Gideon's Angel

by Clifford Beal

“Payment?” I asked her.

  “One silver thaler... deferred for the moment.”

  I smiled at her, as one of the few pleasant memories of Germany flooded back to me.

  Billy and I were soon out into the deafening madness of the Dials, the experience of the past few minutes already seeming only half real. “Did you really know that woman?” asked Billy, as we made our way back to the piazza and towards the river.

  “Billy, I still truly do not know that woman—nor am ever likely to.”

  “Sturdy, handsome creature, though,” said Billy.

  We arrived back at the Bear as the sun was sinking, the purple of twilight already settled upon the sky in the east. Even as we had walked quickly across London Bridge, I had suddenly felt the quiet teasing of my Beast, tugging at my gorge. My breaths started coming faster and shallower. By the time we reached our chamber, it had me fully in its grasp. I just managed to unbuckle my belt and promptly fell upon the rack, a shivering heap. Poor Billy must have thought I had been stricken with the plague. He kept asking what it was that ailed me, as he tried to pinion my legs that were kicking about, quite beyond my conscious control. I wrapped my arms about myself, turning upon my side, mouth open like a gasping fish. And I could hear my heart pounding on my ribs so hard I thought it might burst. I somehow cried out for Billy to leave me be, but he tried to cover me with a blanket and threatened to fetch a physician.

  “No, do not!” I said between short breaths. “It’s no fever. It will pass.”

  “Fucking hell, Mister Eff. You’re causing me a fright like a fellow I knew in the regiment who had the falling sickness. You never knew when he was going to flop. What do I do?”

  “Just stay,” I said, teeth rattling. Billy nodded. And there were no further words between us for near upon an hour. Slowly, I felt the anxiousness melt away, the shaking stopped, and I fell asleep like a babe, worn out with the struggle.

  The next I knew, Billy was nudging me to wakefulness, the room in darkness except for a single candle.

  “Are you whole again, sir?”

  “What’s the matter?”

  Billy’s voice was strained, his words tumbling out almost in a whisper. “It’s one of the kitchen boys downstairs. He’s in the tap room telling anyone who’ll listen that he saw a goblin out in the alley tonight.”

  I was up in an instant, flinging the blanket from me. “One of our winged friends?”

  Billy shook his head. “Don’t know rightly. Just said it was a black thing, standing upright like a man and skulking around the back, all hunched over like and grunting like a pig.”

  That we could have been tracked again so quickly since our arrival startled me and the remnant of my invisible Beast blew away. “Get our kit. We must leave this place now.”

  “But the innkeeper saw nothing and the men downstairs are laughing about it.”

  “I’m not taking any chances with the enemy we’re dealing with,” I said, strapping on my sword. “We’ll find a place to hole up in somewhere out on the bridge.”

  Billy was looking at me, his expression a mix of concern and doubt.

  “Are you whole again, Mister Eff?”

  And in a flash I realised that I had revealed my weakness to him, the only man who knew of my malady. That this put me at a disadvantage there was no doubt. I had to take charge if for no other reason than to reassure Billy not to abandon me, or betray me.

  “It was just a passing illness, some stomach gripe. But I’m not about to keep running away from Fludd’s minions since it’s clear they can track us whenever they choose. We take the fight to them now. Show me where this thing was seen in the alley.”

  Billy’s eyebrows rose for a second, and then he nodded.

  “I’ll load the pistol.”

  WE STEPPED CAUTIOUSLY down into the little maze of alleys behind the inn, the stink of beer and piss strong in our nostrils. Dogs were barking a few streets away and I could still hear late revellers down on the High Street which led to the barbican at the foot of London Bridge. Our eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, the only light a crescent moon that played hide and seek with the clouds. The way was so narrow that we would not be able to stand abreast and fight. Billy took up position at my left shoulder and a pace behind. I walked forward, upriver, headed towards the Clink prison and down to the great church of St Mary’s.

