The Wild Princess

Twenty-five



Rupert Clark looked up at Westminster Cathedral’s soaring tower. He knew only enough about architecture to be surprised by the exotic mixture of light and dark brick work. It seemed more like something out of the Arabian Nights stories his ma used to read to him than in the middle of an English city. The cathedral was, of course, much larger than any church he’d attended as a boy. Meeting the Lieutenant here in the Chapel of the Martyrs seemed appropriate and reinforced his belief they were doing God’s work.

Although . . . he wasn’t ’specially keen to be a martyr himself.

Of course, Ma wouldn’t have approved of his methods. But results were what counted. Hadn’t she been firm in believing the South could only survive if it separated from the North? And wasn’t it just as important to the Irish to have their own governance?

So maybe God hadn’t been with them at Vicksburg after all. But He must have sorely regretted His neglect. The Fenians were giving God another chance.

Rupert led Will up the cathedral’s steps. The interior was breathtaking with its soaring ceiling, mosaics, carvings, gilded statuary, and hundreds of varieties of marble. At first he felt disoriented by the magnitude of it all. They wandered along the nave and took several wrong turns into alcoves, each with its own altar, before they came upon the chapel where the Lieutenant had told them to meet him.

Will hadn’t said a word since the runner delivered the note, calling them to a meeting. Now he followed along like a puppy dog—obedient but restless.

“Cat got your tongue?” Rupert asked. He breathed in a heady whiff of incense that had drifted from some unseen source. It reminded him of mass, back home, the priests dangling that smoking ornament that released a sweet scent.

Will frowned. “I’s just wonderin’ who this Lieutenant is.”

“Don’t,” Rupert said. “These Irish lads don’t want their names bandied about.”

“I mean, in a general sorta way. Is he a priest? Is that why we’re in a church?”

“Might be. Or he could just be clever. Safer this way, ain’t it? Away from prying eyes.”

“I guess.”

Rupert stepped farther into the chapel. The atmosphere felt cleaner here, fresher than out in the street’s stench. Here he smelled ancient wood, fresh wax, and odd aromas like the bear grease some gentlemen used to groom their mustaches or the rose water old ladies splashed on instead of taking a bath.

Fat, little crimson glass devotion candles burned in a rising bank, beckoning him toward them. He would light one before he went into the confessional. Might as well look the part.

“I don’t need to go in there, do I?” Will slanted a sideways glance toward the chapel’s altar. He’d once said churches spooked him.

“No. I’ll do it. You take on a prayerful attitude. See that old lady there?” Rupert pointed to a woman whose head was bowed as she prayed from her knees. “Do like that. Down on the kneeler, eyes closed, and no looking around. You know how to pray, don’t you?”

“Don’t look hard,” Will said.

Rupert paused to genuflect and cross himself at the altar. The gesture reassured him. One of their jobs had gone sour, although it wasn’t his fault. Who could have predicted the queen’s entourage would be diverted just two miles before the trap he’d laid on the road north of London? He’d expected the Lieutenant would give them another chance, and he had. Their next two jobs had been spectacular successes.

He was going to have to ask for more money soon; their living expenses had nearly run out. This wasn’t like the army, where you got fed and paid regular. But it made sense for the Fenians to see to their troops’ needs. If he and Will had to fend for themselves, get jobs or steal to feed and shelter themselves, they would become too visible—and that wasn’t good for the cause.

“Be right back,” Rupert said, spotting the dark wood confessionals the note had described, along the right side wall of the chapel. As he walked away he heard Will struggling with the kneeler. It clunked down on the marble floor with a dull echo. He should have shown him how it worked so he wouldn’t be so clumsy with it. But there was only the one old woman in the chapel, so it probably didn’t matter if the boy seemed a little nervous. Didn’t lots of people get nervy before making their confessions? Facing your sins—your mortality.

He stepped into the penitents’ side of the booth and closed the door behind him. It smelled musty inside—a good kind of odor, comforting. He imagined this was how tradition smelled. On the other side of the screen he saw a shadow move. For a moment, his heart leaped into his throat, and he worried there might be a real priest waiting to hear his confession.

