A Dangerous Energy

by John Whitbourn

  ‘I will see you at High Mass tomorrow – and don’t forget Thursday, Tobias; you are to represent the strong yet paternal arm of the Church to the vastly impressed Church-wardens of our little Christian community.’

  ‘I’ll conjure a demon to bring with me, my Lord.’

  They both laughed, although to Tobias demons were very far from a laughing matter. He made a final bow and left.

  The rain had stopped and so Tobias had a pleasant, easy canter back into town. The Bishop’s gently chiding comments had turned his thoughts towards Diane and female companionship in general. Some eager spring sunshine revived his spirits and by the time he crossed the town ditch he had decided to change his mind and to summon Miss French over to accompany him this evening.

  At the Castle he met Haraldsson again and thanked him for the loan of the horse. He asked after Chitty and was informed he wasn’t in. No reason was proffered and, presuming some activity in the Waith interest was the cause, he enquired no further.

  As it was a free point in both of their days, Haraldsson challenged him to a game of chess, a game which Tobias liked although he played abominably. The young priest always enjoyed the mercenary’s company and so readily agreed. They withdrew from the comparative hubbub of the outer courtyard which served as a trading area, market and general social centre, into Haraldsson’s small guard room, a place which during his decade-long sojourn he had converted into a comfortable haven from the strains of duty.

  Haraldsson, a gentle and slow-witted man, originally came from a small and primitive village on or near the Arctic Circle. His size and strength had marked him out for an extraordinary career from the start, and when both his family and the village had fallen upon hard times, he had been persuaded to present himself as a volunteer to the armies of the Emperor of Sweden in lieu of some back-taxes. In such a manner the family had managed to struggle on to face a new year at the cost of one son. For ten years or so he had served in various garrison towns, fought the pagan Lapps and East Prussians and generally preserved the integrity of the expansive and prosperous Swedish Empire. At the end of this time, as reward or punishment, he never knew which, he was transferred from his unit into a specially raised regiment of foot destined for one of the mini ‘Crusades’ waged at regular intervals against the sophisticated but pagan inhabitants of the Crimea and Ukraine. It was here that he met the future Lord Waith who was a volunteer in an English troop of horse, earning only their food and grace by involvement in the campaign.

  In the burning ruins of a Ukrainian village, John Waith somehow acquired the impression that Harald Haraldsson had saved his life. This may or may not have been the case but Harald could never remember the incident; there’d been so many corpses about that day. Anyway, Waith had told him he was a famous nobleman and offered to buy him out of the Swedish Imperial Forces and give him a post as personal bodyguard in a place called England. To Haraldsson this seemed a chance to escape the intolerable spiral of killing and violence and he’d accepted the proposition with both hands. Things had worked out far better than he had dared to dream, and in the ten ensuing years he had barely had to kill or hurt anyone. True, he was still a soldier but England was a safe and settled place compared to his experience of the rest of the world. Also, a genuine bond had grown between the Scandinavian and his wild master and now Harald felt that Lord Waith was the sole person he would still use violence to protect or save. He had found himself a very nice niche which should, with any luck, carry him gently and safely through to his old age without having to hurt anyone anymore.

  Over a couple of cheroots and a mug of beer, Tobias won several times at chess (the only company in which he could do so). Around midday he said he must be going home for dinner and proffering his regards to the Waith family he took his leave. Home was a brief walk away, the sun had dried the streets out and the concourses were busy with people enjoying their leisure. He bought some apples and chocolates from a small shop and within minutes was entering the homely confines of 23 St John’s Street. Tobias heard Mrs Coley in the kitchen and shouted through to her that he was in.

  A short while later he was seated at the plank table facing the street window and eating the meal that the housekeeper had had ready for him: lamb chops, potatoes and peas. He gave her the apples when she brought in a suet pudding and announced he would be in his study that afternoon and only at home to the more important callers.

