I looked to the table and saw the lump of chalk. And the pentacle. And I remembered.
Tearing off the vine that was already pulling me towards its brethren, I seized the silver pentacle just as two large quivering vines wrapped themselves around the wobbling table like a kraken upon a ship. I then grabbed the chalk and jumped to the opposite corner of the room, hurling the piss bucket at the writhing pile of greenery. I rapidly began drawing a circle around myself upon the stone tiled floor, my hand shaking so much I could barely keep the chalk lump firmly on the stone. I stood up straight, and looked about my feet. Christ! It was hardly a circle at all. And then I stumbled over the words that da Silva had told me. Hesitant, wrong, mixed-up, yes—but they came out. And by the third try, I had them in my mind, fully formed and true. And then they were upon my bone-dry lips.
“Be split, be accursed, broken and banned, you son of mud, son of an unclean one, son of clay, in the name of Morigo, Moriphath and his seal.”
Again, again, over and over, until I was nearly screaming the words. Half mad with fear, I dared not stop. The ivy was still whipping frantically, the room was filled more than knee-high. A powerful stench of mould, the air of a tomb, filled the chamber. A few large vines slapped at my face but I could already see that not one strand had crossed the circle at my feet. The whole writhing mass broke upon me like a wave upon a jetty, surging and then falling back. I don’t know how many times I repeated the incantation, that Hebrew charm, but my voice was soon hoarse.
And then I perceived the motion of the sea of ivy to lessen, its thrashing seeming to slow, to quiet. And just as quickly, so too did the smell change. Where the rotting musty odour was but a minute ago, now the smell of trodden plants, sweet and acrid, lay upon the air. And the ivy was now what it had been before—peaceful and at rest, companion to the stone.
The chamber was still. I felt for the pentacle in my pocket to make sure it was still there. And then I cautiously inched a toe beyond the chalk line of the circle. I prodded the tangled thicket in front of me. No movement followed. I stepped out of the circle, gingerly, afraid to draw breath. But all was silent except for the crush of my boots upon the leaves.
And I can see what you see... in your dreams.
The Croats. The forest on the mountainside. The undergrowth pulling at my feet, defeating me. The thing had seen into my fevered mind as clearly as if I had told it aloud what I was dreaming. I stumbled through the vines to the cot, swept away the mass that lay there and fell upon the bedstead. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the Pentacle of the Moon. Curling up like a beaten child, I clutched it to my chest and passed into a mercifully dreamless sleep, a sleep of the dead.
“SWEET JESUS CHRIST!” Captain Poxwell was standing in the open door, mouth wide open. The sea of tangled greenery was still there on the floor, nearly waist high near the window. I turned over on the cot and looked at him, not knowing even what to say. It could be plainly seen that the ivy had grown in through the window opening as if five years had passed in a single night.
Poxwell looked at me. He was still bleary-eyed from his deep slumber but I could tell he was trying to figure if I could have pulled in all that ivy through the iron grating over one night. He looked at the window again. The alternative was too alarming to contemplate and he turned back to the other room, stuttering. “Mister Thurloe, sir... something’s gone on a bit strange here... think you should have a look in.”
I didn’t await the arrival of the spymaster but instead rolled out of the cot and entered the main chamber. Thurloe was standing there, dressed as he had been the night before (had he even slept?), but he was not alone. Next to him was my sometime comrade and pursuer of late, the Lieutenant d’Artagnan. He had a thick linen bandage wrapped about his head, piled up so high he could not wear his hat. With his thin, drooping moustache, and fine velvet suit, he looked like some lugubrious Turk. His eyes met mine for a moment, then he lowered his gaze.
John Thurloe looked grimmer than he had the previous evening. “Colonel, it is time to continue our conversation,” he said, giving no mention of the Frenchman who stood next to him, or of his intentions.
