by Stuart Daly
Talking about magical tomes, I cannot help but notice that the grimoire Armand collected from von Dornheim is tucked under his belt. You can practically feel the evil emanating from it. I wouldn’t go near the thing even if the Pope were holding my hand. Just looking at it is enough to make me want to have a bath in holy water.
‘What do you intend to do with that?’ I ask, and gesture at the heavy volume.
‘What any good Christian soul would do – destroy it.’
My eyes narrow inquisitively. ‘And how do you destroy a grimoire?’
‘Like this.’
And with that, Armand produces the evil volume. He holds it for a moment, as if savouring a sweet victory, like a general staring at the flames rising from a conquered city. Then he lets it slip from his fingers.
It hits the ground … and turns to ash.
Armand reads the astonished look on my face. ‘You have a lot to learn, my young friend,’ he says, and smiles softly. ‘Nothing evil can withstand hallowed ground. Not even Satan could walk in here without fear of being slain.’
‘Don’t even joke about that,’ I return. ‘Given what’s happened today, it wouldn’t surprise me in the least if the Devil were to walk in here right now.’
As if on cue, a figure bursts through the shattered doorway.
Despite our exhausted state, our hands fly to our weapons and we spring to our feet – only to find that Robert Monro has burst into the chapel.
‘I wouldn’t advise you do that again,’ Armand warns, breathing a sigh of relief and re-sheathing his half-drawn sabres. ‘I was about to have your head off!’
‘I’m sorry, but we’ve got a problem,’ the Scot blurts out, desperate urgency in his voice. ‘A dozen horsemen are coming this way! They are armed to the teeth, and clad in blue tabards bearing fleur-de-lis.’
Lieutenant Blodklutt’s head snaps up. ‘Blue tabards with fleur-de-lis! I’d say we’ve got more than just a problem.’
Armand moans, obviously annoyed by the prospect of further fighting. ‘How long do we have?’
‘I’ve been watching their approach for some time now,’ Robert answers. ‘But it’s only been in the last minute that I’ve been able to identify their tabards. We have five minutes at the most.’
‘Then that’s all we need to make our escape,’ Blodklutt says. ‘We’re in no condition to face the Marquis de Beynac. We need to move – fast!’
The mere mention of that name makes my skin crawl. I don’t know much about affairs in France, but I very much doubt that there’s a single person born in the past decade who has not heard of the Marquis de Beynac – Louis XIV’s Master of Spies. The leader of the King’s Secret – a spy network that has infiltrated every court in Europe. Nothing is kept secret from him. If knowledge is power, then he is truly the most powerful man alive.
Many counts, dukes, princes and even monarchs – fearful of state secrets falling into the wrong hands – have tried to have the Marquis de Beynac killed; they’ve hired some of the most skilled assassins in Europe to drive a blade into his back in the dead of night. But all attempts have failed.
Why? The answer is simple: because of the Marquis de Beynac’s bodyguard, Horst von Skullschnegger. A living legend who shadows the Master of Spies’ every move, it is said that von Skullschnegger has a military record that would shame even Alexander the Great. Having hired out his sword as a professional mercenary, he has fought in numerous European campaigns. Along with von Pappenheim, he was one of the greatest Catholic League cavalry captains of the Thirty Years’ War. He single-handedly conquered a gun battery at White Mountain, and is rumoured to have slain Gustavus Adolphus, the Lion of the North, at the Battle of Lutzen in 1632. A close friend and personal guard of Prince Rupert, he fought in every major engagement during the English Civil War. Six horses, it is said, were shot from under him at Marston Moor. He has even served in the frontier wars against Indian tribes in America, and has written a treatise on the art of cavalry charges.
In short, think of any battle waged in the past three decades and it’s a sure bet Horst von Skullschnegger was there. And I’ll be the Elector of Saxony’s lapdog if he isn’t riding into Schloss Kriegsberg this very moment.
‘I wonder what brings them here?’ von Frankenthal says, assuming position in the doorway, keeping watch across the inner courtyard.
