The Witch Hunter Chronicles 3 Read online

  The hours drag by, long and tedious, but not a single soul passes by. At the first light of dawn, Armand wakes Francesca and Prayer.

  Francesca rubs her eyes wearily and looks to the east, at the first grey traces of the approaching day. ‘It looks as if we did it. We prevented Mother Shipton’s prophecy from coming true.’

  Armand stands by her side and smiles. ‘It’s not every day you get to stop the Antichrist from being summoned. Not bad for a night’s work, I’d say.’

  We mount our horses and ride slowly, lethargically, back towards London, staring up at the red glow created by the distant inferno. I smile tiredly, recalling the comment made by von Frankenthal when we first sailed to England: that it would be no great pity if London were to burn to the ground. How prophetic his words turned out to be. I’m sure he’ll laugh his head off, though, when I tell him how the fire started.

  Eager to see my towering friend again, I trail after Armand.

  Standing at the rear of the Royal Charles, I watch the White Cliffs of Dover slowly fade into the night. Two weeks have passed since London was set ablaze. For four days the fire raged out of control, spurred by the dry, easterly winds. Whilst the inferno did not reach Whitehall or London Bridge, and the southern part of the city was spared, the old medieval heart of London was completely destroyed. Not even Saint Paul’s Cathedral escaped the blaze; all that remains of the city’s largest church is a burned-out shell.

  We returned to Prince Rupert’s lodgings the morning after facing the Sons of Cain. No sooner had Franz called for a surgeon, who cleaned and sutured our wounds, then we were joined by Bishop Henchman. He commended us for our efforts in fighting the Sons of Cain and preventing the Prince of Darkness from being summoned. He had also asked if we knew anything about the fire. Wary of the truth being revealed and of the possible political backlash against our order, Francesca and I had acted ignorant. Armand suspected that the Sons of Cain had started the fire in an attempt to fulfill Mother Shipton’s prophecy. The Bishop had agreed that this was most likely and made us swear to secrecy. As he had previously told us, London was a political hotspot. The country could revert to a state of civil war if the King’s enemies were to learn that the Antichrist had almost been summoned in the capital. Instead, it would be recorded in history that the fire had been started accidentally in a baker’s shop in Pudding Lane.

  I had informed my companions of what Fabricius had said about the Order of Judas, but nobody had heard of this organisation before. Armand decided that he would discuss the matter with Grand Hexenjäger Wrangel, hoping that the head of our order would be able to shed some light on the topic.

  Valentine returned to Whitehall the morning after we battled the Sons of Cain. Although Fabricius had slipped past him during the fight in the alleyway, the English witch hunter had managed to delay McClodden. Despite delivering several wounds to the massive Scotsman, the leader of the Sons of Cain refused to fall. His sword-arm tiring, Valentine had been forced to withdraw. McClodden then chased him through the streets of London for the remainder of the night. It was not until dawn that Valentine managed to lose the Scotsman.

  Even the priest who had accompanied Dorian to the Hanging Tree met us back at the Prince’s lodgings. He had been forced to travel back to London by himself, once Dorian had spotted Claude Duval and his band of highwaymen ride after us.

  But none of us have seen von Frankenthal since the Devil’s Fire engulfed London.

  Armand, Francesca and I remained in London to search for our companion. Once the fire had died down and it was safe to investigate the old city, Armand took us to where he had last seen von Frankenthal. We wandered the scorched and blackened streets for days, searching through the gutted remains of the city for our friend. Accompanied by Prayer, Valentine and Prince Rupert, who had returned to London after battling the Dutch fleet, we questioned Londoners if they had seen or heard what had become of the witch hunter. But we could find no answers. We had been forced to reluctantly end our search earlier today, conceding that von Frankenthal had most likely been slain by McClodden, and his remains incinerated in the great fire. There was nothing more that we could do. And so we decided to make the long journey home to Burg Grimmheim.

  ‘I’m glad we’ve seen the last of England,’ Armand announces, joining me by the ship railing. ‘Although I’m going to miss Prayer, Valentine, Prince Rupert and Lieutenant Wolf.’

