A sliver of a gap revealed a curled lip below one eye. “Wot?”
“The name’s Davies.” He repeated the lines given to him by their leader. “A brother of the blade who wishes to enter.”
“Ain’t never clapped me peeper on yer before.”
“Let him in, Cleavers,” came a voice. “I invited him.”
The man scowled but opened the door to reveal his other eye was patched. Behind him was a grim room with ripped curtains, a hissing coal fire and a rectangular table with twelve or so men sat at it – some must have been there a while.
He nodded to Forsyth and the few others he knew from the Seven Dials ale-house before John Roberts strode forward with hand outstretched. “Davies.”
Hugh accepted his hand. “Roberts.” Knuckles cracked. “Good to see some are not taking our plight lying down.”
“Not us. Come, sit.”
Taking a chair at the far end, he inspected the Brotherhood – a seedy bunch of burly thugs cradling tankards of ale. With the introductions, three stood out – Cleavers with his patched eye, John Roberts himself, and a hard-eyed Scottish brute named Darnell who wore a Highland regimental jacket.
Their leader, black-haired and with eyes grey as a gravestone, strode to the head of the table. “We meet once more, mybrothers, to demand action. Demand our dues.” Roberts leaned low. “We made this land free for the fancy lords nigh two years ago, yet now they shove our faces in the bloody mud.”
Raucous assent and slammed tankards followed.
“But we’ll make ’em listen,” he growled, voice now hushed as midnight, “with a blade to their throats, if that’s what it takes.”
Hugh slammed his tankard also but within he was a seething mass of contradictions. He felt boundless sympathy for the soldiers that trudged the London streets in their shabby red and blue jackets, men who had fought for the liberty of these isles, limbs and youth lost.
This year’s spring was once again cold and wet, food prices soared, yet work was scarce for them, and all the while, the government slithered with corruption, parliament seats bought and sold like theatre tickets.
But murder was not the answer.
The Brotherhood of Ravens needed the new breed of aristocrats on their side – men like his cousin the Duke of Aberdare and others, who were fighting to get their petition for soldiers’ pensions adopted.
“When?” he heard himself ask. “When do we make them listen?”
“It’s begun.” Roberts’ lips parted to a crooked gash. “Revolution is here. With men of the north ready to fight. This Brotherhood are sending experienced soldiers, arms and coin.” He drew a calloused finger across his throat. “And the devil take anyone who stands in our way.”
Hugh’s jaw stiffened but he raised his tankard and drank. “I came to the right place.”
“Aye, you did at that.” Roberts’ gaze pierced him like a blade. “But we have a problem.”
Silence shrouded the room and Hugh stilled.
The fire spat and Roberts inhaled.
“I’ve had word that a government man has been sent north to infiltrate.” He turned away, fists clenching as the men grumbled.
Hugh nigh choked on his bitter ale.How the hell did he know that?
As Roberts swung back to the table, an ugly snarl twisted his mouth. “So I’m looking for two men who can follow and see he’s silenced.”
Bloody Hellfire.Twyford had mentioned the man was set to leave, yet how could Hugh go to his superior with all this until he knew where these damn leaks were coming from?
He’d have to get his own message to the man before he got his throat cut.
Hugh made to rise. “I’ll do–”
“Oy,” shouted Cleavers. “How do we know we can trust this bloody Welshman?”
“Aye to that,” jeered a Scot’s brogue. “Fer all we ken, this coward might’ve hidden behind another’s cloak in the war and now he’ll sing like a bluidy canar–”
