Free Quintessence Sky by David Walton Page B

Philip spoke no English, and Mary only a little Spanish, they
communicated mostly in Latin, and when that failed, fell back into
French. "I bring you a relic from the chapel of Santiago de
Compostela," Philip said. He took the odd leather pouch from around
his neck and held it out by its chain. "It contains an ancient worm
that once feasted on the flesh of Saint James. From that blessed
flesh, it received such life and health that it has not died in
over a thousand years." He draped the chain around Mary's neck.
"For you. For the health of our son."
    The moment he gave it to her, something
twitched. Ramos wasn't sure what it was, but something in the
corner of his vision had moved. He caught sight of his astrolabe on
the table, and thought maybe it had moved in some subtle way, but
he couldn't tell. Not again, he thought. Not another nova. Then his
eyes drifted to the horoscope, and he saw the mistake.
    It wasn't possible. He didn't make mistakes,
certainly not one so basic as this. Venus would be ascendant in
July, not Mars, as he had written. His eyes darted between paper,
astrolabe, and almanac, trying to find an explanation, but there
was none. The horoscope was wrong.
    Heart hammering, he dipped his pen and drew a
new line across the paper, correcting one he had made before. But
no, that couldn't be right. He consulted his almanac, and found
another discrepancy. Another blunder. But this couldn't be. Either
he had been mad when he made these calculations, or he was going
mad now. Could he have turned to the wrong page in the almanac?
    Angry now, he flipped over the parchment and
began again. He redrew the figures, accounting for the distortion
caused by England's higher latitude. He worked in a fury, finding
mistake after mistake, errors he could not possibly have made. A
very different horoscope formed under his pen.
    By the time he finished, he knew that some
new miracle had happened, not another nova, but something else.
Something far beyond the mathematical understanding of a simple
astronomer-priest. He gazed back up at the king and queen, shaken.
The black pouch rested against the purple and silver of Mary's
dress, tiny and ordinary. Ramos believed in miracles, but he had
never seen one before now. Somehow, at the moment Philip draped
that tiny pouch around Mary's neck, the very lines of force in the
universe had shifted. The sovereign will of God, communicated
through the immutable revolutions of the heavenly spheres, had
changed.
    "I see a child," Ramos said, unable to keep
his voice from trembling. "Your son will live."
     

     
    WHEN the king dismissed him, Ramos returned
to the apartments that had been given him in order to check on
Antonia. He had hired a nurse to sit with her, and the old matron,
three times a grandmother, was kind and gentle. Antonia had eaten
her supper, and was calm for the moment. A half-buried idea that he
would return to find her miraculously healed died, and he cursed
himself for foolish hopes.
    He left again and prowled the halls until he
found Barrosa. He cornered him, snatched the pouch at Barrosa's
neck, and held it in his face.
    "What is this thing? What is happening?"
    "Steady, brother," Barrosa said. "The king
gave his permission to tell you everything. In the morning, I'll .
. ."
    "Morning? Look at me. Look at my hands. They
haven't stopped shaking. My horoscope changed in front of my
eyes. One moment, the lines were in one position, the next moment
they had moved. I'm afraid to go out and look at the stars, because
I don't know what I'll see. If you can explain what's happening,
take pity on me."
    Barrosa glanced up and down the passage. "All
right. I can't explain all of it, but I can explain some. Tell no
one where we go or what you see."
    Whitehall Palace was a labyrinth—hundreds of
sumptuous rooms that sprawled over acres of land in haphazard
arrangement. Secret passages and shortcuts abounded, and Ramos had
heard tales of plots and intrigues hatched in this royal