Darkness Divined (Dark Devices)

by Gregory House

out, ho!

  Richard lent back against the rough wall, his wooden tankard held high as he joined in the verses. No doubt the song sounded sweetly choral in the singers’ ears, since most had been here for several hours, in no small part because Richard had kept good measure beating the table and more importantly an open purse.

  When ta him a buxom youn’ doxy came smiling,

  An’ asked if ta work at her forge he would go,

  With a rub, rub, rub, rub, rub, rub, in an’ out, in

  An’ out, ho!

  Between verses the tankard dropped from its lofty presentation and lost a good quart in a single gulp. Richard sighed in apparent pleasure. Good music, fine ale and a pleasing punk with a low bodice by his side— could life get much better?

  "A match!" quoth the smith, so away they went

  thither,

  They stripped ta go ta't—'twas hot work an’ hot

  weather—

  She kindled a fire, an’ soon made ‘im blow,

  Her husband, she said, could scarce raise up his

  hammer,

  His strength an’ his tools were worn out long ago,

  long ago!

  The fair haired punk bent close and nibbled his ear. Richard’s padded codpiece strained at the whispered summons, eager to join the celebration. He gave a lopsided grin and the tankard soared high again.

  If she got her journey-men, could any blame her?

  "Look here!" quoth our workman, "My tools are

  not so!"

  Red-hot grew his iron, as both did desire,

  And he was too wise not to strike while 'twas so,

  while 'twas so.

  Quoth she: "What I get, I get out of the fire,

  Then prithee, strike home—and redouble the blow!"

  Moving his hand up from around the punk’s waist he slipped it betwixt the loosened bodice and traced the smooth curving skin toward the small hard pointy nipple. Richard’s need for a more private unrestricting of his cods became pressingly urgent.

  Six times did his iron, by vigorous heatin’,

  Grow soft in the forge in a minute, a minute or so:

  As often, 'twas hardened—still beating and beating—

  But the more it was softened, it hardened more slow,

  The smith then would go. Quoth the dame, full of sorrow:

  "Oh, what would I give, could my cuckold do so, do so!

  Good lad, wit’ yea hammer come hither tomorrow—

  But pray, can't yea use it once more e'er you go?"

  As the last verse swelled into a raucous conclusion and a rough cheer of hearty laughter, Richard pushed himself up from the bench with his free hand. The other was cradling the warm breast of his ready companion, as he staggered and swayed towards the stairway of the ale house. This boozing ken knew him well as a steady and generous patron, so the tapster returned his casual wave with a knowing grin and a nod. The rickety stairs presented only a middling obstacle to a man of Richard’s talents and he easily made it up with stumbling punk in tow, or rather embrace. He chuckled and the buxom brunette giggled as together they tripped on a sleeping hound and collided with the door. As expected the flimsy barrier instantly yielded and Richard, arm wrapped around his partner, fell onto the small narrow bed. A clumsy aimed foot kicked the door shut. And Richard with bleary eyesight and a poor concept of coordination tried to unlace the punk’s loose bodice and relieve the pressure in his straining cods. Instead a boot got entangled in a trailing sheet and Richard found himself flopping like a stranded fish as he strained to reach the cloth shielded treasure that lay under the punk’s skirts.

  As the antique Romans would say, timing, position and the play of Fortuna in the arts of passion or war was all. It was Richard’s misfortune that perhaps at this moment he possessed only one of the three. Just as he was within a hand span of his promised treasure and fulfillment, he felt a cold sharp point prod the tender flesh of his exposed buttocks and another at the nape of his neck. Desire is a strange beast. It can be brought on by the most diverse of situation and right now his was as hard as water chilled steel, even as a thread of blood trickled onto his collar. His mind though had cleared of the pleasant ale befuddling, and his hand slipped under the sheet heading for a new target, a secreted blade hidden up a sleeve.

  “That’d be foolish. Leave the knife or I’ll stick you like a fish.”

  At the fierce hiss Richard froze. The blood from his neck dripped onto the not so shocked face of the punk.

  “You out!” This next command was hissed and obligingly the punk gave him a slightly regretful shrug before slithering out.

