Darkness Divined (Dark Devices)

by Gregory House

  It made no difference to the attack. The Second Hauler whipped the blade out and used his fist to parry the attempted grasp by the flailing hand. The rest of the body now was half free of its shroud, shrugging it off like the worn skin of a snake

  A gap in the clouds spilt a beam of pale light down upon the struggle. The Second Hauler stepped back and cursed. Her damned dead eyes were open and he could hear strangled guttural moans leaking from the slashed throat. According to his enemies, he was a fellow rich in the experience and practice of depravity. While it held some truth as he’d sneeringly concede, this situation was well past even the most fevered imaginings of his rivals. He just wished right now he’d been afflicted with maybe, oh a lesser sin, like buggering a priest or pissing in the Cardinal’s wine—though from the clerics he’d seen at court, that was more like a brief catalogue of their lesser habits.

  Pulling back the useless dagger he was left with a problem. How do you slay the dead? The damned corpse’s hand was still fastened at his collar. That stab hadn’t diminished the grip in the least. The only thing in his favour was that in its struggles, the corpse had tangled the winding sheet around its legs. Otherwise…

  He’d faced many opponents. Some had been too stubborn to know they were beaten and had required inventive crippling. The usual strikes to neck, head or stomach were out. If that gaping wound across her throat hadn’t kept her safely dead, neither would another.

  The Second Hauler needed an alternate strategy. If she managed to get her hands around his throat again…no, the first time on the bed was enough warning. He’d been unprepared, relaxed and sated from their love play, then the sudden attack. His neck still ached from her all too strenuous attempts. His confessor, Father Wade, no doubt would gabble on about seeking the Lord’s aid and prattle on about prayers, relics and the blessed sacraments. Well he didn’t have any. Nor did the gold cross around his throat hinder her efforts at throttling him. All that was pretty moot anyway. His belief in the Holy Mother Church had never been that great, much to the despair of his mother. So short of spiritual succour, he’d opt for the more mundane means of survival.

  A blocking move with the forearm that he’d picked up from old Chandos managed to dislodge the hand from his neck and provided a moment to step back. A usually quiet voice by his soul, his own fallen angel, was still screaming to run. Here he was facing some fiend–possessed, dead punk and his bowels felt loose enough to drench his hose in a stream of liquid turds. But to be so terrified that he ran like his worthless, gibbering servant—by Christ’s blood no. It was going to end here!

  Having made his decision, the Second Hauler took the offered time and tilted to the left, bringing his right side forward in a combat stance. He then dropped his dagger down into a lower guard position as he weighted up his opponent. The corpse had finally struggled free of the shroud, and as if animated like a mummer’s puppet, straightened up and swung towards him. The gaping slit in the throat still emitted wheezing rumbles. Even in the limited moonlight the Second Hauler could see her lips and jaw moving. Whether it was speech or a scream, he couldn’t say.

  As the figure lurched towards him the Second Hauler felt his stomach roil in a prelude to a gut emptying puke. He clenched his teeth tight. He was the master of his body unlike this poor girl. The moonlight spilled over her face and shoulders creating softened highlights and deep shadows in the darkness. Her skin had lost that glowing warmth and sheen that once drew him to stroke the loveliness of her breasts. Now it was as cold and starkly white as tomb marble.

  He took another pace back and shook his head. This wasn’t his sweet bed companion of an hour ago. It was dead flesh animated by some dark power and she was trying to kill him.

  Well dead or not he was a knight, trained by the best teachers in the kingdom, veterans of the battles that had first put, and then kept the King’s father, Henry Tudor, on the throne. Whether they’d faced a horror like this was debatable. But they’d all been unanimous in the fact that even the most skilled opponent had vulnerabilities. All one had to do was live long enough to find them. The Second Hauler yielded one more pace as he watched the steady advance of the corpse. How she moved really was exactly like a puppet, that strange disjointedness of her steps. Then his patron saint shone upon him the light of knowledge and he gave a hard toothed grin. He knew what to do!

