Lilly’s sad, drooping eyelids arched high as he laughed. “The Craft brings together all sorts, joined in fellowship. Fear not. Brother Ashmole has confided your news and we recognise the risk you take in coming here. Let me introduce your fellow Lodge brothers. I am William Lilly and these gentlemen are Thomas Wharton, William Backhouse, and Robert Childe.” All three men gave a slight bow as they were named.
“May I bring in my guest now?” asked Ashmole.
“Yes, of course. Have Senor da Silva brought upstairs,” said Lilly. “And now,” he continued, gesturing to the table, “I suggest we take our meal and begin discussing the situation that our brother Tread– Falkenhayn finds himself in.”
I had passed from stranger to confidant in less time than it takes to sneeze. And now these men, still blank pages to me, had undertaken to share my troubles or at least safeguard me from harm. I was dumbstruck.
“Let us get down to business,” said Lilly as he poured out the wine. “I learned last night that Mister Thurloe’s spies are well aware of an impending plot against the Lord General’s person. Unfortunately, his hounds are on the wrong scent. You see, the French ambassador has claimed that you, Richard, are the chief conspirator, here as a rogue agent.”
I kept my mouth shut.
“But as we have been advised by our friend and brother Ashmole, it is a group of rogue Fifth Monarchy men who are seeking to do murder, as discovered by our brother Falkenhayn. And these Monarchy men—it has been alleged—are in league with spirits of the ether.” Lilly raised his hands as Mr. Wharton began to object. “I know that this point is open to contention, based as it is only upon the word of Mister Falkenhayn. But I must tell you that from the details given me by Messieurs Ashmole and da Silva, combined with my own recent astrological figures, I believe that we are facing a threat not altogether of this sphere.”
Da Silva, who had just shuffled in and sat himself down at the table, was nodding vigorously in agreement. Wharton was frowning with scepticism while the others remained unreadable.
“Come now,” urged Lilly, “we are all occult philosophers here in this room. We have all seen or read of the possibilities. And remember Doctor Dee’s visitations with the spirits. Not least our own Holy Book that details many such encounters. I must tell you that the enemy is known to possess at least one Pentacle of the Moon for conjuring. Monday, I needn’t remind you, is the full moon.”
Wharton leaned forward. “You mean that these Fifth Monarchists are performing conjurations—of angels and spirits?”
“They are raising demons!” I said, unable to contain myself further. “And I have seen and faced them in the last few days.”
A silence descended upon the table. The brothers of the Craft cast glances, one to another, some in full belief of the threat, others unable to decide.
Lilly rose and went to a cabinet at the side of the room. He returned with a rolled-up piece of velvet and took his seat again. “If we are facing an attack by the supernatural, by beings of the ether, then Thurloe’s men and the army will never even see it coming. We must fight fire with fire. The enemy may have pentacles of his own to summon evil, but we have something more.”
He unrolled the round piece of cloth, the size of a brass charger, and upon it was painted in painstaking detail a glorious calligraphy: a series of golden circles, hexagons, and Hebrew words. “Behold, gentlemen, the Grand Pentacle of Solomon.”
The others all craned or stood to see the device as Lilly held it open upon the table.
“And, gentlemen... one of us must learn to use it.”
Chapter Fifteen
THE HEAVY SILENCE around the table was broken by the sound of Robert Childe’s stomach rumbling its discontent. And the silence made me despair that I would find help even among these men of magic and mystery. Not one had volunteered to fight against Fludd’s demons, and Lilly, master of the Lodge, had not even offered to take up the gauntlet. But then, someone did finally rise and speak his mind.
“This is my task, gentlemen,” said Roderigo da Silva, looking straight into my eyes. “As a man of God it falls to me and no one else here.”
Nods all around the table.
“We are physicians and astrologers, whereas you are clergy, sir,” said Lilly, somewhat awkwardly. “I mean, that is to say... clergy after a fashion.”
