Gideon's Angel

by Clifford Beal

  “General,” I said softly, “I’m not certain that plain steel will afford you much defence but I have something more up my sleeve if you fancy giving a fight.”

  Cromwell looked at me and for the first time I saw how truly old he was. His wispy, thinning forelock was matted with blood. “I have fought the Devil all my life, sir. I’m not about to stop now.”

  “Fludd is convinced that killing you will bring the end of days as the Bible tells. It is the Devil that has bewitched him and given him these powers.”

  Cromwell’s brow creased as he locked eyes on Gideon Fludd. “I should never have signed his damned commission.”

  I turned to see Billy clutching Anya’s charm, his hand to his chest, preparing for the onslaught. Milton was loudly intoning the Lord’s Prayer, hands clasped. Billy looked at me, long past fearful, his hair plastered with sweat to his sallow face. “Orders, Mister Eff?”

  “Hold on, Billy. And hold fast.”

  He bent down and lifted a bench with which to defend himself. “Aye.”

  Gideon Fludd raised his chin, looked around the cavernous chamber and spoke. “O Eistibus, my guardian! Show yourself that I may fulfil your holy command.” He turned around in a circle, arms on high, and I instantly felt my stomach drop past my knees. I remembered the last time I had seen him summon his false angel.

  Cromwell lifted his sword up to take his guard. “Colonel,” he whispered, “If we both rush forward, one of us might be able to strike him down!”

  I nodded, recognising it might work, but knowing full well that the moment we ascended the stage, Fludd would unleash the minions upon us.

  “On my mark, sir.” I whispered. Fludd had closed his eyes, his lips moving fast.

  “Now!”

  I leapt ahead, reaching the low set of steps even as Fludd riveted his wicked gaze on me. But Oliver Cromwell had not moved an inch. I saw his eyes grow wide in disbelief as he strained to lift his feet.

  “I’m unable to move, sir!”

  I did not stop, but even as I mounted the stage, I saw the ball of white light take form behind Fludd. So blindingly brilliant, it caused lights to dance before my eyes. I stumbled forward, sword and pentacle raised, and then tripped over a loose board. I dropped to my knees, the wind knocked out of me as if I had been kicked by a horse. The Moon Pentacle flew out of my grasp, tumbling through the air and pitching over the front of the stage. It rang crisply as it struck a bench below, then bounced and rattled its way to a floor thick with years of dust.

  Fludd possessed his own pentacle that he held before him, a talisman to control what he conjured. I scrambled to regain my feet—I was only two steps away from striking distance—and promptly was knocked down again by the force of the vivid white orb. It shifted shape suddenly, growing larger even as Fludd backed away towards the rear of the stage. This was no mechanical sleight of hand from Cardinal Mazarin’s theatre. This was real. The light was taking form. It towered over me, the form of a man but monstrously huge: legs, arms, slender torso, and a great set of spreading wings at its back. Still too brilliant to see clearly, I shielded my eyes as Andras arrived into the world.

  The glare began to dissipate a little, and, as I lowered my hand I found myself looking up ten feet into the face of the demon. Its golden hair, large flowing curls, seemed to float about its head. I could not tell if it was seeing me for its wide eyes were utterly milk white, like those of some marble statue. But it was its awful mouth—the beak of an eagle—that froze my heart. It was a pitiless visage. Andras slowly swivelled its huge head, taking in everyone in the chamber. I gagged as the overpowering scent of lilies engulfed me. The demon seemed to hover somewhere between solid form and dense white fog, long arms, horribly elongated hands and fingers moving excitedly. They played in the air like the limbs of a monstrous white spider, probing its surroundings.

  “O Eistibus, great and dread angel!” Fludd’s voice trembled, not with fear, but with ecstasy. “Your enemies are delivered unto you! Fulfil the prophecy!”

  I somehow managed to crawl backwards, reaching the edge of the stage near the small set of stairs. That’s when I saw the face of Andras look down on me.

  “The angel knows the weaknesses of all men,” yelled Fludd, his self-righteous voice rising. “And yours he knows well—as do I!”

