“If you were London-bound,” Kelley said, softly, “I'd deem it an honor to keep you company. The roads are unsafe, they say, for men traveling alone. I have no weapon, but I've strong arms and legs.” That was true enough; he was thin but well-muscled, and he towered over the Dominican by at least three fingers and a thumb.
The friar had to suspect that his companion was as keen to benefit from protection as to offer it, but the fact remained that he had been forced to shelter in an inn for want of a safe-house, and might indeed benefit from a temporary alliance—perhaps sufficiently to return the favor the following night, when he ought to be better able to find shelter with men of his own faith.
The little man finally nodded his head, tacitly consenting to that whole range of possibility—always provided, of course, that Kelley could fake a plausible confession while they made their way eastward on the following morn. Kelley felt sure that he could; he had sins enough to his name, without ever having to mention fortune-telling or skrying-stones, let alone imperious angels.
Kelley raised his tankard in a gesture of thanks before he quaffed the dregs—and when the time came for the lamp to be put out and for the five men lying on the straw to take their places, Kelley and the monk lay down side-by-side, on the opposite side of the fireplace to the other three circumstantial companions.
* * * *
2
The Black Bear's door had been securely barred and bolted for an hour and more when someone began to hammer on it. Kelley, who woke immediately from a painful nightmare and sat up straight, though it made his head reel, knew immediately that it was the hilt of a dagger or a staff, not a fist, that was thumping the door, and his heart sank even before he heard the fateful words: “Open in the name of the Church Militant!”
The innkeeper emerged from the back room in a night-shirt, carrying a candle-tray, but would not open up without first looking through the spy-hole in the door and demanding to know who was knocking and why. When he heard the words “Church Militant” repeated, the landlord scowled, but hastened to obey. Kelley looked wildly about, while his head seemed to swell like a billow of dark smoke, but he knew already that there was no viable escape route. Brother Cuthbert had woken too, but he was befuddled in a perfectly ordinary fashion, and did not seem to have yet taken in the import of the ominous words.
Kelley moved away from the friar, motivated by altruism rather than fear, because he was quite certain that Field's men were after him, not some Dominican stray. It did no good, though; when the Churchmen came in the three travelers who had been sleeping on the far side of the hearth were quick to establish their own separateness by declaring that Kelley and the Dominican were obvious Romanists, probable conspirators and definitely traveling-companions. The three had, of course, jumped to the conclusion that the friar was the wanted man, and fancied that Kelley might be an agent of the rumored “underground” that protected Romanists, sent to meet him here. Any faint hope that remained to Kelley that the Dominican might be the foxes’ target vanished, however, as soon as he and the Puritans’ leader locked gazes.
“Edward Kelley,” said the Churchman, “we have a warrant for your arrest, issued by the Bishop of Oxford, on the charge of sorcery.” The black-clad man still had the staff in his hand that he had used to hammer in the door, and his three companions had cudgels as well as sheathed poniards; there was no possibility that Kelley might be able to skittle them and take to his heels.
“My name is Talbot,” Kelley said, his eyes flickering sideways as one of the men-at-arms knelt down to search his satchel. “You have the wrong man. There's doubtless more than one without ears on the London Road.”
The satchel was so nearly empty that the search took no more than ten seconds. When the searcher shook his head, the leader of the party scowled, but made no comment. They had obviously been told to look for the stone, but they probably had no idea of its significance; in all likelihood, they simply expected it to provide evidence that he was some sort of magician. They could have no idea of the sort of magician he actually was—unsurprisingly, given that he had no understanding of it himself. They were not in the least impressed by his protestation that his name was Talbot.
“Bring them both,” said the man with the staff, curtly.
“This man has nothing to do with me,” Kelley was quick to say, in response to a pang of conscience. “We met by chance this evening; I've never seen him before. He has done no wrong and you have no warrant to take him.”
