Darkness Divined (Dark Devices)

by Gregory House

  “In a cellar by the riverside, off Westminster stairs.”

  Dr Agryppa gave him another one of his long stares and a slower nod. “Yes, well excellent. Have your servant meet me at the water stair and I will see you there.”

  So surprisingly that was that. Francis returned the common brief courtesies, and trying not to show any apparent rush, left the doctor to make his preparations. He didn’t even snarl at Bottoph when his slovenly minion reeked of fine wine. In fact Francis was so eager to leave that house and make his preparations in the few hours he had left that it wasn’t until he’d made York Place that he recalled one vital absent factor. The fee! Then as his fallen angel nudged him over the omission he shrugged it off. It was of no matter. He had some ten pounds in coin secured in his room. He’d have enough. Doctors of physick and celestial philosophy were said to be greedy fellows by reputation, but only a fool would overcharge a companion to the King.

  ***

  Chapter 5: Dark Musings—Westminster

  The steady drip of water from the corner was beginning to drive Francis mad with distraction. It wasn’t that there shouldn’t be a drip. This was a cellar under one of the riverside store rooms so a certain amount of dampness was only to be expected, especially since some fool hadn’t checked the drains. If his friend Norris was here, he’d walk over, tap the walls, probe a few gaps with his dagger, and step back sucking his teeth in contemplation. Then he’d loudly assert that it was doubtful if any repairs had been done since the King’s father died over ten years ago. His companion from the jousting circuit always did have a fine eye for building. That’s probably why His Sovereign Majesty had him watching over the present rebuilding at Westminster.

  The laboured groan of the pulley and the clink of the stonemasons shaping rang out here more often than the beat of the tambour for the revels. He expected it could be so for a while to come, as the King’s artisans repaired the damage from the great fire that swept through here a few years ago. Right now he’d bless the rhythmic tapping of hammer on chisel. It would drown out that cursed irregular plink plink of the leaking water for a start! And it was totally ruining his attempts to scan a line of Ovid he’d been practicing. His Sovereign Majesty had commanded a small masque to be held in the banqueting hall at Bridewell Palace some seven days hence, and by Christ’s bloody tears, he needed to regain royal favour!

  Francis, thrown off his metre by the plinking, glanced once more at the shrouded shape on the bench and frowned pensively. The scattering of lit candles were supposed to drive off the foul airs and miasma of the corpse. After a fashion they worked, but they also threw strange wavering shadows onto the walls. Francis continually found himself twitching in surprise as he thought he could see a shape moving out of the corner of his eye. That was a foolish notion he kept on reminding himself. The body was dead. It had been so for a day and a night and wasn’t going to move until Judgement Day. As a consoling reminder this didn’t stop his current concerns. She should have been deader than a monk’s charity when her throat had been opened up, but as he knew to his present regret, that’d only kept her down some hour or less. Then up she popped as full as fight as earlier, though this time not even close to being a desirable bed mate.

  It was the approach of dusk that did it as he shifted his view to somewhere else. Anywhere damned else! Francis stopped himself from glancing back. The shroud hadn’t moved. It must be the gathering shadows in the candle light that hinted of reanimation. Just in case he made the sign of the cross, and loosened his sword and dagger. This wasn’t a task he should be doing, though as his fallen angel sensibly pointed out, if not him then who else?

  That was the nub of the problem. Not even Norris or Nick Carew could help with this. For one thing Nick had been ‘removed’ to Calais and given some worthless post by Wolsey, so willing or not he was out. As for his old friend Brandon, the King’s boon companion and jousting partner, Charles was a good fellow for drinking and dicing, as well as always ready for a mischievous ploy. But for this he was completely out of contention. Charles Brandon had chains on him tighter than any prisoner’s shackles.

