Page 74

The Old Palace Yard was shrouded in blackness. Clouds covered the moon and stars, and an air of foreboding hung over the square. Sitting astride Blaze, Simon rolled his shoulders to release some of the tension building there. When he’d come here with Isla, he’d been struck by the portentous aura that had hung over the buildings he knew so well. He had not enjoyed the new sensation. He liked it even less now that it was even stronger.

Knyvett rode at his right. The gentleman had been eating his evening meal when Simon had arrived at his house. Thankfully, it seemed magistrates were better used to interruptions than most gentlemen, and when he heard that Simon had come on pressing business that involved the safety of the king, he had left his table to hear what Simon had to say. Choosing his words carefully, Simon had explained that as one who had personally heard the contents of the letter delivered to Monteagle, he was convinced that it contained a real threat. He’d also hinted that in Suffolk’s desire to accomplish his assigned task quickly, the nobleman may have overlooked some highly suspicious barrels in the undercroft below the House of Lords. The promise of a second search being limited to one room had been enough to convince Knyvett to call for his horse. Doubleday, the broad-shouldered guard who had delivered Knyvett’s mount, had arrived with a lantern and a mount of his own. Both had been a welcome sight.

Doubleday had ridden ahead of them, keeping the lantern aloft, but now that they had reached the courtyard, he reined his horse to a stop to await further instructions.

“Over there, Knyvett,” Simon said, pointing to a black rectangular object painted onto the lower portion of the building near the corner. “Do you see it? We may need to move closer to be sure, but the darkened portion looks to be a door.”

“Agreed.” Knyvett dismounted. “We do not know who or what we shall find inside, so I believe it would behoove us to approach quietly.” He took his reins and tossed them around the lower branch of a nearby tree. Without a word, Simon and Doubleday did the same. “If you would light our way once more, Doubleday, we shall proceed to the undercroft.”

From the direction of the Thames, a man shouted. Another shout and the creak of timber followed. It was an eerie sound. Simon pulled his cloak more closely around himself and surveyed the darkened space behind them. Not a soul in sight. Did Fawkes have any accomplices about? One gentleman against three was fair odds. Then again, one madman against three leveled the playing field.

“It’s a door, Sir Knyvett.” Leading the way, Doubleday had the best view of what lay ahead. “An’ there’s a few steps leadin’ down to it.”

“Have your weapon ready, Doubleday,” Knyvett said. The zing of metal on metal filled the air as both Simon and the guard unsheathed their swords. For his part, Knyvett removed a large key ring from his belt. “As a member of the late queen’s privy chamber and with my current position as a London magistrate, I enjoy greater access to the palace than most.” He stepped into the circle of lantern light, the keys jangling as he sorted through them. He turned three over before claiming the next. “I shall knock. If there is no response, I shall unlock the door.” He gave Doubleday a warning look. “Be prepared for a fight.”

Doubleday’s teeth glistened in the lantern’s light. “Yes, m’ lord.”

The guard took a position at Knyvett’s right and held the light above the keyhole. Simon stood at Knyvett’s left. The magistrate knocked. Simon thought he heard the scrape of chair legs but then nothing.

Knyvett knocked again. The silence persisted. He slid the key into the lock. “On the count of three, gentlemen,” he muttered.

He counted slowly, and then the bolt drew back with a solid thud. Knyvett pushed open the door, and Doubleday entered with Simon only one step behind.

The room was chilly and lit by a single lantern. A lone man stood before them, wearing a dark cloak and stovepipe hat. In his hand, he held a sword.

“What is the meaning of this?” His voice was low and filled with indignation.

“I could ask the same.” Yet to raise his sword, Knyvett approached the man boldly. “As a London magistrate, I demand to know your name and reason for being within the walls of the House of Lords at this time of night.”

The man’s expression turned from outraged to calculating. “John Johnson,” he said. “Manservant to Lord Percy, who leases this undercroft.” He gestured to the caskets. “His are the wine caskets you see here.”

Simon narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing the undercroft’s contents. Percy was a known Catholic sympathizer, and Isla had mentioned his name as one who was involved with the conspiracy. “If this is truly Percy’s wine cellar, the gentleman’s collection rivals that of the most frequented inns in London.” Simon turned his attention back to the man in black. “Of course, a gentleman with access to so vast a space may choose to store other things also.”

The stranger’s eyes flashed with menace. It was an unlikely reaction for a subservient manservant. However, it was exactly what Simon would expect from a mercenary and treasonous conspirator.

“Sir Knyvett,” Simon said, keeping his eyes on the glowering man, “might I suggest that one of us checks the contents of these caskets? I fear Mr. Fawkes may not be telling the whole truth.”

At Simon’s use of his real name, Fawkes’s shoulders stiffened, and he raised his sword a fraction.

Knyvett must have caught the subtle shift in Fawkes’s stance because his hand moved to hover over the hilt of the weapon at his side. “Fawkes, is it?”

When Fawkes did not respond, Knyvett inclined his head toward the barrels. “Check them, Bancroft.”

Much like a prize greyhound intent on his prey, Fawkes lunged forward. With barely enough time to unsheathe his blade, Knyvett would have fallen had Doubleday not leaped to parry Fawkes’s sword with his own. The clash of steel rang through the cellar. Knyvett stepped back, allowing Doubleday room to maneuver into a better position while readying himself to enter the fight.

“Now, Bancroft,” Knyvett yelled. “We have him.”

Tightening his grip on his own weapon, Simon darted across the room. The lantern on the small table illuminated a long dagger beside an open bundle of food. He ignored the signs of Fawkes’s simple meal and rounded the furniture. The faint scent of wine lingered over the nearest barrel. He ignored it. If the conspirators had placed casks of wine in the cellar to discourage curious visitors, those decoys were surely at the front of the stack.

Leaning over the first row of casks, he plunged his sword into the side of the nearest barrel in the next row. He twisted the blade and withdrew it. Instantly, a stream of dark liquid trickled down the wooden side. He swiveled, pulled back his arm, and pierced the next barrel. Grunts, heavy footsteps, and the ring of metal continued behind him. Trusting that Knyvett or Doubleday would shout a warning if needed, Simon twisted his blade. The wood cracked and splintered. He withdrew his sword, and this time, a stream of black powder followed.

“Gunpowder,” he yelled. Isla had been right. About everything. Which meant he needed to search no longer. He knew what he would find. “Enough to blow up the entire Palace of Westminster and beyond.”

“Yield, Fawkes,” Knyvett shouted. “You are under arrest for treason.”

“Never.” The words dripped with loathing. “You and your inconsequential titles mean nothing.” He lunged at Doubleday. The guard deflected, forcing Fawkes back two paces. “My purpose here is greater than you and greater than me.”

Doubleday had him backing toward the furniture. Not wanting to distract the guard, Simon dropped to his knees and crawled beneath the table. His fingertips brushed against something long, thin, and smooth pressed into the dirt. He clawed it loose and pulled. The end of the cord appeared, grating across the base of the wooden barrel as he yanked it free. A fuse. Heaven help them. Were there more? And would Fawkes set them alight even now?