  And it started. Rising up in my belly, seizing my chest in a vice of iron. I felt my arms go weak in an instant, shaking like I was some palsied cripple. My breaths came faster and faster, my heart pumping so fast I thought it would burst. My own Beast had been summoned up from inside of me. I could feel myself sinking down on the steps, as helpless as a babe fallen from its crib. From the centre of the floor of the stage, directly underneath the hovering demon, I watched as what appeared to be a pool of tar spread outwards, perfectly round. It grew to nearly cover the stage. Pearlescent and jet, it first appeared to be liquid but then took on the appearance of highly polished tile.

  Gideon Fludd walked towards me, his rapier now drawn. I could not even lift my silver sword. He merely booted me aside, carefully stepping down to the theatre floor.

  “You may watch the prophecy fulfilled before I send you to hell.”

  And the dark angel remained floating, barely moving over the stage, more observer than participant. I could not stop the tears from welling in my eyes as despair, naked despair, washed over me and swallowed me up.

  As if in some dream between sleep and wakefulness, I saw Billy move to step between Fludd and Cromwell. And so too, I saw another figure walk into view. It looked to be an old man with a crutch, a one-legged man, in rags. I raised up my head. It was the old veteran I had chanced upon in Fleet Street, the strange wizened man who had known so much about me, things by right he could never have known.

  Fludd halted and turned towards the newcomer. And I saw Andras shimmer more brightly, the heat burning my face. The thump of the crutch was the only noise in the chamber. I saw Billy lower his makeshift weapon in awe of the old beggar’s entrance. The little man stopped suddenly as if stricken. And then his eyes were filled with golden light. So too his nostrils and open mouth. Rays of sunlight shot out from the gaps in his rags, growing in intensity until the beggar was one shimmering firework, growing larger and larger as we watched.

  And he took on new shape. There before us was another being of the ether, on bended knee with one hand placed flat upon the floor. Every inch as tall as Andras, he was more man than wraith. His hair was long and white, his face beautiful to behold but the expressions shifting faster than I could perceive. From his back unfolded four huge white wings and he stretched his arms upwards, the muscles of his giant alabaster torso flexing and pulsing. He was real. He slowly rose up and stood, facing the monster on the stage. A great silver sword, rippling with purple flame, appeared in his right hand and the room was filled with the sound of a great whirlwind rushing in. The curtains and swags around the theatre flapped and began to rip as the tempest increased.

  Fludd kicked me again as he remounted the steps to shelter behind his angel. Andras shook like a tree in a storm, its arms flailing, beak opened in a silent scream at the newcomer. In one great leap, the glowing ethereal giant was upon it, striking again and again with its burning blade. Andras thrashed, wrapping its serpent-like arms around this beautiful being that I knew to be the true angel. The sound of the wind grew to such a roar that my ears began to ring and both combatants grew brighter and brighter until I had to avert my eyes. The room was near upon white, all shades of colour dissipated. I could see Cromwell and Billy, side by side watching dumbstruck at what was unfolding. John Milton was on his knees, hands clasped in prayer, his sickly eyes huge with wonder.

  I pushed myself away from the stage and the battle. Fludd was still cowering at the back, his face a mask of pure terror and confusion. Already, I could feel my Beast within subsiding, the panic ebbing away, my reason returning. I turned my head to where Cromwell had stood. He was now on his back upon the floor. A boy, just an ordinary boy, sat
upon his chest, hands wrapped about the Lord General’s throat. Billy was a few paces away, his head shaking with disbelief at what he was seeing. I could see Cromwell struggling to pull the hands from his neck, his legs twisting and turning as he tried to throw the boy off.

  “Billy!” I pushed myself up onto my feet, leaning on my sword, head swimming. Billy’s jaw was slack and he stood, rooted. And then, the boy turned to look at me. It was my son.

  I staggered towards Cromwell. “No, sweet Jesus, no.”

  Thomas beheld me with a look of innocent love, a sweet smile upon his lips. But still his hands worked upon Cromwell’s neck. The Lord General was beginning to go limp. I reached the pair and raised my sword over my head. My darling boy’s expression turned to fear.

  “Father! Do not strike me!”

  My arms shook. I hesitated. “It’s not you, Thomas,” I whispered.