Da Silva inclined his head in recognition of the fact he was no Christian. “I do have some knowledge of the grimoires and of Kabbalistic teachings as Mister Ashmole will himself attest. More importantly, I have my faith. I am not afraid.”
I looked from face to face as my new brothers studied their plates and twirled their glasses. “And what will the rest of you do?” I asked. “Consult the stars or say a prayer?”
“Brother Falkenhayn,” said Lilly as he stretched out his hand to stay my outburst, “we are still discussing the point.”
“If I could show you the wounds of my comrade, inflicted by a hellish beast not a week ago, would you believe me then, gentlemen?”
“I believe you now,” said Elias Ashmole, raising his voice for effect. “And though it may be small help I will accompany you and Senor da Silva in meeting the enemy when we must. I can still wield a sword.”
This rather visibly unmanned the others and Doctor Wharton quickly spoke up to save his honour.
“The best course of action is for myself and Mister Lilly to pay call upon John Thurloe and convince him of the threat to the Lord General’s safety. We do, after all, have some influence with the Council. Influence that is not universal even at this table.”
Lilly nodded vigorously in agreement. “Then we have our plan. Brother Ashmole and Mister da Silva will accompany Brother Falkenhayn in directly searching out the Fifth Monarchy men while the rest of us will make a mission to the spymaster’s office. Now, gentlemen, let us fortify ourselves for the days ahead.”
It was mid-afternoon by the time we went our ways. Da Silva asked Ashmole and me to accompany him back to his shop that we might put meat on the bones of our thin plan of attack. I couldn’t help feeling the suspicion that even Roderigo da Silva did not really know how we were going to defeat Gideon Fludd or the entity that he was playing with. It was almost as if now that he had taken the responsibility for the fight, the reality of the challenge had struck him hard. Back in da Silva’s house, I watched as the Jew unrolled the pentacle scroll upon his work table and traced his fingers along the myriad of inscriptions that encircled it.
“I have but little time to learn the invocations for this pentacle,” he said, his voice heavy.
“And what would these invocations accomplish?” I asked.
“Pentacles serve two main purposes,” said da Silva. “They can raise spirits both good and evil, and they can keep one safe in the presence of these beings of the ether—of heaven and hell. But one must know what to recite and when, otherwise the pentacle is nearly useless.”
“But how can we use this to stop Fludd and his demon?”
Da Silva’s look chilled me. “I don’t know if we can stop them. The power of this Grand Pentacle should trump whatever Pentacle of the Moon that Fludd is using... but I have never undertaken such a thing as this.”
Elias looked at me, his face written with worry.
“Senor, you must learn to wield this,” I said. “We have little else at our disposal and even less time to find it.”
Da Silva nodded. “I can set up a ring of sanctuary to keep the evil ones at bay. That is documented well enough. But I have never tried to raise the spirits of the ether. I never dared to. Never had to.”
“To create a magic circle would be help enough,” said Elias, encouragingly.
“You must know now, gentlemen,” said da Silva looking up at both of us, “that I will not conjure any demon, black spirit, or creature—even if it might help our cause. My religion forbids this and you must not ask me to do such a thing.”
“What else can you think of then?” I asked. “Weapons that will do them hurt?”
Da Silva shut his eyes briefly, as if gathering the will, then started turning pages in one of the great books that he had pulled up from underneath the table. “Yes... yes. I remember in the Talmud there is teaching on charms of protection. If this Gideon Fludd is conjuring a demon like Andras, the creature is bound by the Moon. That means that the metal silver will be of aid to us.” The wine merchant was flicking through the pages in a fury, mumbling to himself.
Ashmole brightened. “He is correct. Of the precious metals, silver rules the Moon and those agents that are bound by it. If we had some musket balls of silver...”
“Ah!” Da Silva stabbed at the page he had finally found. “We can use the Tetragrammaton and indeed all the names of God as talismans against Andras and his minions.”
“I don’t understand!” I said, my voice betraying my impatience.
