Darkness Divined (Dark Devices)

by Gregory House

  Annise shook her head and laughed. Life and death were always full of surprises.

  ***

  Chapter 10: Darkness Examined—Blackfriars Chapel

  He could have lent against the stone wall but it was dark, cold and dank, and then there were the accustomed denizens. It was not a place he would chose to linger, not for any wager. Francis shuddered and bit back yet one more curse as another overly large rat scurried over his boot. By Christ’s blood, he’d had his fill of darkness and cellars these past few days and nights, not to mention the freshly resurrected dead. Any more of this macabre arcana could turn a man to a religion, and that would be a sorry fate—years on your knees gabbling unfelt prayers until you began to admire the tight buttocks of the novice monks. Though from some of the tales at court, those devoted to a life of contemplation still managed their fair share of buxom punks and feasting, squeezed in between their onerous tasks of mass and occasional penance.

  Francis frowned. What a miserable and cheerless business this was to push his musings in such a loathsome direction. The sooner he was quit of this the better. Even his fallen angel agreed. As for his present company, they presented him with a entirely different set of misgivings, ones that despite the show at the Gryne Dragone failed to bolster his confidence. The re–animation of Gwen’s corpse and Agryppa’s little trap had forced Francis to alter his original plan for dealing with her slaying and Wolsey’s clever imposition. For one thing an alliance with Doctor Agryppa was not how he imagined this playing out. This arcane assistance tasted too much of a pact with a demon. Francis, could with some justification, be accused of many faults but stupidity wasn’t one of them. He knew his chivalric romances and old chansons of the troubadours, and also had a good knowledge of the stories of the bible. In all those, dealings with demons tended to be chancy, unreliable and prone to treachery.

  Both his own instincts and the constant warnings of his fallen angel harped on the fact that while the dealer in sacred relics had proven versatile and skilled in the use of arcane devices, that was not all. Perhaps Agryppa’s evident loathing of the Cardinal might prove to be a binding asset…or not. The fact that Francis desperately needed allies hadn’t changed. He’d half convinced himself that the physician of the arcane could be a useful tool to manipulate in this affair, even after that little misunderstanding with the poisoned bodkin. Well, as his fallen angel had dryly remarked, that certainty had died a few hours ago. The first trick was the magickal device used to remove the demonic possession from Gwen. It was no trinket meant for an evening diversion at Court. And the doctor’s display at the Gryne Dragone hinted of darker and deeper planning than Francis had expected.

  So here he was in a church crypt, some hours past vespers with a recently active corpse, his newly acquired ‘ally’ Agryppa, and a pair of freshly secured minions. It was not a situation Francis felt that created bonds of trust or affection. By nature he wasn’t a superstitious man. Unlike some at Court, he didn’t gabble out prayers or clatter a fistful of charms and blessed wafers at every unexpected nighttime sound. However those new minions did give him pause for reflection, especially that woman Mistress Athyney. What she was? Whether demon or mankind, the ‘good doctor’ hadn’t made clear, but even his warning about looking into her eyes hadn’t shielded him from the impact of her first smile and that deep emerald green gaze. As it had washed over him Francis’s cods had felt like he was suddenly carrying one of his Majesty’s Great Gonnes. Even her startling transformation into a demoness with glowing red eyes had only partially dismantled the siege works. Though at that revelation, his fallen angel had been strangely enthused and full of whispered speculations of her as a lively bedmate. Francis wasn’t one to blush at the outré. In his time at Court he’d performed some dramatic feats of codsmanship to the loud cheers of his drinking companions. However demon or not it’d still stirred him with a deep tingle of lust.

  Even here in the moldering darkness of the crypt of Blackfriars, that hard throb of desire kept up a steady beat with his pulse. Francis found it unsettling. Usually he was master of his passions. He’d witnessed her display of magicks, and those weren’t any mummer’s trick with painted cloth and bellows. Francis was certain that Mistress Athyney wouldn’t have been bound so easily without Agryppa’s device. That reminder edged into view an unpalatable fact. He may hate to concede it, but the doctor had clearly edged into the lead in their arrangement. Agryppa was now firmly in the saddle driving this affair for his own means, like the acquisition of these two bonded servants.

