Gideon's Angel

by Clifford Beal

  “You’re rightly concerned for his safety. I see that as something admirable, not wrong.”

  She dipped the cloth in the copper again and swirled it carefully before raising it and wringing it a little. “Here, hold still, while I wash your face. You have been bruised upon your cheek?”

  I started to protest, but she pushed my hand away and continued. “Don’t fuss so. I wash my father’s head and he doesn’t make half so much noise.”

  The warmth felt good and I shut my eyes as she dipped and wrung out the cloth again, bringing it up to my forehead and cheeks.

  “And when I’ve finished your face you must dip your head into the basin to rinse your locks.”

  I smiled under the veil of the cloth. “I shall protest no more.”

  I then dutifully dipped my tired head into the water and she handed me a linen square to dry myself. She was now contemplating me, hands upon hips.

  “I thought you said it was rude to stare.”

  She smiled at me, a pretty mouth, but careworn for such a tender age. “I’m sorry. Now face the other way that I may comb out your locks, sir.”

  And as she was teasing out the tangled mess of my hair, occasionally drizzling some oil to smooth out the combing, she addressed me again.

  “Father says that someone you love has been kidnapped by this Gideon Fludd. I’m sorry for that.”

  “Yes. She is very dear to me and I fear for her life.”

  “Is she your wife?”

  “No... she is my mistress.”

  There was a long pause then. “And you love her very much?”

  I found myself nodding, seeming to remind myself of that truth.

  “But you’re married to someone else?”

  Lord, she was a curious creature. But I went along. “It’s a complicated situation, Isabel, but the short answer is yes.”

  I felt the comb lift from my head. “There you are. It’s finished. I shall look for some clean linen of father’s for you to change into.”

  I got up and faced her. “Thank you for your kindness.”

  She looked at me, nodded, and then set about carrying the basin away. “Can you not divorce your wife?” she asked as she hurled the water into the garden.

  “It is a difficult thing to do in this country,” I replied, somewhat amused by her brashness. “I would need an act of Parliament and since, as of yesterday, we no longer have a Parliament that would be difficult to accomplish indeed.”

  “In our faith, it’s enough for a husband to say ‘I divorce you’ and for the rabbi to hear it. Then it is done.”

  I nodded. “Now that is a simple solution to a difficult problem.”

  Isabel carefully strung up the wet cloth near the hearth. “My father wishes to accompany you this night. And I will let him go. I will do so because this woman’s life depends upon you all. And she must not be made to suffer or to die.”

  I felt my throat tighten and I swallowed. “I’m grateful to you for this. And I will do everything to bring your father back to you.”

  She hung the kettle back on its hook and then slowly turned around again, wiping her hands on her skirt. “Oh, I will be bringing him back. Because I am coming with you too. For if he’s meant to die, then I shall die with him rather than remain here alone.”

  “MY WORD, I know this shop!” John Thurloe, secretary to the Council of State, looked around at the stacked bottles on the shelves of the wine merchant. “But who would have guessed I would be meeting here on this kind of business.” He stepped into the room, Lieutenant d’Artagnan at his side. I could just glimpse Captain Poxwell lurking in the doorway, his hand resting on the hilt of his short hangar. Thurloe looked at me and then the others in turn.

  “Sir Richard and I have exchanged greetings this day already.” He pointed to Billy Chard and looked at me. “The Ranter, I presume?”

  Billy held tight but looked ready to burst.

  “And the celebrated Mister Ashmole...” Thurloe touched the brim of his very Puritan hat in a salute. “And, Senor Roderigo da Silva... my wine merchant from what my servant tells me.”

  Thurloe stepped lightly to one side and gestured with his hand towards the Frenchman. “And this, gentleman, is Monsieur d’Artagnan, on diplomatic assignment from the King of France and, as I understand it, a former comrade of Colonel Treadwell. Lieutenant d’Artagnan has graciously volunteered to assist in our little foray.”

  D’Artagnan, his hat now back on his head, sans bandage, gave a little bow and I was now beginning to wonder just how much command of the English tongue he really had. The musketeer quickly met my eyes and gave me an honest sort of smile as if to say we were once again on the same side. That remained to be seen.

