The Baroque Cycle - The System Of The World Part 49

Monmouth Street THE SAME TIME.

The Mob are outragious every where when they think themselves provok'd. The Mob are outragious every where when they think themselves provok'd.-The Mischiefs That Ought Justly to Be Apprehended from a Whig-Government, ANONYMOUS, ATTRIBUTED TO BERNARD MANDEVILLE, 1714 ANONYMOUS, ATTRIBUTED TO BERNARD MANDEVILLE, 1714 FROM THE STABLES of Leicester House, Johann and Caroline had borrowed a pair of gray geldings: good but indifferent-looking riding-horses in simple tack. They rode side-by-side up Monmouth Street. Caroline was straddling her mount like a man, which was made easier by wearing a man's pair of breeches. Her hair was stuffed up under a man's white periwig and she even had a small-sword joggling from her left hip. Johann was dressed similarly, though he was armed with the big old rapier he had been carrying around ever since mysterious persons had begun making attempts on the lives of people who were close to him. They were supposed to look like a pair of young gentlemen out for a ride in the town. of Leicester House, Johann and Caroline had borrowed a pair of gray geldings: good but indifferent-looking riding-horses in simple tack. They rode side-by-side up Monmouth Street. Caroline was straddling her mount like a man, which was made easier by wearing a man's pair of breeches. Her hair was stuffed up under a man's white periwig and she even had a small-sword joggling from her left hip. Johann was dressed similarly, though he was armed with the big old rapier he had been carrying around ever since mysterious persons had begun making attempts on the lives of people who were close to him. They were supposed to look like a pair of young gentlemen out for a ride in the town.

Caroline frequently turned round to look back towards Leicester Fields. Johann had suggested that she not; but it was difficult for a royal to accept such mundane suggestions. She was quite certain that they were being followed by a fellow riding on a black horse. But Monmouth Street curved steadily round to the left as it went, so she lost sight of that rider from time to time. For the same reason they could only see ahead for a certain distance, and every pace brought new complications into view.

"When I made the plan, I had no way of knowing on what day it might be set into motion," Johann said, "and so I did not take Hangings into account."

"Hanging-Day is not until Friday, is it not so?" asked Caroline. It was Wednesday evening.

"Indeed. Tomorrow evening I should expect a crowd gathering along the route," said Johann. "I did not expect one this this evening-but-" He trailed off as they rounded the final deflection. A stone's throw ahead, Monmouth Street joined together with two others, like tributaries of a river, to form a short but very wide thoroughfare that exhausted directly into a place called Broad St. Giles's. Their view into that district was blocked by a wide but shallow building erected square across their path, like a sandbar at the mouth of a river. It was brick below and timber above, with a pocked tile roof, and was so generally mean in its appearance that from this distance it might have been taken for a stable. But it had a few too many chimneys for that, all of them tottering into the weather like elderly pallbearers leaning into a gale. On the side facing Johann and Caroline it had a little front court running its whole width, supervised by a veranda. Several white-haired, gray-faced chaps were strewn upon some benches there. This was the St. Giles's alms-house, where parishioners who had outlived their means, their families, or their welcomes could be parked until they were ready for permanent berths in the nearby church-yard. For whatever reason, it had been built in the middle of the intersection so that Monmouth Street traffic must divert around it. evening-but-" He trailed off as they rounded the final deflection. A stone's throw ahead, Monmouth Street joined together with two others, like tributaries of a river, to form a short but very wide thoroughfare that exhausted directly into a place called Broad St. Giles's. Their view into that district was blocked by a wide but shallow building erected square across their path, like a sandbar at the mouth of a river. It was brick below and timber above, with a pocked tile roof, and was so generally mean in its appearance that from this distance it might have been taken for a stable. But it had a few too many chimneys for that, all of them tottering into the weather like elderly pallbearers leaning into a gale. On the side facing Johann and Caroline it had a little front court running its whole width, supervised by a veranda. Several white-haired, gray-faced chaps were strewn upon some benches there. This was the St. Giles's alms-house, where parishioners who had outlived their means, their families, or their welcomes could be parked until they were ready for permanent berths in the nearby church-yard. For whatever reason, it had been built in the middle of the intersection so that Monmouth Street traffic must divert around it.

Now ordinarily, not being able to see into Broad St. Giles's would have been accounted some small act of Grace. It was not precisely a street, and not a square, but a kind of drain-trap plumbing High Holbourn (which ran off to the right, toward the City) to Oxford Street (left to Tyburn Cross). As a district of Greater London it no doubt had a history and a perfectly legitimate reason for existence; but as a conduit for traffic between Tyburn and London it was a lamentable improvisation. A few kegs of gunpowder detonated in the slum to the north side of it would create a direct through line uniting the two thoroughfares, and relegate Broad St. Giles's to a stagnant ox-bow lake, alienated from the main stream; but such improvements still lay in the future as Johann and Caroline rode toward it.

Tonight, however, not being able to get a clear view of what lay ahead was perilous. The district seemed more than normally crowded tonight. People-mostly roving tribes of young men-formed a slack eddy around the foundations of the alms-house. They did not appear to be bound for anywhere, unless Trouble could be considered a Destination; and some were already staring at Johann and Caroline, and pointing.

"Why so many people-the hanging?"

