The Angel of the West Window Read online

  Another fragment of memory from the ride-a-cock-horse conversations with my grandfather surfaces: he told me that the family spirit in the dream was mute but that one day it would speak. That would mean the end of time for our bloodline; the crown would no longer hover above the head but shine forth from the double brow.

  Is the “Janus” about to speak? Has the end of time come for our line? Am I the last heir of Hywel Dda?

  No matter; the words that are lodged in my memory are clear:

  “Let me guide as you read!” And: “Reason dams up the fountainhead.” – – – So be it; I shall obey. But no, no, it cannot be an order, otherwise I would refuse; I will not submit to orders. It must be advice, yes, yes, advice – merely advice! And why should I not follow the advice? I will not order the material. I will record whatever comes to hand.

  So at random I picked up a sheet bearing the angular handwriting of my cousin, John Roger, and read:

  It is all long past. All the figures whose desires and passions mark these fateful records and in whose dust and decay I, John Roger, now venture to delve are long since dead. They too disturbed the ashes of others who were then long dead.

  What is dead? What is past? All that once was thought or moved is still thought and motion – might and power live on! Not one of us, though, has found what he sought – the true key to the treasure-house of life, the secret key, the search for which makes all life meaningful and worthwhile. Who has seen the crown with the crystal above it? What have we found, we that sought – only misfortune and the sight of death: yet we were promised death should be overcome! The key must lie deep beneath the waters. Who dares not dive down will never recover it. Was not the end of time prophesied to our bloodline? None of us has seen the last day. Was that our joy? It was also our guilt.

  Often as I tried to conjure them up, I have never seen the twin faces. My eyes have never beheld the crystal. So be it: as we make our inexorable journey to the land of the dead we will never more see the light as it rises – unless the Devil himself twist our heads round on our necks. Whoever would rise, must first descend, for only then can the bottom-most rise to the top. But to which of us of John Dee’s blood came the voice of the Baphomet?

  John Roger.

  The name “Baphomet” hit me like a hammer blow.

  By all the saints – the Baphomet! – Yes, that was the name I could not remember! That is the head with the crown and twin faces, that is my grandfather’s family dream god! That was the name he had whispered in my ear, with rhythmic emphasis, as if he wanted to hammer something into my soul whilst the child I had been was riding a cock horse on his knee:

  Baphomet? Baphomet!

  But who is Baphomet?

  He is the arcane symbol of the ancient and secret Order of the Knights Templar. He is the essence of that otherness which is closer to the Templars than the immediate physical world; he is and remains an unknown deity.

  Were the Lords of the Manor of Gladhill Templars? That could well be. One or other of them might have been, why not? What can be gleaned from encyclopaedias, rumours and traditions is the abstruse description of the Baphomet as the “lower demiurge”. What a pedantic obsession with hierarchies! And why then should Baphomet be double-headed? And why should it be I who sprouts these two heads in my dreams? There is one thing that is true in all this: I, the last heir of the English house of the Dees of Gladhill, I stand at “the end of the days of the bloodline”.

  And I have a vague feeling that I shall be ready to obey if the Baphomet should ever deign to speak.

  – – – Here I was interrupted by Lipotin who brought me news of Stroganoff. As he coolly rolled himself a cigarette he told me the Baron had coughed up blood until he was exhausted. Perhaps one should not rule out a doctor, even if only to make the end easier. “But...” with a languid shrug of the shoulders Lipotin made the gesture of counting money.

  I understood at once and opened the drawer in my desk where I keep my cash.

  Lipotin put his hand on my arm, and, clenching his cigarette between his teeth, raised his thick eyebrows in his inimitable way as if to say, “No charity, please”.

  “A moment, my dear sir”. He went to his fur coat, took out a small box and said gruffly:

  “The last possession of Michael Arangelovitch Stroganoff. If you will be so kind as to accept it, it is yours.”

  Gingerly I took the object in my hand: a plain box in heavy silver, secured with bands and trick locks patterned after the manner of old silverware from Tula in Russia, at once solid and decorative. All in all, it was a not uninteresting objet d’art.

