“Then tell me what you can if I’m to join this society in order to save my life.”
Ashmole sipped at his wine and then began. “It is an old brotherhood, founded when the pyramids were but hazy dreams in the minds of the ancients. It is a guild of stone masons to be sure, those architects of immutable monuments, but it is much, much more. The Craft teaches us how to live as men and to serve the Greatest Architect—God Himself. And that is why there are fellows of the Craft that have never hewn stone themselves. They follow the allegorical wisdom of the Craft, aiming to discover the hidden truths of the world.”
Ashmole held up a finger and dashed off to return in a moment with a black leather bound book. He opened the cover and spun the volume around upon the table so that I could see the frontispiece. “Look here. It is the best example I can give you of the deeper meanings of symbols. Remember, there is always more than meets the eye.”
I looked upon the engraving and quickly noticed that it was a book he himself had written: Theatrum Chemicum Britannicum. “Is this a book of alchemy? A spellbook?”
Ashmole laughed and smoothed his sparse and trim little moustache. “Heavens no, sir. It is a book on occult philosophy.”
I shook my head in ignorance.
“It is an alchemical text but in essence is about finding truth through mathematics and Hermetic science.” He pursed his lips as he took in my blank look. “Don’t concern yourself with the subject. What I am trying to point out is this example of symbolism. Do you see the intersecting mason’s square and compass here at the bottom of the page?”
I saw a jumble of various objects engraved along the borders of the title page. Helms, armour, musical instruments, sun, moon, clouds, and a Greek goddess bearing a book at the centre of the page. But there, along the bottom, was the compass and square.
Ashmole looked at me and crossed the extended thumb and forefinger of his left hand over those of his right. “Compass and square, sir. The greatest symbols of our fraternity. The compass allows us to circumscribe all and to raise our expectations as to what can be attained through wisdom. The square, the measure of the right angle, reminds us to be honest and true in our dealings with our fellow men.”
I nodded, for at least this much I could follow.
“But these objects signify something deeper and more spiritual: the compass signifies the heavens and the invisible world. The square is also a symbol of the earth, of matter fixed, the visible world. What you see here is nothing less than a representation of the marriage of heaven and earth.”
“And this Craft you speak of would offer me fellowship and protection?”
“Absolutely, sir. It has flourished since the time the ancient Hebrews built Solomon’s temple and the wisdom is held in trust by each and every Accepted Mason. The greatest precept is to do good by your fellow man and most of all to your brothers in the Craft.”
“You’re assuming they will let me in,” I reminded him.
“Aye. I am assuming that. But I am hopeful my recommendation will carry.”
“You expect me to risk my life by confiding my true identity to these Masons of yours? I have had little of the milk of human kindness these last few months, Mister Ashmole. And you demand much of my trust. Especially since some of your brothers are Parliament men.”
Ashmole sighed. “I can understand your reticence. There is much evil in the world and in the hearts of men. But our oaths are not taken lightly in the Craft and most brothers would rather die than violate them... Richard, there will come a time when you will need to trust in your fellow man again—indeed, at the risk of your own life. If you do not, little by little, you will surely lose your humanity and your soul will wither away. Please take this chance.”
And suddenly, right there and then, a vision of Maggie sprang into my head. Trust. I had shattered that belief for her well and truly. If I could ever find her again, would she return my love? Could she learn to trust me once again? I raised the glass to my lips and drained the last of the sweet wine. “If what you say is true, it would appear that the Masonic brotherhood alone will believe the story I have to tell. Very well then. I will hazard myself if it means gaining the help I need to stop Gideon Fludd.”
Ashmole’s face, now flushed with colour once again, beamed in full and he clapped me upon the shoulder. “Excellent! I’ll fetch paper and pen and get word out to the brethren in the city. God willing, we can initiate you tomorrow and then get word to Thurloe to redouble the guard around Cromwell’s house and to sweep the city for Major Fludd and his men.”
