Traitor to the Crown (26 page)

“But what you and I got to hide, we ain’t hiding from either one of those gentlemen,” Lydia answered. “Not the way they’re hiding things from us.”

“So do we help them or not?”

“No,” Lydia said. “That’s not the question. The question is, are they going to help us?”

“Yes,” Proctor said. “What ever you think of Digges, he’s right about one thing. If Gordon’s protest works, the English army is weakened, and if the army is weaker, that helps the war. If the rest of Gordon’s plan works, and the Covenant is weakened, then so much the better.”

“Sounds like you made up your mind.”

“Yes,” Proctor said. “I guess I have. Have you?”

“I came to help you—I got no reason to be here if I don’t help.” She scooted across the seat to the door. “If we’re going to do it, then let’s go.”

“Thank you, Lydia. If it feels wrong at any moment, we’ll back away—we’ll just stop helping Gordon and get out of here.”

“All right,” Lydia said.

“But this is as close as we’ve gotten to the Covenant so far. So we’ve got to try—”

“I said all right already. I get it. He’s going to be done talking by the time we get out there to be a telescope or what ever it was he said we was going to be.”

Proctor let it go.

Lydia climbed out of the carriage and Proctor followed. He had seen maybe ten thousand men gathered at once during the battle of Brooklyn, so he thought he was prepared for Gordon’s crowd. But when he stepped out of the carriage and looked across the park, what he saw was larger than he had ever imagined. From road to road, from the platform where Gordon was speaking back to the tiny heads still trickling in from the side streets, it was a vast sea of people. Ten thousand was one small corner of that crowd. There might be fifty thousand gathered, or there might have been twice that. The blue cockade of the Protestant Association adorned every hat and cap.

“There he is,” someone yelled. “It’s Lord Gordon.”

Proctor spun around in order to see Gordon, and saw people pointing at him instead. That simpleton from the Maypole Inn—Barnaby—was there with his raven perched on his shoulder.

“Hallo, hallo,” the raven croaked. “You’re a devil, you’re a saucy devil.”

“He’s not Lord Gordon,” Barnaby told the crowd. He glowered at Proctor, as though he’d been cheated. “You’re not Lord Gordon.”

“I never said I was,” Proctor answered.

“But you’re wearing his clothes,” Barnaby said.

“I needed new clothes, so Gordon loaned these to me.”

“See,” Barnaby cried. “His Lordship’s the kind who gives his fellow man the shirt off his back—huzzah for Lord Gordon!”

While others took up the cry of huzzah, Proctor grabbed Lydia by the sleeve and led her into the heart of the crowd. The raven leapt to the top of Barnaby’s head and flapped its wings furiously as they went past, croaking, “You’re a devil, you’re a devil.”

“I don’t look anything like Gordon,” Proctor grumbled to Lydia.

“You’re much thinner than you were and your color’s as poor as his,” Lydia said. “And Deborah would never recognize that mess of hair on you. Someone who knows you both would never make the mistake. But to someone who didn’t know either of you, what would they have except his height, his thinness, and his clothes.”

“Do you think he did it on purpose, or do you think it’s by chance?” Proctor asked.

“What happened to
We’re going trust him and try to help
?”

“I’m just asking,” Proctor said.

“And I don’t know how to answer,” Lydia said. “He’s not like Miss Cecily, I can tell that. But he’s not much like Deborah and the rest of you folks either.”

“There weren’t any other clothes in his house,” Proctor said. “So I’m going to assume that it’s by chance for now.”

“You’re the one taking the chance,” she said.

Together they weaved and ducked through the crowd, from the road bounding St. George’s Fields past the platform where other men spoke in advance of Gordon, to the center of the mob. Bodies pressed in all around them, jostling and nervous. Proctor held on to Lydia’s wrist to keep them together, but after a short while she yanked it free.

“I said I’ll follow you, and I’ll follow you,” she said.

Laughter sounded nearby. Proctor cranked his head around and saw the group of black tradesmen they had passed on the road. At their head was the ugly one with the mischievous grin. He was holding out a hand to Lydia—his forearm and finger bore the scars and calluses of a man used to hard work.

