The Witch Hunter Chronicles 3 Read online

  Armand’s eyes narrow. ‘That means you only have three days to stop this from happening.’

  Bishop Henchman nods gravely. ‘We are on our way back from Stockholm, where the Angeli Mortis had hoped to assist the Brothers of the Sacred Trust in guarding the Devil’s Bible. We had warned the Swedish authorities of the Sons of Cain some time ago, and they had assured us that they had taken the necessary precautions. But their precautions were evidently inadequate, and we were too late. The Devil’s Bible has already fallen into the hands of the Sons of Cain, who are no doubt returning to London, from where they will use it to summon the Antichrist.’ Bishop Henchman drums his bony fingers on the table and stares deep into Armand’s eyes. ‘And that is why we are in need of your help.’

  Witch Finder Blackwood stares at Bishop Henchman and shakes his head. ‘The Angeli Mortis work alone. And we most certainly will not work with Catholics.’

  ‘Not this time,’ the Bishop says, returning the Witch Finder’s stare. ‘The Hexenjäger are the finest witch hunters in the Holy Roman Empire. Had we time, we would send for more of them to come to our assistance. But we don’t, and so we must be content with these few who the Lord has sent our way. And I would not question their ability. Some of the Hexenjäger were recently involved in slaying four fallen angels and preventing Armageddon. Who knows, you might even find that you will learn some things from them.’

  Witch Finder Blackwood snorts derisively. ‘If your Excellency believes so.’

  My eyes flash with surprise, believing that our previous mission had been cloaked in secrecy. I exchange a baffled look with Armand and Francesca – both of whom had also taken part in the quest to locate and destroy the Tablet of Breaking – before turning to Bishop Henchman. ‘How do you know of the Watchers?’

  ‘It is my station to know such things,’ the Bishop returns confidently, almost arrogantly. ‘The Lord sees and hears everything, and I am the Lord’s eyes and ears on earth.’ He looks at Armand. ‘So, you will help us?’ His tone suggests that he is not used to people refusing his requests.

  Armand considers Bishop Henchman for some time, his brow heavy with thought, before glancing at von Frankenthal, Francesca and me. At length, the newly appointed Lieutenant is forced to give his first command decision and gives a solemn nod.

  ‘Let’s make it clear that I won’t be held accountable for their deaths.’ Witch Finder Blackwood gestures with a flick of his head towards us and stabs a finger on the table to emphasise his point. ‘Nor of any political backlash that may result from when the Holy Roman Emperor asks as to why his Catholic witch hunters died in a Protestant land.’

  ‘I will deal with the finer political matters,’ Bishop Henchman says.

  ‘As you always do, your Excellency,’ Witch Finder Blackwood says, then withdraws into brooding silence.

  Bishop Henchman relaxes back into his seat and attempts to smile. His stern features, evidently not used to the expression, strain against the effort and the resulting smile looks more like a lecherous sneer. ‘But I very much doubt a report will be lodged concerning the deaths of these Hexenjäger. On the contrary, I imagine we will send a report on how they slew the Sons of Cain, prevented the coming of the False Prophet and saved England.’

  Well, there’s at least one vote of confidence. I don’t think Witch Finder Blackwood shares his optimism, though. He is glaring at Francesca and me, as if questioning what use we could be to this mission, given our age and assumed lack of experience.

  Noticing the Witch Finder’s glare, Armand looks over at me and smiles reassuringly. But even he cannot mask his concern; his eyes, usually dancing with excitement, are narrow and troubled, as if he has just committed us to entering Hell.

  ‘I hope you have made the right decision,’ Francesca says to Armand once we have eaten and returned to my cabin. ‘Wouldn’t it have been prudent to receive permission from the Grand Hexenjäger before agreeing to join forces with the Angeli Mortis?’

  ‘The decision has been made,’ Armand says, taking off his hat and cloak, which he tosses upon the bed. He loosens the collar of the shirt beneath his tabard. ‘Christian and I are now committed.’ He looks across at Francesca and me. ‘But you’re not. Francesca, as you aren’t officially part of our order, I’m giving you the chance to walk away. As this is not an official Hexenjäger mission, I’m also giving you, Jakob, the chance to say no. This has the potential to be the most dangerous mission we have ever been on. No one will think any less of you if you decide not to go ahead.’

