Of Carrion Feathers - Excerpt

With my latest title releasing Friday, thought I should finish what I began, and give you the final excerpt of Chapter 1.

A novel of London, 1662

Shutters slammed open and shut.  Something very heavy boomed and crashed down the lane.  Above the din, Beatrice heard cries of anguish, and she sucked in her breath.  She hoped no one had gotten hurt.

Beatrice looked about the high person’s room.  Rubbish rained heavy, making everything filthy, including an already untidy desktop.  She looked up to see if the ceiling were caving in, and saw patches of plaster break away.  Dust rose from the floor planks, and in between blasts of wind, she heard rats squeaking.  How she was to scrub a chamber with this clangor raging inside and out, she could not think, and Beatrice set down the bucket. 

She must go find a broom. 

Later, as the gale beat heavy against the house, trampled across the lanes, and down alleyways, Beatrice strove to sweep up the dirt that continually made its way into the man’s office.  Wind whistled down the chimney, spewing coal dust into the chamber.  She’d already cleaned the hearth, but it hadn’t done a bit of good.  This house needed a chimney sweep.  Whatever strides she made were abruptly cut short by new gusts of wind, and more dust flying. 

With not one chamber getting cleaned, she would not be paid that shilling.  In a pet, Beatrice plopped onto the chair at the desk.  She wanted to kick something, but swept away some ceiling debris instead.  Leaves of paper went with it, deepening her ire.  She got up to retrieve them, and noticed strange writing scrawled across the papers.  Very odd. 

The man who owned this house must not expect his servants to read, but she knew how.  Her papa said she excelled in it, and he often shook his head, exclaiming, “Lass, if you were a lad, you’d do well in this here harsh world.” 

Taking a candle from the mantelshelf, she placed it on the desk to study the writings.  She loved riddles, puzzles, and the like, and thought these could be easily solved.  With the weather causing all sorts of fits wherein she could not clean, she may as well take a moment to look at it. 

It wouldn’t hurt nothing, would it? 

The leaf ran full with groups of numbers.  She counted the numbers, trying to separate the meanings.  Beatrice lengthened her arm to gain a full picture of the page.  With eyes squinted, the number groupings brought words to mind. 

Words meant letters. 

She brought the leaf closer, and studied the numbers.  Within the groupings, they went from number one upward to twenty-six.  She reckoned the numbers spoke of the alphabet, and Beatrice scoffed.  For certain, she’d broken the riddle right easy.  She searched for a blank leaf, took up the quill, and began to write down the letters in relation to the numbers. 

The numbers told a tale of skullduggery in London City, very horrid, and a plot to kill the king.  Did the fellow of the house understand of what the letter spoke?  Was he a part of this terrible deed? 

She rested her elbow on the pile of papers, and felt something wobble underneath.  Raising a corner of the pile, she saw a dish of white liquid.  Oo-ee, that would cause all sorts of bother should it spill, and she smelled it.  Milk. 

How very strange. 

She moved the dish to a safer corner of the desk, then once again picked up the paper that was filled with cunning deceit.  As she raised the leaf, candlelight shined through, along with scripted notes in the margins.  Her breath caught, and she brought the paper closer to her.

The handwriting along the margins disappeared. 

Beatrice cried aloud, “What?” And she swung the paper back to the candle. 

The writing reappeared, most astonishing.  She moved the paper this way and that until she saw sentences. 

She bent her head to read them. 

Wind battered the house, and all sorts of things crashed along the lane.  With the noise outside, and very engrossed in the mysterious handwriting, she never considered reading the man’s letters would do her ill.  The conceit of it tantalized her brains, and she wondered why such a prosperous person would dally in treason. 

Unless he was a teller of tales, and was in the midst of writing a book.  If it were printed in a book of penny merriments, it would be a thrilling read.  She must go to St. Paul’s Yard and buy one of these little books.  Mayhap, she could find a playwright to put it into a play, most lovely, and Beatrice smiled.  She fell into a gentle moment of woolgathering... 

Suddenly, a balled fist slammed on the desktop, causing her skin to shrivel right off her bones.  Beatrice squawked, and shot off the chair.  The leaf flew out of her hand to land in the bucket of suds-flattened water.  Her heart pounded in her throat, and she went all a’ sweat. 

A man, still in his hat and cloak, hollered, “What the bloody hell art thou doing prowling through me desk and reading me letters?” 

Another Excerpt Chapter 1 - Of Carrion Feathers

See below post for 1st part of Chapter 1

 

Oliver Prior stared out a mullioned window in Whitehall Palace.  He waited for Mister William Josephson, undersecretary and head of intelligence under King Charles II.  While he bided his time, Oliver watched a ferocious gale wreak havoc.  Winds roared down narrow lanes and screamed around corners.  His eyes goggled when large trees crashed to the ground.  Shutters snapped from windows and hurled away.  The big, mullioned window where he stood bowed inward with the strong gusts. 

