Empire of Fear

by Brian Stableford

  Looking back, Edmund saw the two spies pause beneath a lamp. They were discussing whether to follow him. One looked along the wharf towards Traitors’ Gate, but even the devil on horseback could not get to Tower Bridge, then back along the south bank to Pickle Herring Street, in time to catch him that way. It was too soon, though, to congratulate himself, because he knew that there might be agents of the Lord Lieutenant already waiting on the further shore.

  He made his way to Druid Street with great care, listening for the sound of footsteps behind him They came, though this time there was but one man on his track. Once he entered the network of streets surrounding the Leathermarket he could easily give the man the slip, or so he judged, but he was growing weary of this pestilent attention. Whom the vampires destroyed, they first made mad with the prying of their catspaws, and he longed to draw his sword and have it out with the spy. But such precipitate action could only work to his disadvantage this night, and he hoarded his wrath for another time.

  He knew the maze of filthy streets around the Leathermarket very well. He had been born in Crucifix Lane, and had lived in this district as a child. It was while he was apprenticed to a local clockmaker that he had learnt the cleverness with tools which had taken him into the Tower, to work with Simon Sturtevant under the tutelage of Francis Bacon. He had been the best of the apprentices, though he was honest enough to know that he could never have come to his present position of authority but for the interest taken in him by the Lady Carmilla. Her interest in the cleverness of his fingers and the strength of his back had been entirely different from the interest of poor Francis, who had hoped to be a vampire, but took one bribe too many, and lost even his position as Chancellor.

  Edmund had a brother and a sister still living and working in this district, though he saw them very rarely. Neither one of them was proud to have a reputed magician for a brother, and though they were not Gregorians, they nevertheless thought that there was something unholy about his one-time association with the Lady Carmilla. He sent money to his sister, sometimes, because her husband was often at sea and she did not always find it easy to feed her children.

  He picked his way carefully through the rubbish in the dark alleys, unperturbed by the sounds made by scavenging rats. He kept his hand on the pommel of the sword at his belt, but he had no need to draw it. The packs of rats which plagued the shores of the Thames would attack children under cover of dark, and sometime bit whores as they plied their trade, but they were too wily and cowardly to bother grown men.

  Because the stars were hidden the night was pitch-dark, and very few of the windows which he passed were illumined by candlelight, but he was able to keep track of his progress by reaching out to touch familiar walls every now and again. Soon, he no longer heard the footsteps of his follower, and knew that he was safe.

  He came eventually to a tiny door set three steps down from a side-street, and rapped upon it quickly, three times and then twice. There was a long pause before he felt the door yield beneath his fingers, and he stepped inside hurriedly. The door clicked shut again, and he relaxed, unaware until then how tense he had been.

  He waited for a candle to be lit.

  The light, when it came, illuminated a thin female countenance, crabbed and wrinkled. The crone’s eyes were very pale and her wispy white hair was gathered imperfectly behind a linen bonnet.

  ‘The lord be with you,’ he whispered.

  ‘And with you, Edmund Cordery,’ she croaked.

  He frowned at the use of his name. It was a deliberate breach of etiquette, a feeble and meaningless gesture of independence. The old woman did not like him, though he had never been less than kind to her. She did not fear him, as so many others did, but she considered him tainted. They had been bound together in the business of the Invisible College for nearly twenty years, but she would never completely trust him. To her, he would always be a vampire-lover.

  She led him into the inner room where he had arranged to conduct his business, and left him there.

  A stranger stepped from the shadows. He was short, stout and bald, perhaps sixty years old. He made the special sign of the cross, and Edmund did the same.

  ‘I am Edmund Cordery,’ he said. ‘Are you the one who was appointed to take care of Richard’s lions, and the other beasts, aboard the FreemartinV

  ‘Aye,’ replied the other. ‘It fell to me to take care of all the beasts.’ The older man’s tone was deferential, but not fearful. He emphasised the word all very faintly, with a certain irony in his voice. He seemed to Edmund to be an educated man, and no mere sailor.

