Darkness Divined (Dark Devices)

by Gregory House

  Sensing the turn in the skirmish to their favour Francis called out. “If yea want to live yield now!”

  A stunned silence fell upon the battered band of visitors, as they triangulated the call. Only a fool wouldn’t realise that their escape route was blocked. That caused a flutter of loudly whispered consultations. Francis couldn’t help but smile at what he overheard. The survivors, as it transpired, weren’t impressed with the level of resistance, their proportion of casualties, or the miserable six shillings payment. Finally a gruff voice quelled the complaints of his companions and called back. “I’s wants a parley wit yer leader.”

  “Come forward then. No weapons.”

  A shadow rose from the improvised shelter, and hands spread wide it slowly walked forward. Francis sheathed his dagger as a limited sign of trust but the sword stayed—a visible and potent warning against treachery. The dark shape resolved itself into a rough looking bearded fellow of middling height, maybe in his forties and dressed in a worn livery coat without a badge. At the flaring of additional light from the hooded lantern the roister flinched, and no wonder. Even in the pallid glow Francis could see half an ear missing and a brand on his cheek. This one had been afore the court once too often.

  “What’s your name and who do you serve?”

  The dark eyes of the gang leader glinted and shifted warily at the question. “Ahh master, I’s the tapster o’ the Bull ov’r Cheapside, Will Turnsey.”

  Francis pursed his lips and glanced towards the approaching Richard. The retainer still kept to the other side of the survivors and was juggling one of his fearsome glass spheres. “So Will, do you know me?

  “No master. I’s nivr’ seen yea afore.”

  “I’m Master Bryan of the Royal Court presently serving the Lord Chancellor.”

  This revelation appeared to upset the gang of roisters who cried out in fear. Will, their leader, instantly dropped to his knees and swept his cap off his head. “Er, Christ sav us. Sir we din’t know yer w’re the King’s man. That blackamor’ sid yer owed him two pounds from dicing!”

  Hmm that was a handy excuse and may even have been partially true. Any man with coin could whistle up a following ready for mischief from the city’s taverns or alehouses. Francis bent forward and grabbed Will by a greasy doublet, pulling the man’s face closer. The tapster didn’t have to feign terror. Everyone knew the penalties for assaulting a servant of the Lord Chancellor and the King. Death was assured, but it tended not to be fast.

  “Where’s this Black–a–Moor?”

  “E’ waz behind us a’ the door. I swear’z it m’lord b’ me soul!”

  If that were so Francis would lay a mark of silver that their employer had vanished as soon as the fighting had begun.

  “His name fool, what was it?” Francis’s fallen angel took notice of his growing anger and uncoiled with a few helpful suggestions for gaining the truth. He’d no time for indulgence or pleasures. So instead Francis placed the sword blade aside the remnants of Will Turney’s ear and titled the blade until the sharp edge nudged the remaining lower fleshy portion.

  “We don’t ‘es name, pleaz m’lord. Es’ paid uz six shillings a’ Gage’s alehouse by Paul’s Chain this eve, ta do ye ov’r. That’s all I swear !”

  Francis twitched the blade upward and a small stream of blood flowed down the nervous roister’s neck. “You’re not a fool Will. What else?”

  The roister jerked away in an attempt to save his ear but halted as Francis increased the pressure. “E’s hands m’lord. e’s hands tho’ he wer’ a’ dark az a devil, they’z wer’ covered in black ‘eathen lines lik writin’.”

  Francis eased up a little on the blade. That sounded like their magicker and he nodded. “Well done Will. Now how’d he find you?”

  “I’s said e’ gav us six shillings fo’…yeoww!” The blood increased, now dripping in a steady flow down the blade and Master Turney tried not to move.

  “Yeah know Will, my hand twitches like that when you lie. Only a lack brain would believe this Moor walked into a tumbledown alehouse and slapped down the silver unbidden. Someone introduced you. The name Will?”

  The tapster hesitated and looked up into Francis’s eyes and his fallen angel grinned back. Trembling Will Turney went pale.

  “Wer Friar Frevill down b’ St Benet!”

  Francis smiled and withdrew his blade. The roister dropped to the floor sobbing and clutching his ear. “Bottoph!”

