Traitor to the Crown (25 page)

He felt his heart racing with anger and a desire to crush
the Covenant, and he recognized it as the lingering effects of Gordon’s attempts to excite him about the morning’s march on Parliament.

There was a firm knock at the door. Proctor pulled it open and saw Gordon’s man, Grueby, standing there with several items of clothing draped over his arms.

“His Lordship sends a change of clothes for you,” he said flatly. Proctor was coming to realize that Grueby’s lack of inflection or expression made him useful to Gordon, who did not seem to always control the passions that he roused in people. A man without passion was the only kind he could depend on. The only sign of emotion that Grueby showed was in the angle of his hat: a floppy blue cockade—the sign of the Protestant Association—was affixed to the brim, but Grueby turned his hat around to keep it behind him.

Proctor looked at the plaid trousers—they were the same kind that Gordon wore. “Must I wear these?”

“It’s your choice,” Grueby said. “If you want your companion kidnapped and sold to a sugar plantation in Jamaica, that’s fine by me.”

“No, I mean—is there nothing else?”

“No,” Grueby said. “It’s this or nothing. We don’t have much here in the way of clothes.”

Proctor believed that. With a reluctant sigh, he changed his clothes. The pants rode high on his ankles. Combined with the long black velvet jacket, it only made him feel sillier. He supposed that was what it felt like to be a gentleman—you could dress like a fool and nobody laughed.

He was folding his old pants when another knock at the door was followed by the announcement that it was time to leave. Grueby came in, checked the pockets of Proctor’s old clothes, and frowned as he carried them away. Then Gordon was downstairs yelling that it was
time to leave, and suddenly everyone—including Proctor but excepting Grueby—was running in a mad panic to get in the carriage to ride to St. George’s Field.

The chaise was large enough to seat four. Gordon and Digges sat on one side, and Proctor and Lydia took the other. Digges covered his mouth to stifle a yawn and stretched his legs so that they pressed up against Gordon, who didn’t seem to notice. Lydia squeezed all the way over to one side and stared out the window. Proctor was prepared for the same rough ride he had experienced in getting from Spain to France, but the springs were excellent and the ride the smoothest he had ever known.

“St. George’s Field,” Gordon said to no one in par tic-u lar. “Because George is the patron saint of England, and also our king, eh? Eh?”

“You mean the saint is a focus,” Proctor probed. The Covenant meant to use the empire as a focus. It seemed that Gordon was doing the same thing.

“Is that what I mean?” Gordon asked, whirling his finger to include the four of them. “All four of us share a talent—you know what I speak of. But do we also share a purpose, do we share a solemn purpose? That is what I mean to know.”

Proctor tensed at the gesture with the fingers, taking it for a spell, but nothing happened. “What exactly is your purpose?” he asked.

“To save a king—to save a country,” Gordon said. He leaned across the carriage into Proctor’s face. “What exactly is
your
purpose?”

Proctor had no desire to help King George. He was a tyrant who had stolen the liberties of the people in America. But he didn’t think he could argue that. He stared Gordon in the eyes. “My purpose is to stop the Covenant.”

“You think we want different things,” Gordon said.
“You’re suspicious. Tell me, Mister Brown, who do you think the Covenant are?”

“They’re a group of witches—”

“Sorcerers, conjurers, warlocks?”

“Yes …”

“Like the four of us?”

“No, not like the four of us,” Proctor snapped. What was Gordon trying to do? “The Covenant means to make a world empire, so that they might channel power toward themselves to achieve immortality.”

“But that makes no sense,” Gordon said. “Immortality is already yours if you wish it. You only need to accept Christ as your savior and repent your sins.”

“Why have I become the sudden object of your concern?” Proctor asked. “I thought we were talking about the Covenant.”

“I’m merely speaking of generalities,” Gordon said, leaning back in his seat. “Are you a Catholic, Mr. Brown?”

“No.”

“Thomas is a Catholic.”

“
Was
a Catholic,” said Digges. “Now I’m just another orphaned soul.”

“But either way, my point is, you understand the Catholic mind,” Gordon said to Digges. “Do Catholics look first to their king or to their pope?”

