by C. S. Quinn
‘Do you still have them?’ asked Charlie.
Macock shook his head. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid when Ishmael disappeared I filed his documents with my father’s old things. I’ve just started the process of pulping.’
Chapter 15
Lady Castlemaine lay back on the bed. ‘Tell me where you’ve been,’ she said. ‘The whole court wonders.’
Buckingham eyed her. Then he reached a hand to the front of her dress, torn where he had ripped it. He’d only just washed clean from his visit to Deptford, and the memories still sickened him. But Barbara Castlemaine had the kind of beauty that was mercifully distracting. The large violet eyes below soaring eyebrows had a permanent seductive cast.
‘Surely Charles told you the reason for my banishment.’ He toyed with the frayed ribbons.
Buckingham raised his dark eyebrows. His handsome face had grown rugged at sea, giving his white teeth a wolfish quality. The hard muscular body had yearned for Barbara. But Buckingham sensed things had changed in his absence.
He wondered if Barbara was fishing for information. Did she know something about his nightly visits to Deptford and his dark past? He didn’t think it possible.
‘He has too many distractions,’ said Barbara ruefully, ‘to tell me everything.’ But she couldn’t quite hide the discomfort on her face.
‘Anyone in particular?’ Buckingham was suddenly interested.
‘A lady, named Frances Stewart, a cousin of yours. Perhaps you could distract her?’
‘I’ve never met Frances.’ He pulled her towards him. ‘Is she pretty?’
‘The court talks of nothing but her beauty. And her purity,’ she added bitterly. ‘There was a time when Charles valued skill.’
‘Frances Stewart is taking attention from the King,’ Buckingham guessed. He sounded amused.
‘Your cousin is a child,’ said Barbara. ‘He’ll tire of her the moment he has her. The poor girl will be ruined.’
‘You’re all heart.’
‘She’s an easy conquest for you,’ suggested Barbara. ‘Young. Virginal.’
‘Get me back in court,’ he said, keeping his tone casual, ‘and I’ll consider it.’
Barbara thought about this. Her gaze drifted round the unadorned room, so unlike the places Buckingham was used to. The room bore a small fireplace, low, cosy ceilings, a large trunk in which travellers could lock away their valuables and a writing desk. The adjoining room held the rest of his travelling possessions. Chests and trunks loaded with his fine clothes and riches.
It was a plain dwelling for an aristocrat. Barbara could only guess at Buckingham’s humiliation.
‘You must miss court,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ he replied.
There was a bitterness in his voice. Barbara felt her body tense. She’d forgotten how quickly Buckingham could turn.
He moved his body to shadow hers. Buckingham wasn’t as large as Charles, but his muscled frame reminded her of a snake ready to strike.
‘Perhaps I should take my revenge on you,’ Buckingham suggested, letting his fingers circle her neck.
‘You’d be gutted for treason,’ said Barbara, and she realised she was fighting to keep her voice calm. Had he been like this before? She couldn’t remember.
Buckingham let his fingers tighten just a fraction, and Barbara felt a wave of real fear. In this moment, she realised, she just wanted to be with Charles.
Catching her expression, Buckingham laughed and rolled back on the bed.
‘You’re losing your touch,’ he grinned. ‘The old Barbara would have flown at me like a wildcat.’ His expression changed suddenly. ‘Tell me why you’re really here,’ he said, ‘if you’ve not come for the old passion.’
Barbara kissed him deeply. ‘Tell me your crime,’ she whispered, letting her fingernails rake his back. ‘What did you do?’
Buckingham smiled, his mouth lingering on hers. ‘I used astrology,’ he murmured, unable to resist the urge to shock her, ‘to predict the hour of the King’s birth.’
Barbara sat back. ‘That is all?’
He nodded. ‘It is a sensitivity of his,’ said Buckingham, ‘as I discovered. The law says it to be treason,’ he added. ‘The old King made it so. If you know a man’s exact nativity, you might make his birth chart. Predict his weakest times. Even his death.’
‘And where did you go,’ asked Barbara, ‘during your long banishment?’
‘I was at sea,’ he said.
