The Heresy of Dr Dee

XXVIII

The Jury





A CRAB, WHEN threatened, may move sideways.

Dudley, disgusted to find himself alarmed, slips into an alleyway, pulling out a kerchief, scrubbing at the unexpected sweat. Hands flat on a stone wall, forehead pressed into a patch of damp moss, he draws long breaths until his foul fear is reborn as fury.

But the single eye of Prys Gethin is yet boring through him, a dark diamond turning in bone.

It’s not the you’ll die within a year that’s affected him. There have been times when he’s been told he’ll be dead within the hour. It’s the words that followed, none of which he understood. He’s been cursed in French and cursed in Spanish, and the spittle-slicked tirades barely reached him before they went to vapour. Gethin’s language, he knows, is far older in these islands than his own and comes out like clotted honey, every opaque sentence an incantation.

It annoys him, the way a common brigand hides his villainy under a cloak of false patriotism, assuming a resonant name and the glow of dark magic around a long-dead national hero.

Dudley reminds himself why he’s here. Prays silently, feeling around himself – as oft-times I’ve advised him – a white-gold protective light. I hold this to be angelic light but Dudley, I suspect, sees the glitter of the English crown. He and the Queen, twin souls, born – he yet insists – in the same hour of the same day, under the sign of Cancer, the crab. Dancing together with effortless elegance, iridescent like dragonflies on the water, peering with delight into the pools of one another’s minds.

But Dudley never wants to hear Bess using words like those which issued from that prison cart. Regardless of the trail of horseshit left behind by her grandfather, he doesn’t want to believe that the woman he desires more than long life is, in any respect, Welsh.

Prising himself from the stone wall, he stands warily at the top of the alleyway, watching a goodwife of Presteigne bartering for bruised apples. A foretelling of his death will ever send him in angry pursuit of something life-affirming.

Within moments, he’s marked the woman wearing a green velvet gown, easily the most expensive in the market, and the kind of French hood once favoured by the Queen’s mother. Carrying an empty basket over an arm, buying nothing.

Dudley watches this woman for no more than a minute before wandering over to stand quietly next to her at a stall selling pomegranates from the Holy Land.

At once, she’s aware of his presence and, with a twist of the hips, is looking up into his eyes.

‘A true feel of autumn today, master.’

‘Yes,’ Dudley says. ‘It may rain again.’

‘A good day to be indoors.’

‘Preferably upstairs,’ Dudley says, ‘in case of flood.’

‘Ever a sensible precaution.’

Dudley nods soberly at the wisdom of this.

‘Are you with an attorney, mistress?’

‘Not at the moment. They haven’t caught me yet.’

She looks him up and down, her gaze lingering on those exceptional riding boots. Now he can smell her perfume. And her interest.

‘You live near here, mistress?’

‘Within a short walk.’

She smiles. The condition of her teeth suggests she’s no older than he is. He moves his purse around to the front of his belt.

‘It’s a good day for a walk,’ Dudley says.

And off they go together, Dudley priding himself on his ability to mark a whore from thirty paces.



‘You know what’s different about you, master?’

‘Modesty forbids me to ask.’

‘You can make a woman laugh. That’s rare.’

She’s not the first to have said that.

‘Yet I feel’ – she lays a finger on the tip of his nose – ‘that something unfortunate has happened to you today. Did you quarrel with your wife before you left London?’

‘I don’t have a wife.’

‘Ever?’

‘Any more.’

‘Oh. Well…’ She strokes his cheek. ‘You’ll find another.’

Dudley is lying on his back. He can’t place her accent. It isn’t local to the area, but he thinks it’s Welsh and, in view of what they’ve just been doing, that pleases him.

‘What’s your name?’ he says.

‘Amy.’

When his muscles lock into rigidity, she leans over him in the bed.

‘What did I say?’

He doesn’t answer. He looks up into her face. She’s nothing like his dead wife. Her eyes are far apart, her mouth is wide and her hair, hanging now over his cheeks, is more the colour of the Queen’s. He lets out his breath. He smiles.

‘A good living, is it, mistress – with all the attorneys and the judges at the Great Sessions?’

‘Some sessions are greater than others,’ she says.

Clever, too.

‘And who pays for your time, apart from attorneys?’

‘You ask a lot of questions.’

What about the wool merchants from Ludlow? You ever had Old Bradshaw up here?’

‘Him?’ She gives a yelp of amusement. ‘He won’t even be seen walking past my door.’

‘What about Nicholas Meredith?’

‘Master Roberts,’ she says, ‘if it’s intelligence you’re seeking, which may be used for some nefarious purpose… you must needs know I’m a woman who keeps her secrets. An element of mystery, in my trade, is’ – she touches the tip of her nose with a forefinger – ‘of the essence.’

