Fawkes

by Nadine Brandes

  This was my interrogation.

  “Thomas, your father says you are plagued, maskless, and uncertain about being a Keeper?”

  He wasn’t one to mince words. Neither, apparently, was Father. He had no right to reveal my secrets like that—particularly the one about the plague. “That’s an outsider’s perspective. I do have the plague, but it’s remained in my left eye for just over a year. I continued at St. Peter’s all that time. No one got infected.”

  “And how did you contract the plague?”

  I leaned back, trying to convey a posture of ease, though the chains about my chest pinched and my breath quickened. “Does anyone know the answer to that?”

  Catesby leveled me with a stare. “Perhaps not. But you know.”

  Sure I did. I’d analyzed that day repeatedly, but I wasn’t about to tell this stranger.

  We sat at a stalemate, though not quite king-against-king on a chessboard. More like king-against-pawn . . . and I was about to be taken.

  “When you join this plot, you hold the life of every plotter in your hands. Are you willing to sacrifice your own?”

  It was a valid question. While I’d shaken Father’s hand and said, “I’m in,” and daydreamed about danger and duels and treason and fighting for a cause, was I truly willing to commit?

  I met Catesby’s stare. “I don’t think it wise to reveal all my secrets. I don’t yet know—nor trust—all the men in this plot.”

  “What you share with me will not be shared with them. I don’t ask you to trust the other plotters—I ask only that all the plotters trust me. That is a leader’s role.”

  I still wasn’t fully convinced. But as I hesitated, Catesby added, “I’ve had this conversation with everyone—even your father. And I will have it with every person we add after this. I understand if you need time to consider.”

  If I took time to consider, it would show a fickleness—a nervousness—that no amount of courage or commitment would erase from the plotters’ memories. So I steeled myself and sat taller. “I stole a mask. I had been visiting my mother’s grave in the York cemetery. Some headstones bore the masks of the deceased. I’m not proud of what I did. And I certainly wasn’t thinking logically.”

  I didn’t say what prompted me to steal it. I didn’t mention the plagued woman weeping over her husband’s grave, waiting to die from her own plague and join him under the earth. “I shouldn’t have even been in the cemetery. The signs warning of plague corpses acted as a fence around the cemetery. But it was Mother’s birthday. And I imagined she felt alone with nothing but the pigeons pecking at the seeds on her grave.”

  I had paid dearly for my visit. And for my theft.

  “So you stole the mask and tried to use it?”

  I tried to save that woman. I was so sure the mask would let me cure her. My passion had been so strong. “It didn’t work, of course. I’d bonded with no color and it wasn’t carved by my father, so the power hadn’t fused with it. It was too small—too tight for my face. My skin itched for hours afterward. And in the morning when I woke, I was half-blind by the plague.” And then I stomped the mask to dust in my fear and anger.

  “The school didn’t expel you?”

  “They didn’t know. The apothecary, Benedict Norwood, covered for me.” An ache throbbed in my chest—Norwood was the one person who knew all my secrets. Who knew my full story. Soon Catesby would be added to that list, but my relationship with him didn’t carry the same connection of friendship.

  Sharing my story with Catesby ran more along the lines of giving him a handful of blackmail material. “He told the headmaster I’d had a dueling accident. He kept me in his cottage until he was sure the plague wouldn’t spread. Fiddled with concoctions and mixtures to keep me healthy. Risked his own life, he did. And then he sewed me an eye patch to cover the plague.” I gestured to the patch.

  “But why would Norwood do that?”

  Why indeed? “He’s a good man. That is the only reason I can think of. I’ve asked myself the same question.” My personal opinion was that Norwood viewed me as much a son as I viewed him a father.

  That was enough for Catesby. He moved on. I spoke of my studies. He asked about romance.

  “Nothing to report there,” I said.

  “Good. The fewer ties you have, the better.”

  I told of traveling to London, lying to Sheriff Nix, and hunting down Father.

