Chapter 2: Nightwatch
The Elm Tree Inn, Norwich. October 1645.
When Jack arrived in Norwich, a few ghostly clouds driven by a swift wind shrouded the waxing gibbous moon. An omen of impending change? The hour was late. As he approached the Normans' inn, the only others on the streets were a few dogs scrounging for scraps. They made Jack miss Mop. He hadn't had a dog for decades.
Jack paused outside the entrance to the Elm Tree Inn. Leonard's scent mingled with those of Jeffrey, Annick, and their son John. Jack stepped inside to find the group sitting in front of the hearth.
"Just in time!" Leonard said, springing up. "Perhaps you will have better luck in convincing Annick of the necessity to depart." Leonard strode over to him and added in a low murmur, "Lady Hannah?"
"Safe," Jack assured him. "She was hiding in a priest hole. By now she should be with her daughter's family. How's Inigo?"
"He made it back to London without incident. He's under arrest but being treated reasonably well." Leonard shrugged. "Under the circumstances, it's about the best outcome we could hope for. His friends in London will ensure that he's treated with kindness and respect."
Jack nodded. Now if they could just persuade Annick. He joined the others. "I've just returned from rescuing one friend who'd waited till it was too late to escape. Please don't make her mistake."
"You'll need to talk some sense into my wife," Jeffrey said. "God's Truth, I've tried. We received another letter from our daughter. Annie and her husband are looking forward to our arrival. The Dog and Whistle is thriving and they'd appreciate our assistance."
"I've told them that the boys and I will manage in their absence," John added. His wife had died a few years ago, but his two sons were old enough to help out at the inn. Neither John nor his sons were known to be witches. Besides the witch-hunters seemed only interested in trying women.
"You should see the inn's patrons," Leonard added. "Most of them are Puritans. They'd gladly go along with whatever the witch-hunter wanted."
"John's not leaving," Annick pointed out stubbornly. "If he's safe, we should be too."
John sighed. "That's where you're wrong, Mother. A friend told me the witch-hunter executed sixty-eight people in Bury St. Edmunds alone, and you know most of his victims are women over forty years of age."
Leonard, appearing to sense an opening, quickly added, "I have the carts ready to transport you and Jeffrey. No one is saying that you'll need to stay in London forever. Once the situation is calmer, you can return."
"But we don't have travel permits," she said, her voice no longer quite as defiant.
Jack smiled. "Now you do!" He reached into his doublet for the two forgeries. He was quite proud of his work. No one would be able to tell them from the genuine article.
Annick narrowed her eyes. "Should I ask how you obtained them?"
"A commander outside Cambridge was only too happy to oblige after he heard of the excellence of your ale." Or he would have been if he'd been a reasonable person and awake at the time. "He can't wait to sample your brews at the Dog and Whistle."
"There, you see!" John exclaimed. "The arrangements are all made. We'll all pitch in to load your belongings. You'll be able to leave by midday."
Jeffrey was watching his wife carefully. "Annick, what really troubles you? There should be no secrets in this group."
She hesitated for a moment, clasping his hand. "I scried for guidance yesterday. Death is around us, Jeffrey. Not just in Norwich but in London too. I fear London will not be the safe refuge we desire." She exhaled. "But the signs don't appear worse for London than for Norwich, so if you wish to leave, I won't object."
Annick's words gave Jack pause. Long ago she'd scried to discover the reason for his bloodsickness. She'd advised him to never feed off warmbloods, and he'd heeded the warning.
If death hovered over London, he needed to be back to assist Father H. So far the Roundheads had left London alone since it was considered to be a Parliamentarian stronghold. Was that about to change?
Library of the Hotel de Clermont, Paris. November 1645.
Philippe returned the letter from Matthew to the top drawer of his desk. The news from the war front exceeded his expectations. Since the Franco-German victory at Nordlingen, the Habsburg forces were demoralized, raising hopes for a negotiated peace in the not too distant future. Matthew was serving as an aide to the Duc of Enghien. His close friendship with the young Condé, who at the age of twenty-four was already one of France's leading generals, gave Matthew unparalleled access to the highest circles of military leadership within France.
