The King's Beast

by Eliot Pattison

  “Patrick!” Duncan said, not understanding the furor on his friend’s face. “I came just to learn how to contact you but now—”

  His friend Patrick Woolford replied only with a sharp curse. He seized Duncan by the edge of his waistcoat, half dragged him to a tiny chamber at the back of the office that seemed to be an unused water closet, and pushed him inside. “Not a word! Not a movement, if you love your life!” Woolford snapped and pushed the door shut. Duncan heard what sounded like a bench being drawn across the floor and pressed against the door. Then he heard the office door being shut, followed by muffled, unintelligible voices.

  Duncan at first grinned, remembering the early days when Woolford and he played pranks on one another, but then he recalled the rage on his friend’s face, and when Woolford did not reappear after several minutes, all possibility of amusement evaporated. He strained to make out what the muffled voices from the outer office were saying, then began to worry he might next hear the heavy boots of provosts coming to arrest him.

  In the dim light that seeped under the door, he made out a row of pegs that held an old uniform tunic, an empty sword scabbard, and a crescent-shaped piece of brass that he recognized as an officer’s gorget. On a shelf above the pegs leaned a cornhusk doll, a plaything of Iroquois children, and an intricate piece of quillwork showing two hands reaching across a tree to clasp each other, no doubt done by his wife Hannah. In London Woolford probably did not advertise that he had a Mohawk family.

  The longer he waited the more apprehensive he became. He was holding the scabbard like a club when the barrier was finally pulled away and the door opened.

  “You damned fool!” Woolford growled. “You came within an inch of your life! That was the War Council!”

  “Patrick, I had to find you.”

  “The War Council, damned you! Do you not understand?”

  “But I don’t know anyone on the War Council.”

  His friend cursed again, then grabbed Duncan’s arm and pulled him to the window at the side of his office. To Duncan’s surprise, they were looking over the parade ground. Opulent coaches with teams of four were being loaded in the courtyard below.

  “The coach with green enamel and gold trim, the one pulled by the four black Friesians, belongs to the Earl of Milbridge!” Woolford said.

  Duncan leaned forward with new interest, remembering that the Earl of Milbridge was the one name on both the War Council and the board of governors for Bedlam. “I don’t know the Earl of Milbridge, Patrick.”

  “You are reckless beyond belief! The Earl of Milbridge,” he snapped again, then pointed as the team of elegant black horses pulled up to the palace entrance.

  Duncan looked down as a footman positioned a stepping stool, then opened the coach door. An overweight aristocrat emerged from the palace, speaking with a more simply dressed somber-looking man, then shook the man’s hand and strutted toward the coach.

  “That’s the Secretary at War he left at the door,” Woolford explained. Duncan glanced at his friend in confusion. “Look harder,” Woolford pressed.

  As Duncan watched, the corpulent man turned and the sunlight hit him full on the face. Duncan’s gut instantly turned to ice and he jerked to the side of the window.

  “The king awarded him a new title and estates a few months ago. Something to do with arranging new borrowings with Dutch bankers.”

  Over two years had passed since Duncan had seen the man who had vowed to kill him, the man who had tried to kidnap Sarah in order to remove part of her rebellious brain. The Earl of Milbridge was Lord Ramsey, Sarah’s ruthless father.

  Woolford retreated to the desk in the center of the office, extracted a bottle of gin and two glasses from a drawer, and poured an inch into each glass. “Welcome to London, my friend,” he said ruefully and toasted with one of the glasses. His hand trembled as he drained his glass. “By Christ, if he had seen you, your life would be forfeit! What in God’s name are you doing here?”

  Duncan drained his own glass, trying to keep his own hand from shaking. “Trying to find you,” he repeated.

  “I mean in London!”

  “Trying to save the lives of two good men.”

  “I’ve been away. As I told you, my father died. The estate is tied up in a tangle of solicitors, creditors, and land men. I returned only two days ago to find a note from Madeline Faulkner with the news of Conawago. I had no idea you were here. I have contacted a lawyer who says we can file a writ.”

