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.

I undid my cloak and threw it upon the work table.

“Billy, Billy Chard!” There was no reply. It was only then I saw the crumpled figure upon the floor. Billy was face down in the corner, his tangled brown locks glistening and wet.

“Bonsoir, Colonel.”

I slowly turned around, towards the doorway. Lieutenant d’Artagnan stood just four paces away, his pistol levelled at me. I swore under my breath, mainly at my own stupidity in letting this all happen. “Did you have to kill him, you bastard.”

D’Artagnan shook his head. “I brained him with the flat of my blade. The rascal has a skull like an ox. He’ll live. Mind you, I should have killed him for catching me out in Exeter—taking my sword and my horse.”

“And I should have killed you when I had the chance. Sometimes I take comradeship a little too seriously.”

The young musketeer chuckled. “But Richard, that is why I have spared you. We have served together, and will again I am certain. But you must come back with me now, or else. Cromwell’s army is closing on you.”

“Thanks to you, monsieur.” I slowly knelt near Billy to see that he still drew breath. He did. “You went straight to your ambassador to tell him the traitor Treadwell was here, didn’t you? And he told John Thurloe, Cromwell’s spymaster.” I stood up again, my fingers slick with Billy’s blood.

“We’ve had this conversation, Colonel. His Eminence has no wish for General Cromwell to come to harm and your little sojourn was never sanctioned by him. You expected me not to warn my ambassador that a rogue agent of the Cardinal was here? Don’t you think it would have been far easier for me just to kill you? I am trying to save you.” D’Artagnan took another step into the room. “Now, unbuckle your swordbelt, sit down in that chair, and be reasonable. I can reunite you with Marguerite shortly and we three can be off for the coast—with an escort from the ambassador’s retinue.”

I took a step towards him. “Where is Marguerite? Don’t tell me you brought her here with you, you fool.”

D’Artagnan pulled back slightly even as his arm shot forward, the hammer of his doglock clicking loudly. “Stand down, sir!”

I balled my fists until I could feel my nails cutting my palms. I had trusted him to keep her safe. “You trumped up Gascon peasant. Where is Marguerite? Where did you leave her?”

D’Artagnan inclined his head and narrowed his eyes. “Now, monsieur, my patience is truly at an end. Give me your word of honour to yield or I will blow your brains out here and now.”

I had not time to answer him. The door crashed inwards and strangers were upon us. The Frenchman was fast, wheeling towards the intruders, but he had only half turned in a crouch at the sound before a cudgel struck him upon the head, dropping him like a stone. His pistol bounced on the floorboards but did not discharge. I possessed only half the reflexes of the young musketeer but went for the pistol on the floor anyway, even before looking at my attackers. If the redcoats were to take me they would have to work for it. I had one knee on the floor, one hand bracing me up, and the other wrapped around d’Artagnan’s firelock, all the while the sound of crashing boots rang in my ears. I had just picked up the weapon when I felt the cold heavy steel of a pistol barrel poking me at the back of my head.

Gideon Fludd’s voice was close to my ear, that same quiet measured cadence I remembered from when he had slit my face. “No, no, no, that will not do, sirrah.” I felt a hand on my collar pulling me up while someone seized the pistol from my grasp. “You’ve been a trickster, my friend, very difficult to find. Not so your comrade here. He was easy to follow.”

Fludd pulled me backwards sharply, throwing me across the floor. I looked up to see him standing over me, two of his Fifth Monarchy men flanking him. And I was staring into the muzzle of his cavalry wheel-lock, my heart in my throat, wishing now that they had been red-coated dragoons instead. I pushed myself backwards and slowly gained my feet.

Major Fludd was bareheaded, his close-cropped white hair almost aglow in the dim light of the room. But I could clearly see his eyes. They fairly started from out of his pale face, burning with keenness to kill me for what I had done. “It is bad enough that you’ve slain my brother, but that you still hold what does not belong to you, now that rubs salt into my open wound, old man.”

He knew I held the Moon Pentacle. I bumped into the wall behind me. Gideon Fludd raised his pistol towards my head. “Do not make me hunt for the lamen. Surrender it and then I will kill you quickly, I swear upon my God. The blood debt must be paid.”

