Down: Trilogy Box Set

by Glenn Cooper

  “Is that all?” Cromwell said.

  “I might have other requests but that’s my list for now.”

  “There is nothing in your demands I cannot provide,” Cromwell said.

  “Then do we have a deal?” Trotter asked.

  Suffolk interrupted. “Since this is the time to lay cards upon the table, there is something that I require.”

  “And what might that be?” Cromwell asked with a withering glance.

  “I want the pretty fair-haired woman for my own.”

  “You mean Brenda?” Trotter asked.

  Suffolk shrugged.

  “Well, you’ve got a good eye, I’ll say that,” Trotter said, “but I’d be concerned that the other scientists would revolt.”

  Cromwell commented that the duke’s carnal interests were not of paramount importance but Suffolk insisted he would have to be accommodated.

  Trotter thought for a while and said, “I’ve got an idea how we might get her into your bed without losing the others. If I can make it happen do we have a deal?”

  Suffolk nodded and Cromwell said, “I believe we do.”

  When Trotter returned to the hall with the books under his arm he was swarmed by the others.

  “What did he want?” Bates asked.

  “Have a look at these,” Trotter said, laying the books on the serving table. “John Camp carried these with him as a bargaining chip a month ago. They’re impressed with the contents but don’t really know how to exploit them. I realize this is far afield to your expertise but with all the IQ points on tap, perhaps you can figure out how to at least give them the impression you can build these furnaces.”

  “Tell me why we should help them?” Southwick demanded.

  “It’s simple,” Trotter said. “They threatened to torture us into submission if we didn’t voluntarily cooperate.”

  Matthew picked up the book on steel production and passed the other two to waiting hands. After most of the scientists had a gander Matthew gave the verdict. “Look, I doubt we can do much with these. I think we can understand the concepts well enough and the books do include illustrations and plans but none of us are industrial engineers.”

  Campbell Bates slowly raised his hand. When no one noticed him he cleared his throat and added a polite, “Excuse me.”

  “What is it?” Trotter asked.

  “Actually, I have a degree in engineering.”

  “Do you?” Lawrence asked.

  “From MIT. I decided to go to law school instead of getting an engineering job and I wound up at the FBI after that. To call me a rusty engineer would be too kind, but maybe I could have a look.”

  “Hurry up,” Trotter said, excitedly. “Let the man see the books.”

  Cromwell was alone in his quarters preparing for bed. He had been a rather austere man in life and he was even more so now. His rooms were unadorned, his food plain, his wine watered. He had opted to reside in the king’s rooms for appearance sake, but had instructed the servants to remove Henry’s personal and decorative items. He slept alone, having lost interest in sex a very long time ago. He existed to work. If he could have ended his eternity in Hell by suicide he would have gladly done so but this was not an option for him or any of his brethren. So he worked. Henry had always been a demanding master and Cromwell was glad of that because there were always tasks to keep him occupied. But Henry was gone and he had hard choices to make. He had no desire to be king but if he did not secure the position, if Suffolk did, surely he would be a threat and would find himself in a rotting room, festering forever. No, he would have to act soon to seize the crown, and if Henry did return, he would have to convince him he was merely keeping the throne away from disloyal scoundrels.

  He responded to a soft rap upon his door. His manservant informed him that the Earl of Surrey had arrived at Whitehall and needed to see him urgently. Cromwell stoked his weak fire with a small log and sat beside the hearth waiting.

  Surrey was not a regular at court, preferring a countryside life of hunting and whoring, and Cromwell did not know him nearly as well as most of Henry’s noblemen. Yet he could immediately sense the man’s agitation; he was sweating profusely, his leggings mud-splattered from a hard gallop.

  “Where is the king?” the earl said. “I must see the king.”

  “Unfortunately, he is gone.”

  “What do you mean gone?”

  “It is a long and difficult tale. I will try my best to explain but first you must tell me why you have come to London.”

  “Has he disappeared to another realm beyond our senses?”

  “How do you know of such things?” Cromwell said in astonishment.

