Darkness Divined (Dark Devices)

by Gregory House

  The fellow had apparently ignored his village idiot act and was pulling out a tray set with a rank of glass discs. Each one was of a different colour. He slipped two into a slot in the lantern’s projecting tube, and then uncapped the end. A spot of bluish light appeared on the wall and Francis let out a gasp. Agryppa then picked up some strange framework of bronze rods, fitted it over the face of the dead girl, and to Francis’ greater shock, pulled open the undead eyelids before clamping his apparatus into the unresisting flesh. Then pausing for a moment, he set a pair of similarly coloured glass discs directly over the open eyes and above them, some kind of rectangular crystal.

  This wasn’t anything like the manner of magicks that Francis was expecting, but then again he wasn’t usually privy to the workings of those who claimed knowledge of the Arcane. Actually, possibly primed by the chivalric tales, he’d anticipated exotic powders, serpent’s hair and mysterious animal’s organs. Not that this wasn’t amazing! However his fallen angel made a very telling point. Dr Agryppa, it appeared, was well practiced in divining truth from the dead. If so, it hinted, was it a truth he wanted?

  Francis felt a chill shiver down his spine. Truth was a very dangerous weapon. It could cut the holder as well as the foe. He actually didn’t want the pure truth. That would only place him squarely in Wolsey’s hands. Could something more alloyed with convenience perhaps be arranged?

  While Francis was sorting through his options of deal or demise, Dr Agryppa was in the meantime absorbed in his preparation. Apparently he didn’t notice Francis’s growing agitation, instead positioning a large glass sphere towards the other end of the chest then returning to fiddle once more with the light projector. The beam of bluish light was now directed towards the rectangular crystal. To Francis nothing seemed to happen, but the doctor ‘tsked’ once or twice and re adjusted the discs in the lantern, before shifting the crystal cube minutely. Finally satisfied, he bent over and peered intently at the glass sphere.

  Once more Francis shifted his position. He wasn’t sure how the doctor intended to use this device but in case of his fallen angel’s latest warning being true, he was prepared to act. Keeping up his only partially feigned act of curiosity, Francis asked another question as he stepped to the left of the relic collector and apparent master of devices. “Doctor Agryppa, what can this tell us?”

  “Many things Master Bryan. I take it that you like many at court are familiar with the New Learning?”

  “Yes, I’ve read the Latin classics of Ovid and Plutarch as well as some Greek pieces like Plato and Aristotle, thanks to Master More.” Francis was puzzled. He couldn’t remember anything like this device being described in any of the newly printed works of the ancients.

  The doctor gave one of his brief smiles and nodded approvingly. “Good. It is the work of one of their contemporary’s that I refer to, a philosopher in Great Alexandria called Heron, in particular his book Catoptrica.”

  Francis shook his head. “No, I’ve not heard of that.”

  “Ha, not surprising. Most of those delving into the New Learning would ignore him as a common artificer and pursue their loftier, useless distractions. Fools blinded by their own hubris.”

  Francis noticed that Agryppa’s smile had gained a sharper edge more predatory than indulgent. “So how does this ancient philosopher help us?”

  “Aha. Why Master Bryan, in the most practical of ways. Ahem…darkness divined, as it were.”

  Francis paused in his own secret preparations. Darkness divined the doctor called it. On the surface that was as good a description as any for this, but his fallen angel was keen to ask whose darkness?

  “Now Master Bryan, if you lean closer and look into this sphere, in a moment we shall see a sight few others have beheld.”

  Warily Francis did as he was bidden, but kept his left hand by his dagger, easing it out a smidgen. Agryppa solemnly tapped the sphere with a small forked implement and it let out a clear crystal chime. The hum of the sound rang true, like the tone of a church bell, and in the cellar Francis felt the hairs on his nape quiver in response. Then a second or so later, as if in response to a summons, the interior of the sphere began to swirl in agitation and slowly a spray of muted colours shuddered into existence. For a second Francis was shocked into immobility, transfixed by the gathering apparition held within the translucent globe. By Christ’s blood, what was this? An image? His blade eased out a finger’s breadth and his breath quickened. No it couldn’t be! Then the feel of a point of pain under his jaw froze him still. Dr Agryppa was as close to him as a lover, one hand on his shoulder and the other with some small needle sharp blade at his throat. By Satan’s black arse, how had he done that?

