The Witch Hunter Chronicles 3 Read online

  We are instantly caught in the incredible force of the dual explosions. Thrown down the corridor several yards, we land in the water near the bricked-in section of wall, saved from the hellish billowing wall of fire and smoke that roars above us. Staying under the water until the fire has passed, we clamber to our feet.

  Armand collects his hat and looks back, inspecting the collapsed section of the dungeon. ‘It worked!’ he yells, his hearing – like mine – evidently affected by the explosion.

  I look down the opposite end of the tunnel and realise that the explosion was so great that it even reached our companions. They are climbing to their feet, preparing to re-engage the remaining dozen or so Dutch soldiers. The smile from having survived the explosion vanishes from my lips the instant my attention is drawn to the petard propped up against the former doorway leading to the prison – its fuse lit by the furious blast of the gunpowder barrels.

  ‘Run!’ I scream, grabbing Armand by the arm and pulling him after me. ‘The petard is about to explode!’

  ‘What? The Devil take us!’ Armand curses, and we bolt for dear life.

  Barely four heartbeats pass before the petard detonates. A second massive explosion rips through the dungeon, hitting Armand and me with its full fury. Lifted off my feet, I am thrown through the air to slam – hard! – into the tunnel’s brick wall.

  I sink to my knees; the copper taste of blood in my mouth.

  Darkness then takes me.

  I stir, dragged out of the misty darkness by a dull ache in my forehead. Reaching up, I discover that my head has been bandaged. I also find that I am lying on a bed in what appears to be a cabin aboard a moving ship. There’s a chest over to the right and a cloak hanging from a hook on the back of the room’s solitary door. A leadlight window set in the wall behind the bed allows orange light – suggesting that it must be sunset – to sway back and forth across the interior of the cabin.

  I push myself up on an elbow and realise that I am wearing my undergarments. My clothing is folded at the end of the bed and my weapons are slung over a bedpost. I can also discern the distant sound of many cannons being fired; either that, or there is a distant storm approaching.

  Wondering how I arrived here – and curious as to where here exactly is – I dress, taking care not to lose my balance, for I still feel light-headed from the injuries sustained in the dungeon. I am strapping on my weapons when the door opens and Francesca and Armand enter the cabin.

  ‘Well, look who it is!’ Armand announces with a broad smile and pats me on the shoulder. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you on your feet just yet. That head of yours must be thicker than it looks.’

  Francesca hurries past him to take me by the arm and directs me to sit on the bed. ‘You shouldn’t be moving about.’ She lifts an edge of the bandage wrapped around my head to inspect the wound. ‘You’re lucky to have survived with merely a concussion and bruise. But you must rest.’

  Armand shakes his head. ‘Why does he get all your attention? You have barely left his side since we boarded this vessel. Need I remind you that I, too, was injured during the explosion?’

  ‘You?’ Francesca says dismissively. ‘There’s barely a scratch on you.’

  ‘Barely a scratch!’ Armand parts his cloak and lifts his tabard and shirt to reveal a purple bruise on his lower chest. ‘What do you call this?’

  Francesca arches her eyebrows sarcastically. ‘Would you like me to kiss it better?’

  Armand and I had first met the beautiful nineteen-year-old Italian during our mission to recover the Tablet of Breaking. Francesca’s skills as one of the Custodiatti – the Vatican’s covert unit of professional tomb-robbers – had proved invaluable in leading us through the trap-riddled mausoleum lying at the bottom of the Dead Sea. She was so impressed by the Hexenjäger that she decided to leave the Custodiatti and join our order. She is still awaiting approval from the Vatican.

  ‘As a matter of fact, yes, I would.’ Armand points at his lips. ‘And seeing that I was also hurt here, you can . . .’

  ‘Stop right there.’ Francesca raises a hand to interrupt the Frenchman. ‘I’m not going to even entertain the thought.’

  ‘Entertain what thought?’ Armand asks, feigning ignorance. His eyes then widen in shock, and he shakes a finger at the Italian tomb-robber. ‘Francesca! Well, I never! You must learn to control such thoughts.’

  Francesca rolls her eyes. ‘How do you feel?’ she asks me, ignoring Armand.

