Angelo Arcampora has never believed his task would be easy. But he has always known he is the man to do it: to summon the spirits of the dead and make them compliant to his will, ready to do his bidding, controlled and made obedient by his immense knowledge.
There is no other physician in all history, he believes, better skilled to achieve it – even if they did hound him out of Basle for daring to study such mysteries. His knowledge of the ancient texts is unmatched. He has taught himself Hebrew in order to read the Liber Razielis Archangeli in its original form. He can recite almost verbatim Weyer’s De Praestigiis Daemonum; quote at length from the De Occulta Philosophia and the Picatrix. If an invocation or a spell is written in Aramaic, Chaldean or Ethiop, he alone of any physician known to him can comprehend it. And he knows that accuracy is essential. Just as the Mass must be said faultlessly for it to reach God’s ears, so must a spell be recited without error in order to reach the ears of a spirit wandering lost in Purgatory.
No, the fault must lie somewhere inside this boy’s brain, somewhere deep, where the corruption of sin bubbles away darkly.
Dunstan and Florin watch their master like infants searching the face of a parent for meaning. It is almost dawn. Surely Dr Arcampora cannot intend to begin the ritual all over again?
All they know for certain, looking at the boy in the chair – everything human, everything lifelike stolen away from him – is that they will have to endure more nights like this before the Professor is ready to attempt his physic on Samuel Wylde.
The Sirena’s pinnace has crossed the river every day since Bruno Barrani was attacked. Each morning it has tied up at the Mutton Lane stairs, carrying at least two of her crew on their now-customary pilgrimage to enquire after their master’s progress.
At first they had attracted suspicious glances. Thames wherry-men, by their nature, consider every new barge or skiff they see as a rival for the customer’s penny. But now it is not unusual to find them drinking together in the Jackdaw, laughing uproariously at their almost complete inability to speak one another’s language. They have even agreed upon a lingua franca: the ale-pot and the dice. So today when Graziano makes the pinnace fast to an eye-bolt on the stairs, no one pays him much heed. Or his three companions. Carrying two long poles and enough canvas and rope to make a serviceable litter, they make their way through the lanes to the Jackdaw.
Nicholas is waiting for them. In the little chamber above the taproom, he makes a final inspection of Bruno’s wound. He pronounces himself cautiously satisfied.
Bianca and Rose have washed the patient and dressed him in clean slops and shirt. Ned Monkton and Graziano lift him from the mattress and hold him upright while Bianca wraps him in his mariner’s thick twill jerkin. Outside it is a pleasant spring morning, but she doesn’t want him catching a chill on the river.
Ned Monkton – larger by far than any man present – hoists Bruno over one shoulder like a bolt of cloth and bears him effortlessly downstairs. Bianca entrusts the balms and salves she has prepared to Graziano’s care. She gives him precise instructions for their application: exactly so much of the mullein seeds boiled in wine to be massaged into the scalp around the wound; just this much fluellin to be taken by mouth for its general restorative properties. The crewmen lay Bruno gently on the litter. Then the little procession sets off on the return journey.
At first Bruno peers around at his surroundings in a bemused manner. But then, to Bianca’s joy, she notes a growing comprehension in his eyes. As for Bankside in general, it takes no notice whatsoever – prostrate mariners being carried back to their ship after a night’s carousing are as common a sight here as the doxies waiting for business in the doorways of the stews.
The pinnace makes its way out through the traffic on the water, turns in the current and heads towards the bridge. For a while Nicholas and Bianca linger on the jetty. They watch the departing figure of Bruno Barrani sitting in the stern, propped against Graziano like an old woman sightseeing on the river in the pleasant company of her family.
‘Tell me once again,’ Nicholas says, casting a glance around the river stairs to make sure they’re alone. ‘I must be sure you have it right. Everything depends on the timing.’
‘Nicholas, your instructions were simple. I’m not a child – there’s nothing amiss with my memory,’ Bianca tells him with just a trace of irritation in her voice. ‘I’m to deliver the first letter to Munt next Monday. Then, on the day you return, I give him the second letter. Satisfied?’
‘That second letter: when you hand it over, make all alarm. Give Munt the impression you’ve come in haste. Hammer on the door, appear breathless – frightened even.’
‘I’ll be sure to make him think the Furies are on my tail. Perhaps I’ll swoon on his doorstep.’
Nicholas is oblivious to her waspish tone. He’s too busy testing the robustness of his plan. He knows it will take a while for Tyrrell to act on the first letter. It will have to be deciphered and its contents read. Then the instructions it contains must be sent to Cleevely. At first Tyrrell will not be unduly alarmed, so the journey is likely to take three days at the very least. Arcampora will then have to make arrangements for the journey to London. He will not ride fast – Samuel’s health will not allow it. Ten days at the outside.
For his own part, Nicholas has judged that he can make the round trip to Havington Manor in under seven if he doesn’t linger. He’ll be back in London long before Arcampora and Samuel Wylde arrive there. If his plan works, Arcampora won’t learn of the second letter until he reaches Tyrrell’s house in Holborn. It will come as a thunderbolt. And that – if Nicholas has it right – will force Arcampora to act precipitously.
‘I wish you’d take Ned with you,’ Bianca says, steeling herself for his protests. ‘I’d be happier if you weren’t going alone.’ But when he replies, there’s a gentleness in his voice that she isn’t expecting.
‘You’ve only just made your peace with Buffle. Given the effect she had on Rose, if Ned comes with me, he’s likely to round up every stray dog in the county. Besides, I can travel faster alone. Ned on a horse is not the fleetest thing on the road.’
The laughter lights her face like a glass catching the morning sun. ‘Will you tarry a while before you leave?’ she asks as they head away from the river. Without thinking, she slips her arm through his. ‘The weather’s fine. It’s not cold. We could walk in the Paris Garden.’
He would like nothing more. Poynes Alley is a bleak and solitary place in which to languish. And when he’s in her company he finds he smiles more than he has of late. But it is not possible.