by Stuart Daly
Half an hour must have passed. I am staring down at my feet, smiling softly as I think of what Sabina is doing back at Burg Grimmheim, when I look up to find a cloaked figure standing in front of me.
‘I hope I didn’t scare you,’ the figure says, and I realise that it is Francesca. ‘You seemed deep in thought, and I didn’t want to disturb you.’
‘Scare me? Don’t be silly.’ I’m relieved that the darkness has concealed the startled look on my face.
‘Well, I’m glad I’ve found you.’ She gestures for me to shuffle over some more before sitting down beside me. ‘It’s been a long time since we’ve chatted. And I owe you an apology.’
‘An apology?’ I say, surprised. ‘For what?’
‘For not thanking you for coming back to save me at the church. I thanked Armand, but not you. It was very rude of me.’
I shrug dismissively. ‘Think nothing of it. And, for the record, nothing was going to stop Armand from returning to help you.’
Francesca raises an eyebrow. ‘I’m no fool, Jakob. He didn’t do it all by himself. You can’t tell me he fought his way back to Dorian and me singlehandedly, what with his sword-hand injured. So, to make it official, thank you.’
I smile. ‘So we haven’t scared you off joining the Hexenjäger just yet?’
‘Not on your life. What you do is so special. It’s dangerous work – even more so than sneaking into trap-riddled tombs. But we fight in the name of Christ, and there is no greater cause.’ Francesca pauses as she looks across at Armand and von Frankenthal, both of whom have just exited the Prince’s lodgings to stretch their legs and get some fresh air. They talk in hushed tones, their cloaks pulled tightly around them, and are bathed in the orange light cast by the lantern above the front door. ‘Besides,’ she adds, watching Armand out of the corner of her eye, ‘things just got more interesting.’
‘You like him, don’t you?’ I say, my voice lowered so that the others won’t hear.
Normally, I wouldn’t inquire into a lady’s personal affairs, particularly concerning matters of the heart. But I had given Armand my word that I would assist him in courting Francesca. And now that the subject has been broached, this seems as good a time as any to try to find out where he stands, and how much of an effort I need to make on his behalf.
Francesca shakes her head in a confused manner and sighs. ‘I don’t know what to think anymore. It’s strange, when I first met Armand I considered him to be the most presumptuous, conceited person I had ever met. He’d sooner fall in love with his own reflection than another person. But I was wrong, and it’s only now that I’m starting to see that. Yes, he is flamboyant, and he thinks he’s the most handsome man to have ever walked the earth, but there’s no denying that there’s an endearing roguish charm about him. He is fiercely protective of his friends, and he has a sense of personal honour rarely seen in people. When he gives his word, it is set in stone.’
‘He’s a loyal friend, and a good person,’ I say. ‘I’d trust him with my life.’
Francesca nods slowly, her eyes still studying the French duellist. ‘There’s certainly a lot to be admired in him.’ Then, seeing Armand produce his handkerchief and flourish it in such a manner you’d think he was conducting an orchestra, she adds, ‘That is, of course, once you take away the love affair he has with himself.’
‘That’s not fair,’ I object, knowing the deeper meaning of his handkerchief.
Francesca cannot help but laugh at her comment. ‘I’m sorry. That was quite cruel.’ She grins and pats me on the thigh. ‘But enough of Armand. How are things with you and Sabina?’
I smile warmly at the mention of her name. ‘Good.’
Francesca looks at me expectantly for some time. ‘Well, that’s hardly fair, is it?’
‘What?’ I ask.
Francesca sighs. ‘I confide in you how I feel about Armand – open my heart, as it were. And all you can tell me about Sabina is that things are going “good”. Honestly, Jakob. It’s not going to break your back to tell me a little more, is it?’
I shrug. ‘I would if I could. But there’s not really much to say, other than that things are going . . . well, good.’
Francesca regards me flatly and shakes her head. ‘I’d sooner be able to draw blood from a stone than get a man to disclose their true feelings. Men! You are a breed apart.’
‘We might be,’ I smirk and nudge Francesca with my elbow. ‘But you can’t live without us, can you?’
