Euclid’s Elements. And now, coincidentally, you have a second reason to travel to Paris; you need to fulfil a hasty oath given to a dead man,” he smiled to show he meant nothing ill by it.

“You can go with a legitimate travel warrant, deliver the lectures, thus completing Gerard’s obligation, and fulfil your oath to this stranger as well.”

Dee stood and paced around with a stunned look on his face. “That, that…that is fantastic! What stars have aligned to engineer this?”

“Well, you are the astrology expert. I will let you answer that question yourself.

“So. What do you think? Will you do it? You will greatly help Gerard if you do.”

Dee collapsed back into his chair, accidentally sitting on his satchel in the process. “Yes, of course I will do it.

“But there is one more problem…”

Frisius frowned, “And what is this extra problem?”

Dee pulled his satchel from under him and extracted the packet of lebkuchen. “I bought gingerbreads for Gerard this morning…but I just squashed them when I sat down!”

The two men stared at each other for a second, then burst out laughing.

They toasted Dee’s future success with another beer and started planning the details of the trip.

Chapter 3 - Exhumation

Tuesday the 3rd of June 1550

Rome, Italy

An offering to Salus

Andrea waved away the innkeeper’s daughter, who was touring the room lighting lanterns. He preferred to remain in the shadows.

He watched intently as she lit the lamps of the other tables, each illuminating its nearby patrons. He looks like a linen maker, in conversation with, hmm, a baker? Those big men, clearly soldiers. A trio of market vendors. And over there, a cobbler, surely?

Unfortunately, none of them met his requirements. They were either physically too small or had inappropriate skills, and most were too drunk, anyway. The wine flowed readily in the Osteria del Luna.

Just then, two men entered and lumbered over to an empty table. They were big, heavily muscled, hands like shovels, and dusty. Ah, stonemasons. Perfetto. Working on one of the many rebuilding projects commissioned by the Pope, I expect.

Rome was a giant building site these days. Over twenty years ago, Charles V’s rioting troops had sacked Rome and caused lots of damage, mostly through fires. The city was still being reconstructed.

Wasting no time, Andrea pulled a stool up to the stonemasons’ table and paid for their jug of wine with a few coins. He leaned forward over the table conspiratorially. After a brief hesitation, they leaned in too, their heads almost touching his as they instinctively reacted to the lure of secrecy. He looked at each of them, then made his offer, “Ten Ducats for one night’s work,” he paused dramatically, “Each.”

The men went quiet as they figured it out; About six month’s wages for one night’s work. A small fortune.

The moon was waning, but there was still enough light for Andrea to be confident of the directions he gave his wiry friend Jacopo who drove the cart through the city.

They skirted round the southern half of the coliseum, the Emperor Vespasian’s massive oval amphitheatre. Once clear of the shadow cast by its immense walls, they continued west. On the via Sacra, they passed under the Arch of Titus, built for Vespasian’s successor and heir.

Andrea could see that Jacopo was nervous, although he was trying hard to maintain an outward show of confidence. The son of a goat herder in rural Tuscany, he was still not comfortable in the ancient city with its ruined temples for slumbering gods. Especially not at midnight.

Andrea whispered to him, “Maybe it’s a good job you made that offering to Salus, the goddess of safety.”

Jacopo whispering back, “Don’t mock the ancient beliefs. That offering may be what keeps us safe on this night of adventure.”

Andrea grunted, but couldn’t leave it alone, continuing, “I know you also placed some grapes at the feet of Spes, the goddess of hope.”

“You can’t be too careful,” replied Jacopo, his embarrassed grin barely visible in the gloom.

Ancient basilicas rose from the darkness like guardian spirits, their crumbling walls pointing jaggedly skyward, but they made no move to hinder the late night travellers.

Andrea knew that the house of the vestal virgins lay to their left, but the shadowy ruin did not thwart them as they continued through the Roman forum.

Jacopo shivered and huddled down into his cloak, his eyes darting left and right. Andrea could almost see his imagination conjuring more demons.

Suddenly, the three remaining columns of the temple of Castor and Pollux leapt toward them out of the darkness.

The columns swayed in indecision. Or was it Jacopo himself swaying? Then they seemed to beckon him forward. The twins are guiding our path, he thought. He glanced up to the night sky looking for inspiration from the twins themselves, but the pair of stars eluded him.

Luca and Zorzi, the stonemasons, were perched on the very back of the cart. Luca whispered hoarsely, “How much further? We didn’t agree to a tour of the city!”

Andrea responded calmly, “Almost there, my new friends, then to work. The easiest money you will ever make!”

Sure enough, ten minutes later Jacopo halted the cart outside a small chapel, and whispered, “The church of Santa Maria della Strada.”

While Jacopo hitched the horse to a rail, the other men gathered their tools.

Andrea led the way along the chapel wall, past a faded fresco of Mary and the baby Jesus, to a faint rectangular outline in the stonework. He gestured to Luca, the more senior stonemason.

Luca deftly ran his fingers up and around the head-high groove, muttering more to himself than the others, “This is good work.”

Taking a chisel, he applied economical strokes using a wooden mallet.

Andrea admired the silent progress; Clever. I would have used an iron hammer without thinking and the sound would have echoed around the entire square, alerting everyone to our actions.

Luca worked his way around the door, stone dust floating down to his sandalled feet. Meanwhile, his Venetian friend, Zorzi, followed up by inserting a thin metal strip into the crevice Luca had exposed. After some manipulation, he cried out, “I have hooked the locking mechanism!”

While Zorzi held the bar in place, Luca put his shoulder to the door and pushed.

The grinding of stone on stone was loud enough to wake the dead, or so it seemed to Andrea, who nervously glanced around the square.

The masons stepped back uncertainly from the mausoleum.

Andrea had no fears and plunged inside with a flaming torch. Jacopo followed with a bag of tools.

There were three sarcophagi inside, which they inspected while the masons reset the door mechanism.

One sarcophagus was obviously of much newer construction. Andrea cleared away some dried flowers and a ceremonial pewter plate that still held some decayed offering. Blowing the dust off, he revealed a simple inscription; “Petrus Faver, MDVI - MDXLVI”

“This is the one. Come, let’s remove the lid,” He bent low and started pushing against the lid. Jacopo joined him.

After watching them straining ineffectually against the stone slab for a minute, Luca laughed aloud.

“What’s so funny?” gasped Andrea, standing.

“That lid is eight feet long by four feet wide and look,” he pinched with thumb and forefinger, “It is a good four inches thick. So it will weigh about one and a half thousand pounds.”

Zorzi briefly inspected the lid, “And it is tenoned into the side walls. It must be lifted, not pushed.”

“We need to use the hoist,” agreed Luca.

The two men left the chapel and returned with the heavy timbers they had insisted on bringing in the cart.

Working confidently, they assembled two tall “A” shaped frames and fastened a crossbeam to their peaks, creating a tent shape. Two wooden block pulleys from a ship’s rigging came next, with ropes dangling down toward the lid.

Next, they pounded L-shaped iron brackets beneath the lip of the lid and fastened the ropes to them.

Luca handed the rope to Andrea and stepped aside. Smirking, he said, “The honour of removing the lid goes to the paymaster.”

Andrea braced his feet against the base of the sarcophagus and hauled on the rope with all his strength. Initially there was no movement, then the lid popped up like a cork in water, surprising him so much that he almost fell backwards.

Luca must have been anticipating as much because he quickly stepped forward and steadied the rope.

“The pulley is our friend, no?”

Zorzi manoeuvred the lid to the side, and they gently lowered it to the ground.

Four faces peered into the tomb.

“I was expecting gold coins,” said Luca regretfully.

Inside was a lead coffin.

Fastening the hoist’s ropes to the coffin was tricky, but soon they whisked it up and then, with much swearing, they manhandled it outside and onto the cart. Andrea covered it in old sacking that he had brought with them. They replaced the lid and, with the heaviest work completed, they dismantled the hoist and carried it and the rest of the equipment outside to the cart.

Andrea was replacing the offering plate on the sarcophagus when he detected a new tension in the air.

Turning, he saw Luca and Zorzi blocking the exit, both holding heavy hammers.

“Signore. We have done a lot of hard and smart work, yes? The sort of work you do not want anybody to know about. Ever. And you have the treasure on the cart as you wanted. I think we deserve more reward. More than the ten ducats you promised us. I say…twenty Ducats each.”

Andrea’s gaze flickered over them. Big men, covered in dust, but by no means tired or weakened.

“And you, Zorzi. You feel the same? You want to change the very generous deal that we made back in the tavern?”

Zorzi shifted uncomfortably, not as confident as his partner. Luca scowled at him, and it seemed to stiffen his resolve. “Yes, I think the same. We deserve more, or it will end badly for you two.”

The two big men fed off each other’s confidence, puffed out their chests and flexed their muscles.

Luca was serious. Andrea knew when a man had made up his mind.

“Jacopo. What do you think? Do you think we should change the terms of the payment? After a solemn negotiated agreement?”

The stonemasons looked toward Jacopo, who cleared his throat loudly and spat on the floor, “These men have no honour. They deserve what you promised them and nothing more.”

Luca snarled and swung his hammer in a wide arc, narrowly missing Jacopo’s head, which would surely have split like a melon if the blow had connected.

Zorzi leapt forward toward Andrea, swinging his hammer double handed from over his head.

Andrea sighed.

He would have happily honoured the ten ducats without a qualm, but he hated deceit and he hated people who tried to change agreements after the fact.

He stepped forward swiftly, closing the gap with the larger man before any blow had a chance to land, his hand a blur of movement. Zorzi’s eyes opened wide in surprise, then rolled up into his skull and his whole body fell to the ground like a sack of flour. Only messier. The handle of Andrea’s stiletto protruded from beneath his chin, blood pouring thickly all around it.

Jacopo retreated behind a sarcophagus.

Luca’s hammer crashed down mere inches from his hand and split the lid with a dull crack. The next blow would surely crush him.

Retrieving his knife, Andrea stepped forward and thrust it into the small of Lucas’ back. Again and again. Gradually, the big man weakened, sagged, and collapsed to his knees. Showing no compassion, Andrea grabbed the man’s hair, pulled back sharply, and slashed his throat. He let go, and the body crumpled forward.

Andrea tossed a purse of ten Ducats onto each body. As he stepped out into the cool night air, he turned to Jacopo, “A deal is a deal, am I right?”

Jacopo merely heaved on the door until it scraped to a close. The mechanism locked automatically. The more deeply defined rectangle of the door and a few piles of stone dust were the only sign of their visit. As they remounted the cart, a light breeze carried away the dust.

Side by side on the cart, Jacopo flicked the reins at the sleepy horse and, turning to Andrea, he asked, “Now do you believe that my offering to Salus was worthwhile?”

Privately, Andrea thought his purchase of a quality stiletto was certainly worthwhile, but an offering to a dusty god?

Out loud, he announced, “To Ostia, for a ship to Paris!”

Chapter 4 - Transportation

Thursday the 12th of June 1550

Leuven to Paris

Leuven to Mons

As good as his word, Frisius provided a travel warrant for Dee, signed by the Hapsburg Governor of the Netherlands, Mary of Hungary, herself.

He also insisted on providing funds for the trip, which was a good thing because Dee had very little saved and certainly didn’t want to liquidate any of his growing book collection.

Gerard wrote a letter of introduction to the Collège Royal’s Administrator, in which he not only apologised for his absence due to illness and extolled Dee’s mathematical virtues, but pre-approved the transfer of the four marks payment for the lectures, from himself to Dee.

A dozen travellers gathered near the west gate in the Leuven city wall, waiting for the captain of the guard to signal the end of the nighttime curfew.

Frisius fussed around Dee and his horse, checking for the third or fourth time that the food and books were still in the panniers and that they were properly secured to the saddle. Despite the trip to Paris being his idea, he was overly nervous for Dee’s safety.

“Just remember, the only safe way to travel is in a group, and even then…” his voice trailed off as he decided not to enumerate the possible complications.

“It would be best if you always introduce yourself as a poor student and only mention the lecture tour, and not the, err, other matter. Stick to the planned route and schedule, and don’t talk to strangers. Promise me you will take no unnecessary risks!”

They had discussed Dee’s travel plans in minute detail many times during the preceding two weeks, but Mercator had made Frisius promise to keep Dee safe and so Frisius was being extra attentive.

Despite his residual misgivings at his rash promise to the shadowy man who now almost certainly lay at the bottom of the river Dyle, Dee was now excited to get started on the journey, with the added bonus that he would escape from Frisius’ over-attention.

Thankfully, over the murmuring of the crowd, the clanking of a chain could soon be heard. Dee peered forward in time to see the Spanish soldiers remove a heavy crossbar, then haul open just one half of the gate. Presumably, so they can better control the flow of travellers, he thought.

A frisson of excitement passed through the crowd.

With last hugs and handshakes, the travellers disentangled themselves from those staying behind and joined a ragged line, ready to show their documents and be allowed to travel.

As Dee turned to go, Frisius pressed a short but stout-bladed knife into Dee’s hand. “I hope you never need it…but just in case, eh? Be careful, my friend.” He hugged him almost violently, then quickly turned and walked away.

Dee was the final traveller through the gate. He mounted his horse and quickly passed those walking and joined the small group of riders. Glancing behind, he saw Frisius waving from atop the city wall. He waved back happily, knowing that now he was truly starting his adventure.

During the day, Dee made a point of speaking to most of the other travellers, just as Frisius had instructed. He found that he actually enjoyed hearing their stories; visiting relatives, transporting goods for sale, moving to an administrative job at the Imperial capital, and one young man travelling to meet his future bride.

By mid-afternoon, they arrived in Brussels. It was a larger town as befitted one of the major capitals of the Habsburg empire. The guards at the gate were more alert than those back in Leuven and their scrutiny of the travellers’ documents was more careful, but soon they all passed within the town walls and parted ways.

Early next morning Dee repeated the departure routine, this time from the southern city gate, in light rain, with nobody to bid him farewell.

This group was larger. It included a couple of his companions from the previous day, plus several prosperous merchants, each with a small entourage, and also several state officials who had soldiers for escorts. The presence of the soldiers made everyone feel safer, but muted the conversations.

Toward the end of the third day, Dee was tired, wet, and bored. The rain had been continuous since Brussels, and his companions were no more talkative.

As they crested a low hill, the small town of Mons was visible through the gloom. This boredom will be the death of me, he thought. Let’s hope the patrons of the inn are friendly and the ale is excellent!

It's a boy!

The Pride of Hainaut inn was full with a delightful mixture of travellers and locals. He felt lucky to have secured a room to himself, even if it was a draughty attic above the stables.

He approached a table with an empty seat. The other drinkers encouraged him to sit, but immediately turned their backs on him and continued their own discussion, excluding Dee and the one other occupant of the bench.

A surly lad served Dee a steaming hot bowl of rabbit and prune stew. It smelled delicious, and he suddenly realised how hungry he was after a long day of travel.

Finally replete, he sat back with a wooden beaker of ale and took notice of the other patrons. His nearest companion was the melancholy fellow sitting by himself. Dee noticed that instead of a wooden beaker, he had a fine-looking tankard.

If he wanted to avoid total boredom this evening, it seemed this tankard might be the only way to achieve it. So he took the plunge.

“That looks to be a mighty fine tankard, my friend.”

The man’s bloodshot eyes swivelled to Dee for a moment before returning to contemplate the froth on his beer.

Dee struggled on. “The beaker that I have seems to be more standard for this inn. They must exalt you to provide such a vessel.

“Maybe you can share how you came by it?

“Then I could get one too.”

Finally, Dee’s inane chatter provoked a reaction. From under the table, the man retrieved two beakers similar to Dee’s and slammed them on the bench. “Here’s what they bring. This tankard is my own!”

It was an inauspicious start, but now the dam had been breached, the man continued unprompted, “I am a blauschilder, like my father before me.”

Dee’s lack of comprehension must have been visible on his face, because the man pointed with a stubby finger, first at the blank white pottery near the handle, then across the body of the tankard. “I start with a white tin glaze, then I add these designs in cobalt blue across the rest of the tankard. Sometimes abstract designs, sometimes foliage or flowers which are popular, and on special pieces I even do little landscapes, perhaps with a windmill like you can see here,” he stabbed his finger at the pot.

Dee was genuinely impressed and said so effusively, causing the other man to blush.

“It’s a living, but barely,” he said gruffly. “What with the higher taxes and the lessening of trade, I am hardly making the income that my father used to make ten years ago, God rest his soul.”

Dee didn’t know how to respond, so he kept quiet.

Grudgingly, the young man introduced himself, “Guido de Brès, native of Mons. You are English, are you not?”

Dee was surprised. He prided himself on having assimilated into Brabantish life in Leuven seamlessly and thought he hid his English accent well.

Guido waved away Dee’s embarrassment. “Your Flemish is good. Just a word here and there betrays you. I have other English friends, so I have developed an ear for it.

“Well, I used to have other English friends.”

Dee willingly followed the change in subject. “They are not your friends anymore, or they left town?”

There was silence for a few moments, then Guido leaned close to Dee, and with beer-laden breath he murmured, “The priests of the Inquisition arrested them nine weeks ago.”

“The Inquisition?” blurted Dee, loudly, before he had time to think.

Several faces from nearby tables turned toward them at his outburst.

Guido half stood, and said placatingly, “No, no. Nothing like that.” Then, sitting back down, he hissed at Dee, “Keep quiet, you fool. Do you want us both to join them? You never know who is listening or who might report you.”

The full story spilled out.

“I met Mister Nicholas here in Mons. Last Yuletide it was. He came with his wife from York, an important but wet town somewhere in the north of England. He purchased some of my pots to send back to York, where his brother sold them for profit. We became friends, and I often joined him and his wife and their other friends for dinner and conversation. You know how it is?

“Anyway. I enjoyed it. They were so open and educated, and helped me learn English. We talked about everything; family, governance, finance, business, increasing taxation by the Habsburgs, and religion, of course. It turned out that they were Lutherans, and at first I was shocked. But you know, they are still Christians and fundamentally believe the same as us,” he paused and stared at Dee. “You are Catholic, yes?”

“Yes, of course,” Dee quickly related his own story; student in Leuven, travelling to Paris to give a lecture series. Then he nudged Guido back to his tale.

“I was starting to appreciate their views; the sovereignty of God and the authority of the bible, as opposed to the hierarchy of priests, bishops, arch-bishops and the Pope.

“Well, somehow the authorities heard they were Protestants and swooped in one day, arresting Mister Nicholas and his wife. They raided a few other homes and took several of their friends into custody as well. The Inquisition has charged them with subversion of the Roman Catholic faith.”

Dee was so appalled he didn’t know what to say. Almost to himself, he said, “My mentor was taken by the Inquisition and barely survived. He still suffers from his ordeal.” Then more angrily, “I don’t understand how they can be so un-Christian!”

Guido nodded sagely, then called for more beer.

When a jug was brought over, he poured half into his ceramic tankard and half into Dee’s beaker.

He took a long drink, then turned to Dee and whispered, “They have been under house arrest for the last few weeks, but I … I haven’t had the courage to call on them. Their visitors are doubtless being reported, and I may get arrested as well.

“This morning I heard a rumour that they are going to be transported to nearby Valenciennes. There to be tried by an ecclesiastic court and probably executed. To set an example. That’s what I heard, anyway.”

Dee was stunned. But, but that’s barbaric!

“Can someone help them? Maybe they have friends in high places?”

Guido slowly shook his head. “There is no one. They have nobody who cares enough to take the risk. Certainly nobody who dares.”

“They have you at least,” said Dee, trying to console him.

Guido went very still and seemed to be seriously considering that he might be their most steadfast friend. Then he stood, swaying slightly, and leaning close to his new comrade, he said, “You’re right. I am all they have. Come, with your help, I’ll save them.”

“No, no. That’s not what I meant,” protested Dee, as his new friend pulled him almost bodily out into the chill of the starlit evening.

Guido led the way to a cobbled street with prosperous houses along both sides. He paused in the shadows and pointed with his now empty tankard.

Half way down the street a thickset man was pacing back and forth in front of a house.

“He is guarding the Nicholas’ house. There is another guard around the back, or at least there was last week when I checked. But even if they were to get out of the house, they wouldn’t be able to leave the city.”

Dee recognised the quandary from his own dilemma in Leuven. “No travel documents,” he said, nodding.

They watched in silence. Then both started talking at the same time, suggesting ideas, presenting problems, until within mere moments they thought they had the basis of a plan.

“There is another tavern nearby, isn’t there?”

Guido nodded and pointed up the street and towards the town centre, “The Bar ons Pierre is fifteen minutes that way.”

Before their courage failed them, they headed off down the street, arm in arm. To all the world, they looked the best of drinking companions.

The guard stopped pacing and eyed them suspiciously as they approached.

Guido called out drunkenly, “Congratulations to the Emperor!”

Dee slurred heavily, “And thanks for the beer!”

“What are you two sots talking about?” called the guard.

“The Emperor Charles has been delivered of a son, so someone is giving out free beer over at Pierre’s bar.”

“Bah. Just my luck. I have to stay on duty here until midnight.”

Dee swayed and did his best to look disgusted, complaining to Guido, “Tha’s not fair now is it? How often do us little people get free ale?”

Guido pretended to think for a moment and then leaned conspiratorially toward the guard. “We could stand at your post while you nipped off to get a quick drink if you want. ’Tis only fair.”

“Not for too long though,” said Dee, wagging a drunken finger.

The guard looked up and down the street. “You’d do that for me? For an hour maybe?”

“Yesh. Just for you,” Guido said thickly.

The guard handed his pike to Guido, who stood to attention at the doorway, though leaning rather heavily on the pike. Dee slumped to the floor and began talking to himself in a low voice.

“I’ll be back soon. Just make sure you don’t desert your post, else I’ll get in trouble.”

He rubbed his hands together and set off at a brisk walk, soon disappearing around the corner.

Dee sprang up and took the pike, while Guido urgently knocked on the door. “Mister Nicholas. It is me, Guido. Open the door.”

There was no movement nor sound from inside.

“Perhaps they have retired to bed already? Maybe we should just leave?” suggested Dee.

“I don’t think so. They would never retire so early when I visited them.”

He pounded as loudly as he dared, desperate to attract their attention but fearful of alerting any neighbours.

Still no answer.

“Go to the corner and watch for the guard,” said Guido, starting to panic. He took the pike from Dee and used it to thump the bottom of the door.

Dee sprinted to the corner and cast nervous glances in both directions. All was clear.

Finally, there was an answering cry from inside. The door opened and light spilled out, illuminating the street. Dee saw a plump man shake Guido’s hand. They had a hasty conference, then Mister Nicholas returned inside.

Guido waved Dee back to him. “They had been told they were being moved tomorrow, so thankfully they have bags packed. They will be out in a moment. You will have to guide them back to the Pride of Hainaut while I wait here, so the guard does not suspect anything is amiss when he returns.”

“But he will know something is wrong…there is no free beer!”

“It can’t be helped. I will think of something. Quick, here they are.”

Mister Nicholas and his wife emerged, each with a bag in hand, looking around nervously.

Dee spoke to them rapidly in English. “My name is John Dee. We don’t have much time. Follow me quickly. Don’t delay and don’t look back. I’m getting you away from here.”

Taking Madam Nicholas’ valise, he chivvied them out onto the street and headed in the opposite direction from Pierre’s bar, quickly taking a side road and generally looping back toward the Pride inn.

They crept up the stairs to the attic above the stables.

There was no furniture, so he told the Nicholas’ to sit on his bedroll that was laid out under the eaves.

He paced before them. During their flight, he had sobered up. Now he was starting to realise the magnitude of their actions. Haltingly, he explained Guido’s concern for their fate, and how the two had decided to help them. To his own ears, the reasoning sounded reckless and naïve. If they weren’t going to be executed before, they certainly would be now. And probably me and Guido alongside them! This is what comes of sticking my nose into other people’s business.

Madam Nicholas started quietly sobbing, her head buried in her husband’s shoulder as he tried vainly to comfort her. Otherwise, there was silence, except for the occasional nickering of a horse from down below.

Finally, a heavy tread sounded on the stair, followed by a tentative knock at the door.

Once safely inside, a glum Guido brandished the handle of his tankard, explaining, “The guard was angry when he returned. He said we had played him for a fool because there was no free ale. He looked ready to arrest me, or maybe worse. So, when he turned his back, I hit him on the head with my tankard. It shattered and all I have left is the handle. It was good strong ceramic and now he is lying in the doorway looking like the drunk that he wanted to be. He won’t wake for several hours, I should think.”

The Nicholas’ looked shocked, clearly not used to violence.

“But you took so long,” said Dee.

“I went back to my rented workshop to collect a few things. Somehow, I doubt I will ever return there. Now we should all try to get some rest. Tomorrow will be a long day.”

The Mons escape

Before dawn, the little troupe had packed their collective belongings into a small wagon that Guido had brought from his workshop.

The Nicholas’ had changed into drab work clothes that Guido said had belonged to his parents. Madam Nicholas wasn’t happy. She kept wrinkling her nose at the smell. But wearing them certainly did the trick; they were no longer recognisable as prosperous English merchants. The few belongings they had fled with and their own clothes were now carefully hidden in boxes below some glazed ceramics.

Dee led his horse, and Guido followed with the aged donkey that pulled the little cart. Perched on the back of the cart were the miserable looking English couple.

Despite the pre-dawn chill, John Dee was sweating as he never had before. His head was a-swirl with thoughts, and none of them were comforting;

The alarm will have been raised at the Nicholas’ house.

The gatehouse guards will recognise us and haul us away to a foul dungeon, to await our torture at their pleasure.

Even if we’re not recognised, it is not believable that a student would have three servants.

I won’t deliver the lectures and Mercator will lose esteem. In fact, the Inquisition may investigate Gerard due to my actions, and he may not survive the ordeal this time.

Frisius would call me a fool for deviating from our careful plan.

Perhaps I can run when…

“I said, next!” yelled the guard at the gate, interrupting his thoughts.

Dee almost tripped as he stepped forward with his travel document.

“These servants are with you?” he gestured, “It’s nice for some…”

He thrust the papers back to Dee, “Here you are,” then gestured through the arched gate, “Remember to stay with the rest of the group. There have been reports of brigands down by the Maubeuge forest.”

Dee, somewhat stunned that they seemed to be getting away with it, didn’t initially move. The guard shouted at him, “Quickly now, I haven’t got all day!”

Chapter 5 - Manipulation

Wednesday the 18th of June 1550

Reims, France

The Reims romance

It was four days since Guido and the Nicholas’ had taken their leave of Dee. His ears still rang with their effusive thanks. Guido had even given him a parting gift; a small blue-painted jar with a wooden stopper.

Now he and his fellow travellers were hurrying to reach their next destination before nightfall.

Reims.

It was a fabled city with an ancient history.

Although founded by the Gauls, it flourished under the Romans. It had been the site of the baptism of Clovis, King of the Franks, who was considered the founder of the Merovingian dynasty and the first king of what would become France. Since that time, it had become the traditional coronation site of the kings of France, with the actual anointing of the king taking place in Reims cathedral, one of the most magnificent cathedrals in the country.

Dee kept to himself during the journey from Mons, mostly because he was keen to avoid awkward questions about where his supposed servants and donkey cart had gone, so he was caught off-guard when their road emerged from a hillside forest and revealed a vista of fields and extensive vineyards, sweeping down toward a sprawling town with a high defensive wall.

A fairytale castle in white stone faced them, embedded in the city wall. Colourful pennants fluttered in the light breeze, flying proudly from round turrets with pointed roofs. Other towers were crenellated, with attentive guards ready for valiant defence.

Their road curved in close and ran alongside the wall for quite a long stretch, well within bowshot, if Dee was any judge. Then, it turned sharp left around one particularly massive tower and ended beside a trio of huge stone arches.

The travellers, including Dee, thrust their papers at the city guards, who barely glanced at them before waving the party through. Clearly here in France there was no need for paperwork, certainly not that issued in the Spanish Netherlands.

Tight behind the castle, on a narrow cobbled street, he found the Blue Cockerel Inn. He passed his horse to the yard boy with instructions to give it a good rubdown and extra hay, then gratefully entered the inn.

The townsfolk in Leuven were fond of their proverbs, and Dee found one came easily to mind as he entered the inn and prepared to ask for a room; “Time and straw make medlars ripe.”

He was pretty sure this meant, ‘Some things become sweeter if given extra time’, and he felt he deserved some sweetening after so many gruelling days in the saddle with no amusement.

So, on impulse, he ignored Frisius’ oft repeated exhortation to keep constantly travelling, and decided to take some extra time for himself. To the innkeeper, he said, “Two nights, if you please.”

Standing a little taller, he thought to himself, You see, Master Frisius, I can make my own travel decisions. Thank you very much. There is no need to coddle me so.

The innkeeper waved over one of the young lads who did all the chores and bade him show the new guest to his room. It was small, but he was the only occupant, so that was a bonus.

He inspected the pallet bed with its thin straw mattress and decided against using it. At least there are no fleas in my bedroll, he thought, as he spread it out, ready for later that evening.

A delicious aroma was wafting up the stairs, and Dee’s stomach was growling loudly. So, leaving his belongings locked in the room, he hurried down to the ground floor of the inn, craving a good meal.

He devoured an entire bowlful and ordered a second serving of the delicious chicken stew. The barmaid proudly said the good taste was partly a result of the special seasoning and partly because it was cooked slowly in wine.

He lingered over this second helping, now that his appetite was sated. As he supped, he looked around the room and noticed an attractive young woman who accompanied a rough older man at the bar. She was a rare beauty, a little older than himself, but with flawless skin and red hair framing a face that a goddess would be proud of.

He kept glancing toward her, finding it harder and harder to take his eyes off her and concentrate on his meal.

While the older man ordered another drink for himself, she turned and scanned the room and saw him staring at her, their eyes meeting for a few brief moments. He felt his neck and ears burn with embarrassment and he quickly looked down at the table, cursing himself for being a childish fool.

He concentrated on finishing his meal until the temptation became too great and he finally looked up again.

The man threw a coin on the bar, rose, and grasping the woman’s wrist, he led her out of the inn. She made no protest, except with her eyes, which sought out Dee’s own before she left the building.

Was she looking at me? Pleading with me, perhaps? Did she want rescuing from the brute that dragged her out?

He shook his head. No. I am imagining it, methinks. Not everyone needs rescuing. But ah, how pretty she was! Too pretty for a poor scholar like me, alas!

He repaired to his room, but found that sleep didn’t come as easily as he hoped. Instead, the woman’s pale face swam from the mist and her pleading green eyes sought out his own. What nameless horror awaits her outside the inn?

Sleep, when it came, was fitful.

The next day, standing in the street outside the inn, Dee gazed longingly at the castle; What wonders might I find if I could explore those towers?

“That’s the archbishop’s castle,” said a melodious voice behind him.

He turned and found himself face to face with the woman from the previous night.

She smiled, and her green eyes sparkled, “You’ve been staring up at it for a couple of minutes. Do you have business there? Perhaps you are a priest?” With a moue of distaste, she conveyed the possibility of disappointment if that suggestion were true.

Surprised as he was to see her, he frantically searched for words to dispel her incorrect assumption. “A priest? No, no. Certainly not. I’m a scholar. I’m training to be a lawyer in Leuven.”

“Leuven? That’s a long way from here. What are you doing in Reims?”

Dee continued gazing at the woman, mesmerised, as she twirled a ringlet of hair around her finger. Sunlight twinkled on the small green stone set in the face of a ring she wore. Her lips parted as she licked the hair into her mouth and sucked it - her eyes never leaving his.

“Reims? Just visiting. Admiring the castle.” Luckily, the explanation slipped out without conscious thought as he watched the strands of hair being rolled between her lips.

“Make way. Make way,” shouted a carter, leading two lumbering oxen and a tall-sided wagon.

Dee may have heard the warning cry, but the words didn’t register.

The woman smiled as she linked her arm through Dee’s and led him out of danger to the side of the street.

She smells of honeysuckle, he thought, as a light breeze wafted her shoulder-length hair toward him.

Leaning close, her lips mere inches from his, she breathed, “Why don’t I give you a tour of the city? Introduce you to its charms?”

“There is nothing I would like more,” he said, although perhaps for the first time in his young life he realised there were, actually, a couple of things he would like even more.

“I’m Arrabella. Arrabella de Nemours,” she said, as she led him down the street, still arm in arm. “What’s your name?”

The rest of the day was a blur for Dee.

Never before had he formed such a strong connection to anyone so quickly, and never with such a beautiful woman.

He greedily watched her every movement; the turn of her head, the sway of her hips, the little crease in her forehead as she tried to decide what pastry to order from the bakery they visited.

Arrabella took him to the cathedral and showed him the chapel where she prayed for her father. She explained how her parents had died young and her older brother now controlled her life. Dee sighed with relief, realising he had been afraid of a host of other explanations for the gruff older man and his proprietorial actions.

As darkness fell, they found their way back to the Blue Cockerel. Dee ordered a jug of red wine when Arrabella claimed it was her favourite, even though he would normally choose beer.

Heads together, they talked and laughed into the evening, Dee’s mind swirling with possibilities such as he had never dreamt before.

At her prompting, he went to refill the jug at the bar.

Returning toward their corner, he saw her fiddling with her ring. Boldly, he sat on the bench beside her. Their arms bumped together and a thrill of excitement surged through him.

As he put the jug on the table, he saw a spot of blood on the back of his hand and surreptitiously wiped it onto his hose, silently chiding himself for his clumsiness.

Arrabella was smiling, and his heart lifted. She edged closer to him until their hips were touching. He felt the heat of her thigh through their clothes. He ached to hold her in his arms. With a shaking hand, he poured more wine for both of them, spilling some on the table.

He drank deeply from his beaker, trying to mask his discomfort. Maybe it worked, because soon his riot of feelings quieted enough for him to resume their conversation.

They spoke of the heavens and the planets. Well, he was doing the speaking. He gushed about the upcoming conjunction of Mars and Venus. Then she said something strange.

“There will never be such a conjunction, John, not in our lifetimes.”

He rolled the phrase around his mind a few times, but no, it made no sense at all. His head swam as he tried to understand what she could mean. He thought so hard that a great pain erupted behind his eyes and he squeezed them shut as he massaged his temples, but to no avail.

He opened his eyes again but something was wrong - the lamps must have guttered because the tavern was dim and getting dimmer by the second. He slurred his words, “Arrabella, are you feeling alright? I think the wine might be off.”

“Let’s go to your room, John, mon amour. Lean on me.”

Dee stumbled from the bar and somehow managed the stairs to his room. He fumbled in the dark but dropped his key and staggered back against the wall behind him, another wave of pain rippling through his head. He couldn’t see anything anymore, but he knew Arrabella was there because he could still feel her arm around his waist and her sweet breath caressing his cheek.

Distantly, he heard the key jangle and the lock click, then he staggered into the room and fell upon his bedroll.

He clicked his tongue in irritation, as he silently berated himself; Very classy John. That’s no way to make a good impression.

He tried to pull off his boots, but in the dark he couldn’t find his feet.

Maybe if I stop struggling and just gather my strength for a moment, he thought, and he tried to still the chaos of his mind and his body.

Maybe he succeeded, because the next sound from him was a ragged intake of breath and a light snore.

He dreamed of a whirlwind swirling through the room.

It threw his cape and spare clothes around and around.

Then his panniers went, lifting off the floor, books spilling out, being tossed like leaves in a gale.

Then the storm caught himself, momentarily rolling him over toward the wall as his bedroll was yanked free and fluttered around. When he flopped back onto the floorboards he saw the bedding hanging on the wall for long seconds, pinned there by the fury of the maelstrom.

On the plus side, at least he could see again, however hazy, in the dull light that had returned to the room.

His satchel was swept in an instant from beneath his head, which bounced against the floor with a dull thud and sparked bright lights through his mind, his eyes stinging with a thousand pin-pricks.

He forced his eyelids open again just enough to see a blood-red Horus, the bird-headed god of the Egyptians, rear up from the darkness, and cry out an exultation, before leaving the room with Arrabella.

Then all the remaining light left the world.

Chapter 6 - Realisation

Friday the 20th of June 1550

Reims, France

Loss and shame

The blacksmith continued beating the hot iron on the anvil.

Boom, clang, boom.

With every heavy blow, orange and yellow sparks flew high in the air before dimming to red and floating languidly to the floor.

A pause.

John Dee could see the last of the sparks falling and fading even though he knew his eyes were closed - because he was squeezing them tightly against the light and the noise. His heart tripped rapidly in his chest as though trying to outrun the hammering.

What black magic is this?

The hammering started again. Boom, bang, clang.

“Make it stop”, he whimpered.

Frantically, he struggled to free his unresponsive hands from the unseen restraint that was in fact a twisted blanket, before clamping them tightly over his ears. He could hardly feel them. They were like lumps of clay on the end of his arms.

The pounding continued, if more dully.

Rolling onto his side, he attempted to stand. He got onto his knees before his stomach clenched and he gasped for breath. The effort left him with a sour taste in his mouth and a sore belly.

His throat and mouth were tingling like an angry wasp had rampaged through them when finding no escape.

Oh, let it escape. Let me escape!

He tried to lick his lips, but his teeth felt like razors, scratching his tongue whenever he tried.

He tipped forward until his forehead touched the cool wooden floor. It helped. A little, anyway.

Feet ran up and down a nearby staircase, and in his mind, the blacksmith started pounding on the horseshoe again. No more, no more.

The fireworks were less this time, but he stayed curled over until the spinning of his mind lessened and the noise was gone.

Still holding onto his head, lest it explode, he slowly straightened and knelt fully upright. Twitching open his eyelids, he squinted at the world.

Too-bright sunshine was streaming in through a half-open door, beyond which he could see a stairwell heading down. He swivelled his eyes, slowly, oh so slowly, preferring to avoid too much movement of his head, and surveyed a small room littered with clothes and books. My clothes, he realised. My books.

A shoulder bag lay on top, the buckles undone and the flap gaping open.

My satchel!

Panicking, he lunged forward to grab the bag, but a crippling pain shot through his eyes and into his head. He clamped his hands to his ears again and waited for the agony to pass, tears streaming unchecked down his cheeks.

Argh. Slowly. Lentamente. Doucement.

Where am I? Oh, I remember. An inn in Reims. I should speak French, not English, and not Italian. Doucement.

He shuffled closer and pulled the bag to him, clawing through the contents.

There is something missing…something important…what is it?

Oh, no. The golden statue of the falcon! I’m supposed to deliver it to Paris. Where is it?

He frantically searched through the detritus of his belongings, tossing clothes and books aside. He forgot where he had looked, so searched everything again.

This cannot be! It cannot be gone!

He flopped back down onto his blanket, one hand covering his face.

Bang, bang, bang.

Peeking through slitted fingers, he saw someone hurrying down the stairs.

I was with Arrabella! Where is she? Is she alright?

Oh, no! I remember. She was taken. Is she safe?

Arrabella kidnapped, and the statue taken from me.

Argh! He slammed a fist down on the floorboards as his anger built.

Gingerly, he rolled over again and struggled up, stage by stage until he was standing. Unsteady, to be sure, but standing.

He waited for the roiling of his stomach to subside.

What should I do? Think!

Return to Leuven?

It would dismay Frisius.

Reality slowly dawned.

All that the courier endured and the trust he placed in me…and I…I got drunk and have been played for a fool. The statue stolen away like honey from a baby.

I can’t face going back. I’m a disgrace.

And Paris! I haven’t given the lectures yet. If I don’t do that, then I will be letting Gerard down as well as Frisius and the courier.

I will have to go on to Paris.

But not until I have searched this whole rotten town for the kidnapper and thief!

Treatment

Dee paused at the bottom of the stairs. Slipping and sliding, he had made it to the bottom without falling - so that was something. He had rolled his ankle part-way down, but not seriously. His vision was swimming and a penetrating pain was jabbing away behind his eyes.

Clinging to the doorframe, he peered dimly around the courtyard of the inn.

He spied a hand-pump and water tub in the middle of the yard and stumbled over to it, gratefully plunging his head into the frigid water. He kept his head under for as long as he could stand it, revelling as it dulled the throbbing and restored his senses. Just when he thought his ears might fall off from the cold, he pulled out with a shuddering gasp for breath, water cascading around him.

I need to find an apothecary, he realised.

Lurching into the street, he staggered a little way before stopping and wondering which way to go. Well-dressed matrons and even servants gave him a wide berth as they passed his disheveled form. Some even crossed the street to avoid him completely.

Swaying, he looked up and down the street.

To his right was the looming bulk of the gatehouse punctuating the city wall. There were only a couple of hovels in that direction.

So he turned left and trudged down the middle of the road, peering hard at the stores as he passed, desperate to read their signs with his still dim eyes.

His face screwed up with concentration as he tried to remember the sequence of stores from his walk with Arrabella just one day before, although his focus had been almost exclusively on her. Wasn’t there a herbalist next to the leatherworker’s store?

His memory served him well and a few moments later he staggered through the doorway, setting a small bell tinkling.

Immediately, a short man appeared from behind a beaded curtain. Moving faster than his portly frame would suggest, he produced a stool and guided Dee onto it just as his legs buckled.

The herbalist kept up a constant stream of friendly babble as he pried and pinched at Dee’s mostly non-responsive hands, then with a deft movement of his pudgy thumb, he pulled back Dee’s eyelid and stared into the bloodshot depths.

Dee just surrendered to the examination, his strength spent.

“Were you out drinking last night, perhaps?”

“I had a glass or two - but not so much as to cause this! A splitting headache and shooting stars behind my eyes. I can barely feel my hands and tongue. They are thick and clumsy.”

“Ah. Unusual, yes. Diagnosis may take a moment or two.” He disappeared behind the curtain, only to return a few moments later carrying a thick book, bound in covers of heavily tooled leather. He opened it on a little counter at the rear of the room and leafed through it, humming happily to himself.

Dee felt nauseous. “If you could hurry…”

“Yes, yes, of course, not to be worrying. I am getting there.

“Ah, here we are,” he muttered, as his finger traced down the page. “Yes, I am sure. This is a perfect match for your symptoms. Someone has poisoned you with Wolfsbane. That is not something you would do by accident, I think. Someone not so nice must have given it to you. Is there someone, perhaps, who would do you harm?”

“No, of course not.

“Well, not that I can think of…” his voice trailed off as a memory surfaced of returning to Arrabella with more wine. As he had sat back down, there was a sharp pain in the back of his hand. “A splinter I thought…”

He tried to inspect his hand, but it kept swirling in and out of focus.

The herbalist caught his hand and peered closely at the back. “There is a small bloodstain and a pin-prick. But no splinter. Somebody stabbed you, young man, with a pin perhaps.”

It cannot be! Surely she wouldn’t have?

“Well, well. There is no real antidote for Wolfsbane, anyway. We must just hope the dosage was too little to kill you. Instead, we shall focus on reducing the effects. Be waiting here, if you please.”

Dee leaned back against the plastered wall. He blinked away the sweat that dripped into his eyes. He was going nowhere.

Soon, the kindly man returned and forced a beaker into Dee’s hand. “Drink this, then rest a while. We will repeat every half hour.”

Dee stayed all morning, gradually recovering a semblance of normal feeling and vision.

Some time later, the apothecary administered a last cup of icy water laced with brandy. “One more. Go on - drink up. A lucky escape you have had. If you had taken any longer to visit me, you might not have recovered at all.”

The apothecary demanded a steep fee for his wisdom and care - but Dee paid willingly, knowing he had barely survived.

Returning to the street, he blinked in the bright afternoon sun. He decided to retrace his route of the previous day, asking everyone he met whether they had seen Arrabella.

He started with the bakery, then moved on to the cathedral’s chapel.

The story was the same at both locations: Yes; we remember you both from yesterday. Who could forget such young lovers? She was delightful. Followed by: No, we don’t remember seeing her before or since. We don’t think she’s local. But, surely you know where she’s from? Don’t you?

As twilight fell, he returned to the Blue Cockerel, tired, hungry, and confused.

He didn’t ask around the inn - they must already think him a fool, and he didn’t feel like rubbing salt in his own wounds.

He took an ale to a corner table. Not the table he’d shared with Arrabella - he couldn’t bear to look in that direction.

He sipped at his drink and stared into the beaker gloomily. Running over the same thoughts again and again.

I know nothing except her name - and that might be false!

I had assumed she was from Reims, because of the chapel … but the priest had never heard of a family called de Nemours.

So, she probably isn’t from Reims at all.

Maybe everything she told me is a lie. Maybe she didn’t even like me at all?

Where is she from, and what was she doing here?

Was that older man actually her brother? Or an accomplice?

And why did she pick on me?

Could they have known about the falcon? I don’t see how.

What will they do with it? How can I get it back?

The inn was filling up with patrons. There were several already at the other end of the table he had chosen. A young man tentatively sat on the bench beside him.

Dee glanced absently at the youth before returning to his morose thoughts. Who is she? And why me?

A little cough.

Maybe it was market day, and she was visiting. I didn’t see a market, but I was … otherwise engaged.

Another cough.

Dee looked up, irritated.

“I expect you’re upset because your lady friend had to leave so quickly. That would make anyone sad.”

Dee blinked, not comprehending. What?

