One morning in 1995, Jonah Ransom, clothier, is going about his everyday business when he meets a beautiful demon in his storecupboard. At around the same time, the King of England with his entire court, vanishes abruptly before the astonished eyes of his public as he prepares to attend Mass. Even in an England where the Reformation failed, and magic has become a commonplace tool of the all-powerful Catholic Church, such events could be described as unusual. Before long, it is apparent that something very different is abroad - magic ceases to work in its accustomed way, instability and political unrest threaten to disrupt a society used to order and rigid social obedience. Eventually the Pope is sufficiently perturbed to send one of his beloved (by him) and dreaded (by the public in general) Sicarii to investigate the disturbance. Arriving late on the scene, Adam (he has no other name), Sicarii extraordinaire, sometime spy, sometime security officer, sometime assassin, discovers a mystifying, malicious power at work, a power that can twist not only souls, but his entire world inside out.
Release date:
August 29, 2013
Publisher:
Gateway
Print pages:
309
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Page 23: A Rhyme for Recalling the Rulers of England
When the Romans departed,
there were Saxon Kings,
till William slew Harold,
at the field of HASTINGS. 5th—l1th century
….
Richard the Bad,
and Henry the Worse.
Then Henry his son,
whose name we all curse. 15—16th century
Edward his bastard,
and Mary the Great.
Black Betty, her sister,
the vile apostate. 16th century
Mary the Second,
(less Darnley the clot).
Then Essex, then James,
the blown-up Scot. 16—17th century
Saint Charles the Victor,
and Charles his son.
Then James the True,
and the battles he won. 17th century
Joseph the Wizard,
and Peter the Brave …
We gather today to honour one of the great men of English history; a true son of the Church, a patriot, a soldier and a martyr. Recognition of his rare qualities was put beyond doubt when, a hundred years ago to this day, Mother Church sanctioned his canonization. Distinguished by a life of selfless sacrifice to his country, Church and the cause of justice, he now sits in a deserved place of special exaltation in Heaven. We who venerate his life and example, have come together on this, his feast day, to add our more humble, purely English, but no less fervent honours to one of our land’s finest sons.
When, in a few moments, I unveil this statue, we will add a small but sincere contribution to the chorus of acclamation and approval which our brother, his earthly tribulations over, now enjoys in Paradise. The English people, who by their generous donations to a subscription fund enabled this statue to be raised, will be joining their prayers to both those of Christ’s Church-in-Pilgrimage on earth, and those of the Church-Triumphant beyond. Our veneration will surely not go unrewarded, both in this life and the one to come.
We know surprisingly little of the man: the times in which he lived were not conducive to fulsome declarations. His baptism, at least, is a matter of record; we read of it in the records of St Michael le Belfry, York, for the sixteenth of April, the Year of Our Lord 1570. Likewise, we can hardly fail to be unaware of his untimely grisly end, here in London, in the churchyard of St Paul’s Cathedral, on the thirty-first of January, 1606. But what of the years between? we ask. We know that his father was a lawyer and that he attended St Peter’s school in York. It is said that he grew tall and stately, over six feet in height, and had long, light brown hair and a reddish beard. His commanding officers praised him for his courage, loyalty and integrity. And that, my friends, is more or less all. We have no clear glimpse of his life and works until that fateful night, three centuries ago, when he smuggled ‘two hogshead and thirty-two small barrels of powder’, as Black Robert Cecil records, into the old Parliament building. Aided by spells of silence cast by accompanying wizards, the perilous task was accomplished. We are all familiar with the heart-stopping incident of their discovery by a yeoman of the guard, and his nick-of-time felling by a conjuration of ‘anathema’. I doubt that at any time in the thousand years since its discovery and codification has magic been put to better use in these Isles. Fortunately, after many such adventures, all went well.
Modern engineers have reconstructed events for us. The usurping Scottish King, his arrogant Scottish courtiers, the lickspittle lords and ‘protestant’ Parliament; they were struck at first by an enormous blast. Then they fell into the blazing cellar beneath, hotly followed, in every sense of the word, by the burning wreckage of the House of Lords. Those few who survived this treatment had to contend with the famous black cloud, which all London saw, rich in choking smoke and gas. Together it was sufficient to send every single one to give account of themselves to their Maker. Indeed, those same engineers calculate that the Saint gathered twenty-five-fold more explosive than was needed for the job. That may be so, but we today applaud his painstaking caution.
