Featured Article » Fiction

The Man in the Pocket

Written by Mark H. Huston

Chapter 1

The Bull and Blood

London, Early Winter 1634

A priest, a giant, and a midget walked into a pub on an early winter afternoon.

The patrons of the Bull and Blood stopped what they were doing and stared.

Geoffrey Hudson, the midget—or, more properly, dapperling—was exactly twenty-one inches tall, and perfectly formed. He had a smooth face, delicate features, intelligent blue eyes, and mop of blonde hair. Wearing his tall rough boots, pantaloons and doublet, topped with a very fashionable hat, he measured twenty-three inches tall, not including the tiny and proportionally correct plumed feather in his cap. He carried a scale sized sword—a modified falchion, which hung at his side and could be seen as he tossed back his beautifully embroidered cape.

Geoffrey looked up at his friend the giant. "Anywhere to sit, William?" His voice was high, like a child's, but clear and strong.

William was the giant. He could not stand upright in the pub. Normally he stood seven feet, seven inches in his bare feet. Add another two inches for his massive boots. The ceiling of the pub was at six feet three inches, not counting the low beams. He had to bend over nearly double to get through the door. Hunched over, and wearing a rain cape as large as a tent, he surveyed the room. As he turned, ducking further to see below the beams, he favored his right leg and a bad hip. The patrons of the Bull and Blood continued to stare.

His heavy Welsh accent rumbled quietly and he nodded. "Corner, in the back."

"Let's go then."

The priest was doing a better job of blending in than the giant or the dapperling, as he was not dressed as a Catholic priest, which was fortunate. Geoffrey knew that if he were, the patrons would be doing more than just staring. They might just start a riot. Catholic priests were not welcome in this puritan piece of London. Geoffrey had dressed the man in servant's clothing.

William began to move through the bar. A way was made for him, Geoffrey followed, and the priest brought up the rear. Geoffrey marched straight to the table, ignoring the stares as he went. Glancing back at the priest, Geoffrey saw the man nervously smiling back at the incredulous stares of the patrons of the Bull and Blood.

The man had a lot to learn, obviously.

They arrived at the table, and after several awkward tries William simply sat cross-legged on the floor. The priest, Father Guillemot, used a normal chair, and Geoffrey stood on a chair near William.

Father Guillemot shifted restlessly in his chair, and looked for the barmaid. William surveyed the room. Seated on the floor, he was taller than most men standing upright.

"Do you see him?" asked Geoffrey quietly.

William shrugged. "Dunno." Shrug. "Dunno w'a he looks like." He glanced about slowly. "Where be the barkeep, I feel puckfyst."

Father Guillemot wriggled again, and said rather loudly, "What is zis puck face?"

Geoffrey choked back a laugh. "Puckfyst. It's a dried toadstool, like le champignon? He's thirsty, mon Pere."

Guillemot shrugged and looked around the room and then back to his companions. "I rather suppose zat if our sea captain were 'ere, he would 'ave noticed, n'est ce pas?"

"Please keep your voice down, Father. As I told you before we left Denmark House, we don't want people to take notice of you being French. You have been in this country for five years; you should learn the language in a more proficient fashion."

"I almost never leave ze grounds of ze Denmark 'ouse. Why should I bother, no? Le Francais is what is spoken zere, even by you."

"We are not at Denmark House. So hush!"

Geoffrey's hand motion hushed the priest again as the barmaid made her way across the room. The rumble of conversation was starting up again in the pub. Geoffrey watched the barmaid pause, and get "that look" on her face that most women did when they saw him. It was a look he knew well. It was the same look his beloved Henrietta Maria used to give him. This was a smile of glee, a smile of want—not lecherous, but of possession. A desire to touch him and to lift him and hug him. Geoffrey had been told he was very fair of face, which was unusual for a dapperling. He was also proportional, and saddled with none of the physical ailments and joint problems that plagued most other dapperlings. He knew the smile well. But this barmaid was more grandmotherly—haggardly, if the truth be told. He sighed, put on his best courtier smile, plucked the purple-plumed hat off of his head, and bowed low as she approached. "Good lady, we thank you for attending to us." He popped up from his bow and replaced the hat upon his blond hair.

The barmaid smiled at him with what was left of her teeth, which were very few. "Wot a little gentleman, he is!" She leaned forward and put her face to the level of the table so she could see him up close. She smiled her semi-toothless smile and then turned to the giant. Geoffrey watched as the barmaid measured up William as he sat awkwardly on the floor. They were eye level to each other, and William's large head, unruly black hair, and oversized teeth gave him the countenance of a lion.

"Lordy, ain't ye a pair of characters! Big and Little along with this fellow 'ere." She gestured to the priest. Wa'be ye story, along with these lads, eh?"

Before the priest could open his French mouth, Geoffrey spoke up. "He is our servant, good barkeep. You are the barkeep, are you not, milady?"

She blinked at him a couple of times. "Aye."

"Then 'tis your job to bring us ale. Which is why we are here. Please do so. Three ales." He waved imperiously at the woman.

She blinked again, and then seemed to gather her senses around her. "Three ales, aye, milord." She curtseyed slightly as she backed away from the table on her errand.

Geoffrey turned to his companions. "You would think the woman never had seen a courtier before today. I am used to the stares, but the rude behavior is tedious. I have been a member of the queen's household for over ten years, William even longer. We should be treated as is fitting of our station."

Father Guillemot interrupted the low volume tirade. "And that is the problem, Geoffrey. We 'ave no station 'ere. Our queen is dead, the king may be lying on his deathbed for all we know—you heard he received a broken hip, a bone protruding from his leg!"