The man who had searched Kelley's bag reached out a long arm and snatched away the hat that the little man had replaced on his head before getting to his feet, exposing his tonsure. That was no proof of anything, but it was enough for the foxes.
“If he has nothing to hide, he has nothing to fear,” the Puritan leader said, portentously, “but a man who keeps company with sorcerers must expect to be questioned.”
“Where are you taking us?” Brother Cuthbert asked, with surprising mildness. Kelley was impressed by the fact that the friar made no attempt to deny knowing him, in spite of the charge that had been laid against him; he presumed that his boastful claim of being a follower of Paracelsus had made a greater impact than he had hoped or supposed, in spite of his worn clothing and the evidence of his past crimes.
“To the lock-up in Hungerford, for now,” the fox replied. “We'll await instructions as to whether you're to be sent to Oxford or London.”
That was not entirely unwelcome news, Kelley thought. They would not be put to the question in Hungerford, and if the Church commanded that they be sent to London for interrogation, his boots would be spared fifty miles of hard wear. He would doubtless be chafed by irons, by way of compensation, but he had slipped his slim wrists out of manacles before, and an opportunity to escape might arise somehow, given that he had angels on his side. He could not help worrying, though, that the angels might deem him expendable now, if Ann could get the stone to John Dee without him. No one else he had invited to look into the false darkness had so far been able to see the angels, but Dee was universally reputed to be a great man, as much magician as mathematician and astronomer. If any man in England could see angels, he was surely the one—why else, after all, would the angels have commanded him so urgently to take the stone to Dee?
I was always too stupid to understand what they tried to tell me, Kelley reflected, bitterly. Perhaps they sent me to Dee in despair, and will leave me to the tender mercies of Foxe and Field because I have failed them.
The foxes had a farmer's cart waiting outside, lit by a brace of oil-lamps set either side of the driver's bench. There was a single set of leg-irons freshly stapled to the backboard behind the bench, which were fitted to Kelley's ankles. They left the Dominican unshackled, but he was obviously unenthusiastic about his chances of outrunning his captors. The four Churchmen stationed themselves at the corners of the cart, holding themselves stiffly attentive even though they were sitting down,
“I'm truly sorry,” Kelley murmured to his fellow captive, as soon as they were under way. “I had no right to involve you in this. I should have kept to myself as I ate my supper.”
“They'd have spotted me anyway, and brought me along,” the friar replied, generously. “As the man says, I have nothing to fear, having nothing to hide.” He could not add any manifest confidence to the second statement.
“The warrant lies,” Kelley told him, feeling it incumbent on him to insist. “I am Edward Kelley, I admit, and a sinner, to be sure, but if I've encountered magic, I'm its victim, not its master.”
“I believe you,” the Dominican replied, with a slight shrug of his shoulders. “I only know Field by repute, but he's said to be very reckless in his accusations.” John Field was a man that everyone now knew by repute, as one who was either inspired or insane. Unfortunately, even if the latter were the case, his was a kind of insanity that made some appeal to common men who were frightened by the pace at which the world was changing, and intimidated by the recent accumulation of
philosophical ideas beyond their comprehension. Field might have been harmless had he not secured the trust of John Foxe, but the Archbishop's confidence was now worth almost as much as that of the Dukes of Northumberland and Suffolk, who were the Queen's strong arms.
“I've never offended Field,” Kelley said, sourly, “and he has no reason to pursue me.” It was a lie, though. Although much of what the angels said to him was murky in its meaning, it contained echoes of Field's Satanic madness as well as Francis Drake's gaudy boasts. Whatever whisper had reached Field's ears regarding the black stone, and what Kelley had seen within it, had been bound to catch his attention.
If only, Kelley thought, I had had the sense to keep quiet when the miracle first enfolded me in its untender grip—but what man could help his tongue flapping in such circumstances? At the very least, he could not have kept it secret from Ann, and who could prevent a woman from gossiping?