  Richard splayed on the bed with his arms outstretched, hose down and cods swinging in the chilly breeze still didn’t move. Speed, skill or even those unique wresting tricks he’d learnt off the Turks wouldn’t save him from this predicament. The blood continued in a slow steady beat, drop…drop…drop onto the now empty bed. He could curse, rage and swear, but apart from giving an obscure justification to his morose thoughts it would avail him naught. As the ambusher said, twitch and Annise’s servant or no, he’d be too dead to care. As with any devil’s bargain the dark gift came with a limiting set of caveats. Richard slowed his breathing and waited. In the past he’d taken what pleasure he could out of Annise’s strange twisted desires, blood, pain and the pleasure of the act but this play was somewhat past the common.

  A cold laugh chilled him. “The mighty knight humbled, led into the snare by the pizzle! So simple a ploy for the redoubtable Montchrestien!”

  Richard stiffened in surprise. His ambusher knew his name, and reputation…that voice? “Curse you Seraphina! Enough of your tricks. Let me up!”

  “I see Annise still includes you in her games. I always liked the leftward signature curl on her lash.”

  Ignoring the threat of the blades Richard angrily spun around, hauling the sheet with him to hide his outraged cods. “What’s wrong with catching me in the street like any normal…?” That’s where Richard’s retort crashed full tilt into the shoals of reality. Not by any stretch of the imagination could Seraphina be described as normal, neither as a slight young lass who seemed to be only as old as some sixteen summers, or as the long time servant of the redoubtable Volund. “By Christ’s Cross…what are you wearing? Are you mad?”

  Seraphina his ambusher was standing by the door, a pair of blades in hand and…and no, Richard shook his head in disbelief, a fashionable doublet and dark hose, even a cap like his, though her long plait of dark auburn hung freely down over one shoulder giving the lie to the dress of a young gentleman. What was her game, provocation, distraction or menace? “Yes, Richard, my old friend and companion. How could you complain of me dropping in for a friendly visit?”

  The sword flickered up in line with his throat about an inch off. He scowled at the apparition and silently cursed the mad humour that always possessed Volund’s readiest blade, Seraphina. Old friend, as if! Huh, he’d tolerated her capricious moods afore because she was too dangerous to cross, always the one to buck and bridle at conventions. Now here in the centre of London dressed as a Roaring Girl in men’s attire, who was he to complain or tut–tut? One could almost think her inspiration was that mad French lass who’d driven the English out of their conquests. Except that as Richard knew, for several years Seraphina had been the wicked demon whispering in Joan’s ear.

  Making a play at casualness, Richard now sitting upright on the bed relaced his cods and recovered his hose as he lent against the wall. Morosely he considered the receding prospect of vigorous rumpy pumpy, then frowning crossed his arms and growled out a short question. “So what yea want ’Ol’ Friend?”

  Seraphina returned a sneering smile and sheathed her sword and dagger. Richard wasn’t falling for that play at equality. Despite appearances the murderous bitch was readier than him for any fight. Volund’s hound stepped forward and made a teasing tug at the sheet. “Oh Dickon, my mighty knight, take me in your strong arms!”

  “Shut it Ser
aphina, I’s in nae mood for yea foolery.”

  His snarl was like water off a ducks back to his unwanted guest. After her all too dramatic entrance Seraphina made a studied attempt at casualness by resting against the door post. Richard wasn’t about to be cony catched. She was about as relaxed as a coiled snake. “I hear you’ve a new master.”

  “Oh aye.” He shrugged. Damn, news traveled fast. Did that mean Volund had a spy set to watching them? No doubt his twisty plotting even had spies watching spies.

  “What does Annise think of this?”

  “Oh yea know, same song as always—‘curse that damned bitch Marissa, how can she treat a loyal servant so’ an’ the like.”

  Seraphina didn’t bother to hide the snigger at his falsetto imitation of his mistress’s peevish petulance. “Ha, ha that’s Annise for sure! You rogue Richard. Does she know you can play her so well?”

  Another shrug tried to give back an equal measure of disregard and disdain for Seraphina’s mocking praise. “What yea here for? It can’nae be for spoiling a man’s pleasure or curiosity for what’s in me breeches.”

  His guest shook her head and smiled, though it reflected more of winter than amusement. “No Richard. While I’m sure there’s many a bishop who’d pay silver for your tender arse, I wouldn’t. Volund has a task for you.”