  I gave Lipotin what seemed to me a decent sum. He crumpled up the notes without counting them and shoved them into his waistcoat pocket. “Michael Arangelovitch can die in decency” was all he said about the matter.

  Soon after that he left.

  I am still holding the heavy silver box in my hand and I still can’t find how to open the locks. I have been trying for hours – it will not open. It would take a saw or shears to cut through the heavy bands, but that would ruin the beautiful box. Better leave it as it is.

  Obedient to the command from my dream, I have just taken out the first fascicle of papers and started to make excerpts from it to record the history of my ancestor, John Dee. The excerpts follow the order in which the papers happen to fall into my hands.

  Baphomet only knows what the result will be. But I have suddenly become curious to see a life unfold before me – even if it is only the fate of someone long departed – without the interference of my ordering hand, without my mind trying to cheat destiny.

  The very first “catch” brought up by my obedient hand should have made me suspicious. It is a fragment of a document, a letter, which on the surface seems to have nothing to do with John Dee and his story. It deals with the exploits of a troop of the “Ravenheads”, who seem to have played some role in the religious conflicts of 1549 in England.

  Confidential report to his Grace, Bishop Bonner, in London; from his agent under the sign

  In the year of our Lord, 1550.

  “– – – and as Yr. Lordship can well testify, it is no mean feat, as you have commanded me, to keep under observation a gentleman such as Sir John Dee, one so justly suspected of most satanical heresy, a strumpet apostate – Yr. Lordship knows well that even the Governor daily exposes himself to that same infamous suspicion; notwithstanding I venture to send this secret report to Yr. Lordship from my make-shift headquarters by a trusty messenger so that Yr. Lordship may see how keen is my ardour to serve him and that Heaven may look graciously on my labours. I well know that failure to discover the ringleaders of the most recent outrages of the mob against our holy Church will be rewarded with Yr. Lordship’s anger, torture and excommunication. I do beseech Yr. Lordship to hold back your terrible judgement on your faithfull servant a little while yet, in consideration that I have today matter to report that does most clearly prove the guilt of two evil-doers.

  Yr. Lordship is well acquainted with the scandalous conduct of the present council under the Lord Protector who in his sloth – to call it nothing worse – has allowed the poisonous hydra of disobedience, rebellion and the desecration of the holy Sacrament, of the churches and monasteries to raise its dark head in England. Now at the end of the month of December in this year of grace, 1549, there have appeared in Wales bands of seditious rabble, as if spewed up from the bowels of the earth. They are vagabonds and men escaped from the galleys, but there are also some peasants amongst them and ranting artisans, a motley undisciplined crew who have made themselves a banner whereon is the form of a hideous black raven’s head, like unto an alchymical sign, for which they give themselves the name of the “Ravenheads”.

  Foremost among them is a cruel ruffian, a master butcher from Welshpool by trade, Bartlett Greene by name, having made himself the captain of the band. He curses and rails against God and the Saviour but chiefly he utters the most vile blasphemies against the Blessed Virgin; item, he
says the holy Queen of Heaven is nought but the creature of their highest deity or, rather, demon and arch-fiend, that he calls “Black Isaïs”.

  This same Bartlett Greene does also maintain with bold effrontery that his Princess of Darkness, that devil’s whore Isaïs, has made him wholly invulnerable and that as a token of this she has made him a gift of a silver shoe that he may march from victory to victory wherever he will. And truth to tell, this Bartlett Greene and his band do seem everywhere to enjoy the protection of Beelzebub and his Captains, for to this day no bullet nor poison, no ambush nor direct assault has done the least harm to his power.

  A second matter there is to report, though until now precise details have eluded me: namely that the guiding hand behind the raids and pillage of the Ravenheads, and even behind treaties with the blackest scoundrels in the land, is not that of the cruel and monstrous Bartlett Greene but of some secret commander who does provide them with all manner of goods, gold, letters and secret counsels; such a one must surely be an emissary of Satan.