  “Now, now Master Bryan. No sudden moves. Please take your hand away from your dagger and place it flat on the chest, thank you. This shouldn’t take long.”

  Slowly and deliberately Francis did as he was bidden, but his surprise and anger spoke. “What, what are you doing Agryppa? How dare you threaten me, a gentleman of the King’s Chamber! You’ll hang for this!”

  The reply was a dryly amused chuckle, but the point of the weapon remained pinning him in place. “I think not, for your knowledge.” The tip of the blade pressed ever so slightly into the taut skin of his neck and Francis winced. “This bodkin is coated with a rare poison. Its effects simulate the falling sickness and very soon after—well I’m sure I don’t have to spell it out.”

  Francis licked suddenly very dry lips and tried not to swallow. He’d lean away from the tip but all Agryppa had to do was press slightly and that was it. His fallen angel unhelpfully whispered that this was a hollow threat, but Francis didn’t think so. The doctor’s voice held the calm timbre of truthful certainty.

  “Now while we wait for the image to coalesce, how about you tell me of Wolsey’s plans?” That wasn’t the question Francis had been expecting.

  “Wh–what plans?”

  Another dry chuckle sounded in his ear. “Oh Master Bryan, do you think I’d be caught out by such a transparent cony catchers trick? You come with a warrant from the Cardinal requesting my aid in a mysterious death. That is a child’s deception! I’d expect better of Wolsey.”

  Silently Francis cursed himself for having the naivety of a simpleton. This fellow must have some private grudge against Wolsey. Damn! For good measure he cursed the worthless and tight lipped Bottoph for not filling in his master on all the necessary details. “I…I have a warrant from the Lord Chancellor to investigate this slaying. Tis true.”

  “Oh that part I doubt not, but what use would that be Master Bryan, to hide the evidence of murder perhaps or to entrap me? I’m as useful for this task as a nun’s chastity.”

  “I don’t understand.” Francis damned the circumstances where his lies were held as truth and truth as lies.

  He could feel if not see Dr Agryppa shake his head. “Master Bryan, I am not a fool. Any death in the precinct of Westminster is investigated by one of the stewards of the household, and you sirrah aren’t. As for coroner, I‘ve not been called since Wolsey climbed into the saddle of the kingdom.”

  Great thought Francis bitterly. By accident he’d found a foe of Wolsey’s and because he’d been the fool and not reconnoitred, his possible ally was going to kill him as a Wolsey spy. Christ on the Cross, if this wasn’t so on a knife’s edge, he’d laugh at the irony. “I tell the truth. Wolsey is my enemy as well!”

  That didn’t seem to make any impression either. Instead Agryppa continued in his conversational tone. “Really Master Bryan! Death an inch away and still falsehood. Look in the sphere and tell me that I lie?”

  Francis cautiously tilted his eyes away from the threat at his neck and back towards the doctor’s glass. He drew in a sudden breath in fright. Floating within was a fair replica of his face, though with teeth displayed in a fixed snarl and splattered with red. At the edge of the image if one concentrated could be seen his dagger drenched in blood.

  “By Christ’s blood what devilry is this?”
He could have roared at the injustice of the vision. A snapped moment in time framed in the sphere was the very truth of the murder and the very lie of the dreadful event. Instead the vision of last night stripped the power of his voice and what came out was a mere whisper.

  “Why Master Bryan, a combination of philosophy and simple mechanical principles gives us the face of the murderer. Do you think it is a good likeness?” That was delivered in the coldly emotionless voice that Francis recognised all too well. If he didn’t act fast, he’d join the girl on the table waiting for Judgement Day.

  “Wait. The image doesn’t tell all!” Francis gasped.

  “I’m sure not. I’ll give you one last chance tell me what Wolsey plans. Why was I dragged into this?”

  Given no other choice Francis, in extremity, lifted the skirts of Dame Honesty. “It is a trap—for me! That’s the truth. I swear by my father’s soul! The lass, her name was Gwen. She’s a punk who worked at the court and served as my pursuivant of secrets.”