  ‘The Prince’s surgeon believes that the Lieutenant will make a full recovery,’ I say, having visited the Lieutenant in the infirmary this morning. ‘That is, of course, if he rests for the next few weeks.’

  Armand rubs his chin and scoffs. ‘Which will be no easy task. Soldiery is in Wolf’s blood. I think it’s nothing short of a miracle that he didn’t drag himself out of bed to come and join us when we fought the Sons of Cain.’

  I smile sadly and lower my eyes. ‘We’ve made some good friends, but at a terrible price. I don’t ever want to return here. I wish I’d never asked you to accompany me to Rotterdam. If that were the case, von Frankenthal would still be alive.’

  Armand pats me on the shoulder. ‘We can’t turn back time, Jakob. And you certainly can’t blame yourself for what happened to von Frankenthal. Even if he had known that it was his destiny to fall, I’m sure he still would have come to England. Besides, it was my decision to assist the Angeli Mortis. I just never thought that anything would have happened to von Frankenthal.’

  From the moment von Frankenthal didn’t return to Prince Rupert’s lodgings, I have been overwhelmed by grief and guilt. It eats away at me, keeping me awake at night, dominating my every thought. It was my decision to search for my father in Amsterdam, and I had eagerly accepted my friends’ offer of help. I had been selfish, believing no harm would come to my companions, particularly von Frankenthal. Never before have I met such a powerful fighter. Even when we had ridden out of London, just before we were robbed by Claude Duval, Armand had expressed concern for our companion and wanted to return to the city to search for him. Believing that Armand was feeling burdened by the responsibility of command, I had convinced him that he was worrying unnecessarily. Perhaps if I had allowed Armand to return, von Frankenthal might still be alive.

  My greatest criticism of people like Captain Blodklutt is their belief that the mission must be given priority over all other concerns, and that people are expendable. But friends do not abandon one another. I have lived by this creed my entire life. But I abandoned von Frankenthal. I had believed that he was in no real danger. The last anyone had seen of him was when he had given chase after Alistair McClodden. I had firmly believed that he would hunt down and slay the leader of the Sons of Cain. But I was terribly wrong. In leaving my friend behind in London, I signed his death warrant.

  Von Frankenthal was more than a mere friend to me. During my first mission to Schloss Kriegsberg, he was assigned to act as my protector. When I had killed the Blood Countess and freed von Frankenthal from her spell, he had sworn that he would gladly lay down his life to protect me. From that moment on, I had absolute trust and faith in him, that he would always be there to save me. At times I had found his promise to act as my guardian overwhelming, and wished he would show greater faith in my abilities.

  But I overestimated von Frankenthal’s fighting skills.

  I wish that I could turn back time and offer him a helping hand when he so desperately needed it. I blink back the tears welling in my eyes. ‘You had no choice. We had to help the Angeli Mortis defeat the Sons of Cain.’

  Armand pulls the folds of his cloak tight around his neck and stares into the night sky. ‘I know.’ He smiles and points at a shooting star. ‘Some people believe that when one of God’s loyal followers dies, He sends a shooting star across the heavens, signalling their entrance into His kingdom.’

  I smile, comforted by Armand’s words. Until I have closure on the matter, however, I will never stop won
dering what happened to von Frankenthal.

  We hear the sound of approaching footsteps and turn around to find Francesca crossing the deck.

  ‘I was wondering where you two ended up.’ She joins us and looks over her shoulder expectantly.

  ‘You seem anxious,’ Armand observes. ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘Everything would be just fine if only Prince Rupert would keep his hands to himself,’ Francesca says. ‘Honestly, he’s done nothing but chase after me since we boarded this ship. I don’t know what’s gotten into him. He certainly wasn’t like this before. I’m beginning to wonder if he took a knock to the head during the recent naval engagement with the Dutch.’ She points an accusing finger at Armand. ‘And I have you to blame for this!’

  Armand raises his hands defensively. ‘Me? How?’

