“Our pleasure.” Father gestured to the items in the cart. “Is this all being sold?” Now that I was closer, I caught the barrels and piles of soot-blackened kitchen materials.
“No, just cleared out a bit.” One man removed his Blue mask and wiped his brow.
“Who owns the undercroft?”
The man shrugged. “The current tenant is a man named Skinner. But he doesn’t live here much.” He headed back inside with his partner. After a moment, Father followed, so I did too.
Descending into the undercroft felt reminiscent of the London tunnels—dark, void of warmth, pressing upon me. It was an open space with arches along every wall and thick stone pillars in two lines down the center. If my bearings were correct, we currently stood beneath Parliament. Our collapsed tunnel was supposed to end beneath my feet.
Stone floor, rock ceiling with wide wooden beams at six-foot intervals. One wall was all brick to accommodate a fireplace. The giant hallway seemed to have served as a kitchen at one time. Now the place was a mixture of muck and dust. The fireplace looked as though it hadn’t been used in years.
Father removed his hat and examined the ceiling. “This is quite a space.”
“Aye,” said the Blue. “Seventy-seven feet long an’ twenty-four feet wide. Good for storage, but not fer livin’ if ye ask me. Still, some tenants use it for lodging.”
Before I’d even processed his statement, Father bowed and steered me out. “Thank you, sirs.” We returned to our apartment via a roundabout route so the workers wouldn’t see us.
Once the door closed behind us, Father hurried to our cellar where Wintour and Jack sat eating a dinner of bread and cheese. “The undercroft beneath Parliament is being emptied,” he said.
Wintour tore a chunk of bread away from the loaf and popped it into his mouth. His broken mask rested on his knee, a thick brown paste over the crack, half-dried. “Who’s the tenant?”
“Some man named Skinner, but he doesn’t seem to use it much. Perhaps we could make an offer to the owners that would make it ours.”
Jack’s eyes brightened. “Then we’d need not finish the tunnel. We could move the gunpowder straight into the undercroft.” His breath quickened. “If we let that undercroft, the plot cannot fail.”
“Precisely,” Father said.
Wintour leapt to his feet, barely catching his mask from falling. “Jack and I will take the word to Catesby. Guy, go tell Percy at Gray’s Inn. We may not have enough coin for new gunpowder, but we should have enough coin for a lease. All we need now is a convincing reason for letting the place.” He swept his hat onto his head and they hurried out of the cellar.
As Father passed me, he whispered, “I believe you’ve had another sign.”
Why didn’t that comfort me the way it seemed to comfort him?
6 February 1605
“March twenty-fifth.” Catesby paced in his sitting room.
The rest of us—except for Jack, who was late—hovered as near to the fireplace as we could. Despite Catesby’s wealth of knowledge, he had barely enough coin to heat the place.
“That is when we will make the offer on the undercroft. During the Lady’s Day masquerade.” He scanned our group. “Percy, have you come up with an excuse to lease the place?”
Percy polished the Red mask on his belt. “I will say my wife is coming up to London to join me. And she needs lodging.”
“And which wife might that be?” Jack stepped from the darkened hallway, his question colder than the frost on the lattice window. His brother, Kit, hung in the shadows behind him.
The room went silent. The fire popped. Even Catesby—our leader of golden words—stood mute.
Percy’s mouth opened and closed several times. “It is the reason that matters.”
Jack’s fingers toyed with the hilt of his sword, but his anger seemed to run so deep that it seeped out in a pool of deadly calm. “I just want to know, should the landlord ask you the name of your wife, which name you shall give. Our sister’s or the wench you wed when you abandoned Martha.”
Father’s head snapped to stare at Percy. “What’s this?”
Percy’s face reddened. He had two wives? My gut twisted. When he didn’t answer, Jack persisted. “Or have you a third I’ve yet to learn about?”