“Mister Thurloe... my lord...” Captain Poxwell was straddling the threshold to my cell, seemingly incapable of taking his eyes off the forest of vines. “I think there’s witchcraft here, sir. Meaning no disrespect sir, but please do have a look inside.”
“What is it, man?” said Thurloe. He pushed past me and entered the little room. He quickly reappeared, stepping somewhat slowly across the main chamber. “Poxwell, shut that door and lock it this instant.” He turned to me, his face perhaps a little more flushed than a moment ago. Pulling his kerchief from out of his sleeve, he dabbed his mouth before continuing.
“My curiosity got the better of me after we last spoke,” he said. “I sought out Mister Lilly as you suggested. He sends his greetings... and commiserations upon your arrest, by the way.”
I nodded, knowing my fate rested on his next few words.
“He has told me the entire tale. A fantastical one to be sure, but I forbore it, listening in full. He confided that he had intended to seek me out yesterday and warn me of this alleged plot by Major Fludd but that his courage failed him. He says he believes your story though you offer no proof.” Thurloe then gestured to d’Artagnan. “That is why I then sought out the French ambassador again. And there, I met this gentleman who I believe you are well acquainted with.”
D’Artagnan stepped towards me, his hat gripped tightly in both hands, his mouth almost trembling with emotion. He extended one leg, elegantly slipped the other behind, and bowed his head to me. “My dear Colonel, I beg your forgiveness for doubting your word. You were right, and I have failed the lady St. John as well. My honour is gone. Gone until we restore her.”
I looked at the young, once cocksure, musketeer and gave him a nod of acceptance. But I could not forgive him for his recklessness in losing Maggie. That he would have to earn, if it was even possible to do so. Cromwell be damned. I was going into battle against Fludd and his devils to free her. To free her and take her back home, away from this blighted place.
“So where do we stand now, sir?” I asked Thurloe. I held out my arms towards him. “Am I to be transferred to the Tower? Or do we seek out Fludd and his men instead?”
Thurloe gave me a hard stare. “Against my reason, I am inclined to give you the benefit of the doubt—for the moment. What I have just seen in that room adds some weight to what Mister Lilly has told me, that I will admit. But consider this only a furlough. The army and I will look for Fludd—if he is to be found. And you are coming with me. Monsieur d’Artagnan if he chooses. And you can share with me your intentions, Colonel, on where and how Fludd will strike. No more secret sorties, do you understand?”
“Very well, sir. I give you my word I will aid you. But we must act quickly and you must have faith in what I shall ask of you no matter how fantastic it sounds to your faculties for reason.”
“I shall do what is in the interest of the State, sir, have no fear. But do not cross me.” He extended his hand to me. “So then, let us give our bond to this little agreement.”
I took the hand of the enemy in mine and my eyes widened as I felt the subtle but definite pressure of his forefinger and then his thumb as he gave me the secret sign that I had just been initiated in a day ago. Dazed, I reciprocated as expected of an accepted Mason. The spymaster betrayed nothing as he looked at me.
“And what do you propose we do first, Colonel, to expose this plot?”
“First, I advise you to double the guard on the Lord General’s apartments. And you need to meet and listen to a few of my new friends, Mister Thurloe. Tell your musketeers to be ready for a fight against a new enemy.” Captain Poxwell, standing next to his master, was ashen. I watched as his eyes darted to his comrades across the room, the same fellows who had smirked at me the night before. Now, the tune was a different one.
Thurloe retrieved his tall and plain hat f
rom the table and placed it on his head. “I take it you refer to whatever did that to your cell last night,” he said, nodding towards the far room, bolted shut.
“Tonight you shall see such things with your own eyes,” I said. “And we will need God’s help to stop them.”
Chapter Seventeen
“SAINTS ABOVE!” SHOUTED Billy as I walked into the shop of Roderigo da Silva, somewhat stiff with pain. “It does my heart good, Fellow Creature, does my heart good indeed! Jesus knows we didn’t expect to see you again.” Billy came over and grasped my arm and shoulder, clapping me gently when he saw my poor state.