  “How do you feel about being denied your mask?”

  My voice emerged darker than the corner shadows. “Betrayed.”

  “But he’s explained it will come.”

  “He hasn’t explained why.” I lifted my gaze. “Do you know?”

  Catesby’s nod sent the betrayal deeper. Father would tell Catesby about his choice to deny me my mask, but not tell me? “I understand your frustration, Thomas. But it must be Guido’s choice.”

  I frowned. “Guido?”

  His mouth quirked. “You have a lot to learn about your father.”

  I knew that, but I also knew—at least—my own father’s name. Guy Fawkes.

  “Last question and then we can return to the main room.”

  I felt like we’d been talking for hours. While it was no easy task to share my secrets, the experience acted as a purge. It cleared my core of the bottled secrets, leaving room for new ones. “I’m ready.”

  And I was. I was prepared to tell Catesby whatever else he needed. He knew plenty to condemn me. What more was there?

  “Has White Light ever spoken to you?”

  Chills ran from skull to soles. I couldn’t answer this question. To say yes would be to betray Keepers. To say no would be a lie, and if he found out I’d lied . . . “What do you mean?”

  “You come from an Igniter school. And while I know you didn’t enter the final year of color training, I’m sure White Light was welcomed and encouraged.”

  But I’d avoided it. I’d avoided the lessons, I’d spent most of my time with Norwood, and it wasn’t really discussed with the maskless students other than, “White Light is what allows you to control multiple colors.”

  The first time it spoke to me was on the day of my Color Test—and I hadn’t known it was White Light.

  Tell him.

  Oh blast. Not now. Not here.

  Tell him I’m here. I’m powerful. You could tell him I’m in your head, but he might think you’re crazy.

  Hush! I was going crazy. Could Catesby hear?

  Teeeeell hiiiiim.

  Was this a game to White Light? It wanted me to tell Catesby. It wanted me to be expelled from the plot.

  Now you’re just being paranoid.

  “Thomas?”

  “Yes,” I gasped. “Yes, it has spoken to me. It’s still speaking to me.” The words kept coming, and I could sense White Light chuckling in the back of my mind. “How do I make it stop?”

  He leaned back. “You ignore it.”

  My panic subsided. “You’re not . . . concerned?”

  “White Light speaks to everyone at some point in their youth. If you’d have said no, I’d have known you were lying. This is why Keepers are so important. We used to help protect people from its voice—train them not to respond. Because once you respond, you can’t stop. It gets ahold of you—of your mind. Of your very blood.”

  Doesn’t that make me sound awesome?

  The torchlight reflected off his grim face. “Will you resist its voice?”

  My hands shook and I clasped them in front of me.

  Don’t do it, Thomas.

  If I said no, Catesby would expel me from the plot and I’d receive no mask.

  Not to toot my own horn, but remember how I freed you from that prison cart?

  It had saved me. It had offered freedom to everyone—even Keepers. Didn’t that mean it was good?

  I also led you to Emma. Don’t forget that one.

  But what did that do? Emma hadn’t even needed me.

  Catesby waited. Watched. I needed to be strong.

 
Thomas. No. White Light’s playful tone was gone.

  And now I could see why it was so dangerous.

  Because I almost heeded it.

  I stood. “Yes. With every breath and muscle and thought . . . I will resist it.”

  Nine

  “He’s in.” Catesby’s announcement resulted in a hearty cheer from my father and Wintour.

  I swelled. Strong. Proud. One of them.

  “Thomas’s plague is known only by us. We will not share this information. I do not believe he’s contagious. Now . . . let’s plan.” Catesby led the way to the main table. It took all my effort not to glance at Father—to assess his reaction or scan for approval.

  I was my own man. Catesby made that clear. He didn’t call me boy. And he spoke as though respecting my story. “Thomas, we need a maskless who can gather information that we cannot. Without a mask on your belt, Igniters won’t hunt you.”

