by Celia Rees
“Hand weavers,” Augusta said on rejoining him. “They carry their tools. Temple, reed, shuttle and heddle. Proud of their trade. They did well once, very well, but they’ve fallen on hard times. Been replaced by steam weaving. They took to smashing the machines—”
“Not marching just for us, lass.” One of their number turned around. “But for them poor buggers as have to work ’em, choking on lint day and night. Them looms’ll have yer arm off easy as tearing paper and then what d’yer get? Nowt. Out on t’ road. We’re off to that parliament to present our grievances.”
“The Duke’ll do summat about it,” a woman said. “Soon as he knows.”
Someone had started a hymn. The man and the woman joined in. “To Be a Pilgrim.”
Augusta shook her head. “The Duke won’t do anything. He owns the factories and mills.”
A man came up alongside them. A horn lantern swung from a long pole he carried on his shoulder. His face painted black, green and brown. The men about him were similarly disguised.
“Lady Augusta. Well met.” He nodded to Tom. “And you, young sir.”
“Tom, this is Jethro, Isaac’s brother.”
Tom could see the resemblance. The same blue eyes, high cheekbones and craggy features, although his face was thinner and showed marks of hardship under the camo paint.
“We’re grateful for your sanctuary when we had nowhere to go, hounded from our homes for defending our livelihood, our way of life.” He swung his lantern. “You have been a good friend to those who follow Ned Ludd.”
“What brings you to the city?” Augusta asked.
“What brings everybody? The need for bread. We can’t break all the machines. They’s too many. We’re here to spread the word to unite. Together we are stronger.” He looked back at the marching column. “General Ludd will lead a different army.”
“Who’s General Ludd?” Tom asked. “Is he here?”
“He’s not a real person,” Augusta explained. “He’s…” she thought for a moment, “a mythical leader, a shadowy figure, the first to break the machines that deprived the hand weavers of their living.”
“She’s right, young sir.” Jethro smiled, teeth white against the masking face paint. “Machines that do the work of twenty men, minded by bairns, taking away the livelihood of honest, skilled workers, so they can no longer feed their families, taking the bread from their mouths to feed the maws of those who have plenty already. We are his followers. We meet in secret, the light from our lanterns blackened, our faces too, as you see, so we cannot be recognized and persecuted. More are joining us every day,” he said, his eyes shining with pride and belief. “Now it’s not just us weavers. Lads and lasses from mill and factory. Together we will conquer the world.”
“Not if I ’ave my way,” a thin, harsh voice hissed. “We’re ’ere to weed out troublemakers and looks like we found one.”
“S’death. It sounds like a curse,” Augusta whispered to Tom. “But it’s his name.”
The man who had stepped out to bar their way was tall and thin, dressed like an undertaker, his face pale and cadaverous, with pale eyes set deep in his head; the only colour about him, his shock of red hair. The name suited him.
His men had caught hold of Jethro.
“Unhand me.” Jethro raised his arms above his head. “I’ll not fight. Not with women and bairns about.”
“Keep a tight hold, me boys,” S’death ordered. “We don’t want this ’un getting away.” He came up close to Jethro. “You can blacken up yer faces as much as you like and go to yer daft meetings, waving yon dark lanterns, but we know who you are.”
“Where are you taking him?” Augusta demanded.
“Somewhere he’ll be doing no harm for a good long while, milady—as if it had owt to do wi’ you. Who’s yer chitty-faced friend?”
“This is Tom.”
S’death looked him up and down with sneering contempt. “Make yer sens scarce, the both on you. Get back up to the palace. Tha’s no business here. Hear that ’larum?” A bell clanged an insistent warning. “This lot’s about to get a lacing. Come on, me boys. We’re off to clatter a few heads.”
He left them, striding off on long, thin legs, making free with the truncheon he was carrying, his bully-boy snatch squad followed with the wide-legged, rolling gait of lads looking for a fight.
The feeling in the crowd was changing. From up ahead and behind came the sound of angry shouting; a woman’s scream ripped through the air like tearing silk. There was pushing and jostling; a surging movement bunched people closer together.