“Still, maybe you’ll catch up with her on the road? That’s probably your plan, isn’t it? If I had a horse, that’s what I’d do. Canter out after her and...”

Dee interrupted, “You saw Arrabella riding away?”

“That’s a pretty name. Perfect for a pretty lady.”

“But you saw her, you say?”

“Why yes, I just said so. She rode out of the city gates just before they closed last night. She went with the big grumpy fellow. Except he wasn’t grumpy last night. He looked like his ship had come in.”

Dee gawped. He was almost too shocked for words.

“Where? I mean, where did they go? Which direction? Where were they headed?” By now Dee was shaking the lad by the shoulders and several others around the table had turned to watch.

The lad was justifiably alarmed. “Easy friend, easy. They went south, on the Paris road.”

Medart

Dee quickly formed a new plan, muttering to himself.

“Paris! Perfect - I’m heading there, anyway.

“I can start at dawn tomorrow. I don’t need to travel with a group, not this close to Paris. It should be safe enough. So I can go fast.

“When I catch up with them, I can, I can, hmm. What can I do?

“I can’t fight her brother. I am a scholar, not a fighter. Besides, he is twice my size.

“And I could never hurt Arrabella. She drugged me, stole my statue, and likely caused me to break my oath. Oh, and poisoned me almost unto my death, but I could never hurt her.

“I shall follow them, then I shall take back the falcon. Somehow.”

He blinked and looked around him. The only person within earshot was the boy. Dee realised he knew nothing about him. Belatedly, he thought, How can I tell he is not just giving me a false lead? Can I trust the word of a stranger? Ever again?

He took a sip of ale and affected nonchalance. “So you saw them riding toward Paris, did you?”

The boy smiled, no trace of guile on his face. “That’s right. Last night, at sunset, the bell was ringing for vespers and the gates were about to close. I’m really sorry for your loss. I know misfortune can be hard to bear.”

Loss? What does he know of loss? I have just lost my entire future. A beautiful girl, a priceless statue that one man has already died for, my personal and academic reputation, and the respect of my mentors, Frisius and Mercator.

Dee spluttered angrily, disbelief evident in his tone. “What would you know of loss?”

The younger man merely nodded sadly and shared his own story of loss.

“My father has been too ill to work since last summer. Even though I worked all day long and part of every night, I could not earn enough money to pay for the treatments he needed. He finally died in my arms just two months ago.”

Dee flushed with embarrassment.

“I had been continuing his grocery business. Every morning I would buy a few vegetables from the farmers at the edge of town, then take them into the town centre to sell them from my little cart. I could earn enough money for food and for the rent on our house, but little more than that.”

With a sinking feeling, Dee had a premonition of how this tale might end.

“Then one evening I slipped to my knees on a wet cobblestone and my handcart rolled away from me, gathering speed down a slope toward a crowd. I thought for a moment that it would safely glide between everyone and eventually stop without causing much harm, but…”

Dee felt sick to his stomach.

“Somebody tried to stop it, but it was already going too fast. All they managed to do was change its direction. Then it crashed into a pottery stall, breaking some expensive pots and causing a small fire. After that, a fight started. The burghers caught and punished me. I had to pay the potter for the damages and the guildsmen withdrew my vendor’s license, which means I can’t sell in the town square anymore. I had to sell my handcart to pay these debts. So I have left Leuven and am journeying to Paris to seek my fortune there.”

Dee could hardly believe it. A hundred miles away from Leuven, and here helping him was the boy-grocer whose life he had inadvertently helped to destroy. He gulped down some beer to hide his consternation. “What will you do in Paris?”

“Well, my uncle has a workshop in the university district where he prints, binds, and sells books. I will apprentice to him if he lets me.”

Dee brightened up. “I like books.”

They spent the next hour with Dee talking about his favourite books, and how he thought it would be a good livelihood for the lad.

At the end of the evening, the lad revealed his name. He was called Medart.

Part II

“From women’s eyes this doctrine I derive:

They are the ground, the books, the academes

From whence doth spring the true Promethean fire.”

- William Shakespeare. Love’s Labour’s Lost.

Chapter 7 - Circumvallation

Tuesday the 24th of June 1550

Meaux, north-east of Paris, France

de La Ramée

Dee journeyed for three days, desperate to catch up with Arrabella and her supposed brother. Medart travelled with him, mostly jogging alongside. Each afternoon Medart would tire, naturally enough, and Dee allowed him to ride pillion.

The previous night, he had taken a room in a cheap-looking inn called le Bateau. It was on the edge of the Cathedral Quarter of the town of Meaux, north of a broad river called the Marne. All the accommodation closer to the cathedral was much more expensive. As for the Market Quarter, inside a loop of the Marne, well, even the toll to cross the bridge was more than one night’s room and board at le Bateau.

As the rising sun cast long shadows across the inn's stable yard, Dee yawned expansively. Medart sniffed and turned away without speaking.

“What’s wrong? You seem upset.”

At first, the youngster refused to reply. When prompted, he sulkily said, “You worked long into the night, your quill scratching at the page and its shadow dancing in the light of the little candle. I couldn’t sleep until you packed it all away.”

Dee had indeed worked through a couple of mathematical proofs in the margin of his copy of Euclid’s book, Elements, until his stub of a candle failed. He hadn’t considered how it might affect Medart, who had been sharing the room. He belatedly realised how the boy must be far more tired than he was, and yet he had said nothing until pressed.

In his mental ledger that was tracking his relationship with Medart, he guiltily made another entry in the debit column.

They set off with a large group of travellers, all of whom expressed the desire to reach Paris before nightfall.

A well-dressed gentleman rode beside Dee and introduced himself as Pierre de La Ramée.

The name sounded familiar to Dee and for the next few minutes he searched his memory for where he might have heard it before.

“Yes, yes. Peter Ramus. I remember now. Some years ago, you debated various controversial statements concerning Aristotle before the French court. How did that get resolved in the end?”

Ramus looked like he’d rather be anywhere else, but they were on a track in the middle of farmland. There was nowhere else to go.

With a resigned sigh, he recounted his tale.

“I was educated at the Collège de Navarre in Paris. For my thesis, I argued that ‘All the things that Aristotle has said are inconsistent’. The accusation from some of my so-called peers was that I was undermining the foundations of philosophy and religion!

“They forced me to debate this multiple times. Even before the parlement of Paris, and eventually before King Francis himself! Can you imagine?

“In the end, they found me guilty and exiled me from Paris. I felt humiliated and mistreated.

“It was only when Henry became king three years ago, after his father’s death, that they allowed me to resume a position at the Collège.”

Dee was quiet for a beat, then replied tactfully, “I think there is merit in what you claimed. Aristotle’s work does lack structure. Maybe you could improve it, perhaps make it more logically consistent and thus more learnable by students.”

Ramus beamed. “Thank you. Yes. This is what I truly believe. I have started this work already, by publishing a textbook on the subject. If you have time please visit me at the Collège and we could discuss this at length.

“But tell me about yourself. Of course you are English, but you seem reasonably well educated, nonetheless. What are you doing here in France?”

Dee paused as he wondered what he should reveal.

His friend Gerard had been tortured for little more reason than being a well-known cartographer. Can I trust a man I just met? Trusting didn’t work out so well for me in Reims! But there I lost my head, here I am on much safer ground.

He realised that Ramus was looking at him strangely. No doubt wondering what is so complicated that I can’t just say it.

He smiled at Ramus, even though it felt forced, his lips stretching away from his teeth, but decided to tell him the truth. “I’m a colleague of Gerard Mercator, on secondment at Leuven University, from Cambridge University in England. I’m on my way to Paris to lecture on Euclid’s Elements at the Collège Royal. They originally invited Mercator, but he is indisposed, and has sent me in his stead.”

Ramus’ face lit up, and he gushed, “Why, that is wonderful. And you are so young. When are the lectures? I will tell my students. In fact, I will come myself! The lectures will be open to anyone to attend? Yes, of course they will be. That is the way of the Collège Royal.”

The next few hours passed in companionable scholarly conversation, ranging from Euclid to Aristotle, from mathematics to logic.

Paris

Ramus told Dee he had something impressive to show him privately, and plunged off the road onto a narrow track through the woods, beckoning for Dee to follow.

Dee was instantly suspicious and not at all inclined to fall into a potential trap, but Medart volunteered to accompany him. They started down the narrow track, and Dee noticed several other travellers looking intrigued and heard them muttering about needing some excitement. Leaving their baggage in the road, a sizeable contingent followed the trio into the woods.

In the end, a dozen folk were tramping in the footsteps of the older man.

Dee and Medart soon caught up with Ramus, and they emerged onto a small promontory that offered a magnificent vista across the whole of the Seine river basin. Nestling on both sides of the river was a sprawling city surrounded by a clearly visible city wall.

Paris.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” said Ramus as he gazed almost lovingly at the view.

There was an appreciative murmur from the crowd gathered behind.

Startled, Ramus turned and saw his unexpected audience. He threw an accusatory glare at Dee, as though somehow it was Dee’s fault that he was having to share the landscape with so many others. Then he slipped into professorial mode and lectured as he pointed out the most important features.

“Paris.

“It is said to be the largest city in Europe, with a population of more than three hundred thousand souls, and growing bigger all the time.

“You can see the outer defensive wall, of course. A half circle on each side of the river, although this north side of the city, which we call the Right Bank, is quite a lot larger than the south.

“Houses and workshops are already spilling out beyond the wall on this side, engulfing the Abbey of Saint-Antoine-des-Champs which you can clearly see a little closer to us, and approaching the Abbey of Montmartre, further over to the right there.

“In the middle of the river is a densely populated island called the Île de la Cité. That is the heart of the city and also contains lots of administrative buildings. If you look carefully to the right, on the western-most tip of the island, you can see the towers and high walls of the old royal palace. The Parlement of Paris meets there now,” in a scathing aside to Dee, he muttered, “That is where I had to defend my thesis.

“And on the other end of the island, to the left, is the cathedral of Notre-Dame. You can see the two square towers and an admittedly slightly crooked spire.”

“I see it,” responded Dee, “Magnificent.

“It looks like there are several bridges from the north side onto the island and then again across to the south side.”

“Yes, two pairs of bridges. The university colleges are all in the southern part of the city, on the Left Bank.”

“That is where my uncle’s workshop is too,” Medart said.

Ramus growled with displeasure at the interruption.

“The old king, Francis I, or Francis of the large nose, as we call him, was both a warrior and a patron of the arts. Of course, he lost the battle of Pavia to the Habsburg army, back in ’25, partly due to his own rash leadership. They captured him and forced him to sign the Treaty of Madrid. That ceded the entirety of Burgundy to Charles V. So, perhaps he was not the best warrior king ever to reign over France. I am sure history will treat him harshly for that embarrassment.

“But as a patron of the arts, he did rather better, I think. Did you know that the great Italian polymath Leonardo da Vinci answered Francis’ call to come to France, staying until he died in 1519? No? Well, he did.

“Francis also started many monumental building projects. One was to convert the Castle of the Louvre into a palace fit for a king, although that work had barely begun when the king passed away three years ago. You can just see what is mostly a building site on this side of the Seine, just to the right of the Parlement,” he said, pointing.

“His son, King Henry II, has allowed the work to continue, but there is still much to do.”

It seemed to Dee that Ramus had something of a love-hate relationship with King Francis. Ramus could probably have talked all day about Paris and its magnificent palaces, but Dee had a thief to catch, so he wanted to restart the journey.

Spotting movement in the trees halfway down the hill, Dee grasped the opportunity to make an announcement to the crowd.

“Our erstwhile companions are making swift progress down the hillside, gentlemen. We should follow them before we are separated.”

The crowd muttered agreement and drifted back down the track toward the road.

Ramus couldn’t resist making a final comment to Dee.

“Our entry into Paris will be through the gatehouse next to that castle there, young Master Dee.”

He pointed to a formidable structure rearing up from the wall, surrounded by a moat. “That is La Bastille de Saint-Antoine. Ironically, it was first built to keep your forefathers out, the English.” At this, he sniggered slightly, “Mind you, it is an ill-fated place. Its designer was also its first prisoner, Hugh Aubriot, the Provost of Paris.”

“You should know, Peter. My forefathers were Welsh, not English.”

Ramus blushed at his faux pas.

Shrugging, Dee continued, “Having said that, they may well have been part of the English armies that the castle was built to repulse. Regardless, I thank you for the warning. I have no intention of going inside that fearsome looking Bastille, or indeed to any other dungeon. Passing through the gatehouse will be a sufficient adventure for me, I assure you.”

Chapter 8 - Registration

Wednesday the 25th of June 1550

The Left Bank, Paris, France

First day in Paris

“Allez!”

“Are you getting up?”

“You know you can’t stay here all morning, don’t you?”

“The landlord will throw you into the street!”

The other lodgers who had shared the room above the inn shuffled about anxiously in the doorway before the first of them shrugged and left. The rest rapidly followed, throwing out a parting comment.

“Suit yourself. We’re off.”

Dee remained on his bedroll.

Immobile. Eyes wide open.

Staring at the grimy ceiling.

Absently, he noted that the lath was exposed in the corner above him. He hadn’t seen that last night when he and the others had trooped in. It had been dark and everyone had been exhausted, whether from a day at work or a day on the road. Not that it mattered, he wouldn’t need to stay here a second night if all went well.

Except, it wasn’t going well. He was terrified.

A sheen of sweat covered him. He could feel droplets materialising on his forehead.

It was two weeks since he had agreed with Frisius that he would give the lectures instead of Mercator. He had not given it much thought at the time. After all, he regularly gave lectures in Leuven, usually to other post-graduate students. Sometimes to five, or even six, students at a time.

This morning, it had finally crashed into his consciousness. There could be several dozen students at this Paris lecture.

His mind switched tracks again, as it had a hundred times this morning.

A dying man entrusted me with a valuable statue, and I promised him, on my oath as a Christian, that I would deliver it to Paris for him. And now here I am in Paris - but without the statue! A young woman conned me, as if I was an innocent coney. A beautiful woman, to be sure. But still, it only took her one day to catch me, gut me, and serve me up for dinner.

He felt sick. His heart rate increased some more.

Perspiration ran down his temple and dripped into his eye. He blinked it away, but the stinging sensation endured.

And the Collège Royal is a prestigious Parisian institution!

If my lecture flops, or I freeze up, then my career might never recover. The echo of my failure will reverberate all the way to Cambridge. My detractors at St John’s will confidently state, “That is why we didn’t make him a Fellow. He’s a charlatan with no real learning and he’s a Catholic to boot!”

He realised he was wheezing, gasping for air, and he panicked again, thinking he might die here, in a dirty room, above a cheap inn. An unknown traveller. His body to be thrown into the next communal burial pit - and that’s if he was lucky. Maybe his body would just be stripped of valuables and tossed into the river.

His vision went dim. He could no longer see the ceiling. Just darkness with small flashes of light, like cannons at night on a distant hillside - like King Francis’ battle at Pavia as explained by de la Ramée. His chest heaved with the exertion, but still he didn’t get enough air.

He made himself think of happy times and tried to slow his breathing; Carousing with friends. Working on an intricate instrument with Gerard. The feather-light touch of Arrabella’s hand on his arm, and the honeysuckle smell of her hair.

Crash! “Up and out, you lazy good-for-nothings!”

The landlord shouting at the occupants of the room next door.

Dee squeezed his eyes shut, breathed deeply, and opened them again. He could see the ugly, stained ceiling once more.

He rolled over and, after a brief moment, forced himself up, collected his belongings, and staggered from the room before the landlord troubled him.

Out on the street, he tried to gather his thoughts.

What should be my first priority? Report in at the Collège, or hunt for Arrabella?

Someone bustled down the street, bent double, with a huge bundle of clothing balanced on their back. He couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. The cloth bumped Dee’s head as it passed him.

The street was teeming with citizens, tradespeople, and scholars. It was ten times busier than Leuven and a hundred times busier than sleepy Cambridge.

I’ll never find Arrabella without a proper plan. I should have chased her faster on the road - at least there were fewer people there!

Another porter approached, this time carrying lengths of wood and twigs. Dee stepped away smartly. Those sharp twigs could have your eye out, he thought.

His stomach growled.

Breakfast.

After eating, he started toward the inn to check on his horse, but mere steps into the trip, he pulled himself up short. I’m just prevaricating. I should go to the Collège and announce my presence and availability to give the lectures. Then I can find more long-term lodging and only then can I make a plan to hunt down Arrabella.

Oronce Finé - A fine mathematician

Dee considered the row of four-storey timber-framed buildings that stood before him.

The small windows with their criss-cross pattern of leading hinted at a dark interior. He thought it would be unattractive for studying, but might be an advantage for lectures.

Unbidden, he thought of Frisius and Mercator, and the trust they had placed in him with this engagement. He wondered whether his father, Rowland Dee, would think it a satisfactory outcome for his investment in his education; first at Chelmsford Chantry School, then at Cambridge.

John felt it was a tremendous step for a mere twenty-three-year-old student, but despite his early morning dread, it was a challenge he was determined to face.

He repeated a mantra under his breath. “Gerard trusts that I can deliver. Gerard trusts that I can deliver.”

He took a deep breath and leaned heavily on the double doors to push them inward.

A footman greeted him as soon as he crossed the threshold, enquiring of his purpose. With more confidence than he felt, he named his quarry; “Monsieur Oronce Finé. Professeur de Mathématiques.”

He didn’t have to wait very long.

Two men in fine knee length black capes approached him, continuing a conversation between themselves. They halted before Dee and one of them looked him up and down, and, apparently not liking what he saw, he merely held out his hand.

Dee knew better than to shake it. Rather, he placed Mercator’s letter into Finé’s hand and swept a low bow, then stepped back a half a pace. He kept the bended position for a few moments until he heard the amused voice of the second man, “Arise. We are not royalty, young man.”

Oronce Finé skimmed the letter, his face hardening as he did so, then handed it to his colleague.

“What a disappointment. Monsieur Mercator is too ill to travel and in his place, he sends … you.”

The colour drained from Dee’s face.

“No matter how highly Mercator regards you, and I admit he does praise you, I do not understand how he thinks you can succeed in this engagement. Therefore, I do not see how you are going to suffice for our needs. Indeed, you may be harmful to our cause!

“Unfortunately, the schedule is already set. The first lecture is on the twelfth of August, followed by another in early September. Du Hamel here will explain the rest. Good day to you, young sir.”

And with that, he doffed his cap politely and returned whence he had come.

The second man winked, and with a smile he hooked his arm through Dee’s, and drew him away toward a side room. In a hushed tone he explained the situation as they went.

“Do not be downcast, Jean. You don’t mind if I call you Jean, do you? It is easier for me to pronounce. My name is Pascal du Hamel. I am, if you like, the second in command here at the Collége, for mathematics at least.

“I apologise on behalf of Monsieur Finé, but you caught him on something of a bad day. He is fighting off a rival, Monsieur Louis de Sacy, who dares to challenge him for the Mathematics Chair. De Sacy has the impertinence to claim that Monsieur Finé is failing to uphold the principles of the Collège, and is therefore damaging its reputation. He has even claimed that it is dishonouring the memory of the late king.”

“Excuse me, Monsieur du Hamel,” interrupted Dee.

“Please, call me Pascal”

“Excuse me, Pascal, but what are the principles of the Collège?”

“Our goals are twofold, and yes, these were laid down by King Francis himself;

“Firstly, we are to provide lectures to the largest number of listeners that we can.

“Secondly, we are to serve as a model for the other universities and colleges through the printing of books.”

“I see. So King Francis set the Collège up to introduce and popularise your subjects to the population. You utilise lectures and books, presumably with the long-term objective of educating the entire population, or a goodly portion of it.”

“You comprehend exactly, Jean.”

“That is certainly a noble aim. One that I hope King Edward emulates in England.”

“You should recognise, Jean, that it is not entirely altruistic. A better educated population drives up commercial activity, which the king will then tax and thus increase the royal revenues.”

“Of course, but still it starts with spreading knowledge. And this must be working fairly well, because didn’t Monsieur Finé recently publish a book? What was it called now? Hmm. Ah, I have it. De mundi sphaera. Although, perhaps that was printed a couple of years ago now. I have a copy back in my rooms in Cambridge. It is a fairly basic introduction to astronomy, covering simple methods and equipment, but has excellent illustrations, especially the heart-shaped world map projection.”

“Fairly basic - I will be sure to mention that to Oronce. No doubt it will brighten his day.”

Dee coloured slightly, belatedly realising his faux pas.

“And the other goal - to lecture to the largest number of people. Perhaps Monsieur Finé is disappointed because he does not expect lectures by myself, an unknown scholar, to bring a large audience. Therefore, this goal will not be served.”

“Correct. This is why we originally invited Monsieur Mercator - he has a fine international reputation and is known for engaging his audience. We felt a lecturer of his stature would have helped to diminish the present criticism.

“Alas, now we shall have to restart our thinking and conjure success from elsewhere.

“But come, don’t be downhearted. That is our problem to solve and not yours.

“Have you arranged for accommodation yet? No? Then allow me to provide a list of recommended establishments and a letter of introduction for you. You have a few weeks to prepare for the first lecture and perhaps to improve your accent.”

Chapter 9 - Familiarisation

Wednesday the 25th of June 1550

Collège Royal

Denis Delacroix

It was with a heavy heart, despite Pascal’s attempts to mollify him, that Dee left the Collège and headed toward the University of Sorbonne.

Pascal had told him that behind the grand university buildings was a tangle of small streets. They contained an eclectic array of tradespeople that supported the work of the scholars. The area had an international atmosphere, as many were foreigners. “Perhaps you will fit in well there?” he had suggested in a well-meaning way, although to Dee it sounded quite patronising.

As he approached the Grande Rue Saint-Jacques, he slowed down and marvelled at the volume of traffic. An enormous variety of people were streaming into the city, from the Porte Saint-Jacques. He realised that each of the main gates in the city wall was called a Porte. The Porte Saint-Jacques was a few hundred yards south of the university.

On the Rue des Cordeliers, he found the first couple of names on his list, but other students already occupied the accommodation.

Frowning with concentration, he tried to read the next entry in Pascal’s spidery hand.

What is this next one? Does it say, ‘Rue Vache’? Well, I don’t like the sound of ‘Cow Street’, so forget that one. What else do we have?

‘M. Delacroix. Rue du Relieur.’

Hmm. What is that? Shining Street? No wait, it is better than that. Bookbinder Street!

He took directions from a passing youth and cheerfully headed further west away from the Sorbonne.

Walking down the Rue des Cordeliers, he kept glancing up, eyeing the lofty tower of the Abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Prés in the distance. According to the youth’s instructions, as soon as the top-most arched window of the tower was fully visible, he should turn left into Rue du Relieur.

Some minutes later, he turned onto the side street.

His pace slowed to a crawl as he approached each workshop. Craning his neck, he would check the name on the hanging signboard, then peer inside the establishment. So many books, printing presses, and related paraphernalia. He just knew he was going to enjoy his sojourn in this cultural paradise.

First came the workshop of Jean Dupré, a large older building with a steady stream of clients.

Nearby was the affluent shopfront of Antoine Vérard, the window displaying a range of elegant Book of Hours.

The further from the university he went, the smaller the establishments seemed to be. However, the excitement they stirred in Dee did not lessen. He was an avid connoisseur of books.

A quieter pair of shops belonging to Josse Bade, and Geoffroy Tory, were followed by a workshop that was still operating despite being mid-renovation, perhaps even being enlarged. It was named for Robert Estienne, and seemed to be doing a steady trade in smaller, albeit cheaper books.

A few doors further down, nigh upon the defensive city wall, he found the altogether humbler workshop of Monsieur Delacroix.

Although it was clearly a less affluent building, it still boasted three floors. Dee stood and observed it for a few minutes, trying to get a feel for the place. He couldn’t help but notice that a steady stream of customers came and went, mostly ladies, sometimes elegant, sometimes careworn. None of these customers stayed overly long, and he saw no sign of books in their baggage as they exited. Perhaps M. Delacroix delivered all his books?

Notwithstanding the mystery of the patrons who had no books, Dee enthusiastically entered the premises.

The ground floor seemed to be one large room, housing three functions. Book sales were being conducted from the front portion near the windows where the light was good. There were two desks for clerks in the middle of the room, creating a natural division. Then, far in the rear, was the workshop itself.

In the sales area, an older man in a stained apron was frowning while he listened to a pair of well-dressed gentlemen explain the book they wanted printing. His eyes flickered over Dee, sizing him up in an instant. His hand gestured five minutes, and he continued his conversation.

Dee was in no hurry.

He gazed raptly at the shelves lined with a variety of works bound in several types of cover; rough leather, smooth tooled vellum, velvet, wooden boards and even some of the newer pasteboards.

A pungent smell assaulted his senses, and he looked over at the source. Toward the rear of the workshop stood a massive machine. It had a vertical wooden frame with a large central wooden screw, and at the bottom, a tray held a rectangular array of letters.

The printing press!

A pair of youths were applying aromatic black ink onto the tray of letters. Every time they dipped their brush into the ink, the smell roiled over the rest of the workshop.

Dee sauntered over as close as he dared and watched intently. One lad scraped away the excess ink and let it drip into their bucket, then carefully placed an overlarge sheet of damp paper over the tray. The second youth had already started winding the screw to lower an upper plate down onto the paper. They had the process organised down to a rhythmically efficient movement. The paper was held for several seconds between the plates, then the screw reversed.

This must be the critical step, thought Dee, peering closer. You wouldn’t want to smudge the printed impression you have so painstakingly made.

He need not have feared. The first lad peeled away the paper in a single flowing movement and hung it to dry on a suspended line at the very back of the shop, like a laundress hanging out clothing.

Their cycle started again with fresh ink being applied. Dee backed away quickly from the potent smell and almost knocked over a matron hurrying through the sales area to a small door on the left of the store. After apologising for his clumsiness, he watched her disappear through the door, which was quickly closed behind her.

Curious, he started toward the door but was interrupted by the proprietor, who called out to him, wheezing a little from the effort.

“You must be a visitor to the University, and a young one at that. Is it accommodation you are seeking, sir?”

The man waved Dee toward a pair of chairs, explaining that he couldn’t stand for too long without his back paining him.

The man introduced himself as Monsieur Delacroix, but insisted that Dee call him Denis.

There was a pleasant room available on the third floor at the back of the building. It was spartan but clean and could be rented by the month. There was even a barn out back where he could stable his horse for a tiny surcharge.

After a little haggling, they agreed the price, with meals and horse stabling, all included. Dee had budgeted for a much higher amount and was already calculating how many books he might afford with the surplus funds.

Dee judged Monsieur Delacroix to be a kindly man, perhaps overly kind, as the haggling had been rather one-sided. Sadly, his health seemed poor. Quite a lot of wheezing had interrupted his descriptions of the household and the neighbourhood.

He started enthusiastically quizzing Delacroix about the printing business. With an apology, his new landlord put off the questions, explaining he had a client appointment in the salesroom. As he struggled to stand, he said he would happily answer Dee’s questions when he was free later in the day.

Dinner introductions

Dee yawned as he smoothed out his bedroll.

He had an entire room to himself in the Delacroix house, albeit a small room. Now it was littered with his unpacked belongings, which were mainly spare clothes and books.

He fingered the empty satchel, a sudden anger tightening his chest. I will find you, Arrabella, and I’ll recover the falcon statue so that I can keep my word. And this time you will be the coney in my trap!

A knock on his door startled him from his introspection.

Cautiously, he inched it open, only to see one of the printer’s apprentices looking bored.

“Monsieur Delacroix said I should fetch you down to dinner. We all eat together in the kitchen.”

When Dee didn’t immediately move, he continued, “You should come now. It is ready. Allons-y, vite.”

The kitchen was small and crowded, but above all, filled with a delicious aroma. Dee’s mouth watered in anticipation.

Monsieur Delacroix, sitting at the head of the table, insisted on introducing everyone.

“Our new guest is a visiting scholar from Leuven, and before that, from England. Monsieur John Dee. Please extend every courtesy to him while he is a guest in my house.

“John, let me introduce you to our happy little family here.

“These two hearty lads are Guillaume, who fetched you from your room just now, and Claude, who, despite appearances, is not his twin brother. In fact, he is not even related. Both are learning the printing trade as my apprentices. They live here on the third floor. Their room is at the back, just past your own.”

“Bonsoir, John. Our room has a superb view over the city wall, to the meadows, and toward the abbey. We can see cows and pigs and everything,” said Claude excitedly. He looked to be about ten or eleven years old.

“And Marie here is our cook and manager of the household. We would be a chaotic family indeed, without her organisational prowess.”

Marie, who looked about ninety to Dee, bobbed her head carefully, but otherwise carried on serving the pottage.

Dee glanced pointedly at two empty chairs, and was about to ask, when angry voices sounded from the courtyard at the back of the house.

“That flask you broke contained two days’ work, you clumsy dolt. Next time I need help, I shall not be so foolish as to accept your offers. I will leave you breaking papa’s machinery instead.”

“Please, no,” muttered Delacroix, just loud enough for Dee to hear.

The rear door banged open and in swept a young woman followed by a lad who was clearly trying, but failing, to apologise for something. Presumably the broken flask.

They both stopped, embarrassed, as they realised the rest of the household was already assembled at the table and had turned as one to stare at them.

The girl regained her poise first, haughtily announcing as she approached the table, “Well, really papa. You can have him back. He creates more work than he finishes!”

She pulled her coif from her head and glanced around, as though looking for somewhere to put it. Failing to spot anywhere, she just pushed it deep into a pocket at the front of her smock. There was a clinking sound from the pocket, as though several tiny bottles were secreted there.

Dee looked at her with interest. She’s not a classical beauty, not like Arrabella, but then perhaps she isn’t a heartless thieving poisoner either?

She had a ribbon wound through tight braids that kept most of her auburn hair neat and tidy atop her head. Just a couple of ringlets fell fashionably to frame her creamy cheeks that still showed pink spots from her argument.

She saw his gaze and her dark eyes flashed dangerously. “Who are you looking at?”

Before Dee could fashion a suitable reply, the young lad behind her shouted out excitedly, “Master John Dee!”

Bubbling with excitement, he rushed over to the still seated Dee and clapped him on the shoulders.

“Everyone! This is John Dee. Uncle Denis, this is the gentleman I told you about yesterday, who lost his lady-friend in Reims, and let me ride his horse as we journeyed from there to Paris. He is a mighty scholar and spent most of the journey talking with a professor from the university. They talked and talked for hours and I don’t think I understood any of it, but then…”

“Thank you, Medart. Yes, we have already had introductions,” interjected Delacroix wryly.

Dee cringed inside when Medart mentioned Arrabella. The embarrassment was almost unbearable.

He glanced at the young woman and thought he saw several expressions chase themselves across her face. Lord, what must she think? Surprise? Interest? Scorn? He wasn’t at all sure.

“Medart, would you please sit down so we can all eat? We don’t want our stew to get cold.” Delacroix seemed uninterested in Dee’s love life, failed or otherwise.

Nonetheless, Medart kept up a constant chatter as they broke bread and everyone tucked into their food.

Anxious to change the topic, Dee blurted out, “This is delicious, Marie. A really lovely flavour. What is it?”

“That will be the herbs I gave Marie: thyme, rosemary, and some rubbed sage,” interrupted the young woman opposite him. “I’m Madeleine Delacroix, by the way. The youngest licensed apothecary in Paris. And the best.”

She held out her hand, and bemused, he shook it and felt compelled to respond in kind, “John Dee. Mathematician, cartographer, and astronomer. The youngest lecturer ever at the Collège Royal. And apparently I’m also the most disappointing, even before I deliver my first lecture,” he shrugged, colouring again.

He thought she held onto his hand for a moment longer than necessary, while looking at him frankly for the first time. Is she perhaps a little impressed?

Abruptly, she let go of his hand and turned to Marie and engaged her in some quiet conversation about herbs for the rest of the meal. She didn’t so much as glance his way again. Apparently not very impressed then, he thought, chagrined.

After the meal, Medart begged his Uncle Denis for a day off soon, in order to go with Dee to explore the city.

Delacroix told him firmly, “Medart, if you are to earn your keep as an apprentice, you have to work. Not go running through the city like a country bumpkin.” As the boy’s face fell, he softened the blow somewhat. “On Saturday, you can go to Les Halles and buy me some cloth for book covers and some fresh vegetables for Marie. She finds it difficult to make the journey herself these days.”

As the room slowly emptied, Dee kept glancing toward Madeleine, but she continued chattering with Marie, oblivious, as they both left the room.

Petit tour

On the next Saturday morning it was still dark when Denis gave Dee a small bag of coins and a strict admonishment to stick to the shopping list they had written out the night before. Then, for ‘safety’, he passed him a rough map of the city, complete with major roads and some of the landmarks they might pass, so the two young men wouldn’t get lost. Well, not too lost anyway.

“I’ll expect you back by mid-afternoon. Any later and Marie will want me to whip you for failing to bring the vegetables on time. So off you go, and make sure you don’t let me down.”

Dee assured him they’d be fine and quickly hustled Medart out into the street before Denis changed his mind. They walked toward the rising sun, quickly reaching the Grand Rue Saint-Jacques. Dee recognised the busy thoroughfare from his visit to Professor Oronce Finé a few days previously.

They turned left and headed along the wide street toward the island on the river Seine, acknowledged as the historic centre of the city, the Île de la Cité.

Medart kept up such a constant stream of observations that Dee experimented with closing his eyes and continuing to walk. He knew exactly what shop they were passing and what citizens were nearby merely through his incessant commentary.

Soon they passed under the vast bulk of a gatehouse and onto the Petit Pont. This was the eastern-most of the two bridges that linked the Left Bank to the Île.

Dee slowed his pace.

It had been dusk when he entered the city just a few short days ago, and he had hurried through dark forbidding streets trying to find safe lodgings.

Now he almost felt like a seasoned citizen. He knew where he was going and he had a normal purpose: buying provisions. He felt sure it would translate to an aura of confidence. Instead of signalling “rob me” to the local thugs, it would alert everyone to his status as a self-reliant and capable citizen.

If only Medart would stop gawping and babbling, he thought.

About half way across the Petit Pont, one of the houses that lined the bridge was in ruins. It was little more than a pile of cut stone and a stack of blacked timbers. A construction gang was already on site and a foreman was directing the reconstruction work with competent gestures.

Dee fairly skipped across the street and clambered up the pile of stone. He gazed in awe across the river at the twin towers of the cathedral of Notre Dame rearing above the rest of the buildings in bulky majesty.

The foreman chased him off the site with a curse, and he jumped back to the street to find Medart grinning wildly. “Isn’t it glorious? Come on, let’s get closer.”

Infected with his joy, Dee raced behind him across the bridge, past the first row of houses, and turned right down a narrow street called Rue du Notre Dame. There, across a large piazza, was the impossibly huge church itself.

There were three great portals in the west façade of the church, and they approached the central one. Dee let his gaze rise higher and higher, trying to absorb the details of the fantastically carved stonework.

What artistry! What skill! How much effort and ingenuity did our forebears have? We could never build anything as magnificent as this today!

To each side of this middle door stood six larger-than-life statues that looked like saints, and in the middle was a statue of the Christ holding a book. Perhaps our Lord is lecturing to his audience. Is that a sign for me that all will be well with my lectures?

He let his eyes travel higher. Above the statues was a horizontal frieze that showed writhing figures. Perhaps the resurrection of the dead, he thought, then shivered uncontrollably. It felt like a premonition of some future danger and left him troubled.

Above was another frieze. In the middle, it showed an angel holding scales. That must be the archangel Michael weighing the souls of the recently resurrected, thought Dee. Yes, and there to his right the devil takes away the damned.

Crowning these, and at the peak of the tympanum, was a seated Christ on the throne of glory. The figure was so distant that the details were near impossible to determine.

Above the portal was a long line of standing statues of kings. Each king was painted in vibrant colours. Medart said they must be reminders of the powerful kings of France, but Dee disagreed. He explained that they represented the twenty-eight kings of Judah descended from Abraham.

Craning his head back still further, he could see the huge rose window, and above that a colonnade, and rising much higher above that, two mighty towers.

Medart punched him lightly on the shoulder, “Come on John. Marie said the best vegetables get taken first. We need to hurry.”

But we haven’t even stepped inside yet!

Reluctantly, Dee turned away and followed Medart further north across the Île. They passed over a second bridge lined with shops that crossed the northern branch of the river and into the main part of Paris.

A series of three carts trundled past, each laden with large blocks of pale cream-coloured stone and pulled by oxen. Dee asked one of the ox-drivers where the stone was going, “To the new Hotel de Ville, sir. It will be a fine building it will, even if it is designed by an Italian. Nearly finished it already we have, built by Frenchmen you see,” and with this last comment, he tapped the side of his nose knowingly.

Dee felt his sleeve being dragged at, so gave his thanks to the carter and turned away to follow Medart.

Walking quickly now, trying to make up lost time, they turned left towards another church. This was the church of Saint-Jacques-de-la-Boucherie, supposedly paid for by the rich butchers of Les Halles market.

Dee glanced at the map Denis had provided. It showed that there should be a castle up ahead to their left. They twisted and turned through the houses and then saw the castle rising exactly as it should according to the map.

Dee asked a passer-by, “Monsieur, can you tell me who lives in such a grand castle?”

The man laughed hard before replying, “In the Grand Châtelet? There is no one living in there, son. If they ever take you inside, you should say your prayers quickly, because it is a rare day that anyone comes out alive.” With that, he continued on his way, chuckling to himself.

A washerwoman who had overheard the exchange completed his education, unbidden. “The magistrates hold their court there, especially for what they call treason cases.” She spat onto the dirt road. “There is a morgue and prison cells in the dungeon, they say. One to serve the other.”

Medart’s good humour was temporarily quelled, and he merely grunted at Dee, “Come on, we should get moving.”

Dee turned his back to the castle, suppressing a shudder, and pressed on. Soon, he recognised merchants and servants alike heading toward the same location. Les Halles.

A great throng of people from all classes congregated on a jumble of market stalls. Within the chaos, a handful of permanent wooden pavilions shouldered their way higher. Denis had instructed them to proceed directly to the pavilions, where the mercers sold their cloth.

“Which stall should we buy the cloth from? They all look the same,” complained Medart.

Even to Dee’s inexpert eye, they were certainly not the same. Neither in colour, nor quality. Luckily, Delacroix had explicitly instructed him, “Only buy from Charles Dufresnoy. I have been buying from him for many years. The others will charge more for substandard cloth. Just tell Dufresnoy that it is for me. He will know what I need and have a reasonable price.”

Dee asked at the first stall they came to, “Is this the stall of Charles Dufresnoy?” and received an unconvincing, “Certainement. I am Charles. What do you need, little sir? I have lots of good cloth, all of the highest quality, though assuredly not the highest prices.”

‘Charles’ was continuously moving about the stall, folding cloth and moving it from side to side, or waving to other people in the crowd. Dee tried in vain to look him in the eye, but the man didn’t stay still for long enough.

“My master has sent me to collect his debt from you. It has been owing for four weeks now and is a goodly sum, twenty livre. Payable in gold or silver coin if you please. Or do I have to fetch the constable? I hear the Grand Châtelet has accommodation available at the moment.”

Medart, beside him, gawped, and started to ask, “John, what…”

Dee swiftly kicked his shin, out of sight of the mercer.

The mercer stood still for the first time and looked about him wildly. “Did you say Dufresnoy? My apologies. I am Charles Dafrevoy. I misheard you. People often mix us up. Over there,” he pointed to a stall across the alley, “That man is Charles Dufresnoy, over there. He’s the one who owes you money, not me.”

He pushed out his chin defiantly, as though daring Dee to challenge his version of the conversation.

“Ah, my thanks, monsieur. My mistake, no doubt. So sorry to have bothered you. Come Medart, across the alley to Monsieur Dufresnoy.”

They crossed to Dufresnoy’s stall, who laughed when they explained the misunderstanding. “That old goat is always trying to steal my customers. I’m glad you gave him a scare. How are Denis and Madeleine? The book business is good these days?”

Dee completed the pleasantries and then explained Delacroix’s requirements of embroidered velvet to be used as a book covering. “Monsieur Delacroix requires four toise,” which was about twenty-four feet.

While Dufresnoy carefully cut, folded and wrapped the precious cloth, Dee took a moment to look around the market. Arrabella has to eat and shop like everybody else. Maybe if I keep watch at markets and churches I will find her, then ambush her, and take the falcon back?

Medart pulled at his sleeve once more. “Come on John. Vegetables next.”

Chapter 10 - Compensation

Tuesday the 1st of July 1550

The Left Bank, Paris

The apothecary's apprentice

John Dee returned the calfskin bound copy of De mundi sphaera to Delacroix before they went for breakfast.

“I’m glad you had a copy of Professor Finé’s book, and I thank you for the loan of it last night.”

“You can keep it longer if you wish. I have not sold a copy for several years, so I doubt I will need it during the next few days.”

“There is no need. It is a simple book and I remember its content from my reading of it a few years ago. I only wanted to refresh my memory, especially regarding the excellent illustrations. Just in case the occasion arises when I need to comment on it, you understand? Now that I am, in effect, working for the gentleman author.”

While Denis returned the book to its place on the shelving, he grumbled out loud, “In fact, I have not sold many books at all recently. I only wish I could emulate the mercantile success of some of my competitors.

“Maybe Monsieur Estienne has it right: print smaller, cheaper books and sell lots of them. Ah, but I know my weakness. I love the feel of a good quality book and would rather have them unsold on my shelves than be sending customers out with poor quality specimens.”

“And yet you have many customers visiting your store. I see them coming and going every day. Although, to be sure, I do not recall seeing many of them carrying books.”

“Unfortunately, they are mostly visiting Madeleine,” he replied, without further elaboration.

As the household took their breakfast together in the kitchen, Dee cast several surreptitious glances at Madeleine. I wonder what she is doing that yields her so many more customers than her father?

As the meal ended, Madeleine spoke out, “Father, can I borrow one of the apprentices today? I’m so very busy that I’m afraid I may fail some of my customers unless I have help.”

Medart instantly raised his hand as he cried out, “I can help you today, Madeleine.” Unfortunately, he knocked over the jug of ale in his haste, spilling it over Claude, who stood quickly to avoid getting soaked and as he did so he bumped Marie who cut her finger instead of the loaf she was trying to slice. Seeing the blood dripping onto the table, Guillaume rushed to ensure she was not hurt too badly and tripped over Denis’ foot in his haste, flopping to the floor.

Madeleine interrupted hastily, “No, no, Medart, thank you. I know father needs you to run errands today.” Dee saw her eyes silently pleading with Denis. He smiled as he imagined her desperate thought, ‘No please, not Medart. He is so clumsy that he breaks more than he makes.’

“I can help if you like,” Dee said, blushing faintly. “I have no urgent work today and it would please me to be of some service to the family.”

Madeleine looked at him and paused for a moment, before cautiously nodding her acceptance, “Alright. I thank you.”

Shyly, Madeleine took Dee out into the courtyard and showed him her drying kiln. It was a hut built of stone, about five feet tall, with a conical roof of flat slates fitted together carefully to ensure no rain could penetrate. The whole hut was raised up by a couple of feet to accommodate a stone built fireplace underneath.

She seemed reluctant, embarrassed even, as she explained. “The heat of the fire warms and dries the interior of the hut. Inside I keep all of my herbs, bark and finished powders, so that they stay really dry. If anything got damp, it might be spoiled.”

“And this little extra oven built on the side?”

Finally, she trilled a tinkly laugh, which caused a ripple of warmth in Dee, “That is papa’s smoking oven, where he smokes his bacon after he has cured it. He built the whole thing for maman, so I cannot begrudge him the smoke for his favourite treat, can I?”

She opened a small door to the drying room and ducked inside. Dee could see rows of small clay pots, but also lots of empty shelving, plus many plants hanging to dry.

A moment later, she emerged with an armful of empty pots and some of the dried plants, and asked him to close the door carefully behind her.

They re-crossed the courtyard and entered a modest lean-to that was built alongside the main bookstore.

Madeleine asked him to make some room on the workbench at the rear. He pushed aside some equipment: scales, bronze scoops, and a large mortar.

While she sorted out the plants and jars, he took a moment to look around the lean-to.

On a shelf were a variety of pots and bottles, all within easy reach of a customer-facing table. A lower shelf held delicate glass phials galore, most of them containing powders of various colours, but some having liquids. Some were clear and some were bilious.

He turned back to the workbench where Madeleine was already at work, breaking down the herbs into different piles. She stripped leaves from one bunch of herbs with fast movements of her dextrous fingers and piled them to one side, discarding the stalks.

“Are the stalks of no value, then?”

“It depends on the plant. Sometimes yes, sometimes no. But they are certainly harder to work with, so unless it is a rare specimen, I usually discard them.”

The more she talked about herbology, the more confident Madeleine became, until soon she was chatting amiably.

“I have no more colic remedy. Medart dropped my last jar yesterday out in the courtyard, the clumsy oaf. So, that’s what we are going to make first. Can you use a pestle? I need you to grind this willow bark to a fine powder, enough to fill this jar.

“After that, there is fennel, cinnamon, and ginger. I need the same quantity of each. I have the other ingredients already, including the dragon’s blood.”

