But it wasn’t her fault I was plagued. And it wasn’t my fault she was paranoid. Hundreds of plagued could be walking around London, hiding behind their masks or clothes, spreading the infection as efficiently as the rats, without anyone’s knowledge.
Was that why Father never removed his mask? Or Emma? Were they both plagued?
I continued toward the market. The timber jetties of the narrow house roofs projected outward like a salute of swords, shutting out the light despite the beat of the sun. As I strode past the parlors and workshops, I felt as if I were in the tunnels again.
Then I was deposited onto the street and heard the market before I saw it. Voices battling each other for hawking dominance until they enticed a customer. The smell of too many bodies hit me next. The lane opened up into a wide space where wooden booths and carts created pathways. Wooden signs hung by metal hooks above each market stall, depicting lions, barrels, cauldrons, hammers . . . Nearest the Thames, wool and sheep were being traded. A bit farther down the bank, swine were handed from farmer to butcher.
Other stalls housed glovers, tailors, needle-makers, and hosiers. The odor of fish mixed with the scent of roses, berries, fresh bread. Blood from the slaughter stall constricted my throat.
Ahead, four young cobs with Blue masks apportioned water to buyers from five water jugs by the Great Conduit. Few people could afford clean water. I surveyed the rest of the market, glancing at street signs for Pudding Lane.
Scan.
North Street.
Scan.
Market Street.
Scan.
A Brown mask with a white rose.
I stopped. Emma browsed a flower booth as though undisturbed by her recent attack. The flower man wore a Green mask and a bundle of daffodils hung suspended in the air between them. The man gestured to the bundle and it rotated gently.
Catesby said to put our ears to the ground and to examine our contacts. Could Emma provide any information?
She handed over a coin. Before she could reach out to take the bundle of daffodils and dampen her nice white gloves, I was at her side. “Allow me.” I snagged the flowers from the air.
“Thomas!” Did I catch a smile in her voice? I couldn’t be sure since I’d never seen her smile. But I let the illusion lie.
The flowers lurched out of my arms at a whispered command from the flower man. “Lady, do you know this boy?” He eyed my patch.
My arms dropped. The plague paranoia in London surpassed any I’d seen before. Even with my patch against my eye, they seemed only to see plague.
Emma’s smile no longer marked her tone. “Mister Fawkes is my escort.”
The florist stilled. Then the flowers smacked me in the face. “Thank you for your business.”
“It’s certainly the last you’ll see of it,” Emma replied.
Harsh. I grinned.
We left and I brushed the fallen daffodil petals off my sleeves. “I apologize for the state of your flowers.”
“His buds are too weak if they are already shedding petals. Had he grown them in a windy location, they would be much more robust.”
We meandered past other stalls and my tongue remained leaden. The pence from Father burned in my pocket, but I focused on Emma instead. “How do you fare after the other night?”
“I am excellent, thank you.” Her gloved hand drifted up to her mask. It patted the edges, as though making sure it was secure. “My guardian, the Baron Monteagle, would like you to call.”
“Me? Why?” Did she tell the Baron about my plague?
“To thank you, of course.”
That was the last thing I wanted from her guardian. I deserved nothing—Emma had defended herself. Besides, I’d rather not risk running into Henry.
We passed the candlemaker’s stall. Perhaps I ought to hand her back her flowers and continue with my dinner duties.
She folded her hands behind her back. “The other night in the alley. Did you . . . did you see them take my mask?”
“Yes. Blasted cowards. Rotten of them to manhandle you so.”
“I see.” She kept her gaze fixed ahead as we walked without a destination. “Did you see anything else?”
Perhaps she wasn’t asking about my cowardice. This could be my chance to ask her again about her color power. “I saw you command two colors at once—Brown and Yellow.”
She said nothing else.
“How many colors have you mastered?” I wished she’d take off her mask.
She lifted her masked face toward me and stopped. “It’s not about mastering individual colors. It’s about studying White Light.”
White Light. She spoke to it. She knew how to control it.
“I know you come from a Keeper family, Thomas.”
A chill cloaked me. How did she know that?
“But someday the White Light will reach out to you—it happens to everyone—and, well, you should answer it.”
I couldn’t tell her it already had. I couldn’t tell her it frightened me almost as much as the plague. I couldn’t tell her it freed me and then led me to her. And I certainly couldn’t tell her I vowed not to respond to it for a plot of treason. “So you’re really an Igniter.”
She laughed lightly. “Of course! The decrees against Keepers and their followers are for a reason. We’re in a new era—where we don’t have to confine ourselves to one color—”
“Igniters caused the plague,” I cut in with a low voice. “It all started when your kind broke the laws of color speech.”
“That’s not true. Keepers caused the plague by hiding White Light from the public for centuries.”
I thrust the flowers into her hands. “Good day, Mistress Areben.” I left the market breathing hard. She was one of them. She was perpetuating the plague through her ideals.
We needed to get a Keeper on the throne as soon as possible.
I pulled Father’s pence from my pocket. And then I ran.
