By Royal Command (13 page)

‘Correct,’ said Mr Sylvester, nodding.

‘But lots of people say that her cousin, Mary Stuart, the Queen of Scotland, should rule England,’ said Beth in a very forthright manner.

‘Hush!’ I said, shocked. I appealed to her tutor. ‘She must not speak such things aloud, must she?’

He didn’t reply for a moment, but I watched a tiny nerve tick in his jaw. ‘Everyone should be free to say what they think within their own walls.’

‘But . . .’

‘Mary Stuart’s followers title her Queen of England as well as Scotland,’ he said. ‘Whether or not one agrees with this, it’s as well to know the facts.’

I hesitated a moment, then said, ‘What are the facts?’ For although Tomas had spoken of the matter, and I sometimes overheard people talking about it in the marketplace, I did not know the particulars, or what lay behind it all. ‘Why should Mary, Queen of Scots, seek to take our throne?’ I asked somewhat indignantly.

Mr Sylvester stood up and looked out of the window. ‘At the hour of Mary Tudor’s death there were many who believed that Mary Stuart was the true Queen of England, and should rule forthwith.’

I gasped at this, for I’d never heard it spoken so boldly before. ‘Why is this?’

‘Why? Because some people – the Catholics – hold that the marriage of our queen’s father and mother was invalid, for King Henry was previously married to Queen Katherine of Aragon before Anne Boleyn, and of course the old church does not recognise divorce.’

I still didn’t really understand.

‘If their marriage was not a true one,’ he explained, seeing my puzzled face, ‘then it follows that any child of that marriage – by this I mean our good queen – is illegitimate, and therefore barred from the throne of England.’

I could not utter a word, so appalled was I at this treason.

‘Mary Stuart of Scotland is cousin to our queen,’ he said. ‘They are granddaughters of the seventh Henry, therefore both have an equal claim to the throne – or at least, that’s what some people think.’ He paused and added, ‘And of course Mary Stuart has no stain of illegitimacy over her.’

I was filled with sudden horror. ‘But, Sir!’ I said. ‘Surely God alone decides who should be on the throne of England? He has already chosen Elizabeth and ‘tis she who reigns over us.’

He turned away from the window and regarded me steadily. ‘Yes, that’s correct. He has and she does.’

‘He has decreed that Elizabeth should be our sovereign lady,’ I went on fervently, ‘and surely there cannot be a better queen than Her Grace, for she has proved to be good and wise, and loves her subjects dearly.’

He nodded and resumed his seat at the table. ‘Indeed! Everything you say is correct.’

‘Then – and excuse my talking to you so forthright, Sir – please speak no more about those wicked people who seek to put another queen in her place.’

He smiled a little at this. ‘But you wished to know the facts. And it is always wise to know the other point of view.’

‘But now I know, I want to hear no more,’ I said firmly. ‘May God save our good queen and long to reign over us!’

‘God save the queen!’ echoed Beth and Merryl in unison, and Mr Sylvester said, ‘Amen to that.’

I bobbed him a curtsey. ‘I’ll bring your dinner in directly, Sir,’ I said, and went back to the kitchen to lay up a tray with trenchers and spoons.

In spite of my earlier gaiety, however, and even in spite of having two new gowns hanging up in my chamber, I felt ill at ease. Tomas had told me to trust no one. Did that warning also apply to members of the Dee household? What if Mr Sylvester was a supporter of Scotland’s queen and had taken the role of tutor at her magician’s house in order to be in close proximity to Her Grace? What if he meant her harm?

Or were such thoughts, I mused, the result of an overheated and over-curious mind?

Chapter Ten

T
he following morning, finishing my usual chores early and the girls being with Mr Sylvester, I sought out Mistress Midge to ask which rooms I should decorate with greenery in readiness for Christmas Day. I found her in the kitchen as usual, standing at the window and gossiping with a neighbour on her way back from market.

She was there for some time but, at last, the woman going off, she banged the window shut and turned to me, her solid, ruddy face looking worried. ‘Mistress Utting says there’s plague at Putney.’

‘Not so!’ I searched my mind for the last time I’d heard of anyone having plague: probably four or more years back, at home. ‘But it’s midwinter! Doesn’t plague only strike in the summer months?’

‘That’s just it. Because it’s not usual at this time of year the authorities are putting it about that it’s spotted fever.’

‘Then maybe it is.’

She shook her head. ‘Mistress Utting says everyone thinks it’s plague, and it’s been entered so in the parish notices.’

‘Is it contained at Putney?’

She shrugged. ‘It’s said to be in just one house, but who knows? The pestilence travels . . . At any minute it could jump on to a barge and land up at Mortlake wharf, and then where would we be?’ I didn’t reply to this and she answered, ‘Dead within minutes. And it will strike the weak and overworked first!’

I braced myself here, fearing that the word
overworked
would bring with it an avalanche of complaints against the Dee family, but she merely sniffed and carried on with what she was doing, which was making pastry for a taffety tart ready for the Walsinghams’ visit on the day after Christmas.

‘Well, now, let me think,’ she said when I asked about Yuletide decorations. She was holding a tin aloft, as big as a wheel, and cutting off the spare pastry all round it. ‘It’s some years since we brought in the green. At one time the house was always decorated, but that was when we had more servants. Once it was down to me – well, I couldn’t manage to do that along with everything else.’

‘Certainly you couldn’t,’ I agreed quickly.

She delved into a drum of last summer’s apples, pulled one out and began peeling it. ‘But start with the dining room,’ she said, ‘for that room at least must be gay for our visitors.’

