Father lifted his oars from the water and stiffened. I imitated him, my back to the bank. Were we preparing to dock, or had he seen someone? I wanted to turn and look, but not at the risk of sinking us.
Our cessation of oaring caused the boat to rotate parallel to the bank, controlled by the current. At first, I barely saw the shoreline. Then movement. A shadow. A person crouched over the water?
He didn’t seem to have noticed us, but the shape dipped a limb into the water. A thirsty beggar? At third morning bell?
Not even a dying beggar would dare drink Thames water.
In the silence of our held breaths, I caught a harsh whisper. Then our boat drifted deeper into the fog and the mysterious figure faded from view. We stayed silent for several more minutes, then Father resumed rowing. “Best to take it back tonight. No good risking delivery with a skulking figure at the water.”
We rowed back up to Catesby’s house, docked, and returned the barrels to his cellar. A wasted night. Once we informed Bates, I freed my voice and questions. “What was that person doing?”
“Who knows what the creatures of the night do?” Evasion. How ironic he would say that when he frequented the night streets.
“It sounded like color speech.”
“I heard nothing.” We both saw the same person, the same odd interaction with the water, yet Father seemed to hold no curiosity. I, on the other hand, wanted answers.
Igniter? Keeper? Spy? Was Father not at all worried about getting found out? Perhaps that person had been at the Thames every night, watching us, and we’d never seen him. After all, anyone could use the fog for covering as well as we did.
“We’ll stay at the Bear tonight.”
“No.” I quickened my pace. “If we stay at the Bear, that will be outside of our norm.” I looked to Father. “You walk the night as though you are made of shadow. I will follow you and we’ll get to the Whynniard house unseen.”
“I’m flattered by your faith in my stealth, but I think you overestimate me.”
“We’ll need to let the tunnelers know in the morning.” I chose not to comment on his humility. “If they make any noise with that person about, it could lead to inquiries.”
No argument. He led us away from the Bear. I tried to hide my surprise. He was trusting my judgment? Was I earning his respect? We crossed the shadowed London Bridge, evading a crying beggar who clutched a stone arm.
I slowed, but Father continued on with a low, “Soon, Thomas. All will be cured soon.”
My breath fogged before me as we breathed deeper from the brisk pace. I anticipated my warm bed, but not the early morning. Despite our late nights of rowing, we kept up the pretenses of Percy’s servants. I called Father “Johnson” when around others and he treated me like an underservant. I looked forward to the day this was all over and we had a Keeper on the throne.
Emma and the Monteagle household had returned from holiday last night. I’d have to face Emma for the first time since Norwood’s death. I wasn’t sure I could do it.
Father led us to the door of the Whynniard house as capably as I’d anticipated. I saw no sign of the cloaked figure. The house was dark and we left it that way as we climbed into our beds.
Morning brought in the diggers, one by one, during the bustle of dockworkers and street hawkers. First Wintour and then Keyes. Father and I descended into the basement where the wall panels sat to the side, revealing a gaping hole in the earth. The musty dirt smell filled my nostrils. A torch stuck out from a hole in the earthen wall.
Keyes came into view, walking up the tunnel with a crate of dirt. He dumped it into an empty barrel and then sneezed. A puff of dust shot from his red beard. He started when he saw us. “Bates told us you brought the powder back to Catesby’s.”
Father stepped into the tunnel and I followed. The tunnel sloped sharply downward, held up by thick wood framing every several feet. Wood beams rested in the dirt as makeshift steps down. A few bends in, we passed the collection of gunpowder barrels at knee height. Wintour wore his Brown mask and leaned against the wall at the end of the tunnel, a hand on his heaving chest.
He usually worked the tunnel at night because color power was much quieter than the slam of shovels and axes. But his short stature meant he was the most mobile in the tunnels too. So, unfortunately for him, he served the most shifts.
