Chapter 1: Under Siege
England. October 15, 1645.
"We're too late." Jack tightened his grip on Leonard's arm as he pleaded with him. "The house is overrun with Roundheads. By now they've pillaged everything in sight. Against Cromwell's soldiers, we don't stand a chance."
Leonard yanked his arm free, the anguish in his face brutal to see. "Inigo will be killed if we don't do something!"
"Two wearhs storming into that inferno? We'll do more harm than good." Jack studied his friend for a sign he was getting through to him. "Inigo's elderly and in frail health. Surely they'll take pity on him. I heard the nobles are being taken back to London. If we hide along the road, we can confirm if he's among them."
Leonard gave a broken sob. "Why didn't he leave when I begged him to? Basing House had already suffered two sieges. It was inevitable Cromwell would return."
To that Jack had no answer. Basing House—like the royalist cause—was doomed. Three nights ago, he and Leonard had been in Winchester where they'd rescued an actor from their playing company from a besieged house. It was there they learned Cromwell was marching toward Basing House, one of the last of the great Royalist estates. Inigo had been living there for the past several months.
They'd driven themselves mercilessly to beat the Roundheads but by the time they arrived, the manor was already engulfed in flames. In the aftermath of the assault would only ashes be left? Jack tried not to think about the murals he'd painted which were now destroyed. How could he mourn their loss when so many people were dead or dying?
He'd only with great difficulty persuaded Leonard to retreat to a safe distance. They took their positions high up in a tree from where they could track the traffic on the road. A seemingly endless stream of looters passed underneath them, carrying costly garments, silks, food, tapestries, silver—anything that could be transported. Every time a soldier joked about a nobleman being slaughtered, Jack had to keep a firm grip on Leonard to keep him from launching a suicide attack.
The peaceful world Jack and Leonard had lived in up to 1642 seemed a distant memory. For decades, Jack had alternated between being a musician in actors' troupes and painting murals in great houses under Inigo's direction. That life vanished when war broke out between the Royalists and the Parliamentarians. London was firmly entrenched on the side of the Roundheads, but for Jack and everyone else who depended upon noble patronage, their allegiance continued to lie with the aristocracy.
The playhouses in London had all closed in 1642. The King's Players occasionally secured contracts to perform at the great royal estates, but they were few and far between. As for painting commissions, no one was in the mood to spend money on art when across England houses were being pillaged and set on fire.
Father H wanted him and Leonard to return to London, but there was nothing for them to do there. For the past three years, he and Leonard had circulated between the ever-dwindling royalist strongholds. Lately, they'd mainly been engaged in humanitarian missions. Through the underground wearh network, they learned about the movements of Cromwell's army and worked to rescue as many of their former patrons and fellow artists and musicians as possible.
Last year the situation worsened when a witch-hunter began working in close partnership with Cromwell. Matthew Hopkins called himself Witchfinder General. Jack called him scum of the earth. He preyed on decent folk throughout East Anglia, snaring witches and non-witches in his ever more powerful snare.
Several former members of the St. James Garlickhythe gathering who'd moved away from the safety of London had already been persecuted. Although Father H didn't approve of Jack's other activities, rescuing members of his flock was an exception.
Leonard grabbed him. "Did you hear that? The soldiers are talking about marching to Crediton."
Jack swallowed. "Thruxton Hall is on the way. It's bound to suffer the same fate." His love from long ago, Lady Hannah Ashley, had remarried and moved to the Devon manor in 1607. Her son was now a royalist commander.
"Surely Lady Hannah has moved somewhere safer by now," Leonard said hopefully.
Jack shook his head. "She may have no place to go. Her son is with King Charles in Crediton."
"As long as she doesn't put up a struggle, she'll probably be all right." Leonard's words trailed off. Both of them had overheard too many soldiers boasting of the rapes and murders they'd committed. Hannah's husband had passed away four years ago. Her children were grown and no longer living at home. She likely only had servants to defend her. But if he and Leonard left for Thruxton, they'd have no chance of aiding Inigo. Jack felt like he was balancing on a tip of a sword, and whatever decision he made, someone close to him would die.
Leonard froze. "I can smell him!"