“At least most canting Roundheads believe they’re serving God, sir. Not the Devil—like you are. Are you so blind not to see what it is that you truly serve?”

Fludd’s booted foot slammed hard upon the boards, bouncing the entire floor. “Enough of your blasphemy! Where is the device?”

“It is no angel that you treat with.” I still had my sword about my waist. But the room was too small for swordplay and he would either blow a hole through me or all three would jump me, or both.

“You are going to die anyway. Just give me what I ask for.” His voice had regained its quiet certitude.

Here he was, within reach of me. I could end it all here, perhaps. Was this not what I wanted, to have him in my grasp? I smiled at him. “Why not ask your angel Eistibus where it is?”

Fludd started towards me but one of his men grabbed his shoulder. “Hold, Major! What has he seen of us?”

Fludd stepped back, digesting my little morsel. “So, you’re a spy too, it seems. Did you see the Holy One when we had you tied up?”

“I’ve seen enough. And I know what the creature has bid you to do. You will not succeed. Even now the army surrounds the Lord General to guard him from your attack.”

Fludd hardly blinked at my sally. He shook his head slowly as if truly saddened for me. “Little old man, do you really think any mortal can stand before the Will of the Almighty? How many soldiers Cromwell surrounds himself with does not concern me. And your little efforts have only served to annoy me. This night, the angel will bestow upon me all that I need to accomplish the task. And King Jesus will follow.”

The silver pentacle lay heavy in my pocket. “Very well, sir. It is my wish to serve God. I will reveal where it is hidden.”

Fludd seemed to relax a little, but kept the pistol levelled. “Play me not, sir. Just tell me where it is.”

“It is right there,” I said, gently pointing my finger towards the opposite wall. And thank God, they all looked over their shoulders. I ducked fast, swatting his hand cannon away, and bounded into the next room. Even as I slammed the door shut and threw home the wooden bolt, a shot blew through the door, ripping wood splinters across my face. The pistol ball went wide. I backed into the room, my mind racing to think of an escape. And then the floor under my feet rang hollow. I was standing on the trap door that Billy had shown me, the hatch leading down to the river. I stooped to grab the iron ring, even as the door to the room was cracking off its hinges as Fludd bellowed at his men.

If Billy had somehow managed to find a boat and tie it up... I heaved again and the hatch groaned as it gave way. I peered down into the darkness and the roar and smell of the river rose up to engulf me. Then I saw it. It was hanging from the rungs of the ladder. Even as I jumped backwards, its arms reached up into the hatchway, and its long-fingered hands hit the floor, claws scrabbling on the boards, trying to find purchase. And as the head and shoulders of the thing came into view, I felt my guts go to water.

It was the pig man. The same I had fought off on the south bank. The hellish creature pulled itself up, its huge baleful eyes never leaving me. It opened its wide maw, hog tusks yellowed and dripping, and let out a squeal that went to my marrow. It was far bigger than I had thought, glistening grey, its back covered in long bristles. I turned and ran for the stairs leading up to the next floor. When I reached that, I kept going, the narrow little staircase twisting up and around to the loft above. And below me I could hear the flapping and scratching feet of the creature as it pounded the staircase after me, the walls shaking as it bounced and pushed its way through the narrow stairwell. And all the while that terrible cry like some creature being scalded alive.

By the time I reached the loft my chest was heaving. I didn’t have the balls to start drawing a chalk circle and reciting a prayer while that thing was nearly upon me. So there was no place to go but out. I burst open the dormer window frame with my shoulder, lifted my leg over the sill, and climbed out onto the roof. Christ alone knows how I managed to scramble up the peak of the dormer, but I somehow perched myself, heels slipping on the slates. I could hear the creature hissing and snorting inside the room beneath me, and although it seemed to have few brains it somehow knew how to sniff me out.

And it gave me no respite. I felt the peak of the dormer shudder under my crotch and realised the beast was battering the window frame like a ram. I heard the wood crack and several slates went sailing off a hundred feet below into the Thames. My perch was fast disintegrating beneath me and then a black, spindly hand twice the size of any man’s appeared next to my boot. I swore and pulled my legs up and with only the moonlight to aid me, craned my head upwards, looking to see how I could climb further. The roof was steep but there was another dormer just higher up that I might reach. If I could get to the peak I could crawl to the next house and enter through a window there. Already, the dormer beneath me was sagging inwards, about to collapse. I balanced as best I could, stretched out and was just able to grasp the second dormer above.