“Why you want to go follow him?” he asked. Tapping
his own chest, he said, “You a free woman in England. Why don’t you come follow me? John is a rich man, master of my own shop. I’ll treat you right.”

“You think so?” Lydia asked. She snapped her fingers under his nose, and he jerked back.

Lydia turned away. “That’ll take care of him.”

But ugly John’s laughter followed after them. “That’s a good trick there. Felt like my nose got stung. Come on back! I like a woman with spirit, and you got plenty of that.”

She sighed and shook her head. “Where are we supposed to be, if we’re going to help him?”

“About where we are, I think—the middle of the crowd.”

“Well, let’s find some other middle,” she said. “Look for Digges or something.”

“All right,” Proctor said, and he started pushing through the crowd toward the stage. He was sure Digges would be someplace where he could see Gordon clearly.

“You a free woman,” John yelled at Lydia. “You want to go your own way, you come find me.”

“He’s right,” Proctor said under his breath. “You are already free.”

“Am I?” she said. “If I’m so free, why everybody got to tell me about it?”

Proctor came to a stop hundreds of feet from the stage because pushing through the dense mob was futile. He was going to respond to Lydia’s question but a wave of silence rolled through the crowd, and he turned to see what had caused it.

Lord Gordon had appeared. Even from hundreds of feet away, his appearance was unmistakable. The dark velvet jacket contrasted with the red plaid pants. Light glinted off the glass in his spectacles. His long, lank hair spilled over his shoulders.

He stepped to the front of the platform, looked over the assembled mass from one side to the other, and threw his arms into the air.

The crowd roared so loud that Proctor tensed.

People started shouting, “Gordon, Gordon, Gordon!”

Gordon let the chant build to a crescendo, then he held out his hands for silence, and the crowd fell silent. “Hello, London!” Gordon said. “Hello, my fellow Protestants! Hello, friends!”

The crowd exploded in a roar of approval. Proctor looked at Lydia and wondered if his jaw dangled open just like hers. Gordon’s voice carried across the field so that they could hear him as clearly as if he stood a few feet away.

He was using the cockades as a focus.

“Can everyone bow your heads with me and begin in prayer?” Gordon said.

Proctor heard Gordon speaking, but he didn’t notice the words. Power flowed through the crowd like a roar of fire. Maybe only one person in a hundred had the latent spark of talent, but if so there were still five hundred or a thousand witches present. Uniting a crowd this size, drawing on their power, it was like scattering fire in dry grass. Even those without a talent responded to the power. People crushed Proctor on every side, stepping on his feet, bumping against him as they tried to get closer to the platform.

For the first time, Proctor could see why the Covenant wanted to unite people with a single focus. Drawing on this kind of power, spread all around the world, anything would be possible.

But the power was random, bouncing all over the place. Gordon could rouse men’s passions, bring them to action, but could he channel those actions?

“Let me start by discussing the wicked designs of men
who mean harm to our beloved England,” Gordon said. Though Gordon spoke to the crowd about the papists, Proctor chose to hear it as a warning against the Covenant. As Gordon went on about protecting England and the English Crown, the crowd fell silent when Gordon spoke, cheered when he made a point, and hung on his every word. Proctor paid close attention, as much to the reactions of the crowd as to Gordon’s words. The pieces of Gordon’s speech, taken individually, were a muddle of raving with no logical progression or clarity of argument.

But as a piece of magic, the speech was brilliant.

Every phrase was a focus. Men might not remember what was said, but they would remember their feelings. Their passion for this cause. The images and phrases would be branded on their memories. A great speaker might inspire people the same way. But a skilled witch could do so much more.

“… for the good of Britain, we must get out of pointless wars,” Gordon said, pausing to let the crowd cheer. “For the good of Britain, we must oppose the secret plans of evil cabals.”

Proctor had seen the evil the Covenant was capable of doing. The circle of sickness that killed so many during the siege of Boston. The curse that plagued the American army throughout the final months of ’76.

He decided to trust Gordon.

He closed his eyes and drew power from the crowd around him, focusing it back toward Gordon. It was like trying to force a millstream through a kitchen funnel. It shot out like water forced through a pump, and spilled over the sides at the same time.

