Finally they arrived at London Bridge. Church was excited to see it before the massive alterations of the eighteenth century, with houses and shops built up cramped and towering on the span of the bridge. At any moment, the bulky structure looked as if it might crash into the slow, murky waters of the Thames beneath.
The drawbridge on the southern side had been partly raised when the gatehouse closed at nightfall. The sickening fruity smell of decomposition filled the air from the heads of two now-unrecognisable traitors spiked on the gateposts.
‘Would it not have been wiser to come during the day when we could have walked onto the bridge with ease?’ Tom said.
‘As a hero of the realm, my face is well known in polite circles, and even amongst some of the uneducated mass,’ Will said. ‘It would not do for me to walk into the home of Dee’s contact as bold as you please.’
‘How are you planning to get onto the bridge?’ Church pulled his cloak tighter as the gusting icy wind brought a heavier fall of snow.
‘A good spy knows the best work demands rigorous preparation.’ Will scanned the lit windows of the upper storeys overlooking the drawbridge and selected one. ‘Now keep watch. Make sure no idle eyes observe.’ As Church and Tom scanned the road running away from the bridge, Will gave a rapid three-note whistle blast. A moment later a rope weighted with lead flew from one of the windows and over the lip of the drawbridge to crash onto the road.
‘Now,’ Will said, ‘we climb.’
‘I’m not climbing that!’ Tom eyed the slick rope as it soared over the freezing waters.
‘Then stay here, friend. Though it is said no man caught on this road after midnight lives to see the dawn.’
Weighing his chances, Tom glanced back to the dark network of streets on the city’s southern side. When he looked back towards the bridge, Will was already speedily climbing the rope into the gusting snow.
‘Do you want to hang on to me?’ Church asked.
‘Don’t be ridiculous! I am not some feeble woman.’
Church found the climb hard going. His fingers were soon frozen numb, and intermittent gusts of wind blasted hard enough to threaten to rip him off. The grey waters churned around the bridge’s pillars far below; he would not survive a fall into their icy depths. The physical exertions of his life over the past few months had hardened his muscles, but he was glad when he crawled through the tiny window and flopped onto dirty wooden boards. He quickly jumped to his feet to help Tom who followed a few moments later, his face rigid with fear. Church was proud of him, but knew Tom would be insulted if anything was said.
Will was waiting with another man who held a lamp aloft. The stranger had sensitive features and a wry turn to his mouth. His curly hair was cut in the current fashion and his beard and moustache were well trimmed and waxed. His clothes were also fashionable and expensive.
‘Another spy?’ Tom spat.
‘An ally,’ Will replied obliquely. ‘Marlowe, meet Master Churchill and True Thomas, who hails from the brutish wilderness in the north.’
Marlowe gave an ironic bow. ‘The pleasure is mine,’ he said.
Church realised who he was: Christopher Marlowe, the playwright, one year off writing Doctor Faustus and six years away from being stabbed to death during an argument in an inn. If Church recalled correctly, Marlowe couldn’t have been in London long, having been recruited into the secret service by Sir Francis Walsingham while he was at Cambridge University.
‘Enough talk,’ Tom snapped. ‘Let’s to business.’
‘A man after my own heart,’ Marlowe said. ‘Our Lord awaits us.’
Marlowe led the way down cramped, winding stairs and out onto the road leading across the bridge, where the snow lay thick and unspoiled. The houses and shops rose up high on either side, obscuring all views of the river. Marlowe took them to a nondescript door that lay between a butcher’s and a milliner’s.
‘I shall wait here to ensure no one follows,’ Marlowe said. ‘Make haste, for I would not like to be found frozen cold come the morn.’
‘And then Tamburlaine would never be finished,’ Will joked with clear affection for the young man.
Inside, the furnishings were much more opulent than the exterior suggested. A small entrance hall opened onto a sitting room with expensive chairs and desks. Tapestries and paintings hung the walls and a fire roared in the grate.
A man of around thirty with an acne-scarred face warmed himself while sipping a glass of wine. He came over and clapped Will heartily on the shoulders.
‘Robert,’ Will said. ‘It has been too long.’
‘It is good to see you, Will. I have spent far too long north of the border in the land of my grandfather.’
‘We have another of your family’s countrymen here.’ Will introduced Tom and Church. ‘This is Sir Robert Balfour. We chased the Devil round the streets of Cambridge together.’
‘It is a mystery how we ever got an education.’ Balfour grew grave. ‘If Dee told you what lies in the catacombs, then these are dark times. That was a secret supposed to outlive us by many a generation.’
‘A device to communicate with angels,’ Will said.
Balfour snorted. ‘Dee and his angels. Gods, Will. Gods. There is more than one secret here, but all point to the true history that lies behind the one we know: of this country’s secret communion with the Fair Folk over the years.’ He glanced at Church and Tom. ‘These can be trusted?’
‘On my life, Robert.’
‘Then come. Let us venture into the bowels.’
Lifting a lamp, Balfour took Church, Tom and Will into a panelled drawing room and then through a hidden door to a flight of stone steps that wound down into the dark. Church struggled to comprehend the exterior architecture as they descended, and it was only when the stone walls grew wet to the touch and drops of moisture began to fall with echoing splashes that he realised the steps must lead down into one of the pillars that supported the bridge, and then deeper still, beneath the river bed itself. Tom had clearly reached the same conclusion, for he was starting to grow uneasy.
‘Will the stones hold?’ he said. ‘The water drips through as if the first sign of a coming deluge.’
‘It sluices out into vast chambers below,’ Balfour said. ‘It has stood for three hundred and fifty years and will stand for hundreds more. In this construction, you will find the greatest secrets of the master masons, passed down from Solomon himself.’
‘Who built it?’ Church was amazed by construction skill that would have stunned modern engineers.
‘Robert’s family can trace their line back to the Order of the Poor Knights of Christ and the Temple of Solomon,’ Will said, ‘and his kin have guarded their secrets with religious fervour since those days.’
‘On the thirteenth day of October, thirteen hundred and seven, that damnable Philippe of France set about the destruction of the Order,’ Balfour said. ‘Eighteen galleys left the Order’s naval base at La Rochelle filled with Templar wealth and the accumulated mass of their wisdom, not just from the Holy Land but from across the known world. Of the two, this wisdom was the greater prize.’
The stairwell opened out into a vaulted chamber with more rooms leading off through dark doorways on every wall. Water dripped from the low ceiling to puddle and run into drains set into the flagged floor.
‘In this repository was placed one full quarter of the Templars’ wisdom, including many of the magical artefacts they recovered from ancient sites across the lands,’ Balfour continued.
‘And here we shall find the talisman that Dee has directed us to retrieve?’ Will mused.
‘A device to communicate with the gods and, for a short time, to bend them to your will.’ Balfour nodded gravely.
‘Why has this not been gifted to the queen?’ Will asked.