LUCY’S STRESS LEVELS WERE RISING; NOT GOOD FOR HER HEART. BUT WHAT help was there for it? She had to be at Cadogan Pier at five o’clock. It was already four-thirty, and she was still at home with her hair unfinished, shoes undecided.
“Get it together, girl,” she told herself firmly. “This time it’s a proper date with Alex Stafford. Why should that worry you?”
It had been eleven days ago, first thing on a Monday morning: the phone call that followed the appointment with Mr. Denham. He had quite casually invited her out for an express lunch, ostensibly to have an informal chat about her problems settling with the medication, but beyond a few minutes spent on steroids and mood swings, they hadn’t talked shop at all. In many ways this lunch had been her first venture back into the real world. It was the “please call me Alex” lunch; and she felt it crossed the line, surely, between work and a touch of play? She thought it a success. He’d sat, smiled, listened attentively to her, revealed nothing about himself. But it was a sociable starting point.
She’d thought he had felt a little interest in her, possibly, from the very beginning; but it was hard to be certain. Alex was the kind of doctor who scored excellence in his bedside manner, but he was impossible to read personally. She noticed that, if anything, he said less to her than to others—seemed a fraction shyer, or perhaps hesitant, which she read as mild attraction. But then, this might be precisely because she had no obvious boyfriend who came to visit, nor family—just Grace and a string of joking colleagues, half of them gay. Perhaps he wanted to show that he was not being overfriendly—a warning not to misinterpret his excellent care of her as his patient, and to define the limits of their professional relationship. That made most sense, in fact. Until she considered those flowers he’d brought her after her operation. So the barometer swung the other way, and she considered afresh whether she’d imagined more in his looks than there was to find.
Then the impasse broke with the invitation, at half-past nine on Monday, October 20: “Lucy, Courtney Denham asked me to have a word with you about your medicine, which gives me the perfect excuse to ask you if you’d like a bite of lunch? I don’t have a lot of time, I’m afraid, but we could find some place away from the hospital where we can rely on the kitchen’s standards of hygiene? I know a place close by that’s perfect.” His manner was so absurdly easy, and she had surprised herself how quickly she’d accepted, how pleased she was to be asked. Lucy so rarely risked getting too involved with anyone: she was the girl of countless friends across the globe, and several male admirers—but the lover of not a one of them. Affairs were kept as flings, emotions always held at bay. As soon as anything looked serious, she’d run a mile. But then, he was her doctor, so she satisfied herself quickly that involvement was impossible and a lunch date solidly safe.
So the quick bite was taken in the lovely garden at Dan’s Restaurant on Sydney Street, five minutes from the Brompton, on a perfect October, sunshine day: two simple courses with mineral water. And, she recalled, the sound of her own voice bubbling through some satirical vignettes about her life and her experiences in South America, which seemed to keep him entertained. Highly unusual for her to open up, but she’d been witty, she knew.
He’d politely dropped her back to her own front door, conversation flowing gently all the way. Then: nothing. Days passed. She kept an ear for the phone, but it was irritatingly silent. She recognized he had to observe a professional distance between them: he was still one of her physicians. He had less to do for her now, other than monitor her antibiotics and watch for rejection, but it was still a professional bond, with parameters, and it came with a reality check. It made sense to forget him.
But she couldn’t. She consulted Grace. Thinking back, she revised her dismissive description of a working lunch and told her friend they had enjoyed a lively conversation for an hour, and a lot of relaxed laughter; though Alex had told her nothing personal about himself, she admitted. Grace cautioned her: this didn’t bode well to her. Usually the woman listened while the man strutted his stuff. And yes, it was different, Lucy agreed, but she had an inkling that was just what made this man attractive. She was intrigued, and it didn’t help that he was physically so appealing, tantalizingly divorced with a young son. Far too much trouble, she decided. As soon as she could return to work, she’d forget him in a day, she contented herself.
And then suddenly there was Alex, after nine days of silence, inviting her quite openly into a situation that involved his colleagues. It was the hospitals’ Halloween party. Apart from a get-together for the staff of both sister hospitals, it was also a fund-raiser. He had cautioned her not to expect the Chelsea Arts Ball. Only staff, students, and friends would get a ticket, but it did raise money for the hospitals, and if she could bring her best sense of humor—a must, apparently—it was a performance he had to attend, and he would enjoy it much more if she could join him.
