Down: Trilogy Box Set (117 page)

“Here, let me do that for you,” she said.

“I’d appreciate the help,” he said, handing his trousers over.

“This rather feels like
I’m a Celebrity…Get Me Out of Here
,” she said.

“I’m not familiar with that.”

“It’s one of those dreadful reality shows,” George Lawrence said. “Minor celebrities sent off to the jungle. One gets voted off every week.”

Bitterman grunted. “You can go ahead and vote me off first. I won’t be offended.”

“If it were only that easy,” Smithwick said.

“So what’s our play?” Lawrence asked.

Trotter had finished his wardrobe repairs and was lying on his back on a lumpy, hay-filled mattress, staring at the high ceiling darkened by centuries of candle soot.

“Our play is survival,” Trotter said. “Mustn’t sugar coat it. We’ve got to offer something of value to these people. Otherwise we won’t be worth feeding.”

Bates shook his head. “I say we have a duty to escape, just like a prisoner of war. You heard what Quint said. We’ve got to get back to Dartford in case they mount a rescue attempt.”

“The odds of escape are too long,” Trotter said. “We’re hardly a fighting force. We’re a bunch of old farts and pencil-necks.” Cromwell had separated them from the three young and fit MI5 agents, squirreling them away elsewhere in the palace. “We need to convince them we’re indispensible.”

“Are we?” Smithwick asked.

“Maybe not us,” Trotter said, gesturing toward the scientists, “but perhaps they are.”

The large double-doors to the hall swung open and Cromwell entered with another man and several soldiers. Cromwell was a foot taller than Henry Cameron, the Duke of Suffolk. Cromwell was smoothly shaven, dark, and lean while Suffolk was short and stocky with an unruly white beard flecked with his last meal. Cromwell was given to austere robes. Suffolk, a seventeenth-century naval commander, still wore a showy version of his royal blue military tunic, complete with brass buttons.

Trotter got to his feet, convinced they had come to parley with him and he was not disappointed. They went straight for his bed. Cromwell ignored the other Earthers but Suffolk sniffed the air and rubbernecked the women.

Standing before Trotter, Cromwell said, “This is the Duke of Suffolk. He commands the king’s organs of war.”

Trotter extended a hand. Suffolk stared at it as if it were a rotting fish until Trotter withdrew it.

“I am told you are a spy,” Suffolk said. “I do not, as a rule, trust spies, not even my own.”

Trotter thrust out his chin. “I serve my monarch and my country. You are not my monarch and this is not my country so you are right to be suspicious of me. However, I do understand the nature of our circumstances. You can trust me to do what is required to assure the safety and well-being of my people.”

“Well said,” George Lawrence harrumphed.

“Please come with us,” Cromwell said to Trotter.

“Why?”

“I want to show you something.”

As the men left the hall, Brenda Mitchell saw that Suffolk was staring straight at her. She turned away until they were gone.

Most of the female scientists were between twenty and thirty years old. Chris Cowles, the deputy head of the magnets department, was only in her early fifties but that qualified her as the grand dame of the group. She was unmarried, shunned makeup and jewelry, and wore her hair in a sensible bob. She rose from her cot and sat beside Brenda as she seemed the worst off.

“You haven’t eaten,” Chris said. “The meat’s tough, a bit like a tasteless jerky, but the bread’s passable.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You need to keep up your strength.”

“Did you see the way that man looked at me?” Brenda asked.

“Yes. He was awful.”

Kelly Jenkins, another young woman said, “Like the villain in a really bad panto.”

Brenda smiled for the first time.

“Come on,” Chris said, “just a bit of bread.”

Brenda relented and Chris went to the food table to break off a crust. She delivered it with a cup of beer.

“Look after her,” Chris whispered to Kelly.

Kelly nodded but said, “Who’s going to look after me?”

Matthew came over and pulled Chris off to a corner.

“How’s she getting on?” he asked.

“She’s scared. All the ladies are.”

“The men too,” Matthew said.

“Brenda’s got more cause to be scared than the rest of us,” Chris said. “She’s young and she’s very attractive. God knows what the ratio of men to women is here? We’re all at risk but she’s especially vulnerable.”

“I’ll try our best to protect her.”