"Too soon, too soon-oh, if we asked asked one why he was here, he might claim it was for the Hanging-March-" one why he was here, he might claim it was for the Hanging-March-"

"But to believe it would be naive," Caroline said. "You think then that it is as Dr. Waterhouse warned us."

"Yes-the Whigs and Tories have used the Hanging as a pretext to move their sympathizers-whatever you care to call them-"

"Militia?"

"Perhaps a little less than militia and a little better than the Mobb. I don't know. At any rate they are here, getting ready to light bonfires-"

"Look, they have done it already," Caroline said.

They had reached the place where the way broadened out, just before the front court of the alms-house. Off to their right, a bonfire had been kindled. It must have been carefully laid, and lit only a moment ago, for it suddenly flared very high, lofting a storm of incandescent twigs and leaves into its smoke-tower. It stood in the center of Broad St. Giles's, which was a good hundred feet wide there.

"That is meant to be a gathering-beacon for some faction or other, I'll wager," said Johann, rising up in his stirrups and looking about. Indeed, many had altered course, and set their faces toward the flame: some reporting reporting to it smartly, others merely falling in, drawn by the curious instinct of the herd. "It is good for us. Look, the crowd dwindles over yonder, to the right side of the way-we shall slip through and be on High Holbourn presently. Then straight on to the city. Let's go!" and he drew back on his mount's right rein, demanding a sharp turn. Caroline did likewise; but she could not resist a look back down Monmouth. There was the fellow on the black horse, now so close behind that she could have called out to him. He was making no effort to hide himself, but waving his hat back and forth above his head as if trying to catch someone's eye. Succeeding in that, he then pointed deliberately at Johann and Caroline, and held up two fingers; then he joined those two fingers together to form a little blade, and drew it across his throat. to it smartly, others merely falling in, drawn by the curious instinct of the herd. "It is good for us. Look, the crowd dwindles over yonder, to the right side of the way-we shall slip through and be on High Holbourn presently. Then straight on to the city. Let's go!" and he drew back on his mount's right rein, demanding a sharp turn. Caroline did likewise; but she could not resist a look back down Monmouth. There was the fellow on the black horse, now so close behind that she could have called out to him. He was making no effort to hide himself, but waving his hat back and forth above his head as if trying to catch someone's eye. Succeeding in that, he then pointed deliberately at Johann and Caroline, and held up two fingers; then he joined those two fingers together to form a little blade, and drew it across his throat.

Caroline snapped her head round so sharply that her wig-an unfamiliar article-went askew on her head. She clapped a hand on it to hold it in place while she looked up and across the square, tracing the gaze of the man on the black horse. Immediately she saw a man standing on the roof of the alms-house, perched on the ridge, and keeping one hand on a chimney for balance. This fellow scrambled round as quickly as he could without falling, turning his back on Monmouth Street to gaze north across Broad St. Giles's and east to one of the street-ends that spilled into that side of it.

"Charles! Come, come!" Johann was calling. Caroline's name would be Charles for as long as she was wearing breeches. He had ridden about two lengths ahead. "Charles" could not answer without revealing her s.e.x to anyone in earshot. She waited for a queue of boys to thread past, then rode up toward Johann. She was hoping to draw abreast of him so that she could talk, but he spurred his mount on as she drew within a length, and began to lead her through the crowd in the direction of London.

Caroline was beginning to perceive drawbacks to the plan. It had sounded too simple to go wrong. Eliza, wearing an outfit that made her look, from a distance, like Caroline, had boarded the finest carriage available at Leicester House and driven south, parading round the perimeter of Leicester Fields in full view of all the spies who had been loitering there. She was to have gone out near Sir Isaac Newton's house and then to have worked her way west in the direction of St. James's, as if trying to reach the Duke of Marlborough's house, which was not far from there. This was the sort of thing a conspiracy-minded Tory would expect Princess Caroline to do, had she been flushed out into the open; Marlborough was not back in the country yet, but had been conspicuously remodeling the house as a signal that his advent was drawing nigh. He had long-standing connexions with the Hanovers, and Caroline could seek refuge in his house in full confidence that no Mobb, Militia, or Faction would dare to molest her there.

Meanwhile Johann and Caroline had set out in the opposite direction, planning a ride of three miles or so straight through the heart of London to Billingsgate Stairs, immediately downstream of the Bridge, where a longboat would take them out to a Hanoverian sloop. A few days later they would be at Antwerp, and a few days after that, back at Hanover. So much for the plan; but Caroline had not considered until now that if if the disguise worked, and caused their enemies to believe that she was not Caroline the princess, but Charles the n.o.body-why, what would it matter if such a n.o.body were found in Fleet Ditch with his throat cut and his purse missing? the disguise worked, and caused their enemies to believe that she was not Caroline the princess, but Charles the n.o.body-why, what would it matter if such a n.o.body were found in Fleet Ditch with his throat cut and his purse missing?

An open s.p.a.ce had appeared next to Johann, on his left side. She dug her heels into the horse's sides twice and goaded it until it was alongside him. "What lies over that way?" she asked, and gestured in the same direction (left, or north across Broad St. Giles's) that the man on the roof of the alms-house was looking.

Johann considered it. Several street-ends were visible on that side. From one of them a bobbling stream of manes, periwigs, and horse-tails issued: four, maybe as many as half a dozen riders. Their faces were indistinct at this range-but they caught the light of the bonfire clearly, as all of them were gazing up and across toward the alms-house. Caroline looked back that way; her view of the spy on the roof was now mostly blocked by the chimney, but she could see an arm gesticulating, waving the riders on a course to close with Johann and Caroline.