“If I had only managed to reach Mortlake....” Kelley murmured, dispiritedly—although in truth, he could not be certain that he would have found a warm welcome there. He had never met John Dee, and had no reason to think that the angels might have prepared the way for him. Nor had he had any real reason to think that Dee could have protected him against John Field, had he so desired. Dee was a Protestant, but certainly not a Puritan. He was reputed to have influence with the militant lords who commanded armies in Ireland, the Netherlands, and elsewhere, and even greater influence with the Admiralty and the Muscovy Company, but that did not mean that he was capable of standing off a challenge from the Church Militant.
The journey to Hungerford was not a long one, and the two captives were thrust into the lock-up without any further ceremony, while their captors presumably hurried to their beds. There were two prisoners already caged, waiting for the next assizes, but the circuit-judge had not long passed that way, so they were still relatively plump and not yet seriously diseased. They only woke up long enough to examine the newcomers, judge them relatively harmless, and then lie down again.
Kelley sat down with his back against the bars of the grille, knowing that he would not be able to sleep. His head was such a riot of confusion that he almost yearned for a simple focused pain. He did not even have a name to put to his state of mind, and took leave to wonder whether men might not have mistaken the nature of Hell, for lack of insight into the true range of supernatural torments.
“Would you like me to hear your confession now?” Brother Cuthbert asked, unenthusiastically.
“Best not,” Kelley told him. “If they think I might have told you something they'd like to know, they might not be as respectful of the sanctity of the confessional as they ought to be.” He spoke loud enough to be clearly heard by the eavesdropper his captors had posted. For good measure, he added: “You were unlucky to meet me, Brother, and should be glad that I tried to take you for a fool, telling you nothing but lies.”
There was no lantern in the jail, so he could not see the Dominican's response to that; he hoped, though, that Brother Cuthbert would not take it amiss, whatever conclusion the friar reached as to the statement's implications.
Having no idea how long he had slept before the Churchmen hammered on the inn door, Kelley had no way of knowing how long he would have to wait until daylight, nor how much longer he might have to wait after that to be put back in the cart, but he felt that he might as well make use of the time by praying. He had not been much given to prayer for the greater part of his life, but now that he had become the emissary of angels he had repented somewhat of his earlier laxity.
I know that there is war in Heaven once again, Lord, he said, silently, and I know that you might not be able to help me even though you so desire—but if, perchance, it is necessary that I deliver myself as well as the black stone and the red powder into John Dee's hands, I cannot do so now without material assistance. Even if my wife can get the stone safely to Mortlake, it might be no use to him without my gift. So please, if you can hear my thoughts and my supplications, spare me another miracle, to give me a chance to escape while the cart is on the road tomorrow. If it heads eastward, by all means postpone the propitious moment until we reach Staines or Twickenham, but if we head northward to Oxford, I'd be glad of the earliest opportunity. And please take care of Brother Cuthbert, if you can, for Field will certainly take it out on him if I escape and he cannot.
Brother Cuthbert seemed to be praying too; Kelley could hear the faint clicking of a rosary.
Kelley could not help remembering, after his prayer, how much happier he had been as a faker, before his impostures turned real. He still could not be absolutely certain that he had not simply fallen prey to his own deceptively persuasive talents, as many a false magician was reputed to do, but he knew that he no longer had a choice of destinies. Whether the voice that spoke to him through the black stone truly emanated from the ether, or merely from his own disturbed mind, he was bound to follow its instructions. Nor could he really be certain, taking everything into consideration, that the angel whose bidding he did was loyal to God—all the more so in the light of the angel's own insistence that the present war was no Satanic revolt, and that the Devil was not involved in it at all—but that too made no practical difference. The fact was that he could not disobey the instruction he had been given, even though it seemed at present that he would not be able to carry it out.
“Are you ill, my son?” Brother Cuthbert asked, perhaps sensing that he was shivering more than was warranted by the cold.