“You have dragons?” He asked, bewilderment evident in his voice.

She flashed him a mischievous smile. “It is just called that. Really it is the bright red resin from a tree, Dracaena Draco. I get it from a Berber merchant who has a warehouse down at the docks. It only grows beside the desert of some distant land. It is really expensive, but luckily I need little enough in this cure.”

Dee pounded away on the willow bark.

It was quite hard work, and soon he was perspiring freely.

“Mind you don’t drip sweat into my medicine now,” she softened the sharp words with a smile.

“While you grind the powders, I will boil up some barley, betony, and vervain. They work wonders on agues of the head.”

They worked in companionable silence for a while, Dee switching to the fennel when he had completed the willow to her satisfaction.

“Where do all these recipes come from? Did you discover them yourself?”

“My mother taught me most of what I know, God rest her soul.

“Before she met my father, she knew the famous Portuguese apothecary Tomé Pires, who created cures for Alfonso, the Prince of Portugal. Pires taught my mother much of what he knew.

“That’s enough fennel. Do the cinnamon next - the same amount and the same consistency.

“I think maman must have loved Tomé, because she later told me it had almost broken her heart when he left for the Orient.”

She paused for a moment, before laughing and continuing, “Papa says a prayer to Pires’ shade every year on the anniversary of that voyage. He claims that if Pires had not taken the ship, he would have taken maman instead. Then papa would not have had the chance to meet her and win her love for himself, and they would never have had me.”

She blushed gently and returned to her work.

Soon they were weighing out the different powders and carefully mixing them according to her exacting specifications. They prepared several cures, with Madeleine patiently explaining to Dee what ingredients each contained and what they were used for.

Some remained as powders, some were liquids, a few were pastes.

They placed most in jars and stored them on the shelves or back to the drying room. Some they arrayed around the shop ready for sale.

Suddenly she cursed and slapped herself on the head. “Mon Dieu. I forgot the snails. We could have customers at any moment. Will you watch the store? Just talk nicely to anyone who enters, long enough to delay them for a few minutes until I return. I won’t be long.”

He had barely nodded in agreement before she darted out of the back door.

Sure enough, a wealthy-looking matron chose that moment to enter via the side door from the bookshop, her maid trailing a few yards behind.

She halted in the middle of the store and looked around theatrically. “Young man. Where is Mademoiselle Madeleine? I have come for a restorative for my darling husband.”

Dee swept a small bow and brushed the backs of the lady’s fingers with his lips. He gave her what he thought was his most charming smile. “It would be my utmost pleasure to serve you myself, my lady, although Mademoiselle will return momentarily if you prefer to wait.”

At first, she seemed a little shocked, but then a faint blush crept up her neck as she noticed Dee’s rapt attention.

Seeing this, he pressed on, “The restorative your husband needs, Madam, is it for an ague of the head, perhaps? We have just the thing, and I can fetch it for you in an instant. It would be a shame indeed for a husband to be distracted from your side when a cure is within our power to dispense.”

He sketched another quick bow and risked a glance. Am I overdoing it? I have never served in a store before.

It appeared that he was not overdoing it, as the lady was simpering with pleasure. While Dee fetched a handful of paper twists of one of the remedies they had so recently completed, he noticed the woman was striking various poses while she pretended to read the labels of the jars.

Is she flirting with me? Oh no! I have gone too far. But still, a happy customer will visit again.

A risque thought popped into his head.

“Some of our gentlemen customers have achieved very pleasing results with one of our special additives. A tiny packet of tasteless powder, sprinkled sparingly onto their evening meal, every day for a week.” He leaned forward confidingly, and the lady automatically leaned forward too, affording him an unexpected view of her decolletage. “Very pleasing results, for everyone concerned, I mean.”

Dare I?

He winked very slowly.

He straightened up quickly and continued in a matter-of-fact voice. “I can’t imagine such a boost would be required in your case, my lady, but if you wanted it as a gift, for a friend, perhaps?” He raised an enquiring eyebrow. “I should warn you, it is as potent as it is expensive, and it is very expensive, so definitely not suitable for everyone’s purse…”

“I’ll take some,” she said, rather quickly, “Um, for a friend, as you say. Yes. An interesting gift.”

“Excellent choice, Madam. I will provide it in simple daily portions, for your, er, friend’s ease of use. Enough for two weeks?”

Without waiting for a reply, he added the paper twists that contained a mix of ginseng powder and ground watermelon seeds.

Where is Madeleine? I don’t know how much all this costs.

He fussed with the package for a few more minutes and still Madeleine didn’t return. Madam was starting to look a little nervous. Oh oh, perhaps she is changing her mind?

With a flourish, he provided the package wrapped discretely in brown paper, and made up an outrageously huge sum. “Six livres, Madam. I know it sounds a lot, but it produces a big result.” He winked again, cringing inside.

She quickly handed over a cascade of gold coins, and as she took the packet, she placed a hand over his and looked into his eyes, “Thank you so very much, young man,” she said breathlessly. She bustled out of the store, her maid, who was oblivious, following behind.

Just as the door closed behind her, Madeleine returned, holding up a jar full to the brim of a clear paste, “Snail slime. Wonderful for healing cuts and scrapes.

“Was that a customer?”

Dee told her what he had sold and tinkled the gold into her palm.

She exclaimed, “That was at least ten times more than my normal price!” But she didn’t look at all upset.

A problem shared...

Madeleine increasingly requested Dee’s help over the coming weeks.

Sometimes she wanted him to help prepare the remedies, which Dee was happy to do, as it afforded the opportunity to learn from her. He committed everything to his prodigious memory. Usually, Madeleine was thoroughly independent and certainly capable of handling all the tasks of an apothecary. She bargained with suppliers and prepared the compounds and cures.

With growing frequency, however, Madeleine asked Dee to assist in the store. Especially to serve a growing volume of female clients who asked for his particular help, usually to recommend various gifts for their friends.

Madeleine found it all rather amusing and started to joke about it with Dee and her father.

At the same time, she acknowledged that it was actually causing a significant boost to her earnings, and she proudly offered her father a larger contribution to the household accounts, which he refused, much to her annoyance.

Luckily, the apothecary was only open three days a week. Dee could spend the remaining time preparing for his lectures without disappointing Madeleine.

Whenever he needed a rest from Euclid, Dee would borrow Medart and together they would wander the streets of Paris looking for Arrabella, intent on recovering the falcon statue. They learned many paths through the labyrinthine city, but never saw Arrabella amongst the teeming thousands of inhabitants.

One evening, after their meal, Denis asked Dee for help.

“John, if you can spare the time, I have won a large printing job, three hundred prayer books, each with one hundred pages. I must complete these in ten days. I need another pair of hands to help us get them completed. We will all be working on it. Even Medart.

“I will pay you, of course, like an apprentice.”

“I would be happy to help, but your training in the printing process and the printing business is all the payment I will require, indeed all the payment I will accept.”

“Excellent, excellent. Perhaps there is something else I can do…to help you prepare your lectures, or…?” Denis cast around, uncertain what else he could offer.

“No, really, there is no need. Unless,..” Dee looked thoughtful. “Mayhap you might have some idea or know somebody…” Dee trailed off, uncertain.

“Tell me.”

Everyone waited silently, except Marie, who bustled around the kitchen unconcerned.

“How much have I told you about the lectures I have to give?”

Everyone shrugged and muttered various versions of, “Nothing, really”, for in truth, he had enjoyed his time with the family too much to discuss his actual reason for being in Paris.

“I have to give two lectures. The first on the twelfth of August, and the second in early September.

“The king requires that the Collège popularise mathematics with the population. This is measured by the size of their lecture audiences, and even though the lectures are free for all to attend, Professor Finé is naturally concerned that my unknown name will not attract much interest and therefore no attendees. I would dearly love to prove him wrong.”

There was an uncomfortable silence for a minute. “Ah. I could attend. It is not too far a walk to the Collège. In fact, we could all attend,” said Denis. The others reluctantly agreed, though no one seemed enthusiastic.

“I thank you. And while five attendees would be a start, I was hoping you might have some idea how I could get many more people to attend. But, no matter. It is my problem to solve. Meanwhile, I will happily help with the printing, anyway.”

...is a problem halved

Denis had half a dozen large wooden frames stacked near the press.

He had already worked on one of them. The frame was subdivided into eight smaller areas. Each area was filled with a grid of little metal blocks, each embossed with a letter, ready to be used in the press to create the pages of the future book.

Denis explained, “This is called Octavo printing. After we print the large frame to a single piece of paper, the paper is dried and reversed. A second, different frame, is printed on the other side. Then we will fold the paper three times. This creates eight sheets of paper, hence ‘Octavo’, each with a front and back, thus sixteen pages in total.”

Dee tried to imagine how this would work.

Madeleine saw his confusion and smiled, remembering when her father had first tried explaining it to her.

She took a small piece of paper and wrote the numbers one to eight on it in two rows of four. Then she quickly made three folds and held up the much smaller result, although it didn’t resemble a book because the folds stopped the ‘pages’ being flipped through. She took a knife and carefully slit all the folds at the bottom and right-hand edges of the pages, retaining only those folds along the left edge.

“I see. Now it is a tiny book with eight sheets, or sixteen printed pages, all bound down the left edge,” cried Dee in understanding.

Denis continued, “If we print both sides of three hundred such papers, we would have three hundred books, each of sixteen pages. With your help, we can do this in one day.”

“No, no, but wait,” said Dee. “There are two problems here.”

Denis smiled as he watched Dee think it through.

“First, you said the books were to have one hundred pages each. So you will need six, well let’s say seven days of this full process to create all the pages.”

“That’s right,” said Denis.

Medart looked lost.

“Because six times sixteen pages each, only yields ninety-six pages, and we need one hundred.”

Medart nodded, without conviction.

“But much more important, the letters on half of the printed pages will be upside down, because of the folding!”

“You’re right. We solve that by placing the grid of letter blocks in some of the original sixteen areas of the frame upside down to start with…so when printed and folded, they appear the right way up.

“That’s why I lay out all the letters in the frame. It’s complicated,” Denis said.

“I completed the first frame yesterday. While the rest of you print from it this morning, I will lay out a second frame, and so on.”

“Don’t worry,” he said, preempting Dee’s concern, “I can do it all sitting down. So, yes, I can cope.”

“Madeleine is familiar with the setting, and so she will double check each frame I create. No doubt she will find errors, and correct them, before passing the frame to the printing press where Claude and Guillaume will work.

“They will ink the grid of letters, lay a dampened sheet of paper squarely upon it, then turn the screw to apply the press, then release it, and remove the paper.

“Medart will hang the printed sheets to dry and run errands for everyone else.

“Dee, I would like you to proofread the printed pages looking for quality issues with the printing. For example, where ink has smudged or some letters haven’t printed properly. We cannot correct this type of error after-the-fact, so it is very important that we catch them at this stage, and print replacement copies as required.”

And so they started.

It was fun to begin with, but soon became just hard work, with everyone focussed on playing their role accurately. They were all very aware that a single mistake during the process for one piece of paper would mean it needed to be completely repeated.

On the second day, they were ready to print the reversed side of the previous day’s dry papers.

Denis explained, “Printing the reverse side is even more critical. Placement of the paper must be absolutely exact else the folding will not yield correct pages fore and back, this is why we printed a few spares yesterday.

“Madeleine will place the papers in the press, so Dee, I would like you to double check my frames. I will lay the next frames and also proofread the printed sheets.”

All day long, they worked with intense concentration until daylight faded and Denis called a halt to their labours. He counted the papers and checked some that he randomly selected and pronounced himself pleased with their efforts, claiming that they were slightly ahead of schedule.

This same pace continued for four more gruelling days of hot, stressful work.

Denis had to stay abed on one of the days. The work was just too hard for him. Luckily, the team was progressing well in their roles and they could continue by themselves, although Madeleine was very worried about her father.

On the last day, the mood lightened as they realised they were nearing the end. Just after noon, Denis called a halt, and they counted the results of their labour.

“Mes amis, you have all laboured so hard for seven days and we have created all the papers we need. We are finished!”

He threw his cap in the air.

They were pleased and relieved and all danced around, holding hands and crying jubilantly.

Madeleine danced into Dee’s path and, laughing, she hugged him tightly, pressing her body against his. As the others continued to shout their joy, Dee and Madeleine went suddenly quiet and stood still in each other’s arms. She looked up into his eyes and kissed him on the lips. He was momentarily shocked, then returned the kiss, tentatively at first, then more urgently. They pulled apart gasping for breath, as Dee felt an unfamiliar stirring.

Awkwardly, they rejoined the dancing. Both were glad when it ended and they could go their separate ways to wash and change out of their ink-stained clothes.

Later, the team regrouped for a celebratory meal, during which Dee and Madeleine exchanged many awkward glances.

Promotion

Dee awoke with the dawn but felt like he had hardly slept at all.

In an effort to keep his thoughts off Madeleine, he didn’t go down to breakfast, but tried to focus on preparing his lecture notes.

A couple of hours later, Claude brought a message from Denis, “Come and see me in the print shop.”

Dee hung his head in shame.

How could I have violated his hospitality and friendship so wantonly? He will probably throw me out of the house - and I wouldn’t blame him.

Slowly, he walked down the stairs and approached the room that had so recently seen them all working so hard together.

At the last moment, he decided to accept his fate with as much dignity as he could summon. He straightened his shoulders and firmed his back, then entered the room.

Madeleine was standing beside her father.

He couldn’t look at her, much less meet her gaze, so he kept his eyes rigidly on Monsieur Delacroix, telling himself, I deserve this fate for breaking his trust.

Denis reached out and grabbed Dee’s hand, shaking it excitedly.

“I have had an idea, and Madeleine has added to it, and the boys.

“I will compose a leaflet, with your help, of course, and then print many hundreds of copies.

“Then we will deliver some to each of my suppliers, some to my regular patrons, others to friends and colleagues who have businesses in the University district. We will ask them to distribute the leaflets to their customers.”

“And I will keep a stack of them in my apothecary, and also give some to my suppliers,” interjected Madeleine excitedly.

“A leaflet?” Dee was confused. What leaflet is he talking about?

“A leaflet publicising your lectures, with the location, dates, and a glowing description, and of course, telling people it is free to attend. It should get more people into the audience, don’t you think?”

Dee’s mouth opened, but he was too stunned to say anything. Slowly the concept began to make sense to him, as he thought it through.

Dozens of people might come to listen to me lecturing. In Paris, the greatest city in all of Europe! Of course, they probably won’t come to the second lecture, or may not even stay for the entirety of the first one…

Denis continued, interrupting his musing, “So we give out many copies of the leaflet and some recipients come to the lecture, even though they never knew about the Collège before, nor would have ever attended otherwise! What do you think of our idea?”

A smile of joy erupted on Dee’s face. The missing element, he thought, amusing himself with the pun.

Denis, perhaps relieved the idea was accepted, slapped him on the shoulder in joy, and Madeleine gave him a hug, before hurrying away.

Claude, Guillaume and Medart appeared from nowhere and soon everyone was talking and laughing.

In the middle of the group, Dee’s gratitude for the advertising idea was only exceeded by his appreciation of the curves of Madeleine’s body and his marvelling at how they fitted neatly against the shape of his own.

Chapter 11 - Inquisition

Monday the 28th July 1550

Le Marais, Paris

The Grand Inquisitor of Paris

Bishop Piero del Tramazzo, Grand Inquisitor of Paris, threw down his quill and massaged his temples.

Holding up his page of script to better catch the light, he read it out loud to himself.

The first half flowed well and formed a powerful message. However, the second half was full of poorly constructed sentences and he stumbled over the words as he read it. The meaning of his prose got lost in the tangled skein of over-elaborate imagery.

Angrily, he crushed the page in his fist and threw it onto the fire behind him. The dry parchment quickly blackened, before orange and red flames burst through. The blaze rapidly consumed all but the corners of the manuscript, which fell to join the remnants of his earlier efforts.

He pushed back his heavy chair and prowled around his office, his mood darkening the more he berated himself.

Truly, if I finish this treatise on morality, I should be canonised. They could call me Saint Tramazzo - the Hammer of the Heretics.

He smiled at the phrase, liking it more and more.

Then his empty desktop caught his eye and reminded him of his lack of progress today.

Who would have thought that bettering the centuries old work of Stephen of Bourbon would be so hard?

I need more examples and better anecdotes!

I need to preach the simple Christian life to the people of Paris . But how can I do it without real moral examples that I then build on with arguments reinforced by the Church’s authority? This work should be my legacy and cement my name alongside the greats of the Church, but without some new input, it will either never be finished or I may die trying.

He made a decision.

I shall redouble my efforts to catch heretics and use their actions as warnings in my treatise.

He halted before a large window on the south side of his office. His eyes probed the city before him, as though capable of sensing the locations of the required heretics through the silent walls.

The bells of the church of Saints Gervasius and Protasius rang out the hour. Startled, he turned to his right and glared at the church’s stunted tower until the bells quietened. Then he raked his eyes across the nearby rooftops, scouring further left toward the Place de Grève and finally to the river port directly in front of him.

Sometimes, he would see harlots parading along the Quay de l’Hôtel de Ville, waiting for a boat to come in. With a shout, he would rally his fellow priests of the Inquisition and rush out to arrest them for indecency. By the time he arrived at the quayside, they would usually be gone. The only items remaining would be a cargo of vegetables delivered from the countryside or a load of wool shipped by the heretics in England. Sadly, the French farmers and the English merchants were both beyond his jurisdiction.

He noted a small ship drawing up alongside the quay, its sails already lowered. It looked like one of the tiny boats that delivered fresh produce daily from the interior of France. A burly sailor jumped out and walked toward the tavern, le Taureau Blanc, quickly disappearing from his view.

No harlots, though. A pity, he thought.

He ground a bony fist into the palm of his other hand.

There was a tentative knock at the office door and his personal secretary, Gervais, entered. He turned from the window and faced the friar.

Gervais was all smiles and servility.

“Greetings, my lord bishop. Are you making good progress on the ‘Nine Gifts of the Holy Spirit’ today?” he asked innocently.

Tramazzo ignored the question, instead posing one of his own.

“What news of Francis Faber? Have my intelligencers reported back?”

“Nothing my lord. He is being watched all day long as you instructed, but nothing suspicious yet. He seems devout and deeply committed to his faith, if you ask me.”

“Well, I wasn’t asking you,” he snapped peevishly.

“Double the watchers. He is plotting something, I know it. Constantly scurrying out of the city and up the hill to the martyrium at Montmartre Abbey, like a rat going to its lair.

“If we had any proof, or the abbey was within the city’s boundary, I would not hesitate to flood it with men and discover what he’s doing. Alas, we have nothing certain and he has the protection of the abbess who will hear no bad words said against him.”

“Maybe that is why he chose that place, my lord? Because it is safely outside your jurisdiction.”

He snapped back, “That is almost proof of guilt, isn’t it?

“However, there is definitely more to it than that.”

He began to pace and to lecture.

“It was before your time, Gervais, during some construction initiated by the current abbess of Montmartre. They unearthed an ancient stone staircase leading underground. They dug out the rubble and found a crypt in which there were three graves, each marked with the cross and some inscriptions that were too old and worn to be readable.

“The abbess believes these are the graves of Denis, the first Bishop of Paris, and his two companions, Eleutherius, and Rusticus. She found some ancient texts that say the Romans tortured and then beheaded these three at the behest of the pagan priests who were losing worshippers to Christianity.”

Gervais nervously and instinctively grabbed his own throat.

Tramazzo waved a hand dismissively.

“This was all a thousand years ago, back when the city was called Lutetia, in the third century.

“Those brave early Christian converts built a shrine, and then a chapel at the site of the beheading. How could they not? That gave the area its name, Mons Martyrum, or now, Montmartre.

“Time passed, as it does, hundreds of years maybe. Maybe a wall fell in, or whatever. Rubble blocked the staircase, and it passed from living memory. Until the abbess started her works about twenty years ago and found it again.

“She campaigned for money using this story and the graves, and built a martyrium over the crypt. A fitting surrounding for St Denis, the patron saint of France. That is her story. It brings her more cash every year, the clever old witch.”

He laughed rather nastily.

“The residents of the nearby town of Saint-Denis are less happy about the claims of the abbess. They claim they have proof of a different legend.

“They agree the saintly bishop lost his head at Montmartre. But their story diverges at that point. They believe that the decapitated Denis picked up his head and preached a sermon on the subject of repentance while he walked north for several miles, before finally succumbing to his injury. Their town of Saint-Denis was founded at the spot where he fell.

“In the town, they have already built a basilica and a Benedictine monastery in his name.

“Their claim must be pretty good, because for the last five hundred years, all the kings of France have been laid to rest there.

“So, depending on which legend you believe, St Denis is either buried in a crypt at Montmartre, or in the town of Saint-Denis, which bears his name.

“I dare you to confront the abbess on the topic!”

He flung himself into his throne-like chair beside the fire.

With a little cough, Gervais took his opportunity to interrupt and seek clarification. “Fascinating, yes. I can see the, ah, delicate politics of such a squabble. But what is the connection to Monsieur Faber?”

“Ah, Faber, yes.

“Sixteen years ago, Ignatius of Loyola and a handful of other university students chose the martyrium as the site for swearing an oath and creating a new society, The Society of Jesus.

“Think of the arrogance, Gervais!”

Gervais looked blank.

The bishop continued, “Loyola was a wounded Spanish soldier, and he brazenly created his own Order, and took the name of our Lord Jesus, calling themselves the Jesuits. The presumption!

“Then he demanded that his followers call him Superior General.”

Tramazzo shook his head in wonder and outrage before continuing.

“Ten years ago, Loyola somehow convinced Pope Paul to officially confirm the Order with a Papal Bull. I suspect bribery, Gervais!”

“Shocking,” muttered Gervais, shaking his head at the very idea.

“The only saving grace was that his Holiness limited Loyola to a maximum of sixty Jesuits.”

Tramazzo banged his fist on his desk and snarled, “All that changed last week. Our new pope, Pope Julius, has passed a new bull, called Exposcit debitum. It removes the limitation on numbers and allows for the recruitment of uneducated members. They will call them Jesuit Brothers.”

“I’m sorry, my lord. I don’t understand the problem.”

Tramazzo looked hard at Gervais, suspecting mockery, but was met by bland innocence.

“He can now recruit an army, and they don’t have to be priests or even have any religious convictions. All he needs is the money to feed them and the space to house them.

“You mark my words, no good will come of this. Not for the Inquisition and not for anyone else, except for Loyola himself and his top lieutenants.”

The bishop went silent, drumming his fingers on the desktop.

Gervais seized his opportunity again, with another cough, “And er, Monsieur Faber?”

“What?” Asked Tramazzo. “Oh, yes. Well, Loyola and his lieutenants are in Rome, or sailing around the world doing the Pope’s bidding.

“Meanwhile, Faber arrived here in Paris. He introduced himself to the city as a Jesuit and started recruiting and fundraising a couple of years ago. I suspect he is using the crypt and the martyrium as a base to house an army. His army. Ready to do his bidding.”

“And you don’t trust him to do the Lord’s work, or at least the Pope’s?”

“No, I don’t. I don’t trust him at all.”

The delivery

Positioned like a figurehead at the prow of their boat, Andrea felt a gentle breeze pluck at his cloak, making it ripple behind him like a flapping sail. After the stultifying heat of the last few weeks, he welcomed the colder air, as he eagerly scanned the horizon, looking for their first sight of Paris.

According to their boatman, they were close. Very close. They had passed the confluence of the Marne, and the tide was in their favour.

They had been lucky on their trip from Ostia to Marseille in the south of France. The Mediterranean, famous for sudden violent storms, had been benign.

Despite that, Jacopo had suffered. He was no sailor. He had totally refused to accompany Andrea on the originally proposed route; around Spain, into the ocean, all the way up to Normandy on the northern French coast, where they could have entered the river Seine and reached Paris after a short river trip.

Andrea didn’t want to be parted from Jacopo. He was an annoying superstitious bumpkin at times, but he had two qualities that Andrea admired. He was totally honest, which was rare in a thief, and he was loyal. They had been in many dangerous situations together, and Jacopo had never failed to guard Andrea’s back.

So Andrea had relented. After consultations in Marseilles, they took a brief trip to the mouth of the Rhône, then a leisurely barge for several hundreds of miles inland. Their river route wound through Arles and Avignon, to Lyon. There they headed up the river Sâone, before disembarking near Dijon. Then overland with horse and cart, past ancient abbeys and through dense forests until they found the river Seine. They persuaded a boatman to take them as far as Troyes, where they changed to a small sailing boat that was taking vegetables into Paris.

In many ways it had been a gruelling journey, mostly on account of the heat and the time it had taken. But now they were nearing the end and could finally deliver the casket that had accompanied them from Rome. Upon delivery, they would take their payment and find their next adventure.

Andrea was starting to think about their next job.

“Hey, Jacopo, do you remember that huge Papal Palace we saw in Avignon, when we were sailing on the Rhône?”

He knew that during the schism, the papacy had been based there for about a hundred years.

His friend, who was lazing on the deck some fifteen feet away, had looked up languidly, a quizzical expression flitting across his brow.

“What about it?”

“What do you think about looking for work in Avignon when we are done in Paris? Surely there would be opportunities for experienced men like us, don’t you think?”

“Sure. I liked the look of that palace. It reminded me of home.” Jacopo laughed out loud.

Andrea was still dreaming of the possible plunder to be had in genteel Avignon when they rounded a bend in the river. Finally, he saw a smudge of buildings on the horizon.

As they drew nearer, he could discern a high stone wall encircling an extensive town, with spires and towers poking above a mass of tiled rooftops.

The boatman explained that the river bisected the city and contained two islands. They would be docking on the far right bank, in an area called Le Marais.

Jacopo joined Andrea in the prow, and they watched the first island slide past to their right. A small herd of cows seemed to be the only inhabitants. The city wall stretched away to the north, where a lumbering many-turreted fortress loomed over the city’s eastern approaches.

Their host saw their gaze at the fortress and spat overboard, “The Bastille. Don’t get caught doing anything bad, else you’ll end up in its dungeons and will never see the sun again.”

Directly ahead was the second island, crowded with buildings. At its heart rose a massive church with a slightly crooked spire and two hulking towers.

“The Île de la Cité, gentlemen,” said the boatman with a prideful flourish of his arm.

They tacked right into a channel between the islands, cut over to the right bank, and pulled up alongside the quay, where they quickly secured the boat.

Andrea leapt out and immediately headed toward the tavern, le Taureau Blanc, where he was to meet their French contact.

He returned with a haughty-looking Frenchman with a hooked nose and beady black eyes. He took one look at the cargo, nodded perfunctorily, ordered them to stay where they were, and then swung away without another word.

Several uncomfortable minutes passed, then Jacopo leaned close to his friend, “I didn’t like the look of him, Andrea. And I’m not comfortable just sitting here with this coffin. Can’t we do something? Go somewhere?”

“He told us to wait, so we wait. It will be fine, don’t worry. We’re almost done.”

They waited in the sun.

Andrea could feel droplets of sweat running down his back. Partly the heat, partly nervous tension.

Finally, the Frenchman returned with a horse and cart.

They needed no urging to take action. Using the boat’s boom like a crane, they swung the disguised casket off the boat until it hovered over the cart.

“Where’s our payment?” asked Andrea.

“You’ll get your money when it’s delivered. Now hurry. This quayside is too public to delay.”

He exchanged a glance with Jacopo and shrugged an apology at his friend.

They lowered the casket and secured it in the cart. The last thing they wanted was for it to fall and spill its contents in front of the good citizens of Paris.

Andrea paid off the boatman, “It looks like we’ll be returning to Avignon on someone else’s boat, mon ami. Here, take your pay and fare you well.”

He joined Jacopo and the Frenchman in the cart and they trundled off through the city.

Ingredient shopping

Dee hurried after Madeleine, dodging between other pedestrians in the crowded streets east of Les Halles.

Swung over his left shoulder, he had a sack of Madeleine’s purchases and in his right hand he held a thick book with a leather cover. The book was the heavier of the two.

“Madeleine. Slow down. Where are we going now?”

She turned and smiled, clearly enjoying having a young man at her beck and call, but said nothing, merely crooking her finger to encourage him to keep up.

“Merde,” he cursed under his breath. What have I got myself into? Yes, she had the idea to promote my lecture and is helping me do it. In fact, the whole family and their acquaintances are. But if I have to follow her around all day like a donkey, I won’t have time to prepare for the lecture!

He knew he would follow her anywhere. He was smitten, and he didn’t know what to do about it.

He muttered to himself as he thought it through.

“I can’t stay in Paris forever. It’s too expensive for one thing.

“The allowance I receive from Trinity is only payable if I am studying in Leuven. And I receive a tiny portion of Mercator’s income, but only if I am there, actually helping him repair instruments.

“No, it’s no good. We can’t make a home in Leuven. My income is insufficient to support two, certainly not in the style she is accustomed to.

“And Cambridge will never work. I only receive a pittance there, and my college rooms are bleak even by a scholar’s standards.

“What if I stayed here in Paris?

“Professor Finé will pay me for my lectures at the Collège, assuming I am not heckled off the podium. But that is a onetime payment. I would need a regular stipend, or a real job.” He shuddered at the prospect.

“Madeleine has a thriving apothecary business here with a growing reputation. The city provides a large population of prospective clients, and established supply routes for her more exotic ingredients.

“It would be madness for her to leave all that and follow me into poverty.”

He watched her trim figure sashay down the street and smiled admiringly. Then grimaced. Garr. What am I going to do?

Madeleine crossed the street and disappeared into a dingy-looking store whose signage promised every kind of oil known to mankind.

He stepped into the street to follow her and an angry cry rang out and he had to leap backwards.

A horse and cart with three men rumbled past. The hook-nosed driver turned to him and yelled some obscenities that he couldn’t fully translate.

Dee watched them go by, angry at himself. All my plans and dreams are worthless if I’m lying in the street under the wheels of a laden cart, he fumed.

He checked the road carefully, seeing nothing but shoppers, and hurried across to join Madeleine in the Emporium of Belleassez. It didn’t sound French at all. That seems more like a Jewish name.

Despite Dee’s repeated questions all the way back to the bookstore, Madeleine refused to talk about her purpose for the new ingredients. However, she requested a book from her father, and with a wink, she handed it to Dee before she retired for the night.

Dee opened the heavy tome and, on the elaborate frontispiece, saw the title, Opus Majus, by Roger Bacon, the thirteenth century Franciscan Friar.

He smiled. I know this book, Madeleine.

He carefully turned the pages, nodding to himself as he remembered the first few sections; the obstacles to truth, the relationship between philosophy and theology, the biblical languages. All these he knew well.

Then came a section on mathematics which he knew even better, indeed had far surpassed in his own studies.

A section on optics was next, a subject that fascinated him but that he had not studied deeply. Yet.

What is this, though, another section? “De scientia experimentalis.”

My copy in Cambridge doesn’t have this section.

With growing excitement, he flipped through it.

The first topic covered the manufacturing of gunpowder and related pyrotechnic mixtures. The next detailed how to determine the positions of celestial bodies. A speculative section followed, describing fanciful ideas for tools that Bacon believed would exist one day. Then finally, an entire section on magic.

He took two extra candles with him as he retired to his room, happy to have something completely new and unknown to read.

Chapter 12 - Education

Tuesday the 29th July 1550

Behind Madeleine’s Apothecary

Bacon for breakfast

After breakfast, Madeleine led Dee back into her apothecary.

She pulled him into the still dark room, closing the door firmly behind them.

Suddenly nervous, she asked, “If I show you something, do you promise to keep it a secret?”

“Of course,” he whispered, trying to grab at her body, but failing as she neatly side-stepped, leaving just a fading smile.

“I’m serious. Promise on your life.”

He saw she was deadly serious. “I promise to keep secret whatever you show me. On my life.”

Madeleine ducked down under the worktable at the rear of the room and fiddled with a hidden catch, then pushed open a narrow half-height door. “Bring a candle,” she said, as she scurried through.

She lit a couple of lamps from his candle, then waited in trepidation as he looked around.

Built into the wall at the rear was a fireplace, with a small blackened cauldron suspended over it from an iron tripod. Above the cauldron was a draughty chimney sucking the air out of the room, even though the fire wasn’t even lit.

To one side, a thick wooden workbench held a set of equipment similar to the things she had in the apothecary, except perhaps more substantial; scales, mortar and pestle, tongs, various flasks, jars, and retorts. Opposite was a set of shelves, looking like a madman’s pantry, containing dozens of different sized jars and bottles. Some contained oils, some had different coloured sands and powders. There was even a small pile of veined rock.

He gaped and turned to Madeleine, asking almost fearfully, “Is this…is this an alchemical workshop?”

Slowly, she nodded, her eyes never leaving his face.

Suddenly, he beamed an exuberant smile, then rushed around the room, scrutinizing the contents. All the while, he muttered about which of Roger Bacon’s experiments could be replicated or expanded upon.

Madeleine relaxed as soon as she realised Dee was excited rather than horrified. She was well aware of how different people had different and often violent reactions to alchemy.

Some, like Dee apparently, saw it as one more area of research, which could yield fascinating discoveries. Discoveries that confirmed how miraculous was God’s creation.

Others found it blasphemous and verging on heretical.

The majority, including her own father, were arrayed somewhere in between the two extremes. Certainly the prevailing attitude was that it wasn’t a fitting occupation for a young woman.

“I have to be careful. If my competitors knew I practiced alchemy, they would use it to get me expelled from the herbalist guild.”

Relieved that her assessment of Dee’s character had been correct, she spent the rest of the day showing him how to replicate Bacon’s gunpowder recipes. Together they went further by incorporating various oils and powders. They even experimented to determine the effect of enclosing the powder in sealed containers.

Dee was an attentive and fast student, easily grasping the methods and the reasons for the variations in procedure.

He was curious about Madeleine’s motives and encouraged her to share why she took the risks of public opprobrium.

“I told you that my mother was a herbalist. Well, she was more than that. This was her laboratory. Imagine how careful she would have had to be twenty or thirty years ago!

“She had been trying to create a panacea capable of curing all illnesses. Father says that goal changed over time to become a desire to create an elixir of immortality, or the Philosopher’s Stone. He says it became an obsession with her. So much so that she neglected me and Papa, and even her own health. Eventually she wore herself out and collapsed in here, exhausted. Papa found her that evening and brought her back to the house, but could not revive her. She died the next day.”

Dee was horrified and didn’t know what to say. So he wisely said nothing, instead he just hugged Madeleine while she sobbed in his arms.

Madeleine dried her tears and then told Dee that her father didn’t know she practised alchemy, and she wanted to keep it that way.

“Don’t worry. My lips are sealed,” he said.

She reached up and kissed those very lips, and he tasted the salt of her recent tears.

Chapter 13 - Socialisation

Saturday the 2nd of August 1550

The Left Bank, Paris

Burning the candle at both ends

Dee had been increasingly irritable for the last week, especially in the evenings. So it was with trepidation that Guillaume tentatively knocked on his door.

There was no response, so he knocked again, for longer, “John? John, the dinner is ready.”

Dee yelled through the door, “Go away! How can I prepare when I have these constant interruptions?”

Guillaume, needing no further encouragement, turned and raced down the stairs and found his way to the kitchen.

“He is just nervous about his first lecture,” said Madeleine defensively.

“He has had plenty of time, but instead of preparing, he has been closeted with you every day learning how to make cures from herbs and roots. Then in the evenings and through the night, he tries to prepare his lecture examples by candlelight. The lad is exhausted.”

Is father blaming me for leading Dee astray?

He doesn’t know the half of it, she thought, smiling to herself as she remembered their most recent passionate embrace after successfully purifying quintessence from brandy.

“It is hardly a laughing matter, Madeleine,” snapped Denis, before continuing more calmly. “He may just be nervous, as you say, but his disturbed equilibrium is affecting everyone else in the house, and that I will not tolerate. You need to do something about it. Tonight.”

“Yes, papa,” she dutifully replied, although her blank expression betrayed her complete lack of ideas as to how to achieve such a thing.

Le Gland

Dee shook his head to clear some raindrops from his face. Then hurried after Madeleine through the dark Parisian streets that were suffering under a light drizzle.

Almost to the end of the Rue Cordeliers. Jink to the left and then the right, into Rue Crebillon. Now they were hard up along the city wall, beyond which he knew lay the abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Prés.

He worried about their safety, walking through back alleys in absolute darkness. But Madeleine continued striding ahead confidently. Hopefully, her confidence is not misplaced, he thought. Her father will kill me if she suffers any harm while in my company.

To take his mind off the worry of potential danger, he retreated into mathematics, and calculated the phase of the moon. Hmm, the sun will be about, ho hum, eighteen degrees in Leo, and the moon, hmmm, five or six degrees in Aries, so we would have a waning moon. If we could see it for all the clouds and rain.

Up ahead, he saw a dim light twinkling.

As they got closer, he realised it was an elaborate lamp, shaped like an acorn, hanging from a building.

Madeleine went straight toward it, pausing only to gesture at the lamp.

“Le Gland,” she announced, before skipping down the stairs that it feebly illuminated.

He followed, but not without some hesitation.

Le Gland is an acorn, that much I understand. But what kind of place is le Gland?

Dee paused just inside the door and looked about, slack-jawed.

They were in a brightly lit barrel-vaulted cellar that was packed with tables and chairs and resounded with convivial chatter. Each table was covered with a cloth, and most were heaving with platters of food and jugs of wine. Highly animated patrons surrounded the tables. He wondered if they would find anywhere to sit.

Suddenly, a small group of musicians at the far end of the room struck up a merry tune. Dee glanced over at them in surprise.

He made to follow Madeleine into the room, but a burly man standing just inside the doorway stopped him. “Two plates, Monsieur? You and the young lady?”

Dee nodded, not at all sure what he was being asked.

The man held out his hand and named an eye-watering sum, clearly expecting payment in advance for whatever victuals were to be consumed that night.

He dug deep in his purse to find enough coins, then hurried over to join Madeleine.

As he reached her side, two young men shouted out to get her attention, waving for her to join their table. She clearly recognised them and pulled Dee along to meet them.

The shorter one had a soft face and a beaky nose. He swept a gracious bow and rather pompously introduced himself. “Pierre de Ronsard, poet, and foremost member of the Brigade. Glad to meet you.”

Member of the what? Thought Dee, somewhat dazed.

The other man bristled during Ronsard’s introduction. He was slightly taller, and older too, if Dee was any judge. He sported a bushy moustache, perhaps intended to alleviate the harsher planes of his thin face, thought Dee.

He bowed quickly, and with unconvincing bravado said, “Pontus de Tyard. Poet. Founder member of the Brigade. At your service, sir.”

There it is again, ‘The Brigade’. Are they soldiers?

He realised they were looking at him expectantly. He was forgetting his manners.

“John Dee. Mathematician and astronomer.”

They nodded their acceptance of this minimal information and resumed their seats.

Plates of food materialised, and wine flowed liberally. Apparently, the servers practised at meeting the unexpressed needs of the clientele.

When the server asked if their other usual companions would be joining them this evening, Ronsard demurred, saying they had to study at the college all night. The unused chairs were whisked away.

Dee took that as an opening that he could relate to.

“You are attending a college here in Paris?”

“Oui. The Collège de Coqueret. We are all students of Jean Duarat.” They waited expectantly, and Dee, sensing a test, scoured his prodigious memory.

“Well, how magnificent? Jean Duarat’s fame in Greek and Latin verse has reached even the sleepy backwater of Cambridge, where I normally reside,” said Dee, smoothly.

They beamed in pleasure, then drank toasts to each other and their colleagues.

Ronsard explained how Duarat, themselves, and four fellow students had established a poetic school of thought, called ‘The Brigade’.

Understanding dawned on Dee. Ah, I see. A school of like-minded poets.

Tyard interjected, “Our manifesto, which I helped to create, asserts that the French language is equally worthy of literary expression as the classics.”

Dee felt pressured to agree. “Bien sûr, it is a beautiful language, full of complexity and nuance.”

“Well said, well said,” shouted Ronsard, leaping to his feet and pumping John’s hand as though pledging lifelong amity. He called for more wine, which was quickly delivered.

Madeleine, not drinking as much as the men, cast a sidelong and yet admiring glance at Dee. He noticed, and it pushed him to show off.

After a moment’s hasty thought, he said, “The Brigade is a fine name, of course. But you remind me of the seven famed Alexandrian poets in the court of Ptolemy of Philadelphus. You could equally well be called La Pléiade.”

Ronsard, the faster thinker, or not so drunk, replied, “Of course. Named for the seven stars in Pleiades. Interesting…yes, I like it.”

Madeleine leaned close to Dee, and whispered, “The stars are also called the seven sisters, aren’t they?”

He whispered back, “Sisters? Brothers? Whatever. It has a certain ring to it, n’est-ce pas?”

Ronsard had a dreamy expression on his face. No doubt wondering how clever he will seem if he announces it as a new name at the next Brigade meeting, thought Dee, uncharitably. Or maybe he always looks like that after several glasses of wine?

"Poetry is the heartbeat of the soul," declared Tyard. He glared around the table as though daring anyone to challenge him.

Ronsard picked up what was clearly a familiar trope. "It has the power to stir emotions, to inspire change, and to awaken the hearts of men."

Dee drank the rest of his glass of red wine and waved it in the air until it magically refilled, their server efficiently roving around the table. Emboldened, he exclaimed, “You are probably right, gentlemen, but mathematics is the foundation of the universe. It gives us the tools to understand the nature of our world, to build, and to advance our civilisations.”

Ronsard blinked and looked quite owlish, while Tyard pulled at his ear as he thought about it.

Madeleine could see the mischievous twinkle in Dee’s eye, and she rolled her eyes.

"Mathematics is the language of the cosmos," he said, before continuing with a soaring voice. "It holds the key to unlocking the secrets of the universe and the mysteries of creation." He finished by raising his glass and his companions automatically raised theirs and then they all drank.

Madeleine leaned over the table so she was closer to them all, and whispered, "But alchemy is the very essence of life. It is the study of transformation and the path to enlightenment."

This was greeted by a cascade of solemn agreements, although Ronsard looked around as though to make sure no one had overheard him agree to such a scandalous comment.

As the evening wore on, the poets insisted on sharing some of their latest work. At one point, Ronsard stood, swaying slightly, and recited a couple of verses of his latest poem. When he finished, there was a burst of applause from other diners at the cabaret and he bowed like a seasoned performer.

Tyard was not so bold, even when Dee encouraged him to emulate his friend.

They kept drinking and exchanging ideas as the night wore on.

Eventually Madeleine said, “I believe that poetry can provide the emotional inspiration to drive our mathematical and alchemical pursuits.”

Ronsard nodded solemnly, and Tyard agreed.

Dee, his eyes shining with insight, said, "Perhaps our crafts are not separate, but are interconnected. Like streams feeding a great river of knowledge. Together, they can create a synergy that will uplift society."

They greeted this attempt at conciliation with a roar of approval, and they raised their glasses in a last toast.

“To the beauty of poetry.”

“And the power of mathematics.”

“And the magic of alchemy.”

Chapter 14 - Declamation

Tuesday the 12th of August 1550

Collège Royal, Paris

Preamble

John Dee paced back and forth in the ante-room beside the lecture theatre in the Collège Royal. His throat suddenly dry, he stopped and took a sip of water.

Oronce Finé, Professor of Mathematics, watched him from his position by the window, and sighed, shaking his head in despair.

Earlier, Finé had reminded Dee that it was Gerard Mercator who had actually been invited to lecture at the Collège, not Dee, and that if this evening’s lecture was not attended by at least twenty people, then he would be inclined to withhold the promised fee, and indeed it was quite possible that he would ask the magistrates to take Dee to the Grand Châtelet to be tried as a charlatan.

Dee had been alarmed, naturally. He needed the money, and he certainly didn’t want to be locked in the dungeon of the Châtelet castle, from which, as he had recently learned, few people ever returned.

He glanced at the Professor and felt his guts twist in alarm at the possibility of incarceration.

Does Finé really have such influence? Surely I cannot be held responsible for low attendance, just because he is worried about his own position?

With difficulty, he forced his wandering mind back to the upcoming lecture.

He had practised several lecturing styles in front of Madeleine and Medart.

By placing his notes on a lectern, he could gesticulate with two hands when needed, but he had to stand in one place so that he could read the notes.

If he held the notes in one hand, then he could walk to and fro and still use one hand to gesture and drive home his points.

Unfortunately, regardless of the approach, Medart had claimed the lecture to be boring, and when he turned to Madeleine for encouragement, she had been forced to agree.

A gong sounded from somewhere deep within the building.

Dee looked up in alarm, then across to Finé, who nodded gravely, “It is time, Monsieur Jean Dee. Bonne chance - for both our sakes.”

He gave a sardonic bow and left the room.

The martyrium at Montmartre Abbey

Andrea and Jacopo were seated at the side of the hall, against the curving wall. A few candles pulsed bravely against the darkness, barely illuminating the cavernous space.

They heard a ritualistic thumping of steel against wood, then two men swung open a set of double doors, letting a small procession enter the room.

A stocky friar carried a fat candle in one hand that cast a bright halo around the group, and held a silver cross aloft in the other hand.