William canted his bulk toward the priest. "Rumors. Many rumors. No one knows what's happening. I don't believe rumors until I see the results with me own eyes. The king is injured. That is all we know."

The priest continued, "And ze lord chamberlain is locked up in ze Tower for taking part in ze incident where the queen was killed, and ze Americans are zomehow involved, and there are zese lords, most of whom 'ere not much in ze favor zat have taken over, and some of ze privy council is scattered, and zere are rumors of troops moving and rumors of plague and rumors of a Catholic conspiracy that was trying to kill the king so that zis idiotic island could again be a follower of ze true church, instead of being run by these idiotic Presbyterian protestants that 'ave no idea how deeply into damnation they sink—"

His speech was cut short by a hand that clamped onto his face. William's hand was nearly big enough to circle Guillemot's entire head.

Geoffrey again leaned across the table to the priest, who could only just see over William's hand. "Father. I know that you are excited. I have urged you to be quiet, and you gave us your word you would do your best to blend in. You are not doing so now. If this continues I will encourage William to increase his grip on your face. Are you aware that William once strangled a bull?"

The priest shook his head no, and his eyes widened a bit more.

"He did. Comprendez-vous, mon Pere?"

The head nodded in the affirmative.

"Bon. Release him, William." Geoffrey turned and looked at the barmaid approaching with three mugs. "Excellent, some ale." She sat the three mugs on the rough table, and he paid the woman out of his coin pouch. He placed an extra coin in her palm, and the old woman looked at it curiously.

"W'a be this for?"

"Madam," Geoffrey began, in a low whisper, "I am told that a captain by the name of Vanderbeek can be met here. Can you tell me if he is here?"

The barmaid's posture changed and a flash of recognition came over her face, her eyes flicked briefly to the bar, and then the look was immediately suppressed.

Geoffrey smiled to himself. He was only nineteen years old, but he had lived in the queen's household for more than ten years. He was the queen's dwarf, yes. But he was also an experienced courtier, and had been in Her Majesty's high favor until the end. The barmaid was as easy to read as a book. Geoffrey let his eyes stray to the bar, and his attention landed on a tall man who was noticeable because he was not looking at their table, nor was he immediately averting his eyes like the other patrons as Geoffrey glanced about. "The tall man under the lantern at the end of the bar, milady? Perchance he is the good captain?"

She turned and looked at the man at the bar. She then turned back and squinted a questioning, suspicious look. She answered slowly. "Aye, that be Vanderbeek."

"Could you ask him to join us, milady?"

Her reply was lost in the noise of the bar as she turned and tried to casually walk over to the tall blond man. Geoffrey could see the conversation, but could not hear it. He could see the man nod, thank the barmaid, and slowly turn around, facing the table. Geoffrey assessed the man as he assessed them. Tall, he looked more Danish than someone from the Low Countries. There was a relaxed air about him, easy, confident. His clothing was drab, his hat smaller than most, no feathers or plumes, and his slash-sleeved doublet hung about him as if it were made for a larger man. He had a sword by his side, much like Geoffrey's, only full size. Geoffrey noticed he didn't fiddle with it was he walked, as he had seen so many courtiers do. To this man the sword was simply there, not a decoration to be fussed with. Other patrons in the Blood and Bull gave him a subtle physical sense of respect as he walked by. It was not outwardly obvious, not to the untrained eye, but Geoffrey was good at this sort of thing. He always could pick up on the subtle signs of people, it came naturally to him. So far, Geoffrey approved of their choice of a sea captain.

Geoffrey stood on his chair as the man approached. "Captain Vanderbeek?"

The captain looked at the three men at the table, taking a moment on each one. Geoffrey watched him look at William first, Father Guillemot next, then the gaze came to him. There was none of the look that Geoffrey usually got in a situation like this. The barmaid's reactions were more typical. Captain Vanderbeek looked first at his height, but his gaze didn't stop there. It wasn't dismissive. Vanderbeek looked at more, it was if he was burning everything about Geoffrey into his memory. Geoffrey returned the man's gaze with one of his own, plucked his hat off his head once again, and bowed. "I am happy to meet you."

The captain returned the bow stiffly. "Thank you. Am I to take it you are the men that Kenelm Digby wrote to me about?"

"That is correct."

"Your letter said I would recognize you when you came into the Bull and Blood. I was expecting a handful of foppish courtiers from the queen's court, not a priest, a dapperling, and a giant."

Father Guillemot looked panicked. "How do you know I am ze priest?" he whispered sharply.

"I wasn't sure, until just now." He looked at Geoffrey with a smile. "You are in charge of this gathering?"

Geoffrey plopped his hat back on his head. "Yes, Captain. Please sit down." Geoffrey scampered to the next chair at the table, and William awkwardly moved aside to let the captain sit.

Glancing around him to check for eavesdroppers, Geoffrey began. "What do you know of the queen's household, Captain?"

"I know the court is at Denmark House, on the Strand. It is an estate rebuilt by James for Anne of Denmark. I know you give—or rather, gave—endless masques and parties, have a menagerie of strange beasts including monkeys, and I also know it is the center of Catholicism in this country. Inigo Jones is completing the Papist church within the compound." He looked directly at the priest, his expression blank. The look clearly made Father Guillemot uncomfortable. "There are rumors that say the pope will secretly consecrate it so the true evil ceremonies of Satan can begin." The captain cracked a little smile.

