The Heresy of Dr Dee by Phil Rickman Read Free Book Online Page A

the stilts
supporting the parlour and hall. Far from the most distinguished dwelling, this, even in Mortlake.
    Saddening to think that several properties had once been owned by my father, who had first come to London as a wool merchant, progressing to the import and export of cloth. This was before his
appointment as gentleman server to the King, who also made him packer of goods for export – and that paid a good income. Oh, an important man, my tad, for a while. Until the financial
collapse which left him with a cluster of riverside outbuildings bought cheaply and linked together to form a most eccentric dwelling which yet looked temporary.
    From the river steps I could see, to one side of the house, the orchard and the small pasture rented for crumbs to William Faldo. It was yet my aim to use part of it to extend the house for
further accommodation of my library – consisting at this time of two hundred and seventy-seven books, many of them the only editions to be found anywhere in England. I’d offered them to
the Queen and to Queen Mary before her, for the foundation of a national library of England. But a monarch would ever rather spend money on war than learning. Unless, of course, it was the kind of
learning that might effectively be used in war.
    One thing was sure. If there was no improvement in my situation, then, God help me, I might have to sell books to repair the roof and find work teaching the sons of whichever of the moneyed
gentry were prepared to employ an infamed conjurer.
    ‘Dr Dee?’
    Two men had climbed from the black barge at the river’s edge and were approaching the steps. I was fairly sure I knew them not and made no reply.
    ‘Sent to fetch you, Doctor.’
    ‘Oh?’
    Naturally, I was wary. I’d heard of men who’d been taken aboard such vessels as this, robbed and killed for their valuables and their remains thrown in the river. And no, the irony
was not lost on me.
    I didn’t move. When the first of them reached the top step, I saw that he was young, small-bearded and well-clad, in rusted doublet, high leather boots and good gloves. He looked
impatient.
    ‘The circumstances of your appointment have now been changed, Doctor.’
    ‘My appointment?’
    He let a low breath through his teeth.
    ‘Mistress Blanche… has been called away to attend to the Queen’s majesty but expects to be free to speak to you by the time we reach Greenwich.’
    ‘I see.’
    ‘Well then…?’
    He stood aside, extending an arm to where his companions and the oarsmen waited in the black barge. I had no choice but to follow him down the steps. At the bottom, he stood back while I boarded
the barge, and then leapt in after me, and the oarsmen pushed us hastily from the bank.
    Too hastily, it seemed to me. I yet felt all was not right and stood close to the bow of the vessel.
    ‘Sit down, please, Doctor,’ the young man said.
    It sounded more like an instruction than an invitation, but there were good cushions to sit on. Though hardly luxurious, this clearly was not a cargo barge, and I was not alarmed until, as we
moved downriver towards the steaming midden of Southwark, it was steered sharply away from another barge coming out of London towards Mortlake.
    This one had no flags, but there were at least seven armed men aboard. And one woman, subduedly cloaked and gazing ahead of her.
    When I thought to hail my cousin and half-rose, I heard movement behind me and, twisting round, I saw the first man reaching to his belt.
    ‘Either you hold your tongue at this moment, Dr Dee,’ he said pleasantly, ‘or I must needs slice it off at the root.’

PART TWO
    I have no way to purge myself of the malicious talk that I know the wicked world will use
    ROBERT DUDLEY, in a letter to his steward Thomas Blount

IX
The Summoning of Siôn Ceddol
    Autumn, 1560. The Welsh Border.
    M Y FATHER GREW up in a modest farmhouse below the hill called Brynglas, at Pilleth on the border of England and Wales – the Welsh