“I promise to look after you properly,” he’d said. “These kind of do’s can get a little exuberant when the crowd becomes overrefreshed, as Amel reminded me when I mentioned I’d like to invite you.”
Concerned not to overtax the fledgling’s health, he’d assured her it was for a couple of hours only—a pleasure boat going up the Thames, the duration limited by tide, and time of hire. He’d apologized that she’d have to meet him there as he would be running straight from work at Harefield that day; but he would see her home after a quiet supper—if she wasn’t too tired. “Oh…it’s a themed party—did I say that? ‘The Spirits of the Dead from the Past.’ You’ll need some kind of costume, if you can manage it.”
Lucy had put down the phone almost wordlessly—couldn’t find a single throwaway line. In two days? Nor would he reveal what he was wearing, and she was anxious not to clash unintentionally with him. So with Grace’s help, she had settled on Ariadne—she with the threads, and the thing for a clever prince. Grace mischievously thought it was appropriate. She suggested a classical costume could be draped to disguise the worst of her scars, but still show off her friend’s best physical attributes—her beautiful dark Greco-Roman hair and face, long neck, and petite, feminine body.
“Isn’t that the whole idea?” Grace had pointed out drily.
Now, in something of a panic dictated by the clock, she adjusted her final pins and pearled clips: two tendrils of black hair curled either side of her face, the rest pulled up in a winding plait over her head, emphasizing her lovely neck and shoulders. The divided cream silk of the classical costume, which she had thrown together with considerable artistry in record time, hinted discreetly at her breasts. She was a talented seamstress. The silk jersey flowed over her reflection, giving a liquid elegance to the apparition, and Grace pronounced it magical. In spite of the need for haste, Lucy had sewn parts of herself into the dress, finishing it with baroque pearls. This was not only for Alex, but for something she could hardly express. Yet now that the “proper date” was on her, she felt strangely inert, regarding her own face in the mirror.
“Wear the Jimmy Choos, Lucy.” Grace woke her abruptly from the spell. “Since your doctor is a little over six feet tall, they’ll lend you the height you need, you’ll look like a movie star, and you can still walk in them.” Her friend took control and reassured Lucy’s nervous visage that she looked quite beautiful: “But get a leg on, or there is no slipper on earth that can save Cinderella from utterly missing the whole occasion.”
Lucy glanced at her watch with horror, grabbed her wrap and bag, and almost sprinted down the stairs out into Prince of Wales Drive. She thought of her racing heart and slowed down just a touch—thinking she’d give the doctors an immediate crisis instead of a night off. She hoped a taxi would somehow just appear or she’d be chronically late.
Her wishes were horses, and a taxi—white to match her outfit—made a neat U-turn on Chelsea Embankment and dropped her at the pier head. She hesitated on the pavement. At the gate stood the Grim Reaper. The costume was alarmingly vivid in detail; it looked almost as if its wearer had also come straight from work—calling the dead in another world. She felt a curious sense of dread.
Lucy jumped as a rich voice suddenly spoke behind her: “Who is this goddess?” She turned to find a classic Venetian Carnevale figure—with an exquisite mask of gold leaf rising to a crown, wrought from lacquered music paper, borne on a stick. She was genuinely surprised when it dropped to reveal a smiling Alex. He looked breathtaking, almost Byronic, which she thought utterly out of character. His hair had grown a shade longer and very slightly curlier, and he was sporting a hint of stubble. She liked it: it really suited him, and it was a new person for her to become acquainted with, a new facet of his character. Was this the immaculate Alex off duty; or was it only affected to enhance his role for the evening?
He had been concentrating on the vision of Lucy, while she made these mental adjustments to his changed physiognomy. He took his time; then, without comment besides a deep, appreciative smile, he closed his hand over hers, and led her toward the Grim Reaper.