I decided to ask him something that still itched. “Someone told me not long ago that Oliver Cromwell is the only man capable of stopping the radical Puritans from conquering what is left of the kingdom. Do you agree?”
“Sir, it’s no secret. He is our only hope and many a diehard Royalist will grudgingly agree.”
“But a regiment of his redcoats is no match for what Fludd comes to battle with, that is for certain. We need the help of a higher authority, Mister Ashmole.”
Ashmole put a finger aside his nose. “Rest assured my dear Falkenhayn, da Silva will not fail us. We’ll have the power of the Old Testament on our side against this evil. As a former artilleryman, I can tell you those are heavy guns indeed.”
THE SUN WAS fast setting by the time I entered the hurly-burley of the Bear at the bridge foot. I quickly glanced about the tap room looking for redcoats or anyone who was taking an interest at my arrival. All seemed usual and proper, the normal mix of drunkards, whores, rivermen and wealthy gentlemen bent on good times. I sought out the landlord and asked if he had any messages for me.
“Yes, sir, I do. The word is: Billy says to tell you to go to the sign of the black glove, about halfway over the bridge.”
Shop shutters were slamming hard as I walked out onto London Bridge. A day’s worth of horse-apples covered the street, mixed with the stench of piss and burning charcoals. In the failing light I caught sight of the swinging shingle to my left. It was a weatherworn sign displaying a faded black glove and a large, oversized sewing needle resting against its thumb. The house, like most upon the bridge, was but one room wide though it soared up some three stories high. The ground floor’s shutters were closed tight from the inside and I cautiously rapped upon the narrow door next to them. After what seemed a long wait, I heard a bolt being slid from behind and slowly the door opened inwards. Billy Chard’s eyes and crooked nose popped into view between the door and the jamb.
“Come in, Mister Eff. You’ve found the place.”
I found myself in an empty shop floor, a great workman’s table still littered with bits of leather and a few tools. Billy stood, sword in hand, visibly relieved to see me. He quickly shut the door and threw home the bolt again.
“So you’ve found us some rooms, I see.”
Billy snorted. “I’ve found us a whole fucking house, Mister Eff. The glover’s wife is a widow these past two weeks and has gone to stay with relations. We have the place for a week for a few shillings.”
I nodded. “Good. That means we can keep prying eyes away.”
“Look at what we’ve got in here,” said Billy, beckoning me into the back room. There was a large leaded window at the rear and not much else but Billy was pointing to the floor. He bent down, seized an iron ring, and gave a yank. Up rose a trapdoor and I found myself staring down twenty feet to the surging Thames underneath.
“There’s some rungs set in the wall there to the left that lead down the side to the pier. Good for an escape if we need it.”
“Good work, Billy. But the only escape here is by drowning unless we can get a boat moored down there. Show me the rest of the place.”
We took our sup upstairs, sitting on the floor and eating cold roast mutton and some stale bread. Billy had managed to find a lantern and taper and we chewed away in its feeble, guttering light.
“So, you will join their secret society then? Tomorrow? What the hell am I supposed to do? Stay cooped up here all
day?”
I washed down a lump of bread with a swig of beer. “Rest easy, Billy. I’ve got work for you to do. If da Silva is right, and we have only two more days before the full moon, we’ve got to prepare for battle.”
“Battle? What fucking battle?”
“Look, we don’t have a clue where Fludd is. But we know who he’s planning on killing. Stands to reason that if we go to Cromwell, we will find Fludd and his men.”
Billy leaned back and flung a bit of crust onto the plate between us. “And his goddamn monsters as well! You expect us to knock on Cromwell’s door and ask him to let us wait in his parlour?”
“I admit I haven’t figured the plan completely but I don’t think we’ll be standing alone. If Ashmole is right, we might even be able to convince the Council of the threat to the kingdom.”
“How do you expect us to actually fight these creatures? You’ve seen that Devil hound... and the pig man—whatever the fuck it was. What good is iron against that?”
