Gideon's Angel

by Clifford Beal

  “Bah, there’s little any barber surgeon can do that the goodwife hasn’t tried already. I’ll right myself by April.”

  The more he prattled the quicker the Beast fled me. Restored, I told him the tale of my conversation with our common patron and that I was to spy upon the house of Stuart for the Cardinal. But I left out any mention of the true quest I had been given: to find out whether King or Parliament was entreating with the Devil. He shook his head slowly and said, “You’ll find yourself taking fire from both sides, Rikard. You’d better play this one with care.”

  “I know that, friend, and I think I would rather take my chances against the Spanish at Arras. At least there the musket balls come from just one direction.”

  “Surely there’s some empty scrap of intelligence you could offer up, as it were.”

  “Not this time. The Cardinal has other spies at work in the court and he will quickly put to the test any fables I invent for him.”

  The Cardinal would need his report. Yet, perhaps I might buy some time to figure out my course of action. The two chief factions at the court, those gathered about Sir Edward Hyde, the more cautious lot, and those gathered about Lord Herbert, the king’s Attorney-General, calling themselves the Swordsmen, had been angling to gain my support for months now. Perhaps it was time to show more interest.

  “There’s a damned good reason I’ve kept my head this long,” said Andreas. “And that’s because I don’t commit myself to anything before I’ve reached the dregs of the cup. By that time, the path forward is usually clear.”

  “Even if one’s head is not,” I remarked, smiling at the old soldier. And I was dead tired, tired before my work had even begun.

  Chapter Four

  “WHAT SAY YOU, Colonel? Are you game?” Lord Herbert had just refilled my cup for the second time. He retook his seat and watched me, his rheumy old eyes narrowing, eager for my answer.

  “A promised uprising in the West Country is about as good as a promise of payment from a pauper,” I said. “Unlikely to ever happen and too late if it does.”

  “I told you not to waste time with this mercenary,” said Herbert’s companion. “He’s managing well enough. He has a feather bed and someone to warm it for him.”

  I was too old and too hardened to rise to the bait on that one. I merely smiled and raised my cup. “You have not laid out a strategy, gentlemen, only a prayer.”

  Baron Gerard, a fire-eater who was at least ten years younger than me, neither liked nor trusted me. “Don’t lecture me on strategy, sir. I speak of duty. I was in the saddle at Worcester, clouting Roundheads. But I don’t recall your presence there.”

  Lord Herbert tut-tutted and shook his head in an attempt to calm the waters. “Give Sir Richard his due, my lord. He has done great service to the Crown.”

  They had revealed to me a plan to rise up simultaneously in Devon and London in the coming summer, the West Country rising to begin a week before the one in the capital, the better to lure Cromwell’s regiments away from the city. Even so, it seemed to me less a plan and more wishful thinking. Ensconced in Lord Gerard’s chambers, away from prying eyes and ears, these two had shown me that Mazarin was correct in his suspicions that the Swordsmen were quite willing to have another go at Mister Cromwell. But nothing I had picked up in the last few weeks had led me to a supposed circle of courtiers doing the work of the Devil under the noses of King Charles and his all-knowing mother. I was in danger of failing Mazarin’s mission, and now, here I was being handed another fool’s errand.

  Gerard wrenched a chair back and plumped himself at the table, leaning in towards me. “My kinsman John waits in London even now, drawing more numbers to him. We need more old campaigners such as you to stiffen the spine in the west. This thing can be done, sir. Every report we receive tells us the country is ready to rise against the Tyrant.”

  I did admire Gerard. He, like me, had served in exile with the French under General Turenne. He spoke from experience hard-earned and fought. He was no idle fop. Yet even so, talk of rising was a forlorn hope—and I had finished with that a long time ago.

  “How many men do you have between Exeter and Plymouth?” I asked him.

  “Three hundred thereabouts. We have arms and can seize powder at will when the time is right.” Gerard’s eyes seemed to get bigger as he spoke. He was convinced of the moment, but he, unlike me, still burned with the Faith.

  I sighed heavily at the woeful number. “This plan succeeds only where the blow falls in both west and east. You don’t have enough men to fight the whole army. Timing is balanced on a knife edge. If too soon or too late, one or the other attack will fail.”