Jack sniffed and caught Inigo's distinctive scent of nutmeg and tobacco. Carts rumbled along the road, most of them laden with plunder. In the distance, one cart was filled with captured men. As it approached their tree, Jack could see that they'd been stripped of their clothes and were clinging to thin blankets to protect themselves from the cold night air. Inigo was among them. He stared vacantly straight ahead, a hopeless expression on his face. Streaks of blood stained his gray beard. Was he doomed to suffer the same fate as the magnificent houses he'd designed and were now lying in ruin?
An image flashed through Jack's mind of Inigo, thirty years old with curly brown hair—the way he was when Jack first met him. Back then he'd been full of vitality with a joyous enthusiasm for everything. Jack's sadness at his present state was nothing compared to what Leonard must be experiencing.
Once Inigo entered public life, Leonard had needed to remain a discreet companion in the background, but their affection for each other had been unwavering. And Jack owed Inigo a debt that could never be adequately repaid. For decades, he'd secured painting commissions for Jack. Thanks to him, Jack was able to resurface with a new identity and still manage to earn a living.
"As soon as the cart passes us, we should follow it," he told Leonard. "At least we can ensure Inigo makes it safely to London."
Leonard shook his head. "You need to go to Hannah or it will be too late. I'll stay with him."
"You'll take care?" Jack asked anxiously. Leonard was right that they could accomplish more by splitting up, but would Leonard's emotions wind up putting both him and Inigo in danger?
"It's you who needs to be careful." Leonard frowned. "Remember to stay out of battles. If you get wounded, you won't be able to help anyone."
Jack squirmed but he knew Leonard was right. Since he didn't feed on human blood, his ability to heal, compared to other wearhs, was greatly diminished. "Don't worry. After checking on Hannah, I want to go to Norwich. The Normans may be in danger because of the witch-hunter."
"I had the same thought. I'll meet you there."
Jeffrey Norman had been Jack's friend since the time of the Roydons at the Hart and Crown. He was now a grandfather. His son ran the pub in Norwich with Jeffrey and his wife Annick's assistance. Their daughter had married the owner of the Dog and Whistle in London, not far from Christchurch Greyfriars. Mistress Susannah Norman was living with the daughter and safe within Father H's zone of protection. But what about Jeffrey and Annick? They were both powerful witches and well-liked in the community. Or at least they had been before the Puritans had become so powerful. Nowadays nothing could be taken for granted.
Leonard worried his lower lip. "It will be difficult to persuade them to move, and even if we can, we don't have the necessary travel permits."
Jack smiled at him. "Since when? I still have that permit we stole off a Roundhead soldier."
Leonard's eyes lit up. "You'll use it to forge permits!"
"Aye. The hardest part will be duplicating the seal."
"But not if we lift it off a sleeping Roundhead commander."
"Exactly what I was thinking." He and Leonard had already on more than one occasion snuck into enemy camps to discover their targets. Stealing the necessary supplies from Roundheads would exact a tiny amount of retribution for all the harm they were causing.
A Palazzo in Venice. October 1645.
When Aurora received the letter from England, she raced back to her bedchamber to read it in private. Using the jewel-bedecked dagger she kept on her desk, she slit the seal. Her excitement mounted as she read through the missive.
The news from Daniel was better than she'd anticipated. She knew she'd been right to cultivate the manjasang. During her first stay in England, she'd hoped to make Jack Blackfriars her instrument. It still rankled that she'd been forced to leave London. She paused, her eyes drifting to the tapestry on the wall opposite her desk. What had happened to her former lover? His warm brown eyes appeared in front of her once more. It was a shame that their paths had never crossed again. She hoped he was keeping himself safe. Once the war was over and she returned to England, she'd gladly pick up where they left off.
She rose from her chair to inform her father. He was currently meeting with Domenico in the library. She didn't know the nature of the discussion but suspected it concerned Benjamin. Her father had formed a temporary alliance of sorts with Matthew's renegade son, born out of their mutual hatred of witches. Personally, she didn't see why witches were worth all the fuss. Compared with the power of manjasangs, they were of little consequence.
As she approached the library, Domenico opened the door. "I'll keep you advised, Gerbert," he promised. "If Benjamin does have a hidden agenda, I'll discover it."
The handsome manjasang turned and bowed to her. "I have tickets to Cavalli's latest opera, La Doriclea, for tomorrow's performance. Would you care to join me? We'll make it a festive evening."
She gave him an appreciative smile. "I'll look forward to it." Cavalli had become so popular tickets were hard to obtain. In any case, she deserved an evening of amusement. She'd call it a celebration for her actions in England.