“I’m praying we’ll get a little help from the other side. But in the meantime I need you to get us a couple of buff coats and gauntlets. Maybe a steel gorget would help too...”
“Jesus, you are planning on going to war! But why the armour?”
“You’ve seen the claws and teeth on those beasts, haven’t you?”
Billy groaned and shook his head. “Oh Christ, we’re well and truly buggered. What in the name of Mary and Joseph am I doing here?”
“We are going to save England. You and me.”
I SLEPT FITFULLY, the house creaking and grumbling as the wind blew through every crack and crevice. The river beneath us gave out an unceasing, muffled roar. Both of us stretched out, fully dressed, swords naked on the floor with us. I felt that at any moment we would be caught out. God knows, there must have been any number of people looking for us by now. I was doubtful that Fludd would make another attempt until after his business with the Lord General was finished. But he still wanted his revenge. Then there was the chance that the failed West Country plotters had revealed my travelling name. A very good chance. The redcoats could even now be searching out Andreas Falkenhayn in the city. And that name was now slowly spreading here on the bridge and at the Bear. And most worrying was the whereabouts of Monsieur d’Artagnan. Maggie he ought to have safely ensconced aboard ship or in a hostel in Lyme Regis. But d’Artagnan would not abandon the chase when his master had given orders. No, he was bound to be on my scent whether his English was very good or not. And he could always call upon the French ambassador for help—and allies.
I awoke to the sun filtering through the filthy windows at the back of the house. Billy was already up and banging around in the adjacent room. As I walked in on him, he stood there bare-chested with his shirt around his neck. He saw me, and quickly whirled around, hurriedly pushing his arms down the sleeves. He was hiding something.
“What is the matter?”
He shook his head. “Naught. Leastways no concern of yours.”
I pulled the shirt up off his arms as he swore bloody murder. Both arms were dripping with pus, the scratches he had received nearly a week ago burst open and weeping poison. “Sweet Jesus, Billy, you should have told me.”
“It was that goddamn flying ape. The scratches scabbed up nicely after a day or so but they keep opening up again. They won’t heal.”
I fetched my other linen and tore it up to make strips to bind his forearms. “They are unnatural wounds. We must seek advice before things get too far along. Can you still feel your fingers?”
Billy nodded. “Aye, and not much pain... or maybe I’ve just gotten used to it. No time for the surgeon, Mister Eff. Just get them wrapped and let’s be about our business.”
We went south down the bridge and over to the Bear for breakfast. It was as we were finishing the last of it, tucked into the back of the room, that the landlord approached with a letter addressed to ‘Andreas Falkenhayn.’ It was Elias Ashmole. His only instructions: to meet him at twelve of the clock outside the Fountain Inn on the Strand. So, it seemed that he had met with some success. I gave Billy some more silver (now getting dangerously low) and told him to find us at least the stout buff coats to protect us, if nothing else.
“If a few scratches cause wounds like yours,” I told him, “imagine what a deep gash from those creatures would do.” This time, he agreed fully. Protection was best.
“I will look for you at the house by nightfall. Keep your wits about you, Billy. No slacking off. I can feel it in my bones that enemies are drawing closer.”
Billy looked out across the half-empty room. “I’ve felt it too. The hairs on my neck are prickling like mad. I’ve already practically rubbed that gypsy charm down to bare threads.”
“Then God keep you. I shall see you when I return.”
“Have no fear. I’ll get us the kit and keep low the rest of the day.”
ASHMOLE WAS WAITING on the Strand as I approached, my broad-brimmed hat pulled down over my face and my cloak drawn tight about me. As soon as I reached him, he cupped my elbow with his right arm and began walking me quickly up the Strand towards Fleet Street.
“Good day to you, sir,” he said, barely looking at me. “I am afraid that the plot is thickening faster than we can keep up.”
“What do you mean?”
“I do not know how it has transpired, but Cromwell’s spies now know that Richard Treadwell is returned and that he may be conspiring to uprising and murder. Mister Thurloe has already placed his agents out on the streets to find and seize you, and they know your alias as well.”