  Gerard’s hand came down on the table, spilling the wine. His long handsome face, unblemished despite his many battles, shone with a determination that shamed me. “We don’t have to defeat the whole of the army! The feint in the West will draw out enough troopers for us to take London. When that pin falls, the others will quickly follow.”

  Lord Herbert nodded. “We have a strong chance. The whole country is like a rotten apple. It only has to be cut open to reveal its corruption.”

  I then asked what had to be asked. “And what does His Majesty say to this enterprise?”

  The pause, short though it was, told all.

  “The king trusts in us to regain the kingdom,” said Herbert. “But others prefer to sit upon their arses or talk of wishful purpose with the Dutch.”

  “So, Chancellor Hyde does not know your plan either,” I said quietly.

  Lord Gerard leaned back into his chair like a scolded schoolboy, his face in a sulk. “We thought you would see the world as we do—like a soldier. One who understands what must be done to set things to right again. But I perceive in this I was mistaken.”

  Lord Herbert was not so quick to give up on me. “Colonel, Hyde and his ilk are content to stay here until we all rot—or the French throw us out. Time is not with us, sir. We must act and soon, lest the folk come to believe their king has forgotten them.”

  I lifted up my head and looked him in the eye. “I shall not speak for the king but I have not forgotten them. I left my wife and my children—lost all that I possessed—to fight Cromwell. After Naseby, they banished me, but my family suffer in Devon still. I’ll not hazard their lives in a new folly against the Parliament. You failed at Worcester in open battle—fairly fought. The next will bring much the same result. And more death, and want, and woe for those who resist.” And I regretted the words even as they flew from my lips.

  “If I had known that you believe the Cause is lost, I would not have shared my confidence,” said Herbert. “I am heartily sorry for it.”

  Gerard stood. As far as he was concerned, the business was at an end. “Don’t waste your breath. He’s a beaten man... as I told you.”

  I rose, staring him down. “I have been to places and grappled with things that you have only glimpsed in your nightmares. I choose my own battles these days, sir,” I hissed. “And I have suffered a bellyful of lost causes.”

  Gerard shook his head in disdain. “You’re broken.”

  How could I even have begun to tell him I have spoken with the ghosts of men?

  A WEEK PASSED. A week in which I contemplated throwing my lot in with Hyde and the other arse-sitters, in which I dreaded the arrival of a summons from Mazarin, and in which I very nearly returned to the regimental barracks to hide, besotted in drink. My dear Maggie, she who I could open my heart to, I spared the worry and the secrets. She knew I was distracted, but wouldn’t press the matter even as she tried to comfort me. Yet, I suspected that she had guessed the cause of my strife. It could be timed to the moment I had met the Cardinal in his wine cellars. And so, I had finally arrived at that dark, deathly quiet place where no one in the world is to be trusted.

  A summons arrived for me. But it was not from Mazarin even though it was brought by a runner from the Cardinal’s regiment. He had found me at the barracks after asking for me in the Louvre. The lad, his fa
ce nearly purple from the cold and the brutal run through the streets, doffed his hat and gushed out the message in between gulps of air. “Sir... Captain Delacroix begs... that you come with me at once. Major Falkenhayn is gravely ill. He... the German, is asking for you.”

  When we reached the door to his house, I saw two dragoons standing nearby. I was halfway up the staircase to his chamber when the smell filled my nostrils. Sweet and metallic, it could have been a butcher’s shop. I saw a figure sprawled upon the bed, hands clenched into the coverlet that loosely covered him. Captain Delacroix, a young officer of Mazarin’s horse, touched my forearm as I stood in the threshold. “Monsieur, he lives yet... just. He has asked for you.”

  “Where is the surgeon?” I asked. The only other person who stood in the room was the old widow who owned the place, silent and expressionless.

  “He left hours ago. It is God’s will now... and the Major’s.”

  My boots echoed harsh on the floorboards as I approached the bedside. Several candles burned, giving more illumination than when I had last visited. This time, I wished they had been extinguished to spare me the sight. Andreas was quietly gasping, fighting to take breath. His mottled face was puffed up badly, his eyes almost started from out his head. In all our adventures together, never had I seen him look so full of terror. And I had seen him blown off a rampart, beaten senseless by brigands, shot through, facing a hundred of the enemy with a smile of resignation. But I had never seen him like this.