As I began pulling myself upwards, my knees and boots scrambling for purchase, the pig ripped the dormer to pieces. I looked down to see its head and shoulders rising up from the hole it had torn in the roof. Its arm was beginning to reach upwards so I raised my left boot and gave it a thumping kick to the head. It howled in rage and while only annoying the thing for a moment, terror gave me the strength to pull myself to the next window with the grace of a baboon.

I was now perched on the second, smaller dormer window, the peak of the house some six feet higher up. Straddling it like the wooden hobby horse we used to punish drunken soldiers on, I tried to pull my blade out of its scabbard without sending myself tumbling over sideways. I watched the unblinking eyes of the pig thing as it heaved its bulk up, desperate to come out and join me. I was gasping now, my sword across my lap, and I knew I had little strength left to fight the thing off once it climbed out. My arms were shaking and if I tried to climb higher I knew that I would lose grip and fall.

So I sat there and watched as the pig scratched away at the roof slates and slowly managed to pull itself free of the hole. Once it had gotten its long feet up on the edge of the hole, it regarded me like some dog about to attack. The rotting scent I remembered from before wafted up to me: its fetid breath. Bracing itself with one arm, the other shot up to me, grabbing my ankle. I slashed down with my sword even as I held on to the peak with my other hand. My blade nicked its wrist and it howled and let go. Its head shook and flecks of foam from its snout splashed out across the roof. Again it grabbed for me and I swung again, weakly glancing off the slates and missing. Either I would fall from my own frantic struggles or it would pull me down and savage me. That was about all there was left. But something made me remember the pentacle—and the words written upon it. Da Silva had said the name of God held power in itself. I pulled it forth from my pocket, palmed it and thrust it out towards the pig man.

“Is this what you want?” I yelled.

And even as I did so the thing leapt upwards, pushing with its mighty legs, both arms stretching out to seize me. I fell backwards against the roof as it landed on top of me. My sword went spinning but somehow I kept the pentacle in my hand and thrust it out. The pig’s jaws snapped and it raised a clawed hand ready to slice me open like a rabbit. And I pushed the pentacle into its chest. Instantly, a white flame erupted, the searing sound loud in my ears and that terrible cry of pain from the beast. It leaned backwards, limp as a doll, tottered for a moment, and then slipped sideways, rolling down the roof. It disappeared over the edge and fell to the river below.

I can barely remember getting down off that roof. Somehow I crawled through the hole the creature had made, regaining the room below. I staggered down the stairs, only half caring whether Fludd and his men waited below. My heart was still beating a rapid tattoo when I reached the bottom. All was quiet. I stumbled in the gloom into the front room to find both Billy and d’Artagnan still upon the floor. Gideon Fludd was gone.

Billy was groaning, his boots scraping along the floor as he tried to rouse himself. I helped him sit up but his head lolled like a drunk’s. Then I heard d’Artagnan cry out in pain. I turned to see him pulling himself up off the floor, holding his noggin. I was on him in an instant. Practically straddling him, I hauled him up by his shirt front and shook him like a hare.

“Where did you leave Marguerite? Tell me!”

He was mumbling about who had struck him the blow.

“You goddamned fool! You’ve led Fludd here. To us. Where is she?”

He looked up at me, eyes beginning to focus. “She’s at the inn where you stayed the other night... The Bear.”

“Bastard!” I threw him backwards onto his arse and moved back to Billy who was moaning softly and cradling his broken head. “Billy! Billy Chard!”

He looked up at me. “The fucking sod crowned me good, Mister Eff. I’m poorly.”

I cupped his face with my hands. “You’ll be right as rain, Billy. Now listen to me. Are you listening?”

He nodded.

“Good. I need you to make your way back to da Silva’s house. Tell him that Fludd is on the move. He came here after d’Artagnan struck you. Do you understand?”

Billy was rapidly clearing his fog. “He was here? In this house? Oh, Christ.”

“I’ve got to go find Maggie. I will try and get back to da Silva’s later. Don’t wait around for d’Artagnan to get up. Get out of here now!”