“We encountered a questionable character down the bank.” Father adjusted his mask. “We returned the powder to Catesby’s for the sake of caution. We’ll let them sit a few days before trying again. Meanwhile, keep aware of your comings and goings. If we are watched or suspected, that will be the end of us.”
Wintour tugged his mask down so it hung about his neck and wiped a sheen of sweat from his face. “Who was this person? An Igniter? A king’s man?”
“It was too dark and the mist too thick, but Thomas thinks he heard color speech.” So Father was placing stock in that. “If it was an Igniter, there’s no way of knowing what he was trying to command of the White Light.”
Wintour coughed into his arm. “Perhaps . . . we should stop for a few days.”
Father and I nodded, though I hated the idea of delaying the plot. It was almost Christmas and Parliament would be meeting in a mere seven weeks.
Wintour and Father headed up the tunnel, leaving me to douse the torches. I stared at the end of the tunnel—smooth, cleaned dirt after Wintour’s color administrations. I had not yet been instructed to pick up an ax or even carry a single crate of dirt out to the river. Gunpowder was my charge, but I envied Wintour. Even with his exhaustion and the cough that had recently arisen from breathing in so much dirt.
I wanted to dig. I wanted a mask that could move dirt in the name of a mighty and world-changing conspiracy. A mask no one could take from me. Not even an Igniter.
What had happened to Norwood’s mask? He didn’t live long enough for the Igniters to smash it and tar it to his face.
My frustration exploded and I slammed the dirt wall of the tunnel. My fist cracked in pain. I must have hit a rock. My knuckles smarted and grew red beneath the torchlight. I shook out my hand and my thoughts. I needed to keep my focus.
After dipping a rag in the bucket of dirty water beneath the torch, I smothered the fire. I forced down a drab breakfast of pottage, then grabbed my cloak.
Father met me at the door. “Stop by the smithy while you’re out today.” He passed me a slip of paper. “Your new sword should be ready.”
My hand stilled on its way to grab the note. “New sword?”
His gaze rested on the paper, not meeting mine. “I looked for yours on the streets, but someone must have snatched it. I’m sorry you lost it.”
I slid the note from his hand. “I am too. But you—”
He patted me on the shoulder. “See that it’s sharpened before the smithy gives it to you. And make sure it fits your scabbard.” He handed me my belt and scabbard.
I took it reflexively. “I—” Inhale. Try again. “Thank you, Father.” I barely squeezed out the words.
He’d put in an order for a new sword. For me.
“Happy Christmas.” He shut the door behind me, but I remained on the icy doorstep for a moment longer. My empty scabbard would be thankful to be filled again, particularly with the approach of Parliament. I secured the belt.
Once we blew up King James and kidnapped Princess Elizabeth, there would be much fighting. Now I was ready.
Before heading to the smithy, I walked along the Thames, casually examining the bank around the area where I thought we’d seen the cloaked figure. Too many footsteps had trampled the place for evidence and pigeons pecked at the soggy ground. Perhaps there was nothing to concern myself over.
But as I turned away—toward market—I caught a little peek of White in the grass. A stone maybe? I walked near and squatted. It was a small dagger with a handle of bone, stone, and a spot of red that looked like blood. The same type of dagger that the men in the alley had used to try to cut Emma.
&nbs
p; For some reason, the small weapon unnerved me. I remembered what Emma said so long ago in the alley—“You have no idea what color Compulsion they’ve put on it.”
I left it where it lay. If the mysterious person came looking for it again, I didn’t want him to somehow hunt me down for it.
I headed along Bridge Street to Parliament Street and then right at Charing Cross. That put me out at the Strand—the road where Monteagle’s city home rested. Where Henry wanted to meet with Father. They were still residing up in Hoxton until after the holidays. I dreaded when the entire family moved to their Strand house. It was so close to the Whynniard house. It would be harder to hide. I would always be looking over my shoulder.
Their Strand house looked dark. Curtains drawn, interior dark.
Might it stay that way.