  My eyes and ears strained to detect any movement. The occasional perpendicular passage spilled random torchlight onto our path, creating threatening shadows that took on diabolical shapes. And then, a new scent wafted towards me, a smell that stopped me full in my boots. I glanced back to Billy who was looking at me with fear written all over his sweating face. He had recognised the smell as had I. It was not the smell of the tannery vats. It was the stench of rotting flesh, a sweet and sickening odour I knew well from years of war. And it was growing stronger. I began moving forward again with my rapier extended, the only sound the echoing clop our boots made on the cobbles. And then, a new sound came to us. It was a sort of scrabbling, a scratching of claws on wood, like some cat scrambling up a door.

  I was hit from above. Something big had pounced on me and I was thrown against the far wall and then to the ground. A deep squeal like that of a hog echoed in my ears as I shook my head and braced myself to stand again, my sword arm swinging wide and my blade whistling through naught but air. As I raised myself up again, I could see it, standing three yards from my nose. There was just enough light to make out its face though I wish to God there had not been. It was naked, skin glistening like grey wet leather. It was manlike, standing upright, but there all resemblance ended.

  It was as large as a bear, its legs bowed outward, the arms absurdly long and the slim fingers and claws drooping like the branches of an enchanted willow. And its head was that of a boar and man combined, a stinking creature whose eyes were large and white. In that instant we glared at each other and I saw some strange intelligence in its hideous face. A flash erupted from behind me and a loud report set my ears ringing. Billy had fired. The beast staggered back screeching, for he had found the mark, but then I quickly saw the shot had done the thing little harm. It raised its arms and crouched as if to spring at us. I cried out and ran forward to skewer it while I had the chance.

  It lashed an arm towards me to ward off the blow, then turned tail and made off, splayed feet slapping loudly on the cobbles. And I without a second thought gave chase, Billy’s cries echoing behind me. It was unnaturally fast and it was outpacing me further every second. The alley opened up onto some yard as we entered the outskirts of the church and I could just see it hopping towards the river, and it was grunting as it did so. I lost it near the high bank where the Thames lay and heard a terrific splash as the beast leapt into the swirling waters.

  I leaned against a wall to catch my breath and Billy was soon at my side. “It’s gone,” I rasped. “Into the river.”

  “Mother of God, did you see it? Did you see it?” Billy’s arms were shaking.

  “Yes, I saw it. But why did it run? It was big enough to tear me in two.”

  Billy stood next to me, sucking in breaths. He leaned his backside against the wall, clutching his smoking pistol like some charm. “We must have given it a fright, you and me, eh?” And he coughed out a laugh.

  “No, it was something else. It was almost as if it didn’t think it had the strength to take us. I saw its face. The bloody thing was actually thinking—calculating what it could do. And it ran. But by Jesus, why?”

  Billy just shook his head. “This is bad business, sir, black business for sure. Now what shall we do?”

  I rested my blade in my gloved hand as I looked out onto London. The smell of death had disappeared. “Tonight, we stay on London Bridge. Tomorrow we search out this Mister Ashmole of Lambeth. And may God help us. We need to make some powerful allies before the enemy has a chance to strike at Cromwell, or at us again. And I don’t reckon that time is with us, Billy, not with us at all.”

  Chapter
Thirteen

  “THAT WILL BE sixpence, my dear fellow.”

  I blinked, not really understanding what I was supposed to be paying for. As it was known to every passerby, we had been directed without too much difficulty to the house of John Tradescant in Lambeth. I entered the front door and was met by a gentleman a few years younger than me, sandy-haired with a handsome ruddy brown face. His large green eyes shone with an almost peculiar eagerness to welcome.

  “I’m afraid you are mistaken, sir. I am seeking Mister Elias Ashmole.”

  “Aren’t you here to see the collection? The Ark... The cabinet of curiosities!”

  I shook my head. “I am unaware of any collection. I have business with Mister Ashmole, though.”

  “Ah,” he said, taking a half step back and inclining his head. “I am sorry to have presumed. I am Elias Ashmole. And who do I have the honour of addressing?”

  I hesitated. “I am Andreas Falkenhayn. A mutual acquaintance suggested you might be able to offer me some assistance.”

  “Mister Falkenhayn... I see. And who was it that directed you to me?” Instantly, his look shifted to one of mistrust.

