At Percy’s name, the brothers’ narrowed eyes sent such daggers at Percy that I could almost see the footplay of the nonverbal duel taking place.
I ignored the hostility and grinned at the talk of swordplay. “Truly? Swordsmanship is one of my passions too.” My hands itched to draw my new weapon and face off with Jack then and there. I wanted to grow. I wanted to earn an introduction beyond my name. Guy Fawkes, Europe’s fiercest soldier. Jack Wright, the most skilled swordsman. Tom Wintour, talented linguist and lawyer.
What would mine be? Thomas Fawkes, defeater of the plague? Thomas Fawkes, the boy who saved England?
Or Thomas Fawkes, the plotter who died maskless . . .
“I knew you’d be a swordsman from the moment I saw you as an infant.” Jack pushed off the wall and extended a hand. “Didn’t I say that, Guy? You remember, yes?”
Father laughed. “I remember.”
“You . . . knew me as an infant?” I tried to keep my jaw from hanging.
“Jack, Kit, and I went to school together,” Father said. “You were wooed to sleep by the sounds of our sparring.”
I liked that picture and shook Jack’s hand with gusto. Kit offered his hand as well, though his grip was brief.
Father lifted his head to Catesby. I could tell he wanted to talk more about the Wright brothers—he seemed to have a friendship with them the way I did with Norwood.
My spirits lifted even higher at the thought of Norwood. After tonight’s meeting, I would approach Catesby with my request to add Norwood to the plot. I had my reasoning listed out:
Norwood was a powerful Green and healer.
He had remained a loyal Keeper even through St. Peter’s crossover from Keeper school to Igniter.
He kept secrets. Catesby already knew this tidbit—that Norwood had saved me and protected me from the eye of suspicious Igniters.
“Keyes has contacts for gunpowder,” Catesby said. “With the recent peace treaty, retired soldiers are willing to do anything to get rid of their gunpowder stores.”
I focused on the red-bearded man, waiting to hear if his voice matched his ruddy and jolly appearance. “My cousin’s husband, Ambrose Rookwood, is a wealthy young Keeper up in Suffolk.” Keyes’s voice did indeed match his apple-cheeked grin. A man who grinned while talking about gunpowder fit our group perfectly. “He has money, gunpowder, and horses to spare.”
“But we cannot tell this Rookwood about the plot.” Percy stopped his pacing. “None of us knows this man. Keeper or not, he may not be willing to join such treason.”
Keyes nodded like he expected this. “I have told him the gunpowder is for the use of the English regiment in the Spanish service in Flanders. The peace treaty has opened this window for us.”
Percy snorted. “Are you telling me to be thankful for that blasted piece of signed paper?”
“Of course not.” Keyes’s perpetual smile made every sentence out of his mouth seem covered in honey, but I could see the strength and fire behind his eyes. “But it has opened a window for us. And in a plot such as this, every window should be treated like a bugle in a battle charge.”
Wintour stood from the table, like a lawyer with a prepared statement. Even standing, he looked dwarfed in a room of such tall men. “Where will we store this gunpowder if Rookwood agrees?”
Catesby opened his arms wide. “Here. Until we can move it to the Whynniard house. Because my house rests on the Thames, the unloading of barrels will not be suspicious—it is expected along the water.”
Wintour cocked an eyebrow. “Will not your servant . . . What was his name?”
“Bates will not be a problem. He is loyal and does not ask questions. And I have spoken with him.”
All the men went silent. We knew what “I have spoken with him” meant, for we’d all gone through the same conversation—though I did wonder if the other men had to cross swords with Catesby as I had.
So our group was up to nine: Catesby, Father, Percy, Wintour, Jack, Kit, Bates, Keyes, and me.
Catesby had the power to break each and every one of us, yet our faith remained strong with him because of his loyalty to keep our secrets. Even though I was frustrated that he knew Father’s secrets and I didn’t, I respected Catesby all the more for not revealing them.
“We need those stinking Scots to leave!” Percy burst out.