Eleven
By the time I returned to the Bear, I had two lukewarm pasties in my hands and a sour attitude. At St. Peter’s, Norwood and I had hidden our Keeper beliefs. I’d hoped Emma was hiding them too. I’d hoped she was secretly a Keeper. Like me.
I entered our room. Father lay awake on his mattress. I tossed the pasties onto the table. “Why do the Keepers avoid White Light?”
Father held out his hand for a pasty. “You mean, why do we avoid White Light?”
“If the differentiation is that important to you, then yes.” I handed him one, then sat back. I wanted to see him eat it without taking off his mask.
“It is.”
I waited. Yes, I identified as a Keeper, but I still had questions. And now that I was around people who could talk about the Keeper way, I intended to educate myself.
“White Light is powerful. Unpredictable.” I wished I could see an expression besides the painted mysterious half smile on his mask. “Dangerous. Only the oldest and most advanced Keepers understand it. Only they are knowledgeable enough to contain it.” Father tore off a piece of the pasty crust with his fingers and slipped it under his mask.
“What do Igniters have to gain by attacking us? They already have a king on the throne and they use the White Light to control as many colors as they like. What are we to them?”
He chewed for a moment, his mask bobbing left and right with the motion of his jaw. Swallow. “Roaches.”
The Igniters were stamping us out simply because they didn’t like us. “It doesn’t make sense. It’s inhumane!”
“Most revolutions are.” He pinched off another bit of pasty. Meat and corn filling oozed out. “Keepers protected every masked for hundreds of years, and now the people—and our very king—are turning against us. Exiling us. Beheading us.” His fist tightened, sending a dribble of pasty filling down his knuckles.
I thought of Emma. “Why is it so wrong to control multiple colors?”
“It changes everything, Thomas.” Father’s tone drove apprehension into my joints. “They are willing to kill peop
le for the power. Is that not reason enough for you?”
“So are we,” I said softly, thinking of the plot.
“That’s different.”
“How?” Igniters killed our people. And we were planning to blow up their king. “Help me understand.” I wanted to know the things he knew and to share his passion against White Light.
“That is all you need to understand. Stop meddling with it.”
“I haven’t meddled with—”
“Stop asking about it!”
“Then give me my color power!” My voice rang in echo before settling. Likely everyone in the Bear had heard.
“You’re not ready.”
Anger closed my throat. He didn’t even know me—nor was he bothering to try. He asked me not to meddle with White Light, yet he wouldn’t give me my color power or a mask. Did he not realize he was the only one who could? If the Gunpowder Plot was exposed, Father could be captured and killed. I’d never have a chance to try to heal my plague, nor have any profession higher than a caddy.
I would die.
My chest heaved. The anger reached a peak where it transformed into a silent iron, encasing my heart and chilling my tone. “What must I do to be ready?”
“You need to commit, Thomas.” Father tossed his half-eaten pasty back onto the table and lay down again. “You can’t ride both sides.”
“I am part of the plot,” I said. What more did he want?
“But it is not yet your plot.” He crossed his hands over his chest. “You are too curious about the Igniters.”
“I just want to know the truth.”
“I’ve given it to you.”
I shook my head, though I suspected his eyes were closed. “You’ve given me your truth. I have to find it for myself for it to become mine. And curiosity is the first step.”
7 June 1604
Greetings, Norwood,
London is different from what I imagined. Louder, dirtier, busier. A wild, untamed place. I can see why you love it, and also why you left it.
I found my father. He nearly stabbed me before I revealed my relation. You and he are quite the opposite. Father refuses to give me my mask. He doesn’t think I’m loyal to the Keeper way.
I’m part of something that I think you would be interested in joining. The details are not fit for a letter, but I can tell you that—should this pursuit succeed—we will be cured of both war and plague.
Thomas
The Bear at Bridgefoot
“I have been promoted.” I couldn’t tell if Percy’s face bore a grin or a grimace. Possibly a combination of both. Beneath his shock of white hair, he looked ghoulish in the dim light of the tunnel room.
Father, Catesby, Percy, and I stood beneath the streets of London for what I hoped would be the last time. The drip of water fueled my discomfort with each splash. I rubbed my thumbnail along the tips of my other fingers. The darkness made the space feel even smaller. Tighter. Closing in.
“Northumberland appointed me a gentleman pensioner to the king.” Percy slapped a hand onto the hilt of his sword with a definite grin now, but something about it still seemed sinister. “I am one of the king’s fifty mounted bodyguards.” He burst out laughing. Catesby, too, released an exclamation and shook Percy’s hand.
The irony wasn’t lost on me. King James had promoted a man who was set on murdering him as one of his personal protectors. This made the plot so much simpler. So relieved and encouraged was I that I stepped forward and shook Percy’s hand myself.
“Will that allow you to kill him?” I asked.
“Nay.” Percy’s mirth faded. “Catesby is right in that destroying all of Parliament will best cleanse our country. But”—he held up a finger—“this does provide many solutions to our current problems.”
Catesby crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall. Father patted Percy on the back. “Enlighten us!”
“I am required permanent residence in London, and Northumberland assigned me to Whynniard’s old apartment. It is in the precincts of Westminster!”
Father straightened.
“At the very foot of Parliament! There could be no better location.”