“Tickets for the boat ride to Hades, quickly please, Dr. Stafford…and Goddess. We’re about to sail, and half of them on board are ripped already.” The cloaked figure glanced at the tickets. “You’ll find a band in the saloon on the right, and drinks in the bar to the left, or under the canopy, outside on the forward deck, up the stairs through the bar. Enjoy your evening.”
Lucy was amused by Death’s chirpy informativeness, but as they stepped off the gangway onto the boat, two masked figures dressed as spirits sprang at them, blocking their progress.
“A thousand pardons, good souls, but you must pay the ferryman for this voyage. To the realms of the dead.” The man held out a hand.
Alex pulled a ten-pound note from his pocket and proffered it to the spirit. His female companion took the note, holding it between her long white fingers. She rubbed the fingers of the other hand over it, blew magically, and it disappeared. She bowed with a grand gesture.
“Perhaps a Troilus for this Cressida, good doctor?” she begged.
Alex reached into his pocket again, and this time took out a five-pound note. “More an Elizabeth Fry for your Charles Darwin.” He grinned as they moved forward.
“True, sir, but while we beggars do have to move with the times, there’s something lost in the translation, don’t you agree?” Alex laughed. “It is for a good cause, as you know. So I thank you, good sir.”
“Left to drink, right to dance?” Alex offered Lucy the choice as they hovered in the passageway between the halls.
“Let’s take a peek.”
She pulled open the main door. The wall of noise escaped for a moment, and the room looked like a reproduction of Dante’s Inferno. Through a haze of artificial smoke, costumed figures of every age and description gyrated. Arms and legs waved in a kind of frieze. Real skeletons stood on either side of the door. The participants seemed to be waving body parts over their heads as the whole vision throbbed to some primordial beat. Lucy had a distinct impression that the props were not from any theatrical hire place, but she couldn’t hear enough of her own voice to ask Alex. She’d heard about the students’ jokes and the housemen’s macabre humor on these occasions: she’d leave it there.
Alex—with mock horror—firmly closed the door to the dance hall, sealing in most of the noise. “Left to drinks!” They nodded agreement, turned to the other door, and entered the bar.
The room was packed with costumed characters, with a bar set up at one end. Its attendants were a wild-haired Dr. Frankenstein and a collection of his followers. The back of the bar was set out like the inside of an anatomy lab. There were rows of bell jars, mixed with chemical retorts, colored flasks, and other apparatus that exhibited specimens of brains, livers, kidneys, hands, feet, all preserved in formalin.
“Damien Hirst would be right at home here,” Lucy remarked as they crushed forward.
“Too close to the bone, do you think?” Alex was confident Lucy’s ironic humor could go the distance; but it was certainly not for the fainthearted.
“Hello, Dr. Stafford.” Frankenstein spoke. “Maybe you and your guest would be happier upstairs? I just saw the honorable Azziz go up, talking to an administrator, ten minutes ago. Take the stair over there.” He gesticulated with his right elbow as he opened two beer bottles with one hand, then dextrously poured all four bottles that he was holding in both hands into four glasses. “Six pounds, please.” He addressed Queen Elizabeth with flaming red hair, as she dug in her purse.
“Bloody uncomfortable, this corset, i’n it,” the queen complained to Alex in a strong South London accent, as she paid and swept the glasses from the bar in both of her hands, plowing back through the crowd.
“I wouldn’t know,” Dr. Frankenstein commented to no one in particular; but he made eye contact with Alex, whose face crumpled into laughter. Frankenstein rendered up a half-bottle of champagne for the two of them and some fresh orange juice, and waved them up. As he had no free hand, Lucy hooked hers securely behind Alex’s upper arm and they pushed across the bar floor, up to the fresh evening air.
The boat was already progressing up the river in the dusk as they emerged at the top into what appeared to be, at first glance, a gathering of the medical aristocracy of London and their friends, circa 1750. The effect on Lucy was almost surreal. After a moment she recognized some of the characters before her from endless trips to one hospital or the other. There were about fifty people standing or sitting. Three fresh-complexioned nurses, in long flowing dresses, giggled at Dr. Stafford. The Three Graces, Lucy mused. Then they took in Lucy’s appearance behind him, and turned away, resigned, mingling with a group of young housemen. The registrars made small talk with the younger female doctors, and the wives watched one or two of the housemen. The senior staff gravitated toward the administrative heads and board members. The whole scene had a kind of unnatural naturalness about it; a costumed period quadrille.
