Gideon's Angel

by Clifford Beal

  “You mean he’s a puppet for that creature?” asked Ashmole.

  “That comes as no surprise to me,” I said. “The little hell ape told me as much last night.”

  Billy picked up one of the swords and hefted it. “Scabbards and belts?” Da Silva gestured to the corner of the room where they lay upon the floor. Billy looked over to me. “Mister Eff?”

  “Aye, Billy.”

  While Billy stowed the weapons, da Silva drew my attention to the Great Pentacle of Solomon that he had spread out upon the other end of the table. I now noticed that this had been tacked onto the front of a large linen shirt.

  “I cannot bear arms against the enemy. But what I propose is to create a sanctuary for you, even in the midst of the unholy ones.”

  “Wait now, senor,” said Ashmole, coming round the table end. “You’ve done enough to get us this far. Mister Thurloe and his soldiers, and we four here, we will go to Whitehall.”

  Billy spoke up from the far side of the room. “We’ve only got three of these holy swords. Who draws the short straw?”

  Billy was right. One of us would have to fight with plain steel.

  “We shall face that challenge when the time comes,” I said, not really knowing how we would decide the question. “But let us hear out Senor da Silva first.”

  “I must go with you to the palace,” said the old man. “I am the only one who can create the circle that you can retreat to if all goes ill. I have read the texts. I know the ways and means. Nothing else will save you. Consider it your invisible redoubt to sally from and to return to.”

  “A magic circle,” said Ashmole softly. “I too have read of these... in the old grimoires. That is why you need the Grand Pentacle. You will use it as a shield, a shield upon your own body.”

  Da Silva folded his hands in front of him. “That is so.”

  From the edge of the stairwell, I watched Isabel’s face, remembering her vow to stay at her father’s side. She was as stone. Her mouth was closed tight, jaw clenched. But her large dark eyes were calm, almost sleepy. I understood, then, the strength in her gentle frame. The strength of her belief in her God and in her father. There would be no swaying this girl from what she set her mind to.

  “Sir Richard,” said da Silva, “you must know that the enemy has many weapons it can employ against you and your comrades. You must never let your guard down. I will do my best to keep the circle unbroken but you must never stray more than a quick dash away from it. Far better that Gideon Fludd comes to us where we can fight him on our terms.”

  “Very well,” I said, doubts welling up inside me even as he spoke. This was as much of a forlorn hope as I had ever volunteered for. But in every other at least I knew I was facing flesh and blood that a good sword thrust or pistol ball could defeat. This night, we were about to go into battle against an enemy altogether new and terrifying. I could not rid my mind of the image of that horrific great black dog that had stared me down at the inn in Brent. I’d need a boar spear to stand a chance of taking the thing down.

  “And there is one thing more I must ask you, Sir Richard,” said da Silva. “Do you intend to hand over the Moon Pentacle to Fludd? If you do so, no door will remain unopened to him—anywhere.”

  “If he doesn’t,” said Billy, wrapping the swordbelts around each scabbarded weapon, “Fludd will kill her.”

  “And what makes you think he won’t murder her anyway?” replied the old man.

  “I cannot give Fludd the key he wants to enter the palace,” I said.

  Billy stopped, the cradled weapons in his arms jostling and clanking. “Then you’ve signed her death warrant, Mister Eff.”

  “No, there’s another way. A decoy. We haven’t much time though. Elias, can you obtain a pewter plate or a medallion the same size as the pentacle? Perhaps something from that collection of yours?”

  Ashmole dropped his chin to his chest. “Lord, there is little time indeed... I’ll have to return to Lambeth. But, I think I can find something that would pass muster. If you give me another look at that disc, I can measure it and then be on my way.”

  “Good. I suggest we meet you at the steps of Saint Martin’s at seven of the clock. The sun sets at around half past the hour... that should give us time to proceed down to Whitehall and meet up with Thurloe.”

  “I am sorry, Colonel,” spoke up d’Artagnan, “but this is no plan. What you propose is just to walk into the enemy’s embrace.”