It reminded him of when his sister had been killed.  A staunch Puritan, his father christened her, Silence-Fair Prior, but everyone called her wee Pebble.  Her death still haunted him, and he shook his head to remove the thoughts. 

Gazing out the window again, he wondered why he’d been called here by the undersecretary.  It must be important.  Only a fool would venture out in such a wild storm. 

He grimaced, knowing he must be that very fool.  It took some doing to get here from his house on Knightrider Street in the City, with brickbats, roof tiles, tree pieces, and whatnot sailing like grenados about his head.   He felt lucky to be whole and alive. 

Great drafts blew their way through the hallways of Whitehall, and Oliver felt cold airs wrap around his ankles.  He stepped from the window to the fireplace.  The coal fire was warm, but spits of wind shot down the chimney, and sent spark showers from the hearth into the chamber.  He feared shards of fire would set the rambling palace ablaze.  It simply wouldn’t do, and he spread the fire with an iron, hoping to douse it. 

With the fire put down, the room immediately started to cool. 

He heard footsteps, and turned to the closed door of the undersecretary’s office.  It opened, and Mister Josephson strode toward him.  He was a tall, nicely assembled gentleman from the North Country.  His speech proved it, though tempered after many years in London City. 

Oliver bowed.  “I’ve received your ciphered letter, and came hither soon as able.” 

Josephson gazed beyond Oliver to the window.  “You’re lucky you weren’t killed en route.” 

Oliver turned to see a hat with froths of feathers scrape along the window.  He ducked away, then straightened tall again, ashamed to have been so ruffled before a man who never seemed disturbed by anything. 

He cleared his throat.  “Aye, sir, `tis a jangle out there.  What will you have of me?” 

Josephson pulled his gaze from the winds and the objects flying about.  “It is a Cicero matter.” 

“Ah, domestic then,” Oliver said with a sigh.  “And nonconformist, I reckon.  The fanatics never cease in their hullabaloo.  From what dark alley is this one?” 

The undersecretary tsk-tsked.  “You sound discontented, Prior.  Please remember we are still a divided country.  Just because the king is back in England, it hasn’t stopped the many supporters from Cromwell’s regime thinking bitter thoughts.  They do not like how the Cavaliers force an Anglican hand. 

“Our Parliament’s driving them underground, a dangerous thing.  The Declaration of Breda back in `60 hasn’t done much good, and this new law of uniformity being tooted before the Lords will cause bitter strife, if approved.” 

Oliver nodded.  “Aye, and I’ve been hearing gossip this new hearth tax, if it comes about, is vexing most folk, Presbyterian or otherwise.  Then, the king keeps getting Barbara Villiers with child, even with a new queen on the horizon.”  He regarded the undersecretary.  “Oiy, you can say I’m a mite weary of everyone’s heartburning, but not enough to disavow the work you have me do.  What have you found, then?” 

“There are plots afoot.” 

He raised a brow.  There were always plots afoot.  Most of them with plans to kill an aristocrat, or the king, blow up a building or two, and run amok through the City.  Oliver wondered why these were different.  “How dangerous are these plots?” 

Josephson pointed to a chair.  “Have a seat.”  Then he gazed at the hearth.  “The fire is near burned out.  We must have new coals put to it.” 

Oliver sat on a plain chair, and straightened his doublet.  “I dampened it.  The wind sent sparks throughout the chamber.” 

Josephson smiled, and settled on a chair with arm rests.  He crossed a leg over the other.  “Ever the thoughtful fellow, Mister Prior.  Very nice.” 

Oliver cleared his throat.  “About the plots, then?” 

“This is delicate, and I need someone I can trust.” 

His heart perked up, and Oliver sat straighter.  “Thank you, sir.  You shall have it.” 

“A cousin of a high person killed a man.  We think he’s somehow with the fanatic nonconformists.”  He paused, then added, “And in league with the Dutch.” 

“Aye?” Oliver prodded.  The bloody Hollanders weren’t generally part of English plots, but one never knew, did one?  His mind racing, he wondered if the undersecretary would put him to sea, and immediately hoped not to be seasick…  Then he realized this being a Cicero matter, and domestic, he’d not go anywhere. 

Josephson continued, “We have a loud Presbyterian who lives on Harpe Lane hard by Tower Street.  He and his wife have a little bakeshop near Baker’s Hall.  He also works at the Custom House in London Pool.” 

Not knowing where all this was going, Oliver blew out a puff of air.  “Busy fellow.  Where does he find time to plot?” 

“That’s the interesting bit.  We’ve ferreted out he only just received a post in Custom’s. The position came along most dandy when the world learned the king will marry a popish Infanta.” 

Protestants of England did not much admire the king’s choice of a bride, but Oliver didn’t think on it.  There were just too many papists in the world, making Protestant princesses few in number.  He knew of some Protestant high ladies in the North Countries, but they were a scurvy lot, and not to be counted. 

