Traitor to the Crown (27 page)

“Is there a problem?” he asked.

Gordon straightened himself, smoothing his hair back behind either ear. “I let my temper get the best of me,”
he said. He shook his head firmly. “It won’t ever happen again. Our guest is awake.”

Grueby received this news with the same indifference that characterized all his actions. “It’s morning—what should we do with the great smoldering pile out in the street?”

“Have it cleaned away,” Gordon said.

“What’s been going on?” Proctor asked.

“The protesters didn’t just march on Parliament, they attacked it,” Digges said. “When they couldn’t get satisfaction there, they burned and looted half the Catholic chapels in London. All the embassies were savaged.”

“The Sardinian Chapel,” Gordon said. “Sir George Savile’s house in Leicester Fields.”

“That’s his furniture what they burned in the street,” Grueby offered.

Outside, a bell pealed, followed a second later by other bells echoing all across the city. As Proctor turned to the window to see what was the matter, cannons thundered. Closer by, other guns cracked.

“Is the city still on fire? What’s happening?” he asked.

“It’s His Majesty’s birthday,” Gordon said, staring at Proctor peculiarly. “Today was to be the culmination of the march, a celebration of triumph, country and king protected once again. Instead we have riots and the loss of rule.”

Proctor’s hand thrust deep in one pocket then jumped to the other. He found a rumpled cockade, pulled from his hat, and left it in his pocket. “I had something on me, a lock of hair.” He had reached for it as a focus when he thought they might be under attack, and then panicked when he couldn’t find it.

“It’s on the table by the bed,” Gordon said.

Proctor snatched it up, examining it to be sure it was hers. It still had the ribbon that the Countess Cagliostro had tied around it, and the same slick texture as before.
He held it to his nose and tried to breathe in any faint scent of Deborah that remained.

“That’s very important to you, isn’t it?” Gordon said.

“Yes, it’s a lock of Deborah’s—my wife’s—hair. It is the only keepsake I have of her. Thank you for leaving it by my side.” Proctor held it tight in his fist and immediately felt calmer. “How was your spell supposed to work? The one that culminated today on the king’s birthday.”

“Not in the manner that developed under the circumstances, I assure you,” Gordon said. “I’ve issued a circular calling for calm and denying the involvement of the Protestant Association.” He touched the side of his head. “I even removed the blue cockade, and not only to appease Colonel Herbert in the house. But I’ve lost all ability to direct the mob or draw on their power.”

“So if it wasn’t you who drew the power away from me, then who took it from the both of us?” Proctor asked.

“I think we can guess who,” Gordon said. He took a step toward the door. “I don’t have time to talk about it now. But I’m glad to see you up and around again. Mister Grueby?”

“Sir?”

“Please continue to see to Mister Brown.”

“Yes, sir.”

See to him?
Proctor didn’t like the sound of that. Digges started to follow Gordon out of the room, but Proctor grabbed his sleeve. “Wait.”

Digges had a puzzled and worried expression on his face. Proctor, dizzy again, sat on the edge of the bed. “I’m so tired of this,” he said.

“Of what?

“Being tired. Every time I encounter a bigger prayer than—”

“Prayer?”

“Spell,” Proctor said. “Every time I encounter something bigger—spirit travel, collecting the sparks from Gordon’s crowd—it debilitates me.”

“Like when you were recovering at the Maypole Inn,” Digges suggested.

“Exactly,” Proctor said. “In the past six months I’ve encountered more power, and more dangerous power, than I’ve ever experienced before.”

“Like a large fire in a wood-frame house,” Digges said.

“I hope not exactly like that,” Proctor replied.

“Recent events suggested the comparison.”

Proctor swallowed the last few drops of water from the cup on the bedside stand. “What happened?” he asked. “Why wouldn’t Gordon answer my questions?”

“I think … I think he’s not sure himself,” Digges said. “What the two of you were doing with that crowd—what you were doing—Gordon has the talent to make people listen, to make them feel. I think he thought he could use that to make a shield of some type for the king, a kind of blessing to protect him from … prayers … made with ill intent. I was standing thirty feet from him when you started directing the power of the crowd, and I could see it rattled him. He wasn’t prepared.” He stroked his delicate beard. “How did you do that? It was as if I, I and your companion Lydia, were of no aid at all.”

