The Royal Sorceress (43 page)

It had been years since he’d stood in the Houses of Parliament, long before he’d left Master Thomas and joined the underground. The public were not allowed into the building, a measure that was supposed to be for the MPs protection, but was actually to prevent the public from seeing just how many backroom deals were made between the commons and the lords. What did the unease of one’s constituents matter when there was a peerage to be had? Peers were not allowed to sit within the House of Commons, but far too many peers had risen up
from
the House of Commons. And peers didn’t have to be elected.

He kicked down the door that lead into the Commons Chamber and marched inside. It was almost exactly as he remembered; two long rows of benches for the MPs, a large and ornate chair for the Speaker and a set of tables in the centre of the room. It was strange to reflect on how the home of the British Empire was probably the freest country in the world, but still kept most of its population in bondage. That would change, he promised himself, and the revolution would soon be exported to Europe. Jack had no illusions about
why
the French had supported him – unrest in Britain would make it harder for the British to prevent the French from realising their designs on the Ottoman Empire – but they were in for a nasty shock. The movement had been international for years. Jack would see the French peasants and the Russian serfs liberated in his lifetime.

The Speaker rose from his chair to challenge Jack, showing no small amount of bravery. Martin Pathway was old, old enough to remember the American Revolution and George III’s slide into madness. He was an elderly man wearing a long white wig and his robes of office; by law and custom, the Speaker was meant to be politically neutral. Pathway had been no better than many of his predecessors; he’d taken bribes, allowed himself to be pressured and almost certainly promised a peerage if he didn’t upset Lord Liverpool too much. Even if he retired without a peerage, he would have enough money to live a life of luxury.

“This place is untouchable,” he said, harshly. His voice echoed oddly in the vast chamber, where MPs practiced their oratory and pledged themselves to support the government, rather than upholding the interests of the people. “You have...”

“You have sat too long for any good you have been doing,” Jack said. Oliver Cromwell had said the same, back during the time when Parliament had run the country. Cromwell had had the perfect opportunity to rid Britain of hereditary peers and create a new republic, but he’d failed. Jack would not fail. “In the name of God, go!”

His men filed in behind him and took the MPs and their Speaker into custody. Some of them offered a violent protest, only to be slapped down into silence. One of the underground chambers was large enough to hold most of the prisoners and Jack ordered the MPs taken there and separated from their assistants. The assistants were traitors, just like the ones who had fought to defend the Houses of Parliament, but maybe they could be induced to switch sides. Or perhaps they were junior politicians serving the MPs in preparation for their own rise to Parliament.

Jack waited until the chamber was empty and then looked around, unsure of his own feelings. He’d won, he told himself. Whatever happened afterwards, the country would not forget the day that the people had risen up and cleared the Houses of Parliament of the corrupt men who had exploited them for their own purposes. And yet...he’d planned the rebellion for so long that he was unsure of what to do next. He’d won the city, perhaps the entire country – and now began the harder part of the task. The hard work of government lay ahead.

He walked through the connecting passage and into the House of Lords. Someone had turned it into a chamber for the dead, stacking up bodies like logs of wood. Jack recognised a couple of faces, including a Lord whose tastes in women matched those of the late unlamented Lord Fitzroy. No one would mourn him, particularly his children. A man with enough power and clients could even get away with incest. Jack had little faith in God – religion seemed only to keep the masses quiet, with rebellion termed a mortal sin – but there were times that he prayed that there was a God, and a Hell. Lord Fitzroy would be violated by devils for eternity.

Walking down the steps, he saw the prisoners lying on the ground. A handful had objected and had rapidly been knocked into silence. The Lords seemed shocked by the sudden change in their fortunes, although a handful looked as if they were trying to see how the situation could be turned to their advantage. A group of bishops had been gagged. Jack guessed that they’d been trying to uphold the dignity of the Church to men who had found themselves forced to give some of their hard-earned money to the Church, while their wives and families starved for lack of food, or froze for lack of heat. Jack recognised a handful of the noblemen and smiled at the fear in their eyes when they saw him. They all knew who he was and what he’d done when he’d been a rebel. What would he do now that he effectively ran the country?

