Darkness Divined (Dark Devices)

by Gregory House

  At the movement Agryppa appeared to come back to the present and called out. “No don’t touch it! The arcane force will stop your heart!”

  The import of his warning, if not the actually words, penetrated Francis’s blurred thinking and he stepped hurriedly away from the spasming body.

  Agryppa appeared satisfied and cautiously approached the corpse and gathered his cables, detaching them from the sword. Even in the limited light of the candles Francis could see that where the clamps had touched the steel, it had left blackened scorch marks. “By Christ’s blood! What did you do?”

  Finally Agryppa turned his frowning gaze upon his unexpected ally and pursed his lips. “Hmm, oh this! Tis a device for creating a dangerous arcane force. It is difficult to control and unpredictable…but in this case I think effective.”

  “So is…is she going to…” Francis coughed to an abrupt halt. Damn, and by all that was holy, his throat felt like it had been crushed in a vyce.

  “Hmm, you mean return? Oh that’s a good question. Maybe not tonight, but after that…” The Doctor’s shrug was all Francis didn’t need. Oh fuck, not again!

  “All right, what can we do? You’re the Doctor of Arcanum. This is the reason I called on your service.”

  To that Agryppa returned a wary nod, and his inspection of the steaming corpse grew thoughtful. “You say Wolsey gave you the inquest of this murder?”

  “Yes. I suspected then it was a trap, and now…” It was Francis’ turn to return a knowing shrug.

  Agryppa bit his lips and hummed while he tugged at his beard. “Hmm, it would appear I was a little hasty in my suspicion.”

  Francis didn’t like to push, but he suspected Doctor Agryppa knew how weak his bargaining position was. Anyway Lady Fortuna had favoured him twice, perhaps thrice. It didn’t pay to stack the odds at hazard. “I am a gentleman, Doctor. My family has wealth and position.”

  “Hmm, yes. So I’ve heard, but not Wolsey’s friendship.”

  “No.” The corpse on the floor spoke the rest of that sentence. Even here one could not be sure that Wolsey’s pursuivants weren’t listening in.

  “Mmm, yer know Master Bryan, I believe we may be able to come to some kind of arrangement. There are some…ahh, resources I, ahh, I mean ‘we’ require. With your valuable assistance I feel certain we can, as I said earlier, divine the source of this Darkness.” Agryppa smiled. It was more predatory than friendly and Francis gave his own and an open hand. To any observer this would appear to be a meeting of equals, two men brought together by shared conflict and travail. It would though be as false as calling moonlight the brightest of day.

  Francis found his hand grasped by those long cool fingers and he knew in a flash of insight that the enemy of my enemy maybe my friend, but only for now, until as Agryppa had said was the Darkness Divined. After that, well they said the devil took the hindmost.

  ***

  Chapter 8: Conscripted for the Cause—Southwark

  The warm sunlight poured down on his bent head bathing his shoulders in the liquid glow of cascading summer. A hand lightly touched his hair and the joyous tones of a benediction rang in his ears. It felt so natural and the peace of the word of the Lord spread over him, bathing him in serenity and refreshing his hungering soul. Peace and forgiveness at last after all this time and a mountain of sins. Slowly he wept tears of joy.

  Then the warmth dissolved like the morning mist, banished by the dull reverberations heavy toll, and dragging him back to the conscious world. Someone was beating on the heavy timber door. Richard groaned with disappointment, clenched his hand in the gathered coverlet and pushed up from the bed before staggering across the room. The rough stone floor may have been icy and damp but his bare feet didn’t feel it as the choking swirls of black despair once more shackled him to the earthy realm.

  Growling he flung back the portal. “F’r the love o’ God, what desperate need disturbs me?”

  The open doorway allowed enough slanting afternoon light to trickle in framing his visitor in a subdued radiance. It was a lady dressed in the latest fashion of the court. Embroidered silverwork shimmered like the ghosts of leaves on her velvet bodice and flashed off the single blood red ruby suspended from a gold linked chain around her pale throat.

  “Richard, why are you moping in here? Have you been counting your penances again?”

