by Stuart Daly
No sooner has Prince Rupert uttered these words than the man with the permanent sneer looks up and considers us with intense interest. ‘Hexenjäger! This is indeed fortuitous,’ he says in fluent German, licking his lips, as if we are some morsel he is about to taste. He looks us up and down before nodding in a satisfied manner. ‘The Lord does indeed smile on us this day.’
‘What difference does it make to you if we are Hexenjäger?’ Armand asks warily, staring the man straight in the eye, bearing the authority of his newly appointed position as Lieutenant. ‘It was merely circumstance that brought us together, and we will have our leave as soon as we land in England.’
The man rises from his seat. ‘The fact that you are witch hunters is of the greatest interest to me. And the fact that you have been delivered to us on this very day can be considered as nothing less than providence.’ He crosses over to us, leans in close and whispers, ‘For England is about to wage war with the Devil and is in need of your services.’
Prince Rupert asks us to sit around the table before introducing the man with the sneer as Humphrey Henchman, the Bishop of London.
‘He is not part of the normal company aboard this ship,’ the Prince explains. ‘He rendezvoused with the Royal Charles only an hour before we left the Dutch coast. He brings news of the greatest gravity; news that must be reported back to King Charles and the Archbishop of Canterbury. I’m sure, too, it is news that will be of great interest to a company of witch hunters, even those who are keen to return to the Holy Roman Empire.’
Armand folds his arms across his chest. ‘What manner of danger is your country in?’
Sitting by his side, I shift uncomfortably, wary of what we may be dragged into, since we have already been tricked once by our present company. Bishop Henchman looks across at Prince Rupert, who nods in consent.
‘Have you heard of the Codex Gigas?’ the Bishop asks, his voice lowered, as if merely mentioning the name of the text is something that should be feared.
Armand looks at each of us in turn before shaking his head. ‘No. None of us have.’
Bishop Henchman’s eyes narrow. ‘Then perhaps I should refer to the codex as it is more commonly known. Tell me, witch hunters, have you heard of the Devil’s Bible?’
The candles in the cabin seem to flicker, yet there is no draught in the room.
The Devil’s Bible! Who has not heard of this text?
It is the most infamous manuscript ever written. It was created in the thirteenth century by a monk who, as an act of penance for sins committed, copied the Bible. According to legend, he completed this task in a single night, but only because he was assisted by the Devil. In return, the Devil claimed the monk’s soul.
What makes the codex truly unique is that the monk dedicated a page of the manuscript to a drawing of the Devil. There is also a section at the end of the manuscript containing spells for exorcising and summoning demons.
‘We have heard of this text,’ Armand says, his blue eyes betraying no emotion. ‘But why do you ask?’
‘It is a little-known fact that the forces of Sweden took possession of the Codex Gigas after sacking Prague in 1648,’ Bishop Henchman explains. ‘The text was taken to Sweden, where it has remained locked within a vault in the Swedish National Library in Stockholm and guarded by an order of twenty elite warriors.’
Armand nods. ‘The Brothers of the Sacred Trust were created for the specific task of guarding the Devil’s Bible. They are commanded by Staffan Ostergaard, Sweden’s most revered soldier.’
The Bishop toys with his goblet for a few seconds before he looks up at Armand, his expression grave. ‘I have just returned from Stockholm. My three companions – who I will introduce shortly – and I had hoped to check how securely the codex was guarded. But we were too late, for six days ago it was stolen.’
Armand’s eyes flash with alarm. ‘By whom?’
‘A lone swordsman,’ the Bishop says. ‘He slew four of the Brothers of the Sacred Trust in order to reach the codex. The swordsman was impervious to the guards’ blades and firearms, which had been blessed by the Church. His eyes dripped blood, and he was accompanied by a massive hound.’ The Bishop pauses, letting the gravity of this news settle into our bones. ‘We know of this swordsman,’ he continues, his voice little more than a whisper. ‘He is one of the Sons of Cain.’
Armand leans forward and stares boldly at Bishop Henchman. ‘You say this name as if we should have reason to be afraid. You forget that we are Hexenjäger. Now tell me, who are these Sons of Cain?’
