“No, sir. Mister Ashmole has revealed only your profession,” I said.
“I am a converso, senor. From Lisbon.”
I shook my head in incomprehension.
“I am a Jew. And I know what this object is. The question is, how did you obtain it?”
“I would rather hear first what you say it is.”
Roderigo da Silva pushed the disc away from him across the table top. “I shall tell you nothing until you reveal the story of this thing in full. I do not think you understand the import of this object—or its danger.”
Ashmole began to look alarmed.
I had come this far and it seemed the only way forward was to risk all.
“If I reveal the story of this object, I place my own person in grave jeopardy. I have already told Mister Ashmole that lives hang in the balance. So, I must place my trust in you gentlemen.”
Da Silva’s voice was quiet but firm. “And I have revealed myself to you, still a stranger, as a Jew. The few of us here are forced to live a lie—to preserve our secret—if we are to survive in this country. I ask you to trust me with your tale, and Mister Ashmole, whom I would trust with my life.”
And so I told the whole horrid story, leaving out, of course, the purpose of my mission to England or any mention of d’Artagnan or Maggie. But I told them my true identity (and watched Billy grin a mile in self-congratulation). The whole affair spilled out of me over the ensuing minutes. Ashmole’s face went pale, jaw slack, as he listened. As I reached the part where the black dog appeared, and then the winged apes, Billy exclaimed an “aye” or two to lend support. Roderigo muttered something in Hebrew, the same phrase, over and over. A prayer, I supposed. And finally, I told them of the previous night and the creature in the alley in Southwark. And when I stopped talking there was nothing but silence all around.
“Colonel Richard Treadwell,” said Ashmole, softly. “Yes, I remember now. The duel at the Tower, then your exile to France. My God, sir. You returned to find your family.”
I was glad I had omitted any word of Royalist plotting, as the present situation was dire enough. But da Silva had no words of admiration for me. He was as intent as a magistrate, demanding to hear the elements once again. In particular, what Fludd and his men had performed that night in the house outside Exeter—and what it was they had summoned.
“Colonel—”
“Mister Falkenhayn, if you value my life, sir.”
Da Silva waved his hand and nodded. “Mister Falkenhayn, tell me the name of this angel that Gideon Fludd was speaking with. Be exact as you can remember.”
“I shall not forget the moment. It’s burned into me. He addressed it as Eistibus.”
“I see. Let me now go back to this device and explain to you its purpose.” Roderigo’s voice was heavy, almost tired. He picked up the disc and held it towards us. “This is called a lamen. It was fashioned from instructions contained in the Key of Solomon, an ancient grimoire of magic. The Latin and Hebrew phrases are clear: it invokes the name of the Lord and mentions several angels by name—Schioel, Vaol, Yashiel, Vehiel. The lamen is meant to be worn by a magister, a conjurer, when he calls an entity of the ether.”
“Dear sweet God,” muttered Ashmole, leaning heavily upon the table.
“So Fludd did call forth the angel Eistibus, even without this disc in his possession,” I said.
“No,” said da Silva. “This side of the lamen is inscribed to protect the conjuror from harm. The other side tells me what creature he was attempting to conjure forth.” He turned over the disc and pointed to the smallish symbol inscribed.
“This is also from the Key of Solomon. It is the symbol for Andras, reputed to be a powerful demon. That is what your Fifth Monarchists are playing with, sir.”
I was strangely relieved in spite of this dreadful news. “I knew no angel of the Lord would demand the murder of a man. But how do you have such knowledge of these things, even if you are a Jew?”
Ashmole spoke up. “He is called a rabbi, a Hebrew cleric. He is greatly learned in this and more.”
“I am no conjurer,” said da Silva. “But I know the teachings of the Talmud and how to guard against wickedness and evil. And I am familiar with the Key of Solomon, which can be used for good as well as bad.”
“How could Gideon Fludd magic up this demon without that there medal?” asked Billy, joining in, unbidden, in the best spirit of the Ranters.
