CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

He wakes to the unmistakable smell of sulphur and a room as black as pitch. His mouth is dry as quarry stones, his teeth pitted against the rough plane of his tongue, and Henry blinks wide-eyed into the dark.

Something is wrong.

Henry does not know how he knows, cannot explain this feeling of surety. The room is cold, the noxious smell of sulphur so strong he must sit up and cough, and it is in that moment he realises the bed is empty.

‘Rowena?'

Nothing.

‘Rowena!'

‘I'm here.'

With relief he turns in the direction of her voice. She is silhouetted in the frame of the door, looking out onto the landing. Rowena wears only her shift, red hair spilling down her back in long flowing curls.

‘What is it?'

She half-turns, beckons him. ‘Can't you hear?' Her voice carries on it the edge of fear. ‘Someone is downstairs. I … I think I can hear voices.'

Henry swears, fumbles on the floor for his breeches and pulls them on, searches for his boots, his shirt, joins Rowena at the door. Like a frightened child she leans in to him, and Henry puts his arm around her shoulders.

‘Listen,' she whispers.

There are voices, or what he thinks are voices, but the sound has a strange undulating rhythm to it, a cadence not wholly natural.

Not wholly natural .

His stomach lurches. Henry knows instinctively what those voices are, knows exactly to whom those voices belong: Julian Tresilian. The Order.

It is the sound of chanting.

Henry tries to think. The candle burnt down hours ago, and he left the tinderbox downstairs. There are no weapons in the bedroom, nothing to defend themselves with. And yet he cannot ignore it. Will not ignore it.

Something must be done.

‘Go up to the house,' Henry says, putting on his boots, his shirt. ‘Get Powell to send for help.'

‘I'm staying with you.'

‘You're damn well not.'

‘I am ,' Rowena insists, looking up at him. In the dim light from the landing window her eyes are large, her heart-shaped face set, and in frustration Henry sighs.

‘You're growing as stubborn as Linette. Very well. But stay behind me at all times. If you have to run then do not hesitate, get as far away from here as you can, do you understand?'

Rowena nods. ‘I understand,' she says, and Henry takes her small hand in his.

They cross the landing, make their way slowly down the stairs. The treads do not creak and for that he is thankful, but it occurs to him when they reach the bottom that it does not matter how much noise they make; Julian has called to them deliberately, has made sure Henry has heard.

But how?

Henry opens the door of the gatehouse, wonders if perhaps they are outside, but the path lies empty. What he does mark is that the sky is not the pitch black of night but a lighter shade of indigo, already turning itself over to morning. Within the deep canopy of trees he hears an owl screech. What time is it? Henry wonders. Three? Four?

Behind him, Rowena sucks in her breath. ‘Look.'

‘What?' Henry asks, turning away, and she points in the direction of the sitting room.

It is exactly how it was earlier that evening – not one piece of furniture out of place, nothing to raise alarm; except for a strange light at the far end of the room. Henry moves closer, toward the library door standing ajar, and slowly pushes it fully open.

A door is set within the bookshelves. Beyond it, a passageway lit brightly with thick pillar candles set in ornamental sconces, row upon row of them leading down to the end.

‘Rowena,' he says quietly, gathering her close. ‘Promise to keep behind me. Do you promise?'

‘I promise.'

He looks at her. Her face is frightened-pale, those amber eyes muted beneath the dark fan of her lashes, but Henry is not afraid. The anger he did not feel before – the anger that belonged so completely to Linette – begins to spiral in the pit of his stomach, a righteous tug of injustice pulling on his insides. That Julian would dare do this, that he would lure Henry to him in this childish way, is beyond reprehensible. Did he truly believe that he could get away with it?

At the bottom of the staircase there is a rush of air, that putrid smell of sulphur mixing with the dankness of earth and wet stone. Henry grips the iron banister. Another passage stands before them running in a different direction, lined with torches attached to intricately wrought braziers, rust thickly cloaking the filigree shapes. The chanting is much louder now, as if carried along on their echo; Henry can hear words repeated in a language he does not understand. What was it Mr Dee said? Hebrew, Theban?

Gripping Rowena's small hand, Henry continues on.

