Gideon's Angel (29 page)

Ashmole reached for a brown bottle of Canary and brought it over to me. “
Senor
da Silva’s silversmith should have the work done in a few hours from now. A very dependable man, we’re told.”

I wiped my face, took a swig straight from the bottle, and looked up at my companions. “Last night, in my cell... I spoke with one of
them
. One of the demon’s minions. They have Maggie—alive, it told me. The damned thing actually spoke to me. Some sort of infernal imp—like a monkey.”

“See! I told you just so!” Billy started waving his bandaged arms out of frustration and fear. “Goddamned creatures from hell itself!”

“My God,” Ashmole muttered, looking over to the old Jew. “Can we really do this thing?”

“We must,” da Silva said. He slammed open another one of his ancient mould-covered books to continue his search for divine assistance. “There is no one else to do what must be done.”

“Thurloe has agreed to redouble the guard on the Lord General,” I said. “And he will come with us tonight to confront Fludd.” I glanced over to Billy. “And d’Artagnan is with him. He vouched for at least some of my tale.”

Billy looked as if he was about to spit on the floor. “We can trust that Frenchman about as far as Thurloe.”

“Aye, that may be so. But we’ll need numbers to take on Fludd’s Fifth Monarchy men.”

Billy was having none of it. “Bah! Once they get a sight of the apes and the black dog they’ll run for home. And then it will be us buggers on our fuckin’ own.”

Da Silva contemplated me again and shook his head slowly. “Isabel! Come down here!” He stood back from his table, arms stretched forward as if he too was suddenly stricken with weariness. “Your man is correct, Mister Falkenhayn. They will not know what to do when they confront the unholy as large as life.” He raised his head and called out again shrilly. “Isabel!”

“No, I suppose they won’t,” I said. “But nor did I until I had to. We need the redcoats.”

Da Silva’s tiny eyes, surmounted by drooping lids, paper-thin and grey, looked into mine without wavering. “And what will you tell them about me?”

I had not thought of that. The Council of State might be turning a blind eye to the Jewish merchants of London when it suited, but Hebrew magic was something that Thurloe would probably find hard to stomach.

“Thurloe has already spoken with Mister Lilly,” I said. “He may have already mentioned you and the Grand Pentacle of Solomon.”

“Which is the property of Mister Lilly and not
Senor
da Silva’s,” added Ashmole. “Good Protestants may use these ancient Hebrew symbols as much as anyone. There is no secret in this.
Senor
da Silva is merely the owner of some old medical and religious texts. If you take my meaning. And besides, the government seems more preoccupied with Catholic conspiracies at the moment.”

“Very well, then,” I said. “
Senor
, I suggest you keep whatever cloak you use these days and leave the discussion to Mister Ashmole. We’ll have to steer a delicate course with Thurloe.”

I looked back over to Ashmole. “Elias, what of Lilly and the Craft? I had expected them to join you.”

Ashmole shook his head. “I went to Mister Lilly’s house this morning. It took some amount of banging on his door before one of his servants answered. They told me he had urgent business in Berkhamsted and would be gone for a few days. I cannot fathom it.”

Somehow I was not too surprised by this disappointment. “And the others?”

Ashmole shugged. “Alas, they all seem to have flown the roost. The Lodge is empty but for we two.”

“I suppose they didn’t have the stomach for it.”

Ashmole, ever the diplomat, was more sanguine. “Fearful or not, the others are not military men as you and I are... or were. At least we have Solomon’s pentacle in our hands.”

I noticed that Ashmole was in his country clothes: riding boots, heavy kersey breeches, and a grease-stained leather doublet. At least he was taking seriously the mission that lay ahead of us. I smiled at him, thankful for the steadfastness of a man who hardly even knew me. “We few, we happy few... eh Elias?”

“Father?”

The girl entered through the curtain, more subdued than when last we saw her, barely looking at me as she reached her father’s side.

“Ah, daughter, there you are. Fetch Mister Falkenhayn a basin and some hot water that he may refresh himself. Bring him to the back and assist him.”

She bowed her head swiftly and turned to me, her olive-toned face highlighted by the bright white scarf that entwined her head.

I looked at da Silva. “That is not necessary, sir, your hospitality is enough as it stands.”