Francesca gives me a shocked look. ‘You have definitely been hanging around Armand too much.’ She wraps an arm around my shoulder, putting me in a headlock, then knocks off my hat and tousles my hair. ‘And he’s starting to corrupt you, my poor, sweet Jakob.’
Laughing, I wrestle free, fix my hair and replace my hat. I do feel bad for not revealing more about my relationship with Sabina. But I’ve always found it hard to talk about such private matters. Perhaps it’s because I lost my parents at such a young age, and I’m extremely protective and guarded of those for whom I care deeply.
‘At least tell me this –’ Francesca’s tone is serious ‘– Sabina doesn’t think much of me, does she?’
I smile dismissively. I had been wondering when Francesca would broach this subject. It’s no secret that Sabina dislikes the former Italian tomb-robber. The looks she sometimes shoots at her are drenched in enough poison to wilt every tree in the Black Forest.
‘I wouldn’t say that,’ I reply. ‘She just doesn’t know you yet, that’s all.’
‘I’m not concerned. I’m just curious if I’ve done anything to offend her.’ Francesca sits forward and toys a rock with the toe of her boot. ‘But, I must say, most women behave like that in my presence. It’s almost as if they feel threatened by me. It’s sad. It just goes to show how little effort they make to get to know me. And I wish I could be friends with Sabina. There’s no reason for there to be any tension between us. I know we spend a lot of time together, but surely she knows that we are just good friends.’ She smiles and looks up at me. ‘So, are you still considering getting “have a nice day” tattooed across your forehead?’
‘No.’ I laugh in return as I glance across at our companions. Armand is flexing his bandaged hand, and von Frankenthal is standing as stiff as a pole, favouring his sutured back. ‘But I am worried about what’s going to happen tonight.’
Francesca smiles encouragingly. ‘We’ve faced tougher opponents than the Sons of Cain. We’ll pull through this. We may have lost Witch Finder Blackwood and Brother Lidcombe, and we’re all bruised and battered, but we’ve now got three fresh blades. Richard, Jebediah and Valentine seem as if they can take care of themselves. And I’m hopeful that Dorian will succeed in his mission.’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘It’s just that I feel this is all my fault. If I hadn’t insisted in searching for my father, none of you would have been placed in this situation.’
Francesca leans forward, forcing me to look at her. ‘Nothing would have stopped us from accompanying you, Jakob. Friends stand by one another through both good and bad times. That’s why I know we’ll get through this.’ She shuffles back and stretches her legs. ‘Have you thought much about your father?’
I’m sure Francesca asked the question in an attempt to distract my thoughts, and it works. I give an exasperated sigh. ‘I haven’t had time. Things have spiralled out of control since we joined Prince Rupert. But what you and Armand told me has been lurking in the back of my mind.’ I lower my eyes. ‘All the evidence suggests that my father is a spy, working for the French. He might even know the Ghost. They might be the closest of friends.’
‘You should just stick to the facts. At least your father didn’t die in the gaols of Rotterdam. That’s something.’
I shrug half-heartedly. ‘I suppose so. But it doesn’t bring me any closer to finding him. And I’m not too su
re if I want to anymore. It might have been for the best if he had been executed back in Rotterdam. At least then I would have had some form of closure on the matter.’
‘Don’t wish him dead, Jakob. Never do that. Not until you have had a chance to learn the truth of who he is.’ Francesca gives me a gentle prod with her elbow. ‘Besides, I don’t know about you, but I find the entire affair very exciting.’
‘What do you mean?’
Francesca gives a conspiratorial glance at Armand and von Frankenthal to ensure that they cannot overhear us. ‘You might be the son of a famous French spy – perhaps a member of the King’s Secret. How many people do you know who can make such a claim?’
‘But if what we have heard is true, then he betrayed his allies and the men under his command. He is a traitor. I could never do that to my friends.’
Francesca cocks an eyebrow. ‘That’s all just a matter of perspective. In the eyes of the French, he might be a national hero; one of the most famous members of the King’s Secret.’
