Dark Stars (The Thief Taker Book 3)

by C. S. Quinn

  Charlie pulled it free and recognised it immediately.

  ‘All Hallows’ Eve,’ read Lily, ‘1666.’

  It was the four cherubim, headed by a heavenly interpretation, just as in Ishmael’s almanac. And scrawled at the bottom was a signature.

  ‘Thorne!’ said Lily, reading over Charlie’s shoulder. ‘He’s signed this chart as his own.’

  Gabriel was on his feet at the mention of Thorne’s name.

  ‘This is his?’ he said, touching the old paper reverently. ‘The great master’s?’

  Lily frowned. ‘You knew Thorne?’ she said.

  ‘All astrologers know of him,’ said Gabriel.

  ‘What do they know?’ asked Charlie.

  ‘He had great understanding of the stars,’ said Gabriel. ‘There are rumours of an apprentice boy of noble birth to whom Thorne entrusted his secrets. It’s said he died or escaped to sea.’

  Lily pushed a strand of black hair behind her ear. ‘If Janus was the apprentice,’ she said, ‘what might his true identity be?’ She considered. ‘The Judge is high-born and a sailor. He would have been a boy back then. Or perhaps . . .’ She gave a halting laugh.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Charlie.

  ‘The Duke of York,’ smiled Lily, ‘would have been close to Thorne, the right age, and he escaped to sea. But it couldn’t be.’

  She met Charlie’s eyes to confirm the ridiculousness of the idea.

  ‘Not unless he has an identical twin,’ agreed Charlie. ‘The Duke of York’s every move is noted.’ He nodded to the chart. ‘Let’s consider what we have here.’

  ‘So Ishmael has Thorne’s Chart of All Hallows’ Eve,’ she said, ‘and published it as his own.’

  Charlie nodded. ‘What we need to know,’ he said, ‘is how did Ishmael get this chart? Thorne died years ago. Were they friends? Or did Ishmael find it after Thorne’s death?’

  Something was stirring in his mind, making connections.

  Thorne’s interest in Roman gods.

  Why was it suddenly nagging at him?

  Gabriel was looking at the cherubim.

  ‘What does it mean?’ asked Lily.

  ‘It’s not so easy to decipher another man’s workings,’ admitted Gabriel. He frowned, his eyes sweeping the page. ‘It’s almost as though . . . the astrology is wrong,’ he said slowly. ‘The position of the stars and planets doesn’t seem possible to me.’ He scratched his chin. ‘Perhaps a more learned man would know,’ he said uncertainly.

  Charlie matched this against what they knew of Thorne.

  ‘Does anything else in the chart make sense to you?’ Lily asked.

  ‘That’s the Eye of Heaven,’ Gabriel said, pointing to a triangle with an eye radiating light inside. ‘An emerald from Lucifer’s forehead that symbolises the third eye. The knowing mankind has lost because of sin.’ Gabriel scanned the flying cherubim. ‘These angels here are a less usual way to depict Saturn,’ he explained. ‘Usually he is shown clutching a child or a scythe. The God of Death. This is a more ancient depiction. Saturn as God of Time.’

  ‘But it isn’t Saturn,’ protested Lily. ‘They’re angels. Four angels. They have wings.’

  ‘One god became four angels,’ corrected Gabriel. ‘Each head is an astrological season, to symbolise the unstoppable march of time,’ he continued. ‘Saturn comes from Cronus, the god who ate his children.’

  Chapter 42

  Lady Castlemaine let herself quietly into Frances Stewart’s quarters. They were comfortably furnished for a lady-in-waiting, with a few telltale additions. A sumptuous rug and a lacquered cabinet that Lady Castlemaine recognised from the banqueting chambers. Two small beds showed that Frances shared the room with another girl. Lady Castlemaine wondered what her roommate thought of the royal attentions.

  Her gaze drifted to a plate of little marzipan sweets – fantastically detailed sugar-work fruits with delicate leaves. A lump rose in her throat. Charles had sent her the same sweets when they’d arrived in Whitehall. She thought of her children. Each titled. Each safe. With the exception of her last little girl.

  Lady Castlemaine took in the room. A long looking glass, with only a hairbrush. No powders or paint. Young girls had no need of such things. She caught her reflection in the glass and thought she looked good for twenty-eight. Her features still held the seductive shape that had first drawn the King. But unhappiness was ageing, and twenty-eight was a long way from fifteen. The mirror, she thought, was probably also a gift from Charles. He’d presented her with a similar ornament for her own apartments.

