by Stuart Daly
‘Is everything all right with Armand?’ Francesca asks when I return to the drawing room. ‘He came through here some time ago, and he wasn’t his normal confident, pretentious self. He seemed down, almost depressed.’
‘I brought up a ghost from his past.’ I feel terrible for having raised the issue of the handkerchief. Had I known it was going to cause him such pain, I would never have probed into its significance. Trust me to open my big mouth.
‘Can I help?’ Francesca asks.
‘Thanks, but not this time,’ I say, not wanting to betray the French duellist’s trust. ‘This is something Armand wants to deal with himself.’
‘Well, if you ever change your mind, my offer’s still open.’ Francesca rises from her seat and slings her crossbow over her shoulder. ‘But we have a more pressing matter to deal with. Before Armand wandered off with Christian, he told me that we need to find you a rifle. Which is easier said than done. What does he expect – that we’ll just click our fingers and one will magically appear out of nowhere?’
No sooner has Francesca clicked her fingers to emphasise her point, than Franz walks into the drawing room and announces, ‘Here is the rifle you requested.’
I exchange a baffled look with Francesca and accept the firearm.
‘How did you know?’ I ask Franz.
‘I passed your commander in the stairwell a few minutes ago,’ Franz explains in his monotone voice, and hands me a fresh bandolier and powder flask to replace my previous supply, which was destroyed when I fell in the river last night. ‘He told me that you required a rifle, so I took this one from the Prince’s hunting room. The Prince used this during the Civil War. Like all of the firearms he used back then, it had been blessed by the Church as a precautionary measure should he ever encounter the Sons of Cain. I don’t know if it has ever been fired, though. The Prince much prefers pistols to cumbersome rifles.’
‘So I get to christen it against the Sons of Cain.’ I inspect the firearm, not knowing if I should feel honoured or terrified. ‘Aren’t I the lucky one?’
The rifle is long – perhaps a foot longer than those kept in the Hexenjäger armoury in Burg Grimmheim, Saxony, and with which I became very familiar during my first week in the order, when I spent hours polishing and oiling the order’s arsenal of blades and firearms. But the most remarkable feature of the rifle is that it has three chambers just above the trigger, at the base of the barrel.
‘How am I supposed to use this?’ I have never seen anything like it before.
Franz takes back the weapon, gives me a reproachful look and points at the chambers. ‘You load the chambers as you would any other muzzle-loaded firearm. The doghead, or firing pin, needs to be cocked in order for each chamber to be discharged. Once the gun has been fired, you simply rotate the chamber until the next cylinder locks into place. There’s no need to reload the chambers until all three have been fired.’
‘You make it sound simple,’ I say as he hands me back the rifle.
‘That’s because it is,’ Franz says, matter-of-factly. ‘Prince Rupert is somewhat of a hunting enthusiast. I’d be a very rich man if I had a coin for every time I have accompanied him on hunting trips. I once used a gun similar to this one, so I am familiar with how it operates. As with all firearms of this nature, its barrels have been rifled, giving the ball far greater accuracy. This should be capable of hitting a target at two hundred yards. That is, of course, when it is in the hands of a competent marksman.’
Which I’m not, I think sourly. I’m still not yet fully proficient in the use of my pistols, let alone a gun that looks as though it requires a one-hundred-page instruction manual to operate.
Two or three days before leaving Saxony to begin our journey to Rotterdam, Robert Monro – the Scottish marksman who had demonstrated his skill with a rifle against the witches back in Schloss Kriegsberg – had offered to take me deer hunting in the forests surrounding Burg Grimmheim. I had turned him down, preferring to spend my last few days with my friend Sabina, and not looking forward to spending an entire day with Robert, who speaks as often as a Benedictine monk who has taken a vow of silence. But I am now regretting that I didn’t spend at least one morning hunting with the Scotsman. It would have been a golden opportunity to learn from a master sniper.
Francesca raises her eyebrows and whistles. ‘Two hundred yards!’
‘Do you want to swap?’ I gesture at the repeating crossbow slung over her shoulder.
Francesca pats her weapon guardedly. ‘Not on your life. But that rifle’s powerful. Are you sure you are going to be able to use it?’