“The pope,” Digges replied.

Turning back to Proctor, Gordon said, “You must understand that my first encounter with the Covenant was with a priest—a Jesuit, one of the soldiers of the pope. For him, the Roman church and the Covenant pursued the same goal, the universal subjugation of all people to a single will. Who is England at war with, Mister Brown?”

“America—”

“No!” Gordon snapped angrily again. “That is the
narrow view of the provincial. England is at war with
France
. America could not fight without French support. America would have lost the war already without French money, French weapons, French soldiers and sailors. But do not fool yourself—France has no love of freedom or America.”

That might be close to the truth. Proctor had seen enough in Paris to convince him of that. French ministers paid attention to Franklin because he played their game, but they ignored Adams easily when he didn’t.

Gordon’s face lit up. He could tell that he had struck a chord of doubt.

“And by
France
we mean
popery
,” Gordon said. “Spain joins France because they are fellow papists. Which gives us the problem of Ireland. Ireland is part of Britain, but it is full of papists. If we emancipate the Irish and welcome them into the British army, they will, at the first opportunity, declare their true allegiance to pope over king and join France in overthrowing the Crown. So tell me what good it will do America to give up one king for another. The French king will share neither language nor religion with Americans, nor have any respect at all for their freedom. America can serve England willingly or end as a slave to France. That is the choice you face!”

Proctor began to see how Gordon’s talent worked. The points in his arguments did not move forward in a line so much as they spun in circles like a whirl pool. His method was to keep talking until he hit upon a point that drew a reaction. Then he would take the reaction and amplify it.

Time to emulate Grueby and feel no passion at all. Better to deflect the argument a different direction.

“I see your point,” Proctor said. “So you mean to save your king by opposing him?”

“
Our
king,” Gordon insisted. “He is, and will remain,
our
king. The war with America is foolish. You colonists may be in a state of rebellion and reject His Majesty’s authority, but he does not reject you. You are like the prodigal sons. The prodigal sons of liberty. King George is still your right and lawful ruler, and he will slay the fatted calf on your return. Oh yes, he will. Everything I do, I do to help the king.”

All those words and no answer to my question, thought Proctor.

Gordon flopped back in his seat and stared pensively out the window. They were crossing one of the great bridges that spanned the Thames. Large and small boats, moved by sail and paddle, traveled both ways along the river. The bridge was crowded with men crossing the same direction as the carriage. Gordon stared at all the hats topped by blue cockades. “I have no prejudice against papists,” he said sulkily. “They should have every right shared by the rest of us, excepting where it touches on religion.”

“Hey,” called a voice from outside. A group of black men, tradesmen by their dress, made way for the carriage to pass. An older fellow, with a face that was pitted and scarred, elbowed his younger companion in the ribs and pointed in the window at Lydia. “Look at her—good enough to ride in a carriage! Hey, beautiful.”

Lydia frowned, covered her face with her hand, and turned away.

The ugly tradesman’s laugh echoed as the carriage rode past.

Gordon tapped Digges on the knee. “Did you see that? They were wearing the blue cockade. Do you think we’ll have twenty thousand?”

“Twenty, surely.”

“Forty?”

“Likely,” Digges said.

“Unless we have twenty thousand, there will be no
point.” Gordon’s long thin face seemed pulled by worry. “Forty thousand marchers would be better.”

“Forty thousand is an army,” Proctor said, boggling at the number. “Why do you believe forty thousand will help the king?”

“Why do you think it won’t?” Gordon snapped.

“Please,” Digges said, resting a hand on Gordon’s thigh.

“No, I’m tired of his ungrateful questions.” He pushed Gordon’s hand aside and jabbed his finger at Proctor. “My in formants, who have been in contact with members of the Covenant, with the very inner circle of the Covenant—can you say the same?—tell me that a spell is planned to bring His Majesty under their power.” He tapped his chest. “I can stop them. We meet in St. George’s Fields. Forty thousand men will hear me speak for the good of England and the good of the king.”

Proctor had his hand in his pocket, where he rolled the lock of Deborah’s hair around and around his fingers. He needed to replace the ribbon, something more plain and suited to her, and not tainted by the touch of the Countess Cagliostro. But every time he thought of it—like now—it was too inconvenient to tend to. “It’s a focus,” he said.