When she entered the library, her father was replacing a book on the shelf. Recently, his mood had been grimmer than usual. The Thirty Years War had not gone to his liking. He'd acted behind the scenes to help the Habsburgs. What former pope wouldn't embrace the cause of the Catholics? But as the war dragged on, it appeared increasingly likely that the Holy Roman Empire would be defeated.
The lone bright spot had been the witch-hunts. Encouraged secretly by her father, they'd swept across Europe, killing thousands in their wake. She suspected Benjamin was assisting him to stir up fear and distrust among local populations, but her father had been surprisingly reluctant to share details.
But that would soon change. Once he learned of her success, he'd want to include her in all his schemes. The witch-hunts were fading in mainland Europe, but she was just getting started in England.
She executed a low curtsey, knowing her father preferred added formality from his daughters. "Father, I heard from Daniel Walker about the situation in England. His efforts to promote Matthew Hopkins have been much more successful than we expected."
"Has Cromwell accepted him?"
She nodded. "Hopkins convinced him that witches achieved their powers by making a pact with the Devil. Hopkins now has the authority to travel freely throughout the counties. He's moved from Essex to Suffolk and soon will start hunts in Norfolk."
"How reliable is Daniel?"
"He's in love with me," she said. "He'll do anything I ask." She'd met him when she was living in Dublin. The manjasang had lived for decades in London but chaffed under Hubbard's restrictions. He hated witches almost as much as her father did. Hubbard's insistence on tolerance was anathema to him. When the witch-hunts began in Europe, Aurora saw the potential for England. The Puritans were rabidly superstitious about anything smacking of the occult. Once the Parliamentarians' interests dovetailed with the Puritans, she instructed Daniel to ingratiate himself to the Parliamentarian generals. His ability to spy on the Royalists enabled him to rise into a valued advisory position.
"The Parliamentarian General Cromwell is a devout Puritan," she explained. "He laps up Daniel's tales of how the Cavaliers are relying upon witches for their victories. When Daniel suggested Hopkins be used to rid England of the scourge of witches, Cromwell leaped on the idea and embraced it as his own. He calls Hopkins his Witchfinder General."
A small smile played on her father's lips. "What is the situation in London?"
"It remains a Parliamentarian stronghold. Conditions are peaceful with business proceeding more or less normally."
"Perhaps too normal for our purposes," he mused. "As long as Hubbard insists on protecting witches within his so-called domain, we will never be able to eradicate them."
"Should he be eliminated?" Aurora suggested.
"Strike a fellow manjasang? No. There are too few of us already." He pressed the palms of his hands together. "For too long we've allowed the blasphemy of friendly relations between witches and manjasangs to continue unchecked."
"What do you propose, Father?" Aurora asked, sinking into a walnut folding chair.
"Drive a wedge between them," he said bluntly. "Consider what would happen if a creature went on a killing spree in London. Rumors of a killer within Hubbard's flock would make witches and daemons alike sever their ties to Hubbard. They'd flee from his protection where they'd be easy prey. I'm not concerned about daemons, but as long as witches remain in Hubbard's domain, we'll be unable to access their secrets. You say Daniel will do anything you ask." He arched an eyebrow. "Will he be our assassin?"
"Yes," she replied confidently. "But how will he find witches?"
Gerbert chuckled. "Therein lies the elegance to our plan, Daughter. He doesn't need to kill witches. If warmbloods of any type are murdered in sufficient numbers, terror will ensue. Daniel merely needs to start the rumor that witches are responsible, and the news will spread like wildfire." He stroked his beard for a moment. "If witches believe a manjasang is targeting them, they could be squeezed out of their enclave. How capable is Daniel?"
"I'm impressed with his skill. This is the type of assignment he'll relish."
"Daniel knows nothing about me, I hope?"
"Of course not," she quickly assured him. "I've carried out your instructions to the letter. He knows me only as Aurora Dandolo. He's never traveled to Italy. There's no possibility of him making a connection to you."
"Good. If we manage this correctly, the suspicion will fall on Benjamin or one of his tainted brood." Her father nodded with satisfaction. "Make sure Daniel kills in such a way that there's no doubt they were caused by creatures. The deaths must be brutal and savage."