While I believe the Ghost to be a man of honour, there wasn’t much to admire about Bethlen. He, too, was a member of the King’s Secret, and he was one of the most merciless people I have ever met. He made my first week with the Hexenjäger a living hell, teasing me relentlessly and playing malicious practical jokes. He was also a ruthless killer, driving his blade through the back of Klaus Grimmelshausen, one of the Brotherhood of the Cross. The mere thought of my father being similar in nature to Bethlen is anything but exciting. It makes me feel sick.
‘What are you two doing hiding over there?’ Armand asks, finally spotting us.
‘I came out to get some fresh air,’ I say, rising from the bench. Francesca follows, and we walk over to join Armand and von Frankenthal.
‘I wanted to thank Jakob for saving me back at the church,’ Francesca says.
Armand looks at me proudly. ‘He saved my life, too.’
Von Frankenthal tousles my hair. ‘It seems as if I’m next on your list.’
‘That will be the day.’ I find it hard to imagine that von Frankenthal, who is as sturdy as a fortress, would ever need my assistance.
Our attention is drawn by the sound of an approaching horseman. We look to the right and see a rider emerge from behind a wall of hedges at the far side of the garden. Clad in clothing similar to the English guards we met when we chased after the Ghost, the man guides his mount along the cobbled pathway that runs around the perimeter of the garden, pulls up in front of us, dismounts, and asks something in English, to which Armand responds. The rider then removes a large canvas-covered bundle from the side of his mount. Lying this on the ground, he unties its cord straps and brings back the canvas to reveal a pile of swords and some leather pouches. With a courteous bow, the guard remounts and rides back down the pathway.
Armand kneels down to inspect the weapons. ‘Complements of Bishop Henchman. Apparently he sent that guard to the royal armoury to find us some silver blades.’
‘I won’t say no to one of these.’ Von Frankenthal reaches down to select a sabre and removes it from its scabbard. He tests the weight of the sword and has a few practice swings, its silver blade glistening in the dull lantern-light. ‘I wasn’t looking forward to facing the furies again. But these will even the odds somewhat.’
Armand distributes the rest of the swords and hands me a swept-hilt English rapier and a leather pouch. I open the pouch and find a dozen or so silver pistol balls. ‘You should be comfortable with that blade, Jakob,’ he says. ‘You’ll find it similar to your Pappenheimer in weight and design.’
‘Let’s just hope that the Ghost doesn’t steal this one from me,’ I say dryly, strapping the blade by my side and tying the pouch to my belt.
Francesca draws her new weapon, a stout-bladed hunting sword, a few inches from its scabbard to inspect the quality of the blade. She nods in a satisfied manner. ‘I wouldn’t worry too much about him. I don’t think we’ll ever see him or that Italian sword-for-hire again. After all, they don’t call that French spy the Ghost for nothing.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ I murmur, but again I feel a terrible premonition that I will indeed meet both of them sometime in the not too distant future. ‘Why is it that only silver blades can harm furies?’
Armand straps the silver-bladed broadsword he selected from the pile by his side. ‘Silver is a pure metal. Many of the Devil’s servants can only be killed by silver blades or pistol balls. It is also not uncommon for priests to use silver nails to seal shut the coffins of people of evil repute and of those who died unbaptised.’
‘Why?’ I ask.
‘To ensure they won’t rise from the dead,’ Armand says matter-of-factly.
I shake my head in disbelief. ‘Really? Why am I only being told this now? And why don’t we all carry silver blades, like the Angeli Mortis?’
‘Many of the Hexenjäger do carry silver weapons,’ Armand says. ‘You obviously haven’t noticed, but Robert Monro and Captain Blodklutt only ever use silver balls in their firearms. The legendary Spanish captain Alejandro De la Cruz uses a cup-hilt rapier with a silver blade, fashioned by the most famous swordsmith in Toledo, a region in Spain renowned for the quality of its swords. One of the sabres I normally use is made from a combination of steel and silver.’
‘Then why didn’t you bring it with you?’ I enquire.
