The Wolf's Shadow: (The Tudor Rose Murders Book 2)

A joy for the senses… see the smoke and grime of Tudor London. A triumph and a series that really does just get better and better.’

Chris Lloyd, Winner of the HWA Gold Crown for

Best Historical Fiction

‘Williams writes with great historical context, which is clearly well researched… I shall very much be looking forward to book three!’

Jules Swain, @thereadingpara

‘A masterclass of pace and adventure. GJ Williams knows how to keep a reader hooked.’

Adele Jordan

‘The twists and turns are brilliantly done.’

Sarah Ward

‘A joy to read. Well researched and fast paced.’

Leslie Scase

‘Right up there with C J Sansom… A brilliant historical thriller.’

Philip Gwynne Jones

‘Thrilling and intriguing.’

S. W. Perry

The Wolf’s

Shadow

The Tudor Rose Murders Series

Book Two

G J Williams

Legend Press Ltd, 51 Gower Street, London, WC1E 6HJ

[email protected] | www.legendpress.co.uk

Contents © G J Williams 2024

The right of the above author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available.

Print ISBN 9781915643292

Ebook ISBN 9781915643308

Set in Times.

Cover design by Sarah Whittaker | www.whittakerbookdesign.com

All characters, other than those clearly in the public domain, and place names, other than those well-established such as towns and cities, are fictitious and any resemblance is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

Dr G J Williams, like John Dee, is Welsh but raised in England. After an idyllic childhood in Somerset, where history, story-telling and adventure were part of life, a career of psychology, first in academia and then international consulting beckoned. It was some years before the love of writing returned to the forefront of life.

G J Williams now lives between Somerset and London and is often found writing on the train next to a grumpy cat and a cup of tea.

When not writing, life is a muddle of researching, travelling to historic sites or plotting while sailing the blue seas on the beloved boat bequeathed by a father who always taught that history gives the gift of prediction.

The first book in The Tudor Rose Murders series, The Conjuror’s Apprentice, was published by Legend Press in 2023.

Follow G J on Twitter

@gjwilliams92

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Visit

www.gjwilliamsauthor.com

To Amanda, whose strength, advice, kindness and laughter gave me a friendship I will hold dear until we meet again beyond the veil. I so miss being your apprentice in crime.

Cast of characters

The Constable Household

John Dee – scholar, astronomer, theologian, physician, conjurer

Margaretta Morgan – John Dee’s apprentice, disguised as a maid

Katherine Constable – lady of the house and wife to the merchant, Master Constable.

Mam – Margaretta’s mother

Huw – Margaretta’s brother

The Cecil Household

Sir William Cecil – lawyer, politician and advisor/friend to Princess Elizabeth

Mildred Cecil – wife of Sir William Cecil and one of the most educated women in England

Tommy Cecil – Sir William Cecil’s son by his first wife, Mary Cheke

Elizabeth’s household and supporters

Blanche ap Harri – Chief Gentlewoman

Cofferer Tomos Parry – cofferer

Robert Dudley – friend to Elizabeth

Henry Carey – cousin to Elizabeth

Ralph, Matty, Jeffrey – servants

Other key characters

Christopher Careye – pupil to John Dee and admirer of Margaretta

Jacques Malpasse and Petit Pierre – mummers

Clarissa – herb woman and healer

Spot (Simon) – orphaned beggar child

Susan McFadden – sister to Margaretta, wife of Angus and mother to Little Jack

Grace and Benjamin – servants to Susan

Roseanna – ageing servant in Wolf Hall

Secondary characters

John Christopherson – Master of Trinity College Cambridge

Thomas Babbington – warder of the Fleet Prison

Betsy – tavern girl in Cambridge

Chapter One

Friday March 21st 1558

‘Thomas Seymour, found hanged beneath the Hatfield oak?’ John Dee pulled down his mouth in ridicule. ‘Fie. It is impossible.’

‘It is what Sir Cecil says, Doctor.’

Dee’s eyes rolled up in irritation. ‘Thomas Seymour was beheaded on Tower Hill in 1549. Nine years ago.’ He smirked. ‘Has your master lost his mind?’

A drop of ink fell, making a black blot on his perfectly written page. He scowled and jabbed a finger at the paper. ‘My first great work, Propaedeumata Aphoristica. I have no time for uninvited guests and tales of foolery.’