  “Because I have seen things. I scarcely believed my eyes at first but I know what I saw.”

  “Come now, man, speak your mind.”

  “I was summoned to the town of Leatherhead by some of my soldiers. I thought they had been drinking too much ale but I humored them with my presence. Near the town I did myself observe many men, drawn there by the same word of mouth and in the town centre I watched as these men did purposely step forward and disappear into thin air. When I asked a hag what was happening she said that hours earlier a band of rovers materialized from nothingness and announced to a startled populace that they had been back in the land of the living. Soon these rovers did surge forward and disappear once again and many others have since followed them into nothingness. I felt the king must be informed. Tell me Master Cromwell, what manner of miracles and magic are upon us?”

  Cromwell peered into the glowing fire. “You have no idea, my good earl, you have no idea.”

  8

  The Belmeade boys stumbled blindly through the black forest. Even the most outwardly macho of the bunch were reduced to raw and clawing despair. But by the time the forest gave way to a meadow and the meadow gave way to a flat plain with a rutted road, Angus had fought his emotions to reclaim the appearance of self-confidence.

  “We’ll follow this road,” he declared.

  “Why?” Andrew Pender asked, pleadingly.

  “Because roads lead to places,” Angus said.

  “That’s stupid,” Nigel Mountjoy said.

  “Excuse me, dimwit, you’re stupid,” Glynn said, standing up for his best mate.

  “But which way should we go?” Craig Rotenberg asked.

  Angus pointed ahead.

  “Why that way?” Craig said.

  “Why not?” Glynn replied.

  “We don’t even know which direction it is,” Craig said.

  Harry Shipley hadn’t said a word since they entered the forest. During their trek he’d cried so much he had no more tears. “It’s north,” he said.

  “How do you know that?” Angus asked.

  “I’ve been keeping track,” the slight boy answered. “Assuming we didn’t get spun around inside the wormhole we were pointing east inside our dorm, and like I said, I’ve been keeping track since we got here.”

  “North it is,” Angus said.

  “Why not south?” Craig asked.

  Glynn punched Craig in the meat of his shoulder. “You know, I never realized how bloody annoying you were.”

  Angus said, “If Harry’s right, then London is north.”

  “We don’t even know if there is a London,” Andrew said.

  “The man who was stabbed in the belly said the place we were in was Sevenoaks,” Nigel said. “If there’s a Sevenoaks, it stands to reason there’s a London.”

  “I still think we should’ve stayed by the spot where we landed,” Stuart Cobham said. “If they’re going to rescue us, isn’t that where they’ll come? And at least there were fish in the pond. Now what are we going to eat?”

  Kevin Pickles said, “Excuse me, unless one of you has a box of matches we couldn’t make a fire. And I hate sushi.”

  “You heard what he said about rovers,” Angus said. “I wasn’t going to have us hang around there waiting for a gang of murderers and cannibals to return.”

 
“Your father’s bound to rescue us, isn’t he, Angus?” Boris asked. They all knew Angus’s father was the defense secretary.

  “If he doesn’t, my dad will,” Danny Leung said.

  “Yeah, Red Danny’s dad’ll lead the whole Red Army to find us in Hell and bring us great steaming platters of General Tso’s chicken,” Kevin said.

  “Fuck off. You’re a racist,” Danny complained.

  “Yeah, shut it, gherkin,” Glynn said. “Just because that guy back in the woods said we were in Hell, doesn’t mean we are. It’s all bullcrap till proved otherwise.”

  Most of them had acquired walking staffs and as they traveled, Danny Leung demonstrated a few moves of Yin Shao Gun, Chinese stick fighting.

  “I can’t do the twirly stuff,” Boris Magnusson complained.

  “You don’t have to do that rubbish,” Danny said. “It’s mostly for show. It’s the whacking and poking moves that are important.”

  Soon they were just boys again, laughing and shouting and smacking one another, forgetting their predicament for a while.

  Kevin had been blowing his nose into the handkerchief that he’d found in his pocket, where he’d stuffed it before maths class. He looked up and said, “Guys.”