‘The sea is a big place. There was talk you met with the Dutch. I might be tempted to think you up to some treason.’ She eyed him meaningfully. ‘Some piracy then?’ she murmured.
‘Perhaps.’ He ran a hand over her breasts, partially exposed where he had hastily pulled open the top of her dress. ‘Should you like that?’ he whispered. ‘To be ravished by a pirate?’ He let his hands slide downwards, pulling aside the torn dress. ‘A man who hadn’t had a woman in months?’ he suggested. ‘Who would show you no mercy?’
She smiled, taking hold of his wrist. ‘First,’ she said, ‘he should need to prove his worth with jewels and plunder. Then,’ she continued, her violet eyes flashing, ‘even a pirate might be shocked by me.’
Buckingham felt himself falling into their promise. Barbara would do anything, he knew, for the right price. But her price was an ever-changing game of cat and mouse. He loved and hated the game in equal measure.
‘Be a little careful,’ he said. ‘One day I will tire of your games, and you’ll be sorry for it.’
She sat up a little. ‘Show me your sailing amounted to something.’
Buckingham slid from the simple bed. ‘As you wish,’ he said with a grin, striding from the room.
Barbara lay back, watching him move into the adjacent room, white shirt skirting his tanned legs. When he was out of sight, she darted soundlessly from the bed to his Chinese writing desk. She pulled open the first drawer.
Her eyes widened in surprise.
Inside the drawer was an almanac she vaguely recognised. It had been written by an astrologer named Ishmael and had been sold all over London. On top of the astrological work was a lock of muddy hair. It was strangely dirty, as though it had been in a river.
Barbara lifted the hair, and her eyes widened further. The memento was caked in old blood.
Chapter 16
The clatter of the printing presses echoed around the bright room.
‘We’ve many old books and unpublished almanacs with my father’s old things,’ explained Macock. ‘I started sending them to pulp weeks ago. I’m making space at the back of the printing house for more presses.’ Macock caught Charlie’s and Lily’s disappointed expressions.
‘It’s a large task. I haven’t yet destroyed all,’ he said. ‘Perhaps something of Ishmael’s still remains.’
Macock turned on his highly polished heel and gestured they follow him towards the back of the print house.
‘It’s a dreadful shame about Ishmael,’ he opined as they walked behind. ‘His predictions were phenomenal.’
‘Better than other astrologers’?’ asked Charlie.
‘You live in London,’ said Macock. ‘You must’ve heard of Boney’s great predictions. Plague, then fire.’
Charlie rubbed the scar on his lip as he and Lily followed Macock through a small door.
‘I’ve lived in London long enough to know astrologers come and go,’ said Charlie as they entered a narrow corridor beyond. ‘To my mind, Ishmael could have had a lucky streak. A man like you,’ he concluded, ‘would know the real truth.’
Macock seemed to grow a few inches.
‘You know how it is,’ he said conspiratorially. ‘An astrologer predicts a few things right, and everyone overlooks inaccuracies in their excitement.’
‘Yet that’s not what Londoners believe,’ said Charlie.
Macock threw up his hands. ‘Who am I to protest?’ he said with another exaggerated wink. ‘It’s made us printers rich. Do you know last year
Londoners bought one almanac for every twenty citizens?’
Charlie shook his head.
Macock nodded. ‘Everyone wants to know the future,’ he said. ‘Wars, famines. The King himself consults with astrologers.’
He opened another small door, into a room stuffed to the rafters with books and manuscripts. Shelves were crammed to bursting. Towards the front an ominously empty area yawned.
Macock plunged into the milieu of paperwork and began lifting and dropping books and papers. Dust rose up.
He searched amongst the papers for a tense few moments, then turned with a regretful expression.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘The papers aren’t here. They must have been destroyed.’
Charlie tried not to let the disappointment lower his spirits. He switched his attention to the mounds of papers and manuscripts. Perhaps there was another chance to gain information on Ishmael Boney’s work.
‘Do you have any almanacs from the time of the Civil War?’ he asked. ‘Nineteen years ago.’
