this new matter of my lord, the Earl of Derby. His illness worries me greatly in the light of the Hesketh affair.’
Dee sighed. ‘It is most unfortunate. I can well understand why you might imagine some link between his illness and the unfortunate events of last year.’
‘Can you explain it? Did you consort with Hesketh in Prague?’
‘No. I had left Bohemia before he arrived. But, of course, I heard tell of his attempt to recruit his lordship for treason against the Queen.’
‘So you knew nothing of him?’
‘No, not at that time. I knew him before, of course. We were friends for a time in the early eighties.’
‘You shared an interest in alchemy. Yes, I have read the reports.’
‘Indeed. But we lost touch after that.’
‘But you knew those in Prague with whom he would have dealt during his exile?’
‘Some of them, yes. Mr Edward Kelley, for one. And the Jesuit, Father Stephenson, for another.’
‘Stephenson?’
‘Thomas Stephenson, a good man. He was at the College of the Clementinum, a Jesuit college in Prague. He was sent there by either Cardinal Allen or Father Persons, I believe.’
‘Were they behind the letter that Hesketh brought back to England for Derby?’
Dee shrugged his shoulders. ‘It would not surprise me, but I had also heard it testifed that Hesketh was given the letter in London. Is that not so?’
‘That is what he said. He insisted he was approached by a boy and given the sealed paper at the White Lion in Islington. But you are a man of wit, Dr Dee. Explain to me why he was at the White Lion and why someone just happened to be there with a letter for him to deliver unless it had all been pre-arranged.’
Dr Dee thought for a moment, but just as he opened his mouth to make reply, he was stopped short by a scream from elsewhere in the house. It was a cry of piercing volume and intensity that seemed to well up from the depths of the earth and ring through the ancient halls of Lathom House, an unholy howl of terror and pain and despair.
Chapter 8
T HE E ARL OF Derby’s chamber was shrouded in a sickly gloom. The shutters were closed to keep out the evening light and just one beeswax candle was lit. It guttered and almost blew out as Shakespeare shut the door. The air was stale.
He had never encountered such a weird and spectral scene. The earl sat on the edge of a great, carved-oak bed. He was wearing a white linen nightgown, streaked with stains, and was leaning over a silver basin, vomiting.
A physician held the basin for him, but averted his head, cupping his hand over his nose and mouth to shield himself from the foul stench of the earl’s eruption. Two other physicians stood further away, by a table, clearly scared, their eyes shining in the dim light. In a dark corner of the room sat an ample-bosomed woman who rocked back and forth, chanting words that meant nothing to Shakespeare.
She was stirring the contents of a small earthenware pot, which she held clamped between her knees.
‘My lord of Derby …’
The young earl, no more than thirty-five years of age, looked up from his basin and wiped his sleeve across his mouth. His face was heavy and drained, his eyes mere slits.
‘Mr Shakespeare,’ he said quietly, taking shallow breaths. ‘I had heard you were here. It is a long time since last we met.’
‘Indeed, my lord. I have come to fetch away your guest, Dr Dee.’ He looked at the earl’s gaunt face. ‘God’s faith, I am sorry to find you in such straits.’
‘I am bewitched, Mr Shakespeare. I fear the worst. There is nothing these three frauds can do for me with their physic.’
One of the two physicians who had held back stepped forward. ‘Sir, I beg you to allow me to bleed you. There are ill humours that must be released.’
The earl tried to laugh, but immediately retched, then vomited again into the basin and beyond. Shakespeare was appalled; the earl was bringing up fleshy, rusty-blood matter that stank worse than a house of
Dee sighed. ‘It is most unfortunate. I can well understand why you might imagine some link between his illness and the unfortunate events of last year.’
‘Can you explain it? Did you consort with Hesketh in Prague?’
‘No. I had left Bohemia before he arrived. But, of course, I heard tell of his attempt to recruit his lordship for treason against the Queen.’
‘So you knew nothing of him?’
‘No, not at that time. I knew him before, of course. We were friends for a time in the early eighties.’
‘You shared an interest in alchemy. Yes, I have read the reports.’
‘Indeed. But we lost touch after that.’
‘But you knew those in Prague with whom he would have dealt during his exile?’
‘Some of them, yes. Mr Edward Kelley, for one. And the Jesuit, Father Stephenson, for another.’
‘Stephenson?’
‘Thomas Stephenson, a good man. He was at the College of the Clementinum, a Jesuit college in Prague. He was sent there by either Cardinal Allen or Father Persons, I believe.’
‘Were they behind the letter that Hesketh brought back to England for Derby?’
Dee shrugged his shoulders. ‘It would not surprise me, but I had also heard it testifed that Hesketh was given the letter in London. Is that not so?’
‘That is what he said. He insisted he was approached by a boy and given the sealed paper at the White Lion in Islington. But you are a man of wit, Dr Dee. Explain to me why he was at the White Lion and why someone just happened to be there with a letter for him to deliver unless it had all been pre-arranged.’
Dr Dee thought for a moment, but just as he opened his mouth to make reply, he was stopped short by a scream from elsewhere in the house. It was a cry of piercing volume and intensity that seemed to well up from the depths of the earth and ring through the ancient halls of Lathom House, an unholy howl of terror and pain and despair.
Chapter 8
T HE E ARL OF Derby’s chamber was shrouded in a sickly gloom. The shutters were closed to keep out the evening light and just one beeswax candle was lit. It guttered and almost blew out as Shakespeare shut the door. The air was stale.
He had never encountered such a weird and spectral scene. The earl sat on the edge of a great, carved-oak bed. He was wearing a white linen nightgown, streaked with stains, and was leaning over a silver basin, vomiting.
A physician held the basin for him, but averted his head, cupping his hand over his nose and mouth to shield himself from the foul stench of the earl’s eruption. Two other physicians stood further away, by a table, clearly scared, their eyes shining in the dim light. In a dark corner of the room sat an ample-bosomed woman who rocked back and forth, chanting words that meant nothing to Shakespeare.
She was stirring the contents of a small earthenware pot, which she held clamped between her knees.
‘My lord of Derby …’
The young earl, no more than thirty-five years of age, looked up from his basin and wiped his sleeve across his mouth. His face was heavy and drained, his eyes mere slits.
‘Mr Shakespeare,’ he said quietly, taking shallow breaths. ‘I had heard you were here. It is a long time since last we met.’
‘Indeed, my lord. I have come to fetch away your guest, Dr Dee.’ He looked at the earl’s gaunt face. ‘God’s faith, I am sorry to find you in such straits.’
‘I am bewitched, Mr Shakespeare. I fear the worst. There is nothing these three frauds can do for me with their physic.’
One of the two physicians who had held back stepped forward. ‘Sir, I beg you to allow me to bleed you. There are ill humours that must be released.’
The earl tried to laugh, but immediately retched, then vomited again into the basin and beyond. Shakespeare was appalled; the earl was bringing up fleshy, rusty-blood matter that stank worse than a house of
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