The Witch Hunter Chronicles 3 Page 20

  Prayer scratches her head in thought. ‘That’s all fine. But what if the Sons of Cain have already placed the codex within the temple? Won’t that be cutting things a bit fine?’

  Bishop Henchman purses his lips and nods. ‘It will be. And in that case, we will have to move swiftly. As soon as the Sons of Cain reveal the entrance to the hidden temple, we will have to go straight after them – literally confront them the second they reveal the entrance. But remember that, even if Dorian has succeeded in breaking the spell granting the Sons of Cain their powers, our objective is not to kill them. It is the codex that we are after.’

  ‘And I assume the plan is to destroy the Devil’s Bible once it is in our possession?’ von Frankenthal asks.

  Bishop Henchman shakes his head. ‘I wish it were that simple, but the codex cannot be destroyed. It is protected by powerful dark magic. You cannot even make a tear in one of its pages. All we can do is try to hide it from the Sons of Cain. If we can prevent them from using it between the stroke of midnight and dawn, then they would have missed their chance to summon the Antichrist.’

  Von Frankenthal gives an exasperated sigh. ‘There’s always a catch, isn’t there?’

  Armand grins roguishly. ‘It would be no fun if there wasn’t.’ He grips the silver-bladed broadsword strapped by his side. ‘It’s time we do this.’

  Half an hour later, Francesca and I are positioned at the largest of the gates giving access through the churchyard wall. Located at the west end of the cathedral precinct, it spans Ludgate Street, which runs uphill from Ludgate, one of the eight fortified gates set in the old Roman wall encircling the medieval heart of the city. We are hidden in the darkness a few yards back from the gate, wrapped in our cloaks. It is a perfect position, offering us a clear line of sight through the opened churchyard gate to the cathedral and its tower, atop which the four guards, equipped with signal lanterns, are located.

  The largest church in London, Saint Paul’s dwarfs the neighbouring buildings, its tower soaring into the night sky like an enormous siege belfry. Almost six hundred feet long, the cathedral is surrounded by a wide open space. The stores and markets that have spilled over its walls into the cathedral precinct itself have closed down several hours earlier, leaving the area silent and drowned in darkness.

  Before taking position in the six gates set in the cathedral wall, we had taken the precautionary measure of extinguishing all of the street lamps within the grounds and neighbouring alleyways. This provides us with the cover we need to catch the Sons of Cain off-guard. We don’t want any innocent bystanders being injured, and the deserted alleyways and cathedral grounds offer us the perfect stage on which to engage the Sons of Cain. No audience. No witnesses. Just the cold hiss of drawn steel to applaud us in our endeavour. That’s all we ask for.

  Following Francesca’s lead, I have pulled the folds of my cloak tight around me, concealing my weapons in the off-chance that the glimmer of moonlight on the honed edge of a drawn blade might betray our presence. Every now and then I cast a nervous eye up at the cathedral tower, anticipating the guards’ signal that the Sons of Cain have entered the old city.

  Each of the five other gateways leading into the cathedral precinct is monitored by members of our team, ensuring that all access points to the cathedral are covered. In an alleyway off to the north, running down to the cathedral from Paternoster Row, the primary road running east–west to the north of the cathedral, Armand is keeping watch. Meanwhile, von Frankenthal is hiding in the shadows of the narrow road some two hundred yards off to the Frenchman’s right, over near Saint Paul’s Churchyard. The remaining four entrances to the cathedral are guarded by Prayer, Jebediah, Richard and Valentine. Bishop Henchman, along with a personal bodyguard of two dozen soldiers, has taken position within the cathedral itself.

  It’s not surprising that Francesca and I, both being the least experienced in fighting Satan’s forces, should be assigned to guard the same gateway. I’m sure that Armand wants the peace of mind in knowing that we are together, watching each other’s backs. And I was greatly relieved, I must confess, when I had heard that Francesca was going to be my partner. Granted, neither of us has dared whisper a word since taking position near the gateway and beginning our silent vigil, but that doesn’t mean that I haven’t taken comfort in having her – and her repeating crossbow and talwar, for that matter – by my side.