France had been unsettled since the deaths of Cardinal Richelieu and King Louis, but Cardinal Mazarin was proving himself to be a worthy successor to the Red Eminence. Would the seven-year-old Louis XIV be worthy of the title? Philippe initially had his doubts, particularly because of his mother Anne of Austria, who was acting as regent. But so far the signs were promising.
Was Mazarin Anne's lover? So far Philippe had been unable to substantiate the rumors. There was no doubt Anne relied on his advice both for affairs of government as well as the young king's upbringing. Sometimes Philippe felt like he was acting blindfolded. So far, he hadn't been able to place spies with the court.
Philippe was living more than half of the year at the Clermont mansion in the Place Royale, but his access to those controlling the reins of government was frustratingly limited. Mazarin was polite but cautious. Matthew was not in Paris often enough to be much help. Besides, his talents were better suited on the battlefield or in diplomacy. He had little patience with the inner workings of court.
Baldwin was even worse. His lack of tact caused more problems than solutions. Baldwin shone at conducting the family's business affairs in Amsterdam, and that's where he'd stay.
Freyja was a possibility. Like his predecessor, Mazarin was a generous patron of the arts and that provided a potential opening. Unfortunately, Freyja was dismissive of the regent, finding her haughty and of little intellectual capacity. Philippe's daughter had many admirable qualities, but sniffing out secrets by blending into the background was not one of them.
Jack, though . . . Philippe stood up and strode over to the window to look down in the courtyard. For years, the pup had proved a useful resource at the English court. He was well-liked by courtiers and ladies alike, and Charles's fondness for the theater had given Jack access to many invaluable confidences.
It was thanks to Jack that Philippe had been able to keep up with the English court. Until that is, the king fled London. Well before that ignominious flight in 1642, the court had been floundering. Charles's inability to achieve financial solvency had precipitated the inevitable crisis.
What was Jack doing now?
Freyja's welcome scent cut short Philippe's musings. He spun around to greet his daughter.
"Ysabeau and I are going to the theater tonight," she announced. "Would you like to join us?"
"Will your friend Bryn be performing?"
"No, but soon she'll return from Italy." Freyja smiled. "With the cardinal as a patron of the theater, Bryn will no doubt want to spend most of her time in Paris for the foreseeable future."
Freyja didn't realize the English manjasang she was so fond of was also one of Jack's closest friends. How could she? Within the de Clermont household, only the family's faithful servants Pierre and Françoise were aware of Jack's existence.
"Bryn was wise to leave England when she did," Philippe remarked, keeping his tone casual.
Freyja nodded. "A couple of decades ago when women were finally allowed to perform on stage, she hoped she could return to London for more than a visit." Freyja gave a bitter shrug. "The Puritans soon put an end to female performers. They're now so emboldened, I doubt any actor, male or female, can earn a living from their craft."
With the country at war, Jack would be unable to obtain painting commissions. Jobs for musicians also would have dried up. Philippe doubted strongly he was simply cooling his heels in London. His friends were likely fighting with the Royalists. Was Jack as well? Surely not. Andrew Hubbard, for one, would never permit it . . . if he knew about it.
The priest had always been adamantly opposed to Jack leaving England. Perhaps now he was ready to see sense. Should Philippe bring him to Paris? The idea was appealing. The boy would need to be schooled, of course, before he could be integrated into the court. Freyja would be an excellent instructor, but how much would she have to be told about Jack's circumstances?
She was eyeing him speculatively. Of his children, Freyja's mind worked the closest to his. She likely guessed he was developing a plan. She knew not to question him till he was ready.
Later that day, he had Pierre accompany him on a stroll along the Seine, far away from sensitive manjasang ears. Matthew had dispatched Pierre and Françoise recently on a trip to England to check on the Old Lodge, his estate near Oxford. Despite Charles having established his headquarters at Oxford, the city had escaped major damage. The Old Lodge had also escaped harm and was being protected by Dutch manjasangs.
"I have a mission for you," Philippe told Pierre. "You are to go to England and give Jack this." Philippe handed him a letter sealed with one of his silver coins. "In it, I order Jack to come to Paris. He'll need assistance for the trip. You are to accompany him. When you return to Paris, let me know."