#
Jack slowed his horse, a black gelding, to a walk as he neared Thruxton Hall. The morning sun was low in the sky above the hillside. He'd stopped by the manor many years ago on the way to a painting commission. He'd seen Lady Hannah from a distance but hadn't lingered. The Elizabethan hall was made of warm brick, its chimneys sprouting like cattails in a marsh. What was its present condition? Would it be in ruins like Basing Hall?
He'd run on foot practically the entire distance. When he chanced upon an encampment of Roundheads a mere fifteen miles away, he'd initially feared the worst. But the lack of captives and plunder gave him hope.
Jack stole a horse when no one was looking. It wouldn't do for him to show up at Lady Hannah's on foot. Once he was a safe distance away from the soldiers, he changed out of his peasant clothes into finer attire.
In the distance were faint plumes of smoke. An early chill hung in the air. Optimistically, the smoke could be coming from the chimneys, but he feared another cause.
As the hall came into view, his heart sank. The manor was still standing, the walls intact, but it was blackened by fire. The Roundheads had already been there. The house wasn't fortified. Surely there had been minimal if any resistance. Had the building been set on fire merely out of spite?
Four horses were tethered to the rail in front of the hall. An empty cart was nearby. Probably the horses belonged to soldiers who'd returned to haul off more plunder.
Jack dismounted, tied his horse to an oak tree, and proceeded warily on foot. Whoever was inside was making a lot of noise. He could hear the thuds of heavy pieces being thrown about. He counted at least four beating hearts.
"Where is she?" a man demanded. His voice sounded full of grief, not rage. "Mother, are you here?"
Jack paused. He'd never met Hannah's son. Would the man try to spear him on sight?
He decided to take a chance. Jack strode into the entry and quickly raised his hands as a middle-aged man immediately extended his sword. The fine quality of his doublet and breeches proclaimed him to be a gentleman, but the clothes were worn and stained with a mixture of grime and soot. "Stop where you are!" the man ordered.
"I come in peace," Jack said. "I was concerned about Lady Thruxton."
The man's eyes swept over Jack. This was a time when his youthful appearance served him well. Jack hadn't cut his hair in ages. Roundheads tended to wear their hair much shorter and dressed in drab colors. "Are you loyal to the king?" the man asked.
"By God's Troth, I am," Jack replied honestly. How many performances had he given before King Charles? How could he not be? "I've ridden a long way. Please tell me if her ladyship is alive." His voice grew rough from the dust mixed with smoke hanging in the air. The smell of burnt wood overwhelmed any hint of Hannah's rose and lavender scent.
"I don't know," the man said wearily. "My men and I arrived a few hours ago. So far we've found no one." Taking a breath, his face lost some of its severity. "I'm her son, James Thruxton. And you are?"
"Richard Blackfriars," Jack improvised. "My grandfather knew your mother when she was at court. He's in poor health and asked me to check on her."
Thruxton scanned him. He probably wondered how much assistance he could provide. "My men are searching the front rooms. If you want to join in the search, you are most welcome. You'll need to tread carefully. Many of the interior walls have collapsed."
"Did your mother ever mention the existence of a priest hole?" Jack asked.
He looked at him startled. "Nay, why do you ask?"
"My grandfather heard rumors that her brother-in-law might have been Catholic," Jack said, hoping that Thruxton wouldn't grill him on the subject. Hannah had told him privately about her future husband's brother not long before her marriage. She'd said it wasn't discussed at court but it was the primary reason the family was out of favor. Many priest holes had been built during the reigns of Elizabeth and James. Inigo had come across several of them during renovation work at various estates throughout the country.
Thruxton shook his head. "If there is one, I wasn't told about it. My father's brother lived only a few years after the marriage. Any secrets the house contains probably went to the grave with him. The house was attacked three days ago. You need to realize that the chances of finding my mother alive are slim to none."
"Then I better start immediately. Your men are in the front. I'll head for the back." Jack sped off before Thruxton could ask any uncomfortable questions.
Jack was dismayed by the condition of the interior. It was much more ruinous than he would have guessed from the outside. No wonder her son was pessimistic. Jack shoved his grief aside and focused on the smells. If Hannah were alive, he should be able to detect her scent, her heartbeat.
He raced from room to room, casting aside fallen masonry to clear a path. He'd wanted to search alone so he wouldn't need to disguise his strength. His efforts grew more frantic as time passed. A back staircase led upstairs. He decided to start on the top floor and work his way downward. The manor was furnished with what once must have been a magnificent long gallery. It stretched across the entire south side. A few portraits of what were likely Thruxton ancestors remained on the walls. Burnt fragments of faces stared out at him forlornly.