Tom was beginning to sweat. In a minute, less, a crush formed; the crowd no longer individual people, but a liquid, moving mass. So strong. Inexorable, never stopping. He was being dragged off his feet. He was being squeezed so hard he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move his arms; no matter what he did, it was impossible to break the python grip.
Right in front of him, a boy was stumbling. He’d lost his trainer. There was a hole in the heel of his sock. A white sock, grubby, a claret and blue stripe round the top. An away fan caught in the crush that had formed in the tunnel. If he fell, he’d be trampled. The crowd was already closing in. Tom managed to free his arm enough to reach him. He made a grab for the boy’s T-shirt, pulled him up, but then he himself was falling…
“Are you all right?” Augusta’s voice was close but seemed to come from an impossible distance. “You’ve gone awfully white.”
“I’m… I’m…” Tom looked round, not sure where he was. The crush was the same, but the crowd was different.
“We have to get out of here.”
“Not that way. This.” She gripped his hand so hard it hurt. She felt the danger, too.
They fought their way into a side street, leaning against a wall as the crowd went on past them like a river in spate. In the distance, Tom could hear the rumble of heavy wheels on cobbles, the clop of horses’ hooves, the chink of headgear. A glance to the end of the street answered the question. Horse artillery moving from a cross street, one gun followed by another, accompanied by soldiers on horseback.
“My God, they’re moving guns up from Iron Forge.” Augusta gripped Tom’s hand tighter. “We have to get to the Duke. We have to stop this.”
THEY TOOK BACK WAYS to the Duke’s Palace. The streets were empty, the houses and shops shuttered, the piazzas and squares deserted. Even the cats had crept indoors.
They ran into the palace through a side entrance, up flights of stairs and into a long corridor, past startled footmen and into the Grand Salon, where the reception had already begun.
The salon was stuffy and stiflingly hot. Although it was full daylight outside, the room was lit by candelabras, the shutters closed, heavy velvet curtains drawn across. A small orchestra played in the corner as those assembled moved in a clockwise direction. The slow, stately pace halted in confusion as Augusta and Tom forced their way, pushing past officers in blue and scarlet uniform, and gentlemen in wigs, curled and powdered, and court dress of velvet and brocade. The ladies on their arms gasped at this sudden and violent intrusion, stepping back in a rustle of silk and satin, fans beating with alarm.
Augusta skidded to a halt in front of the Duke. She even curtsied. When in Rome…
Tom stood next to her, arms folded. He wouldn’t bow.
“Your grace,” she started. “Your grace, I…”
The Duke raised an arm that had been resting on a winged chimera. His hand commanded silence.
The fans stopped. The chamber music ended with a screech and a squeak. Every eye turned to the Duke on his gilt and oversized throne. He squinted down, his head tilted back on to the ducal coronet behind him, resting on the letter “A” with its framing of laurel and the motto Virtutis fortuna comes—Fortune is the companion of virtue.
“What is the meaning of this interruption?” he roared, his other hand curled into a fist, pounding on the golden lion’s head.
Tom met his gaze. Like the statue outside, the bust in the
hallway, the throne was there to add power and authority but the Duke himself lacked a little in the imperial dignity department. His clothes were splendid enough, his uniform badged with the stars, crusted and braided with gold brocade, but it looked several sizes too small. His head resembled a pineapple: wider at the neck than the crown and topped with a crest of suspiciously jet-black curls. More curls were teased down, artfully arranged across his noble brow to disguise his receding hairline. A high collar and carefully wound neckcloth failed to hide his double chins. His long nose was pointed and slightly tilted; the mouth beneath it twisted like a holly leaf. Rather than commanding and lordly, he appeared to be weak, vain and cruel.
The Duke looked to his son, the Marquis of Douro, who stood at his side. Douro was youthful-looking, with a mass of curling auburn hair and fine, almost feminine features. He might have looked young, but he had the same twisted mouth as his father and a hardness about the eyes. The same vanity, too, and sense of his own importance. His uniform was tailored to flatter his youthful figure, the short red jacket to show off his slender waist and narrow hips, the high standing collar to emphasize the supercilious tilt of his head. Gold tassels at each shoulder, braids draped across facings studded with medals and badges to demonstrate his rank and distinction. His ready colour was heightened with indignation; his near-violet eyes darkening to purple.