I shrug. ‘We’ll find out soon enough.’
‘Thanks for reminding me,’ she says. ‘We should get moving. Armand said that he was going to tell the Angeli Mortis that we would meet them in the foyer. We’d best be on our way.’
Having thanked Franz for the weapon and assured him that I will guard it with my life, I follow Francesca down to the foyer. Armand and von Frankenthal have assembled with the Angeli Mortis and Bishop Henchman. There is also a cowled monk standing beside the Bishop. The holy men stand out like sheep amongst a pack of wolves, their absence of weapons in direct contrast to the witch hunters, who are decked out in enough steel to sink a galleon.
‘I’ve organised for some horses to be brought over,’ the Bishop says. ‘As soon as they arrive, you will begin your journey.’ He indicates the monk standing by his side. ‘This is Brother Lidcombe. He will accompany you to the Hanging Tree and deliver the last rites to the Forsaken. He speaks fluent German, so communication will not be an issue. I would come, but I am needed here in London to oversee the search for the Altar of Sun.’
I snigger under my breath. How terribly convenient. The Bishop was prepared to ask for our help to destroy the Sons of Cain, but he is not prepared to risk his own life, choosing to send one of his underlings in his stead. Prince Rupert had no choice but to return to sea, but I feel the Bishop considers himself too important to take unnecessary risks. He’ll happily pull the strings from a distance, but will never reveal himself to his enemies.
‘How long is the ride?’ Armand asks, the distasteful look on his face revealing he shares some of my resentment towards the Bishop. ‘It’s already past midday. We only have five hours left before it starts to get dark. The Sons of Cain might be guarding the Hanging Tree, and we don’t want to get caught fighting them and their Hell Hounds once night falls. They will be stronger than ever then.’
‘We will ride out of London and head south,’ Witch Finder Blackwood explains. ‘We should be at the Hanging Tree within an hour of leaving the city.’
‘That’s good.’ Armand winks at me; an unspoken gesture signifying that all is well between us. ‘I’ve had enough of waiting around here. My blades have slumbered long enough.’
‘Why aren’t we taking a larger force?’ I ask, airing a question that has been on my mind for some time now. ‘Surely there are more than three Angeli Mortis. Why aren’t the rest here? And, no offence intended to Brother Lidcombe, but why is only one holy man accompanying us? Why aren’t we sending a force of hundreds of soldiers and priests?’
‘There are only twelve members of our order; a number chosen to represent the Twelve Apostles of Christ,’ Witch Finder Blackwood explains. ‘Three other Angeli Mortis are currently in London, but they are assisting Bishop Henchman in searching for the Altar of Sun. The other six are on missions throughout England. Besides, Prayer and Dorian are amongst the most skilled fighters in the Angeli Mortis. Their blades will more than suffice. It may seem strange to you, but I was also once a man of the cloth. I’m sure that Brother Lidcombe and I will be able to deliver the last rites to the Forsaken.’
My eyes narrow inquisitively. ‘You were once a priest?’
‘Yes, but that was a long time ago, before I rode with Witch Finder General Hopkins and John Stearne duri
ng the Civil War,’ the Witch Finder says. ‘England is infested to the core with the Devil’s servants. I left the pulpit, believing I could best serve our Lord with pistol and blade, ridding the realm of evil.’
Bishop Henchman toys with his beard thoughtfully. ‘We have kept our numbers to a minimum so as to avoid a national scare,’ he says, his voice lowered, once again adopting the secretive tone that seems to come so naturally to him. ‘London, in particular, is already in a perpetual state of war. Londoners live with the constant fear of the Dutch sailing down the Thames to plunder and burn their city – especially after Sir Robert Holmes’s raid of West-Terschelling. If word ever got out that the Sons of Cain were going to enter London to summon the Antichrist, panic would seize the city.’
‘We should also point out that not all Londoners are happy with King Charles’s rule,’ Witch Finder Blackwood adds. ‘Should the people of London rise in rebellion, they would be well supplied with the stashes of gunpowder barrels hidden throughout the city, left behind from the Civil War. It was only five years ago that the Fifth Monarchists staged a rebellion.’
