The Saint and the Sorcerer

by J. C. Hanna

  “I agree; that the boy appears with such frequency, holds some meaning; but it doesn’t necessarily have to mean something good. It could be a warning. What you are proposing could be very dangerous. That place. That time. Those people. I do not like any of this.”

  Rufus smiled.

  “That you find joy in this tells me that your mind is not where it ought to be,” said Dee. “You tend towards the manic.”

  Rufus snorted.

  “You would know all about the manic,” said Rufus, acerbically.

  “If you are referring to Elizabeth, you are being unduly cruel. She has endured much. She has lost even more than both of us put together. But in the end, she did the right thing. It was not easy for her to give up absolute power; to do what was right. Yet she did it.”

  “Did she really?” said Rufus, accusingly.

  “Did she really, what?”

  “Give up all dreams of power?”

  “It is late. If there is some point to be made, please make it.”

  “John, when it comes to Bess, you have always been blind. She skips around like a child and she creates mischief. All very innocent. Too innocent. That is not the worldly woman that first set foot in this land. This place does not turn one into an imbecile.”

  “Are you saying that she is putting on an act? For what purpose?”

  “For what purpose, indeed. That is the question, John. Her retelling of the fateful encounter with the demon is so cloudy. I am certain that there is more to the tale.”

  Dee paced in agitation.

  “I know her well,” said Dee. “Better than anyone alive, or dead. If anything, she is bored. If you would allow her to be part of our plans, you would find a no wiser, or a more loyal, partner. Give her a purpose. Engage her mind.”

  Rufus mused before answering. “The danger is too great, John. The demon’s blood runs through her. There is no telling where her loyalty is truly fixed.”

  “Then we shall have to agree to disagree,” said Dee.

  They stood in silence for a short time.

  “Bess shall keep for another day,” said Dee. “As for the here and now; I think this obsession that you have with the child is dangerous.”

  “We are only going to take a quick look; for the time being. I want to hear your thoughts. I have waited many lifetimes for this moment, and I can wait a little longer; if you think that is best,” Rufus reassured.

  As they stood by the side of the water they suddenly became aware of a small increase in the amount of light in the chamber. They looked up. Tarish was darting around the room in a highly agitated state.

  “Stop him, boy!” the fairy called, to Rufus. “The world must not burn because a boat went unobserved. There will be another boat. I know it!”

  Rufus turned around in time to witness John Dee step out onto the surface of the water.

  “What are you doing, John?”

  “You are simply too important. You know more about this place and this war than I ever will,” Dee said. “I know a man on the brink when I see one. You came here tonight to use this portal. I was to be your witness. I cannot allow that to happen. Look after Bess. For me.”

  “But..” began Rufus.

  “Vade,” Dee said, decisively.

  John Dee slipped through the surface the water. As Rufus rushed forward, the liquid hardened. The image that had been in the water vanished in a blink, and before Rufus caught sight of it. In its place, there was darkness. A deep, still, empty black. Rufus waited for the image to change, as it had done countless times during the many years that he had spent in that room. The water remained black.

  Tarish swooped down to eye-level with Rufus.

  “What are you trying to tell me?” quizzed Rufus, desperately.

  “The girl in the park. She is not the only one. I have no proof, but I feel it to be true.”

  “Another boat,” mused Rufus.

  “Another boat, boy.”

  Chapter Fifty: The End of the Beginning

  Sainte-Eulalie-de-Cernon, France, 1195

  The stronghold was constructed entirely from heavy blocks of blue stone. High walls, with wide towers, and heavily fortified positions along the tops of the curtain wall provided a clear warning to all—both within and without.

  Twelve men, freshly arrived from their quest in the Holy Land, via the port of La Lochelle, waited in an inner chamber. Their sacred mission in the Middle East had been shrouded in so much secrecy that the brothers of their order that crewed the ship, which carried them back to France, had been put to death as soon as they arrived at the port.

  The room was large; lime-washed walls with a scattering of oak panels. The emblem of their order hung from banners on each of the four walls. The same emblem, a red cross on white, was visible on the tunics that the twelve had draped over their chainmail. The tunics were dirty and torn, and bloody.

  John Dee had retreated to a corner of the room. He fell out of the vortex into a mill pond more than a mile from the castle. The concealment spell that he cast protected him from the keen eyes on top of the walls of the stronghold, but it did not help him to cross the rough terrain between the pond and the building. He was exhausted and his legs hurt.

  A circular, wooden, candelabra, lined along the edge with beeswax candles, provided very little illumination beyond the small pools of light being cast above and below it.

  Dee did not fear discovery. The concealment spell was well tested, and it had never failed him.

  The knights remained respectfully still as they waited in disciplined silence. Their broadswords hung passively about their hips. They had been fighting their holy war for almost a decade, and resting their blades did not come naturally to them. Several of the warriors ran their fingers nervously along the hilts of their weapons as their anticipation grew.