"The one where the riders are coming out is Dyot Street-it leads up to Great Russell, and-"

"Ravenscar's house?"

"Yes."

"Then I think we have confused our enemies, in a way that could be dangerous to us," Caroline said. "I think they believe that we are messengers, sent out from Eliza with an important note for the Marquis of Ravenscar, or whatever Whig commanders may be gathered at his house-those riders, I fear-"

"Were posted along Dyot to intercept any such communications," said Johann, "and now they are after us. Let us ride a little faster-but not gallop, we must not show fear-and turn to the right, on Drury Lane. That will lead us away from Ravenscar's and throw doubt on this idea that we are messengers."

"I have heard things about this Drury Lane-"

"We shall look like a pair of young gentlemen out questing for wh.o.r.es," Johann agreed. "Do not be concerned. Drury Lane is the frontier frontier of a chancy district. Many of those who live there have strayed up to Broad St. Giles's this evening. Riding the border is not so terribly dangerous. Going through it would be a bad idea-but we shan't do that. Straight down Drury it is, all the way to the Strand." And with that Johann guided his mount round a right turn onto Drury Lane. Caroline's horse lurched forward in an effort to keep pace, and she almost lost her wig again. From here Drury Lane looked infinitely long, and h.e.l.lishly disordered even by the standards of London: it narrowed and widened, narrowed and widened as if no surveyor had ever stretched out a line here, and buildings leaned away from it, or slumped over it, like a bench of drunks in a gin-house. She did not see any bonfires, which she counted as a sort of good news; perhaps Drury Lane would be left to the wh.o.r.es, procurers, and pickpockets tonight, even as other streets and intersections were employed as squares on the Whig/Tory chessboard. of a chancy district. Many of those who live there have strayed up to Broad St. Giles's this evening. Riding the border is not so terribly dangerous. Going through it would be a bad idea-but we shan't do that. Straight down Drury it is, all the way to the Strand." And with that Johann guided his mount round a right turn onto Drury Lane. Caroline's horse lurched forward in an effort to keep pace, and she almost lost her wig again. From here Drury Lane looked infinitely long, and h.e.l.lishly disordered even by the standards of London: it narrowed and widened, narrowed and widened as if no surveyor had ever stretched out a line here, and buildings leaned away from it, or slumped over it, like a bench of drunks in a gin-house. She did not see any bonfires, which she counted as a sort of good news; perhaps Drury Lane would be left to the wh.o.r.es, procurers, and pickpockets tonight, even as other streets and intersections were employed as squares on the Whig/Tory chessboard.

"I saw something," she said, "a gesture. I fear that violence is going to be used against us." She could not help glancing at Johann's Italian rapier, wagging from his left flank.

Johann tried to deflect this with humor. "Then it is good that my right arm is free," he said, waving it in the air, "and on our vulnerable flank," indicating the benighted neighborhood on their right. "And good as well that you have a sword."

"A small small one." one."

"Indeed, that is what they call it: a small-sword. No one carries the rapier and dagger any more. I I am kitted out like an old man." am kitted out like an old man."

"I am glad of it," said Caroline, for Johann's weapon looked a fell relic of bygone times, much more formidable than the jeweled toothpick on her hip.

She could not help, now, turning round once more to look back. Drury Lane sported very few men on horseback at this hour and so it took but a moment to see two riders who had just entered from Broad St. Giles's. They let their mounts dawdle for a moment, as they took in the sordid prospect, and got their bearings; then, catching sight of Johann and Caroline, they spurred them forward at a trot.

Caroline did not care to argue the matter with Johann and so she kicked her mount up to a trot, which obliged him to do the same.

"As you can see the right side of the Lane is perforated by countless alleys," Johann said, loudly, in the manner of a jaded man about town explaining the lay of the land to his country cousin, "but there is a very broad street a short distance ahead that leads direct to Covent Garden Market, where are many wenches we euphemistically call flower-sellers and orange-girls. From there, several broad avenues lead to the Strand."

Caroline wanted to ask Why are you telling me this Why are you telling me this but she dared not speak aloud, for she sensed a pedestrian close by on her left hand. Then she was distracted by some commotion off to the right, not in Drury Lane but back in what she a.s.sumed to be a maze of alleys behind. Shod hooves were sparking on pavement back there, and a voice commanding, "Make way, d.a.m.n you!" She knew enough English by now to know that this was the voice of someone well-bred, someone with the right to bear arms. She looked behind again to see that the two men following had made up half the distance separating them; then, turning back to give this news to Johann, she observed that he was gone, with no good-bye other than a tattoo of hoofbeats down an alley, and murmur of prost.i.tutes in his wake. but she dared not speak aloud, for she sensed a pedestrian close by on her left hand. Then she was distracted by some commotion off to the right, not in Drury Lane but back in what she a.s.sumed to be a maze of alleys behind. Shod hooves were sparking on pavement back there, and a voice commanding, "Make way, d.a.m.n you!" She knew enough English by now to know that this was the voice of someone well-bred, someone with the right to bear arms. She looked behind again to see that the two men following had made up half the distance separating them; then, turning back to give this news to Johann, she observed that he was gone, with no good-bye other than a tattoo of hoofbeats down an alley, and murmur of prost.i.tutes in his wake.