  At the mention of Seraphina’s grim master Richard’s eye narrowed. So at last they came to the nub of the matter. “I think yea’re a tad outa touch lass. Hae yea nay heard lass? We’ve served Marissa an’ the Council a goodly stretch o’ years.”

  All of a sudden the room chilled as Seraphina gave him one of her feral smiles. “Times change Richard. The wheel of Fortuna turns and mayhap old allies reunite. In the meantime you can watch out for matters of mutual interest.”

  Richard frowned. This wasn’t the usual conversation he expected of Seraphina. Commonly she was Volund’s short answer, a sharp blade, a night visit, and a sudden shortness of breath. Now by Christ she was even trying for deviousness. Seraphina? Her idea of subtly was to use a slow poison instead of a sharp dagger. What was going on in that Convocation lord’s household that he should use her for diplomacy?

  Richard waved off the offer with a casual flick of the hand. “I’ll nae play the spying curtain–twitcher on Annise. Are you Bedlamlite mad?”

  The answer didn’t please his visitor. Seraphina frowned and through clenched teeth hissed a reply. “No, you dolt. Tis not about Annise! Who gives a sodden fart about her moods, whims, and lovers? Volund requires news of the goings on at the Royal Court of England.”

  Whoa that came out fast. Where was the cautious play and counter offer? There was something odd at in the wind here. “Oh aye, does he now? What a surprise! Nae doubt we’re a cog in the clockwork of his scheme.”

  Now that observation struck home. Seraphina’s hand edged back towards her blades. “What if it is?” she snapped back, as close to anger as Richard had seen her in years.

  “Volund says something moves in the shadows—dark, malignant and deadly. It isn’t the play of the Convocation and maybe not even the Council. He says it threatens us all if we heed it not.”

  Richard blinked, in surprise. Was this a warning? Why would Volund bother, but he did play the strangest games, both him and Marissa… so maybe. Thus it paid to temporize. “What kind of news do yea require? I’ll nae squeal the Council’s plans.”

  “No… none of that. Only word on strange events or odd threats is all he wants.”

  Richard paused a moment. Treachery was a slippery slope as he well knew. One step was oft times one too many. But a wise man also kept an eye on shifts and changes. Today’s foes too often turned into tomorrow’s allies as he’d seen too often. One never knew the pattern of the future. He gave a wary nod. “Aye I could some.”

  “Volund said you had more sense than Annise. Leave a letter with the tapster whenever you can.” And after such a dramatic entrance full of threats and intimidation that was it, all over so suddenly. Seraphina bestowed upon him a last weighing scrutiny and slipped out.

  Some minutes after Richard released a long sigh and pounded the wall with a clenched fist cracking the lathe plaster. God’s own curse on this! His life was bound by the constraints of willful women—Annise, Marissa, and now that thrice cursed Seraphina stalked his steps. Why couldn’t this situation be simple? Why was every task always wrapped up in the power plays of those devotees of deceit and deviousness from the Council and Convocation? He slumped morosely against the wall, despondent and depressed. By Christ, some quarter hour ago he was ready for a pleasant bout of the beast with two backs. Now his desire had wilted worse than week old lettuce. Richard shrugged with bitter foreboding. No matter which way this game of Hazard played, he’d naught have the wining hand.

  Richard wiped the smear of blood off his neck. Damn him but he had a raging thirst, and by God’s curse, that at least he could satisfy. The boozing ken had a stock of excellent Brandywine and this day he meant to drain the barrel!

  ***

  Chapter 14: A Coroner’s Task —The Liberties

  Francis pushed through the usual afternoon crowd on the Strand deep in thought. For all his faults Agryppa had set him thinking. He really needed more servants. Perhaps a talk with Captaine Gryne would help. His court retinue was looking more miserable than a parcel of Scots lords. Mayhap a hefty fellow, some mean visaged veteran of the wars against the French.