  After the event of Gwen in the cellar, the dealer in sacred wares had stood over the newly dead and stroked his beard, muttering quietly and darting the odd glance at Francis who was trying to wipe the dirt of the floor off his doublet and hose. It was then that the subject of ‘new servants’ had been raised.

  Now Francis had expected the doctor to seek out fellow masters of the arcane and to a degree had been anticipating a deeper call on his purse. Instead the doctor had suggested that Gwen’s body be moved to a more secure location for further examination. Francis was only slightly surprised when the crypt of Blackfriars was mentioned. That had been easy enough to arrange and even Smeaton had agreed after only the shortest discussion and a far too modest ‘gift’. No doubt this shifting of the body for ‘examination’ by a master physician fitted in with Wolsey’s plans for the eventual inquest by the Steward of the Green Cloth. Francis had ignored the implied insult, and gritting his teeth, refrained from running Wolsey’s smirking minion through with his sword. His fallen angel had speculated though whether Smeaton would have been quite so sanguine if he’d known the identity and ‘skills’ of the examiner.

  That had been the start of the shifting of balance in their alliance, though Francis couldn’t dispute that being closer to the Doctor of Arcanum’s lair may help. However having installed the much abused corpse, instead of fussing around with another device or conjurations, Agryppa had scribbled off a rapid series of letters and sent them off with a very satisfied smile. And instead of magicks the doctor had asked Francis to accompany him to the Gryne Dragone across the river in Southwark. That had been a curious request since Francis knew that the tavern was the haunt of men available for hire as retainers or more casual employment to revenge an insult or reclaim a debt. He hadn’t in even his wildest fantasies imagined one could also acquire demons there. Francis knew Agryppa was making a display of his power and influence—that much was obvious. The real question was why did he bother? As usual his fallen angel provided an explanation, the physician thought himself to be the most cunning and clever of men. Francis gave a slightly wolfish smile at the memory. However as had been recently proved, clever was not the same thing as infallible.

  Some hour ago they’d left the tavern for the next stage of the night’s plans. They had traveled no more than fifty paces towards St Mary Overie Stairs when ‘Mistress Athyney’ demanded they halt. Agryppa frowned at this all too soon display of independence. However Francis had been looking for an opportunity to discomfort the physician and had waved acceptance before the physician could muster a denial. The result had been illuminating in a very dark manner. In the cresset’s pallid light he saw the demoness had flashed him the briefest of smiles before she appeared to vanish into the darkness while her retainer loosened a blade and followed after. Agryppa had swung around clearly meaning to complain at his presumption when the first scream echoed down the alley. It was soon followed by a snarl and what Francis easily recalled as the bubbling wheezing of a slit throat. He was pleased to see Agryppa’s flushed choler drain to a pasty white as he decoded the sounds in the night. Francis had smiled at his companion and tweaked an eyebrow. His fallen angel had eagerly whispered that bound minions they may be, but it appeared the doctor lacked the finesse of fine control over his new pair of coursing hounds. Tsk tsk!

  The return had borne even more fruit. Mistress Athyney had casually sauntered back into the limited pool of lantern light, her eyes sparkling with satisf
action. Then she carelessly wiped a heavy smear of blood from her lips and chin with a dark soaked kerchief. At the apparition Agryppa had promptly thrown up, puking into the street’s piss channel. Bottoph had almost dropped the cresset while he gabbled a for once heartfelt prayer. Francis however had returned a smile and gave a welcoming half bow. The sight had certainly set him speculating on the nature of Agryppa’s allegedly urgently required retainers. Something other than Francis’s problem had prompted this act.

  So as speculation mingled in equal measure with dislike and distrust, Francis continued to watch Agryppa’s latest preparations with rapt fascination behind a mask of a courtier’s boredom and disdain. After all Agryppa had slipped up twice this day. There was every chance there’d be a third.