What had he told her? Do not ride into the alleys; look for a broad avenue on the right. She did so, and almost did not see it, for it was much closer than she had supposed. A rider was just emerging from it, on a bothered and winded horse that he was forcing to walk. She hoped it might be Johann, but the horse was the wrong color (chestnut) and the rider was the wrong chap altogether. He was staring her in the face, and could easily have made her out to be a woman in disguise had the sun been shining.

This man, she reckoned, must have split off from the squadron that had ridden out of Dyot a minute ago, and galloped round through the alleys behind Drury Lane to cut them off here. But Johann, hearing the commotion that this fellow had made, had surmised what was going on, and had broken away to outflank the flanker.

The man on the chestnut horse showed the palm of his hand to the two riders who were trotting along after Caroline, seeming to ward them off. She could hear their mounts drop to a walk, then stop altogether. With his other hand he reached up to tip his hat to Caroline as she approached. Lacking a hat, she returned the greeting with a swirl of the hand and a nod. Whether she did it convincingly or not, she'd never know, for he did not bother to watch; he had already turned his gaze elsewhere, wondering what had become of Caroline's companion.

He was attending to his two friends behind Caroline. She looked back. They were pointing into the alley Johann had ridden into, and shouting. Caroline was forgotten; she was free to go; Johann's gambit was working.

Or did work, anyway, until someone stole her sword.

She felt a sharp tug and heard a hissing sound as the small-sword was plucked from its scabbard. This sound quite naturally got the attention of the man on the chestnut stallion; gentlemen who ignored the sound of a sword being drawn were not likely to live through their twenties. Caroline looked down belatedly, to see a boy of perhaps sixteen, missing his two front teeth, leering back at her with a fanged smile. He had brought the small-sword around so that it pointed at her. This was plainly a threat, but Caroline did not know what to make of it until the partner of the tail-drawer (as sword-thieves were known) came after the even more valuable scabbard. This hung at her hip from a rig called a baldric, which was just a broad leather strap that ran diagonally across her body and over her right shoulder. The second thief was smaller and nimbler-perhaps a younger brother-and his method of stealing it was straightforward: he grabbed it with both hands and yanked on it so hard that he lifted himself clean off the ground, while giving Caroline the following choice: fall sideways off the horse, or be decapitated by the strap. Long years of tedious riding-lessons had trained her to stay on the horse no matter what; she squeezed it hard between her legs, caught the saddle's rim with her right hand, and held on for dear life even while listing drastically to the left. The thief had planted a foot on the horse's flank and was leaning back almost horizontally, supporting his weight solely by the baldric. Caroline had no choice but to lean toward him even farther and c.o.c.k her head over so that the baldric was stripped off over her head. It nearly sheared off her right ear as it went. She reached up to check if the ear was still attached to her head. It was; but the hair around it was her own. Not a wig. The wig was lying like a dead animal in the middle of Drury Lane. Or was, anyway, until a wig-thief darted in and s.n.a.t.c.hed it. The tail-drawer let out a curse and lit out in pursuit of the wig-s.n.a.t.c.her, menacing him with the weapon; the scabbard-stealer, who'd fallen hard on his a.r.s.e, staggered to his feet and hobbled along behind.

Someone nearby was shouting: "It is the Princess! It is the Princess!" Caroline turned to see that it was the man on the chestnut stallion.

Another rider was galloping up behind him on a gray horse; this chap had his feet out of the stirrups and his boots up in the air, which looked like bad form indeed. Sharply the boots came down. The gray trotted riderless across Drury Lane. The chestnut was buckling as its hindquarters now supported the weight of a second man. It reared. The man in back threw his arms around the rider in the saddle, to keep from falling off backwards; one of his hands had something silver in it. A hand was beneath the rider's chin, pulling his head back; the silver object traveled sideways beneath it, not with a quick slash, but working its way through the neck one tube and ligament at a time. The rider fell over sideways, broadcasting a fan of blood that hissed down the wall of a nearby tavern. The man behind kicked the other's feet out of the stirrups and toppled him over into the street. Then Johann von Hacklheber took over the saddle. He scabbarded his b.l.o.o.d.y dagger, found the reins with that hand, then drew out his rapier with the other. He spurred the chestnut horse out into Drury Lane, nearly managing a head-on collision with Caroline's gray. As he went past he brought the flat of his sword down sharply on the croup of her mount, which responded by taking off with a lurch that nearly somersaulted her back out of the saddle. Lacking instructions from its rider, the horse headed for open s.p.a.ce: the wide avenue that led to Covent Garden.

She was almost there by the time she got rightly arranged in the saddle again, and fished up the reins. Then she reflected that she was going west-the wrong direction-and did not really wish to appear in such a manner, viz. galloping across a large open square with her hair flowing behind her like a Hanoverian flag.

She ought to go back and help Johann. But whatever had happened in Drury Lane must be over and done with already; and if she showed up in the middle of it, he would be distracted and probably get killed. What, then, was the best way to help Johann? To follow his directions, so that he would know where to look for her. He had mentioned that from the vicinity of Covent Garden several streets led down to the Strand, which (even she knew) could take her east at least as far as St. Paul's. So she pulled back hard on the reins, bringing her mount to a skidding stop just short of the open s.p.a.ce of the Garden, and insisted on a left turn down a promisingly broad street. This, inevitably, took her only a short distance to a tee with a smaller street. Guessing at a direction, she came to another, smaller tee; and so it went, as if the street-plan of the place were a diabolical snare made for one purpose only, which was to get people lost. By the third turn, she'd lost all sense of which direction she was going. By the fifth, she had a small crowd of boys after her. By the sixth, the boys had been joined by a couple of rough-looking men. The seventh turn led to a way that was very narrow indeed. Moreover, it was a cul-de-sac.