  The affair of his secret marriage to Henry’s sister, the oh–so–recently widowed Queen of France a few years ago, had put him in a difficult spot. Impulsive, imprudent or a story out of the chivalric romances was the common judgement at court, and to be fair, it was pretty typical of Brandon. It was true that Mary was beautiful enough to sway any man, and Charles, well he was never one to deny a pretty face. The statute books and his Royal Majesty however had another more serious view. Charles Brandon had committed the dread crime of treason. Marrying one of the King’s sisters without permission put the jouster and favourite all too close to the royal succession and in imminent threat of being sent to the Tower. To save his head from the axe, and in theory his beloved’s heart from breaking, Charles had begged Wolsey for help. The eventual agreement was to repay the royal dowry and twenty four thousand pounds, and the marriage was to stand. Of course that left Brandon deeply in debt to Wolsey. One more stone in the bastion being built around the King by his faithful and loyal servant and so played the politics of friendship and access.

  Francis pinched the tip of his short beard and sighed as he glanced once more towards the door. It must be the dank humours that encouraged his melancholy thoughts. No doubt if he consulted a doctor of physick they’d recommend drawing off a few ounces of blood to balance his humours. The fact that his present mood was the result of an attempt to pull forth a lot more blood than an ounce would indubitably be dismissed. Commonly he didn’t have much time for the strutting tribe of purveyors of potions. In his opinion they were overly arrogant and in his experience lacked any justification for their preening. Francis had wryly noted that a successful cure was credited to their dedication and skill, while a failure…well that lay in the Lord’s providence. A clever piece of dissembling he’d always thought.

  Francis wasn’t impressed with his musings. He’d gone through all this back in his rooms some hours ago and after his return to Westminster. Allies were damned scarce this week. Having dismissed it, the conjecture still shouldn’t be rattling around disturbing his poetic efforts. To blame his fallen angel was easy and probably wrong. It was just that he felt so profoundly abandoned and left to his own resources. Not the best of options perhaps, less so when one considered the liability of Jasper Bottoph.

  To his experienced court nose this whole game reeked of a trap, and that henchman of the Cardinal’s, Smeaton, knew it. Once back from his visit, Francis had sent the useless Bottoph off to arrange an inspection of the corpse. Ol’ Jasper had slinked back all too soon and whined that Smeaton declined to arrange the matter unless Francis came and gave his personal oath to return the storeroom key. Christ on the Cross! He’d almost lost it there and then, and wouldn’t Wolsey have been gloating! No. No! Francis followed the counsel of prudence, not the urgings of his fallen angel. He fronted up, made the pledge and restrained his temper even when Smeaton casually informed him that two guards would be outside the door at all times. Security, Wolsey’s pursuivant had sneered.

  The humiliation of it! He’d sworn then by his father’s sword that when he could, Smeaton would pay for this insult. As for the meantime, being forced to wait here for the ‘good doctor’ was a minor penance except for the drip, oh yes and the corpse…and his thoughts.

  The creaking and thump of the door at the head of the stairs broke Francis out of his pensive lethargy, and he straightened up, pushing back his cloak and waited, assuming a manner of bored tolerance.

  Apparently Dr Agryppa hadn’t been joking when he’d said that there were necessary preparations to be made. Two hefty servants wrestled a long box down into the cellar, followed by the fussing figure of the relic collector. That wasn’t all. The sometime physician also carried a bulging satchel slung over his shoulder. This was more than he’d seen any promoter of potions bring for a patient, even for the King, and this one on the table was well past any earthly trea
tment.

  Francis continued to watch with interest as a pair of barrels were dragged forward, next to the occupied table as an improvised trestle for the box. Once done Dr Agryppa gave a curt order and the two men bowed and withdrew, closing the door behind them. Finally the relic collector appeared to notice Francis and gave a short business like tilt of his head before walking over to the shrouded figure, rubbing his hands.

  “Now Master Bryan let us see what we can find.” Then with quick moving long fingers the physician peeled back the shroud.

  Despite himself Francis was drawn closer by curiosity. He’d seen the dead before both those laid out gracefully, and others crumpled in battle or of course the hanging fruit of the gibbet. Here it was subtlety different though he couldn’t pick out the reason why. Dr Agryppa didn’t spare him a glance as the physician continued his work until the whole body was revealed.

