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Chapter 1: Time Thief

Bridewell Studio, London. June 10, 2007.

Jack dropped his art pencil onto the pad of paper as the past returned in sharp relief. Why had he decided to draw this scene today? Hadn't he realized that sketching the appearance of Buckingham Palace after the Blitzkrieg attack would bring back too many memories?

He'd naively thought that nothing could be worse than the destruction caused by the French Revolution and Napoleon. Surely European leaders would abandon their craving for expansion. But instead, they'd seemingly grown ever more addicted. He and Leonard avoided combat as much as possible. They'd taken Philippe up on his offer and returned to his vineyard every year during the harvest season to help out. Philippe would sneak away from Sept-Tours to visit them. He used to joke about how someday Leonard should manage the vineyard for him.

During the First World War, painting commissions dried up, but the taste for popular stories continued unabated. Perhaps it was even stronger as folks sought an escape. The daemon publishing house where Leonard worked was one of the first to embrace comics. Soon Jack and Leonard were partners in the new venture with Leonard writing stories and Jack illustrating them.

During the Second World War, he and Leonard were rescue workers. They were fortunate that their seeming youth kept them from being taunted for not serving in the military. But they saw ample horrors in the devastation left by the Blitz.

Comics were their main source of income throughout most of the twentieth century, much to the displeasure of Father H. He wanted them to work as drivers for the black cab business he ran—Hubbards of Houndstooth. But Father H was foiled in his efforts when Leonard pointed out they didn't look old enough to meet the twenty-one-year-old minimum age requirement. Even so, they did the occasional moonlighting for special clients.

As comics grew in popularity, Father H tempered his criticism. Perhaps he thought their rescue efforts during the global conflicts earned them the right. More likely, he liked to delude himself that by writing about others sneaking into forbidden areas, they'd satisfy their itch. They didn't divulge their real escapades, all done in the name of research.

Jack picked up his pencil and returned to the drawing, images of the palace flashing in front of him. The palace itself escaped with relatively minor damage but not the Royal Chapel and the grounds. Father H's bell tower and the crypt survived the Blitz but the church wasn't as lucky. The nave where Jack had learned to play the viol and where he and Leonard had given countless concerts was a total loss. The church had been rebuilt after the Great Fire in 1666, but this time the decision was made not to rebuild. Father H led an effort to plant a garden on the site.

Jack looked up when he smelled Leonard's scent of raisins and oak. A moment later he entered the studio.

"I didn't think you were coming in today," Leonard said, eyeing him with concern. "I would have come back sooner."

Jack tried to conceal his dark mood. "How did the meeting go?"

"As we hoped. I secured permission to start work on a game featuring Saint Petersburg during the era of Catherine the Great. That's got to be a lot more enjoyable than London during the Blitz." He clapped Jack on the shoulder. "It's almost quitting time. Let's go home."

Jack nodded, grateful he didn't need to explain. Leonard could read him so well that he sometimes wondered if they had a psychic connection. He'd heard that witches were able to form a bond. Annick told him he might have a little witch blood because he could smell Goody's scent even though she was a ghost. Now Leonard could too.

"Fate's funny," Leonard said as Jack powered down his computer. "Who would have thought those comics we used to write would lead to us working on video games?"

Jack knew Leonard was trying to distract him with a lighter subject, and he appreciated it. "The Nimble Marmoset lives on!" he said, faking a cheerful smile. The club was made up of daemons, witches, and vampires from Father H's flock. It had been formed in the 18th century when clubs were all the rage. The Marmosets were all connected to the writing, art, and music trades. Jack and Leonard got most of their jobs from them. The publisher of Leonard's penny dreadfuls was a member. Later on, another daemon started a comics publishing house.

In 1995, Cicely Wilson, a London daemon and a member of Father H's flock, launched a video game studio. Jack and Leonard were among her first recruits. She didn't care that they didn't have programming skills. Leonard's gift for storytelling made him a natural scriptwriter. Jack's success was unexpected. She'd hired him as a concept artist but after she caught him doodling knots, she declared his destiny lay in 3-D graphic rendering.

"I still have a hard time believing Time Thief would be so popular," Leonard said as they exited the building. Bridewell Studio was in central London, a short walk from Father H's bell tower which continued to be their home.

"You shouldn't. You took some of those wild escapades from penny dreadfuls and converted them for modern audiences."