Father whistled. “Your friendship with the Earl of Northumberland has served us well.” But Catesby was frowning. Percy’s glee snapped to a narrowed alertness. “What is it?”
“Are you not required to swear the Oath of Igniter Supremacy if you are to hold this position?” A drip of water fell from the damp tunnel ceiling and splattered his forehead.
Percy nodded. “Aye. But Northumberland did not impose it upon me.”
“Then he must suspect you are a Keeper.” The room stilled at Father’s statement.
“He has promoted me and not questioned me nor turned me in. We must trust in this good fortune.”
Father shook his head. “I don’t like it.”
Catesby pushed himself off the wall. “It is an opening. We must take it and we must trust that it is White Light inviting us in to return it to its rightful place.”
For the first time, I wondered if White Light had ever spoken to Catesby, Father, or Percy, because it didn’t strike me as a good listener. It didn’t seem to be pining for man’s intervention.
I kept these thoughts to myself.
“The Scottish commissioners will be staying in Parliament for a time, connected to the Whynniard apartment. I expect they’ll be returning to their land soon.”
“I should hope so,” Father said. “The reek of those Scots will fill the apartment every time they pass by.” I sniggered. The Scots did carry a certain unwashed odor about them.
The excitement in the room latched onto me, sending even my doubting thoughts swirling. This was happening. This was working.
“Whynniard’s apartment is not far from mine, separated by the Thames.” Catesby wiped away another water drop. “On the bank, even. This could not be more perfect. When the time of Parliament draws near, we can row our supplies over under cover of the river fog. How large is the apartment?”
“Barely enough room for living. I will mainly lodge at Gray’s Inn just down the way. I shall need to set up a servant at the Whynniard house.” Percy’s gaze shot to me.
Father stepped forward. “I can fill that role. I have served as a footman and am familiar with the duties.”
When had Father been a footman? Before becoming one of the most skilled masked soldiers of England?
His head inclined toward me. “Thomas can come as a caddy.”
“You cannot use your real name.” Catesby scooped up the remaining parchments and bits of quills from the table.
“Johnson,” Father said. “I shall be John Johnson.”
Johnson? There was no imagination in that. But perhaps that was the point.
Catesby paced, and with each footfall his smile grew. “Things are moving forward nicely. Now, if we had eyes upon a Parliament member . . .”
I wanted to ask if we were finished. I wanted out of these tunnels, dripping their Thames saliva down my neck and closing their claws around me. “That may come yet.” Percy laughed. “One victory at a time.”
Catesby clasped Percy on the shoulder. “Well done, Percy. We shall depart these wretched tunnels immediately.”
I let out a relieved breath.
Catesby tipped over the table and slid it against the wall. Now the tunnel room looked less like a meeting place. “Our next step is to observe King James at his first Parliament meeting—see if you can discover the date, Percy. Then . . . we’ll seek out the gunpowder.”
I followed Catesby out of the tunnel, not waiting for Father. I would show him my commitment to the Keeper plot. I wanted this plot to succeed. The planning, the risks, the passion arose from a true desire to free Keepers from the oppression of King James and the plague.
No one should be imprisoned or beheaded when they desired only to protect people.
I would help free them.
The market wasn’t as busy as the last time I went. The rake
rs were out—scooping up the waste from the street gutters and depositing it into wagons so as to cart the filth to a laystall or the countryside. It was worst near the market and shops. Animal entrails, feces, old floor rushes, and rotten food overflowed the gutters. I pulled out a handkerchief and held it to my nose. Even after the rakers cleared the gutters, the market square still stank.
I diverted to the food stalls and bought a pasty for myself with some leftover coin, but slowed as I walked past the smith. A man dunked a short blade in a barrel of water and an explosion of steam responded. Sweat poured down his leather vest.
I needed a sword. The smithy looked up. I could tell the moment he caught sight of my patch. First came the surprise, then curiosity, then suspicion. His body tensed and he returned to his work with renewed vigor, angling away from me. Would he respond the same way if I had coin?
I loathed the idea of asking Father for any money—especially for something as pricey as a blade.
So I did the only thing I could.
I headed out of the market, across London Bridge, and toward Hoxton.
Toward Emma.
Twelve
I stood frozen in the lane before the Monteagle house. Should I go to the back? I wasn’t a servant, but how did one go about asking for reward money?
I lifted my chin, straightened my spine, and checked the seal on my eye patch. The door bore a round brass knocker. Each slam of the knocker against the metal plating struck my nerves.
The seconds passed. Then a minute. My hand hovered over the knocker. Perhaps it was bad form to knock twice. But I needed coin. I needed a sword. So I reached for the knocker again just as the door swung open.
A servant answered and his narrowed gaze settled on my eye patch. “Messages are to be delivered in back.”
“I’m here to speak to the Baron Monteagle.”
He raised an eyebrow. “He’s occupied at the moment. You may leave your message with me.”
“He requested my presence.” The man’s eyebrow rose even higher. “Alongside his charge, Mistress Areben,” I added.
“Ward, who is at the door?” A familiar voice—swollen with hot air and self-adoration—preceded the appearance of a face I loathed even more than my own.
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