‘It’s no secret that Louis XIV wishes to extend the Bourbon Empire into the east,’ Armand explains. ‘France gained much territory from the Treaty of Westphalia, but Louis craves more. This will no doubt involve invading the western states of the Holy Roman Empire – Lorraine, Franche Comté and the Spanish Netherlands. It will be a bitter struggle. Lots of blood will be spilt. But with a weapon such as one of the Trumpets of Jericho, Louis XIV will be able to conquer all of Europe. I’m sure that’s why he’s here. He’s come for the trumpet.’
I shake my head, struggling to understand why the Marquis de Beynac is coming to Schloss Kriegsberg. ‘But the trumpet isn’t here. It was just a ruse to draw out the Brotherhood of the Cross.’
Armand taps his nose. ‘But the Marquis doesn’t know that.’
‘I know, and that’s my point exactly,’ I say, raising a hand, trying to stop Armand from following his line of thought. ‘We need to take a step back here. For we are forgetting one simple question – why does the Marquis believe that this castle is the resting place of the trumpet? Someone has obviously told him that the trumpet is here. And that couldn’t happen unless –’
‘We’ll worry about that later,’ Lieutenant Blodklutt interrupts. ‘Let’s just focus on getting out of here for the moment.’
But I don’t think any of us will be going anywhere. Not with Bethlen brandishing his pistol at us.
‘Stay your hands from your weapons,’ Bethlen orders. ‘The first to draw their blade dies!’
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ von Frankenthal blurts out, and takes a menacing step forward.
‘Holding you here until my men arrive,’ Bethlen returns, and halts von Frankenthal with the barrel of his pistol.
Huh? As far as I knew we weren’t receiving any reinforcements. Then everything begins to fall into place. He is a spy. Bethlen had already known that there were others inside Schloss Kriegsberg – I saw his feigned surprise. He must have thought that the Marquis de Beynac and the King’s Secret had entered the castle first. What a shock he must have got when we encountered the Brotherhood instead! The twists in this mission don’t seem to end.
‘Don’t you think this has become a little too clichéd?’ Armand says, inching closer towards Bethlen. ‘Full credit goes to Klaus for bailing us up in the keep, but this is just cheap imitation.’
‘Put the pistol down before I snap that lousy neck of yours!’
I cringe at von Frankenthal’s words. He doesn’t have a civil tongue at the best of times, and I don’t think he’ll be the one to defuse this situation.
Bethlen snaps the pistol between von Frankenthal and Armand. ‘Be quiet! And nobody move.’
‘Or what?’ Blodklutt asks, composed. ‘You’re going to kill us all with your sole pistol? You must be a good shot.’
Bethlen’s eyes narrow into slits devoid of compassion, and he levels his pistol at me. ‘Then let me simplify matters somewhat. If anybody moves, I’ll kill the whelp.’
It’s amazing how things can go from good to bad in a split second. There I was, only a few minutes ago, celebrating – what I believed to be – the defeat of our final foe. And now I’m right back in the thick of things, staring down the barrel of Bethlen’s pistol.
Armand raises a hand, cautions Bethlen not to do anything rash. ‘So where do we go from here?’
‘Nowhere. We simply wait,’ Bethlen says, his eyes locked on mine, then shifting to the hand Armand moves to the hilt of his blade.
But I know that my companions won’t allow themselves to be held up in here until the Marquis de Beynac and Horst von Skullschnegger arrive. It is in our best interests t
o try to escape whilst we face only one opponent.
‘So how much did the Marquis offer you?’ Armand asks. ‘It must have been a lot to betray your companions.’
‘Companions?’ Bethlen snorts. ‘Don’t be so presumptuous.’
‘It wouldn’t take much to win over this dog,’ von Frankenthal scoffs. ‘He’s probably been won over by a single coin.’
‘I wasn’t won over, you ignorant fool,’ Bethlen sneers. ‘I’ve been in the Marquis’s service for over a decade.’
Von Frankenthal snorts contemptuously. ‘Then that just goes to show how desperate the Marquis de Beynac must be if he has stooped to hiring dogs as his spies. He’s really scraping at the bottom of the barrel.’
Bethlen’s eyes flash with anger, and he redirects his pistol at von Frankenthal. ‘Don’t tempt me. You humiliated me yesterday. It won’t happen a second time. And I don’t think you’re in any position to talk to me about hiring dogs. You couldn’t even protect young Gerhard. He died because of your incompetence. And now,’ he pauses as he snaps the pistol back at me, ‘you’re going to cause the death of this whelp.’