I cock an eyebrow. ‘The Fifth Monarchists?’
‘The Fifth Monarchy Men are a group of anti-Papist extremists who believe that God will punish England for the debauch and lecherous excesses of the King’s court,’ the Witch Finder says.
‘So much for the divine right of kings,’ Armand scoffs.
Dorian glances at Armand. ‘You are not a supporter of monarchy?’
One of the reasons why Armand had gone into voluntary exile from France was to free himself from the libertine and hedonistic ways of the court of Louis XIV. Sick of the affectation of court life, he wished to cleanse his soul of the moral corruption to which it had been exposed.
‘I believe that all men are born equal,’ Armand answers, looking back at the English witch hunter. ‘We are all equal – kings, queens, and beggars – in the eyes of our Lord.’
Dorian’s stare becomes defiant. ‘There are many in our country who share such beliefs. They are known as Levellers.’ He says this word as if it were bile in his mouth. ‘They are considered by the authorities as traitors to the realm, wishing to break down its social order. They should all be hunted down and killed.’
Bishop Henchman clears his throat, a deliberate diversion to draw Armand’s and Dorian’s attention before their argument becomes more heated. ‘The Fifth Monarchists take their name from the Book of Daniel, which prophesises that a Kingdom of God would follow on from the great civilisations of Babylon, Assyria, Greece and Rome. They believed that the restoration of King Charles to the throne of England in 1660 would herald London’s birth as the new Jerusalem, the fifth prophesied kingdom of righteousness. Believing the King had failed to create this kingdom, a group of the Fifth Monarchists staged a rebellion. After three days of fighting, it was suppressed.’
Dorian smiles sadistically. ‘The heads of their leader, Thomas Veneer, and twelve of his followers now sit on spikes at the southern entrance to London Bridge as a warning to all who dare rise up against the King.’
‘Although the rebellion was put down over five years ago, there are still thousands of supporters of the Fifth Monarchists,’ Bishop Henchman says. ‘If word ever got out that the Antichrist was going to be summoned – beneath Saint Paul’s Cathedral, of all places – it would provide the rebels with irrefutable evidence that God has abandoned the King’s court. It would plunge the nation back into civil war. And that is why we are keeping our numbers to a minimum. We don’t want to advertise the fact that something is amiss by having an army of hundreds of soldiers and priests descend on the Hanging Tree. London is an unlit bonfire, built upon an unstable platform of war and dissatisfaction with the King’s rule. We don’t want to initiate the spark that sets it alight.’
Armand nods in understanding. ‘So what can you tell us about the Sons of Cain? We know they can only be killed once we have freed the Forsaken, given them their last rites and removed the satchel from the Hanging Tree. But we don’t know much about them other than that they were cavalry soldiers during the Civil War and that their eyes bleed. What powers do they have? Can our weapons at least harm them?’
‘Even weapons blessed by the Church and engraved with holy passages will only wound the Sons of Cain,’ Witch Finder Blackwood says. ‘After a few seconds, their injuries heal and they are back at full strength. As you know, there are four Sons of Cain, but they each have different abilities and powers. I was going to inform you of these during our ride out to the cemetery, but I may as well tell you now.
‘The first of the demonic horsemen is Thomas Whitcliff. He rode with Haslerigge’s Lobsters during the Civil War. They were a unit of cuirassiers, heavily armoured cavalry who received their name from the gear they wore. Despite this, they were defeated by lighter armed harquebusiers at the Battle of Roundway Down, one of the earliest engagements of the war. Although we have no information as to the role played by Whitcliff during the battle itself, it was his actions afterward that earned him a reputation of notoriety. He tortured to death over twenty Royalist prisoners who were placed under his custody, and who were to be escorted back to London. He then started capturing and torturing supporters of the King, keeping them locked in a cellar beneath his hovel in Whitechapel. By the time his neighbours became suspicious and reported him to the authorities, he had killed over thirty people. Their remains were found in shallow graves in the cellar. Before he could be captured, Whitcliff escaped from London. He served under General Ireton for some time before becoming one of the Sons of Cain.’