True, he was betrayed and taken. True, he was subject to undeserved torture and a traitor’s painful death. However, that is a mere sad postscript to a great mission fulfilled. He had done his duty and now has his reward in Heaven. Meanwhile, those of us still concerned with earning our place in Paradise, may look at this man – together with his fellow conspirators – and say never, in the field of human conflict, was so much owed, by so many, to so few …
Extract from the address given by His Majesty’s Chief Minister, Lord Winston Spencer Churchill, upon the unveiling of the statue to St Guy Fawkes, Parliament Square, London, 5 November 1940.
One morning in 1995, Jonah Ransom, clothier, was going about his normal business, only to find that ‘normal business’ was over for ever.
‘Hello,’ said the woman.
Jonah was going to ask her what she was doing in his store cupboard – and where was his stockpiled cloth? But not after that ‘hello’, not after … that voice. The sound of her went right through body and soul and shook him to silence.
One of Jonah’s hands fell from the door handle, the other with its accusing finger dropped to his side. He looked into her face and wanted to sink to his knees.
She seemed as puzzled by her location as Jonah. It took her a while to notice the middle-aged man beholding her, amidst the other strange surroundings. Eyes flashing beneath a boyish fringe of coal-dark hair, she licked her black lips.
‘Hello,’ she repeated with indecent relish, her voice transcending normal female range. Then Jonah noticed that the colours on her dress were all a-dance and flowing.
When he raised his eyes again they directly met her extended hand, mere inches from his face. Her nails were nibbled and glossy black. He sought soundless permission for his dearest wish and it was given with a coquettish tilt of her head. Jonah seized the hand like a drowning man (which in fact he was), and all but consumed it with burning kisses.
The woman drew him into the cupboard and the door slammed shut on them, of its own violent accord, as final as judgement.
‘You did well to tell us,’ said one of the white faces in the shadows. ‘We can understand the temptation to silence.’
Jonah sobbed and the panel standing in judgement of what he had to say shifted uncomfortably at the display of emotion.
‘I am … torn,’ he wept. ‘I didn’t call her. Chance brought her to my house. I’ve never felt so …’ He shook his head in frustration, unable to find the words.
‘We know,’ said the man who had spoken before, ‘or we can imagine, at least. You are prey to the strangest of afflictions, and that being so I do not think the Lord will hold you liable.’
‘You take too much upon yourself, Brother Zeal,’ said a bitter-sounding woman in a clerical collar. ‘This is a twenty years married man, I believe, and such a tie is not so lightly to be …’
She trailed away into silence beholding the widespread and manifest hostility to her intervention.
‘Special times, special cases,’ said the first speaker, rebuking her.
‘No, she is right,’ said Jonah, earning himself equal but more muted disapproval. ‘My wife and I were one flesh, as is enjoined, knowing no other since youth – but now …’
‘Now …?’ said his interrogator, urging him on as gently as he knew how.
‘Now I don’t care,’ blurted Jonah, ‘not since … she came. I don’t care for the opinion of spouse or God and be damned to both.’ Suddenly he was calm again. ‘That is the worst of it,’ he added.
Half-suppressed gasps and angry retorts filled the dimly lit barn. Outside in the night the nervous guards heard the sounds and grasped their pikes and pistols, fearing the detection that would, one day, surely come. Tense moments followed, waiting for the enemy to issue from the dark and silent fields before they could relax and resume their patrols. Meanwhile, within, the first speaker regained order with difficulty.
‘He does not speak his own mind,’ he said, raising his voice as much as he dared, ‘but betrays the influence of another. Deploy charity, I implore you, and recall the great work in hand.’
This had the desired effect and discipline was restored.
‘Do not fear,’ said another panelist to Jonah, ‘we do not take your words as yours. We know this thing that you embrace is … perilous.’
Jonah laughed bitterly. ‘Embrace!’ he said. ‘I would give my soul and the life to come for an embrace. I am not so favoured.’
Again his words caused a ripple of embarrassed unease.
‘I spoke in metaphorical terms,’ said the pale man who had prompted this outburst, ‘and of spiritual considerations. We know you for a Godly and sober man in normal times, a steadfast patron of our cause. Your presence here is proof that person is not wholly lost.’
‘Though you were not always so forward, sirrah!’ commented the first speaker.