  “Anya... in the Seven Dials.”

  Now his eyes expressed not scepticism but instead, curiosity. “Come with me, sir, into the collection room. We can speak freely there.”

  I followed him into the fine, grand house. Walking past a window, I glimpsed Billy near the horses, marvelling at the massive archway in the courtyard formed from the ribs of a long-dead grampus.

  “My host, Mister Tradescant, is away visiting relations,” said Ashmole, striding across the corridor in front of me. “I am carrying on with my cataloguing of his collection... the one you have not heard of.” We passed through dark-stained oaken double doors and were in a large chamber, very bright and lit by eight great diamond-paned windows. It was without doubt, the strangest room I had seen in my life and my widening eyes drank in wondrous, exotic sights: a stuffed salamander, a chameleon, a pelican, a flying squirrel, another squirrel like a fish, all kinds of bright coloured birds from the Orient. A whole fantastical menagerie of things looked ready to leap upon me. Another view brought to the eye an ape’s head, seashells, the hand of a mermaid (said the label), the hand of a mummy, all kinds of precious stones, coins, a picture wrought in feathers, a little box in which a landscape is seen in perspective, two cups fashioned of a rhinoceros horn, many Turkish and other foreign shoes and boots, a sea parrot, a toad-fish, an elk’s hoof with three claws, and a bat as large as a small dog.

  “Mister Tradescant inherited much of this from his father. But he is himself an inveterate collector of curiosities, both natural and fashioned by the hand of man. Still, it all has to be identified and categorised, you see. It will take many months.”

  “I am told you are an astrologer, sir.”

  Ashmole stopped and turned to face me again. “I dabble in mathematics, in casting projections and in the alchemical sciences. Which is why I imagine you were in the shop of our common acquaintance.” He clasped his hands behind his back and leaned against a cabinet. “And what is it that you require of me, Mister Falkenhayn?”

  “Wisdom, sir, if you can provide it.” And I pulled out the medallion that had weighed so heavily upon me. “Do you have any science of this object, sir?”

  Ashmole took it from my grasp, inclined his head in interest or confusion, then took a few steps to a window to gain a better vantage of light. I could hear him breathing loudly as he contemplated the strange inscriptions. After a few moments he looked up at me. “May I enquire where you obtained this?”

  “From these shores, sir. The circumstances I am not yet at liberty to discuss.”

  Ashmole smiled. “That sounds devious, Mister Falkenhayn.”

  “Can you tell me what it is? What it says?”

  Ashmole returned his attentions to the medallion. “It is silver. But very impure by the looks of it. The design on the obverse I cannot really decipher, other than it seems to portray a portal or gateway. But I can tell you what is written along here. Along the right it is Latin.”

  I followed his finger as he spoke and traced along the script. “‘He hath broken the Gates of brass, and smitten the bars of iron in sunder.’ That is from the Book of Psalms. And here, down the left side of the gate, it is written in Hebrew. ‘Schioel, Vaol, Yashiel, Vehiel.’ Names, obviously, but I have no knowledge of them. And finally, here, at the centre, the Tetragrammaton.”

  I suddenly leaned in closer. “The Tetragrammaton!”

  “Why yes, the Hebrew characters spelling out the name of Jehovah. And now, the reverse.” He carefully turned over the disc. “I think this could be a maker’s mark but it is not something I can readily identify. Very curious. If it is an alchemical symbol, well, I have not seen it before. Aye then, there you have it.” He proffered the object to me again.

  “But its purpose. What is it used for?”

  Ashmole shrugged. “That I cannot tell you for I do not think I have ever seen anything quite like it before. It could be part of Hebrew ceremonial practice but the Latin inscription seems to contradict that... I presume you are here to sell it?”

  I could feel my shoulders slump at his words. I shifted my stance. “No. That is not my intention. But I can tell you that its derivation may be a matter of life and death. I will also confide that Anya says it is purposed for magic. Dark magic. I have more to tell you, sir, but you will understand that we scarcely know one another.”

