by Stuart Daly
‘Deo duce, ferro comitante,’ we say in unison, forming a ring of steel.
I find it hard to look into my friends’ eyes as I wonder if this will be one of the last times I will see them alive.
Emerging on the deck of the Royal Charles, I am immediately reminded that England is a country at war. Although it is night time, the Thames is host to an armada of battleships, their decks a commotion of activity, with crews lifting supplies of food, munitions and tackle aboard via pulleys stationed along the wharves. As far as I can see into the darkness, the surrounding dockyards are full to bursting with stores of barrels and sacks, roped together in large bundles to be lifted aboard ships and guarded by groups of soldiers armed with muskets and pikes.
And then there is the city of London itself, its houses spilling right down to the very banks of the Thames, its streets so twisted they could teach a contortionist a trick or two. As von Frankenthal had forewarned, the night sky is covered by a stationary grey haze; a permanent blanket of smoke produced by the thousands of household chimneys and brewhouses, and punctured by the hundreds of church steeples as they climb higher to Heaven in an attempt to flee from the earthly squalor below.
The Royal Charles is one of two ships moored along a wharf extending from a waterside gatehouse that gives entrance to an imposing castle, which I learn from Lieutenant Wolf is the Tower of London.
‘Welcome to London,’ von Frankenthal says sarcastically, standing by my side, his voice lowered so that none of the English crewmen around us can hear. ‘A more seething warren of vice and corruption you won’t find anywhere. Keep a careful eye on your purse and an even more careful eye over your soul, lad. If ever a city was designed to tempt even the most pure of heart into sin, then it is here.’
‘I should feel right at home, then,’ Armand says jokingly, patting von Frankenthal on the shoulder and receiving a roll of the eyes from Francesca. He moves across to the opposite side of the deck, where Prince Rupert, Bishop Henchman, Sir Robert Holmes, Lieutenant Wolf and the Angeli Mortis are preparing to disembark via a gangplank, which is being hoisted into position by some of the ship’s crew. After a few words with Prince Rupert, Armand beckons us over, and we follow the Prince and his retinue down the now installed gangplank.
We are greeted by guards clad in leather doublets, who escort us off the bustling wharf through a raised portcullis set in the waterside gatehouse. Leaving the commotion of the Thames behind us, we make our way through the outer fortifications of the Tower of London to the two horse-drawn coaches that await us. After climbing inside, we are led out of the castle and taken through the cobbled streets of the city.
Some time passes before we enter what appears to be an aristocratic district, its refined apartments in stark contrast to the ramshackle, half-timbered hovels that characterise the sprawling metropolis. A massive cathedral – which I can only assume is Westminster Abbey – towers over the neighbouring buildings. Recalling Armand’s earlier comment that Prince Rupert and Bishop Henchman needed to report to the King, it doesn’t take me long to realise that this district of stately buildings must be the beginning of Whitehall, the King’s residence in London.
We disembark before a three-storey mansion, where the Prince ushers us inside. We find ourselves standing in a lavish foyer, its floor of polished parquetry and its walls adorned with mounted deer antlers and intricately woven tapestries. A staircase, set against the left wall, leads up to a walkway that overlooks the foyer and leads to the rooms on the first floor.
‘This is my private residence in London,’ the Prince says, taking off his hat and cloak and handing them to a sallow-faced, elderly servant, who shuffles out from an adjoining room. ‘And this,’ he adds, gesturing towards the man, ‘is my most loyal servant, Franz. He has been in my family’s service for over sixty years now, long before my father was forced to leave Heidelberg at the beginning of the Thirty Years’ War, and he still hasn’t had the common sense to escape.’
‘Only because the Prince keeps me locked up at night,’ Franz says, his features deadpan. His tone, however, is familiar, suggesting that he and the Prince have an informal relationship and are accustomed to such palaver.
‘I lock you up at night, do I?’ The Prince laughs. ‘Now that would be a sight to see. If I were to do that, though, I’d have to consider it a public service. I’d hate to think what mischief you’d get up to on the streets at night. Every father from St James Park to Whitechapel would have to keep their daughters inside.’