Shaking his head, he walked back outside and lifted himself into the air. The Tower of London was only a short flight away – and it had been taken by his men. A number of Wardens sat outside, their hands tied behind their backs; the dead had been piled up outside the castle and abandoned. Jack made a mental note to insure that the bodies were cremated before the end of the day. The fear and hatred of necromancy wouldn’t change even if his government secured the entire empire without further ado.

Davy had set up his headquarters in one of the chart rooms that had once housed the most elaborate collection of maps in the British Empire. Mapping was an important skill, as Lord Nelson had amply demonstrated during the invasion of Cuba, thirty years ago. The thought made him smile. Lord Nelson hadn’t been taken prisoner yet and part of him hoped that the naval hero was safe outside the city. He was a genuinely popular hero and holding him prisoner might swing public opinion against Jack’s government. The same couldn’t be said of Lady Emma, whom the country considered an embarrassment, or their lovechild. Horatia Nelson had married a clergyman and had little contact with her famous father.

“We have the city,” Davy said, as Jack stopped on the other side of the table. A map of London had been spread out and Davy was marking it, aided by a small army of scribes and messengers. The scribe guilds loathed their lords and masters with just as much intensity as many of the other guilds and had been happy to pledge their support. Besides, the scribes had done good work in bringing reading and writing to the masses. “The last bodies of organised troops have been surrounded or destroyed.”

Jack glanced down at the map. London was a vast sprawling metropolis, holding upwards of five
million
human beings. They’d risen up against the government – aided and abetted by Jack’s men – but they’d all expect a new heaven and a new earth. Simply feeding so many mouths would be a daunting task; Jack had given priority to taking and securing the warehouses that held stored grain and other foodstuffs. Even so, London depended on vast amounts of food being brought into the city from the surrounding farms. Someone with a combination of intelligence and ruthlessness – Lord Mycroft, for one – could reduce London to starvation quite quickly.

“Good,” he said. “Get organised patrols running through the entire city; I don’t want anyone using the chaos as an opportunity to loot and rob their fellow citizens. And then start recruiting people for the army. We have enough weapons in the Tower to outfit a much larger force...what about defences?”

“Ruddy is already supervising the barricades,” Davy informed him. “The walls of London won’t offer much resistance if they bring the army...”

Jack nodded, sourly. London had never been heavily defended since the Restoration. It had always struck him as short-sighted, but maybe the authorities had had a point after all. Or maybe not; the French had persisted in their plans for invasion for the last hundred years and had never given up on the dream. If all the talk about new ironclads proved to be more than a fool’s dream, the vast wooden ships of the Royal Navy would be rendered obsolete overnight. And then the French would have their long-awaited opportunity to land in Britain...

“Make sure that we have scouts out on all the approaches,” he warned. Ruddy knew more about the military and Davy was a great organiser, but he still found it hard to relax and let them work their magic. The entire revolution rested on his shoulders. “They may try to bring in men from Scotland or even Ireland.”

“There were reports of uprisings in Manchester and Liverpool,” Davy said. “The toffees may have other problems then just London.”

Jack shook his head. “London isn’t just the capital – it’s the seat of their power,” he said. “As long as they’re in exile from London, they look weak. They have to come and smash us first.”

He shrugged. The Irish had risen up before, but had then lost their chance to become an independent nation because they’d started to fight each other, allowing the English a chance to rebuild and reassert their control over Ireland. But it also served as a reserve for the British Army, with several regiments based permanently on the Emerald Isle. Public opinion was strongly against a standing army, yet it was also in favour of keeping the Irish firmly in their place. It was a delicate balancing act; Lord Stafford was far from the only politician whose career had run aground on Ireland.

“Do you have the lists of prisoners?” He asked. “How many of the bastards do we have alive?”

Davy’s smile widened. “We have one very special prisoner,” he said. “We caught him before he could make it to Hampton Court. And I believe that he’s looking forward to talking with you.”