  Ashmole raised a hand. “Say no more. I would not ask you to reveal that which you may not. But if Anya sent you here... Well, I trust her judgement in such matters. Dark magic, you say?”

  “I can tell you sir, that I have seen things of late that would shiver you to your marrow. And I do not exaggerate when I tell you that lives are in the balance. Maybe the kingdom too.”

  Ashmole rounded his lips and exhaled loudly. “It’s clear that you carry a great burden upon your mind, Mister Falkenhayn.” He stared at me for a moment, taking my measure. “Very well. I do know of someone who might be able to offer more science of this disc than I. But I will need your solemn word as a gentleman that if I make an introduction you will exercise the utmost discretion and secrecy.”

  “I will swear it. Anything to help me in what I must do.”

  “And your servant outside. Is he privy to your quest?”

  “Billy has witnessed much alongside me. I vouchsafe him.”

  Ashmole gave a nod. “Then we must go into London town. To a most excellent wine merchant I know.”

  My mouth opened to speak, but Elias Ashmole raised a hand to his lips. “All in good time, Mister Falkenhayn, all in good time.”

  BY THE TIME we reached Cheapside, it was late in the afternoon. Ashmole naturally plied me with questions the whole of the way, which I did my utmost to deflect. But he was certainly no believer in my identity and, worryingly, acted like a man who was on the verge of remembering some important fact, long forgotten.

  “You have the look of a former king’s man, sir,” he said airily. I remained expressionless. “Fear not,” he continued, “I was once too... an officer of artillery.”

  I nodded. Billy shifted in his seat uncomfortably and moved aside the leather curtain from the coach window as we wobbled forward.

  “Long time passing, Mister Ashmole, long time passing,” I said. Ashmole smiled and nodded in return, but the wheels were turning inside his head.

  The coach slowed and came to rest. Mr. Ashmole leapt out and we followed. We came to a shop front on a small street off Leadenhall, clearly a wine merchant’s from the bottles stacked in the windows. Ashmole turned to me, his hand upon the door handle.

  “Will Billy Chard be waiting outside for us?”

  “His own testimony is valuable to the present situation, sir. I would prefer he accompany us inside,” I said.

  “Very well. Let us find our man.”

  The shop, a large front room with a tapestry-hung doorway at the rear, was a
ll dark wood and whitewashed plaster bereft of decoration. But the shelves were full of brown bottles and jugs of a dozen shapes and sizes, red wax seals dripping down their stoppers, some caked in months of dust. A large, high table stood next to the rear doorway, and behind this, I could just discern the head, shoulders, and chest of a man dressed in black. As we entered, he jumped up from the book he was struggling to read by the light of a single candlestick.

  “Bless me,” he cried out as he attempted to extricate himself from behind the table. “Mister Elias Ashmole! How pleasant a surprise, sir!” His accent was lisping, and familiar for I had heard it among Spaniards in Flanders.

  Ashmole grasped me by the shoulder and brought me forward. “Mister Falkenhayn, I would like to introduce you to Senor Roderigo da Silva, a man who imports the finest Canary and Malmsey in the kingdom.”

  Da Silva looked at me and inclined his head. “Mister Falkenhayn, my pleasure, sir.” He was a little man with a balding pate which still boasted long white hair at least upon the back and sides and a scraggly sparse sort of grey beard that descended down his neck. As he stepped into the light at the centre of the room, I could see his face was deep-furrowed, a sort of map of a long and careworn life, easily read by anyone who saw him.

  “Senor da Silva,” said Ashmole, “we are here on some rather delicate business. Mister Falkenhayn has an object I was hoping you could help to shed some light upon. Mister Falkenhayn, can you produce the medal please?”

  I pulled it out and handed it to the old man. He held it close to his face and made an irritated clucking. “I shall need more light to shed more light, gentlemen,” he said as he scuttled back to his table and fetched more tapers, lighting them from the already burning one. We three stood on the opposite side from him, watching as he traced the etchings with his forefinger. Suddenly he stopped, looked at me briefly but intensely, and ordered Ashmole to put the bolt upon the door.

  “Do you know who I am, Mister Falkenhayn?” he asked me, deadly earnest.