Yet, when she cast a glance back over her shoulder, she was astonished to see that all of her followers had disappeared.

Down at the end of the street were a few sedan chairs, waiting. Their porters stood about smoking and talking; though one by one they fell silent as Caroline rode up. There was a door at the very end of the street, lit with lanterns, and adorned with a sort of inn-sign in which was depicted a cat playing a fiddle. Beyond it, she could hear a lot of men chattering and laughing. A man was standing framed in that doorway, wearing porter's livery: a bit more nicely turned out than the ones who carried sedan chairs through gutters and puddles. He stirred as she rode closer, and removed the stem of his pipe from his mouth, and addressed Princess Caroline in a way no man had ever done before: "Well 'ello, missy, ain't you a smart la.s.s in your britches, and all got up like a man! I can see one of our honourable members is planning a special evening indeed. You did bring your riding crop?"

It took her a moment to remember this word, for crop crop had diverse meanings, but then it came to her: it was had diverse meanings, but then it came to her: it was Reitgerte, Reitgerte, the little whip. One was dangling from her wrist. She groped it into her hand, and raised it up uncertainly. the little whip. One was dangling from her wrist. She groped it into her hand, and raised it up uncertainly.

The porter grinned and nodded. "I'll wager you're here for the Bishop of-"

"What is this place?" she asked.

"Oh, you've come to the right place, never fear," he answered, reaching for the door-handle.

"But what is it called?"

"Don't be a silly girl, this is the Kit-Cat Clubb!"

"Aha!" Caroline exclaimed, "is Doctor Waterhouse here? He is the one I would see!"

Leicester Fields THE SAME TIME.

ELIZA HAD RUN diverse errands fair and foul, and embraced many sacrifices, on behalf of these Hanover women, but this was in some ways the most disagreeable of all: going for a carriage-ride, here and now. For a carriage, be it never so finely decorated, and perforated with doors and windows, was unavoidably a box, and to shut herself up in a box at such a pa.s.s went against everything in her nature. diverse errands fair and foul, and embraced many sacrifices, on behalf of these Hanover women, but this was in some ways the most disagreeable of all: going for a carriage-ride, here and now. For a carriage, be it never so finely decorated, and perforated with doors and windows, was unavoidably a box, and to shut herself up in a box at such a pa.s.s went against everything in her nature.

She had never quite got out of her mind a day when she and several other harem-girls, all in their burqas, burqas, had been herded into a tunnel beneath Vienna to be put to the sword. To had been herded into a tunnel beneath Vienna to be put to the sword. To hear hear the screams of the women, and the screams of the women, and smell smell their blood, and their blood, and know know what was going on while only being able to what was going on while only being able to see see a tiny patch of light, and being unable to use her hands, save by gripping things through the slippery fabric: this was for her the worst moment of her life, the thing she'd spent all her time since trying to put behind her. a tiny patch of light, and being unable to use her hands, save by gripping things through the slippery fabric: this was for her the worst moment of her life, the thing she'd spent all her time since trying to put behind her.

Her view out the window of this carriage was no better than that from a burqa, burqa, and her ability to reach out and grab things even less. True, it was mounted on wheels, and pulled by a team of horses. But her usual retinue of dogs and armed footmen were absent, as they would have destroyed the illusion that this carriage contained Princess Caroline in disguise. The driver was trustworthy, but all someone had to do was aim a pistol at him, or knock him out of his perch and seize the reins; then she'd be even more helpless than she had been on that horrible day in Vienna. and her ability to reach out and grab things even less. True, it was mounted on wheels, and pulled by a team of horses. But her usual retinue of dogs and armed footmen were absent, as they would have destroyed the illusion that this carriage contained Princess Caroline in disguise. The driver was trustworthy, but all someone had to do was aim a pistol at him, or knock him out of his perch and seize the reins; then she'd be even more helpless than she had been on that horrible day in Vienna.

Still and all, she rated the chances as good that the carriage would speed her to Marlborough House without let. The distance was less than half a mile as the crow flew, and once they worked clear of a few narrow streets south of Leicester Fields they would be speeding down such broad open avenues as Hay Market and Pall Mall. Whether it came to a good or a bad end, the ride would be over quickly, the revulsion she felt at being shut up in a wooden burqa burqa she'd only have to tolerate for a few minutes. she'd only have to tolerate for a few minutes.

It began well enough: an uneventful half-circuit of Leicester Fields, traversing the east side of the square, then swinging round to head west along its southern edge. This ought to have been a straight shot to Hay Market; but the driver called for a turn too soon, and she felt the box revolving leftwards onto St. Martin's. Out one window she could see a narrow burqa burqa-view of Sir Isaac Newton's house; out the opposite, a flare of light where none ought to be. Someone had lit a bonfire in the southwestern corner of Leicester Fields, blocking the outlet to Hay Market. And they'd done it in the last minute or so, for Eliza had scanned the square carefully before suffering herself to be boxed, and seen nothing.