  ***

  Chapter 11: A Visitation—Milford Lane

  Annise’s first act on returning to her house from the all night disaster at Southwark and Blackfriars was to berate the serving girl at the doorway for her slovenly appearance and after that the pattern was set. She strode through the place, an avenging spirit ablaze with wrath, fury and lightening. The kitchen was lacking fresh rushes, the fireplace full of ash, the buttery stacked with vinegary wine and soured ale. After that she moved on. The linen was neither washed nor stored properly, the candles and rush lights not fit for use, the hallway and rooms unswept, the windows and shutters amess with cobwebs and dust. A good two hours later and her immediate wrath was finally burned out in the stables with the lashing of a quailing stable boy for being a thieving scrote regarding missing sacks of oaten feed.

  After that Annise strode up to her private room and shut the door on the tears, wails and ruckus of frantic cleaning. Her ears were deaf to the misery and anguish of others. She had too much of her own for any false sympathy. Damn but she’d hated servitude and that arch bitch Marissa! Fingers trembling with ill–suppressed rage Annise pulled off the ruby and gold chain from around her neck and stared long and deep into its glow. They went back both of them a long way, partners of either misfortune or profit. Even now it was difficult to say which. The impulsive act of a young abbess to rescue a relic said to have been bathed in the blood of John the Baptist from heathen pillagers unexpectedly had brought her here. After all this time whether it was or not she had unwittingly become its custodian, and of secrets…and terrors.

  Now in moments of unquenchable anger or when in despair, she turned to the deep vermillion luminance. It gave her a measure of calm, peace and forgetfulness only surpassed by the passions of her indulgences. And this day she desperately needed that healing balm. The requirement of her presence at the Blackfriars chapel crypt after the humiliation at Southwark was left her soiled and full of stifled bile. Agryppa was a fool. She could add some fifty different words in several languages to describe in loathsome detail his flaws and faults but that wasn’t going to change the fact of her subservience.

  After the Gryne Dragone and her little display she’d had such high hopes, but hours waiting around while that measle brained lackwit fussed and dithered over his arcane devices left her drained. The courtier, Master Bryan, had shown some promise but in the quarter hour before dawn when all had been finally set and prepared, the approaching day left no time for display, magic or skill. At her, she thought, most sensible and politely phrased explanation of the exhausted sands of time, Agryppa had sulked. Then as if putting the blame on her for the mistiming, he’d peremptorily waved them off with a disdainful reminder to attend an hour past sunset on the morrow. Lackwit! Did he think she had nothing better to do than wait upon his humour, like a lowly minion?

  The glowing depths of deep scarlet pulsed in time with a slowed heartbeat drawing in her mind and spirit. Slowly the steady timing ticked away with each breath, the burden of anger and resentment eased, replaced by contentment and a summer’s warmth began to enfold her, relaxing muscles and nerves. Annise exhaled, slowly clearing her lungs as Volund had once taught her, pushing out the last of the latent anger, almost in sync with the first of the chimes of the city churches ringing out the midday hour.

  Opening her eyes Annise shifted and tucked away the now subdued gem, then somewhat restored in mood she slipped off the silk patterned bed cover. Though her demesne was now much reduced, if she didn’t supervise her several servants, the place would soon resemble those tumble down boozing kens that Richard resorted to during his often morose moods.

  Annise tinkled the small bell that sat upon the chest by her bed. Almost instantly the door opened and a curtseying servant stepped in. From memory her name was Beatrice Weldon. Annise frowned. At least the girl had some experience in looking after fine cloth. She’d done a passable job on an inconvenient blood splatter on that cambric linen shirt the last week, if not so well on the brushed green velvet sleeves. She put that concern from her mind. It’d keep for later. With a brusque wave of her hand, the girl went over to the coffer chest and removed the indicated linen bag then shook out the dark blue fine woolen kirtle bodice with the open lace front and gave it a rapid brushing.

  Annise was trying to plan ahead for the night’s work. This was one of her more ‘reasonable’ gowns, the colours rich enough to attract interest but hopefully sufficiently demure to avert Agryppa’s spite. There was a certain practical component as well. Elegant modern styles for ladies could be so unforgiving to the splatter and effluvia of corpses. One possibility was to bring along a heavy calico apron as worn by the scullery servants, except that in the eyes of her intended audience donning it would most certainly put her among the ranks of the lowly. Hmm what to do?