  “Sir,” said Ashmole, nodding his head, “we’re most grateful that you have answered our alarm. And for you seeing fit to release our good companion here upon hearing his tale.”

  “Let’s just say that I’ve heard enough from several sources to get my attention,” replied the spymaster. “But what I’m waiting for is proof of the plot... and a glass of wine if one is in the offing.”

  Da Silva scrambled to the back, and just as quickly re-emerged with a few glasses and began pouring from the open bottle on the table.

  I was more concerned about other things. “Have you strengthened the guard around the Lord General’s residence?”

  Thurloe turned his attention back to me, a broad smile on his lips. “Your newfound devotion to the Republic is invigorating, Colonel. And yes, I have sent another squadron of troopers over there. The Lord General’s own regiment. You may rest easy on that account.”

  “And have you told the Lord General about the threat on his life?”

  “What? Tell him that a pack of hobgoblins are about to descend upon him? I think not. If Gideon Fludd and his rabble make an attempt to break into Whitehall, we’ll stop him before he gets very far.”

  The little rabbi handed a full glass of ruby liquid up to Thurloe, who gingerly took it and saluted me. “And now, sir, I would invite you to enlighten me further about what intelligence you say you possess of these Fifth Monarchy men.”

  I began to feel my face flush in anger. “Mister Thurloe, I warn you not to underestimate what Gideon Fludd is capable of. He’s convinced that by killing Cromwell he’ll bring about the Second Coming. And I’ve seen with my own eyes these otherworldly powers that he summons forth. Shot and steel may not be enough.”

  Thurloe finished sipping his wine and stifled a chuckle. Elias Ashmole looked at his boots, his own wine glass untouched and still in his hand. “Colonel, there may be some evidence for a plot—certainly Monsieur d’Artagnan has supported some of what you claim. You, Mister Ashmole, have you seen any of the creatures that the Colonel maintains are stalking us?”

  Ashmole began to stutter a reply. But Billy spoke up first.

  “I’ve seen these things sir. Just as Mister Eff—the Colonel— says he did. Fearsome beasts, unnatural things from the pit of hell.”

  Thurloe barely looked at Billy. “Ah, the Ranter is the only one who can support your evidence then? No one else? I know the Lieutenant here has seen nothing demonic, have you sir?”

  “I have not, sir, but I believe the Colonel just the same.” D’Artagnan’s English was heavily accented but clear nonetheless. He was a crafty player indeed. Or maybe just a fast learner in his few weeks in England. But Thurloe seemed to place little weight on the musketeer’s words.

  “Even Mister Lilly—who spoke most eloquently in support of you, Colonel—has said he has seen nothing unnatural or beyond rational description. If you’re to help prevent the assassination you claim is imminent, it would be better to have knowledge of the numbers and arms of the enemy. And where they are hiding.”

  “Without the aid of the Lord your men will be swept aside like corn under the scythe.” Da Silva’s words were strong and clear, his knuckles bluish white around the wine bottle.

  Thurloe’s glass suddenly stopped halfway to his mouth. “
Now that does beg a question. What does a Portuguese wine merchant have to do with this little circle of intrigue?”

  Da Silva’s sunken cheeks quickly became as white as his knuckles. And I was momentarily wrong-footed, my mind racing to cobble a reply. Thank God, Ashmole jumped in.

  “Senor da Silva happens to be a collector of ancient tomes including some books that the enemy is believed to be consulting. His knowledge of Latin and Hebrew are of use in understanding what Fludd and his men are themselves using against us.”

  Da Silva nodded, jaw clenched.

  “Indeed,” said Thurloe quietly, and I knew then that he already was well aware of just what da Silva was, maybe even of the secret Hebrew congregation down the lane.

  “Look here,” I said, my impatience getting ahead of my reason, “Lilly must have told you that Gideon Fludd is a conjuror. He’s using some ancient book of magic to summon forth a demon and its minions.”

  “Hardly what one would expect of a godly man of Christ, radical or not.”