Father Guillemot sighed quietly, and with relief. "Zis is such a backward county. Ze 'oly father would never travel such a distance, even for our beloved Henrietta Maria. But we are hoping for some 'oly relics to 'elp us to consecrate ze new chapel."

Geoffrey gave the priest his best glare. A lot to learn. He turned his focus to the captain. "You have a fair grasp of what it was. But what it has become is a living nightmare for those of us who loved Henrietta Maria. And remember that clearly, Captain. We did love our queen. She was a very lonely girl for a great number of years, before the king and she finally fell in love. She was devoted to her king, and we were devoted to her, unconditionally. Do not forget that. Ever." Geoffrey felt his emotions slipping from control, and fought them back. The last thing he wanted this man to see was him crying like a child.

The captain looked around the table, and Geoffrey watched as he absorbed the quiet fierceness of his outburst. "Why do you need me?"

"We are in dangeur, Captain. C'est terrible. Zere are the mobs that have been outside the gates almost every evining, and—"

Geoffrey put up his hand to hush Father Guillemot. "We need your ship to plan an evacuation. We need to go to France, as soon as possible."

"Why not just go to Strafford? He will protect you."

"Have you not heard? He is in the Tower! We don't know who's in charge. There's a group of lords running the country while the king clings to life. Every day we hear they may take away the mercenaries that are guarding our home. We fear if those troops are withdrawn, and the anti-catholic sentiment is still high, there is nothing to prevent the mob from destroying Denmark House. And likely killing all men and beasts who live within."

"And the French ambassador? What of him?"

"He has left the country, leaving some spies, but they are of no use. We are on our own, Captain Vanderbeek."

Vanderbeek pushed his hat back onto his head, and sipped his ale. His look was non-committal.

"We have funds," Geoffrey continued, "but not unlimited. Will you do it?"

"Now that I see who and what you are . . . no"

"What do you mean, no?" Geoffrey was astounded. He expected some negotiation at least, but an outright refusal . . .

"No. Simple enough."

"Why?"

"I do not sail with menageries, or actors, or clowns or priests. Or children posing as men."

Geoffrey's hand went to his sword. "I am not a child, sir." He could feel his temper rising. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see William shifting position very slowly, in case he needed to fight.

Vanderbeek took a step back. The tension melted away from the table. Vanderbeek nodded. "Very well. As you say." He gave a small bow of his head.

Geoffrey heard the words, but it was clear to him they were less than sincere. He decided, reluctantly, to let it pass and took his hand from his sword.

William's voice rumbled and Geoffrey turned, surprised. "We will be no trouble. We take women and children, too." He looked at the captain closely with his lion countenance. "And freaks."

Geoffrey knew they were running out of time, both here with the captain and at Denmark House. "Captain Vanderbeek. Please listen to me. We are not simply a group of freaks and performers. We are a family. A household. What William said is true. Children and mothers. When Henrietta Maria came to this country, she was little more than a girl. Alone in a foreign and hostile country. She is—was—a Catholic in a Protestant country. She was isolated. Sad beyond measure. So she began to collect things, pets, people. She made her own family. I was one of the things she collected, for which I am grateful beyond measure. And now, this family is threatened. We are in dire need. Can you help us?"

Before Geoffrey could say anything else, the priest interrupted angrily and loudly. "Captain, why iz it you do not weesh to sail us?"

At that point several things happened at once. William, at Geoffrey's command, clamped his massive hand over Guillemot's face to muffle him. He only partially succeeded, and the priest began a muffled cursing in French. The rest of the bar stopped and stared. As Guillemot was wriggling, trying to break free of William's grip, his rather overlarge crucifix bounced into plain view from beneath his shirt. The patrons of the bar begin to focus on his group, and Geoffrey tried to quiet the idiot. He regretted bringing him along, but the priests and churchmen of Denmark House insisted on being included in this meeting. When he turned back, Vanderbeek had disappeared.

"Now where did he go?"

Geoffrey noticed two sailors break loose from the group of patrons and approach. They did not look friendly. In this town to be French meant—well, Geoffrey thought, it meant a lot of things, but today it was mostly Catholic. The overlarge crucifix bouncing about didn't help the matter. Geoffrey leaned over to William and spoke quietly. "Keep an eye on the priest and make sure he returns to Denmark House. Preferably alive." The large Welshman's head nodded slightly, and he shifted his position.

Geoffrey hopped onto the table with a flourish, pulled off his hat and made a sweeping bow to the men approaching. "Good sirs, good day to you!" Geoffrey was using his stage voice, which was very loud, and very clear. "Have you heard of England's smallest man, and his tale? Born in the smallest county in England, no less?" Geoffrey leapt off his chair, turned a somersault in the air, and rolled to his feet upon landing. He did a quick cartwheel across the room, and scrambled up a stool and stood on the bar. He grinned widely at everyone, and began to dance upon the bar, singing the chorus of a drinking tune. His eyes went to William, who stood awkwardly and began to sing with him. The tune was snappy and quick.

Cinnamon, and ginger, nutmeg and cloves,

That gave me my jolly red nose!

Nose, nose, nose, nose,

And that gave me my jolly red nose!

Geoffrey's voice was good, clear, and it carried. William's was off key and as deep as a well. The effect was to stop the surly men in their tracks, and the rest of the bar began to laugh.

But the two of them were not dissuaded so easily. "Hey! I said hey!" One of the sailors, from the looks of him, was protesting the change in mood, swaying slightly. He pointed to the priest. "That man is a Catholic, lads. Look at that idolatry 'round his neck. He's French too. I hear tell a group of French priests wa' seen after the queen was killed. They say there is a con— umm, con-spire-a-see about, lads." He swayed a little more, but he had regained the crowds' attention.