It is cold. So cold, Henry can see his breath cloud in the air before him. At one point the dirt floor rises upward, down, then up again. Behind him Rowena stumbles; he stops, must press against the damp wall to steady her. It is only as he is turning to continue, only when he wipes his wet hand against his thigh, that there is another rush of sulphur-infused air, and Henry realises where they are. Underground, yes. That much is obvious. But not just any place underground. They are somewhere very specific.

‘Of course,' he mutters, and Rowena presses his fingers between hers.

‘What is it?'

‘We're in the mines.'

Henry remembers the blocked-off tunnels when he visited the mine that first time, thinks of why the mines are so close to the house in the first place; the Order could not meet in Plas Helyg itself, they needed somewhere else, somewhere private. Somewhere hidden, yet easily accessible.

There are tunnels under this house .

‘Henry,' Rowena whispers. ‘Look.'

Ahead of them is a cavernous entryway, glowing eerily orange. On the cusp of that dreadful sulphuric odour Henry detects another smell, the sweet and woody scent of frankincense.

‘Come on. And remember, Rowena – when I tell you to run you do it.'

She nods but does not answer. Taking a deep breath, Henry continues on to the end of the passage.

It is as they draw closer that Henry glimpses through the arched entrance a pair of stone pillars, what he thinks might be – bizarrely – a strangely shaped throne. The chanting is monstrous loud now, compounded by the echoes that fill the cavern like an unholy choir, and just as he and Rowena reach the arch, a figure steps into view.

Despite his earlier resolve, Henry feels his chest tighten with unease.

The figure before them wears a crimson floor-length hooded cloak, its golden embroidery glistening in the lowlight. Whoever it is has their back to him, but Henry sees clearly what the person holds in each hand, and it is this that has given him pause.

In the left hand, the limp body of a black hen held by its clawed feet. In the right, the ceremonial dagger, its tip dripping a glistening red.

Henry realises then that he recognises the words, those words repeated over and over, again and again, in a sibilant haunting chant:

Hoath, Redar, Ganabel, Berith. Hoath, Redar, Ganabel, Berith …

Enough, he thinks. Enough now.

Henry steps into the room. The chanting stops. As one, the Order turn to greet him.

He is in what looks to be a temple. Two pillars stand at the far end flanking the throne Henry glimpsed just moments before. They appear to be of natural formation, as if belonging to the mountain itself rather than a man-made creation, but the throne has carved into it symbols from Julian's grimoire. A black curtain hangs behind it and above, suspended from chains in the ceiling, hangs a large sigil of Berith made from pure gold. Torches are set high into the walls which are, strangely, patterned with lush green moss. At the sound of trickling water Henry realises why; a stream runs along the length of the room, and from the direction of the flow he deduces it must be the same one that runs along the back of the gatehouse.

All this Henry takes in within the space of a few seconds, for his attention is soon drawn to the circle set within the middle of the room and those standing around it, hand in hand.

He is looking upon the same image from the grimoire, brought to life with frightening accuracy. In what looks like blood, a circle has been drawn upon the stone floor, a circle filled with those same strange symbols. At the top a skull has been placed, just as the image in The Shadow Key depicted, but one thing is different: lying in the middle of the circle is a body, and Henry feels the first stab of true fear run through him like a sword.

It is Linette who lies in the circle, her skin as pale as death.

‘Welcome, Henry,' a voice says softly. ‘We have been waiting for you.'

Pulling his gaze away from Linette, Henry looks into the faces of the Order one by one: Lord Pennant. Lady Anne. Sir John Selwyn. Lady Selwyn. Matthew Lambeth. Elis Beddoe … And, of course, Julian Tresilian.

‘Rowena,' Henry whispers. ‘Run now. Go to Plas Helyg, fetch Powell.'

‘Oh no,' Julian says, a hoarse catch in his throat. ‘Our little hedgewitch stays here.'

Henry senses rather than sees Rowena press herself against the stone wall. Julian smiles.

‘Your sister is still alive, by the way,' he adds conversationally. He places the dead hen at the foot of the circle, the south to the skull's north, and as he moves Henry realises Julian is wearing an elaborate headdress made of ivory and feathers, and an ornate costume beneath the cloak. In the spaces where his flesh shows he sees that his skin too is marked with those strange archaic symbols. Henry swallows, glances at the others forming the outer circle, and sees that they are clothed and marked the same way.

‘What have you done to her?'