  Cromwell wasn’t moving anymore. I wrapped both hands around the sword grip and shut my eyes. And I brought my blade down with all my might, cleaving the boy’s skull. Instantly there was the loud hiss of steam and an unholy screech. My eyes open, I saw that now there was nothing but the prostrate form of Oliver Cromwell. Billy fell on his knees next to him, grasped his shoulders and gave him a shake. Cromwell gasped, and retched. And looking beyond, towards the doorway, I could see the great horde still held back, all of them transfixed by the battle that still raged upon the stage. I turned around, my sword slipping out of my hand and clattering to the floor. And I sank to my knees as I watched what was happening.

  The flaming purple blade of the angel rose and fell and I faintly seemed to hear the sound of an unearthly wailing, of many creatures in great pain. And so too, I began to see that Andras was being forced down into the mirror-like pool upon the stage with every blow that rained down on it. The sound of an unearthly trumpet filled the theatre, reverberating from the rafters, and Andras sunk completely into the black pit, the angel rising above it with one great push of its wings. The legion of devils cowering by the threshold of the theatre, caught up like so many straws in the wind, somersaulted across the room and plunged into the dark abyss.

  The whole stage shook as if it had been picked up and dropped. Fludd fell, the torn curtain he had clung to falling with him. He hit the stage floor, rolled and fell into the blackness. But it was not liquid, this pool. It sent out no ripples as he fell. He disappeared completely for a moment, then suddenly, his head and shoulders surfaced, his hands reaching for the edge. I was on the stairs again, staring unbelievingly at what my eyes were showing me.

  “Jesus, help me!” Fludd was scrabbling at the edge of the stage, fingers desperate to find purchase. He screamed again. “Please, help me! I’ve seen it!”

  I shall never forget his face for as long as I shall live. Fludd had seen his mistake as well as his fate.

  “Treadwell! For pity’s sake... your hand!”

  I leaned down, my arm moving out to him, to save him from the abyss. I looked at his hands. One wore the ring I too had briefly worn, the pentagram. But the other, the other bore a ring I had not noticed before. Upon it was the square and compass of the Craft. I grabbed him by both wrists and began to pull. He was crying like a child now. I could feel him rising up and rapidly his breast emerged from the pitch. But then I felt a tug, like a great fish pulling on a line. Fludd erupted into a long drawn out cry; whatever was tugging at his legs was bigger and stronger than me and I felt myself beginning to follow him down. As my chest fell level on the stage, I had to let go, and watched his face disappear beneath the surface, down into the ebony Pit. His last look was one of stark terror and disbelief. And then the Pit shrank, retreated as it had formed, until it too was gone.

  I twisted around, my back sliding along the stage steps. The true angel had glided silently to where Billy stood, shaking. It reached out its hand and touched his head but a moment. Billy gasped aloud and collapsed as if pole-axed. Then the angel came to me. I looked up into his eyes, as human as any, and they were smiling. He lightly touched my head and I too swooned but stayed upon my feet. And he spoke to me without voice.

  Your Faith has held you up. Be at peace!

  The great glowing sword he held seemed to melt away in his hand and he raised himself up with a downward beat of his white wings, up towards the ceiling rafters and in a flash of golden brightness he was gone.

  No one said a word. The Lord General of England collapsed down on a bench, staring up at the ceiling while he rubbed at his throat. Billy Chard looked numb. He slowly began to unlace his buff coat, hands still shaking.

  “Billy Chard?” I said, my voice quavering, “Are you whole?”

  Billy nodded to me. “I almost stopped you, Mister Eff. I almost... went for you. It was—I mean, it looked like my mother. And then you swung....”

  I reached out and grasped his shoulder. “I saw someone there too. But our eyes were bewitched. It was not what it seemed.”

  Billy’s voice was hardly above a whisper. “I know. But it was a terrible hard thing to see.”

  And then John Milton raised his voice up, triumphant.

  “We are as Joshua and Daniel, gifted among men! For we have seen the Lord’s Captain in battle!”

  Cromwell turned to Mr. Milton, looking confused as to his own sanity.

  Milton nodded and smiled. “It was the Archangel Michael, of course!”

  And suddenly, my heart in my mouth, I remembered Maggie.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “SAINTS, ABOVE, RICHARD! You’re alive!” Elias Ashmole burst into the Cockpit, a pistol in each hand. He spotted Cromwell and checked his rush forward. With a bow from the waist, arms outstretched, he did a quick reverence.