“Nonsense. You must be prepared for the trial yet to come. It will do your soul good.”

The reminder of what I faced that evening did not ease my mind, but I nodded in agreement and followed Isabel into the next room, a connecting chamber with an empty hearth, just as sparsely furnished as the main hall. She led me onwards, quickly looking to see that I followed, into the back kitchen and scullery that looked out onto a courtyard garden barely the size of a skittle lane. The sun was shining and I could see many green herb beds and bushes through the open windows, carefully tended. Rosemary grew in great quantity, spiky and tall compared to the pale parsley and lemon balm that struggled in the April chill.

I watched her as she moved rapidly about the kitchen, filling a copper basin from the steaming kettle that hung suspended over a little coal fire that hissed and sputtered. She set this down next to me at the big oak table and set about getting linens and oils from a tired, sagging sideboard in the corner. I reckoned she was barely twenty and for all her industry, there was something very sad and melancholy about her.

She stood next to me and poured out some fragrant oil into the basin, mixing it with a small cloth that she dipped in, oblivious to the heat.

“What are you looking at?” she asked, although she was intently looking into the copper.

“Why, you, girl. Isn’t that allowed?”

“It’s rude to stare.”

“Then I shall contemplate your garden instead. You grow a prodigious amount of fine rosemary, I see.”

There was silence except for the gentle dripping of the water, its pleasing scent rising up to my face and already renewing my spirit. Such a little thing. And then, she spoke, her voice soft.

“It is from Lisbon. A variety that does not grow here in England. It reminds me of our old garden on the hillside there... before times became bad.” She raised the dripping cloth and squeezed it over the copper bowl. She paused, cupping the damp linen in her hand. “I must apologise to you, sir, for my outburst yesterday. I was wrong. And I shamed my father by behaving so.”

“You’re rightly concerned for his safety. I see that as something admirable, not wrong.”

She dipped the cloth in the copper again and swirled it carefully before raising it and wringing it a little. “Here, hold still, while I wash your face. You have been bruised upon your cheek?”

I started to protest, but she pushed my hand away and continued. “Don’t fuss so. I wash my father’s head and he doesn’t make half so much noise.”

The warmth felt good and I shut my eyes as she dipped and wrung out the cloth again, bringing it up to my forehead and cheeks.

“And when I’ve finished your face you must dip your head into the basin to rinse your locks.”

I smiled under the veil of the cloth. “I shall protest no more.”

I then dutifully dipped my tired head into the water and she handed me a linen square to dry myself. She was now contemplating me, hands upon hips.

“I thought you said it was rude to stare.”

She smiled at me, a pretty mouth, but careworn for such a tender age. “I’m sorry. Now face the other way that I may comb out your locks, sir.”

And as she was teasing out the tangled mess of my hair, occasionally drizzling some oil to smooth out the combing, she addressed me again.

“Father says that someone you love has been kidnapped by this Gideon Fludd. I’m sorry for that.”

“Yes. She is very dear to me and I fear for her life.”

“Is she your wife?”

“No... she is my mistress.”

There was a long pause then. “And you love her very much?”

I found myself nodding, seeming to remind myself of that truth.

“But you’re married to someone else?”

Lord, she was a curious creature. But I went along. “It’s a complicated situation, Isabel, but the short answer is yes.”

I felt the comb lift from my head. “There you are. It’s finished. I shall look for some clean linen of father’s for you to change into.”

I got up and faced her. “Thank you for your kindness.”

She looked at me, nodded, and then set about carrying the basin away. “Can you not divorce your wife?” she asked as she hurled the water into the garden.

“It is a difficult thing to do in this country,” I replied, somewhat amused by her brashness. “I would need an act of Parliament and since, as of yesterday, we no longer have a Parliament that would be difficult to accomplish indeed.”

“In our faith, it’s enough for a husband to say ‘I divorce you’ and for the rabbi to hear it. Then it is done.”

I nodded. “Now that is a simple solution to a difficult problem.”

Isabel carefully strung up the wet cloth near the hearth. “My father wishes to accompany you this night. And I will let him go. I will do so because this woman’s life depends upon you all. And she must not be made to suffer or to die.”