  Moving to the attack he closed the distance rapidly and swung up his left arm in a shielding blow that knocked the corpse off balance. As soon as those clawed hands had been deflected, he lashed upward with the dagger, not aiming for any vital organ. Instead his thrust hit the cruck of her left elbow and the sharp blade easily sliced through the muscle and sinew. The Second Hauler spun half around as he stepped past his assailant. The corpse apparently disorientated by the assault slowly turned to face him. He gave it a grim smile. His tactic had worked. After all what was a puppet without its strings? And here the left arm flopped uselessly, unstrung by his slash. Yes, at last he had a chance against the dead! Even his fallen angel had to reluctantly agree he’d live past the night.

  The next attack was a repeat of the first, this time aimed at the corpse’s right arm. The gaping slash at the throat wheezed what could have been a scream as that limb flopped unstrung. A few well–placed kicks had the corpse back on the ground where he quickly slit the leg sinews as if jointing a deer after the chase. Then avoiding the gnashing teeth, he trussed up the twitching and shuddering corpse as before, and tensioned the bindings of the sheet until the body looked more like a moth’s cocoon. Satisfied with his work, the Second Hauler dragged the burden to the wharf by Westminster Stairs.

  The fitful clouds once more blanketed the moon until in a final gesture of the night revealed the writhing shroud lying on the weather–worn timbers of the wharf. The Second Hauler stood above the body and pulled off his cap. “Yea’re dead Gwen and there’s an end of it. As you know, I’ve no time for fat priests and their prattling, so I’m not going to give you that hypocrisy of unfelt mumbles. No doubt you were as wicked as any daughter of Eve, though I’ve heard naught of any grievous sin.”

  At this point his fallen angel sweetly whispered out the litany of his own faults, and reminded him that Gwen’s would have to be shorter, a lot shorter. “Ahem, so I commend your body to the river and your soul to the mercy of God’s judgement in the hope of resurrection.”

  At that last reference to the Almighty the corpse moaned, and the second hauler felt a trickle of fear flow down his spine. Quickly he finished his task and just in case whispered a prayer quietly.

  Pater noster qui es in caelis

  Sanctificetur Nomen tuum

  Adveniat regnum tuum

  Fiat voluntas tua

  Sic ut in caelo et in terra

  Panem nostrum quotidianum da noblis hodie

  Then with little further ceremony he tumbled the bound body off the end of Westminster Stairs wharf. It landed with a modest splash and after a lingering moment afloat, slowly sank from view.

  “Peace be with you Gwen. Yea were a comely lass, and damn me but you had a sweet voice and could hump like the very devil…” The last comment trailed off into a reflective silence as the Second Hauler reconsidered the potential closeness of the description.

  “Ahh… yea see I’ve no idea what demon or affliction caused this Gwen, but it was either you or me, and honestly I can’t be sorry it wasn’t me.” An embarrassed cough halted his speech possibly prompted by earlier memories of the night.

  The Second Hauler shook his head and having cleared his throat restarted. “By what little faith I do have Gwen, I swear on my hope of salvation that if I can, I’ll settle your spirit…ah, somehow.”

  With that he unloosed the small gilt gold cross from round his neck and dropped it into the water after the body. Giving his shoulders a shrug he turned and strode off towards the courtier’s chambers, the dead dismissed and already considering the solving of his latest difficulty—blood drenched sheets and hangings. As any wise in the ways
of magicks and arcanum could have warned him, depositing a personal item with the unquiet dead was a sure and certain prescription for trouble.

  The Thames flowed on, untrammelled by the impromptu burial. Dozens, if not hundreds, of beasts and children of Adam were consigned to its care every day. Some were discarded as offal, others claimed by tragedy, inconvenience or misfortune of chance. The spirit of Father Thames enfolded them all. Occasionally a body was washed up on a muddy bank or sandbar as the tide receded and then given a more Christian resting place. In all that it was exceedingly uncommon for the departed to pull themselves out of the water, claw their way along the shore and up the water stair. If the Second Hauler had seen any of that, he wouldn’t have bothered with the trivial matter of cleaning up his blood splattered room. The moonlit glint of metal clutched in the teeth of the corpse promised an ominous future.