“They will eventually,” Catesby said, remaining calm.
Jack didn’t look appeased. “Is this a safe place, Catesby? What about the meeting room in the sewers?”
“Too wet,” Father said.
A mere breath of silence followed his statement before a creak of wood tickled my ear from the hallway.
My eye darted to the door, then back to the men. They continued to talk. No one else had heard it. “Hush,” I said harshly.
They immediately quieted. The crackles of the fire seemed like pistol shots in the silence. Tension tugged on my gut like the withdrawing of a dagger. I wanted to be wrong. I wanted to question what I heard. But where my left eye lacked, my left ear excelled. I rarely heard wrong.
Another creak.
Quick as lightning but silent as mist, Jack, Father, and I all drew our swords and leaped into the hallway. Empty.
Father swept down the hallway leaving behind no sound greater than the brush of cloth against skin. But Catesby strode down the hallway after him, all confident footfall and fearlessness. “I’m sure it’s Bates.”
As he passed me, I spotted a drop of sweat on his temple.
We heard more talking from deeper in the house. None of it sounded distressed. Jack led the way back into the sitting room, sheathing his sword. “Fool of a servant, startling us like that.”
“He might have been eavesdropping.” Percy’s lips curled in a sneer.
“Catesby trusts him,” Jack snapped, returning his hand to his sword hilt. Even though his brother, Kit, said nothing, his hand drifted to his own sword hilt too.
What was between these three? Catesby said they were related.
Perhaps that was just it.
I looked at Father, trying to read him since he hid all facial expressions. He stood tall and rigid, like a soldier on the front.
Catesby returned, breathing hard. His smile curved like an overstretched piece of string. Tight. Forced. “It was Bates.” He rubbed a hand over his forehead. “He should have known to announce his presence.”
Percy’s face grew as red as a holly berry. “Announce his presence? We could have run him through!”
“There’s no we,” Kit muttered in Jack’s ear. “Percy didn’t even detect an intruder—the boy did.”
“Is he going to join the meeting?” Percy asked loudly.
“No.” Catesby shut the door. “He does not need all the details. He has been with me since before the Essex plot. He is a faithful Keeper and obeys without question.”
Percy breathed deep like a stallion after a run. The rest of us stayed stiff.
Catesby let out a long, slow breath. “If we let fear or doubt hinder us, this scheme is over before we’ve started.”
That was enough for me. I wanted to expel the nerves choking me. I wanted to be free, and if it took placing trust in Catesby to free myself, I would do so.
“Shall we continue?” Wintour lowered himself back in a chair. Maybe it was because he was a lawyer and thus one of the smartest in our company, but his choice to sit sucked the tension from the room.
“Keyes will secure us gunpowder,” Catesby continued, as though we’d never stopped, “and once the Scots have left the Whynniard house, we can start tunneling.”
“A tunnel?” I looked between the men.
“Aye, from the basement of the Whynniard house to a cavity under Parliament. We will store the gunpowder in the tunnel. We will light the gunpowder during the next Parliament meeting. God rest their souls.” Catesby’s face lit with a passion that stirred a fire in my own bosom.
The plan was set.
Something about digging our way benea
th Parliament—beneath the very seat of King James’s Igniter meeting—caused my fingers to curl around the handle of an imaginary shovel. It made me feel powerful. We were outsmarting the king.
We were taking back England.
“I will keep you informed regarding the gunpowder.” Catesby turned to Percy. “Let us know when the Scots leave.” Percy nodded, but his glower remained. I was thankful he was living at Gray’s Inn instead of with Father and me at the Whynniard house. I didn’t know if I could endure more Percy-raging or watch him leave to murder more Igniters with his Red mask.
“Any reports from the Monteagle house, Thomas?”
I startled at the sudden attention of seven men. Don’t stutter. Speak like a man. “The Baron’s son, Henry, will be moving from his Hoxton lodging to a house on the Strand. I presume the Baron will follow shortly.” With Emma. “Henry has expressed interest in meeting with my father.”