  Father stepped into my line of sight. “Igniters get paid for turning in men with masks. And when we’ve succeeded in this plot, you will receive color power and get your mask. No one will know you and you’ll be free to come and go as you please. How does that sound?”

  How did he think it sounded? “Swell, Guido.” My voice came out flat.

  Catesby chuckled.

  “Guido is my Spanish name,” Father explained. “From fighting in the Spanish army for many years.”

  Catesby clapped a hand on my shoulder and faced Father. “The success of this plot will rid England of the plague. It will free the Keepers and put White Light back where it belongs—out of reach of those greedy Igniters and back under the guardianship of the Keepers.”

  Catesby seemed to speak from passion, not just ambition. His earnestness compelled me to follow him even more.

  “Most of all, it will rid us of that wretch, King James.” A tall man slipped from the shadows as smoothly as his voice slithered into our conversation. A mask of Red hung on his belt and stark white hair capped his brow—though it didn’t seem to match his age. He looked to be in his forties. Harsh angles defining his face marked him as a dangerous man.

  The man who’d encouraged Father to kill me and dump me in the Thames that first night in London.

  “Ah, Percy.” Catesby grinned at the fiery man. “At last you’re here.”

  “By your approval, I would happily kill King James with my own hands,” Percy said.

  Catesby shook his hand. “We shall do something even better. We shall kill him with our intellect.” Catesby faced me and I stood a bit taller. “This is Thomas Percy—the funds behind most of our actions and the fire in our bosoms.”

  I nodded to Percy, not particularly inclined to shake his hand.

  “And Tom Wintour”—Catesby stretched a hand toward the short man, Wintour, who had held me at sword point upon first meeting—“is my cousin, a skilled Brown, a linguist, and an intelligent lawyer.”

  Linguist? Lawyer? Was everyone in the plot named Thomas?

  “We’ve met.” I shook Wintour’s hand anyway and a warm smile stretched his round face. I surpassed him in height, but his stature didn’t minimize the aura of intelligence that surrounded him.

  “Jack and Kit Wright—our other conspirators—are at their home in Lapworth, so you’ll meet them upon their return in a fortnight.”

  I gave a firm nod. Catesby, Percy, Wintour, Jack, and Kit. Add Father and me to the mix and we had seven whole conspirators.

  That wasn’t enough to dethrone a popular Igniter king.

  Catesby turned to a pile of parchment on one of the tables. “I’ve thought over all the suggestions from our meeting at the Duck and Drake.” He lifted his eyes to my father. “Guido, you say Spain will not invade.”

  Again with the odd name. Was that Catesby’s way of showing Father honor?

  Father shook his head. “They do not trust that there are enough Keepers here to join in the fight.”

  “A single assassination attempt is not enough,” Catesby said. Percy opened his mouth, but Catesby cut him off. “We need something bigger. Something more permanent.”

  Wintour cocked his head with a thoughtful frown. “We have limited manpower. What are you envisioning?”

  Catesby struck a finger against the table, tip down on a map location. “Parliament. We must strike at Parliament.”

  All eyes snapped to the map.

  “Are you mad, Catesby?” Wintour breathed. “You want to strike him when he’s surrounded by hundreds of his Igniter followers? When the royal bodyguards are at their most alert?”

  “It is those very followers and supporters who have been passing legislation to hunt Keepers. To hunt us down and murder us. Wintour, you are always urging us to ‘seek the source.’”

  “I meant that when seeking information and knowledge—you cannot base judgments or decisions off the opinions of others. This”—he gestured to the papers on the table—“is different.”

  “Only because it is bigger and our actions will send a greater message. Parliament is the source. This is the Igniter hive.” Catesby straightened and clasped his hands behind his back. His expression held confidence and authority.

  It made me want to listen. It made me feel heard, though I’d yet to speak.

  “We cannot rush into this plot.” Catesby took a calming breath. “King James is alert and paranoid. Since his birth, the Scots have made attempts on his life. He thinks England is a tamer stallion than his home country, so while he feels safe we must plot to such thoroughness that we cannot fail.”

