Heirs of the Demon King: Uprising (5 page)

But he had changed his mind the moment Anna had stepped from the carriage that had brought her down from Scotland and delivered her into his life. A beauty even at the tender age of fifteen, she captivated him, and it soon became apparent that she possessed a startling intelligence and quick wit that matched her new husband easily. Necessity had swiftly given way to the kind of deep, abiding love that Richard had never thought possible.

Over the decades, and through careful marriage, some of the physical deformities had been bred out of the Plantagenet line. King Richard the Fifth was just coming into his prime, and unlike his oftderided ancestor, he was passably handsome. He was taller than his father had been, with a rangy set to his muscles. Portraits of the longgone Henry the Second could have been swapped with his own and few could have told the difference.

Richard John Edward Plantagenet had come to the throne at the age of twenty-four. For fifteen years he had reigned, a hale, healthy and vigorous man, during which time the face of England had altered dramatically. Advancements in everything from weaponry to construction, combined with blueprints obtained at great cost from Italy, had allowed his country to develop faster than he ever could have dreamed. The English fleet, bolstered with ironclads and dreadnoughts, was the terror of the seas.

Being gifted with an inherent ability to understand and appreciate engineering, Richard spent long hours in meetings with the land’s greatest architects, smiths and builders, working with them to realise and improve da Vinci’s designs. Workshops, foundries and shipwrights worked day and night, producing ever more potent and terrifying weapons for his army and navy. When England returned to France, it would be an invincible machine, ready to roll across Europe and free it of the yoke of magic.

And the time
would
come. Of that, Richard had no doubt. ‘Richard?’ Anna moved to stand behind him, her arms wrapped around his waist. ‘What’s wrong?’ Her soft voice was accented lightly, the Scots burr having faded in her time in the English court. She still had all the Celtic fire that so endeared her to him, though.

He turned around and looked down at her, her pale skin contrasting strongly with his own tanned flesh. Richard was not the kind of man to sit idly at court all day while streams of courtiers curried for a word or boon. He left that business to others. He planned and studied, he trained with the armies. He spent as much time as possible away from the throne his ancestors had fought so desperately to take.

Because he was acutely aware of the price that had been paid for that throne. A price that might one day be exacted from his own flesh and blood. He had learned the truth from his father in those fateful minutes before he had wrung the last breath from the old King’s body. He recalled the pride in his father’s eyes as the light had faded from them. He had borne aloft the dagger that had killed a long line of illustrious kings and he had tasted the power in his blood, the power in his very soul.

‘Nothing of note, my love,’ he replied, the lie coming easily to his lips, as every lie did. ‘Let’s go back to bed. Weaver should be returning tomorrow with the head of the Sussex witch. There will be feasting and celebration.’

‘I do not like him.’ Her rosebud lips pouted prettily and he smiled indulgently. If this strong man, this solid king had one weakness, she was standing right before him. He patted her cheek fondly.

‘Charles Weaver is a great Inquisitor,’ he said. ‘He will drive the shadows out of my kingdom. He will pave the way for the advance of enlightenment free of the infernal magi and their arcane superstitions.’

‘He is evil,’ she persisted, and Richard’s pat on her cheek became something entirely less friendly. She shrank back and he pulled her to him, immediately contrite.

‘So are they, my love,’ he said and led her back to the bed, reaching up to pull the curtain around them. ‘So are they.’

August, 1589

Portsmouth

England

I
SAAC
B
ONNINGTON KNEW
that the
Indomitable
was unlike any other vessel in the King’s Fleet. The fact gave him great pride. He had brought the initial designs to court and stood, visibly trembling, whilst the King had pored over them in mute reflection. Isaac was not a brave man, but he knew how to build gunships. He understood the workings of black powder weaponry with fine precision, and when he had come to choose his career, he had wavered between becoming a shipwright and taking an apprenticeship at the Hall of Science. The apprenticeship had won out in the end, and in time, the position of Royal Engineer had come to him.

But ships had ever been his first love, and it was the shipyards of the south coast that were now his home. He was a quiet, intelligent man in his late forties, with a balding pate and a rat-like face that was incapable of concealing emotion. Women and children had entirely failed to feature in his life, and so he devoted every waking moment to his craft and, of late, to the
Indomitable
. When she was launched, when the French fleet felt the bite of her cannon and broke before her prow, the world would know of Isaac Bonnington’s work. This ship would immortalise his name.

Who knows, he thought with uncharacteristic bitterness, he might even get paid. He was certain that if he approached the King and asked for an advance, he might find himself replaced with someone King Richard considered more patriotic and less materialistic. Others had ended their days in the Tower for less.

Since he had taken the throne of England, Richard the Unyielding had proven himself to be a man gifted with drive and determination. Blessed with a fierce intellect that grasped the principles of construction and engineering, the King possessed knowledge of the sciences quite beyond the most gifted scholars. Heavy industry had flourished in the cities of England. The cannon of the
Indomitable
had been cast far from Portsmouth and transported down from Liverpool by ship, while the plates that armoured her hull were beaten in a forge in Manchester.