Catesby raised a hand. “As hard as it may be, this plot goes above personal matters. Deal with this dispute in your own time, but do not let it escalate to a duel. We need you both.” He was the only one who could have spoken those words without being attacked by the three steaming men.
Jack’s hand slid off his hilt, but the battle had already been played out. No one would meet Percy’s eyes.
Murderer. Adulterer. And we were supposedly on the same side.
“Guido will continue the guise of John Johnson—Percy’s servant—and be the one to secure the lease.” Catesby trundled on, despite the remaining tension. “Percy will attend the masquerade to perform his duties as the king’s guard. Thomas will attend as his servant.”
I started. “Me? Attend a masquerade?” I looked up to find Catesby staring intently. “But . . . I’m plagued.”
“You will be wearing a cloth mask for the dance. No one will see your plague, and we need a servant who can observe nobility from the shadows.”
I stood in a daze as they finalized the other plans—who would meet with the landlord, how much to offer, what to do if they refused, and so on.
But all I could think was that I was being sent to a masquerade in the king’s palace. I would be in the same room as King James. I would see the man who was perpetuating this war and oppressing Keepers.
I pictured the king—dressed in layers of colored cloth, lounging behind a table of delicacies with Igniters from the gentry fawning over him. I imagined him signing decrees that exiled and executed Keepers.
If I was as inconspicuous as Catesby said I would be . . . why not simply kill the king on my own? In fact, why not turn this masquerade into an assassination?
Twenty-Three
Lady’s Day
25 March 1605
I could smell the gossip.
The thrill seeped through my stiff masque attire as Percy and I approached the Palace of Whitehall. The king’s residence. Though the palace was less than a mile from the Whynniard house, this was my first time getting close enough to tangle my nerves.
The palace was a city in itself. Percy and I approached through St. James’s Park, which had recently opened to the public. King James had improved upon the old deer park and populated it with all manner of new decorations. Percy and I passed a man leading an elephant. At one point I saw a camel and even heard someone claim to have spotted crocodiles.
We passed aviaries and I gawked at the exotic birds, preening feathers more colorful than Emma’s paint palette. Ahead, the sunset cast shadows that caused the palace buildings to seem twice as tall. Like sentinels guarding the king. Watching us.
Lines of English elm trees marked a strolling path to our right. A few masquers walked arm in arm along it, sporting elaborate gowns and emblazoned cloth masques, near identical to the one tied to my face. Color masks remained at home this night—not for costume’s sake, but by the king’s decree save those with special pardon.
King James was right to be paranoid.
Ahead rose the four-towered gatehouse—Holbein Gate—the greenish-grey stone boasting its authority over the lesser structures. Red roofs sat like crowns upon the buildings’ stone bodies.
Percy pointed to our left as we entered the world of nobles and kings. “Those are the Horse Guard barracks.” The barracks rose above horse stables with lit windows on every floor and a tall grey bell tower.
To our right, we passed the Olde Stair Café. Then we were consumed by the crowd’s madness, entering a narrow lane that forced everyone together like water from a tributary. Attendees gulped deeply from the flood of chatter.
“Did you know?” one guest tittered to another. “King James and Queen Anne employed Ben J
onson and the great architect Inigo Jones to design the masque.”
“No. He’s returned from Italy?”
“The very one.”
“And Jonson only recently started performing again after killing his fellow actor in that duel.”
“How thrilling!”
The excitement sent its own perfume over the masquers. Percy took his place at the gate with other guards, inspecting guests as they arrived. If he found an assassin sneaking in, would he let him pass? It would be a relief to allow someone else to do the job for us.
As enticing as it had been to dream of killing King James on my own, I knew it would not be considered a success in the grand scheme of the plot. We needed to cripple England, to shake the Igniters, to cause chaos through which Keepers could rise to leadership.
If the goal had been to kill King James, Percy would have done it by now. And if fire-hearted Percy could stay his hand, so could I.