  “But Parliament?” Wintour asked with calm curiosity. I could see the lawyer side of him. “Does that not put us at the most risk? What about during one of his hunting expeditions?”

  Catesby’s voice lowered to a level of such intensity it struck my core. “If we eliminate Parliament, we eliminate its anti-Keeper laws. Don’t you understand, men? This is our last attempt. If this fails, we are finished. There is no more we can do.”

  The most I knew about Parliament was that it took place between the king and all members of Parliament across England. They talked about the country, the uprisings, and then the king made decisions.

  I really needed to brush up on my politics. “When is the next Parliament meeting?”

  “I’ve yet to unearth the date,” Catesby admitted. “We need someone who can better access such information. That is when we’ll strike.”

  Percy sat at the table. “The longer we wait, the higher the chance of us encountering mishaps. Or being caught.” He eyed me. Did he think I’d betray them?

  “Ah, but the more time we have, the better we can perfect our plans.” Wintour stepped up to the table. Though he remained standing and Percy remained sitting, their heads were at the same level.

  “How will we strike?” We had too few men to launch a physical assault with swords. Perhaps they’d send in a single assassin. Father maybe?

  “With gunpowder.” Catesby unrolled a furled piece of parchment. I glimpsed a string of numbers and scrawled notes.

  Gunpowder. An explosion. Not an assassin.

  Percy studied the new parchment and then his thin lips spread to a grin.

  Catesby’s shoulders tensed and when he spoke, the mixture of mettle and sorrow in his voice struck my heart. “We must cripple our beloved England in order to heal it.”

  This was real, this plot. And I was part of it. My pulse burst into a canter as I envisioned a ball of flame consuming the king from his seat in Parliament. That would send a message to the Igniters. With this plan, we could also take down other Igniter leaders.

  Even as a plagued man without color power, I was part of something that could very well change the world.

  I was in the thick of the fight.

  What would Emma think if she saw me here instead of half cowering in a darkened alley as she saw yesterday?

  “How can we possibly acquire enough gunpowder for such a task?” Wintour asked. “We’ve neither the funds nor the supplier and to purchase it would arouse great su
spicion. Where would we store it? How would we get it into Parliament?”

  My confidence in Catesby’s plan wavered. Wintour asked good questions and I realized how intricate this mission would be. One slip, one mistake, and the king would have our heads on spikes over London Bridge.

  “That is what we must figure out—our next step, gentlemen. And we need to confirm the dates for the Parliament meetings.” Catesby removed his hands from the scroll and it bounced back into two rounds. “Put your ear to the ground, collect what contacts you have. If you aren’t sure how we’ll accomplish something, find a solution.”

  Wintour nodded and pushed himself off the table as though scooping his questions and doubts back into his pocket.

  And then we went our separate ways—no plans about our next meeting time, but a mutual understanding that we’d taken a permanent step of treason.

  We could hang for our words.

  But only through taking such a risk could we free England and cure the plague.

  Ten

  “Grab us some dinner from Pudding Lane.” Father handed me a few pence. “I’ll meet you back at the Bear.”

  I headed toward the London Bridge market, not fully certain where Pudding Lane was. The sun hung above, warming both my skin and the putrid streets. One woman, masked, stood at her third-story window, wringing the washing water from a sheet with color power. I crossed to the other side of the street to avoid the stream. As she shook out the sheet, a child climbed the sill and yanked off her mask. The sheet slipped from her fingers and fluttered into the mud at my feet.

  “Blast!” She ducked back inside. I lifted the sheet from the ground and tried to shake off the muck. The door opened and her tirade jerked to a halt as her gaze met my face.

  I held out the sheet, but she backed away, hands upraised.

  Oh. My eye patch. While she couldn’t see the plague, plenty of people were suspicious. “Forgive me . . .” I let the sheet fall back into the mud, half tempted to drop it in the waste gutter.