Gideon's Angel (21 page)

I followed his finger as he spoke and traced along the script. “‘He hath broken the Gates of brass, and smitten the bars of iron in sunder.’ That is from the Book of Psalms. And here, down the left side of the gate, it is written in Hebrew. ‘Schioel, Vaol, Yashiel, Vehiel.’ Names, obviously, but I have no knowledge of them. And finally, here, at the centre, the Tetragrammaton.”

I suddenly leaned in closer. “The Tetragrammaton!”

“Why yes, the Hebrew characters spelling out the name of Jehovah. And now, the reverse.” He carefully turned over the disc. “I think this could be a maker’s mark but it is not something I can readily identify. Very curious. If it is an alchemical symbol, well, I have not seen it before. Aye then, there you have it.” He proffered the object to me again.

“But its purpose. What is it used for?”

Ashmole shrugged. “That I cannot tell you for I do not think I have ever seen anything quite like it before. It could be part of Hebrew ceremonial practice but the Latin inscription seems to contradict that... I presume you are here to sell it?”

I could feel my shoulders slump at his words. I shifted my stance. “No. That is not my intention. But I can tell you that its derivation may be a matter of life and death. I will also confide that Anya says it is purposed for magic. Dark magic. I have more to tell you, sir, but you will understand that we scarcely know one another.”

Ashmole raised a hand. “Say no more. I would not ask you to reveal that which you may not. But if Anya sent you here... Well, I trust her judgement in such matters. Dark magic, you say?”

“I can tell you sir, that I have seen things of late that would shiver you to your marrow. And I do not exaggerate when I tell you that lives are in the balance. Maybe the kingdom too.”

Ashmole rounded his lips and exhaled loudly. “It’s clear that you carry a great burden upon your mind, Mister Falkenhayn.” He stared at me for a moment, taking my measure. “Very well. I do know of someone who might be able to offer more science of this disc than I. But I will need your solemn word as a gentleman that if I make an introduction you will exercise the utmost discretion and secrecy.”

“I will swear it. Anything to help me in what I must do.”

“And your servant outside. Is he privy to your quest?”

“Billy has witnessed much alongside me. I vouchsafe him.”

Ashmole gave a nod. “Then we must go into London town. To a most excellent wine merchant I know.”

My mouth opened to speak, but Elias Ashmole raised a hand to his lips. “All in good time, Mister Falkenhayn, all in good time.”

B
Y THE TIME
we reached Cheapside, it was late in the afternoon. Ashmole naturally plied me with questions the whole of the way, which I did my utmost to deflect. But he was certainly no believer in my identity and, worryingly, acted like a man who was on the verge of remembering some important fact, long forgotten.

“You have the look of a former king’s man, sir,” he said airily. I remained expressionless. “Fear not,” he continued, “I was once too... an officer of artillery.”

I nodded. Billy shifted in his seat uncomfortably and moved aside the leather curtain from the coach window as we wobbled forward.

“Long time passing, Mister Ashmole, long time passing,” I said. Ashmole smiled and nodded in return, but the wheels were turning inside his head.

The coach slowed and came to rest. Mr. Ashmole leapt out and we followed. We came to a shop front on a small street off Leadenhall, clearly a wine merchant’s from the bottles stacked in the windows. Ashmole turned to me, his hand upon the door handle.

“Will Billy Chard be waiting outside for us?”

“His own testimony is valuable to the present situation, sir. I would prefer he accompany us inside,” I said.

“Very well. Let us find our man.”

The shop, a large front room with a tapestry-hung doorway at the rear, was all dark wood and whitewashed plaster bereft of decoration. But the shelves were full of brown bottles and jugs of a dozen shapes and sizes, red wax seals dripping down their stoppers, some caked in months of dust. A large, high table stood next to the rear doorway, and behind this, I could just discern the head, shoulders, and chest of a man dressed in black. As we entered, he jumped up from the book he was struggling to read by the light of a single candlestick.

