Gideon's Angel

by Clifford Beal

  “My name is John Thurloe of the Council of State. And you, I presume, are Colonel Richard Treadwell.” He moved deeper into the bedchamber and threw back his dark cassock off his shoulder as he reached for the paper on the table. He was still looking me up and down in open disbelief at my shabby, stinking condition. “I thought the Royalists were paying better than this. Christ’s wounds! Look at the state of you, man.” He scanned the paper but gave no reaction to Fludd’s message.

  A fourth soldier came in jangling a set of rusty manacles.

  “Put him in irons,” said Thurloe quietly.

  He was still shaking his head in disappointment as they bustled me out the door. As I was swept past, I heard him mock me. “And he’s a new knight of the realm, to boot. Sad times indeed.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  TWICE BEFORE I had seen the palace of Whitehall and both times it was a gloomy ramshackle place, full of endless passages and built without rhyme or reason. More so now that the king was dead. He had been led out to his execution on a scaffold from the window of his own banqueting hall. And the palace died with him. The place was empty, cold, and full of shadows and distant echoes now. Empty that is except for a few buildings near to the street of Whitehall where I found myself being driven: the old gate and guardhouse between the palace and Scotland Yard.

  Without a word, my guards took me down from the coach and marched me underneath the archway of the brick gatehouse that led into the old courtyard and the heart of the old palace. I craned my head back to glimpse Thurloe emerging from a second coach that had followed. On either side were two great doors that I remembered were the chambers for the royal guard. It was here that they pushed me into the door to the left and I found myself in a large unadorned chamber, plaster falling off the brick walls in huge slabs, and the floor made up of large flagstones, cracked and uneven. It contained just a few tables and benches, some guttering tin lanterns and a great fireplace at one end, unlit. Leading off from this was another door—one with an iron grate and locks. Two redcoats stood up as we piled inside, looking a bit confused at my arrival and leaving their tankards upon the table.

  “Sit him down over there,” ordered Thurloe as he came into the room and removed his gloves. “And get a fire going.”

  “I thought I would be going to the Tower,” I said, standing in the centre of the bitterly cold room. A soldier grabbed my arm and shoved me down onto a cracked and wobbling bench.

  Thurloe pulled his cassock closer about himself and shut the door. “Oh, you’ll find yourself there soon enough, Sir Richard. But let’s not get ahead of things.” He came over to me and pulled up a chair until it was but two feet in front of me. “I’m not inclined to turn you over to the charge of the Lieutenant of the Tower until we’ve had a chance to discuss your little journey of late.”

  Bad enough I had been captured, but to be but a stone’s throw from where Cromwell was no doubt at that moment eating his soup and bread was bitter indeed. Two soldiers busied themselves with firewood while the others stood near the door. I stretched out my legs and absently rattled my irons in my lap. “Whatever intelligence you have is wrong. That I can tell you.”

  Thurloe didn’t reply straight away. He was just sizing me up, his slightly flabby face shining yellow and sweaty in the dim lamplight. If those jaded eyes of his could have looked into my mind and seen what I had fought and sent tumbling off the rooftops of London Bridge he would have taken off my chains himself. I looked away. There were a few small casement windows in the chamber and I could see it was fully evening now, probably near eight o’clock.

  “Where is that simpleton of a Ranter you’ve been travelling with?”

  “He’s the least of your worries,” I replied. “Can I have a drink?”

  Thurloe pursed his thin lips, but nevertheless motioned to one of the redcoats to bring me a tankard. I cupped it with my shackled hands and drank a swig of beer. It was rank stuff but it wet my throat and mouth.

  “I cannot fathom,” he said, hands clasped and elbows resting on the arms of his chair, “why you would come back here and risk your neck for nothing. You must realise that your life is now forfeit. What could they possibly have offered you?”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Enlighten me, Colonel.”

  I took another swig before I began telling him my tale—or at least the lion’s share of it. It didn’t really matter whether I trusted him or not but I had to convince him of what was about to befall all of us.

  “I assume it was the French ambassador who relayed the news of my arrival. He probably told you of the plot in the West Country that I was to help lead. But that is only a fraction of the whole truth.”

