He rifled through some papers and plucked out a black crystal. ‘On the twenty-first day of November, in the year of our Lord fifteen eighty-two, an angel came to my study window in the form of a boy and gave me this. The stone provides visions for my good friend and partner Edward Kelley-’
Will raised his eyebrows. Dee picked up a paperweight and hurled it. Will ducked, smiling mischievously.
‘There are some who consider Edward a charlatan and a drain on my resources,’ Dee said pointedly, but I have seen the evidence of his abilities as a medium with my own eyes. With this stone he brings the angels down to earth. On one occasion, Uriel himself came.’ His voice rose with passion and he dived into another pile of papers, pulling out a thick sheaf. The manuscript for my Liber Logaeth, detailing all the spells I have used to control them-’
‘Perhaps you should also have snapped a leash on them to walk them in the streets like dogs,’ Will noted.
Dee turned his back on Will to talk directly to Church. ‘The angels revealed to me such secrets! Of the workings of the Blue Fire, and what can be achieved by any man who can bend it to his will! The Blue Fire is the very essence of Gnostic thought. Gnosticism is the ultimate truth — it shows us the inner workings of everything!’
Church was intrigued by the eccentric old man, but Will clearly had little time for Dee’s ramblings. Ah, Gnosticism,’ he said with irony. ‘How many times have I heard this little speech? Five? A hundred?’ He did a plausible impression of Dee’s cracking voice. ‘Gnosticism is a quest for redeeming knowledge and a quest for oneself.’
Dee ignored him. His excitement was palpable. ‘In the Zohar of the Qaballah we are told of a king with a casket of fabulous treasures who ensured they were guarded by a poisonous serpent. The king entrusted a friend with the secret of how to seize the casket without coming to any harm. The Blessed Holy One, the Qaballah tells us, acted in the same way when he placed a serpent near his sanctuary, telling only his friends the angels the secret of how to remove the serpent and approach the Shekinah. The parable is clear to all eyes: the serpent is not autonomous but acts as God’s agent.’
‘Not quite how the Good Book would have it,’ Will said.
‘Then the Good Book is wrong!’
Church had been allowing Dee to indulge himself, but the story brought echoes of the Fabulous Beast he had encountered beneath Boskawen-Un. God’s agent?’ he asked.
‘Ah!’ Dee raised a finger. ‘But who is God? The God of the Jews, the God of the Bible, the God of Islam, the God of the ancient Britons? All of them? Or none?’
‘He will go on like this all night if you let him,’ Will said wearily. ‘To the point, old man, before my hair turns as white as yours.’
‘The point! The point! The point is that the angels told me of this box and the terrible thing it contained. A thing that would result in the destruction of all there is.’
Church eyed the Anubis Box. It was too small to contain anything physically threatening, but he had learned that danger came in surprising shapes. ‘What should we do with it?’
Dee’s elation evaporated. ‘I intended to ask the angels one more time, but they have not answered my call. I fear there is something amiss in the spheres … The angels are lost. If we are to decipher this mystery, we must find the angels.’
Will covered his face. ‘You are dispatching me on another fool’s errand. Good Lord, spare me.’
Dee smiled slyly. ‘You do not wish to return to London?’
Will peered at Dee from between his fingers. ‘You know how to torment me, old man.’
Dee pulled out another sheaf of papers. ‘I must write you a word of power. It is the only way to bend the angels to your will. But you must guard it with your life and repeat it to no man.’
‘Yes, yes, with my life. With Master Churchill’s life. Of course. Why not?’ Will said with exasperation.
As Church watched Dee search the sheaf of papers, he noticed something curious. ‘What is that?’ he demanded.
‘The angels taught me the language of Enoch that Adam spoke before the Fall. This is the Book of Enoch, dictated to Edward while he was in a trance. It reveals the ultimate mysteries of creation.’
Church slowly pulled from his pocket the parchment Jerzy had given him after they had escaped from Rome. He had said it had been dictated by one of the members of the Cult of Apollo who had been in a trance. It was the same strange language as that in the Book of Enoch. Lugh’s name stood out amongst the odd words.