  Despite the pain in my head, I cannot help but laugh at Armand. ‘Like I’ve been hit by von Frankenthal,’ I say. ‘But where are we? The last thing I remember is running away from the petard, and then the explosion. But we are now aboard a ship and, if I’m not mistaken, I can hear cannons being fired. What’s happened?’

  ‘The explosion from the petard threw you straight into the dungeon wall. It was one hell of a hit; you’re lucky it didn’t crack your skull,’ Armand says. ‘Not surprisingly, you were knocked unconscious. I was also thrown into the wall, but despite sustaining injuries that would have killed a less handsome man,’ he boasts, with a sideways glance at Francesca, ‘I carried you into one of the elevated alcoves, where von Frankenthal kept guard over you and the wounded. Captain Lightfoot’s men then dispatched the remaining Dutch soldiers, and we entered the prison. Having fought our way past the guards, our English allies set about freeing their countrymen. Francesca and I ran ahead into the southern wing of the prison, where the Spanish and German prisoners were kept.’

  ‘And did you find my father?’ I ask hopefully, hanging off Armand’s every word.

  The Frenchman reaches out to place a hand on my shoulder, almost as if to brace me for what he is about to say. ‘Those cells weren’t even fit for rats, let alone human beings. We searched each and every cell, but we could not find your father. In the very last cell we checked, however, we found a very sick prisoner lying on the floor. He was a veteran German soldier from the wars in the Low Countries; the last of a company of dragoons that had been captured by the French outside Breda over a decade ago.’

  ‘What?’ I say, barely believing what I am hearing. ‘So he was a member of my father’s company?’

  Armand nods. ‘And he knew what had become of him.’ He pauses, and his hold on my shoulder tightens. ‘Apparently your father spent only one night in the Devil’s Bowels. The next morning, he was taken from his cell to be executed. But it’s now that this story gets interesting.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask, a cold numbness overcoming me.

  ‘A month or two after your father was taken from his cell, another German soldier – who unfortunately only survived a month in the Devil’s Bowels – was locked within the prison,’ Armand continues. ‘As it turned out, he also knew your father, having served under him in Flanders. What’s interesting is that he informed the other prisoner that your father could not have possibly been executed, for he had seen your father, alive and well, the day after he had been taken prisoner.’

  I shake my head in bewilderment. ‘How can that be possible?’

  ‘I don’t know. But the plot gets even thicker.’ Armand pauses and leans in close, as if what he is about to tell me is secret. ‘The second prisoner had been taken captive by a company of French soldiers serving in the Low Countries. The prisoner had said that he had seen your father in the enemy French camp, coming out of a tent accompanied by Henri de la Tour d’Auvergne, Vicomte de Turenne, who is now marshal-general of France. Your father was not under arrest. On the contrary, Turenne appeared to be taking orders from him.’

  I rise from the bed and stare hard into Armand’s eyes. ‘What? So he wasn’t executed? My father is still alive!’

  ‘Yes, according to the information we received,’ Francesca says. ‘But what do you make of all this?’

  ‘I don’t know what to think just at this moment,’ I say, an
d pace the cabin. ‘It seems that the deeper I dig into my father’s past, the deeper the mystery gets. Up until a few months ago all I knew of him was that he had been a cavalry commander in the Low Countries, fighting alongside the Spanish against the French. I also knew that he had lived for some time in Spain. But now I know that he not only had an affair with the cousin of the Marquis of Ayamonte, deep in the Andalusian region of southern Spain – and had two children with her – but he had been taken out of the Devil’s Bowels to be executed, only to appear several months later in a French camp, giving orders to Turenne.’ I pause and look at my friends. ‘What’s going on?’

  Armand rubs his chin and clicks his tongue in thought. ‘It doesn’t sound promising. If the second prisoner’s information is correct, then it appears that your father, although fighting for the Spanish, had at least one powerful ally in the French army. I hate to be the one to say it, but your father may have been working for the French.’

  I stare at Armand for some time, cut by his words, yet knowing that he is probably speaking the truth. ‘I need to see the prisoner who told you this,’ I say at length. ‘He may have more information.’