‘He sounds like a charming fellow,’ von Frankenthal mumbles under his breath.
‘Whitcliff still has the tri-bar pot helmet, chest-guard and metal gauntlets he wore when serving under Haslerigge,’ the Witch Finder continues. ‘He’s also a crack shot with his pair of long-barrelled cavalry pistols. Legend has it that he perfects his aim by shooting at a crucifix, hanging from a wall in a crypt hidden somewhere within the cemetery adjoining the Church of the Holy Trinity, and which the Sons of Cain use as their lair.’
‘I’ve heard of this practice before,’ Armand says. ‘The crucifix must be shot on Good Friday. The next shot fired from the pistol will hit the heart of its target. As the pistol ball is guided by the Devil, it never misses.’
Witch Finder Blackwood nods and clears his throat before continuing. ‘The second member of the Sons of Cain is a Swedish mercenary, Nils Fabricius. He is a staunch, puritanical Protestant, who perfected his fighting skills whilst serving under the Swedish king, Gustavus Adolphus, during the Thirty Years’ War. He also fought for some time in Flanders before crossing over to England. He joined Parliament’s cause in the Civil War, believing King Charles’s court was rife with Catholicism. He always dresses in black and is a master swordsman.
‘He earned a reputation for daring and cruelty during his time in Flanders, often sneaking into enemy strongholds under the cover of night, and slitting the throats of anyone he came across. It is said that he can melt into shadows, becoming as one with the night. The first his victims know of his presence is the instant they feel the cold touch of his dagger’s edge against their throat. He is also an expert tracker and hunter. It is said that no-one can evade him once he has found your trail.’
‘He has also been active in London recently,’ Bishop Henchman adds. ‘There have been many recent murders around the area of Saint Paul’s Cathedral. The victims have been found lying in pools of blood, their necks slashed from ear to ear, and inverted crucifixes scrawled in blood on their foreheads.’
Von Frankenthal tilts his head curiously. ‘What is the significance of the crucifixes?’
‘It is Fabricius’s call sign,’ the Bishop says. ‘He leaves it on nearly all of his victims.’
‘And what has been the purpose of these murders?’ Francesca asks, shifting uncomfortably. ‘Why would Fabricius draw unwa
nted attention to the fact that the Sons of Cain have some interest in the area around the cathedral?’
‘By day, the bookstores and shops around the cathedral are bustling with activity,’ the Bishop explains. ‘But come evening, the shops close down, the streets deserted. Not even the town watch dares patrol that section of London anymore, for fear of running into Fabricius. And that is why he has been active around Saint Paul’s. He has cleared the area, ensuring that there will be nobody on the streets to interfere with the Sons of Cain when they descend beneath the cathedral to summon the Antichrist from the Devil’s Bible.’
Armand clicks his tongue in thought for a few seconds before asking, ‘And who are the two remaining members of the Sons of Cain?’
‘The third member is a former Protestant preacher from the town of Lower Slaughter,’ Witch Finder Blackwood says. ‘He is a puritanical maniac and was driven by an extreme religious fervour during the period before the Civil War – he wanted to rid England of all forms of iconoclasm and idolatry. Believing the King’s court was rotten to the core with Catholic conspirators, he joined the Parliamentarians during the war. He may not look like much of a threat, being perhaps sixty years old, with long grey hair and being so emaciated that his clothes seem to hang from his body. But don’t be fooled, for he’s not bad with a pistol and sword. His real skill, however, lies in his ability to summon spirits and demons to do his bidding. Not surprisingly, he is known as the Warlock of Lower Slaughter.’
I swallow nervously and look across at Armand, fearful of the trouble we have placed ourselves in. We encountered a possessed witch hunter, Heinrich von Dornheim, on my very first mission, when we had been sent to Schloss Kriegsberg to eliminate the Blood Countess. He had used a grimoire to summon a demon, which we only managed to defeat because we fought it on hallowed ground. I know how strong and deadly an opponent a demon can be, and the mere thought of having to face another one terrifies me. But there is no sign of fear in Armand’s eyes. On the contrary, he snickers and winks back at me, as though there is no cause for concern.