Lion drunk, thought Geoffrey. Ready to fight. He sighed inwardly, but on the outside, smiled widely.

William sighed and moved the priest behind him.

Geoffrey began to sing a verse, directly to the leader of the troublemakers, still smiling all the while.

Of all the birds I ever did see,

The owl is fairest in her degree.

For all the day long she sits in a tree,

And when the night comes, away flies she.

Geoffrey danced a little jig through the verse, and now had the man's attention.

To wit to woo, to whom drinks through, sir knave to thee

This song is well sung and I make you a vow

That he is a knave that drinketh now!

Geoffrey pointed to the man on the word "he," and it was clear he was calling the man a drinking knave, one who can woo the ladies, and is a serious drinker. The bar began to laugh at the show. He continued to dance and sing another chorus, and other voices picked it up.

Nose, nose, jolly red nose,

And what gave me my jolly red nose,

Cinnamon, Ginger, nutmeg and cloves,

And that gave me my jolly red nose.

Geoffrey continued to sing the next verse to the sailor, who was not comfortable with all of the attention. Geoffrey made sure the performance was focused directly on the drunken sailor.

I care of no fool whose purse is not full,

But he hath money I never find dull

And if he still has it when hence I doth goes

I'll drop my tankard and never drink more

A rack, a rue, to whom drinks through, sir knave to thee

This song is well sung and I make you a vow,

That he is a knave that drinketh now!

Through the next chorus, Geoffrey saw William and the priest make for the door, as the focus was on him dancing on the bar. For the last verse, Geoffrey wanted everyone to look at him, and he slowed the pace slightly, playing up the words.

I'll not have a woman who's never been tried,

But give me a wanton to lie by my side

And this I do use as a rule of my life,

That wanton is best with another man's wife!

Cookoo, Cookoo, to whom drinks through, sir knave to thee

This song is well sung and I make you a vow,

That he is a knave that drinketh now!

As he started the last chorus, he reached into his purse, pulled out a handful of coins, and tossed them into the crowd. William and the priest had made it out the door. He continued to sing as he trotted down the bar, skipping over tankards and bottles toward the door. The drunken sailor pushed his way through the small knot of men, keeping pace with him. It was going to be close. He leapt off the bar, hit the ground with a roll like an acrobat, sprung to his feet and was nearly to the door when he was snagged by his cape from behind, jerking him off the ground. The cape was sturdy, and whoever had a hold of him was tossing him backwards, toward the bar and away from the door. He twisted around quickly and drew his sword, swiping it in the air behind to free the grip on the cape.

The sword hit something, and he heard the sailor yowl and felt his grip release. Geoffrey stumbled back against the bar and fell to the ground. He sprang up, furious, tossed his cape back, and took a fighting stance. His tiny dagger came out of his boot, and he looked up at the sailor, who was holding his hand, dripping blood. The sailor was nearly three times his height, but he showed no fear to the man. His pleasant singing voice was now replaced with a cool, clear, icy fury. "I am not some barmaid, knave. You do not touch me. If you do, you will feel my blade."

There was still some scrabbling on the hard packed dirt floor for the coins he tossed, but the group of men quickly quieted down, and turned to watch the tiny dapperling and the fully-grown sailor, giving them room. The sailor was between Geoffrey and the door, and Geoffrey's back was to the bar.

"You cut me 'and, ye little bastard."

Some of the men at the bar laughed. The sailor was angry. Angry he couldn't start his fight earlier, and angry at the one who spoiled his fun and had now hurt him. He glanced around for a weapon, and grabbed an oaken walking stick leaning against the wall by the door. The sailor hefted the stick once, trying it out, and then turned to Geoffrey. Geoffrey shifted his position, still focused on the sailor. The sailor raised the walking stick like a hammer above his head, stepped forward with one leg, and brought it down like an ax, as hard as he could, aiming for Geoffrey's head.

Geoffrey was expecting the move and easily sidestepped the heavy stick. Then he stepped under the sailor's outstretched leg, and sliced the inside of the man's thigh with his sword. He let the momentum of his thrust carry him behind the man to the door in one smooth and practiced motion. Geoffrey's blades were sharp. Very sharp. He doubted the man fully felt what he had done.

The sailor reached for the inside of his leg. "Wha' did ye do t' me, ye little bastard? Did ye cut me again?' He raised his stick again, his hand now very bloody.

One of the man's shipmates stepped up to him, and silently pointed down at his boot. It was already full of blood, spilling out over the top and onto the ground. They both looked incredulously at the blood flowing onto the ground. Their eyes met for a brief moment, then the attacking sailor went down like a sack of bricks, completely limp. He would be dead in a moment or two.

There was a pause in the bar. An intake of breath. Men looked at each other in wonder. Someone so small, so deadly. Geoffrey kept his face as neutral as possible, and edged his way out of the door. William and the priest were gone, long gone by now, and he was on his own.

He closed the door behind him and walked as slowly and confidently as he could manage, until he rounded a corner, then began to run. He ducked into an alley, out of view, where he threw up. He leaned against the cold and damp wood of some closed shop, and was sick until his stomach was empty, and then was sick some more. His hands shook, and his knees knocked. He sobbed. After a while, he began to get his emotions under control. He could still remember the feeling of resistance of flesh to blade as he cut the man. He had been working with the master of arms for more than three years. He did it without thinking, by reflex. The feeling of his blade cutting flesh came back to him, and he retched again.