“Is it possible, Brother Cuthbert,” he whispered, “that the wars of religion here on Earth are mirrored in Heaven? Given that Romanists and Protestants both claim loyalty to God, but are prepared to fight one another to the death, is it conceivable that Heaven itself might be riven by a great schism? Why should the angels not be just as uncertain of the proper way to worship God as men are? And why, given that uncertainty, should they not fall to violence to settle the issue, hurling the serried ranks of their chariots of fire into battles as fierce as any now being fought in the Netherlands or Germany?”
“Surely not,” said the friar. “Men are stupid and ignorant, but the angels are the Lord's messengers, and know his will. There can be no dissent in their ranks—unless, perhaps, another prideful Lucifer appears among them, to begin a new revolt....” The friar trailed off, made pensive by the strange idea—or perhaps interrupted by the sudden awareness that something was happening.
Kelley immediately leapt to the conclusion that his prayer had been answered. He would have been quite content to hear the padlock securing the grille click open, and the iron bolts slide discreetly back, but it seemed that the angels were not as subtle as that, or that the Lord preferred to move in a more adventurous way. Perhaps, he thought, the angels, like the fairies of legend, are intimidated by cold iron. At any rate, it was the stone wall of the jail that was in the process of giving way, audibly. It did not implode, as if breached by a cannonball or smashed by some cunning silent petard, but it crumbled, rustling and crackling as it did so, like sand tumbling down a slope. Kelley could not see the stones coming apart, but he could see the gap that appeared where they fell away. Cloudy as the night was, it was visibly brighter than the awful gloom of the prison. The draught that came in through the widening gap was clean and cool.
The fragments of the dissolving wall scattered over the floor, reaching the place where the two sleepers were, but none, it seemed, was large enough to hurt them. They both woke up, and scrambled clear instinctively.
The wan light that was filtering through the new-made gap was briefly interrupted by a shadow as someone—or something—passed through. Kelley could not see the owner of the hand that grabbed his wrist in the obscurity of the jail, but he judged from the unerring and exceedingly insistent manner in which his wrist was seized that the other must be able to see in the dark. He took that for another evidence of angelic involvement, and leapt willingly enough to the conclusion that the guide sent to free him was a supernatural emissary, perhap
s gifted with superhuman strength as well as a talent for dissolving stone walls.
The most assiduous of the various angels that had spoken to him through the medium of the philosopher's stone had told him that angels had no eyes at all, nor hands either, and had considerable difficulty interacting with vulgar matter in the slightest degree, but there was nothing delicate about the way Kelley was hauled to his feet and yanked toward the freshly made gap in the lock-up's wall. He hardly had time to fumble for Brother Cuthbert's wrist in his turn—but he had the soft sound of the rosary to guide him, and made no mistake.
The Dominican did not seem entirely enthusiastic to be seized and saved, but he consented in the end to be led away. Kelley suspected that the little man must be entertaining visions of the danse macabre, fearing that it was hooded Death that was leading him away in train—partly because he could not suppress the image himself—so he was quick to whisper reassurances to his new friend.
“Have no fear,” he said. “This is the work of seraphim, not demons. We shall be safe enough soon.”
That was easy enough to say, but Kelley found it difficult enough to maintain his own faith once the three of them had squeezed through the hole in the brickwork and were hurried away into the darkness. He was as sure as he could be that the owner of the iron grip was vaguely human in form, because he could hear the muffled sounds of feet striding at a carefully measured pace, and could sense the movements of a human torso and head, but he could not see anything at all, and he knew that it was not impossible that the person dragging him away might have horns on his head and a demon's monstrous features.
At any rate, their rescuer seemed as strong as any ordinary man, although Kelley eventually concluded, with only a slight pang of disappointment, that he was probably not significantly stronger than that. He never set a foot wrong, though, whether he was pacing along the muddy road or making his way across fields whose crops were beginning to shoot up in earnest. He never broke into a run, although he seemed to be moving with greater purpose, as well as greater precision, than any marching soldier that Kelley had seen.
Asimov's SF, July 2008 Page 15