  Francesca shakes her head. ‘I’m sorry, but he refused to leave his cell. He wanted to remain behind to see the look on his captors’ faces when they discovered that the gaol had been freed of prisoners. Besides, he was so emaciated and sick that I very much doubt he would have survived the journey back with us.’ She smiles softly. ‘Let’s not dwell on this for now. You were unconscious for over fifteen hours. You must be famished. Let’s have some food.’

  ‘Fifteen hours!’ I say. It’s also only now that I realise that my original question hasn’t been fully answered. ‘Where are we?’

  ‘After we freed the prisoners, we followed Captain Lightfoot back through the dungeon and escaped into the Meuse, where we boarded some concealed skiffs and made our way out to the Channel,’ Armand says. ‘Once there, we boarded an English warship and sailed into deeper waters, where we joined up with an English fleet. It was then that a Dutch fleet came out to intercept us. I never knew ships could move so fast. With the wind behind them, they pursued us like hawks swooping out of the sky. Whilst the rest of the English ships turned back to engage the Dutch – the sounds of the distant sea battle you can still hear – we made our escape. And so, Jakob, the winds of fate are blowing us towards England.’

  Having decided to stretch my legs and take a look around the ship, we leave the cabin and find von Frankenthal up on deck. He is excited to see me – he hugs me so hard he almost crushes me to death. We then watch the distant sea battle for some time, fascinated by the orange flashes of cannon-fire lighting up the darkening horizon. At length, Lieutenant Wolf comes over to greet us, conveys his admiration in seeing me on my feet again, and informs us that Captain Lightfoot has requested that we dine with him tonight.

  As we are following the Lieutenant to a doorway set in the stern of the quarter deck, I notice something on the opposite side of the ship. It appears to be a figure enveloped in shadow, like some spectre materialised from beyond the grave. Upon closer inspection I realise that it is in fact a woman, wrapped in the folds of a full-length black cloak. I shudder when, beneath her wide-brimmed black hat, I catch a glimpse of letters tattooed across her forehead, bringing back memories of Heinrich von Dornheim, the tattoo-covered witch hunter I had encountered in Schloss Kriegsberg.

  Rather than observe the distant battle, the shadowy figure is carefully watching us, and a cold shiver runs across my skin when I suspect that she has been doing so the entire time that we have been on the deck. I also notice the wary glances the ship’s crew pay her, and the way in which they avoid the section of the deck where she is standing, as if they – sea-hardened sailors who use language that could make even the Devil blush – have something to fear, almost as if Death itself is standing aboard the vessel.

  I am about to draw my companions’ attention to her, when Lieutenant Wolf opens the cabin door and ushers us inside. In contrast to the sparse furnishings of the cabin where I had rested, this room has the trappings of wealth: an ornately carved bookcase is set against a wall, crammed with sea charts and heavy leather volumes; several framed paintings of seascapes adorn the walls; gilded candelabra are set atop the polished surface of a central oak table.

  Captain Lightfoot is sitting at the head of the table. I’m surprised to find that the two men sitting on either side of the Captain – one dressed in the lace and finery of lords and dukes; the other in a red cassock and with a large silver crucifix hanging from his neck – regard him with deference. When I see the portrait of Captain Lightfoot on the far wall, however, I exchange a suspicious glance with my companions.

  ‘My Lords and Excellency, your guests have arrived,’ Lieutenant Wolf announces in German, before exiting the cabin and closing the door behind him.

  ‘If your real name is Captain Lightfoot then I’m the Queen of Sheba! What game are you playing at?’ von Frankenthal demands of the Captain. ‘And you,’ he adds, pointing at the man sitting on Captain Lightfoot’s left, ‘we rescued you from the prison. But you were wearing sailor’s clothing back then. Now you’re decked out like the King of England!’

