Gideon's Angel (37 page)

No one said a word. The Lord General of England collapsed down on a bench, staring up at the ceiling while he rubbed at his throat. Billy Chard looked numb. He slowly began to unlace his buff coat, hands still shaking.

“Billy Chard?” I said, my voice quavering, “Are you whole?”

Billy nodded to me. “I almost stopped you, Mister Eff. I almost... went for you. It was—I mean, it looked like my mother. And then you swung....”

I reached out and grasped his shoulder. “I saw someone there too. But our eyes were bewitched. It was not what it seemed.”

Billy’s voice was hardly above a whisper. “I know. But it was a terrible hard thing to see.”

And then John Milton raised his voice up, triumphant.

“We are as Joshua and Daniel, gifted among men! For we have seen the Lord’s Captain in battle!”

Cromwell turned to Mr. Milton, looking confused as to his own sanity.

Milton nodded and smiled. “It was the Archangel Michael, of course!”

And suddenly, my heart in my mouth, I remembered Maggie.

Chapter Twenty-One

“S
AINTS, ABOVE,
R
ICHARD
! You’re alive!” Elias Ashmole burst into the Cockpit, a pistol in each hand. He spotted Cromwell and checked his rush forward. With a bow from the waist, arms outstretched, he did a quick reverence.

“My Lord General, thanks be to God, you’re safe!” He bowed awkwardly a second time. “Eh, Elias Ashmole, your servant, sir!”

Ashmole thrust his weapons into his belt and reaching me, squeezed my shoulder. “It was beyond extraordinary, sir. A rustic little fellow on a crutch came across the park. The creatures fled at the sight of him. He bent down near the Lieutenant and... well, he healed his wounds quick as you like—before my very eyes. Then he was gone, hobbling off, towards you here.”

I looked at the back of my left hand where the black imp had sunk its teeth into me. It was now unblemished, no sign of any wound.

I gripped his forearm. “Maggie, how fares Maggie?”

“She follows with the others,” replied Ashmole. “See, here,” and he pointed to the door he had come through, wedged open and partially obscured by a heavy brocade curtain. Roderigo da Silva entered and right behind him was Isabel and my Maggie, arms supporting each other as they made their unsteady progress into the theatre. And poor d’Artagnan followed them all, his face sombre and pale, silvered sword in hand.

I ran to Maggie. If the archangel had healed d’Artagnan, then, there was a chance. I pulled her to me, Isabel pushing her to my embrace.

“Maggie! Look at me, my dear!”

She raised her round, plump face to me. She was worn down, her eyes red-rimmed and her cheeks grey, all colour lost. But she gave a valiant little smile, like a maiden, and gently pushed me back, now contemplating my blood-smeared face.

Her brow creased. “Do I know you, sir?”

I took a step back. “Maggie, you’re still dazed. Look at me.”

She moved a lock of hair that had fallen into her face. “I cannot remember you,” she said. She looked around at the others. “Nor any of these people. Nor how I came to be in this place.”

I took up her hand. “You are Marguerite St. John. Surely, you must remember? You must remember all that has happened these last days?”

“I do know who I am but...” And she shook her head, her fingers brushing her temple.

I felt like stone. Ashmole put an arm about my shoulders.

“She has suffered greatly. Her mind will return soon enough in the light of day. You must not worry.”

I nodded. She would remember. Her mind surely had closed to save itself from madness. Time would heal her, I told myself. But for now, I was still a stranger to her.

“Fear not, mistress,” said Isabel, moving in again to comfort her. “We will look after you until you are yourself again.”

Billy came alongside and pushed something cold into my hand. It was the Moon Pentacle.

“Here, Mister Eff. It might set her to rights again, if you can use it.”

I contemplated it for a second and then proffered it to Ashmole. “Nay, Billy. This thing has done its dreadful work and I would not play with it further, for any reason. Here, Elias. A donation for your collection of curiosities.”

Ashmole took it gingerly into his hand. “And one I shall never catalogue.”

