Darkness Divined (Dark Devices)

by Gregory House

  However instead of returning to Westminster, Francis allowed an idle whim of mischief to take him. “Hmm Bottoph, that ale house is near here isn’t it?”

  His minion gave up his attempt to create a path for his master and spun around, all goggle eyed and nervously wary. “Aye Master Francis, tis.”

  Francis nodded, and stepping forward put an amiable hand on his minion’s shoulder. “Excellent, then in that case you can buy your good lord a well–deserved firkin of sack!” Francis threw his head back and laughed out loud startling a carter’s horse. Poor Ol’ Jasper—the look on his face! It was as if he snuck in for a ripe young virgin and instead found a withered crone!

  ***

  At his third gulp Francis wiped his beard and leant back against the wall. Hmm, it was surprising good sack, almost up to the quality in the Royal Butlery. In fact…he gave his retainer a speculative inspection. Bottoph hadn’t been keen on revisiting his secret haunt. Far from it. The rogue had even promised to guard his master’s wine from pilfering for a whole month. That’d gained a wry chuckle or two, since as far as Francis was concerned that was only possible if one first manacled Bottoph and put him in the Tower. Even then he’d lay even odds the barrels would be empty within a week. So asked his fallen angel why was his servant so keen to keep his lord and master away from here?

  Ol’ Jasper, noticing his observation gave a noisy gulp, then a broken tooth smile and a leering wink that would have shocked even the most forgiving saint. “M’lord that Jenny at t’ Three Sparra’s, corr! She’s a buxom piece if’n I ever saw, a wickedly good minchin. I’s can see her warmin’ me bed!”

  Francis quirked an eyebrow and gave his servant a sideways frown. Until now he’d tried to avoid any and all speculation on Ol’ Jasper’s diverse taste in bed companions. There were stories back home, and a few outraged yeoman and ahh shepherds had laid all manner of writs against Master Bottoph. Whether Jenny would lower herself to take his coin was perhaps debatable. According to the hopefully departed Gwen her friend also had a swain at court. Not really surprising—she was as attractive as his former bed pursuivant and as saucy and comely as leering Bottoph claimed, though Francis’s imagination played the stubborn rebel at matching the scene. Thankfully some couplings just were forbidden for man to encompass.

  “Not under my coverlet you won’t Bottoph. I expect it back in my room in three days, cleaned and washed at your expense, you thieving rogue. Why do you have it here anyway?”

  “I’s sorry Master Francis but I’s were tryin’ ta impress Maud as a man o’parts like t’em satrys in the wall hangin’.”

  Francis closed his eyes at the sudden image of a strutting Bottoph with goatish legs and extra–large cods a swinging betwixt his legs. No, a man would need at least a few gallons of brandywine afore that boggling sight was erased from recent memory. Just as a man would be drawn to probe the site of a rotted tooth despite the pain, Francis found himself working the concept for a piece of verse. It had possibilities maybe linked with those scabby Scots at court.

  He shook his head and concentrated on the subject at hand Bottoph’s love life, as grim as it may be. “Who is Maud?”

  “Why’s, the sweet minchin I’s were a humpin’ afore yea ahh, ahh summoned me m’lord. An m’lord, if’n yea could put in a kind word wit Mistress Bowmyn, the alewife, I’d appreciate it m’lord.”

  Francis slammed his empty tankard down on the table and glowered at his ‘servant’. “What? You want me to play whoremaster and pimp! By St Anthony’s fucking arm bone you’re a bold rogue Bottoph. Next you’ll want me to stand Godfather to the hordes of yer bastard mewling get.”

  To his surprise Bottoph immediately dropped to both knees and clasped his hands together as if begging for his life. “I beg yea’ m’lord. Tis worth a hogshead o’ Rhenish by St George’s Day.”

  Francis pursed his lips and surveyed his almost groveling minion. What was his game? Rhenish was hellishly expensive by then. What was worth the price?

  “Why?” That single word was so loaded with suspicion and distrust that if it was set adrift on an angel’s teardrop it’d sink like lead. Francis didn’t care. After the last few days, and especially nights, his tolerance had run dry.

  “Why’s m’lord, I wants ta marry the sweet Minchin, an if’n yea stand m’ good lord it’ll settle Mistress Bowmyn’s doubts.”