  “Shut your hole, you goddamn coxcomb!” Billy dropped the swords upon the table.

  I held out a finger towards him. “Enough! D’Artagnan speaks like a soldier. And I cannot say that he doesn’t speak the truth. But the fact is we must walk into the jaws of the enemy to meet them. We stay close to Cromwell and we’ll find them soon enough. That is the only plan we need. The rest is in the Lord’s hands.”

  No one said a thing. After what seemed a long silence, Ashmole moved towards the stairwell, turned and touched his hat. “I shall meet you at front of the church. God keep you, gentlemen.” And he was gone, pounding down the staircase.

  Da Silva’s voice was small. “Isabel will get the serving girl to find you three some fare. You need full bellies to face this evening.”

  Isabel had not moved from her station near the staircase. “I will see to it, father.” But then, she looked at me and inclined her head, motioning for me to follow her.

  When we were down in the shop, she pulled me by the arm into the kitchen. “I must speak with you, sir, about your servant.”

  “Christ, what has he done now?” I asked, half a dozen possibilities rushing through my exhausted mind.

  “He has done nothing, sir. It is what has been done to him. I tended those wounds he has on his arms.”

  I knew exactly what she was going to tell me.

  “His wounds are not deep, but they’re not healing either. They’re growing worse, suppurating with poison. I have done my best to clean them, to salve them. But they are no ordinary wounds.”

  “Aye. I fear they are not.”

  “And this morning, I heard Billy retching in the privy out back. He’s growing sicker though he hides it well.”

  I held up my left hand that she could see the single black welt and cut that ran over the top and across the knuckles. I had noticed it had begun to weep droplets of blackened blood.

  Isabel grasped my wrist and examined the wound, her face grave. “Yours is the same. A cut this shallow should not be as it is.” She looked up at me. “I have no physik that will cure this.”

  I withdrew my hand. “Do what you can for Billy. It’s enough that we get through tonight in one piece. I’ll worry about anything else after the sun comes up tomorrow.”

  WE WERE AN unusual party that stood outside the tower of Saint Martin’s—an old man in black, black cap upon his head and a large satchel over his shoulder. A young maid supporting his arm, beautiful in black cloak and white coif, her face a delicate mask of apprehension. Then there was Billy Chard and me. We looked like two highwaymen who had strayed in from Hampstead Heath, dressed in old cracked buff leather, baldrics and swords over our chests. It was almost a wonder that we had not been stopped by soldiers, but oddly we had seen none all the way.

  And then there was the young Frenchman, wearing a good suit of fancy grey silk, and a high starched collar. His baldric held one of the silver swords, but also too, a slender main gauche tucked into a belt loop at the small of his back. His boots were the finest I had seen since leaving Paris, sleek black Spanish leathers pulled up high. His only other concession to armour was a stout pair of leather gauntlets. D’Artagnan had been sullen most of the way, having argued loudly that Isabel should stay behind. I could understand his reticence. His conscience still tortured him for having let Maggie be taken. He raved in French for some time before I could convince him she would no doubt follow us anyway even if her father ordered her to stay. Besides, she could assist her father, and otherwise one of us would have to do. “So be it,” he h
ad mumbled.

  Ashmole was late. The sun was now very low in the west, its dying light painting an orange halo over Westminster. The sky was clear; a darkening purple in the twilight. Not a single cloud disturbed the firmament—the moon would shine brightly this night. I could not keep the thought of Maggie from my mind as we stood at the base of the bell tower, waiting. The more my mind spun round and round, the more I felt an almost choking sense of dread rise up. Was she still even alive? Worse thoughts intruded as I remembered the threats of the black imp the previous night. The imaginings grew so vivid that I felt sweat pouring down my back and sides. She might even now be just half a mile away from me. I tried to console myself by the thought that Gideon Fludd had up until now shown great restraint in taking innocent lives. If he truly believed he was a man of God then he would not harm her. But even as that small solace came to me, I could not hide something else that clawed at my gut: that Gideon Fludd might no longer be his own master.