Armand may be confident, but my knees – which are thankfully hidden beneath the table – are trembling like a tenor’s tonsils.
‘The Sons of Cain had their origin during the wave of violence that swept across England during the Civil War,’ Bishop Henchman explains. ‘Many atrocities were committed during the war; entire towns were often at the mercy of marauding soldiers who took up the banner of King or Parliament as a pretext to profiteer through pillage and plunder. Not even the Protestant Church was spared. It was seen as a centre of popish idolatry, with its bishops and altars modelled on Rome. All perceived signs of Catholicism were targeted: altars were desecrated, effigies of Christ were ripped from walls, and stained-glass windows were smashed.’
‘And yet, I bet, as is so often the case, both Royalists and Parliamentarians claimed God was on their side,’ von Frankenthal scoffs. ‘The hypocrisy of man knows no bounds.’
‘Morality becomes blurred during war,’ Prince Rupert says, nodding in agreement. ‘But it is the very nature of war that makes it unavoidable. Both soldiers and civilians – at least, those who are suspected of aiding and abetting the enemy – are legitimate targets of war. We can only hope that God turns a blind eye to the conduct of man during such times.’
I have heard that the Prince was criticised by both Parliamentarians and his own Royalist forces for the way in which he waged war across England during the Civil War. Having fought in the Thirty Years’ War and trained in Continental warfare, he often allowed the soldiers under his command to loot indiscriminately from Parliamentarian towns and households. Not surprisingly, he had been branded as the Devil incarnate by Parliamentarian propaganda.
‘There were four Parliamentarian cavalry soldiers who rode with General Ireton’s troop, and who took their hatred of the King and Church to the extreme, signing an unholy pact with the Devil to rid England of what they claimed to be a Papal plague,’ Bishop Henchman continues, drawing the discussion back to its initial focus. ‘According to legend, the pact was signed under an oak tree in a graveyard located several leagues south of London. The pact, signed on a leather satchel, was pinned to the trunk of the oak. It was finalised by a bloody act through which the Sons of Cain received their name: they each slew their younger brother and hung them in gibbets from the branches of the oak tree, which was henceforth known as the Hanging Tree. The remains of the brothers still hang in the gibbets. They are known as the Forsaken.
‘The Sons of Cain were given unholy eternal life through their pact, but only as long as the satchel is pinned to the tree and the Forsaken are denied their last rites. But the Sons of Cain delved deep into the dark arts to gain other powers. They also summoned four Hell Hounds to guard the Hanging Tree.’
‘Charming,’ von Frankenthal remarks, his lips curled in distaste. ‘And now you want us to deal with your problem?’
A reproachful look from Armand silences the witch hunter. ‘Tell us more about these Sons of Cain.’
‘They started their reign of terror in Yorkshire, destroying churches and preying on Royalist patrols at night time,’ Prince Rupert says. ‘Having slain their victims, they hung their bodies from trees bordering roadways as a warning to all supporters of King Charles. When they moved west they became bolder, engaging entire companies of soldiers. In the later years of the war, a Royalist infantry unit of
over a hundred men was camped several miles outside Oxford, where the King – no longer safe in London, which had become a Parliamentarian stronghold – had taken residence. The Sons of Cain tore into the camp and slaughtered the unit, leaving only a sole survivor to spread word of their butchery. I rode out the following day to inspect the camp. Never before, in over thirty years of soldiery, have I seen such carnage.’
The Prince pauses for some time before continuing. ‘Their leader, Alistair McClodden, is as wild and savage as the Highlands he hails from. He’s a giant of a man, standing nearly as tall as our friend here.’ He jerks his chin at von Frankenthal. ‘He used the Civil War as a pretext to enact revenge against the Protestant Church for burning his mother as a witch. You should be warned: he has a particular hatred of witch hunters.’
That’s just fantastic. What is the Prince going to tell us next? That one of the Sons of Cain has a particular dislike of sixteen-year-old boys named Jakob, and who wield Pappenheimer rapiers?