  Thurloe nodded slowly. “Yes, the ambassador gave us a warning that you were here on a mission for Herbert or Hyde. But I already knew full well about the rising in the west. I am more concerned with your personal mission here.”

  “My personal mission is to safeguard the life of the Lord General. Shortly after I arrived in Plymouth I stumbled upon a plot to assassinate him. A plot you are still blissfully unaware of.” Guffaws from the guards sounded behind me.

  “You three can wait outside,” said Thurloe, his voice all ice and authority. “And you two,” he turned to the redcoats labouring over the hearth, “get on with that fire!”

  He looked annoyed, maybe even anxious, and I could tell he was already thinking that I was spinning him a fairy tale to try and save my skin.

  He leaned forward, the chair creaking under him. “The only plot I am concerned with is the one you have against General Cromwell.”

  I just about managed a croak of amusement. “This rising you are so concerned about was nothing but a poor jest from the beginning. A band of drunkards and braggarts is what I found when I landed. And I was the bigger fool for believing there was half a chance. I’m not surprised you knew of their plans. But you’ve missed the real danger to the kingdom.” And so I told him of how I had run into Gideon Fludd at Exeter, and, while leaving out the most fantastic details for the moment, revealed that this band of rogue Fifth Monarchy men meant to kill Cromwell in less than twenty-four hours. I told him the truth, but decided at this point in my creaky situation to omit how I had chanced upon and killed Israel Fludd. Things were difficult enough without a charge of murder being added to my woes.

  Thurloe just sat there, silent and expressionless, taking in my words. His eyes betrayed nothing of the cogs moving in his mind. At length, he leaned back and placed his hands on the ruined turnings of the poor abused chair, a ruder piece of furniture than he was no doubt accustomed to.

  “It was Major Fludd, I understand, who rounded up your co-conspirators in Exeter last week,” he said. “From my vantage he and his men are in line for reward and not censure. And now that you’ve been caught you spin out a story that it is Major Fludd who should be under arrest. You expect me to believe that sort of bollocks, sir?”

  It was my turn to lean forward. “Fludd is convinced he’s on a mission from God to destroy Cromwell and usher in the Second Coming. I have heard him say this. His plan was to move as soon as Cromwell dissolved Parliament. As we speak he is already here in London, ready to strike.”

  Thurloe chuckled quietly, genuinely amused.

  “If you won’t believe me,” I persisted, “then find the French ambassador’s man, Lieutenant d’Artagnan. He was attacked by Fludd and his men this very afternoon. Know also, that Fludd has kidnapped a lady in the care of d’Artagnan.”

  “Fantasy, sir. It would seem that Gideon Fludd is at war with everyone in London. Why don’t you just confess your plot and give me the names of your associates?”

  I sighed. “But you saw the note... on the table at the inn. I have something he wants in return for the woman.”

  “Yes, I read it. But anyone could have scribbled that, even you. And what do you claim he wants of you?”

  I opened my mouth to answer, but stopped. Down that path lay ruin.

  “Ca
n’t think of anything fast enough, Colonel?”

  I had to get the spymaster curious, curious enough to start asking questions. “Mister Thurloe, has not William Lilly come to see you today? To tell you about these Fifth Monarchy men?”

  “Who? Lilly the astrologer? Come now, you really are grasping at straws. What could that gentleman have to do with this? I’m sure he’s happily calculating the stars as we speak.”

  Now this was ill news indeed. If neither Lilly nor any of the other brethren had made the approach, I was truly left dangling. “I assure you, Mister Lilly will be looking for you to tell you. He promised me.”

  “We keep an eye on the Fifth men—like any of the radicals. If there was a plot afoot I would know about it... Like yours.”

  I hefted my manacles in frustration. “I beg you... seek out the Frenchman. He will tell you all. All I will admit is I came here to raise the West Country. Not to do murder. It is by pure chance that I uncovered Fludd’s plans to assassinate the Lord General. And I have risked my life to come to London to stop it.”

  Thurloe slowly got up, his eyes boring into me. He was trying to decide whether I was just mad, calculating, or really telling the truth. “You offer me no proof of any of your assertions. And as a known enemy of the state, I have no reason to offer you a thing. And as for talk of assassination, well, I’m sure we will get the answers we seek once you’re chained in the Tower. We have a Moor there who is most skilled at getting results from the uncooperative.”

