Jack of Ravens

10

A heavy blanket of snow lay across London’s rooftops, and more was falling from the night sky. Inside their homes the residents remained cosy, with candles flickering behind the diamond-pane windows and smoke drifting from the capital’s chimneys. But for Church, Will and Tom, even the stamping of their boots could not bring any warmth.

‘Why could we not do this in the summertime?’ Tom said.

‘There is enough warmth in Lucia to keep me roasting like a chestnut through this winter and the next,’ Will said.

‘Make sure you look after her,’ Church cautioned. He knew Will and Lucia had grown close during the remainder of the sea journey and they had spent the last hour sequestered in Will’s room.

‘You are like an elder brother, Master Churchill.’ His laugh gave way to seriousness. ‘I will take care of her, have no doubt of that.’

The snow lent the city a magical air, hiding the refuse-slimed cobbles of Bankside, though occasionally it was splattered with the contents of jordans emptied from upper-storey windows overhanging the narrow street. But the night was far from quiet. It echoed with the cries of criminals chained to the banks of the Thames so they could endure the obligatory washing of three tides; and the brothels, stewhouses and bull and bear pits that lined the street in the Tudor pleasure-quarter of Southwark were awash with raucous clients. Bawdy women hung half-naked from upper windows, urging passers-by to enter, while drinkers stumbled out into the snow in groups as they passed from one inn to another. Here and there, apprentices fought furiously, spraying blood from cracked noses and split lips. Every conversation was carried on at a bellow.

Church saw Tom watching with horror; the city was a far cry from his rural Scottish borderlands. ‘The whole city is drunk, all the time,’ Church explained. ‘Nobody drinks water. It’s strong ale for breakfast, dinner and supper.’

‘Then the sooner we are out of this hellish place, the better,’ Tom said.

They followed the course of the river to Borough High Street. The main southern thoroughfare out of the City was filled with overflowing inns. Here Will and Church wore their swords prominently to deter the cutpurses who preyed on drunken travellers.

St Thomas Street was quieter. The printers, potters, glaziers, leather workers, brewers, sculptors and other craftsmen who had filled the streets around the hospital to avoid the restrictions of the City of London guilds had all shut up for the night.

Finally they arrived at London Bridge. Church was excited to see it before the massive alterations of the eighteenth century, with houses and shops built up cramped and towering on the span of the bridge. At any moment, the bulky structure looked as if it might crash into the slow, murky waters of the Thames beneath.

The drawbridge on the southern side had been partly raised when the gatehouse closed at nightfall. The sickening fruity smell of decomposition filled the air from the heads of two now-unrecognisable traitors spiked on the gateposts.

‘Would it not have been wiser to come during the day when we could have walked onto the bridge with ease?’ Tom said.

‘As a hero of the realm, my face is well known in polite circles, and even amongst some of the uneducated mass,’ Will said. ‘It would not do for me to walk into the home of Dee’s contact as bold as you please.’

‘How are you planning to get onto the bridge?’ Church pulled his cloak tighter as the gusting icy wind brought a heavier fall of snow.

‘A good spy knows the best work demands rigorous preparation.’ Will scanned the lit windows of the upper storeys overlooking the drawbridge and selected one. ‘Now keep watch. Make sure no idle eyes observe.’ As Church and Tom scanned the road running away from the bridge, Will gave a rapid three-note whistle blast. A moment later a rope weighted with lead flew from one of the windows and over the lip of the drawbridge to crash onto the road.

‘Now,’ Will said, ‘we climb.’

‘I’m not climbing that!’ Tom eyed the slick rope as it soared over the freezing waters.

‘Then stay here, friend. Though it is said no man caught on this road after midnight lives to see the dawn.’

Weighing his chances, Tom glanced back to the dark network of streets on the city’s southern side. When he looked back towards the bridge, Will was already speedily climbing the rope into the gusting snow.

‘Do you want to hang on to me?’ Church asked.

‘Don’t be ridiculous! I am not some feeble woman.’

Church found the climb hard going. His fingers were soon frozen numb, and intermittent gusts of wind blasted hard enough to threaten to rip him off. The grey waters churned around the bridge’s pillars far below; he would not survive a fall into their icy depths. The physical exertions of his life over the past few months had hardened his muscles, but he was glad when he crawled through the tiny window and flopped onto dirty wooden boards. He quickly jumped to his feet to help Tom who followed a few moments later, his face rigid with fear. Church was proud of him, but knew Tom would be insulted if anything was said.

Will was waiting with another man who held a lamp aloft. The stranger had sensitive features and a wry turn to his mouth. His curly hair was cut in the current fashion and his beard and moustache were well trimmed and waxed. His clothes were also fashionable and expensive.

‘Another spy?’ Tom spat.

‘An ally,’ Will replied obliquely. ‘Marlowe, meet Master Churchill and True Thomas, who hails from the brutish wilderness in the north.’

Marlowe gave an ironic bow. ‘The pleasure is mine,’ he said.