  A knock at the door drew her attention. Master Howarth, her steward, was making one of his practiced deep bows. “Mistress, a gentleman at the door is requesting an audience.”

  Annise tapped her lips in thought. Hmm, it couldn’t be Agryppa. He wouldn’t bother with a ‘request’. Her eyes lit up with speculation. Ahh Master Bryan! That was fast. She’d only just applied the first tendrils of glamour. Oh this could be so useful...and diverting. “Ask him in and make him comfortable in the front room. Bring wine and see the fire is set.”

  Having given instructions to the parting bow, Annise set to work on the preparations with a renewed vigor. She had her hair arranged and looped it with an Arabian pearl–encrusted head piece and finished off with a jasmine scented perfume.

  Her entrance to the room was all it should be, announced by her steward and followed by a short train of the better dressed servants, i.e. Beatrice. Her caller had his back to her looking out the window to the street scene of Milford Lane. He was dressed in an expensive heavy fur collared gown and a blue velvet cap sporting a splay of heron’s feathers, a tall sturdy figure from her view and by the quality of his dress everything Annise was hoping for in a courtier. Then her visitor’s head turned at her entrance and Annise came to an abrupt halt.

  Her ‘guest’ turned fully around now. The hair she’d take to be raven dark in the shadow turned out to be mid brown, and though the stance was similar, this face had the strong cheekbones and nose of southern France. So not Master Bryan, in fact one far less welcome. Annise clenched her teeth behind the mask of a welcoming smile and curtsied deeply. “Welcome to my demesne, Chevalier d’Cardelhac.”

  A pair of steely blue eyes watched her with a trace of…what? Dislike, disgust or disdain, Annise knew it must be one of those, if not all. Sire Alain d’Cardelhac didn’t bother with the pretense of friendship. He replied to the greeting with a minimal bow. “Mistress Athyney…my lady inquires if you are well?”

  Annise stiffened slightly at the play of courtesy. “The times treat me well enough. I am content.”

  That received the smallest of nods. The play of icy courtesy had begun. Annise waved off her attendants and bade the door be closed for privacy. As a precaution she knew her steward stood outside to deter listeners. As for d’Cardelhac, he was a veteran diplomat of long experience. Volund had sneeringly implied that he was a renegade from the Order of the Hospitallers of high standing, supposedly o
nce the right hand of the Grand Master. That may have been true. Her own dour catch from the Church Militant had muttered so once or twice.

  No matter his origins, d’Cardelhac watched her with a measured cool regard. He was not one to be flustered by a subtlety arched neck or the flash of pale breasts, mores the pity Annise mused. “Your service with the philosopher progresses accordingly?”

  Annise gave another of her polite curtsies. It wasn’t a question, rather a statement of how matters would be. “Doctor Agryppa is a man of unique skill.” Also an arrogant measle–brained pen–dribbler with all the prideful blindness of a bishop, but Annise didn’t add the last, at least not aloud. If d’Cardelhac wanted her opinions he’d ask for them, that was if Marissa’s watchdog dare act outside his mistress’s usual strict brief.

  Her visitor nodded at the answer. Yes, that would be the way of it, polite questions back and forth until the whip of demand unfurled. For all her rancour Annise wasn’t a fool. Marissa and her envoy held her continued well–being and future very much in the palm of their hands. All the servants of the Council knew of the punishments for transgression and disobedience—binding, entombing and slow starvation—a long agonizing torture where your sustenance was scrawny rats and cockroaches, and that was only the physical. The worst was the mental degradation, were the spirit raged and gnawed on its self. She’d seen some emerge, crawling out into the moon light, fragile things of taut stretched skin and bone, only capable of mewling whimpers since the mind and self had been consumed in the ravening hunger of isolation. Annise suppressed a shiver at the memory. Volund ironically always said the Convocation’s punishment with fire was cleaner. That was not to be her fate so in all humility she played the courtly game of respect.

  D’Cardelhac smoothed his fine trimmed beard with spotlessly clean fingers. Yes, she remembered he’s always been fastidious. “That is as it should be Mistress, due respect and obedience.”