“Good? Ye ’aven’t ’eard, then?” The weaver’s swollen ruddy face pinched together like the butt of an orange.
I ceased my browsing and swallowed hard. “Heard?” The king was dead. The plot was finished. I would get my mask.
“O’ the six massacred Igniters.”
I stiffened. “No.”
“Their blood tore right out o’ their bodies. Musta been a strong Red.”
Percy.
“When? Who?” Had Percy gone after Parliament members?
“Just some wealthy folk up in Hoxton.”
My coin purse slipped from my fingers and fell to the earth like the thud of a dead body after the gallows. “Hoxton?”
“Aye. I don’ envy the servants up tha’ way, havin’ to deal with the family politics.” She gave a nod, her fingers continuing with the sticks uninterrupted.
I turned from her stall, pulse pounding in my throat. Hoxton. Hoxton was large. Those six Igniters could have been anyone. Yet I couldn’t stop the thundering panic.
Anyone.
Anyone.
Anyone.
One could have been Emma.
Sixteen
I pounded on the door of the Monteagle house.
Ward opened it and frowned. “It is not your day of employment.” He didn’t seem troubled or grief-stricken.
“I’m here to speak to Mistress Areben,” I panted.
He eyed me and I knew full well the impropriety of calling on Emma at the front door outside of my employment. It sent all the wrong messages.
Ward eased the door closed. “She’s occupied. You may leave your message with me.”
I planted a hand on the wood to keep the door open. “So she is . . . well?”
“She was well upon rising this morning.” He stepped closer. “Why? Did something happen? Was she attacked again?”
I shook my head. “I heard . . .” I saw a man who burst the blood out of six Igniters’ bodies.
“Ward, who is calling?” Henry appeared like a gnat sensing blood. By the calm saunter I knew everyone was safe. If Emma had been harmed or killed, Henry would not be at the door, looking me up and down and greeting me with, “Cyclops.”
“He is asking for Mistress Areben,” Ward said before leaving. The way he said it made me seem shady.
Henry’s smirk darkened. “What do you want with her? It’s not your day to escort her.”
I was a fool. Of course Emma was fine. Percy wouldn’t attack the Monteagle residence—even in a fit of rage—when I was serving them for the plot. “I had heard of an attack on Igniters in Hoxton. And I wanted to inquire after the Monteagle residents’ safety.” My tone came out cordial. But both he and I knew the undertones carried the utmost dislike.
“How . . . kind of you.” He stepped onto the entryway and closed the door behind him. “We are all well. But now that you’re here . . . You’ve yet to give a report of your outings with Mistress Areben.”
I backed up a step to put more distance between us and ended up standing one step lower than him. This made me feel inferior—that was probably his intent. “I was unaware of my need to report.”
His eyes slitted. “Now you’re aware. What has she been doing?”
I allowed an eye roll to come through. “Shopping. Isn’t that what women do?” I loathed the way that small statement made me feel on a similar level as Henry.
Henry didn’t laugh. “What else?”
I tried to look surprised, but facial expressions weren’t my strong suit since my face was part statue. “Walking. From market to market to market. She usually starts at the haberdashers on London Bridge to see what new hats have been laid out. Then along Silver Street to the wigmakers.
“By that point it’s noon, so she sits in a garden or by the riverside. Once the Royal Exchange bell tower rings, she heads there.” If I allowed myself to keep talking, I’d be hard-pressed to keep from lying.
Henry didn’t stop eyeing me the entire time, as though examining every word for half-truths. My face felt painted with them.
“I secured your employment, Cyclops. You work for me. Your payment comes from me. So if you want to keep this role, you’ll have sharp eyes and a thorough report after your excursions with Mistress Areben.” His sneer could curdle cream.
“Is there something specific you would like me to watch for?”
After another pause, his scrutiny finally dissipated. “Let me know if she does anything other than shopping.”
“Well, she takes walks and sits in the park—”
“Something noteworthy, Cyclops. Like talking to a master or securing an apprenticeship or mailing letters.” He checked the ties on his doublet, as though collecting himself, as though adjusting his gentlemanly façade.
I turned to go.
“How is your father?”
I paused in my exit. What did he care of Father? Dangerous waters lapped at my ankles. I shouldn’t reply, but to ignore the deceptively polite inquiry would scream of suspicion. “To my knowledge, he is well.”
I hoped that made it seem as though I didn’t see him often. In truth, I didn’t. I worked in daylight; he worked at night. We shared only a few suppers a week.
“Are you not residing with him?”
“Aye, but we are both about our own business.” I took a few small steps—signaling my departure, but Henry couldn’t take a hint. Or he chose not to.
“I would like to meet him.”
And I would like to spit on Henry’s boots, but we couldn’t always have what we wanted. “Perhaps someday you will.” When Father stood at the side of the new Keeper monarch and doled out sentences to the Igniters of London. “Good day, Henry.”
I strode away.
“Thomas!” Henry actually jogged after me. What in Thames’ name? I closed my eye and took a breath before turning. Henry held out a fist. “Your month’s payment.”
Oh.