  ‘You have served Richard well – and the College even better, I hope,’ Edmund told him, with careful courtesy.

  ‘That I have,’ said the other, ‘though it was mad work which your friends asked me to do. I think you do not know what evil matters you are toying with.’

  ‘Oh yes, sir,’ said Edmund, coldly. ‘I know, indeed I do. I understand that you are a brave man. Please do not think that your mission is undervalued.’

  ‘I hope that you were not inconvenienced in coming to me here,’ said the stout man.

  ‘By no means,’ Edmund told him, immediately taking his meaning. ‘Two followed me from the Tower, but were left on the other bank. One came after me on the south shore, but it was easy to shake him loose.’

  ‘That is not good.’

  ‘Perhaps not. But it has to do with another matter, not with our business. There is no danger to you, I think, and if the creatures for the menagerie are in a good state, Richard will be generous. He loves his lions, ever since they named him Lionheart. He is proud of his reputation.’

  The other man nodded uncertainly. ‘When I was first told what you wanted,’ he said, ‘I was told that it was Francis Bacon who needed these things. I am unhappy to hear of his fall from grace. I have been asked to tell you that the College does not want you to take risks. I wish you would leave this gift with me, to be destroyed.’

  ‘Destroyed! Why, man, you’ve risked your life to bring them here! In any case, it is not for you to guess what the College may want of me. I know that better than anyone you may have seen in London.’

  The stout man shook his head. ‘Forgive me if I appear to doubt you, sir,’ he said, ‘but I have seen one gentleman who is your friend. He is anxious, sir, most anxious for your welfare.’

  ‘My friends,’ Edmund replied, ‘are sometimes over-careful.’ His voice was stern, and he stared down into the smaller man’s eyes, forbidding further disagreement.

  The stout man nodded again. It was a gesture of resignation, a submission to authority. He pulled something from beneath a chair. It was a large box, clad in leather. A row of small holes was set in the side, and there was a sound of scratching from within which testified to the presence of living creatures.

  ‘You did exactly as you were instructed?’ asked Edmund.

  The other nodded. ‘Each time two died, two others were put in to feed upon the corpses. Because of this, and the business of feeding the python, there was hardly a … ’

  He broke off suddenly as Edmund reached out to the box, putting his hand upon the mechanician’s arm. ‘Don’t open it, sir, I beg you! Not here!’

  ‘There is nothing to fear,’ Edmund assured him.

  ‘You haven’t been in Africa, sir, as I have. Believe me, everyone is afraid. They say that vampires are dying too, though there were no vampires to be found in the places we visited. Africa is a strange and frightful continent, Master Cordery. No man alive could go there and return believing that there is nothing to fear.’

  ‘I know,’ said Edmund, distractedly. ‘’Tis a different world, where all is upside-down, where the men are black and the vampires are not princes. I have told you what I think of your bravery; spare me, I beg you, your traveller’s tales.’ He shook off the older man’s restraining hand, and undid the straps which sealed the box. He lifted the lid, but not far – just enough to let the light in, and to let him see what was inside.

/>   The box contained two big black rats. They cowered from the light. Edmund shut the lid again, and fastened the straps.

  ‘It’s not my place, sir,’ said the stout man hesitantly, ‘but I really do not think that you properly understand what you have there. I’ve been in Corunna, and Marseilles. They remember other plagues in those cities, and all the horror stories are emerging again to haunt them. Sir, if any such thing ever came to London …’

  Edmund tested the weight of the box, and found it light enough to give him no difficulty. ‘It is not your concern,’ he said. ‘Your task now is to forget everything that has happened. I will communicate with your masters. The matter is in my hands.’

  ‘Forgive me,’ said the other, ‘but I must say this: there is naught to be gained from destroying vampires, if we must destroy ourselves too. It is a tragedy too terrible to contemplate that half the common men of Europe might be wiped out, as the result of an intemperate attack upon our oppressors.’