“How’s your noggin, Billy?”
Billy smiled, scratching at the tuft of hair that stood up on the top of his skull. “The young woman here found a salve for that. No real harm done.”
I smiled back. “And I can tell you that d’Artagnan has one double the size of yours.”
The rabbi, too, entered the front room at the sound of the door, and looking at me, took more than a few moments before realising who it was. “Bless me, Mister Falkenhayn! We had heard the tale of your capture by the army. How—” He stopped himself and flapped his hands about like a flustered hen. “It matters not. You are here and safe. Mister Ashmole, come down here!”
Billy looked me up and down. “You look a might worse for wear, Mister Eff. Come now, take a seat over here and tell us what has happened.”
I didn’t refuse. I noticed that Billy was in but his shirt and breeches, sleeves rolled up and some sort of stinking yellow-coloured poultices wrapped about the wounds on his arms.
“I went back to the Bear later last night. Heard you’d been snatched away by some redcoats and assumed you were done for. But I did what you said and came back here again to the Portagees, Mister Eff. Like you said.”
Elias Ashmole appeared through the curtain of the doorway to the back, took one look at me and swore an oath. “They let you go! Please tell me they believed your story, sir.”
I stretched my legs out in front of me, a heavy cloak of fatigue finally settling over me now that I was back among friends. “Aye, they half-believe me. But Thurloe’s men have me under watch and the man himself will be here within the hour. He wants to know our plan.”
Ashmole tilted his head and cocked an eyebrow. “Our plan? Well, dear fellow, we were waiting for that from you. The rabbi here has been busy though, consulting the texts.”
Da Silva nodded. “And we have the silver we need thanks be to Mister Ashmole. We’ll have some means at our disposal for the work that lies ahead.”
Ashmole reached for a brown bottle of Canary and brought it over to me. “Senor da Silva’s silversmith should have the work done in a few hours from now. A very dependable man, we’re told.”
I wiped my face, took a swig straight from the bottle, and looked up at my companions. “Last night, in my cell... I spoke with one of them. One of the demon’s minions. They have Maggie—alive, it told me. The damned thing actually spoke to me. Some sort of infernal imp—like a monkey.”
“See! I told you just so!” Billy started waving his bandaged arms out of frustration and fear. “Goddamned creatures from hell itself!”
“My God,” Ashmole muttered, looking over to the old Jew. “Can we really do this thing?”
“We must,” da Silva said. He slammed open another one of his ancient mould-covered books to continue his search for divine assistance. “There is no one else to do what must be done.”
“Thurloe has agreed to redouble the guard on the Lord General,” I said. “And he will come with us tonight to confront Fludd.” I glanced over to Billy. “And d’Artagnan is with him. He vouched for at least some of my tale.”
Billy looked as if he was about to spit on the floor. “We can trust that Frenchman about as far as Thurloe.”
“Aye, that may be so. But we’ll need numbers to take on Fludd’s Fifth Monarchy men.”
Billy was having none of it. “Bah! Once they get a sight of the apes and the black dog they’ll run for home. And then it will be us buggers on our fuckin’ own.”
Da Silva contemplated me again and shook his head slowly. “Isabel! Come down here!” He stood back from his table, arms stretched forward as if he too was suddenly stricken with weariness. “Your man is correct, Mister Falkenhayn. They will not know what to do when they confront the unholy as large as life.” He raised his head and called out again shrilly. “Isabel!”
“No, I suppose they won’t,” I said. “But nor did I until I had to. We need the redcoats.”
Da Silva’s tiny eyes, surmounted by drooping lids, paper-thin and grey, looked into mine without wavering. “And what will you tell them about me?”
I had not thought of that. The Council of State might be turning a blind eye to the Jewish merchants of London when it suited, but Hebrew magic was something that Thurloe would probably find hard to stomach.