  I leaned over him. “Sweet Jesus, dear Andreas!”

  “Rikard. I can’t breathe.” Andreas’s words came out as a wheeze and the stench of death was already upon him. He released the coverlet and tried to grasp my arm, the bloodied bandages unwinding as he flailed. I pulled in a chair, sat, and gripped his hand. It felt like a cold slab of mutton, and slowly he tried a feeble press in return.

  “I beg you,” he whispered, and I leaned in to gather his words. “Help me... Rikard. Give me air...”

  Andreas was giving battle, but how could he fight an enemy he could not see? And I, sitting there, a watcher only, was as helpless as any mortal who had seen Death lay hands on the chosen. No clever plan, no ruse, no entreaty would forestall the harvest of this poor soul. And few words of comfort could come to my mind. I told him to lie still, be at peace. I asked him if he could take a sip of strong water. Yet, I could not still his trembling, for all my soothing phrases.

  Andreas turned his face towards me, his head lifting off the pillow. The cords of his neck strained as he fought for his voice. “I’m so frightened! Sweet Christ... I am alone!”

  And my heart ached as I heard myself tell him to be brave, to trust in God. Those words rang hollow in my ears. And then he heaved his chest, fighting to gain breath. Alarmed, I rose, still clenching his hand. I heard him suck in another breath, rasping as he did so. He was suffocating as I watched.

  “Not... like this,” he whispered, his head shaking such that his knit cap slipped off upon the pillow.

  A black-robed figure came across the foot of the bed and crossed to the far side, standing next to Andreas. It was a priest. As the old soldier caught sight of the man, he started as if he had seen an apparition. The priest kept up his cadence, the Latin quietly and firmly streaming forth from his lips. I saw him bend down and place a crucifix in Andreas’s right hand.

  I tried to calm my old friend, touching his shoulder, but it was to no avail. At my back, I heard one or two soldiers enter the room. The smell of the piss-soaked bed wafted strongly even as the prayers of the priest gained strength, his arm waving over Andreas in the sign of the cross. The priest leaned over, asking Andreas if he had confessed his sins.

  “Tell me,” said the young beardless priest, soft but insistent.

  I took a few steps backwards from the delivery of the final sacrament, but even so, I know that Andreas confessed nothing, only shaking his head. Whether he took this as a confession or not, the priest shook the oil from his little phial and anointed Andreas’s brow, then slowly, each hand. I heard him intone some prayer. When the priest had finished the prayer, all remaining in the chamber said an “amen.” And so, too, did I.

  Of his last words, I know not. He mumbled to himself for a few moments and seemed not to be aware I was there anymore. Just before the end, I saw him fix his eyes on me. His lips moved but no words came forth. It was a look that shook me to my bones, a silent plea for rescue from what was carrying him far and away. My hand moved to cover my brow but a moment in grief, and when I again looked down, he was gone. I stood there for a time, very numb and very cold.

  The regiment buried Andreas the next day. And as I walked from the churchyard, the thoughts whirled about: what did Fate hold for me? Dying an old man in my bed, gasping, drenched in piss and sweat? My lot was no different than that of Andreas. A few years away maybe, that was true, but my ship was on the very same course. And those same shoals of Death that he had foundered upon were looming fast for me. That wasn’t the way I planned on leaving this world for the next. I had to steer a new course, one that didn’t involve unmasking those in league with the Devil. I did not want to go down that path again. And maybe, maybe there was a way.

  LORD HERBERT WAS curt but polite. “My lord Gerard has no wish to meet with you, Colonel. I am sorry.”

  “Well,” I said, “I can’t blame him for that. I acted the knave when we last met.”

  We walked together in the Tuileries, the bare branches of the pear trees rattling in the late winter air. The old man offered me no comfort.

  “We misjudged your intentions, sir, which are most clear. So what further business can we possibly have?”

  “I won’t mince my words. I am your man for the West.”

  Herbert stopped short and turned to me. “Surely a jest, sir?”

  “I am in deadly earnest, sir. I’ve reconsidered.”