Odd. No Jane Cook. Lucy could see she was missing. She whispered something to Alex. “Minding the shop,” he explained. “Otherwise she’d be here. She’s loyal to the hospital first and last, but she’ll be sorry not to be able to fraternize with Amel off duty. He’s her hero.”
“Mine too. We all need them, you know.”
Outdoor heaters warmed an area of tables and chairs, which was covered with an awning and surrounded with clear plastic screens keeping the heat in while affording a panoramic view of the passing river. The macabre decorations in their most obscene forms seemed to have failed to climb the stairs. Amel, absurdly dressed as Scott of the Antarctic, was standing at the edge of the deck deep in conversation with two women—a tall, willowy, dark one, and a curvaceous but equally eye-catching blonde. Alex and Lucy edged their way across, and Amel greeted them warmly.
“The Great Alexander. Strange you didn’t wear something Macedonian. I am so glad you have come amongst us. And your radiant companion, Lucy. How lovely you are. I am not at all surprised, but entirely enchanted.” He took her delicate hand in both of his, looked at her properly, and she felt the sincerity of his compliment. “Please, say hello. These beautiful ladies are also eminent doctors—Zarina Anwar and Angelica LeRoy, leading surgeons both—though we don’t often let them out of Harefield! They assisted Mr. Denham and me in your transplant. Ladies, six weeks on and in a form more collected than you first met with, may I now present Lucy King, television documentary maker.”
Lucy’s eyes widened in awe at the two women before her—the one dark, cool, and refined, with immaculate nails; the other blond, smiling, and vivacious.
“Lucy, you seem surprised? Good as I may be, I could never concentrate alone for so long—it was almost eight hours with you—so I allow my alter egos to take over at certain specified moments and do some little things that they do better than I. Angelica executes the neatest little sutures.”
Angelica, who looked like a slightly older, blond version of Scarlett O’Hara, held out her hand. She noticed Lucy was admiring her lavish outfit. “Do you like the dress? I must say, I just love this period. This kind of thing reminds me so much of home.”
“Home?”
“Why, yes, you know, Mardi Gras. New Orleans is my family home.” Lucy was enchanted by the honeyed voice that made the place of her birth into one elongated syllable. “I have just arrived on a year’s exchange to have the opportunity to work with Mr. Azziz. One of the great artists in this field. He seems to bring something more, something ‘other’ to his work, which made me want to come see. Don’t you think so, Mr. Stafford? Oops! Sorry, Dr. Stafford?”
Eavesdropping on their conversation from a neighboring group was the chief administrator—clearly butter in Angelica’s hands—who now came gallantly to her rescue. “Don’t worry, Angelica. Only the Royal College of Surgeons can understand the mysteries of the ‘Misters’ as opposed to the ‘Doctors.’ I still get it wrong.”
Alex laughed and nodded his agreement. He couldn’t explain it to his friends, who thought it must be proper to address him as “Mister” by now, never mind to a baffled American colleague. “Please, just ‘Alex,’ Angelica. But to answer your question, yes, I really do think Allah is pleased when Amel puts on his surgical gown and goes into battle in the operating room.”
Lucy couldn’t gauge Alex’s tone, but Amel smiled broadly at him. “Mock me not, young Stafford. I try not to forget that you are one of the People of the Book—though there are those who forget this decree for respect in the world today. Of course, I haven’t decided whether to believe that you are really an unbeliever yet, so I will reserve this position and accord you respect—which I do, willingly. You have earned it, in any case. In every way.”
He then turned with the whole force of his attention to Lucy again. “My dear Lucy, how lovely it really is for us to see you here as one of us tonight, and looking so healthy. Let me take your shawl. You won’t need it just yet: it’s as warm as a summer evening, with the heaters on. At least for now.”
“Thank you.”