Although I’m standing several yards away from von Frankenthal, I hear his breathing become heavy and his features darken. Bethlen’s words have cut deep, and von Frankenthal is trying desperately to keep his rage in check. I’m sure that the only reason why he hasn’t charged Bethlen is because of the pistol trained at me.
‘Besides, you know nothing of the Marquis de Beynac,’ Bethlen continues. ‘His arms reach into every court in Europe, and I am one of his most experienced spies. It’s no secret that your order has prioritised the recovery of ancient relics. I was sent to infiltrate the Hexenjäger on the off-chance that you would discover something that France could use to its advantage.’
‘But this was all a trap – designed to draw out the Brotherhood of the Cross,’ Lieutenant Blodklutt says. ‘And you have also fallen for it. You must feel an absolute fool.’
Bethlen shrugs. ‘It’s of no consequence. For you will shortly be dead. Then I will simply return to the Hexenjäger and await another opportunity.’
Armand shakes his head in disgust. ‘Are we supposed to be impressed?’
‘I couldn’t care less what you think, fop! And it’s best if you keep your mouth closed. You’ve shamed the royal court of France with your libertine ways. You’ve also angered King Louis with your vendetta against his Musketeers. I’d be doing the King a service in killing you.’
I shake my head in disbelief and look at Bethlen imploringly. ‘Why can’t you just let us go? Surely your heart can’t be so cold that you don’t feel anything for us.’
Bethlen glares at me, and his finger tightens on the pistol trigger. ‘You’d be wrong there, whelp.’
Von Frankenthal steps forward. ‘I’ve had more of this than I can stomach,’ he growls. ‘We’ll have no chance of flight once the Marquis arrives. It’s now or never. So let’s take him now – right now!’
If von Frankenthal’s aim was to make Bethlen panic, then he achieved his objective. Flustered, Bethlen’s eyes flash in alarm, and he aims his pistol directly at von Frankenthal. Then, for only a split second, he lets his focus stray. He makes the fatal error of glancing back at the doorway, almost as if gauging whether he has a clear line of flight from the chapel.
As soon as the pistol’s aim shifts away from me, von Frankenthal reacts. His hand shoots to the dagger tucked into his belt. He pulls it out, and with a speed that defies his massive frame, he dives to the right and throws the dagger. Panicked, Bethlen cries out in alarm and shoots. But whereas Bethlen’s shot misses – the ball whizzing through the air a hand’s-breadth off to von Frankenthal’s left – von Frankenthal’s dagger sinks deep into Bethlen’s chest.
At the same moment that von Frankenthal reached for his dagger, Armand and Blodklutt drew their blades. In less than a heartbeat, they streak forward and drive their swords into Bethlen’s torso.
It all happens in perfect unison. So fast, in fact, that by the time I realise what has happened, Bethlen is lying in a crumpled heap on the chapel floor, staring up at the ceiling through lifeless eyes.
I stare, speechless, at Bethlen’s limp form. His deception and subsequent death have left a bitter taste in my mouth.
Strangely, I don’t feel any anger towards Bethlen. I would have expected that, as he had threatened to kill me, I would feel some resentment towards him. But I don’t. All I feel for him is pity. Bethlen was dissatisfied with his life from the start. All he wanted was to prove to the world his worth, to rise from his impoverished childhood and accomplish much more than what was socially expected of him. He was prepared to make any bargain and betray any trust in his pursuit of that goal. But, sadly, he went the wrong way about achieving it. He lived and died by the sword.
I remind myself that, like Bethlen, my own position in this order is based on lies, but unlike him my deception was not as extreme and vindictive. I would like to think that the friendships I have formed with Armand and von Frankenthal are based on honesty, even though I gained their trust under false pretenses. And as stronger bonds of friendship are formed, heavier grows the guilt on my conscience.
I’m drawn from my thoughts by Lieutenant Blodklutt. He reaches down, retrieves Bethlen’s pistol and rapier, and hands them to von Frankenthal.
‘Let’s not linger,’ he warns. ‘That shot may have alerted the Marquis.’
An unexpected noise in the courtyard prompts von Frankenthal to rush towards the door. Immediately, he withdraws from the doorway and braces his back against the wall, his face ashen.