Behind him, six men in cowls carried a coffin at shoulder height. The coffin was draped in a white cloth bearing a large embroidered symbol; a blazing sun surrounding a christogram of IHS, with a cross above and three nails below. The symbol of the Jesuits.

Andrea shivered slightly, though the room wasn’t cold.

Behind the coffin came Francis Faber, their paymaster, holding a huge sword up before him by the scabbard, like a cross. He too was cowled, though there could be no mistaking a figure of his stature, head and shoulders taller than most men.

Near the centre of the room, the coffin was lowered onto trestles and the transport party marched off to join three existing ranks of Jesuit Brothers in a precise matrix. Faber knelt and started to intone a prayer, asking for God’s favour on their undertaking.

Twenty-four monks watching one man pray. Are they all crazy? He wondered. They may be, but they are well disciplined, nonetheless.

While Faber led the group in prayer, Andrea looked around. It didn’t take long. The martyrium was bereft of decoration.

Earlier, Faber had thanked him personally for returning Petrus Faver to Paris, or Pierre Lefevr, as he insisted on calling him. However, there had been no sign of their payment, despite Andrea’s prompting.

While lack of immediate payment made Andrea nervous, it made Jacopo angry. He could feel his friend simmering beside him, knowing that he took it as an affront against the criminals’ code; hirelings get paid on time or beware!

He resolved to meet with Faber again to push the need for payment, before Jacopo found some way of taking matters into his own hands.

He spotted a shadowy figure slip inside through a door on the opposite side of the room. Hello, who’s that?

Despite taking a seat immediately and being swathed in a hooded cloak, there could be no mistaking her womanly charms.

Well, perhaps it won’t hurt to wait around for payment for a few more days, he thought, smiling appreciatively.

A natural showman

Dee straightened his shoulders and tried to project a confidence he didn’t really feel.

As he opened the door to the already dark lecture hall, he knew all eyes would be drawn to his silhouette and the light spilling from the brightly lit ante-room behind him.

He paused dramatically and heard just a slight shuffling sound from someone in the audience. Well, at least there is one person up there, he thought grimly.

Moving slowly, he turned to a side table beside the door and gathered up a stack of thirteen books, one by one.

He pulled the door shut behind him, cutting off the light. At the same moment, a small footlight flared a few yards ahead of him. He walked purposefully toward it.

As he passed the flickering light, it died, and another flared even closer to the stage. He carried on walking.

Again, the light guttered and another sprang to life a few yards further on.

This time, as he drew level with it, a second lamp lit, spluttering as it came into being. The two footlights framed a podium that he walked up to.

He unloaded the books onto the podium, one by one. He began his lecture conversationally, yet projecting his voice sufficiently to penetrate to the furthest corners of the hall.

“Nearly two thousand years ago, in Alexandria, Ptolemy the First founded his Musaeum, as a centre of learning, similar to this Collège Royal we occupy today. It, too, was designed to attract the brightest minds of the age and to stimulate research and progress. One of its first scholars was the Greek mathematician, who we know as Euclid. Euclid wrote the thirteen books that we are going to examine, starting today.” Dee laid the last of the books on the podium in time with the word today, pleased that his timing was perfect.

He turned to face where the audience would be, if anyone had turned up. The theatre remained in near total darkness. He could just see Medart’s pale face where he knelt, in position, behind the second of the footlights.

Dee quickly explained that Euclid had assembled all existing mathematical knowledge and written it into his collection of books, emphasising that it was not all Euclid’s original work. He had merely collated and organised it.

“Today, we will review some highlights from the first six books. We will see how Euclid defined abstract concepts such as a point, a line, a plane and an angle, and more. Then, using just a very few basic statements of truth, which he called postulates, he builds up the whole subject of geometry.”

Conscious of his friends’ earlier observations of mathematics being boring, he stepped back away from podium and picked something up from the gloomy recesses of the stage.

Another light flared, this time illuminating Madeleine, who had risen from her seat at the end of the first row of chairs.

Ah, there are a few others seated near Madeleine. I see Denis, and the boys, and who is that behind? I think it is Tyard, the poet! Well, this lecture will not be a complete failure then!

He continued aloud, “Let us consider two points.

“Let myself represent one of the points, and the young lady will be the second such point.

“Euclid’s first postulate states that we can always draw a straight line that will pass exactly through those two points.

“We could accept his statement. But instead we ask, How can we prove that such a straight line exists?”

Dramatically, Dee threw a loop of rope high into the air, from his position at the podium, toward Medart, who stood in the arc of light in front of Madeleine. Medart caught the rope and hurried over to Madeleine, giving the end to her.

Dee made a big show of hauling in the slack in the rope, with wildly exaggerated movement of his arms, until the rope was taut between them.

“A straight line, ladies and gentlemen!”

Much to Dee’s surprise, a scattering of applause burst out from various points in the hall. There must be several people here after all, he mused.

“The location of these two points is all we need to define this straight line,” he said.

“By the way, did you know that ropes have been used to create straight lines for thousands of years?

“Well, it is true. In ancient Egypt, the land of pyramids and pharaohs, they constructed their mighty buildings out of stone. To ensure that the buildings had straight edges, the surveyors stretched ropes between two points. In fact, that is how they got their name: rope stretchers. The Greeks called them harpedonaptai, which proves that the Greeks can make anything sound complicated, especially after they have enjoyed a jug of wine or two!”

He heard some weak laughter echoing around the hall.

“But let us move on to the second postulate.

“Euclid said that any straight line can be extended, for ever, from either of its two ends.”

He turned and threw his end of the rope toward the darkened back of the stage. It stayed aloft and did not slacken, even though he no longer held it.

He raised his hand showing an empty palm, then in one fluid movement, he crouched down to the footlight and scooped with his hand, then rose to standing once more. This time, though, there was a small flame flickering in his palm. He turned and threw the flame toward the suspended rope and the entire length lit up with an eerie blue light.

The fire was enough to illuminate the rope as it stretched away from Dee high up toward the rear of the stage, but didn’t seem to actually burn the rope itself, which stayed taut and strong.

There was a collective intake of breath from what must have been dozens of people. Dee smiled.

He pretended to throw again, and a tiny flame flew from his palm to the back of the stage, where a small explosion emitted a puff of blue smoke that obscured the scene. Streamers of blue light showered toward the floor.

When the smoke cleared, a small basket was visible hanging from the rope.

The basket slid down the incline at a slow but steady pace, allowing everyone to observe its motion. It passed Dee and continued down to Madeleine.

As it reached her, it burst into red flames for an instant and was consumed, leaving just a tracery of embers outlining its previous shape. The remaining sparks exploded out in a burst of colour, revealing a cascade of red roses that tumbled toward Madeleine, who caught several and held them aloft.

Into the awed silence, Dee recited lines from a popular poem published by Ronsard earlier that year:

So if you believe me, my sweetheart,

While time still flowers for you,

In its freshest novelty,

Do take advantage of your youthful bloom.

All was quiet for another moment, then the hall erupted with cheers, whistles, and applause. Ronsard himself stood and cheered, then leapt up onto the stage and hugged Dee before kissing him on both cheeks. Turning to the crowd, he raised Dee’s hand high in salute of the applause.

He shouted out excitedly, “The beauty of poetry. And the power of mathematics.”

Then, pumping the air with his fist, he left the stage and returned to his seat.

When the audience finally settled, Dee completed the remainder of the lecture, which continued in the same style of extravagant demonstrations and pyrotechnics.

As he finished with a deep bow, the house lamps were lit and he saw the audience for the first time. There were easily two hundred Parisians crammed into the seats and benches, with some even sitting on the stairs in the aisles.

Ronsard, Tyard and presumably the rest of the Brigade, had been sitting behind Denis’ household. They were all standing now and talking excitedly.

Over to the left, he saw Pierre de La Ramée holding his hands aloft and applauding. Beside him was a large group of students, which he assumed was a delegation from the Collège de Navarre.

Down in the middle of the front row were Pascal du Hamel, and several important looking noblemen and their consorts, all looking thrilled.

Professor Oronce Finé clambered onto the stage beside Dee, and tried to talk above the enthusiastic chatter of the audience, but failing, he resorted to hugging Dee and kissing him on both cheeks.

Chapter 15 - Ingratiation

Tuesday the 12th of August 1550

Collège Royal, Paris

Guillaume Postel

Dee was only half-listening to the congratulations from the crowd of academics and dignitaries that surrounded him.

Instead, he craned his neck desperately looking for Madeleine, without whose help the lecture could easily have been a disaster, and Medart too, who had controlled the pyrotechnics with perfect timing.

His heart sank when he saw they were already leaving the hall, in the company of Denis, Ronsard and the others. Luckily, just at that moment, Madeleine glanced back and saw the desperation etched on his face. She smiled broadly, then dipped a little courtesy, and finally blew him a kiss. In those simple gestures, she conveyed what she could not say in words; You’re welcome. Enjoy the moment. I’ll see you later.

Leaning close, Pascal du Hamel almost had to shout for Dee to hear him. “In half an hour, we will retire to Professor Finé’s suite, where he has some special well-wishers to meet you.”

Finé rescued Dee himself, apologising to the remaining crowd on behalf of both of them, saying that one of King Henry’s councillors wanted a private word. As they departed, Dee exclaimed, “No one is going to believe that excuse,” but Finé smiled as he replied, “I think you’ll find that they will.”

Finé linked arms with Dee and guided him to his private suite of rooms on the second floor of the Collège building. There, a select group of well-dressed courtiers were enjoying a post-lecture drink.

They headed straight to a patrician-looking gentleman with a large beard and high forehead.

“Councillor l'Hôpital, allow me to introduce our esteemed visitor, Monsieur John Dee, of Leuven and England.”

Finé bowed, so Dee followed suit.

“Congratulations young man, on a very entertaining and yet informative lecture. I hope you will consider allowing your name to be put forward for the Professor of Mathematics position in a couple of years’ time?

“And you, Finé, I commend you for your choice of lecturers this year. This is exactly the kind of excitement we need to stimulate interest and learning in mathematics, which, after all, is the whole raison d’être of this college.”

They chatted for some minutes before the councillor excused himself and left the room.

Finé flattered, “I never doubted you for a minute. That was an exemplary display of the art of communication. It was easily the largest audience we have had for, well, for years, I would say. What do you think, Pascal?”

Pascal said it was the largest audience ever, “And I expect the follow-up lecture will be even better attended when news of this one spreads. You will be able to duplicate this level of interest, won’t you, Jean? Perhaps we could convince you to give a whole series?”

As he confirmed his intention to do his very best, Dee watched different emotions chase themselves across Finé’s features. He could imagine the conflict. On the one hand, the college, and he himself, needed the attendance to fulfil its charter, but on the other hand, Finé’s own lectures had probably never been this popular.

And Dee had Madeleine to thank for it all; the alchemical displays and the marketing to entice in the audience. It certainly wasn’t the rather dull subject matter that enthralled the crowd.

Finé acknowledged someone across the room and said that he’d be back in a moment.

Dee watched as Finé greeted a bearded, middle-aged man.

Pascal tugged at Dee’s sleeve and nodding toward Finé’s companion, he urgently whispered, “Beware of that one, Jean. He is under investigation by the Inquisition. He met an old woman in Venice who claimed to have visions. Apparently, she told him that he was her son and that he would unite the world’s religions. For some reason, he believed everything she told him. I used to revere him, but now…I just don’t know…

“He is still ambitious, though. I know he wants the professorial position here at the college for himself.”

Finé returned with the other man in tow. He exuded an air of erudition and experience that Dee felt almost physically.

“Guillaume Postel, at your service,” said the newcomer.

Dee bowed in return. “John Dee. The pleasure is mine.”

Finé spoke of Postel’s credentials, “Monsieur Postel is well known at court, and is an exceptionally good fit for a position here at the college, being fluent in the languages of the Jews and Arabs, as well as the classics, of course. In fact, King Francis personally selected him to be the interpreter for the negotiations with Suleiman the Magnificent of the Ottomans.”

Postel preened but seemed to brush off the praise, “Come now Oronce, that is ancient history,” he turned to Dee as he continued, “For the last couple of years I have been blown hither and thither on the winds of fate, and many a storm actually, as I search for manuscripts in Syria and the Holy Land.”

“That sounds like quite the journey,” said Dee, as he wondered why the pair seemed to be trying so hard to impress him.

“Oh, it is. But thank goodness for the alliance with the Turks. It makes the journey so much simpler.”

He sighed wistfully. “I usually return through La Serenisima.”

Dee knew that was what the Venetians called their near-thousand year old empire of the sea, but he affected ignorance to encourage Postel to continue.

“Venice. Ruled by the Doge, who is elected for life by the Great Council. It is a city-state of merchants, and a formidable sea power. They are distrustful of the Pope and fiercely maintain their independence.

“And that is what makes Venice an ideal port of call. They encourage a lively book trade and have a very active printing industry. I can find books there that are banned or even burned in Catholic countries.” He tapped his nose conspiratorially.

“Didn’t you say you have some manuscripts that might interest Monsieur Dee?” prompted Finé.

“I did, yes, I did.

“I have spent several years scouring the Holy Land for unique and powerful texts. They still have copies of ancient Greek manuscripts which were lost to Europe with the fall of the Roman empire.

“There are also many learned Persian and Arab scholars whose works I have heard about and whose books can occasionally be found if one looks hard enough.

“Have you heard of Nasir al-Din al-Tusi, for example?”

Dee had, in fact, and quickly confirmed this to Postel, his pulse quickening. “I believe he wrote books on mathematics, especially on trigonometry and astronomy. I have copies of his tables of planetary motion in my rooms back at Cambridge, but alas, nothing more.”

“You are right, yes. He wrote extensively on those topics, and more.

“In fact,” here he paused and looked suspiciously around the room, “I have an al-Tusi manuscript on Euclid’s Elements! I also have books on the quadrilateral, and his treatise on the astrolabe, al-Risalah al-Asturlabiyah, all of which I would be happy to show to you if you are interested?”

Dee almost drooled. His mentor, Gerard Mercator, had mentioned the al-Asturlabiyah, but even he had never seen a copy.

He felt a restraining hand on his elbow, he guessed from Pascal, but ignoring it he agreed a date for the visit in the coming week.

Postel excused himself, saying mysteriously, “I have to help tomorrow’s lecturer prepare for his big day. Who knows, maybe his audience will rival yours? I hope to see you there, anyway.”

With a bow, he left.

Chapter 16 - Reincarnation

Wednesday the 13th of August 1550

Collège Royal, Paris

Luria's lecture

The next day, as Dee approached the entrance of the Collège Royal, he recognised his erstwhile travelling companion, Peter Ramus, talking with a cleric near the main door.

He bounded up the steps, intent on thanking him and his students for attending yesterday.

Ramus waved away Dee’s gratitude and introduced him to the cleric.

“No thanks are required, my friend. My students found your lecture exhilarating, as did I. You can be confident that we will attend your second lecture, as I’m sure will every other academic in the city. We were just glad to get seats.

“Are you here for the Jew’s lecture? Of course you are. It should be instructional in so many ways. Besides, old Postel would never forgive us if we didn’t attend.”

He turned to his companion. “Let me introduce you both. John, this is Bishop Piero del Tramazzo.

“Bishop, this is John Dee, the English mathematician who so entertained us all yesterday and who is now the talk of the city. I am pleased to think of John as a friend.”

Dee blushed, and struggled to stammer out a suitable greeting, “Your Grace. It is an honour to meet you.” He took the proffered hand and bowed low over it, but refrained from actually kissing it.

“I missed your lecture yesterday, but I am told it was quite the performance. Will the sequel be similarly erudite and stimulating?”

“So kind of you to enquire, your Grace. I do try very hard to keep the audience awake.” This was met with polite smiles from the two older men.

“If it is not being too presumptuous, perhaps you would permit me to ask Professor Finé to reserve some seats for you at the next lecture? It is in three weeks’ time.”

Before Bishop Tramazzo could reply, Councillor l'Hôpital emerged from the Collège. He greeted the two older men gruffly, and sternly suggested they all head inside, as the lecture would start momentarily.

Their footsteps echoed through the mostly empty lecture theatre, as they walked to the front and took seats together.

Minutes later, Postel exited the preparation room that Dee knew so well, strode to the lectern, and introduced himself.

“Many of you will know that just a few years ago, our late lamented King Francis tasked me with being the interpreter in our successful embassy to the Ottoman sultan, Suleiman the Magnificent, when we travelled to Constantinople.

“The treaty negotiated on that visit still holds strong and, as a result, I have been able to travel to the land of the Turks several times over the past few years. Indeed, I go beyond it, unto the Holy Land.

“I invite you to share the knowledge that I have gained through the books I have published; The Origins of Hebrew, The Description of Syria, and most recently, The Key to Hidden Things and the Interpretation of the Mystical Menorah in Moses' Tabernacle. These are all available at the university bookstore.”

“I go on these dangerous journeys in search of knowledge, which I hope to bring back to France to enrich all of our lives.”

He paused as though waiting for applause, but there was only an embarrassing silence.

He continued, his voice betraying a slightly hurt tone.

“On my most recent journey, I met a most engaging and diligent Rabbinic scholar. This learned worthy, even though quite young and recently married, agreed to journey with me back to Paris, and then on to Castile. There, we will seek the descendants of Moses de León, who was the first person to publicise The Zohar, a wondrous and mystical work, which is rapidly becoming the most important book describing Jewish Kabbalah.

“That young man is Isaac Luria. He is my guest here today and has agreed to talk with us on a range of topics, including the Hebrew language, The Zohar and Kabbalah, and the nature of souls, and redemption.”

There was a snort from the Bishop, just two seats away from Dee.

Postel shuffled uncomfortably behind the lectern and ran a finger around his collar.

Dee felt a frisson of concern pervade the room.

He was alarmed, too. What is Postel doing? The Jews were expelled from France over a hundred years ago and any that remained had to convert to Christianity and were frequently the target of the Inquisition when they lapsed. Beyond that, discussion of souls and redemption was for the Church, and likely to land anyone else in front of the Inquisition straight away.

“Without further delay, I give you Isaac Luria.” He sketched a shallow bow and dashed offstage, out of sight.

An earnest young man confidently replaced him before the small audience.

He was dressed in the style of Turkish Jews, with a long robe almost to the floor, soft pointed shoes and a tall brimless hat.

He started by thanking Postel for the opportunity and then began his lecture.

He talked softly but authoritatively and with a fairly heavy accent that demanded the listener focus on his words to truly follow his meaning. He spoke spontaneously, requiring no notes, and so no lectern. Therefore, he was free to walk back and forth across the stage. Occasionally he would lean towards his small audience as though to draw them closer in to his confidence.

He is really quite compelling, without any need for pyrotechnics, thought Dee wryly.

He started with the Hebrew language, its history and what he claimed were the best ways to learn it, and how to pronounce it. He chuckled self-deprecatingly as he said, “I feel that Hebrew, as a language, brings one closer to God, and I am giving serious thought to ceasing speaking other languages altogether. Indeed, this might be one of the last lectures I ever give that is not in Hebrew, so I really hope you enjoy it.”

His gentle voice and pleasant demeanour eased Dee’s initial concerns, and he noticed that even the Bishop looked more relaxed.

A squeaking sound from the rear of the auditorium caused Dee to glance back, where he saw two or three dark figures slip through the partially opened door and take seats in the back row. There was plenty of space nearer the front, but Dee was grateful that they didn’t cause more disruption than they already had with their late arrival.

Returning his attention to Luria, Dee realised that the young man had proceeded rapidly and was already explaining how Kaballah was a set of teachings that described the relationship between God and the physical world.

“In particular, The Zohar is gaining acceptance as a central work of Kaballah. The Zohar describes the mystical aspects of the books of Moses, which we call the Torah, and you know as the first five books of the bible.

“We all know that the bible introduces us to some of the mysteries of God: The Creation, The Garden of Eden, The Tree of Life, and so on.

“Particularly in the book of Exodus, we find the seventy-two letter name of God, which has great power, and was uttered by Moses to part the Red Sea and escape from the pursuing Egyptians. This version of the name of God can form an important component of meditation.

“We believe that words are powerful. Especially the name of God, but also the rest of the words of the Torah, and in fact the lines and the very shapes of the letters.

“So complex is the message that the Torah has several layers of meaning, and greater skill is needed to understand each successive layer.

“Also note that the shortest form of the name of God has four letters: yōd, hē, wāw, and hē. So the number four holds significance as well.”

Dee’s eyes glazed over as his nimble mind leapt from one concept to another. Hmm. The number four. Well, the fourth letter of the ancient Hebrew alphabet is “dālet”, like “delta” in Greek, and both have the shape of a triangle “◁” or “△”… And “dālet” means “door”, perhaps like the doorway to understanding God… And my name starts with “D” the fourth letter of our alphabet… And when Madeleine taught me about alchemical fire, she said the symbol is “△” which is pretty much the same as the symbol for the letter “D”…

He snapped his attention back to Luria, annoyed to have missed some of the young man’s ideas, but strangely excited by the connections he was discovering and what they might mean for him and his future.

Luria was describing other versions of the name of God, made from different letter groupings of 12, 22 and even 42 letters, and how these could be combined and transformed and how one could derive angel names from them and much more.

Dee’s mind fizzed with more possibilities. I shall have to test out numerology much more closely, and the Kabbalah as well. Perhaps there is some parallel or conjunction to be had with the cryptography that the abbot Trithemius described in his book, Steganographia…

Dee again forced himself to concentrate on what the young man was saying.

“One section of The Zohar, called Balak, contains an extensive description of reincarnation. Sometimes this represents the transmigration of souls and also gives us insights into past lives.”

An excited murmur rose from the back of the room and Dee found himself glancing back involuntarily, but to no avail, as it was completely dark.

Luria was summarising the main points of his lecture and finally his voice rose an octave as he finished with a flourish.

“I believe these concepts can all be systematised, perhaps with the help of numerology, and it is to this work that I will devote my life.”

There was a polite round of applause from Dee especially, but also the few people seated near him, except for the Bishop who seemed to be trying to burn holes into the young man’s soul with the strength of his stare.

The small audience stood and started to move toward the exit, the conversation buzzing about what they had heard.

As the rear door opened and light flooded in, Dee saw the silhouettes of the late arrivals as they exited the hall. One of them moved with particular grace.

Is that Arrabella? Surely not, and yet…

He had to find out.

He tried to rush past the Bishop and Ramus, who were deep in spirited conversation and blocking the aisle, but as he tried to pass them a hand gripped his arm and pulled him around with such force that he almost lost his footing.

It was Postel, inviting him to meet Luria.

Dee glanced back in frustration at the door, but could no longer see the small party. Another minute and he might have reached them, but now…now they were probably long gone, disappearing into the Parisian night.

He ground his teeth as the memory of the theft and being duped resurfaced, and it was only with a supreme effort of will that he settled his features and tone as he finally turned to face the expectant Postel.

“Monsieur Dee, allow me to introduce Isaac Luria.”

They shook hands and exchanged pleasantries.

Dee cast another glance toward the door, but Postel’s insistent voice dragged him back.

“Yesterday, I mentioned I have a manuscript by al-Tusi, but actually it is Isaac who has possession of it. Would it be suitable if I were to arrange a mutually convenient time for you to study it?”

Dee’s eyes had drifted toward the door one more time and he saw Ramus and Tramazzo passing through it. It was no use. The shadowy strangers had definitely long gone.

To Postel, he agreed, “I would love to study the manuscript whenever Monsieur Luria has the time to allow it.”

To Isaac he gushed, “Your description of the Kaballah and numerology was fascinating too. I would love to learn more if you have the time.”

They left the hall in animated conversation. Several other scholars followed them, trying to be part of the discussion between two such intense young men.

Appointment at court

The next morning, Dee received a sealed letter on stiff, high-quality parchment.

His breakfast companions demanded that he open it without delay, so there, at the Delacroix’s kitchen table, he broke the wax seal and skimmed through the spidery handwriting to the final signature.

“It is from Councillor l'Hôpital, who you will remember was at the lecture.

“He says that their Majesties, King Henry and Queen Catherine, want to expand the group of Mathematical Readers at Court. After conferring with Professor Finé, l’Hôpital is requesting my presence at court next week, so that I can be presented to the adjudicating body who appoints the Readers. There is no guarantee until the appointment is confirmed, but l’Hôpital writes that he and Finé are quietly confident, and I am reminded that the position carries a stipend of two hundred crowns a year.

“I am instructed to go to Postel on Tuesday and he will guide me to the hearing where I will be formally presented!”

There was stunned silence for almost a minute before a clamour of voices and questions drowned out all thought.

Madeleine jumped up and ran to embrace Dee, almost knocking him off his chair, whilst the apprentices and Medart whooped and shouted and Denis smiled benevolently.

Part III

“These kisses, friends, that kill the soul with fear,

the coldness of death on the lips I feel,

when, trembling, I dare to kiss my dear,

whose love is the cause of my bitter weal.”

- Louise Labé. Amours 57.

Chapter 17 - Spoilation

Tuesday the 19th of August 1550

Postel’s House, The Left Bank, Paris

Ransacked

Dee strode self-consciously along the Rue de la Harpe, his discomfort increasing with every step.

He recalled his conversation with Madeleine last week.

“You may only be a petitioner for an academic position, but you can’t attend the royal court looking like a poor student.”

“But I am a poor student.”

“Nonsense. You’re a respected scholar from Cambridge and Leuven. And we’ll make sure everybody knows it and respects you.”

His new hose were itchy and his codpiece was chafing his… he coloured as he thought about what it was chafing.

Eventually, he couldn’t stand it any longer and darted into a dim alley between two stores and adjusted his lower clothing.

He emerged into the street as the clouds retreated to reveal the morning sun, which twinkled on the little glass brooch that Madeleine had bought for him.

He paused as he recalled how she had used the brooch to pin the mandilion to his tunic, so that the small cloak draped fashionably over his right shoulder.

He fancied that he could still feel the warmth of her hand where she had placed it flat against his chest, over his heart, and looked up into his face with such admiration. It had taken all his willpower not to embrace her there and then and crush her lips to his. But with the rest of the household watching, he couldn’t risk her reputation with such an overt display.

He sighed and walked on, looking for the church of St Severin that marked the start of the little street that contained Postel’s house.

Of course, “a Mathematical Reader at the royal court” had sounded prestigious to everyone in the Delacroix household, but none of them had any idea what it would actually entail. Including Dee himself.

So he had paid a visit to Professor Finé at the Collège Royal, who Dee knew was one of the existing readers.

Finé had been in an avuncular mood, in contrast to the coolness of their first meeting just a few short weeks ago.

He had explained that the Mathematics Readers were responsible for teaching mathematics and astronomy to the king and his courtiers.

Queen Catherine was particularly interested in astrology, and the famed astrologer, Michel de Nostredame, was a favourite of hers.

In addition, readers were expected to conduct research and apply mathematics to navigation and military science.

The opportunity to meet and possibly to work with Nostradamus was a big inducement for Dee, especially to ask him whether his recently published almanac had been profitable, and if he intended to publish one every year.

However, the prospect of working for King Henry’s military made Dee uneasy. Wasn’t France at war with England more often than not? Where did his loyalties really lie?

He realised that he was standing in front of Postel’s house. It was an elegant townhouse, three storeys tall, built of stone.

A chill passed through him.

There is something amiss.

He looked critically at the house.

The front door was ajar, and the door frame looked splintered.

Cautiously, he peered through a window and could see a table and chair toppled over, and books spilled on the floor.

Beyond the table there was a darker, lumpy mass.

What is that?

With a start, he realised he was looking at a gentleman’s shoe, and lower leg!

Dee leapt back onto the pavement and looked around nervously.

It must have been brigands. Are they still in the house? Or perhaps loitering on the street?

There was a gentleman haggling with a flower seller a few yards away.

“Excuse me. Have either of you seen any commotion at this house?”

The flower seller said no, and the gentleman merely looked confused, clearly unaccustomed to being accosted on the street by strangers, even well-dressed ones.

Both came over and peered through the window alongside Dee.

The young woman’s eyes grew large, and she turned to the street crying out in a panic, “Meurtre. Dieu nous garde.”

Dee grasped her by the shoulders in an attempt to stop her hysterics. “Calm yourself, Mademoiselle, he may be alive and need our assistance.”

Up close, he had expected her dull peasant’s clothing to be dirty and maybe even smelly, but to his surprise, she smelled as sweet as her flowers and her clothes were well made and clean.

The gentleman looked worried too, glancing around the otherwise empty street. “What should we do?”

Dee realised his new clothes gave him a commanding air.

“Quickly, let’s go inside and help him.”

They both followed him in, albeit hanging back a little fearfully.

There in the parlour, they found Postel. He was slumped unconscious behind the overturned table, blood pouring from a gash on his forehead, pooling on the floorboards.

They hauled Postel to a sitting position and Marie, as she introduced herself, used a dampened cloth to clean his head wound until he recovered his wits.

“There were three of them, I think. They broke the door and rushed in, surprising Isaac and myself at our studies. I tried to resist…but they struck me down with a club. Is Isaac alright? Where is he?”

Dee quickly searched the house, but Isaac was nowhere to be found. Neither were Postel’s servants - they must have fled.

While he was scouring the house, Dee spotted the al-Tusi manuscript, laying atop a credenza. Telling himself that it needed to be protected, he slipped it into his doublet, then returned to the parlour.

“I will take the monsieur to a barber surgeon I know in the College of Sorbonne’s faculty of medicine,” offered the gentleman.

They decided that the house couldn’t be left with a broken door and no servants, so Dee offered to wait at the house until someone returned.

Marie left to fetch the authorities.

Chapter 18 - Alternation

Tuesday the 19th of August 1550

Montmartre Abbey, North of the Paris City Wall

A tempting bird

Jacopo was playing Hazard, a gambling game played with two dice.

Normally there would be one player rolling the dice, several other players betting, and the groom-porter who would umpire the game. But Andrea didn’t want to join in, so Jacopo was pretending to be both of the principal roles.

He cast two dice into the corner of the room, muttering his main guess as he did, “I call on the Gods of my forefathers. Reveal a sweet seven”.

The dice clicked and clattered as they bounced off the walls and finally rolled to a halt. He groaned.

A pair of threes. Six in total.

He pretended to be the groom-porter by intoning in a deeper voice, “The chance is now six. Next cast must match the chance to win, or match the main to lose.”

As an inveterate gambler he knew the odds by heart, as did all serious players, although the groom-porter would always shout them out, anyway.

Using his deeper voice again, he muttered, “Odds are six to five against the caster.”

He scooped the dice up and made ready to cast again.

He knew all the rules, of course. If he repeated his throw by getting a total of six again, he would win. If he threw a seven, his original main, he would lose. Anything else he would get to roll again, before passing the dice to the next player…which would be himself again. He chuckled. I can’t lose this way.

The dice clattered against the wall again - sounding loud in the enclosed space.

Andrea, who was trying to read a book, finally snapped at his friend.

“Why don’t you go for a walk or find something quiet to do? I know you’re bored but Faber said we will get paid very soon. I don’t want to wait any longer than you do, but a couple of days more won’t be the death of us.”

Jacopo scowled in his friend’s direction, but obediently slipped the dice back into their pouch and tossed it with his other belongings, which were all piled at the end of the thin straw-filled mattress that had served as his bed these last few days.

He stood and stretched, yawning as he did, his arms reaching up above his head. His shoulder made a popping sound as the joint expanded. He rubbed it gingerly, thinking back to how he’d had to haul the heavy, leaden coffin across half of Europe. I’m getting too old for this, he thought. This was supposed to be a big payday that would keep us in women and wine for several months. But so far, no pay, no women, and precious little wine.

But to Andrea all he said was, “I’ll go and explore then.”

Andrea glanced up from his book. “You do that. But don’t get into any trouble. We’re so close now. Let’s just get our pay and leave these zealots behind us.”

As Andrea returned to his book, Jacopo mouthed silently back at him, Don’t get into any trouble.

What am I? A child to be ordered around?

He puffed out his chest.

No. I am the finest thief in all of Rome.

Then he slouched out of the room.

Faber had insisted that they keep out of sight, in a monk’s cell, on the ground floor of the complex. He claimed the abbess had allowed him sole use of the whole west wing of the abbey, including the martyrium, but that didn’t mean he wanted to flout all convention and allow strangers to be seen on the grounds, and thereby risk her displeasure.

Their room was bare, austere even, and cold, despite it being mid-summer. A tiny opening high in one wall served as a window, letting in a tantalising beam of sunlight.

Jacopo chafed at the confinement.

Now, he padded around the hallways, subconsciously absorbing the layout; the location of the refectory, dormitories, and various places of concealment.

He easily avoided the Jesuits. They didn’t like him, and he didn’t like them.

To him, they were just like dumb soldiers, lumbering around noisily doing the bidding of their superior, without thought, without any concept of right or wrong, and certainly without any compassion.

By comparison, he knew that he and Andrea, although thieves, had honour and skill. They were stealthy as ghosts, able to flit unseen and unheard about a building before escaping with their loot.

We should have been paid on time. It is only right. We delivered the casket on time after all, from across the sea, no less!

He idly wondered if there was anything of value anywhere in the whole monastery.

Maybe I can make a withdrawal? He snickered.

Then he huffed out a breath, Hmph. Probably nothing here, though. Even the candles are cheap and greasy.

Near the martyrium, a sweeping set of stone stairs led below ground. He waited at the top, half-hidden behind a statue, alert for the smallest sound.

All was quiet.

Recklessly, he made the decision to go snooping in the forbidden basement. Snooping was second nature to him, after all.

He glided down into the gloom, as silent as a wraith.

There were no windows, nor torches, so he waited a few minutes to let his eyes adjust to the gloom, then pulled out his thief’s lantern and lit it. As the flame caught, it cast a narrow beam of light a few feet in front of him.

He tested the shutter mechanism, sliding it open to get a wider beam of light, then closing it almost all the way to narrow the beam to a finger-width.

Satisfied, he went on the prowl.

He checked each room as he passed them. Most were just empty cells.

How many warrior monks does Faber intend to house here? He wondered.

The next room was some kind of food store. Sacks of grain and dried peas spoke to a prolonged stay or to a larger complement of Jesuits.

A great banded iron door was next. It swung open on silent oiled hinges, and he walked in.

It was the armoury.

Swords and daggers, crossbows and bolts, and even chain mail armour. Enough for a small army!

He was about to exit the room when a dancing flicker of light in the corridor alerted him to someone else’s approach.

He quickly stepped into the deepest shadow, with no real fear of discovery, but all the same sweat broke out under his hairline and trickled down his spine. Christ. I hope they aren’t coming to close and lock the door. I haven’t brought my thief’s tools with me so I might get stuck in here!

Involuntarily, he remembered when he and Andrea had got lost when plundering an ancient fortified cave system in southern France. They had only survived by drinking the water that dribbled down one cave wall. They mapped more and more of the cave system every day, always returning to their water source when exhausted, which happened more quickly the longer they were down there without food. Finally, they had found an exit, emerging emaciated, but alive.

Here in the basement of the abbey, the walls were built from precision chiselled stone blocks, and were dry as a bone.

If I do get locked in, I could always kill myself, he thought. Plenty of weapons. I could make it look like I was murdered. That way, Andrea might not be blamed for me coming down here. Maybe.

The flickering light swept past the door without slowing, continuing down the corridor.

Jacopo breathed out, aware that he’d had a lucky escape. He felt the fizz of exhilaration. The joy of still being alive.

Cautiously, he peered out and saw the silhouette of a hooded and cloaked figure with the torch disappearing around a far corner.

There was something odd about the movement…

He slipped out and closed the door silently behind him, then padded after the figure.

It’s a woman!

He hadn’t been with a woman in months, not since before the job had begun in Rome. He felt a familiar urging and revelled in the sensation.

The woman stopped beside a door, which looked like almost all the others, plain and wooden.

She went inside.

Jacopo crept to the doorway and peered after her.

She was crouching by a sturdy wooden cabinet, fumbling to fit a key into the lock by the sound of it.

Long red hair cascaded from her hood, concealing her face.

Jacopo’s imagination ran wild.

Ooh, I love redheads. Pale, flawless skin, ruby-red lips…

He rubbed his crotch and thought how easy it would be to overpower her. No one would be any the wiser - there was nobody else in this basement level.

His breathing quickened, and he was about to make his move when she swung open the cabinet door and thrust a golden statue inside.

Wait a moment. What’s that now? She must have been carrying it under her cloak.

The flickering torchlight bounced off the foot-long statue, momentarily casting a golden hue around the room.

A minute later, she was locking the cabinet door, then threading the key onto a fine cord, and fumbling to place it around her neck.

Jacopo melted into the darkness.

Finally, something of value. Two things actually.

He loved exerting power over women, but he loved gold more.

Maybe I can have both! Think Jacopo, think.

Tell us your secrets

Hiding in the room across the corridor, Jacopo watched through a crack in the door as the redhead furtively exited the room and returned in the direction she had come from.

His first thought was to sneak over to the room with the cabinet and try to pick the lock, or, failing that, to pry open the cabinet door, perhaps with a knife or an axe from the armoury. Or just use the biggest axe he could find to smash the cabinet to pieces. After all, he reasoned, he wasn’t going to stay around to debate the cost of damaged furniture.

He eased the door open further, then paused, hearing a commotion from the other end of the corridor.

He retreated into the shadows again.

“Where are you taking me?”

The speaker was gasping and asked his question in heavily accented French. Jacopo had to concentrate to understand.

“Stop asking questions, or you’ll be sorry.”

Jacopo pressed his ear against the door, trying to hear more.

“What do you want with me?”

Oomph.

The questions stopped.

It sounded like a body was now being dragged along the corridor, scraping along the stone slabs, coming closer and closer.

Alarmed, Jacopo risked using his lantern with a narrow beam to look around the room he was in.

With a sinking feeling, he realised it was a cell. Not a monk’s sleeping quarters this time, but an actual imprisonment cell.

It was quite small and, unsurprisingly, bare.

The stone side wall was punctuated by a four feet wide set of iron bars that ran from floor to ceiling, allowing him to see into the cell next door. Both cells had some iron rings set into the stone wall opposite the dividing bars, and both had a drain in the middle of the room.

He’d been in enough prisons in his life to know that being able to see the person being held in the next cell was a sure way to demoralise a prisoner before you even started to torture them. The rings on the wall had an obvious purpose, and the drain in the middle…he had a sinking feeling that wasn’t for anything pleasant.

He shook his head sadly. And all of this in the basement of an abbey. You’ve got to love the clergy.

The footsteps stopped a few yards away.

Jacopo quickly closed his lantern, cutting off its meagre light, just in time as the door of the cell next door was pulled open.

He squeezed into the corner of his own cell, and peeked around the edge of the dividing wall to watch what was happening.

I hope they’ve only got one prisoner, else I’m going to have some fast explaining to do, he thought.

Two Jesuit brothers dragged a semi-conscious young man into the middle of the cell and left him sprawled on the floor.

His long white robe was dirty and splattered with blood.

A commanding voice from the corridor said to fetch a bucket of water.

One of the brothers soon returned and threw a bucket of water over the boy. The water gradually swirled down the drain, leaving a bedraggled and barely conscious lad soaking wet, lying weakly on the floor.

Jacopo waited for the cell door to close, thinking he’d soon be telling this tale to Andrea, but instead all three Jesuits entered the cell, one of them carrying a small wooden chair.

They hauled the captive onto the chair and while two of them held him upright, their leader, a big brute with an ugly red scar all down his forearm, shouted to get his attention.

“Tell us your secrets, boy. Tell us how to perform your Jewish resurrection magic. Tell us now to save yourself more torment.”

Jacopo saw a lack of understanding turn to incredulity on the lad’s face. He shook his head.

“Come, boy. It is not too much to ask. You bragged about it yesterday for long enough. We just want the details.”

The boy spat out a jet of bloody spittle, too weak to hit the Jesuit, but still it angered the big man and he gestured to his companions with his scarred arm.

They took turns beating him, alternately knocking him off the chair and dragging him back onto it. It seemed to last hours, but was probably only ten minutes or so.

The leader stepped forward again and cupped the boy’s chin in his meaty hand, peering into his eyes. “He is still defiant - I can see it in his eyes. The little fool. Show him how we deal with fools. Don’t hold back this time.”

The beating continued, more ferocious this time. After one backhanded blow, a small white tooth bounced across the floor and landed in Jacopo’s cell. He stared at it, too afraid to move.

Jacopo’s back was starting to ache from the strain of staying in exactly the same position for so long, he couldn’t imagine what pain the boy was in.

His attention was dragged back to the other cell as the lad thudded senseless onto the cell’s floor one more time.

The lead Jesuit held his hand up and signalled they should leave. “Let him think on the error of his ways. We’ll question him more tomorrow. Let’s go and eat - it has been a busy day.”

This time, the door was banged shut, and a key turned in the lock. Soon, the slap-slap sound of three pairs of sandalled feet fading into the distance was all that remained.

Jacopo let out a long, ragged breath and massaged his aching back.

As he edged out of the cell, he glanced at the locked door a few feet away.

It would be easy to return and pick that lock, then I could rescue the boy.

But why bother? I don’t know the lad, and what would I do with him, anyway? I’ll tell Andrea - he always knows what to do.

Chapter 19 - Habitation

Tuesday the 19th of August 1550

Le Marais, Paris

Nine gifts

As the sun settled low on the western horizon, the church bells rang out for vespers.

If Bishop Tramazzo had heard the bells, he might have been tempted to look out of his window, whereupon he would have witnessed a darkling sky etched with charcoal clouds, and below them a glorious golden-orange sunset reaching down to touch the workshops that crowded the Pont au Change. Perhaps he would have found a belief-affirming significance in the heavens burnishing the roofs of the city’s goldsmiths.

Alas, Tramazzo was too absorbed in the almost ceaseless flow of words formed from black gall ink that appeared on his manuscript. His hand flew across the page, leaving behind an elegant tracery of harsh sentences that described for his brethren a stream of anecdotes and examples of heresy that would help them preach to their congregations and help those poor souls avoid the traps that the devil had drawn so many into in the recent past.

He had never felt so empowered in his writing. His calling. His legacy.

His mind shone with evangelical light and the words flowed onto the page with an elegance and purity that he had never experienced before. Nothing could stop him imparting the Nine Gifts of the Holy Spirit now that he had the bit between his teeth, nothing could…

Crash!

The door to his office was flung open and a breathless Gervais, his secretary, burst into the room and stood panting before his desk, his face flushed and beaming as he waved a piece of paper toward his master.

Tramazzo sat agog at the interruption, then shook his head to refuse it and all it might mean, frantically dipping his quill and bending over his manuscript once again. He re-read his last sentence and tried to remember how he had intended to continue it…

Gervais finally caught his breath and cried out, “My lord, I think we have them. We have the proof you needed. Look, my lord, here is the report from Captain Anthoine, who has been observing the abbey these past two weeks. Faber’s men have kidnapped a visiting lecturer, injuring a prominent professor while they did it, and dragged their prisoner back to the abbey.”

He slapped the paper down beside Tramazzo’s inkwell, almost upsetting the little silver bottle.

Tramazzo yanked his manuscript away from the ink in horror, then carefully moved the ink and the report a little further away and replaced his document, and once again tried to resume.

What comes next? “the superstition of incantations creates delusions in the feeble and …” Oh, illuminating spirit, do not desert me! What was I going to write next?

He looked uncomprehendingly at the words on the page and hardly recognised them. His mind was becoming blank even as he desperately sought to hold on to the thoughts that had so recently seemed so clear and graven in his mind.

His dismay turned to horror at the loss, and then to anger at the cause.

As he stood, he roared in fury at Gervais, who seemed only dimly aware of the extent to which he had interrupted his master’s first real moment of literary fervour.

Tramazzo looked around and seeing no weapon, he savagely pulled the rope from around Gervais’ own habit and started whipping the man with all his pent up frustration. The rope slashed down and about Gervais’ head and shoulders. The tail end was frayed, as was fashionable, and whipped across the desk, clipping the inkwell just enough to flip it over onto the manuscript, which greedily absorbed the contents.

As Tramazzo’s ire cooled, he flung the belt back at Gervais and dismissed him as a fool. He returned to his desk only to let out a piercing, anguished cry that brought two more retainers running into the room from their posts on the balcony and stairs.

They entered the room in time to see Tramazzo collapse to his knees, a blackened, wet parchment clutched in his claw-like grasp, and clamped against his forehead.

A couple of feet away, Gervais lay in a foetal position clutching his own head, bloody welts visible across his scalp.

Berthault gaped at his colleague Estienne. “Mon Dieu. What a sight.”

Estienne, who was looking out of the window, replied rather dreamily, “Yes, it is the prettiest sunset for many weeks.”

Berthault punched Estienne on the shoulder, hard enough to bring his attention back to more earthly matters, and together they dragged Gervais away before his master recovered and decided to continue his punishment.

Chapter 20 - Expectation

Tuesday evening, the 19th of August 1550

Delacroix’s Bookshop, Paris

Returning empty handed

John Dee trudged wearily along the Rue des Cordeliers.

He had waited most of the day at Postel’s house until the man’s servants had ventured to return.