  Chapter 1: The Summons–Westminster

  Francis Bryan stood in the anteroom with the rest of the crowd of petitioners and clenched his teeth, stilling himself to a rigorous patience. By Satan’s own black–singed arsehole he shouldn’t be here. A gentleman and close friend of His Sovereign Majesty couldn’t be expected to wait here amongst scruffy peasants, broken liverymen and grovelling clerics! There was a hunt planned for the day in one of the near parks he’d had stocked with deer. He was supposed to be riding at the King’s side, laughing and pointing out with pride the stags and hinds he’d chosen. Instead here he was mired in the court on a bright autumn day rubbing shoulders with a host of petitioners.

  Not for the second or third time he asked himself why was he summoned. Then a quiet voice by his soul whispered those hated words—but he was—and more ominously—what if that damned butcher’s brat, the upstart of Ipswich, knows?’ Not even a tremor betrayed the inner writhing of his spirit. No, all was safe. He’d ensured that. Gold and steel had paid for silence and discretion. So, asked the quiet voice, why then was he left waiting? That simple question was the only rein on his temper, that…and a certain prodding curiosity as to why the sudden summons?

  That damned cleric may be many things, a bloated bastard, low born, greedy for wealth and power, not to mention a wretched grasper of other men’s privileges. In fact, Thomas Wolsey was exactly the kind of lowly court minion he’d cheerful use to wipe the London street turds off his boots. However, there was a problem. However much he’d like to give Thomas Wolsey the treatment he deserved, he couldn’t. The cursed cleric had proven to be adept at solving His Sovereign Majesty’s difficulties, and Henry in that generous spirit that Francis so admired, had rewarded the cleric. In fact it was readily whispered around the court that the King had been far too bountiful. Wolsey, by His Majesty’s grace, was now a Cardinal and the Lord Chancellor of the Kingdom. A powerful man to be treated with circumspection, even if you were one of His Sovereign Majesty’s favoured jousting companions.

  Thus when a court usher presented the Lord Chancellor’s request for an immediate interview, well Francis had been at Court long enough to know how far to stretch an affronted delay of dignity. Such were the grim times in Merrie England where a mere commoner lorded it over his betters, even if Wolsey was a cleric, and as such one of the higher orders of their modern society. His arrogance knew no bounds. Now he was secure in the King’s affection, his slights, insults and demeaning extended to almost all those whom he regarded as possible contenders in His Majesty’s tender regard.

  Francis suppressed a frown at the unpleasant memory. His own close friend and companion in the French adventure, Nicolas Carew, had been banished overseas, while at the same time he’d been edged out of the closest sphere around Henry. All supposedly because they’d indulged in roughing up some Parisian burghers and apprentices, then tumbled them in turd strewn streets. By St Anthony’s fucking arm bone that was a fine excuse! The arrant scum had insulted the King. Wolsey knew that. But instead of backing their stance, the slimy weasel had claimed it ruined the rapprochement he was negotiating with the King of France. As if! After that, in an attempt to besmirch their character further, the dear Cardinal had had the temerity to insinuate that the companions of the King had picked up loathsome French habits!

  So here he was, having to put up with the humiliation of waiting with the common pleaders of the Star Chamber, packed in like herrings in a barrel in the midst of the Hillary Law term. That pushed past the normal court plays of rank. It was now verging on insult. But as his fallen angel whispered, wasn’t that the common play of Wolsey? Isn’t that, it slyly remarked, why Francis had gone to all that effort and expense recently to discomfort the preening prelate? Finally after one more brace of plump clerics were passed through before him, the gentleman usher called his name and he entered the chamber.

  As expected Wolsey was playing his position to the full—God’s holy blood, even with a chair of state draped in Cardinal’s crimson! Francis narrowed his dark brown eyes and put on his practiced court smile as he advanced across the room. Surprisingly Wolsey wasn’t all enthroned but was instead standing in a more private window alcove, listening intently to a low muttered report from a lanky fellow with a streak of light, flecked grey through his hair like a badgers pelt. Francis’ accustomed court face fractured for an instant as his brow creased in thought. He knew that fellow, by sight and reputation anyway. It was Smeaton, Wolsey’s personal livery man. He’d heard from that rascal of his, Bottoph, that Smeaton was reputedly not a clerk but the Cardinal’s sniffer out of secrets.