Da Silva grabbed my arm. “It is powerful intercession. The letters themselves spell out the name of Jehovah, if applied properly to... to your sword... or your coat—to anything! These will banish evil for they cannot stand in the sight of the Almighty.” Da Silva was on fire, caught up now with the revelation that we did indeed have some small armoury at our disposal. He looked at me again, worried.
“You say this demon’s malignants pursue you and have attacked already?”
“They have sir.”
Da Silva nodded, reached down under the table and rummaged for something. A moment later he handed me a small lump of chalk.
“Take this. I use it for marking my wine casks but you can use it to mark out a protective circle around you if you find yourself under attack again. And you shall need an incantation to recite once you stand within.” He hurriedly scribbled on a scrap of paper that he snatched from under the book. “I write this in English for you, you understand?”
I took it from his shaking hand and read it aloud. “Be split, be accursed, broken and banned, you son of mud, son of an unclean one, son of clay, in the name of Morigo, Moriphath and his seal.”
Da Silva nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes, you must not let even a toe outside the circle and you must repeat the text until the creature flees.”
Ashmole gave me a look that spoke both apprehension and disbelief. He was getting further and further away from his comfortable world of numbers and science. I folded the paper and thrust it and the bit of chalk into my breeches pocket. “I am not a Jew, senor. Will it work for me?”
“It matters not,” replied the rabbi. “You are a child of the Lord nonetheless. Now memorise the words. It won’t do to fumble with the paper when you are facing a demon.”
I silently read the words of the incantation again. Somehow I could not even imagine reciting the prayer or curse or whatever it was if the black dog came at me again. But it seemed I had little else to fight with.
“Mister Ashmole,” said da Silva, turning his attention to the astrologer, “we need pure silver—I have some but not enough. This I can bless as we cast it into pistol balls.”
Ashmole nodded, recovering his enthusiasm for what lay ahead. “I can get this. Do you know a silversmith or goldsmith we can trust and do the deed this day?”
“I do. Mister Falkenhayn, we will have need of your sword—and yours too, Mister Ashmole. We need to have them silvered along the blade.”
My hand automatically moved to my hilt. “I’ll not part with my blade for even a minute, sir.”
“It’s all right,” said Ashmole. “I will get us swords and accompany you to the silversmith, senor.”
The rabbi straightened his hat that had slid sideways in his excitement. “Mister Falkenhayn, we must depend upon you to find the whereabouts of Fludd and his men. My art can only be of use if we are in the direct presence of the enemy.”
“Call me Richard Treadwell, senor. My alias is no longer any cloak of secrecy. And as for Gideon Fludd, I know he will be where Cromwell is when the moon is full.”
“The old royal apartments of the Cockpit, at Whitehall?” said Ashmole. “Surely not even he would have such boldness to strike there.”
“Yes, he would, Elias. And that is where we will wait to serve him in full.”
THE WHOLE WORLD was not quite right that afternoon. I walked swiftly up Fleet Street having left Ashmole and da Silva to their tasks, my anxious eyes settling upon every passerby and all the while praying I would not be challenged by a patrol. The sky was leaden grey, the light fast disappearing, and some trick of the wind had dragged down the smoke of all the chimneys, down, down from the gabled rooftops, sending creeping, wispy tendrils into the street. The acrid taste of sulphur entered my nose and mouth, my eyes burned, and all the time the low cloud roiled overhead. A certain strange heaviness permeated the atmosphere, an almost unnatural harbinger of something dreadful.
The street was full of people and horses and I weaved my way in and out at a steady clip, my eyes searching for redcoats. I would every so often pause, stand to the side with my back to the houses, and scan where I had come, just to be sure of what was following me. I had just done this for the third time when I bumped into a figure that was nearly wedged into a corner of a house front under the eaves. I quickly moved to the side and glanced down at the curious beggar. A dirty, battered felt hat obscured his face but as I took half a step back he raised his head and looked at me. He was a little man, old but not ancient, resting on a crutch. His left leg was missing below the knee and his ochre coloured breeches were practically faded dirty white, covered in road filth. His coat—a soldier’s coat—had lost all of its buttons, kept closed by a leather belt, cracked and brittle with age. The creature regarded me and gave a toothless smile as he held out his hand. I do not know why, but I was not revolted by the poor man. Perhaps it was because he had been a soldier, one whose fate might someday be mine as well.