I explored the courtyard with my eye. Endless yards of blue fabric flowed down the steps leading into the court. That cloth alone must’ve cost several months’ wages. The blue coloring grew deeper and darker as it disappeared into the court, inviting masquers to enter a magical land.
Bubbles of all colors floated in the air, swirling around guests and then zipping off to land on someone else. I scanned the courtyard for the masked who might be controlling them but saw none.
“Alchemists, architects, Igniters, and masques . . . What an era we are in!” someone squealed.
I shifted my feet, waiting for Percy to finish his rounds of inspection.
A voice whispered in my ear, “Don’t tell me you’re spending the whole evening out in the cold. I want a dance.”
I spun. A flowing silver gown slipped away into the crowd. I couldn’t see her face, but the voice—and the relaxed yet elegant posture—betrayed her identity.
Emma.
Her event masque covered her entire face and neck—all black, but with a white rose over one eye. Her deep brown-black curls were gathered over one shoulder and had cloth flowers woven into them like a new garden springing from fresh-turned soil.
She glanced over her shoulder at me when she reached the bottom of the stairs. And I did the most unmanly thing that could have possibly accosted my reflexes.
I waved.
I dropped my hand—even wiped it on my doublet as though that would return some honor to me—but I still caught her giggle.
Then she took the arm of another man.
He wore deep purple and a painted cloth masque of flames. His lifted chin and cocky stature told me all I needed to know. Henry Parker. I recalled my last conversation with him. He’d said Emma was spoken for. Was he trying to claim her?
Emma walked tall. Maybe she didn’t mind. Henry Parker had an honorable title and they did look quite regal together.
Percy and I stayed outside another half hour. Then a man with skin painted completely black, wearing a net across his bare chest and a flowing tangle of blue-and-yellow cloth about his waist, appeared at the top of the stairs.
“Let the masquerade begin.” His booming voice was met with shrieks from women who had lingered outside. They scrambled up the steps, some tripping in their haste—like chickens racing after a worm.
The bubbles in the air drifted to the ground and remained there for a full minute before popping one by one, like candles going out.
Percy and I took up the rear. We entered the court as a man hollered from a balcony, “May I present—the Masque of Blackness.”
I stood on the sidelines, squeezing behind a few huddled bodies. The torches dimmed throughout the court and an awed hush settled over the audience. I barely caught sight of men in the balconies above—wearing their color masks.
Then shadow consumed them.
The room hushed, but my nerves hummed. I couldn’t help but get caught up in it, freeing myself from the all-consuming thoughts of the plot.
A tiny light came from the opposite end of the hall—a single lamp flame. It grew and grew, until I was sure the wall was on fire. The blue cloths that had been on the outer steps swarmed through the doors, past my feet, and into the court, slithering like flood-water until the entire floor was covered like a giant sea.
The cloths roiled and writhed. The first lamp resumed a regular height of flame. A second lamp illuminated a small false forest on one end of the court, with a shore of creamy silk pouring into the blue sea.
In the center of the court rested an enormous concave shell. It rocked back and forth, tossed by the sea. People in elaborate costumes stood inside the shell—all blackened with paint.
Like the boy I saved.
But it didn’t create the same intrigue as his natural, smooth dark skin. These painted bodies looked almost comical—or disturbing, as though they’d been dipped in tar but not feathered. The memory of the black boy snapped me out of the moment and I swept a glance over the room until I found her.
Emma stood still as a statue, tracking the giant shell as the cluster of “Negro” masquers sailed to Britannia. Blue-skinned masquers—Oceanian torchbearers—wore flowing sea green and led the shell, navigating the sea with their bare feet.
I found Emma far more interesting than the masque production. Even when the Negroes left their shell and stepped foot on Britannia’s shore and their dark skin miraculously turned pale, I couldn’t tear my gaze from her.
She stood ramrod straight. Henry leaned over and whispered something to her. Her hands fisted at her sides.