During the several hours of waiting, he had read some of Postel’s own works. The Linguarum Duodecim Characteribus Differentium Alphabetum Introductio described the alphabetic characters of twelve different languages, including Hebrew. Whilst he might previously have found it rather dull, Dee acknowledged that it had much greater interest to him now, thanks to Luria’s lecture with its description of the Kabbalah, the Torah, and the art of numerology.

He had also skimmed through an unfinished manuscript that was tentatively entitled De la République des Turcs, which gave a very positive description of the Ottoman society.

One other intriguing find had been a letter of acceptance for Postel, into the Society of Jesus in Rome, dated six years earlier. It had been signed “your truest friende, Ignatius of Loyola.”

Dee thought, It might be interesting to research what that society is all about. It would give me something to talk to Postel about in future academic functions. I do find idle small talk so very difficult, but as one of the King’s Mathematical Readers, I suppose I will need to become better at it.

Now, however, he was sorely glad to be returning to the Delacroix’s bookshop.

A delicious aroma emanating from a small patisserie made him realise why he was so tired. He had not eaten since breakfast!

His stomach rumbled as though to echo the thought.

He extracted a few coins from his purse and purchased a small pie from the buxom matron who was sweeping out the store before closing up for the evening.

“I baked it fresh this very morning, good sir, I promise you. Although perhaps you find it a little old?”

Her gap-toothed smile was openly lascivious, as she sized up the handsome young man in his dapper new clothes.

He took the pie from her and immediately bit into it, closing his eyes in pleasure as he mumbled his thanks, not noticing the intensity of her gaze.

“Come back in the morning and I will get you one of my special mutton pies,” she winked at him, “You’ll find no better in all the city.”

He mumbled something unintelligible around the pie-crust that he was busy savouring and started to walk away.

“It might be mutton, but it is as sweet as young lamb,” she winked again as she rearranged her ample chest within her dress.

As he continued down the street, she called after him, “I’ll let you have it for free, if you give me a kiss,” she cackled at her own brazenness.

Reinvigorated, Dee wondered how he would break the news to Madeleine and the rest of the household.

His appointment with the Readers’ adjudicating body was unfulfilled and his two hundred crowns a year was in jeopardy. Perhaps the opportunity was even lost completely. Furthermore, Postel was at the surgeons, and Luria was missing entirely.

He wondered how he might sweeten the news for Madeleine.

Perhaps a small gift will help ensure she does not think ill of me for losing out on the stipend?

He was already on the Rue du Relieur, so he entered the first bookstore he came to, that of Jean Dupré. It was a big old building and inside were shelves and shelves full of books. Near the front of the store were arrayed various religious works, in a variety of bindings to appeal to purses of every size. He knew that such books were very popular with the nouveau rich in the city. He worked his way further back, until, at a dusty table, he found the rarely sold books and browsed through them. An assistant sidled up and informed him they were available at a discounted price.

His eyes were drawn to a slightly shabby, leather covered volume that the assistant gushingly informed him had been printed in Lyon, and whose text was in the French language, despite the frontispiece being in Latin.

De materia medica, by Pedanius Dioscorides.

Dee knew that Dioscorides had been a Greek physician in the Roman army at the turn of the millennium.

He eagerly flicked through the book, noting that hundreds of different plants were described, and recipes given for many hundreds of medicines that Dioscorides claimed could be made from the plants.

This was an illustrated copy, with colourful drawings of the plants, presumably affording the reader the opportunity to identify the plant in question.

He stopped at a page containing a picture of the mandrake root, thinking the diagram a little overly humanised but certainly recognisable.

He casually replaced the book on the table, saying to the assistant, “You know, it is said that if you want to make the mandrake come alive as a powerful homunculus ready for you to command, then you must harvest it on a Monday after the vernal equinox, cut the end off it and rebury it in a dead man’s grave. For a whole month you have to water it with cow’s milk in which three bats have drowned, then on the last night you dig it up again and dry it in an oven that is heated with branches of verbena. Carry it around wrapped in a piece of the dead man’s winding sheet, and it will do your bidding.” As he said these last few words, he dramatically deepened his voice and loomed over the assistant as though to scare him.

It worked.

The lad went as pale as a winding sheet himself.

Dee sauntered over to another bookshelf and stood idly browsing for a minute or two.

The assistant struggled mightily to overcome his new fear and approached Dee with the volume in his hand and a beseeching tone to his voice.

“Sir, this is a very fine book and quite rare. You saw the fine illustrations that it contains for yourself. Perhaps I could induce you to buy it by lowering the price a little more? Have pity on me sir, for I have a daily sales target that I am still short of. I have a family…with two perpetually hungry young children…if sir would like to take another look?”

Affecting as much nonchalance as he could, Dee flipped through the book again, then shook his head sadly. “I think not. It is still overly costly for a copy of such an old book…”

The assistant took a deep breath and suggested a yet smaller sum, wincing as he did so.

Dee pretended to dither, then agreed before the lad gave up and took the book away.

He paid quickly, and exited the store, dashing up the road in glee, thinking how much Madeleine would enjoy it.

Madeleine's displeasure

Dee found Denis and the apprentices nervously awaiting his return in the front room of the Delacroix’s bookshop.

Guillaume was immediately dispatched to fetch Madeleine from her apothecary, where she had apparently retreated, claiming it was too stressful to wait with the boys.

Denis bustled the last remaining customer out of the shop as soon as they had paid for their purchase, then everyone reconvened in the kitchen, where Medart had been helping Marie prepare the evening meal.

Chairs and stools scraped back from the table, and bodies quickly occupied them.

Everyone turned expectantly toward Dee, who squirmed in his chair.

It’s not my fault, he thought, knowing that the loss of the stipend could not be laid at his door, even though it would surely come as an enormous disappointment to all of them.

Denis must have seen something in his eyes, for he said kindly, “Come on, lad. Just tell us the tale.”

Dee took a breath and then, avoiding everyone’s eyes, he told them how he had found Postel’s house ransacked, Postel injured, and Luria kidnapped.

The youngsters clearly thought it was thrilling and hung on every word, whilst Denis and Madeleine were looking at him without saying a word.

He remembered the gift. Fumbling behind him, he hefted the book onto the kitchen table and slid it across to Madeleine, saying, “I bought you this on my way home.”

Her eyes flicked to the cover, then back to him, full of unasked questions.

Why does she say nothing?

He pulled the al-Tusi manuscript from inside his jerkin and flourished it. “They didn’t get this manuscript, though. It found it and brought it back here for safety!”

Denis raised a quizzical eyebrow.

There was silence for a full minute before Madeleine spoke, and when she did, her voice was quiet, although it shook with emotion.

“So. Let me understand, John. The man who was going to present you at court has been assaulted in his own home, and his houseguest is missing, presumed kidnapped.”

Dee nodded warily.

He sensed some impending doom but could not think what it might be, so he could do nothing to avert it.

“And you have taken a document that you covet from his house, and then gone shopping, before returning to our home. Have I got that right?”

He still didn’t understand what the problem was, but her summation of his very chaotic day didn’t sound very positive the way she was phrasing it.

He nodded again.

“You didn’t, for example, check on Postel to see if his injuries have been treated?”

Dee shook his head in the negative.

“You didn’t follow the miscreants and attempt to rescue the young man, who, less than a week ago, you were arranging to study with?”

“Well, no. But they had already gone by then…”

“Had they John? Do you know that? Did you question other people in the street, perhaps? Did you check with the neighbours? Perhaps you asked at the inn at the end of the street?”

“No. Well…I didn’t think that was any of my business, not my place,…the authorities, they will, surely, they…” his voice trailed off as the look on Madeleine’s face turned from incredulity, to pity, and then to something approaching contempt.

“John Dee. How could you leave that poor boy to fend for himself without some effort? And you say it is not your place? Not your place to help others, as we all have helped you, without any expectation in return, but just for our love of a fellow citizen.

“I had thought better of you, John”

His face had turned a deep shade of shameful red, and he felt anger rising against the accusations, but could not answer back. Because she is right, he realised.

I have kept clear of another person’s problems, yet again, and now I am to pay the price through the opprobrium of my sweetheart, who cannot even bring herself to look at me anymore.

And he was right. Madeleine’s chair scraped back, and she left the room without another glance.

Slowly the other’s left too, one by one. As he rose to leave, even the youngest, Claude, made a tutting sound and shook his head, in imitation of his elders.

Finally, there was just Denis who looked at Dee sadly.

“We only have our friends and family, John.

“And they only have us.

“I understand your reluctance to get involved in the troubles of others - but if you do not, then you are throwing them into the sea of fate without a lifeline at all, for surely nobody else can be relied on to save them.

“It is not too late - but it will take effort.”

He levered himself painfully upright and limped out to the workshop.

Not too late for what? Thought Dee.

He looked around the silent room, noting the empty chairs where once his friends and, yes, his adoptive family had sat. The Dioscorides lay where he had put it. Unopened. Unwanted.

He felt his eyes fill, and he dashed away the tears with his sleeve before they could properly form. This was no time for self-pity.

No one had even mentioned the Readership of Mathematics, nor the two hundred crowns a year.

He realised, with a leaden weight in his chest; These good and honest folk care less for the money, which is more than they would make in several years of labour, than they do for the safety and well-being of people they barely know. I am a fool. A worm.

Oh, God, how can I make this right?

Chapter 21 - Circumambulation

Thursday the 21st of August 1550

Montmartre Abbey

Overdrawn

Faber slammed his hand onto the arm of his throne-like chair. “I have creditors snapping at my heels, Arrabella. When is the goldsmith returning?”

Arrabella idly picked up an ornately carved wooden candlestick and peered at it closely.

She ran a finger over the intricate workmanship, clearly admiring the form of the hunter that held aloft the candle and the stag beside him that provided more stability.

She carefully replaced it on the mantelpiece.

The Jesuit’s temper boiled over, “Arrabella! This is no time to play coy with me. Where is the damned goldsmith?”

Arrabella sighed dramatically and walked toward and then past the seated Faber. As she passed him, she let one hand trace over his shoulder, the coarse black cloth of his cassock doing nothing to disguise his impressive musculature.

Another sigh, “I have already told you all I know, Francis.

“While I was away in Reims acquiring the statue for you, the goldsmith apparently received a note from a traveller. According to his wife, the note was from his brother and stated that their elderly mother was ailing, and he should come at once, and so he did, saying he would be away for six or more weeks.

“That’s all the wife knows. She never knew where her husband grew up. Only that his father was a miller in a village. Which could be almost anywhere. That’s presumably where the mother still lives. Almost anywhere.

“All she knows for certain is that previous visits have taken at least six, maybe eight weeks, and that’s what he told her this visit would be as well.”

Arrabella had walked right past Faber and stood before a large window overlooking the countryside north of Paris.

She gestured to the panorama. “Almost anywhere, out there somewhere. I have no way of knowing where.”

Faber jumped to his feet, “Damn it, that’s not good enough ‘Bella. You know how desperately I need to melt down the statue and get the gold. I have men to pay, merchants to pay, even the god-be-damned abbess wants to be paid. To say nothing of those Roman rogues idling downstairs, eating our provisions.

“I need the gold now, not in several weeks’ time.”

She continued her slow circumambulation of the room, “You could always find another goldsmith…there are many in the city, after all.”

“Oh, very funny. ‘Excuse me monsieur, would you mind melting down this stolen artefact for me?’ That’s a recipe to land all of us in the lower ground floor apartments of the Bastille.”

In his frustration he kicked out at the dog that lay near the hearth, but it must have seen the boot coming because it dodged the blow and scrabbled to the other end of the room where it circled for a moment before lying down again, albeit in a watchful pose, alert for any further attempted assaults.

“Surely you can find something else to sell to get another week or two of respite?”

“You name it and I will sell it!” growled Faber. “The men are already suspicious, wondering when their next payment is coming, so I daren’t sell anything too obvious. A couple of them are even more vocal, stirring trouble at every opportunity. I don’t know why Jehan hired them. You’d think they would feel blessed to be part of a crusade to do God’s work, but instead they try to lead the others to mutiny.”

“If they’re that troublesome, perhaps you should arrange for an…accident,” murmured Arrabella, with a suggestive raising of an eyebrow. “Perhaps a fall from a high window?”

Faber glanced in her direction and shivered involuntarily. “They are men of God now. Anyway, the plan is to recruit more Jesuit Brothers, not to carelessly lose them. Here, there, … in Leuven, and in Reims.”

“You’re not still upset about that, are you? Come, come. There are risks in every endeavour.”

“And they paid the price, not you,” he muttered.

Cellular conversations

Isaac Luria awoke with a start, exhausted, hungry, and dirty. The fitful sleep, shivering in the corner of the bare cell, hadn’t refreshed him at all.

He tried to stand, but his legs trembled and the cuts and welts on his thighs and back stretched in protest, threatening to pull open and start bleeding again, so he slumped back down against the cold hard stone.

A distant slamming of doors and gruff shouting announced the return of the guards.

He quailed.

As the sounds came ever closer, he pushed himself deeper into the corner of his cell, eyes wide with fear of whatever punishment they were planning to inflict on him today.

Several pairs of boots approached his cell and then, miraculously, went past it. They paused and the door of the next cell was opened. A sudden inflow of torch light, visible through the barred wall that separated them, illuminated another prisoner.

It was a young woman with loose red hair, dressed only in a long linen shift and sandals.

She was pushed into the cell, staggered, and barely stayed on her feet.

Disbelief and horror were etched into every facet of her face.

She seemed confused, not understanding what was happening to her, and slowly turned around as she took in her new surroundings. Her eyes raked over Luria, huddled in the corner of his own cell, perhaps not even seeing him in the shadows.

When she finally faced her captors again, she howled in impotent rage and hurled herself forward as though to attack them, only to be pushed back so roughly that she lost a sandal and almost slipped on the grate in the middle of the floor.

She steadied herself and tensed as though to spring forward again, but before she could move, a torrent of water sluiced from a swinging bucket and splashed all over her.

She spluttered in shock before shivering uncontrollably. Her shift was soaking wet and almost see-through, clinging to her slender frame. The sodden material outlined the curve of her hips and the swell of her breast.

One guard swaggered forward, his hands fumbling with the belt around his cassock as he suggested some crude ways she might earn some comfort. She recoiled in horror. The man was hauled out by his colleagues, who reminded him of their orders.

The cell door slammed shut, and the key turned with an ominous clunk.

With parting catcalls, the guards returned the way they’d come.

The girl slumped to the floor against the far wall and pulled her knees up to her chest, circling them with her arms, rocking slightly from side to side.

Luria began to relax, relieved that he wasn’t about to be beaten again. Not just yet, anyway.

The girl’s sobbing echoed through both cells, and it was to that gentle lullaby that he finally fell asleep.

Hours later, a guard brought them each a plate of food and a wooden beaker of water, pushed through a slot near the bottom of the cell doors. From his corner position, Luria saw the girl’s plate flip over and spill most of her food onto the floor. After the guard left, she crawled forward and scooped up the topmost food, pushing it hungrily into her mouth. She left much of the food where it was touching the floor, and he knew that in a couple of days she’d not be wasting the precious sustenance, however soiled it might be.

Luria moved slowly to retrieve his own food, making sure he didn’t scare the girl with any sudden movements. He ate half of the beans and corn, then approached the bars that separated his cell from that of the girl.

Tentatively, he cleared his throat and tried to speak.

His voice cracked, so he sipped some water and tried again.

“I saw them spill your food. Take this. You will need your strength.”

The girl looked at him fearfully, like a caged animal.

Cautiously, she leaned toward the divider and snatched the plate through, almost spilling the offered food as the plate angled to pass between the bars.

She ate hungrily, flicking fearful glances toward Luria every few mouthfuls.

Luria stayed where he was, cross-legged in the middle of his cell, projecting calm, although he felt far from it.

The girl passed the plate back and mumbled, “Merci, monsieur.” She crawled back to the furthest wall, pulled her pitifully inadequate underskirt around her, curled up, and went to sleep.

Luria retreated to his corner and closed his eyes.

“What’s your name?”

The question pulled him from his slumber.

She repeated the question, a little louder this time.

“Isaac. And you?”

“Marita.”

“Why have you been brought here, Marita?”

“I’m not sure. I think because my mother couldn’t pay the rent on our house for the second month in a row. Ever since Papa died, we have had little money, just what I could earn gathering and selling wildflowers.

“What about you?”

“Me? Honestly, I don’t know either. I am not from this barbaric country. I come from lands far to the east of here. I travelled here in the company of a learned man, and I gave a lecture at his university about my culture and religion.

“These men invaded the professor’s house and beat him senseless and then dragged me away between them.”

“So you don’t owe them any money?”

“No! Nothing. How could I? I have only been here a few days, and I was the professor’s guest!”

“But they must want something? What have they asked?”

“Well,” Luria paused, almost embarrassed to say, “They say they want my secrets. The secrets of the Jewish people. Secrets of my Jewish magic.”

“Magic?” She scuttled a foot or two away from the bars toward the middle of her cell.

“Don’t worry. There is no need to be afraid. I have no magic. They are ignorant fools. There is no great secret.”

She paused, perhaps summoning her courage to continue the conversation.

“If it is no great secret, why not just tell them?”

“I can’t give them something that does not exist, can I?”

A thoughtful look crossed her face, “Well, maybe you should tell them something, even if you have to… exaggerate it.”

They chatted for several minutes before Marita said she was tired and lay down to sleep some more.

A couple of hours later, the guards returned.

Luria shrank back into his corner, knowing that he could not stand being beaten any more.

The hinges creaked and torchlight flared - but it was Marita’s cell that they opened.

“Are you ready to start paying for your board and lodgings, my little whore?”

It was the same guard. Fumbling at his belt again.

The guard pressed Marita against the back wall of her cell.

Luria watched, panic-stricken.

The guard lifted his clerical robes with one hand and reached for Marita’s gown with the other.

The sound of tearing fabric was almost drowned out by the horrified scream that came from Marita.

Chapter 22 - Investigation

Thursday the 21st of August 1550

Postel’s House

A thorough search

Dee had thought he would be glad of the company.

But Medart walked silently beside him, offering no words of comfort, indeed, no words at all. It was so uncharacteristic of him that it was unnerving.

They tramped through the cobbled streets towards Postel’s house.

As they passed the bakery, Dee led them to the other side of the road. The last thing I need is that woman propositioning me again, he thought glumly.

The silence was grating on him, so he spoke out, more harshly than he had intended. “Well? Are you going to say anything? Or are you going to stay silent the whole day?”

They walked on for ten seconds, stretching to twenty seconds.

Finally, the dam burst. “How could you do it, John?”

“Do what?”

“Do nothing.”

“I didn’t do nothing. I saw to it that Postel got treatment, and I guarded his house until his servants returned. By myself. Even though those thieves could have returned.”

He winced as he parroted out the same words he had spoken to the others. It even sounds like doing nothing to me now.

Medart halted mid-stride and grabbed Dee’s arm to stop him too, then harangued him in the street.

“You said yourself they were long gone - there is no honour in guarding an empty house.

“You didn’t search for Luria. Not even a little bit!

“All you did was steal that manuscript!

“I thought you were better than that.

“I thought you were a good person.

“But now I see you only care about yourself!”

He shook his head and turned away, striding ahead so he didn’t have to walk beside Dee.

With everyone telling him how worthless he was, and how ashamed and disappointed they were, Dee was starting to believe it himself.

They continued in silence, each wrapped in their own thoughts.

At the church of St Severin, they turned onto Postel’s street.

Dee came to a decision, nodding to himself as he approved of the thought. I can dwell on it and be miserable. Or I can learn from it and vow to do better, he thought. Maybe it is not too late to earn back some respect.

The servants recognised Dee, and let the two young men into the house.

They explained that their master, Professor Postel, was out, but would surely want his rescuer treated with all courtesy.

Dee looked rather smugly toward Medart, but Medart wasn’t even listening. Instead, he was gawping at all the finery that a high social position allowed Postel to afford.

Dee asked if they could view the parlour where the assault had taken place.

The servants glanced at each other nervously, “None of us have been in that room since the assault sir, not even the master. But, I suppose,…if you want to, you can go in.”

Dee and Medart stood in the middle of the room.

A large, ugly, reddish-brown stain had dried onto the floorboards.

“This is where Postel was lying, bleeding profusely until we came in and bandaged him.”

Medart whistled appreciatively, “That must have been a lot of blood.”

“Ask them for a bucket of soapy water and a brush. We’ll clean it up.”

Dee started righting the furniture, tidying up the fallen papers and books, trying to return the room to normalcy.

He took the brush from Medart and began to scrub the bloodied floor. Medart went around the room collecting shards of broken pottery, starting with the biggest and piling the rest on top, piece on top of piece, getting gradually smaller, the pile getting narrower, until he tripped and came close to losing them all, as the shard tower swayed and almost fell.

Dee took the bucket back to the servants in the hallway and invited them back in to the room. After some small hesitation, they entered. They nodded their general approval of the state of the room, but fussed around moving books from where Dee had placed them to some other bookcase, plumped up the cushions, and dusted the table and other surfaces.

One maid called out to Dee, “Sir, you dropped your ring.”

Before he could protest, she handed him a small golden signet ring with a green stone inset in its elegant oval face. He stared at the ring in shock, then gasped out loud, staggering back several paces until he collapsed into a chair which creaked ominously.

The maid cried out, asking if he was alright, and Medart rushed to his side.

Dee could hardly speak. He thrust the ring toward Medart, who whistled appreciatively, turning it this way and that, to catch the light.

“Ooh, nice. I didn’t know you had one. Look how it sparkles with green light.”

He went to the window and inspected the ring.

“John, did you know it has tiny writing around the rim?”

He slowly ready out the letters as he rotated the ring in his fingers.

“C - a - v - e - s - c - o - r - p - i - u - s - c - a - u - d - a - - - ”

He walked back toward Dee, still fumbling with the ring. “What does that mean, John?”

Dee was still in shock, and just shook his head slowly, as he tried to focus his thinking on the question.

“Hey, John, there is a tiny little knob at the edge…”

John Dee cried out, “Cave scorpius cauda,” as he leapt out of the chair, sending it toppling over behind him.

In one long leap, he was beside Medart and grabbed both of his wrists in an iron grip.

“Beware the scorpion tail,” said Dee.

Medart’s eyes bulged as he stared at Dee as though he were mad. Then he noticed where Dee himself was looking. At the ring.

The oval face with the green stone had swung completely open on a little hinge. It revealed a tiny curved needle that had popped up and now stood out proudly, perpendicular to the face of the ring.

Like a scorpion’s tail.

“Do not move a muscle,” breathed Dee.

He sat Medart in the nearest chair, making sure the boy didn’t stumble, as was his wont.

Dee carefully took the ring from Medart.

Holding it so they could both see, he twisted it this way and that, the tiny point glistening wetly.

Very carefully, he closed the hinged lid of the ring. They watched in amazement how the needle flattened back down until the face of the ring clicked back in place.

Holding the ring at arms length, he reached over and clicked the almost invisible knob on the side. Once again the lid flipped open and the needle sprang up smartly, one minuscule drop of liquid spraying from the tip, landing on the floor between Dee’s feet.

Dee held it close so they could inspect it a little more, and they both saw the numbers I to XII engraved around the inner rim.

“A tiny sundial I think, perhaps as an innocent cover,” said Dee. “But I’ll wager there is something unpleasant coating the needle.”

Medart looked at Dee’s shocked face, “It’s not yours, but you recognise it, don’t you?”

Slowly, Dee nodded. “Arrabella. She had a ring set with a green stone like this.”

He closed the lid again and made sure he heard the satisfying click as the mechanism engaged, then held it securely in his fist. He turned the fist over and pointed to a red mark on the back of his hand.

“That’s where the bitch stabbed me with this needle when we were in Reims. It almost killed me.”

“Beware the scorpion tail indeed,” muttered Medart.

Dee slipped the ring onto his smallest finger, where it fit quite securely.

“Arrabella must have been here during the scuffle,” mused Dee.

“But why would your old lady-friend assault Postel?”

“Please don’t call her that,” said Dee, irritably.

“Perhaps she has been taken, as well as Luria?”

Dee slowly shook his head. “I made the mistake of thinking of her as a victim once before. No, it is more likely that she was the aggressor again.”

“Whatever her role, she’ll want to get that ring back,” said Medart.

Chapter 23 - Capitulation

Thursday the 21st of August 1550

Montmartre Abbey

Judaic magic

Marita’s scream pierced the fog of Luria’s mind, spurring him into action.

He leapt to his feet and banged his little fists on the cell door, shouting out, “I will give you the secrets of my forefathers. All their magic I will give to your commander. Bring him here now. I will give my magic…”

The door was yanked open, and he fell through into the corridor, landing full-length on the floor. He lay there, between three black-robed guards, trying to catch his breath.

Two of them reached down and grabbed his arms, while the third shouted into the other cell, “Enough, Philippes, stop that now! We have actual work to do…”

The sound of fabric tearing continued, and with an exasperated sigh, the guard commander stepped inside Marita’s cell.

Moments later there was a deep-throated blood-curdling scream and Philippes was ejected backwards from the cell, blood pouring from the front of his habit, rapidly pooling on the floor. He lay in his own blood, twitching and writhing, all the while screaming and clutching his lower abdomen.

A bloodied dagger was thrown out after him, landing point down in the man’s chest. More blood instantly welled up from the wound.

Luria recoiled from the hot metallic stink of the blood, the two guards struggling to hold him steady.

He managed to look back over his shoulder as they marched him along the corridor. Philippes had stopped moving, and the bloody pool surrounding him was ominously large.

The last thing Luria saw was Marita exiting her cell, holding her ripped shift together with one hand. She spat at the fallen body of her attacker as she stepped over it. Strangely, the guard commander followed her out of the cell, but made no attempt to restrain her.

Chapter 24 - Exaggeration

Friday the 22nd of August 1550

Paris, France

Candlestick maker

It was only one day later that Isaac Luria emerged from the darkness of the abbey vestibule, into bright August sunshine.

He blinked back tears of relief.

Resisting the black-robed Jesuit who was tugging at his arm, he stopped on the grassy bank and looked up to the heavens, “Baruch Hashem,” he intoned, smiling and bobbing his head.

“Move along. We haven’t got all day,” growled the cleric.

They rounded a corner and saw two figures approaching. One was a Jesuit, but the other was a young woman in a plain dress.

“Marita!” Exclaimed Isaac, joyously.

“You’re safe, thanks be to God. Are you hurt?”

She smiled in return. “Thanks to you, I’m unharmed. They stopped attacking me when you said the magic word.”

She hooked one arm through his. In the other hand, she held an empty basket.

“Come on. I understand that we are going shopping!”

Overjoyed at the success of his plan, Luria happily walked with Marita.

They left the abbey perched on the hill of the martyrs and walked along a winding path toward the city he could see in the middle-distance.

Three dour guards accompanied them. One barked out, “Step it up. It will take at least an hour, maybe longer at this pace.” So they pressed on, through orchards and wheat fields, past tiny farmers’ hovels and towering windmills.

They chatted about small things, not about dungeons, nor torture, nor rape. Neither of them wanted to spoil the pleasant atmosphere.

Finally, they arrived at the city wall, passed unhindered through the gate, and continued down the road named after it. The Rue de la Porte Montmartre.

At first, they mostly passed the workshops of artisans. Marita would point out the tiny family living space jutting out above the workshop, or the small yard for materials, or the horses stabled beyond. There were leather workers beside cobblers, and further away she spied blacksmiths and tanneries.

Soon there were no more craftsmen, only the houses of increasingly rich merchants or priests, perhaps. Each house vied for attention with clean steps, decorated doors, and even some with glass in the windows. They grew taller and more impressive, and yet crammed together more tightly, as they continued down the road toward the centre of the city.

The Rue de la Porte Montmartre led them straight to Les Halles. It was a large area of covered market stalls where every commodity known to man could be purchased if you had the coins, according to the Jesuits.

A massive church loomed to the south side of the market. One tower was tall and proud, but a second matching tower was only half built and encased in a rickety-looking scaffold. A constant throng of stonemasons and carpenters could be seen swarming over the planks and ladders.

Marita said it was called the church of Saint Eustache. Its congregation had grown massively because this area of the city had recently become much more densely populated and so Saint Eustache was being greatly extended to accommodate them.

Turning away from the construction site, she waved a small bag in front of Isaac, saying, “Come on. I haven’t seen this much money and been told to spend it, for…ever,” she giggled, and Luria smiled in turn.

They ambled past several stalls. Some were piled high with pots and pans, some with rolls of cloth in vibrant colours.

Marita paused at a stall with ladies’ dresses hung from a rail and spent several minutes chatting to the grizzled woman behind the stall about the styles and colours. She felt the fabrics between her thumb and fingers, lingering over a bright blue dress before sadly turning from it with a small wave and a promise to visit on another day.

They stopped at a fruit stall and Marita bought five apples, handing them out solicitously.

Isaac was the last to finish his apple, and when he did, Marita turned to him seriously, “And so, to the purpose of our expedition. What is the first item we need to obtain for your magic?”

Isaac gestured toward a low wall, and Marita reluctantly followed him as he sat upon it. Their Jesuit guards stood around, shifting their weight from one foot to the other, waiting, looking uncomfortable.

Isaac sighed, then hesitatingly tried to explain the difficulty to Marita.

“The man called Faber. He wants the magic he thinks I can wield.”

“I know. He gave me this money and told me to buy all the items you need to perform your magic.”

“But Marita. The magic he wants me to do… it is not really possible.

“I mean, yes, there are old stories that some learned men believe, but not many. And even then, there is no magic. It either happens by God’s will or it does not.”

“What happens, Isaac?” She pressed him, forcing him to say the words.

Isaac paused, swallowing hard. After a nervous glance around, he stuttered out, “He wants me to resurrect somebody who has died.”

“And this is possible, is it?”

“No, of course not.”

“But Faber believes it is?”

“He believes it is, yes.

“But he is mistaken. Or confused, anyway.

“It seems he attended a lecture I gave a few days ago, where I mentioned reincarnation.

“Now, it is true, in my religion, there is much contemplation of reincarnation. Why it happens and what it is.

“Normally, it requires a lifetime of deep thought to fully understand such things. But I think I am blessed or cursed, with the learnings of an ancient rabbi. I am a reincarnation of his soul, if you like. So, I have more understanding than is perhaps normal in someone so young.”

“Well, that’s it then, isn’t it?” She nudged him kindly, smiling as she said it.

“You have the magic - whatever the manner that you received it. And you said you would give that Jewish magic, and all the secrets of your forefathers, did you not?”

He replied somewhat heatedly, “I said that because I wanted them to stop attacking you.

“I did not really mean it. Not actually. Not literally.

“I was exaggerating, as you had previously suggested that I should.

“I cannot possibly transfer a lifetime of learning to Faber, a Gentile, in a few days, months, or even years.”

“I don’t think he wants you to transfer the knowledge, Isaac. He doesn’t need to repeat the resurrection. He just needs the ritual performed one time, by you, on one specific body. Then he will let you go.”

Luria merely shook his head sadly.

She appealed to his sense of protection. “He’ll let me go too, Isaac. If you do this for him, he will absolve me of my family’s debts and release me.”

When he didn’t reply, she pushed harder.

“Isaac. I’ll get my life back. I’ll be safe. You have to do this. For me, if not for yourself.”

At last, he looked at her and saw the desperation in her eyes.

“Marita. When a person dies, I believe their soul is separated into pieces and those pieces are incorporated into several new bodies of babies who are being born at that time. This way the baby inherits some of the mistakes of the soul it has received, and during life will suffer some punishment for any of the wrongs committed by that soul, but also has the chance to right those wrongs. This happens over and over again. God gives us many chances to achieve perfection.”

Marita jumped up, suddenly excited. She pulled Isaac up with her.

“Ah. I understand now. You mean that magic is necessary to pull those pieces of the soul back to the original body, so the mistakes can be corrected by that person!”

“No, no, that’s not…”

But Marita was not listening anymore.

“So, we need to get the materials necessary for you to perform that magical rite. Then the soul will reform. Perfect.”

She span round in place, pointing to the different stalls around them. “So, what should we get first?”

Isaac looked horrified. His explanation had utterly failed.

Dejected, he realised he could not stop her new enthusiasm. Instead, he would need to go along with the whole crazy scheme and hope a miracle happened.

So, shaking his head, he let himself be dragged back into the market.

His mind raced to invent a seemingly plausible ceremony. What would a Gentile think a Jewish resurrection ceremony looks like?

“First, we need good quality candles. Lots of them,” he said, “As tall and fat as possible.”

As Marita dragged the little group between the stalls until she found the best candlemaker in Paris, Isaac noted the contents of the other stalls as they passed them, mentally compiling a list of likely artefacts.

“Next the cloth merchants,” he said.

Shortly afterwards, with one of the clerics now laden with bolts of cloth, she turned expectantly to Luria again.

“To the silversmiths next,” said Luria, “We need five silver bells, each with a different tone.”

They had to reverse direction and travel to the other side of the marketplace, passing a goldsmith’s stall as they went.

Luria spent a lot of time listening to the exact ring of each of the bells until he was satisfied that he had five in ascending tonality.

The stallholder to the right-hand side of the silversmith was selling candle-clocks, sundials and hourglasses.

While Marita paid for the silver bells, Isaac quietly asked the vendor which of his hourglasses would last the longest time. He said he had a five-day hourglass, but it was large and heavy.

“The weight is not a problem,” replied Luria. “I have two big assistants who will carry it,” smiling rather wickedly.

“Marita, this man has an important item we require. An accurate five day timer.”

They continued to the goldsmith Luria had seen earlier, and from there to a couple of other vendors, before Isaac was satisfied, saying, “We can make the final items ourselves.”

“It’s a good job that’s all you needed because I’ve spent almost all the money,” remarked Marita.

Luria himself was carrying some of the smaller items, and the Jesuits the larger ones.

He turned to retrace their route north along the Rue de la Porte Montmartre when Marita stopped him.

“Not that way. We will be conducting the magic in a more secure location.”

She nodded to the Jesuits, “They will take you”.

“But then, where are you going?”

“I have to return to the abbey.”

He leaned closer and whispered, “And they trust you to return to the abbey? Without an escort? Aren’t they afraid you will run away?”

She hesitated a moment, then replied, “What use is running? They know where I live, and would punish my mother if I don’t return to the abbey.”

Luria absorbed that and gave a sad nod of understanding.

She turned to the Jesuits and said curtly, “You know where to go.”

With a cleric on each side, Luria was directed eastwards. “It’s not far,” said the less dour cleric.

“Good job it’s not,” replied the largest man. “This hourglass is really heavy.”

Chapter 25 - Compensation

Friday the 22nd of August 1550

Paris, France

Reconnaissance

Dee glanced to the other end of the Rue de la Harpe and spotted Medart leaning on his broom.

That’ll not get the street swept, he thought.

He shifted the tray he was carrying, repositioning the supporting strap so that it didn’t cut into the same part of his neck.

A genteel lady was approaching, her maid following a few steps behind laden with packages.

“Philtres, love potions. Creams to remove blemishes,” he cried.

The woman didn’t cross the street to avoid him, so he called out again.

“Tonics to cure agues of the head or teeth,” he chanted.

The woman slowed her pace, allowing her maid to catch up, the pair only a few yards from Dee.

“Powders to enhance marital communion,” he intoned.

Glancing away from the lady, he craned his neck toward another pedestrian who he had just spied. It was a woman, but not the one he was waiting for.

He turned back to find the woman so close now that she could probably read the labels on the jars and bottles for herself.

“Drops to make your eyes sparkle,” he said in a more normal volume, holding up a stoppered bottle.

She held out her gloved hand. “Let me see,” she demanded in an imperious tone.

He handed the bottle over. “Not really needed in your case, my lady. But for a friend, perhaps?”

She looked at him shrewdly, causing him to reassess her wit. But what about her daring? He wondered.

“If you want to surprise your friend, you could give this powder to her husband…or lover.” He arched an eyebrow and peered at her questioningly.

“Just one dose?”

“Well, several doses over an extended period would yield the, er, biggest result,” he replied quietly.

He pushed a dozen twisted paper packets to the side of the tray nearest to her.

She gathered them up and passed them to her maid.

She held up the eyedrops and glanced at him. He nodded sagely. That went to the maid as well. “Administer three drops to each eye with a feather. No more than once per day,” he cautioned.

“Perhaps a perfume for madam, infused with exotic ambergris, to enhance one’s natural attraction?”

He pulled the stopper from a blue, bell-shaped glass bottle and a delightful fragrance wafted between them.

As she reached for the bottle, he tantalisingly withdrew it. “This is powerful, madam. A dab behind each ear, and a few drops sprinkled on the body,” he forced his face into its gravest visage, “No more than that, I caution you. I cannot be held responsible for the outcome if more is used.”

The covetous gleam in her eyes told him he could charge any amount for this, and sure enough, she did not blink when he named an outrageous sum.

The maid looked scandalised but handed over the coins from her employer’s purse.

He called out to the departing duo, “Refills are available, with a ten percent discount, if you return your empty bottles to the Delacroix apothecary on Rue du Relieur, behind the university.”

The two women hurried away. No doubt the lady was keen to try her prizes.

Dee looked at his tray. It was almost empty, just two jars of cream and one bottle of perfume remained. It works every time! You could make a whole industry from this.

Remembering his real reason for being there, he guiltily checked the street again, relaxing when he realised there was still nobody else in sight. He stared hard at Postel’s house, but couldn’t see inside from this distance. What made me so sure Arrabella would come back to the scene of the crime?

Medart was making idle sweeping motions with his broom, closer now.

Dee sauntered over to him, constantly scanning the road in case their quarry appeared.

“Anything?” He asked.

“No. You?”

“No. But I’ve sold almost all my wares, so that’s something I suppose. Madeleine should be pleased.”

Medart snorted, and Dee wondered, not for the first time, whether the lad understood girls better than he did himself.

“I’m hungry…when are the lads supposed to relieve us?” Asked Medart.

“Guillaume promised they’d be here before noon,” replied Dee, scowling slightly as he looked up and down the street.

“Well, let’s go and get some food. I don’t think she is going to come today, do you?”

Dee didn’t want them to leave their posts unwatched, but his own stomach grumbled at the mere thought of food, so he reluctantly agreed.

They ambled away, turned onto Rue du Bac, and a hundred yards later crossed the river on the little ferry, then walked toward the market stalls of Les Halles.

It beggars belief

Guillaume Postel turned onto the Rue de la Harpe with a grateful sigh.

He almost tripped over a vagrant who sat slumped against the wall, his legs stretched half over the pavement.

“Begone, old man, before I call the authorities and have you dragged away,” he cried out angrily.

Clutching his manuscript to his chest, he walked on hurriedly, occasionally glancing back, relieved to see the beggar levering himself upright and staggering across the street.

He quickly entered his own house, calling for his valet as soon as the door was open, “François. My best coat.”

Mere minutes later, he re-emerged and headed off toward the ferry on the Rue du Bac.

He passed the tramp he had shouted at earlier, giving him a wide berth to avoid any chance of confrontation.

He ran to the quay, first waving, then shouting curses. The ferry he needed had just pulled away, and the boatman had completely ignored his entreaties.

He paced back-and-forth muttering to himself, lost in his thoughts, certainly not noticing the beggar settle down beside the trunk of a small tree.

“When Faber pays what he owes me, I can pay to publish my manuscript, La Vergine Venetiana, and dedicate it to Mother Zuan of Venice. Not that she will ever see it, nor read it.

“It will be a start…a start to the unification of religion.

“It will be my crowning glory.

“Then they can all stop snickering behind my back. When I have carried out Christ’s work.

“But I need that payment from Faber to pay the printer…Ah, here comes the next ferry.”

He hurried onboard, pushing past several merchants who had yet to disembark.

He didn’t notice the tramp discarding his tattered cape, and pulling the grey-haired wig from his head, leaving them both lying by the tree, then climbing aboard and settling quietly at the back of the ferry, looking for all the world like a merchant.

Stakeout

Grand Inquisitor Tramazzo listened to his agent with growing satisfaction.

“Well done, Phélix. Well done indeed.

“Finally, a report from a competent servant.”

The man sketched a bow in recognition of the praise before continuing his account.

“I followed Postel all the way to the abbey at Montmartre. He never once suspected me.”

Tramazzo shook his head sadly, asking himself, “Ah. Guillaume, my friend, what have you got yourself mixed up in?”

He addressed his subordinate again. “Who did he see? Let it be the abbess…”

“I’m afraid not, your grace. He met with the Jesuit, Faber. I could see them clearly from the road. They met on the grounds and then Faber led him inside the abbey.”

“What did they talk about?”

“Begging your grace’s indulgence, I could follow him easily enough to the abbey, but I could not follow him inside the abbey. However, for most of the trip, he had been muttering about expecting some payment from Faber, so I assume that was the intent of his visit. He seems desperate for the money, something about publishing a book of his visions.”

“Publishing a book of visions? He must be mad, for anything else would be heresy and the stake.

“Did he seem satisfied at the conclusion of his visit?”

“No, he did not. Not satisfied at all.”

Tramazzo nodded his understanding. “Probably didn’t get paid then. That fits. Faber has debts all over the city.

“Is there something more?”

“There is one more thing, your grace.”

“Go on.”

“After Postel left, I stayed near the abbey…on a hunch.”

He added hurriedly, “Don’t worry. No-one suspected. I pretended to be visiting a relative’s grave in the cemetery across the road.”

“And what did you discover whilst communing with the departed?”

“Lots of activity, your grace. Jesuit brothers loading carts as if preparing for a journey.”

Tramazzo threw himself into his chair and drummed his fingers on his desk in a rapid tattoo.

Finally, he yelled through the open doorway, “Gervais. Gervais, where are you?”

The monk hurried in. Red weals visible on his shorn scalp from his most recent beating.

“Ah, there you are. Arrange ten or twenty men to accompany Phélix here, out to the abbey at Montmartre. I think they’d better be armed.

“Phélix. You are to be in charge up there. Watch and wait. After all this time, I want to catch that snake in the act.

“Don’t let me down. Bring me proof of Faber’s guilt!”

Chapter 26 - Visitation

Friday the 22nd of August 1550

Paris, France

Bresse chicken

Dee and Medart wandered into Les Halles and headed straight for the centre, where they knew most of the food vendors could be found.

Soon they were drawn to a stall with a wooden board cut in the shape of a chicken and the word ‘Bresse’ painted underneath it.

A sumptuous aroma wafted down the aisle, enveloping them and their empty stomachs.

“Bresse chickens are famed in Paris, although too expensive for you and me,” said Medart as he gazed longingly at the plump birds. Cooked chickens were laid out near the oven, inside of which yet more chickens were roasting. Uncooked birds hung from a rail on the other side of the stall.

“The meat is tender, and the flavour surpasses that of all other fowl. Or so they say. They come from the Bresse region, somewhere in the east of France, near the mountains. They bring them in fresh every week. It’s a pity we’ll never be able to afford to taste it.”

“They do look rather good, but I think Marie’s chicken is tender and plenty flavourful. Better yet, it is not so expensive,” replied Dee.

Medart snorted through his nose, as though Marie could not hope to compete with these majestic birds.

Reluctantly, they moved on. Dee’s stomach growled louder, perhaps protesting at the missed treat.

Turning their backs on the most expensive stalls, they approached a smaller vendor who nonetheless had a good-sized group of patrons surrounding his table.

Medart ran forward and pressed through the crowd, calling back to Dee, “Look, ‘hot cockles’.”

Dee, having spent some time in London when visiting his father, assumed he meant shellfish. “Get enough for both of us.”

Medart returned and handed him a small bag of fried food.

“What’s this?” asked Dee, picking one up and looking at it suspiciously. “It’s definitely not a cockle!”

“Fried pigs’ ears, with salt and pepper. Delicious!” Medart tucked into his snack, but Dee was horrified.

He loved Paris, was enamoured of the culture, and liked many of the people, especially Madeleine, of course. But he couldn’t abide some of the so-called culinary delicacies.

He thrust the packet back to Medart and went to find something more to his taste.

A few minutes later he ran back to join Medart, a half-eaten waffle soaked in honey in one hand.

Grabbing Medart by his shoulder, he pulled him out of the dedicated food area and paused hidden at the edge of the crowd, scanning the nearby stalls.

Suddenly, he pointed, and choking down the last of his sweet treat, he spluttered, “Arrabella!”

An attractive redhead in a plain frock was carrying a basket that was piled high with purchases. They agreed, with no doubt, it was Arrabella. And there, with his arm linked through hers, like he had no cares in the world, was Isaac Luria.

“Come on,” said Dee, surging toward them.

Medart tossed away the remains of his snack, which was promptly carried away by two stray dogs, and held onto his friend’s arm, pulling him back into the anonymous crowd.

“Wait. Look, there are monks with them.”

Sure enough, three burly men surrounded them. One had his arms full of a bolt of cloth and other purchases, but the other two had daggers at their hips and were looking alertly about them as they followed Arrabella and Luria.

As they watched, Arrabella said something to Luria, gave him a kiss on the cheek, and pointed away to the east.

Dee’s ears burned with humiliation.

“Look at her tricks. She is manipulating him so easily. I know because…because she did the same to me. She took the falcon away from me, but what does Isaac have that she wants, I wonder?”