Macock made an apologetic expression. ‘The old man would have known,’ he said, ‘but it’s too long before my time. Father kept all kinds of nonsense,’ he added, shaking his head. ‘He hoarded printed materials at the cost of progress.’ He swept a hand around the printed chaos. ‘Father started with some kind of ordering system,’ said Macock. ‘But it isn’t by date. I think it’s by author. Do you have a name of an astrologer from back then?’
‘Thorne,’ said Charlie. ‘Try Thorne.’
Macock pulled forth a sheaf of documents, blew away the dust and coughed. Then he glanced back up at the chaotic shelves.
‘Thorne you say?’ He began flipping through the papers. Several fluttered to the floor.
Charlie waited patiently. Lily twisted her dress.
‘Thorne,’ muttered Macock. He was staring at a large sheaf of papers in his hand. ‘Well, this is very strange,’ he said. There was a pause. ‘It seems as though Thorne did attempt to publish some material with us,’ he continued. ‘Some mathematical works. And an essay – “How the Roman Gods Became the Planets”.’
‘So Thorne believed in Roman gods?’ suggested Charlie.
‘Many astrologers are interested in how the planets got their names,’ said Macock, ‘but people began to believe in all kinds of things during the Civil War.’ He gestured towards the ageing documents. ‘You only have to leaf through these to see it. Fairies and druids, old ways and dark gods. Of course,’ he added quickly, ‘we couldn’t publish such things now.’
‘Do you have a copy of Thorne’s publication?’ asked Lily hopefully.
Macock shook his head slowly. ‘That’s the strange thing,’ he said. ‘It says here that Thorne’s work was recalled before it was published.’
‘What do you mean, recalled?’ asked Charlie.
‘Burned,’ said Macock. ‘By order of the Crown. All Thorne’s papers were taken and burned.’
Chapter 17
At Deptford Docks, Amesbury and King Charles were looking uncertainly at Judge Walters. Behind them lay an enormous hull of an upturned man-of-war. She’d been docked and tilted with the aid of a towering crane, and a few skinny men were clambering over the hull, scraping tall clusters of barnacles and forests of seaweed from her underside.
The Judge slid a finger beneath his pearly eyepatch and rubbed at the skin. King Charles found himself watching the pearly cross lift and lower, mesmerised.
‘Did anyone other than Thorne see this mysterious Eye?’ the Judge pondered aloud. ‘I thought the astrologer and the Cipher were great friends,’ he suggested.
Amesbury looked at the Judge, wondering where he’d got his information.
‘They were held together,’ he said shortly, ‘the best codebreakers in England. There was talk that the Cipher had been given a ring. But it was never found, and I don’t believe the Cipher ever saw the Eye.’
‘I thought the Cipher escaped,’ said the King, visibly plumbing his memory.
‘Tried to,’ agreed Amesbury. ‘We recaptured the Cipher and found a way to make the situation permanent.’
‘How?’
‘We found a way,’ said Amesbury shortly. He sighed. ‘I never saw the Eye myself. All I know is it must be small for Thorne to hide it. And likely an invention of great cleverness.’
‘The stories tell it that Thorne’s Eye somehow discerned the enemy’s position at sea. His small ship attacked and was victorious against all odds.’
‘They were nearly victorious,’ corrected Amesbury. ‘The Naseby survived under great duress and limped back to land. But there is no doubt Thorne’s Eye gave some mysteriously powerful advantage.’
‘How could you know so much about it?’ accused the Judge.
‘I captained the ship that was attacked,’ smiled Amesbury. ‘I’ve pondered for many years how Thorne knew our position.’
‘Thorne had the Eye of Lucifer,’ said the Judge. ‘The Devil’s own sight.’
Amesbury considered. ‘I am a simple man. I think the answer less mystical.’
‘Then what else could have located your ship?’ demanded the Judge.
‘Thorne was no sailor; he was a cryptographer,’ said Amesbury.
‘I heard of him as an astrologer and sorcerer,’ countered the Judge.
‘Thorne didn’t believe in magic,’ said Amesbury. ‘But he believed in . . . illusion.’ The general frowned, remembering. ‘Looking here when you should be looking there,’ he murmured, calling to mind Thorne’s words. ‘Most likely his Eye is a codebreaker of some kind,’ concluded Amesbury. ‘Though how he might have accessed information from our shipping log I have no idea. All I do know is if De Ryker comes to have the Eye,’ added Amesbury, ‘things must go badly for England. I hear you’ve met with the Dutch admiral personally,’ he added, glancing at the Judge. ‘So you know his ruthlessness.’