“I know you will, Matthew but you’re an excellent scientist. You’re not an action hero.”

“You haven’t seen me in a cape and Spandex,” he said.

“And I hope I never do. Can I ask you something?”

He nodded.

“I know we were told to say nothing, but did you tell your wife anything about what we were doing the past two months?”

“Honestly, no,” he said. “I took the secrecy seriously, but mainly I didn't want her to worry. You?”

“I told my fish everything.”

“I’m quite sure they won’t spill the beans but the authorities won’t be able to keep this quiet,” Matthew said. “Not with all of us missing, and not just us MAAC types. All the muckety-mucks over there. My wife’s made of strong stuff—you know about our son, right?”

She did. He was severely autistic.

“Well, she’ll be sick with worry about me, whether they tell her the truth or some cock and bull story. And she’ll be fretting that in the future she’ll have to take care of him on her own.”

“We’ll get home,” Chris said.

His sigh sounded more like a groan. “Emily will try to make it happen but I think what everyone’s been saying is right. MAAC’s made things too unstable. They’ll be shutting it down for good and we’ll be trapped.”

It meant nothing to Trotter but Suffolk understood the symbolism perfectly well and showed his displeasure with a fearsome scowl. Cromwell had led them to the king’s own apartment which he had appropriated for his own use. With Trotter deposited in a chair by the hearth, Suffolk joined Cromwell at the sideboard to fill his goblet with wine.

“I trust his majesty will not be best pleased to return and find you in his bed,” Suffolk whispered.

“On the off chance he does return, better to find his most loyal servant there than any other man,” Cromwell said.

“This country needs a king,” Suffolk said. “You are a talker, Cromwell. If the Russians and Germans invade, talk will not defeat them. I am a military man and thus a worthy king.”

“Remember well that you were only one among many military men before Norfolk met his demise and Henry chose to elevate you,” Cromwell said in an acid tone. “He could have just as easily elevated Oxford who I am sure is nipping at your heels. He has only had one chancellor for five hundred years. Did you hear me? Five hundred years. Now, this talker has some talking to do. Observe and enjoy my wine.”

Cromwell retrieved a cloth bundle, set it on the table before Trotter and parted the cloth to reveal a stack of books.

“I had these brought here from Hampton Court,” Cromwell said. “Do you know what they are?”

Trotter recognized them as three of the books John Camp had carried on his last journey to Hell.

“I did not bother with the Bible or the tales of that playwright, Shakespeare,” Cromwell said. “These are the volumes of interest.”

Trotter thumbed through them. They were books written during the heyday of the industrial revolution:
Blast Furnace Construction in America,
Steam Boilers, Engines and Turbines
, and
Bessemer Steel, Ores and Methods
. King Henry had understood their importance and so had Cromwell, but there had scarcely been time to exploit the knowledge they held.

“Why are you showing me these?” Trotter asked.

“I have tried to read them,” Cromwell said, “and though the words are of my native tongue, I cannot comprehend their meaning. I have showed them to men who are from more recent times but most of these men are dullards or men of good intellect who nevertheless cannot begin to fathom how to turn the words on a page into furnaces or boilers or good steel. We have many enemies. We need superior armaments and we need them quickly.”

“I too have had a look,” Suffolk said, dismissively. “Balderdash, if you ask me.”

“Well, I won’t be of any help,” Trotter said. “Not in my wheelhouse.”

Cromwell offered Trotter a cup of wine. He sipped at it, admiring its quality.

“I do understand these scientists from your realm are not makers of weapons,” Cromwell said. “Emily Loughty did explain this to us. Yet, the king maintained, and I do agree, that a latter-day scientist is better suited to make use of these books than any Heller to whom I have spoken.”

“What would you like from me?” Trotter asked.

“I require your cooperation. You must persuade your scientists to undertake the construction of these great furnaces. I do not mean them to partake in the physical work. I have laborers aplenty. Bricklayers, carpenters, forgers, men with strong backs who may be directed to implement their instructions. Persuade them, Master Trotter. It is far better for a man to render his service by his own accord than under threat of torture.”

“I usually prefer torture,” Suffolk said with a sick laugh.