Lucy understood intuitively that Amel was trying to help her dissolve the divide between patient and doctor; but she responded in a somewhat subdued manner; she shed her wrap and gave it to her surgeon, who draped it on a chair. Alex had quickly been drawn into a conversation with the six-foot-tall Zarina, as though they had picked up on something serious from earlier in the day, but he tugged Lucy gently toward them to try to include her. She appreciated the gesture, and listened and smiled for some time, putting in answers to questions she was prompted with; she felt surprisingly shy, though, and apart from the group. She observed the subtle interplay of relationships that passed among all of these people, and felt out of her depth. Their lives existed in a kind of rarefied bubble, she thought, which displayed the entire panoply of human behavior. Perhaps not that different from her TV world, but with a different cast. Would she ever get back to work? The thought trailed across her mind, while she was at sea with a new social dynamic here. Well, at least she was still on the planet, thanks to this gathering.
“Lucy.” She heard her name. “Lucy, do you know the river?” It was Courtney Denham, with his melodic Trinidadian accent. He was standing close by with his wife, listening to the exchanges, observing her insecurity. He looked arresting as Othello.
“Hello.” She was relieved by his attention, and slipped away from Alex for a moment. “No, not very well.” She wasn’t sure what to call him off duty. She still saw him professionally on a weekly basis. “But I should. I’ve lived here long enough. Isn’t this where the Oxford and Cambridge Boat Race takes place?”
“Not bad for a colonial. Yes, from the bridge we passed under a while ago at Hammersmith, past the Eyot at Chiswick up there. Catherine, my wife.” He broke off and introduced his Desdemona, who was a full-figured and sexy woman as tall as her husband. She smiled back with energy at Lucy.
“Courtney has mentioned you to me, Lucy.”
“We live just behind those trees, off Castelnau, in Barnes,” her doctor continued. “Then we will come onto Mortlake shortly.”
They all three chattered without formality. If Lucy was concerned that she might have crossed the professional line with them, she found she needn’t have worried. She followed Courtney’s finger picking out the landscape for some time, until his commentary was interrupted when the boat lurched unexpectedly. Everyone steadied themselves, and a champagne bucket and glasses collapsed onto the deck. The boat swung sharply toward the shoreline, the prow dipping as the engines were thrust into reverse for a second. The klaxon sounded three warning blasts, which made Lucy jump and the entire assembly turn to see the cause of the disturbance as they regained their balance. The sight from the upper deck caused a blanket of silence to descend over the revelers. A barge appeared from under the bows of their boat. It was one of the most beautiful vessels Lucy had seen, perfect in every detail, sleek, in red and gold. It elicited sighs and expressions of wonder from the Three Graces.
Even in amber-streaked light, Lucy could see its occupants with unusual clarity. Two rows of trumpeters lined the rails of the boat below them; the oarsmen pulled hard to bring the barge clear of the wake made by the hired boat, as it took evasive action. A gold-trimmed canopy sheltered a small gathering of people dressed as noblemen. One, resplendent above the others, stood out from the cluster; and beside him was a man in a dark robe with a chain of office.
A film scene, her professional eye told her; but the detail was fantastic. The cost must have been almost beyond the reach of even an expensive Hollywood production. What was this barge doing here on the Thames at Halloween? Perhaps the Italian ambassador was having a Venetian Carnival of his own. Or young celebrities? No one she recognized. There it was, on the river, watched by maybe two hundred people, blissfully unaware of the mayhem it was causing by cutting a swathe through the waters under the other craft. Mind you, most of the hospital staff were fast becoming so inebriated they wouldn’t remember what day of the week it was in the morning. All these hangovers in a good cause—she could hear Alex jesting about it, and giggled: then she shuddered suddenly. What was she looking at?
The dance lounge doors now opened below, as some of the dancers rushed to see what was happening from the upper decks. The noise levels escalated a hundredfold, at least in Lucy’s mind. Cutting clearly above everything else was the clarion blast of trumpets. A trumpet fanfare. She could hear it clearly across the modest distance between the two boats.
“What a Halloween outing,” remarked a camp South African voice to her right.
“It can’t be that, it looks too slick. So cinematic,” responded his partner.