He stood there for more than a little while, and slowly began to get under control. Suddenly the darkness loomed darker for a moment and he became aware of someone behind him. He pulled his blades again, and whirled to face whoever it was.

"Your first?" It was Vanderbeek's voice.

"Go away," he croaked, putting his blades back into their sheaths. He peered into the darkness. "Damn lot of help you were."

"Oh I was there, Geoffrey. Watching. And I would have stepped in, if I was needed. For our friend Digby, if nothing else." There was a pause in the darkness. "You will have your rescue. I will call at Denmark House on the morrow with further instructions. We can settle our price then."

Chapter 2

The Preacher

Alexander Leighton smiled in the torchlight. In front of him stood the very seat of Catholic influence in England, what the people called Denmark House, the home of the dead queen. The small group of followers he gathered in the first week after her death had now grown to a significant number, which if allowed to be incited, would quickly become a mob. Mercenaries surrounded Denmark House still, protecting it, but soon, very soon, the whole thing would come down. In flames. Glorious, all-consuming flames.

Leighton wore his hair long, over where his ears should have been. His ears had been cut off for preaching heresy. His nose was slit as another punishment. His back held the marks of a whip, as yet another sentence for sedition. When his book was published, Speculum Belli Sacri, or Mirror of the Holy War, a tirade against bishops and the evils of creeping prelacy, his face was branded with a deep "SS," for Sower of Sedition. All the pain he endured was nothing, in the great struggle against Satan. No pain is worse than the pain of Hell, an eternity of torture.

He thanked God above when he heard the news. The Catholic queen was dead, and now her terrible influence over the king would finally cease. He was certain the king was captivated by a popish spell, supported by witches, which influenced the king toward the Devil and Catholicism. Why else would he push the need for bishops, those "wens and knobs and bunchy 'o popish flesh" who held no other purpose but to lead the church straight to hell?

In front of him stood his crowd of followers, well behaved for now. He needed just a few dozen more, and they could overpower the guards and take the palatial home to the ground, brick by brick. Especially the Popish church that was within. A Catholic chapel built right in the heart of London. It must not be allowed. He would kill everyone and everything within; they had all been polluted by the taint of Catholicism. It would be another step on his way to cleanse the Island of filth. He nodded. He smiled in the torchlight. Yes, just a few more. Only a few.

He signaled his boy to beat his drum, and the crowd became quiet. He began to preach. He started slowly, earnestly, then built his arguments. He alternated between piety and outrage, helplessness and fury, calmness and brutality. There was a measured pace, a hypnotic rhythm to the speech. He could feel the crowd become as one mind beneath the spell of his gift. And surely it was a gift from God, to be able to do this. To move a crowd to action, or rapture, or outrage. They became as one being, a single mind of many parts, all under his control.

He didn't want to peak too soon. Not yet. He withdrew his energy, calmed them, brought them back, let their minds separate slightly. Not yet. No. Not yet. But soon. Very soon. Just a few more men.

Chapter 3

Denmark House

"This isn't a house. It's a dammed palace." Vanderbeek shook his head. "I had no idea it was this large."

Henry Jermyn held the large iron gates of the watergate entrance from the Thames open for Vanderbeek and smiled. Statues of Thame and Isis framed the massive gate. The Denmark House gardens stretched before them, six hundred feet to the palace. Like all homes of the wealthy and powerful, it was situated directly on the Thames, and the "rear" of the palace faced the Strand, while the front faced the river. There was a high stone wall that blocked out the views of the gardens from the river, and lesser walls to the east and west. The three-story palace faced the Strand, forming the fourth side. The Savoy Hospital was to the west, separated by the lowest of the walls, beyond where the stables and servants quarters were located.

Jermyn laughed a rather grating laugh. Off pitch and nervous. A laugh that didn't fit his chubby body. "It's the largest palace in London, after Whitehall, Captain. What did you expect to find for the queen's court?"

The captain stopped and took in the gardens, now trimmed, tended and hunkered down for winter. Naked decorative trees and bushes gave the palace a rather forlorn look. Forlorn, but very well groomed.

As they approached the main building of the palace he could see archways and alcoves, and in each alcove was a life-size marble sculpture, all representative of various characters from mythology. He counted nine of those. Everywhere he looked there was statuary and large winter-dormant fountains scattered around the grounds. Near the house, he looked to his left and saw a recently constructed building. "Is that the Catholic chapel I've heard so much about?"

Jermyn smiled again. "It was one of Her Majesty's greatest achievements. Would you like to see it? There is a magnificent Rubens over the altar, twenty feet tall. We are still working on some of the interior decorations and carvings."

"No." Vanderbeek stopped, tugged Jermyn's ample sleeves, and pointed to the building. "Do you understand the presence of that Catholic chapel is one of the things which enrages the mob outside the gates?"

"We have only really learned it since the queen's death. The fact they hate it, I mean. We—or rather I—well, most of us, do not understand why. It makes no sense. We have increased attendance almost every week since we opened for select public masses. We stopped those after the death of the queen, when the mob began to form. We have heard there has been an increase in the persecution of Catholics across London, too."

They began to walk toward the large main entrance doors. "Is everyone a Catholic behind these walls?"