The market bustled with the thrill of Christmas four days off. Pine boughs decorated doorframes. Booths overflowed with bright fabrics, carved wooden children’s masks, boxes with cloth bows, fresh bread, baubles for women’s ears, necks, and fingers. I had not even considered getting Father anything.
The best gift I could give him was a dead king.
I reached the smithy, and when he handed me the rapier, I could barely take it past the surprise stiffening my muscles. While the sword was sturdy and practical, the handle was woven black and white and the name Fawkes engraved on the hilt. That must have doubled its cost. It wasn’t needed, yet Father did it anyway.
I placed the new sword carefully in its scabbard. It fit perfectly.
The other market stalls hawked wares and reeled in the women-folk. Items twirled in the air—ribbons, cloths, handkerchiefs, baskets—obeying the color commands of their Igniter owners, trying to catch the eye of a shopper. Was it only last spring when I saw Emma and her daffodils? That had been before I knew what she was and what she supported.
The memory reminded me of how we ended up at the hanging where she cared more for the colored boy than she did for the three Keepers. She condoned their hanging without a word, and I’d dared to humiliate myself by helping her with the boy—not that I regretted it.
I had let myself enjoy her company. I didn’t hate her . . . I just wished she wasn’t what she was.
As though summoned by my thoughts, the Brown mask with a white flower interrupted the sea of shoppers.
There she was. Facing me. Staring. My heart thundered. I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready to see her yet.
The moment she took a step toward me, I turned away.
“Wait, Thomas!”
But I quickened my pace, then ducked behind a market stall and doubled back. I glanced over my shoulder. She faced away from me, on her tiptoes, to peer above the swollen crowd. I left the market.
What could she possibly want? I had nothing to offer her other than completing her errands and escorting her home.
But I wasn’t working for her guardian today.
She had no hold over me.
I took a new route back to the Whynniard house—cutting through St. James’s Park. When I entered, no one was home. With all the people shopping and meeting and walking along the streets in preparation for Christmas, it was too risky to try tunneling or moving gunpowder and dirt. The other plotters were out shopping themselves, sending gifts to their ignorant families who were unaware that, should the plot go awry, this could be their last Christmas.
I managed to post a small note to Grandmother and Grandfather, though I still felt bitter over their actions at my Color Test. Still, they raised me and I didn’t want to commit treason without showing them some amount of forgiveness—as much as I could muster at least. For my own sake.
I hung up my cloak and ventured down to the basement. The planks were in place, covering the entrance of the tunnel. I could dig. No one was home. I could make progress in the tunnel and they’d have less work to do once Christmas passed. They couldn’t fault me for that. I would work quietly.
I slipped upstairs to shed my shirt and boots. I tossed them by my bed, but as I headed back toward the stairs, a form passed by the window. It was barely dusk, but dark enough for the figure to hide in the shadows.
I hurried to the window and pressed my face against the glass in time to catch the wisp of a cloak as the person inched around the corner of the house . . . toward the back garden and the bank of the Thames.
Proper visitors did not go to the back. Neither did any of the conspirators. I unsheathed my new sword and ran to the garden door, keeping the fall of my bare feet as light as possible. This could be the person Father and I saw on the bank of the Thames. Someone knew about our plot.
I strode to the back door. There was no time to waste—the snooper could be in the house any moment or discovering all manner of things by peeping in windows. I threw open the garden door and leapt out, sword first.
Movement to my left.
I swung to face him and my sword flew out of my hand as though wrenched by the blade. I ducked in case he had his own weapon, but before I could regain my bearings and land a punch, a voice—a female voice—shouted, “Thomas!”
I stumbled back and finally took in the figure in front of me.
Emma.
My adrenaline transformed to anger. She must have seen it in my face because she took a step backward. I snatched my sword from the ground, shoved it into my scabbard, and then grabbed her by the arm. “Blast you, Emma! Are you out of your mind?”
I pulled her away from the garden and toward the front door. My bare feet burned from the frozen earth. She squirmed, but I didn’t relent. Then she yanked her arm away so hard, it threw me off balance. “Let go of me.”