The old man nodded. “He must have another pentacle, for that is what this is. They are easily fabricated but useless unless consecrated by the proper ceremony, by someone possessed of the knowledge of incantation. You hold here, Mister Falkenhayn, the First Pentacle of the Moon. It is designed to help call forth and to control a demon who is ruled by that planet and whose earthly power waxes and wanes as does the moon during the month. It can also be used with the right incantation, to open any locked door—it is the only such pentacle with that power. There are other pentacles, for all the planets. But Andras is a creature ruled by the moon.”
“What does the Key of Solomon say about the demon Andras?” asked Ashmole.
Da Silva teased out his beard, nervously. “I have not committed that work to memory. It is frowned upon by the devout and if it was recorded by the hand of King Solomon then it was for him and him alone. I do remember that Andras is a Grand Marquis of Hell with many minions at his call. He can impart to those he favours the ability to pursue and destroy enemies. His chief desire is to sow discord and division among men, to breed war, to hide the truth, and to appear to the gullible as a being of goodness and light.”
“A being of goodness and light... an angel,” I said.
“Yes, an angel. And this fool of a man is dicing with death and eternal damnation. For it would appear that Andras is intent on having the Lord General murdered. Ironic in a way, this Gideon Fludd.”
“What do you mean?” asked Ashmole, still not recovered from these waves of revelation.
“Why surely you remember your Bible, Elias. The name Gideon means destroyer. And Gideon was chosen by God to lead the Israelites against their enemies.”
Ashmole turned to me. “Sir, upon your word as a gentleman, you have heard this conspiracy against Cromwell with your own ears? You have seen these hellish minions with your own eyes?”
“Upon my honour and my life,” I said, “I have seen and heard these things.”
“As have I!” piped up Billy again.
“What are we to do, then?” said Ashmole, turning back to the Jew.
“Whatever we are to do,” said da Silva, “we have little time to do it. The moon waxes full in two days.”
“Could the Craft be of aid?” asked Ashmole.
“It is possible,” said da Silva. “You have brothers close to the Council. Perhaps they might be able to warn Cromwell if you can get an audience.”
“What is the Craft?” I asked, completely at a loss.
“I am an Accepted Freemason. A brother of the Craft. As a secret society there is none older or wiser.”
“But surely,” I stuttered. “He is a Hebrew wine merchant, you are by your own admission a Royalist and you’re saying you’re in league with Parliament men too?”
“We seek to become better men and to understand God’s wisdom,” said Ashmole solemnly. “And these things surpass the petty politics of country and kingdoms.”
It was only then that we became aware of cries and heavy footfalls outside in the street. We watched someone flash by the front of the shop, heading east. Billy moved to the door, clearly worried about riot, and volunteered to search out the disturbance. Da Silva nodded his assent and Billy went out, disappearing from view.
“But could Cromwell even be convinced of this plot?” I said. “Who would believe such things had come to pass? He will laugh it away.”
“We count among our brethren Cromwell’s astrologer,” said Ashmole. “We can but try and warn him. But so too, we must protect your secret. You have returned here under sentence of
death.”
“I need no reminder of that fact, Mister Ashmole.”
And at that moment the tapestry whipped back, revealing a young woman in a fury. A lace cap hid most of her jet black hair, pulled back tightly from her forehead, and her almond eyes were large and round, set perfectly in a face of sharp angles: chin, cheekbones, and nose. Her skin was deepest olive, almost polished bronze.
“Father, are you mad?” She had placed herself between me and the old man, her hands on her hips as if she was ready to fight us all.
Da Silva flew off in a rage, embarrassed by her eavesdropping. “Get upstairs! Now. You forget your place in this household.”
“I will not! How can you think of aiding these men? Do you really think you will help our people by harbouring Cromwell’s enemies? They will surely drive us out for this.”
Da Silva’s face flushed red and he suddenly gripped the girl by her arm, shaking her as he spoke. “Do not tell me my business, woman! My first duty is to serve God and to help those in need.”