"Nearly so, at least now. The ladies and lords of the queen's court were mostly Protestant. It has been so since 1626. That's when Charles threw out the French court Henrietta Maria brought with her from France. He replaced all of her ladies in waiting with English ladies. During that time is when I came to be of service to the queen." Jermyn smiled again. Vanderbeek didn't like the smile the first time he saw it as he disembarked from his launch. He reconfirmed his opinion as Jermyn continued. "We have all assembled in the main hall. There used to be over three hundred of us living here, and there were about one hundred who traveled with the queen as her court. Anyone who had somewhere to go, other than Denmark house, has left it." The big man shrugged. "All that is left are those of us who have nowhere else. The Catholics, the priests, monks, the French, the freaks. Geoffrey was welcomed once by the French court, and was granted gifts of gems worth over two thousand pounds by Marie d'Medici and her court. He was well liked. Nearly all in the household have connections there, so we will go there."

Vanderbeek's eyebrows went up, and he re-thought the amount of money he was going to charge for the trip. "Does he still have that kind of money?"

Jermyn gave Vanderbeek a Gallic shrug, obviously mastered by living among them. "He lost the jewels and the gifts when he was seized, along with the queen's midwife and a few ladies in waiting by the Dunkirker pirates. Of course, they were ransomed. I think the Dunkirkers were frightened by the importance of the cargo they waylaid."

Vanderbeek nodded in agreement. "I recall hearing. They could do the same again today with an English ship, ever since the damned Spanish have taken the Low Countries. They were always after the Dutch, now that'd be like stealing from yourself, since they were usually under Spanish letters of marque."

They entered the building through a set of magnificent doors, where a servant took their cloaks and then led them into a wide hallway that extended for several yards, until they came around a corner, and then to a large cross hallway. They went to the right. Windows lined the south side of the hall, letting in the cold winter light. When Jermyn finally opened the double doors to the main hall, Vanderbeek was confronted with one of the strangest sights he had ever seen. The room was sumptuous, dark oak paneled, high ceiling, stained glass windows behind, and a massive table in the center. Seated around the table and standing around the room was the largest collection of freaks and oddities he had ever seen. There were tall, slender African men and women dressed as formal servants. He counted three more dwarfs. There were several ladies in waiting, a man with no legs who walked on his hands, a handful of Capuchin monks in their coarse robes and rope belts, exotic birds, dogs large and small, a few monkeys on leashes, several priests, and another thirty or so "normal" looking people, servants he assumed. He recognized the giant from the Bull and Blood, and saw another, shorter, giant who was grossly fat. At the head of the table, Geoffrey stood on a chair, his back to Vanderbeek. After a moment, the dwarf turned to him and bowed slightly. In the daylight, his features looked even more delicate and childlike.

Vanderbeek smiled at the dwarf, and then turned to Jermyn, still keeping his eyes on the group displayed before him. "Who's in charge of this . . . this group of passengers? I have a few questions."

The youthful priest near the front of the room came forward. Vanderbeek was expecting a French accent; instead he got a Scottish brogue. "I am the leader of this group, sir. I can make all of the decisions for everyone here."

Evans the Giant spoke up, as did others. "He does not speak for me!"

"Nor I," came from the mouth of the man with no legs.

Most of the freaks were protesting the self-appointment. The Africans in the back of the room were silent, and the group of women—he assumed them to be ladies in waiting or high-level servants—were murmuring and looking nervous. One in particular caught Vanderbeek's eye. He fixed his gaze on her for a moment, and she returned it with a smile, and then looked down. Trouble, he thought, and continued to survey the noisy room. He recognized the priest from the night before directly behind the one who spoke up. They were loudly protesting the potential selection of anyone else. The disagreements and calls for a leader began to grow, dogs barked, monkeys howled and a bird cawed madly.

Vanderbeek finally put up his hands. "Enough! I will speak to the dwarf, the priest, and Jermyn." He pointed to each of them in turn as he called their names. The protests continued, but he walked from the room, the three of them scurrying after.

****

Later, after a long discussion on the details of the rescue, Vanderbeek had a better handle on the three men. Jermyn, he decided was just about worthless. A basically stupid but loyal Englishman who simply had nowhere else to go. The priest was the queen's confessor, who thought his rank gave him the intelligence to make decisions for all. But Geoffrey, Vanderbeek judged, was a dependable man.

At the end of the meeting, Vanderbeek pulled him aside. "I want you to be my main contact to the group, Geoffrey. Can you do that?"

"I was afraid you were going to ask me that, Captain. As much as I would like to say yes, I cannot."

Vanderbeek was genuinely surprised. "I don't understand. You can fight, obviously. You have the ability, and the brains—"

"So I may, Captain, thank you." His small face changed expression from smiling to a restrained anger and deep hurt. "You have seen me—somewhat, as the man I really am. The man I want to be. Although the other night in the bar, I wish I could have sang our way out of trouble, instead of killing that man. As powerful as I felt afterwards, I never want to feel my blade cut flesh again if I can help it. It still sickens me to think about it."

"Nothing to be ashamed of. One of the reasons I am here is because your bravery impressed me. And the strong persuasion of Kenelm Digby."

Geoffrey pointed fiercely down the hall to where the rest of the odd household waited. "To them, I am a joke. A cruel joke, upon which all sorts of pranks and foolishness are played, for which I must bear the brunt. It's a constant humiliation I was able to endure because of my love for the queen. It made her happy. What made her happy, ultimately made me happy. William Evans, the giant, knows me. The queen's master of arms knows me. He trained me. The hunt master knows me, and the queen's stable master knows me. I can hunt, shoot, and ride better than most of the courtiers for the queen or the king. But even those who know me do not believe in me, seriously." His small shoulders shrugged. "I have been here since I was six years old, and during that time I have been the punch line of so many jokes that I am nearly immune to them. No one at court takes me seriously, Captain. No one."