I rounded on her. “What are you doing here?” As I finally faced her, I noticed the differences in her appearance. Her clothes hung like tattered drapes instead of elegant fittings and her usually curled dark hair looked disheveled and almost black beneath her cloak hood.
“I was calling on you, you lout!” Being held at sword point hadn’t shaken her ability to stand her ground. “How was I to know you’d be”—she gestured to my torso—“half-naked?”
I glanced down at my bare chest. Good thing my face was already hot from anger. It hid the embarrassment. I fumbled for something else to say. To distract. “How did you disarm me?” I hated admitting I’d been bested in swordplay by a woman, but if any woman were to do so, it would be Emma.
“I used a Grey command.”
I ran a hand through my hair. “Blasted White Light.”
She breathed deep through her nose as though steeling herself. For some reason I got the impression she was waiting for more of a reaction. Well, I wasn’t about to succumb to White Light talk.
“You need to leave. Wait—did you follow me?” A gust of wind caused my muscles to tense. I folded my arms for warmth. She needed to get out of here, I needed to go back inside, and we needed to never speak again.
“Yes.”
“Were you trying to sneak in?” What if Father returned and saw her? Or worse . . . Percy?
“No! I went to the back door because you are a servant. And when no one answered the front door, I thought I could inquire after you at the kitchen.”
Little did she realize there was no kitchen. Just a one-room flat with two doors and a cellar filled with gunpowder.
Shivers made my words clipped. “What do you want with me? Why not wait until I show up to do your bidding tomorrow? Why, when you ignored me at school, do you suddenly follow and irritate the plagued maskless boy?” I wanted her to grow angry, to be insulted and stomp away.
But she placed a gloved hand on my arm. “Thomas.” The kindness and caution in her voice stilled me. “I’m sorry about Norwood.”
My jaw clenched so hard it discharged a headache in my temples. “How . . .” I licked my dry lips. “How could you possibly know about Norwood?”
She hung her head. “I wrote him too. I knew he was coming to London to visit you. Henry had been in contact with—with the Tower guards.”
“You two talked
about me?” Disgust, hot and thick, coated my throat. My friendship with Norwood invaded. By Emma. An Igniter.
Did she know he was a Keeper?
“He said I could trust you.” The wind almost carried her soft words away before I could catch them. “But I’m not sure. I’m not sure he ever saw the Thomas that I’m seeing now—afraid. Selfish. Evasive.” She lifted her chin. “Stone cold.”
Something inside me twisted at her words.
“If I didn’t know any better, Thomas Fawkes, I’d say your heart is what’s infected. Much more than your eye.”
“What would you know of infection?” I scoffed. “Go home, you china doll.”
She only laughed—cold and emotionless like Henry would do at St. Peter’s. Then she left.
Good riddance.
I could no longer feel my arms or feet, but I managed to stumble back into the Whynniard house. I stomped into the basement and tore the planks from the front of the tunnel mouth. Grabbing a pickax, I removed my sword and stalked into the darkness. Then I attacked the wall of dirt with everything I had until sweat poured down my spine.
Until my hands blistered and tore.
Until blood slithered down my forearms.
Plain. Red. Blood.
I didn’t stop.
Twenty
21 December 1604
I woke to a blurry world. My good eye burned, but when I went to rub it, my hands seared. What was going on? I blinked rapidly and the raw blisters on my palms came into focus. Then I recalled digging all night.
Light shone through the small window by the door. What time was it?
I sat up, but the room spun. I blinked my good eye and felt my eye patch. It was as secured as when Emma first commanded it to adhere to my face. The dizziness increased and I groped for a bed-post. I must not have gotten as much sleep as I thought.
My stomach roiled and a knife of pain sliced into my skull. Throbbing behind my eyes.
Blast it all, I’d allowed myself to become ill. Probably from the damp nights of rowing and then my talk with Emma out in the winter air without proper attire. It was my day to serve the Monteagle house, but if this headache continued . . .