Just to be sure he knelt down, folded his hands, and murmured the words he hadn’t said in a very long time, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” He continued the familiar litany. The time that had passed since his last confession—more than six years, he guessed. And he was about to start listing his sins, but not all of them of course, when he remembered the agreed upon password. “Oh, and also, Father, I come from Appomattox.”

A soft sound came to him, as if whoever was on the other side of the grille was also relieved. “Any trouble coming here unobserved?” a voice said.

“None, sir.”

The invisible man said something in a low whisper Rupert didn’t at first understand. “Sorry?”

“On your seat, the envelope.”

“Oh.” He shifted his hips and only then saw the small rectangular shape. When he picked it up it felt thick between his fingers.

“Open it.”

He slid his thumb under the flap and tore upward, making a ragged paper mouth. Although he couldn’t see in the darkness he could feel the leaves of banknotes inside.

“That should keep you comfortably for a while longer,” the man said. His accent told Rupert he was definitely a Brit, and educated.

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“Now we get down to business,” the man whispered, “before the priests return to wash away the weighty sins of old women and small boys.”

Rupert smiled. Was the man making a joke? He decided it was safer not to laugh. “Yes, sir, to our task.”

“I have a very important mission for you and your partner. We fear that our membership has been compromised by a spy in our midst. There is a job that must be done immediately. We cannot take the chance that those involved will be spotted and identified. You and your partner are new to the country, it’s unlikely the queen’s protectors know you.”

“Yes, sir.” Rupert could sense his value had just increased tenfold. He felt gratified.

“In that same envelope you’ve just received, you will find a photograph. Tonight when the opera lets out, the man in that picture will leave and, as is his habit, walk across the park to his club. If he is alone, you will kill him quickly and quietly before he has a chance to leave the park. If he is accompanied, you must kill whoever is with him as well.”

“What if he has several companions?”

“That might be a problem. Perhaps you can isolate him. The important thing is that you cannot be caught, and if you are— nothing of our organization can be revealed.”

“Understood.”

“We count on your silence.”

Did the man think he was inexperienced in warfare? Rupert shook off the sting of resentment. He was, after all, a soldier and knew what was expected of a soldier.

“Who is the target?”

“You will recognize him from the picture when you see it. The man’s death will be a powerful and personal blow to the queen, as he is a favorite of hers. This will be the first part of a double strike against her. After you have carried out the mission, we will claim responsibility.”

“How do I—”

“The method is up to you, but circumstances dictate stealth and speed. I would suggest a knife.”

Rupert nodded. Hand-to-hand combat wasn’t his specialty, bombs being a far less intimate weapon than a blade. But he’d been trained for such operations in the army. He made no objection.

“Tonight you said,” Rupert murmured. “So soon?”

“It must be tonight. There will be no better chance.”

“Then it will be done. Is that all?” He waited for a response or some signal that the meeting was over, but none came. “Sir?” he whispered.

After another few seconds he sensed that the priest’s box was empty. He hadn’t heard so much as the creak of a door.

Rupert walked out of the confessional, head bowed, fingers clasped, and knelt beside Will. “Did you see him?” Rupert asked.

“Who?”

Rupert sighed. “Never mind.” He drew the envelope from his inside jacket pocket and peered inside. Will bent over to see what he was doing.

Rupert silently counted the banknotes. Many more than he’d expected. At least a month’s worth of generous wages for the two of them. He smiled then felt the stiffer backing paper of a photograph. When he pulled it out, he saw that it wasn’t a simple daguerreotype. It was an elaborate calling card with the gentleman’s full standing image in an elegant pose on the front, his signature superimposed over the picture, his address on the reverse.

“Who’s that?” Will whispered.

“Our target.”

His partner scowled. “Dapper fellow. Can’t read the signature though.”

Rupert smiled at the importance of their job. “This is Mr. Benjamin Disraeli.”