She shook off his hand and spat out what must have been an oath in Portuguese. “We are marranos. And we shall always be so. Hiding and running and lying. And now you’re risking it all again.”
“Enough.” Da Silva looked away, shuffling again to the other side of the work table, shamed for his outburst and stung by her words.
She next turned on Ashmole. “How could you involve him, sir? You know our situation better than most.” Her eyes were rapidly welling up with tears. She fixed me with a look of utter pleading but did not give words to her thoughts. And I could find no words either. She gave a short cry of frustration and fled the room and we could hear her feet pounding up the staircase in the back of the house.
Da Silva exhaled loudly. “I am deeply sorry for her behaviour, gentlemen. But you must realise her upbringing... she has faced great hardship in Portugal and in Antwerp. The loss of her mother two years ago, just after we arrived here, well, that too has taken its toll.”
Ashmole and I nodded in sympathy, and I felt guilty for bringing this heavy burden into da Silva’s house.
“She is only doing her duty to look out for her father’s safety,” I told him. “Don’t chastise her for her devotion.”
A pounding on the shop door brought us around. There was Billy, breathless and wide-eyed through the glass window. He hammered upon the door until Ashmole lifted the latch lock and he fell inside, ready to explode. “Well, it’s done! The cat is among the pigeons now. Cromwell has chucked out the whole of the House. He is ruling by the Council alone. Parliament is no more.”
“It is as the demon foretold,” I said, my head swimming at the news. It was unfolding like clockwork, relentless and inevitable. “And now that he has abolished Parliament, Fludd will strike him down.”
Da Silva placed his palms down upon the table. “And so it begins.” And then he quietly said what Ashmole told me was a Hebrew prayer. “Shema Yisrael Adonai Eloheinu Adonai Echad.”
I thought of the frightened girl upstairs, of all the people I was dragging into this nightmare, and my belly and bollocks tightened just as if I had entered battle. I now realised the mortal danger we all faced. I could read it plain enough in the eyes of Roderigo da Silva. He believed my tale fully—and he feared the outcome.
Chapter Fourteen
AS A GRIZZLED wherryman rowed us back across the Thames, we three were mostly silent, consumed by our own thoughts and dreads. Billy pulled out his pipe and tobacco and intently stuffed his bowl, grunting as if in some conversation with himself. For my part, I was glad of finding answers to the mystery but was now even more terrified of what lay ahead. Part of me wanted to let fate take its course as far as Mr. Cromwell was concerned, but I knew that was only one strand of the problem that I faced. Gideon Fludd would never cease hunting for me until one of us was dead. And our new comrade, Elias Ashmole, numerologist and astrologer, had yet to recover his rosy hue since hearing what was chasing us from out of the netherworld. He sat hunched and drawn, looking at his feet or blankly out onto the brown waters.
And my thoughts turned to Maggie. Was she now huddled below deck on some merchantman, bound for France? Or was she languishing still in Lyme Regis, awaiting d’Artagnan’s return? I felt I had killed her love for me stone dead, and I prayed that as days passed her heart would forgive me for what I had done. The incessant squeak of the oarlocks was maddening, but slowly, leafy Lambeth hove into view once again. We bumped alongside the stone stairs slick with green slime, and the old boatman grabbed at the ring that hung there and pulled up alongside. We clambered out of the wobbling boat and up the stairs, prepared for the short walk back to the museum of Mr. Tradescant.
“Will Senor da Silva find us some way to protect us against this demon and his servants in this great book of his?” I asked Ashmole.
“I don’t know. He says himself that he is no magician, but by God, he is a very learned man. If anyone can find some means to protect us from that evil, it’s him.”
“Christ, two days is but little time to find proof against the Devil.”
Ashmole nodded. “I cannot disagree. And I am equally despairing of convincing the Council of the danger. But I must try. At least my brothers in the Craft will believe me. Together, we may be able to get John Thurloe to take it seriously. But it’s an astounding claim and will be a difficult task. Your situation, sir, does not help that.”
I stopped up short. “What do you mean.”