I wasn’t too surprised. “What I told you is the God’s truth, Elias. I am here to warn Cromwell, not kill him.”
“That is what I have told William Lilly, brother in the Craft and chief astrologer to the Council. He says if I believe your tale, he will believe it. As far as uprisings go,” he said, half turning to me, a smirk upon his lips, “you did not really expect me to believe you risked a traitor’s death by returning just so you could see your wife in Devon?”
I could feel my face grow flushed. “If any uprising did exist, it was only in the minds of a few drunken fools. The threat to the kingdom comes not from the Stuarts but from within the bosom of Parliament.”
“So it would seem, so it would seem. But we are fast running out of time and the net is closing in upon you. Indeed,” he continued, as if the realisation had just dawned upon him, “now I’m in the same boat since it can be said I have harboured you.”
I threw an arm around his shoulder. “Then for the love of Christ, let’s get some allies and end this thing before we are too late.”
We came upon a fine house in the Strand, its carved timbers prettily painted. Over the lintel of the doorway was a Latin phrase in gold that I puzzled to translate. Ashmole helped me as he knocked loudly upon the door. “It says, Ex Uno Omnia, ‘From the One, All.’ Everything is connected, Richard. Everything. Astrology shows us how.”
The door creaked open and we were ushered in by an old serving woman and directed up the main staircase to the dining room where, we were told, Mr. Lilly and the others awaited. I found myself in a large hall leading to another room behind closed double doors. Ashmole took off his hat and indicated that I should give him mine. He placed them on the side table and then reached into his pocket and pulled out a long strip of black silk.
“Now is the time for you to put your trust in your fellow man. I must blindfold you now before we enter the Lodge room.”
I nodded my consent and was soon in darkness. Ashmole rapped upon the door in a series of knocks and pauses. I heard the door open and then felt Ashmole’s tug at my arm as we entered. For all I knew there could have been a party of redcoats in the room, containing their laughter as the lamb was ushered in for the slaughter. But I resigned myself, the door shut behind us, and my ceremony of initiation began.
“Is this the candidate?” came a strong young voice from somewhere in front of me.
“It is he,�
� replied Ashmole, at my side.
“And have you, Mister Falkenhayn, been instructed in the history of our Fellowship and will you take the oath to join with us, knowing that to break it will be your death?”
“I have and I will,” I said, feeling a little foolish.
“Then upon the word and honour of Brother Ashmole, we shall proceed.”
And then followed a bizarre interrogation by the lone voice, with Ashmole whispering the set response in my ear and me repeating it aloud.
“Where lie the keys to your Lodge Door?”
“They lie under the three-cornered pavement.”
“What are the keys to your Lodge Door made from?”
“It is not made of wood, stone, iron or steel, or any sort of metal, but the tongue of a good report behind a brother’s back as well as before his face.”
“How many lights are in your Lodge?”
“Three. The sun, the master, and the square.”
And so it went. Finally, I felt the blindfold being undone, and I blinked as my eyes adjusted to the darkened room, lit by but three candles upon a centre table. Far from a roomful of redcoats, there were but five men standing around the table. The master of the Lodge came forward, a man of my own age with a flaming ginger moustache. William Lilly then whispered into my ear the word of the Masons and gave me the secret grip. I swore an oath to never reveal the secrets that had been bestowed upon me and Lilly directed me to kiss the bible that lay open upon the table.
And that was it. Smiles all around as the solemn mood lifted like a passing summer storm cloud. Lilly and the others clapped me upon the back and welcomed me into the brotherhood. A brotherhood I scarcely understood anything about. Another set of doors were opened and we entered a further room, already laid out with sweetmeats, pies, cheese, and wine.
And all eyes were upon me.
“I do not know what to say, gentleman. Other than to thank you for accepting me into your midst. I must admit, I would not ever have expected to be in the same room with some of you.”
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