  The wind has risen considerably since we left Prince Rupert’s lodgings, producing a haunting whistle as it funnels through the alleyways and roads, and driving clouds across the night sky like tattered ghosts. Or rather, I find myself thinking ominously – my hand reaching instinctively for the hilt of my new silver-bladed rapier – like furies.

  As we stand in the shadows, my back pressed up against the wooden facade of a hovel, and Francesca waiting as silent as a statue on the opposite side of the road, it’s hard to gauge the passage of time. I reckon several hours must have passed before I stare up at the tower, where the dark figure of one of the guards keeping watch catches our attention. He flashes a lantern twice and points to the south-east, in the direction of London Bridge.

  My blood freezes.

  The signal!

  Two of the Sons of Cain have entered the old city.

  ‘This is it,’ Francesca whispers. She slips through the shadows and gestures for me to follow her to the end of the street, where we take position in the gateway.

  From here we have an unobstructed view of the front of the cathedral, its columned portico resembling the bars of a giant prison cell. We can also see down either side of the cathedral, although with the exception of pale moonlight, all is blanketed in darkness.

  I pull up behind Francesca and reach beneath the folds of my cloak to draw one of my pre-loaded pistols. But I keep it concealed, conscious of the possibility of moonlight glistening on its barrel. ‘They are coming from the direction of London Bridge,’ I whisper. ‘Who is guarding that approach?’

  ‘The Angeli Mortis are monitoring the alleyways to the south and east,’ Francesca says over her shoulder. ‘Are you nervous?’

  ‘Me? I’ve got nerves of steel,’ I reply, putting on a brave air, but thankful that Francesca can’t see my trembling hands.

  ‘So, I take it you have no objection in being the first to run out to face the Sons of Cain?’ Francesca says wryly.

  I give her a nervous pat on the shoulder. ‘I’m quite comfortable right here.’

  I glance up at the tower atop the cathedral, wondering why the guard signalled that only two of the demonic horsemen had entered the city. What has become of the other two? As Armand had speculated, perhaps some of them remained behind at the Hanging Tree? But then, just as I’m about to scan the darkness on the southern side of the cathedral, a lantern flashes from the tower and answers my suspicions.

  It flashes once, indicating that the third Son of Cain has entered the old city. Only this time, the signal indicates that the demonic soldier is coming from the west.

  I spin around to stare into the darkness at the end of Ludgate Hill, my heart racing. There is only one approach into the old city from the west: the fortified gate, Ludgate, lying only a hundred yards or so down the street in which Francesca and I are hiding.

  I stare into the night, knowing that one of the Sons of Cain is coming straight towards us.

  ‘We should move!’ Francesca whispers, grabbing me by the hand and pulling me around the side of the gate, into the cathedral grounds. Repositioning ourselves against the side of the building, our chests pressed up against its wooden wall, we peer back down the road and scan for movement.

  At the far end of the road, I can see the battlements of the old Roman wall rising above the roofs of the hamlets as black silhouettes stark against the night sky. But there is no sign of movement beneath the extending gables that stretch down the road and form a dark tunnel through which the Son
of Cain must pass, and into which not even the ghostly moonlight can penetrate.

  Wary of the fact that the other two Sons of Cain are approaching from the south-east – and that Francesca and I, having relocated to the outskirts of the perimeter of open space surrounding the cathedral, are now exposed to them – I sink down into my cloak. I pull it up around my cheeks and lower the brim of my hat.

  Anxious seconds pass, our ears tilted towards the hot, dry, moaning wind in hope that it will carry warning of the demonic soldier’s approach. I know he is there somewhere in the darkness, stalking closer with each passing heartbeat. But still there is no sign of him.

  I shiver and place a finger on the trigger of the pistol beneath my cloak, determined to get off an early shot. ‘Can you see anything?’ I whisper in Francesca’s ear, too nervous to remain silent any longer.