  “Consider this then. If you don’t ask the Frenchman and you don’t question Fludd himself—and something does happen—who will bear the responsibility for that? I’ll be hanged for rebellion but you’ll be the man whose overconfidence killed the Lord General... I’m sure there is special punishment for that.”

  Thurloe looked down at me, unmoved but for a twitching of the corner of his mouth. A fire was now crackling away in the hearth, the smell of smoke blowing back into the room. The last two remaining musketeers had taken up stations at the door.

  “Captain Poxwell!”

  One of the soldiers approached Thurloe.

  “Detain Colonel Treadwell here in the adjoining chamber for tonight. I want the rest of your men to remain as well. Lock yourselves in. I will return in the morning to escort the prisoner to the Tower.” He gave me one last long look but I could not tell whether the spark of doubt was lit or not.

  As one of the soldiers opened the door for him, he paused, and turned back to shoot me another long look. “Captain, keep a good eye on this fellow, do you hear?”

  Poxwell sprung up straight as a ramrod. “Yes, my lord!”

  THAT DREAM AGAIN. I was instantly awake, lying on the cot in the little adjoining chamber. It was a dream that came to me in times of trouble, always the same short but vivid scene. I am back in the wilds of Saxony, in the mountains. And I am fleeing as fast as my legs will carry me. Fleeing from the horde of Croat mercenaries that have just slaughtered my comrades on the field below. And the undergrowth tears at me, almost reaching up, binding me and pulling me like I am knee deep in mud. And the deep laughter of the Croats grows closer as they reach me... And I open my eyes.

  Faint lamplight spilled in from the little barred window on the door to my cell. The room was no more than ten foot square. It reeked of stale piss from the bucket that sat upon the floor in the corner. This had to be a dossing place where the guards would bring their whores from Charing Cross for a little diversion. The one window to the outside, at head height, was iron trellis work. It would have made little difference were it open; I couldn’t have fit through it if I were a child. I sat up on the cot and scraped my boots on the stone floor to warm my numb feet.

  On the broken down table that was propped against the far wall lay my silver pentacle and the lump of chalk from my pocket. Thurloe must have been distracted by something, for he had not even bothered to search me. But the pentacle had become a curse. Somehow I knew that it drew the enemy to me, guiding them no matter where I hid. But so too was it probably the key to destroying them.

  At least Poxwell had had the decency to feed me: a hunk of cheese, more rind than anything else, and half a loaf of black bread. And he had taken off the irons from my wrists. I could hear them all snoring in the next chamber, their bellies full of beer. The echoes of the nightmare had now passed. Always the same dream of when I was twenty-one and raw to soldiering. And always the same rank fear. But I had survived that episode. And others that few could even dream of. And I was not about to let Marguerite die in Fludd’s hands. I would find a way to beat him.

  I judged it was well past midnight. The soft, silver glow of the near full moon poured through my cell, spilling a pool of light upon the wall above my cot. I felt strangely rested, even after just a few hours sleep and the abrupt intervention of my little nightmare. Running my hands through my tangled locks, I started to think of a way to escape, by ruse or by desperate gamble. I thought I saw the light upon the wall fade out and in again. Probably the clouds passing by the face of the moon. And as I sat there, I became uncomfortably aware of a presence. My talisman almost pulled at its chain, seeming to grow heavier. I glanced up at the window. I could see ivy gently swaying with the gusts of wind outside, clinging as it did on the outer wall of the old gatehouse. That would explain the shadow fall and I quickly put to rest darker thoughts.

  So then, a stratagem was needed. Perhaps to feign illness? That might get Poxwell into the room again. If he was wearing his short blade as he had earlier, I stood a good chance of taking him by surprise, snatching the weapon, and making for the door before the others could react. And then, for the second time, I felt I was being watched. I could not see Poxwell or his comrades at the door grate but the feeling persisted. And though it was cold in the room, my locket was pressing warm—oddly warm, against my chest. I slowly stood up, listening intently in the darkness. There was only silence and the ringing of my own ears. Still, that tickling feeling lingered. Something was not altogether right, and apprehension grew even stronger as my imagination began to play with me, pulling up memories of things I had tried to keep deeply submerged. And as my eyes passed by the little high window for the third time, I saw it. Saw it sitting quietly on the window ledge.