‘Only if I could beat you to them, my Lord,’ Franz says.
Prince Rupert slaps his thigh in laughter. ‘Oh, Franz. What would I ever do without you?’ He then turns to address us. ‘I know you are no doubt tired and wish to rest, but there are urgent matters that we must discuss. Franz will show you to your quarters, where you can have half an hour to freshen up. We will meet in the drawing room afterwards, just through that doorway over there. An hour of your time is all I will require. Bishop Henchman and I will then need to report to the King. The rest of the night will be yours to do as you please.’
He says this in such a way as to suggest that we might like to take a tour of the city. But there will be no night-time tour of London for me, thank you very much. Given what Frankenthal has said, I know I’ll be spending the rest of the night tucked up in bed, safe and sound, my swords and pistols within close reach.
No sooner has the Prince finished speaking than our heads snap in unison towards the front door. For somewhere in the extensive grounds of Whitehall comes the distant sound of yelling voices and gunshots.
‘That can’t be good,’ Armand says, rushing to the door, his mortuary sword already drawn.
‘Stay back!’ Lieutenant Wolf orders Bishop Henchman, Prince Rupert and Sir Robert, and follows only a step behind Armand, his sword likewise ready for combat.
There’s a hiss of steel as the rest of us draw our blades. My heart racing, I watch as Armand and the Lieutenant open the door and slip into the darkness outside. As von Frankenthal comes over to stand protectively beside Francesca and me, Dorian, having received a nod from Witch Finder Blackwood, produces the rifle from his shoulder, thumbs back the firing pin, and races up the stairs to disappear into one of the rooms overlooking the front of the Prince’s mansion. Out of the corner of my eye I notice the Prince and Bishop exchange a knowing look.
More gunshots are fired, this time in closer proximity to the Prince’s residence. Wary of being hit by stray shots, we brace our backs against the sections of wall between the foyer windows. An anxious minute passes, during which we hear more yelling and the stomping of boots and the clinking of weapons as groups of guards rush along the pathways that wind throughout Whitehall. Then, just as I’m about to ask the Prince what is happening, Lieutenant Wolf bursts into the room.
‘Guards have spotted a man scaling down a wall below an open window in Lord Arlington’s office,’ he reports, struggling to catch his breath. ‘The man appeared to have documents tucked into his belt. He also left a flower, a black violet, on Lord Arlington’s desk.’
Prince Rupert’s eyes flash with surprise and he turns to Bishop Henchman. ‘A black violet! Congratulations, Bishop. Your information was indeed correct. The French rats were in London, and they took the bait. Now all that remains to be seen is if we can catch them. I must say, though, it’s not going to be easy capturing the Ghost.’
‘Catch who?’ I ask.
Bishop Henchman looks across at the Prince and receives a nod of consent. ‘As I am sure you are aware, the French are allied with the Dutch,’ he says, his voice raised to compete against the shouts and gunfire. ‘I had information come my way that suggested the French had sent members of the King’s Secret – Le Secret du Roi – to infiltrate King Charles’s court in London. Following these leads, I dropped a few hints that plans vital to the deployment of English warships were being kept in a drawer in the
Secretary of State’s office. Of course, the plans were false, but the French didn’t know that. For the past month, since we first started circulating the information concerning the battle plans, we have maintained a careful watch over Lord Arlington’s office. And tonight the rats have come out of hiding and fallen into the trap. But we weren’t expecting one of them to be the Ghost – le Fantôme.’