Jack’s eyebrows popped up. “Indeed? What does the Baron’s son want with a loyal Keeper soldier?” He turned to Catesby. “Could the son be a Keeper?”
I had never thought that. Henry had never shown loyalty to either side, though he did use multiple colors with his mask. “I am quite certain he’s an Igniter, but I don’t know what he wants with Father.” Father said nothing to any of this.
“Henry Parker has always been drawn to the powerful masks, whether Keeper or Igniter,” Catesby said. “I expect he wants to meet the famous soldier to feel important.”
I stared at Catesby. He said this so nonchalantly. “Do you . . . do you know the Baron Monteagle and his family?” Did he know Emma?
“I have had conversations with their servant, Ward, in the past. Keep me updated, Thomas,” Catesby said. “If Henry’s inquiries increase, you might have to terminate employment. We have the new Parliament date, so there’s not much more crucial information we need from the Baron. If you overhear anything of importance, you can go to Wintour. He’s lodging at the Duck and Drake down the street from the Monteagle home on the Strand.”
Wintour gave a wink. I liked the idea of reporting to him over food at the inn. I liked Wintour and his sharp mind.
“There will be much action in the streets tonight due to James declaring himself King of Great Britain.” Father stood. “Igniters, Keepers, and Scots alike will, with their ale-addled minds, endanger many.” He nodded to me. “Thomas and I will monitor tonight.”
Me? I straightened. It was because of my new rapier. I’d finally be joining Father on his night excursions. It was time to show my worth . . . and my skill.
“Take caution, Guido,” Catesby said. “If you are caught or attacked, we do not have the resources to free you.”
“If I am caught, it will be for the cause.”
He wouldn’t be caught. I wouldn’t let that happen. With his mask and my sword, we could subdue even the shadows.
I stopped Catesby at the end of the meeting as the men departed at alternate times and in different directions. “Catesby, may I speak with you?”
He stopped prodding the fire and faced me. “Of course, Thomas.”
Was there a tactful way to say this? “My friend from St. Peter’s is coming to London. Benedict Norwood.”
“Ah, the Keeper man who helped you with your plague?”
I released a breath. “Aye. He lost his employment at St. Peter’s. He has expressed interest in joining the plot.”
Catesby’s countenance darkened in a way I’d not witnessed before. It sent ice into my chest and I immediately thought back through what part of my words might have caused this reaction.
I saw it.
“I haven’t told him of the plot.” Blast. This was about to get messy. “I’ve been writing to him and said only that I was part of something that would help England. It was because he knows me and my mind that he pieced together it might be something Keeper-related. It is that mindset in him that makes me think he’d be a help to us.”
Catesby’s darkness lessened but did not abate.
I wanted to leave the situation then and there, but I plunged on. “We could do with a Green, and he’s kept the secrets of all who have ever spoken with him—particularly mine.” I raised my chin. “I trust him with my life, like I trust you. I am not asking for your agreement, only for your consideration of this matter.”
“I will consider it, Thomas. Let me know when he arrives in London and you and I will speak further.” He returned the metal fire prod to a hook on the wall. “This plot is tenuous. We must bring on only those men who are necessary to its fulfillment.”
“I understand.” His caution was expected and I appreciated that he was even willing to discuss Norwood further. But most of all, I caught what was unspoken. He said that he must bring on only those men who were necessary to the plot’s fulfillment. The men who were irreplaceable.
That spoke volumes about each man he’d chosen.
Because he’d chosen me.
Eighteen
The rapier at my side thirsted for Igniter blood.
Keepers would be captured. Keepers might even be killed. This was what Father did every night.
He saved lives.
He freed them.
And even though he did not spare the time to be the father to me that I desired, I respected him with all the loyalty of a son.
“Make certain your belt is good and tight.” He checked it and tested the sharpness of my blade. Was he worried for me?
I had no space in my mind for worry. I was just anxious to finally do something at which I knew I excelled. I was going out as a warrior on a night when the Igniters were doing what they did best—hunting and imprisoning Keepers.