  The words stirred Duncan from his paralysis. “Patrick, no judge will act to save him. He is in Bedlam on a sentence of slow death, in the name of the king.”

  Woolford studied Duncan uncertainly, as if not sure whether to believe him. “Two. You said two lives.”

  “Those who condemned Conawago also have Benjamin Franklin in their sights.”

  The deputy superintendent frowned, clearly not believing the announcement, then poured more gin. “It won’t be safe for us to leave for at least a couple of hours,” he said. “I can either labor over piles of dusty correspondence or be entertained by your tales.”

  Duncan was still struggling to collect himself after seeing the earl, who embodied evil more intensely than any creature he had ever known. He drained his glass again. “Then first you must hear of an ancient monster I retrieved from the Ohio country.”

  Woolford gave a weary grin. He was changed from the former captain of rangers Duncan had parted from in the Mohawk country months earlier. His weathered skin had grown pale, and the intense energy that had always burned in his deep-set eyes had dimmed to a dull glow. “Sounds like a Highland fairy tale,” he said after Duncan had spoken of why he had gone down the Ohio. “Are you honestly going to tell me that Conawago is in Bedlam because of some long-dead creature from the Ohio?”

  Duncan’s reply died on his tongue as he weighed Woolford’s words, then looked back toward the window over the parade grounds, visualizing again the powdered demon who had become the Earl of Milbridge, advisor to the king. A cold blade was slowly piercing his heart. He knew now the odds against him would be nearly insurmountable, but he forced himself to consider again the parallel paths that Conawago and Franklin had taken, converging on the same goal and attracting the same enemies. “Yes,” he said, “maybe I am. Or better to say because of the same men who have shrouded the incognitum with death.”

  They lost all sense of time as Duncan recounted the events after his arrival at the Lick. Woolford recognized Ezra’s name but had never met the freedman, though he knew that his agent Reynolds in Pittsburgh was fond of him. “We had a council with some Shawnee near Fort Pitt last year,” he said. “They were excited because the prince of a distant tribe had married a princess of their tribe. They boasted of a new alliance between the tribes,” he added with a sad, ironic smile. “But it became an alliance of tragedy.”

  He listened intently as Duncan described his journey to Philadelphia and why he had been forced to unexpectedly make the voyage across the Atlantic.

  “Pierre Dumont was an acquaintance,” Woolford said with a sigh. “He visited Johnson Hall once, asking to speak to tribal members there about any strange animals they had seen, said he would return in a few months to record their stories. He was a congenial man, I recall, dedicated to his sister almost as much as to his studies. I remember one night he asked Sir William and me what is the point of a man’s life if he cannot advance the knowledge of this mortal sphere. That’s what he said, the knowledge of this mortal sphere. I remember because Sir William toasted him, saying it was a noble sentiment spoken by a noble man.”

  Duncan went on to explain their subterfuge with the false crates on the Galileo and how Pierre’s sister Olivia had secretly escorted the real bones to London. Finally, he revealed how Major Hastings and his aides shadowed those connected to the incognitum. He finished with the statement Hastings had made about the need to kill Benjamin Franklin.

  “But Hastings was drugged, you said,” Woolford pointed out. “You cannot put
much faith in words spoken under such conditions.”

  “I placed much credit in them after we discovered that the Horse Guards’ secret hunters were stalking Franklin.” Duncan paused. “You did not react like everyone else has when I said the Horse Guards were involved.”

  Woolford’s face tightened. “The difference is that I actually sit in meetings of the War Council. I hear of certain Guards going on detached duty. I know what some of them are capable of doing.”

  Duncan accepted more gin, then recounted what he had learned from Charles Mason.