"And if his maker forbids him from leaving?" Pierre asked.
Philippe rumbled his acknowledgment of the likely obstacle standing in his way. "I've prepared a second letter addressed to Andrew. Surely he appreciates the likelihood of the Royalist defeat. With Puritans overseeing Parliament, Jack will have little chance of any meaningful employment. In any case, it's time for him to vacate the scene for a new identity. Tell Andrew that Jack will be free to return to England when conditions improve." Something that likely wouldn't happen for decades. Charles might not even be able to retain the throne. Cromwell could well desire the crown for himself.
Jack could find himself with conflicting orders from his sire and Philippe. In such cases, his duty to his sieur was uppermost. An extra nudge would be provided by Jack's undoubted eagerness to experience life in Paris.
London. November 1645.
For the next month, Jack and Leonard stuck close to London. They both felt a responsibility to ensure that Annick and Jeffrey's relocation went smoothly. But there was an odd disconnect to living there. Within Father H's sheltered domain, Jack felt like he was acting in a play divorced from reality where there were no corpses on the battlefields, no burning houses, no families being ripped apart.
The Dog and Whistle began to acquire a little of the atmosphere of the Hart and Crown during the time of the Roydons. Jeffrey and Annick had quarters above the tavern along with their daughter's family and Susanna Norman, who'd acquired the status of Goody Alsop from those early years. Susanna was advanced in years but still hale. She'd become the heart of the St. James Garlickhythe gathering. Annick had also been considered a member for years. To have a weaver once more in London was viewed as an auspicious omen. Jack seldom saw Annick's familiar, a hedgehog, but her grandchildren loved to play with the diminutive animal.
With painting commissions impossible to obtain, Jack spent much of his time at the inn. Annie's three children ranged in age from seven to twelve. He gave them lessons in Latin, music, and drawing, but he still felt unsettled. Money was in short supply.
Then the killings began. Murders in London were commonplace but never in such numbers. Many of them were occurring right on the fringes of Father H's domain.
Reportedly, the corpses were mutilated with odd markings on them. Many of the townspeople believed they'd been killed by witches. Father H took the unprecedented step of mounting daily patrols to safeguard his domain. Leonard and Jack had a new calling. They, along with every other wearh, were called upon to spend every free moment protecting central London. Until the killer was caught, no one was safe. Annick's prophecy had come true.
#
Hubbard was sweeping the crypt in the bell tower for the afternoon meeting of the gathering when he smelled Annick's scent in the nave of the church. It was odd that no one was with her. Usually Jeffrey accompanied her. Susanna also liked to attend when the weather wasn't inclement, and today was unseasonably mild.
"I hope all is well with your family," Hubbard said, stepping into the nave.
"They're in good health, thank you," she said. But her worried expression belied her words. "I came to alert you."
He gestured for her to take a seat in the front pew and sat down beside her. Hubbard had been impressed with how gracefully Annick had assumed the leadership role in the gathering. Although she didn't have as much power as Diana, any weaver was a rare treasure during this dark period.
"There will be no meeting today," she explained.
"Because of safety concerns?" he hazarded. Not surprising with the number of deaths. "If you wish, I can provide escorts for them."
"That might make it worse."
"What do you mean?" he demanded, staring at her.
"Some of our members blame wearhs for the murders," she said, lowering her voice. "They heard a report from a witch in West London. She claims a wearh is targeting us. The rumor has spread throughout the community."
"But we've been working to protect you!" he protested. "Wearhs are constantly on patrol to safeguard the flock."
"I know," she said unhappily, "but some argue that you don't control the wearhs in other regions. Fears are already at a heightened state because of the witch-hunters."
Annick's report made tracking down the killer all the more vital. Suspicions could fester into permanent hatreds. For centuries, Hubbard had worked to ensure good relations between creatures. He wasn't about to see his efforts ruined.
"Thank you for coming to me," he said. "I agree that until the murders stop, the gathering shouldn't attempt to meet here." He sniffed the air. "Jack and Leonard have arrived."
When they entered the church, Hubbard repeated the news. Leonard and Jack had spent the past several days on patrol. Their faces were drawn with fatigue. There were so few wearhs in his domain, how could they possibly patrol all of London's vast area effectively? What they needed was a miracle.