He paused and looked at his hands. "As I began to grow up, from sixteen inches when I was six, to my nearly twenty-one inches today, I found I was less able to bear their jibes. There is a quite famous poem about me riding a foxing-terrier and jousting with a wild turkey." He sighed, and then his hands clenched into fists not much bigger than Vanderbeek's thumb. "I am the queen's dwarf. And always will be. It's a double-edged sword." Geoffrey unclenched his fists and smiled up at Vanderbeek. "So that is why you must find another to lead this group, Captain. They will not follow a joke."

"Then why did they send you to the Bull and Blood to meet with me?"

Geoffrey smiled and crossed his arms a little smugly in front of him. "I insisted. Most here are French. They cannot meander through the back alleys of Cheapside without tipping their hand. I pulled rank on them. Other than Jermyn, I am the ranking Englishman. He wouldn't go alone without Evans, the giant, and the giant wouldn't go without me. Therefore I went."

He paused and looked down the hallway, checking for eavesdroppers. "There is something else you must know. Some of them may not leave; they are foolish enough to think they are still protected by the queen's wedding treaty."

Vanderbeek shook his head. "I have seen the mob. A treaty means nothing to them. The moment those mercenaries are removed . . ." He paused, thinking for a moment. "Have you told anyone about the man in the Bull and Blood?"

"Who would believe me, Captain? Would you, if you had not seen it? Talk to James Shirley. He is the valet of chamber and well respected. Most will listen to him. The Capuchins will listen to Robert Phillip, the Scotsman, as will the priests. Thick as thieves, them."

"What about the freaks, Geoffrey? Will they follow you?"

"They will follow me, as long as Evans is with me. He really did strangle a bull once, although it was a long time ago."

"And the women?"

"Based on what I saw in the large hall earlier, I think you already know. Her name is Marie Garnier. There are many Garniers here. Her mother is the queen's nurse, and her brother is the queen's groom of the privy council, which is the highest ranking member of the household, other than the master of ceremonies, who is also a Garnier, and an uncle. They are good and loyal servants. The Garnier family, along with the Vantelet family have been in the service of the queen of France for many years, and they were placed here by her. But be careful of that one. She likes her games with men, and she is rather good at it."

Vanderbeek smiled widely. "I will keep that in mind."

Chapter 4

Marie Garnier

"Mademoiselle Garnier? I am Captain Joos Vanderbeek. The man who would rescue you." As the door to her chamber closed behind him, Vanderbeek smiled at the woman. He straightened from his bow, and observed her carefully. She was striking. Dark hair, but fair skinned. Unusual grey eyes gave her an exotic look. Long and elegant neck, unscarred face, and no hint of a Gallic nose. As she rose to greet him, her movements were dancer like, elegant, and very calculated. She extended her hand.

"I was not aware I needed rescuing." Her smile was the absolute picture of coy. Vanderbeek tilted his head as she proffered her hand for him to kiss. He refused her hand, and looked down into her eyes, smiling all the while. "How long has it been?"

She dropped the hand to her side, and gave him a sour look. "Two years. Where have you been, Joos? Still sailing the seas? A bit of privateering now and again?"

He motioned her to a chair, and they both sat. "I've been here and there, a little of this and a little of that. You know, the usual."

"Still smuggling for the French and the Spanish?"

"Sometimes for the English, too."

They both laughed quietly.

"I was warned about you by Geoffrey."

She frowned a little, then became pouty. "He must like you. He usually doesn't give a warning."

"What do you think of him?"

"The dwarf? Not much at all, really. He is witty, intelligent, fine singing voice, dances in masques well, and takes the stabbing jibes. But that's his job. The queen adored him. Why do you ask?"

"I saw him kill a man at a pub in Cheapside last night. Rather handily. Self defense."

She looked at him and nodded slowly, thinking it through. "Hm."

Is that all you have to say? Just 'hm'? Does that surprise you?"

"He does seem changed as of late. In the last year he tried to grow a beard and mustache. It was not successful, and he was ridiculed for it. I have not seen it since."

"Interesting fellow."

She crossed her legs and settled back in her chair. "Certainly you didn't come here to discuss the dwarf? What do you want from me?"

"Are you going to France with the rest of them?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

Vanderbeek laughed. "Any number of reasons, Marie. I need someone to depend on. There are many . . . let's call them 'factions' . . . here and one doesn't seem to listen to the other. So I need someone in the inside, as it were. You were suggested as the one who can help guide the ladies."

"What do you need me to do?"

"They need to be ready to leave with only an hour's notice. One bag or valise per person, only. We will leave by the watergate and row past the bridge, down to my ship, which will be anchored just below the Tower. From there we will head to Calais."

"Do we not portage around the bridge? I wouldn't want to drown trying to shoot the rapids at the bridge at low tide."

He smiled at her, and casually leaned back in his chair. "You are many things, Marie Garnier. You have always been smart."

She smiled coyly once again. "Why, Joos. You are just unhappy that I know what time we will be leaving. I don't know which day, but at least I know what time." She shifted in her chair and looked smugly at him. "You see, I know that at low tide and at high tide the bridge restricts the river. There is so much restriction there is an eight-foot drop in the water from the high side to the low side. The only time it is safe to cross the water beneath the bridge is when the tides are still. To do so at any other time will most certainly result in an unpleasant death by drowning."

Vanderbeek felt a little sheepish. "I have always been plagued by smart women. And people wonder why I have not married. I was pleased when I saw you here, at Denmark House. I smuggled you into the country; it will be an honor to smuggle you out."