Dee grabbed it excitedly. ‘Where did you get this?’
‘Do your angels by any chance have golden skin?’ Church asked.
9
January was cold and there was snow in the air, yet the sea was surprisingly calm. Church stood on deck, leaning against the rail, his breath clouding, still surprised at the resources on which Will could draw. Lucia stood next to him, shivering in the depths of her woollen cloak.
‘This climate is not for me,’ she said. ‘If only we could stay in Roma. It is beautiful this time of year.’ She glanced at Church. ‘But we go where the Pendragon Spirit calls. I am starting to think this is a curse. We can never have a life of our own. We shoulder the responsibility of all humanity. We fight and suffer and die so that others can live free. Our own desires, our hopes, our need for love … they are all secondary.’
‘Put that way, it’s miserable, but from another perspective it’s great. Think about it: you get the chance to save the human race. How many people can say that?’
‘But the price! Marcus … I had only just begun to know him, as our Five came together, and not nearly well enough. There was so much else we had yet to discover about one another.’ She wiped away a stray tear.
‘Death follows us around. We fight for life, and I think, in a way, that draws death to us. But that’s just the way it is, Lucia. That’s the road we’ve got to walk. We’ve been given this wondrous gift, but there’s a price. There’s always a price.’
She peered into his eyes and forced a sad smile. ‘You remind me so much of Marcus. So strong, so wise-’
‘Maybe you’re just seeing the Pendragon Spirit in there. I’m not so great. I’m introspective, a brooder … I make stupid mistakes.’ He looked to the horizon. ‘I’m just lucky I’ve got someone who loves me and who I love. That’s where I get the strength to keep going.’
‘And you still believe you will see her again?’
‘Every morning when I wake I think of Ruth. And yes, I know all the obstacles that lie ahead, but I can’t believe I’ll never see her again. Without her it would be so easy to walk away from all this struggling-’
‘I wish I could have your hope. Sometimes all I see ahead is darkness.’
‘You don’t have to face it alone.’ Church nodded to Will, who had just emerged from below deck. ‘He’s a good man. And you know, I think he might be a Brother of Dragons, though he doesn’t know it yet. I could be mistaken-’
‘He is a pig. Arrogant, lascivious …’ She gave Church a kiss on the cheek, and then laughed. ‘Perhaps I will teach him some manners!’
She went over to Will, leaving Church to make his way to Niamh, who stood at the prow with Jerzy, staring across the waves. ‘You appear to be teaching my jester some strange humour,’ she said.
‘He’s a good learner. You’re lucky to have him.’
Niamh ignored Church’s pointed comment. ‘Why will you not tell me what you learned in Krakow?’
‘It’s too soon.’
‘I could make you.’ Jerzy took an unconscious step away from Niamh’s side.
‘Of course you could.’
For a long moment there was only the sound of the wind and the waves.
‘I find you infuriating, Jack Churchill.’
A flicker of puzzlement crossed Jerzy’s face.
‘I try my best.’
Niamh put a finger to her lips in thought. ‘Like all my kind, I have found peace in the stability of Existence. We do not perceive time as you do.
We understand the way things will play out. Consider: standing on a hilltop and looking to the horizon. You can see the lie of the land, but you cannot make out the detail of the landscape. That is how we see what lies ahead. But now …’ Her voice trailed off uneasily.
What do you mean?’
‘It is as though a great mist lies across my vision.’
‘You can’t see the future any more?’
‘It feels as if nothing will turn out the way it is supposed to. All the landmarks are gone. Everything is fluid.’
‘Is this our enemy’s doing?’
‘I do not know,’ she said. ‘But it scares me.’
10
A heavy blanket of snow lay across London’s rooftops, and more was falling from the night sky. Inside their homes the residents remained cosy, with candles flickering behind the diamond-pane windows and smoke drifting from the capital’s chimneys. But for Church, Will and Tom, even the stamping of their boots could not bring any warmth.
‘Why could we not do this in the summertime?’ Tom said.