When Pierre showed up a few minutes later, he wasn't the miracle Hubbard had prayed for. To put it bluntly, he was just the opposite. As soon as Hubbard sniffed his bergamot and musk scent, his initial inclination was to lock the doors. The one saving grace to the protracted conflict was that the de Clermonts had left Hubbard and Jack alone. Why had Philippe chosen this moment to arrive? Didn't he know the king was in Oxford? Hubbard had enough on his plate without having to play host to Philippe.
When Pierre spotted Annick, he sat down quietly in a back pew. Leonard turned to Jack after darting a glance at Pierre. "I'll see that Annick gets home safely. Wait for my return before going back out."
Jack looked as if he wanted to argue the point but he nodded with a small huff. Hubbard had made it abundantly clear that Jack wasn't to patrol on his own. His strength simply wasn't adequate to tackle a killer on his own.
Pierre waited till Annick and Leonard left before approaching them.
Jack greeted his friend affectionately, giving him a hug instead of the proper wearh greeting. Hubbard sighed. In many ways, Jack reminded him of Lobero. He was currently without a dog. Was that part of the problem? Would a puppy help restrain the boy from dangerous activities?
"Is Philippe with you?" Jack asked.
"No, but I have a letter from him." Pierre reached into his doublet and pulled out the missive. Hubbard saw the seal. One of Philippe's silver coins was embedded in it. Hubbard kept his growl to himself. Philippe would be wise to never send him one.
The meaning was clear without Jack needing to read the letter. Philippe expected him to return the coin personally to him in France. Hubbard's first reaction was to order Jack to refuse, but he decided to let him have a chance to reply on his own.
And as Jack devoured the letter's contents, Hubbard reconsidered. Would it be such a bad thing? For the past two years, Jack and Leonard had spent their time gallivanting throughout the countryside, aiding their royalist friends. How many narrow misses had they already had? Hubbard's arguments for them to stay within his domain in London had gone nowhere, and, honestly, he understood why. They viewed themselves as rogue knights on rescue missions. In comparison, his jobs appeared dull and uninteresting. But even if their goals were laudable, they were courting disaster. Several wearhs had already died on the battlefield. How long would it be before Jack and Leonard decided to help one of their former patrons in the doomed cause? Leonard might survive a battle, but Jack didn't have the strength or skill for combat.
Jack looked up from the letter. "Philippe has requested I meet him in Paris. He says it's time to assume a new name."
"Does he mention how he intends to use you?" Hubbard asked. For it was certain Philippe wasn't doing this out of some altruistic motive. He wanted to employ Jack, and Hubbard could guess how.
"Not specifically," Jack admitted. "He said this will be a chance for me to become acquainted with French culture and that I'd be able to work on my art."
Jack didn't seem as excited as Hubbard would have thought. Pierre noticed it too. "What is your concern?" Pierre asked. "Is it the trip? I'll make all the arrangements and will accompany you on the journey."
"Thank you, but that's not it. I know I'm supposed to obey, but how can I?" Jack shoved his overlong hair off his face with an impatient hand. "Witches are being threatened. They believe a wearh is the killer, and they're the targets. There are already too few of us in the city to patrol effectively. I can't abandon my friends until the killer is caught."
When Pierre cast a questioning eye at Hubbard, he provided the limited information they had available. "The gathering has grown distrustful of us. There will be no more meetings in the crypt with a killer on the loose."
"The next boat we can take for France doesn't leave for a week," Pierre said. "Instead of debating whether or not to be on it, our focus should be on capturing whoever's responsible. I offer my services. By the time the boat leaves, we could have the situation resolved."
Hubbard considered the proposal. Pierre possessed hidden strength within a wiry build. Hubbard had heard tales about how Pierre had fought behind English lines during the Hundred Years War. If he was willing to accept Hubbard's orders, he'd be a welcome addition. Up to now, Hubbard had been patrolling alone. With a new ally, they might together achieve success.
Over the following week, every wearh within his domain hunted the killer day and night. Although Hubbard was sure no wearh in his domain was responsible, it appeared that the rumors were correct. He'd had a chance to examine a couple of the victims. Their bodies bore the ferocious signs of vicious attacks most likely committed by someone suffering from blood rage.