“We will have to follow them to find out,” replied Medart excitedly.

At that moment, the group split up.

Luria and the three monks went to the right, where Arrabella had pointed, but she carried on northwards, by herself.

“You follow Isaac. Stay at a distance, and find out where they go. I’ll follow Arrabella. Let’s meet back at the bookshop tonight.”

Medart nodded solemnly, and started threading through the crowd, staying several yards back from his quarry.

Dee took a breath and then plunged into the market crowd, intent on following Arrabella to the ends of the earth if necessary to uncover her treachery.

Chapter 27 - Expiration

Saturday the 23rd of August 1550

Montmartre Abbey, Paris, France

Exodus

“Pack your things. We ride in an hour. Faber’s orders.”

The Jesuit waited long enough to receive a nod of understanding from the half-asleep Andrea, then he clumped off down the corridor, shouting the same command into the next dormitory.

Jacopo rubbed the sleep from his eyes, then stretched and rolled his shoulders.

“I suppose this means we’re not getting paid today either,” he complained.

Andrea groaned and rolled over to face the wall, muttering, “Wake me in thirty minutes.”

Jacopo lay staring at the ceiling for a few moments, before rolling off his pallet and standing in one fluid movement. He threw his few possessions into his knapsack, leaving it atop his bed. “There. I’m packed,” he whispered to himself.

He peeked out of the door, glanced in both directions, then jogged down the corridor toward the staircase that led to the basement.

Hearing a door opening from a corridor to his right, he paused and watched as the redheaded woman stepped out and put a pack and bedroll on the floor, then re-entered the room.

A lascivious grin spread across his face and, without thinking, he trotted down the corridor and entered the room after her, quietly closing the door behind him.

She was bending over, intent on sorting through some clothing in a large trunk by the bed.

He watched her for a moment, admiring the narrowness of her waist and the flare of her upper back.

“Well, this is an unexpected pleasure,” he said.

She yelped and turned around, alarmed, still holding some clothes in one hand.

“Oh, it’s you. What are you doing in here? You should leave now before there is any trouble.”

She pretended confidence by folding the clothes she still held.

He stepped closer, smiling and talking softly to distract her. “It’s just you and me here. Everyone else is busy. A quick tumble is all I’m after.

“Some pleasure for us both before the day’s journey.”

He reached out to grab her chest, his fingers closing on…air.

In a blur of motion, Arrabella turned sideways, grabbing his outstretched wrist with one hand and his doublet with her other, pulling him off balance. She flipped him across her shoulder, so he somersaulted over and crashed down onto the flagstone floor, his head rapping the stone loudly.

Still holding his extended arm by the wrist, she rolled him over and stamped on the back of his neck, twisting the wrist sharply and his first two fingers particularly.

He barely had time to cry out in pain before his mouth hit the floor and a tooth broke away with a splattering of blood.

As his fingers bent to their limit, he finally let out a muffled cry, “Enuff, I’ll leave.”

His entreaties were too late, or perhaps too little.

Arrabella applied more pressure with her foot, then completed the twist of his fingers until she heard a double snap and the little Italian cried out in pain.

She stopped her attack for a moment and looked down at her would-be attacker in disgust, cringing on the floor at her feet. Then she brutally stamped on the back of his head and heard the satisfying crunch as his nose broke on the unyielding flagstone.

She let his arm fall to his side and calmly refolded the clothing she’d dropped at the start of the assault.

She wasn’t even breathing heavily.

Jacopo was too stunned to move. He let out a muffled groan and coughed out some blood.

“If you ever approach me again, you repellent little man, I’ll break every bone in both of your arms.

“I’m willing to let this go without reporting you to Faber, but you’ll have to make your own excuses for the scratches you’ve received.

“Perhaps you can say you tripped down the stairs?”

She trod on his damaged hand and pivoted away toward the door, oblivious to his howl of pain as the bones ground together beneath her boot.

She picked up her other gear from the corridor and, with a satisfied smile towards the prone body, she walked off toward the stables to ready her horse.

Search party

As dawn broke, Dee, Medart, Madeleine, Guillaume and Claude all gathered in the front room of the bookstore.

Denis looked on, concerned.

Dee clapped his hands to get their attention.

“Alright everyone. A quick recap of our plan.

“We’ll travel to the abbey, outside the city walls, the one I followed Arrabella to yesterday when she left Les Halles. If the Jesuits are not there, we’ll search for Luria. If they are there, we watch and report back all their movements. We follow anyone who leaves.”

Denis cut in, “But if there is any danger, you won’t enter the abbey at all.”

“That’s right. We aren’t taking any silly risks,” agreed Dee. “We’ll just gather information, regroup, make another plan, and try to rescue Luria at a later date with Tramazzo’s help.”

“Then, back here for supper. Marie is making her delicious chicken casserole,” said Claude, licking his lips.

Medart shrugged toward Dee, who correctly interpreted his thoughts. He’s just wishing it was delicious Bresse chickens. He should be more grateful. Marie’s an excellent cook.

Madeleine rolled her eyes theatrically, and lifted her pack onto her shoulder, “Come on, let’s get going.”

Once a thief, always a thief

Jacopo hobbled down the sweeping stairwell, swaying with every step.

He couldn’t steady himself on the bannister with his broken hand, and even though he’d straightened his fingers, they might never work the same again.

He muttered to himself, “Crazy bitch. I only wanted a bit of fun. She didn’t have to react so violently.”

He wiped his sleeve across his mouth, sweeping away the blood that was still dripping from his nose.

At the bottom, in the gloom, he lit his lantern. It was more difficult without the full use of his right hand. “Lucky I’m ambidextrous.”

He pushed his tongue against a tooth and felt it come loose. He turned and spat it to the floor.

“Bitch. I’ll show her.”

He limped down the corridor.

He peered into the armoury. “Empty, huh?” That made sense if the Jesuits were evacuating the abbey.

Playing his lantern side to side, he saw the body of a Jesuit in the middle of the corridor. It lay outside the cell he’d hidden in just a few days earlier.

Two puddles of dried blood formed a dull red figure-of-eight shape around the body.

The dagger half buried in the man’s chest accounted for one pool of blood.

He pulled the dagger free with his good hand and used it to move the cleric’s robes up past his knees.

He cringed away in revulsion, pressing his own thighs together reflexively.

“No wonder there is so much blood,” he muttered in disgust, having found the source of the second puddle.

He turned to the room on his left, the one the redhead had entered so recently.

He smiled greedily.

The heavy, locked chest was still there.

Settling the lantern on top of the chest, he flicked the shutter fully open to flood the room with light, and lay the dagger beside it.

Gently, he sank to his knees in front of the chest.

From over his head, he drew a key on a leather thong. The thin leather caught on his right ear and he tugged at it awkwardly until it came loose. His broken fingers weren’t making anything easy.

“You might have violently spurned my advances, but you didn’t notice that you lost this key in the process, did you?”

He cackled to himself.

Carefully, he inserted the key and twisted a quarter-turn.

A satisfying click told him the lock had disengaged.

Greedily, he opened the cabinet door and reached inside.

He grasped the heavy statue and pulled it out onto his lap.

He feasted his eyes on the gleaming foot-long rendering of a falcon.

He turned automatically at the slight scraping sound behind him, just in time to see the lamplight sparkling on the blade of a swinging sword, before it lifted his head clean off his shoulders. The last thing his surprised eyes saw was the splatter of his own ruby-red blood discolouring the golden statue.

Chapter 28 - Incarcaration

Saturday the 23rd of August 1550

Montmartre Abbey, Paris, France

Keeping a close watch

Madeleine scuttled over to where Dee was watching the martyrium from behind a thick hedge, peering through the prickly branches and up the lane to the abbey door.

“I have seen the abbess and a line of nuns enter the chapel of the abbey proper. Presumably for prayers. It must be terce, third hour of the day.”

“Well, everything is quiet here. There has been no movement at all.”

He turned and, putting two fingers between his lips, he let out a two-tone whistle that sounded nothing like the bird call he had arranged with Medart.

Nonetheless, Medart came at a stooping run.

“Claude just reported to me, before returning to his position, there is nothing moving on the other side of the abbey at all, John. I don’t think there is anyone in there.”

“In that case, I’m going in. You should all wait here until I’m back - or until you see a commotion.

“In fact, if you see anything untoward, go back to the city straightaway.

“But I don’t think you will. I think Medart is right. They’ve abandoned this place.”

He looked from one to the other.

They nodded grimly.

They had discussed it during the walk from the city. There were very few choices, after all.

“Alright then. I’m going in.”

“John…Just be careful, alright?” Madeleine hugged him briefly, before disengaging and turning away, her face flushed with emotion.

He walked up the lane to the door. An attempt at a carefree whistle emerged more like a raspberry from his nervous, dry lips.

As he passed the stables, he noticed there were no horses, just a few chickens scrabbling in the straw.

He nodded to himself. It definitely looks like they’ve left.

At the large arched door of the martyrium, he stopped, then looked back nervously towards his friends, but he couldn’t see them. Well, at least that means they’re keeping themselves hidden properly, he thought.

He turned to face the door, mentally rehearsing his excuse for being there.

On watch

Medart stood in the middle of the lane, about thirty yards from the abbey door, waiting nervously.

It had been long minutes since he’d seen a silhouette pass in front of one of the upper-level windows. He thought it had been John Dee. But now, as he thought about it again, he wasn’t sure.

He turned back, involuntarily, at a muffled sound.

It was probably just Claude, mucking about. “Drat that boy,” he muttered under his breath.

He turned back to the abbey, silently cursing, anxiously scanning the many windows.

Come on, John. Where are you?

Nothing. Just the breeze through the trees.

He swayed from side to side as he peered toward the windows on the left, then the windows on the right.

Then he checked the front door again, but it was just the shadow of a tree swaying in the breeze.

He could hear sniffling behind him, which he resolutely ignored, then a rough voice and a slap, “Quiet, child. Else it will go worse for you all.”

Alarmed, he turned, but too late. He, too, was grabbed and held tight, then bound with rope and gagged.

Just then, the abbey door opened and Medart saw Dee struggling as something he was carrying got caught behind the door. He freed whatever it was, then started through the door again.

What is that in his hand? Oh, no.

John Dee started down the track. A sword in one hand, and a dagger in the other. And even from his position Medart could see they were not clean. In fact, it looked like they were covered in blood.

Hello, hello, hello

Dee had only taken a few steps toward Medart when he was rushed from both sides.

A burly priest grabbed his left arm, tight enough to hurt. Dee automatically swung his right fist, sword and all, when it too was restrained by a second assailant. His arms were twisted so hard that his shoulders felt like they were being torn out.

He dropped the knife and the sword that he’d found in the basement and they clattered to the cobbled forecourt of the abbey.

A sharp kick to the back of his legs and a push on his shoulders forced him to his knees.

He just had time to see a well-dressed cleric emerge from behind a bush and start toward him, when a hood was thrown over his head and everything went black.

“To the Châtelet with all of them,” said Phélix.

Part IV

"Though with their high wrongs I am struck to the quick,

Yet with my nobler reason 'gainst my fury

Do I take part: the rarer action is

In virtue than in vengeance: they being penitent,

The sole drift of my purpose doth extend

Not a frown further. Go, release them, Ariel:

My charms I'll break, their senses I'll restore,

And they shall be themselves."

- William Shakespeare. The Tempest.

Chapter 29 - Subjugation

Monday the 25th of August 1550

Grand Châtelet, Paris

The dungeon

John Dee’s head lolled to one side. Spikes pricked at his neck and cheek, scratching his skin. Reflexively, he rolled his head in the opposite direction, only to experience the same pin-prick torture.

Sleepily, he dragged a heavy hand up to his face and tried to push away the discomfort, but every time he did, it sprang back into place like a specially designed instrument of torment.

Slowly, his awareness returned.

One of his legs lay uncomfortably upon the other.

He tried to stretch out to relieve the pain, but his foot bumped against something immovable and hard. First one way, then another. No matter what he did, he couldn’t avoid the blocking object. Now that he was focussing on the pain, his leg muscles cramped up, so he really wanted to move the leg.

Is it a wall? He wondered, dully.

One kneecap was still poking into the muscle of the other leg, so he kicked out in frustration, connecting with the wall, stubbing his toes.

He squeezed his eyes further shut and grimaced until the pain subsided.

He lay in silence and focussed on listening.

Plink. Plink.

He could only hear the slow dripping of water somewhere behind him.

With an effort, he wrenched his eyes open.

His heart beat faster, and an emptiness filled his chest.

He couldn’t see.

He clawed at his face to remove whatever was blocking his sight - but there was nothing there. Then he used a finger and thumb on each eye to physically push back his eyelids. Perhaps I only dreamt that I opened them?

It made no difference.

He gulped in air, trying to hold back full panic.

I am blind!

How will I read books and learn?

I will never see Madeleine’s face again!

She will reject me!

I wouldn’t blame her.

Who would want a useless blind scholar as a husband?

He felt tears building at the corner of his eyes. He tried blinking them away, and when that didn’t work, he savagely wiped at them with the back of his hand.

He howled in silent agony as his elbow connected with the wall, managing to catch his funny-bone against the edge of a stone block.

That dratted wall.

He shuffled away from the wall, only to back up into another wall.

Carefully, he stretched out both arms. Fingers extended. He felt rough stone, damp as though the wall itself was sweating.

There. The wall.

He traced the wall further right, for perhaps three feet, then felt the corner as it turned behind him, but only for another four feet, then another corner.

His heart raced.

He continued feeling along the wall, maybe six feet, then yet another corner and almost immediately a metal plate.

Not a plate. A door.

Past the door and again to the wall in front of him.

He tried to marshal his thoughts and to gain control over the rising panic.

I’m stuck in a six-foot by four-foot space with stone built walls and a metal door.

And I’m sitting on straw.

Frantically, he scratched and dug at the straw and dirt at the base of the door.

There! Oh, thank God.

A glimmer of light emerged from below the door, where it had been covered by detritus.

He scrabbled in the mouldy straw to extend the light further left and right until he had the full three feet exposed.

He cried with relief, then laughed at the absurdity of being relieved to discover he was locked in a cold, damp, stone cell, that was pitch black except for the sliver of light coming under the door, that was too weak to see anything else by, anyway.

He calmed down and slowed his breathing to a more normal rate and took stock.

His body ached all over. Nothing seemed broken, but definitely beaten.

Gingerly, he felt the back of his skull, which hurt pretty badly.

He gently probed around his thickly matted hair until he found the spot most sensitive to his touch. It felt like a gash. Thankfully, the bleeding had stopped, but not before soaking the hair at the back of his head.

Well, that explains the headache, he acknowledged ruefully.

What I really need is one of Madeleine’s boiled barley, betony, and vervain pastes, he thought. Although, he didn’t know whether you had to rub it on your head or eat it.

The silence was eerie. Oppressive, even. So much so that he wanted to make some noise to break it.

He called out tentatively, “Hello? Is there anyone there?”

His own voice echoed dully back to him.

He half-hoped Madeleine or the boys would answer.

The thought cheered him up.

Then immediately he felt awful.

He didn’t really want them to be here, sharing his fate.

No. This is my mess, he acknowledged.

All the same, he tried again, this time while bent down and projecting his voice toward the tiny gap under the door.

He sneezed. All he’d managed to do was breathe in some mould spores off the straw.

He slumped despondently into the straw and decided to sleep away his aches and pains.

Later - he didn’t know how much later - he awoke, somewhat clearer of mind, but still sore in body.

He muttered to himself, “What time of day is it? How long did I sleep?”

There was no way for him to know. The darkness and silence remained the same.

“I swear, if I ever get the chance to go adventuring again, I will go better prepared.”

He hauled himself up to a seated position and leaned against the wall. He quickly pulled away in disgust, as dampness seeped through his shirt and chilled his bones.

He slumped back onto the straw and let more hours pass.

He awoke to the clanking of metal against metal, followed by the grating of metal on stone. He had to squeeze his eyes shut against the piercing glare of torchlight as someone hauled the door open.

Thank God. I am not forgotten.

Two guards reached in and hauled him out of the cell without saying a word.

Dee tried to walk with them but his legs wouldn’t work properly, so he stumbled along, perhaps taking one step for every three of theirs. He couldn’t even keep that up, and finally slumped completely, letting himself be half-carried and half-dragged.

He watched as a line of identical metal doors, to both left and right, drifted past.

The guards started up a flight of stone steps. His ankles bounced painfully on each one, so he forced himself to carry some of his own weight by attempting to walk up with them. His weak legs betrayed him again, and he stumbled. The guards didn’t miss a step, just dragged him up with them. Every jarring bounce made his headache worse.

They dragged him down a long corridor of rough floorboards, to another set of stairs which he noticed were of new cut stone, the edges sharp. He gritted his teeth and staggered up these, determined that his shins would avoid being cut to ribbons.

He almost passed out from pain and exhaustion when they reached the top, slumped between the guards, who wordlessly dragged him along an elegant corridor with polished wooden floorboards that he could almost see his face in.

They paused outside a large door studded with nailheads the size of walnuts. One of the guards selected a heavy iron key from a ring at his belt and used it to unlock the door, before they dragged Dee into a well-decorated room, dominated by a table and two chairs, one of which they sat him in, before turning to leave.

As he closed the door behind him, one guard imparted friendly advice, “Eat and drink, but slowly, lest you make yourself ill. And maybe clean yourself up - you look terrible.”

A jug of water accompanied a platter of fruit and sliced meats.

Ignoring the guard’s words, Dee gulped down water, then almost heaved as it hit his empty stomach.

He went slowly after that, nibbling at the fruit, and leaving the meat entirely.

Somewhat refreshed, he forced himself to his feet and, though panting from the exertion and having to lean heavily on the table, he looked around his new accommodation.

There was waist-high wood panelling, with paintings hanging above.

Self-important, but probably long dead men of the cloth, he surmised.

He worked his way around to the door. It was locked, naturally.

Drawing in a breath, he staggered over to the sideboard, the only other furniture, standing under the solitary window.

Where am I?

The view looked over tightly clustered rooftops to a wooden bridge across a river, and beyond to what could only be the Île de la Cité. He easily recognised the old royal Palais to the right. He knew the government was centred there now. The rest of the island was crammed with tiny houses, all reaching for the sky, like trees in a dense forest. There was an impenetrable maze of narrow streets between them.

Not quite a maze, he noticed idly. There is a twisting path of streets, dodging generally eastwards, over to…the enormous twin towers of the Cathedral of Notre Dame.

To get this view, I must be several storeys up and on the right bank.

With dread, he realised where he was.

The Grand Châtelet.

A shiver went down his spine as he recalled the old man’s words, “It is a rare day that anyone ever comes out alive.”

He fought back another bout of rising panic, distracting himself by trying to see more of Notre Dame.

As he craned his neck to see into the plaza in front of the cathedral, he almost knocked over a basin.

He realised, with a start, that the bowl held lukewarm water. Incongruously, a half-dozen pink rose petals floated on the surface.

Bemused, Dee picked up a cloth from beside the bowl, turning it around and around in his hands.

Glancing in the bowl, he saw his own reflection amidst the gentle ripples of the water.

It wasn’t a pretty sight. Dried blood and dirt vied for dominance.

He cleaned his face and hands, wiping away the worst of the muck. Then he washed his hair as best he could; dunking his head repeatedly until he could run his fingers through his locks without getting caught up in the matted mess at the back.

While he caught his breath, he numbly picked a couple of sodden petals from his hair and dropped them back into the bowl.

Exhausted, he stumbled back to the chair he’d started in and devoured the rest of the meal.

Perhaps my head will stop spinning if I just rest it on my arms here on the table, he thought.

The interrogation

Dee woke to the noise of a chair being dragged across the floor.

“Bishop Tramazzo, your grace,” he said, recognising the man who now sat opposite him, as he struggled to stand up, rather belatedly. “Thank goodness it is you. I have been kept in a dungeon and misused, all for no reason.”

Two burly priests who had evidently accompanied Tramazzo into the room took up station, one by the door, the other by the wall behind Dee.

The bishop gestured for Dee to sit.

“Young master Dee. Believe me, this interview gives me no pleasure. For you are accused of the most heinous crimes against man and God.”

Dee gaped, then interrupted frantically, “Crimes? What crimes? I have committed no crimes. I am but a quiet mathematician. You know this.”

“Silence!” The bishop slapped his hand loudly on the table, shouting to penetrate Dee’s babble.

“You stand accused of the foul murder of two persons. In a house of God, no less. You were taken, red-handed, carrying the murder weapons, as you exited the sacred martyrium of our beloved Saint Denis. Blood was dripping from your hands and from the very blades that have been shown to have ended the lives of two of God’s own children.”

“No! Wait. That’s not right,” Dee stood and leaned pleading across the table that separated him from Tramazzo.

The guard behind Dee sprang forward and physically hauled Dee back into the chair, knocking the wind from him. He kept a strong restraining arm wrapped around Dee’s chest and arms as he continued to struggle.

While Dee gasped for breath, the bishop continued.

“Master Dee, I understand you may wish to present a different version of the events, and I will give you an opportunity to do that in a few moments. But for now, I suggest you control yourself if you value your freedom of movement. Else they will tie you to that very chair, or worse, return you to the fetid vault whence you so recently came.”

Dee swallowed and clamped his mouth shut, having no desire to be sent back below.

The guard sensed his acquiescence and released him, stepping back a few paces. He didn’t yet return all the way to his position by the wall, as though unwilling to give complete credit for better behaviour.

“That’s better,” said Tramazzo, quietly, “Perhaps we can complete this discussion like civilised men, without raising our voices, eh?”

Dee nodded cautiously, not yet trusting himself to speak.

“Very well. Let us continue.

“You decapitated one of your victims, and the other,” he looked distastefully at the parchment on the table before him, “The other was emasculated, most foully. And then stabbed in the chest. Although I suspect the chest wound was unnecessary, from a medical point of view.

“What do you say to these charges being levelled against you?”

Dee took a steadying breath.

“Your grace, I am not guilty. On both counts.

“On the contrary, whilst travelling the countryside with my friends, I entered what seemed to be an abbey devoid of life, seeking to provide comfort to anyone who might need it. We could discern no sign of life from outside the building, you see.”

Tramazzo scribbled a note on the sheet.

With a slight quaver to his voice, Dee continued his tale.

“I entered, despite being fearful for my safety, believing it was the Christian thing to do. I immediately saw bloody footprints that criss-crossed the atrium, and so I followed them down to the cellar. Once down in the darkness, aided only by a flickering torch, I came upon the most horrid scene.”

He flicked a glance at Tramazzo, who sat impassively across from him. He might have been carved from granite for all the indication of belief or disbelief that he evinced.

“I found a cleric lying prone in the corridor and listened for a heartbeat. But I was too late. He had passed to God’s grace already.”

Tramazzo raised an eyebrow. Dee felt encouraged and stumbled on.

“I could see the footprints came out of a nearby room, so I steeled myself and, most fearfully, I entered. There I found…”

He raised the back of his hand to his mouth as he choked out a single sob, then forced himself to continue.

“I found a headless body in a room sprayed with blood. It was like the seventh circle of hell in Dante’s Divine Comedy!

“Without thinking, I picked up a dagger from the floor. A moment later, I found a sword as well, which I took and used as a walking stick, then I staggered from the room.

“Finally, I made it back to the front door and rushed outside for some fresh air to clear my lungs of the ghastly stench, only to be struck from behind, presumably by the same violent attackers that had perpetrated the crimes in the basement below.

“After this, I knew no more until I awoke in the prison downstairs.”

At the climax of his tale, Dee threw out both hands in supplication, his face a perfect picture of woe.

The bishop watched Dee in silence for a moment, then glanced down at the paper.

“So you admit to having accomplices?”

Dee’s mind reeled.

Accomplices? Where did he get that from?

Sensing Dee’s confusion, the bishop read from his notes, “You said, ‘Whilst travelling the countryside with your friends, you entered an abandoned abbey.’

“No doubt you thought it would be easy to take treasures from, eh?”

Dee was horrified.

“No, no. You have it all wrong. I went in reluctantly. To try to help.”

“So your friends persuaded you to go in?” asked the bishop, again twisting his words.

“Friends? No.” Dee didn’t even want to admit to being accompanied, but realised with rising panic, that ship had already sailed.

He took a deep breath and tried to reframe the statement.

“I entered the abbey by myself, to administer aid if any were needed. I had no weapons, and no thought of robbing the place. I found those two men already dead. I panicked. I have never seen dead people before - certainly not in so horrific circumstances. I ran out as fast as I could.

“That is the truth, as God is my witness.”

Chapter 30 - Infiltration

Monday the 1st of September 1550

Les Halles, Paris

A simple plan

It was a full week since the interview with Tramazzo.

Dee acknowledged to himself that the plan was simple, but sometimes simple was best.

Dee and Medart would watch the church of the Innocents, from the other side of the Rue Saint Denis, disguised as potion sellers again. Meanwhile, Madeleine and Claude would watch the market at Les Halles. Every couple of hours, they’d swap positions to relieve the tedium and to reduce suspicion on themselves.

Denis needed help in the bookstore and insisted that one apprentice stay with him. Madeleine suggested Guillaume. He didn’t want to miss the excitement, but the others said he was too young. In reality, they thought he was too easily recognisable, being tall and skinny with a bush of flaming red hair.

For most of the preceding week, Dee had toiled away in Madeleine’s alchemical laboratory. He wouldn’t tell anyone what he was doing, merely muttering, “Never again go unprepared.”

When Dee had returned to the Delacroix bookshop early the previous week, the gang had readily told their story.

Medart took the role of principal story-teller.

“We saw you enter the abbey and watched your silhouette pass by several windows before you disappeared from our view.”

Dee assumed that was when he had followed the bloody footprints down the staircase to the basement.

“Just then, a procession of monks came up the track from the city, as we had done earlier. The monk at the front carried a banner fluttering from a tall pole. Another, behind him, held a tall silver cross - it must have been heavy because the monk was sweating from the effort.

“Then, perhaps a dozen more behind them. All had their hands clasped and were singing a hymn that I didn’t recognise.”

Claude exclaimed, excitedly, “I heard something in the woods behind me, and turned to investigate. But I was too late. A monk lunged forward and slapped his hand over my mouth so I couldn’t shout out a warning. Then he just held my arms tight. I watched what happened to the others but couldn’t stop it.”

Medart, annoyed, talked over him, and picked up the story again.

“One by one, monks emerged from the woods behind and captured us. While I was struggling in their grip, I saw you come out of the abbey holding up some swords. You didn’t see the monks hiding beside the door, and they hit you on the head from behind.”

He seemed ashamed as he finished the tale. “I saw you fall after being hit, and that’s when I stopped struggling and was captured.”

“They didn’t harm us, but they kept us locked in a room and wouldn’t tell us where they’d taken you,” injected Madeleine.

Dee had detected genuine worry in her voice, and perhaps he had imagined it, but maybe she was also ashamed at having bullied him into trying to help Luria.

For his part, Dee had told them very little about his captivity. Even Madeleine’s contrition wasn’t enough to make him reveal how degrading it had been, although he was sorely tempted.

But he told them about the deal Tramazzo had forced him to make.

“Bishop Tramazzo told me that the abbey was full of Jesuit brothers, led by a large man called Francis Faber.

“He says that Faber is not even a real Jesuit, but rather he has created his own splinter group and calls it ‘Manus Dei’, or ‘Hand of God’.

“Tramazzo has sent a letter to the Pope seeking clarification, but it might be many months before he receives an answer.

“Meanwhile, he believes Faber is planning something, and he wants to catch Faber in the act and arrest him.

“If we help by observing the Jesuits, or infiltrating their brotherhood, and it leads to Faber’s arrest, then Tramazzo says he will drop all charges against us. Well, against me.”

Madeleine had been the one to ask the obvious question.

“And if we don’t help? What then?”

“Then Tramazzo will arrest me, and have me tortured by his inquisitors, at which point he says I will readily implicate all of you and Denis, and probably a lot of other people that I don’t even know. Then we’ll all be burnt at the stake.”

There was silence for a full minute.

“Well. That’s a pretty persuasive argument,” said Madeleine. Glancing around the table, she saw their shock but also their slow nods of agreement.

Anxiety

The Jesuit brother guarding the room heard rapidly approaching steps and just had time to straighten from his slouch against the wall before Faber strode into view, rounding the corner of the corridor at a fast pace.

The draught from Faber’s billowing robe caused every torch he passed to flicker madly, so the shadow that stretched ahead of him seemed animated, probing the corridor for enemies before he got there himself.

Arrabella, struggling to maintain the pace set by the big man, hurried in his wake, carrying a bundle of beaded string.

They could hear the drone of dirge-like singing even before Faber opened the door to the antechamber.

The lamentation emanating from Isaac Luria was even more haunting when they were standing in the room itself. They both stood stock-still and watched as Luria solemnly intoned the magical spells of his ancestors. The deep notes reverberated in the cavern and seemed to penetrate the body, maybe the bones even, where they settled and echoed the ancient song.

Luria ignored them. Or at least he pretended to.

In his left hand he was holding up a piece of parchment, densely covered in the blocky angular lettering of the Hebrew script, whilst in his right he carried one of the little silver bells from Les Halles.

Without missing a note in the dirge, he stepped up to the coffin that was mounted waist high on some contraption he’d constructed, and draped in midnight black cloth. Smoothly, he knelt before it as the incantation rose in pitch and then abruptly cut off.

He rang the bell. Its tinkling was delicate and shimmering, shrouding the whole display with an ethereal character.

Faber and Arrabella hadn’t moved since entering the cavern. Not out of awe, not only that, anyway. Rather more from reverence. They felt with certainty that they were watching an archpriest at work.

Luria gave it a minute, then stretched it out to two, then three.

He remembered the betrayal he had felt when he first realised that Marita was actually Faber’s accomplice on the day after the market trip. He burned with fury from the humiliation and deception. He didn’t trust himself to look in her direction, he might be tempted to fling the bell at her lying face.

Nobody moved.

Finally, he rang the bell again. The bright, resonant sound was short this time. Abrupt even. He stood smoothly and backed away from the coffin a few paces, head bowed in contemplation.

Then he turned briskly and walked to a table by the side of the chamber and set down the bell and parchment. He raised a golden goblet high in the air, muttered some words under his breath, then took a long swig from the deep red wine within. He willed the potent liquid to soothe his temper.

Replacing the goblet, he made a complicated hand gesticulation over it before draping a cloth over the top. That should keep the dust out, he thought.

He turned to Faber and gave a brief nod of greeting.

He maintained eye contact as he waited for the man to speak. All the while, he ignored Marita, or Arrabella, or whatever her name was.

Faber stared hard at the smaller man. A boy, really. I could snap him in half, like a twig. But I need him. For now.

He switched his weight from one foot to the other. Then back again.

He gestured to the five-day hourglass, which sat serenely on top of the coffin.

Pink sand trickled through the constrained neck of the glass, from the large upper bulb to its mate below.

For the first time, there was more sand in the lower part than the upper. Faber could see that. As could Luria.

“How goes it, priest?”

“It goes.”

A pause. The only sound was the low grinding of Faber’s teeth.

“How much longer?”

“We are three days into the ritual. There are two more days before the last ceremony. You can see from the glass,” Luria nodded toward the glass.

All this was obvious to everyone in the room, of course.

Luria knew that just as he himself was a prisoner in these dark chambers, then so was Faber, a prisoner to the process he had initiated. There would be no escaping for either of them until the conclusion, and he didn’t want to think about what might happen then. Faber had promised him his freedom, but Luria had his doubts. Until then he would content himself with some serious intellectual mockery of the other man, knowing that for all his size and power he could do nothing to Luria during the process. Not if he wanted it to conclude anyway, which after all these years of planning he was obviously desperate for.

Faber nodded, perhaps attempting to exert some control, then turned to leave and almost bumped into Arrabella.

He gestured to the table, and said as he parted, “The beads you asked for,” then he left.

Arrabella dumped the string and followed him out, the door slamming shut behind her.

The vanishing

It was early afternoon and Dee was returning from a nearby inn, where he’d been taking a well-deserved break from watching the church.

We make a good team, Medart and I.

I am the brains, of course, and he is the muscle. Not much muscle, though.

Now, if I were teamed up with Madeleine, that would be especially pleasant. But I don’t think I’d be concentrating on the task very much.

It was sweltering under the scorching sun, the air thick with humidity. Even the slightest movement caused beads of sweat to trickle down one's skin.

He glanced up and down Rue Saint Denis, noticing that most people were hurrying to complete their errands before retreating indoors.

The sun blazed down relentlessly, casting harsh shadows and turning the dirt road into a shimmering, heat-hazed furnace.

Dee grimaced when he saw Medart’s head nod, a sure indication the boy was almost asleep, despite supposedly being on watch.

He glanced across the wide street, stopping mid-stride.

He shaded his eyes and squinted into the glare.

Is that…? Could it be?

A woman with a basket on her arm had paused beside the public fountain, and was drinking from the stream of water.

As she bent from the waist to drink, a lock of red hair fell from her bonnet, veiling her face.

It certainly looks like Arrabella, he thought. His heart did a little flip, which he tried his best to ignore.

Without taking his eyes off her, he kicked Medart’s stool out from under him, causing the unfortunate youth to tumble into the dust.

Forestalling a complaint, Dee grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him bodily so he could see the woman.

As they watched Arrabella, for it was surely her, she dabbed her forehead with a dampened handkerchief, then continued up the street, toward Les Halles market.

Dee whispered into his ear, “Run to Madeleine and Claude at Les Halles. Alert them. Make sure one of you is always following Arrabella. I’ll keep watch here in case Luria, Faber, or any of the Jesuits show themselves.

“Go now, quickly.”

Medart immediately jogged off, getting ahead of Arrabella after barely a minute.

Dee watched, his heart in his mouth, but Medart was perfect. He just ran past and never even looked toward Arrabella.

Over an hour later, Arrabella returned, and with barely a glance around her, entered the church through a door to the sacristy.

Madeleine was beside Dee a moment later, whispering, “She bought two flasks of oil from the lamp seller in the market.”

Claude and Medart ambled up, clustering around Dee.

“Where’d she go?” Asked Medart.

“Into the church. Through that door,” he pointed.

“Claude. Why don’t you go in and see if you can see anything more? Medart, go in the main door to the nave. Madeleine, follow Claude, but find a way upstairs and check the accommodation.

“No risks though,” he admonished them, as they smoothly peeled away to accomplish their tasks.

Barely five minutes later, Medart stepped out onto the street, and made a low slicing motion with his hand.

What does that mean? Thought Dee. Presumably he couldn’t find her.

He saw Madeleine leaning out of an upstairs window.

As he looked up at her, she made the same hand motion.

Did they all agree on that and just not tell me? He wondered.

When Claude exited from the sacristy and repeated the gesture, Dee huffed out loud. “Alright. Nobody found her. She vanished.”

He scratched his head confused, “She must be in there. I saw her go in, and they were only a couple of minutes behind her.”

He picked up his backpack and various props, then crossed the road to join them.

They all claimed that Arrabella was nowhere to be seen, shrugging in that annoying Gallic way, which he interpreted as I don’t know - go and check for yourself if you don’t believe me.

He beckoned them inside the sacristy, and leaving the props by the door, he went right through and into the church.

He gestured that they should spread out and search all the side chapels, confession boxes and indeed anywhere she might hide.

Slowly they advanced all the way through the church and into the Saints Innocents cemetery behind.

The cemetery was huge, and square, as big as a village green, though that is where the similarity ended. This was mostly bare dirt, with a few patches of scrubby grass, and several mounds of soil from open grave pits that lay dotted between gaudy but crumbling tombs. A couple of graves had grieving family members around them, one being attended by a priest.

The entire area was surrounded by an enclosing wall, which was lined on two sides with lean-to sheds that had arched openings.

Beyond and above the wall towered tall Parisian homes. They were two, three or, in one case, four storeys taller than the wall.

Nice view from those homes, he thought sarcastically.

He walked a few yards into the compound, followed by the others, just as the wind changed direction.

Reflexively, he gagged.

“My God, what a stench,” coughed Medart.

A passing labourer laughed, “That’s the smell of three hundred year’s worth of dead Parisians, sonny.”

Dee recovered first, calling to the labourer, “We’re looking for a friend who came in here a few minutes ago. A young woman with a basket. Could she be in one of those sheds?”

“Not unless she’s been dead fifty years or more,” laughing again at his own ghoulish humour. “We dig up the decomposed corpses and put the bones in them. They’re called charnel houses. It frees up space for the next burial pit.”

“Could she be anywhere else?”

“Not unless she stepped into a grave,” he walked off, chuckling to himself.

They split up and checked each group of mourners, but no luck.

Arrabella had disappeared, like smoke in the wind.

They turned for home, despondent at losing their quarry, and tired from the heat.

As they returned to the university district, the sky grew increasingly ominous, signalling an approaching storm. The temperature dropped and Madeleine shivered slightly, but to Dee it was a welcome respite from the unfamiliar and oppressive heat.

Chapter 31 - Information

Tuesday the 2nd of September 1550

Paris

The weather turns

A thunderstorm raged through the night.

Lightning crackled ominously, lighting up the city if only briefly, and thunder grumbled almost constantly.

Denis was apprehensive.

Over breakfast, he told the story of a summer thunderstorm, a few years previous. The way he told it, lightning had struck a home in the Marais region, causing the thatched roof to burst into flame. The strong winds fanned the flames, and they leapt from roof to roof, engulfing the homes in two or three streets in mere minutes. People had stampeded away from the flames, having no way to extinguish them. Luckily, the wind had turned back on itself, blowing the flames back over houses that had already burnt to ash. Thus the conflagration gradually extinguished as it lost fuel. Finally, the rain gained strength and soaked everything that remained.

Some businesses were ruined, and several lives were lost.

“I don’t want to see anything like that again. The entire city could have gone!”

Dee absently rotated the ring on his little finger as he recalled his last visit to Postel’s house. He and Medart had cleaned the bloodstains from the floor, collected broken pottery, replaced books on shelves, and found Arrabella’s ring.

She must have been there, he thought. In the middle of the melee. Inside Postel’s house.

She gets everywhere. Everywhere there is trouble, anyway. It follows her around, like a foul smell.

First, she was in Reims, where she poisoned me, and stole my statue.

Then she came to Paris.

It might have been her at the back of the theatre during Luria’s lecture.

Somehow she appears at Postel’s house. Perhaps she struggled with Postel, or Luria, or both.

The assailants left Postel bleeding and unconscious, while Luria disappears entirely.

Is he her ally? Surely not, he only arrived in France recently…with Postel.

So, perhaps they fought at Postel’s house? No, that doesn’t fit either. We saw them shopping together in Les Halles. They wouldn’t do that if they were adversaries. Would they?

He shook his head, confused.

Nervously, he concluded, “I have to question Postel. Without further delay.”

Medart, displaying unusual perception, said he’d accompany Dee.

Madeleine turned to Medart and silently mouthed, Thank you.

She asked Dee with some apprehension, “Will you both be safe?”

He glanced up and saw worry writ large across her features. It warmed him, but only reinforced his own concern.

Together, they had analysed the liquid in the ring.

Wolfsbane, just as the Reims herbalist had suspected, all those weeks ago.

It had appalled Madeleine. Her words echoed in his memory even now.

“A dose of Wolfsbane injected through the skin, into a person of unforeseeable size and constitution? Anything could have happened, from convulsions to heart failure. It is reckless in the extreme, and shows total disregard for the person’s life.”

He acknowledged the truth of it again now, although it still seemed unbelievable. She hadn’t cared whether I lived or died!

Madeleine tried to snap him out of his sudden depression. “Papa has some books that describe old Paris. While you are gone, we will read them and see if there is any information on the Saint-Innocents church, or the cemetery, or anywhere near there. Don’t worry, we’ll find out where she has gone to ground.”

Admission

Postel’s staff recognised Dee and Medart when they greeted them at the door and respectfully ushered them into the parlour to await their master.

Dee looked around carefully.

Everything seemed much the same as it had been almost two weeks ago when they had found Arrabella’s ring.

“Do you see any more jewellery?” joked Medart.

Dee threw a chastening glance in his direction, and Medart took the hint, saying no more.

Just in time as well, because Postel limped into the room a few moments later.

He called out as though to his saviour, “Ah, Monsieur Dee. How indebted I am to you, kind sir. I am so glad you have visited because now I can properly thank you for your aid that day.” He shuddered theatrically.

“You can see I am mostly recovered, just this limp, which I am assured will heal perfectly after another course of bloodletting over the next two weeks.”

Behind him, Medart’s face perfectly expressed his revulsion. Madeleine’s almost magical potions and creams didn’t require superstition and bloodsucking creatures.

Dee smiled tightly at Postel, but there was no warmth in it. He gestured to a chair and returned the greeting in a frosty tone.

“Postel. Thank you for seeing us. Take a seat, please. Just there will do.”

Postel’s confusion showed on his face, and he backed away a couple of steps until the back of his legs hit the chair seat and he tumbled into it inelegantly.

Dee’s voiced softened as he leaned forward and enquired tenderly, “You received quite a bump on the head. How are you feeling now?”

Postel responded immediately to the more solicitous tone, “Oh, I’m much better. Thanks to your quick actions, I am almost fully recovered. I don’t know how to thank you enough.”

Dee cut him off rudely. “There was a lot of blood. More than there should have been.”

The abrupt change in manner confused Postel. “Yes, I know…”

“We’re sorry about that. It wasn’t part of the plan.”

Postel went silent. His confusion was evident as he gazed back at Dee.

“I have just come back from the martyrium. There is nobody left alive there now, of course.”

Postel spluttered, “Is that a threat, sir?”

Dee’s eyes gleamed as he paced around a nearby table. He idly picked up a small figurine and examined it for a moment.

As he replaced the little ceramic, and without looking up, he casually continued, “Luria sends his greetings, by the way.”

The change in tack clearly confused Postel yet more, and he blurted out, “Thanks be to God, that he is alive.”

Quick as a snake, Dee replied, “Why wouldn’t he be?”

The two men exchanged a look.

If they had been duelling, Postel would certainly be on the back foot. He looked cornered, like an inexperienced swordsman facing a seasoned fencer.

“Faber says the time is near,” said Dee casually.

Postel sat completely still, his frightened eyes following every gesture and movement by Dee.

Dee pressed on. “He needs one more thing.”

Postel snapped back, his anger momentarily outweighing his caution. “I won’t do it. He has everything we agreed.”

“That’s not how it works,” countered Dee. “Are you forgetting your vows to the order?”

Postel’s head jerked back as though he’d been slapped.

Calmer again, Dee continued, “It is a trifle. The translation of a script. Phoenician, I think.”

“And then he’ll return my son to me?”

Dee's eyes gleamed as he glanced at Medart, but Medart was scratching his head, as though Dee and Postel were talking a strange language. English, say, or Dutch.

“Give me the manuscript, then. I’ll do it straightaway.”

Dee overreached, “You have to fetch it from him yourself.”

“But I don’t know where his new base is…he knows that. Wait a minute, you aren’t from Faber.”

Dee clamped his mouth shut, realising his error, but too late.

And it had been going so well.

He appeared to concede.

“Tsk,” he sounded mildly annoyed with himself as he finally settled into the chair opposite Postel.

“No, I’m not. I tricked you. Sorry about that.”

Postel grew an inch or two in stature as he straightened in the chair, proud of penetrating the lies.

Before he could press his advantage, Dee carried on, in an entirely matter-of-fact voice.

“It is Bishop Tramazzo that has sent me.”

He jutted out his chin like a prizefighter as he stared hard at Postel.

“Either you tell me what we need immediately, or you’ll be having cosy fireside chats in the basement of the Grand Châtelet.

“You remember how, um, encouraging our friends of the Inquisition can be. Think back to your stay in the Papal Prison just a couple of years ago. Surely you haven’t forgotten?”

Postel’s face showed extreme fear for a moment, then pain.

He clutched at his chest and the colour drained from his cheeks, before he pitched forward off the chair and landed with a dull thud by Dee’s feet.

Press home the advantage

Medart knelt beside Postel, checking for pulse and breathing.

He looked up at a shocked John Dee.

“He lives. But his pulse is erratic.”

Dee hesitated, his eyes flicking left and right, then took a steadying breath and replied.

“Turn him on his side. Open his mouth and make sure his tongue is not blocking his throat and isn’t bleeding. Bend his legs. Yes, that’s it. Now cover him in that warm coverlet.”

Dee poured himself a glass of water from a carafe on the sideboard, his shaking hand betraying his worry.

“What was all that about?”

Dee looked at Medart and shrugged.

“I found a paper in his study. That first time I was here, after he was assaulted.

“He knew the founder of the Jesuit Order, Ignatius of Loyola. They were in the same college, here in Paris. Years ago.

“It was the Sainte-Barbe Collège, part of the university.

“Many great minds have trained there, Loyola himself, of course, Diogo de Gouveia, Francois Xavier, Pierre Lefevre. No doubt there will be many more gifted people studying there in the future.

“Loyola founded the Jesuits, recruiting heavily from within the college. Then he went to Rome.

“The letter I found was Postel’s acceptance into the Jesuit order in Rome, six years ago.”

Dee slapped his hand down on the table in finality, “He is one of them, Medart. He is implicated in all of this.”