  Before I have a chance to respond, Francesca’s jaw drops in shock and she plants her hands on her hips defiantly. ‘What? And you’ll think I’ll do that – just walk away? Leave you to face the Sons of Cain by yourselves? I cannot believe you asked me that. I thought you knew me better, Armand Breteuil!’ She spits his name as if it were poison in her mouth. ‘I’m shocked to think that, after all we have been through, you still question my abilities because I am a woman.’

  A hurt look crosses Armand’s face, as if he has been wrongly chastened. He raises his hands, indicating that Francesca should calm down and takes a step towards her. ‘I didn’t mean to offend you. I no longer question your abilities. I haven’t since the last mission we went on. You would be a welcome addition to our team.’ He pauses and considers her for some time, his eyes soft. ‘I just don’t want to see you get hurt, that’s all.’

  Francesca stares at Armand, a blank expression on her face, as if caught off guard by the sincerity of his words. ‘Well . . . you’re worrying unnecessarily,’ she says at length. ‘I can take care of myself, so let’s not discuss this matter again.’

  I feel sorry for Armand. Having recently been appointed Lieutenant, he has been placed in the unenviable position of having to make decisions that could endanger the lives of those under his command. But in this particular situation, the people under his command are his friends.

  ‘I won’t turn my back on you either,’ I say to Armand. ‘We’re in this together. And you made the right decision in saying that we would offer the Angeli Mortis our assistance. What else could we have done? We don’t have time to seek the Grand Hexenjäger’s consent. We’ve become terribly sidetracked from our original purpose of searching for my father, but a decision had to be made, then and there. Besides, we don’t know for certain that the Antichrist is going to be summoned from the pages of the Devil’s Bible. All we are basing this on is Witch Finder Blackwood’s interpretation of Mother Shipton’s prophecy. As you have already said, riddles are open for multiple interpretations. Perhaps this will amount to nothing.’

  Armand rubs his chin in thought and paces the cabin. ‘Our order firmly believes that this year, 1666, will herald the arrival of the Prince of Darkness. But we have been unsuccessful in trying to determine when exactly this will occur. Some Hexenjäger even travelled to Sweden last year to examine the Devil’s Bible, believing the manuscript may hold some clue. For over a month they studied the codex, but found nothing.’

  Von Frankenthal shakes his head in a frustrated manner. ‘The leaders of our order have also spent a lot of time studying the stars, believing the Antichrist’s arrival might be revealed through astronomy. Instead of searching for portents of doom in the heavens, they should have been keeping a close eye on what was happening down here on earth, and in particular, what their English counterparts were up to.’

  Armand waves a hand dismissively. ‘We cannot blame our leaders for not making this discovery. They have been anything but complacent. They just weren’t aware of Mother Shipton or her prophecy. Had they been, I’m sure it would have given them cause to examine the Devil’s Bible more carefully.’ He stops pacing the cabin and clicks his tongue in thought, his expression grim. ‘Perhaps Jakob is right, and the prophecy will amount to nothing. But what if it is true – and the Antichrist will be summoned from the pages of the Devil’s Bible?’

  �
��Then you made the right decision, and we are all behind you,’ I say. ‘Irrespective of whether we are here due to providence or chance, our blades are needed.’

  Von Frankenthal, forever a supporter of swift, decisive action, tousles my hair in admiration. ‘That’s the spirit, lad. Just hearing about the Sons of Cain makes my blood boil. Even if this prophecy turns out to be a load of nonsense, we can at least slay these demonic soldiers. I’m not too sure about the Angeli Mortis, though. Their leader, Blackwood, doesn’t seem too keen to join forces with us.’

  ‘We will try to act independently of them,’ Armand says. ‘We will offer them our blades, but we certainly won’t be placed under Blackwood’s command. Let’s make it very clear that none of you are to take orders from anybody but me.’

  ‘I’m not going to argue about that,’ I say. Just being in the same room as the Angeli Mortis makes me feel nervous.

  ‘We share a common goal,’ Armand continues, ‘but I am wary of the Angeli Mortis. They are witch hunters, but they have been corrupted by the Malleus Maleficarum.’

  ‘So the rumours are true?’ I ask. ‘Can some of them actually speak with the dead?’