The paling messenger shuffled, then licked his lips anxiously before looking to Margaretta and then back to Dee.

Dee’s brow remained raised in incredulity, but the man pressed on. ‘It was discovered at dawn. Sir Cecil asks that you come to his house under cover of dark.’ The young man shifted on his feet once more and fingered the Cecil coat of arms embroidered on his livery. ‘I must return to Canon Row with you, Doctor Dee.’

Dee narrowed his eyes. ‘Then let us hope your master makes good on his promises to pay this time – with coin and favour. If I am to investigate the impossible, it must serve me well… and return me to court.’

Chapter Two

An hour after nightfall, the carriage rattled into the dark of Cecil’s courtyard, the pitch lamps having been snuffed to cloak their arrival. A stableman, lamp in hand, opened the door, showing some surprise at seeing Margaretta. ‘We were expecting only you, Doctor Dee.’

Dee ignored the comment and stepped out. ‘Come, Margaretta. Let us see what foolery has been said to the great William Cecil.’ Ignoring the indignant servant, he strode across the cobbles.

Margaretta trotted after him, picking up the emotions all around her. Out here the worry was muddy and indistinct. Dee glanced back at her. He always seemed to know when she was picking up the feelings and memories of others, yet she could never sense his thoughts. He could block her when no other person could.

She looked at the concerned faces.

You know something is amiss, but do not know what. Sir Cecil has been pacing and fretting all the day and his wife can do nothing to calm him. Like children, you fear the anxiety of the powerful.

Cecil was behind his desk. A single candle lit the sheaves of paper piled before him and a magnifying glass assisted red, tired eyes. He wearily raised his head, peered at the visitor, then frowned at the companion. ‘You bring Margaretta?’

‘Yes,’ said Dee flatly. ‘She is becoming adept at taking notes for me.’

Cecil looked at her, his eyes hawk-like. ‘It is three years, I think, since you acted as messenger for John in his investigation of the shepherd murders?’

Margaretta bobbed her knee and gave a courteous greeting, glancing at the doctor for cover. He gave a small frown as warning. ‘Doctor Dee just likes his bags carried, sir.’

And he certainly does not want you knowing about my strange apprenticeship. So, I will play the dumb servant.

William Cecil leaned back with a deep sigh. His bulbous, grey eyes narrowed in worry. His drawn face made the three moles on his left cheek more prominent. ‘We have great trouble, John. And great confusion.’ He jerked his head up. ‘How does a man come back from the dead and die again nine years later?’

‘He doesn’t,’ scoffed Dee. ‘No amount of witchery or trickery can raise a man from the dead.’ He sat heavily, making himself comfortable on a chair and reaching for the decanter of wine on Cecil’s desk, nodding at Margaretta to pass a glass. ‘Your messenger said he was hanged. A wrung neck changes the appearance of the face. It must be someone else.’

Cecil lowered his voice to a cold hiss. ‘It is Seymour. We have evidence… and a positive identification.’

‘What evidence?’

Cecil picked up a leather pouch from the floor, placed it on the desk and undid the laces. ‘This was on the grass below the body. Inside is a folded parchment, a smaller purse heavy with coin, a scabbard knife with angel’s wings carved into the sheath, and a locket.’ His voice dropped to despair on his final word.

John Dee opened the locket. Inside was a perfect plait of copper hair coiled into a circle. In the middle of the circle was the letter E. His eyes flicked to Cecil.

The other man winced. ‘There were rumours that Thomas Seymour had a locket of the Lady Elizabeth’s hair in the Tower with him, before he was beheaded.’

John Dee shrugged. ‘There is no proof that this is Lady Elizabeth’s hair and if it is – it could be stolen. The other artefacts seem of little threat.’

‘Wrong,’ barked Cecil and thrust the parchment forward.

John Dee opened it. ‘Well, the coat of arms heading the letter are those of Seymour.’ He flicked to the end. ‘As is the signature.’ He started to read aloud. ‘’My heart, Elizabeth…’ He read on in silence, then gasped, looking up to Cecil. ‘"… our dear babe?’

Cecil was staring at the desk, chewing his bottom lip and rhythmically tapping a quill on the wood.

John Dee looked back to the letter and read again. ‘We will regain our dear babe from old Harry’s hiding and we…’

‘Enough, John.’ Cecil nodded at Margaretta. ‘We need discretion.’