  “Mason,” Woolford said with a sigh. “His name came up in a War Council meeting two days ago. I sit in the back of the room in case there are questions about the tribes. I had just returned from Wiltshire and didn’t understand at first. Apparently the Council had been receiving reports about the transit of Venus. Today Major Hastings angrily reported that Franklin had engaged in a subterfuge, then was sternly rebuked by the Secretary at War for speaking so openly of something that was the affair of only a few members of the Council.”

  “Why would Venus be the business of the War Council?” Duncan asked.

  “Not because they are natural philosophers. Nearly every man on the Council owes his wealth and position to the king, and their continued enjoyment of their status requires endless currying of favor with George. They are very jealous of those trying to communicate with the king through channels not under their control.”

  “Violently so,” Duncan agreed.

  “If someone outside their circle gets secret news to the king, they consider it not merely disrespectful but an attack upon their own authority, upon their own position with the king. They would not get their own hands dirty, but those who do their bidding are ruthless.”

  “Why,” Duncan pressed, “is distant Venus so important to the War Council?” He still had difficulty accepting that the king so coveted the transit records that he would agree to a secret meeting with Franklin.

  “It took me quite a while to fit the pieces together. Do you know that King George built his own private observatory in his deer park?”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “And he personally made observations of the transit on June third. The paramount observations, the palace has called them, the primary observations, demonstrating the genius of our sovereign. Apparently they were sound, although of course he had a small army of astronomers to assist him, including the Astronomer Royal, none of whom shall receive credit. But now there is an astronomical twist that has both the Privy Council and the War Council most upset. George had not fully grasped that a single observation is useless. It is an exercise in trigonometry. No one observation site, not even a royal one, can provide the solution. There must be at least one other reliable one to compare it to, so the angles and distances can be calibrated and the parallax defined.”

  Duncan shook his head, not understanding.

  “Duncan, rumors are rampant that the next best observations are from the colonies, from Philadelphia! The War Council loathes the leaders of the colonials even more than the royal governors do. One of the Council members actually went so far as to say a new front of resistance has been opened up by the colonials, conducted by astronomers and mathematicians. The king has not been told. It has become a conundrum, for they know the king takes his own philosophical work most seriously. He would dearly like to have those observations, especially if they were confided to him so that he could publicly declare the results, as if they had come to him by some divine right. He is deathly afraid the French will be the first to announce the final calculation of the distance to the sun.”

  “And?”

  “The Council intercepted a message to the Astronomer Royal. Franklin proposes to give the observations to the king, but only in person, so he might also present the king with a priceless gift from the American colonies.”

  “The incognitum,” Duncan whispered. “They’re committing murder to keep the bones from being given to the king.”

  Woolford’s expression grew tormented. “Duncan, surely no one is killing over old bones. You must be—”

  Duncan interrupted, his anger rising. “Sarah’s father would. Major Hastings would. Three murders plus that of an unborn child already. They can’t stop now. If their treachery is exposed they will have all those deaths to account for. So one more death, or one after that, means little to them. But as far as they know for now, they threw those priceless bones into the sea, along with me.”

  “God’s blood, Duncan—” Woolford clutched his glass so tightly Duncan feared it would break. “It would be a perversion of the truth. A crime against—”

  “Against knowledge,” Duncan said, nodding, “against civilized progress, Franklin says. If there is such a thing,” he added, exchanging a pointed glance with his friend. They both knew the tribes might consider the phrase a contradiction.

  Woolford rose and stepped to the window, gazing onto the parade grounds. “But if they believe they destroyed the bones, why would they not withdraw? The Philadelphia scholars can just publish their observations and let the world judge the quality of their work.”

  “Then Franklin would lose his leverage, his opening to see the king. Were it not for—” Duncan dared not speak of the secret plans for more troops to be sent to America, not in the very headquarters of the army. “Were it not for matters of state Franklin would likely just turn everything over to the Royal Society.”