  “He is come!” Billy bounded past me and walked up to welcome a thoroughly red-faced Elias Ashmole. His cloak was spattered with water and mud and he had yet to catch his breath.

  “Forgive me. It took me longer than I hoped to find a suitable changeling for our silver pentacle and then... well, I ran afoul of a clumsy waterman and an oar that seemed more intent on catching me than the river.”

  I clapped him on the shoulder, relieved that our little army had not become any smaller. “No matter, you’ve made it. And you have something we can use to fool Fludd?”

  Ashmole pulled out a round medallion of sorts. Not silver, but something that looked more like pewter. “It is some sort of medal struck by the city fathers of Augsburg in my grandfather’s time. Let’s hope Major Fludd doesn’t stop to examine it.”

  “I won’t give him the chance,” I said, taking it and dropping it in the right pocket of my breeches.

  Ashmole smiled. “Just don’t forget which pocket the real one is in.”

  I looked at the others. “If we’re all at the ready, then? Time to search out Mister Thurloe and his men.” Billy sidled up to me. I could see his pallor was white as a shroud, a tiny droplet of snot poised to fall from the end of his sharp nose.

  “Where do we go, Mister Eff?”

  “We must find a way into the old Tilting Yard to the right of the Cockpit and the Lord General’s apartments. I expect Thurloe will have thrown a cordon around front and back. They ought to find us before we find them.”

  They did. We had barely made it to Banqueting House when a party of dismounted dragoons at the great gate saw us from afar and made a beeline. I smiled, doffing the hat Ashmole had gifted me, and told their sergeant that John Thurloe was expecting us on the grounds of the palace. He didn’t seem convinced and ordered us to give up our arms. Billy looked at me—I knew what he was wordlessly asking. His hand was already on his hilt. And then d’Artagnan shot forward, brandishing a flapping scrap of paper, which he offered to the dragoon.

  It was a pass, a pass from the French ambassador. And obviously in English, as the sergeant pushed his nose into it and read, aloud for the benefit of all. He looked up at us, clearly puzzled at the presence of the old man and young woman, but then gave a shrug and handed d’Artagnan back his papers.

  “I’ll take you to the captain of the guard,” he said, slowly, as if only half trusting his decision. His eyes had trouble shifting away from Isabel. So did those of a much younger trooper who practically toppled forward into her. “What are you looking at!” The sergeant cuffed the boy on the head with the flat of his palm. “Back to your post, all of you!”

  And so it was the bowlegged sergeant alone who escorted us to the small gate that led into the old tilt yard. At our left the ancient Tudor brickwork of the old palace soared up four floors high as we made our way west, towards the back and the old deer park. The sergeant stopped us near a ramshackle wooden staircase that wound its way up the brickwork to the second level. His face wore a confused look, heavy brows falling together as he swivelled his head around.

  “He was hereabouts not more than a short time gone by. He and the rest of the squad.” He poked a finger into my chest. “Wait here—all of you. I’ll go inside and fetch him. Understood?”

  Ashmole grasped one of the rotten newel posts which wobbled alarmingly in his hand. “To think, this was once the playground of the court. Tennis, bowls, theatre for cockfights or plays. And then the masques of the king and queen at Twelfth Night. All turning to ruin now.”

  “The new landlords don’t give a turd for all that,” I said. I looked out across the park as the light faded away, sky graduating from dark azure to purple blue. I could just spy the great brick hunting lodge of King James, half a mile distant. The park was wild now with long brown grass, scraggy bushes and tall hogweed, lonely stands of oak and beech scattered here and there like small groups of frightened children gathering for comfort in the descending gloom. And not a single deer to be seen.

  “Elias, has the brotherhood abandoned us? You told me those who meet upon the square do not take their duty lightly.”

  Ashmole looked at me, almost hurt. But he shifted his gaze down after a moment. “I cannot say why Lilly and the others have gone off suddenly. They must have discovered something. They would have had good reason I am sure...” He went quiet. “But I would have expected to have been confided in just the same.” His hand began to worry the butt of the pistol shoved in his belt. “You are correct, friend. This is not at all on the square.”