  “Tsk, tsk Master Bryan. Tis a poor attempt. I expected better of His Eminence. Ahh well, I don’t bear you any grudge but as a tool of Wolsey’s…”

  “No, no! Tis God’s holy truth! Last night she said she had a secret of Wolsey’s, one to bring him low!”

  Agryppa gave a regretful sigh and Francis prepared to sell his life, poison or not.

  ***

  Chapter 7: A Change of Plan—Westminster

  Francis was sure that many times in a man’s life minor happenstance changed the course of events. A horse threw a shoe and a man was saved from the thieves waiting ahead. Or his glance fell upon the profile of a pretty face passing in the street and he was instantly struck by cupid’s darts to forsake family and honour. Perhaps even the opportune fall of dice that could restore a ruined position and get a man out of the stinking debtor’s cells at the Clink Compter in Southwark. It was all up to the caprice of Lady Fortuna. She was a goddess who could not be importuned or flattered with gifts and promises. She bestowed her favours at will and often blindly. Or so complained those who rail at the cruelty of her disregard, cheated, or so they claimed of the gifts she so lavishly promised.

  With the ominous point pressing into his throat, his muscles tensing for a wrestler’s throw and his life was very much at the dice’s hazard, Francis’s attention was momentarily distracted by the smallest noise. It was the soft whisper of cloth as of a dress moving past a bench. In the present situation with the two of them locked in the threat of imminent violence, the intrusion of a hint of movement was not one to ignore.

  “Wait!” hissed Francis urgently, willing his taut muscles to relax. To his gratified relief the doctor did indeed pause, and the betraying swish of cloth on timber murmured once more into the sudden silence. Almost like a joined pair of mummer’s puppets, as one they slowly turned around.

  The scene was substantially different from when the good doctor had started. His corpse imaging device was still fixed in place. However it seemed the corpse had tired of its passive input into the inquest. Gwen was upright and moving around the obstacle of the table in a loose boned manner such as a jellyfish under the guidance of children.

  “Oh Christ’s blood, not again!” breathed Francis.

  At the sight of the reanimated corpse Dr Agryppa dropped his bodkin and stepped back, flicking a rapid sign of the cross before him. Then the import of the oath struck him, and Dr Agryppa snapped his head around to look at Francis. “You mean you’ve face this before?”

  Francis gave his own wry laugh as he drew his sword and dagger. “Not everything I told you was a lie, Agryppa. She tried for me last night…twice!”

  While Francis and the doctor caught up on past facts and fallacies, the corpse of Gwen steadily moved across the cellar until she blocked the path to the stairs. Then she swung around to face them and her dead hands lifted up almost imploringly.

  Francis wasn’t having any of that. This girl should be dead three times over. He shifted his balance and brought his sword up in an overhead guard position and spoke over his shoulder. “I hope for both our sakes you have something in that damned chest to stop her!”

  “Oh right, right. Just keep it busy. I think it’s in here…”

  Francis could hear the sound of latches clicking and the low muttered curses of Dr Agryppa as he hopefully searched out a remedy for corpse attack. In the meantime, haltingly like a puppet, the body of Gwen moved forward once more towards him. With any lack of a sudden intervention by the still searching doctor, Francis considered his tactics. After he’d cut all her tendons in defence last night, she shouldn’t have been able to move. His fallen angel did unhelpfully remind him that the dead weren’t supposed to get up and walk anyway. Yet despite all that, here she was, arms and legs moving. Even the head was fixed purposefully on him, slowly swaying from side to side as if scanning an inscription writ plain across his chest.

  Francis discounted the traditional moves. Torso cuts weren’t going to stop this one, and a standard defensive block was useless. Instead he shifted his feet and went on the attack. His dagger skewered one of the outthrust hands which he dragged upwards, then Francis cut at the exposed arm with his sword and…

  …and her other hand intercepted the moving blade and clenched it tight, blocking his blow as if he’d hacked at a wooden pell. Then her hand, transfixed by the dagger, pushed down the blade as her clawed fingers grasped for his. Francis, his eyes wide with shock, tried to wrestle his sword free, but as her cold fingers grazed his skin, he dropped the dagger and threw himself sideways, all his weight on the sword. It reluctantly slid from her grip as if stuck in pitch and Francis rolled across the cellar floor and rose on one knee, sword up in a defensive ward. Keeping his view fixed on his invigorated opponent he called out to his maybe ally, still noisily sorting through the arcane clutter of his chest. “Doctor…now if you please! She’s stronger than last night.”