I reached out my hand and the coins clinked into my palm. More than last month’s payment. I didn’t look at them or count them in front of him. But it was too much.
Henry dropped his hand back at his side and looked up from my handful of coins. He knew it was more than I’d earned. Why? Certainly not as a gesture of goodwill. Did he want me to count them? Was he testing my honesty?
“Within the month, I will be overseeing the Baron’s home on the Strand. I would be honored if you extended a supper invitation to your father.” A bribe, then. He cleared his throat. “You would be welcome as well. Good day, Thomas.”
This time he turned his back on me . . . and left me with a palmful of coins and questions.
The door shut and I forced myself to turn onto the main road before releasing the barrage of thoughts. I stuffed the coins into my pocket. He wanted a meeting with Father.
And it certainly wouldn’t be for mere supper talk.
Henry wanted something. This was bigger than me—beyond the schoolboy feud. Did Henry know of the plot? Did he suspect me of ulterior motives with my employment?
He had always doubted my heritage, always taunted me about not truly being the son of Guy Fawkes. Even I had questioned my bloodline at times. After all, I’d never seen Father in person beyond my infancy. But it seemed that now that I was reunited with Father and actually living with him . . . Henry wanted in.
Was that why he’d hired me?
My pace grew faster until the jolt of each stomp rattled my teeth. I didn’t slow. I had been a fool to run all the way to Hoxton for Emma—an Igniter and enemy. Why did I fear for her so?
Yes, I was her escort and we were quickly becoming more than acquaintances. But my passions resided elsewhere—with the plot. With my mask. With Keepers.
So why did I come for her? Why did I allow emotion to control me? Emotions were deceptive. They made men do foolish things like save runaway African boys from the gallows. Like bolt from Westminster to Hoxton on a whim.
Emma was my employer’s ward. Nothing more.
But you have to admit sh
e’s cute.
I stopped so abruptly that I toppled sideways into a young woman shucking corn into a wooden bucket. “Watch it, slob!” She shoved me away.
“Apologies,” I breathed.
White. That blasted color in my head. I thought it had left me for good. I thought I’d silenced it.
Nope. I’ve just been polite. If I wanted, I could hum nonsense in your ear for the rest of your life.
It could hear my thoughts, even when I wasn’t directing them toward it. It was after me.
Could this day get any worse?
“Thomas!”
My head jerked up to meet her Brown-masked face. Blast it all. “Emma.”
“Ward said you sought me.”
“It was a mistake.” I hurried on, but she caught my arm. I wrenched away, jumpy. “You should be home, Emma!”
She startled backward.
“People died in Hoxton last night. Igniters. Don’t wander out alone right now.” I pointed toward her road. “Go back.”
I realized then that she held a parcel in one of her gloved hands. “I didn’t know.” She held out the parcel and her next request came out cool. “Are you heading to town?”
In no mood to apologize or be remotely gentlemanly, I snapped, “Where else would I be heading?”
“Well, aren’t you pleasant today?” She thrust the parcel at me. “Please deliver that to the draper at the Royal Exchange.”
I glowered and took the package. I deserved to be treated as a servant. I wanted that, right? So I bowed. “Of course, madam.” The parcel was light and I suspected a painting rested inside. My foul mood evaporated. She didn’t deserve my irritation. “Still no apprenticeship?”
A woman directed a gaggle of brown geese past us, up the lane.
Emma took the olive branch. “None yet.”
I probably should have been grateful. Once Emma secured an apprenticeship, my escort would no longer be needed. I still had information to gather from the Baron. “Why do you even need one? You are beyond most masked already. What can they teach you that you don’t already know?”
“There is much I don’t know, Thomas. But most of all, an apprenticeship will allow me to make my own life path. I need to be able to provide for myself.” There was something she wasn’t saying. I wanted to know more—to pry, to talk, to connect.
But then I remembered the events of that morning. Percy’s bloodied state, his rage, the recent Parliament events. If I remained conversing with Emma, she could become involved. Endangered. And more conversation would lead to deeper friendship. No matter how much I appreciated the fact she saw beyond my plague, it wasn’t enough for me to risk my life and the life of the other plotters. Or even to risk her life.
After the next Parliament meeting, everything would change. King James would be dead, a Keeper would be on the throne, Parliament would be disbanded, and I would be a traitor to the crown if caught. All of London would change. No . . . all of England.
In that moment I realized Emma’s life would change too. I could not attach myself to her beyond the professional relationship between servant and employer. But I could secretly hope she’d abandon the White Light nonsense and return to the Keepers.
Until then, we couldn’t be friends. No matter her kindness or our kinship.
We couldn’t be friends because I was going to help murder her king.
Black
1 August 1604
Norwood,
Things grow tempestuous between Keepers and Igniters here in London. How are things in York?
I’ve been spending more time with Emma.
T
30 August 1604
Norwood,
I’m sure you’ve heard, but Spain signed King James’s peace treaty. The king held an enormous feast. The Igniters of London are celebrating—I was with an Igniter family when they found out. The Keepers are greatly despairing. A lot of us hoped Spain would invade London for the Keeper cause. Now we know what side Spain is on.