  The door to the room eventually opened with a muted groan. A man in priestly attire entered the room. He led a small child into the room by the hand. Dee could not tell if the child was male or female. The child’s hair was cropped close to the scalp and its face glowed with the purest white light; as did the hand that the child was using to hold on tightly to the priest. Dee stepped forward to steal a closer look. As he did so it became apparent that not only was the child’s skin glowing, but its thin dermis was also translucent—Dee could clearly see the ghost of a skull through the flesh.

  “And what of his other self?” quizzed one of the knights.

  “Our brothers in Bavaria have him securely in their care,” said the priest.

  “Do we yet know which one is to lead us?” the same knight questioned.

  “Both are powerful,” said the priest. “But I feel that this boy may be the one. He has performed many miracles. He has much to teach us.”

  The boy looked up at the priest. His face stopped glowing and it took on a normal aspect. The child looked concerned. He did not speak. The priest suddenly moved as if to protect the child.

  “Someone is here!” said the priest. “In this room.”

  Almost in unison, the knights drew their swords. Dee withdrew to the safety of the wall. He incanted an escape. The wall remained firm. He tried again. The wall would not relent. The knights flitted their collective gaze from the child to the place in the room that he was fixated on—directly at the spot where John Dee stood. The concealment spell was holding, but Dee could feel its power fading fast.

  The knights elevated their swords—some in preparation for a strike from the shoulder; others held their blades outstretched as they probed the darkness with firm, jabbing motions. The knight on the leading edge of the party rested the point of his weapon on his thick forearm, and with his other hand, he grasped the bulbous end of the hilt. The knight suddenly pushed the sword forward. As the blade passed through Dee’s body, about his abdomen, the power of his spell ceased. The other knights quickly surrounded Dee. The priest, leaving the child by the doorway, walked over to Dee.

  “What are you?” demanded the priest, accusingly
. “Demon? Sorcerer?”

  With blood trickling from his mouth, and crippling pain cramping his body, Dee struggled to respond to the priest’s questions.

  “A friend,” Dee said, with agonised faintness.

  “A friend that hides in the shadows under a cloak of witchcraft?” the priest accused. “I think sir, you be no friend.”

  Dee didn’t have the strength to argue.

  “Be done with him,” instructed the priest.

  “It is the will of our Lord,” said the knight, who had inflicted the wound.

  Without a word uttered, or a command gesture offered, the knights swarmed. John Dee was dead before the priest and the boy had left the room.

  Epilogue

  National Portrait Gallery, London: Ten Years Before Amy’s Death in the Park

  “What’s with her?” asked the young, American girl.

  The child’s nose wrinkled in a firm gesture of disgust as she spoke.

  The little girl’s father placed a hand on her shoulder. He knelt beside her. He spoke quietly. The girl strained to hear the whisper above the polite chatter that filled the busy building. The low-pitched, insect swarm was indecipherable and constant. She wanted the visitors to stop taking, or for her father to speak at normal volume.

  “That’s the Queen,” said the father.

  The girl shot her dad an incredulous look. Quick as lightning, she slipped a tiny hand into the single pocket in her blue and yellow summer dress, and she pulled out a folded banknote. She straightened the note and waved it at her father.

  “Doesn’t much look like her,” said the girl, triumphantly.

  Her father smiled.

  “No sweetheart. That’s the current queen. The lady in the painting is the first Queen Elizabeth. She lived a long time ago.”

  The girl considered her father’s face for a moment. She was not entirely sure that she understood, but her father had delivered the explanation in such a simple and decisive way, that she could not admit to a lack of understanding. She hated feeling dumb, especially with her dad. Her father stood up, and he walked away slowly, taking in the other paintings in the room as he went. There were half a dozen portraits on the walls of the room, and there were a lot more rooms in the gallery that they had yet to explore—he was determined to view every one of them.

  She looked up at the painting of the queen. She didn’t look much like a queen to the little girl. The face in the painting was old and gaunt—there was more skull than flesh, and her eyes were black and sunken. Her skin was a ghostly white. And she looked sad. Princesses and queens should never look sad.

  “Come on, sweetheart,” called the father. “There is lots to see.”

  The girl continued to stare at the painting.

  “I’m serious,” he continued, in an unconvincing tone of threat. “If you don’t come now, they’ll throw you in The Tower.”

  She looked around at her father, and then back to the painting.

  “Right now, Amy!” he called.

  As she slowly turned away from the painting her head felt light. The buzz from the crowd ceased at once. She glanced back towards the doorway. Her father was nowhere to be seen. The doorway that he had been standing next to was gone—in its place, a bare, stone wall. Mild panic set in. As she looked around the room for another exit, she grew even more anxious—the entire room had changed. She slowly turned around to face the painting. The queen was still there. She was still old and ghost-like. The old queen looked down at the small child and smiled.

  “Hello Amy,” said the queen.

  Amy took a step backward.

  The queen continued. “It is so very good to see you. I have come to take you to live with me in my palace. You will love it there, so very much.”

  The queen smiled widely. The yellow stumps of teeth, which were black and rotten at the tips, began to grow and sharpen, and fill the queen’s mouth. Amy screamed.