No matter; St. Martin's Street offered two different outlets that would lead them west. They reached the first of these in only a few moments, and slowed so that the driver could gaze down the side-street to see if it was clear. Eliza did the same. No more than fifty yards away, what looked like a squadron of cavalry was cantering into position to block them. They did not have banners, drums, or bugles, and did not wear uniforms, unless you considered Mode to be a kind of uniform. But they moved with a shared purpose, and Eliza sensed that they were looking to one man, in particular, for orders: a chap in a long cloak, on a black horse.

Before Eliza could take in much more, or say anything, the driver had made up his mind to try the second and last side-street. His whip skirled and cracked, touching off a barrage of noise: sixteen iron-shod hooves and four iron-rimmed wheels accelerating over cobblestones as the box creaked, bobbled, and thudded in its suspension. To communicate with the driver was now next to impossible; she could pound and kick on the roof all she pleased, and scream through the grate until she was hoa.r.s.e, and he likely would not hear a thing.

It was not clear what she should should say to him. To maintain the illusion was all. To reach Marlborough House would be good, insofar as it enhanced the illusion. But it was not essential, and certainly not worth anyone's getting killed. To rattle around aimlessly for a while would serve as well, and perhaps better. say to him. To maintain the illusion was all. To reach Marlborough House would be good, insofar as it enhanced the illusion. But it was not essential, and certainly not worth anyone's getting killed. To rattle around aimlessly for a while would serve as well, and perhaps better.

At the end of the street, where it turned to the right, there was enough room for the team and carriage to make a rapid sweeping turn. This the driver did-so swiftly that the carriage lost traction and slewed sideways for a yard or two, until its wheel-rims caught hard on a scarp in the road. Then its skid was arrested so sharply that the whole box lifted up and slanted as two wheels left the pavement for an instant. Presently the slack went out of the rig and jerked it forward again on its new, west-going course. The carriage crashed back down on four wheels again and Eliza was hurled to the right, then back as the team accelerated. She was left with the troubling memory of a momentary sound that, because it had been so sharp, had reached her ears even through all of the noise of this maneuver: the crack of the whip perhaps, or even a pistol-shot. But it had seemed to come from just outside the left window. She phant'sied it had had a splintering quality. Perhaps a wheel-spoke giving way as the lateral skid of the carriage had been arrested. Perhaps the driver should be directed to avoid violent right turns. Or had he heard the sound, too, and wanted no advice?

Her hatred of the box and pa.s.sion to know what was going on urged her to shove her head out the window and look forward. Simple prudence said otherwise. The horses were galloping galloping now. In a few yards they'd reach a tee, and be obliged to turn left or right on Hedge Lane; she braced her feet against the opposite bench, and her hands against the sides, and prayed they would go left. For she was convinced now that the heartbeat-like now. In a few yards they'd reach a tee, and be obliged to turn left or right on Hedge Lane; she braced her feet against the opposite bench, and her hands against the sides, and prayed they would go left. For she was convinced now that the heartbeat-like thumpa-thumpa-thumpa thumpa-thumpa-thumpa she heard on the left, and felt through the bones of the carriage, was a bad spoke or two. she heard on the left, and felt through the bones of the carriage, was a bad spoke or two.

This tactic-ramming-speed in the streets of London-seemed insane from within the box. But it was not really so, for (as she was recollecting) the carriage had a long pole-not unlike a ram on a galley-that extended all the way forward, between each pair of horses in the team, and to which all the harnesses were connected. People got killed by these things all the time: some by impalement and others by having their brains dashed out. Even supposing there were were a squadron of Jacobite cavalry trying to bar their escape onto Hedge Lane-and that had to have been a phantasm, hadn't it?-all of them would get well clear of that deadly pole, once they perceived that it had built up too much speed to stop. What they might do a squadron of Jacobite cavalry trying to bar their escape onto Hedge Lane-and that had to have been a phantasm, hadn't it?-all of them would get well clear of that deadly pole, once they perceived that it had built up too much speed to stop. What they might do then, then, when they'd regrouped and got their blood up, was another matter-but no point in fretting about that now. when they'd regrouped and got their blood up, was another matter-but no point in fretting about that now.

It seemed to have worked, anyway, for the carriage's speed slackened even as she was tensed for a crash, and it began to manage a turn-a left turn, thank G.o.d, and not so fast-onto Hedge Lane. And really not so much a full turn as a quick leftward jog into the next west-going street, Little Suffolk, which would run straight to Hay Market, and dump them out directly across from the triple-arched facade of the Italian Opera House that Vanbrugh and the Whigs had built there.

She heard horses all round during this maneuver, and voices shouting; but could not make out words until they had got well established on Little Suffolk, and built up to a steady canter that would bring them to the Opera House in considerably less than one minute. There seemed no point in letting those seconds go to waste. Eliza could hear the riders all around shouting absurd things such as "Halt!" and "I demand that you stop this carriage." She wanted no such thing to occur; but neither did she want the driver to press forward if someone was about to shoot him. The important thing was the illusion.

She shot open the window on the carriage's left side and got a burqa burqa-impression of several riders, all of whom abruptly went silent; which was so gratifying that she slid over to the right and shot that that window open as well. She risked a peek out and forward, and saw a row of building-fronts ahead. This might have been any of London's newer streets. But her eye was arrested by one building-front twice or thrice as broad as its neighbors. window open as well. She risked a peek out and forward, and saw a row of building-fronts ahead. This might have been any of London's newer streets. But her eye was arrested by one building-front twice or thrice as broad as its neighbors.