“An opera, darling. There’s no Cecil B. alongside. Wish that was me on there. Those divine costumes. And just dwell on that gorgeous vision with the cloak over his shoulder. Risqué as Lord Byron. Bet he goes off with a bang!”
“Well, they’ve upstaged us,” was the rejoinder.
“Let’s get some canapés. Ooh, isn’t your dress gorgeous, sweetie.” The first voice drooled at Lucy as they flounced off.
Lucy hadn’t taken in their remarks, nor noticed that Alex had moved just behind her. Her mind and her entire being were focused on the group on the barge. They, in their turn, stared back—right at her, she thought—their eyes and faces riveted on Lucy and the boat. A dark, velvet-robed man held Lucy’s gaze magnetically. They were like parted friends. For an eternity of seconds they locked together, unable to free themselves.
He was heavily accented when he spoke, as the magnificent barge came almost abreast of the gunwales of her boat. She could smell an exotic mix: roses, and limes, as well as cats and drains and dinners. Bizarre. She heard the words toll from him like a rounded bell: “Sator Arepo Tenet Opera Rotas.”
He pronounced them in her mind as clearly as if he was standing beside her. The two vessels swung past each other and on at speed, sweeping through the uneven water levels that momentarily brought the Scylla to the Thames. There was a sucking, eddying current between the two boats; then they were parted by the moving tide. The barge straightened and headed for what Lucy perceived in a descending darkness to be a set of steps on the foreshore, with a garden, and a lane just visible between some houses leading toward a church further inland.
Lucy’s heart thumped, actually thudded; her immediate world sounded hollow, as when your head dips under water, with a resounding echo filling in the space. The people on her boat appeared in limbo, though she could feel the heat of Alex’s physical presence somewhere close to her. She could see clearly to the shoreline. A large bearded man, dressed like a robed academic, followed by others, came running through the garden, and the occupants of the barge began to spill onto the steps. The clarion call came again, but now it clanged instead of ringing out sweetly, like a cracked church bell. What an astonishing retinue—an amazing party. They were all in perfect period costume, the trumpeters in their bright red still sounding a fanfare; and the robed professorial man bowed before the princely being who had been on the barge. The foreign man—a monk, perhaps, though more grandly attired—with whom she had locked eyes, disembarked, as did several finely clad noblemen, and a number of other people of seemingly less importance. They turned back toward the river for a second, saluting her discreetly, before moving across the grass in the disappearing light.
On her boat the hush gradually lifted; conversation leaked out in every quarter as to what all had witnessed. “Lavish costume party,” one voice offered. “Stunning! Someone’s really gone to a lot of trouble to get it right,” said another. Someone else sounded unnerved with the comment: “Sinister, if you ask me. Like spies watching us all.” The noise flowed and then ebbed again, as the dancers returned inside, opening and then closing the doors behind them.
The boat had traveled to the end of its upstream journey, turned, and headed back downriver. Lucy was speechless, and Catherine Denham tilted her head pensively to one side. They exchanged sympathetic looks, but no words.
“Seems like they came right from Hampton Court Palace,” Angelica said to a preoccupied-looking Zarina. The speaker was like a delighted child who’d witnessed a special privilege. “Through the crack in time that’s supposed to link the worlds of the living and the dead.”
“Twickenham Studios, without question,” Zarina insisted.
“It was from Oxford, actually,” Lucy confided only to herself.
Alex and Amel had broken right away from their clique, and stood on either side of Lucy as she perched, glued to the rail, staring across the darkened water, studying the river’s edge for signs of the red-gold barge and the stairs onto which its passengers had alighted.
Alex looked through everything, everyone, repeating the strange words he’d seen with Simon, just a fortnight earlier: “Sator Arepo…” He placed a gentle hand that radiated heat onto Lucy’s back, then quickly reached her wrap and tucked it around her shoulders, sensing her shivering. “‘The moving finger writes,’” he suggested quietly, and Amel nodded contemplatively.
No one spoke further. As the boat traversed Mortlake Reach, they were all engaged in their own thoughts. There was the spire of St. Mary’s, Mortlake, set behind a row of cottages, though under the deeper shroud of darkness they couldn’t pick out the houses they had seen a short time ago. Warehouses stood; a pub; a pretty Georgian building. But the great barge, the stairs, and the people, had been swallowed by the night.