  The shadow by the door slipped closer. Francis didn’t bother turning. “Y’know him?” Francis didn’t have to see the nod. “Find him within the hour and bring word to Dr Agryppa’s house.”

  Bottoph disappeared into the darkness outside and Francis turned his attention back to their ‘visitors’. “Hmm so Master Turney what shall we do with you?”

  The sobbing and the wails increased in volume and his fallen angel strutted about, exultant. Behind his eyes visions of blood washed the floor and screams serenaded his ears. No, not yet it counseled—wait, wait.

  ***

  Chapter 18: A Splendid Lair - Blackfriars Residence

  Annise frowned as she sipped the cup of sack. While it was of superior quality, the company and location weren’t exactly to her taste. Or perhaps so much to her taste that the worm of rancour twisted unsettlingly in her mind. In the best manner of a gentleman proclaiming his position Doctor Agryppa flaunted his wealth. The great room of his house in Blackfriars was fully paneled in vermillion stained timber wainscoting and several fine tapestries covered the rest of the wall. Mayhap the display of gilt plate in the open cupboard was a trifle gaudy, but that too could have been a judgment of envy. Annise was no stranger to opulence. In fact Richard, that moaning whiner would no doubt complain she appreciated it overly well. That didn’t alter her opinion of their new master. It was a splendid lair for a preening, arrogant upstart with an overly inflated opinion of his own arcane abilities.

  The last three nights in the crypt was the perfect example—no protection. By the blessed Mary what a dolt! If she hadn’t been there…now there lay another problem, one she didn’t wish to expand upon. While Agryppa’s binding ritual held them as servants, he appeared to have a wildly optimistic conceit about how far it extended. Punishment he could meet out and by the blessed mother it hurt, a tearing pain deep to the soul. However it wasn’t nearly as compelling as the doctor of devices thought. But she wasn’t going to be the one to point out the gaping holes in Agryppa’s reasoning. She was laying that to one side for later.

  Annise lifted the gilt chalice to cover her small smile of satisfaction. Hmm yes, the crypt, that had been an enlightening experience. Those new devices had proved most advantageous in the battle with the revived Efreet. Despite his strutting Agryppa did possess some skill in this new philosophy. She was prepared to concede that the battle to put down that shambling revenant would have been harder without his box of tricks. However, and Annise smiled again at this thought, if one were to separate Doctor Agryppa from his toys, why then it would be so much more entertaining.

  In the meantime they reposed in the kind of luxury that Annise desperately wanted to possess. It wasn’t that the small house she currently had at Temple Bar wasn’t, well, comfortable. It was just less grand than she was used to. Or deserved. Damn that bitch Marissa to the seventh circle of Hell for her haughty interference! All because she’d slain one person too many. Such a minor transgression and thus she was bound to serve this arrogant tinkerer.

  “Ahem, how long do we have to wait for that dammed scurrier of yours to return?”

  At Agryppa’s grumbling question Annise snapped back to the current discussion from her catalogue of grievances. As expected her new master was unhappy at not being in the forefront of the chase. This was his fourth sulky complaint in the past quarter hour. His current ally, Master Bryan, had taken those complaints in good cheer, shrugging them off with good humoured quips. It was his opinion that if you had sent the dogs off after a fox, it was the height of foolishnes
s not to let them do their job. Annise had been amused at the dark looks Master Bryan gained in return for his display of nonchalance. She knew that Agryppa felt himself slipping out of the rider’s saddle in the alliance.

  That was a pleasant revenge, as was the knowledge that her skills could have tracked the Moorish magicker. But Agryppa was too worked up over the threat to his precious devices and his miserable skin to think of that. Instead the fool had barked and growled about the clear failing of his ally to follow up his victory. Annise wasn’t complaining. The final bout to put down the demon had been mostly up to her as Doctor Agryppa spent his efforts reinforcing his own protections, though she had to grudgingly admit the final stroke had been the metal rod he’d plunged into the struggling corpse.

  That had been hard enough and she’d needed Richard’s assistance to recuperate, thanks to a quick snack from one their comatose visitors. The taste was delicious, clean and invigorating. This one hadn’t been in the city long enough to acquire the rank taste of the putrid alleys. The wash of blood down her throat had pushed back the blurring that‘d clawed at the edge of her vision. Twice in one night, the drain of these magicks was telling on her stamina. Usually the raging thirst sent her out questing once a month. As for the joy of pursuit and the pure taste of pleasure, well she owed herself some indulgence didn’t she, especially since Richard was so frequently a dull moaner.