‘A little sedative,' Julian answers, tapping the tip of the bloodied blade against the cushion of his palm. ‘She'll wake soon enough. We need you both awake, when Berith comes.'

Henry shakes his head. ‘You're mad.' He looks to the rest. ‘You all are.'

Beneath her hood Lady Pennant gives a little laugh. ‘ Dear Sir Henry! You cannot be more wrong.'

‘Can't I?' he shoots back, his anger returning. ‘You believe in something that doesn't exist. All this –' Henry gestures to the pillars, the throne, the skull, all of it – ‘is just a way to play make-believe. It's all in your heads.'

The Order of Berith chuckle, an irritating laugh that echoes round the circle like the fall of a domino line, and Henry clenches his fists. Seeing it, Julian shakes his head with amusement.

‘I felt as you did, once. But then I discovered my books and the world opened up to me, blessed me in ways I never thought possible.' He steps forward, a look of urgency on his face. ‘But it was possible, Henry! The things I've seen! The treasures I've possessed, the pleasures I've tasted! All because of this.' He gestures to The Shadow Key set open on a stone lectern, Berith's sigil carved on its base. ‘I brought the secrets of Solomon home, persuaded others of their merits. So many riches we've received! As long as we honoured Berith, our wealth was secure.'

‘Your wealth?' Henry shoots back. In turn he looks from Lord Pennant to Sir John, back again to Julian. ‘It came from slaves in Jamaica, from shipbuilding and horses, from the yield of Welsh mines, not from this .' Henry gestures at the hen bleeding into the circle, staining the hem of Linette's nightgown red.

‘But you are wrong, Henry! What more proof could there have been of Berith's magic than you yourself?' Julian's words are strangled now on the edge of a cough. ‘You and Linette,' the robed man continues, glancing at her prostrate body in the circle, ‘were a miracle. Gwen and Hugh could not have children until we evoked Berith's power.'

He does cough now, a violent expulsion into his hand, and Henry marks the blood that fills the palm, blood which Julian shakes onto the stone floor. Henry shakes his head in disgust.

‘They could not conceive for other reasons that have nothing to do with your so-called demon. Sometimes such matters take time. Believe me, as a man of medicine I should know. It was a coincidence, nothing more.'

Julian turns, his cloak whispering on the stone floor, begins to pace.

‘That is just what your father said. Coincidence. But it was Berith who brought you into this world and it is Berith who will take you from it.' He stops, smiles again. ‘Your mother's attempt to save you was all for naught. Despite her best efforts, we found you at last.'

Henry hesitates. ‘How did you find me?'

‘With difficulty,' Julian replies softly. ‘I searched London high and low for you, paid handsomely for others to do the same, but it wasn't until a year later I discovered you'd been taken to the Foundling Hospital. A lot of beggars sleep near the gates – some coins loosened one of their tongues, described your father perfectly. Of course, by then, I had no way of knowing which child you were. Names are changed, origins kept secret, the infants taken to the country until they reach the age of four. I thought my name and pocketbook would work in my favour but it seems they had already been warned someone might come. I had no idea what token was left, if any. So there you stayed. The only thing I had to go on was your birthmark.'

He points at the purple stain on Henry's collarbone, peeking through from the open neck of his shirt.

‘Of course, with it being hidden you would be impossible to find unless I searched every boy in London. Impractical to do such a thing, but I did discover that all Foundlings are taught a trade, packed off as apprentices at the age of fourteen. I tried to find you that way – tracked down all manner of tradesmen: tailors, bookbinders, printers, goldsmiths, had all their lads checked for a mark. Nothing. The years slipped by. Our London friends found their homes in debtors' prisons or early graves. The mines ceased adequate yield; the money dried up. Pennant's slaves and ships, John's horses. It wasn't enough. We needed more. And then …'

Julian raises his bloodied hand.

‘The canker is deep-rooted, as I told you. The growth spread slowly but steadily until it was clear that only divine intervention could save me.' The older man nods, as if to assure himself of the fact. ‘This was Berith's punishment for not fulfilling my promise to him. I was at my wits' end until providence led me to you, when I happened to attend a lecture on lesions in the brain last summer. You demonstrated on a live patient, do you recall?'

Something shifts in Henry's mind.