Proctor rose and padded over to the window. Workmen were clearing the charred contents of someone’s house from the road. Little clouds of ash rose as they swept up the debris. “I’m so used to working with Deborah, to accepting prayer from her, to sending it back, that it was easy—I could feel the spark in the crowd, magnified by Gordon’s talents. What do you think happened to Lydia?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Digges said. “You asked after Deborah and Maggie a lot in your fever, and I had no
idea who they were. But you asked after Lydia too, and I asked Grueby. He said he saw her with a group of black men, but had no idea what happened to her.”

“She wants to be free,” Proctor said.

“I thought she was,” Digges answered.

“Freedom is a habit that only those of us privileged with it may take for granted,” Proctor replied. “Deborah is my wife, and Maggie is my daughter.”

“Ah,” Digges said. “I thought you might enjoy the company of the ladies as much as Gordon does.”

“One of them is all that I can handle,” Proctor said. “And sometimes more. I’m worried that Lydia was carried away with the crowd when they marched. I remember her tugging on me, as if she was trying to keep from being separated. But I couldn’t hold on. How do we find her?”

“Let’s wait another day to see if the city settles down,” Digges said. “The magistrates will read the Riot Act and call out troops and all shall be returned to order. It will be safer to go looking for her then.”

But it did not come to pass as Digges suggested. Proctor ate and rested, then rose and watched at the windows late in the day while another mob gathered in the street outside Gordon’s house to cheer his name and call on him to lead them. He wasn’t home, but meeting privately elsewhere with members of Parliament to discuss the best ways to restore order. As though Gordon had any idea. Proctor tried not to feel contempt for him, but it was hard to avoid: his great plan was to inflame the passions of a large mob and then give three cheers for the king, huzzah, to create a protective spell. It was more of a plan than Proctor had started with, but at least he’d had the sense to know that his plan needed work.

Digges stood at the window with Proctor, pulling the curtain wide open so he could peer out. The crowd spied Proctor at the window, still dressed in Gordon’s
clothes—no others were to be found. At the sight of the plaid and black velvet, they cheered.

“Look, it’s Gordon!”

“He’ll save the country!”

“No popery!”

They started pumping their fists in the air and chanting Gordon’s name. Digges let the curtain fall shut and tipped his wine bottle back for another swallow. “I don’t dare go home,” he said. “I keep a small room down by the Thames docks. If the city goes up in flames, I would burn in that warren of firetraps.”

“It’s not worth the risk—don’t go back.” Proctor had been caught in New York City when it had burned in ’76 and he still shivered every time he remembered the smoke and heat as he and Deborah tried to escape the flames.

Outside, people continued to flow into the street. They joined the crowd in front of Gordon’s house like bits of quicksilver drawn to one another. Proctor shivered again and felt the natural pull of the crowd, a strong urge to be part of it instead of in its way. When the mob had grown into hundreds, it moved suddenly as though it had one will and headed off in a new direction.

“I do not think the worst is over,” Proctor said.

“No,” Digges admitted. “Did you feel it?”

“What?”

“The pull—the urge to join it.”

“I thought it was just me,” Proctor said.

“I think it’s part of the spell. I’ve felt it ever since the power was snatched from you at St. George’s Fields.”

Proctor reached into his pocket and pulled out the cockade, crushed like a forgotten flower blossom. He flung it across the room. “Do you think that’s how they’re reaching everyone? I saw some on the hats outside.”

“I don’t know,” Digges said. But he patted his pockets until he found one too. He retrieved Proctor’s and then
tossed them both into the fireplace. He stared at the hearth, as if waiting for a fire to appear. Then he offered Proctor the wine bottle. Proctor refused—the last thing he wanted to do was dull his senses with drink. Digges gulped the rest of it.

“I can find Lydia,” Proctor said. “If she’s drawn in, as we were, but without the safety of a home—”

“And the protections that Gordon has up here. He’s been consulting with a Jewish rabbi, using the Kabbalah because he thinks the Covenant doesn’t know it.”

Proctor paused for a second. How could the leader of the Protestant Association work with Jews? But Gordon wasn’t pro-Protestant or anti-Catholic as much as he was anti-Covenant. In that regard, Proctor had chosen him correctly as an ally. “Lydia doesn’t have that refuge. I’m aware of the pull so I can fight it. If I go out and follow the mob, I’ll find her.”