Leonard grinned. "Very few realize that Spring-heeled Jack and Charley Wag live on as avatars in our game."

Jack and Leonard had dreamed up the concept for Time Thief late one night over a bottle of Sept-Tours gamay in the crypt. Mistress Roydon could timewalk. Why couldn't the hero of their game? The difference was that he managed it by means of a time machine invented by his mentor, a genius they'd patterned after Philippe. The games turned out to be wildly successful. Jack used his knowledge of the past to create realistic designs of palaces and mansions where the gamer would have to surmount a wide-ranging set of obstacles to steal a priceless artifact.

Although Jack's designs were realistic, Leonard populated the settings with bizarre monsters—both human and not-so-much. All were out to thwart Time Thief. The game was now nine years old, and they were into its fourth expansion pack.

When he and Leonard arrived at the bell tower, Father H hadn't returned. In a nod to modern business practices, he now maintained a second, public office from where he ran the car-for-hire business. After dropping off their backpacks, they went down to the crypt. While Leonard uncorked the wine, Jack lit a pair of candles. They were surrounded by his paintings of Mistress Roydon, Susanna Norman, Goody Alsop, and Corra—all now vanished from his world.

Jack raised his glass. "To Philippe." On this day sixty-four years ago, they'd learned that he'd been killed. They didn't know the date of his death but assumed it hadn't been long before. The Second World War was almost over. Philippe's departure from their lives just as the conflict was ending left scars that hadn't fully healed.

"To Philippe," Leonard echoed. "After all this time, I still find it difficult to believe he's no longer around."

Jack nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. Philippe said he looked forward to the day Jack could call him and Ysabeau Grand-père and Grand-mère. For Philippe, that day would never come, and for Ysabeau it probably wouldn't either. Even if Father H acknowledged his relationship to the de Clermonts, it wouldn't be accepted by the Congregation. His sire, Benjamin, had disavowed the de Clermonts and wasn't listed on the genealogy records. Benjamin was believed to have died sometime in the eighteenth century. No chance of him having a change of heart.

Not that it really mattered. Baldwin was the sieur of the de Clermonts now, and from the little Jack had seen of him, he had no desire to associate with him. Baldwin had disparaged witches at Louis XIV's court. Jack doubted he'd grown more tolerant since then.

He glanced up at Mistress Roydon's image on the wall. His dream of reuniting with her and Master Roydon seemed further away than ever. But perhaps that was for the best.

"Talk to me," Leonard said quietly. "You know you'll feel better if you don't keep it pent up inside."

Jack nodded at the paintings. "Those ghosts still reach out to me. Now Philippe's one too. I need to stop obsessing about a future that may never come and a past that won't return."

"Our work doesn't help," Leonard said. "Our time thief travels back and forth between the centuries. Gamers don't appreciate how familiar we are with that feeling." He sniffed his glass of wine. "This brings back so many memories of the picnics we had with Philippe in the vineyard."

Jack smiled at the thought. A hillside overlook with spectacular views of the vineyard was their secret meeting place. The last harvest they shared was in the autumn of 1939, not long before the Nazis invaded France.

"I got a letter from Pierre," Leonard said. "Auvergne had a mild spring. The grapevines are already lush. He predicts an excellent year ..." His words trailed off as his expression grew wistful. Jack knew how much he missed participating.

"I bet he wishes you were there to help," Jack said.

Leonard smiled sheepishly. "He did. He said Alain's nose isn't nearly as refined. That was kind of him even if untrue."

"You're being too modest. How many times did Philippe comment that he wished he had your assistance with the vineyard?"

Leonard shrugged. "Not much chance of it happening now." He took a breath. "After we finish the wine, let's go to the Dog and Whistle. Take the cello Philippe gave you. I'll play the lute. No one's scheduled to perform in the pub tonight. We'll put on a performance in his memory."

"We could play those French folk ballads we've been working on," Jack suggested. They'd become adept at blending jazz with folk elements, a popular combination for club members.

The Normans' inn was still going strong with the Marmosets now meeting in an upstairs room. He and Leonard had adapted their music to the times. Jazz, folk, rock—whatever they were in the mood for. They couldn't play professionally anymore. Social media was treacherous for vampires. But at the Dog and Whistle their longevity wasn't an issue.

Chelm, Poland. June 2007.