Jonah did not hear their words of comfort or reprimand; he was lost in thought, exploring the strong emotions shaking his frame. One of the inquisitors signalled to the armed men by the door and the little clothier was led away.
Once the door was re-barred, the initial speaker, first among equals there, stepped forward in the meagre light of the few candles that security permitted. Needing no other cue, the two dozen assembled men and women, old and young, armed and not, assumed attitudes of prayer.
‘Lord,’ he intoned quietly but with passionate intensity, ‘unworthy, crawling creatures that we are, we beg Your guidance in our deliberation tonight. This is a sharp sword that You have permitted us to find. All good things come from You and we thank You for the weapon stumbled upon by our humble brother. Broaden our understanding to comprehend Your gift. If it be Your will, let us find in this lowly clothier the means to smite Babylon hip and brow. Grant us, we beseech You, the great favour to avenge our slaughtered brethren and thus show Your strong and righteous arm upon the land. Permit us the privilege of establishing Your rule. Through Jesus Christ, our Earthly King in waiting, amen.’
The others echoed ‘Amen’ with a will.
‘So?’ said the first speaker, fingering his pastor’s collar and looking inquisitively around.
‘It might just be possible,’ said a snowy-headed man with a Cornish accent. ‘I really think it might just be possible. Preliminary tests—’
‘Judgement,’ interrupted the first speaker fiercely, ‘not argument!’
‘Then yes!’ snapped the old man, unable to purge the excitement from his voice. ‘Yes!’
A murmur of irrepressible joy flourished briefly in the barn. One or two present raised their voices to say ‘Alleluia’.
The first speaker looked at each person in turn, pursuing unknown private paths of thought or prayer. Then he nodded.
‘So shall it be,’ he said quietly.
The soldier caste there, the so-called ‘Gideon Bands’, held gun or blade aloft in acclamation. The rest smiled and shifted on their feet as if limbering up for the struggle to come.
‘The matter then goes to the Joint Grand Council,’ said the first speaker, ‘for the affiliates to approve. We shall speak also to the Unitarians and Agnostics.’ Here some of those present turned aside and spat heartily. Noting this, not disapprovingly, the first speaker raised a placatory hand. ‘We do not know,’ he went on, seeking both to calm and conclude, ‘the nature of this thing that brother Jonah has met. We are not aware of its provenance save that, like all things, it comes ultimately from Almighty God. May He then make it a blade in our hands to pierce the breast of our enemy. We must not fail this time, for time is something not in infinite supply. Matters are drawing to a close for good or ill, and it is given to us to have a civilization to build. Go forth to save your souls!’
Straight away, well practised over long years, the conspirators filed silently away under the vigilance of the military cadres, out into the night, back to their homes and shops and families; and all the many and various social pretences in which they bided their time.
It was that very same day that Adam (who was just plain ‘Adam’, no longer having any other name) first heard about Jonah the clothier and his discovery in the store cupboard. True, he didn’t hear of it spoken plain or direct, but he was used to that. Very few of the things he was asked to deal with were ever simple or what they seemed.
The Mameluke escort had been dismissive of him to start with – he was just another infidel ‘Frank’, here on the Caliph’s sufferance. However, Adam’s easy show of horsemanship on the hot and dusty ride into Fez, the way he reined in his unfamiliar steed as a train steamed across their path, the confidence with which he bore arms – and then surrendered them to their captain – enabled them to warm to him. They had much in common, after all, both being taken from family and homeland at a tender age into lifelong service to a distant lord. Adam belonged, mind and body, to the great Christian Father, they to Allah’s appointed, the Caliph. The nature of their elite calling contained more similarities than differences to such military men.
So the Mamelukes smiled benignly on Adam as he slid lithely off his borrowed mount at their white-walled destination in the Foreigners’ Quarter. They forgave his plain red clothes, so dull compared to their dazzling silks, and wished him well in various tongues. He ignored them.
Adam was expected – after a fashion. The Bey of Fez, ever whimsical in his favours, had warned Sir Michael Clarke to expect a ‘Frankish’ guest, who should be received with such courtesy as he saw fit. Accordingly the interview took place beside the cool and private courtyard at the centre of the house. Here, belying the plain exterior walls, were flowers and running water, greenery and effigies in marble. At its sides were shadowed cloisters to contrast with the brassy light of the sun. Aside from the works of his pen, Sir Michael considered such a … sympathetic place amongst his greatest achievements.