“Bless me,” he cried out as he attempted to extricate himself from behind the table. “Mister Elias Ashmole! How pleasant a surprise, sir!” His accent was lisping, and familiar for I had heard it among Spaniards in Flanders.

Ashmole grasped me by the shoulder and brought me forward. “Mister Falkenhayn, I would like to introduce you to
Senor
Roderigo da Silva, a man who imports the finest Canary and Malmsey in the kingdom.”

Da Silva looked at me and inclined his head. “Mister Falkenhayn, my pleasure, sir.” He was a little man with a balding pate which still boasted long white hair at least upon the back and sides and a scraggly sparse sort of grey beard that descended down his neck. As he stepped into the light at the centre of the room, I could see his face was deep-furrowed, a sort of map of a long and careworn life, easily read by anyone who saw him.

“
Senor
da Silva,” said Ashmole, “we are here on some rather delicate business. Mister Falkenhayn has an object I was hoping you could help to shed some light upon. Mister Falkenhayn, can you produce the medal please?”

I pulled it out and handed it to the old man. He held it close to his face and made an irritated clucking. “I shall need more light to shed more light, gentlemen,” he said as he scuttled back to his table and fetched more tapers, lighting them from the already burning one. We three stood on the opposite side from him, watching as he traced the etchings with his forefinger. Suddenly he stopped, looked at me briefly but intensely, and ordered Ashmole to put the bolt upon the door.

“Do you know who I am, Mister Falkenhayn?” he asked me, deadly earnest.

“No, sir. Mister Ashmole has revealed only your profession,” I said.

“I am a
converso
,
senor
. From Lisbon.”

I shook my head in incomprehension.

“I am a Jew. And I know what this object is. The question is, how did you obtain it?”

“I would rather hear first what you say it is.”

Roderigo da Silva pushed the disc away from him across the table top. “I shall tell you nothing until you reveal the story of this thing in full. I do not think you understand the import of this object—or its danger.”

Ashmole began to look alarmed.

I had come this far and it seemed the only way forward was to risk all.

“If I reveal the story of this object, I place my own person in grave jeopardy. I have already told Mister Ashmole that lives hang in the balance. So, I must place my trust in you gentlemen.”

Da Silva’s voice was quiet but firm. “And I have revealed myself to you, still a stranger, as a Jew. The few of us here are forced to live a lie—to preserve our secret—if we are to survive in this country. I ask you to trust me with your tale, and Mister Ashmole, whom I would trust with my life.”

And so I told the whole horrid story, leaving out, of course, the purpose of my mission to England or any mention of d’Artagnan or Maggie. But I told them my true identity (and watched Billy grin a mile in self-congratulation). The whole affair spilled out of me over the ensuing minutes. Ashmole’s face went pale, jaw slack, as he listened. As I reached the part where the black dog appeared, and then the winged apes, Billy exclaimed an “aye” or two to lend support. Roderigo muttered something in Hebrew, the same phrase, over and over. A prayer, I supposed. And finally, I told them of the previous night and the creature in the alley in Southwark. And when I stopped talking there was nothing but silence all around.

“Colonel Richard Treadwell,” said Ashmole, softly. “Yes, I remember now. The duel at the Tower, then your exile to France. My God, sir. You returned to find your family.”

I was glad I had omitted any word of Royalist plotting, as the present situation was dire enough. But da Silva had no words of admiration for me. He was as intent as a magistrate, demanding to hear the elements once again. In particular, what Fludd and his men had performed that night in the house outside Exeter—and what it was they had summoned.

“Colonel—”

“Mister Falkenhayn, if you value my life, sir.”

Da Silva waved his hand and nodded. “Mister Falkenhayn, tell me the name of this angel that Gideon Fludd was speaking with. Be exact as you can remember.”

“I shall not forget the moment. It’s burned into me. He addressed it as Eistibus.”