“Hallo there, brother,” I said as I fumbled in my purse for a coin to give him. “Hard times, I see.”
He nodded slowly, and I placed a sixpence in his grubby palm. That was when I looked into his eyes. Something was not right about them, or him. It was as if someone else’s eyes had been placed in this grizzled old veteran’s skull. They were the eyes of a much younger man looking out of a broken, old carcass. And it unsettled me greatly. “Where did you fight, brother?”
“Everywhere, brother,” he replied, voice as melodious as a choirboy. “I have seen many battles. Like you have... but many more.”
“You know that, eh? Well, looking at you I’d be inclined to accept that.”
His palm slowly closed around the coin and he looked at me with those strange green eyes, bright as emeralds. “I was near to you when you took that pike in your leg at Naseby,” he said, his voice quiet and firm. “And after that at Arras in Flanders... and your first fight at the gates of Nienburg—do you remember that?”
My blood ran cold. I could say nothing. I took a step back, my mind desperately working how he could know such things. This broken down creature knew me. I drew back further, nearly knocking into a cart.
The beggar raised a hand, a gesture of farewell. “Be ever watchful, brother! And trust in your God.”
Warning or benediction, I was sore shaken. I hurriedly turned my back to him and scurried up the street. I glanced back over my shoulder for a moment, but he was already gone from view. By the time I reached the north end of London Bridge, my head was swirling with dark fantasies and conspiracies. And I could feel myself sweating like a pig. It was then I spotted a dozen dragoons gathered about a brazier in the last of the twilight, hard by the rutted cobble lane that led up to the bridge foot. Their short muskets were slung over shoulder or balanced in the crooks of their arms. They were carefully eyeing every man that set foot upon the bridge; clearly relishing their power to challenge whoever they chose. They were looking for me.
Asking a boatman down at the steps near Blackfriars to ferry me across was one way around the problem. But then it quickly occurred to me that the army would by now have every waterman in its employ too. So I stood across
the street, pulled my cloak up tight around me, and waited to see what might happen. As an old soldier, I knew the value of patience and, again, it rewarded me for my prudence. Three whores had wandered down to the bridge end, looking to cross over to the taverns in Southwark. But finding a dozen likely customers on this side of the bridge convinced them it was worth a go to remain where they were. As they struck up a merry banter with the soldiers, I slipped closer to the bridge. Now the whores were performing a song and as one bared her tits to show what was on offer, the soldiers formed a tight circle around the ladies, rapt in their attention. The sergeant, a fuzzy-bearded barrel-chested man, shouted and began cuffing one of his men who had tried sampling the wares. It was time to make a move.
I walked deliberately, but not too swiftly, down to the right of the bridge entrance and up past the wooden palisades. And I kept on walking, walking into the narrow roadway and into the jostling crowd that fought their way backwards and forwards in the gloom. The road on the bridge was dark—it was always dark because of the close overhanging houses. In a few moments, I was safely lost in the jumble of the bridge dwellers, the shops and the crooked little houses. Yet this was temporary respite from the tightening noose. It was only a matter of time before the army would find me, but I needed one more day to wait for Gideon Fludd. There was only one thing for it: I now had to stay all that night and the next day in the glover’s house with Billy. Time to wait and to pray.
I reached the house, watched suspiciously by an old man who was shuttering his shop windows next to the glover’s. I reached for the latch on the peeling and blistered red door. It lifted and the door opened inwards. It was not locked. I hesitated, my hand resting upon the jamb as the hinges groaned. There was lantern light coming from inside so I assumed that Billy might be napping or else upstairs. But for Billy, twitchy at the best of times, leaving the door unbarred was an unlikely oversight. I stepped inside and slowly closed the door behind me, letting my eyes grow accustomed to the faint light.
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