The Alchemist's Daughter (18 page)
“And so it was that my brother Humphrey set sail in a raging gale from Plymouth harbour, with five ships carrying carpenters, masons, smiths and sundry tradesmen, as well as musicians and Morris dancers to entertain the savage kings. Three of the ships survived to reach the Land of Cod, where they found a pleasant land of green grass and verdant woods.”
“But no silver mansions, or savage kings?”
“None that were recorded. Though there were fish beyond number in the seas. It appears that, thus encouraged, my bold-hearted brother set off southward in search of the great river that would take him to Cathay.
“Alas, Mistress Quince, that river has proved as much a phantom as the spirit Madimi. Humphrey's venture ended, as you well know, in disaster. John Davis has just returned from the last of three long and perilous voyages to the New World; but he has never discovered the passage to Cathay. And when, as rumour has it, the spirit in Kelley's crystal, more strumpet than angel, began to make rude suggestions, Dee and Kelley set off on a tour of the royal houses of Europe, where they remain to this day.”
And that
, thought Sidonie,
is why my father is alchemist to
the Queen, and why I am in Wilton House, wearing lace and
velvet, instead of in Charing Cross, stirring pottage over the fire
.
Hard on the heels of that thought came another. There was much to do in Charing Cross, to ready the cottage for winter. And surely Emma and Sidonie's father, fending for themselves, would by now have driven one another to distraction. It was past time that she went home.
Never weather-beaten sail more willing bent to shore,
Never tired pilgrim's limbs affected slumber more.
â Thomas Campion,
Two Books of Airs
Lord Burleigh had arrived at Wilton House with little fanfare. When Sidonie was summoned to his presence she found him absorbed in a book, but now he marked the place with a ribbon and set it aside.
“You sent for me, my lord?”
“Mistress Quince, how pleasant to see you again. I pray you take a seat.”
Sidonie sat gingerly on the edge of a damask-covered chair.
Burleigh nodded toward the leather-bound volume on the table. “Do you read Cicero, mistress?”
“I fear I do not, my lord. Affairs of state are quite beyond my ken.”
Burleigh smiled, and all at once Sidonie felt more at ease. Lord of the Realm he might be, and confidant of the Queen, but this grave, grey-bearded man in his sober black gown seemed more scholar than courtier.
“All the same, you have performed no small service for your country, Mistress Quince. Her Majesty wishes me to convey her gratitude.”
“You are kind to tell me so, my lord.”
“And she would have you attend her at court, so that she herself may thank you.”
“At court?” Sidonie was thrown suddenly into confusion. “My Lord Burleigh, do not think me insensible of this honour. But I have been long away from my father, and I needs must return to Charing Cross to see how he fares.”
“Nay, Mistress Sidonie, be not alarmed, the Queen does not expect you to ride post haste to London. In any event,” he added with a hint of irony, “at the moment she is herself much occupied with other matters. Do you go home, see to your own affairs, and in due course I will arrange for an invitation to be sent.”
The knot in Sidonie's stomach loosened. Far too much had happened to her of late. She was weary of obligation, of protocol and ceremony; weary of life in this great house, in spite of all its comforts. She longed for her own bed, her own hearthfire. She needed to tend her garden, which by now must be in even worse disrepair, and harvest its fruits for winter. She longed even for the dull housewifely tasks that had once seemed mere distraction from her studies.
“Thank you, my lord,” she said, dipping a half-curtsey; and gratefully made her escape.
Sidonie drew her cloak close round her as she walked with Kit that afternoon through the Wilton gardens. It was a day of gathering cloud and fitful sunlight. A chill wind rattled through the branches of the ornamental trees. They crossed the deserted bowling green and wandered into the topiary garden, lingering among the artfully clipped shapes of elephants and peacocks.
“Mayhap you will be invited to the Accession Day tilts,” said Kit. “That is a great occasion . . . I went once with my father, who had business in Westminster, and when we found ourselves outside Whitehall on Accession Day, Father made up his mind to spend the two shillings for places in the stands. âThough it costs two day's earnings,' he said, âit is such a sight as few men see in a lifetime.'”
“And was it so?” asked Sidonie.
“It was like nothing I had ever imagined â like a gorgeous dream,” Kit said. “The nobles and the gentlemen of the court, dressed in glittering armour, made their entrance in carriages drawn by camels, and lions, and elephants . . . ”
“Real ones? Truly?” interrupted Sidonie.