Something in the Judge’s face twitched. ‘I met the Dutch pirate off the coast of Gibraltar,’ said the Judge. ‘De Ryker’s ship entered against ours in a skirmish. We looked to win; then De Ryker scuttled his own ship.’
‘Why should he sink his own ship?’ The King looked intrigued.
Judge Walters smiled. ‘Most sailors can’t swim,’ he explained. ‘De Ryker had given his crew one option. Win our ship or sink with their own and drown.’
‘That is monstrous!’ opined King Charles. ‘He would sacrifice his crew for victory? I would never expect such barbary from the Dutch.’
Judge Walters’s smile twisted slightly. ‘His plan succeeded,’ he said. ‘De Ryker’s men attacked us with new gusto, boarded and took our ship. I barely escaped with my life.’
‘So you see,’ said Amesbury, ‘what kind of man we’re up against. He may be closer to finding the Eye than we realise. Our navy is in no position to defend us. You know my advice. Negotiate with the Dutch. Give them back some colonies. It’s our only hope.’
The King tapped his nose. ‘Have no fear, Amesbury,’ he said. ‘My brother James has a solution to win us the war. A new science that will fill English coffers so deep, we shall have no need of negotiation.’
The King pointed to the beleaguered docks. Amesbury turned to see a magnificent ship turning gracefully into the harbour. It was a palace afloat, its vast carved sides gilded in gold and the three-storey officers’ quarters twinkling with a hundred glass windows.
‘The Royal Charles,’ beamed the King. ‘My brother is at the helm.’
Frances’s yellow dress had appeared on the horizon. She was making an unsteady path towards them. Amesbury wondered if she’d already vomited or if that part was to come. He reflected on discovering an aspect of youth he didn’t miss.
‘We shall wait for Frances,’ said the King, ‘so she might see. We need not fear the Dutch. Aboard the Royal Charles my brother has the means to win us the war.’
Chapter 18
The room at the back of the printing house seemed suddenly claustrophobic. Charlie felt the weight of dusty tomes and old papers
close around him.
‘Thorne’s works were burned,’ he confirmed.
Macock nodded. ‘He didn’t write many,’ he added. ‘A few with academic titles. But they were all recalled and burned twenty years or so ago.’
‘By who?’ asked Lily. ‘Who has that authority?’
Macock was frowning. ‘I remember Father complaining about royal guards taking papers. He was very bitter about the loss of profit.’ Macock’s face twisted in thought. ‘It was around the time of the Civil War. It must have been, because Father was furious about the cost of coloured inks, and we don’t make handmade finishes like that now.’ Macock’s lips were moving as he tried to remember. He flipped some papers. ‘Father might have recorded some details about Thorne before the publication was cancelled,’ he said. ‘Where to send payments. It would be here.’ Macock’s ringed hand landed on a thick pile of manuscripts. But as he pulled them out, a shower of paper confetti fluttered free.
‘Mice,’ he said, brushing away droppings. ‘They love the taste of linseed. Perhaps something still remains.’
He plucked out a slim document. It was latticed with holes. As he turned the pages, it quickly became clear what was left was unreadable. Macock flipped a page and then another. He turned the papers sideways hopefully. Then he paused and smoothed out a portion of paper. Charlie made out a blot of ugly black ink.
‘It’s been crossed over,’ said Macock, touching a section where previous writing had been scored over again and again. Above the blotted part were five neat words.
‘Temple of Death,’ said Macock, frowning. ‘The forest.’ Then his face lifted in understanding. ‘Codebreaking!’ he announced. ‘Thorne became a royal cryptographer. I’m sure that was it. The Crown was concerned his books might reveal state secrets. Tricks to decoding. So they removed them from our print works.’
‘They have that authority?’ asked Lily.
‘I think back then the King did as he pleased,’ said Macock. ‘But if a man becomes a cryptographer it is a very serious business. I imagine we’d be bound to hand over any material that might compromise a royal codebreaker even now.’