  A sniffling sound drew Lady Castlemaine’s attention to a door leading to a small chapel room. She walked towards it and found a youthful figure, head buried in her arms, prostrated on the short pew.

  Frances was clad in her petticoats, and without the bulk of her dress she was tiny. Her soft, dark curls hid her face, pearl earrings hung from her dainty ears and a matching necklace spanned her chubby child-sized throat.

  A mixture of rage and pity bloomed in Lady Castlemaine’s chest. How could this little thing be causing her so much trouble? Setting her face to sympathy, she moved forward and tended a reassuring pat. Frances jerked upwards, terrified.

  ‘I heard you crying from the hallway,’ lied Lady Castlemaine. ‘I could not help but see what was wrong.’

  The devastation on Frances’s young face deepened. She sat with her mouth hanging open stupidly, tears streaking her face.

  ‘Something has happened,’ discerned Lady Castlemaine. ‘Has Charles been cruel?’

  Frances hesitated, then erupted into fresh tears, shaking her head.

  ‘There, there,’ said Lady Castlemaine, snaking a perfumed arm around the younger girl. ‘Tell me what happened. I told you I would protect you from him.’

  Frances gave a giant sniff and rubbed at her red eyes. ‘He’s so kind,’ she whispered, ‘I truly think he loves me.’

  Lady Castlemaine made her eyes wide. ‘You poor girl,’ she said. ‘But I thought I’d taught you how to be careful of believing things like that.’

  ‘I . . .’ Frances hesitated. Her eyes drifted to the chapel cross, then back to Lady Castlemaine, desperate. ‘I kissed him. Am I still . . . ?’ began Frances, swallowing. ‘Can I still marry?’

  It took Lady Castlemaine a moment to realise what the younger girl was asking. Then it took every effort not to laugh.

  ‘You’re worried you’re no longer a virgin?’ she summarised.

  Frances nodded rapidly.

  Lady Castlemaine stroked her hair. ‘What happened exactly?’ she asked.

  France swallowed with effort. ‘It was . . . It’s hard to remember. He’s so good to me. He kissed me and then . . . it was much like you did.’ Her face began reddening. ‘In your bed when you showed me . . . what a man might do.’

  ‘The caresses a girl might expect from her husband,’ clarified Lady Castlemaine, ‘if he truly loves her.’

  Frances nodded, blushing scarlet. ‘The other ladies have told me things,’ she managed in a whisper. ‘That the man has something between his legs that hurts you. It wasn’t that,’ she managed, her eyes beseeching Lady Castlemaine’s understanding.

  ‘Let me look for you,’ Lady Castlemaine said. ‘We can be sure you’re still a virgin.’

  ‘You could do that?’ Frances’s expression was dubious.

  ‘Of course,’ said Lady Castlemaine. ‘An older woman knows such things.’ She took Frances’s unresisting hand and led her from the chapel to the bed. ‘Lie there,’ she instructed. ‘Put up your petticoats as if we were readying for bed in my chamber.’

  ‘Will it hurt?’ Frances was aligning herself on the sheets.

  ‘No,’ promised Lady Castlemaine, sliding in next to her. The younger girl’s legs were trembling.

  Frances broke into a strange gasping sob. ‘It’s impossible to resist him,’ she blurted. ‘He’s the King. He has ways of getting you alone that the other men . . . It wouldn’t be allowed.’

  ‘There�
�s nothing to be frightened of,’ soothed Lady Castlemaine, sliding a hand between Frances’s small thighs. ‘You should have come to me. I won’t let any harm befall you.’

  Frances nodded, relaxing into Lady Castlemaine’s arms.

  ‘You’re certain this isn’t sinful?’ she asked as the older woman probed.

  ‘Quite the opposite. There,’ breathed Lady Castlemaine. ‘You mustn’t fear. You are still a virgin. Any husband you choose will know it.’

  Frances let out a long breath. Tears welled up in her eyes.

  ‘I was so frightened,’ she admitted.

  Lady Castlemaine pulled her closer.

  ‘He told me,’ Frances whispered, ‘he would make me a duchess. But I don’t want it. I only want to be married. To be a good wife.’

  ‘Shh,’ Lady Castlemaine soothed. ‘I will help you. I’ll find you a good marriage.’

  Frances’s blue eyes were pleading. ‘You will?’ she managed.