“There are mobs all over London right now.” Digges found the corkscrew and fumbled it against the top of a new bottle of wine.

Proctor put his right hand over the bottle. “Just tell me where to start looking. That’s all I ask.”

Digges rubbed a shaky hand over his face. Sweat beaded on his forehead, but whether from the drink or something else, Proctor wasn’t sure. “There are thousands of free blacks and Lascars in London. A lot of freemen live in Paddington and Stepney. Paddington’s close, maybe a mile west. But the mob was headed east.”

“Then I’ll go east. What’s a landmark I can ask for if I get lost?”

“Ask for St. Giles Passage—ah, never mind.” He slammed the bottle down on the table. “I’ll come with you.” He looked over his shoulder. “What about Gordon’s man, Grueby?”

“I haven’t seen him since this afternoon,” Proctor said. “Not since the cook went home for the day. But he’s welcome
to follow us if he wishes. It makes no difference to me.” He squeezed Digges’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

“I lived through Brazil, right?” he said, rubbing his eyes.

Proctor didn’t ask him about Brazil. He had to keep Digges on his feet and focused on their task. He itched with a strong sense of impending danger—things were going to get much worse. If Lydia needed help or wanted to be found, this was the time to do it.

They walked out the front door, leaving it unlocked behind them. The mood was more apprehensive as soon as they hit the street. The dark closed in around them, thickened with a haze of smoke; the only glow was from distant fires. Furtive shadows bolted across the road, singly and in small groups. The sound of guns firing echoed over the rooftops. Proctor had some experience with what seemed to him like big cities—Boston, New York, Philadelphia—but London was a different place altogether, especially at night with the screams and fires and tension. The buildings seemed taller, the streets narrower, and the city so much larger, going on block after block after block.

“I meant to take us that way, toward St. Giles,” Digges said at a corner, pointing down one street. “But I feel a strong pull this way instead, toward Leicester Square or the Strand. If the Covenant is drawing witches, we’ll find Lydia this way.”

“Unless she has more sense than us,” Proctor said. “But yes, I feel it too.”

London had a palpable sense of history that weighed on Proctor as they went through the streets. New buildings might sit next to bits of wall or building that felt a thousand years old. Or next to the still-smoking ruins of places burned to the ground in the past few days. He became numb to the great buildings they passed, the towers, temples, and courts. He could see, in a country like this,
how witches might hatch a plan and spend two hundred years bringing it to fruition. After he saw a coffee house of brick and stone, five stories high, as big as any public building in the states, Proctor shut out the places and looked instead at the people.

The temples and courts had gathered smaller crowds like the one in Welbeck Street, but they seemed to melt away ahead of Proctor and Digges.

“They feel the pull too,” Digges said.

“Or see the fire,” Proctor said, pointing to the glow on the horizon and the great column of black smoke rising into the sky.

“I think that’s Newgate,” Digges said, half turning away.

Proctor saw his hesitation and stopped. “What’s Newgate?”

“Newgate’s the jail. If they’re burning Newgate, the army will be out for certain.”

“Then I better hurry,” Proctor said, and he started toward the fire.

Digges cursed under his breath and ran to catch up.

The road rose to Newgate, which was a formidable wall of huge stones stretching a block in length. Another wall of buildings rose on the other side of the narrow, cobbled street. Thousands had gathered outside the prison, armed with axes and ladders and pry bars, like an army assaulting a fortress. They wore blue cockades in their hats, like members of the same army, and waved the Union Jack and banners with
NO POPERY
painted on them. A ruffian on horse back waved a sword and tried to direct the mob. Spontaneous chants and unanswered orders and arguments filled the air like the haze of smoke. More people running up the streets behind Proctor and Digges shoved them into the mob, where they were elbowed and jostled. The mob was lit by the fire that glowed through the block’s few windows and by
the flames that rose above the roofs, making their faces a distortion of constantly shifting light and shadow. The central block burned so hot that the stones themselves glowed red. On either wing, the crowds were pulling down the walls and passing the prisoners, still in shackles, from hand to hand to lower them down ladders to the ground.