On the platform, Gordon stopped in mid-word, stumbled back a step, then found Proctor in the crowd and smiled.

Proctor was trembling with the power. It was like
gulping strong wine. He felt light-headed, almost light-bodied—as if he could float.

Gordon held up the petition containing over a hundred thousand signatures, and even more power circled through Proctor.

He called for the crowd to form columns and march on Parliament behind three flags, and the power increased again. Proctor felt Lydia shaking him, speaking to him, but he was too far away in the throes of the magic to reply. Everything that he felt, he sent through him, saying a spell to let it work to Gordon’s purpose. With this much power, they could destroy the Covenant completely.

The crowd started to march. Lydia shook him again, but this was the most delicate part of his spell, taking the power from the crowd and pouring it through Gordon back into the crowd again.

He heard the stomping of feet like a heartbeat.

He felt the movement of the crowd like a team of horses pulling a carriage.

He gripped the reins of power and tried to direct the crowd.

And he felt the reins pulled out of his hands.

One second he was channeling more magical power than he had ever imagined, and the next it was all gone. He felt as if he had stepped off the top of a very tall building and had nothing below him but air.

He hit the ground hard, smacking his head.

When he came to, it was dark outside and he was seated alone in Gordon’s carriage. He was nauseous so he pushed open the carriage door and emptied his stomach in the street. The carriage rolled to a stop while he wretched. When he was done, he looked up.

Fires marked the London skyline as houses burned. Gunshots echoed through the narrow streets from close and far away. The smell of smoke and gunpowder filled
the air. Angry shouts and screams sounded from a few blocks away.

“What happened?” Proctor asked.

Grueby stared down at him from the top of the carriage seat. “That’s exactly what His Lordship wants to ask you.”

Proctor felt like he had been falling sick from magic ever since he left America. First in Spain, then after the demon’s attack on The Farm when Deborah summoned him, and now this. Grueby returned with him to Gordon’s house on Welbeck Street and helped him into a bed that held him with its big puffy arms and bound him with its sheets and blankets. The passage of time was marked by fever and weakness, the attentions of Grueby, who was curiously calm and gentle for such a big man, and the wheel of light and dark. Far away, doors opened and slammed and men yelled at one another. Close to hand, faces appeared out of the light to hurl questions at him while a face in the dark deflected his questions in turn.

The face in the dark was Deborah’s. Where was she? What had happened to her and Maggie? Could she forgive him?

He woke in the early hours of the morning, when sun and the day seemed to be on just the other side of a single diaphanous curtain made of fading night. His fever had broken, and he felt like clear thoughts were similarly on the other side of a single drapery waiting to be pulled aside.

When the door opened, he rolled to the edge of his bed and tried to rise.

“How are you feeling today?” asked Digges’s familiar voice, pitched soft enough that it wouldn’t wake a deeply sleeping man.

“Where’s Lydia?” croaked Proctor.

“I still don’t know,” Digges said.

“I’ve asked before?”

“Are you lucid?”

“I don’t know,” Proctor said. “But I’m definitely thirsty.”

“There’s a cup beside the bed.”

Proctor sniffed it before he sipped to make sure the medicine was nothing stronger than water, and then he swallowed the whole cup. He had just set it down again when Gordon appeared at the door beside Digges.

“I thought I heard voices,” Gordon said.

Proctor pushed himself to unsteady feet, intending to launch himself across the room. Digges stepped in the way and either caught him or stopped him. Even Proctor wasn’t sure.

“What did you do?” Proctor shouted at Gordon.

“I was going to ask you the same question,” Gordon asked. “Why did you steal the crowd away from me?”

“I didn’t.”

Gordon reached around Digges and grabbed a fistful of Proctor’s shirt. “That’s what you would have me believe—”

“Hey, let’s not be enemies here,” Digges said, pushing them apart. “Our other enemies are real enough.”

Proctor reached around Digges and closed his fist on Gordon’s shirt. “What did you do to that crowd?” Proctor asked. “And where’s Lydia?”

Both men began to shove each other around Digges, who screamed in frustration and pushed them apart. Gordon thumped into the wall and Proctor fell backward on the floor. His shoulder smacked the frame of the bed. Grueby appeared in the doorway.