The Summoning

by Robert Wingfield

  “You must, my lord, you must, if you truly love your daughter. There is no evil here.”

  Sir John regarded the book in his hands. He rubbed his palm on the soft cover. “I do not need to read it, but simply store it until the witch should return?”

  “That is correct,” said Francis. “As I understand, the volume should remain in the family. In the unconceivable event of your death, you should pass it on to another member and charge them to keep it safe.”

  “Yes, I am weary of life.” The sheriff sighed. “I feel every year of it in my poor bones. This journey from Court has exhausted me, and put me in ill humour. To pass the book on, I need a male heir? My son, Edward, is only three.”

  “I trust you will have much more life to come. You will see him grow up to take the load.” Francis was lying. He knew that Sir John had only a few years more. He could see the life force inside the sheriff, ready for the taking. With the sheriff’s inner grief, Francis felt an overwhelming urge to steal that essence for himself, and spare the old man further pain. He fought the craving.

  “I am of advancing years,” said the sheriff. “I cannot have long to go, even in the natural run of things. I will charge Elizabeth with passing it down to Edward.”

  “Your firstborn is a practical girl. She will do your bidding.”

  “Yes she will,” agreed the sheriff. “Does she know about this disaster?”

  “I don’t know if the abbot has contacted her. I heard her husband was ailing.”

  “Mmmm.” Sir John gazed absently down at the grave. “Now what’s all this nonsense about you being dead? I will have a word with the abbot and get you absolved of any crime... Francis?”

  The monk had disappeared. From the end of the room came a faint snigger, but when Sir John investigated, he found nothing.

  30th August 1528

  O

  n his bed, Henry Mynde was being fussed by servants. He coughed, a wracking cough, that shook his whole body. He felt dreadful. The ducking he received in the stream after the burial had included a mouthful of the dirty water, the very water that was the outflow from the abbey. He had spent the night being sick, and couldn’t hold down any food; even water was being ejected. The physician had been sent for.

  It was no surprise to the staff when a canon from the abbey arrived at the farmhouse door. He was admitted and led to meet the farmer.

  “Am I going to die?” Henry tried to make out the features, but the monk’s hood obscured his face.

  “I will hear your confession, my son,” said a low voice from inside.

  “Go, leave us.” Mynde coughed, waving his arm weakly at the anxious servants.

  “Yes, leave us,” said the monk. He lifted his head, and piercing blue eyes sent the attendants scurrying to the door.

  “Now we are alone, my lord,” said the monk. “Tell me your sins.”

  Henry was sick again, this time on the floor.

  “Some water.” The monk helped the man upright.

  Henry drank gratefully. This time it was not retched. He felt calmed as his companion’s hand rested on his shoulder.

  “Tell me your sins, my son.” The monk settled on the side of the bed.

  Henry took a breath, and blurted the whole of the story about how he had paid to have Ankerita poisoned, the deception with the witch and her eventual slaughter. He seemed almost pleased, when he related how the abbot and he had planned to shift the blame on to Brother Francis, and how they had got away with it, now that Francis had disappeared.

  “Of course, this confession is private. You will not relate it anywhere else?”

  Henry stared at the monk, who crossed himself. “Your confession is between you and God.”

  “I’m feeling better, though,” said Henry. “I think the fever may have passed. What has been said here must go no further.”

  Henry was feeling beneath the bed covers to where he kept a long knife, ‘for protection’. “I can rely on you to keep this secret,” he said as his hand closed around the hilt.

  “You can. A confession under any circumstances is sacrosanct.”

  “That was not a question.” Henry snarled, and with all his strength, he brought the knife out, and in the same move, stabbed the monk through the chest. He tumbled out of bed. There was no resistance. The confessor was a phantom, but stepped back in shock, all the same..

  As Henry lay, sweating, on the floor, the monk pushed back his hood.

  “You.” Henry recognised the man he had tried to incriminate.