Prince Rupert produces one of the long-barrelled cavalry pistols from his belt. ‘You have no doubt heard of the Marquis de Beynac and Horst von Skullschnegger,’ he says, unaware that I had encountered them in Schloss Kriegsberg. ‘They are two of the most famous members of the King’s Secret. But whereas the Marquis is the mastermind controlling the French spy network and von Skullschnegger is his bodyguard, the most successful operative in the King’s Secret is a man who is simply known as the Ghost. A master of disguise, he has infiltrated foreign courts, gaining the trust of those in power and learning state secrets. Before he can be detected he disappears, only to resurface again several months later in another part of Europe and with a different identity. But he is more famous as a professional thief. Only last year he snuck into the Queen’s bedchamber, stole a kiss from the sleeping queen and left his calling card – a single black violet – on her pillow.’
‘Why did he do that?’ I ask.
Bishop Henchman shrugs. ‘As nothing was stolen, we assume he did it to rattle our morale. Perhaps he also wanted to prove his skill as a thief. The queen’s bedchamber isn’t exactly the easiest of places to break into.’
‘We had planned on letting the French spies return to the Marquis with the fake plans,’ Prince Rupert continues. ‘It would give us a decisive edge in the war against the Dutch. But the Ghost is too great a prize to let slip through our fingers.’ He pauses as he considers von Frankenthal, Francesca and me, a devilish glint in his eyes. ‘How are witch hunters at catching ghosts?’
‘We’ve never tried,’ says a voice from the doorway, and we turn around to find that Armand has returned. ‘But we’ve never been known to turn down a challenge.’
The Prince grins roguishly and grabs his cloak and hat from Franz. ‘Now that’s the spirit. Let’s join the hunt before our quarry escapes.’
‘Is that wise?’ Sir Robert cautions, just as a musket ball shatters one of the foyer windows, forcing us to cover our eyes against the shards of flying glass. ‘What in the Devil’s name are those fools doing out there? They’ll kill half of the English royal family before this night is over!’
‘It’s going to be a lot damned safer out there than what it is in here,’ the Prince says, putting on his hat and cloak. ‘Robert, stay here with the Angeli Mortis and protect the Bishop. Wolf and I are going to take the Hexenjäger on a hunting trip.’ A cavalier grin crosses his lips as he looks at Armand. ‘Is your team ready? Good – then let’s go. The hunt awaits us.’
Racing out of the Prince’s apartments, we run into a group of four guards. One of them carries a lantern, its orange glow illuminating the pathways that run off to the left and right. Beyond the lantern’s light all is hidden in darkness; a shadow-realm perfect for the Ghost to make his escape. Lieutenant Wolf says something in English to one of the guards, and receives an excited response in return.
‘That way,’ the Lieutenant says, looking back at us, and points with his sword to the right, where sounds of the chase resonate from the distance.
Untying the lantern hanging from the side of my pack, I go to light it, but Armand stops me. ‘Best if you don’t do that. You’ll be lit up like a bonfire. The Ghost will see you coming a mile away. To catch a thief, it’s better to stick to the shadows. Use the night to your advantage.’
‘Sound advice,’ Prince Rupert comments, already chasing after the guards, but moving deliberately over to the edge of the perimeter of light cast by the guard’s lantern. Lieutenant Wolf, von Frankenthal and Francesca are only a step behind him.
‘Come on,’ Armand urges me, his eyes dancing. ‘We don’t want to fall behind.’
And we race off into the night, weaving our way through the pathways of Whitehall, passing stately mansions, courtyards and extensive stretches of garden. Eventually, we run across a large tract of open space, more like a public park or a parade ground than a garden, and join another group of guards. They have taken position behind a five-foot-tall wall, their pistols and muskets trained on the rooftop of a nearby three-storey-high building.
Joining them, we draw our firearms, aim at the rooftop and scan the area for movement. But the darkness betrays nothing. All I can see are chimneys silhouetted against the night sky like silent sentinels.
‘I can’t see any . . .’ I say, but the words are caught in my mouth when three of the guards fire, the report of their firearms nearly making me jump out of my skin. And it’s at that exact moment I see movement atop the building, and my eyes lock on the shadowy figure standing on the far left of the roof.