‘And then I’ll pin ivy along the hallway,’ I said, ‘and in the school room, and in here, too, so that we can enjoy it.’

‘’Twill shrivel too quickly in the heat here and never last twelve days!’

‘Then when it fades, I’ll put up fresh,’ I said. ‘Should I decorate the library, too?’

‘You must ask the master about that.’

‘And what about in the mistress’s rooms?’

She sniffed. ‘’Twould take more than a few springs of holly to bring cheer to those upstairs,’ she said. ‘I can’t remember when I last saw Mistress Allen crack her cheeks in a smile.’

She finished peeling an apple, threw the peel over her left shoulder and looked to see what initial it had made. ‘It’s a
C
,’ she sniffed. ‘It always comes to a
C
, and that suits me well, for I don’t know anyone of that name and wouldn’t marry them anyway.’

Laughing at this, I peeled an apple in one strip and tried for myself, but the peel broke into three pieces as it landed and didn’t make any initial at all.

To my surprise, Dr Dee said he would like holly and ivy put about the library.

‘’Twas once considered a pagan custom to decorate with evergreens, but ‘tis done everywhere now,’ he said. ‘And we must have a Yule log. Tell Mistress Midge to arrange that with Mr Gibbs the woodman, will you?’

‘Yes, Sir,’ I said, hiding my surprise at this long speech to me, for he never spoke ten words where one would do.

‘We must have everything in place and all very fine for the Walsinghams’ dinner.’

I lay streamers of dark green ivy along the library mantelpieces and sprigs of berried holly along the bookshelves, but did not decorate any of his specimens, still being slightly apprehensive of both the skull and of a great stuffed bird with hooked beak. I’d just begun to fill the two great porcelain vases beside the central fireplace with holly and fir branches when Mistress Dee, still in her night attire, came into the library on the arm of Mistress Allen. Her companion settled her on to a stool, placed a rug over her knees and then went away.

Although I was at the far end of the room I could clearly hear the conversation which then ensued between my master and mistress, which centred around what they should buy the queen for her New Year gift.

‘My dear, she has given us a fine present and will expect that it is reciprocated,’ Dr Dee said. ‘We must give her something precious. A jewelled fan, a treasure box, a diamond bracelet . . .’

‘But she knows we’re not wealthy. You’re a mathematician, John, not a rich courtier. We don’t have the resources to buy such precious things.’

‘Nevertheless, she
will
expect it. I have already heard that Robert Dudley is buying her a jewelled clock for her wrist.’

‘A clock for her wrist? How can that be?’

‘’Tis in miniature. ‘Twill have a little door on it which can be opened and the time seen.’

‘Marvellous!’ Mistress Dee exclaimed.

‘And Sir Francis Drake is having a lion made all in diamonds, which will sit inside a silver cage.’

‘My dear—’

‘She will expect something good from us in return for the venison,’ Dr Dee said resolutely. ‘She will think ill of it if we merely send our good wishes. She will be insulted!’

‘Then are you saying we must bankrupt ourselves to buy some frippery? Some dainty gee-gaw which she may never use?’

‘Yes,’ came the firm reply.

Mistress Dee gave a cry of exasperation and I looked through my greenery to see her casting the rug to one side and making for the door. I was very astonished at this, for she was ever the acquiescent, dutiful wife, but was not surprised at Dr Dee, for though my experience of Court had so far been brief, I knew that men were prepared to give their very souls if they thought a certain gift would gain them a place in the queen’s circle of intimates.

The vases held a considerable amount of green-stuffs, so much so that I had to go back to the outhouse to get more, and in the midst of my arrangements Mr Kelly arrived, demanding hot spiced wine and bread to sop in it, so I had to leave my vases to get what he wanted. Returning to the library I heard them once again speaking of the queen’s New Year gift, so I surmised that Mr Kelly had been told of Dr Dee’s earlier discussion with his wife.

I put down the tray containing the items I’d prepared for Mr Kelly, then went to the other end of the room and, pretending discontent with what I’d done, pulled the fir branches and the holly on to the floor to start again. A spy, Tomas had told me, should have eyes and ears everywhere and at all times.

The two men spoke of the various devices, of the jewels, gowns and costly novelties which had been presented to Her Grace over the past years, then Dr Dee rose and circled the table on which was set the alembic; the distilling equipment which, though now silent, usually contained an amount of liquid bubbling and pulsing along its tubes and channels. ‘If we could only discover the precious stone,’ he said longingly. ‘If only we could give the queen the gift her heart really desires. How we would be raised up then, Kelly!’

‘If only the moon were blue, Dee,’ returned the other man.

‘But other philosophers have had some success. In Prague, they say, a length of wire has been transmuted to pure gold. And in France they speak of an elixir which turned an old man’s white hair dark, and gave him the stamina of a twenty year old.’

‘Then, sadly, our angels cannot care enough for us,’ said Mr Kelly, ‘or they would give us the formula in a language we understand and thus make us rich.’

‘Ah,’ sighed Dr Dee.

There was a pause in their conversation and I carried on busily moving stems of holly around the vases, although it seemed that they had forgotten about me.

‘Of course . . . there is a way whereby two problems may be solved at once,’ Mr Kelly said.

Dr Dee turned away, raising his hand as if to block out Mr Kelly’s next words. ‘Talk no more of devious deeds.’

‘No, no, hear me out! The first problem is the queen’s New Year present, and the second is knowing what amusement or experiment we should put before her and her Court when we attend the palace. Do I speak true?’