‘It’s too late,’ he warns. ‘They’re here!’
‘They’re fanning out across the courtyard, encircling our position,’ von Frankenthal says, spying through the doorway. ‘I don’t think they intend for us to walk out of here.’
Armand positions himself beside von Frankenthal, and peers into the courtyard. ‘The Marquis de Beynac doesn’t do anything in half measures. So what’s the plan?’
‘We rush them. Take the fight to them. I’m not going to die in here like some caged rat.’
I don’t intend to die like a rat either, von Frankenthal. But I don’t see how tearing into the courtyard – to be riddled with musket fire and skewered with rapiers – is a preferable option. We’d be cut to shreds the second we set foot outside the chapel. Sometimes a few thoughtful words can defuse a volatile situation. But not so with von Frankenthal. I imagine he’s the sort of person who would more readily draw his blade than make any attempt at diplomacy. He always takes the aggressive option, and probably considers negotiations only for the faint of heart. Needless to say, I don’t think there’s much fight left in me. If we can somehow negotiate with the Marquis de Beynac for our safe release from this chapel, then I’m all for that. And I know just the man for the job: Armand, with his rogue’s silver tongue.
‘I wonder if they’ll be open to negotiations,’ Armand says, as if reading my thoughts. ‘A few polite words may save us from unnecessary bloodshed.’
‘I’ll second that,’ I say eagerly.
Lieutenant Blodklutt moves over to one of the chapel’s windows and stares through the filthy panes into the courtyard. He then withdraws and starts to reload his pistol. ‘It may be too late for that. But I suppose we don’t have many other options. Armand – are you feeling up to the task?’
Armand brushes back his hair and adjusts his torn, bloodstained collar. He’s so bruised and battered he’d be banned from participating in rising with the dead on Judgement Day. Nonetheless, he winks at Blodklutt, raises his chin with pride, produces his bloodstained handkerchief and gives it a dramatic flourish. ‘Of course. This will be easier – dare I say – than stealing a kiss from a maiden.’
He’s not lacking in confidence – I’ll give him that. But I don’t know how successful he’s going to be. It’s not as if we have much to bargain with. In fact, we have nothing to bargain with. We don’t have the Scourge of Jericho in our pos
session. We can’t even exchange Bethlen for our release. We’re not exactly in the best position to open negotiations. It would be like trying to bluff your way through a game of cards with the lowest hand possible.
But we’ve got no other option, and so out steps Armand, dirtier than a street urchin, to plea for our lives.
Armand has barely emerged from the chapel – hasn’t even had the opportunity to say a single word – before a voice cries out from the opposite side of the courtyard.
‘Fire!’
This is followed instantly by a salvo of musket and pistol fire. The noise is deafening! It sounds as if there are over a hundred guns out there. The chapel’s windows shatter, spraying glass through the air. Armand scurries back into the chapel, dives for safety under a pew, and screams out that even dogs have more honour than the Frenchmen who opened fire on him.
I dive instinctively to the ground, shield my eyes and scramble across the floor. There are shards of glass everywhere, and I grit my teeth in pain as I try to move deeper into the chapel. A few more yards and I’m finally free of the glass. I open my eyes, and find myself staring at someone’s feet. My head snaps up in alarm, but then I give a sigh of relief, for it’s only the Virgin Mary. Well, at least, a statue of the Virgin Mary, hidden in the shadowed alcove at the rear of the chapel, behind the altar.
My eyes are drawn to an inscription, carved in Latin, at the base of the statue – an inscription that fills me with hope. For when I travelled to Rome with Father Giuseppe Callumbro, I saw this same inscription carved into the pedestal of a similar statue, in the basilica of Saint Sebastian.
Ad catacumbas. Translation – in the hollows. Marking the entrance to Rome’s catacombs.
I don’t know exactly why anybody would have carved ‘ad catacumbas’ into the base of this statue. The inscription in the basilica of Saint Sebastian was used as a marker to indicate the entrance to the Christian catacombs: a subterranean labyrinth in which the early Christians, defying the Roman custom of cremation, had buried their dead. But Schloss Kriegsberg is a medieval construction, built over a thousand years after the birth of Christ. And it certainly isn’t part of the Roman catacomb network. So why, then, use the same inscription?