  Bottoph’s attempts to look both pleading and at the same time guilessly innocent were rather amusing. Francis pushed aside his anger and stroked his short beard. His fallen angel whispered silkily of opportunity and advantage. Breaking into a sudden smile Francis generously waved a hand for Ol’ Jasper to rise. “So Bottoph, my faithful and loyal servant, tell me of these three hogsheads of Rhenish.”

  Francis readily accepted the second firkin of the brandywine fortified sack and took a deep draught as Bottoph unwound his clever plan. This was bound to be an entertaining hour or so, and by Satan’s own arsehole, more diverting than worrying about the coming dark, that scribbling fool Agryppa and his next ham fisted fumble. Life was to be enjoyed not fretted away reassured his fallen angel. It was a good motto. He’d be sure to weave it into a poem—later.

  Perhaps, tomorrow?

  ***

  Chapter 15: The Darkness Resurgent—Blackfriars Chapel

  Francis wasn’t in a good mood. His earlier lighter humour at Bottoph’s antics had evaporated, here for a third night running! Damn that fool Agryppa, he’d been forced to discard his play of aloof observation all because of that clumsy dolt’s arrogance. The man’s continual vindictiveness against his new servants was tiring and petty. While he accepted that ‘Mistress Athyney’ and her man were now liege servants to his ‘ally’ and that by rights of maintenance, position and rank, this gave the doctor the writ of punishment, it was in his view a foolish act to strike back. So what if she’d displayed a lack of respect by her repeated questioning about precautions. The prompt use of the whip didn’t always improve the response of the horse or hound, and anyway Francis had noted that again this night Agryppa had brushed off the question, with a brusque wave of the hand and a snarled warning to his new minions.

  His fallen angel agreed it didn’t bode well for a harmonious relationship but also hinted that perhaps there existed another more personal reason for his interference. Why for instance was he persisting in the refusal to label Annise as demon? Francis pushed that question aside. A swelling pair of breasts and a sultry smile could always tilt the weather cock of his cods, but rarely did it sway his steady assessment of advancement.

  After what he suspected was an all too deliberate delay, Agryppa now summoned the attendance of his new servant to re-examine the body of Gwen. This modern philosophical Arcanum took so long. Once again Francis wondered if in the tales and romances all the hours of tedious boredom with magicks got edited out for a more dramatic presentation. With the prospect of finally some action Francis stepped closer so as to overhear. He preferred hearing her insights unfiltered by the shading of Agryppa’s rancour.

  Though his inspection was ambushed by stray threads of memory. This was Gwen after all, lifeless corpse and food for worms as it was, but a few evenings ago she’d been so lively and bubbling with news about some ploy of Wolsey’s an underling had let slip. That was now in the past. As Mistress Athyney’s inspection focused in on those darkish splotches brought up by Agryppa’s device, Francis moved even closer. Mistress Annise had stopped very suddenly and if he was any judge, the frown that now adorned her countenance was either of worry or concern. He’d even noticed the suppressed flicker of a warding cross. Francis felt the hairs on his neck quiver in alarm. Thus he bent closer and whispered his question. “What have you found?”

  For almost a minute those very rosy lips remained pursed together, long enough in fact to gain the attention of Agryppa who left off adjusting his device and sauntered over. “Well Mistress Athyney?”

  Francis noted the now common lack of tact as Agryppa barked out his instruction with all
the regard to manners of a dung carter. His new servant though kept her head low, plainly submissive as she answered. “Master, I fear that this girl has been touched by some gross and vile evil.”

  Agryppa shook his head and laughed, not even bothering to hide the disdain in his tone. “You’ll have to do better than that paltry excuse. Humph, evil! Like recognizes like, I’ll be bound.”

  Francis stopped his tongue from launching into an instant retort. This was between master and servant. However one thought readily came to mind. If the lady was so steeped in evil then what did it say of the one who secured her service? Evil is as evil does so they say. Francis pushed past all that and continued to carefully watch Mistress Athyney.

  The possible demoness ignored the sting of the jibe and continued to reply in a very humble manner. “I suspect the presence of possession, but I cannot prove it. My master, since as you say you are a modern philosopher, would you have any powdered Arbor Philosoporum commonly called the Tree of Dianna?”