  Armand shrugs. ‘I don’t know. But the entire time we were seated at the table, Dorian kept looking around, almost as if he was watching ghosts move about the room.’

  I cast a furtive glance around the cabin, wondering if there are indeed ghosts wandering aboard the Royal Charles.

  ‘Why have they done that to themselves?’ Francesca asks. ‘They have received special powers, but at a terrible price.’

  Armand plonks himself down on the edge of the bed and sighs. ‘Our world is threatened by Satan’s servants. The Angeli Mortis have merely armed themselves for the coming war.’

  ‘But the Hexenjäger have not resorted to such lengths,’ Francesca points out. ‘You aren’t covered in tattoos and piercings. Nor have you been corrupted by the Malleus Maleficarum.’

  ‘The only reason we haven’t been corrupted by the Hammer of the Witches is because we are wary of its powers,’ Armand explains. ‘Even its creators, the Inquisitors Sprenger and Kramer, were cautious of delving too deep into its secrets. Our order ensures that the text is studied under strict guidance and supervision. I, for one, will go nowhere near it.’ He lies on the bed, yawns and rubs his eyes. ‘Regarding tattoos and piercings, the Grand Hexenjäger has strictly forbidden such practices. Although witch hunters protect all that is good and fight the Devil’s forces, there are many who are afraid of us. The Inquisition has left a bloody legacy, and many perceive orders such as the Hexenjäger and Angeli Mortis as merely other vengeful arms of the Church, finding evidence of witchcraft in every household and using torture to extract confessions from the innocent. Of course, we do no such thing – nor do the Angeli Mortis – but the appearance of the Angeli Mortis spreads fear amongst all who see them. Perhaps that is why they were placed under investigation by the Protestant Church. The Hexenjäger, on the other hand, want people to know that we can be trusted. Like the Angeli Mortis, we too use holy inscriptions in Latin. But rather than tattoo them across our foreheads, we reserve them for our blades and firearms; the very instruments we use to slay Satan’s forces. As you are well and truly aware, the Milites Christi and the Custodiatti use the same practice.’

  ‘Let that be a lesson to you, Jakob,’ von Frankenthal says. ‘I know that Captain Blodklutt has recently been instructing you in how to use the Malleus Maleficarum. Be careful. I won’t even touch the text.’

  I had no idea that the Malleus Maleficarum could corrupt its user to such an extent. I nod, heeding his warning. ‘I just want to be the best witch hunter I can.’

  Armand points a cautionary finger at me. ‘I’m sure Dorian and Prayer will tell you exactly the same thing. Trust in your sword-arm. That’s the one true thing you can rely on.’

  ‘I’ll be careful. But I was planning on getting a tattoo across my forehead,’ I say, attempting some light humour, hoping to relieve the tension of the past hour. Instead, I receive curious looks from my companions. ‘It was going to say “Die dulci fruere”, but the Grand Hexenjäger wouldn’t allow it.’

  Whilst Armand and von Frankenthal struggle to translate the words, Francesca giggles and shakes her head. ‘Now that would be an interesting look for a witch hunter, having the words “have a nice day” tattooed across your forehead.’

  Armand cannot help but laugh. ‘You’re a clown.’

  ‘If you ask me,’ Francesca says, gesturing at Armand, ‘he’s been hanging around you too long.’

  ‘Although, I must say, a tattoo wouldn’t be a bad idea.’ Armand rubs his chin in mock thought and gives me a surreptitious wink. ‘Now, what would I get? It would have to be something modest and refined – one that captures the essence of my nature.’

  Francesca holds up a hand, signalling for him to stop entertaining the thought. ‘Please, spare us. It’s simple. Wouldn’t you get “Deliciae, num is sum qui mentiar tibi”?’

  ‘And what does that mean?’ Armand asks, giving me a sideways glance as I burst into laughter.

  ‘It means, “Sweetheart, would I lie to you?”’ I say.

  Armand suppresses a grin. ‘That’s not very nice. Hopefully the day will soon come, my dear Francesca, when you will finally start to appreciate me. Only then will you realise what you have been missing out on.’

  Francesca laughs. ‘Then I can only hope that day is a long way from coming.’

  Glad to have relieved the tension of the last few hours, I move over to the window and stare out through the misty panes into the darkness of the night. ‘I wonder how long it will be before we arrive in England?’