  ‘Captain Lightfoot?’ the lavishly dressed man says in stilted German, suppressing a grin as he twirls the edge of his moustache. He is perhaps the same age as the Captain, in his mid-forties, and his long black hair is tied back in a ponytail. A silk-embroidered cape is slung over his shoulder, and the cuffs of his shirt are accentuated with lace. Although this is an extravagance usually reserved for dandies, there is a devilish glint in his youthful eyes – a warning that he will not hesitate to draw the elaborately carved broadsword slung over the rear of his seat. ‘It’s been a long time since I have heard that name. When did you last use it? Now, let me think – wasn’t it just after the fall of York?’

  Captain Lightfoot smiles. ‘Not York. But you are close. It was that time we almost got caught after the Battle of Naseby. They were good times.’

  ‘They wouldn’t have been too good had you been caught,’ corrects the man with the pony tail. ‘Even with a false name, I’m sure the Parliamentarians would have recognised your face. And I can’t believe you risked your life to rescue me from the Devil’s Bowels. What if you had been captured? The risk was too great.’

  ‘But I wasn’t caught, was I?’ Captain Lightfoot returns. ‘Besides, who else was going to save you? And that wasn’t the first time I’ve had to pull you out of trouble. Remember when we were at Armentières and you were hit by a musket ball?’

  The Captain’s companion rubs his leg. ‘How could I forget? It’s not as if you don’t take a private pleasure in reminding me of the incident, my dear Prince Rupert.’

  ‘Prince Rupert!’ I blurt, barely believing my ears. ‘The German prince who left his homeland to command King Charles’s cavalry forces during the English Civil War?’

  The man with the pony tail makes an elaborate flourish at the Prince. ‘And the same who, having been unfairly dismissed from the King’s service, sailed as a privateer throughout the Caribbean, only to be reinstated as an Admiral of the English fleet and given command of the King’s flagship, the Royal Charles – which you happen to be aboard.’

  Prince Rupert gestures at his companion. ‘And the same who, throughout all of his adventures – whether it be leading cavalry charges during the Civil War, or roving the Caribbean in search of Spanish treasure fleets – has been accompanied by his comrade-in-arms, Sir Robert Holmes, now Rear Admiral of the Red squadron.’ Prince Rupert looks back at us. ‘I am sorry for the subterfuge, but I could not risk letting the enemy know that I had snuck into Rotterdam. Our heads are much coveted by the Dutch and French – although, Robert’s, I must say, is not as handsome as mine.’

  ‘So this was all a ploy to rescue Sir Robert?’ I ask, feeling as if we haven’t just had the wool pulled over our eyes,
but that an entire cartload of fleece has been shoved in our faces.

  ‘No, it wasn’t a ploy,’ Prince Rupert says, and I immediately believe the sincerity in his voice. ‘The Dutch were indeed planning on placing recently captured English soldiers in the hulls of Dutch merchant vessels. It just so happened that, unbeknownst to the Dutch, they had captured a Rear Admiral of the English fleet during a naval engagement last week. We are fortunate that Sir Robert had changed his clothing just before being captured, hiding his identity. Otherwise, all that would have been left to rescue might have been his head, stuck on a pole somewhere in the Dutch Republic.’

  ‘I still cannot believe that the Dutch have resorted to such a base act as placing prisoners of war aboard their vessels,’ Sir Robert says. ‘What will they think of next?’

  Prince Rupert raises his eyebrows and sighs. ‘It seems that your raid on West-Terschelling has stirred the beehive somewhat. But enough of that for now . . . I don’t believe I have formally introduced our guests.’

  He proceeds to introduce each of us in turn, his eyes lingering for some time on Francesca, obviously drawn by her beauty. ‘You owe your life to them,’ he says, looking back at Sir Robert. ‘Without their assistance, I very much doubt we could have completed the rescue mission. This one in particular –’ he points at Armand ‘– fights like a demon fresh out of Hell. Not even I would dare draw steel on him.’ Prince Rupert pauses and clears his throat, signifying that the remaining man seated at the table – clad in the red cassock and with an upward curl to his top lip, giving the appearance of a permanent sneer – should pay attention. The man has paid us scant interest since we entered the cabin, his eyes focused on the goblet he rotates on the table between his thumb and forefinger. ‘I should also point out, Your Excellency, that the men and boy are Hexenjäger. Although, I assume you had already surmised as much, based on the crimson tabards they wear beneath their cloaks.’