  Thus fortified Annise had watched with amusement as Master Bryan dismissed their would–be assailants without further chastisement, instead only the warning that given any further provocation their names would go before the Lord Chancellor. This threat seemed more than sufficient. They’d groveled and kissed his hand pledging themselves as his men. Agryppa though wasn’t impressed and decidedly less so when Master Bryan had commandeered the doctor’s nearby residence. Doctor Agryppa’s scowls and blustering complaints had sounded loud and bitter in the darkness. Now they’d shaded into annoying petulance.

  As if on cue to relieve her boredom that scrawny red bearded servant of Bryan’s slunk into the room. Annise didn’t think much of the minion. He had, in her honed opinion, all the characteristics of a denizen of the darker quarters of the city as well as the features of a rat. Giving them all a wary glance Bottoph sidled up to his master and whispered in his ear. Master Bryan nodded once and appeared to quirk an eyebrow at the news then laughed. “Why Friar Frevill, you honour us with your presence.”

  Intrigued at Master Bryan’s ringing welcome Annise, chalice in hand, sauntered over to the new leader of the hunt. In the meantime a ragged hunched figure slowly shuffled in. She would have stepped closer but the wind of his passage carried with it a malodorous reek of the nearby Fleete Ditch. A friar? The creature resembled a moving scarecrow of rags too fouled for even a leper. She’d heard too often of hermits forgoing bathing in the pursuit of holiness. If so the friar was up there with the archangels at the very foot stool of the Lord. Then to her absolute shock and horror Master Bryan went down on his knees and asked the shambling figure for a blessing. After the rather long benediction Friar Frevill placed his stinking hands on the courtier and the strange ceremony was over. The rank figure shuffled off richer by a small clinking bag of silver.

  Before Agryppa, somewhat stunned by the apparition in his parlor, could interfere, Annise strode over to the now smiling Master Bryan. “What need drove you to bring that wretch here?”

  Then to her extreme embarrassment Annise blurted out. “I could have shaken the truth out him and tracked the Moor. You can’t trust his words.”

  Master Bryan’s eyebrow flickered in what her shame called tolerant amusement. “Bottoph vouches for him, and Ol’ Jasper knows all the rogues, roisters and beggars in the city. As for trust, I know the way to Friar Frevill’s heart.”

  So did she and no doubt it was a damned useful ‘short cut’ though she forbore mentioning it or what she thought of his miscreant of a minion. She saw a flicker of amusement in his eyes at her unspoken doubt.

  “Ahh mistress it is simple. I know Londoners. Why use a kick and a curse to gain the truth when all it takes is for silver to sing it’s sweet song of temptation.”

  “So what song did it sing?’

  “Why sweetly in the warm spring air like a trio of sparrows.”

  Annise gave a puzzled frown. Francis Bryan may be a delight to the eye with those mischievous eyes and ready smile, but she was beginning to get annoyed at his fondness for courtly allusions.

  ***

  Chapter 19: The Three Sparrows – Shoe Lane, The Liberties of the Fleete

  He thumped his fist on to his thigh as they made their way into Shoe Lane in the Liberties. Francis was holding onto his temper with an iron grip. His fallen angel whispered release but he held it back. If he gave in, the balance between rage and fear was parchment thin. The Three Sparrows, damn and by Christ on the Cross he should have thought of that days ago! It was so damned obvious. His only excuse was being so caught up in avoiding the trap and staying alive that he’d not spared a minute to think it over. The Three Sparrow was the bawdy house of Gwen Salter, where he’d been enquiring and consoling just that day and thus, as his fallen angel said, the first place he should have looked. Now only Lucifer’s demons knew what mischief that cursed Moor was planning.