Medart still didn’t understand. “That is all ancient history. What is going on now?”

Dee took a moment to reply, framing his thoughts carefully.

“I think the burglary was staged, although the abduction of Luria was authentic enough. Postel knew they would hit him. Probably to make it look real.”

He grunted with amusement. “He probably didn’t realise he would be hit quite so hard. But we know Faber doesn’t do things by halves, don’t we?”

Medart scratched his head.

“But what was all that about his son? And having done everything that had been agreed?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t expecting that.

“My best guess is that he didn’t really want to help Faber, despite their shared Jesuit bonds. That shows some discernment, I suppose.

“So Faber has taken Postel’s son as hostage to ensure compliance.”

Medart shivered. “Do you think he was one of those dead men in the abbey?”

Dee shrugged again. “Who knows?

“We’ll have to wait for Postel to wake up and see if he can shed any more light on the story.

“I’ll ask the servants for brandy. You check his pulse again.”

Chapter 32 - Revelation

Tuesday the 2nd of September 1550

Delacroix’s bookstore, Paris

Tell Tramazzo?

“When Postel recovered enough to speak, he confirmed that Faber abducted his son and forced him to ‘acquire’ a Jewish mystic.

“That was his word for it. Acquire.”

Denis interrupted Dee, “When was all this?”

“Two years ago, near enough. He hasn’t seen his son since then.

“So he travelled to see the Turks, then to the land of the Jews. He found and then befriended this lad called Isaac Luria, who really is a gifted Rabbinic scholar despite being so young. He convinced Isaac to come to France, saying they would travel on to Spain. There they would search for information about a foundational document of the Kabbalah, called the Zohar. Postel admitted that after mentioning the Zohar, he could have asked anything of Luria and he would have agreed.”

Dee looked around the table, seeing each face taut with apprehension.

“After his lecture at the Collège Royal, Luria was too well known to be handed over to Faber thence to disappear with no explanation. Postel claims that a young woman who works for Faber came up with the plan.

“I think that woman was Arrabella.

“One Jesuit brother would take Luria away to the abbey. Another, working with Arrabella, would knock Postel unconscious and ransack the room to make it look like a burglary. Presumably that’s when she lost her ring.

“Perhaps the man was a little too zealous, or perhaps the plan had always been to silence Postel for good. Perhaps he had outlived his usefulness?

“Either way, if I hadn’t found him when I did, he would probably have died in his own parlour that day.”

Denis’ voice quavered. “It sounds like Faber and Arrabella are a deadly pair. Perhaps you should just tell Bishop Tramazzo what you have found and let his men figure out the rest.”

Madeleine gently put her hand over her father’s. “Tramazzo said we have to find Faber for him. If we don’t, then he’ll arrest us. You know that, Papa. In his own way, he’s as cruel as Faber. But don’t worry, we’ll be careful.”

Dee refilled their tumblers and as he sipped the light white wine, he contemplated the depths these men would plumb.

All in the pursuit of…what? I wonder.

Yes, they stole the statue, but that seems more like a means to an end, rather than the goal itself. Why the massacre in the martyrium? Why the subterfuge to recruit Luria?

Research

Dee called the meeting back to order, breaking up the whispered side-discussions and private contemplations. They all looked at him. Four pairs of eyes were full of anticipation and excitement, while one pair held only concern.

Trying to sound more positive than he felt, Dee exclaimed, “Alright. Let’s examine what we have got.

“We know Faber and his men occupied the abbey of Montmartre because we saw Arrabella go in. In fact, Tramazzo confirmed this because he had questioned the abbess.”

Claude jumped in eagerly, “But now the Jesuits have abandoned the abbey, leaving a couple of their brethren inside, slaughtered like cattle.”

Denis gave young Claude a stern look, but the lad pretended not to notice.

Madeleine contributed, “Tramazzo says they caught you red-handed with the murder weapons - which is actually true,”

Claude snickered. Denis shook his head sadly, wondering when his quiet young apprentice had turned so bloodthirsty.

Madeleine continued, “And he says we were your accomplices - which unfortunately is also true.

“So, he’s blackmailing us to do what he can’t seem to do himself, despite his resources. Find Faber, and collect evidence against him.”

Medart spoke up, “A week ago I followed Luria and three Jesuits from Les Halles, east along Rue aux Fers, towards Rue Saint Denis. But I had to stay far back so they wouldn’t see me, and…I lost them.”

He hung his head, well aware that he’d let the team down.

Madeleine squeezed his shoulder. “No matter, Medart. At least they didn’t see you. That’s important. They don’t know that we’re onto them. You did well.”

“Yes, well,” muttered Dee, unable to bring himself to fully agree, “Then we went in disguise and watched Les Halles and Rue Saint Denis. And Hallelujah. I spotted Arrabella drinking at the fountain outside the church of Holy Innocents. Medart, Madeleine, and Claude followed her as she shopped in Les Halles, and eventually she returned to the church and entered the sacristy. We all followed inside a few minutes later - but she’d disappeared. Again.”

“She’s a slippery snake, that one,” muttered Madeleine, surprising Dee with her vehemence.

Denis stirred in his seat. “I see now. The church is your only lead.”

“Was. The church was our only lead,” said Madeleine. “Listen to this.”

She slid an old book in front of her and leafed through it until she reached a page she’d marked earlier. Running her finger down the text, she muttered under her breath, until she reached the paragraph she wanted.

“Here we are,” she said. Then started reading aloud.

“The Dean of l’Eglise des Saints-Innocents was despised by all, but no rude doing could ever be proven.

“It was well known that he owed money to many, including the Provost of the merchants of Paris, an honourable man called D'Estouteville.

“D’Estouteville, impatient from lack of repayment, sent a troupe of men to Saint-Innocents to fetch the Dean for explanation. The Dean had led a service that very morning, but now was vanished. The men searched for three days without success. On the fourth day, they discovered the entrance to a secret underground passage. It led from the church to a house of ill-repute that stood next to a fetid boucherie. They never found the Dean, and D’Estouteville never received his money.”

Claude let out a shriek of delight. “A secret passageway!”

“Maybe they’re all hiding in the tunnel,” suggested Guillaume.

“It’s a big church. Does it say where the passage starts?”

Madeleine smiled at Dee, acknowledging the importance of the question. She turned the page over and continued.

“They fetched a mason from the nearby Rue des Lombards, and he spent a day labouring in the chapelle before the passage was made shut.”

Dee grinned at Madeleine. “Good work.”

Medart’s face lit up, “Easy. We search the chapel, looking for the re-opened passage, and get the evidence Tramazzo needs. They’re trapped like rats.”

Leaning forward, Denis slapped the table to get their attention. “That’s when rats are at their most dangerous,” he warned. “That’s when you fetch the ratcatcher and let him finish the job. You just don’t know how many are down in the nest. It would be stupid to take further risks.”

Dee hastily agreed, trying to put Denis at ease, although in truth he had no intention of stopping after finding Tramazzo’s evidence. “Yes, capturing Faber is Tramazzo’s job. In fact, I’ll write to him today, explaining our plan, so he knows to have his men ready to make an arrest tomorrow.”

Denis leaned back, satisfied.

“Meanwhile, we should gather some supplies. I’ll ask Joan to pack some food and water.”

“Good idea, Madeleine. What about a lever to pry open the passage?”

“Surely we won’t need that? Do you think Arrabella carries a pry bar with her when she goes shopping to Les Halles?”

Dee made an ‘O’ with his mouth. Actually, no, I hadn’t thought about that.

With some final chatter, the group split up and went about their preparations.

Madeleine’s brow furrowed as she watched Dee slip away toward her apothecary, and perhaps, she thought, to her secret workshop beyond. He was a skilled alchemical apprentice, perhaps already surpassing her own abilities.

Search

The next day, Wednesday, they set off for Saints-Innocents, looking like a family group going for a picnic. Dee had a pack on his back, Madeleine a covered basket in the crook of her arm, and Medart had secretly packed a satchel with a few items discussed with Dee. Things they might need in the secret passage.

They loitered near the intersection of Rue Saint Denis and Rue aux Fers, typical morning traffic providing safety through anonymity.

A large cartload of timber slowly trundled by.

Madeleine had argued in favour of a protracted surveillance before they entered the church, but Dee could hardly contain himself, and argued instead that delay would only increase the risk of harm to Luria and could just as easily see more Jesuits return to the lair as leave from it.

In the event, the church seemed deserted. “Perhaps everyone is attending a funeral?” offered Medart.

Dee gave the signal, and they all trooped across the street, even Madeleine, though she shook her head at the rashness of it.

Dee hauled open the sacristy door, a plausible excuse ready in case they met any priests.

Claude dashed inside and returned a moment later confirming it was empty, and with a last look up and down the street, they all filed in.

Once again, Claude went ahead, as agreed. Despite being irrepressible, they had all agreed he looked innocent, and thus made the perfect scout.

A few minutes later, he returned. “There’s nobody inside.”

“Well done Claude. Alright, let’s go.”

“Wait. There’s some bad news too.”

He paused for a beat.

“There are a dozen different chapels.”

Dee and Madeleine exchanged a look, realising they should have thought of this possibility.

“We’ll split up,” replied Dee, relying on his authority to avoid any panic. “Claude with Madeleine, Guillaume with Medart.”

Nobody moved.

“Go, go,” he said and shooed them out of the sacristy into the body of the church.

It was a big vaulted space, almost square, with a dozen pillars rising like giant tree trunks from the nave to support the distant roof. Light flooded in from windows high in the walls, illuminating the dancing dust motes that swirled above their heads.

Dee took it all in at a glance, the faded beauty of the place leaving him cold.

There were stairs to his immediate left, presumably going up to the bell tower. He ignored them, reasoning that a secret tunnel would not start above ground level.

There was a row of small side-chapels to his right. He couldn’t tell how many, but at least three or four. He gestured toward them. “Madeleine?” She nodded, and taking Claude, she hurried toward them.

Along the far wall, directly ahead, Dee could see another row of chapels. He sighed. Claude was right. It looked like half a dozen.

Medart was surprisingly calm. “We’ll start at the far end.” He hurried off with Guillaume in tow, threading through the pillars like a deer through a forest of trees.

Dee plunged forward, intent on hurrying past the choir to the first of the far chapels, but reluctantly pulled up short, turned toward the altar and crossed himself. He grimaced, then hurried on. His belief in God was firm. It was his rock; it was a part of his being. But he was self-aware enough to recognise that his obedience to the human institutions that tried to organise and control how individuals communed with God was seriously shaken. If not shattered.

Before he reached the far wall, he pulled up short. A large chapel loomed beside the choir, almost as large as the choir, in fact.

Glorious coloured light streaming in through three stained glass windows and drew his gaze. The central window clearly depicted the Madonna, the left looked like the angel Gabriel, and the last was a Tree of Jessé.

At ground level, a solid stone altar was draped with a blue and white cloth, adorned with bunches of wilting flowers and a half dozen fat candles, not yet lit, presumably ready for mass later in the day. Atop it all was a wooden statue of a woman cradling an infant.

“The chapel of the virgin,” he muttered, bobbing his head without even realising it.

Behind him, he heard a rhythmic tapping sound. Tap, tap, tap. Pause. Tap, tap, tap.

He realised it was Medart using the bookbinding hammer he’d told him to bring, checking the walls for hollow compartments.

He looked over to Madeleine and saw her running her fingertips over the mouldings along the side of a smaller chapel. Claude, he saw, was scooting along the floor, peering closely at the wall.

Turning back to face the altar, he scrutinised it. His piercing black eyes darted this way, then that, taking in every detail and interpreting them quickly.

The floor was worn smooth from hundreds, or even thousands of passing feet, the black and white tiles looking a little shabby. The walls had pillars, or sometimes half-pillars, richly decorated and fluted, running from floor to ceiling. Between the pillars, the stonework was covered in plaster to create a flat wall and then painted with images of the virgin Mary or the Christ child.

Gripped by indecision, he swayed on the spot, re-examining the whole chapel.

He heard Guillaume squeak in fear, and turned quickly, only to see Medart dangling him headfirst down a small shaft, then hauling him out again.

Suddenly ashamed at his own inaction, he surged forward.

Taking care not to dislodge any of the devotional objects, he squeezed behind the altar. There was barely room.

It can’t be here, he thought. And yet, he tapped the wall behind in multiple places just to be sure.

Extricating himself with difficulty, he stood looking back toward the entrance to the chapel and the nave beyond. He scratched his head, perplexed.

At the entrance was a larger-than-life statue of a hooded Madonna holding her hands together in prayer. She was displayed in an ornate niche. Almost opposite her a richly veined marble pedestal held a bust of a bearded man. Maybe a cardinal or a pope, he couldn’t tell.

Where would I hide a secret passageway?

If Arrabella enters with shopping, then it can’t be a little grate on the floor, nor a single moulding on the wall. It must be as big as a door…or…

His eyes returned to the statue of the Madonna, looming tall at eight or maybe ten feet.

Behind the statue, the niche was in deep shadow.

He walked right up to the statue, his nose level with the praying hands.

The niche was large. Probably large enough to walk right behind her, he thought.

So he did. And there it was.

A stone staircase spiralled away into the depths, a thick rope bolted to the wall every few feet serving as a handrail.

Finally.

He backed out of the niche and blew the little whistle that Denis has given him. It emitted a high-pitched trill. Hmm, a little like a starling, or…

His reverie was interrupted by the patter of four sets of feet and Madeleine’s impatient, “Well?”

“Oh. Right. Over here, look.”

There was excited chatter while Dee wondered how best they should proceed.

Claude needed no such consideration and ran down the stairwell, disappearing in the blink of an eye.

Madeleine darted down after him.

“Wait,” called Dee.

Medart and Guillaume followed the other two down the stairs, leaving Dee to bring up the rear, muttering about the chain of command.

Chapter 33 - Resurrection

Wednesday the 3rd of September 1550

Beneath Holy Innocents’ Cemetery

Preparations

Glancing at the hourglass, Luria realised that his time was almost over. Only an inch of sand remains - perhaps an hour. Where have those five days gone?

His body betrayed him first.

His legs started shaking, and he staggered to the wall for support, leaning heavily against it. His vision blurred. Slowly, he collapsed to the floor and lowered his head between his knees as he sucked in lungfuls of air to quell the queasiness that roiled within him.

Sweat sprang out on his forehead, then dripped into his eyes, stinging them. He cried and although he tried to blink away the tears; they rolled down his cheeks as despair clawed at his mind.

He choked out a cry to his God, “Yahweh, help me!”

His battered mind betrayed him next.

He pictured his father describing a vision he claimed to have had before Isaac was born, maybe before he was even conceived; The prophet Elijah showed himself arrayed in glory, and told him that a son would soon be born to him. He was to be named Isaac. When fully grown, Isaac was destined to reveal many of the mysteries of the Torah and lead the believers from evil.

The image faded, only to be replaced by one of his uncle Mordechai, proudly presenting Isaac to the council of Rabbinic elders, claiming he was a gifted child, as foretold by a vision of Elijah.

He clearly remembered his own boasting to his fellow students, projecting a self-image based on his father’s vision and his uncle’s relentless aggrandisement.

He remembered pushing to the front of the small crowd of students when the foreigner had come seeking “the best of the best”. He had been convinced it must be himself that was sought for.

Images from the long journey to France flooded his mind next. Boarding the great European ship, sailors crawling in the rigging like ants pulling at the huge white sail. Then being tossed around in the Mediterranean sea, like a leaf in the wind. The final painful miles, travelling by horse and cart to the greatest city in the world, according to Postel anyway. Paris.

He could still feel his chest and how it had swelled with pride when he had lectured to dozens of the brightest minds in Paris, all distinguished scholars, followed by the acclamation of their applause.

Then his betrayal by Postel and incarceration by Faber.

Grovelling for food and water from the guards. The dirt and the squalor.

His fear for his life.

The lies he told to save himself. Blaspheming and promising things he had no right to even suggest.

Oh, Lord, how low I have sunk!

With a clarity greater than any he had ever known, he realised now that his own hubris had led inexorably to this moment.

The words of his uncle Bezalel flooded back to him; The Lord is infinitely forgiving.

He grasped at that thought, like a drowning man grasps a floating branch. He held it close and dared to hope that there was some way to achieve salvation.

He attempted to compose himself.

He started with the physical, dashing away his tears and sweat, and holding his body upright, rigidly under control.

Then he attempted to still his mind. He struggled against the dark thoughts that he harboured for Faber and his bullying men, which jostled for prominence for many minutes.

With some effort, he finally calmed enough to begin one of his favourite meditations. A consideration of the fourteenth letter of the alef-beis, the nun peshutah.

The shape of the Hebrew letter nun was mostly a vertical line, with its leg dangling down below the baseline. He imagined this as a conduit for God’s light from up high down to the earth and even flowing below, perhaps all the way down to the pit in which he now found himself.

He realised he needed to be humble, to believe in God’s plan, to throw himself on God’s mercy. Only then might he experience a miracle.

He meditated on these concepts, viewing them first from one angle, then from another. As the minutes passed, his breathing calmed.

Finally, he realised his anxiety had abated, and he dashed away his tears.

God will provide to the humble, he thought. And he believed it.

From the belt around his waist, he pulled out a battered manuscript. He smoothed out the wrinkles as best he could, smudging the ink as he did so.

No matter - I remember what I wrote.

A list of all the steps in the ceremony, exactly as required by the rites of my forefathers.

Or so he had told Faber yesterday morning anyway, just before he had taken pleasure from making the man worry for his own safety. Luria smiled grimly at the recollection of his words. “The ritual is dangerous to all those involved. How could it not be? You and your men must do exactly as I say, or you may lose your soul to eternal torment.”

Faber had been shocked, then angry, then acquiescent.

Perhaps Faber had thought he could just be an observer? Or, that some mumbled words from me and the expensive incense would be enough?

Finally, Faber had asked, “Tell us what we have to do.”

“I will show you, and you will practice. Time and again. Until you have it exactly correct. Any minor mistake will unbalance the equilibrium.”

And so they had.

He reread the steps. They were not so hard. He wished he had invented some more exotic gestures and actions. Perhaps the gentiles should each have to spill some blood into a basin?

But it was too late now to embellish the planned ritual, and he knew it.

It was finally time.

He didn’t want to think about afterwards. Instead, he clung to his belief in delivery by God’s grace.

He stood up, swaying a little, desperately trying to banish the deep shadow of tiredness that clung to him, then he returned to the dais to prepare himself.

The labyrinth

After Claude darted into the niche behind the Madonna and the rest scrambled to follow, Dee was left grumbling about seniority, but there was no one to hear his complaints. Hefting his pack into a more comfortable spot on his back, he brought up the rear.

The stairs spiralled down anticlockwise.

After one full turn of the spiral, the light from above was cut off by the steps over his head and the stairwell dimmed toward total darkness. His progress slowed as he verified every step before carefully placing his feet.

Thankfully, after a couple more spirals, a dim glow emanated from below, casting pale dancing shadows on the rough stone wall. He grew more confident and his speed increased, though he was still not exactly fast. The steps weren’t all the same size. Some were shallower, some deeper. Some crumbled at the edge when he put his weight on them, and some seemed as solid as the day they had been cut.

Soon his left calf was burning from the effort of always standing on the narrowest part of the step as they corkscrewed down.

A couple more steps and the muscle spasmed, causing him to stumble and gasp out loud from the stabbing pain. He leaned against the wall and massaged the cramp out of his leg.

I’ve been spending too much time at my desk. I need to exercise more, he thought.

As he straightened, some of the rock crumbled and fell away as dust. He looked closely, even picking at the wall with his fingernail, and realised that a band of softer pale-coloured rock zigzagged across it.

Sandstone or limestone? Not gritty enough for sandstone, he decided.

Medart’s voice echoed up to him, “John. Hurry up.”

A couple of minutes later he found them all huddled together in front of a squat archway, Medart’s hair brushing the keystone.

Subconsciously, Dee had been counting the steps, and had reached fifty. Fifty. The gematria of the Hebrew letter nun is fifty. Why does that seem important?

He brought his mind back to the present and whispered, “Is this the bottom?”

It was Madeleine who answered, “It seems so. There’s a long, flat tunnel ahead. Torches in wall sconces light the way every dozen yards. I thought we should wait for you before we went any further.”

“Well, he’s here now,” said Claude mischievously. Pulling Guillaume along by the hand, he darted down the passage.

“Get back here,” hissed Madeleine.

Dee fumbled with a pouch at his waist, then flicked some powder at the nearest torch, causing it to flare bright green. The otherworldly colour lit the whole tunnel and was enough to vanquish even Claude’s courage. Both boys yelped in alarm and scuttling back to the archway to cower by Madeleine’s skirts.

Dee nodded with satisfaction.

“Adults first,” he said, pushing to the front.

Madeleine joined him. “Should we send word to Tramazzo?”

“And tell him what? That we found a tunnel? No. We have to get proof that Faber is down here and that he’s plotting something.”

He took a step, then muttered over his shoulder, “Follow me. Silently. And not too close in case we have to turn and run back to the church.”

Gingerly, he stepped deeper into the tunnel, placing every footstep as quietly as he could.

After a couple of hundred feet, the tunnel kinked left, and then ended as another tunnel crossed in front of it, forming a T-shape.

He knelt at the intersection, peering left, then right. Both directions looked the same to him.

Which way?

He didn’t have to turn around to know the others had settled behind him. The quiet crunch of gravel beneath their feet had given way to silence.

He cocked his head and caught a vague sound. What is that? And from where?

Madeleine whispered, “Left?”

He rose and headed left, though even more cautiously this time.

Another fifty yards and he raised his hand, clenched it into a fist, then knelt down again.

He leaned toward Madeleine and whispered directly into her ear, “Somebody or something. Moving around. Up ahead.”

The scent of her hair filled his nostrils.

He blinked his eyes shut and remembered the feel of her hips in his hands that last time her hair had cast its honeyed spell upon him.

Suddenly, he realised she had stood and was moving rapidly ahead of him.

His pulse throbbed wildly in his throat.

Gesturing to the others to stay where they were, he scrambled to follow her. He was very aware that a stray noise from him could bring disaster down on them all, and Madeleine was first in line.

Then he stopped. Completely still.

A man’s shadow stretched well past Madeleine’s crouching form, probing down the tunnel toward him.

He breathed again when the shadow swung to his left and suddenly cut off altogether.

He realised. There must be a lit room, someone walking past a doorway.

He blinked sweat from his eyes, and noticed that Madeleine was on the move, almost running toward the light.

Merde.

He started loping up the corridor too, several yards behind her. Too many!

She disappeared into the room.

There was a coughing sound, then a dull thump.

He burst through the doorway with fists raised.

Madeleine was calmly pulling an unconscious Jesuit’s body across the floor toward the corner of the room.

She glanced up, huffing, “Don’t just stand there. Give me a hand. He’s heavy.”

He took one of the man’s arms from her and pulled in sync, “What did you do?”

She flashed him a triumphant smile. “I call it my Somnus spray. Extra strength. I’ll show you later. Come on, pull.”

They rolled him over so he faced the wall and threw an old cloth over the body. “I don’t want to scare the boys,” she whispered.

Dee went back to the corridor and waved the rest of the group forward.

Together, they quickly searched the sparse room.

On a table lay an animal horn, about the size of a man’s hand. “Perhaps a ram’s horn,” said Dee.

Medart turned it over and around in his clumsy hands, “The point has been cut off, and it is hollow, like a musical instrument.”

Dee spotted a large black cloth spooled on the floor. It was inscribed with white painted Hebrew lettering and secured to a straight rod, perhaps so it could hang like a banner.

The rod was tied to a thin rope. Hand over hand, he traced the rope toward a second doorway.

Chill air wafted over him. Cautiously, he peered through the opening and realised that beyond was a wide open space. A cavern even. Or at least the upper portion of a cavern.

He dropped to his hands and knees, attracting an amused look from Madeleine. He gestured for continued quiet, desperate to forestall any laughter.

The gravelly stone floor was hard on his knees, but he crawled through the doorway onto a long shelf, or balcony. Ever so slowly, he risked peering over the edge to see what might be below.

The ceremony

The cavern was dimly lit by flickering torches.

In the middle of the cave was a white canopy, the cloth supported by a wooden frame. It seemed to be empty.

Tall candles were arrayed around the structure, and while Dee watched, a hooded monk went round, blessing them, then lighting them.

“I’ve never seen a monk with a blue and white striped cowl before,” he muttered.

It seemed he was the sole occupant of the cavern.

On the far side of the cave was an arched exit, and to the right side were two more.

A scuffling sound from behind him alerted him to the others, who all crawled over to join him. He whispered urgently, “Keep really quiet.”

Claude craned his neck to get a better view and Dee hissed angrily, “Don’t show your head over the edge! And whatever you do, don’t drop anything, not a pebble, not even dust!”

Claude gave him a sour look, but retreated carefully from the edge.

They lay silently for a few minutes, watching the scene unfold before them.

Once the candles were lit, the hooded figure returned to a table at the left-hand end of the canopy. He picked up a golden goblet and, holding it up high, he sang out some strange words, then sipped from the cup before returning it to the table.

He picked up something else, something small, then walked a slow circuit around the whole setup. He paused every few steps, turned toward the tent and raised his hand, where something shiny was visible.

Claude turned to Dee, “He’s ringing a little bell.”

At Dee’s bemused face, he said, “Don’t you hear it?”

“I can’t hear anything,” replied Dee.

Guillaume chimed in, as if to prove that youth was a benefit, not a handicap, “I can hear it.”

“Me too,” said Madeleine. “It’s very high pitched.”

Dee grunted noncommittally.

The monk was on the other side of the tent from them now, raising the bell to ring it once again, his hood slipping back from his face a little.

“That’s Isaac!” cried Dee.

“What’s he doing?” asked Medart.

“It looks like a religious rite, doesn’t it?” suggested Madeleine.

Just then, a deep chanting echoed through the cave.

They all edged away from the lip of the balcony.

Two hooded figures dressed in typical black Jesuit cloaks slowly emerged from an entrance on the righthand side of the cave. They were followed by two more. Then a third pair.

Between the two lines of men, Dee could see a thick rope, and each man was holding it. Not just holding it, but pulling on it.

“They’re pulling a cart,” said Claude excitedly.

Sure enough, a little wagon on four small wheels emerged from the tunnel behind the men.

“What’s that on the cart?” asked Madeleine. “Is it…? It is. It’s a coffin.” She shivered. “What unholy sacrilege is going on here?”

The rhythmic chants intensified, pervading the chamber with an air of malevolence.

The entourage slowly headed toward the tent, where Luria waited.

It seemed to take ages for the cart to fully appear in the cave, but was probably only a minute.

Behind the cart, having to stoop to pass through the archway, a tall figure emerged, cloaked in white.

Despite not being able to see his hooded face, there was no mistaking who the big man must be.

“Faber,” they exclaimed together.

Behind him, a slender figure in a red hooded cloak. “Arrabella,” whispered Dee.

Did his voice shake with emotion? But what emotion? Madeleine scowled.

All the monks were chanting now, the sound reverberating through the chamber. Dee shivered. The dirge was oppressive, seeming to clutch at a person’s soul.

He shook off the feeling and turned to the others.

“Now’s our chance, while they’re all busy, and before they miss the guy that was waiting up here.

“Claude. I have an important task for you.

“Keep watch from up here. If you see the monks look up toward you, as though expecting something to happen, then untie this rope so the banner can be pulled across the roofline. If they’re still looking, blow that horn.

“Can you do all that?”

“Easy,” he bragged. “Just leave it to me.”

“Good. If you hear any loud bangs, that’s your signal to abandon your post and run to the staircase and back up to the church. Alright? Wait for us on the street outside.”

“I understand,” he replied.

“Everyone else, let’s go. Quietly now.”

They crawled back into the room, checked on the still sleeping guard and jogged down the passage to the bottom of the stairwell.

“Guillaume. Do you remember the way to Bishops Tramazzo’s house? Go there as fast as you can. Tell him what we’ve seen…Faber and the Jesuits are performing some sort of satanic ritual, and they’ve got a coffin with them.

“Tell the bishop that we’ll rescue Luria and leave this place, and meet him in the square outside Notre Dame Cathedral.”

The lad said he understood and darted off up the stairs.

“We need to do something, before they summon the devil or whatever it is they are doing,” wailed Medart.

“We need to distract the Jesuits and rescue Luria,” answered Dee, although he didn’t share how that might actually happen.

“And what if he doesn’t want to come with us?” asked Madeleine.

Dee just glared at her. There’s a time for analysis, and this isn’t it.

“Come on,” and he darted down the right-hand tunnel.

Caeremoniarum interruptio

They ran along the curving tunnel, heedless of the noise.

They raced down a short flight of steps. The corridor zigged right, then zagged left and down a few more stairs.

“We must be level with the chamber by now,” panted Medart.

As they rounded the next corner, another tunnel crossed theirs.

Dee paused in the middle of the crossing. To the left, he thought he could hear the chanting from the ceremony, the monk’s otherworldly tones pouring down the tunnel toward them.

Dee slipped off his backpack and pulled some packages out, thrusting them at Medart. “A tripwire, just like I showed you.” Grim-faced, the teenager nodded to him.

“Carefully, yes?” Another nod.

“Then back to the church as soon as it is done, right?” Medart paused, but Dee gripped his arm and extracted a final reluctant nod.

To their right were a few steps heading up, a cool stagnant smell wafting toward them. He exchanged a glance with Madeleine, and she voiced the thought they both had. “Secondary exit?”

Taking Madeleine’s hand, he raced on, quickly beyond Medart’s sight as the tunnel twisted gently through the bedrock, perhaps following the seams of softer limestone.

As the tunnel curved more to the left, they slowed to a walk.

“Surely we are on the far side of the cavern now?” asked Madeleine.

A minute later they passed a doorway on their left, then another on their right, both opened onto small rooms chiselled from the rock. Each room held three or four pallet beds.

They weren’t interested in the monks’ sleeping arrangements, so they jogged on.

Another opening on their right led to a small room. A chair, table, and a small cabinet were set against the far wall. “Interesting,” said Dee, about to step inside.

“But we need Luria. Come on,” Madeleine dragged him onward.

Suddenly the tunnel ended in another room, a kitchen-come-refectory. A couple of long trestle tables took up much of the space. A few dishes from the morning meal were abandoned on one of them.

The chanting was clearly audible again, this time from an arch and short tunnel to their left, beyond which was the main chamber, as they had guessed.

They crept as close to the chamber as they dared, staying to the shadows.

The coffin, still on its little trolley, had been dragged into the tent.

The monks themselves were arrayed around the tent, seemingly in prayer, their cowls keeping their bowed heads in deep shadow, their hands clasped piously before them, holding what looked like a bundle of smoking twigs. Dee hazarded a guess. Incense?

Luria was slowly circling the entire group, tinkling his bells and calling out in an unknown language with a sing-song cadence.

He paused behind Faber and looked up toward the gallery they had so recently occupied.

Luria tinkled his bell, then waited.

He shook the bell again, so hard that Dee feared it might break.

Just then, a faint horn sound echoed through the cave.

“The banner!” moaned Dee. “He’ll want the banner.”

But no. Luria seemed satisfied. He continued his slow walk around the prayer group.

Dee scrambled in his backpack, handing two fist-sized balls to Madeleine.

“When I say so, pull the strings and roll the balls into the cave. Aim for Faber’s feet with one, and into the tent with the other.”

Madeleine looked at the balls, then at Dee, eyes wide with incomprehension.

Dee pulled out another ball and held it ready in his hand, gripping the string with the other.

He watched as Luria paused and turned inward again, and rang his bell. He was now as close to the kitchen exit as he would ever get.

“Now,” hissed Dee, he pulled the string on his ball and immediately sparks flew out of the hole where the string had been, followed by a stream of grey-blue smoke.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Madeleine doing the same, almost dropping the balls in surprise.

“Throw,” he whispered, his voice hoarse in the building smoke.

He lobbed his ball toward the table at the far end of the tent, where it landed and billowed out copious smoke and sparks. Some of the sparks must have touched the canopy, as suddenly it burst into flame.

The monks cried out in alarm, looking around in confusion.

One of Madeleine’s balls was also issuing smoke under the tent. The chamber was now filling rapidly and the monks, though hidden in the smoke, were coughing and shouting in panic.

The last ball had landed near Faber himself, and actually exploded, knocking him off his feet.

Amidst the chaos, Dee ran into the chamber and grabbed at Luria’s shadowy figure, immediately dragging him away from the others, back toward the kitchen, “Isaac, it’s me John Dee. Come with me, we’ll take you to safety.”

He hoped it would be true.

“Don’t ever surprise me like that again,” yelled Madeleine as she hauled them both into the refectory, glaring dangerously at Dee.

He didn’t have time to reply. Instead, letting Madeleine take Luria, he pulled two more smoke bombs out of his satchel and tossed them behind him.

Madeleine ran at top speed down the corridor, dragging Luria whether he wanted to go or not.

She glanced behind her and almost stumbled when she realised Dee was nowhere to be seen.

She continued running, hauling the still befuddled Luria behind her, concentrating on getting away from the furious monks.

Round the next corner to the crossroads, then left and up the steps.

We should have checked it really was an exit…too late now.

Chapter 34 - Detonation

Wednesday the 3rd of September 1550

In the tunnels

Tribute?

Dee veered off the main passage and into a side cave. It was the one they had ignored earlier, set up like an office.

He went straight to the cabinet.

Surely…

There was a drawer at the top of the cabinet and a cupboard door below that.

He pulled at the handle, and the drawer opened smoothly, revealing an assortment of papers.

He grabbed them by the handful and tossed them to the floor without a glance, careless of their contents.

He peered into the very back of the drawer.

Nothing there…

Grabbing the iron handle of the cupboard door, he held his breath and pulled.

It didn’t budge.

He turned the handle and pulled again.

Nothing.

He looked closer, squinting in the dim light.

Is that a keyhole? Darn.

Desperately, he cast around.

Not hanging on the wall. Not on the table.

He felt under the lip of the table, but nothing.

He stopped and forced himself to think.

Where would the key be?

In his purse, or on a string around his neck.

Garr.

He slipped off his pack and pulled out a knife. It was the short but stout blade that Frisius had given him just a few turbulent months ago.

He thrust the blade into the cabinet and twisted with all his strength.

With a splintering crunch, he prised the lock away from the frame and the cabinet door swung open.

Tributary

Madeleine raced around the last corner and almost knocked Medart off his feet.

Her eyes were streaming so much from the accumulated smoke of all of Dee’s bombs that she could hardly see. She told Medart as much, although he didn’t seem very interested.

He was looking beyond her, agitated. “Where’s Dee?”

“He’s coming. Probably. He said to run…so we ran.”

“We can’t just leave him,” he said accusingly.

She recoiled as though slapped.

“He told you to return to the church. What are still doing here?

“It’s too late for you to follow his instructions now, anyway. You’ll have to come with us.

“Dee would want us all to escape, taking Luria with us. So that’s what we’re going to do.

“Now!”

She pushed Medart bodily into the side-corridor. He followed her reluctantly, half-turning, still looking for Dee.

He almost tripped up the steps, the partial fall awakening him to the realisation that they couldn’t delay, and it was his job to help the rest to safety.

He ran after Madeleine and Luria. They skidded to a halt immediately in front of him. He careened painfully into Luria’s back, almost pushing him and Madeleine into … a lake.

“What the..?

“An underground lake? Under the cemetery in the centre of Paris? Remarkable!”

Madeleine recovered fastest. “Get in the boat, quickly,” she shoved him toward a rowing boat tied to the tiny wooden jetty that they were standing on.

Luria was still too shocked to help, but between them they untied the painter, clambered aboard and pushed a few feet away from the pier.

Madeleine took up the oars herself and began rowing.

“Papa taught me on the river,” she explained when Medart gazed in admiration at yet another secret skill.

In just a few moments, they were fifty feet from the shore and in total darkness. Medart told her to stop. They sat stock still and listened.

“He is coming, isn’t he?” said Medart, panicking.

“Of course he is,” she replied, hoping to God it was true and taking a moment to send a silent prayer to the God she so rarely spoke to.

Reunited

The dim light from the corridor barely illuminated the room, never mind the inside of the cabinet.

Dee held his breath and reached inside, groping around carefully.

A cloth. Something lumpy, hard, wrapped inside the cloth.

He hardly dared hope.

He lifted out his prize, recognising the weight at once.

The Falcon.

He twisted toward the doorway, getting out of his own shadow, as he peeled back the layers of cloth. His eyes were locked on the package in his hands, barely believing that he had finally recovered it.

As he grasped the last fold of cloth, he paused.

Closing his eyes, he vividly recalled the man who had fallen from the roof of the townhouse in Leuven. Lying in a sprawl of broken limbs, the man had thrust the package into Dee’s hands and demanded that he promise to deliver it to Paris.

Drawing a deep breath to calm his trembling hands, he prepared to reveal the golden statue.

Suddenly, the light dimmed.

He flicked his gaze up, and his heart fell.

Looming in the corridor outside the doorway was a very large, very irate monk.

Faber!

The man’s white cloak was now charred, torn, and smeared with dirt or soot or both. Dee thought he looked comical and smiled grimly, despite the circumstances.

Faber smiled too, but his look was that of a hunter who had cornered his prey.

Dee’s eyes dropped to the ornate dagger that Faber clenched in one hand, and the smouldering twigs he held in the other.

Ceremonial or not, that dagger is probably still sharp enough to gut me.

Faber cast the incense sticks to the floor, where they continued to smoulder.

Jasmine? Madeleine sells that. Don’t tell me they bought their incense from the apothecary and we missed them!

Slowly, Faber’s evil smile turned into an angry scowl.

“You don’t understand the damage you have caused. How much planning you have ruined. You can’t comprehend how long I have strived for this day.

“Killing you won’t bring much satisfaction, but it’ll be a start.”

He crouched and tossed the knife from hand to hand, without so much as glancing at it.

Dee was mesmerised, his mind blank. He couldn’t take his eyes off the glittering blade as it arced from side to side.

Just then, there was a blinding flash of pure white light, followed almost instantly by twin cracks of thunder.

A hail storm roared down the tunnel, carried on a gale force cloud of smoke that filled the air.

Faber had turned toward the flash, and caught a face full of white pellets, before being bowled over by the force of the gale.

Dee didn’t stop to analyse the situation.

He vaulted the prone monk and sprinted down the corridor toward the source of the explosion.

He caromed painfully off the walls of the dark, smoke-filled tunnel, as the tumult had extinguished all the sconces.

He rounded a corner, expecting to find the junction to the emergency exit that he and Madeleine had scouted earlier. Instead, he ran into a mountain of pale sticks and stones that now filled the tunnel.

Unthinking, he scrambled up the side of the pile nearest the exit, his feet sinking a few inches into the debris.

One hand clutched the falcon to his chest, the other steadied him during his ascent over the pile of rubble.

Half way up, he planted another foot and pushed down hard. The scree gave way beneath his boot and he fell face first into the pile.

Something sharp jabbed his cheek, just below his eye. Warm blood trickled down from the wound and dripped off his chin. He wiped it away with his free hand, and in a fit of pique grabbed the offending rock and was about to throw it away behind him, when he realised, with a flash of stomach-churning insight, where the pile had appeared from, and what it was made of.

His fingers were gripping the eye sockets of a human skull, the teeth of which had just jabbed into his own face.

He shook the offensive object from his hand in disgust, then gingerly tried to pull his feet from the pile of human bones and skulls that he was climbing over.

It was no use.

With every step he took, his feet pressed down into the pile.

He had to rest, his head spinning with nausea.

From behind him, he heard a great roar, followed by shouted voices combining in anger.

He gritted his teeth and resolutely continued his climb, scrambling as quickly as he could through the brittle, stick-like quagmire.

On his next step, he lost balance, pitching sideways down the left side of the pile. When he rolled to a halt, he realised thankfully that he had made it to the edge of the gruesome carnage.

Dank air swept over him and he realised he was on the edge of a lake.

A lake! Beneath Paris!

Somewhere ahead he heard Madeleine’s frantic shout, “John? Is that you?”

Behind him, he heard cries of anger and pain and the sound of many feet scrambling in loose bones.

Faber’s men must have reached the skeletal pile.

He ran two steps and dove into the water, the icy shock numbing his brain. He surfaced, spluttering, and rotated, desperately looked for the others.

A weak wavering torchlight and angry shouts behind him indicated where Faber’s men were. He struck out in the opposite direction, swinging his free arm in a lop-sided crawl toward the middle of the lake, as he clutched the falcon to his chest with the other.

Must hurry. Already can’t feel my feet. Daren’t stop…

Mere minutes passed, then he recognised the frantic shouts of his friends. They sounded close, reachable perhaps, but his arms were tiring and his legs had already slowed their kicking.

Maybe a short break. Rest for a minute…

He stopped swimming, floating low in the dark water.

His grip loosened, and he felt the falcon slip an inch or two lower against his chest.

Panic rippled through his lethargic body, energising despite the frigid temperature.

He hugged the statue tightly once more and forced his leaden legs to move.

Come on, John. Just a little farther…one more effort…

A deeper blackness loomed above him and suddenly his swimming arm punched something hard.

He howled in pain, instantly choking on icy water.

As his head submerged, his friends grabbed the extended arm and pulled.

They hauled him up and onto the gunwale, where he coughed out the lake water that was invading his airway.

They tried to relieve him of the falcon, but his arm was locked so tight in position against his chest that they couldn’t loosen it.

Madeleine was already propelling them toward the far side, as Medart and Luria hauled his still trailing legs into the little boat.

He lay inert, at their feet, water streaming off his face, shivering with the cold, and grinning like a maniac.

Then, with shaky arms, he held the falcon aloft, where it caught the minimal light and gleamed dully.

Chapter 35 - Celebration

Wednesday the 3rd of September 1550

Saint Jacques de la Boucherie, Paris

Let the butchering begin

Dee struggled up the spiral stairs from the underground lake. He was tired from the swim and the icy temperature, but he still clutched the cloth-wrapped falcon protectively to his chest. He had to haul himself up the narrow stairs using one hand on the thick rope that was attached to the outer wall. The others stopped to wait for him several times.

Luria struggled just as much, perhaps more. His long robes were an impediment during the climb up the steep stairs, and even though he hitched them up past his knees, he stepped on them several times. Each time he either ripped a length of fabric completely off, or worse, tore a strip, which then dangled to imperil his footing a little further up the spiral.

They finally emerged through a rough plank door into a small cobbled courtyard.

Closing his eyes and angling his face up toward the sun, Dee tried to let the last of the day’s heat dry out his clothes, while his breathing returned to normal.

Suddenly, there was a cry of alarm, “Whaaa.”

It was Medart, sprinting back from the other side of the enclosure.

Madeleine reacted faster than the exhausted Dee, meeting Medart in the middle of the yard. “Calm, calm. What’s wrong?”

“Blood. Blood. There is blood everywhere…there must have been a battle, someone’s been slaughtered…”

Dee examined the cobbles beneath his feet, and sure enough, faint rivulets of blood were wending their way between the stones. He traced the ruddy trickle back to its source at the far side of the yard. There he found a small pool of blood, and signs of more splashed up the brickwork of the building opposite.

Just then, a nearby door slammed open, bouncing against the wall, and a lad no older than Medart emerged carrying a wooden pail, brimming with liquid. In one swift movement, he flung the contents toward the corner of the quad, narrowly missing Dee. It splashed up the wall, some back-splatter catching Dee in the face.

The metallic stink of blood and death rolled over him.

“Ugh,” he recoiled, “What’s the meaning of this?”

The lad was contrite, but barely, “’Tis our yard, and our waste. Don’t stand there if you don’t like it.”

“Where are we then?” asked Dee.

The lad looked at him suspiciously, clearly thinking Dee was soft in the head. He replied slowly, “This is the boucherie of Les Halles. There are butchers all around here. We are no different from everyone else. Perhaps you should leave, sir. That way you won’t get no more blood on your fancy clothes.”

He turned and re-entered the building, slamming the door closed behind him, muttering loud enough for all of them to hear, “Crétin.”

The friends were too stunned to move for a minute, then they laughed as the tension evaporated and they realised they’d succeeded. They had rescued Luria and even recovered the falcon.

They all began talking and hugging at once. After wiping spots of blood from Dee’s face with her handkerchief, Madeleine subjected Dee to a protracted embrace that promised much more than mere congratulations.

They swapped abbreviated stories of their exploits, excitedly talking over each other in a rush of words. They all listened attentively to Luria’s story, who was over his shock and positively revelled in their attention.

“Faber had a coffin. It was in good condition. I don’t think they had ever buried it. There were two men, the monks called them Italians, who were working for Faber. I think they stole it from a mausoleum in Italy.

“He told me he needed to resurrect the person inside it. Well, the body. You know.

“I told him such a thing was ungodly and not possible, but he didn’t believe me. So he had me tortured.”

“Wait a minute,” interjected Medart, “John said you spoke about resurrection during your lecture, or have I misunderstood?” He stared at Luria with a confused expression creasing his face.

“My people believe the soul is shattered upon death, with each piece contributing to the soul of a person about to be born. In this way, each of us is seeking to correct the mistakes of previous lives. This transmigration of the soul through many reincarnations is called gilgul, similar to samsara, the cycle of death and rebirth that is observed in other religions.