  “Al…most…there. Just keep her busy.”

  That reply didn’t fill him with confidence and Francis briefly considered dodging past the corpse to the stairway and leaving the good doctor to a well–deserved fate. Bloody treacherous rat! But no. He shook his head. That wasn’t possible, not because of honour or a shared companionship of combat. No, it lay in a much more practical reality. He wasn’t going to wait every night for the return of Gwen’s corpse. This had to end, and like it or not, the suspicious and untrustworthy Doctor Agryppa was his best chance. Considering the corpse’s augmented strength right now it was probably his only one.

  With steady steps Gwen advanced upon him, her hands still outstretched. The useless dagger had been discarded.

  Francis stood up. Retreat was over. One more pace would put him against the wall. No, that was a good as death. Whereas a sword was essential in normal combat, this was as he’d seen, anything but normal. Defence was useless and standard offensives a waste of time. Change tactics, screamed his fallen angel, and for once he gave in. An overwhelming rage began to surge through his body. It was as if he was a dam filled to bursting. The torrent fountained up and washed his vision in a red haze. His body responded to the fear and anger. Without compulsion his mouth bellowed an echoing roar and his arm blurred as the sword left its grasp and speared into the torso of the advancing corpse, staggering it backwards two paces.

  Instinctively Francis followed up and charged. His shoulder smashed into the body. He heard the rib cage snap and crumple, and the corpse was knocked off its feet. Francis, in the maniacal grip of his fallen angel, pounded the corpse. Fists, knees and elbows, he used all and every blow he’d ever learnt for wrestling or street brawling. For a minute or so he held sway in the field of battle. The responses of the corpse were flustered and feeble. Then slowly and steady his attacks were countered, and with a move he found hard to credit, the corpse had flipped him over and now sat astride his chest, those persistent hands darting towards his neck.

  For a moment reason overwhelmed the rage. “Doctor!”

  Then the cold,
cold hands tightened round his throat and darkness began to cloud his vision. Francis gave Gwen’s head a solid palm strike with his free right hand. The blow hit with a dull meaty ‘thunk’ and should have knocked back an opponent of even Charles Brandon’s stature. In this case all it did was pivot the head to an unnatural angle.

  Giving up on the useless attacks Francis endeavoured to unlock that choking grip. The fingers had a strength and purpose that had been lacking last night, and no matter how hard he pried at the fingers they wouldn’t release their hold. Then on the edge of his last strangled curse Francis felt an enormous jolt surge through his body, and his vision went, flashed with blue and incandescent white as his own muscles twitched and jerked as if in the grip of the ‘Sweats’.

  The body above him spasmed as well and the dead fingers clenched at his throat before inexplicably loosening. Then the corpse collapsed onto him like a stringless puppet. Gasping for breath he coughed and spluttered, shrugging off the limp corpse. The embedded sword clinked as it struck the stone floor and Francis blinked to clear his sight.

  Agryppa stood behind them both, clutching a wooden box to his chest. His face was ashen pale and his hand grasped a metal handle that stuck out the top with the white–knuckled grip of desperation.

  Francis wasn’t really in a mood to sort through arcane conundrums, being more interested in savouring each breath. But he did notice that a pair of thin cables trailed from the top of the box, and by means of clamps, were fixed to the protruding blade of the sword still in the unmoving body of the corpse. Francis pushed himself up via the nearby wall, suddenly keen to move away from the steaming corpse. It had a distinctly cooked smell to it, maybe slightly charred. “Arrgh…my…awhkk…thanks, Doctor. What was that?”

  Agryppa ignored his question and pulled back the pivoting handle, then as if his life depended on it, cranked another lever at the side of the box. Abruptly he stopped and snapped the top lever into place. The corpse shuddered and twitched as if alive again and Francis instinctively lunged for the dagger on the floor.