The Royal Sorceress

by Christopher Nuttall

  “This place is untouchable,” he said, harshly. His voice echoed oddly in the vast chamber, where MPs practiced their oratory and pledged themselves to support the government, rather than upholding the interests of the people. “You have...”

  “You have sat too long for any good you have been doing,” Jack said. Oliver Cromwell had said the same, back during the time when Parliament had run the country. Cromwell had had the perfect opportunity to rid Britain of hereditary peers and create a new republic, but he’d failed. Jack would not fail. “In the name of God, go!”

  His men filed in behind him and took the MPs and their Speaker into custody. Some of them offered a violent protest, only to be slapped down into silence. One of the underground chambers was large enough to hold most of the prisoners and Jack ordered the MPs taken there and separated from their assistants. The assistants were traitors, just like the ones who had fought to defend the Houses of Parliament, but maybe they could be induced to switch sides. Or perhaps they were junior politicians serving the MPs in preparation for their own rise to Parliament.

  Jack waited until the chamber was empty and then looked around, unsure of his own feelings. He’d won, he told himself. Whatever happened afterwards, the country would not forget the day that the people had risen up and cleared the Houses of Parliament of the corrupt men who had exploited them for their own purposes. And yet...he’d planned the rebellion for so long that he was unsure of what to do next. He’d won the city, perhaps the entire country – and now began the harder part of the task. The hard work of government lay ahead.

  He walked through the connecting passage and into the House of Lords. Someone had turned it into a chamber for the dead, stacking up bodies like logs of wood. Jack recognised a couple of faces, including a Lord whose tastes in women matched those of the late unlamented Lord Fitzroy. No one would mourn him, particularly his children. A man with enough power and clients could even get away with incest. Jack had little faith in God – religion seemed only to keep the masses quiet, with rebellion termed a mortal sin – but there were times that he prayed that there was a God, and a Hell. Lord Fitzroy would be violated by devils for eternity.

  Walking down the steps, he saw the prisoners lying on the ground. A handful had objected and had rapidly been knocked into silence. The Lords seemed shocked by the sudden change in their fortunes, although a handful looked as if they were trying to see how the situation could be turned to their advantage. A group of bishops had been gagged. Jack guessed that they’d been trying to uphold the dignity of the Church to men who had found themselves forced to give some of their hard-earned money to the Church, while their wives and families starved for lack of food, or froze for lack of heat. Jack recognised a handful of the noblemen and smiled at the fear in their eyes when they saw him. They all knew who he was and what he’d done when he’d been a rebel. What would he do now that he effectively ran the country?

  Shaking his head, he walked back outside and lifted himself into the air. The Tower of London was only a short flight away – and it had been taken by his men. A number of Wardens sat outside, their hands tied behind their backs; the dead had been piled up outside the castle and abandoned. Jack made a mental note to insure that the bodies were cremated before the end of the day. The fear and hatred of necromancy wouldn’t change even if his government secured the entire empire without further ado.

  Davy had set up his headquarters in one of the chart rooms that had once housed the most elaborate collection of maps in the British Empire. Mapping was an important skill, as Lord Nelson had amply demonstrated during the invasion of Cuba, thirty years ago. The thought made him smile. Lord Nelson hadn’t been taken prisoner yet and part of him hoped that the naval hero was safe outside the city. He was a genuinely popular hero and holding him prisoner might swing public opinion against Jack’s government. The same couldn’t be said of Lady Emma, whom the country considered an embarrassment, or their lovechild. Horatia Nelson had married a clergyman and had little contact with her famous father.

  “We have the city,” Davy said, as Jack stopped on the other side of the table. A map of London had been spread out and Davy was marking it, aided by a small army of scribes and messengers. The scribe guilds loathed their lords and masters with just as much intensity as many of the other guilds and had been happy to pledge their support. Besides, the scribes had done good work in bringing reading and writing to the masses. “The last bodies of organised troops have been surrounded or destroyed.”

  Jack glanced down at the map. London was a vast sprawling metropolis, holding upwards of five million human beings. They’d risen up against the government – aided and abetted by Jack’s men – but they’d all expect a new heaven and a new earth. Simply feeding so many mouths would be a daunting task; Jack had given priority to taking and securing the warehouses that held stored grain and other foodstuffs. Even so, London depended on vast amounts of food being brought into the city from the surrounding farms. Someone with a combination of intelligence and ruthlessness – Lord Mycroft, for one – could reduce London to starvation quite quickly.

  “Good,” he said. “Get organised patrols running through the entire city; I don’t want anyone using the chaos as an opportunity to loot and rob their fellow citizens. And then start recruiting people for the army. We have enough weapons in the Tower to outfit a much larger force...what about defences?”

  “Ruddy is already supervising the barricades,” Davy informed him. “The walls of London won’t offer much resistance if they bring the army...”