“Thurloe has already spoken with Mister Lilly,” I said. “He may have already mentioned you and the Grand Pentacle of Solomon.”
“Which is the property of Mister Lilly and not Senor da Silva’s,” added Ashmole. “Good Protestants may use these ancient Hebrew symbols as much as anyone. There is no secret in this. Senor da Silva is merely the owner of some old medical and religious texts. If you take my meaning. And besides, the government seems more preoccupied with Catholic conspiracies at the moment.”
“Very well, then,” I said. “Senor, I suggest you keep whatever cloak you use these days and leave the discussion to Mister Ashmole. We’ll have to steer a delicate course with Thurloe.”
I looked back over to Ashmole. “Elias, what of Lilly and the Craft? I had expected them to join you.”
Ashmole shook his head. “I went to Mister Lilly’s house this morning. It took some amount of banging on his door before one of his servants answered. They told me he had urgent business in Berkhamsted and would be gone for a few days. I cannot fathom it.”
Somehow I was not too surprised by this disappointment. “And the others?”
Ashmole shugged. “Alas, they all seem to have flown the roost. The Lodge is empty but for we two.”
“I suppose they didn’t have the stomach for it.”
Ashmole, ever the diplomat, was more sanguine. “Fearful or not, the others are not military men as you and I are... or were. At least we have Solomon’s pentacle in our hands.”
I noticed that Ashmole was in his country clothes: riding boots, heavy kersey breeches, and a grease-stained leather doublet. At least he was taking seriously the mission that lay ahead of us. I smiled at him, thankful for the steadfastness of a man who hardly even knew me. “We few, we happy few... eh Elias?”
“Father?”
The girl entered through the curtain, more subdued than when last we saw her, barely looking at me as she reached her father’s side.
“Ah, daughter, there you are. Fetch Mister Falkenhayn a basin and some hot water that he may refresh himself. Bring him to the back and assist him.”
She bowed her head swiftly and turned to me, her olive-toned face highlighted by the bright white scarf that entwined her head.
I looked at da Silva. “That is not necessary, sir, your hospitality is enough as it stands.”
“Nonsense. You must be prepared for the trial yet to come. It will do your soul good.”
The reminder of what I faced that evening did not ease my mind, but I nodded in agreement and followed Isabel into the next room, a connecting chamber with an empty hearth, just as sparsely furnished as the main hall. She led me onwards, quickly looking to see that I followed, into the back kitchen and scullery that looked out onto a courtyard garden barely the size of a skittle lane. The sun was shining and I could see many green herb beds and bushes through the open windows, carefully tended. Rosemary grew in great quantity, spiky and tall compared to the pale parsley and lemon balm that struggled in the April chill.
I watched her as she moved rapidly about the kitchen, filling a copper basin from the stea
ming kettle that hung suspended over a little coal fire that hissed and sputtered. She set this down next to me at the big oak table and set about getting linens and oils from a tired, sagging sideboard in the corner. I reckoned she was barely twenty and for all her industry, there was something very sad and melancholy about her.
She stood next to me and poured out some fragrant oil into the basin, mixing it with a small cloth that she dipped in, oblivious to the heat.
“What are you looking at?” she asked, although she was intently looking into the copper.
“Why, you, girl. Isn’t that allowed?”
“It’s rude to stare.”
“Then I shall contemplate your garden instead. You grow a prodigious amount of fine rosemary, I see.”
There was silence except for the gentle dripping of the water, its pleasing scent rising up to my face and already renewing my spirit. Such a little thing. And then, she spoke, her voice soft.
“It is from Lisbon. A variety that does not grow here in England. It reminds me of our old garden on the hillside there... before times became bad.” She raised the dripping cloth and squeezed it over the copper bowl. She paused, cupping the damp linen in her hand. “I must apologise to you, sir, for my outburst yesterday. I was wrong. And I shamed my father by behaving so.”
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