‘They were often seen upon black horses, so it wasn’t long before people started calling them the Four Riders of the Apocalypse,’ Prince Rupert continues, driving another nail into my coffin of fear. ‘Consumed by the Devil’s hatred of humanity, the Sons of Cain started slaughtering all they came across, even the most devout of Parliamentarian Puritans. They were corrupted by the evil that coursed through their veins like poison – their skin turned the ghastly colour of plague victims and they bled from their eyes.’
A long silence greets his words. The world suddenly feels darker and menacing, and I focus on the wan light cast by the candelabra on the table. At length, I shift uncomfortably and clear my throat, drawing everyone’s attention.
‘Why hasn’t anybody removed the satchel and given last rites to the bodies on the Hanging Tree?’ I ask.
‘Dozens have tried over the years, but all have failed,’ Bishop Henchman says. ‘Not even Witch Finder General Matthew Hopkins – the most infamous witch hunter in England during the period of the Civil War – could get within fifty yards of the Hanging Tree. He was forced to retreat after six of his companions were torn to shreds by the Hell Hounds that guard the cemetery. It is also rumoured that the Sons of Cain have a lair hidden somewhere within the cemetery, in which they rest in stone coffins.’
‘But you want us to try,’ Armand says matter-of-factly, resting back in his seat, his eyes locked on the surface of the table. ‘You want the Hexenjäger to kill the Sons of Cain.’
The Bishop nods. ‘That’s correct.’
Armand clicks his tongue in thought for some time. ‘We might help you,’ he says and looks hard into the Bishop’s eyes. ‘But only if we are told the whole story. You have failed to share with us, for instance, why the Sons of Cain stole the Devil’s Bible. And I must warn you, do not try to deceive us.’
Bishop Henchman casts a furtive glance at Prince Rupert, as if seeking approval to answer Armand’s question. The Prince nods.
‘Last century,’ Bishop Henchman begins, ‘an English prophetess by the name of Mother Shipton made the following prophecy:
From the Latviumus text
The False Prophet spawned,
Summoned by Cain’s Brood,
Between midnight’s final stroke
And the birth of dawn,
Upon the Altar of Sun,
Buried beneath Saint Mellitus’s beheaded edifice,
Fifty days since heaven’s darkness,
Spawned in the flames of the City of Gemini,
Only just risen from rotting pestilence.’
Von Frankenthal screws up his nose. ‘It seems a load of gibberish to me.’
Armand raises a hand, signalling for him not to interrupt. ‘Riddles can be interpreted in many ways, my friend.’ He then addresses Bishop Henchman. ‘How have you interpreted the prophecy?’
‘Perhaps it is best if I leave that up to one of the people responsible for breaking the riddle,’ the Bishop says, rising from his seat and crossing the cabin to open the door. A few moments later, he ushers into the room three black-clad figures who join us around the table.
One of them is the woman whom I had noticed watching us aboard the deck. Sitting only a few feet away from her, I can now clearly make out the Latin inscription tattooed across her forehead: dies irae.
Translation: Judgement Day.
The hilt of a blade juts out from beneath her cloak, its metal pommel in the form of an angel whose hands are joined in supplication. As the woman takes off her leather gloves and rests her hands on the table, I notice crucifixes tattooed on her knuckles. It is her eyes, however, to which I am drawn, for they resemble those of an elderly person, being rheumy and set in sunken, wrinkled sockets, yet the woman could not be any older than thirty.
One of her companions, a man in his mid-twenties, is similarly dressed in a black cloak, hat, breeches and doublet. Rather than have an inscription tattooed across his forehead, twin silver crucifixes dangle from piercings located at the edge of his eyebrows. His face has been powdered white, but his lips have been blackened. A phial, containing what appears to be blood, hangs from a silver chain around his neck. The heavy butts of two pistols protrude through the folds of his cloak, and he has a long-barrelled rifle propped against the table. He sits rigidly in his seat and his eyes dart around the room, as if he is in a state of constant distraction.
