The Sunken (22 page)

“This is dangerous. I shouldn’t wander off—”

“Tosh,” Maxwell flapped his hand. “The King is bonkers and that lot are too interested in your master’s preaching to notice your disappearance.”

Nicholas looked back. Sure enough, Brunel had the entire room in his thrall. He had the crate open, and while the Boiler steamed up, he moved his hands over it, illustrating functions of various components, while the Council members pressed against each other to get a closer look.

“You’re correct. Let’s go.”

He followed Maxwell down a labyrinth of high, vaulted halls, covered walkways and colonnades, across the North Terrace, and through another wing of residences, ’till they emerged in the oldest part of the castle, in front of the Curfew Tower, an ancient edifice of rough stone and impressive height. Shadowed by the Horseshoe Cloister, anything taking place in the courtyard could not be seen from the nearby St. George’s Chapel. Wisteria crept up the stone walls, entwining themselves around the window lintels and arches. He stood on the steps and waited, heart pounding.

Maxwell disappeared and, a moment later, Brigitte stepped out from behind a holly bush, and his breath caught in his throat. She looked even more lovely than she had before, dressed in a simple blue dress, her unruly brown hair lovingly tamed into a fashionable style, a few stray curls framing her smiling, heart-shaped face.

She walked slowly, her steps controlled. He swallowed, resisting the urge to run to her.

“My lady,” he took her hand and kissed it.

“It is good to see you again, Mr. Rose,” she replied, her voice husky, quiet.

They remained like this, his lips frozen on her fingers, for several moments, the wind swirling around them. Finally, reluctantly, he dropped her hand.

“I have something for you,” he said, pressing the duck into her hands. “To remind you of our last meeting by the pond.”

She turned it over and over, bringing it close to her face to admire the exquisite detail, running her finger along the tiny golden beak. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered, her voice choking. “You shouldn’t have.”

“Hey. why are you crying?” He wiped a glistening tear from the corner of her eye.

“No one has ever been so kind to me before.”

He kissed her hand again. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Maxwell gesturing frantically.

“Get down!” he cried.

Grabbing Brigitte’s hand, Nicholas yanked her below the planter box, just as Brunel and two of the Council members stormed through the courtyard, followed by Joseph Banks wheeling a screaming King George.

“You!” Brunel bellowed at the gardener. “Have you seen my companion, Nicholas Rose? He disappeared from our meeting some minutes ago, but he can’t have gone far.”

“He cannot be allowed to wander the castle alone,” Joseph Banks snapped over the King’s anguished screams.

Nicholas squeezed Brigitte’s hand. She covered her mouth with her hand and stared at him with wide, frightened eyes.
If they catch her here, with me, wearing that beautiful dress, she’ll be punished and will lose her job, and it will be my fault.
He wouldn’t be responsible for that. He pulled her tighter to him, straining to hear what was going on over the King’s cries.

Why do they seem so anxious to find me? And why is the King screaming like that?

He peeked around the edge of the planter. Maxwell lay prostrate on the flagstones, mumbling that he didn’t know where Nicholas was. Brunel and Banks towered over him. Banks’ hands balled into fists and his face formed a shadow of rage. The Council members bent their heads together, whispering as they glanced from the King to Brunel to Maxwell, unsure of what was transpiring.

“Joseph, take him away,” one of the Councillers demanded. Banks ignored him, and kicked Maxwell in the head.

“Tell me where he is, you sniveling blackguard!” he howled.

He kicked Maxwell again. This time, the King screeched, snapping the leather straps holding him into the chair and clawing from the grip of the two Council members. He pounced on Maxwell, who cried out and tried to roll to safety, but the King straddled him, clawing at his back with his long fingernails, shrieking like an animal. As Nicholas watched, horrified, his Majesty King George III bent down and tore a chunk of skin right from Maxwell’s outstretched arm.

Maxwell howled. The men grabbed the King under his shoulders and dragged him off Maxwell. Guards rushed in from the castle and carried him — still shrieking and chewing on a chunk of Maxwell’s arm — back into the castle.

“Clean this mess up,” Banks hissed at Maxwell, stomping away.

Brigitte whimpered. Nicholas, heart pounding, pulled her to his breast, pressing his finger against her lips to stop her crying out.