  It was a light mocking voice, one that sent a familiar tingle through his soul, searing, haunting and hateful in remembrance. To the casual listener it may have sounded like the tenor of sorrowful concern, but they, like others before, would have been deceived. Annise never had any more than a shallow regard for anyone other than herself.

  Her green eyed gaze flicked over his dishevelled appearance, including the latest set of bloody welts visible on his naked shoulders. The twitched pale eyebrow raised in amused tolerance was expected, but still he winced and clutched the coverlet defensively over the rest of his body. That reaction transmuted the raised eyebrow into an appraising smirk. Then she reached out a small neat hand and grazed his welts with a trailing nail. His skin quivered at the touch, sending surges of desire rippling through his body. Most disturbingly she languorously licked off the beads of dried blood from her finger with every sign of relish.

  “Hmmm…Richard, if you’d wanted a beating you could have asked me.” Her deep red lips made a petulant pout. “Tis a pity we can’t. I almost feel in the mood for games.”

  Those lips instantly curved into their more accustomed mocking smile. “But no, what do you usually say?”

  Richard watched one of her sharp finger nails tap a lip in thought. The gleaming, ivory crescent on the blood red skin made him clench his hand tightly to suppress the urge to reach out.

  “Oh yes, I remember duty and service afore all! Well we’re summoned. Be ready within the hour.” With that, his sultry messenger abruptly turned and strutted off, leaving him trembling in the open doorway in her wake.

  Damn her to all the hells imaginable. Richard gave a long shudder that seemed to convulse his body from head to toe and slammed the door shut. As a sign of defiance it barely served, though at least it muffled the mocking sound of her retreating laughter. God’s curse on Annise! As usual her timing was impeccable. She had an uncanny knack of knowing when to cause the most distressing reactions.

  Richard took a few steps over to the chest beside the narrow timber framed bed, and throwing back the lid rummaged around for suitable clothing. From the fading light it was an evening assignation—yet again. Annise would be loath to admit it, but she loved the night tasks they were given. As for him, well the touch of sunlight was the only reminder that his damnation wasn’t complete. Roughly he sorted through his options. She’d implied that it was a summons. Thus working utility rather than her usual pleasure and display drove his selection of clothing. Not that he minded. Annise had rather complex ideas of entertainment that frequently melted his sterner inhibition. Though afterwards was always problematic. It left him coldly disgusted and penitent for his weakness.

  And so to the choices. A dark brown leather doublet and matching hose would be best, along with dark burgundy breeches, and a similarly coloured shirt. It would help hide his still seeping wounds. He had enough remaining pride to forgo the curious stares and wagging tongue of the washerwoman if he had donned the more usual white shirt.

  So a summons. It had been a while, longer than he liked, though Annise wouldn’t admit it. She claimed that such tasks bored her and preferred her ‘indulgences’. Like many things that she asserted Richard didn’t believe it, not for a second. The deep glow of pleasure in her eyes at the ‘kill’ told him all he needed to know. Annise relished their ‘assigned’ tasks, though it never stopped her from complaining about the difficulty, or the miserable conditions, or the wasting of her talents and so on. Richard was more accepting and made no deliberations about their lot. He had a long time ago given over the loathing he had first suffered. A mission was a mission. He took a craftsman’s pride
in his duty and occasionally satisfaction that his years training for the destruction of the enemies of the Lord weren’t totally wasted. Even in the smallest darkest corner of his soul, he could still whisper that even now in this living hell, Richard de Montchrestien upheld his first binding oath.

  Once he’d finished dressing Richard began fitting the special accoutrements of his position. The current gaudy fashions of the court made it so much easier to secrete away the tools of his profession. Then to finish off he took up his dagger and sword and buckled them on. If viewed by any of the Royal Court, his attire would have been given a reluctant acceptance though his heavy blade always merited wary respect.