My heart racing, I nudge Armand and Francesca, who are standing on either side of me, drawing their attention to the figure. Trying to steady my breathing so as to not spoil my aim, and hoping to get a shot off before the figure moves, I level my pistol at the Ghost. The blam! of my pistol is followed not even a heartbeat later by the sound of smashing glass.
Armand shakes his head. ‘Great shot, Jakob. That window won’t live to see another day.’
‘What?’ I peer through the smoke created by my pistol to notice that I have hit one of the building’s upper-storey windows. ‘Oh.’
‘I don’t know why you persist in using those things. They are about as accurate as spitting into the wind,’ Francesca says, producing the crossbow from her shoulder, slamming in a magazine of bolts and resting it on top of the wall to steady her aim. ‘But this can hit a bullseye at eighty paces.’
Before she can get her shot off, her aim is distracted by the report of a firearm, and the figure atop the roof is hit by the impact of the ball. Snapping our heads to the right, we see Prince Rupert blow the smoke away from one of his long-barrelled cavalry pistols. He squints as he stares up at the roof.
‘The Prince never misses,’ Lieutenant Wolf boasts, looking across at us. ‘He once hit the weather vane atop St Mary’s Church in Stafford from a distance of over fifty yards. When the King questioned if it was merely luck, the Prince repeated the shot, again hitting the target. You might be able to hit a bullseye at eighty paces, Francesca, but the Prince could change the gender of a fly at fifty paces with one of his pistols.’
‘My aim was true.’ Prince Rupert draws our attention back to the rooftop. ‘But it didn’t kill the Ghost. Look, he still stands.’
As one, we look back at the rooftop, only to find that the Ghost is still standing. Strangely, despite being shot, he hasn’t moved.
‘Care for another try, my Lord?’ Lieutenant Wolf asks. ‘It seems as if the Ghost didn’t get the message.’
Producing the remaining pistol from his belt, the Prince thumbs back the firing pin, takes aim and fires. Again, the figure is hit, its cloak ripped back by the impact of the ball.
‘Remarkable!’ von Frankenthal comments, admiring the Prince’s marksmanship.
Prince Rupert lowers his pistol, a baffled look on his face. ‘What’s even more remarkable, though, is that the Ghost is still standing. That was a direct hit. He should have fallen.’
‘Something is amiss,’ Armand says, sheathing his mortuary blade. ‘Cover me.’
He springs over the wall and races across to the building. He finds a vine snaking its way up the front wall and he climbs up to the roof. Drawing his mortuary sword and sabre, the French duellist then stalks across to the other side of the building. Using the chimneys as cover, he sneaks up to within ten yards of the figure, where he crouches behind the final chimney, his eyes locked on the Ghost – who still hasn’t moved. Several seconds pass before Armand steps out from behind his concealment
, his blades lowered, as if there is no threat. He walks across to the figure, reaches out and pulls off its cloak.
My jaw drops in surprise and von Frankenthal curses under his breath.
For it was all a trick. The cloak had been draped around a chimney stack, making us believe that the Ghost was atop the roof, when in fact it was stalling us whilst the spy made his escape.
Lieutenant Wolf lowers his sword in a defeated gesture. ‘Don’t we look like a pack of fools. Whilst we’ve been shooting at a chimney, the Ghost has been making his merry way out of here. He could be anywhere by now.’
Armand draws our attention with a shrill whistle. He points with one of his blades across at a distant rooftop, where, silhouetted against the eerie light cast by the crescent moon, we catch a glimpse of a darting shadow.
The Ghost!
No sooner have we spotted the French spy than Armand takes off in pursuit, racing to the end of the building and leaping across to the rooftop of a neighbouring mansion. A second later, Prince Rupert urges us to continue the chase, and we sprint out from behind the wall in hot pursuit of our fleeing quarry.
With Lieutenant Wolf leading, we hustle along a narrow pathway leading between elegant two-storey apartments. After fifty yards or so, we run through an archway and turn into a large courtyard, dominated by a central fountain. We assemble around the fountain and scan the rooftops for movement, searching for where we had last spotted the Ghost. But all is silent and still.