“I’ll kill that French bastard first.”

“Just leave him. Come on. There’s a lad... up we go.”

Billy steadied himself, hands gripping the table edge. “The... the buff coats... I brought them.”

“Fetch them if you can, but get out now. I don’t know who will be on our doorstep next!” I clapped him on the back and made for the threshold. D’Artagnan was retching in the corner. “And you,” I said, stabbing a finger in the air, “you I’ll be back for if she has come to harm!”

It was all unravelling. I knew that as I emerged from the house to see several folk standing by, alarmed at what had been going on for the past half an hour.

“Here now! What’s all the ruckus in there?” I could see in the lantern light it was some bloody-aproned butcher coming towards me, cleaver in hand.

I must have looked a sight; my coat ripped open, shirt undone and breeches caked in slime and seagull shit from the roof. “Mind your own business!” I blustered, tottering along the cobbles, away towards the Southwark end.

I reached the Bear and made my way to the stairs, ignoring the challenges of the serving boy and landlord as I entered, pushing past the drinkers and whores. Up the stairs, bouncing along the walls of the hall, I found the room. The door was wide open. Wheezing and panting like a spent hound, I entered, already knowing that I was too late.

She was not there. But—sweet Lord—her valise lay torn apart on the floor, its contents strewn about the room by someone who had been furiously intent on finding something. I absently gathered up her ripped chemise and so too her hooded russet cloak. Clutching them, I sat on the little bedstead in the corner, the pit of my stomach in a wrenching knot. A chair had been dashed to pieces and the bed itself had been pulled away from the wall. I could almost see her being thrown about the room by Fludd, and she, in turn, lashing out like a cornered beast.

And then, horrid confirmation of what my mind had summoned up. A tuft of long brown hair, my Maggie’s, lay at the foot of the bed, and my heart was stabbed straight through. Tears welled up and I could not drive from my head ever more dreadful visions of what had befallen her. I rubbed my face with the back of my sleeve. I had little time to track her, find her before it was too late. I took a deep breath and even as I did so, felt anger welling up to replace the tears. Then, by chance, I spotted a sheet of paper upon the little round table across the room. I put her things on the pillow and rose, making my way to the table. It was just some ha’penny broadsheet, but the thick pencil-scrawled message along the margin, bold and stark, was meant only for me. Whether Gideon Fludd had written it before or after he and his minions had accosted me, I knew not. Nor did it really matter.

Bring it to Whitehall Park.

He had her. And his bargain was clear. Give him the pentacle, and he would free her. I also knew that my life was part of that deal as well.

I dropped the ultimatum back to the table and was about to gather Maggie’s things, but when I looked up, someone was standing in the doorway. I did not know who he was but he was studying me intently—and in some confusion from the look on his face. He was in a black suit with a plain collar, no weapon in hand. A man with an unspoilt face and gentle eyes, obviously having seen little of war or hardship. His long hair fell to his shoulders, swept to either side of a high forehead and a narrow nose. He looked like a lawyer.

“Who the hell are you, sir?” I growled, suddenly realising I too was weaponless.

“I am someone who has been looking for you for some time... a considerable time,” he replied. He then shook his head sadly. “Leastways I think you’re the one I’m searching for. I had expected more... presence of quality.” And he then nodded to someone else in the hallway. In an instant, three burly redcoats piled in, pushing me back. One stuck his forearm against my throat and pinioned me to the opposite wall. My limbs were still weak and shaking from my rooftop fight and I gave no resistance as my back and head hit the plaster.

“My name is John Thurloe of the Council of State. And you, I presume, are Colonel Richard Treadwell.” He moved deeper into the bedchamber and threw back his dark cassock off his shoulder as he reached for the paper on the table. He was still looking me up and down in open disbelief at my shabby, stinking condition. “I thought the Royalists were paying better than this. Christ’s wounds! Look at the state of you, man.” He scanned the paper but gave no reaction to Fludd’s message.

A fourth soldier came in jangling a set of rusty manacles.

“Put him in irons,” said Thurloe quietly.

He was still shaking his head in disappointment as they bustled me out the door. As I was swept past, I heard him mock me. “And he’s a new knight of the realm, to boot. Sad times indeed.”