There was no shortage of bodies to work the furnaces, swing the hammers and dig the mines, as criminals and the homeless were pressed into service. Shackled work gangs toiled in shifts to pull iron, copper, tin and coal from the earth and feed the fires of industry. Labourers and artisans worked the forges and foundries to produce the wonders of Richard’s kingdom. It was dangerous work, but not without its benefits. Those free men and women in service to the Crown were well paid for their efforts, though it was argued by some that the risks outweighed the rewards. Richard did not tax his vassals heavily, but he taxed them all. Farmers, once exempt from the need to present their annual accounts, now had to employ the literate and numerate to control their spending. Failure to provide to the Crown guaranteed a stint in a work gang.

Freedom was a thing long forgotten in England. But Isaac didn’t mind. He was happy in his little office with its tiny window that let in the reek of the port. The odour of the shipyards clung to him; the constant smell of tar, metal and brine. He had grown so accustomed to it that he no longer noticed it, although it was the
first
thing his visitors noticed.

From the comparative comfort of that snug office, Isaac sighed heavily, dragging his eyes back from the window overlooking the expansive docks, and turned his attention to the pile of missives that had mounted up in the past few days. Money, while certainly important, had never been a preoccupation of Isaac’s. He craved immortality—he wanted to be known and remembered, like a great playwright or poet—and his work would be his route to that dream. It was a constant frustration that others did not share his enthusiasm. Casualties among the chain-gangs working on the hull had made them surly and intractable. The labourers fitting the guns had not been paid on time. An engineer responsible for the labyrinthine engines had lost both hands in an accident. They were still on schedule, but the cost had been heavy. Isaac’s eventual fee was going to be a fraction of what it had been at the beginning.

He sighed again and pushed the invoices to one side. Money was a terrible necessity. Instead, he let his attention drift out of the small window and fix on the iron spars of the
Indomitable
. He had wanted to name her the
Lady Jane
, in tribute to his long-dead mother, the woman who had once stood with him on these very docks marvelling at the beautiful ships that came and went. He had even once seen a barge full of prisoners, being taken off to serve in the King’s Navy as oarsmen and loaders.

But the King had vetoed his suggestion, insisting on something that conveyed the spirit of the vessel. In his heart, Isaac still called her the
Lady Jane
.

The
Indomitable
was still in dry dock, but the modified design of her carrack body was beyond a doubt the single most beautiful thing that Isaac had ever seen. She had been delivered into his hands as plunder from a naval action in Portuguese waters, whole and complete, and had saved both time and money by providing a stable base from which he could develop something unique.

When she had come into Isaac’s possession, she had been blessed with seven decks and thirty-two guns. Now she had only six decks, but thanks to Isaac’s designs, she had more than doubled in size and arsenal. The ship was massive. Some even considered it to be impossible that so much iron could take to the waves. But smaller ironclads had already proven themselves, and would spearhead the fleet with their armoured hulls.

Isaac watched as one of the vessel’s massive cannons was lowered slowly onto the upper deck. They had yet to be tested at sea, but he had attended a demonstration on the royal estate and the results had been terrifying and astonishing in equal measure. When Richard grew bored of his treaty with the French, their naval forces would be crushed. With the
Indomitable
at their head, the English would be invincible; heathen magic would yield to the purity of science. Word at court suggested that the war that was inevitable was barely months away. The pressure to ensure that the
Indomitable
was seaworthy was immense.

Thinking of court provoked a pang of guilt. Isaac had not attended the King for several weeks now, claiming that he was needed at the docks. Before long, he would receive the kind of summons that came in person, and was not to be ignored.

He refused to dwell on it. Instead, Isaac gazed at the armoured flanks and bladed prow of the vessel. The
Indomitable
would put to sea in the spring and would claim the Channel as her own. Nothing would stand against her, and seafaring folk the world over would speak Isaac Bonnington’s name in hushed whispers. But his thoughts didn’t rest on one thing for long, and soon, he was poring over the blueprints for another, different project. A project unlike anything else.

When he completed the
Lionheart
, the King’s power would be absolute.

Hampton Court

England

‘G
IVE ME THE
monthly tally.’ King Richard crooked the little finger of his right hand at the black-clad man standing before the throne. Charles Weaver bowed deeply and took a piece of parchment from the hands of one of the minions crouched behind him. He cleared his throat and began to speak. His voice, distorted as always by the faceless mask that was the mark of his office, read out the figures in a calm tone.

‘In the month of June, in the county of Sussex, following twentyseven accusations of open practice of witchcraft, fifteen resulted in execution. The remainder were given the choice of re-examination in the Tower or industrial servitude. All chose the latter.’

He continued reading from the parchment, each county broken down accordingly. Forty in this county, six in that. The city of London had seen only two executions. The practitioners of magic had long since fled to the country, in the mistaken belief that Richard’s Inquisition would not find them.