  His head swivelled about, looking to see what other people strolled the gardens. “Your contrary nature does not give me confidence. And I doubt very much that Lord Gerard would consider your recruitment after you made yourself so plain before.”

  I nodded as I drew in a deep breath of cold air, tinged, even in winter’s embrace, with the stink of the Seine. “That may be true. But I am the man for the West and my lord Gerard knows the soldier I am. If anyone can accomplish this miracle it is I. There is no one else at court who can do this deed.”

  “You are an artful adventurer, Sir Richard. That I give you. But the others may have their doubts.”

  “Then there is yet one more reason. I won’t cost you a single shilling. I shall undertake this mission with my own resources. Soldiering in the service of the Cardinal pays well and I have little to spend the money on.”

  Lord Herbert pulled his cassock closer about his shoulders as a stiff gust rocked us, whiffling the brims of our hats. “That’s a bold change of heart, sir. One that does not sit well with me.”

  I shrugged off his caution. “My regiment moves north in a matter of weeks—or less. If I’m to fly the nest it will have to be sooner than later, before orders are received. I am ready to leave the moment you give the word.”

  Herbert’s hand reached out and touched my wrist. “Steady on, sir, steady on. Even if Gerard agrees—and I am in no certainty of that—you must receive instruction. There is the matter of contacts, of ciphers, of places of rendezvous... you’ll have need of a travelling name.”

  I looked Lord Herbert square in the eye. “I am no stranger to these things, of that be assured. As for a name and a story, I have that too.”

  His eyebrows arched. “Have you now?”

  “Call me Andreas Falkenhayn, wool merchant of Flanders.”

  “A foreigner? The redcoats will seize you in an instant. No, that would not do at all.”

  “The moment Richard Treadwell sets foot in England,” I said, my voice as low as I could make it, “he’s as good as dead if he is discovered. That was the bargain—if ever I returned, Cromwell will hang me. So be it. I understo
od the terms of my banishment, then as now. I’m not afraid to return but by God I will give myself a fighting chance.”

  Herbert, flustered, strove to find the words. “But a Fleming? What... what will that accomplish?”

  “Not a Fleming, a German. I speak the tongue well. A suit of clothes, the right hat, I grow my beard long, that is the trick,” I said.

  “The trick to draw attention to yourself, more like. Who is this Falkenhayn?”

  “This Falkenhayn, my lord, is an arrow speeding to the heart of the Tyrant. I ask you to draw the bow and send it on its way.”

  Lord Herbert looked ahead again and began walking, a slow, measured pace. But he said nothing. I stood my ground there on the path and presently he noticed I was not at his side. He stopped and did a half turn to see what held me back.

  “If our business is to conclude here,” I said, “then it is to be now. Done and dusted, sir. I am the only one who will answer this call to arms and that you know already. Make me your instrument.”

  Lord Herbert looked at me and then off into the trees. “It is not for me alone to decide.” He turned fully, facing me. “Why then, this change of heart, Sir Richard? Surely it was not Gerard’s youthful taunts against your honour?”

  I smiled. “It was not Lord Gerard. The example of a far older comrade has shown me my error. Unlike him, I still have the time to put things to right.”

  “And if your offer of aid is refused, what then?” said Herbert. “Will you sulk off to fight the Spanish instead?”

  I slowly closed the ground between us, hands thrust in the pockets of my breeches. “No,” I said quietly, “That was a lie. I think you know that I will go to England, just the same.”

  And Herbert’s look of utter disarm was proof that he believed me too.

  BUT THERE REMAINED one problem, one entirely divorced from the scheming of the Swordsmen. It was not my fear of how Mazarin would take the news of my sudden departure. I penned the resignation of my command knowing his fury would be swift at my failure to discover the Devil’s pawn among the exiles. God willing, he wouldn’t discover my absence until I was out of France. To further throw his hounds off the scent I let slip my intention to go to Sweden once again for employment as I had done years before. He was too crafty to swallow this whole so I sweetened the cake by making arrangements to send off a chest containing some worthless belongings by way of coach to an inn at Cologne, on the road to Stockholm. I was sure that distrustful musketeer, Lieutenant d’Artagnan, would quickly look for such arrangements, thereby buying myself a little more time to escape.