Gerbert pulled to a stop in front of a low rambling house on the outskirts of Chelm. This was his first visit to Poland, but his sons had provided a detailed report of Benjamin's hideout. For the past century, they'd been tasked with monitoring the renegade vampire's activities. Only a few trusted sons knew the truth. Aurora didn't realize that Benjamin was still alive. Now that she and Domenico were intimate, Gerbert considered her unreliable. Domenico was still useful but he had the unfortunate tendency of selling his information to others.

Benjamin had crafted a superb bolt-hole for himself. An underground network of chalk tunnels ran underneath Chelm. The labyrinth was so extensive, Benjamin could surface virtually anywhere with impunity. The witches of Eastern Europe and Russia were his targets, and Gerbert could care less what he did with them. Vampires, though, were to be left untouched.

Recently Gerbert discovered that Benjamin had been complicit in the torture of Philippe de Clermont. Gerbert's sons weren't able to confirm the extent of his involvement, and Gerbert was left with an unappetizing dilemma. Benjamin could still be his best hope of recovering the Book of Life, but his cruelty could cause severe issues. In the future, he might turn against Gerbert as well.

The sane solution was to kill him. Once the Book of Life was recovered, of course. Until then, he would tolerate Matthew's brat.

Benjamin had already opened the door of the seemingly modest house by the time Gerbert approached. "I don't get many visitors, especially those who are unannounced," Benjamin said coldly.

His appearance was deceptive. Seemingly in his early thirties, he had unassuming looks. To others, he appeared non-threatening. By the time they found out the truth, it was too late.

"I have news of a private nature," Gerbert explained. "I didn't want it to be misdirected."

"Then you better come in."

Benjamin led him into a sparsely furnished living room. The appointments were dull and anonymous. He undoubtedly maintained separate quarters somewhere underground.

"Peter Knox approached me at the last meeting of the Congregation," Gerbert said without wasting time in idle conversation. "He has his eye on a family of witches. Some of them could be weavers."

They might also have information about the Book of Life, but no need for Benjamin to know that. The Book of Life was rumored to have been destroyed during the fire at Le Puy Cathedral during the French Revolution, but Knox believed that wasn't true. He'd heard whispers of the book's existence with odd pages surfacing in collections. Gerbert struck a bargain with Knox, agreeing to support him in Congregation matters in return for being kept apprised of the search. Knox's avarice made him a reliable partner ... at least until the book was recovered.

Benjamin shrugged, but the glint in his eyes revealed he was already taking the lure. "Why should I care about them when I already have so many at my disposal?"

"Knox claims one of them, Rebecca Bishop, was the most powerful of her generation. She's no longer alive but as you know, such talent is often inherited. Knox tested her daughter and she can be ruled out. She lacks even the most basic skills. But there may be other Bishops—cousins, nieces, or nephews—who so far are undiscovered. Knox requested our help in finding them."

"What's in it for me?" Benjamin challenged.

Gerbert winced at his impudent tone. Someday, it would be his pleasure to expose Benjamin's crimes. Matthew's son would lead to the toppling of the de Clermonts from their leadership role in the Congregation.

"Matthew," Gerbert replied. "If you succeed in finding a Bishop skilled in witchcraft, I'll deliver your maker to you wrapped in a gift bow."

"I'll need details about the Bishops that Knox tested. Who is the untalented daughter?"

"Diana Bishop. She's a professor at Yale. You can safely cross her off the list."

#

Although Benjamin was careful not to reveal his excitement, his mind was racing far ahead. Gerbert hadn't said Rebecca was a weaver, but the most powerful witch of her generation could only be a weaver. Benjamin had learned from a witch he'd tortured that a seer had predicted a witch would contain the Book of Life within her body. If he found her, he would be able to sire children who would be the most powerful creatures on Earth, combining the abilities of witches and vampires and all loyal to him.

Let Gerbert think he was motivated by seeking revenge on Matthew. That was just a side benefit.

Gerbert didn't have much information about the Bishops, but he knew the family had emigrated to Massachusetts from England in the seventeenth century. Gerbert assumed Benjamin would conduct his search in the States, but that was likely a waste of time. Knox undoubtedly had already scoured the family tree.

Tree ... the word brought back memories of Edward Kelley, a half-mad English alchemist. In Prague back in 1591, he'd said something about the alchemical tree. Benjamin had heard rumors that at one time Kelley possessed the Book of Life.