  ‘Yes,’ Lady Castlemaine nodded. ‘You can always rely on my kindness.’

  Frances nodded.

  ‘But you must help yourself,’ continued Lady Castlemaine. ‘You have a cousin. Buckingham.’

  Frances’s pretty features clouded slightly.

  ‘You know him?’ asked Lady Castlemaine.

  ‘He’s a very distant cousin,’ said Frances. ‘I’ve never met him. But Buckingham is dangerous. There’s a . . . a story about him. It’s a secret in our family. I don’t know if I should tell you.’

  Lady Castlemaine stroked her cheek. ‘There is nothing you can’t tell me.’

  Frances swallowed. ‘They say he killed a girl during the Civil War,’ she whispered, her eyes wide. ‘Her mutilated body washed up near Deptford.’

  ‘The family covered it up,’ guessed Lady Castlemaine.

  Frances nodded, looking as if she might have said too much.

  ‘I fear Buckingham is involved with treason,’ said Lady Castlemaine. ‘I want you to meet with him. Find out what you can.’

  The younger girl’s face was a mask of shock.

  ‘If you do this thing,’ said Lady Castlemaine smoothly, ‘I will make all the business with the King go away and find you a handsome husband to protect you.’

  At this temptation, Frances’s terror seemed to waver slightly.

  ‘I will arrange for you to meet with him,’ continued Lady Castlemaine. ‘He has a locked drawer in his room. I will give you a key that will open it. You must find a reason to get him out of the room, look inside and report back what you see.’

  Frances was shaking her head. ‘I cannot,’ she protested. ‘How could I be alone with him? In his own rooms?’ Her face darkened. ‘He’s a killer!’

  Lady Castlemaine drew her face into a sad frown. ‘I have made great efforts to be a friend to you,’ she said. ‘I meant to find you a husband. Protect you from the King. But now I find you are false, I am less inclined.’

  Frances shook her head. ‘I am grateful for all your attentions,’ she said.

  ‘Then be my friend,’ said Lady Castlemaine. ‘I would never put you at risk.’ She pulled Frances closer and planted a kiss on her forehead. ‘I’m the only person in court who truly cares for you. I’ll see to it you’re protected.’

  Frances hesitated.

  ‘You don’t have to answer now,’ said Lady Castlemaine kindly. ‘Think about it.’

  She drew the younger girl tighter in her arms and kissed her.

  ‘Whilst we’re in bed together,’ she added, ‘there’s something else I should show you.’

  Chapter 43

  Charlie and Lily were sat on the floor of Gabriel’s attic, astrological papers scattered around. The old astrologer had opened a barrel of pickled cucumbers and was crunching one loudly.

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t tell you anything much,’ said Gabriel between bites. ‘Astrology is a complicated science.’ He tapped the cherubim. ‘But these angels certainly represent Saturn.’

  Lily gave Charlie an uneasy glance.

  ‘You know of Father Time,’ added Gabriel patiently, ‘with his hourglass, scythe and a young child on his lap? That is Saturn, eating time and youth. In olden times he was shown as a four-headed winged god.’

  ‘But the cherubim are Christian,’ said Lily. ‘How can that be?’

  ‘Christian stories retell the paths of the stars,’ said Gabriel. ‘Things are mixed in the telling. The birth of Jesus is a star story,’ he added. ‘Jesus is the sun. He is born between Capricorn and Sagittarius, you see? Born in a stable. Between horses and goats. The sun dies at winter solstice – Christmas. Then rises again, just as Jesus was reborn.’

  ‘So you’re telling us,’ said Charlie, struggling to understand, ‘that this Chart of All Hallows’ Eve shows Saturn as God of Time. But other astrologers see him as God of Death.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Gabriel, ‘the end of time, the death of the world. What difference does it make?’ He shrugged. ‘The Chart of All Hallows’ Eve is showing what astrologers already know.’ He added, ‘Tomorrow night Saturn will destroy the world.’

  Lily had begun scratching distractedly at the attic floor with a knife. Gabriel looked on nervously.

  ‘The Chart of All Hallows’ Eve tells us no more than Ishmael’s almanac,’ she concluded.

  ‘Maybe not,’ said Charlie. ‘But remember Macock’s print house. We know Thorne and the Cipher likely worked together, hidden in a forest near the city.’