  ‘The voyage across the Channel takes several hours, even in favourable weather,’ von Frankenthal says. ‘We should reach the Thames estuary shortly. It will then take another hour or so to sail up to London. By the way, how are you feeling?’

  I reach up and touch my bandaged forehead. ‘I had forgotten about it, given all the excitement. But now that you’ve brought it to my attention, I still feel a little light-headed.’

  ‘Then you should rest,’ Armand says. ‘And that goes for all of us. I don’t think we’ll be getting much sleep once we arrive in London.’

  ‘I wonder what the city is like,’ I say. ‘I’ve heard that it almost rivals Paris in size.’

  ‘London is nothing to write home about,’ von Frankenthal mumbles, joining me by the window.

  ‘You’ve been there?’ I ask.

  Von Frankenthal screws up his nose. ‘Many years ago, and I’m not keen to return. Never before have I seen such an ugly city. Its houses, crammed along the banks of the brown smear of the Thames, are nothing more than shanties, seemingly built one atop the other, as if they are trying to escape through the permanent cloud of chimney-smoke that envelops the city. If you want my honest opinion, it will be no great shame if at least part of Mother Shipton’s prophecy comes true and London does indeed burn to the ground.’

  Armand points a finger in warning at von Frankenthal. ‘You will keep such thoughts to yourself from here on. Do not make light of the prophecy. If we are to fail this mission and London goes up in flames, thousands of people will die.’

  Francesca holds up a hand to signal us to stop talking. ‘Listen! What’s that noise?’

  Armand pushes himself up onto an elbow and looks at her inquisitively. ‘What noise? I can’t hear anything.’

  Francesca rolls her eyes. ‘If you’d be quiet, then you might be able to hear. Now listen.’

  As one, we fall silent and crane our ears towards the wall on the right-hand side of the cabin, from where we can discern muffled sounds coming from the adjoining room. We cast an uneasy glance at one another, and a cold chill crawls across my skin. For it is the sound of someone whipping themselves, in what I can only assume in an act of flagellation –
a voluntary self-imposed punishment in which a person whips themselves across the back as an act of penance for sins committed. Their voice, struggling to hold back the pain, rises above the slap of the whip, chanting verses in Latin. We recognise it as that belonging to Witch Finder Blackwood.

  Francesca looks at me, her expression grave, and whispers, ‘What have we got ourselves into?’

  I am woken gently by Francesca. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I sit up. It takes some time for me to take in my surroundings and register that I am still aboard the Royal Charles. Upon Armand’s insistence that I get some rest, I had laid down upon our cabin’s solitary bed. I must have drifted off to sleep, lulled by the rhythmic rocking of the ship.

  ‘Wake up, sleepy,’ Francesca says. ‘We’ve reached London.’

  ‘Already?’ I question, believing I had only dozed off for a minute or two. ‘What time is it?’

  Francesca rises from where she had been sitting on the edge of the bed and slings her repeating crossbow over her shoulder. ‘It’s almost nine in the evening. You’ve been asleep for several hours.’

  Armand straps on his weapons and opens the cabin door. ‘You need to get ready. Prince Rupert wants us up on deck within five minutes. We’re to go with the Prince, Sir Robert, the Bishop and the Angeli Mortis to the King’s residence at Whitehall, where the Bishop will report directly to King Charles.’

  Von Frankenthal whistles and raises his eyebrows. ‘We had better be on our best behaviour then. The King of England – my, how we’ve gone up in the world.’

  ‘I wouldn’t get too excited,’ Armand says. ‘I very much doubt we will have a private audience with the King. Actually, I very much doubt we will even see the King. But it wouldn’t surprise me in the least if we are sent to take care of the Sons of Cain at first light tomorrow morning.’ He inspects the corridor beyond our cabin, closes the door, beckons us close and whispers, ‘This may be our last chance to talk in private, so listen carefully. Things are going to be hectic over the course of the next few days. Stay alert and watch each other’s backs. Although we have joined forces with the Angeli Mortis, do not place your trust in them. Blackwood has made it very clear that he doesn’t want our help. Let’s hope that he doesn’t do anything foolish.’ Armand draws his mortuary sword, kisses its blade and invites us to join our swords in a symbolic union of brotherhood.