Supposedly he'd torn a page from the manuscript. He might have sent it to the witch who was masquerading as Matthew's wife in Prague. Her name was Diana. Given names were often reused in witch families. She could have been a Bishop. What had happened to her? Were Bishops even now living in Hubbard's domain?

Benjamin reached for his cell phone.

#

Satu Järvinen surveyed the sitting room of the house she'd rented in the London suburbs. She prided herself on the orderliness of the furnishings. That's the way she liked her life to be as well. But if she wasn't careful, her carefully constructed alliances could come crashing to the ground and take her with them.

For the past several years, she'd steadily increased her bank account by cultivating Peter Knox, Gerbert d'Aurillac, and Benjamin Fox. She prided herself that none of them knew about her work for the other two.

Should she try to sell the information she'd uncovered for Benjamin to anyone else? She doubted she'd get much for it. The news didn't concern the Book of Life so Gerbert wouldn't be interested. The witch in question had died centuries ago so Knox wouldn't find it relevant. Since no living witch was being threatened, she shouldn't suffer any repercussions. If Benjamin chose to go after a vampire, that wasn't her problem.

Decision made, she took a seat near the window overlooking the back garden. This house was much grander than she'd ever lived in before. Hopefully, Benjamin would pay her handsomely for what she'd learned and she could continue to live there.

She dialed his number.

"What did you learn?" he asked as soon as he answered. He'd never been one for small talk.

"There are no living Bishop witches in London," she said, getting the bad news over with first. "But I have news about Diana Roydon, the witch you encountered in Prague in 1591."

"Who's your source?"

Not someone I'll ever reveal. Satu had no delusions about Benjamin. She'd heard too many rumors of the brutal attacks he'd committed for them all to be false. Still, he'd been a benefactor to her family for centuries. When villagers persecuted them, he provided the funds for them to relocate to Sweden.

But she'd also witnessed Benjamin's cruelty. The young witch who Satu had befriended shouldn't be harmed. Her naiveté was endearing. Satu had felt a moment of remorse for misleading her, but only a moment.

She'd been careful to cast a masking spell so the girl wouldn't remember she'd revealed the secrets of the St. James Garlickhythe gathering. Benjamin didn't know Satu was a weaver, and that's the way it would stay.

"My source doesn't remember that she disclosed any secrets so no one will suspect my involvement," Satu said. "Diana Roydon was once a revered member of the St. James Garlickhythe gathering. Are the details worth our agreed-upon sum?"

"Yes, I'll wire the funds immediately."

"As soon as my bank receives them, I'll call you back." She treated all her clients the same way. She suspected Benjamin admired her for it.

The transaction took less than a half-hour to complete. She was gratified to see he'd anticipated making a deposit. The fact he answered his phone on the first ring when she called him back was also telling. She decided to only divulge a fraction of the knowledge she'd acquired. The rest could be sold to him at a later date for an additional fee.

"Diana Roydon was a weaver," she told Benjamin. "She was supposedly the most powerful witch in England. Her husband Matthew Roydon was a vampire, but that's all I could find out about him."

"Are you sure they were married?" he demanded.

"That's what my source believes. She's also seen paintings of the witch. The crypt of Andrew Hubbard's bell tower has murals of her along with other witches of the era. The witch didn't use her maiden name. Possibly she was a Bishop. In an unusual move for witches, she took the name of her husband. Perhaps it was to hide her ancestry."

"Do you know when she died?"

"She disappeared in 1591 and wasn't heard of since."

"In Prague, two children accompanied her. Did you learn anything about them?"

"The girl died from the plague a few years later. The boy is still alive."

"He's a vampire?" he asked incredulously.

"Yes, he was the one who painted the murals."

"What's his name?"

"Jack Blackfriars."

Notes: In Tangled Knots, I've filled in some of the blanks concerning Jack in the third novel of All Souls Trilogy, The Book of Life. The timeline is the same as in the novel. Viewers of the TV production know that many adjustments were made to the written account. I based my stories on the version in the novels. The title refers to Jack's condition when he reunited with Diana. She described the threads surrounding him as a "furious snarl of red, black, and yellow."

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.
Story Visuals and Music on Pinterest: Six-Crossed Knot board on Silbrith's Stories