  Jack nodded, sourly. London had never been heavily defended since the Restoration. It had always struck him as short-sighted, but maybe the authorities had had a point after all. Or maybe not; the French had persisted in their plans for invasion for the last hundred years and had never given up on the dream. If all the talk about new ironclads proved to be more than a fool’s dream, the vast wooden ships of the Royal Navy would be rendered obsolete overnight. And then the French would have their long-awaited opportunity to land in Britain...

  “Make sure that we have scouts out on all the approaches,” he warned. Ruddy knew more about the military and Davy was a great organiser, but he still found it hard to relax and let them work their magic. The entire revolution rested on his shoulders. “They may try to bring in men from Scotland or even Ireland.”

  “There were reports of uprisings in Manchester and Liverpool,” Davy said. “The toffees may have other problems then just London.”

  Jack shook his head. “London isn’t just the capital – it’s the seat of their power,” he said. “As long as they’re in exile from London, they look weak. They have to come and smash us first.”

  He shrugged. The Irish had risen up before, but had then lost their chance to become an independent nation because they’d started to fight each other, allowing the English a chance to rebuild and reassert their control over Ireland. But it also served as a reserve for the British Army, with several regiments based permanently on the Emerald Isle. Public opinion was strongly against a standing army, yet it was also in favour of keeping the Irish firmly in their place. It was a delicate balancing act; Lord Stafford was far from the only politician whose career had run aground on Ireland.

  “Do you have the lists of prisoners?” He asked. “How many of the bastards do we have alive?”

  Davy’s smile widened. “We have one very special prisoner,” he said. “We caught him before he could make it to Hampton Court. And I believe that he’s looking forward to talking with you.”

  Jack lifted an eyebrow. He’d hoped – prayed – that they’d take one very specific nobleman, but his plans hadn’t rested on it. “Good,” he said. “Where is he?”

  “We put him in the traitor’s rooms,” Davy said. “We would have put him in the cells upstairs, but no one had managed to repair them since you were last here.”

  “I’ll speak with him now,” Jack said. He glanced out of the window. The sun was setting, even though it barely
felt like noon. Had it really taken hours to seize the city? “Keep me informed.”

  The Tower of London was far from an ordinary prison. Quite apart from rebels and traitors, it also housed noblemen who had been accused of vile crimes. They got quarters that were almost as well appointed as their private apartments in Pall Mall or their London mansions, for who knew if they would be convicted or not? The Warders would not wish to make a powerful enemy of a nobleman whose fate had yet to be determined. Queen Elizabeth had locked a number of powerful men in the Tower, and then released them as the fancy took her.

  Jack passed the sentry on guard and – absurdly – knocked on the door before he pulled back the bars and walked into the room. The sole occupant looked up at him from an ornate couch, his face half-twisted in a smile.

  “Good evening, Master Jackson,” he said. He didn’t sound particularly alarmed, or worried, even though he was very close to following Charles I to the headsman. “I wondered if I would see you again.”

  Jack swallowed. Old habits die hard. “Good evening, Your Majesty,” he said. “I never doubted it.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  There were only two places in the British Empire where those who wanted a political career could be educated. The twin university towns of Oxford and Cambridge, between them, provided almost all of the graduates who took up positions in government, or within the vast civil service that actually made the country work. Those who went to either seat of learning made friends and contacts among their fellow students that would last for their entire lifetime, contacts that could be used to boost their career far higher than they might otherwise have risen. They joined the Old Boys Network at university and allowed it to dominate their entire lives.

  Oxford, like Cambridge, was actually a network of universities and colleges, each one carefully ranked according to social standing and expense. Some of them were impregnable to anyone who wasn’t born to an aristocratic family of long standing, even if they were wealthier than several peers put together. Others, more democratically, allowed wealth to guide them in the selection of their pupils. A handful of lucky boys won scholarships to Oxford or Cambridge, only to discover that their lack of wealth made them socially isolated. And the life of an outcast was barely worth living.

  Gwen stood on the roof of Porterhouse College, staring down at the streets below. Porterhouse claimed to be one of the oldest colleges in England; it was certainly one of the most exclusive. David had told her that Porterhouse offered little more than a remarkable dining experience – the King had granted them permission to eat swan in perpetuity, apparently – and enviable social cachet. But then David, who had been intended to go into business before making the shift to government, had spent his time at a separate part of Oxford University. Porterhouse’s reputation might be ill-deserved.

  Or maybe not, she thought, as she caught sight of a group of students trying to climb over the rear wall. They were not supposed to be out after dark, according to the Senior Tutor, and anyone caught trying to slip in through the main gate could be assured of a few uncomfortable days after meeting their tutor in the morning. The back wall – topped with spikes and patrolled by the fearsome-looking gatekeeper – provided the kind of challenge that Porterhouse’s ethos upheld. Those who managed to slip back into the building without being caught were destined for great things. The group she was watching looked too drunk to make it over the wall without some help from a magician. They’d probably gone out in the afternoon, spent the evening drinking and whoring, and then discovered that night had fallen while they’d been having fun. God alone knew what happened to those who stayed out all night, but Gwen doubted that it would be pleasant.