Dee looked up sharply at Cecil. ‘Christ’s bones, you don’t think those rumours were…’

‘No,’ snarled Cecil. ‘There is… was… no son. Elizabeth is a maid. Pure.’

Margaretta shifted as the feelings started to flow through her.

Fear is pulsing through you, Sir Cecil. The thought of a future folding. Her future. Your future. Power. Hope. All could be lost. You recall the past. Gossip. Dark rumour. A letter intercepted, telling of a child and a woman. The name, Nancy. But why did you say ‘son’ and not child?

As if he could hear her feelings, Dee looked up. ‘No son?’

Cecil bridled and pulled back his chin before hissing. ‘Son, daughter, babe. It is all the same. Do not question my words, John.’

‘Then it is obviously a forgery,’ snapped Dee.

‘Maybe, but I have compared this hand with the copious letters Thomas Seymour sent to old King Henry, when he was sent as envoy to France, back in 1538. It is the same hand exactly.’ He shook his head. ‘There is more.’ Cecil opened the purse and put a coin, sharply glinting as if straight from the mint, in front of Dee. ‘Look at this. See where it was coined.’

Dee held the silver to the candle. ‘Bristol, 1547.’ He peered at Cecil. ‘The Bristol Mint forgeries?’

‘The very same,’ replied Cecil. ‘From the ten thousand Thomas Seymour stored, as he plotted to replace his brother as Lord Protector to King Edward, then marry either Princess Mary, or Princess Elizabeth, securing himself as a future king.’

John Dee put his head to one side like a blackbird listening for a worm. ‘But all of this could be stolen and planted on a body. Even the scabbard sheath with the angel’s wings of the Seymour arms.’

Cecil glanced at the door and then briefly at Margaretta before returning to John. ‘If only this were the limit of the evidence. It is far worse than a bag of trinkets and lies.’ He grimaced. ‘Kat Astley, Elizabeth’s governess, inspected the body. She looked upon the face and screamed, insisting it could only be him.’

Dee rolled his eyes. ‘As I said before, hanging changes a face and… we all know, Kat Astley is not reliable.’

‘She asked for the body to be turned over.’ Cecil raised a finger to Margaretta. ‘Wait outside please. This is not for the ears of a servant.’

She nodded, hid her irritation, and went to the door, pulling it after her but not quite shutting it. Pressing her ear to the crack she heard Cecil continue. ‘She recognised a scar across the calf. She has confirmed it Seymour’s. Same leg, same scar.’

‘Hah,’ barked Dee. ‘Another impossibility. How the hell would Kat Astley, a mere governess to Elizabeth, know of a scar on Seymour’s leg?’

‘Because she witnessed it every day that Thomas Seymour came to young Elizabeth’s room in his nightgown to molest her.’

Silence except for the sound of Dee tapping his finger in irritation on Cecil’s desk. Then he snapped, spittle spraying from his mouth. ‘So, maybe he did not die in ‘49.’

‘He did. They tried to ban spectators, such was his popularity. But thousands defied, so as to witness it. I saw it myself. He died alright… and badly.’

Chapter Three

Margaretta was called back in and slipped through the door, showing no sign of hearing the scandal. As ordered, she gathered the artefacts into her master’s bag before returning to the corner.

Something else is wrong here. Deep anxiety. You keep looking to the window, William Cecil. You are thinking of…

The tense silence was broken by the door opening and a waft of rose perfume. Lady Mildred Cecil came in, though her usual impassive face was pinched. She nodded a greeting. ‘Dear John. It is much relief to see you here. Are you come to assist?’

Cecil interrupted. ‘John is not here to take on our worries, my dear. There are greater problems on our mind.’

Mildred frowned. ‘Husband. We have not heard in days, and…’

John Dee looked between the two.

Cecil became impatient. ‘Mildred, I have said a hundred times – he could not manage a tennis court. Little wonder he cannot find his way home.’

My, you are full of alarm, Lady Cecil. Your stomach twists with worry. You think of a boy. Lost.

‘Good evening, my lady.’ Margaretta stepped forward and curtsied.

Lady Mildred jumped and gave a little cry. ‘Margaretta. I did not see you in the shadow.’ She smiled, though the worry did not leave her eyes. ‘It must be three years since you were a maid to me. Are you well?’