  Edmund stared at the stout man, angrily. ‘You talk too much,’ he said. ‘Indeed, you talk a deal too much.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir.’ He cowered away from Edmund’s anger, but he was obviously sincere in his anxiety.

  Edmund hesitated for a moment, wondering whether to reassure the messenger with a fuller explanation, but he had learned long ago that where this kind of business was concerned, it was best to say as little as possible. There was no way of knowing when this man would next be required to speak of this affair, or to whom, or with what consequence. In any case, a fuller explanation was by no means certain to make the messenger rest any easier with his conscience or his fear.

  The mechanician took up the box. The rats stirred inside, scrabbling with their small clawed feet. With his free hand, Edmund made the sign of the cross again.

  ‘God go with you,’ said the messenger, with urgent sincerity.

  ‘And with thy spirit,’ replied Edmund, dully. He left without pausing to exchange a ritual farewell with the old woman who lived in the house.

  He walked quickly through the pitch-dark streets, with his free hand still resting on the hilt of his sword. This time, he walked across Tower Bridge, though he knew that there would be men there waiting for him. They would not dare to challenge him, but would simply follow him back to the entrance of the White Tower, and then, when he left it again, to his apartments near the Mount. They would report to the Lord Lieutenant that he had brought a box with him, but if men were sent to search for it in the hope of learning what it contained, they would not find it.

  It was by Traitors’ Gate that he gained entry to the Tower. He was as certain as he could be that whatever transpired during the next few days, it would not be by the same gate that he would quit the citadel, however much he deserved the appellation which it bore. His aim was to carry betrayal to such unprecedented lengths that he would place himself beyond the reach of the vampires’ ordinary processes of vengeance.

  FOUR

  W hen Monday came Edmund and Noell made their way to the Lady Carmilla’s chambers, which were in the gallery near to the Salt Tower.

  Noell had never been in such an apartment before, and it was a great source of wonder to him. Edmund watched the boy’s reactions to the carpets, the wall-hangings, the mirrors and the ornaments, and could not help but recall the first time he had entered the chamber himself. Nothing had changed here, and the rooms were full of provocations to stir his faded memories.

  Younger vampires tended to change their surroundings often, addicted to novelty, as if they feared their own changelessness. The Lady Carmilla had long since passed beyond this phase. She had grown accustomed to changelessness, and had transcended the attitude to the world which permitted boredom. She had adapted herself to a new aesthetics of existence, whereby her private space participated in her own eternal sameness. Innovation was confined to tightly-controlled areas of her life, exemplified by the irregular shifting of her erotic affections from one lover to another.

  The sumptuousness of the lady’s table was a further source of astonishment to Noell. The knives and spoons which he normally used were silvered pewter, though the forks which his father had lately bought were solid silver, because imitations were not yet being made. Here, all the implements were silver, including the salt-cellars and casters. Instead of earthenware drinking vessels there were crystal goblets, and carved decanters for the wines. The oval gateleg table was covered by a fine linen cloth woven with a damask design. The one thing that Carmilla Bourdillon’s table had in common with Edmund Cordery’s was the glazed pottery made in Southwark, the plates and bowls being decorated with blue brushwork, representing entwined flowers.

  The lavishness of provision for just three diners was something which obviously took Noell aback, and Edmund could see that his son was confused. At home, the boy would be served with his meal and expected to eat it, but here the table was set with a number of diverse dishes, from which he must choose. In the first course were included two soups, roast beef and pork, and a sallet. Edmund caught his son’s eye, and let him watch while he took what he needed, so that the boy could copy him.

  Although the constant movement of the lady’s servants seemed to bother Noell a little, Edmund was pleased to see that the boy settled down quickly. When the second course was set out, with game and sweetmeats, he helped himself more casually.