Something crashed loud outside and Josephson jerked to his feet.  He faced Oliver.  “The new queen’s dowry will bring trouble.  The merchants of the City are chomping at the bit to cast their ships to sea and the East Indies.”  He paused.  “Where the Dutch have a strong foothold.  They won’t like it if our merchants weigh anchor off one of their possessions.  We’ve gained, and could lose much with the king’s union.” 

Impatient as to where this was leading, Oliver only nodded. 

Josephson tapped his fingers on his chin.  “There’s more to this bakery business than meets the eye, Prior.” 

Oliver gazed at the undersecretary.  The man saw conspiracies everywhere, and in everything. 

Josephson smiled.  “Which brings me to why you are here.” 

Oliver leaned forward.  This part always brought him into a froth of desires, like gusts of lust.  Burrowing into dens of conspiracies and plots without getting caught, befriending the rascals was an addictive thrill.  He found it impossible to quit the business. 

Being such a treacherous cheat would most likely bring him to an early demise, but he shrugged it off.  No one cared for him.  No one at all. 

Oliver stood and met Josephson’s gaze.  “I am ready to hear the full of it.” 

Of Carrion Feathers

A historical novel of London

Even though King Charles II returned from exile to England, there are still discontents all over the land. Oliver Prior works for the Crown as a spy.  His boss is the undersecretary who loves ciphers. 

When Charles II returned, he brought the French way of theatre, which was to put women on stage. Beatrice Short is a servant.  Her goal is to go on stage, but something happens to cause her heartburn...

Excerpt of Chapter 1, Part 1

Of Carrion Feathers,
A Rowdy Tale of Rogues and Cheats

London, February 1662

A great storm raged outside as Beatrice Short trudged through the house of a prosperous person.  With a feather duster tucked in her apron strings, she staggered up the stairs, lugging a bucket of sudsy water.  If the house didn’t fall down around her ears with the wind so high out there, her task was to scrub the gentleman’s parlor. 
 
She did not know the man who lived here, only his name; a Mister Josephson.  Beatrice came on the request of her auntie who worked in the house.  A maidservant had gone down with the ague, and could not do her duties.  Auntie assured Beatrice she’d be paid a shilling for the trouble, and Beatrice could use the coin.  With every bit of her money a’ jingling in her purse, she’d go straight away to a music and dance instructor, and hire him to teach her all he knew. 
 
Her goal was to go on stage. 
 
Since the Puritan lawmakers were cast out of London, the king returned from exile with new ideas.  One of them put women on stage.  It was lovely to see a burlesque where women played women, and not lads whose voices cracked into manhood.  Aye, it was very nice, indeed, and Beatrice intended to go on the boards.  She had a good singing voice, if not a bit warbly, and she could speak loudly enough to flatten ears against skulls.  She must learn to dance light as a feather, though, or she’d pound across the stage like a thundering bull. 
 
Aye, this task to help out whilst the real maid lay sick abed was just the ticket to her dreams come true. 
 
She came to a standstill at the parlor’s entry, and watched in horror as ceiling pieces rained on everything in the chamber.  She gasped as a great swatch of plaster ripped away and plummeted to the floor.  Black rats fell with the debris, and dust rose in a choking cloud. 
 
Beatrice swung around.  She’d not get that room cleaned, nay she would not, but there were other rooms on this floor.  She would clean another chamber and get that shilling.  She crossed to another door. 
 
Locked. 
 
She lightly rapped on the panel, but heard no sound.  “Oiy then, art thou within?” she asked, knowing he was not.  Auntie told her his work sent him most of the time to Whitehall Palace, and today was no different.  With the winds raging so boisterous outside, he should stay put.  It was quite the hazard out there. 
 
The house shook in the booming gusts, and the lock rattled.  Light of day wobbled between panel and doorframe.  The loose lock bounced in its anchor, and seemed under great stress chattering in the door. 
 
Beatrice stood back and looked around.  Her papa, bless his poor, dead soul, said she was very wicked, and a terrible snoop. 
 
It all started when she was a wee one, and whilst he taught Latin at St. Paul’s school.  In the evenings, he taught her to read, write, and do arithmetic.  The challenge of learning thrilled her, and spiked her interest in all things.  Each night, she’d dive through his journals, loose leaves, and books to locate their next lesson.  Soon, he’d hide them away for her to locate, turning it into a game of hunt and find. 
 
One day, he threw up his hands and declared, “I cannot hide anything from you, sweet lass.  You are too cunning.”  Then he furrowed his brows most severe.  “Keep in mind, you may not rummage another’s house so bold as ours.  They’d think you a horrid person.” 
 
Well, she was a horrid person, wasn’t she?  With no one around, Beatrice gingerly fingered the lock.  It waggled very loose, then fell to pieces in her hand. 
 
A wind gust hit the house, and the door swung open.  She gazed with wonder at the broken lock, then peeked into the chamber. 

See next installment in a week or so... 
You can find more of my novels at www.wings-press.com, Amazon, and the NOOK.