“Well, perhaps not,” Kit conceded, “I think they may have been horses in disguise, but they were marvellous true to life. But to continue . . . All the servants and lance-bearers were dressed as savages from the Isles of Spice. And there was much sounding of trumpets, and lively music, and a great many romantic speeches addressed to the Queen, who watched with her ladies from a palace window . . . ”
Anxious though Sidonie might be to return to the peaceful life of Charing Cross, to her books and her garden, she felt a flutter of excitement. The life of the palaces and great houses was an exotic otherworld of make-believe, of masques and plays and pageantry, a constant round of pleasure that common folk could scarce imagine. Wilton House had offered her a fleeting taste of that enchanted world. And who, having once visited it, would not wish to return?
“Lord Burleigh mentioned nothing of Accession Day,” she said, a trifle wistfully, “and the seventeenth of November is not so very far off. Perhaps there will be a message waiting at my father's house?”
“Very possibly,” said Kit; though she thought he looked a little apologetic, in case he had raised false hopes.
On the eve of her departure, making her farewells, Sidonie sought out Adrian Gilbert. She found him in the physic garden, helping to prepare the beds for winter. Now that the rampant summer growth had died back she could better observe the harmonious ordering of the garden: four brick-edged squares enclosed in a circle, filled with medicinal plants from the four quarters of the globe.
Seeing Sidonie, Gilbert set down his spade, swept off his hat and made an extravagant bow. Sidonie smiled at this courtly greeting, so at odds with his rough workman's garb.
“Mistress Quince, I am sorry indeed to hear that you intend to leave us.”
“In truth, Master Gilbert, I never meant to bide so long.”
“Still, a pity you cannot be here for the yuletide. I mean us to have mummers, and masques, and music, and all manner of entertainments. Wilton House has been too long in mourning.”
Sidonie smiled. Students of the occult, in her experience, were much like her father, thin and stooped and pale from crouching over dusty volumes in dim lit rooms. Yet this hale, broad shouldered, ruddy man embraced life with a rare exuberance. It was easy to imagine him as the Lord of Misrule, presiding with boisterous good humour over the Twelfth Night revels. Why, it occurred to Sidonie to wonder, had he never married? Had he perhaps decided that marriage and metaphysics were an uneasy mix? As for Sidonie, life with Simon Quince had thoroughly discouraged her from any thought of marrying an occultist.
Lady Mary came out to the gates to see them off. Today she had given up her mourning black, and wore a becoming gown of dark blue velvet.
“Promise me, Sidonie, that if I send my coach you will visit us next summer.” Then, as if sensing Sidonie's hesitation, she added, “If God willing we are still at peace, and all's well with England.”
“I will, my lady.” Though, thought Sidonie, with a pang of unease, who could say what shadows might lie at the scrying crystal's heart, should she gather courage to look into it?
“Safe journey, Sidonie,” said Lady Mary, as she embraced her. “And you, Master Aubrey.” With a hint of mischief in her smile she added, “I entrust this young woman to your care â see that this time no harm befalls her.”
As the coach moved off, Sidonie looked back and saw Lady Mary in her night-blue gown waving from the arched gateway. Though she knew it was only a trick of light and shadow, Sidonie fancied she glimpsed an elegant, ghostly presence hovering at his sister's side.
The coach rocked and jolted over the muddy autumn roads, under leaden skies. Though it was a day to dampen the spirits, with a raw drizzle in the air and mist hanging low over the fields, Sidonie was not in the least downcast. Wrapped in a new woollen cloak from the Countess's wardrobe, with a fur rug over her lap and Kit half-dozing at her side, she leaned back at her ease against the velvet cushions.
What strange twists and turns life takes
, she thought. Who could have foretold at the beginning, how this foolhardy adventure of hers would end?
She gazed out the window at shorn grey fields and dripping woods, until eventually sleep overtook her. Dreaming, she revisited the gardens of Wilton House, now mysteriously transformed. Here were undiscovered grottoes, fountains, mazes, walkways, artful arrangements of shape and colour that mirrored in small the grand architecture of the cosmos. And at the gardens' outermost edge, where artifice gave way to Wilderness, stood the Lord of Misrule in motley garb and jester's bells. But his face was not Adrian Gilbert's. This man was thin and harsh-countenanced, and he had the burning eyes of a zealot.
Sidonie woke abruptly as the coach lurched over a rut, and found that she had fallen asleep with her head resting on Kit's shoulder. Discomposed, she drew herself primly upright. Kit smiled and put out a hand to straighten her cap, which had drifted askew. “Look there,” he said, turning to the window. “There is Westminster Gate, just ahead. We'll be safe home before nightfall â once again plain Kit and Sidonie, with a deal of explaining to do.”