‘You asked a question about the temporal lobe, its effects on memory …'

‘You do recall! I wasn't sure you did.'

‘I hadn't until just now.'

Julian looks pleased.

‘It was your resemblance to my cousin that made me take notice of you, and when you timed the patient's pulse with the pocketwatch – Hugh's watch, I'd know it anywhere – it all began to fall into place. It made sense then why I could not find you; Foundlings are not typically trained in the medical field. A university education costs money. Clearly your parents made a provision for you right from the start. Of course, I still could not be sure. My eyes could have been playing tricks on me. I wanted you to be Henry Tresilian. I could easily have deluded myself that you were, even if you were not. But then …' Julian lets out his breath with a satisfied sigh. ‘Then you removed your cravat, and I saw the birthmark. I have given thanks to Berith every day since that it was hot in that theatre, otherwise you'd never have done it. Bodies packed in like sardines on the benches, every seat taken. You were a popular man, Henry. Respected. Such a pity your downfall had to be so severe.'

Something in the way he says this. Henry stares.

‘The patient I lost. What part did you play?'

Julian nods sagely. ‘It took a lot of planning. Baverstock was a fool of a man with a penchant for cards and drink. We had met at Almack's some months before over a game of whist. He spent money like water, did not seem to care or was too old to notice that he kept losing it all to me. During the weeks after I found you, I slowly began to spike his wine with a little concoction that would make him ill, the ingredients of which would mimic the symptoms of cancer. And all the while I held his confidence. I encouraged him to seek out the renowned surgeon Henry Talbot of Guy's Hospital, who I myself saw operate on a patient close to death with such skill and finesse that there could be no doubt at all that doctor could not cure him .'

Within the circle, Linette stirs.

‘I made sure the viscount took a particularly strong draught the morning of the surgery. To calm his nerves, I said. His death was inevitable, as was your dismissal from Guy's, for that too I ensured – the governor was easy to bribe. A Hellfire man, with secrets best kept inside our close-knit circles. All I had to do after that was make sure no one would engage you. Your letters were intercepted. So many letters!' Julian tsks . ‘For four months you tried, Henry – I almost felt sorry for you. When I knew you must have exhausted all avenues, made sure you would have no choice but to accept, I sent the letter offering you the position in Penhelyg. All that remained was the destruction of the gatehouse.'

Henry stares. ‘ You did that?'

The Order chuckle in unison. Sir John Selwyn bows his head. ‘That was one of us, yes.'

His wife smiles, lips cracked dry beneath the rouge. ‘It was my idea. You couldn't possibly stay in the gatehouse – how else could you be expected to form a connection with Linette if you were not living under the same roof?'

‘It has been a pleasure to watch, I must say.' Lord Pennant, this. ‘To see you become so close, after all these years. At dinner it was clear just how much you meant to each other.'

‘And you do mean a lot to each other, don't you?' Lady Pennant's voice is as cloying as treacle. ‘The bond between twins is supposedly very strong. It will make the sacrifice to Berith all the more potent.'

The Order nod in unison, and Henry must look away. Through all of Julian's speech Henry has tried his best to keep his anger subdued, but he can feel it bubbling up again in his throat, hot and ready to burst.

‘You killed Dr Evans.'

‘Ah yes,' Julian muses, as if he has forgotten the man even existed. ‘Dear old Wynn Evans. Well, you could not come to Plas Helyg while he still lived, could you? He near burst his heart running away in fear. The nightshade soon finished him off.'

A small groan escapes Linette's lips. Once more, Julian smiles.

‘Of course, all Dr Evans saw was one of our smaller rituals. The hens have only ever been an interlude, a mockery of what should have been given all those years before. You and Linette.' He presses the dagger against his palm. ‘Berith gave us time, on the promise that we would one day bring you both to him. The blood spilt over the years has been enough to keep us ticking along, but as I said the money started to dwindle and my illness …' He shakes his head. ‘When the mine collapsed, we knew we had run out of time.'

Julian coughs again, a heaving gurgled effort. Beddoe and Lambeth step from the circle. The Pennants and Selwyns start up their chant once more:

Hoath, Redar, Ganabel, Berith .

‘We've waited a long time, Henry.'

Julian takes a step toward him, Beddoe and Lambeth moving in from both sides.

‘And it's time our debt to Berith is paid.'