  Agryppa may have been about to indulge in more ridicule, but her request had him stroking his beard in frowning contemplation. “Yes. Yes I do but tis not a simple request. The Tree of Dianna is a pricy ingredient.”

  Francis had had enough of Agryppa’s games. He pushed between the two of them. “God’s blood, Agryppa! If it is coin you want I’ll pay for it, but stop this petty posturing. At the start of this you complained for hours that you needed special servants for this task and so I agreed to pay for their bonds. But, as you said, Wolsey wants us both and I’d rather not be held hostage to the whims of the Lord Chancellor!”

  With some effort Agryppa swallowed whatever reply he was contemplating, and instead with the slightest flicker of a sneer upon his face, turned away to ferret through his chest of magicks.

  Francis let out a slow breath of relief. It felt damn strange to stand patron for a blood drinking fiend no matter how fair. His fallen angel whispered beguiling words of support for this act. Now wasn’t that a surprise—a daemon and a demon! Since Agryppa had clammed up, he once more put his head closer to the demure Mistress Athyney. “What have I just paid for? Do I need to sell off my horses and doublet?”

  The possible demoness flashed him an impish smile and shook her head. “No Master Bryan. Tis a simple enough alchemical compound. Doctor Agryppa, if he’s as great a philosopher as he would have us believe should have it ready to hand.”

  “So what is this substance?”

  “It is simple enough. You dissolve an ounce of pure silver in a measure of very pure aqua fortis. Then it is diluted with double distilled water and two ounces of mercury are added. After that over the waxing of a moon a crystal tree grows in the flask. This resulting creation is then ground to a fine powder.”

  Francis smiled his thanks. At least now he would know if Agryppa tried any exorbitant cozenage, though realistically he’d been given a much greater return, the knowledge that Mistress Athyney had the skill and knowledge of alchemy. Agryppa of course hadn’t bothered to ask, instead strutting about like a cockerel. With sly amusement his fallen angel observed that Mistress Athyney wanted to do a lot more with him than just discuss the noble philosophy of alchemy. For now Francis resisted these urgings, instead deliberately choosing to focus on the current practical problem. “Ahh, why do you require this compound?”

  His reward came in the form of another brief smile. “Agryppa’s device has its uses. It would have taken me hours of, ahh, other preparations to show up these shadows. As to their meanings…” His instructor in magicks gave a shrug that raised the top curve of her pale breasts into view.

  Once more the construction of siege works began in his cods. Francis gave a distracted cough and concentrated on the here and now. “So, ahh, so what do you do with this Tree of Dianna? Of what use is it?”

  “In the past I’ve used it to reveal that which is hidden to the casual eye. I can show you some time—if you wish Master Bryan.”

  Francis smiled at this open flirting. His fallen angel was all too ready to supply a script for the ‘instruction’, since his Great Gonnes were now well entrenched and taking sightings.

  In the meantime Agryppa hustled back and reluctantly thrust a small vial towards his latest minion before returning to his device with a doubtful scowl. Mistress Athyney bobbed a quick thank you, then concentrated on her task. Just to be sure Francis took a pace back.

  The flirtatious sometime demon cautiously broke the wax seal on the glass vial and removed the stopper very carefully then proceeded to sprinkle minute amounts of powder over the dark shadows. Slowly the silvery dust settled, sitting almost imperceptibly on the pallid skin. For long minutes nothing happened. Agryppa, who despite his play at aloofness, had been watching closely and was about to sneeringly dismiss the exercise as naught but the fumbling of the dead past. Suddenly Mistress Athyney shot her hand in the air to still his words, bent over the closest arm and delicately blew over the dark stain overlaying the waxy skin. Very slowly almost as if it were drawing solidity from the darkness the splotch transmuted into a delicate pattern of dark wavy script and decoration as if painted on the back of Gwen’s hand. Francis moved closer as did Agryppa, his disdain forgotten in the revelation of older magicks.

  Despite her obvious success Annise didn’t appear to be so pleased. She shook her head clearly puzzled by the dark pattern. “No, this can’t be right. Not here!”