Like them it was made of brick, but so much of its facade was spoken for by arched windows and doorways, and by the ma.s.sive grooved voussoirs that framed them, and the stacks of deeply rusticated blocks that ascended from its corner-stones, and the broad friezes and cornices that spanned its width between storeys, that it really seemed to have been fabricated out of ma.s.sive clods of pale stone, with brick and mortar s.p.a.ckled into the narrow traces between. It was meant to look as dramatic as what went on inside of it: for this was the Italian Opera, and it stood in the Hay Market. Though Eliza loved and, like a good Whig, subscribed to it, it was of no utility whatever tonight, save as a landmark. Narrow streets such as Little Suffolk might be barricaded by a few men and a bonfire, but the Hay Market was nearly a hundred feet in breadth. It would take a company to stop them there.

"Ignore these men!" she said, "straight on, and stop for no one!" Which was only an indifferent s.n.a.t.c.h of libretto, as it went; but what made all the difference was that she uttered it in German. she uttered it in German. Eliza had been in many a Eliza had been in many a salon, salon, in Versailles and Amsterdam and elsewhere, and spoken many a clever or shocking in Versailles and Amsterdam and elsewhere, and spoken many a clever or shocking mot, mot, and created many a and created many a frisson frisson-but all were as nothing compared to the effect that these words had on the riders around her. "It is she! It is the Princess!" one of them shouted, and spurred his horse to a gallop, riding forward to the intersection with Hay Market, now perhaps fifty yards away. Eliza was so pleased by this that she feared she might be recognized as an impostor, and spoil the effect; so before any of the riders on the right side could get too long a look at her, she withdrew and skidded back to the left side to have a look out that that window. window.

But there enjoyment ended. Ahead, she saw meteors of flame bobbing and swirling on the end of torch-handles. One of these stooped to the pavement and vanished in an orb of dull fire-glow, which broke open into a rush of brilliant yellow flame. Someone had put a torch to the base of a well-laid bonfire. The carriage faltered as the horses saw it. The driver cracked his whip over and over, and permitted the team to divert to the right as much as they could in the confines of Little Suffolk. Hope that they could skirt the fire, and fear of the whip and of the shouting riders, drove the horses into an undisciplined rush forward. Just as they burst through into Hay Market, someone tossed a handful of firecrackers into the flames. They went off in a barrage so close and hot that Eliza felt bursts of heat reaching in through the window to slap at her face. She tried to move to the right. But the team had gotten a worse scare than she, and moved away from it with all the power of several tons of muscle. The carriage veered right, and went up on its left wheels. Eliza would have dropped straight into the left door had she not lashed out to grip the sill of the window on the right. For a moment she was suspended, gazing up through the burqa burqa-slot to see nothing but chimney-tops, storks' nests, and stars in the sky.

Then the left wheel collapsed. The entire carriage dropped an arm's length or so, and landed with its full weight on the end of the left axle. Or so she collected from the sounds and the movements. Her right hand was jarred loose from the windowsill, so she dropped like a sack of barley into the left door. Its latch gave way and it fell open; but it could only open so far, as it was nearly skidding along the pavement. The only thing holding it above the cobbles of Hay Market was that axle, which projected beyond the side of the vehicle for a short distance. And so Eliza, lying on her back on the broken door with the wind knocked out of her, was able to turn her head and see pavement rushing away only a few inches from her nose, taking her chestnut-colored wig with it.

But presently the pavement slowed and stopped. The horses-who must be driverless now-had decided that the place they had reached-the front court of the Opera, by the looks of it-was safer than any other place in view, and resolved to stop here. Eliza began trying to squirm out of the half-open door; she phant'sied there was enough s.p.a.ce between the ground and the flank of the carriage to admit her body. This very soon turned out to have been overly optimistic, for the door was not open quite wide enough to let her out. She got her head, a shoulder, and an arm free, but the remainder of Eliza would not come unless the door were removed. It was held in place by hinges of ox-hide. Eliza's left arm was still imprisoned, but she could move it around, and find one of the hinges by groping. She had a little Turkish watered-steel dagger in the waistband of her dress: a nasty old habit. She found it with her left hand, and drew it out. A few moments later she was sawing away at one of the leather hinges.

And she was thus busily engaged when a pair of polished black riding-boots presented themselves before her face. The hem of a long dark cloak roiled about them like a cloud. A chestnut wig fell to the pavement. "You are not the woman I was looking for," said a voice in French.

Eliza looked far, far up to see the face of Father edouard de Gex staring down at her. He was perspiring freely. "But you will do, madame, you will do." In his gloved hands he was twirling a dagger that gave off an oily sheen in the light of the bonfires that were springing up all around.

The Black Dogg, Newgate Prison A FEW MINUTES EARLIER.

"I HAVE THE HEAVY GOLD. HAVE THE HEAVY GOLD. You know this," Jack said. You know this," Jack said.

"The Solomonic Gold?" Isaac corrected him.

"Funny, that is what Father Ed calls it, too. Whatever you call it, I have it, and I know where I can get more. Now, suppose Bolingbroke demands a Trial of the Pyx. The refiner's furnace shall be set up in Star Chamber. A jury of London money-men shall open up the Pyx and take out a sample of coins-"

"Coins that you you put in," Isaac said. put in," Isaac said.

