three times before he found one that suited him.
Fortunately, the archbishop was an energetic, enthusiastic, zealous man who was so busy cleaning up the disreputable city of Westfirth and building his new cathedral that he had little time to fret over the peccadilloes of his eccentric guest. The archbishop was away most of the day, supervising the construction or marching into opium dens proclaiming the Word of God, leaving Father Jacob, Sir Ander, and Brother Barnaby to themselves.
The Old Fort was located at the bottom of a mountain that towered one hundred feet above the north entrance to the bay. At the top of the mountain was the Bastion, where dragons of the defunct Dragon Brigade had once resided. Once home to a local marquis and later to the Admiral of the Western Fleet, the Old Fort consisted of a castlelike structure with a great many drafty rooms that looked imposing, but which were actually cheerless, cold, and uncomfortable. The battlements extended out from the castle, running along the edge of a cliff, broken by watchtowers. Gun emplacements made of concrete had been built into the cliff face beneath the battlements. Ten forty-twopound, long-barreled cannons guarded the entrance to Westfirth Bay, and a full score of sixty-four-pound, short-barreled cannons, known as frogs guarded the long guns.
At the very hour Stephano and Rodrigo were entering the cafe where they would encounter James Harrington, Father Jacob and his friend, Sir Ander, were strolling the parapets overlooking the Breath. The view was magnificent, as Sir Ander noted.
Father Jacob paid no attention to Sir Ander or to the view. He walked the length of the parapet-from one guard tower to the other-then turned and walked back. His head was bowed, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression grim, his thoughts grimmer. Sir Ander had tried to keep up with him, but after the third time back and forth, the knight gave up. He leaned against the wall and gazed out at the naval gunboats patrolling the harbor.
The archbishop had stated gloomily that he’d heard from the grand bishop that war with Freya was imminent. The death of Ambassador de Villeneuve made war a certainty. The arrival of a large squadron of naval vessels two days ago meant that the king was about to declare war and was planning to shut down the port. Four thirty-two gun frigates were anchored near the mouth of the bay, along with one of King Alaric’s new battleships, the Royal Lion, boasting two full gun decks. The lower deck mounted twenty cannons that each fired a twenty-eight-pound iron ball. Twenty cannons on the upper deck fired eighteen-pound balls. Twenty-four twelve-pound cannons were located on the main deck, the quarterdeck and the forecastle.
It was true King Alaric had sent the Royal Lion to Westfirth, but not because he was about to declare war on Freya. The Countess de Marjolaine had urged the king to send the ships to Westfirth because she believed Sir Henry and the kidnapped journeyman were in that city. She had wanted King Alaric to shut down the port immediately, but the king was reluctant to take such a drastic step. Although the mere mention of the name of Sir Henry Wallace was enough to put him in a dark mood for days, Alaric could not justify shutting down the most lucrative port in the country. Nor was he ready to go to war with Freya.
The countess discovered a most unexpected ally in her arguments for shutting down the port: the grand bishop. Montagne was fearful that ships sailing the Breath would be attacked by the same demons that had attacked the abbey. The grand bishop had not told the king about the assault on the abbey. The grand bishop was not ready to do so and he could always use as his excuse the fact that the Arcanum had placed the attack under Seal. Hearing that the countess recommended closing the port of Westfirth, the bishop astonished the king by agreeing with her. Beset from both sides, Alaric still could not make up his mind.
Sir Ander watched the ships sailing through the light morning mists and thought about his godson, Stephano. The knight was curious to know why Stephano and his interesting and diverse collection of friends had come to Westfirth. Sir Ander wondered if Stephano was here on some mission for his mother. That led him to the thoughts of Cecile.
The musings of both men were interrupted by Brother Barnaby, who came hastening along the parapet, his robes blowing in the light breeze, his tonsured head glistening in the sunshine. Brother Barnaby waited in patient silence until Father Jacob, pacing the parapets, became aware of the monk’s presence, which he did only when he almost stepped on him.
“What?” Father Jacob demanded, scowling.
“This came for you, Father,” said Brother Barnaby, holding out a note.
Father Jacob took the note, unfolded it, scanned it. His brows rose. He read the note again, then handed it to Sir Ander.
You seek the Warlock. I can tell you where to find him. Meet me at Bitter End Lane this evening when the clock chimes six. Bring the knight if you are distrustful, but no one else.
The note was not signed.
Sir Ander grunted and handed it back. “You know what I would say to this.”
“Yes,” said Father Jacob. “And you know what I would say in return, so let’s move on from there.”
He examined the note carefully. “This was written by a woman. Note the feminine nature of the curling tails of the ‘g’s’ and the grace of the ‘m’s’ and ‘n’s.’”
“Another of the Warlock’s conquests,” Sir Ander suggested. “Perhaps a young woman who managed to escape him.”
“Perhaps,” said Father Jacob, still studying the missive. “But I don’t think it likely. There is evidence of a forceful personality in the firm pressure on the paper. Bold courage flows from the capital letters and self- confidence abounds in her sentence structure.”
“We both know of one woman who fits that description,” said Sir Ander.
Brother Barnaby looked from one man to the other and his expression grew grave.
“You mean the Sorceress, Mistress Eiddwen,” said Father Jacob.
“But if that is true, Father, you must not go,” Brother Barnaby said anxiously. “It might be a trap.”
“Bah! Not in broad daylight in a public place,” said Father Jacob. “And she says I may bring Sir Ander with me.”
“But if it is her, why this meeting? Why betray her young disciple?” Sir Ander asked, frowning.
“I can think of many reasons,” said Father Jacob. “For one, he may be on the verge of betraying her.”
“Or perhaps she feels the heat of the Arcanum’s fire and wants to try to make a deal,” said Sir Ander.
“Or perhaps she wants to kill you, Father,” said Brother Barnaby unhappily.
“We can stand here and speculate all day,” said Father Jacob. “Or we can go this evening and find out.”
He rubbed his hands and smiled broadly. “What time is it? Near dinnertime, I hope. I’m starving.”
He thrust the note into the sleeve of his black cassock and walked rapidly and energetically along the parapet, his black robes whipping in the wind.
“Don’t worry, Brother,” said Sir Ander, resting a reassuring hand on Brother Barnaby’s arm. “I’ll be with him. Let us count our blessings. This mysterious assignation has cheered him up. He’ll be much easier to live with now that he has something else to think about besides demons and giant bats.”
“He’ll be easier to live with only if he lives,” said Brother Barnaby. “Can’t you stop him, sir?”
Sir Ander extended his arm. “See those naval warships out there in the Breath, Brother. You could line them all up, open their gunports, and aim their cannons at him, and you still won’t stop Father Jacob once he’s set his mind on something.”
Brother Barnaby conceded, with a sigh, that this was true. “At least you’ll be with him, sir. I will pray for you both.”
“Ah, you know, Brother, I sometimes wonder if God himself doesn’t shake His head in despair over Father Jacob,” said Sir Ander.
Brother Barnaby was shocked by this statement, but he reflected that Sir Ander was a military man. Allowances must be made.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Love that steals your breath away, leaves you trembling at the lover’s touch, soulgripping passion: I celebrate love. Love is sometimes life-changing, occasionally mind-altering, and very often painful, but let us admit it, the tumble is always so delicious it is worth a broken heart.