  “That is true. But he believes he is summoning forth an angel to help him. And this angel has ordered him to kill Cromwell. It is, in truth, a demon called Andras, appearing as a being of heavenly light.” I decided then, to show him at least something about what I spoke. I reached into my breeches pocket and pulled out the silver Pentacle of the Moon. And I handed it to Thurloe.

  “This is what he had in his possession. It is the key to calling forth unholy forces.”

  “Or holy ones,” added da Silva, bravely.

  Thurloe handled it and flipped it over as if he was examining some large coin. “This signifies nothing, Colonel. What would you have me say?”

  “I tell you I used what you now hold to save my life last night. That forest of ivy you saw with your own eyes would have strangled me otherwise. This charm held it at bay.” It was a lie to some extent but I was desperate to convince him of its power.

  Ashmole stepped forward to point out the inscription. “He is correct, sir. I have established this with the help of Senor da Silva. Gideon Fludd is using a similar one to conjure his black magic.” And he proceeded to translate the Hebrew phrases upon it and show Thurloe the symbolic gateway etched on its face. Thurloe tilted his head slightly to the left, his lips pressed together in obvious scepticism. At length, he handed the pentacle back to me.

  “There is another matter. The Lieutenant here has told me of this woman... a woman of quality... who has been abducted by Fludd. What is her involvement in this?”

  I looked at d’Artagnan. “She is my mistress, Marguerite St. John. She followed me here from Paris without my knowledge. She’s innocent of any involvement, sir.”

  “Then what does Fludd want with her?”

  “You already know that,” I told him. “You saw the message he left for me at the Bear in Southwark. He proposes her life in trade for the pentacle.”

  Thurloe nodded slowly. “If that is the case then it is behaviour most base. But I told you I need useful intelligence: numbers, weapons. As a soldier, you should know that better than most, Sir Richard.”

  It was all poor Billy could stand. “This is all stuff and fucking nonsense! We’ve told you the fucking truth and you spit it back at us!”

  Thurloe was already two steps back, eyes wide, and Poxwell leapt in front of him, eager to throttle the wild-haired frothing Dorsetman.

  “Stand down, boy!” said Thurloe to Billy, setting his glass on the table. “Lest I put you in irons and have the magistrates bore out your tongue tomorrow.”

  I grabbed Billy’s shoulder. “Rest easy. We’re in truce.”

  He quickly wiped his palm across his mouth, nodded wordlessly and I felt his shoulders sink a little in defeat under my hand.

  Now, though, John Thurloe was riled. “Well, Colonel? How many men does he have? Swords and pikes? Pistols, carbines?”

  “I don’t know. He had three men with him last night on London Bridge when he attacked me. In Exeter he had at least half a dozen. Swords and pistols in the main.”

  “Well, that’s a start. And why do you think they will strike tonight?”

  I looked over to da Silva and Ashmole before I gave answer. “Because tonight the moon waxes in full. Fludd believes his power and that of his... followers... is strongest then. He will come to the Cockpit sometime before or around midnight. I’m sure of it.”

  “With his infernal horde in tow?” Thurloe’s voice dripped disdain.

  But it was d’Artagnan who answered him. “Je suis Catholique.” And then he tried his hand at English once again. “And the Faith... it tells us the Devil he walks among men to do his work, just as,” and he glanced at me, “les Anges?”

  “The angels.”

  “Like the angels, they do their works. Disbelief is sometimes the Devil’s greatest friend.”

  Thurloe looked at d’Artagnan, somewhat lost for a reply, and simply shook his head before turning his attention back to me. “If that is all you can tell me then I shall return to Whitehall. Meet me at sundown at the Cockpit. I’ll be there with the squadron. In the meantime, I will see what my informants can tell me of this Gideon Fludd and his whereabouts.” And he pointed a long finger at Billy. “And keep him on a short leash, sir.”

  He touched the brim of his hat, met the eyes of all of us, and then turned on his heels as he motioned to Poxwell. But he paused just as he was about to leave the shop, half turning back to me. “By Jesus, we’re in league with Papists and Jews against good Protestant Englishmen who you say have gone to the Devil... The whole world has gone to Bedlam!” He laughed and left. Captain Poxwell shot each of us a surly glance before stepping after his master and slamming the door behind him, rattling the windows.