Brunel did not follow the others back inside. Even though he could no longer see Isambard, Nicholas could feel his gaze searching the flower beds, his boot tapping against the paving stones.

“I know you’re there, Nicholas,” he said. “I don’t understand why you left the meeting and upset His Majesty like this. I’m very disappointed in you.”

He turned on his heels and disappeared into the castle.

Brigitte let out a sob and rushed to help Maxwell. He lay on his side, clutching his arm where the King had bitten him, holding the jagged flaps of skin together in an attempt to stop the bleeding. Blood pooled beneath him, seeping between the cracks in the cobbles.

“Miss Julie will fix you right up, Maxwell,” Brigitte said, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and hoisting him to his feet. He moaned as blood splattered the front of her dress. Nicholas grabbed his other arm, meaning to steady him, but Brigitte pushed him away.

“I can manage, Nicholas. You must go to Brunel. Tell him you were lost wandering the gardens.” She pointed to the southern entrance to the courtyard. “Head toward the round tower, quickly now, and find the gateway into the Upper Ward. You should come out near the South Wing in the Quadrangle. That way, it will look as if you went to look at the Norman gatehouse and got lost.”

“Brigitte, I—”

“Go!” Maxwell stared up at him with pleading eyes. She turned away and began hobbling toward the entrance.

What could he do but go?

Her heart pounding, Brigitte helped the shaking gardener to his feet. Clutching his wound, he rested his weight against her, and she shuffled him toward the entrance to the servants’ chambers.

“I must—” he wheezed, gesturing to the bloodstain on the flagstones.

“Leave it, you silly old fool. I’ll send Cassandra to clean it off.” She glanced over her shoulder, but Nicholas had gone.

She brought him to Miss Julie in the kitchens, who dropped her rolling pin in surprise. “You’re dripping blood in the clotted cream!”

Maxwell responded by slumping hard against Brigitte’s shoulder. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he collapsed on the floor with a mighty thud. Brigitte screamed.

Miss Julie grabbed one of his limp arms and heaved him into a sitting position, propping him up with a flour sack. She fanned his face while glaring at Brigitte. “What on earth happened, child?”

“The King, he
bit
Maxwell.” Brigitte clamped down on her lower lip to keep from crying. “It was awful.”

Miss Julie frowned as she inspected the wound. When she touched the edge, Maxwell shuddered. Blood pooled under his breeches and spread across the floor.

“Cassandra!” Miss Julie called. The girl came running in from the wash-house next door, skidding to a stop when she saw Maxwell.

“Maxwell will need some whisky. Bring us the whole bottle from the shelf.”

“And then go out to the Curfew Tower courtyard and clean up the mess,” Brigitte added.

Her face pale, Cassandra rushed off.

Miss Julie got out her sewing kit and threaded up a needle. When Cassandra returned with the whisky, she ordered Brigitte to wet Maxwell’s lips with the dark liquid, and hold it under his nose ’till he came round. Miss Julie worked quickly, her deft fingers stitching together the gaping wound. She was wrapping his arm in a bandage when Maxwell opened his eyes.

“What … what happened?”

“The King bit you, in the courtyard, do you remember?” Miss Julie smoothed back his hair. “You’ll be right now.”

“If only it was that simple, Miss Julie. I fear this is the end for me.”

“Nonsense, it’s just a bite. I’ll have you right in no time.”

“You don’t understand. The King, he …”

“What, Maxwell,
what
?
”
Brigitte grabbed his shoulder and shook him, but his eyes glazed over and he slumped forward, collapsing against the floor.

Brunel didn’t say a word to Nicholas in the carriage back to the Engine Ward, which made Nicholas apprehensive. He tried to meet the Presbyter’s eyes, but Brunel seemed thoroughly engaged scribbling neat rows of sums down one margin of his ledger.

Finally, the carriage passed through the gates of Engine Ward and pulled up outside the Chimney. Brunel set his top hat astride his head and said to Nicholas, “Won’t you join me at the pulpit?” It wasn’t a question.

Nicholas followed Brunel into the empty church. Brunel ascended the stairs at a leisurely pace, lighting the candles from his Argand lamp on the way. He hummed a tune under his breath, knowing his easy presence was making Nicholas more nervous than ever.

Sweat poured down Nicholas’ face. His stomach knotted in on itself. He caught his boot on the steps and stumbled, knocking a candle over and spilling a trail of hot wax down the narrow steps.