  “Yes, me, my son.” Francis rested his hand upon the farmer’s chest. “I see that you have not repented of your sins, and as such, I have come for you, and your very being.”

  Many years of life were taken from the recovering farmer in a matter of seconds. He withered silently on the floor.

  8. Tristan

  Present Day - October

  A

  nkerita was certain that Wesley’s family would accept him back. She also felt that once he set himself up in his old bedroom, he would spend time hacking into computer security systems again, until one of the big companies offered him a job, finding and resolving loopholes in their software... but that was in the future. For the moment she had to survive, and that involved picking up the courage to visit Tristan in his dockland studio.

  Tristan was a photographer when Ankerita became the vocalist and main attraction with the band, Baal-Peor. He had sourced a passport for her, so that she could accompany them to their native Austria, but decided, under duress, that it would be more healthy for him to sell her to the criminal organisation that provided the documents. They had seen her photograph, and decided she was ideal material for their operation. She barely escaped, and would not have been so lucky if not for help from her supernatural allies.

  Ankerita lost touch with the band, but dreamed of getting back on stage with them. They were kind and protective, which was what she felt she lacked, Wesley being no use as a minder. She needed direction and purpose. Music was the answer, and that passport held the key.

  The Escort still showed a full fuel-tank as Ankerita parked outside the converted warehouses that hosted the artistic hub of the city. She never considered anything else for it; after all, was this not The Chariot, and she could drive it? Drive. She thought of Jo, the girl she befriended when first she arrived in this new and strange world. Jo did all the driving, then. Ankerita had never been behind the wheel before. In fact, it was all sorcery to her, and she was happy to let her friend take her all the way to the stone circle where she met her destiny. Yet, when she got into this vehicle, she was a natural. How could that be? Wesley said it was only an old car.

  A shiver went down her spine. She remembered Jo, sitting in her own vehicle when they parted for the last time. She hadn’t noticed then, but now she could clearly see a dark shadow surrounding her friend. There was something wrong. Did Jo need her help, right at this moment? Was she, the reborn Lady Ankerita, needed elsewhere, rather than trying to leave the country?

  “First things first,” she decided, as she got out of the car. “Tristan, you snake-livered bum-bailey, you are going to give me my passport back, or I will beat you to a spleeny skanes-mate...”

  She opened the boot, and retrieved a tommy-bar. Wesley said that the steel rod was normally used for leverage when changing the wheels, but in this case, it was to be a weapon, and she was determined that it should find its way to Tristan’s head if he gave her the slightest bother. She owed him that for all the troubles he had brought upon her. She became more determined with every step up to the top floor of the block.

  She paused outside Tristan’s flat and stuffed the bar down the back of her jeans, suddenly, not so sure. How best to play the confrontation? Perhaps it would be an idea to appeal to his better nature. Tristan used to be a good man, before the greed, or whatever it was, got to him. Maybe he had changed his ways.

  She knocked.

  There was a brief pause,
and a security camera above the door twitched. “Is that you, Anna?” A dubious voice came from a grille to the side.

  “Yes, it’s me. Who did you think it was?”

  “I, er, thought you had gone away.”

  “I’ve made it back, no thanks to you. Do you still have my passport. I need it.”

  “Seriously? You don’t want to kill me?” Tristan sounded worried. “It was all a misunderstanding, you know.”

  “No, I don’t want to kill you. That’s all a torrent under the ruins of a humpback bridge. I simply need my passport. Have you got it?”

  “What?”

  “The passport. Are you going to let me in?”

  “Yes, of course. Give me a moment.”

  “He’s making a call,” thought Ankerita, as images of what was happening inside the flat came into her mind. “He is still consorting with those thugs. I will have to be quick.”

  After a short while, the door opened. Tristan’s face showed concern. Ankerita forced a smile. “Good to see you again, Tris,” she said, through gritted teeth. “How have you been?”