As head of the Inquisition, Weaver imposed an iron rule that execution was never the only possible outcome of an accusation. It was too easy for the greedy, the cowardly and the vindictive to point the finger of treason, so Inquisitors were very thorough in their investigations. A man innocent of witchcraft might find light cast on other deeds worthy of punishment, and some charlatans claimed to possess the gift of magic to enhance their status or business. Most offenders chose industrial servitude for their transgressions, a punishment shared by those who made false accusations. Left free, false accusers were ridiculed and often murdered by their own former friends, disgusted by their lies.

In total, well over two hundred executions had taken place across the breadth of Richard’s kingdom in June. Ten more than in May. Nearly fifty more than in the same month of the previous year. The King nodded as Weaver finished his report. The Inquisitor rolled the parchment back up, sliding it into the ornate scroll case that he usually wore on his belt.

‘The problem remains and continues to grow,’ he concluded. ‘And what of the highlands and valleys?’

‘They remain troublesome, my lord. Those that flee your good

justice are embraced by the north and west. The Inquisition alone cannot scour every hill and cave, and the people remain hostile to our presence. Work on the Wall has been delayed due to the recent rains, but it will pick up pace as soon as the weather turns.’ Weaver’s voice took on a faintly irritated tone. ‘If we were to use the army, we could sweep the heathens from our borders forever. Could the move on France not be delayed...’

‘No.’ Richard interrupted Weaver’s question. The High Inquisitor had asked every month, and every month the King gave him the same answer. ‘The invasion will go ahead as planned. A few dirty hedge magi on the borders are a mere nuisance beside the threat posed by the French and their neighbours.’ He paused for a moment, irritated that he was unable to completely purge his own isle. His instructions for the timing of the invasion had been quite explicit, and while supreme power rested with the King, it was not the only power at work in England.

‘Thank you for your report, Inquisitor Weaver. Your concern is noted, I will grant the Inquisition more men for the prosecution of their duties, that they might better bring our justice to the barbarians. Now please be seated.’ All eyes watched the big masked man as he took his seat. Silence reigned for a moment longer and then Richard turned his attentions to more pleasant matters.

‘I have received word from Isaac Bonnington,’ he began. Bonnington’s sporadic attendance at court had birthed a quiet joke that the engineer was nothing more than a figment of the King’s imagination. ‘Progress on the flagship has continued apace and we should be in a position to strike at France before summer ends.’ A slow smile crept onto his face. ‘The ironclads will sweep the French fleet aside and deliver our armies onto their beaches. The country will be ours. And we will strike them at their very heart.’

Weaver raised his masked head, hungry for the words to drop from his King’s lips. This was the very thing toward which he had been working for so long.

‘We will stamp out magic across the continent. And then, when they have all been brought to heel, we will turn our attention to Rome. We will bring the light of purity and reason to that nest of magi.’

The King’s words brought a pleasing murmur of assent from the assembled nobles. For many years, England had been hovering on the edges of hostility with the rest of Europe. She had grown increasingly isolated, rejecting magic and shunning the Church in favour of Richard’s vision of a secular nation.

More pleasant matters.
Everything was relative when you were the King of England.

Gloucestershire,

England

T
HE
T
OWER OF
London was Charles Weaver’s base of operations, but he rarely remained within its walls for long. The home of the Inquisition had become the most terrifying edifice in England. King Richard had granted the Order the fortress to use as barracks, prison and workshop. To most it was simply referred to as ‘the Tower’ and was a byword for fear and suffering. Iron brackets lined its walls, adorned with decaying heads, a horrifyingly graphic demonstration of the consequences of treason. No prisoner taken within its walls had ever been released, and it was rumoured that its deep dungeons rang perpetually with the screams of the tormented.

They were fanciful tales that the Inquisition did nothing to discourage, but for all its fearful reputation and dark history, the Tower was as much a place of invention and learning as it was a gaol. The Inquisition employed the best smiths, artisans and alchemists outside of the royal court, all turned toward the singular purpose of documenting and hunting magi. The Inquisitors’ masks had been forged within its walls under the instruction of the King, offering intimidation, protection and anonymity.

The influx of fresh mercenaries presented an opportunity not to be missed, so only a day later the High Inquisitor was glad to be on the road again with thirty men at his heels, heading for the Welsh border. A community near the site of Richard’s wall had been brazen in their use of the arcane, but had been allowed to go unpunished for want of men. The time had now come, however, for them to face the King’s justice. Treason could not—and would not—be tolerated.

The settlement was home to a handful of families. Crudely built roundhouses, large enough to house a dozen people each, were secreted on the edge of woodland scrub. A clear brook bubbled at the edge of the village and snaked away down the fertile valley to feed a small, scrubby stretch of patchy fields.

Weaver shook his head at the stupidity of the people. That they sincerely believed that they would not be caught was an affront to his profession. That they did nothing to conceal their crime was an insult to his office. If they attempted to excuse their actions, it would offend him personally.

Many of the people in this place possessed magic. Weaver knew it the moment he approached. The air prickled with it. Over the years, he had come to recognise its taint. Just as black powder weapons gave off a distinct odour, so did the use of magic. He didn’t even need to employ his tools to identify the people as magi, though the blue sparks that crawled over his copper talisman said as much.