“Yes, it’s a focus,” Gordon said. “Men, with their passions inflamed, bring their will to a single focus. The petition, signed by over a hundred thousand men. The blue cockades. St. George’s Fields, part of the king’s demesne, as old as England itself. Our patron saint. Our current monarch. The march. All for the good of our country, for the good of our king. And all of you will help me.”

Digges sat up. “What? How?”

“As a focus,” Gordon said. “Think of the lenses in a telescope, each one in focus, to magnify the light of the star in the distance. I want you to stand in the middle of the crowd to magnify my light.”

“I’ll do it,” Digges said. He looked to Proctor and Lydia for confirmation.

Lydia said nothing. Her only reply was a tight smile, lasting just a second, and moving no farther on her face than the corners of her mouth.

Only Gordon had not been speaking to Digges and Lydia—Proctor was sure that he was speaking specifically to him. Proctor was the most powerful witch of the three. At least it explained why Gordon had brought them along. It was a last-minute addition to his plans.

“I wish I’d had more time to prepare or to think about it,” Proctor said.

“But I thought you wanted to destroy the plans of the Covenant,” Gordon said.

“I prefer a destruction that I can actually see,” Proctor said. “This seems very vague to me.”

“There will be nothing vague about it. I’ll do this without you.” The carriage rolled to a stop. Gordon reached into his jacket pocket for a pair of spectacles. “The cause of freedom could use your help,” he said. He peered through his spectacles. “Know that I’ll be watching you, what ever you decide. In the meanwhile, may I ask you to wear these.”

He pulled blue fabric cockades from his pocket, tucking one into the brim of Proctor’s hat and slipping the other through a buttonhole at Lydia’s collar.

The carriage door opened.

Without waiting for any response from Proctor, Gordon stepped outside.

A crowd roared, a wall of noise, cheering and clapping. Proctor felt a tingle run over his skin. There were all kinds of power out there, magic not least among them. Gordon, with his peculiar clothes and excessive manner, made himself a focus. The power of the crowd flowed through him.

Proctor looked at his own clothes, identical to Gordon’s—Gordon’s, in fact—and wondered if the attire was meant to help magnify Gordon’s power. Maybe the choice was up to Proctor. Was Gordon a good man, working against the Covenant, or was he a member of the Covenant himself?

The question must have been obvious on his face. “Trust him,” Digges suggested. “I know deceit, better than most, and Gordon, though he may not reveal everything, is that rarest of things—a man with both a good heart and a great vision.”

“Is this what America needs?” Proctor asked.

“If Gordon succeeds with this petition, then England will not be able to draft new regiments of soldiers from Ireland,” Digges said. “That is most definitely good for America, regardless of anything else.”

He hopped out the open door, looking for Gordon, and then disappeared into the mob that crowded around the carriage. It must be a relief, Proctor thought, for a man always hiding something and afraid he’ll be discovered to step into a mob where he might be completely anonymous. Proctor looked over at Lydia, wondering whether they should help Gordon or not.

“Did you see him?” she asked sharply.

“How could I miss him? He’s the almighty Lord Gordon—”

“Not Gordon—Digges. Did you see the way he watches Gordon, the look on his face?” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I think he’s a sodomite.”

Now that she mentioned it, Digges did have a puppy-dog look as he followed Gordon around. Proctor thought about that look, about the legs touching, about the way Digges trusted Gordon.

“It would explain a lot,” Proctor said. Like why Digges had left Mary land under a cloud of scandal. Or the way that hiding things and lying came so habitually
to him—no matter who he was with, he had something to hide. Gordon might be the only man who wouldn’t judge him for being either a witch or a sodomite.

“You’re not bothered?” Lydia said.

Proctor thought about it and then shrugged. “Maybe at one time I would have been. But who am I to judge?”

“I’m not talking about
judging
him—I’m talking about
trusting
him. I’m talking about taking his word on this Gordon fellow, who’s had something to hide from us since the moment he showed up.”

“We’ve all got something to hide,” Proctor said.