‘Well indeed, my lady. I am happy to see you again.’

Mildred Cecil walked over and patted her shoulder. ‘My, what troubles we faced back then. Though all came well.’ A frown and a tiny shake of the head told Margaretta not to mention their old collusion.

‘You seem worried, Lady Cecil. Is little Nan well?’

A short laugh. ‘Always quick to read my mind, child. Nan is well.’ Mildred turned to John Dee. ‘But has my husband told you Tommy is missing?’

Cecil spluttered his annoyance. ‘He is likely spending his allowance on gaming and wine.’ He smacked a hand on the desk then pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Three days without attending his lessons does not render him missing, Mildred.’

John Dee stood. ‘What is afoot?’

Before Mildred could answer, Cecil cut in again, his voice irritated. ‘My son, Thomas – we call him Tommy. He has gone absent from his studies in Cambridge. His tutors have sent a letter voicing their concern. Apparently, his mentor has not been seen in days either.’ He raised both hands in a display of frustration. ‘Knowing Tommy, he’s off on a whim and paying for both – with my money.’

Mildred sighed. ‘You are harsh towards him, Husband.’

‘With good reason. He is as useless as a kitten pulling a cart.’

Mildred’s voice lowered. ‘Maybe a little more kindness would make him grow to the lion you wish him to be.’ She sniffed. ‘If we have not heard by Monday, then I want John to go to Cambridge.’ She turned to John Dee. ‘You know it well, having been both student and tutor there, John. If anyone can wheedle Tommy from a dark corner, it is you.’ She acknowledged Dee beaming at the compliment and turned back to Margaretta. ‘Come to the nursery and see little Nan. She is two years old now and the light of our lives.’

As the two women crossed the room to the door, Margaretta heard Sir Cecil speak to her master, barely bothering to lower his voice. ‘Tommy may be my son, but he is too often a jackanapes. Our focus must be scouring all tattle from the Lady Elizabeth and not scouring the streets for a fool. Frankly, his pranks are irrelevant right now.’

Margaretta remembered a pale, sad boy, desperate for a father’s love and recognition. Three years ago, he had played a small part in the saving of her master. But it seemed he was as insignificant now, as he was back then.

As they closed the door, the last words she heard were, ‘Elizabeth is heir and must succeed her sister. If the ghost of Seymour and his scandal rises from the grave, it will raise the ambitions of all pretenders to the throne.’ Cecil then hissed, ‘That shadow cannot fall on her again.’

Chapter Four

It was late when the carriage dropped Margaretta and John Dee back at his lodgings in St. Dunstan’s parish. With the house in darkness, they crept through the back door to avoid disturbing Mistress Constable and her husband. Though, it being Thursday, Master Constable would likely be up to his cups after gaming and drinking in the taverns of Leadenhall. He would not hear a gun fired.

Margaretta stepped quietly across the stone floor of the kitchen to light a candle with a taper from the oven. In the corner bed, her brother, Huw, breathed the rhythm of deep sleep. John Dee settled on Mam’s chair by the grate and waited while Margaretta pulled a hunk of bread from a loaf and sliced some cheese.

The far door opened and a grey face peered through. ‘Thought you had left,’ was the plaintive moan. Not even the lilt of her Brecon accent lifted it. ‘Alone and homeless, I believed we were.’

Margaretta tutted. ‘For the love of God, Mam. You knew I was out with the doctor. What could happen?’

The old woman shrugged, sniffed and bent to pick up the cat that was winding around her ankles, before turning back into the room.

‘And do not take that fleabag of a cat into bed,’ hissed Margaretta.

But the door scraped shut and there was just a muffled call of, ‘Cadi is more comfort to me than you.’ Then a pause. ‘The doctor has taken my chair.’

John Dee chortled and winked at Margaretta. ‘Leave her to the fleas, girl.’ Then he immediately shifted to more serious matters. ‘You felt something in Cecil’s office. I saw it. And you were right not to say anything in the carriage home. You have learned well from my discretion.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘Cecil’s rabbits have long ears. But tell me now.’

You scut. It was you who opened your mouth in front of a Spanish wherryman three years ago and led our enemies here. Oh, but like all men, you shape history to your interests. As ever, I let you away with it.

‘Sir Cecil felt fear, anxiety. He recalled the past. Gossip. Talk of dark deeds. An intercepted letter. The name Nancy and a child. He fears loss of the future.’