  There it lay draped in loose cover of rough cloth. The finder must have been fairly shocked because the body only wore a simple linen shift that came down to the top of her thighs. Was it the pallor or the wounds that had caused the simple wooden cross to be laid on her breast? Not even a blind juror of a Southwark justice would say she drowned. He trusted that the symbol would bring peace to her troubled spirit, and once more Francis whispered the prayer for the dead.

  As for her earthly remains, in life a single glance would have stirred any man to violent attack of cods cramp. The Thames had dulled the light amber colour of her hair and left it lank, but still those long legs and the curve of the thigh and the smooth rounded buttock…

  Her skin had been velvet smooth and the palest peach from what he’d recalled and she’d giggled when he stroked the line of her spine. As for the mounds of her breasts pushing up the still wet cloth of the linen shift, the rosy pink of her nipples was darker now. The flesh now looked bleached white and waxy, almost like a mortuary statue. When he’d arrived Francis had spent his own time searching for the lass he once knew. Any hint of warmth or the remnants of life. But even those previous luscious lips, so ready to smile, were dark grey. He’d shivered at the memory. That was a night he wasn’t going to forget in a hurry, mores the pity.

  Francis came back to the present as Agryppa finished his initial survey. The physician nodded and dug into his satchel, pulling out a long polished metal rod and began to cautiously probe the wounds, starting with the large gash across the throat.

  Stunned Francis put out his hand and halted the inspection. “But Dr Agryppa, should you ahh, say some prayers or maybe invocations to the saints? It’s said she was slain by some unholy force, or perhaps a demon.”

  The relic collector raised his eyebrows in what Francis may have considered to be amusement and shook his head. “In my experience, Master Bryan, most claims of mystical malevolence have all too earthly a cause. The grosser acts of man are often cloaked in the catchall cry of spirits and demons. If it makes you happier say a pray, but first in any such case I inspect the body.”

  Francis forbore any further interruptions. This wasn’t what he was after. He, for one, knew very well what had happened. What he needed right now was more arcane divination and less physical examination. Despite those growing misgivings, he was riveted by the gruesome sight as the physician peered close at the exposed meat and tubes of her throat, then with steady thoroughness moved steadily down the body, examining the slashes and cuts across the arms and the legs even down to the corpse’s toes and stood back frowning and stroking his beard.

  “Hmm, interesting.”

  “What, what is it, ahh, Doctor Agryppa?” Francis tried not to sound nervous but he didn’t normally spend his day in the company of the recently deceased.

  The doctor bent back over the body and pointed again at the throat. “These wounds for instance. I’ve seen many injuries in my time, and to my eye these were done by a very sharp blade, extremely sharp actually. See the way the cut here severs the windpipe?”

  Francis didn’t want to but he joined the doctor in a far too close inspection of the wound. The tip of the rod traced a line across the exposed muscle lingering at the site of the arteries.

  “This kind of cut, as I said is very clean. No signs of sawing or hacking, this was delivered with one blow, and I suspect from the angle of the incision, the blade entered here.” Doctor Agryppa helpfully pointed to left side of the neck. “Then straight across, cutting upwards. This is the blow that must have killed her.”

  Francis nodded eyes perhaps wider than they should have been. His fallen angel though reminded him that while the doctor was correct on one point, on the second he was not even close.

  Doctor Agryppa straightened up, pointed at the other wounds and shook his head. “These, these are a puzzle. Each puncture or slash is at the joint and clearly as can be seen, cuts the sinews and tendons. Now from the position of the wounds, it was almost as if the assailant was trying to disable the movement. Except for this thrust under the armpit. I fear, Master Bryan, this pattern of injuries makes no sense.”

  Francis forced his suddenly dry mouth to work. “How so, doctor?”

  “If this was a simple slaying, I’d expect one of two blows, probably not as expert as this. Your common murderer usually has less skill than a butcher’s arse. The sinew injuries are strange. I cannot tell whether they are pre or post mortem. If they were to disable the girl for the killing blow, then I can’t see why. This injury under the arm tells me she was standing at the time. So very strange. Very strange.”