Brunel turned around and saw the upset candle. “Tsk,” he said. “You are upsetting the order of things tonight.”

Nicholas had never been to the pulpit before. They stood on a thin platform, twenty feet above the church, surrounded on four sides by a low shelf containing metalworking tools, worn leather journals and rolls of drawings, all jammed in together in lackadaisical fashion. Brunel paced the length of the pulpit three times. Silence fell, the only sound his footsteps on the grating, and the murmurs of far-off animals.

Finally Brunel spoke, gesturing with his hand to the church below. “Do you see all this?”

“Yes—”

“You’re not looking!” Brunel grabbed Nicholas behind the neck, whirled him around, and shoved his head far out of the side of the platform. His arms pinned beneath him, Nicholas had no way of pulling himself back. Brunel pushed him out even further, ’till his feet flailed in the air and he was completely at the mercy of the Presbyter. Two coded plates — notes from the last Supper Club meeting — fell from his pocket and clattered across the grate. His head spun as he watched the floor of the church — the pews, the altar filled with candles and offerings — dance around him. His heart pounded in his throat.
Please, Isambard, don’t let go!

“I can fill this room to bursting with people, Nicholas.
My
people. They love me,
worship
me, and they will do whatever I ask of them. Many of them would gladly kill for the privileges I now show you, Nicholas.”

“I—I—”

“No. Don’t talk.” Brunel dug his nails into Nicholas’ arm. “I don’t know what you thought you were doing, going off with that gardener, but you were at the castle by
my
grace, and what you did makes me look untrustworthy. A lot of those Councillors don’t believe I should have been allowed a church at all, let alone become a Presbyter or be in charge of this Wall. When you strolled away, when they had to break up the meeting to search the castle grounds for you, they think, ‘Brunel can’t even control those in his employ. He’s not cut out to control a church.’ They could strip me of my power at any moment, and doom the Stokers to a life of toil. Do you
see?
Do you understand why you can’t do this?”

“Y—yes.” Nicholas’ ears pounded, as the blood rushed through his head, pounding against his skull. His vision swayed and blurred.

“Good.” Brunel pulled him back. Dizzy, Nicholas tripped over his own foot and fell to his knees on the grating. Brunel reached down a hand to help him up.

“We’ve worked so hard for all this,” he said. “Not just myself, but you, and Aaron, and all the Stokers. I couldn’t bear to see it stripped away now.”

“I understand, and I apologise. I don’t know what’s come over me.” He did know, of course, but he couldn’t tell Brunel about Brigitte. The engineer would not understand.

Brunel bent down and picked up the two plates, running his fingers over the cold metal. “What are these?”

“It’s … a code.” Nicholas thought it wise not to lie to Brunel. “Aaron and I worked on it together. We host these monthly dinner parties—”

“The Free-Thinking Men’s Blasphemous Brandy and Supper Society?”

“How do you know about that?”

Brunel squinted at the plates. “Buckland is not a man easily given to concealing secrets. It is no matter; I see no reason to report your club to the Royal Society. But why print the code on plates like this?”

“So James can read them with his fingers.”

“Genius.” Brunel stuffed both plates into his pocket. “You will teach me this code, Nicholas, but not now. You’ve been distracted this past week. You should rest for a few days. Maybe call a doctor. The Boilers will finish the Wall, but we have much work still to do, and I can’t have my favourite architect ill. Go home, and return to me when you feel clear again.”

He dismissed Nicholas, swinging open the heavy church door. A biting cold swooped inside, and as Nicholas stepped out, and tipped his hat to Brunel, he felt the hairs on his arms stand up.

Pulling his coat tightly around him, he stepped into the waiting carriage and told the driver to take him home. He pulled down his sleeve and fingered the welts on his arms.
I was selfish,
he realised.
I should never have left the meeting.
I would not forgive myself if I destroy everything Brunel and Aaron have worked for.

Brigitte and I must be more careful.

THE TIMES, LONDON, 17 August, 1830

LONDON WALL TO BE COMPLETED IN TIME FOR 1830 SEASON

Isambard Kingdom Brunel, the engineer charged with the task of ridding London of the dragon menace, should like to inform all interested parties that the London Wall will be completed on Tuesday 24 August, 1830, in seven days’ time, several months ahead of schedule.