‘There is enough warmth in Lucia to keep me roasting like a chestnut through this winter and the next,’ Will said.
‘Make sure you look after her,’ Church cautioned. He knew Will and Lucia had grown close during the remainder of the sea journey and they had spent the last hour sequestered in Will’s room.
‘You are like an elder brother, Master Churchill.’ His laugh gave way to seriousness. ‘I will take care of her, have no doubt of that.’
The snow lent the city a magical air, hiding the refuse-slimed cobbles of Bankside, though occasionally it was splattered with the contents of jordans emptied from upper-storey windows overhanging the narrow street. But the night was far from quiet. It echoed with the cries of criminals chained to the banks of the Thames so they could endure the obligatory washing of three tides; and the brothels, stewhouses and bull and bear pits that lined the street in the Tudor pleasure-quarter of Southwark were awash with raucous clients. Bawdy women hung half-naked from upper windows, urging passers-by to enter, while drinkers stumbled out into the snow in groups as they passed from one inn to another. Here and there, apprentices fought furiously, spraying blood from cracked noses and split lips. Every conversation was carried on at a bellow.
Church saw Tom watching with horror; the city was a far cry from his rural Scottish borderlands. ‘The whole city is drunk, all the time,’ Church explained. ‘Nobody drinks water. It’s strong ale for breakfast, dinner and supper.’
‘Then the sooner we are out of this hellish place, the better,’ Tom said.
They followed the course of the river to Borough High Street. The main southern thoroughfare out of the City was filled with overflowing inns. Here Will and Church wore their swords prominently to deter the cutpurses who preyed on drunken travellers.
St Thomas Street was quieter. The printers, potters, glaziers, leather workers, brewers, sculptors and other craftsmen who had filled the streets around the hospital to avoid the restrictions of the City of London guilds had all shut up for the night.
Finally they arrived at London Bridge. Church was excited to see it before the massive alterations of the eighteenth century, with houses and shops built up cramped and towering on the span of the bridge. At any moment, the bulky structure looked as if it might crash into the slow, murky waters of the Thames beneath.
The drawbridge on the southern side had been partly raised when the gatehouse closed at nightfall. The sickening fruity smell of decomposition filled the air from the heads of two now-unrecognisable traitors spiked on the gateposts.
‘Would it not have been wiser to come during the day when we could have walked onto the bridge with ease?’ Tom said.
‘As a hero of the realm, my face is well known in polite circles, and even amongst some of the uneducated mass,’ Will said. ‘It would not do for me to walk into the home of Dee’s contact as bold as you please.’
‘How are you planning to get onto the bridge?’ Church pulled his cloak tighter as the gusting icy wind brought a heavier fall of snow.
‘A good spy knows the best work demands rigorous preparation.’ Will scanned the lit windows of the upper storeys overlooking the drawbridge and selected one. ‘Now keep watch. Make sure no idle eyes observe.’ As Church and Tom scanned the road running away from the bridge, Will gave a rapid three-note whistle blast. A moment later a rope weighted with lead flew from one of the windows and over the lip of the drawbridge to crash onto the road.
‘Now,’ Will said, ‘we climb.’
‘I’m not climbing that!’ Tom eyed the slick rope as it soared over the freezing waters.
‘Then stay here, friend. Though it is said no man caught on this road after midnight lives to see the dawn.’
Weighing his chances, Tom glanced back to the dark network of streets on the city’s southern side. When he looked back towards the bridge, Will was already speedily climbing the rope into the gusting snow.
‘Do you want to hang on to me?’ Church asked.
‘Don’t be ridiculous! I am not some feeble woman.’
Church found the climb hard going. His fingers were soon frozen numb, and intermittent gusts of wind blasted hard enough to threaten to rip him off. The grey waters churned around the bridge’s pillars far below; he would not survive a fall into their icy depths. The physical exertions of his life over the past few months had hardened his muscles, but he was glad when he crawled through the tiny window and flopped onto dirty wooden boards. He quickly jumped to his feet to help Tom who followed a few moments later, his face rigid with fear. Church was proud of him, but knew Tom would be insulted if anything was said.