  “My Lord General, thanks be to God, you’re safe!” He bowed awkwardly a second time. “Eh, Elias Ashmole, your servant, sir!”

  Ashmole thrust his weapons into his belt and reaching me, squeezed my shoulder. “It was beyond extraordinary, sir. A rustic little fellow on a crutch came across the park. The creatures fled at the sight of him. He bent down near the Lieutenant and... well, he healed his wounds quick as you like—before my very eyes. Then he was gone, hobbling off, towards you here.”

  I looked at the back of my left hand where the black imp had sunk its teeth into me. It was now unblemished, no sign of any wound.

  I gripped his forearm. “Maggie, how fares Maggie?”

  “She follows with the others,” replied Ashmole. “See, here,” and he pointed to the door he had come through, wedged open and partially obscured by a heavy brocade curtain. Roderigo da Silva entered and right behind him was Isabel and my Maggie, arms supporting each other as they made their unsteady progress into the theatre. And poor d’Artagnan followed them all, his face sombre and pale, silvered sword in hand.

  I ran to Maggie. If the archangel had healed d’Artagnan, then, there was a chance. I pulled her to me, Isabel pushing her to my embrace.

  “Maggie! Look at me, my dear!”

  She raised her round, plump face to me. She was worn down, her eyes red-rimmed and her cheeks grey, all colour lost. But she gave a valiant little smile, like a maiden, and gently pushed me back, now contemplating my blood-smeared face.

  Her brow creased. “Do I know you, sir?”

  I took a step back. “Maggie, you’re still dazed. Look at me.”

  She moved a lock of hair that had fallen into her face. “I cannot remember you,” she said. She looked around at the others. “Nor any of these people. Nor how I came to be in this place.”

  I took up her hand. “You are Marguerite St. John. Surely, you must remember? You must remember all that has happened these last days?”

  “I do know who I am but...” And she shook her head, her fingers brushing her temple.

  I felt like stone. Ashmole put an arm about my shoulders.

  “She has suffered greatly. Her mind will return soon enough in the light of day. You must not worry.”

  I nodded. She would remember. Her mind surely had closed to save it
self from madness. Time would heal her, I told myself. But for now, I was still a stranger to her.

  “Fear not, mistress,” said Isabel, moving in again to comfort her. “We will look after you until you are yourself again.”

  Billy came alongside and pushed something cold into my hand. It was the Moon Pentacle.

  “Here, Mister Eff. It might set her to rights again, if you can use it.”

  I contemplated it for a second and then proffered it to Ashmole. “Nay, Billy. This thing has done its dreadful work and I would not play with it further, for any reason. Here, Elias. A donation for your collection of curiosities.”

  Ashmole took it gingerly into his hand. “And one I shall never catalogue.”

  “Colonel Treadwell, sir,” said Cromwell, limping towards us, grimacing from his tumbles and from the demon’s throttling. “I owe you my life. But some explanations are in order. I’m a God-fearing man but I am not sure of what I have just witnessed. And who are these people?”

  I could feel my last strength ebbing away, fatigue nearly overwhelming me. I weakly raised my arm and indicated da Silva, who stood, silent, next to his daughter. “Lord General, sir, meet the architect of your deliverance, Senor Roderigo da Silva.”

  Cromwell’s eyes widened as he took in the little old man with the skullcap and white tunic with Solomon’s pentacle emblazoned upon it.

  Roderigo bowed, hips cracking. “At your service, my lord.”

  Cromwell nodded his head. “I know you, sir. But in very different circumstances.”

  “That is true, my lord.”

  I pointed to the Frenchman, who yet stood off to the side, looking worse for wear. “And may I present to you the emissary of His Eminence, the Cardinal Mazarin—Lieutenant d’Artagnan.”

  The musketeer swept off his battered hat, slowly putting his right leg forward. He inclined his head to the Lord General, but said not a word.

  Cromwell, looked about the chamber, now dimmed, the supernatural glow dissipated. He shook his large square head, incredulous. And then he turned to me directly. “I want to hear everything, from the beginning. We shall return to my apartments upstairs. All of you.” He wiped his brow and observed the drying blood that covered his fingers. “And I have a few words for Mister Thurloe, once I find his useless carcass.”