  But Lieutenant d’Artagnan remained where he stood, contemplating me.

  “So Monsieur,” I said, “Is it not time to return to your master? To tell him what a shambles you’ve made of things?”

  “He remains your master, as well.”

  I laughed at his doggedness. “I think the Cardinal has little use for outlaws. You should consider your mission here at an end.”

  D’Artagnan closed the distance between us. “I told you that I have pledged my sword arm to free your mistress. The Cardinal’s mission can wait. Besides, we have done good work together before, have we not?”

  “You brought her here in the first place,” I said, my throat tightening. “And it was you who lost her.”

  “Fuck him!” said Billy softly as he moved a step forward.

  D’Artagnan held his ground. “What can I say or do to prove I am yet your comrade?”

  “Sir Richard, accept the gentleman’s word.” Elias proffered the bottle of wine to me. “Charge his glass and then your own and make amends. You yourself said we need every man who will stand against this enemy. That was good counsel.”

  My head knew that was right. But my heart was still wounded by my Maggie’s fate and my own role in it, not just the Frenchman’s. I looked over to the old Jew, his wrinkled hands pressed upon the work table. He was nodding to me, urging me to accept the advice of Mister Ashmole. I took the bottle from Ashmole’s hand and extended it towards d’Artagnan’s glass.

  “Sir, will you drink with me?”

  “Bien sur, colonel.”

  We raised our glasses to our lips as the others watched. I heard a growl of discontent from Billy’s throat but he kept silent.

  I kept silent too, praying that our strange little band would be strong enough, and hold together long enough, to save Maggie, preserve old Coppernose, and send Gideon Fludd and his minions to hell.

  Chapter Eighteen

  WE ASCENDED THE dusty, creaking staircase one after the other. In front of me, Isabel’s skirts swished along the steps, try as she might to lift them above her ankles. The glow of the single rushlight taper she bore was barely enough to show our way. As I entered the hall of Roderigo da Silva, my eyes instantly went to the oaken dining table where he was standing, waiting for us to join him. Over his
head, a brass chandelier blazed and sputtered away, its light dancing upon the objects that he had carefully laid out on the Turkish rug covering the table.

  “Come gentlemen! Gather ’round. Sir Richard, over here, near me if you please.”

  At one end, da Silva had arrayed three naked blades: sturdy basket-hilted broadswords. The hilts of each were as mirrors, dipped in pure silver. And along each blade, from forte to point, the fullers were filled with an equally fine shining strip of silver. D’Artagnan’s mouth fell open. Billy whistled loudly while I leaned in for a closer inspection. I saw that each blade had Hebrew characters engraved upon it.

  I turned to da Silva.

  “The name of God?”

  The old man nodded. “And each sword is blessed by my words.”

  Beyond the swords, I spied a dish containing musket balls—each one pure silver. I picked one up and saw that it too had the powerful Tetragrammaton etched upon it.

  “Can we say this word, as a charm if we come under attack?” I asked.

  “Never. The name is not spoken. Adonai is all we may utter: the Lord. And...” His hand reached out to the hilt of one of the weapons, his fingertips barely touching it. “I fear I may have sinned even in this.”

  I glanced over to Ashmole who had lost the ruddiness in his cheeks. He looked at me.

  “In folklore, both Hebrew and Christian, this is a most powerful charm and protection. We must not take this lightly.”

  D’Artagnan pulled out a golden crucifix that hung inside his shirt and gently kissed it before placing it outside his doublet. “I have my own talisman, gentlemen.”

  Da Silva smiled at him. “Then you have the protection of the Father and the Son, monsieur.” He then pointed his bony hand at me. “And you must not profane these weapons by using them against mortal men. They are to defend you from attack by the Fallen Ones and their minions alone.”

  “But what of Gideon Fludd?” I asked. “Am I to use my bare hands?”

  Da Silva lowered his gaze. “I fear that he who once was Gideon Fludd is more Devil than man now. He has been in the presence of a demon for so long he may be wholly possessed by now, a mere shell for Andras to control.”