  Such a one that does pull the strings and direct the mob where he will must be a gentleman of rank: indeed, we must seek him among the rich and powerful. And is not Sir John Dee such a one?

  Most recently, that they might bring the common people over to the devil’s side, they have carried out an attack on that holy place of miracles, the grave of Saint Dunstan at Brederock, the which they have plundered and utterly destroyed, casting the sacred relics to the four winds, that to report it makes my heart bleed. This they did because it was said among the people that Saint Dunstan’s grave was inviolable and that a thunderbolt from heaven would instantly strike any wretch who dared to desecrate it. Now that the said Greene has exposed the holy shrine to his scorn and mockery, many of the simple folk are deceived and flock to his standard.

  Further to report, it has just come to my ears that Bartlett Greene has several times been in secret conference with a Muscovite, who is travelling through the land, a curious fellow about whom the strangest rumours run.

  The name of this same Muscovite is Mascee, a nickname, though what it might mean, I cannot tell. People call him the Tutor to the Czar of Muscovy; he is gaunt and grey, well over fifty years of age and has the look, almost, of one of Tartary. He is said to have entered the country as a merchant with many kinds of strange and curious articles from Russia and China, and that he still peddles these same wares. A dubious cur, there is none that knows whence he comes.

  Until now all my attempts to lay hold of Master Mascee have met with failure, he vanishes into the air like smoke.

  There is one more thing concerning this Mascee, and one that may serve to trap him: there are children at Bangor who say they saw how, after the worst of the tumult was over, this Muscovite went to the desecrated grave of St. Dunstan, reached in between the broken stones with his hand and took out two fair, smooth globes, the one red and the other white, of the size of a ball such as they might play with and made, so it seemed, of precious ivory. The children report that this Mascee did look mightily pleased with his work, hid the globes in his pocket and hurried away. It seems to me a reasonable thing to suppose that this Muscovite coveted the globes for their rarity and that, as a dealer in suchlike trifles, he will try to sell them for a good price as soon as he may. I have therefore sent out word to report to me any such ivory globes, the more since there has been no trace of the Muscovite himself since then.

  On one matter I have some scruples which I will not conceal from your Lordship, being appointed by God my Father Confessor. Namely there has fallen into my hands a package of documents from my secular master, the Lord Protector. It seemed a sign from heaven and so I secretly concealed it about my body. In it I found a report from a learned Doctor, at present tutor to her Royal Highness, the Princess Elizabeth, and right strange was that report. Enclosed within was a strip of parchment which I am sure I can extract from the package without fear of suspicion and I therefore enclose it in originali with my report. In brief summary, the tutor’s report to the Lord Protector is as follows:

  “The Lady Elizabeth having just completed her fourteenth year, so her tutor writes, all things seem to be turning out for the best. Marvellous to relate, the Princess had abandoned her former excess and turned to occupations more fitting for a lady. Suchlike habits as boxing, climbing, pinching and otherwise maltreating her maids and companions, as well as tormenting and cutting up mice and frogs, seem to have lost most of their attraction for the Princess, who has turned her mind to prayer and the study of holy books ...” – to which the Devil and his followers must have seduced her.

  That notwithstanding, I have heard rumours that there have been complaints from Lady Ellinor, the daughter of Lord Huntingdon who is scarce sixteen, that in their play the Princess does sometimes take hold of her with such a hot hand that her private parts are bruised green and blue. On St. Gertrude’s Day past the Lady Elizabeth commanded a pleasure ride in the Forest of Uxbridge and the company streamed without escort over the hills in a wild gallop like a pack of demons, forgetting womanly modestly as if they were accursed heathenish Amazons.

  This Lady Ellinor did one day secretly report that the Lady Elizabeth had visited a witch in the said Forest of Uxbridge and had sworn by the blood of Our Lord she would ask the old hag to show her the future, as her ancestor, King Macbeth, had done.