Tom tensed as Douro moved towards Augusta, his hand on the sabre that dangled from the wide sash he wore.
“That will do.” The Duke waved him away. He looked down at Augusta, his prominent eyes bulging with petulant anger that could easily tip into rage. “What is the meaning of this? Bursting in here, causing a to-do? Dressed in riding habit. Where is your court dress? Go and change immediately!”
“Your grace,” Augusta started again, “you must hear me! You must stop this! Your soldiers are turning their guns on your people. Do you not hear their cries and distress?”
From outside, the sound of shouting and screaming came thinned and muffled but still audible and unmistakable. Distant small-arms fire was reduced to popgun percussion, but there was no denying the boom of artillery.
“You cannot allow this… this slaughter to go on, my lord. In your name! In your name!”
The Duke turned to his son, who whispered in his ear.
“A little local difficulty, I’m assured. Hotheads and ne’er-do-wells. We can’t let the mob take over.” He looked around the room, garnering nods of approval. “A firm hand is needed or we’ll end up like the French.”
He said this to enthusiastic nods and even a scattering of applause and one or two “Bravos”.
“They are not a mob of hotheads and ne’er-do-wells,” Augusta insisted. “They are ordinary men and women. Your loyal subjects. They’re coming to present a petition at the Tower of All Nations. All they want is for their grievances to be heard.”
“That is not what I am being told. Troublemakers to a man and woman.”
“There are troublemakers out there—troublemakers aplenty. Supplied by the man standing at your left shoulder, sir.”
“Your grace.” Rogue strode out, splendid in a uniform of black and gold. “I really must protest this… this calumny. My men are trying to bring order.”
“Is that what you call it?” Augusta spat the words out.
“Enough! Enough!” The Duke held up his hand. “All this… disruption… is most tiresome. My guests can’t get into the city. The Grand Ball will have to be postponed because of it. And you, madam…” his eyes turned to Augusta, “take yourself in hand. Better than that—let someone do it for you, since you seem incapable of proper behaviour. I’m sure Lady Zenobia will oblige.” He nodded and a tall, dark-haired woman stepped from the crowd with a smile and curtsied low. “I cannot have you running around like this when you are to be married to my son!”
A collective gasp swept the room. Lady Zenobia stayed frozen in her low curtsey. Douro stepped forward, his small mouth opening to protest. Rogue appeared unmoved but his jaw tensed and his hand tightened on his sword.
No one was expecting this. Lord Charles had lost his bet.
“I was going to announce the engagement at the ball,” the Duke went on, seemingly oblivious to the spreading consternation. “But since that is postponed, now is as good a time as ever. I have decided. The Lady Augusta will marry my son. It’s best for everyone, I’m sure you’ll all agree.”
It was clear that almost nobody agreed. Lady Zenobia least of all. She kept her head bowed so the Duke would not see her fury.
“The formal announcement will be at the ball tomorrow. Until then, Augusta will be in the care of Lady Zenobia.”
“It will be my pleasure, your grace.” The lady rose with a slight stagger but her smile was back in place.
“And whoever is this fellow?” The Duke gestured towards Tom with a petulant twitch of his ringed fingers. “Yes, you, sir!”
“He’s my equerry.” Augusta spoke while Tom was framing an explanation.
“Well, make sure he looks like one the next time I see him. And teach him some manners or I’ll clap him in irons. Now, play up, play up!” the Duke shouted to the orchestra. “And dance, damn you! I will have dancing!” The Duke’s right hand beat out a staccato rhythm on the lion’s head and the crowd broke into couples. “Louder, I say. Louder! And something lively!”
The orchestra dutifully struck up a spirited tune to hide the cries that continued to filter in from outside.
“My congratulations on that performance,” Lady Zenobia said as she approached them. “Spectacular, even for you. I can’t imagine why you even bother to come to court.”