  The rest of their company trailed close behind his pounding steps. Annise and Richard were on his heels and it didn’t need any soothsayer to know that the demoness was dying to ask what drove him here. As for his erstwhile ally Doctor Agryppa, the stuffy fool was puffing along further behind churlishly berating the three servants carrying his precious chest. To Francis the distance could be a mile back and a mile deep in the fetid fires of Lucifer’s arse and he’d still not be pleased. These last nights he’d played the game that Agryppa demanded and the threat was as deadly now as it had been at that start. Gwen or Gwen’s corpse had revived possibly four times now, each time being harder to subdue than before. Francis was determined that after this night there wouldn’t be a fifth. That the so called doctor of arcana had his own game to play was clearer by the minute and to a degree Francis had accepted that coda as the price of alliance. Life at court taught you an amazing degree of moral flexibility.

  That however had been when the doctor had breezily guaranteed success once they secured Annise’s services. Well they had—eventually—and as far as Francis could see the blood drinking demoness had played her part. His expensively retained ally though, hmm, well Agryppa better stop fondling his cods and get to work or else Francis would chain him to Gwen’s corpse and throw them both in the river by dawn.

  The burning cressets outside the three storey building gave a good spill of light into the lane as well as pooling the shadows at the feet of the two cudgel men standing guard at the doorway. Francis halted abruptly four paces in front and Richard swung to his left as Mistress Athyney took up his right flank.

  The cudgel men maintained the distinctive glower of their profession but their eyes instinctively shifted to the swords and their ears strained to hear the running footsteps from down the lane. Hands nervously tightened on clubs, as Francis took a half step closer. “Yea both know me. I’m Gwen Salter’s good lord. I’m here at the command of the Lord Chancellor so leave off the roistering bluster and get your mistress. We need to talk.”

  Both figures continued their threatening glower for a moment more to show they were men of parts and not to be intimidated. Francis ignored the clear signs of trembling in the one on the right. Then the fellow pushed open the door a sliver and loudly whispered through it. It wasn’t a minute before the mistress herself swung wide the door and bowed them in, just in time for a puffing Agryppa and his minions to join them.

  Mistress Phoebe whisked them with minimal disturbance past the carousing guests to a comfortable room off the main hall. It was set up with a table and several chairs for clients who were keen on games of chance, and of course a large tester bed against the wall in case any of the card players became ‘tired’. It also held a
candelabrum with a full splay of five lit wax candles. Francis was impressed. There was easily enough light for honest card play. The Three Sparrows must be doing well.

  Mistress Phoebe spread her scarlet skirts and welcomed them with a deeper curtsey displaying a goodly measure of breast. At some forty years the pair were still as pale as cream and shapely enough for the swelling of any man’s cods. “Masters, how can I helps yea?”

  Francis pulled up the first seat soon followed by Mistress Athyney and a still grumpy Agryppa. The fellow must still be sore at his displacement. Francis still didn’t care. It’d teach the doctor to be more wary. In the meantime he didn’t bother with waiting for wine or niceties, launching straight into the issue. “Mistress, tis about the murder of Gwen. We believe a foreigner may be involved, a Moor whom we’ve had word lodged here.”

  Mistress Phoebe crossed herself. Muttering a brief and quiet prayer she put a kerchief to her face dabbing at a sudden tear. “Poor Gwen. As I told yea she were one o’ my favoured punks, the poor minchin.”

  “What of this foreigner, mistress?”

  Mistress Phoebe still dabbing at the moisture on her face, sniffed and paused for a moment. Her face crumpled in grief. “Why Sir, we’ve only a Welshman from Cornwall an’ a brace o’ Germans. I’ll nay have any heathens in a Christian house.”

  Francis lent back and stroked the tip of his trimmed beard. He prided himself as a good judge of dissembling. Having Ol’ Jasper as a servant made it a necessity unless he wanted to awake stripped bare and robbed. By the firmness of Phoebe’s voice it sounded like God’s own truth.

  “I see. Hmm, that maybe. Well at the least I ask that the good doctor here inspect Gwen’s possessions and pallet.” It wasn’t really a request. Once he’d invoked Wolsey’s name only a fool or the Duke of Buckingham would refuse. Anyway it got rid of the sour face of Agryppa.

  Mistress Phoebe inclined her head in courteous acceptance. She dealt with gentlemen all the time here at The Three Sparrows and understood the play of rank. Agryppa fussed around with some smaller version of his strange lantern and stalked off, accompanied by one of the house’s servants and his own liveryman.