After a moment, he asked, "Are you still working for Richelieu? Or have you moved on to De Blainville, or Cork, or the Jesuit, Richard Blount, or Marie de Medici, Or Chevalier de Jars, or the Spanish, or perhaps the new king in the Netherlands? Have I forgotten anyone?"

"The Americans?"

"Ah, yes. Them . . . the cause of all of this nonsense. I have much to do, and I want to catch the tide to take me back to my ship. Just be ready to leave, and make sure those who don't want to leave won't be in our way."

She rose and extended her hand again. He smiled at her, and slowly kissed it. He straightened and gazed into her eyes for a moment, then abruptly turned, left the room and closed the door behind him.

****

He met Geoffrey in the hallway, leaning with his back to the wall, one foot propped behind him in casual disregard of the expensive wall coverings, his sword at his side, and cleaning his fingernails with a tiny dagger. "You are certainly smiling like a fool, Captain. I told you to be careful with that one. I have seen the bravest field marshal like putty in her hands."

"My guess is that within ten minutes, she will summon her maidservant and give her a letter to deliver. Follow the letter; tell me to whom or where it is taken. Be prepared, there may be more than one."

"You are a fast learner, Captain Vanderbeek. Consider it done." The little man pushed his dagger into his boot, and trotted off down the hall, leaving Vanderbeek to gaze after him.

Chapter 5

The Earl of Cork

Richard Boyle, the earl of Cork, was a very busy man. The Privy Council was beginning to come together, and formal leadership was starting to take shape. He needed allies, lots of them, and quickly. At least he had Strafford and Laud locked up. The note he'd just finished reading made him smile. He called to one of his secretaries.

"Michael, take a note. Two things to be done. Release William Prynne from the Tower. Immediately. Next, have the commander of the mercenaries in the Strand remove all the guards from Denmark House at first light. No sooner. I want people to see they are being withdrawn.

The secretary looked at him nervously. "S-Sir?"

"What is it?"

"Prynne, sir? He's been sentenced to be branded, his ears slit, and then death. He wrote that horrible book against the queen about actors being creatures of the devil and actresses being whores. He's an incorrigible rabble rouser, sir. Are you sure?"

The earl placed his hands flat on his desk and looked his assistant in the eyes. His face twisted into a sarcastic falsely-patient smile. "I know your 'friend'—who is really your lover—is an actor for the Globe. My knowledge of that 'relationship' is one of the reasons I can trust you, Michael. To expose you would mean certain death in today's 'tolerant' climate." The smile was replaced with cold eyes. "I need my allies, Michael. The Puritans hold the hearts of the people. Charles was always too stupid and stubborn to understand that. The Puritans hate the queen. I am giving them an opportunity to destroy the symbol of what they hate the most. Carry out my order."

"Yes, sir." Michael retreated quickly from the room, scribbling as he went.

Chapter 6

Leighton

Alexander Leighton smiled. Today brought a pair of miracles. William Prynne was released from the Tower, and the mercenaries were leaving Denmark House. He knew God's mechanism for performing these miracles was the earl of Cork. Not the earl himself, of course, but God working through the man. Satan was to receive a blow today. A blow from the hand of a righteous God. The right God. His God.

He looked at the early morning sky. Cloudy. Gloomy. Grey. He smiled again. He nodded to the boy whom he kept, and the boy began to beat the drum. Leighton began to preach. This time, he would not hold back. This time, he would let the crowd grow, simmer, boil, and then organize. Then he would preach some more. Show them his back full of scars. Pull his hair back from where his ears used to be. The crowd would rise in strength, grow rigid in their resolve, and then he would not hold them back as he had done so many times before. He would release them, to do his bidding—God's bidding—against the Papist devils that resided within.

The boy continued to beat the drum, Leighton began to speak. The crowd began to gather.

****

"Master Geoffrey! Master Geoffrey! You must awaken!"

Geoffrey rolled over sleepily and looked at his servant, Jerome Gregoire, whose wife was also servant to the two female dwarfs in the court, Anne Sheppard and Sara Holt. Both of the female dwarfs were older than Geoffrey, and were always happy to pull a cruel trick on him whenever the opportunity presented itself. It made them feel better about themselves, he always figured. He shook his head. "Enough, Jerome! I am awake. What time is it?"

"You must get dressed quickly and look at this sir. Now, sir. Please."

"Very well, grab my trousers and give me the green doublet . . ."

Moments later they were trotting down the hallway toward the part of Denmark House that faced the Strand. Geoffrey was still tucking in and fastening as he ran. It took them only a few moments, as Geoffrey's rooms were very near the queen's, which looked over the large gardens and the Thames, opposite the Strand. Servants and attendants were gathered about the windows, a few still in their nightclothes, pointing and whispering.

Jerome waved them aside. "Make way, make way for Geoffrey."

People reluctantly moved out of the way. Someone pushed a velvet upholstered footstool to the window, and Geoffrey climbed up to look at the street below.

It looked like a normal early Thursday winter's day. The sky was barely grey. The small fish market across the street was open as usual, the preacher was where he always was, much earlier than usual, but in the same place. It looked completely normal.

It took a moment to realize what was missing. Geoffrey felt the color drain from his face. His mouth went dry. He knew they weren't ready. He took another moment at the window to gather himself, before turning around. "Where are the troops?"

A serving boy offered up what he knew. "They just left. As soon as it was light, they picked up and marched away, didn't say hardly a word to anyone. I was helping the breakfast cooks. Soldiers just said they had orders."

Geoffrey's brain was ...