“I see. Let me now go back to this device and explain to you its purpose.” Roderigo’s voice was heavy, almost tired. He picked up the disc and held it towards us. “This is called a
lamen
. It was fashioned from instructions contained in the Key of Solomon, an ancient
grimoire
of magic. The Latin and Hebrew phrases are clear: it invokes the name of the Lord and mentions several angels by name—
Schioel, Vaol, Yashiel, Vehiel
. The
lamen
is meant to be worn by a magister, a conjurer, when he calls an entity of the ether.”

“Dear sweet God,” muttered Ashmole, leaning heavily upon the table.

“So Fludd did call forth the angel Eistibus, even without this disc in his possession,” I said.

“No,” said da Silva. “This side of the
lamen
is inscribed to protect the conjuror from harm. The other side tells me what creature he was attempting to conjure forth.” He turned over the disc and pointed to the smallish symbol inscribed.

“This is also from the Key of Solomon. It is the symbol for Andras, reputed to be a powerful demon. That is what your Fifth Monarchists are playing with, sir.”

I was strangely relieved in spite of this dreadful news. “I knew no angel of the Lord would demand the murder of a man. But how do you have such knowledge of these things, even if you are a Jew?”

Ashmole spoke up. “He is called a
rabbi
, a Hebrew cleric. He is greatly learned in this and more.”

“I am no conjurer,” said da Silva. “But I know the teachings of the Talmud and how to guard against wickedness and evil. And I am familiar with the Key of Solomon, which can be used for good as well as bad.”

“How could Gideon Fludd magic up this demon without that there medal?” asked Billy, joining in, unbidden, in the best spirit of the Ranters.

The old man nodded. “He must have
another
pentacle, for that is what this is. They are easily fabricated but useless unless consecrated by the proper ceremony, by someone possessed of the knowledge of incantation. You hold here, Mister Falkenhayn, the First Pentacle of the Moon. It is designed to help call forth and to control a demon who is ruled by that planet and whose earthly power waxes and wanes as does the moon during the month. It can also be used with the right incantation, to open any locked door—it is the only such pentacle with that power. There are other pentacles, for all the planets. But Andras is a creature ruled by the moon.”

“What does the Key of Solomon say about the demon Andras?” asked Ashmole.

Da Silva teased out his beard, nervously. “I have not committed that work to memory. It is frowned upon by the devout and if it was recorded by the hand of King Solomon then it was for him and him alone. I do remember that Andras is a Grand Marquis of Hell with many minions at his call. He can impart to those he favours the ability to pursue and destroy enemies. His chief desire is to sow discord and division among men, to breed war, to hide the truth, and to appear to the gullible as a being of goodness and light.”

“A being of goodness and light... an angel,” I said.

“Yes, an angel. And this fool of a man is dicing with death and eternal damnation. For it would appear that Andras is intent on having the Lord General murdered. Ironic in a way, this Gideon Fludd.”

“What do you mean?” asked Ashmole, still not recovered from these waves of revelation.

“Why surely you remember your Bible, Elias. The name Gideon means destroyer. And Gideon was chosen by God to lead the Israelites against their enemies.”

Ashmole turned to me. “Sir, upon your word as a gentleman, you have heard this conspiracy against Cromwell with your own ears? You have seen these hellish minions with your own eyes?”

“Upon my honour and my life,” I said, “I have seen and heard these things.”

“As have I!” piped up Billy again.

“What are we to do, then?” said Ashmole, turning back to the Jew.

“Whatever we are to do,” said da Silva, “we have little time to do it. The moon waxes full in two days.”

“Could the Craft be of aid?” asked Ashmole.

“It is possible,” said da Silva. “You have brothers close to the Council. Perhaps they might be able to warn Cromwell if you can get an audience.”

“What is the Craft?” I asked, completely at a loss.

“I am an Accepted Freemason. A brother of the Craft. As a secret society there is none older or wiser.”

“But surely,” I stuttered. “He is a Hebrew wine merchant, you are by your own admission a Royalist and you’re saying you’re in league with Parliament men too?”