People like me. Like my father. Like Norwood.
If Igniters just took the time to interact with Keepers, instead of attacking without thought, they’d realize we were humans too. With passions like them. Fighting for our beliefs and our rights.
After tonight, Norwood would arrive in London and I’d tell him of my escapade. Of my chance to fight for Keepers’ freedom—for his freedom.
“Ready?” Father stepped away from the house.
A lump grew in my throat and I steeled my will. If a situation called for me to kill a man, I must not hesitate. “Do . . . do you think I ought to have my mask for a night like this?”
“That takes training and we don’t have the time. Besides, being maskless keeps you safe from capture.”
I clamped down on my irritation. “How so?”
“Because masks show one color. Igniters are identified through their blood—or through observing them controlling multiple colors. When Igniters hunt a Keeper, they slice their arm open. Igniters have strings of White Light in their blood. For Keepers—and all other people—there is one color. Red. Plain. And, in the minds of Igniters . . . guilty. But the Igniters won’t attack those without a mask—you pose no profit for them. You are viewed as neutral.”
That couldn’t be the lone reason he continued to deny me my mask. “I don’t want to be neutral. I’m a Keeper. I want to stand for my beliefs like you.”
“Then do so with what you have. For now, you have safe blood and belt. And we need you alive.”
I swallowed hard and wiped my palms on my breeches. “I’m ready.”
“Then let’s go, soldier.”
The lump in my throat only grew as we stepped out the servant’s entrance and onto the damp streets. October rain was kind to no man. Small drops spit on my forehead, not quite rain, but more than mist. Father set out at a swift pace, keeping to the shadows the way a squirrel navigated the branches of a willow. If I looked away for one minute, I’d lose him and his Black mask to the night.
A quarter of an hour in and I could see why Catesby recruited my father, why the Spanish army promoted him, and why Wintour took him on an embassy to King Philip.
I mimicked his footsteps, but where he was silent, I was panting. Where he was invisible, my face caught the shine of moonlight. Where he was still, my sword clanked against
stone.
He finally slowed and held up a fist to stop me. We were at the Tower of London. The cruelest and most renowned place of torture and imprisonment known in England. It rose upon its hill like an unslain dragon.
“They bring Keepers here at all hours of the bell,” Father said in an undertone. “Igniters will turn in a Keeper for less than a shilling and the guards will hang them to make a profit. The Keepers never defend themselves. That is true courage.”
My fist pressed against my side. “How could people do such a thing?”
“Igniters believe that for each Keeper that dies, one person is cured of the plague.” Father’s hand touched my wrist. I looked at him, but he pointed ever so slightly toward an alley. Shadows moved. I backed against the wall and gripped the hilt of my sword. Draw only if attacked, Father said. Fists were more efficient and left less blood.
The shadows formed into two people. Two men whom I had seen once before in an alley assaulting Emma. The shorter of the two had a scar along his cheek, vaguely resembling a boot heel.
Good girl, Emma.
They approached the Tower guards, who straightened at their posts. The taller man handed over a tangle of color masks. “Their Keeper owners will be delivered at first bell by cart.”
“How many?” a guard asked.
“Six.” Scar Face pointed to the bundle of masks. “Count ’em.”
The guard lifted them to the light. They clacked against each other, so he sifted through them. Two Brown masks, three Blue—one of which seemed very feminine—and a Green.
A Green mask with a vine pattern I’d recognize anywhere.
Norwood’s.
I didn’t realize a gasp had slipped through my lips until a guard shouted and Father yanked me down a lane. Through shadows and dark alleys. Under awnings and past sputtering window candles. We ran until I no longer knew what street squelched underfoot. My heart pounded and my head spun.
Norwood. That was Norwood’s mask. He’d been caught. He was about to be imprisoned.
Father pressed me against the wall of an empty cooper shop. “Can you not follow the simplest instructions? We need silence.” He ran a hand through his hair. “We should still be able to intercept the delivery.”