There is much I wish to talk with you about. I anxiously await your response.
T
10 September 1604
Norwood,
I only just heard of the execution of the Keepers in York this past July. Their names were not made public. Please tell me who they were.
Please respond to this letter, even if it be a mere sentence.
T
30 September 1604
Thomas,
St. Peter’s no longer employs me. I am coming to London. And I think I would like to be part of this new undertaking of yours.
Norwood
Seventeen
19 October 1604
Today my money pouch emptied and my scabbard filled.
The smithy handed me my new sword—a rapier. As rapiers went, it was the runt of the litter—a simple handle with barely any guard, matte grey blade, and seeming to dull the longer I looked at it. But it was mine.
And even the most unimpressive sword can leave an impressive wound when in the hands of a practiced master.
I adjusted my belt. Already my right hand itched to draw the blade and wield it in a good spar. But chances were I’d be using it for more than sparring in the near future. The next meeting of
Parliament was four months away—February. That was when all our fates would change.
Percy was the plotter who gathered that information. The longer he worked as one of the king’s guards, the more information they served him. The deeper he got.
With a weapon at my side, I headed to Lambeth. A meeting awaited at Catesby’s home.
Tonight I would meet the other plotters. And tonight I would talk to Catesby about Norwood. Norwood was to arrive at the Bear within the next couple of days. I’d made arrangements with the alewife so that Norwood had a room waiting. What would he see when he saw me again? Would he notice the change that I felt inside—the growth of confidence and purpose and identity?
I crossed London Bridge and then headed south along the Thames. It would have saved me an hour of walking had I simply rowed across the river, but best not to make my connection to Catesby too easy to spot.
His house rested on the river—a small boat mooring accessible from his door. I used the side entrance like a proper servant, tempted to leave my cloak on against the lingering chill, but I hung it up by the door.
I made my way through the hall toward the sitting room and the voices hit me. They weren’t typical conversation voices. They had the subtle tones of formality, of serious discussion, of planning.
They had started the meeting without me.
I hovered by the door, just out of view, and listened in. Like a proper spy. That was why Catesby inducted me, wasn’t it?
“Ever since Spain signed the peace treaty, King James has considered himself all-powerful.” That voice belonged to Percy. “This very month he proclaimed himself king of Great Britain.”
“Great Britain?” That thin, high voice was new to me.
“It’s what he wants to call us—by combining Scotland and England. As though we are not separate. As though we would mix blood and pride and identity with those northern pigs.”
Father spoke next. “I suspected the treaty was coming. When Wintour and I spoke with King Philip in April, he hardly considered our plea for him to invade England. King James is too powerful, which is the entire reason we are meeting tonight. Instead of lamenting our disappointments, let’s pour that passion into action.”
“Hear, hear!”
Percy must not have heard Father’s call to action, because he persisted in a low grumble, “First James commands all Keepers to either become Igniters or leave England, then he tries to outlaw our beliefs, and then the treaty. Will no one fight for us?”
“We will fight for ourselves.” I finally looked to see Catesby with a fist against his opposite palm. “We can’t change King James’s mind—his own wife is a Keeper and even she can’t sway him. All we can do is form the minds of his children. His sons must die. But Princess E
lizabeth is a mere eight years—young enough to put on the throne and mold. She will be raised and advised by Keepers.”
Saving Keepers and freeing England truly was up to us.
At last I strode into the room. They looked up, stunned. As though they had forgotten about me. I realized that I walked right into Catesby’s house and up to the door to eavesdrop. Anyone could have done that. Anyone could have heard this conversation and caught us. I made a mental note to keep my good eye on the door during all meetings.
Someone had to.
“What do we do next?” I asked.
Catesby straightened to his full and impressive height. It made me feel like I’d encouraged him or emboldened him. I straightened too. He waved toward the fireplace. “This is Robert Keyes.”
I took in the room. Catesby stood in the middle. Father and Wintour sat at a table. Percy paced by the curtained window and three new men stood by the fireplace.
The tallest of the three—Robert Keyes—stood like a portrait under scrutiny. Tall like Catesby with a giant red beard. He seemed to be the oldest of everyone and looked so jolly and cordial that I couldn’t imagine him lighting a fuse to murder a country’s leaders.
I liked him already.
The other two strangers could be twins in face but were opposite in body. Jack and Kit, I presumed. One stood with folded arms, wearing layer after layer of bulging muscle. A single fist to the face from him would put any man in an early grave. The other stood shoulder-to-shoulder with hardly any muscle at all. Both men had eyes only for Percy—narrowed, angry gazes.
Percy ignored them.
That wasn’t good—we couldn’t have unrest among our group.
I was about to introduce myself to the brothers, but Father did the honors. “Thomas, this is Jack Wright”—he gestured to the muscular beast—“the most skilled swordsman you’ll ever encounter.” Father then clapped the thin man on the shoulder. “And this is Kit Wright, also formidable in swordplay, but even stronger in color power.”
“They are Percy’s brothers-in-law,” Catesby said.
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