  “He must not!” Woolford snapped. “Several members of the War Council and the Privy Council are in the Society. Franklin’s safety depends on his secrecy. Surely he knows there are those in the aristocracy who despise him. He has foolishly allowed himself to become a declared enemy of the Penn family, and they are one of the most powerful families in Britain. His speech against the Stamp Tax was called traitorous by the Penns and many of their circle. He may have strong support among the Whigs, who sympathize with the colonies, but Lord Hillsborough loathes him, and Hillsborough is not only the Colonial Secretary, he is also head of the Board of Trade which regulates all commerce with America. The Duke of Grafton does his best as prime minister to keep the policies moderate but he is no favorite of the king. And the proprietor, Thomas Penn, spreads poison about Franklin whenever he can, ever since he sought to have Penn’s charter revoked. The latest is that Franklin arranges secret shipments of cranberries so he can gift them to attractive young women, knowing they are a native aphrodisiac.”

  “I’m sorry—cranberries?”

  Woolford paused and stepped to his desk, opened a drawer, and extracted three sheets of expensive paper, extending them to Duncan.

  “You want me to read a report on army food stores?” Duncan asked after scanning the first page.

  “The embossed mark of crossed swords at the bottom is that of the small press used by Whitehall for official business. Forget the official business, just look at the bottom of each page.” He pointed to verses in small type above the swords. Duncan quickly read the couplets:

  Little red pearls from the cranberry bog

  Given to tarts by the fat colonial dog

  Ye ladies of London heed my words well

  Ne’er visit Ben in the morn, he’s au naturel

  That rogue’s the inventor who plays the Norse god

  Seeking to pin all London with his stiff lightning rod

  “I’m not sure I understand,” Duncan confessed.

  “They are about Franklin’s eccentric private life! The printer receives these little mocking pieces and sometimes inserts them into documents for the War Council, which is highly amused by them. I have heard them read aloud and sometimes the Council breaks into laughter for minutes at a time, I assure you.”

  “But why show me?” Duncan asked.

  “Because you need to understand. The War Council has Franklin in its sights. He is not infrequently discussed in meetings. They are not enemies to trifle with. And the Earl of Milbridge is the most insidious of all. Publicly it is said he was elevated for his
role in saving the government from financial ruin, but behind closed doors it is said he procures for the king certain pleasures not otherwise available to him. The earl has a new palace, a hunting lodge, he calls it, close to the king’s own lodge in the old deer park, and George is known to have taken late-night carriage rides from one to the other.”

  Duncan was silent for several long breaths. “But where do these couplets come from? Franklin is covetous of his privacy.”

  “His life is not nearly so private as he thinks. For some at high levels he is the symbol of the protesting colonials they have come to loathe. His veil has been pierced.”

  Duncan returned his friend’s pointed gaze. Henry Quinn had warned of the loose lips at Craven Street. Someone had known about the tin Franklin had arranged to be smuggled through Virginia. Someone had known about Ezra’s mission for the Covenant. Someone had known about his mission for the incognitum. The spy working against the Sons was likely someone in Franklin’s own household.

  Woolford reached deeper into his open drawer and extracted several small gold and silver pins, each like a little shiny brooch. He dropped them in front of Duncan. “The men of the War Council have immense wealth, which they seek to display like strutting peacocks. One of the ways is to present lavish tokens and favors at balls and banquets. I’ve seen diamond bracelets handed out to every lady in attendance, and silver-mounted walking sticks to every gentleman. One of the common devices are these, pins of gold and silver, always with some image that glorifies the benefactor. An image of a newly purchased ship or castle is common.”

  “Why do you—” Duncan began.

  “Because such pins are a favorite of the Earl of Milbridge,” Woolford explained, nudging three pins, all in gold, closer to Duncan. “All from Milbridge. His renowned race thoroughbred Achilles,” he said, pointing to a pin with an image of a horse and the Latin phrase ACHILLES FORTIS EQUI arching above it. “His new Scottish castle,” Woolford continued, indicating a pin bearing the image of a turreted building. “And this one,” he said, pointing to the third, in the shape of a horseshoe with what appeared to be a tombstone inside it. Engraved around the horseshoe were the words PARS LIBERTATIS.