  Francis licked his dry lips and continued his theme of inquiry. “What do you mean?”

  Dr Agryppa paused for a moment to give him a very penetrating stare. “I’ve served in the retinue of lords, Master Bryan. I know the injuries of war and battle. To my eyes these strikes were delivered with all the precision of a veteran or one trained in the art of swordsmanship. Thus the two wounds, one in the side of the chest and the throat are a problem you see, because only one was enough to kill the girl. So, why the second?”

  Francis hoped that his eyes didn’t betray him as he shrugged. “I know not doctor, that’s why the Cardinal suggested your expertise.” There it was an easy lie and so simple.

  “Well happily Master Bryan, my studies in modern philosophy and devices will give us an opportunity to solve this riddle.” Dr Agryppa ignored the flattery as he fiddled with the latches on his chest.

  Later on Francis wondered that if the doctor hadn’t insisted on the delay of bringing that damned box would Master of the Toils Francis Bryan have been better off?

  ***

  Chapter 6: The Cabinet of Dr Agryppa—Westminster

  That baffling explanation gave him nothing and reinforced his suspicion that the flash of inspiration was turning into a disaster. Francis however still needed a scapegoat or at least some clue as to how he could wriggle out of Wolsey’s trap. So he continued to watch Agryppa pull out a selection of cloth padded objects from a hidden drawer in the chest, and place them carefully on the top. Intrigued despite the ominous warnings of his fallen angel, Francis moved closer to inspect these preparations.

  The doctor took his presence in good part and proceeded to unwrap his items, and despite the strange array sitting there in a revealed and polished glory, Francis was no closer to understanding what this strange collection was for. He pointed to the first object. It stood upon cast bronze legs cast in the manner of lions paws and looked like a cross between a relics chest and the common hooded lantern, only larger, plus it had hinged shutters on the three surrounding faces. The fourth was somewhat different. It held a bronze tube a few inches round and some five inches long that projected out what could have been the forward face.

  “Doctor Agryppa, what is that strange looking lantern?”

  “Hmm. Oh this, I call it a Tenebrae inluminator incognitorum.” Francis quickly worked through his latin, an illuminator of the unknown darkness, that still didn’t tell him much. The doctor answered distractedly as he fiddled with a small brass catch and opened up the inside
of the peculiar lantern. From what Francis could see the interior was panels of polished silver arrayed around a candle. “This device is used to project a shaft of reflected light via this aperture

  “Ah. Why?”

  Doctor Agryppa flashed him the briefest of grins and turned back to his lantern?

  “Ha ha. So Master Bryan, we can bring the light of truth onto this cruel act.”

  To Francis the attempted levity fell flat and he shook his head. That made less sense than the prior explanation, but still he watched as the doctor pulled a bronze artefact, rectangular in shape, that he held on the palm of one hand. Then he detached a small notched bar that fitted over a protruding spur and gave it two turns. If he was curious before, that was nothing to how he felt now.

  Forgetting his dignity, Francis peered over the doctor’s shoulder. “What are you doing with that?”

  “Oh this? Tis a device of an acquaintance’s design. The fellow has the most marvellous ideas. This one for instance is a mechanical steel and flint.”

  “Really?” Francis could help the doubt in his voice. What a useless toy! Everyone could strike a flame by the time they were five.

  The doctor gave a tight smirking smile and squeezed a small lever. A disc at the top suddenly spun, spouting a stream of sparks onto a wad of charred cloth that poked out of a hollow tube. It immediately began to smoulder and flared into a small flame. With practiced skill the doctor used that to light the candle in the lantern and shut the panel.

  Francis tried not to look like a country simpleton at his first St Bartholomew’s Fair. With a click he closed his mouth. His courtier’s intuition kicked in. This was…useful. His Majesty was mad keen on devices and this one was delightfully quirky. Francis viewed the doctor with a new level of interest. Hmm, purred his fallen angel. Perhaps, just perhaps, Dr Agryppa could be an asset rather than just a scapegoat.