Ashmole turned and faced me. “What am I to answer when I’m asked about who brings this incredible news of a conspiracy? Say that the news was fetched by a Cavalier running about London with a death warrant hanging over his head? A man who is claiming that demons are here to murder the Lord General and the Council of State? Cromwell will think you’re mad or just looking for a pardon. And he’ll think me a fool.”
Ashmole’s hand rubbed at his temple, his eyes shut tightly. “I have to think about this, and think hard. The worst is that they will believe nothing of it and swoop down upon you before you can get out of the country.”
“I would go straight to Cromwell myself and tell him with my own words, if that is what it would take.”
Ashmole looked up at me and smiled weakly. “What is it, sir, that makes you think you have such a duty to your old enemy?”
“A life for a life, Mister Ashmole,” I said. “My honour demands it.”
Ashmole nodded. “Ah, now that makes sense. So it was Cromwell himself who commuted your sentence of death to one of exile, was it?”
I watched as Ashmole’s large green eyes suddenly widened a bit as some new idea flew into his mind. He wagged a finger at me. “Yes, it might do. It might do very well indeed. You are, after all, a gentleman of good character.”
I looked over to Billy who shrugged his shoulders in response. Ashmole beckoned with his arm and resumed his pace back towards the house. “Come along, now! There is little time to be wasted.”
“What is it that you propose?” I asked, catching him up. “Some means we can convince the Council quickly?”
“No sir, but what I propose will safeguard you at least and gain the trust of some influential friends. A Freemason must strive to protect his fellows in the Craft, to give them aid and to accept their word as oath. If I am to confide the existence of this conspiracy to the brotherhood—and your existence as well—then it is obvious that you must become an Accepted Freemason too.”
“But I know nothing of this secret society, sir. Nor whether I want to join or even that your friends would tolerate it.”
“Don’t worry about that. I can instruct you in the history of the Craft straight away. The difficulty will be in gathering the Lodge for tomorrow. We need at least half a dozen of the brotherhood.” And, his pace quickening, he forged ahead. “There will be little sleep for us tonight, Mister Falkenhayn! Much to be done.”
I SENT BILLY back to Southwark to procure us a room on London Bridge, giving him a handful of silver. I told him I would ret
urn in the evening and instructed that he leave word of the new lodgings he procured at the Bear so I could find the place later.
He mounted up and took up the slack on his reins. “Are you sure we’re settled on the right course, Mister Eff? We don’t know nothing about these men. We don’t know their fucking secret society, and we don’t know that we won’t both end up in irons tomorrow.” His face was particularly grim and pinched, even for Billy, and I was worried.
“Come now, Billy Chard. Are you thinking of running out on me now? After all we’ve been through?”
“No sir,” he said, staring me in the eye. “I reckon I’ve got my own answers to find in all of this. If I’ve seen some wondrous bad things then it stands to reason there must be wondrous good too. I need to know that to make sense of this. Can you argufy against that, Mister Eff?”
“I cannot, Billy. I will see you after nightfall. Have a care back there at the bridge.”
As he set off, I felt sad in my heart for him. He was a hard worn soldier who had become convinced that there was no such thing as evil in the world, only God’s goodness. But now he had seen with his own eyes an evil that few men are faced with in their entire lives. As for me, I had no such doubts. My only question was why God seemed so uninterested in it all. If poor Billy had ridden off there and then for the west, I could not have held it against him.
Elias Ashmole was waiting for me in the chamber of curiosities, an open bottle of da Silva’s Malmsey and two glasses on the table at the centre.
“Here. If you feel as I, you could use a drop or two.” He pushed a glass over to me. I took a long gulp, palming the dainty vessel with both hands. It was difficult to keep my eyes from the stuffed crocodile suspended over Ashmole’s head.
“Tell me more about this Craft you would have me join,” I said.
“I can tell you some of the history but not all. The rest will have to wait until you are initiated. God willing, that will be tomorrow assuming I can get letters out by messengers this afternoon.”
Gideon's Angel Page 16