“But this is nothing like resurrection. I never said that I or anyone else can cause a dead person to resurrect back to life.”

“Ah,” said Dee, suddenly understanding. “Faber wanted you to bring the body in the coffin back to life, and like Medart, he thought you had lectured that this was possible. But in your lecture you talked about reincarnation, which is a very different thing. I see. So naturally, you refused him and he tortured you.”

“Now you see the problem,” smiled Luria. “In the end, under duress, I said I would do it. I said I needed special artefacts and a complicated five-day ceremony, and that it was very dangerous.”

“Well, it certainly turned out dangerous for the Jesuits,” laughed Medart.

Madeleine gave him a hard stare, but didn’t correct him.

“He said he’d set me free after the ceremony was successful, but I never believed him. How could I? There would be no success. And anyway, I knew he had killed others who stood in his way. And he surely knew that I would report him to the city authorities upon my release and they would hunt him down. No. I knew he would kill me.”

Madeleine shivered at his calm pronouncement.

“I have prayed long and hard. I was ready to meet my end, if that was God’s will. But instead, you have all saved me!”

Madeleine quizzed Luria, asking who was in the coffin, but he said he didn’t know.

Dee realised he was desperate to ask Isaac what he knew about Arrabella. Partly because she was cunning and dangerous and still on the loose, but partly, and he blushed even as he realised it, because despite everything, he was still attracted to her. Just seeing her from a distance had sent his pulse racing.

Guiltily, he glanced at Madeleine.

She was laughing about something with Medart and Luria. Medart mimed a great explosion, and Dee returned his focus to them to hear the story.

“Then all those stones were blown out, rattling around the corridor and raining down into the lake.

“Do you think the explosion shattered the tunnel walls into gravel, John?”

Dee was glad to be distracted from his own thoughts.

“Actually, no, I don’t believe so. The explosions were not that powerful.

“There were two explosions, weren’t there? Did you set two tripwires or just one, like I said?”

Looking embarrassed, Medart confirmed he had set two. Each connected to one of the explosive packages Dee had given him.

“I wanted to be absolutely sure the Jesuits couldn’t follow you and Madeleine. I’m sorry if I did wrong.”

Dee absently made calming noises, while he remembered the sequence of events, then nodded when he came to a conclusion, “Yes, I thought I heard two blasts.”

He gestured with his hands, trying to illustrate three dimensions.

“The whole tunnel complex is below the cemetery, and that crossroads must be underneath the perimeter wall of the cemetery. Remember when we visited it a week ago? The burial plots and gravesites scattered throughout the grounds, but around the outsides there were long, single storey sheds. The old man told us they were called charnel houses, stacked high with the bones of the dead.

“A monk must have triggered the first explosion which collapsed the roof structure of the tunnel. That let thousands of old skulls and bones fall into the tunnel from the charnel house above.”

All three of his friends paled as they imagined the cascade of ancient skeletal remains.

“The falling debris then tripped the second blast. The force shattered many of the brittle bones and blew them through the corridors like grapeshot from a cannon.

“Faber was standing in the corridor about to confront me.

“I remember when the blast sounded. We were both distracted and looked toward the source of the noise. I was inside the room, so sheltered, but he was in the corridor and caught a face full of flying fragments. How ironic to think he was trying to resurrect a dead body and ended up getting shredded to death by the bones of dead people,” said Dee, laughing.

Madeleine pulled a face. “John, don’t. It’s not nice to joke about such horrid things.”

“Well, you didn’t see the size of the knife he was planning to stick into me before Medart’s trap was sprung,” he said defensively.

The good natured chatter continued, with Medart confirming the boys had gone up the stairs to the church before the explosions, much to Dee’s relief.

Madeleine suddenly shouted, “Quiet!”

She was peering down the stairwell.

Slamming the door shut, she turned to them, her face drained of colour.

“Footsteps, coming up the stairs. Fast. Several people.”

“Oh no,” quailed Medart, “The Jesuits!”

Dee took charge before panic ensued.

“Into the street. Come on. We have an appointment with Tramazzo outside the cathedral. We have tarried too long already.”

He led them with false confidence through a double door big enough for a horse and cart to pass through. They emerged into an alley and thence quickly to a square.

“That’s the church of Saint-Jacques-de-la-Boucherie,” said Madeleine. She was pointing to an attractive newly built church with a highly decorated tower on the other side of the square. “Papa told me they finished it the day Mama said she was pregnant with me,” she blushed.

She continued hurriedly. “We can go down that street, past the Grande Châtelet, along the quay and across the Pont aux Changeurs, the bridge of the moneychangers. Then we will be on the Île de la Cité, and quickly to Notre Dame, where we will find Tramazzo. Follow me.”

She jogged down the nearby street and onto a major road, the Rue de la Sellerie, where she confidently and briskly walked toward the river.

Flour power

Madeleine walked purposefully toward the river. She shouted over her shoulder, “We have enough evidence to provide to Tramazzo now, don’t you think?”

Medart saved Dee the bother of responding, “If we live long enough to report our discoveries to him, yes.”

Luria threw a questioning glance at Dee, who attempted a reassuring smile. “It’ll be alright, Isaac. Best to hurry, though. Just in case…you know.”

The tangy river smell reached Dee’s nose, signalling their successful arrival at the quayside.

“Left to the bridge,” said Madeleine, already threading her way through the crowd.

They all hurried in her wake, only to bump into her when she halted.

“What’s the matter?” asked Medart.

Luria quailed.

“Jesuits. Directly ahead,” she answered.

They were safe for the moment, hidden amongst the industrious quayside multitude. The early evening throng was already thinning. They only had a minute or two before the Jesuits surely saw them.

Dee looked around.

He could see two more black cassocked Jesuits coming down the Rue de la Sellerie, and he thought he saw a couple more coming up behind them, on the Quay de l’Ecole.

There was only one way they could go - toward the river.

“Come on,” he said.

He pushed aside a plank barrier, not bothering to read the words painted on it, “Entrée interdite - Meunier en Chef”.

The others followed, hurrying as he jogged past a stout foreman who was studying an architect’s diagram.

“Hey. Can’t you read? No entry!”

Dee raced down a narrow gangplank toward the first pier of the bridge that was still under construction.

Thick timbers rose from the swirling waters of the river, a wooden platform fixed on top of them. The planked floor was littered with more building supplies and towering above was a tracery of timbers, providing the skeletal frame for what would become a two-storey building.

Maybe twenty feet in the air above him, straddling horizontal beams of the frame, were two carpenters, busy hammering and sawing to affix a roof truss. Other workmen were using ropes and a pulley to hoist materials up to them.

Still running to catch up, Madeleine echoed the foreman’s warning, “John, stop. This is the Pont aux Meuniers, the bridge of the millers. But it is not finished. It is still under construction.”

Medart was the last on the platform and risked a glance behind him. “They’ve seen us and are following. Go faster.”

Dee didn’t hesitate, despite the mixed messages.

He dodged between the workmen, earning cries of outrage, and raced for the far side of the pier, where he could see a large waterwheel that was already turning lazily as it dipped into the river flowing beneath.

He skidded to a halt and looked around desperately.

The bridge had ended almost as soon as it had begun.

There was a solitary gangplank jutting out from the platform to a small ship, rising and falling with the motion of the river as it swayed at anchor. It, too, had a waterwheel that spun merrily, casting a fine spray behind the ship.

“A mill-ship,” said Medart happily. “We used to have one in Leuven before the Bishop built a permanent mill. Come on.”

He trotted across the two-foot-wide plank to the deck of the little ship, gracefully rounded the ship’s cabin, and started across the plank from the opposite side that led to a door in the already completed building opposite.

“Let’s hope that part goes all the way to the Île,” said Dee, as he too raced across the plank, his heart leaping to his throat as the boat rose a couple of feet and the planks followed.

Medart yanked open the door and stepped into a noise-filled storeroom, closely followed by Dee. Around them were bags of wheat, piled head-high.

Dee turned and helped Madeleine and Luria into the mill, yelling at them to follow Medart. He almost yelped in fright when, over Luria’s shoulder, he saw the leading Jesuit crossing the gangplank toward the ship. They were only a minute behind.

Dee pulled a sack of grain from a nearby pile, partially blocking the doorway, then pulled another bag down on top of it.

That should slow them down, if nothing else.

In the middle of the room, a labourer was emptying a bag down a chute, presumably to the grinding stones below. He watched Dee as he ran past him, his face showing alarm, but he concentrated on keeping a steady flow of wheat pouring down.

Beyond the worker, Medart had found a trapdoor.

As he swung the door open, a fine cloud of dust rose from below.

“This looks like the only exit,” he explained, before disappearing down a ladder. Luria and Madeleine wasted no time and followed him.

Dee was coughing by the time he reached the lower mill floor, the fine flour dust settling in his mouth and eyes. It reminded him of a thick Cambridge fog, like the ones that used to roll into town off the fens in springtime, except it was irritating his eyes and making them water. When he tried to wipe away the tears, he merely rubbed more dust into his eyes and made matters worse.

In the middle of the space loomed a trio of spectral figures. He automatically headed towards them, mentally chiding them for tarrying.

At the last moment, he realised his mistake. These were not his friends. They were millers bagging the flour that poured from the intersection of the stones.

One of the millers saw him and shouted in alarm over the noise of the stones, waving Dee toward the far corner of the mill.

As Dee turned and ran, he heard a yell and the pounding of feet up above, then more shouting from the millers. He risked a backward glance and saw that the flour had slowed to a trickle. One miller was peering up at the stones while a second was hurriedly climbing the ladder up to the upper level.

He panicked in response to a half-remembered warning about the danger of mills, but he couldn’t complete the thought.

He gratefully slipped through a door onto a ledge overlooking the river, instantly getting sprayed with spume from the waterwheel to his left. He blinked away the water in time to see Luria beckoning him across a walkway to a second working mill building.

Entering another room full of flour dust, they ran directly across the ghostly space to the far side, where Medart waited at the door, then they followed him outside and across the next walkway.

A third mill followed.

They finally exited onto a platform with a wooden staircase zig-zagging up the river bank to an alley in the shadow of the walls of the Le Palais, on the Île de la Cité.

Dee was the last to reach street level and joined the others in playfully brushing the flour off each other’s clothes, and rubbing it from their faces, momentarily forgetting their pursuers.

That’s when they heard it.

A dull explosive sound from behind them.

They looked back at the part-built bridge of three mill buildings, the little mill-ship and the construction beyond that.

An eye-watering flash pierced the gathering gloom. Planks of wood and other debris rose from the first working mill atop a roiling ball of fire. The deep boom of a secondary explosion followed on its heels and echoed off the walls of the palace behind them.

They staggered back from the sight, shocked.

“What the…?”

“Did you set a bomb, John?”

“No. Not me.

“I wonder though…the flour stopped grinding in the first mill as I came through. I think the Jesuits interrupted the worker who was pouring the grain. With no grain, the stones would create a spark if they were not quickly separated. I saw a miller rushing upstairs, presumably to do exactly that. But if the Jesuits were rushing downstairs at the same time…one spark in all that flour dust and it could easily set off an explosion…”

“Oh no! Those poor workers in the mill,” Medart was so distraught he hopped from foot to foot.

Luria pulled at Dee’s shoulder. “They’re coming.” He pointed down to the mill’s door below, where the first of the Jesuits was already emerging.

Chapter 36 - Isolation

Wednesday the 3rd of September 1550

Île de la Cité

Amaze me

The foursome turned as one and ran down the alley under the looming palace walls, Luria hitching his ragged robes up so that he didn’t trip.

Two side-alleys opened up to their left, heading eastwards away from the palace and toward the cathedral.

Medart darted into the mouth of the first alley, then stopped, and turned back. “Is this the right way? Madeleine?”

“I…I don’t know. This is the oldest part of the city. The alleys are a maze. Everyone says so.”

“Wait,” Dee’s calm voice sliced through the rising panic.

Momentarily, he faced back to the river and spied the Grande Châtelet. He spun on his heel and faced up the alley again and closed his eyes.

“What’s he doing?” yelled Medart, his panic clear to all.

Dee tried to ignore him, to shut his voice out.

He thought back to his incarceration in the dungeon of the Châtelet. He had been blocking the experience from his mind, but now he embraced the memories, the feeling of loneliness, the deprivation. ‘Drip, drip’. He remembered the water running down the damp walls and the total lack of light. Then the guards opened the door and torchlight flooded in. He recalled being dragged up several flights of stairs and left in a room where later he’d meet Tramazzo. During his exploration of the room, he had stared out of the window and looked at the Île from on high. The maze of streets near Le Palais had been laid out before him as though sketched by a god. At the left end of the Île as he looked at it, was the Cathedral of Notre Dame, towering above everything else.

He opened his eyes and smiled.

He remembered it all.

“There is a path through the alleys, to the cathedral. Follow me.”

With disbelieving looks, then shrugs, the others followed as he ran into the second of the side-alleys, not even bothering to check where the Jesuits were.

What’s the point? He reasoned. We will go as fast as we can and either outpace them or we won’t. Constantly checking on their progress will only hinder our own.

Surefooted, he led them on a twisting path up an alley, down a ginnel, across a street, then doubling back along a shop-lined arcade. Finally, they emerged onto a wider street with bakeries and taverns.

Confidently, he turned left and pointed.

There in the distance was the facade of the Cathedral of Notre Dame. The three ground level arched entrances with their elaborate tympanums, surmounted across the entire width by the statues in the gallery of kings, then the rose window with the galleried arches above that and finally the two towers reaching toward the sky.

“Sometimes, John, you amaze me,” said Madeleine, as she stood on tiptoes and kissed him.

Taking her hand, Dee walked swiftly along the street, feeling confident that they had outpaced the trailing Jesuits, if not lost them altogether.

Chapter 37 - Elevation

Wednesday the 3rd of September 1550

Notre Dame Cathedral, Paris

Square meal time

The light was leaching from the day as Dee and his friends finally walked into the square under the looming towers of Notre Dame Cathedral.

A glint caught his eye and Dee looked up and saw the sun reflected from the coloured glass of the ancient rose window.

“Well, where is he?” Medart voiced the question on all their minds.

“Do you think something stopped Guillaume reporting to the bishop? We told him to say that we had found Faber’s lair, and would rescue Luria, then come here to Notre Dame. But perhaps he got confused and mixed the message up? We should have kept it simple!”

Madeleine wrung her hands, then gasped aloud as another alarming thought occurred to her. “Maybe he didn’t go up the stairs at all. Maybe he stayed behind and is still in the tunnels? Perhaps he got caught in the explosion? Oh, John, if anything has happened to him, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

“Calm down. There’s no need for hysteria. I’m sure Tramazzo would have sent him home to your father after he delivered the message. And anyway, you know what Guillaume is like. He’ll have been hungry and gone to Maria for food,” he smiled to take any offence out of the words.

With a groan, Luria lowered himself to the ground, shaking off Medart’s offer of assistance, “I just need to rest a little.”

“Look. There is no need for all of us to wait for Tramazzo. Why don’t you and Medart take Luria to the bookshop, and I’ll wait here a while for the bishop’s men. When I’ve given them the news, I’ll catch up with you.”

Madeleine wasn’t convinced. “Maybe we should all wait here, or at least Medart should stay with you?”

Just then, Medart’s stomach growled, as if on cue, so Dee reassured her, “It’s been a long day - for everyone. Take Medart with you. I’ll be fine. If Tramazzo isn’t here by full-dark, I’ll follow along and we can spend the evening telling your father about our adventure. Maybe leaving out the more, ahem, explosive parts.”

Madeleine swayed with indecision, then nodded to herself and kissed Dee on the cheek. Gazing intently into his eyes, she said, “Be careful. An hour, no more. Then come home.”

As she turned to go, Dee reached out and caught her arm. She eagerly sought out his eyes.

“You should take this,” said Dee, passing the cloth-wrapped falcon to her. “Tramazzo might get curious if he notices me carrying something so clearly valuable.” She huffed, and took the bundle with poor grace, calling to the other two, “Come on, let’s get going.”

Stairway to heaven

Dee paced back and forth in front of the grand west entrance to Notre Dame.

Absentmindedly, he counted forty-one paces from one edge to the other, then turned on his heel and strode back again. It was still forty-one.

Every time he passed the central door, the so-called Portal of the last judgement, he couldn’t help but feel that was an apt description for his situation.

He didn’t need to look up; he remembered perfectly well what was depicted above the doorway. After all, it wasn’t really so long ago that he and Medart had cheerfully observed the two friezes.

The lower frieze showed the resurrection of the dead. Uncontrollably, he shivered, thinking how close they’d been to that possible outcome just a few short hours ago, and acknowledging that resurrection was a gift of God, not a parlour trick to be trifled with.

The upper one depicted the archangel Michael weighing the souls of the dead, so that people could be led to heaven or hell.

If the archangel, or his servant Tramazzo, is going to be weighing my soul this day, mayhap having helped avert Faber’s blasphemy of resurrection will weigh in my favour?

He snickered nervously, then slapped a hand over his mouth. Get a hold of yourself, John.

He looked around furtively. Luckily, nobody seemed to have noticed. Indeed, the square had mostly emptied out while he’d been pacing, though it was rapidly becoming too dark to discern distant detail.

Wait.

There is Tramazzo, at last.

He waved to attract his attention. The bishop didn’t wave back. Nor did his two companions. They continued walking steadily closer.

He waited impatiently.

He looks taller somehow. Perhaps his men are short.

He turned and looked up at the statue of Christ above the portal. Maybe you can teach me patience?

He shook his head ruefully, knowing himself in some measure. I have plenty of patience for my work, just not for other people.

He squared his shoulders, straining against the straps of his satchel, and held his head up high, then turned to greet the bishop.

Except it wasn’t the bishop approaching after all.

“Faber!”

The big man snarled a command and the two henchmen lunged forward.

Dee gawped for a second, then almost stumbled in his hurry to escape, turning and running into the cathedral.

Blocking the aisle directly ahead was a deacon and a knot of lectors.

Dee considered seeking their help but immediately quailed at the carnage the Jesuits might unleash on them. Not wanting a massacre on his conscience, he swung to his right and darted through a narrow arch and started pounding up a set of spiral stairs.

I…hate…spiral…stairs…

After a few turns of the stairs, he heard the slapping of sandals on the first of the steps below him, then a shout from one monk to another, “Attention, je l’ai trouvé.”

They’d found him.

Suddenly, Dee emerged into a high-vaulted room. A small table and a couple of stools were the only furniture.

The slapping feet were close behind.

He grabbed a stool and hid beside the exit from the stairwell. As a monk’s head emerged, he swung the stool with all his might in a tight arc, directly at the Jesuit brother.

With a spray of blood, the seat of the stool connected with the man’s nose and he fell backwards with a scream. Sounds of tumbling were followed by a loud snap and the scream cut off abruptly.

Dee gulped, suddenly feeling queasy.

He risked a glance after the man, but could see nothing in the gloom.

Maybe it’s just as well.

He threw the broken stool legs down the stairwell. “All the more impediments to navigate”, he muttered.

With a deep intake of breath, he plunged up the next section of spiral stairs.

His breath was coming in short gasps now, and his legs burned. He forced himself to focus on counting the steps, which he’d automatically done from the ground floor. It took his mind off the growing pain.

He reached two hundred and stopped, leaning against the wall, trying to listen for pursuit, but struggling over the sound of his own laboured breathing. He swallowed hard and held his breath for a moment, straining his ears for any sound.

It didn’t take long.

There it was.

The rhythmic slap, slap of leather on stone.

More than one pair of sandals.

Faber must be coming up as well.

He guessed they were only halfway up, a hundred steps below him. Two steps a second. Merde. That’s less than a minute.

He lunged upwards, redoubling his efforts.

Three hundred.

He pushed harder, his breath ragged.

Three fifty.

A cool breeze.

Three eighty seven. And he was out onto the balustraded rooftop of the tower.

Now what?

He looked around.

There was nothing.

He leaned over the balustrade and squinted into the darkness. Tiny specks of light all around indicated where lamplight escaped the thousands of homes and inns that made up the city. It was probably a magnificent view during the daytime, but no help to him tonight.

What would be a help, he realised, was one of Leonardo da Vinci’s pyramidical canopies. The Florentine polymath had sketched the device in his Codex Atlanticus over fifty years ago - Dee knew because he had a copy of the codex in Cambridge. A square wooden frame held a canopy of cloth open above the jumper’s head and the captured air slowed the man’s descent.

Of course, Dee only had a small backpack with him, and a canopy wouldn’t fit in there, even if he’d thought to bring one. The whole idea was ridiculous. It would never work.

He ran all around the narrow path that surrounded the low pointed roof.

Still nothing.

Think!

He blinked sweat away from his eyes, his heart thudding in his chest like a trapped animal.

Slap, slap.

It was louder. They were moments away.

He ran to the opposite side of the tower and then, lying almost flat, he crawled up the shallow roof peak on all fours.

What’s the plan, John?

Risking a glance over the peak, he saw Faber’s head emerge first.

He ducked down and relied on his ears.

“That way,” he heard the big man shout, and imagined him shoving the other monk anti-clockwise while he dashed clockwise.

Dee leapt over the peak of the roof and slid down the panel on the other side, feet first.

The henchman turned toward the noise, just in time for Dee’s boots to thud into his chest.

The Jesuit staggered backwards. The back of his knees connecting with the low balustrade, his arms windmilling as he tried desperately to regain his balance.

With a look of horror, he realised his fate, and as he toppled over, he closed his eyes and mouthed something.

Perhaps dedicating his rotten soul to his god, thought Dee unkindly, as he scrambled to his feet.

“Well played. It is just you and I now,” rumbled a voice behind him.

Dee spun round and saw Faber approaching, repeatedly clenching and unclenching his fists.

Does the maniac think this is a game?

Dee took a step back carefully, and then another.

Faber kept coming.

His face was a mass of bleeding cuts and lesions. Flying bone fragments will do that, thought Dee absently.

“Give me the golden statue, and maybe I’ll spare your life,” growled Faber, rolling his shoulders as if to emphasise his powerful build.

Dee stepped back again.

Frantically, he looked around. To his left was the balustrade with its fast but deadly escape route, to his right, a step up to the slope of the tower roof. He groaned internally. He already knew there was nothing there to help him.

He would have to fight if he wanted to survive.

He needed to fight, somehow, to get revenge for all the harm Faber had inflicted, and to stop him from doing so again.

First, he needed time to think.

Perhaps he could work his way back, round three quarters of the square tower, back to the stairwell, and race down the stairs faster than Faber. Preferably without tripping and breaking his neck.

“The statue. Now.”

The shouted command pulled his whirling mind back to the present.

He held the bag to his chest and shook his head, letting his expression reflect his terror as he took a couple of quick steps back.

As fast as a snake, Faber stepped forward and punched Dee in the shoulder.

Pain exploded in his shoulder, pursued by a spreading numbness, until there was no feeling left in his arm and it fell loosely to his side. Reflexively, he clutched the satchel even tighter with his right hand.

His mind went as numb as his arm, and he staggered back a couple more steps.

Faber laughed cruelly, understanding that his one simple punch had caused so much damage. He sensed impending victory, like a predator sensing blood.

Dee realised he needed to slow Faber down.

“What do you want from me?”

“You killed my father, so now I want you to suffer.”

“Your father? I’ve never met your father. You must be mad.”

“We were bringing him back to life when your meddling ruined everything. With all that gold, I can pay for another attempt. Give it to me now and I promise I’ll kill you quickly. If I have to take it from you, well, I’ll kill you very slowly. And your girlfriend too.”

“What? A moment ago you said you’d spare my life!”

The big man paused and then nodded, as if to confirm this recollection.

“Well, that was then. Now, I’m not feeling so generous.”

Dee had been slowly retreating, and with one more step back, he reached the corner. He scuttled back three more quick steps, but Faber closed the gap with one long stride.

His left hand was tingling, the feeling was returning. He flexed his elbow. Would he be able to move it fast enough?

Faber planted his feet and turned his head just a fraction, enough for Dee to intuitively sense the coming punch before Faber had even lifted his fist.

He twitched the fingers of his left hand.

Snick.

Faber’s shoulder pulled back as his arm slowly raised.

Dee, hyper-aware of every movement, watched the punch unfold, intrigued that it was all so slow and predictable.

He swayed left and held up his left hand as though to defend himself from the coming blow, although the back of his hand was facing Faber.

The punch went wide, just scraping past Dee’s raised hand, a droplet of blood hanging in mid-air for what seemed like seconds, before falling to the walkway.

A flick of Dee’s thumb closed the lid on Arrabella’s ring. It’s poisonous spike’s work done.

Then everything sped up again.

An animalistic snarl escaped Faber’s lips, embarrassed perhaps at missing his target.

Dee scuttled backwards yet again, his eyes glued to his adversary’s every move.

They danced and dodged for half a minute, maybe more, with Dee just barely evading the increasingly wild punches.

Then, amazingly, a shout echoed up from the stairwell, “Faber. I’m going to arrest you in the name of the Holy Inquisition.”

Dee panicked.

No, I can’t allow it. One set of crooked monks arresting another set? There will never be justice. Far better to end it. Here. And now.

He held up both hands, a conciliatory gesture. The satchel tight in his grip.

“Alright. Alright. You can have it.”

Faber paused, confusion evident on his face.

They were close enough for Dee to see the sweat beading on the big man’s forehead. He could imagine the confusion and dizziness caused by the wolfsbane. After all, he’d been a victim himself.

Dee tossed the satchel to Faber, one strap seeming to momentarily tangle in his fingers as he yanked a hidden cord.

Five.

Faber caught it easily, elated.

Four.

He fumbled almost drunkenly with the buckles.

Three.

He got one strap loose, enough to wriggle one large hand inside. His fingers were stretching to touch the jewel encrusted gold.

Two.

Puzzled, he looked up, but Dee was nowhere to be seen.

Puzzlement turned rapidly to anger as he thought he understood the trick.

One.

There was no golden statue in the bag...but there was something else…

Whooomph.

The flash bang

Madeleine’s feet had dragged as they crossed the bridge toward the Left Bank. She couldn’t shake a sense of dread.

Her mother had been gifted with premonition, able to ‘see’ or at least feel upcoming calamities or joys. Or so she had claimed, anyway.

Madeleine believed her now, because she sensed doom.

She turned and started running back across the Petit Pont.

Medart and Luria stared at each other for a moment, before turning and racing after her.

As quickly as she had started, Madeleine stopped in the middle of the bridge and sank to her knees. With her hands held out beseechingly, she released an agonising cry, “Noooooooo.”

At that moment, from the top of the Notre Dame tower, an iridescent green flash erupted, brighter than the noontime sun, followed by a crack of thunder so loud that it shook their bones.

Silhouetted against the fading fireball, a body with windmilling arms flew backwards and down.

Down the equivalent of three hundred and eighty-seven steps.

Chapter 38 - Exposition

Thursday the 4th of September 1550

Le Marais, Paris

Room with a good view

Dee, Madeleine and Medart had been waiting for over an hour in the sumptuous ante-room outside the office of Bishop Piero del Tramazzo, Grand Inquisitor of Paris.

Dee was bored, Madeleine was affronted, and Medart was hungry.

Just as they were thinking of leaving, an unctuous monk called Gervais appeared. He claimed to be the bishop’s personal secretary and announced that the bishop was ready to see them now.

Tramazzo was on a throne-like chair behind a huge writing desk, smiling beneficently. Nearby, another monk sat at a smaller desk with parchment, quill, and ink ready.

Madeleine had still not regained her normal equilibrium, after thinking that it was Dee who had plummeted from Notre Dame’s tower. Sensing an imminent outburst from her, directed at the Inquisitor, Dee pre-empted the faux pas by crossing the room, throwing his arms out wide, and exclaiming, “Quelle chambre avec une belle vue!”

It certainly was a good view.

Past churches and over rooftops to the Quay de l’Hôtel de Ville, then beyond the river was Notre Dame on the Île de la Cité. If he squinted, he could see the university building over on the Left Bank.

He took a sharp intake of breath. That hooded figure on the quay. I recognise the walk. Surely it can’t be…Arrabella?

The figure boarded a small boat, which rapidly cast off and proceeded downriver even as he watched. As it dwindled into the distance, a river breeze threw back the hood, revealing a mane of hair like burnished bronze.

Tramazzo stood, vexed at having the initiative stolen from him. “Indeed, a magnificent view. Shall we begin?”

He gestured to three chairs arrayed before his desk, and Dee staggered over and collapsed into the nearest one, earning him an alarmed glance from Madeleine.

“You have had an eventful few days, Monsieur Dee. Perhaps even exceeding the excitement of your lectures.

“Attended by considerable property damage.”

Dee, fighting to control his emotions, easily feigned ignorance. “I don’t know anything about that. It must have been Faber.”

The bishop fingered a manuscript. “Two murders at Montmartre Abbey. The collapse of a charnel house at Saints-Innocents, into a system of tunnels under the cemetery. Total destruction of one of the piers of the newly renovated Pont aux Meuniers, with serious injury to three millers. And, as if that wasn’t enough, a thunderous explosion from the top of Notre Dame, accompanied by ungodly green light, that was seen from as far away as Montmartre itself. Finally, a scattering of corpses from Saints-Innocents to Notre Dame.

“Well? What have you got to say for yourselves?”

The scribe waited with poised quill.

Dee leaned forward and smiled conspiratorially.

“I say this;

“You were right all along, your excellency.

“The supposed Jesuit, Francis Faber, arranged for the tomb robbery of the body of Petrus Faver, known better here in Paris as Peter Faber, whom he believed to be his father. This was but the first step in his grand plan for a heresy of epic proportions.

“Next, he abducted a visiting Jewish scholar to help implement his nefarious scheme.

“Only the timely and heroic intervention by agents of the Paris Inquisition prevented the planned blasphemy. That’s us, by the way.

“The frustrated Jesuit brothers went on a rampage, destroying various properties before triggering the final sacrilege of a suicide pact, leaping from the tower of Notre Dame, during a dry lightning storm.

“I’m certain that the Provost of the Merchants, and the Aldermen who govern Paris through the municipal council, will be suitably grateful to the office of the Inquisition.

“The tale might even make an illuminating example in a book of heresy and how to avoid it…if anyone were ever to write such an exquisite treatise.”

Dee sat back.

All that could be heard was the scratch of the scribe’s quill on parchment.

The bishop opened a drawer and with a swift motion pushed his still incomplete manuscript, Nine Gifts of the Holy Spirit, into it.

A few more moments passed before the bishop broke the silence. “I think you had better give me all the details. For posterity,” he gestured to the scribe.

Chapter 39 - Reciprocation

Friday the 19th of September 1550

85 Rue Saint-Jacques, Paris

A ring to bind them

Dee waited nervously outside the main hall of the Commanderie des Hospitalier, at number 85 Rue Saint-Jacques.

I hope this day passes as successfully as my second lecture did, he thought. His bulging purse was a testament to the record-breaking crowd that had attended the Collège lecture hall, and he still blushed as he remembered Professor Fine’s glowing tribute at the conclusion of his talk.

He gripped the statue in his lap, still wrapped in its dirty cloth.

A gong sounded inside the hall, and the large double doors swung inward on silent hinges, revealing a pair of knights, who collected Dee for the ceremony.

Both of his escorts wore long red military surcoats that sported the dramatic white Maltese cross. The cross looked like four inward pointing arrowheads. He heard the distinctive tinkling of chain mail and nervously eyed the broadswords at their sides.

Jean de Hussey had explained that he was the treasurer of this Commanderie, which was the headquarters of the French langue, or geographic area. De Hussey said he was the prior’s second in command, and so would lead the ceremony because the prior was away at the French court having discussions with the king.

The two knights escorted Dee into the hall.

Inside, a glittering array of men from the Order of Knights of the Hospital of Saint John of Jerusalem stood to attention. They were resplendent in their matching red robes, and all were armed with swords and spears.

Dee had never seen such a fearsome group of warriors and he felt his knees wobble as he knelt in front of de Hussey at the front of the room.

“After the fall of the Kingdom of Jerusalem, our monastic order made a home on the island of Rhodes, and there we continued to exercise our order’s statute to care for the sick and injured for two hundred years. Forced to defend our island against the barbarous Turks and the Ottomans, we were eventually expelled, though we were glorious even in defeat.

“Twenty years ago, his holiness Pope Clement VII brokered a deal with the Holy Roman Emperor Charles V, to grant us the island of Malta as our new centre of operations. The price for our occupation is an annual fee of a single falcon, which we must deliver on All Souls' Day to the king's representative, the Viceroy of Sicily.

“Our noble brother, Hamza Vallesquez, was bringing this year’s falcon from Antwerp, where the legendary goldsmith, Hans Mielich, had crafted it for us.

“Hamza was set upon by a band of thieves and the falcon would have been lost except for the bravery of Johannes Dee of England, who happened upon the scene and aided our brother in arms. Travelling many miles and enduring many perils, Dee has sought us out and delivered the Maltese Falcon to us at this commanderie, so we can meet our annual obligation in Sicily.”

Dutifully, Dee unwrapped the statue and held it up. De Hussey took it from him and held it high to the rapturous roar of a hundred knights.

“To thank Johannes Dee for his extraordinary efforts, for which he has refused all monetary reward, I hereby appoint him an honorary brother knight. I give him this ring by which we will know him. If ever he needs it, he can thus secure our aid.”

De Hussey slipped a heavy golden ring onto Dee’s finger. It was decorated with the Arms of the Knights Hospitallers.

“I shall wear it proudly and help promote your cause wherever I may be,” he replied, his voice cracking somewhat with emotion.

The knights cheered once again and banged their spears on the floor so hard that Dee felt sure the marble would crack and shatter. Amazingly, it held firm.

Such sweet sorrow

Madeleine turned her back to Dee and broke down crying once again.

Dee stroked her hair and shoulders, desperately trying to think of some reassurance, when in truth there was none to be had.

He felt like a complete cad, though in truth it was none of his doing nor his choice.

He had been told to leave the city immediately, or face a summary trial and certain imprisonment in the Châtelet once again. This time for several years.

Her shoulders shook, and she barely managed to speak the words, but he knew what she was asking. It was not the first time they had asked themselves the question, “Surely there is some way we can appeal Tramazzo’s decision?”

The destruction of the bridge had been laid at the feet of the Jesuits, but the explosion atop the cathedral was pinned on Dee, and all their arguments to the contrary had been rebuffed. The insult to the church and to God was too great to be set aside, they had been sternly informed.

Madeleine had offered to give up her apothecary and follow him to Leuven, and even to Cambridge if necessary, but Dee had pointed out the impossibility of it. Her father needed her, and she needed the apothecary. It was her mother’s legacy and vital to the family finances as well as Madeleine’s self-esteem.

Dee had commissioned a locket from a nearby goldsmith, recommended by Denis. Inside was a tiny miniature of Madeleine on one side, and himself on the other, with a plaited braid of his hair embedded in the circumference.

He was still in two minds about the gift.

On the one hand, he desperately wanted to leave something that would remind Madeleine of his feelings for her. On the other hand, he didn’t. Pragmatically, he felt it quite probable that they may never see each other again, and if so, he wanted her to have a full and happy life, not pine over his memory.

He made his decision. Who knows, if I work hard enough, maybe I can gain enough influence to send an appeal directly to the king?

As the tears subsided, he poured the fine golden chain and oval locket into her cupped hands, kissing her gently on the lips, then kissing away the tears that poured unrelentingly down her cheeks.

A ring to remember him by

It was a solemn dinner that evening in the Delacroix kitchen.

“I still don’t understand how Tramazzo can be so mean,” said Medart bitterly.

“I suppose someone still has to carry the blame for the damage to the cathedral’s tower. Someone alive, I mean,” muttered Guillaume.

“But to banish John from the city? After we prevented the gross heresy planned by Faber? Phargh.” Medart could hardly speak. He was still so upset.

Madeleine was not at the meal. She had refused to leave her room, claiming she felt too poorly, even when Claude insisted she was a herbalist and could heal herself.

Dee tried to be cheerful. “I have told Tramazzo that one day soon I will appeal to the king to have the judgement overturned. Although, in truth, I do not know how long such a thing might take, even if the king were willing to overrule his Grand Inquisitor.

“So for now, my friends, this must be our last meal together.

“Tomorrow I will begin my journey back to Leuven, where I have other responsibilities. One good thing is that I will be able to deliver one of Madeleine’s special potions to my mentor, Gerard Mercator, to lift him out of his melancholy.

“And from there, no doubt my internship will end and I will return to Cambridge and my studies.

“Be of good cheer, for I have learned a lot whilst living here with you.

“How to construct and operate a press, for printing books of pamphlets.

“How to select, prepare, and mix herbs and powders for the easement of illness.

“And more importantly. Much more importantly. I have learned the meaning of true friendship and fellowship to others, especially those in need of assistance.”

Denis and Medart raised their glasses and drank to that last, but the boys merely nodded reluctantly, and Maria just wiped away a tear.

As he sipped his own wine, Dee looked toward Madeleine’s empty chair and nearly choked. How will I manage without her?

The next morning Dee was packing his panniers with a food parcel that Maria had made up for him, while Medart saddled his horse.

Denis Delacroix limped into the parlour and shook Dee’s hand.

“I know you could have asked Madeleine to go to Leuven with you. And I thank you for not putting her in that dilemma, for we both know her life is here, with the apothecary and, I’m embarrassed that I have to say it, with me and Medart. I should have remarried years ago, then perhaps we could have obviated this sense of responsibility that she has to look after me. But there is no time for that now. I am still a good enough catch that I might find a merry widow to see me through my twilight years. When I do, I will try to persuade Madeleine to follow her heart and search you out in England.

“Be good, my son. For I shall think of you thus.”

They embraced, then Denis left Dee to finish packing, avoiding a last goodbye.

In the courtyard, Dee took the reins to his horse from a very grumpy Medart.

“Who is going to be my friend now?” he asked, on the verge of tears.

“Come now, Medart. You have a whole family here who value your courage and ingenuity, and will protect you as you will protect them.

“You are going to protect them, aren’t you?”

“Of course. But…”

“You realise that without you we would never have tracked down Faber? Or rescued Isaac? And probably would never have escaped from the tunnel system alive?”

Medart reddened and looked away.

“Seriously, you have been an invaluable companion. A young man that I am proud to call my friend.

“I want you to take this ring that was Arrabella’s. Keep it as a reminder of me and our friendship. Maybe one day we will meet again, and this ring will be a sign between us, to aid our memories of this time.”

Medart took the ring with a look of awe suffusing his face and immediately flipped it open.

Dee caught his wrist and gently closed the lid again.

“And do take care, Medart, it’s very dangerous. Madeleine recharged its poison spike.”

They shook hands formally before Dee mounted his gelding.

He looked around the courtyard one last time, then up toward Madeleine’s window for several agonising minutes. Then, with a heavy heart, he urged the horse out into the street and started his long journey back to Leuven.

Back to the history

“…Come, my friends,

'T is not too late to seek a newer world.

Push off, and sitting well in order smite

The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds

To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths

Of all the western stars, until I die.

It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,

And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.

Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'

We are not now that strength which in old days

Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;

One equal temper of heroic hearts,

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.”

- Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Ulysses.

Organisations

The Society of Jesus

Ignatius of Loyola and six of his friends (one of whom was Peter Faber, or Petrus Faver in Latin) created the Society of Jesus, later also called the Jesuits, in Paris in 1534.

In 1540, Pope Paul III officially recognised the Jesuits, and limited their number to sixty, although this limitation was removed by Pope Julius III in 1550.

Ignatius insisted that Jesuit priests were highly trained in both the classics and theology, as compared to the poor education that most priests received at the time.

Initially, the society had two major activities, founding schools and sending evangelising missionaries all over the world, which they did between the sixteenth and eighteenth centuries.

Seen as a force for good, as well as being leading scientists of their day, they were also feared and conspiracies were often rumoured. Other religious orders resented the society’s appropriation of Jesus’ name by the Jesuits. Whilst trying to convert the peoples that they met to Christianity, they assuredly persecuted those of other religions.

The Inquisition

The Inquisition was actually several institutions within the Catholic Church, designed to combat apostasy and heresy. Heretics were tried before a court (which is where the institutions get their name, inquisitio, meaning a court process based on Roman law). The typical sentence of an accused was a penance, for example, wearing a cross sewn onto their clothing or going on a pilgrimage. Repeat offenders were handed over to secular authorities, where punishments could be fines, imprisonment, banishment or, in the extreme, death by burning.

Dominican or Franciscan friars operated the Medieval Inquisition (12th to 16th centuries). Each territory had a Grand Inquisitor.

The more extreme actions were generally perpetrated by the Spanish and Portuguese Inquisitions and as a result of witch trials.

Heinrich Kramer was a Dominican priest and the author of the Malleus Maleficarum (“Hammer against witches”). In this book, Kramer presented his view that witchery and sorcery were forms of heresy, and so should result in death by burning. Whilst this book was officially condemned by the church, it was nonetheless used as an aid to the persecution of many people, most especially women, for hundreds of years.

The Knights of St John, aka Knights Hospitaller

The Knights of St John paid for their island of Malta with an annual tribute of a single falcon to the Viceroy of Sicily, a vassal of Charles V. Presumably this was normally an easy task: catch and train a real live falcon, then take it by ship from Malta across to Sicily. It had to be done by All Souls Day, which was the 2nd of November 1550.

The Church of Saints-Innocents

The Church of Saints-Innocents operated the oldest and largest cemetery in Paris, the Cemetery of the Saints-Innocents, on a for-profit basis, from the Middle Ages until the late 18th century. The charnel houses around its periphery were piled high with the exhumed bones of its denizens to make room for more burials. It was closed in the late eighteenth century when the stench was finally deemed intolerable. The skeletal remains of the estimated two million internees were all transferred to the new Paris catacombs, and any palmitic acid found was used in candles and soap.

La Pléiade

La Pléiade was a group of seven 16th-century French Renaissance poets who formed at the Collège Coqueret in Paris. The group consisted of Ronsard, Du Bellay, Baïf, Belleau, Pontus de Tyard, Jodelle, and the college principal, Daurat.

Ronsard in particular was a very popular poet, especially with the French kings, Francis II and Charles IX.

Characters

John Dee

John Dee (b. 1527) gained his BA from St John's College, Cambridge in 1545. He studied at Louvain in 1548, with Gemma Frisius and Gerardus Mercator. He lectured on Euclid in Paris, in 1550, at the College of Rheims (not the Collège Royal).

Oronce Finé

Finé was chair of mathematics at the Collège Royal (now called Collège de France), he is responsible for several published papers on mathematics, and especially well known for popularising mathematical teaching in France.

Guillaume Postel

Postel was a famed and highly accomplished French polymath. At college he met Ignatius of Loyola and retained a lifelong affiliation with the Jesuits, though he never took vows.

Adept at several middle eastern languages, as well as Greek and Latin, he was the official interpreter during the Franco-Ottoman alliance.

During his travels, he found and translated many Arabic texts, including one by al-Tusi (a great Persian polymath).

While in Venice translating the Zohar, he met and later wrote books about an elderly woman, Mother Zuana, who he believed to be a prophetess. He believed he was her spiritual son and that he was destined to unify all the world religions. His writing came to the attention of the Inquisition, who had him imprisoned for several years in Rome.

The subsequent miracle of Laon inspired Postel to recommence his claims of being a great religious unifier, and he was sentenced to house arrest in Paris, finally spending eleven years in a monastery until his death.

Isaac Luria

Isaac ben Solomon Luria Ashkenazi was a leading rabbi and Jewish mystic in the sixteenth century. He is considered the father of contemporary Kabbalah, and his teachings are referred to as Lurianic Kabbalah.

The Zohar is an important work central to Jewish mystical thought and Kabbalah. It discusses God, the universe, the human soul, redemption and reincarnation. It first appeared in Spain in the thirteenth century. Its publicist was a man called Moses de León, who claimed the Zohar was a record of the teachings of a second century Judaean sage. This claim was immediately contested, with claims that de León forged the whole document. There is at least one record of a Jewish scholar travelling to Spain to interview de León’s surviving family to try to verify which of the various claims was true.

Guido de Brès

Guido was born in Mons (now in Belgium). His father was a blauschilder, a process that was a precursor to Delftware.

In 1548, he became friends with a protestant English couple, Mr & Mrs Nicholas. The Nicholas’ were later charged by the authorities with subversion of the Roman Catholic faith.

Guido fled to England around this time, returning to the Continent before 1552.

Author's Bio

J. A. Downes was born and raised in England and educated at Imperial College, London University, where he gained a B.Sc. in Physics.

Following a busy career in information technology he now indulges his passion for history full-time with research and writing.

Check the author’s website, http://www.jadownes.com, for news about other novels in the Predestination series, and for conversation with the author about the locations, characters and events mentioned in Resurrection.

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Author's Note

As an independently published author I rely heavily on word of mouth to promote my books. If you liked reading this book, please consider leaving a review at the bookstore where you bought it, or the library where you borrowed it, and tell your friends and family so they can enjoy it too.

Don’t forget to check the rest of the books in the series.

Thank you, and happy reading!

Also by J. A. Downes

Predestination

The Bloodstone of Boiorix

(Book one of the Predestination Series)