  The man relaxed. “Good to see you, too. You, er, look great. Please come in.”

  As he let her pass, his mobile played a little tune. He blushed guiltily as he brought it out of his pocket.

  “Rats’-bane!” Ankerita whipped out the tommy-bar, and walloped his knee. He crumpled, wailing. She hit him on the side of the head as he went down. He lay still. She poked him with her foot. Had she killed him? She didn’t care. The mobile fell out of his hand. Ankerita locked the door, and picked up the device. There was a message.

  “She’s here.”

  Ankerita snarled. There was a reply. The reply that dispelled any hope the Tristan was being straight with her.

  “Hold her.”

  “Must be quick, and find that passport.” She dashed across the room to the study. “Where would he keep it? How much time do I have?”

  The drawers of his desk and cabinets were desperately rifled, scattering papers, photographs and art all across the floor. She found a thick wad of banknotes, and stuffed them in her bag, but still no passport. How long would it take the thugs to turn up? She could not afford to waste much more time. She glanced at the clock. Five minutes had passed since she entered the flat. “Where else would he keep it?” she muttered. “Try his bedroom?”

  The place looked untidy even before Ankerita got to work. When she finished, she had retrieved another wad of notes, upturned the bed, and spread his possessions all over the floor. She found everything... except her passport.

  Desperately, she pulled out another drawer, and tipped the contents on the ruins of the bed. As Tristan’s collection of socks and coloured condoms fell, so did a thin piece of wood, a false bottom. A pile of passports and paperwork spilled out. “It’s got to be in this lot! No time to check.” She stuffed the documents into her bulging bag.

  After a final attack on the other drawers, smashing them in case of more hidden compartments, Ankerita looked at the clock again. It still showed that five minutes had passed. “Curse him for a spur-galled foot-licker. The clock is stopped. How long have I been here? I’ll have to go right now.”

  She dashed for the door, let herself out and barely had one foot on the stairs when she heard voices below, deep voices, cursing that the building had no passenger lift.

  “Too late.” She glanced desperately around. “Is there another way down?” No alternatives; only one route out. She backed into the flat again. “Thank the Lord I didn’t lock the place up.” She deadlocked the door behind her. It was a solid steel fire door. Tristan was groaning and starting to move. She knelt down and shook him.

  “I need to go. Is there another way out, you false jackanapes?”

  “What are you going to do? Murder me if I don’t tell you? You deserve what’s coming...” He gave a furtive glance behind her. She followed his gaze.

  “Of course, fire exit. Now I remember. That door always gave me the creeps. Are there stairs down?”

  Tristan gave a painful gurgle. “Why don’t you find out?”

  There came a thundering on the door, and an annoyed voice. “Tristan, have you got her in there, you waste of skin? You’d better have, or it will go very bad for you indeed.”

  “Then, I’m gone.” Ankerita gave the helpless Tristan a kick. “Don’t try to shout out, or you’ll get another whack.”

  He whimpered. “I can’t; you’ve killed me. I’m dying.”

  “Don’t be a wuss. It was just a tap...” Ankerita eased open the exit door, expecting to see empty space. She did see a drop that made her stomach turn, but she also saw an escape ladder automatically rolling out of its storage box above the door: a rope ladder with solid rungs.

  It was a terribly long way down. Ankerita hated heights, but the renewed hammering on the door made the decision for her. She slung her bag over her shoulder, and took hold of the top rung. With a threatening scowl at the injured man, she felt for the next foothold. The ladder rocked dangerously. Her toe hit the wall as it twisted. She saw Tristan struggling to pull himself up on the sofa. She wished she’d hit him harder. The ladder bucked, and the wind caught her. She was petrified, but there was no way she was going to let herself be caught again.