Jack lifted an eyebrow. He’d hoped – prayed – that they’d take one very specific nobleman, but his plans hadn’t rested on it. “Good,” he said. “Where is he?”

“We put him in the traitor’s rooms,” Davy said. “We would have put him in the cells upstairs, but no one had managed to repair them since you were last here.”

“I’ll speak with him now,” Jack said. He glanced out of the window. The sun was setting, even though it barely felt like noon. Had it really taken hours to seize the city? “Keep me informed.”

The Tower of London was far from an ordinary prison. Quite apart from rebels and traitors, it also housed noblemen who had been accused of vile crimes. They got quarters that were almost as well appointed as their private apartments in Pall Mall or their London mansions, for who knew if they would be convicted or not? The Warders would not wish to make a powerful enemy of a nobleman whose fate had yet to be determined. Queen Elizabeth had locked a number of powerful men in the Tower, and then released them as the fancy took her.

Jack passed the sentry on guard and – absurdly – knocked on the door before he pulled back the bars and walked into the room. The sole occupant looked up at him from an ornate couch, his face half-twisted in a smile.

“Good evening, Master Jackson,” he said. He didn’t sound particularly alarmed, or worried, even though he was very close to following Charles I to the headsman. “I wondered if I would see you again.”

Jack swallowed. Old habits die hard. “Good evening, Your Majesty,” he said. “I never doubted it.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

T
here were only two places in the British Empire where those who wanted a political career could be educated. The twin university towns of Oxford and Cambridge, between them, provided almost all of the graduates who took up positions in government, or within the vast civil service that actually made the country work. Those who went to either seat of learning made friends and contacts among their fellow students that would last for their entire lifetime, contacts that could be used to boost their career far higher than they might otherwise have risen. They joined the Old Boys Network at university and allowed it to dominate their entire lives.

Oxford, like Cambridge, was actually a network of universities and colleges, each one carefully ranked according to social standing and expense. Some of them were impregnable to anyone who wasn’t born to an aristocratic family of long standing, even if they were wealthier than several peers put together. Others, more democratically, allowed wealth to guide them in the selection of their pupils. A handful of lucky boys won scholarships to Oxford or Cambridge, only to discover that their lack of wealth made them socially isolated. And the life of an outcast was barely worth living.

Gwen stood on the roof of Porterhouse College, staring down at the streets below. Porterhouse claimed to be one of the oldest colleges in England; it was certainly one of the most exclusive. David had told her that Porterhouse offered little more than a remarkable dining experience – the King had granted them permission to eat swan in perpetuity, apparently – and enviable social cachet. But then David, who had been intended to go into business before making the shift to government, had spent his time at a separate part of Oxford University. Porterhouse’s reputation might be ill-deserved.

Or maybe not, she thought, as she caught sight of a group of students trying to climb over the rear wall. They were not supposed to be out after dark, according to the Senior Tutor, and anyone caught trying to slip in through the main gate could be assured of a few uncomfortable days after meeting their tutor in the morning. The back wall – topped with spikes and patrolled by the fearsome-looking gatekeeper – provided the kind of challenge that Porterhouse’s ethos upheld. Those who managed to slip back into the building without being caught were destined for great things. The group she was watching looked too drunk to make it over the wall without some help from a magician. They’d probably gone out in the afternoon, spent the evening drinking and whoring, and then discovered that night had fallen while they’d been having fun. God alone knew what happened to those who stayed out all night, but Gwen doubted that it would be pleasant.

She’d never been to Oxford – or Cambridge – herself, of course. Women were not supposed to study at universities and Lady Mary had flatly refused to even allow Gwen to attend the few speeches and lectures that had been open to female attendees. What few women
did
get to attend the universities were isolated, barred from many of the more important lectures and persistently accused of lesbianism. David had openly admitted that he hadn’t learned much at Oxford, but he
had
made contacts that had helped the family business. Gwen couldn’t help, but wonder how different her life would have been if she’d been allowed to study at university herself.