  The witch mumbled prophecies and adages to Lady Elizabeth, but she also gave her some foul drink, such as one would imagine a fiendish love potion, which, not regarding the peril to her immortal soul, tis said she drank it. Afterwards the witch gave her the prophecy written down on a parchment; the corpus delicti enclosed will be the witch’s scrawl – of which I can understand not a word, the whole seems to me mere devilish prattle. The parchment is affixed hereto.

  All this I have undertaken most humbly in Yr. Lordship’s service and I remain etc”

  Signed: ) + ( Secret Agent.

  The precise wording of the strip of parchment which the secret agent had attached to his letter to the infamous “Bloody Bishop Bonner” in 1550 was as follows – my cousin, John Roger, added in explanation that it clearly must be a prophecy by the witch of Uxbridge to Elizabeth, Princess, later Queen, of England –:

  Parchment Strip

  To Gaia, the Black Mother, I put my question; Into the chasm I plunge: full fifty fathoms I fall. Thus saith the Mother: “Thou hast drunk of Thy salvation!”

  “Be of good cheer, Elizabeth, Queen,” I hear the Guardian call.

  “My potion has the power to loose and to bind:

  It sets woman from man apart again.

  The body alone is sick, sound is the mind:

  The whole will see, if the half be blind;

  I shield – I command – I ordain.

  The groom I lead to Thy bridal couch:

  Become one in the night! Be one to the end of days!

  No more divided by the lie of I and Thou!

  One body, one blood united in praise!

  My draught is a sacrament, making of two the One

  That looketh before and behind in the night,

  That never shall sleep, eye eternally bright,

  In which aeons are but as a day alone.

  Be comforted Elizabeth, Queen, be of good cheer:

  The Black Crystal is freed from the Mother!

  Take this as a token for England’s broken crown, saith the seer:

  Soon shall its sundered halves conjoin with one another.

  For Thee, and for the Lord of the silver spring

  Gushing from the roots of the blossoming tree,

  The furnace awaits, and wedlock’s ring:

  ‘When ancient worth’s renewed, and gold to gold doth cling,

  Then shall the riven crown again united be.’ ”

  The following postscript from the secret agent was attached to the witch’s parchment strip. It briefly reports the capture and imprisonment of the ringleader of the Ravenheads, the “Bartlett Greene” mentioned in the letter to
Bishop Bonner. Its text runs as follows:

  Postscriptum: the Monday following the Feast of the Resurrection of Our Lord, 1550.

  “Bartlett Greene’s band of outlaws has been cut down and he himself captured; he was unwounded, which seemed a sheer miracle, the skirmish was fought with such ferocity. Now lies this rogue, brigand and arch-heretic in strong chains, tied over and over, guarded day and night that none of the demons that do look on him, not even his Mistress, Black Isaïs, may free him from them. Thrice the Apage Satanas has been said over the locks that bind him and most liberally has holy water been sprinkled on them. – –

  I do now most fervently pray to the Lord that the prophecy of Saint Dunstan may be fulfilled and that he that instigated the desecration – perchance the said John Dee? – shall be pursued with torments until he meets his deserved end. Amen!”

  Signed ) + ( Secret Agent

  Once more I take a bundle of papers at random from the legacy of my cousin, John Roger, and I can see immediately that it is a diary of our common ancestor, Sir John Dee. It is related to the letter of the secret agent, that is obvious, and comes from almost the same year. The text runs as follows:

  Fragments from the diary of Sir John Dee of Gladhill, beginning with the day of the celebration following the award of the degree of Master of Arts.

  The Feast of St. Anthony, 1549.

  ... of Arts we shall sup mightily like good Christian gentlemen. The brightest spirits of Old England will shine – at least their foreheads and noses will! But I will show them all who is the master!

  ... o cursed day! O accursed night! – – – No! – o blessed night, I trust. – The quill does scratch most miserably, my hand is still drunk, yes, drunk! – But my mind? As clear as clear! Yet again: take thee to thy bed, thou cur, and do not presume! – One thing is clearer than the light of day: I am the Lord of posterity. I see them one after the other in an endless line: Kings! Kings sitting on the throne of England.