  She raises a hand for silence. Her entire body tenses. For the wind is now carrying the sound of footfalls advancing along the cobbles of the road. Perhaps it is a trick played by the breeze, the sound magnified in the tunnel created by the gables. But the noise is impossibly close, as if the Son of Cain is merely yards away from us.

  Following Francesca’s lead, I pull back from the gateway and retreat into the dark recess of a doorway of one of the small shops located on the inside of the cathedral wall. Pressed up against the door, we part our cloaks, draw our silver-bladed swords and wait with bated breath for the Son of Cain to emerge from the road. I feel an irresistible urge to produce the tin whistle from the pocket of my shirt and raise the alarm, but I can’t do that yet – not until we can see that the Son of Cain is carrying the Devil’s Bible.

  A few more agonising seconds pass before the footsteps suddenly stop. There is a short pause, followed by a hollow, grinding sound, as if a heavy stone slab is being dragged back. There is a longer pause before the grinding sound is repeated. After a few seconds, this, too, stops, leaving only the sounds of the moaning wind and the distant barking of a dog.

  After what seems to be an eternity, I look at Francesca. ‘What’s happened? What was that sound?’

  She shakes her head. ‘I’m not too sure, but I have a bad feeling about this. And we need to find out what’s happened. Come on, let’s check it out.’

  I grab Francesca by the hand, holding her in place. ‘Do you think that’s wise?’

  ‘No,’ Francesca says calmly, and I am reminded of how she once told me of how she tries to distance herself from events, so that she can consider all options with a clear mind. ‘But we aren’t going to find any answers merely hiding here, are we? You can stay if you like, but I’m going to have a look.’

  I shake my head adamantly. ‘I’m not letting you wander off by yourself. I don’t like your idea one bit, but I’m coming with you.’

  Summoning every ounce of courage, I follow her out of the recess. Our backs braced against the side of the dwelling, we stalk through the darkness and eventually reach the gateway. Taking a breath to steady my nerves, my pistol raised in preparation to fire, I press up against Francesca’s back and peer over her shoulder into Ludgate Street.

  I scan the area for movement, but I can see no sign of the Son of Cain.

  ‘Where is he?’ I whisper. ‘It sounded as if he was almost upon us, and now he’s disappeared.’

  Francesca studies the darkness for some time before being certain that the coast is clear and stepping out from behind the corner. ‘He didn’t disappear.’ She gestures with a jerk of her chin for me to follow after her. ‘The grinding noise we heard was the sound of a stone slab being pushed aside – a sound I have heard dozens of times before in tombs and crypts. If what I fear is indeed true, then the Son of Cain has opened a stone door, perhaps a concealed entrance granting access to a hidden passage.’

  ‘Like a tunnel?’ I scan the cobbled road and fail to find any such dislodged stone slab. ‘But where?’

  ‘It won’t be on the road.’ Francesca moves off to the side to inspect the facades of the dwellings and points for me to search the opposite side. ‘But we need to find it fast. The Son of Cain may have entered an underground passageway that leads to the temple beneath the cathedral. That would explain why the Bishop failed to find the hidden entrance – he was looking within the cathedral itself, searching in the wrong place.’

  A terrible thought makes the hairs on my arms stand on end, and I peer back over my shoulder. ‘If you’re right, and the entrance to the temple is located somewhere here, then that means . . .’

  Francesca looks back at me, her eyes flashing with alarm in the grey moonlight. ‘That the other Sons of Cain will make their way to this exact location.’

  I reach for my whistle. ‘Should we call the others?’

  Francesca raises a hand, signalling for me to stop. ‘Not just yet. We need to make sure that there is indeed an entrance to the temple somewhere here. We should wait until then.’

  I stare determinedly into the darkness on my side of the road. ‘Let’s find this passage before the other Sons of Cain make their way here.’

  Without a further word, we move down the road, searching for the elusive entrance. Most of the dwellings lining the road are constructed of wood – yet what we heard sounded distinctly like a stone slab being drawn back. Keeping this in mind, I study the ground outside the dwellings, focusing on the stone steps leading up to their doorways. But nothing resembles an entrance to an underground passage.