And that was where he heard it. The beating of a warmblood's heart. Jack stopped in his tracks. The faint scent of rose and lavender.
The ceiling had crashed down on the floor in places. Jack tossed aside chunks of plasterwork in a frantic effort to uncover the wainscoting. Hannah's scent grew stronger, propelling him forward. It seemed to come from a section next to the fireplace. The mantelpiece had toppled to the ground and was blocking the linenfold paneling. If she was hiding in a priest hole, she'd be unable to exit.
He slung marble blocks aside, reaching for additional strength. Was she wounded? Did she have enough air? Her face as she looked when he first met her hovered in front of his eyes.
His hands were bleeding from the rough work, but finally he reached the paneling. "Lady Hannah, are you there? I'm a friend. I've come to rescue you." Frantically, he ran his fingers along the wood, searching for a hidden spring.
"Lady Hannah, I come from Jack Blackfriars," he cried out in frustration. "It's safe to come out."
A moment later, a section of the panel next to where he stood slid open. Hannah's face appeared. She blinked and quickly closed her eyes at the bright light. "Jack sent you?" she croaked, her voice rough.
Jack gasped in relief and exhaustion, unable to say anything for a moment. A blood tear ran down his cheek and he hastily swiped it away while her eyes were still closed. "Aye, I'm his grandson. Your son is downstairs. Are you hurt?"
"I don't think so. I have a bucket of water and some food inside." Despite Hannah's claim, she was weak from the long captivity. Her hiding place was tiny with barely enough room to turn around.
She opened her eyes once more, blinking furiously. She was dusty but appeared uninjured. Her gray hair had come loose from its chignon. A heavy shawl was wrapped around her shoulders.
When he helped her out of the cachet, her knees buckled. Jack swept her into his arms and carried her next to a window where the sun had warmed the floor.
She passed a trembling hand over his face. "You look so much like your grandfather," she murmured. "Is he well?"
Jack already had his story prepared. He'd invented one that he hoped she'd like. "He was in ill health last year but is growing stronger. He's living in Florence with his wife. That's where she's from."
"These days England is no place to be an artist. I'm glad he's safe." She smiled, and the ghost of the girl she once was resurfaced. "I remember how much Jack wanted to visit Italy."
That memory was still vivid to him. He and Hannah had fantasized about running away to Italy when she was in a loveless marriage with her first husband. "My grandfather's spent many happy years in Florence," Jack said, hoping it would someday be true for him as well. "He held you in the highest regard, my lady. He wanted me to convey his gratitude for the many kindnesses you bestowed upon him."
She closed her eyes for a moment as tears ran down her cheeks. "So many years ago. Please express my appreciation for all he and now you have given me."
Jack swallowed hard, trying to keep a lid on his emotions. "When I return to London, I'll leave for Italy. I'll tell him. Your son is downstairs. He'll be overjoyed to see you."
Jack didn't linger after Thruxton arrived on the scene. He and his men would take Hannah to safety. Her daughter lived on an estate near Swindon in Wiltshire. Hannah's son-in-law was allied with the Parliamentarians but sympathetic to the plight of the Royalists. She'd be out of harm's way.
Hannah had learned about the priest hole from an elderly servant. When she heard about the approaching army, she ordered the staff to evacuate, but she insisted on staying. Her son would return to Charles's army, but their cause was losing. It would take a miracle for them to emerge victorious.
Under the cover of darkness, Jack set his horse loose to roam free. He hoped the gelding would find a safe refuge where he could avoid bloodshed. Now that Hannah was rescued, Jack's thoughts returned to the situation in Norwich. By now Leonard might have arrived. Had the witch-hunter as well? Jack sped off on foot into the night.
Notes: The story's title is from a song in Cymbeline by William Shakespeare. Lady Hannah's Thruxton Hall is fictitious, but the siege of Basing House was a historical event, and Inigo Jones was taken prisoner at the end of the siege. The Witchfinder is also a historical character, although Gerbert's involvement has been kept a secret.
"Fear no more the heat o' the sun,
Nor the furious winter's rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages:
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust."
- William Shakespeare
Blog: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation. See the Six-Crossed Knot page for background information on the series and an introduction to the world of All Souls Trilogy.
Visuals and Music on Pinterest: Six-Crossed Knot board on Silbrith's Stories