Clarke had entertained hopes of a similarly sympathetic visitor from ‘home’, but little dreamt the extent to which he was mistaken. His lightly painted face fell as Adam strode into the receiving room and seemed to occupy it as if by right of conquest. He did not acknowledge the lavish decorations laid on in his honour. However, Clarke’s recovery was swift and he made a salaam of welcome. It elicited no response from the soldier. Neither did the Christendom-style proffered hand which followed.
Sir Michael shrugged gracefully. ‘Well, hello anyway,’ he said, lolling back on to his divan. ‘Mr …?’
Adam remained standing, pointedly foregoing the colourful and inviting couch provided for the expected visitor.
‘That’s irrelevant,’ he said, in a voice surprisingly quiet and gentle. ‘We shan’t be meeting again.’
‘So you are here to kill me?’ Sir Michael asked, averting his eyes.
‘No, I’m not.’
Clarke restrained his fluttering breath commendably. ‘Well then,’ he said, raising his gaze to the soldier again. ‘If we are to converse, I must call you something.’
Adam shook his head. ‘Not necessarily. Our conversation need only be short and sweet. Stop your writing.’
‘Ah,’ said Sir Michael, ‘now I understand. Yes, short certainly, but sweet? Alas, no. Mind you, it could be worse: there was the fear, just for a moment, that you were one of those appalling “Earthly Judgement” people that your master retains. Of course, had you come to do away with me, the Caliph’s dashing Mamelukes would certainly dispatch you in turn – and in a most horrible manner. However, that consideration wouldn’t deter those addled colleagues of yours, would it?’
‘No,’ agreed Adam. ‘Their efficacy is deliberately exaggerated, but what you say is broadly true. Look on me as John the Baptist to their Christ. They follow in my footsteps should I fail. Stop your writing.’
Sir Michael frowned, not angrily, but as if puzzled. ‘I had illusions of the Caliph’s protection, you see,’ he said. ‘As with all the exiles of Christendom here, I fondly dreamt we were now beyond your sordid command. It was, for instance, said that what I scribble amuses the Cairene Sublime Porte.’
‘Possibly so,’ answered Adam, ‘but matters now move on apace and it seems His Sublimeness is more … amused by certain trade arrangements that are offered him; more … amused by the prospect of Christian “volunteer” artillerymen to assist him against the Benin horse tribes of the south. Thus, by the ever-shifting sands of statecraft, our way to you is cleared and I am able to deliver my request.’
Clarke stared hard at Adam, pursing his scarlet lips. Several long moments passed in such strange communion. Then Sir Michael spoke, as though making a fresh start.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘what you say may be so. And since you’ve come all this way to recite your piece, perhaps you would care for some refreshment?’
‘No.’
‘I suspected not. You’ll permit me, then?’
Adam shrugged, but Sir Michael courteously awaited even this sign of indifference before sounding a tiny silver bell which lay beside his divan.
A stunningly beautiful pale-skinned boy, dressed in a parody of the Clarke family livery, appeared directly, bearing a flask and goblets.
Sir Michael made a great play of being served his iced lemonade and then beckoned the boy to join him on the wide couch. With ease of practise, he snuggled alongside his master and turned black-lined limpid eyes upon the stranger before them. Clarke rested one hand on the boy’s rump and smiled at Adam.
Adam did not respond other than to avert his glance, taking in the quiet courtyard with its water music and unexpected fecundity. It would be easy – for some – he thought, to desist from … everything here, to lay down duty and burden and forget time and place. Happily, for his part, he was beyond such weakness. He did not need earplugs to shut out the siren song. Moreover, that triumph over self was doubly pleasing when, as now, temptation was strengthened by Sir Michael’s magic.
Clarke, closely observing the outward signs of inner debate, mistakenly saw some faltering of Adam’s resolve. He pounced.
‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘are you not just the slightest bit … seduced by what you see?’ He waved five scarlet-tipped fingers to encompass the light and shade of the courtyard, the villa and the painted boy. ‘Not the minutest bit?’
Adam shifted his head from side to side, a gesture of equivocation. ‘A little,’ he pretended, ‘should I choose to permit it.’
Sir Michael could not judge whether his covert spell had worked. There was an Achilles’ heel there for him to sink his fangs into, he was sure; but had his venom found a vein?