  That is, until, having moved some twenty yards down the road, I discover a narrow strip of land, barely three yards wide, stretching back between two ramshackle tenements. At first I thought it was an alleyway, but peering into the darkness, my eyes having become acclimatised to the night, it doesn’t take me long to learn that I was wrong. I signal eagerly for Francesca to join me.

  ‘I think I’ve found it!’ I point with the tip of my rapier into the gap between the dwellings, where, some five yards back from the road, there is a small graveyard. Its three graves, marked with headstones, are made of ancient stone and rise a foot above the ground, resembling small sarcophaguses. They are sealed with stone slabs, one of which has been pushed aside and then hastily put back in place.

  ‘This is it, all right.’ Francesca moves stealthily over to the sarcophagus with the askew lid. She leans down to inspect the headstone, running a finger over its worn inscription. ‘Look at the date on this headstone: in the Year of Our Lord 746. This is an Anglo-Saxon burial. It’s nothing short of a miracle that these graves weren’t destroyed centuries ago to make way for some alley or dwelling.’

  I move over to join Francesca by the grave. ‘Miracle or not, we should notify the others that we’ve found the hidden entrance. For all we know, a Son of Cain was carrying the Devil’s Bible, and he’s now reached the Altar of Sun and started to summon the Antichrist.’

  ‘I wouldn’t do that just yet,’ a voice whispers from behind us. We nearly jump out of our skin and turn around to see a cloaked figure, armed with a large staff, standing at the graveyard’s entrance.

  I react instantly, surprising myself with the speed of my response. Fearing it is one of the Sons of Cain, I place myself instinctively in front of Francesca and whip up my pistol to take aim at the figure’s torso – the part of their body offering the largest target.

  The figure raises the length of wood it carries, gestures for me to lower my pistol and whispers calmly, ‘Surely you don’t want to blast me away, Jakob? That would be a terrible crime. Imagine how many broken hearts would lament my departure.’

  ‘Armand?’ Francesca and I say in unison, recognising the French duellist’s voice.

  ‘The one and only,’ he whispers in return, and sneaks over to join us. ‘Now, lower that pistol before you accidentally blast a hole through my chest.’

  Wary of drawing unwanted attention, we continue to talk in hushed tones.

  ‘Sorry.’ I do a
s instructed. ‘It’s just that you were the last person we expected to find here. I thought one of the Sons of Cain had snuck up behind us.’

  ‘You’re lucky it was only me.’ Armand kneels down beside us. ‘Otherwise, I’m sure you’d both be dead by now. You need to be more careful.’

  ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence,’ Francesca snorts. ‘And I don’t think you’re in any position to be telling us to be cautious. Why have you left your post? No one has raised the alarm. You shouldn’t be creeping around. And you’re the one who should consider yourself lucky. Jakob might well have taken your head off with his pistol. Either that, or you might have run into the Sons of Cain yourself. What would you have done then, all alone, and with your injured hand?’

  ‘Point taken,’ Armand answers, a lot humbler now, and pays a wary look over his shoulder. ‘But I had to find you. Something’s gone terribly wrong.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask.

  Armand gestures for Francesca and me to come closer. ‘When the guards atop the cathedral signalled that two of the Sons of Cain were approaching from the south-east, I made my way quickly around to the south of the cathedral, believing the Angeli Mortis might be in need of my assistance.’ He pauses, his expression grave. ‘I went to check on Richard. I found him lying dead in an alleyway, his throat slit from ear to ear.’

  ‘What?’ I gasp.

  ‘It gets worse.’ Armand shows us the length of wood he is carrying, and I feel my stomach sink as I discover that it is Jebediah’s staff. ‘I found Jebediah in the next alley, having suffered the same fate. Both bodies were stone cold, indicating the Angeli Mortis had been killed some time ago, perhaps only moments after they had taken position in the gateways and long before the guards atop Saint Paul’s signalled that two of the Sons of Cain had entered the old city.’ He pauses again and stares grimly at us. ‘Both Richard and Jebediah had inverted crucifixes on their foreheads, scrawled in blood.’