  From our vantage, to the right of the cupola domed Cockpit, we could see the rest of the palace extending into the deer park, flanked by a wall some ten feet high that ran west as far as the eye could see. Somewhere inside this corner of the palace Oliver Cromwell and his family sat in ignorance of the tempest that was gathering. At least there were no doors or windows at ground level, only these wooden staircases tacked on the side. I told the others to wait while I disobeyed the guards and had a scout around the back. As I reached the rear of the palace and looked around the corner, I saw that the park wall abutted the far side of the palace, thus securing that elevation from entry. I looked up to the windows above but saw no signs of life.

  “Senor da Silva,” I called out once I had made it back to our little party, “I suggest you fashion your magic circle right here next to these stairs. If the enemy comes not by King Street, then they must come through here.”

  Isabel whirled around away from her father and confronted me. “Don’t you dare use that word! Would you see us condemned by your people? My father uses the power of prayer to serve the Lord, not some empty conjuror’s tricks.”

  “It’s all right, daughter,” said da Silva. He gently pulled her back by the arm. “We have come this far by His will and we must play our parts. I will begin straight away, Colonel.” He opened the sack he bore and walked a few paces toward the palace wall. He held the sack in front of him and bending over, proceeded to pour out flour in a long line upon the ground. Working backwards, he shuffled along, fashioning a circle some fifteen feet across as we watched.

  Isabel came up beside me and spoke quietly. “I’m afraid that when the soldiers see this circle they will take us away.”

  I touched her forearm. “I won’t let them, mistress. Nor will Mister Ashmole.”

  Elias nodded and smiled at her. I saw da Silva with a different small sack, pouring out a second white substance along the line of flour.

  “What is this he does?” I asked.

  “Salt,” she said. She reached into her purse and pulled out a small square of linen. “Quickly, sir, while I can still see. Let me pin this upon your coat.”

  As she held it up, I could see that she had embroidered the Tetragrammaton in red thread upon the square. “And now you, Billy Chard.”

  Billy came forward, his neck craning to watch as she deftly fitted the pin through his collar and patted the linen square upon his chest. “May the Lord bless you,” she said.

  “Thankee, ma’am,” Billy mu
mbled.

  After she had affixed the talisman to Ashmole she turned to d’Artagnan. “And would you take the amulet as well, monsieur?”

  D’Artagnan smiled thinly. “I fear that I may not, good lady. With respect, my monsignor would object.”

  She nodded and moved to help her father as he struggled to pull on a fulsome white shirt over his doublet. And my heart suddenly felt heavy for the girl, trapped in a land that she could only exist in as a wraith in the shadows, living a lie, forever a marrano. And we all watched as she affixed the Great Pentacle of Solomon to her father’s chest, holding the pins in her mouth and delicately tacking the large square as she held it gently upon his shirt. I watched d’Artagnan’s face as he observed Isabel. His eyes seemed to narrow as if some old distrust was bubbling up.

  Christ above. She is right. They’ll arrest us all for this.

  Ashmole stood just outside the circle, cradling a pistol in the crook of his arm as he poured a charge down the barrel.

  “I see you chose the firearms and not steel,” I said.

  He smiled, but his hand was shaking as he fumbled with the loading. “Well, I’m an old artilleryman after all.” He took out a silver bullet, studied it between thumb and forefinger, and then dropped it down the barrel of the doglock. He looked at me, his trepidation showing. “Do you really think he’ll come here? It would be madness.”

  “He’ll come.”

  We all stood there, with nary a word, and watched as da Silva walked the perimeter of the circle, lips moving rapidly in silent prayer. Slowly, I became aware of moonlight casting shadows along the palace and on the wooden staircase. It was nearly bright enough to read by, a silver-blue illumination that was both cold and clean. He would come soon.

  “All of you! Listen to me.” Da Silva raised his arms, beckoning us to gather around him. “Those who wish protection must enter the circle, and stay close to the centre.”