  It was in a crouch, no more than a foot or so high, and nothing of it was truly visible other than its outline in the moonlight. But its large white eyes, like those of some frightened waif, looked right into mine and then blinked slowly, the lids rising up from the bottom of its orbs. It was a black homunculus, more baboon than man, bent over to fit in the small opening. I watched its tiny, long-fingered hands wrap around the wrought iron grill and saw it lean inwards. It was every inch a living imp, the likeness seen carved in stone in a hundred churches. But when it spoke I nearly leapt out of my skin.

  “I can hear you in there.”

  Its voice, the tone of a creaking hinge, carried clearer and further than it should have from a creature only the size of a doll.

  “I can hear what you think,” it said. “Not as good as my brothers... but I am getting better.”

  I slowly stood up, my eyes riveted to the thing. “Leave, hellspawn! Get back to your master and tell him I shall meet him soon.”

  It tilted its head to regard me better through the grating, its small flat ears twitching. “The woman, she is very afraid. I can hear what she thinks too.”

  I approached it, looking about quickly for a stick or anything to strike it with. “Hellspawn or not, I shall twist your little head from your body if she is harmed. Mark me well on that.”

  And then it laughed, laughed like a coughing dog. “You talk brave but you’re a’scared. I can hear it in your head. She is afraid we will eat her... and we will. When it is time.”

  I slammed my hand against the grate but it merely pulled back its hands and blinked at me, barely troubled. “My master says tomorrow we rule the night. It matters not whether you get out of here.”

  “You can tell Gideon Fludd that I will
see him tomorrow night and finish this.”

  The creature laughed again, a fat black tongue protruding from its yellow-toothed grin. “The man is not my master. You are thinking that Fludd is the master! The Fludd is the vessel. The Fludd is the tool. The lord Andras is the master.”

  I stepped back from the window. “Why is he come? Why now?”

  “To confound you all, sons of men. To confound you all.”

  “I will get out of here. I’ll come for my Maggie. And I will slay you all.”

  The imp shook its head at me. “Piggy was weak. But we are stronger. Andras is coming.”

  “The Lord Jehovah will protect us!” I spat, more in desperation than conviction. But as soon as I spoke, its ears flattened like those of a cat struck with a broom. It grabbed the ironwork anew and hissed back at me.

  “We will vex your world, man. The Crom man will die and we will multiply.”

  “There are many who guard Cromwell. You will not succeed.”

  “If your friends let you out then you can come and see. And then my brothers will eat you too. They are bigger than me.”

  I ran to the door and banged away to wake the guards. But they slumbered on—unnaturally so. This little thing was childlike but it knew much. And if the Fifth Monarchy men took over the kingdom with Gideon Fludd at the fore, they would be ushering in hell on earth. And I remembered the rabbi’s warning: this demon’s sole purpose was to sow dissent and discord in the hearts of men.

  “They’re all sleeping. Sleeping the night away. They cannot hear you. But I can hear you.”

  “You vile creature!” And I went for it again. As I touched the grating, it lashed with the speed of an adder and its claws scratched the top of my hand. I cried out and pulled back, the burning pain running up my arm as if I had been touched with a red poker.

  “And I can see what you see... in your dreams.” It blinked again and then slowly smiled like a little old man, turning my blood to ice. And then it vanished. But then I saw the ivy that draped around the edges of the window. It was rustling as if shaken by some unseen hand. First one, and then another vine poked through the rusting ironwork, like black-green worms, feeling their way over the brick sill. And just as quickly, more came through at the top, shooting through the grating. They poured through the opening and spilled down the floor and into the room. And they kept coming even as I jumped back against the far wall. The rustling noise was maddening loud, filling my ears. One strand found my ankle and instantly whipped its way around it. The wall was a mass of rippling green leaves and vines, and this soon was flopping its way across the floor, seeking me out. And it was climbing up the table legs too.