  Edmund had been very careful in preparing his dress for this occasion, fetching from his closet finery which he had not put on for many years. On official occasions he was always concerned to play the part of the mechanician, and dressed in order to sustain that appearance. He never appeared as a courtier, always as a functionary. Now, he was reverting to a role which Noell had never seen him play, and though the boy had no idea of the subtleties of his father’s part, he clearly understood something of what was going on; he had earlier complained, in acid fashion, about the dull and plain way in which his father required him to dress. Edmund had dismissed his objections in a peremptory manner.

  Edmund ate and drank sparingly, and was pleased to see that Noell did likewise, obeying his father’s instructions despite the obvious temptations of the lavish provision.

  When the second course was done with, the servants brought in more sweet things, including a sack posset flavoured with mace and cinnamon.

  ‘Do you like it?’ she asked, when Edmund took his first taste. ‘I had the recipe from one who is a friend of yours: Kenelm Digby.’

  Edmund raised his eyebrows. Kenelm Digby was only a few years older than Noell. He was a friend of Edmund’s, but he was also a member of the Invisible College, and it was disturbing to hear his name mentioned. Kenelm was the son of Sir Everard Digby, who had been executed in 1606 for his small part in hatching the Gunpowder Plot – a bold but foolhardy attempt to destroy Prince Richard.

  ‘I did not know that he had visited the court,’ said Edmund, politely, though it was a lie. He wondered – as she may have intended him to wonder – whether the Lady Carmilla planned to make Digby her next favourite.

  ‘The posset is excellent,’ he assured her, pushing it to one side, ‘but I have little appetite left, after so remarkable a meal.’

  For a while the lady was content to exchange ordinary courtesies with her guests, but she came quickly enough to the real business of the evening.

  ‘Our beloved Prince Richard,’ she told Edmund, ‘is quite enraptured by your clever device. He finds it most interesting.’

  ‘Then I am pleased to make him a gift of it,’ Edmund replied. ‘And I would be pleased to make another, as a gift for your ladyship.’

  ‘That is not my desire,’ she said coolly. ‘In fact, I have other matters in mind. The prince and the Lord Lieutenant have discussed certain tasks which you might profitably carry out. Instructions will be communicated to you in due time, I have no doubt.’

  Edmund bowed in acknowledgement.

  ‘The ladies of the court were pleased with the drawings which I showed to them,’ said Carmi
lla, turning to look at Noell. ‘You have a good hand. Would you like to be a portrait painter, and have pretty vampires to copy?’

  ‘I think I would rather be a mechanician,’ replied Noell.

  ‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘After all, you are very like your father. Is he not, Edmund?’

  ‘He has a way to grow, yet,’ replied the mechanician.

  The lady again addressed herself to Noell. ‘Even Richard marvelled at the thought that a cupful of Thames water might contain thousands of tiny living creatures. Do you think that our bodies, too, might be the habitation of countless invisible insects?’

  Noell opened his mouth to reply, because the question had been so obviously directed to him, but Edmund interrupted smoothly. ‘There are creatures which may live upon our skin,’ he said, ‘and worms within us. We are told that the macrocosm reproduces in essence the microcosm of human being; perhaps there is a smaller microcosm within us, where our natures are reproduced again, incalculably small. The Earl of Northumberland has ideas upon this subject, I believe, and I have read … ’

  ‘I have heard, Master Cordery,’ she cut in, ‘that the illnesses which afflict common men might be carried from person to person by means of such tiny creatures.’

  ‘The idea that diseases were carried from one person to another by tiny seeds is an old one,’ Edmund replied, ‘but I do not know how such seeds might be recognised, and I think it very unlikely that the creatures we have seen in river-water could possibly be of that kind. Galen tells us … ’

  ‘It is a disquieting thought,’ she said, interrupting again, ‘that our bodies might be inhabited by creatures of which we can know nothing, and that every breath we take might be carrying into us the seeds of change, too small to be seen or tasted. It makes me feel uneasy.’ ‘There is no need,’ Edmund protested. ‘Seeds of corruptibility take easy root in common flesh, but yours is inviolate.’