  Francesca’s eyes narrow and she takes a threatening step towards the duellist. ‘Don’t you dare act ignorant, you rogue! You told the Prince that I am your significant other. What were you thinking?’

  Armand makes a baffled expression. ‘Me . . . I did no such thing. Jakob, do you know anything of this?’

  Francesca pokes the Frenchman in the chest. ‘Don’t try worming your way out of this by dragging Jakob into it. And don’t you dare lie to me, Armand Breteuil! The Prince told me so. When I corrected him, telling him that there was nothing between us, he took that as an open invitation to start chasing after me.’

  Armand gives a defeated sigh. ‘You’re right. I did tell the Prince that we are together, but only to save you from having him come after you. Don’t tell me you haven’t seen the way he looks at you. I only did it to save you.’

  Francesca folds her arms across her chest and turns her back on us. ‘Well, it’s a fine mess you’ve placed me in now.’

  Armand smiles wryly, evidently happy with how Francesca is avoiding the Prince’s advances and finding the entire incident quite funny. ‘I thought it was every woman’s dream to be swept off her feet by a prince.’

  Francesca snorts. ‘Well, you thought wrong, you great oaf.’

  Armand winks at me. ‘At least think on the positive side of this, Francesca, you’ve only got to evade the Prince for a few more hours. How bad can that be?’

  The Italian turns and elbows Armand in the ribs. ‘Thanks a lot.’

  Armand places a hand on Francesca’s shoulder. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll keep you safe from the big, bad Prince.’

  ‘I’m glad you can see the humorous side of this,’ Francesca says. In spite of herself, she cannot help but smirk. ‘You’ve become quite attached to that, haven’t you?’ she adds, gesturing at Prince Rupert’s rifle slung over my shoulder. ‘Ever since Dorian returned from the cemetery and handed it back to you, it has barely left your side.’

  ‘The Prince told me that I can keep it,’ I say. ‘Having seen how proficient Dorian is with rifles, I intend to master it.’

  Armand points at the pistols tucked into my belt. ‘You’re turning out to be quite a consummate marksman.’

  ‘I just prefer taking out Satan’s forces before they get too close,’ I say. ‘I’m hoping Robert Monro can instruct me in the finer skills of shooting.’

  Armand nods. ‘Robert is forever going on hunting trips around Burg Grimmheim. It wouldn’t surprise me if he was the person responsible for eliminating every deer within several leagues of the castle. I’m sure you’ll have many opportunities to perfect your aim.’

  ‘Although, it’s not as if you need to become solely dependent on your skill with firearms,’ Francesca says. ‘You are a talented swordsman.’

  Armand tousles my hair. ‘Only because he learns from the best.’

  Francesca is about to respond when she starts at the sight of Prince Rupert. He crosses the deck to join us, smiling delightedly at the Italian.

  ‘I was wondering where you had run away to,’ he says.

  Francesca sidles up beside Armand, loops her arms through his and whispers, ‘Help me, please!’

  Armand raises his eyebrows in mock surprise and looks down at their entwined arms. ‘Well, I never! Isn’t that a little presumptuous? What type of man do you take me for? What on earth will people think?’

  As Francesca stomps on Armand’s toes, the French duellist shoots me a smile that suggests he has just won the greatest treasure in the world. I cannot help but grin.

  As is customary, I have included this section for readers who want to learn more about the world of The Witch Hunter Chronicles.

  Seventeenth-century Germany was very different to the country we know today. The country, in fact, was not even known as ‘Germany’, but comprised several hundred independent states, principalities and cities, the borders of which were constantly changing. Referred to as the ‘German states’ or the ‘German-speaking lands’, these territories were part of the larger Holy Roman Empire. With its capital set in Vienna, and ruled by the Habsburg Holy Roman Emperor, this was a vast and cosmopolitan empire, stretching from Hungary in the east to the Netherlands in the west, and from the North Sea to present-day Italy.