  As the sun set over the rippling row of roofs to the west, Richard hailed one of the many wherries tied up by Temple Stairs Wharf on the Thames. Custom seemed slow for the evening despite the allure of the baiting pits across the river at Southwark. It may have been something to do with the uncertainty of the passage of the reaping scythe of Death. The rumours and tales swirled around the city streets like the refuse after a good rain. Whether any were true didn’t concern Richard, but the taste of fear rising off the denizens did. Men, uncertain or afraid, took risks and committed acts that normal times would abhor. These were lean times in England. The second bad harvest in a row and the mortuary toll of the ‘Sweats’ called so many to account before the judgement of the Lord.

  In the past during similar times of plague and pestilence, he’d found that it was more prudent to avoid cities and courts. The pervasive contagion of guilt, fear and religious hysteria hard bent on finding scapegoats was difficulty to guard against. However the callings of their trade prohibited common circumspection. Anyway Annise sneered at discretion.

  After failing to flag down several vessels, one reluctantly scudded towards the wharf. The wherry man, a gaunt scarecrow more corded sinew than flesh, grumbled at his charge, though he still took the proffered coins. Cautiously Richard eased Annise into their seat. The afternoon tide was rocking the boat against the worn timber piers with a jerky persistence. To his muted relief, it seemed his mistress had unexpectedly chosen discretion and had changed from her full courtly splendour into more modest attire, saving only the blood ruby that hung next to the pale skin of her throat. It gave a brief flash in the sunset before she shrouded it in her fur collared cloak.

  Perhaps it was the weather. It had been cursedly cold this last week. Winter was grudging in its release to Spring. Of course it could be that she’d finally given over her ostentatious ways. Richard gave a very discrete rueful smile. What he might wish for and reality were two very different things. He huddled closer into his own cloak as the chill water of their passage splashed him.

  “Yea sure yea want St Marie Overie’s Stairs, Mistress? I’s heard it twas rough o’there tanite.”

  Annise gave a short nod in answer and burrowed her hands deeper into the lapin muff. The boatman shrugged and spat over the side, his conscience assuaged.

  Richard frowned. He’d heard nothing of any affray. The last outbreak of unrest had been by Byllynsgate where a household of suspected heretics had been arrested by the Bishop of London’s men. As to affairs across the river, well so far he had gained little knowledge other than the common tales of villainy. Despite Southwark being only separated by the span of the river from London, the parish was as exempt from supervision by the city officials as if it was in the land of the Turk. Due to a carryover of clerical privilege, most of the land fell under the direct supervision of the Bishop of Winchester, and as everyone knew, a cleric and his privileges were never parted. Southwark’s independence was so complete that the prostitutes and punks that freely infested the streets and alleys were nicknamed ‘Winchester Geese’ in recognition of their erstwhile patron. It was a very ironic state of affairs. Sin and indescribable lewdness flourished under the protection of Holy Mother Church. Richard had seen it before. It was a fact of life. All church officials in Christendom always denied the writ of any other in their affairs and domains.

  Fairly soon the wherry pulled into the dark shadow of the Southwark wharf. A pair of feeble lanterns grudgingly illuminated the stairs, probably set up by the tavern next door more to advertise its trade than help passers–by. The mood of the city was definitely awry. The wherry man rapidly deposited them and scuttled off, before they attempted to negotiate a return trip.

  The late winter night was closing in fast aided by the lowering clouds that hid the poor attempt at a moon. Richard would have preferred a day journey despite the obvious difficulties. Night time in the city posed its own set of obstacles.

  Annise seemed to know the way and headed along the lane past the towering building of Winchester House towards the more dubious parish of New Rents. To choose such a path was disturbing. Richard wasn’t a fool. Southwark had a very distinctive reputation. He should know—he’d been here a bit for drinking, gambling and more sinful entertainments that had him hot with repentance and the scourge.

  It was twenty paces along the narrow lane before he gained the first inkling of trouble. A prickling along his neck hinted at threat and he warily loosened his dagger and sword. He was sure Annise felt it was well. The taste of hunger and fear wafted down the alley lending a sharper tang to the rank ordure underfoot. A scuffed footfall behind betrayed at least one, while he could swear two more lurked in the deep shadow of the side alley to their left. It was as good a place to choose for an ambush. He’d be restricted in drawing his sword, so his right hand sought another weapon.

  The darkness moved and acquired a shape.