  No one paid any attention.

  “Guys,” he said louder, dropping the handkerchief, “someone’s coming.”

  From the north a wagon had come into view, and not just one, a train of them with outriders.

  Two others saw the wagons coming too. An old man and an old woman had been spying on the boys from behind a hedgerow beside the road. They had been hunting for rabbits when they heard the strange sound of children’s voices and when they spotted the lads they had been too amazed to say a single word to one another. Now they crouched down even lower at the approaching danger.

  Angus was about to yell for them to run but he saw it was pointless. Riders were approaching at a gallop.

  Rough, filthy men perched on thin leather saddles quickly encircled them. Harry burst into tears and Andrew, unnerved by the sound of his crying, lost it too.

  “Angus, what should we do?” Boris asked, choking back his own fear.

  “Don’t do anything,” Angus said. “Let me talk to them.” Angus looked up into the rider’s staring eyes and said, “You’d better leave us alone.”

  The man who seemed to be in charge circled them twice on his black horse, a pistol in his hand.

  “What are you?” the man asked.

  “What are we?” Angus said. “Don’t you mean, who are we?”

  A diminutive man on a small horse, not much larger than a pony, pointed at the boys with a sword and said, “Look, Ardmore, they got sticks. What ya gonna do with them sticks?”

  Another man laughed. “They’re about your size, Fergie. I reckon they’re midget men.”

  Ardmore stopped circling and dismounted. He had a wide-brimmed hat, a greasy ponytail tied with a long piece of leather, and more gaps in his mouth than teeth. “They’re not men at all. Fuck me but these are boys.”

  “That’s not possible,” Fergie said.

  “Are you taking an opposing view to mine?” Ardmore asked, pointing his pistol at the young man’s head.

  Fergie quickly backtracked. He apologized and promised to keep his trap shut.

  “Well are you?” Ardmore said, addressing Angus.

  “Of course we’re boys,” Angus said, his voice cracking.

  Ardmore inched closer to Angus and sucked in air through his nostrils. “It’s even stranger than that,” he said. “There’s something all together peculiar about the whole lot of you.”

  The lead wagon rolled up. The driver, a grizzled old man, pulled back on the reins of a pair of draft horses. Someone dressed head-to-toe in black, from a hat like Ardmore’s to long black boots, pulled open the canvas flaps and climbed out the rear. It was only when she spoke that the boys knew this was a woman.

  “What’s going on here, Ardmore?” she asked.

  “We have ourselves a bit of a situation,” he replied.

  She was heavily armed with a pistol and a knife tucked in her wide belt. A sword in a scabbard slapped against her leg as she walked toward the boys.

  She audibly gasped and let out a “Bloody hell.”

  “Yeah,” Ardmore said, “bloody hell’s right.”

  Even though she was only a few feet away, Angus couldn’t tell if she was young or old. Her skin was dirty and leathery, her eyes a dull, muddy color. She wore her dark hair in a ponytail tied with leather, just like Ardmore’s.

  “Who speaks for you?” she asked the boys.

  Angus meekly raised his hand.

  “How old are you?” she demanded.

  “Fourteen,” he said very softly.

  “Speak up. What did you say?”

  “Fourteen.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “I’m not lying. We’re all the same age except for Harry who’s thirteen.”

  “How did you die?” she asked.

  “What?” Angus asked.

  A small voice said, “She thinks we’re dead.”

  Angus looked around. It was Harry, his lower lip trembling.

  “We’re not dead,” Angus said. “At least I don’t think so.”

  “Come closer,” she said.

  Angus took half a step forward, his head bowed in submissive fear. The woman roughly grabbed him by the wrist and lifted his hand to her nose.

  “They don’t smell right, Bess,” Ardmore said.

  Bess tenderly let Angus’s wrist go. Ardmore and the others had never before seen her eyes go moist. “You’re wrong,” she said. “It’s us that don’t smell right. They smell perfect.”

  Some of the horsemen began to shout and point toward the north.