“Colonel Treadwell, sir,” said Cromwell, limping towards us, grimacing from his tumbles and from the demon’s throttling. “I owe you my life. But some explanations are in order. I’m a God-fearing man but I am not sure of what I have just witnessed. And who are these people?”

I could feel my last strength ebbing away, fatigue nearly overwhelming me. I weakly raised my arm and indicated da Silva, who stood, silent, next to his daughter. “Lord General, sir, meet the architect of your deliverance,
Senor
Roderigo da Silva.”

Cromwell’s eyes widened as he took in the little old man with the skullcap and white tunic with Solomon’s pentacle emblazoned upon it.

Roderigo bowed, hips cracking. “At your service, my lord.”

Cromwell nodded his head. “I know you, sir. But in very different circumstances.”

“That is true, my lord.”

I pointed to the Frenchman, who yet stood off to the side, looking worse for wear. “And may I present to you the emissary of His Eminence, the Cardinal Mazarin—Lieutenant d’Artagnan.”

The musketeer swept off his battered hat, slowly putting his right leg forward. He inclined his head to the Lord General, but said not a word.

Cromwell, looked about the chamber, now dimmed, the supernatural glow dissipated. He shook his large square head, incredulous. And then he turned to me directly. “I want to hear everything, from the beginning. We shall return to my apartments upstairs. All of you.” He wiped his brow and observed the drying blood that covered his fingers. “And I have a few words for Mister Thurloe, once I find his useless carcass.”

T
HE LIGHT OF
a most welcome, nourishing sun entered the leaded windows of General Cromwell’s private rooms. There was not a trace of the demons we had slain, all blood and gore vanished like smoke. Only the sundered doors gave witness to the battle of the night before. We were surrounded by redcoats, all having woken with the first light of dawn and now sheepish and nervous for their failures. They bustled like housewives bringing more food and drink from the pantry and buttery, carefully setting the fare upon the table we all were gathered at.

Try as I might, I could eat nothing. My mind was sore distracted by my Maggie’s plight. Her words had stabbed me deeply. Cromwell had sent both women home with an escort and I could not rid my mind’s eye of Maggie’s confused, questioning glances as she desperately sought to understand where she was, and why. And I was bitter besides. My wounds and those of d’Artagnan and Billy—all surely destined to be mortal wounds—had been healed by the archangel (for Mr. Milton was undoubtedly right). Why had the angel not come to her aid?

“My lord.” John Thurloe’s voice sounded as if he had drunk a hogshead of wine the night before. “We have sent out riders to apprehend any further known associates of Major Fludd. I am working to establish this very morning the degree of complicity of others in the Fifth Monarchy.”

“You do that,” said Cromwell from his high-back chair, fixing Thurloe with a glare. He then beckoned to one of the redcoats. “Take your men outside and shut the doors.” When the last soldier had scurried out, he looked at the faces around his table, each in turn. “You are undoubtedly brave men, gentlemen. But these events of late and all you have told me this last hour, make necessity of some grave decisions.” He raised a red Venetian goblet to his lips, took a sip, and set it down again. “I find at my table a Cavalier, his Ranter servant, an alchemist, a Frenchman, and a Jew. Strange company indeed. And I am beholden to each, it seems.”

Ashmole stood up. “My lord, as you have heard, it was Colonel Treadwell who learned of this plot and risked his life to come to your defence. He sits here still a condemned man... unless you change that.”

Cromwell did not reply straight away. He slowly pushed his chair back, stood up, jaw clenching with pain, and walked to the windows. “First things first,” he said, half to himself.

Ashmole hurriedly sat. “I meant no offence, my lord.”

Cromwell turned to us again. “First, I would tell you that
Senor
da Silva is known to me. We have had several discussions these last few months.”

I looked over to da Silva, who was nodding as he watched Cromwell. Everyone had secrets, it did seem.