Her house is ’twixt two workshops down an alley close to the centre of town. The ceiling of her bedchamber is very low and, of a sudden, in the scored and fissured black beams, he sees the dark, leathery face of Prys Gethin. A knot in the wood has become that one eye. Dudley feels a pressure in the centre of his forehead. He turns away, towards Amy the whore, pulling the sheet from her left breast and lowering his face.

‘You only paid for once,’ she reminds him. ‘Not that it lasted particularly long.’

‘I’ll pay for thrice if you talk to me.’

She pushes him gently away and sits up, her smile fading.

‘Who are you? I don’t think you’re an attorney.’

Dudley says. ‘I’m an antiquary.’

‘What’s that?’

‘A man who likes old things.’

‘Well, thank you!’

‘And you, mistress… are too clever to be a nun.’

‘No,’ she says, pushing back her ginger hair. ‘I’m simply too clever to be a nun in Bristol or London. Here, I’m like the ironmonger, the apothecary, the blacksmith, the fruiterer.’

‘Yes, I did mark your ability to squeeze a pair of plums.’

‘That’s a common farmer’s jest.’ She rolled away from him. ‘In a few years I’ll be forced to marry a farmer or somebody and the past will be the past. But if that doesn’t happen… I’ll always have money. And the means to make more. I might start a school. My father was a schoolmaster in Brecon.’

That would explain much. Dudley persists.

‘What about priests?’

‘Find absolution by marrying a priest?’

‘Or a former monk? Have you known monks – in the biblical sense or otherwise? What about the former Abbot of Wigmore?’

He’s approached it too quickly. Her eyes narrow. The chamber is lit by a single glazed pane under the eaves, and she blocks it with her body, rising up.

‘I’m an antiquary,’ Dudley says. ‘I’m told he may have some… relics. For sale.’

‘You would expect…’ She laughs, incredulous. ‘You’d expect the abbot of a monastery taken by the Crown to be selling holy relics twenty years afterwards?’

Dudley’s at once excited. The man’s about.

‘Not a holy relic, mistress… as such. I and my friend have an interest in a certain gemstone which we believe the former abbot has. Its value is purely… historical.’

‘You have the money?’

‘You know I have the money.’

‘How long,’ she asks, ‘will you be here?’



An hour and a half later, with a sense of returning strength and well-being following a lunch of beef and gravy at the Bull, Dudley walks back into the marketplace and marks Roger Vaughan entering through the sheriff’s gates, with documents under an arm. Hurries to catch him up.

‘It’s beginning, Master Vaughan?’

‘Jury’s being sworn in. You want to see?’

The guards are preventing people from using the main entrance, lest the entire town should come to watch. Vaughan leads Dudley down an alleyway, and soon they’re in a cloisterlike passage, where the slit windows are barred down the middle. At the end of it, an oak door hangs ajar and there’s much commotion.

The courtroom is bigger than he’d expected in a place like Presteigne. Like to a barn, with low-hung rafters, as though a loft has been removed. Perhaps a barn was what it used to be.

A one end, steps lead to a structure like to a long pulpit where, presumably, the judge will sit, although there’s yet no sign of Sir Christopher Legge. Or, indeed, the prisoner. Vaughan guides Dudley to a corner near a platform with bars around it which extend well beyond head-height. It’s empty. A procession of men is winding from a doorway halfway up the courtroom.

Vaughan says, ‘He’ll leave it to one of the local JPs to swear in the jurymen.’

And so it turns out. The JP is snowy-haired and vague and barely looks at the members of the jury as, in turn, they swear upon the Bible that they will consider all the evidence laid before them and return a fair and honest verdict.

The JP looks uncertainly around the court, and an attorney in robes leans over and whispers something.

Dudley is marking each of the jurymen with a slow and faintly incredulous smile as the old JP announces that the trial of Prys Gethin for murder by witchcraft and cattle theft will commence on the morrow at ten of the clock.

‘Hmmm,’ Vaughan says, as the courtroom clears. ‘They’re taking no chances, are they?’

‘I counted seven,’ Dudley says.

‘That would be about right. A safe majority. The fear is that a jury of all local men… that their families would be threatened. That retribution might be made against them, even years later. Never feel safe again.’

‘Also, I expect that seven extra members of Legge’s guard will come in quite useful if Gethin tries to escape.’

However important it may be that all possibilities of an acquittal for Prys Gethin should be sealed like cracks in the masonry, Robert Dudley, as an English gentleman, yet finds it distasteful that Sir Christopher Legge should feel the need to bring his own jurymen.

And however much he now wants the swift disposal of the man who slipped him a smiling curse from the back of a cart, Dudley begins to wonder, for the first time, what might be hiding behind the façade of this small, provincial trial.