Will was waiting with another man who held a lamp aloft. The stranger had sensitive features and a wry turn to his mouth. His curly hair was cut in the current fashion and his beard and moustache were well trimmed and waxed. His clothes were also fashionable and expensive.
‘Another spy?’ Tom spat.
‘An ally,’ Will replied obliquely. ‘Marlowe, meet Master Churchill and True Thomas, who hails from the brutish wilderness in the north.’
Marlowe gave an ironic bow. ‘The pleasure is mine,’ he said.
Church realised who he was: Christopher Marlowe, the playwright, one year off writing Doctor Faustus and six years away from being stabbed to death during an argument in an inn. If Church recalled correctly, Marlowe couldn’t have been in London long, having been recruited into the secret service by Sir Francis Walsingham while he was at Cambridge University.
‘Enough talk,’ Tom snapped. ‘Let’s to business.’
‘A man after my own heart,’ Marlowe said. ‘Our Lord awaits us.’
Marlowe led the way down cramped, winding stairs and out onto the road leading across the bridge, where the snow lay thick and unspoiled. The houses and shops rose up high on either side, obscuring all views of the river. Marlowe took them to a nondescript door that lay between a butcher’s and a milliner’s.
‘I shall wait here to ensure no one follows,’ Marlowe said. ‘Make haste, for I would not like to be found frozen cold come the morn.’
‘And then Tamburlaine would never be finished,’ Will joked with clear affection for the young man.
Inside, the furnishings were much more opulent than the exterior suggested. A small entrance hall opened onto a sitting room with expensive chairs and desks. Tapestries and paintings hung the walls and a fire roared in the grate.
A man of around thirty with an acne-scarred face warmed himself while sipping a glass of wine. He came over and clapped Will heartily on the shoulders.
‘Robert,’ Will said. ‘It has been too long.’
‘It is good to see you, Will. I have spent far too long north of the border in the land of my grandfather.’
‘We have another of your family’s countrymen here.’ Will introduced Tom and Church. ‘This is Sir Robert Balfour. We chased the Devil round the streets of Cambridge together.’
‘It is a mystery how we
ever got an education.’ Balfour grew grave. ‘If Dee told you what lies in the catacombs, then these are dark times. That was a secret supposed to outlive us by many a generation.’
‘A device to communicate with angels,’ Will said.
Balfour snorted. ‘Dee and his angels. Gods, Will. Gods. There is more than one secret here, but all point to the true history that lies behind the one we know: of this country’s secret communion with the Fair Folk over the years.’ He glanced at Church and Tom. ‘These can be trusted?’
‘On my life, Robert.’
‘Then come. Let us venture into the bowels.’
Lifting a lamp, Balfour took Church, Tom and Will into a panelled drawing room and then through a hidden door to a flight of stone steps that wound down into the dark. Church struggled to comprehend the exterior architecture as they descended, and it was only when the stone walls grew wet to the touch and drops of moisture began to fall with echoing splashes that he realised the steps must lead down into one of the pillars that supported the bridge, and then deeper still, beneath the river bed itself. Tom had clearly reached the same conclusion, for he was starting to grow uneasy.
‘Will the stones hold?’ he said. ‘The water drips through as if the first sign of a coming deluge.’
‘It sluices out into vast chambers below,’ Balfour said. ‘It has stood for three hundred and fifty years and will stand for hundreds more. In this construction, you will find the greatest secrets of the master masons, passed down from Solomon himself.’
‘Who built it?’ Church was amazed by construction skill that would have stunned modern engineers.
‘Robert’s family can trace their line back to the Order of the Poor Knights of Christ and the Temple of Solomon,’ Will said, ‘and his kin have guarded their secrets with religious fervour since those days.’
‘On the thirteenth day of October, thirteen hundred and seven, that damnable Philippe of France set about the destruction of the Order,’ Balfour said. ‘Eighteen galleys left the Order’s naval base at La Rochelle filled with Templar wealth and the accumulated mass of their wisdom, not just from the Holy Land but from across the known world. Of the two, this wisdom was the greater prize.’
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