Dee made a wry smile. ‘I bet he does. He wants Elizabeth on the throne and him at her side.’ The smile turned to a scowl. ‘And his place at court is my single hope of returning to my rightful role – advisor to kings. This body hanging from a tree could flatten all our aspirations with the scandals of the past.’

‘Is a position at court still so important, Doctor? You have a good practice now and are sought out by many for your wisdom.’

Dee looked hard into her eyes. ‘No number of customers could fill the void of our downfall, Margaretta. Do not be naive. My sole mission is to get back the standing, so hard won by my father.’

And so quickly lost by his foolery.

‘So where do we start?’

He jumped up, taking a mouthful of bread and pointing to the door. ‘Come. Let us see who is a part of this. We will scry, Margaretta.’

‘Now?’

‘Yes.’ He nodded at the window. ‘The moon is new and tomorrow we leave early for Hatfield. The stones and cards will tell more under a night sky.’

‘Get the garnet scrying stone and the casket of cards,’ commanded Dee as he settled behind the desk and started to clear a small space between the piles of books, parchments and instruments strewn in front of him.

Margaretta pulled books from the shelf to find the secreted casket of cards. ‘You keep telling me these are playing cards from Europe. But I have never seen them in another house.’

John Dee paused, then flicked his hand as he always did when irritated. ‘It is true. Just that they are usually only pictures of swords, cups, wands and pentacles.’

‘So, why are yours different?’

He tutted. ‘I know the meanings. I had them painted in Louvain.’

‘So, you had cards made into sorcery tools. Will you ever consider the danger you put us in?’

He scowled at her. ‘No time for moral lectures, Margaretta. You are apprentice not priest. Now do your work and get the stone.’

You old scut.

When all were set down, he inspected the stone. ‘Is the crystal moonwashed?’

‘Yes. As I do every new moon. Then I feed them with the full moon,’ assured his assistant as she opened the shutters.

‘You are learning well.’ He leaned forward and held his hands over the garnet glowing blood-red in the moonbeam. Then from the pewter casket he took out the deck of cards and spread them in an arc around the stone. ‘Show me the players,’ he whispered.

Slowly, his hand moved to a card on the right, and he turned it over. ‘The Queen of Swords. The card which speaks of a clever, independent woman who sits alone, but has power and influence. She will fight and defend her right to her place in life.’ He looked up at Margaretta. ‘Do you remember this card from three years ago?’

‘Yes. A woman of great spirit. Strong. Destined for greatness.’ Margaretta paused. ‘Last time it represented Lady Elizabeth.’

‘And so it does again.’ Dee selected another card, turned it. It was a picture of a man hanging in a tree. ‘And here is our body. But the card is upside down. The right way up it would represent a person of self-sacrifice and devotion.’

Margaretta cut in. ‘So, here we have self-serving. With little, or no sacrifice.’

‘That would describe Thomas Seymour, indeed,’ grunted Dee as he placed the card below the Queen of Swords and took a deep breath. He looked at the arc and let his hand hover over the crystal and then the cards. ‘There have to be others involved. Come. Speak to me.’ It seemed an eternity before his hand moved quickly and flicked a card. ‘The Knight of Wands. A man, well-travelled, who protects.’

‘Sir Cecil?’

Dee shook his head. ‘No. The knight always indicates a man of heroism and heartiness. Cecil is a man of snake-like spying.’ He shook his head and tapped the card. ‘We will need to uncover this character. But we know it is someone trying to protect.’ He placed the card under the hanged man and then shot his hand out again. ‘Unlikely they worked alone.’ This time he picked more quickly. The card depicted a man and a woman holding hands under an arc of roses.

Margaretta stared wide eyed. ‘The Lovers? I thought Sir Cecil said she was pure.’

Dee raised his hand to stop her indignation. ‘Do not jump to conclusions too quickly, girl. The Lovers can also mean deep friendship, which would be more if circumstances allowed.’

‘Like you and Mistress Katherine,’ giggled Margaretta. But her mirth was cut short by growls from Dee and sharp instructions to keep her mind on the scrying and not foolish fancies.

He sat back, contemplating the card. ‘I wonder.’ He tapped the card and looked up. ‘This could be Robert Dudley. Elizabeth’s most beloved friend, outside her gentlewomen. They grew up together, faced the Tower together. They still talk together, hunt together.’ He shook his head. ‘People say they are one soul in two bodies.’