Hubbard drove himself the hardest with Pierre alongside him on each foray. As they hunted, Hubbard grew more comfortable with the notion of Jack going to France. Pierre assured him that the boy would be coached in the skills necessary to fit into a different culture.
Hubbard liked the idea of Jack being in a Catholic country. He appreciated that the French were more pragmatic than some. They'd allied themselves with Protestant countries in opposition to the tyranny imposed by the Habsburgs.
One night, Hubbard caught the whiff of someone promising as he and Pierre perched on top of a tavern near St. Martin-in-the-Fields—a wearh. "Do you hear him?" he breathed to Pierre in a voice so quiet that not even a wearh could overhear him.
Pierre nodded. "Do you recognize his scent?" he mouthed back.
Hubbard nodded. "Daniel Walker. He left London close to a hundred years ago." The wearh had been a troublemaker, and Hubbard had been glad to see him go. Although Daniel disliked witches, he'd never attacked them. Was blood rage now propelling him to violence?
Daniel was alone. Hubbard watched him duck into an alley, possibly on the prowl for his next victim.
"You approach from the Strand," Hubbard ordered. "I'll circle to the back." This ends now.
By the time the wearh attempted to flee, they were already upon him. Daniel had a weight advantage but against two, it wouldn't save him.
#
When Jack and Leonard returned from patrol, they found Father H and Pierre in the crypt.
"I didn't want to kill him," Hubbard said, his face wearier than Jack had ever seen him.
"You had no choice," Pierre said quietly. "He tried to kill you. His hatred had already consumed him." He turned to Jack. "We both drank his blood. It was essential to confirm he was the killer."
"Did he have blood rage?" Leonard asked. He and Jack had discussed the possibility though Father H had never brought it up. It had been Jack's greatest fear that the killer was a member of their family. Father H had not sired anyone other than Jack in hundreds of years, but in the years after his rebirth that hadn't been the case.
Father H shook his head. "No, and that makes the murders that much more despicable. We learned through his blood that he'd been the one spreading rumors that witches were responsible for the deaths."
"His hatred of witches was that strong?" Jack asked, horrified.
Pierre nodded. "His goal was to drive a wedge between Andrew and the gathering. He hoped they'd be easier to pick off once they'd fled the protection of Andrew's domain."
Father H's lips tightened into a thin line. "He very nearly succeeded."
Leonard stood up. "I'll go inform the Normans. The news will quickly spread that the killer is no longer. I'd also like to check on Inigo."
"How is he?" Pierre asked.
"He's back home. He was able to secure his release from prison after paying a heavy fine but his spirit is crushed. He was devastated by the cruel treatment he received."
"Stay with him as long as you want," Father H said. "You both need to rest."
When Leonard stood up, Jack rose as well. "I'll go inform the other wearhs," he offered.
"In a moment," Father H ordered.
Jack sat back down, worried about what was coming. With the killer caught, he'd be able to go to Paris without feeling guilty. But if Father H ordered him to stay, he didn't know how he'd handle it.
"I wanted you to know before I tell anyone else," Father H said. "The wearh's name was Daniel Walker. Does it mean anything to you?"
Jack shook his head. "Should it?"
"Possibly. He was receiving instructions from Aurora Dandolo."
Jack swallowed at the mention of the blonde-haired beauty. He'd been infatuated with her for a short while until he learned she was the daughter of one of Philippe's enemies. "She ordered him to go on the killing spree?"
Pierre nodded. "She may have been instructed by her father Gerbert. Daniel met Aurora in Ireland and was in love with her. She fanned his hatred of witches with wild tales of how Andrew was aiding them. She also claimed Andrew was betraying wearhs."
"Where is she now?" Jack asked, shaken by the revelations. He wouldn't have believed her capable of such duplicity.
"Daniel only knew she'd left for Venice," Father H said. "She's likely with her father." He took a breath. "Under the circumstances, I agree that you should go to Paris. The threat in London is over for the moment, but the battles continue around us." His face softened. "This is no climate for an artist. Pierre assures me you will be taken care of. And you know that you always will have a home here with me."