"That you can't prove-but in any case, you you are personally responsible for every one of those coins," Jack reminded him. "They shall be counted and weighed first. And it may astonish you, Ike, to hear that the coins I put in there shall pa.s.s this first test. I made the blanks a bit thicker, you see-not enough so as you would notice, holding one between your fingers, but enough to make them of legal weight, even though they are allayed with base metal." are personally responsible for every one of those coins," Jack reminded him. "They shall be counted and weighed first. And it may astonish you, Ike, to hear that the coins I put in there shall pa.s.s this first test. I made the blanks a bit thicker, you see-not enough so as you would notice, holding one between your fingers, but enough to make them of legal weight, even though they are allayed with base metal."

"But when they are a.s.sayed-?" Daniel said.

"When those same coins are melted in the cupel, and the quant.i.ty of gold in them is measured, they'll be found wanting. And this is where I may be of service to you, Ike, and to that Marquis who got you your post at the Mint."

"You can supply me with heavy gold, as you call it."

"Indeed. Which, slipped into the cupel by a bit of prestidigitation-easily arranged, have no fear-will give the a.s.say greater weight, and make all the numbers come out as they should."

Isaac Newton, who had been strangely unmoved by all that infiltrated his nostrils and stuck to the soles of his shoes here in Newgate, was nauseated by this. Jack Shaftoe was quick to note it and to know why. "I disgust you, Ike, for the same reason I disgust Father Ed, which is that to me the heavy gold is only that. And when I offer it to you as a part of our present transaction, I offer it, not as a mystical essence for use in your divine sorcery, but as a bit o' spare weight to save your nuts during the Trial of the Pyx that is soon to come. Our conversation here would seem a good deal n.o.bler, wouldn't it, if it were about that that rather than rather than this; this; if it were about if it were about that, that, why, you could phant'sy yourself living out a sort of latter-day sequel to the Bible, and Newgate, foul as it is, would be like those leper-towns where Jesus walked: not so foul, because part of a fair story. But because it is about why, you could phant'sy yourself living out a sort of latter-day sequel to the Bible, and Newgate, foul as it is, would be like those leper-towns where Jesus walked: not so foul, because part of a fair story. But because it is about this, this, namely, Ike Newton not getting his b.a.l.l.s and his hand chopped off, why, you look about yourself and say, 'Eeeyuh, I am in the Black Dogg of Newgate Prison and it stinketh!' I see this clearly only because I have seen it so oft on the face of Father Ed, for whom all of London might as well be Newgate Prison when it is compared to Versailles. But I shall solace you with the same words I have spoke to Father Ed when he turns thus green about the gills." namely, Ike Newton not getting his b.a.l.l.s and his hand chopped off, why, you look about yourself and say, 'Eeeyuh, I am in the Black Dogg of Newgate Prison and it stinketh!' I see this clearly only because I have seen it so oft on the face of Father Ed, for whom all of London might as well be Newgate Prison when it is compared to Versailles. But I shall solace you with the same words I have spoke to Father Ed when he turns thus green about the gills."

"I am astonished that you have any words left, left," said Isaac. "But as I have heard so many, a few more can do no harm."

"It is simply that when all of this has played out, and you are left holding a bit of that Solomonic Gold, why, you may believe, concerning it, whatever you choose, and do with it what you will."

"A question," Daniel said. "Since you know that Sir Isaac desires it, and you know he is aware that you have got some, why this elaborate scheme concerning the Pyx? Why did you not simply treat directly with Sir Isaac long ago?"

"Because there were other parties to be accounted for. On my side, there was de Gex, who had a say in the matter until I began trying to kill him a couple of weeks ago. On your side, Ravenscar, who does not believe in Alchemy any more than I do. To extract anything from him him I needed something a bit more substantial than a spate of malarkey about King Solomon." I needed something a bit more substantial than a spate of malarkey about King Solomon."

"Since you hold my views on the matter in such contempt, this conversation cannot be any more pleasant for you than it is for me. Let us bring it to a head directly," Isaac suggested. "You have offered a way to get me out of difficulty in the event that Bolingbroke demands a Trial of the Pyx. But this is of no utility to me if he doesn't doesn't. For as all the world knows, he has been gathering in guineas of late, preparing to a.s.say those coins that have been circulating in her majesty's currency. Many counterfeits shall be encompa.s.sed in any such sample. At any time of Bolingbroke's choosing he may change his tune, and say, 'Behold, the Pyx was tampered with by Jack the Coiner, its contents are no reliable sample of the Mint's produce, we must instead a.s.say the coins in circulation.' Such an a.s.say shall prove deficient, both in the weight of the coins, and the fineness of the metal, because it shall include so many counterfeit guineas."

By way of an answer, Jack reached into the pocket of his breeches and drew out a little packet, which he tossed across the Black Dogg. Isaac got his hands up quickly enough, bobbled it, and trapped it against his breast. Daniel did not have to look to know what it was. "One of the Sinthias you stole from the Pyx in April."

"I have the rest stored away nice and safe," Jack said, "and can produce them when and where needed, to prove that you put only good coins into the Pyx, Ike. So, you see, whether Bolingbroke orders a Trial of the Pyx or no, I can save you: if he does, by supplying heavy gold, and if he doesn't, by supplying the rest of those." Jack nodded at the packet, which Isaac was now fondling near a candle-flame.