‘Because I had no reason to.’ Armand gives me a playful cuff over the back of the head. ‘I thought we would be going to Rotterdam to break into a gaol. Had I known that we would be facing an enemy such as the Sons of Cain, I would have come prepared with a very different arsenal of weapons.’
We are joined shortly by the Angeli Mortis and Bishop Henchman, who opens the door to the Prince’s lodging and ushers us into the foyer.
‘Is everything ready?’ Armand asks.
The Bishop nods. ‘We are fortunate that Saint Paul’s lies within the medieval heart of London, which is itself surrounded by the old Roman wall. The only way into the old city is through the eight gates set in the wall, or by coming up from the south and crossing over London Bridge. I have placed guards at all of the gates and along the bridge. In order that they won’t be spotted by the Sons of Cain, they are positioned on rooftops and will use signal lanterns to relay a message to Saint Paul’s, where a further four guards are hiding atop the cathedral’s tower. They will alert us when the Sons of Cain have entered the old city and are on their way to the cathedral. The number of lantern flashes will correspond with how many of the Sons of Cain there are and from which direction they are coming.’
Francesca purses her lips in thought. ‘And where will we be positioned?’
‘A wall surrounds the entire cathedral precinct,’ Bishop Henchman says. ‘The cathedral and its surrounding churchyard can only be entered via the six gates set in this wall. You will be positioned at the gates, making sure that all access points to the cathedral are guarded.’ He produces a handful of small tin whistles from his pocket and distributes them amongst us. ‘As soon as the Sons of Cain reveal the hidden entrance to the temple, blow your whistle to raise the alarm. The rest of you will then rush to that location. I will be waiting inside Saint Paul’s with a company of armed guards. We will also come to your assistance.’
Armand places his in the small leather pouch tied to his belt. ‘You said before that you wanted to keep this secret, to avoid a mass panic. But won’t the guards be suspicious?’
‘As far as they know, they are monitoring the arrival of four foreign spies who have plans to rendezvous with an English informant at Saint Paul’s. The guards have been provided with a physical description of the Sons of Cain, so they will be able to identify the demonic soldiers the instant they make their way into the old city. Not only have the guards been instructed not to approach them, but they are to avoid being spotted at all costs, lest the spies abandon their
secret meeting.’
Armand strokes his chin in thought. ‘That’s clever. I’m sure that word of what happened two nights past, when we encountered the Ghost, has spread throughout the city. It wouldn’t take much to convince the guards that more spies are on the prowl in London.’
‘They were my thoughts exactly,’ the Bishop says. ‘If all goes to plan, the Sons of Cain will lead us straight to the hidden temple.’
Von Frankenthal cracks his knuckles. ‘And that’s when the fun truly begins.’
Bishop Henchman crosses to one of the windows and stares out into the night. ‘We have also imposed a curfew around the cathedral. There will be no civilians getting in our way.’
‘How did you manage that?’ Armand asks.
‘I don’t know if you recall this, but I once told you that Fabricius has been stalking the area surrounding the cathedral, slitting the throats of anyone foolish enough to wander the streets alone at night. The townsfolk are terrified. Come evening time, the streets around Saint Paul’s become deserted.’ The Bishop folds his arms across his chest and turns to face us. ‘If the Sons of Cain are carrying the Codex Gigas, we will engage them before they reveal the location of the temple. According to Mother Shipton’s prophecy, the Antichrist must be summoned from the pages of the codex this very night, between the stroke of midnight and the rising sun. If we can steal the book from the Sons of Cain, then we can prevent this from happening.’
Prayer looks shrewdly at the Bishop. ‘But how are we going to tell if the Sons of Cain have the codex on them? We’ll be hiding in gateways leading into the cathedral precinct, concealed in darkness. How are we supposed to see if one of them is carrying the book?’
‘That won’t be an issue,’ the Bishop says. ‘The Codex Gigas is the largest known manuscript to have ever been created. It is over a yard in length. It’s not as if one of the Sons of Cain will have it tucked under his belt. Even if they have it wrapped in cloth and strapped to the side of a horse, or concealed beneath a cloak, its outline will be blatantly obvious.’