  At her cry Francis bent closer to the corpse. The dark shadows had completely cleared leaving behind this intricate and detailed sigil. From what he could make out it consisted of very finely incised lines of what could be a script as well as the image of some unidentified beast. Somehow it had that teasing sense of familiarity, and in a way, the same flow as the finest legal secretary hand on parchment. This was distinctly odd and the more he looked at it, the more the pattern seemed to writhe and flex. No it must be a trick of Agryppa’s lantern.

  Mistress Athyney though moved from one hand to the next, and then pulled away the linen shift. The symbol and script over the heart was similar to that on the hands. Francis watched closely as the possible demoness moved on to the head. This time the pattern was laid in a crescent under the eyes. Mistress Athyney shook her head and muttered then easily rolled the body onto its side. In the light of Agryppa’s device more shadows now appeared, one at the base of the neck and another at the back of the ears. As before Francis noticed that she applied more of the alchemist’s powder and once more the shadows transmuted into the usual patterns. As to what it meant he’d no idea.

  Mistress Athyney appeared to be deeply worried and without hesitation turned to Agryppa. “I have seen these before in the deep desert of the Moorish Maghreb of Northern Affryca. The tribal shaman use symbols similar to these to ward off the spirits of the desert such as the djinn and the efreet.”

  At the report Agryppa tugged at his beard and frowned deeply. “Hmm yes, yes, you could be right. The lettering script does resemble some versions I’ve seen in a musselman treatise on…” Agryppa stopped in mid–sentence and shook his head as if suddenly aware he was revealing deep secrets to a proclaimed demoness and keenly listening patron. “Ahh…on, on alchemical sublimations.”

  Francis was certain that Agryppa had been going to say something else but stopped himself. Once more he quietly cursed his urgent need for the abrasive and secretive master of modern magicks. All this discussion though didn’t solve the question. Before it could lead elsewhere Francis interrupted. “Musselman, Moor, or from far Cathay it matters not. What were they for?”

  Agryppa blinked at him in surprise as if a horse had spoken, and after chewing his lip for a moment essayed an artfully hedged answer. “Hmm…well…that is not such an easy task. There are more tests. I’ll need one or maybe two more, ahh, devices. It is not an…”

  This time Mistress Athyney ignored the threat of punishment and cut through her master’s wandering reply. “Why Master Bryan, that’s simple. These markings have been inscribed on this girl’s skin with an en
sorcelled ink to bind her body to a lesser efreet, and thus possessing her for any bidding or service.”

  Once more Francis felt that distinctly arcane chill climb up his neck making all the skin of his scalp tingle and tighten. “Is…is it still there?”

  “The marks haven’t faded so there is still some trace lingering. I suspect the efreet’s master, while they might no longer animate the body, could still use this body to see and hear.”

  That’s when Francis felt the overwhelming urge to puke. By St Anthony, he prayed that Gwen’s soul wasn’t still shackled by this defiling. Then of course the rest of the import of her words penetrated his disgust. “Ahh excuse me Mistress Athyney, did you say ‘see and hear’?”

  “Why yes Master Bryan, that is so, except of course any link would be broken if we had wards and protections.”

  Francis’s hand dropped not so causally to his dagger hilt and he swung around to face a now rather pale Agryppa. “So Doctor Agryppa, do we have wards and protections?”

  ***

  Chapter 16: Darkness Beckons—Blackfriars Chapel

  The longer this piece of arcana took the more Richard felt the walls of the crypt closing in. His banishing of morose despair by way of drowning in brandywine was long hours past, and his head had finally cleared of its fuzzy dulling ache and better still his mouth no longer tasted of desiccated rat. More or less and it wasn’t the dead bodies that distressed his humours, not even those of young girls. After that length of time his compassion hadn’t so much run dry as had rationed itself to extreme bouts. Maybe only a saint could maintain a bottomless well of compassion. After his ‘duties and tasks’ Richard more frequently numbered himself amongst the eternally damned. On entry to this ‘place’ the best he could do was to mutter a brief prayer and that was that. Unfortunately, every time he did, it raised that eternal doubt regarding his own not quite mortality regarding matters of the soul and redemption. Even now he still felt unable to fix his opinion. In the passing years his former bedrock of the Church had appeared as friable as sand as Apostolic decretals raised and lowered saints or sins, as if on a whim.