  When dinner was finished and Mrs Coley was washing up, he put his boots on again and sallied out into the street, only going so far as the door of the next house. A youngish, dark-haired woman answered his knock. She carried a baby and a toddler was firmly attached to her skirts.

  ‘Good day to you, Mrs Keen. I wonder if I might ask you a favour?’

  ‘Hello, Curate Oakley – yes, surely. What do you want?’

  ‘I wonder if your little Phillip would run another errand for me?’

  ‘Of course, he’ll be happy to. It’ll get him out in the fresh air for a while. I’ll send him round.’

  The door closed and Tobias returned home. He took a scrap of writing paper and an envelope from a folder on the table and with his pen scratched out a hasty message to Diane. He sealed the envelope just as the door was knocked and Mrs King ushered in a black-haired boy.

  ‘Hello, Phillip,’ said Tobias in a friendly tone. ‘I wonder if you’d take this letter round to the nice young lady in the little red house you’ve been to before for me. Would you do that, eh?’

  Phillip was shy and not a little frightened of the magician but his mother had told him that he was a kind and safe man just so long as one was polite. He nodded, eager to please.

  ‘Jolly good. Now tell me, do you have a piggy bank, eh?’ He knew very well that he did.

  The boy nodded again, and willingly accepted the Curate’s threepence.

  Upstairs in the room next to his bedroom, Tobias had constructed a study and whenever possible he spent his afternoons there. Through his rich variety of contacts he now had access to the three best book collections in Rugby – the libraries of the Cathedral, Castle and University. As a person in a position of trust he was even allowed to remove books and take them home. Therefore he never wanted for research or reading matter and his magical studies had wandered off into quite arcane and esoteric fields. He had reached the point where basic thaumaturgic primers could teach him no more and anything he learnt now was not part of common community knowledge in magical circles. Currently the perfection of demonological lore was his particular interest. He was determined to explore and appreciate this branch of the art after his near-fatal experience in London with the demon whose name he did not dare to mention outside a pentagram.

  He made a pot of tea and took it upstairs with him. Passing the afternoon buried deep in a large tome from the Castle Waith collection and sketching pentagrams in coloured inks, Tobias found the hours went quickly.

  When the study clock struck six he was roused, and noticed that he had forgotten to drink his tea.

  Tea of another sort was awaiting him downstairs; a large plate of Mrs Coley’s sausages and mash. Afterwards he retired into his parlour and sat reading the Bible. His studies at Southwark had given him an excellent facility with Church Latin and thus enabled him to peruse the great book of his religion. In a world ruled by the Church this was no small consideration or power. Copies of the Holy Writ in the vernacular did exist but all dated from the time of the great Protestant heresy and so by now were aged documents. Even so, the inherent danger in possessing such a book had not decreased one whit.

  Diane arrived at half past seven and Tobias’ working day was over. He drew the curtains and they were alone, Mrs Coley having retired to her own room.

  The evening passed convivially enough. He read and she occupied herself with one of her interminable pieces of knitting. They talked. Tobias made notes from Johnson’s great Lives of the Magicians until 10.30 pm when, both a little bleary-eyed, they had a glass of wine and a biscuit or two to pass as
supper. Tobias then turned out one of the oil lamps and proceeded upstairs with the other, closely followed by Diane. While she was combing out her hair he returned downstairs to make sure Mrs Coley had locked up and thus assured, he returned to his bedroom.

  And later, in the bedroom, they undressed each other and made love. Tobias was lucky in that Diane was a willing partner; he had always detested it when a woman regarded sex as an offence and lay there like a martyr. To him that was a distasteful experience akin to necrophilia, and belonged to his less choosy Southwark days. After they’d lain entwined together for a while, Tobias closed his eyes and was very soon asleep. His Saturday, 1st May, 1982, was now a matter of history and would never return.

  Such was the agreeable rut Tobias found himself in at the grand old age of twenty-three.

  CHAPTER 2

  In which our hero provides a friend with breakfast.