‘Then permit!’ he said swiftly. ‘Don’t condemn yourself to a life of desiccation. Warm the flesh with flesh, before the lasting chill of the grave!’
So saying, Clarke playfully squeezed the servant boy’s velvet-covered bottom and the lad giggled.
Adam answered with a humour-free smile and Clarke realized that both he and his magic had quite failed.
‘I recognize the quotation from your latest opus, Sir Michael. Oh yes, don’t be surprised. I have read what I’ve come to silence. Your use of it brings me back to my purpose – and conveniently clears the air of your sorcery. Now, may I convey to my superiors news of the immediate cessation of your literary endeavours?’
Sir Michael sighed theatrically. ‘Since you seem proof against all charms – both of this world and beyond – I suppose I must consider your nasty proposition: particularly since you reveal my host has forsaken me. It’s a great shame, though. I consider my Cupid Given Poison a work of minor greatness. Not only that, it developed points quite essential to restoring mental health and wellbeing to European civilization. Surely you can’t wish to abort that?’
‘I surely can,’ replied Adam.
‘But it was so well received!’ protested Clarke.
‘In certain clandestine circles,’ Adam said dismissively. ‘Among certain sad agnostic chatterers such as yourself: no one of import.’
‘Important enough to bring a senior bully like you all the way to the Caliphate,’ Clarke countered. ‘Important enough to incite the trading of diplomatic favours!’
‘You annoyed a certain significant few,’ Adam conceded. ‘Perhaps you disturbed a modicum of sleep. If you’d written in Latin – as I know you can – instead of a minority tongue like English, you’d have stirred things even more – though maybe not to your benefit.’
Clarke appeared to agree. ‘I have this emotional attachment to the old country,’ he explained. ‘And English is greatly neglected as a literary medium. Besides – Church-speak – that’s the tongue of the enemy, isn’t it? I have nothing to say to them.’
Adam was starting to warm to Sir Michael’s foundationless courage. In a detached way, he wished the man well.
‘Taken out of context,’ he pressed on, ‘your arguments and teasings possess some illusory weight. And so here I am’ – his voice suddenly hardened – ‘awaiting your answer.’
By contrast, Sir Michael’s feelings towards the Papal emissary were heading in a less charitable direction. Seeing the ruin of his great project, that very work which justified his play, he visited his disappointment and impotent rage on the bearer of the bad tidings.
‘There is only one answer I can give, isn’t there?’ he hissed, pushing the startled servant off the couch on to the cool tiled floor. Apparently used to such rapid mood swings, the boy scuttled away into the courtyard’s shadows. Still unwilling to offer unconditional surrender to the civilization he hated and had fled from, Clarke set to feverish work on last-ditch defences. ‘There’s always the possibility of a nom de plume,’ he muttered.
Adam, fully committed to his mission, took this throwaway face-saver with a seriousness he knew it didn’t really merit.
‘I think not, Sir Michael. Your style would be recognized by the experts retained by the College of Ideological Vigilance, and retribution for your deceit would soon follow. Do not treat your last chance so lightly.’
Clarke glowered at him. ‘You already knew I was a magician, didn’t you?’ he said, changing tack.
Under the combined protection of both Pope and Caliph, Adam felt secure enough to stand and face Sir Michael’s barely controlled anger.
‘Of course,’ he answered. ‘I know more about you than your mother does. My prior research and briefing were quite exhaustive.’
‘Well, they would be, wouldn’t they?’ sneered Clarke. ‘You world-deniers have so much excess energy to sublimate. And leave my saintly mother out of things.’
Adam sighed impatiently. ‘Have you got anything to actually say, Sir Michael, or can I skip the parade of pique?’
Clarke, who seemed very grave all of a sudden, sat up straight. ‘Oh yes,’ he said, ‘I’ve got something to say – and it ought to interest you.’
‘Fire away,’ said Adam.
‘Oh I would,’ said Sir Michael, ‘if I didn’t think you might be faster with the concealed firearm you have trained on me …’
One up to you, Sir Michael, thought Adam.
‘… if I thought I might get away with it, if your theocracy didn’t have infinite more monsters like you to send in your place. So, no, I won’t seek to cover you in balefire or similar; I’ll let you go home, alive, infected with something else.’
‘Which is. . .
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