  He picked up the old document. ‘Rag mash paper,’ he explained, ‘uses a handful of finely chipped wood to strengthen the mix. Acorn is the preference, but they tend to use whatever they have to hand. Cryptographers make their own paper,’ he continued, ‘so this rag mash could tell us about the woods where Thorne and the Cipher were sited.’

  ‘Walnut and birch for Hampstead Heath,’ said Lily, catching on, ‘oak and elm for Southwark.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Charlie was tearing a corner of the page. ‘Dark flecks,’ he said. ‘Some kind of nutshell. Too dark for acorn, but not walnut either.’

  He rubbed his scarred lip, considering the unfamiliar additive.

  Lily took the corner of paper, chewed it, then spat out flecks.

  ‘Weeping beechnut,’ she concluded.

  Charlie shook his head. ‘It can’t be,’ he said.

  ‘I’m certain of it,’ said Lily.

  ‘No weeping beeches grow in London,’ said Charlie. ‘They grow by water, and the Thames is brackish. Unless . . .’ Then the answer came to him. ‘The Upside-down Tree,’ said Charlie slowly. ‘It was planted especially for royalty in Hyde Woods. No one’s been allowed near it since the time of the old King, when the woods were sealed.’

  He was fitting things together in his head, building a picture of Thorne. A man with an interest in Roman gods.

  ‘Hyde Woods is still owned by the Crown,’ said Charlie. ‘And I’ve heard stories,’ he added slowly, ‘there are catacombs underneath.’

  ‘Catacombs?’ asked Lily. ‘Old Roman tunnels?’

  ‘They were used to bury bodies hundreds of years ago,’ confirmed Charlie. ‘Now they are abandoned. There are a few scattered around the city,’ he added. ‘People use them for wine cellars or crypts. But London is boggy ground. Hard to tunnel beneath. Hyde Woods is higher.’

  Lily toyed with the charms at her neck. ‘The catacombs,’ she said. ‘You think they could be the Temple of Death?’

  ‘It’s possible. Romans are known for temples,’ reasoned Charlie. ‘We know Thorne liked Roman things. Hyde Woods is difficult to navigate and was heavily guarded in the old King’s time. It would be a good place to hide a cryptographer.’

  ‘That was twenty years ago,’ said Lily. ‘Surely anything of Thorne will be long gone now.’

  ‘Most likely,’ agreed Charlie. ‘But Thorne wasn’t the only cryptographer in Hyde Woods, was he?’

  ‘You think the Cipher could be hiding in Hyde Woods still?’

  ‘People still talk of the Temple of Death.’ The more Charlie
thought about it, the more certain he felt it was worth investigating. Hyde Woods was the perfect place to conceal the Cipher. ‘The woods are dangerous,’ he added. ‘The King keeps a garrison there. Between the thieves and the armed men, the Cipher will be well protected if he’s there at all. But I know an old poacher who can chart the woods. A good friend of mine. He’ll get us into the catacombs.’

  He grinned at Lily.

  ‘A man called Bitey.’

  Chapter 44

  Janus was leaning on the door frame of the small half-timbered house, trying to focus. The door drew open, and a familiar woman appeared.

  ‘You’re back.’ Bess’s face couldn’t decide on an expression. ‘You’re drunk,’ she added.

  ‘I missed you,’ he managed.

  The blood and horrors of the riverbank kept flashing before him. Janus settled his gaze on Bess. Her familiar pale skin and dark lashes. She had the thickset body of a woman who worked harder than she should, but there was something Janus found very comfortable in that. As though nothing could ever be truly terrible with Bess.

  ‘That’s the drink talking,’ she replied more kindly. Her broad shoulders heaved up a little sigh, as if she knew she was to regret her next action. ‘Come in,’ she said. ‘Better not let anyone see you.’

  He followed her inside the little house. It was more neatly appointed than he remembered it. Then he saw the crib.

  ‘I’ve got responsibilities now,’ she said, nodding towards it. ‘I keep no strong beer for callers.’

  Janus found there was a lump in his throat. He moved towards the basket. Behind him he thought he felt Bess flinch, as though she didn’t quite trust him.

  Inside was a tiny swaddled baby. Its eyes were shut and the little mouth twitched in repose. The sleeping face seemed to draw him in. He wondered if he’d ever looked so peaceful, even as a baby.

  Janus lowered a fascinated hand into the crib.

  ‘He’s asleep,’ said Bess with more force than necessary.

  Janus turned. ‘Is he mine?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Bess with a shrug. ‘What does it matter?’

  Janus felt suddenly very sober.