The crowd’s applause startled me. Three men bowed in the center of the room. An announcer said, “Ben Jonson, the author of the masque; Inigo Jones, the architect; and John Dee, the renowned alchemist.”
Dee bowed the lowest, his parti-colored mask shining beneath the newly lit torches like a jester’s motley. I’d never seen a mask like his—with an even streak of every color crisscrossing his face. What did that mean? What was his strongest color?
“And, of course, my lovely wife . . . my Annie,” King James added. One of the elaborate women stepped out of the seashell, curtsied, and joined him on the dais.
King James wore no mask, so I could see the full force of his adoration as he took his wife’s hand. I could see his groomed pointed beard, the crinkles at his eyes, the movement of his neck ruff as he whispered something to the queen.
I looked away. His actions made him seem human. Even kind.
A short, stooped man spoke to the king and then the music began. A foreign phenomenon filled me—an emotion I couldn’t place. The most music I’d heard was a single harpsichord that Grandmother played. But here there were lutes, trumpets, bandoras, wooden flutes, spinets . . . an orchestra of the soul.
The masquers performed a practiced dance before anyone else was free to join. I looked back to Emma’s spot by the wall. Her comment about us dancing must have been in jest. I couldn’t join the floor. Even with my masque covering my plague, my livery declared me a servant.
But she and Henry weren’t among the dancers.
“Start mingling, Thomas,” Percy said in an undertone as he passed me by. “Hover around Dee. I want to know more about him.” Then he was lost in the shuffle of linen and magic. Dee? Ah, the parti-color–masked alchemist. Of course. His color power alone commanded the production—a good man to observe.
I moved to a corner of the room where a cluster of fawning admirers surrounded Dee. The traverse was easy. People didn’t move for me, but neither did they stare. For once I looked like everyone else. Masqued and natural.
No one saw my plague.
No one saw my patch.
I was invisible.
Dee lifted his mask—revealing the wrinkled face of an old man. An old man who kissed the hand of every adoring lady and bowed thanks as profusely as a servant with a spring along his spine. He seemed too ancient to be responding in such a manner—like an aged grandfather flirting with other men’s granddaughters.
“How long are you here for?” one woman simpered.
r /> “I live in London, madam. Mortlake.”
“How have we not seen you at court before?” asked another, shielding her flowered masque with a fan flutter. Her flirtation wasn’t even subtle. And he was thrice her age! Surely none of these women actually wanted to marry the old corpse.
Then again, if he was swimming in power . . .
“I recently returned from my post as warden of Color College in Manchester.” His attention flicked to me for a breath. “Excuse me, ladies, I must speak with the king.”
They parted for him, but as he passed me his eyes fixed on my masque. They narrowed. What did he see? I was hidden beneath cloth and string.
Then a single word slipped from his lips, almost a whisper, as he glided past. “Plague?”
Chills deluged my skin. He couldn’t know that. My face was covered. I checked my masque. How could he know? Had it spread?
He slipped into the crowd, attending to a new group of admirers.
“Did you know he lived in London?” a woman asked the lady next to her, her former awe turned to the harsher tone of gossip.
“He must have returned after the death of his wife and daughters.”
“They died?” Gossip One gasped, a hand fluttering to her throat. “How?”
“Plague,” said Gossip Two.
A somber hum fell over the ladies as if they were paying respects to the dead. Then Gossip Two pulled out an extra juicy piece of meat for the hounds. “Plague claimed his first two wives as well.”
“Three wives?” Gossip One shook her head. “That man sounds cursed.”
“I heard the king didn’t even want him here tonight. Dee is old news.”
“Poor man. At least he never got the plague.”
“Not anywhere we can see.” And then the women shuffled off in a fit of giggles.
A commotion from the garden doors drew my attention as Henry reentered the court, seemingly in a huff. He straightened his jacket and checked his hair, then put on a charming smile, so forced that his cheeks crinkled against the cloth of his masque. Where was Emma?