JUNE 15, 1583, MORTLAKE
THE QUEEN’S ROYAL BARGE IS SWINGING ACROSS THE RISING TIDE OF THE Thames and heading toward the steps at Mortlake Reach. Shouts and cries can be heard from the occupants of the barge, as it wallows momentarily in the ripe currents created by the other, strange vessel. An autumn wind, it seems, has disturbed their June day. The river is always awash with traffic; but ordinary mortals should be steering clear of the Queen’s own craft.
Signor Bruno silences them: “She is no mortal. She has been through the realms of the dead. A goddess. An angel of light. Lucina—the light giver.” His thick Italian accent pronounces the English words with marked clarity. He signals to someone hurrying to greet them.
A tall man, slender and handsome, with a fair face and a tapering beard, appears in a pale artist’s robe with wide hanging sleeves at the water’s edge. He is followed by his wife and servants and a tangle of children, who are scurrying across the garden and down between the houses and outbuildings toward the embankment steps. He has been hoping that the royal barge would stop on its return journey from Oxford to London. The fanfare of the royal trumpeters announces the arrival of his Royal Highness, Lord Albert Laski, Palatine of Sieradz, with his charismatic friend and pupil, the courtier Sir Philip Sidney, and their other companions. His hopes are realized.
John Dee has been alert to the great debates that have been taking place at Oxford over the past few days. Rumors of them have been swirling down the river with the current. Now, Dr. Dee is curious to meet the infamous Italian monk, Giordano Bruno, who has thrown the university into turmoil by propounding a series of scientific and philosophical theses that Dee believes are beyond the area of understanding—and therefore acceptability—of the conservative university fathers whom Bruno has called “pedants.” “A juggler,” they have called Bruno in their turn; but sterner charges of heresy and blasphemy are also being leveled against the man. He has ideas about the immortality of the soul and the doctrine of reincarnation, as well as talk of other solar systems and the suns—many suns—being self-luminous, the planets merely a reflection of that light. Copernicus’s theory is heliocentric—the sun at the center of all; Bruno talks of a theocentric universe—God at the center of all. Dee has been taken with his ideas: that we should look for God in Nature, in the light of the Sun, in the beauty of all that springs from the earth. “We ourselves,” he has said recently to friends, “and the things we call our own, come, vanish, and return again.” It is a powerful and compelling idea—a little strange, perhaps? And yet, from what Dee can gather, Bruno’s work is also closely within the area of his own study, which he wants to explore further.
“Great Prince, you are come to do me honor, for which God be praised.” Dee’s bow is deep and elegant before the velvet-clad man. “Lords and gentlemen, you are welcome to my cottage and my house of books.” He addresses now particularly the arresting young courtier, who bows gracefully in his turn, then clasps his own hands very warmly to those of his host and longtime tutor in a less formal greeting. The two men turn briefly to look out across the Thames.
Dr. Dee now studies the small, dark man from Naples. Unconcerned with social courtesies, however, and much preoccupied with the river itself, the Italian asks Dee simply: “You have just seen? The dark beauty?”
The old man is nodding slowly, deep in thought, following the expanse of the river, where the torch-lit boat, which has only just preceded the arrival of his friends, is already receding from sight. A haunting vessel, he decides. He turns back to his guest, grasping his hand. “Signor Bruno. ’Tis strange, this vision. Yet devils may tempt, through spirits seeming light.”
Signor Bruno is unperturbed. “Though she is dark, she is the truest fair. The cabbalistic tree teaches us through Kether that the source of Light guides our intentions and activities. Did you not hear her? She is the breeze that breathes upon Apollo’s lute. When love shall speak, so shall the gods together; and they make heaven attend their harmony. Sator Arepo Tenet Opera Rotas.”
“God holds the wheel of creation in his hands.” Dee completes the words in English. “And what an exceptional, complex, marvelous world it is.”
They turn together and walk in concert with their party across the lawns toward the house.
“And she is celestial,” Bruno whispers, turning back one time to search for the vanishing apparition.