Church realised who he was: Christopher Marlowe, the playwright, one year off writing Doctor Faustus and six years away from being stabbed to death during an argument in an inn. If Church recalled correctly, Marlowe couldn’t have been in London long, having been recruited into the secret service by Sir Francis Walsingham while he was at Cambridge University.

‘Enough talk,’ Tom snapped. ‘Let’s to business.’

‘A man after my own heart,’ Marlowe said. ‘Our Lord awaits us.’

Marlowe led the way down cramped, winding stairs and out onto the road leading across the bridge, where the snow lay thick and unspoiled. The houses and shops rose up high on either side, obscuring all views of the river. Marlowe took them to a nondescript door that lay between a butcher’s and a milliner’s.

‘I shall wait here to ensure no one follows,’ Marlowe said. ‘Make haste, for I would not like to be found frozen cold come the morn.’

‘And then Tamburlaine would never be finished,’ Will joked with clear affection for the young man.

Inside, the furnishings were much more opulent than the exterior suggested. A small entrance hall opened onto a sitting room with expensive chairs and desks. Tapestries and paintings hung the walls and a fire roared in the grate.

A man of around thirty with an acne-scarred face warmed himself while sipping a glass of wine. He came over and clapped Will heartily on the shoulders.

‘Robert,’ Will said. ‘It has been too long.’

‘It is good to see you, Will. I have spent far too long north of the border in the land of my grandfather.’

‘We have another of your family’s countrymen here.’ Will introduced Tom and Church. ‘This is Sir Robert Balfour. We chased the Devil round the streets of Cambridge together.’

‘It is a mystery how we ever got an education.’ Balfour grew grave. ‘If Dee told you what lies in the catacombs, then these are dark times. That was a secret supposed to outlive us by many a generation.’

‘A device to communicate with angels,’ Will said.

Balfour snorted. ‘Dee and his angels. Gods, Will. Gods. There is more than one secret here, but all point to the true history that lies behind the one we know: of this country’s secret communion with the Fair Folk over the years.’ He glanced at Church and Tom. ‘These can be trusted?’

‘On my life, Robert.’

‘Then come. Let us venture into the bowels.’

Lifting a lamp, Balfour took Church, Tom and Will into a panelled drawing room and then through a hidden door to a flight of stone steps that wound down into the dark. Church struggled to comprehend the exterior architecture as they descended, and it was only when the stone walls grew wet to the touch and drops of moisture began to fall with echoing splashes that he realised the steps must lead down into one of the pillars that supported the bridge, and then deeper still, beneath the river bed itself. Tom had clearly reached the same conclusion, for he was starting to grow uneasy.

‘Will the stones hold?’ he said. ‘The water drips through as if the first sign of a coming deluge.’

‘It sluices out into vast chambers below,’ Balfour said. ‘It has stood for three hundred and fifty years and will stand for hundreds more. In this construction, you will find the greatest secrets of the master masons, passed down from Solomon himself.’

‘Who built it?’ Church was amazed by construction skill that would have stunned modern engineers.

‘Robert’s family can trace their line back to the Order of the Poor Knights of Christ and the Temple of Solomon,’ Will said, ‘and his kin have guarded their secrets with religious fervour since those days.’

‘On the thirteenth day of October, thirteen hundred and seven, that damnable Philippe of France set about the destruction of the Order,’ Balfour said. ‘Eighteen galleys left the Order’s naval base at La Rochelle filled with Templar wealth and the accumulated mass of their wisdom, not just from the Holy Land but from across the known world. Of the two, this wisdom was the greater prize.’

The stairwell opened out into a vaulted chamber with more rooms leading off through dark doorways on every wall. Water dripped from the low ceiling to puddle and run into drains set into the flagged floor.

‘In this repository was placed one full quarter of the Templars’ wisdom, including many of the magical artefacts they recovered from ancient sites across the lands,’ Balfour continued.

‘And here we shall find the talisman that Dee has directed us to retrieve?’ Will mused.

‘A device to communicate with the gods and, for a short time, to bend them to your will.’ Balfour nodded gravely.

‘Why has this not been gifted to the queen?’ Will asked.

‘Too dangerous an object to be allowed to fall into the hands of any particular political or religious sect,’ Tom noted.

‘The Fey have had many dealings with our rulers across the long centuries,’ Balfour said. ‘’Tis written that kings and queens of Faerie have banqueted with our monarchs since the Flood. Indeed, one is said to be in our queen’s court even now, kept in chambers far from prying eyes. ’Tis said she advised Sir Edmund Spenser before his trip to Munster. Some stood with William of Normandy and turned the tide of battle. Others brought much amusement to Henry and his father before him. But the true dangers were revealed long ago when one of the gods went mad and had to be bound beneath Rosslyn Chapel not far from fair Edinburgh, where it is said his screams can be heard to this day. No man must have that power, nor no country, though they call me traitor.’

‘Yet you’re letting us have it,’ Church noted.

‘For a while only, and it must be returned. These are dark times, if the word I received from Dee is to be believed. Desperate times require desperate measures.’

‘Where does it lie?’ Will peered into the gloom.