Trotter had more wine while he mulled his response. “I believe I could make this happen,” he said, “but what would I receive in return?”

Cromwell smiled broadly, as if to acknowledge, I can work with this man. What he said was, “What do you want?”

“Well, let’s see. I’m not one for dormitory life. I’d like private rooms with decent furnishings. I’d like as much of this good wine as I can drink and food as good as you gentlemen eat. I’d like a servant or two to look after me and as much hot water for bathing as I want. And I’m not much of a lady’s man but I do like a woman every so often, usually a prostitute. I’m afraid there would be negative consequences if I forced myself upon one of mine. So I’d like a pick of your crème de la crème even if I have to plug my nose while I’m doing it.”

“Is that all?” Cromwell said.

“I might have other requests but that’s my list for now.”

“There is nothing in your demands I cannot provide,” Cromwell said.

“Then do we have a deal?” Trotter asked.

Suffolk interrupted. “Since this is the time to lay cards upon the table, there is something that I require.”

“And what might that be?” Cromwell asked with a withering glance.

“I want the pretty fair-haired woman for my own.”

“You mean Brenda?” Trotter asked.

Suffolk shrugged.

“Well, you’ve got a good eye, I’ll say that,” Trotter said, “but I’d be concerned that the other scientists would revolt.”

Cromwell commented that the duke’s carnal interests were not of paramount importance but Suffolk insisted he would have to be accommodated.

Trotter thought for a while and said, “I’ve got an idea how we might get her into your bed without losing the others. If I can make it happen do we have a deal?”

Suffolk nodded and Cromwell said, “I believe we do.”

When Trotter returned to the hall with the books under his arm he was swarmed by the others.

“What did he want?” Bates asked.

“Have a look at these,” Trotter said, laying the books on the serving table. “John Camp carried these with him as a bargaining chip a month ago. They’re impressed with the contents but don’t really know how to exploit them. I realize this is far afield to your expertise but with all the IQ points on tap, perhaps you can figure out how to at least give them the impression you can build these furnaces.”

“Tell me why we should help them?” Southwick demanded.

“It’s simple,” Trotter said. “They threatened to torture us into submission if we didn’t voluntarily cooperate.”

Matthew picked up the book on steel production and passed the other two to waiting hands. After most of the scientists had a gander Matthew gave the verdict. “Look, I doubt we can do much with these. I think we can understand the concepts well enough and the books do include illustrations and plans but none of us are industrial engineers.”

Campbell Bates slowly raised his hand. When no one noticed him he cleared his throat and added a polite, “Excuse me.”

“What is it?” Trotter asked.

“Actually, I have a degree in engineering.”

“Do you?” Lawrence asked.

“From MIT. I decided to go to law school instead of getting an engineering job and I wound up at the FBI after that. To call me a rusty engineer would be too kind, but maybe I could have a look.”

“Hurry up,” Trotter said, excitedly. “Let the man see the books.”

Cromwell was alone in his quarters preparing for bed. He had been a rather austere man in life and he was even more so now. His rooms were unadorned, his food plain, his wine watered. He had opted to reside in the king’s rooms for appearance sake, but had instructed the servants to remove Henry’s personal and decorative items. He slept alone, having lost interest in sex a very long time ago. He existed to work. If he could have ended his eternity in Hell by suicide he would have gladly done so but this was not an option for him or any of his brethren. So he worked. Henry had always been a demanding master and Cromwell was glad of that because there were always tasks to keep him occupied. But Henry was gone and he had hard choices to make. He had no desire to be king but if he did not secure the position, if Suffolk did, surely he would be a threat and would find himself in a rotting room, festering forever. No, he would have to act soon to seize the crown, and if Henry did return, he would have to convince him he was merely keeping the throne away from disloyal scoundrels.

He responded to a soft rap upon his door. His manservant informed him that the Earl of Surrey had arrived at Whitehall and needed to see him urgently. Cromwell stoked his weak fire with a small log and sat beside the hearth waiting.

Surrey was not a regular at court, preferring a countryside life of hunting and whoring, and Cromwell did not know him nearly as well as most of Henry’s noblemen. Yet he could immediately sense the man’s agitation; he was sweating profusely, his leggings mud-splattered from a hard gallop.