  Francis looked unhappily ahead into the packed jostle of carts, servants, apprentices, lawyers and peasants. Oh by fucking St Anthony’s arm bone, almost anyone would be more intimidating than his scrawny servant Bottoph. Ol’ Jasper wasn’t the kind of imposing liveryman to clear a path—sneak a purse more like. He shook his head in weary frustration. Carew and Brandon both had decent retinues. Why was he cursed to have…to have….words failed any description rank and defiling enough. It wasn’t that Ol’ Jasper lacked abilities. He had those in abundance if you wanted a sacred relic ‘appraised’ or a items in a venerated tomb “relocated” and of course he had found Agryppa. And now there lay the source of the irritation like the bite of a horsefly on the arse. Bottoph had found him a worker of magicks as he’d actually required. However the practitioner was vainer than a peacock and touchier with his pride than a slighted Howard. Then there was the time this whole affair was taking. If his dignity allowed Francis would have groaned aloud in frustration.

  Three days, three days it had been and no closer to a solution. Now given that he’d only chivalric romances and tales to go on, Francis thought that the process should have been somewhat faster. His fallen angel muttered darkly that if this was the standard for wizards and enchanters, then twas no wonder Morgaine La Fay had ensorcelled Merlin with such ease.

  The consideration of magicks once again brought him around in a circle as memory of Mistress Athyney lingered. Demon or no she was a damned tasty piece—blonde hair with just a hint of red gold, some five feet in height and well–shaped enough for any man’s pleasure. Enchanting green eyes with the depth and clarity of a emerald sparkling with the teasing hints of delightfully wicked secrets. As for her breasts, his cods still stirred uneasily a full day later from the peek he’d been given. Why was it that the supposed servants of Satan had all the attributes he hungered for Francis mused wryly. Conversely the servants of the Lord left him bored and coldly disinterested. So much for his Christian piety! Unfortunately one thought lead to another and this one brought up an all too recent remembrance.

  Wolsey’s appointment as coroner, apart from being some convoluted trap, also burdened him with a host of repugnant duties. Except for those pertaining to the corpse, the most distressing was notifying any kin. As far as Francis knew Gwen had none in the city. Once after a particularly enjoyable session she’d mentioned cousins and possibly an uncle somewhere near Bristol. He doubted if family on the fringes of Wales would be able to deal with the necessities so it had been up to him to visit the Three Sparrows, Gwen’s prior abode and place of �
�engagement’.

  Francis had been here before so the bevy of girls with their shifts artfully arrayed to expose a peak at rosy nipples only acquired his passing interest. The assortment of painted canvases lining the walls of the main room seemed to impress a gape mouthed and ogle eyed Bottoph though. Mistress Phoebe, the bawdy house owner, had chosen a classical theme to suit her more discerning and expensive clients. Thus on the west wall was a depiction of a rather voluptuous Leda, legs spread wide preparing to be humped by a swan with very familiar equipage, while on the opposite wall Europa bent over preparing for a well–endowed and bullish manifestation of Jupiter. Francis approved of the style. Mistress Phoebe had even asked him which would be the most popular themes when she’d arranged the commission.

  There was of course another reason for his wry satisfaction. Francis had tipped the painter four shillings to depict a number of his rivals at court as befuddled satyrs with their pricks caught wedged in rocks and tree knotholes. Oh yes and a rather startled looking she goat.

  Unfortunately that had been the only pleasant interlude about his duties. Mistress Phoebe had been alternately placid and weepy with the news, in a manner that’d left Francis shaking his head at the strange moods of women. She’d brightened up considerably when he’d smoothly assured the bawdy house mistress that due to the manner of Gwen’s death, the ‘Court of Westminster’ would pay for the funeral. One of the others girls, Jenny Watkins by name, had asked after her friend’s body. That had been ticklish and Francis had slid past the exact location, though he’d assured the girl that Gwen was resting in a place of sanctity long patronized by lords and monarchs. Soon in a day or so she could pay her respects. His offer had received a friendly smile though tinged with what he suspected was a deep sadness. Later Francis had kicked himself as memories of Gwen trickled back. Jenny had been praised as her good friend as long she’d been in London. By Christ’s blood what a callous fool he was! Halfway down Bride Lane he’d almost turned back to offer the girl an escort to Blackfriars. Then again in the press of the Strand traffic as his conscience reminded him of his Christian duty, Francis resisted the tug assuaging his conscience that tomorrow was time enough for the usual honours.