‘There is a labyrinth. The Templars protected their treasures well. But stay left and you will find your way through to the repository. The artefact you require is a crystal skull. Legends say it was fashioned in the land of the gods themselves, and placed here as a lure for foolish mortals who chose to bring the powers to their home.’ They all fell silent for a moment until Balfour said, ‘Dee’s coded letter spoke of a box? Some kind of doomsday weapon?’

‘We have sent it north for safekeeping.’

‘To the safe house?’

‘None would think to look for it there,’ Will said.

‘Good,’ Balfour replied. ‘It would be dangerous to have the box and skull in close proximity.’

A distant bell rang.

‘What is that?’ Tom asked.

‘A warning.’ Balfour looked concerned. ‘An intruder in my home above.’

‘Marlowe waits without,’ Will said.

‘Then I fear for good Kit’s wellbeing. The alarm is in my inner sanctum. Go on ahead. I will return to deter any unwanted guests.’ Balfour left the lamp with them and slipped back into the stairwell.

Tom shivered. ‘This place makes my lungs ache. What loon would build rooms beneath a river?’

‘No loon, but someone foolish as a snake.’ Will lifted the lamp and headed towards the first opening on the left.

The catacombs were as oppressive and confusing as they had feared. Every chamber was exactly like the last, with numerous doors leading off to other chambers, all alike. Church guessed the chambers formed some kind of extensive honeycomb structure where a man could wander for days or weeks without finding a way out. He marvelled again at the expertise required to construct such a maze in such an inhospitable place.

Water dripped everywhere they went, but in some places it streamed through the roof in a sheet, and at one point they had to wade knee-deep through a slow-moving current. Each new obstacle raised Tom’s anxiety another notch, until Church could hear his wheezing breath above the drips and echoes.

But Balfour’s guidance saw them through, and after a good half-hour they came to a large chamber bisected by rusty iron bars like a cell door. Beyond was a cornucopia of gold and precious jewels, chests, books, statues and other artefacts the purpose of which Church could not divine.

‘Riches beyond measure,’ Will noted. Why, I could buy my own country with these.’

‘Thinking of leaving the queen’s service?’ Church asked.

‘We all have a calling, Master Churchill, and mine is to be a spy — the best in the world.’ Will gripped the rusted bars and peered with a faint yearning at what lay beyond. ‘I could no more give that up than you could turn your back on your obligation.’

Church was sick of hearing of his obligations and responsibilities, but he said nothing.

‘I have travelled far and wide,’ Will continued. ‘I have slit throats and duelled and poisoned. I have watched and listened and reported back. I have personally halted ten Catholic plots to take my mistress’s life. The Catholics will never rest until England has returned to the call of Rome, and so I can never rest.’ His usual charismatic smile looked wan in the lamplight. ‘It is a hard life and a brutal one, and there are times when I would wish to give it up for a quiet life in the country, and a wife and a family. But this is the life we have, Master Churchill, and we do the best we can.’

Church couldn’t answer him.

‘Will you get the damnable gates open so we can get out of here?’ Tom snapped.

‘Patience, True Thomas.’ Will moved the lamp along the railings until a shimmer of light revealed the crystal skull. ‘There. Now, where is the lock — and the key?’ He looked around, but saw no sign.

‘It would have helped if Balfour had told us how to get in there,’ Tom said with irritation.

‘I think he hoped to follow us,’ Church said.

‘And it troubles me that he is not here now.’ Will continued to search the length of the railings and the points where they disappeared into the stone walls. ‘If we try to tear them out — even if we could — we will have the roof down on us, and the river soon after.’

‘We can count on the Templars not to have made this easy,’ Church said.

‘Their reputation speaks of tricks and traps,’ Will said. ‘Even if we find the key, we must beware.’

‘Enough talk!’ Tom raged, his claustrophobia overwhelming him. ‘I cannot spend another moment in this place!’

He stormed to the shadows at the rear of the chamber where Church could hear him splashing back and forth through pools of water. After a moment he fell silent before calling out, ‘Here!’

Church and Will found him standing against the rear wall in one corner, pointing to the flags. Church looked at the floor and saw nothing at first, then finally made out a black square of water where one of the flags had been removed.

Tom held out a wringing wet sleeve. ‘It goes down an arm’s length, then doglegs towards the railings.’

‘A tunnel to a lever, perhaps,’ Will mused.

‘That’s crazy. It’s barely big enough to get my shoulder through,’ Church said. ‘It might just be a drain. You don’t know how far the tunnel goes or if you could hold your breath for that long. You wouldn’t even be able to turn around. You’d have to scramble backwards, underwater, in the dark.’

Tom was ghost-white in the lamplight. He brought a trembling hand to his mouth.

‘It is all we have,’ Will said. ‘We must try.’

Church steeled himself. ‘I’ll go.’ He began to unbuckle his sword belt.

Will caught his arm. ‘This is my place. My obligation. I’ll do it now, before I have time to think again.’

Will took a deep breath and then, before Church could protest, forced himself down through the hole.