  Phillip Chitty, master magician attached to the retinue of Lord John Waith, having uncharacteristically risen early took it into his head to go and visit his friend Curate Oakley. He rather hoped Diane would be in evidence, but in this he was disappointed as Tobias was the sole person as yet out of bed in 23 St John’s Street. His Church rival was trying to pull his other boot on.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Phillip.’ Tobias suddenly remembered the hour, ‘Is there anything wrong?’

  ‘Nothing at all. But I thought I’d pay you a visit, seeing as you’re always an early bird.’

  ‘And why not? I was about to make breakfast – you can join me along with Diane; mind you,’ he added hastily over his shoulder as they proceeded down the hall, ‘it’s my habit and general preference to eat alone.’ Tobias had no intention of allowing this to become a custom.

  Doffing his broad, befeathered hat, Phillip settled down in the kitchen and busied himself making some tea. Tobias went to the stairs and called for Diane. By the time she had roused herself sufficiently to come downstairs in her nightgown a simple meal was ready. An unexpected exotic sight in his gaudy silks and embroidered dress-coat, Phillip smiled a wolfish grin at her while she gaped and let out a small whimper of surprise.

  ‘Tobias, you did not tell me you had a guest, I would have dressed. Good morning, Master Chitty – how are you?’

  ‘Just fine, mistress. Just fine.’

  Phillip continued to smile at her fixedly. As far as Tobias knew he was like this with all women and according to Diane he had tried to proposition her three or four times. His lascivious ambitions were only barely concealed when Tobias was in audible range. Tobias supposed that he ought to be offended but he was nothing of the sort. In a way he enjoyed Diane’s obvious discomfiture although this was a petty and ignoble pleasure. Diane might be one of Phillip’s favourites but he was liberal with his affections and Chitty’s name often cropped up in the confessions Tobias took as part of his training programme. Sometimes he worried for the safety and honour of Lady Priscilla herself.

  Diane considered the advisability of retiring to put some more substantial clothing on, rejected the idea for a variety of obscure and undefined reasons, and took a seat at the table.

  ‘Give me a moment and I’ll get breakfast for you both,’ said Tobias and then, lost in thought, he turned his back and gave his attention to the kitchen range. Diane looked up cautiously, met Phillip’s stare and casually disengaged her eyes to take in the room.

  ‘What brings you here so early, Master Chitty?’ – this to break the uncomfortable silence.

  ‘In truth, mistress, I was sore stricken by conscience in the night and at the first sign of dawn felt impelled to seek the guidance and reassurance of my friend Curate Oakley who knows my struggles with sin better than any man.’

  Tobias either didn’t hear or declined to rise to the bait and Diane couldn’t formulate a suitable reply. If Chitty had any religious sense, or concept of right and wrong, this was its first manifestation. Diane on reflection felt somewhat slighted at Phillip’s mockery. Indeed, she concluded he was treating her like a common drab instead of, well, one half of a serious relationship.

  At length Tobias brought over some bowls of porridge and mugs of strong tea but declined to break the silence. To that extent he was determined to keep his established custom. Thus, Tobias abstracted, Diane slighted and Phillip uncaring, the repast passed in perfect quiet.

  At length Diane felt that her proper presence had been sufficiently established and rose to go. She and Tobias confirmed the date of their next liaison. Then without a farewell she swept upstairs to dress and eventually depart before the formidable Mrs Coley was present to express wordlessly her profound disapproval.

  Tobias began to put dishes in the sink and resumed the conversation as if fifteen minutes had not elapsed. ‘What does bring you here at this inconvenient hour, Phillip?’

  The opium has arrived – all we wanted and a bit more.’