  And he was here, remarked his fallen angel.

  In stiff courtesy Francis swept off his cap displaying his raven dark hair in humility and bowed, giving honour to the rank and title, if not the man, then abruptly straightened. Wolsey in his official robes of red and gold chain hadn’t moved, not even a twitch in acceptance of his bow. Francis’s smile grew taut. So that’s how the Ipswich butcher’s brat was going to play this—all arrogance and slight. With practiced ease Francis slipped into his court stance, left hand resting upon by his dagger and made a play at fanning himself with his cap staring out the alcove’s window in apparent inspection of the courtyard beyond.

  Finally after another interminable delay the bulk of His scarlet clad ‘Eminence’ revolved towards him like one of those ponderous unbalanced titling Saracens. Wolsey, Cardinal and Lord Chancellor, bestowed on him a generous smile. His minion Smeaton however failed to depart and give them privacy. “Why, Master of the Toils, I am pleased you responded so promptly to my request.”

  Francis inclined his head in a half bow. It also hid the anger in his eyes. Damn that surly bastard to throw his rank at him. He knew full well it was Wolsey’s machinations that had removed him so recently from his position as a Gentleman of the Privy Chamber. Well two could play at that game. “Your Eminence, Lord Chancellor, as His Sovereign Majesty’s right hand and worthy servant, your least request I interpret as a command from the King himself.”

  There, let the bastard choke on that. Wolsey could either accept it as his due or alternately, construe it as a reminder that he, Francis Bryan, was still a close associate of the King.

  Wolsey continued to smile in that self–indulgent fashion of his, but it didn’t reach his eyes. They were coloured by, dare he suspect, a darker gleam. “Such favour and loyalty, Mister Bryan, must have its own recompense.”

  Wolsey’s smile shifted into the sardonic and Francis felt the slightest twinge of apprehension. “It is a service concerning His Sovereign Majesty that prompted me to ask for your presence.”

  “As your eminence knows I am always ready to assist the servants of His Sovereign Majesty.”

  The Lord Chancellor’s smile stretched that little bit further and Francis felt a worm of dread uncoil around his fallen angel. Wolsey gave him a familiar clap on the shoulder as if to an equal, and Francis fixed his smile in place, as sure as breathing the Cardinal was laying a trap for him. “Excellent, excellent! I said to the King you were the best of his gentlemen for the task.”

  Francis’ smile locked tigh
t. Oh yes, this was a trap all right. The only question that remained to be answered was whether it was one for his reputation, or one of the posts the King had awarded him.

  With a pudgy hand still on Francis’ shoulder Wolsey pulled him into the intimacy of the window alcove, though still Smeaton hung at his master’s elbow, watching and listening. “Yes indeed. Our Sovereign Majesty was quite enthusiastic in his regard for you, loud in praise and recommendation, as well as aghast at this dreadful event.”

  Francis returned a nod as the Cardinal continued his baited praise. The upstart was in fine form this morning, as cunning and canny as ever.

  “So my honoured and worthy Master of the Toils, you’ll begin this duty this very afternoon. His Majesty has seen fit to excuse you from your other burdens.”

  So the trap tightens. Wolsey must have tagged Henry just before His Majesty was going to set off on the day’s hunt. That was always a good time to gain royal delegation.

  “Yes, he felt the sooner this was dealt with, the better for the standing of the court. We really can’t have such dreadful rumours circulating at this time with both the French and Imperial ambassadors in residence.”

  At this little addition Francis knew Wolsey was plotting something with the two ambassadors and fortune or calculation had pointed him Francis Bryan–wards as a useful tool. As expected he gave the expected rote reply. “Certainly. Your eminence can count on me to protect the reputation of His Sovereign Majesty’s court.”

  The Cardinal’s large hand gave his arm a friendly squeeze then made to propel him back to the main chamber. Francis resisted the push, slipped out of the degrading grasp and putting a hand up to his mouth, paused and coughed meaningfully. “Ahem, your eminence. I fear that I still do not know for what task my services are required.”