  “Soldiers!” Ardmore said. “Coming up on us like the clappers.”

  “Get them in the wagons,” Bess shouted to Ardmore.

  “No! Leave us alone!” Angus cried. “Run!”

  Danny and Glynn took off first and Angus was hot on their heels. Ardmore swore and kicked his horse’s flanks and leaned in his saddle to pluck little Kevin Pickles off the ground. Kevin squealed like a rodent as Ardmore deposited him on the pommel of his saddle.

  “Stop your running or I’ll put a lead ball through this runt’s brain,” Ardmore bellowed.

  Angus turned around and ordered his classmates to stop. Danny protested but Angus shouted that they didn’t have a choice.

  “Hurry up!” Bess yelled. “Half in that wagon, half in the next. We’re not going to outrun ’em. Get ready to fight.”

  Ardmore delivered Kevin directly into the back of one of the wagons. Harry, Craig, Stuart, and Andrew hastily joined him. Even in crisis, the boys segregated themselves by an unwritten pecking order. The more popular boys, Angus, Glynn, Danny, Boris, and Nigel jumped into the other wagon where they found a few bales of raw wool.

  “Are we with the good guys or bad guys?” Nigel asked.

  Glynn protectively pulled his knees to his chest and said, “If we’re really in Hell then they’re all bad.”

  In the other wagon Craig closed his eyes as tightly as he could and whimpered, “This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening. When I open my eyes we’ll be back at school.”

  Harry wrapped his arms around his middle and dipped his chin to his chest. “It is happening,” he said. “I think we somehow went through an inter-dimensional wormhole.”

  “Can we get back?” Craig asked.

  “Theoretically.”

  Kevin was shaking so hard he could hardly get the words out. “This is so bad. I’m in the back of a smelly wagon in Hell with Stephen Hawking.”

  One of the outriders dismounted and gave his horse to Bess. She rode to the rear of the wagon train with Ardmore, barking orders to the men.

  The soldiers were coming closer, their horses kicking up a dusty cloud.

  “I see about two dozen,” Ardmore said.

  “They’re probably the lot we sa
w at the inn last night,” Bess said. “They was giving us the eye.”

  Ardmore spat upon the ground. “We’re having quite the day, ain’t we?”

  “That we are.”

  The soldiers were indeed the squad of King Henry’s men who had happened upon Bess and her gang at a crowded London inn near the docklands. Soldiers habitually feathered their own nests by plundering traders. Yet to do so in the city risked the ire of the crown. Cromwell insisted that some wheels of commerce needed to turn to maintain order among the populace. So their thieving was usually done outside city limits, away from the prying eyes of Cromwell’s agents.

  The soldiers had muskets. Their first volley arrived before Bess was in range to return fire. Her men ducked for cover but she and Ardmore sat tall in their saddles, seemingly unafraid. Inside the wagons, the boys cried and cowered.

  “Anyone hit?” Bess shouted.

  “We’re good,” Ardmore said, raising his pistol. “Wait …wait …wait …”

  When the soldiers were close enough that the ground shook with hoof beats, Bess screamed, “Fire!”

  Two soldiers fell from their horses but the rest charged on, yelling and brandishing their swords. Bess and Ardmore stuffed their pistols in their belts and drew their swords in time for the first clash.

  None of the soldiers would have known that the fierce fighter dressed in black was a woman. Bess launched herself at the nearest attacker and delivered a blow to his shoulder that almost took his arm off. Her next victim was the captain of the party whose horse galloped off a ways before its headless rider slipped from the saddle.

  Ardmore slashed and stabbed his way through a tangle of horses and soldiers and wheeled around at the sound of Bess crying out. Two of the king’s men had pulled her off her horse and were trying to finish her off. She was lying on the ground on her back, flailing at them with her knife.

  One of the soldier’s was shouting, “She’s a …” when he looked down at Ardmore’s sword coming through his belly.

  The other soldier was distracted for a moment by the bloody sight, enough time for Bess to stab him through the eye.