"Well, Mr. Darwin," she said after the tea had been poured, "it seems you've stirred up quite a hornet's nest. Have you not?"
The fiercely bearded man across the table did not answer immediately. He laid a finger on the handle of his cup as if to drink or not to drink was some momentous decision; then he said, "I have simply spoken the truth, ma'am…as I see it."
"Yes; but different people see different truths, don't they? And the things you say are true have upset a great many of my loyal subjects. You are aware there has been…unpleasantness?"
"I know about the riots, ma'am. Several times they have come uncomfortably close to me. And, of course, there have been threats on my life."
"Indeed." Anne lifted a tiny slice of buttered bread and took what she hoped would seem a thoughtful nibble. For some reason, she always enjoyed eating in front of the accused here in the Star Chamber; they themselves never had any appetite at all. "The threats are one reason We invited you here today. Scotland Yard is growing rather weary of protecting you; and Sir Oswald has long pondered whether your life is worth it."
That got the expected reaction—Darwin's finger froze on the cup handle, the color draining away from his face. "I had not realized…" His eyes narrowed. "I perceive, ma'am, that someone will soon make a decision on this issue."
"Exactly," the queen said. "Sir Oswald has turned to the crown for guidance, and now We turn to you." She took another tiny bite of the bread. "It would be good of you to explain your theories—to lay out the train of reasoning that led to your…unsettling public statements."
"It's all laid out in my book, ma'am."
"But your book is for scientists, not queens." Anne set down the bread and allowed herself a small sip of tea. She took her time doing so, but Darwin remained silent. "Please," she said at last. "We wish to make an informed decision."
Darwin grunted…or perhaps it was a hollow chuckle of cynicism. An ill-bred sound in either case. "Very well, Your Majesty." He nodded. "It is simply a matter of history."
"History is seldom simple, Mr. Darwin; but proceed."
"In…1430 something, I forget the exact year, Anton Leeuwenhoek appeared before Supreme Patriarch Septus to discuss the absence of snakes in the bloodstream. You are familiar with that, ma'am?"
"Certainly. It was the pivotal event in the Schism between Our church and the Papists."
"Just so."
Anne could see Darwin itching to leap off his chair and begin prowling about the room, like a professor lecturing to a class of dull-lidded schoolboys. His strained impetuosity amused her; but she hoped he would keep his impulses in check. "Pray continue, Mr. Darwin."
"It is common knowledge that the Patriarch's decision led to a…a deluge, shall we say, of people peering at their own blood through a microscope. Only the upper classes at first, but soon enough it spread to the lower levels of society too. Since the church allowed anyone to look into a microscope without cost, I suppose it was a free source of amusement for the peasantry."
"An opiate for the masses," Anne offered. She rather liked the phrase—Mr. Marx had used it when he had his little visit to the Star Chamber.
"I suppose that must be it," Darwin agreed. "At any rate, the phenomenon far outstripped anything Septus could have foreseen; and even worse for the Patriarchy, it soon divided the church into two camps—those who claimed to see snakes in their blood and those who did not."
"Mr. Darwin, We are well aware of the fundamental difference between Papists and the Redeemed."
"Begging your pardon, ma'am, but I believe the usual historical interpretation is…flawed. It confuses cause and effect."
"How can there be confusion?" Anne asked. "Papists have serpents in their blood; that is apparent to any child looking into a microscope. We Redeemed have no such contaminants; again, that is simple observational fact. The obvious conclusion, Mr. Darwin, is that Christ Herself marked the Papists with Her curse, to show one and all the error of their ways."
"According to the Papists," Darwin reminded her, "the snakes are a sign of God's blessing: a sleeping snake means sin laid to rest."
"Is that what you think, Mr. Darwin?"
"I think it more practical to examine the facts before making any judgment."
"That is why we are here today," Anne said with a pointed glance. "Facts…and judgment. If you could direct yourself to the heart of the matter, Mr. Darwin?"
"The heart of the matter," he repeated. "Of course. I agree that today any microscope will show Papists have snakes in their bloodstream…or as scientists prefer to call them, serpentine analogues, since it is highly unlikely the observed phenomena are actual reptiles—"
"Let us not bandy nomenclature," Anne interrupted. "We accept that the entities in Papist blood are unrelated to cobras and puff adders; but they have been called snakes for centuries, and the name is adequate. Proceed to your point, Mr. Darwin."
"You have just made my point for me, ma'am. Several centuries have passed since the original controversy arose. What we see now may not be what people saw then." He took a deep breath. "If you read the literature of that long-ago time, you find there was great doubt about the snakes, even among the Papists. Serpentine analogues were extremely rare and difficult to discern…unlike the very obvious entities seen today."
"Surely that can be blamed on the equipment," Anne said. "Microscopes of that day were crude contrivances compared to our fine modern instruments."
"That is the usual argument"—Darwin nodded—"but I believe there is a different explanation."
"Yes?"
"My argument, ma'am, is based on my observations of pigeons."
Anne blinked. "Pigeons, Mr. Darwin?" She blinked again. "The birds?" She bit her lip. "The filthy things that perch on statues?"
"Not wild pigeons, Your Majesty, domestic ones. Bred for show. For example, some centuries ago, a squire in Sussex took it into his head to breed a black pigeon from his stock of gray ones."
"Why ever would he want a black pigeon?"
"That remains a mystery to me too, ma'am; but the historical records are clear. He set about the task by selecting pigeons of the darkest gray he could find, and breeding them together. Over many generations, their color grew darker and darker until today, the squire's descendants boast of pigeons as black as coal."
"They boast of that?"
"Incessantly."
Darwin seized up a piece of bread and virtually stuffed it into his mouth. The man had apparently become so engrossed in talking, he had forgotten who sat across the table. Good, Anne thought; he would be less guarded.
"We understand the principles of animal husbandry," Anne said. "We do not, however, see how this pertains to the Papists."
"For the past five centuries, Your Majesty, the Papists have been going through exactly the same process…as have the Redeemed, for that matter. Think, ma'am. In any population, there are numerous chance differences between individuals; the squire's pigeons, for example, had varying shades of gray. If some process of selection chooses to emphasize a particular trait as desirable, excluding other traits as undesirable—if you restrict darker birds to breeding with one another and prevent lighter ones from contributing to the bloodline—the selected characteristic will tend to become more pronounced with each generation."