  She’d never been to Oxford – or Cambridge – herself, of course. Women were not supposed to study at universities and Lady Mary had flatly refused to even allow Gwen to attend the few speeches and lectures that had been open to female attendees. What few women did get to attend the universities were isolated, barred from many of the more important lectures and persistently accused of lesbianism. David had openly admitted that he hadn’t learned much at Oxford, but he had made contacts that had helped the family business. Gwen couldn’t help, but wonder how different her life would have been if she’d been allowed to study at university herself.

  The Royal College had established smaller training centres for magicians in both of the university towns. Gwen knew that she might be able to spend time there, although Master Thomas seemed to want to keep her in London. It wasn’t too hard to understand why; there was only one other Master Magician in the service of the Crown and other magicians couldn’t teach her how to use her powers in unison. She shook her head as a cold breeze drifted across the rooftop, a mocking reminder that winter was on its way. Down below, the night watch were closing in on the drunken students, preparing to drag them around to the gate and report their names to the gatekeeper. Gwen felt little sympathy for them. They had a whole wealth of knowledge – Oxford’s collection of libraries were famed throughout the land – and yet they chose to spend their time tossing back beer and singing out of tune. A snatch of song reached her ears and she blushed. She wasn’t supposed to know that such songs even existed, let alone what their words actually meant.

  A footstep behind her caught her attention. “Begging your pardon,” a female voice said, “but Master Thomas requests the pleasure of your company in the tutor’s study.”

  Gwen turned. An elderly woman stood there, one of the women who changed beds, cleaned the building and generally looked after the male students. Gwen had been surprised to discover that none of the maids looked young or attractive, but it made a certain kind of sense. Young men, away from home for the first time in their lives, chased every woman they saw, with little concern for the social niceties. Hiring elderly women to work inside the university probably helped avoid the kind of scandals that resulted in unexplained pregnancies and dismissals.

  “Thank you,” she said, finally. She was ruefully aware that she was the youngest woman in the building. Some of the students had already tried to invite her into their beds, only to retreat in confusion when Gwen had used her magic to pick them up, hold them upside down and then let go. No one had been seriously harmed, but they’d given her a wide berth since then. “I’m on my way.”

  The interior of Porterhouse, according to the Master of the College, had been constructed in the years before Henry VIII had separated the English Church from the Vatican. It had once served to educate priests before the building had been taken by the Crown and then handed over to one of the King’s more scholarly friends. Gwen wasn’t sure how much of the story to believe – one of the tutors had claimed that the building dated all the way back to 1200 – but it hardly mattered. The ornate stone corridors and carefully designed rooms for young students appealed to her, unlike the students themselves. They all looked as if the only thing keeping them from obesity was the heavy exercise they did every morning. What Porterhouse lacked in academic excellence was compensated for by its remarkable sporting record. It was a rare year when Porterhouse didn’t dominate the sporting field in Oxford.

  There were two soldiers on guard outside the heavy wooden door leading into the tutor’s study. They looked Gwen over carefully before standing aside and allowing her to walk into the study. Lord Mycroft, Lord Liverpool and Master Thomas were inside, seated in front of a roaring fire. From what Gwen had heard, much of the government had been dispersed or captured during the uprising. Lord Mycroft’s escape had been just as hair-raising as their own. If his brother hadn’t come to his rescue, Lord Mycroft would probably have joined many others in the Tower of London. Lord Liverpool, thankfully, had been on a visit to Cardiff when the rebellion had begun. His escort had managed to get him to Oxford before Cardiff was affected by the growing chaos.

  Gwen found herself wondering, as she took the seat Lord Mycroft indicated for her, what had happened to the rest of the magicians. They’d had to leave most of them with the Royal Navy, but s
urely there were others. But Master Thomas – a far more skilled Talker than herself – had kept what he’d heard to himself. Gwen had been left with her imagination – and she’d been able to imagine all kinds of disasters. What if Jack had more magicians than the British Government? What if...

  She looked down at her hands, wincing inwardly. Lucy’s power had healed her, something she’d never told Master Thomas. What if she told him now? And yet...what would happen if the Royal College realised that Healers did exist? They would go looking for Lucy and put her into the farms. And then...she stared down at the fire, cursing her own ambition. She’d wanted to be important and develop her magic, hadn’t she? And she’d gotten exactly what she’d wanted.

  “The news is not good,” Lord Mycroft said. “We have lost all control of London. What few troops were able to get out of the city have reported that many of the soldiers we sent into the poorer parts of London have been killed. The rebels have taken the Tower of London; the Warder, for whatever reason, was unable to blow the armoury before the rebels captured it. They now have access to one of the largest stockpiles of weapons in the country.”

  He scowled at Master Thomas, who said nothing. “There have been smaller uprisings in a dozen other cities,” he added. “The farmers are uneasy and may be on the brink of revolt themselves. Rumour has it that the Irish are planning a new rebellion. So far, no word has leaked out in America or Australia, but we expect that there will be more unrest once they realise that London has been lost to us. We must act fast.”