The third person is a man of perhaps sixty years of age, clad in the same clothing as his younger companions. A heavy leather volume – which I can only assume is a copy of the Malleus Maleficarum, the book of the witch hunter – is slung over his shoulder in a leather case, its surface scratched and worn. Beneath the shadow cast by his hat, thin wisps of grey hair frame a wrinkled forehead and piercing blue eyes, which quickly assess us and note the weapons jutting beneath our cloaks. Age may have left its withered signature in the man’s skin, but he holds himself tall and proud, conveying strength and authority.
You don’t need to be the sharpest blade in the armoury to tell that they are witch hunters.
Having introduced us as members of the Hexenjäger, Bishop Henchman jerks his chin towards the elderly witch hunter. ‘This is Witch Finder Israel Blackwood,’ he says, then gestures at the woman and man in turn. ‘And this is Prayer and Dorian, members of the Angeli Mortis. Fortunately, they are fluent in German, having spent some time hunting witches in the Protestant states of the Holy Roman Empire.’
The Angeli Mortis – meaning Angels of Death in Latin – are England’s most revered unit of witch hunters. Only last year some of their order came under investigation by the Protestant Church, accused of delving into the dark arts. All that the team of church officials could find, however, was that the Angeli Mortis had unlocked the deepest secrets of the Malleus Maleficarum. It is rumoured that some of them can converse with the dead.
It is to Witch Finder Israel Blackwood, one of the most experienced witch hunters in England, that I find my eyes drawn. Even as far away as Saxony, his exploits are talked of. A former companion of Witch Finder General Matthew Hopkins and John Stearne, he had hunted witches and warlocks across the entire length of England during the period of the Civil War. After Hopkins’s death, he became somewhat of a recluse, spending almost a decade – if the rumours were true – living in a ruined Norman keep somewhere near Penzance, in the south-east of England, devoting his time to studying the Malleus Maleficarum. Then, some four years ago – coinciding with the time that Emperor Leopold created the Hexenjäger – Charles II, who was restored as the King of England in 1660, commissioned the creation of the Angeli Mortis. Naturally, Israel Blackwood was selected to lead the order, appointed the position of Witch Finder.
Bishop Henchman toys with his goblet again. ‘The Angeli Mortis have been working on Mother Shipton’s riddle for some time now. It has been a personal obsession of Witch Finder Blackwood’s for the past twenty years,
ever since the Sons of Cain signed their pact with the Devil.’ He stops rotating the goblet, leans closer and stares at Armand, his features dark and foreboding. ‘Many people have tried to interpret the riddle, witch hunter. But I believe that only Witch Finder Blackwood has been able to decipher its true meaning. He believes the prophecy heralds the coming of the Antichrist.’
‘The first line of Mother Shipton’s riddle – “From the Latviumus text” – refers to the Codex Gigas,’ Witch Finder Blackwood explains, his voice sounding like the grinding wheels of a medieval torture device. ‘The codex was created in the Monastery of Podlažice in Bohemia. The monastery, however, had been built on top of a much earlier Roman settlement called Latviumus. The second line – “The False Prophet spawned” – refers to the coming of the Antichrist, as prophesied in the Book of Revelation of John.
‘The next three lines – “Summoned by Cain’s Brood, between midnight’s final stroke and the birth of dawn” – refer to the Sons of Cain using the Codex Gigas to summon the Antichrist between the hours of midnight and the rising sun. This ritual must be performed upon an “Altar of Sun, buried beneath Saint Mellitus’s beheaded edifice”, which refers to Saint Paul’s Cathedral in London. Saint Mellitus was the founder of the cathedral, the steeple of which was struck by lightning in 1561. Legend has it that the cathedral was built atop an earlier pagan temple devoted to Mithras, the sun god. We have conducted extensive searches of the cathedral, particularly focusing on its crypt, but we are yet to find any evidence of an entryway to a subterranean temple. “The City of Gemini” refers to London, a city often associated with the zodiacal sign of Gemini. London has also just emerged from the plague – “only just risen from rotting pestilence”.
‘We also know that the Sons of Cain will attempt to summon the Antichrist this Sunday, being “fifty days since unnatural darkness”, when an eclipse occurred. According to the prophecy, the Antichrist will be “spawned in the flames of the City of Gemini”. London, it appears, will be consumed by a great fire, from which the Prince of Darkness will rise.’