Margaretta sighed. ‘Maybe they will marry and be…’

‘No. Never. He is married and below Elizabeth in standing. It cannot be.’ Dee sighed. ‘I was his tutor you know. A good boy – if a little wayward. But he is the son and grandson of a traitor.’

‘Surely, it is not his fault his father tried to put Lady Jane Grey on the throne, instead of Queen Mary.’

‘Not his fault. But he will carry the stain for life. Elizabeth is already pushing the boundary by befriending him.’ Dee leaned back and sighed again. ‘I have no further feeling for pulling. The cards must have spoken all they want.’

But Margaretta shuddered. ‘I feel a tingle in my hand.’

‘Ask the question,’ instructed Dee sharply. ‘Pull a card.’

She leaned forward and held her hand over the arc. It dropped onto the outmost card. ‘The Fool.’ Margaretta frowned. ‘Folly, instability, foolishness. The cause of trouble. But the card always represents a very young man.’

Dee looked up. ‘Seymour would be forty-five years of age by now. Dudley is in his twenties and a knight always has experience.’ They both stared at the card. ‘So, who is the young fool?’ His brow creased. ‘A young fool was spoken of just this evening.’

‘Tommy Cecil.’

Dee batted his hand as if to push away the thought. ‘There can be no connection. No point adding yet another impossibility to this spider’s web.’

Chapter Five

Saturday March 22nd 1558

It was still dark when Margaretta sent Huw to the yard to get logs for the morning fire. As ever, he stepped foot to foot, staring at the floor as she gave instructions. If she moved too close, he would flinch at the horror of someone looking into his eyes. But she only did this if he misbehaved. This morning he was pliable. Better than Mam, who was refusing to leave her bed and scowled under the blanket with the cat cuddled like a child to her breast.

It was not three years since she had purloined it from Mistress Katherine with terrible tales of having to empty its backside and give up her silks to its claws.

As if the thought of the mistress woke her, there was a shout from the hallway for honey tea and another day of playing maid began. Katherine Constable seemed to thicken every day. Her stomacher was now wider than her breasts and her cheeks fell into soft folds around her jowls.

Little wonder, Mistress. Your husband is so often in the cups and belching his next-day misery, that sweetmeats make the only pleasure in your chamber. Yes, your heart still beats for Doctor Dee, but he shows no sign of echoing your feelings. I hear you sigh, and then glare at me for being allowed in his office. But I am no fancy of the heart. Not at all. I am his experiment; his study; his secret weapon as he investigates the troubles of the great and the good. His brain, my instincts. His greatest desire? – to be back at court, walking with the powerful, lauded for his brilliance and paid in due measure. It is a greater yearning than he will have for any woman. But you, Mistress, still sit and sew and wait in hope that one day he just might notice your fluttering.

‘Can I give you a cake with your tea, Mistress Constable?’

‘Yes. And bread – freshly baked… butter too.’ She paused and a small smile came to her face. ‘And Master Constable has used the under-bed pot in the night. It will need emptying.’

This was the normal morning spite, as her mistress rose to another day of disappointment. By mid-morning she would have had her first malmsey wine and would soften a little – back to the sad but kind soul she used to be. Sometimes she would even be pleasant and whisper the memories of the two of them squirreling away the books, papers and scrying stones of John Dee when he was accused of sorcery.

Margaretta nodded. ‘I will see to it, Mistress.’

With the underpots swilled, and the honey tea and food delivered, it was time to knock on the door of John Dee’s office at the top of the stairs. He would have been up before dawn, poring over manuscripts and writing, page by slow page, his first great book, believing it would put him in the centre of scientific thinking and in the grace of Queen Mary. He still hoped she would answer his petition to build the greatest library in the world, and this book would be the first to grace the shelves.

Oh, that magnificent optimism. I hope it never dies.

‘Do you want food, Doctor?’

John Dee barely lifted his head. His face looked paler than normal. ‘Yes… no. Must complete this chapter. The printer expects the whole manuscript by the end of the month. Much to do.’

‘Then you need sustenance. I will bring bread and cheese with a small beer.’

As she shut the door, she heard him call, ‘Do your duties quickly, girl. We are to travel the Great North Road to Hatfield today. We have a strange body to spy.’

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