“
Senor
da Silva knows it is my intention to open the way for his people to live in England freely again. No less do we, as free Englishmen, owe the people of the Book. His personal courage last night means that my political intention now becomes a vow.” Cromwell touched his hand to his breast.

Da Silva bowed his head in return.

“Second, I must tell all of you: what happened here last night must never be revealed. The line between miracles and witchcraft is a fine one. Last night I saw both. But those that have not seen with their own eyes will never understand. The guards, even Mister Thurloe here, remember nothing leading to their bewitching.”

John Thurloe flashed an embarrassed grimace and slunk further beyond Cromwell.

“But my Lord General,” stuttered Milton. “Surely we must reveal this wonder to the people that we may bring them to closer to God’s wisdom. Already in my mind, an ode, a poem, is taking form. The battle against Lucifer and his fallen angels.
Paradise
—”

The sound of Cromwell’s crashing boot brought silence.

“
Never
revealed, Mister Secretary!”

Milton sank down on his bench, blinking.

“That leaves us with the question of your fate, Colonel Treadwell.”

I looked over to the ruler of the new republic. “I would only ask that you give Billy Chard, here, free passage to wherever he chooses and, to Mistress St. John, passage and safe conduct to Paris, to rejoin her father.”

“These things I can do. But that does not solve the question of your fate, sir.”

D’Artagnan had barely stirred throughout. He was looking at me now; his face heavy with remorse for all that had come to pass.

“It was your own free will that brought you back to these shores—under pain of death,” said Cromwell. “I will not guess your original purpose, but I’m no fool. Even so, you have saved my life as I saved yours eight years ago. The slate is clean.”

He was right. Our slate was clean. And maybe I had saved England by saving him. But I had betrayed my king, endangered my kin, and caused my dear Maggie the theft of her own memory and with it, her love for me. And I suddenly felt very, very old.

“And there is the matter of your outstanding business with the Cardinal, as
Monsieur
d’Artagnan has so plainly laid out for us.” Cromwell scratched at the mole that dwelt between his eyebrows. “That leaves me with the choice of throwing you into the Tower, handing you over to the French, giving you a pardon, or... doing nothing.”

Billy sat up, a slice of gammon falling from his mouth back into his trencher.

“
Monsieur
,” continued Cromwell, “speaking as the Cardinal’s representative, what would you counsel?”

D’Artagnan looked straight at me, his green eyes moist. “I would say, let Colonel Treadwell decide. As my comrade, he’s earned that choice. One can always tidy the affairs of state later,
n’est ce pas?
”

Cromwell growled. “Somehow, I doubt the Cardinal would see it that way, sir.”

“I’m sure I can concoct something to convince His Eminence,” replied d’Artagnan, not taking his eyes from me. “I was once told that, sometimes, loyalty trumps practicality. To my mind and my heart, that is sound counsel here.” And he gave me a knowing smile and a nod. I nodded back to him. Honour was restored.

“So, my Lord General,” said d’Artagnan, turning back to Cromwell, his face full of handsome vigour, body restored by an angel’s grace. “The fate of Colonel Treadwell must lie with you, and your conscience.”

B
ILLY AND
I stood once more in the hall of Roderigo da Silva, this time brightened by glorious morning sun through the large leaded window. The vivid blue and yellow glass at the centre of the diamond panes set the reflected rays to dancing upon the great table. But even this simple pleasure could not alter the atmosphere in the room. It was as if we were all on a death watch; a great unspoken truth hovered over all of us.

The old rabbi placed his hand on my forearm. He looked far older now than when we had set out to do battle at the palace two nights ago, and it was clear to me that his vigil in the sacred circle had come at a price. But it was the question of Maggie’s fate that set the pall over things.

“There is a deep wound in her mind,” said da Silva, quietly. I looked over to Isabel who stood near the staircase, gravely silent. Her eyes met mine and I could see little hope in them.

“I have prayed for her,” he continued. “Prayed for healing deliverance. I felt sure that after she had slept for a day and a night that she would have been restored.”