I felt my throat tighten and I swallowed. “I’m grateful to you for this. And I will do everything to bring your father back to you.”

She hung the kettle back on its hook and then slowly turned around again, wiping her hands on her skirt. “Oh, I will be bringing him back. Because I am coming with you too. For if he’s meant to die, then I shall die with him rather than remain here alone.”

“M
Y WORD,
I know this shop!” John Thurloe, secretary to the Council of State, looked around at the stacked bottles on the shelves of the wine merchant. “But who would have guessed I would be meeting here on this kind of business.” He stepped into the room, Lieutenant d’Artagnan at his side. I could just glimpse Captain Poxwell lurking in the doorway, his hand resting on the hilt of his short hangar. Thurloe looked at me and then the others in turn.

“Sir Richard and I have exchanged greetings this day already.” He pointed to Billy Chard and looked at me. “The Ranter, I presume?”

Billy held tight but looked ready to burst.

“And the celebrated Mister Ashmole...” Thurloe touched the brim of his very Puritan hat in a salute. “And,
Senor
Roderigo da Silva... my wine merchant from what my servant tells me.”

Thurloe stepped lightly to one side and gestured with his hand towards the Frenchman. “And this, gentleman, is
Monsieur
d’Artagnan, on diplomatic assignment from the King of France and, as I understand it, a former comrade of Colonel Treadwell. Lieutenant d’Artagnan has graciously volunteered to assist in our little foray.”

D’Artagnan, his hat now back on his head,
sans
bandage, gave a little bow and I was now beginning to wonder just how much command of the English tongue he really had. The musketeer quickly met my eyes and gave me an honest sort of smile as if to say we were once again on the same side. That remained to be seen.

“Sir,” said Ashmole, nodding his head, “we’re most grateful that you have answered our alarm. And for you seeing fit to release our good companion here upon hearing his tale.”

“Let’s just say that I’ve heard enough from several sources to get my attention,” replied the spymaster. “But what I’m waiting for is proof of the plot... and a glass of wine if one is in the offing.”

Da Silva scrambled to the back, and just as quickly re-emerged with a few glasses and began pouring from the open bottle on the table.

I was more concerned about other things. “Have you strengthened the guard around the Lord General’s residence?”

Thurloe turned his attention back to me, a broad smile on his lips. “Your newfound devotion to the Republic is invigorating, Colonel. And yes, I have sent another squadron of troopers over there. The Lord General’s own regiment. You may rest easy on that account.”

“And have you told the Lord General about the threat on his life?”

“What? Tell him that a pack of hobgoblins are about to descend upon him? I think not. If Gideon Fludd and his rabble make an attempt to break into Whitehall, we’ll stop him before he gets very far.”

The little rabbi handed a full glass of ruby liquid up to Thurloe, who gingerly took it and saluted me. “And now, sir, I would invite you to enlighten me further about what intelligence you say you possess of these Fifth Monarchy men.”

I began to feel my face flush in anger. “Mister Thurloe, I warn you not to underestimate what Gideon Fludd is capable of. He’s convinced that by killing Cromwell he’ll bring about the Second Coming. And I’ve seen with my own eyes these otherworldly powers that he summons forth. Shot and steel may not be enough.”

Thurloe finished sipping his wine and stifled a chuckle. Elias Ashmole looked at his boots, his own wine glass untouched and still in his hand. “Colonel, there may be some evidence for a plot—certainly
Monsieur
d’Artagnan has supported
some
of what you claim. You, Mister Ashmole, have you seen any of the creatures that the Colonel maintains are stalking us?”

Ashmole began to stutter a reply. But Billy spoke up first.

“I’ve seen these things sir. Just as Mister Eff—the Colonel— says he did. Fearsome beasts, unnatural things from the pit of hell.”

Thurloe barely looked at Billy. “Ah, the
Ranter
is the only one who can support your evidence then? No one else? I know the Lieutenant here has seen nothing demonic, have you sir?”

“I have not, sir, but I believe the Colonel just the same.” D’Artagnan’s English was heavily accented but clear nonetheless. He was a crafty player indeed. Or maybe just a fast learner in his few weeks in England. But Thurloe seemed to place little weight on the musketeer’s words.