  “Gi’ o’ yea purses an naught ‘ill ‘appen.” It was a low growled voice, confident in the trap. He must have at least four at hand.

  Annise shook her cloak free of her face and stood demurely, hands still shrouded within her muff. “Good sirrah, we are under the protection of Master Gryne. Let us pass.” It was quietly spoken but with undoubted authority. She tended to handle dire matters like that, unfailingly polite. However that last bit of information gave Richard an inkling as to why she strode so unconcernedly through the stews of Southwark. Gryne was the lord and master of this part of the south bank, and his rule was bloodily enforced by his band of mercenaries. Transgressors frequently ended up dead and hanging from spikes at the various crossroads and pillories. St Margaret’s Hill tended to be the favourite, and so that all could understand the meaning of his strictures, each separated piece was branded with the letter G.

  The voice from the dark gave a throaty chuckle in response. “Gryne don’t own ‘ere. Tis got a new lord. So pays up.”

  Richard could almost sense the crooked eyebrow as Annise spoke. “Who, good sirrah?”

  That reasonable question seemed to flummox their assailants though Richard could hear the two now at their back edge closer. “I is, Rob Shamble o’ Cheapside. Now give ov’r!”

  With that Annise took a shaking step forward and threw herself to the ground before their grinning ambusher. “Oh please good sirrah, for the love of sweet Mary do not harm us. Here, I will give you my rings.” Annise held up two glittering trophies with her left hand.

  The new lord of Southwark stepped forward, greed bright in his eyes. The two behind relaxed. It took no great skill to read them. They thought tonight was an easy mark, a lady and her gentleman out for a bit ‘o’fun n’ thrill’. The tang of lust was a strong rank odour that cut through the miasma of the alley.

  Richard could see the broken toothed grin of ‘Lord Rob’ as he reached forward to grab the rings and the slim hand that offered them. He was looking forward to the next part, so for an instant the snickering flash of a blade have must come as an unpleasant surprise. The grin took a moment to drop as nerves belatedly kicked in their vital warning. His hands jerked back and clutched at the punctured codpiece and “Lord Rob” slowly crumpled, leaking wide eyed whimpers—and blood. The fool paid attention to the wrong hand, the mistake of an amateur reaching for the openly displayed gold and forgetting the hidden right hand.

 
; Using this as his cue Richard spun around to deal with the lurkers at the rear. As expected they stood stunned by the fall of their leader, open mouthed and shocked—most obligingly of them. He plucked a narrow tapering blade from within his sleeve and flicked it into the throat of the one on the left. Then in the same spinning motion he drew his sword and lunged. The heavy blade knocked aside the wooden cudgel of the man on the right and punched through an inadequate leather doublet, ripping deep into his gut. Both dropped to join their leader writhing on the muddy cobbles.

  The threat over, Richard turned back to his mistress. Annise was still kneeling and had drawn the second of her secreted daggers. It flew into the darkness. The fourth assailant had been a bit faster and brighter than his companions. For a start he had been a pace or two behind his leader so as soon as ‘Lord Rob’ dropped he had discarded his weapon and bolted. Annise’s missile must have had some result for Richard heard a scream as the fellow pelted away. Handy weapons those little throwing blades. He’d picked up two dozen the previous spring at Nuremburg, a place packed full of ‘interesting’ items for the discerning professional. It was a pity though that at ranges greater than five paces, rocks served better as a missile. That last one must have been a lucky shot, though Annise would preen insufferably over her skill for hours after.

  Richard cautiously swung around in an arc, searching for other opponents. None seemed foolish enough to appear so he recovered his thrown blade and wiped his weapons on the body of his gurgling target. In theory that made it cleaner. He glanced at both of them and paused for just a second, then shook his head and moved off. They weren’t worth dealing with. The scavengers of Southwark could clear them up.

  By the time he got to Annise she was bent over the whimpering body of ‘Lord Rob’. A wave of absolute disgust swept over him. Didn’t that woman have any decency? Frequently her habits sickened him. This was unnecessary and disgusting! “F’r the love o’ St Michael, leave the poor soul alone. Hasn’t he suffered enough.”