S.J. Parris - Prophecy

Also by S. J. Parris

Heresy

DOUBLEDAY

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2011 by Stephanie Merritt

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Doubleday, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

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D OUBLEDAY and the DD colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

Originally published in Great Britain by HarperCollins, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers, Limited, London.

Jacket design by Patti Ratchford
Jacket photograph Mark Owen

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Parris, S. J., 1974
Prophecy : a thriller / by S. J. Parris.1st ed.
p. cm.
1. Bruno, Giordano, 15481600Fiction. 2. Elizabeth I, Queen of England, 15331603Fiction. 3. Dee, John, 15271608Fiction. 4. AstrologyFiction. 5. Christian hereticsFiction. 6. Great BritainHistoryElizabeth, 15581603Fiction. 7. London (England)History16th centuryFiction. I. Title.
PR6113.E77P76 2011
823.92dc22 2010037694

eISBN: 978-0-385-53131-3

v3.1

M ORTLAKE , H OUSE OF J OHN D EE ,
S OUTHWEST L ONDON .
3 RD S EPTEMBER , Y EAR OF O UR L ORD 1583

W ithout warning, all the candles in the rooms corners flicker and feint, as if a sudden gust has entered, but the air remains still. At the same moment, the hairs on my arms prickle and stand erect and I shudder; a cold breath descends on us, though outside the day is close. I chance a sideways glance at Doctor Dee; he stands unmoving as marble, his hands clasped as if in prayer, the knuckles of both thumbs pressed anxiously to his lipsor what can be seen of them through his ash-grey beard, which he wears in a point down to his chest in imitation of Merlin, whose heir Dee secretly considers himself. The cunning man, Ned Kelley, kneels on the floor in front of the table of practice with his back to us, eyes fixed on the pale, translucent crystal about the size of a goose egg mounted in fixings of brass and standing upon a square of red silk. The wooden shutters of the study windows have been closed; this business must be conducted in shadow and candlelight. Kelley draws breath like a player about to deliver his prologue, and stretches his arms out wide at shoulder height, in a posture of crucifixion.

Yes he breathes, finally, his voice little more than a whisper. He is here. He beckons to me.

Who? Dee leans forward eagerly, his eyes bright. Who is he?

Kelley waits a moment before answering, his brow creasing as he concentrates his gaze on the stone.

A man of more than mortal height, with skin as dark as polished mahogany. He is dressed head to foot in a white garment, which is torn, and his eyes are of red fire. In his right hand he holds aloft a sword.

Dee snaps his head around then and clutches my arm, staring at me; the shock on his face must be mirrored in my own. He has recognised the description, as have I: the being Kelley sees in the stone matches the first figure of the sign of Aries, as described by the ancient philosopher Hermes Trismegistus. There are thirty-six of these figures, the Egyptian gods of time who rule the divisions of the zodiac and are called by some star demons. There are few scholars in Christendom who could thus identify the figure Kelley sees, and two of them are here in this study in Mortlake. If, indeed, this is what Kelley sees. I say nothing.

What says he? Dee urges.

He holds out a book, Kelley answers.

What manner of book?

An ancient book, with worn covers and pages all of beaten gold. Kelley leans closer to the stone. Wait! He is writing upon it with his forefinger, and the letters are traced in blood.

I want to ask what he has done with the sword while he writes in this bookhas he tucked it under his arm, perhaps?but Dee would not thank me for holding this business lightly. Beside me, he draws in his breath, impatient to hear what the spirit is writing.

XV, Kelley reports, after a moment. He turns to look up at us, then over his right shoulder, his expression perplexed, perhaps expecting Dee to interpret the numerals.

Fifteen, Bruno, Dee whispers, looking again to me for confirmation. I nod, once. The lost fifteenth book of Hermes Trismegistus, the book I had come to England to find, the book I now knew Dee had once held in his hands years earlier, only to be robbed of it violently and lose it again. Could it be? It occurs to me that Kelley must know of his masters obsession with the fifteenth book.

The scryer raises a hand for silence. His eyes do not move from the crystal.

He turns the page. Now he traces it seems yes, he makes a signquickly, fetch me paper and ink!

Dee hurries to bring him the items; Kelley reaches out and flaps his hand impatiently, as if afraid the image will fade before he has time to transcribe it. He takes the quill and, still gazing intently into the stone, sketches the astrological symbol of the planet Jupiter and holds it up for our inspection.

I tense; Dee feels it where his hand still holds my arm, and half turns to look at me with questioning eyebrows. I keep my face empty of expression. The sign of Jupiter is my code, my signature; it replaces my name as the sign that my letters of intelligence are authentic. Only two people in the world know this: myself and Sir Francis Walsingham, Her Majestys principal secretary of state and chief intelligencer. It is a common enough sign in astrology, and coincidence, surely, that Kelley has drawn it; still I regard the back of Kelleys head with increased suspicion.

On the facing page, Kelley continues, he traces another markthis time, the sign of Saturn. This he also draws on his paper, a cross with a curving tail, the quill scratching slowly as if time has thickened while he watches this unfold in the depths of the stone. Dees breathing quickens as he takes the paper and taps it with two fingers.

Jupiter and Saturn. The Great Conjunction. You understand, I think, Bruno? Without waiting for a reply, he turns impatiently to Kelley. Nedwhat does he now, the spirit?

He opens his mouth and motions for me to listen.

Kelley falls silent and does not move. Moments pass, Dee leaning forward eagerly, poised as if held taut on a rope, balanced between wanting to pounce on his scryer and not wishing to crowd him. When Kelley speaks again, his voice is altered; darker, somehow, and he proclaims as if in a trance: All things have grown almost to their fullness. Time itself shall be altered, and strange shall be the wonders perceived. Water shall perish in fire, and a new order shall spring from these.

Here he pauses, gives a great shuddering sigh. Dees grip around my arm tightens. I know what he is thinking. Kelley continues in the same portentous voice: Hell itself grows weary of Earth. At this time shall rise up one who will be called the Son of Perdition, the Master of Error, the Prince of Darkness, and he will delude many by his magic arts, so that fire will seem to come down from Heaven and the sky shall be turned the colour of blood. Empires, kingdoms, principalities, and states shall be overturned, fathers will turn against sons and brothers against brothers, there shall be turbulence among the peoples of the Earth, and the streets of the cities will run with blood. By this you shall know the last days of the old order.