  During the period in which The Witch Hunter Chronicles takes place, the boundaries of the Holy Roman Empire had been established by the Treaty of Westphalia of 1648. This treaty, which effectively brought an end to the Thirty Years’ War, saw the Holy Roman Empire lose much territory and power. Of particular importance to The Witch Hunter Chronicles, this treaty saw the Netherlands gain independence from the Holy Roman Empire, resulting in the creation of the Dutch Republic. Jakob’s father was one of thousands of German soldiers who fought alongside the Spanish against the French in the Netherlands.

  The Devil’s Bowels: These medieval dungeons beneath Rotterdam are fictitious.

  The Hexenjäger: This is the German term for witch hunters, who were operating in every state of Germany during the seventeenth century. These members of the Catholic and Protestant Churches were responsible for sending thousands of innocent people to be burned alive at the stake. You may be dismayed to learn that there was no specific unit called the ‘Hexenjäger’: this is purely fictitious. Sadly, Burg Grimmheim and the members of the Order – yes, Jakob and Armand, too – were also given birth in the misty realm of my imagination.

  The Custodiatti: Although this is a fictitious unit of professional tomb-robbers, the Vatican Museums, founded by Pope Julius II in the early sixteenth century, contain thousands of rare manuscripts, sculptures and works of art. This impressive collection of antiquity has been acquired from archaeological sites, private collections and purchases from other museums.

  The Inquisition: This was an institution created by the Roman Catholic Church to eradicate all forms of heresy. The Inquisition used torture to extract confessions from suspected witches, heretics and apostates. Tens of thousands of suspects, including Galileo and Joan of Arc, were interrogated by the Church throughout the medieval and early modern periods. Justus Blad, the Witch Bishop of Aachen, did not exist.

  The Grey Musketeers: This group was known to be one of France’s most revered military units. At the time of the Witch Hunter Chronicles, they were commanded by their sub-lieutenant, d’Artagnan.

  The Angeli Mortis: The Angels of Death (English translation) are an order of witch hunters from England. They are a product of my imagination.

  The Grey Runners: The Thief-taker General Shannon Sharpe and his bounty hunters are fictitious.

  Prince Rupert: A German Prince who commanded the royalist cavalry during the English Civil War. He was banished from England after the fall of Bristol and became a pirate in the Caribbean. He returned to England during the Anglo–Dutch Wars, during which he served as an Admiral of the English fleet.

  Claude Duval: A highwayman who robbed coaches along the byways around London. He was famous for his refined manners and extravagant clothing.

  Swords: The primary weapon favoured
by the Hexenjäger is a rapier. The use of these long-bladed duelling swords became less common by the late seventeenth century, as changes in fashion impeded their effective use.

  Jakob uses two rapiers: a Pappenheimer rapier, named after Count Gottfried Heinrich, Graf von Pappenheim, one of the most daring cavalry officers fighting on the side of the Catholic League during the Thirty Years’ War; and a rapier from Solingen, a town in Germany famous for the quality of its blades. Swords from this town were often engraved with a running wolf.

  Sabres, such as that wielded by Armand, were commonly used in the seventeenth century. Heavier than rapiers, these robust, curved-blade broadswords were used by cavalry; the combined impetus of the charging horse and swinging blade delivering a devastating blow.

  Armand also uses a mortuary sword. These basket-hilted broadswords were common during the English Civil War. Their hilts were engraved with human heads believed to represent King Charles I and Queen Henrietta.

  Francesca uses a talwar: a heavy, single-edged sword from India. The curved blade of this sword was usually heavily decorated with inscriptions.

  Firearms: The pistols and carbines used by the Hexenjäger are equipped with a flintlock firing mechanism. This was a new invention in the 1600s, and proved much more effective than the matchlock pistols and carbines, which used a lit length of cord to ignite the powder pan, and for this reason tended to malfunction when it rained. A further advantage of the flintlock pistol was that it could be preloaded; the firing pin, or cock, could be pulled back into a half-locked position. This allows Jakob to have his pistols tucked into his belt, ready to blast at the first witch, demon or undead minion to rear its head.