  Phillip Chitty was a minor scion of an equally minor but honourable noble family who owned a swathe of good farming land near Bagindon and a lot of property in Coventry. His magical faculties had been noticeable, indeed unavoidable, from a very early age and his father, seeing in him the revival of past family fortunes, reared him as a golden youth. No expenditure of money, affection or patience had been spared on him. Indeed, to save him from the clutches of the Church, a magician-tutor had been procured for him (from Church sources, with Church approval, of course) at exorbitant expense, whereby he might remain under the family eye and influence.

  Sad to say he proved a poor investment, for when he had learnt all his tutor could teach he left – along with a portion of his father’s cash and such readily disposable assets as he could carry, including a few obscure and rarely read volumes from the family library. Two things he left behind: a note expressing ‘thanks for everything’ and the family name. His new identity was selected almost at random from the first piece of printed matter that crossed his path. In this manner he disappeared into the commonwealth of everyman and never again surfaced to trouble the dreams and aspirations of his ancient lineage. His father’s search efforts, at first inspired by fury, then by a spirit of conciliation and finally by fury again, proved at every turn fruitless. At last despairing, he turned his attention to his eldest son, up till then somewhat neglected, whose propensity for unquestioning obedience might mark him out for a career in the military.

  This obliging dullard rose to command a foot regiment and on the 23rd day of his new appointment was fatally wounded by a crossbow bolt directed by a ‘free Wales’ insurgent. And so, save for Phillip’s unguessed-at illegitimate progeny, the family line died out – the disappointed father having died insane in Coventry some years previously.

  The first two years of Phillip’s new life seem destined to remain forever mysterious. Even deep in his drink he would refer to them only in enigmatic and often contradictory terms. It seemed apparent to Tobias that some of it at least had been spent in Scotland, in the environs of Loch Lomond to be specific, and that during that time his magical talents had reached a very high degree of development. Something had also happened in that time to make Phillip mature at unusual speed for when he’d first presented himself in Rugby two years ago, he was but sixteen summers old, and yet had acted like a man of considerable and varied experience. This was all Tobias had been able to glean from Phillip’s occasional disclosures and popular Rugby knowledge, and he saw little point in pursuing speculation further.

  At any rate it was undeniable that he’d arrived as a young lad of unknown provenance, possessing only whatever was crammed in his backpack. His obvious breeding and refinement alone would have marked him out had he not made his magical abilities widely known. It was rare that magicians of obvious skill were free of commitments and available for employment, and Paxton of Castle Waith had already toyed with the idea of engaging the youth as part of his Lord’s extensive retinue when Chitty saved him the effort and made the approach himself. His opaque, not to say entirely invisible, past was a factor capable of oversight – subject
to a probationary period.

  To Paxton’s relief, Chitty turned out to be a model retainer and, as a magician, a considerable source of kudos to the name of Waith. He was invariably polite, deferential and eager to serve, and since the Waith household had no means of knowing what went on in his head they were well pleased with him.

  In his turn, he was grateful to Lord Waith and his family for their generosity and until such time as something better occurred to him, he was content to serve them to the best of his ability.

  Phillip met Curate Oakley soon after he joined the Cathedral establishment and, as the two acknowledged magicians of the town, naturally they formed an acquaintance. Chitty immediately sensed a kindred spirit and before long a friendship existed between the two.

  Obviously, due to his position in society, Tobias had to be circumspect in his associations and his public behaviour, and so most of his entertaining had to be done in private dwellings away from passing scrutiny. At times he held soirees in his St John’s Street abode, at others he visited friends who understood behaviour perhaps somewhat less restrained than that expected of a good churchman. By and by, with a little thought and organisation, he did not lack for high times and raucous enjoyment, an indelible taste he had acquired in Southwark. Phillip Chitty was in a good position to provide the same since he was by inclination a bon viveur and, more importantly, had illicit access to the Castle wine-cellars. Also, from some unspecified source, he regularly obtained quantities of high-grade opium powder, some of which he consumed himself and some of which he furtively sold. The presence of a man of Curate Oakley’s calibre presented him with the opportunity to expand this enterprise in a way that he had been planning for some time.