Zenobia undulated—that was the only word for it—moving at a stately, measured pace. Overdressed, as usual, in a robe of dark red velvet worn to complement her dark beauty. Augusta sometimes wondered if she had legs under there, or ran on castors. The ostrich plumes on her elaborate headdress nodded and long gold earrings, dropping like chandeliers, swung from her ears. Her heavy garnet necklace had the letter “Z” in bright coral at its centre: theatric jewellery worn to make her seem exotic and to show off her long neck. Her hair cascaded in curls, as glossy as grapes, as black as her eyes and thick arching brows.
“I’m not here by choice,” Augusta replied. “Douro is in want of a wife and I am to supply the deficit, it appears.”
Zenobia had no ready answer to that. She deployed her fan to hide her lack. She was an artist with the fan, using it as a weapon, a disguise, an instrument of flirtation. At present, she was using it to cool the colour rising in her cheeks.
“I’d have thought that you were the obvious candidate. But…” Augusta shrugged, with a show of innocence. “It seems not.”
Zenobia’s colour heightened further. Her dislike of Augusta almost rivalled her love for the Duke’s son. She had been hopelessly in love with him since they were children. She looked down her thin, finely modelled nose, delicate nostrils flaring. Her small mouth pursed. The dimple in chin and cheek did little to detract from her imperious manner and those black eyes could flash fury in an instant. They were flashing now.
“I like it no more than you do,” Augusta said. “Let us not quarrel.” She paused. “There is a way out of this, though…”
Zenobia shut her fan. “Oh? What is that?”
“You help me escape. From the Duke’s Palace. From Glass Town. With me gone, you’ll be free to marry Douro.”
Zenobia frowned, considering. Augusta watched the changes in her face as she weighed risk against temptation. It would mean going against the Duke’s express wish. The Duke’s word ruled here and Zenobia never broke the rules. Well, almost never, and that one time Augusta had got the blame.
“Where would you go?” she asked.
“What does it matter?” Augusta quelled her impatience. “A long way from here, I promise. Just say you will!”
“I’ll think about it.” Zenobia still looked torn and not a little doubtful, but she hadn’t rejected the idea out of ha
nd. “I’ll send my ladies to attend to you—I don’t suppose you’ve brought anyone suitable with you. As for this fellow…” She eyed Tom with distaste and disapproval. “I’m sure your betrothed can spare a gentleman to attend to him.”
“There’s no need—I have Annie, and Isaac can attend to Tom.”
Zenobia gave a sarcastic laugh, equilibrium restored. “Someone suitable, I said. Go to your rooms. Two of my ladies will be with you directly.” She nodded to the attendant footmen. “Look after this gentleman, would you? Find him quarters and stay with him until the Marquis’s man arrives.”
“Of course, my lady.”
The footmen took Tom’s arm none too gently.
“No need.” Lord Charles Wellesley pushed himself off the wall, where he had been closely following the whole encounter. “I’ll look after this young chap.” He laughed as he steered Tom by the elbow. “Lost my bet, it seems. Come to my rooms. You’ll be comfortable there. My man, Henry, will look after you. Find you some clothes to wear.”
Augusta had no intention of going to her rooms—not yet, anyway. Zenobia’s “ladies” would be no better than prison warders. They’d have to find her first. The Duke might have closed his ears as tightly as the palace shutters but she had to know what was happening outside the charmed world of the court.
She went up to the loggia. A hot wind, blowing from the east, was dropping a fine, red desert dust on the city, like powdered blood. Far below, she could see that the march had reached the Great Piazza. A crowd was there, dense at the centre, scattered towards the edges. Troops blocked the exits to the piazza. Soldiers were lined up in front of the Tower of All Nations, guns trained on the crowd. They looked like models from this distance, the officer’s raised sabre like a silver toothpick. People were running, some falling, but they looked no more real than pieces on a chessboard, their cries like bird calls, the gunshots a sudden, percussive rat-a-tat-tat on a drum.
Again it happened, and again. Augusta looked away.