  In what seemed like a single moment, Ankerita stood disbelievingly at the bottom of the rope ladder. She was down safely. One second she had been at the top, and now she was standing, trembling, but safely on solid ground. The ache in her legs told her that she must have climbed the distance, but her mind refused to tell her how. She could have sworn she heard a snigger behind her, but when she whipped around, there was nobody there.

  “Imagining it.” She shook her head. “Can’t be the demon, helping me. He is long gone. What then... but must get moving.” She tried to force her legs to stop shaking. “Find the car and escape. Can I get through here?”

  She staggered round the side of the building. Her car was gleaming and welcoming, and only a short sprint, if her legs would carry her. “Oh Lord!”

  Behind the Escort was a black Mercedes. Beside the Mercedes was a big man in a smart black suit with a white tie, a caricature of what you might imagine a gangster would look like. She recognised him. It was a gangster, of the name, Jones. The man from the Lakes. He was not someone you could forget. Talking to him was a youthful traffic warden. They both had their backs to her.

  “I’ve got to take a chance.” Ankerita tottered over to her own car. She ducked down behind it and desperately searched her packed bag for the keys. The cars were parked so closely together, that she could hear the conversation while she rummaged.

  “Sorry, sir, but I told you, you can’t park here,” the warden was trying to explain.

  “That is inconvenient,” said Jones, “because I am parked here, as you can rightly see. Your understanding of the situation must be in error.”

  “No, I mean that you are not allowed to park here,” the warden continued patiently. “If you don’t move on, I will have to issue you a penalty.”

  “If you give me a ticket, I will rip your face off.”

  “Are you threatening me, sir?” The young man’s voice shook.

  “Of course not,” the big man replied condescendingly. “It is not a threat, but I think you’ll find it’s a rock-solid promise.”

  The warden was almost lost for words, but doggedly followed the guidelines. In this case though, the gangster obviously didn’t respect his uniform and nice hat. He gulped. “This conversation is being recorded, sir. I have a camera on my lapel. I must warn you that threatening...”

  “Promising,” interrupted Jones. “I said before, I made you a promise, not a threat. Please be on your way, and don’t cause yourself more discomfort. Parking restrictions are in place to keep a right of way clear. Is the right of way clear?”

  Fascinated, Ankerita stole a glance at them through the car windows.

  The warden looked bewildered. The right
of way was obviously clear.

  “Parking can’t be illegal. Look, there is already someone here.” Jones indicated Ankerita’s car. She ducked down, barely in time.

  “I’ve already written a ticket for that one,” said the warden nervously. “I could not find the driver. Do you know who it is?”

  “She will be inside the building, being shown what happens when someone cheats my organisation... along with her handler.”

  The warden had gone white. “You admit...” He backed off.

  “Going somewhere, my little Hitler?” Jones grabbed the boy by the throat. “I’ll have to relieve you of your camera.” The boy choked as he increased the pressure of his grip. “And I’ll also help you with your telephone, and ticket pad. They must be weighing you down, a poor slip of thing like yourself.” He shook his captive. The young man fainted.

  Ankerita had carefully opened her car door. She slipped into the driver’s seat, and kept her head below the dashboard. Would it start? She held her breath, and turned the key. The engine caught immediately. Jones paused from grinding the warden’s equipment under his boot, and saw Ankerita making an escape. As she screeched off, he leapt into the Mercedes. Ankerita saw him driving away... in the other direction. She put her foot on the brake.

  “What’s going on?” There was a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach as she drove more slowly, trying to think. She was concentrating so much, that she almost steered off a quay into the water. She wrenched the wheel. “That would be the end,” she muttered. “Drowned while trying to escape. That would suit them just fine. Be calm, my lady, and find the way out of this warren.”

  She tried another route, came to a dead-end and had to reverse. At the exit, she looked fearfully up and down the road beside the water. There was still no pursuit.

  “I’m lost.” The panic built, but she tried to think calmly. “That way?” It led to another dead-end. “Try the next one. Ah, I recognise that building. I’m sure this is the right road.”