Of Carrion Feathers

By Katherine Pym

It is London 1662, and plots abound against the king. Oliver Prior, haunted by the death of his sister when still a child, enters the world of espionage. Beatrice Short's goal is to go on stage, but she must work as a servant. While cleaning, she finds ciphers and invisible script. After the king's undersecretary finds her snooping, he blackmails her into going undercover as a spy.

While Oliver and Beatrice bond to discover the backbone of insidious schemes to kill the king, they learn who runs the plots. He is a man steeped in hate, and he must be put down.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Jun 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613090312

Katherine Pym

Katherine Pym and her husband divide their time between Seattle, WA and Austin, TX. She loves history, especially Early Modern England, where most of her stories originate, and one other, a biographical novel of Camille Desmoulins during the French Revolution. His real life reads like a tragic romance.

Book preview

A Rowdy Tale of Rogues and Cheats

One

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 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.

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 sixty 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, will vex 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.

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?

Two

He looked the very devil with his face puckered in fury ready to kill her dead. Beatrice didn’t know what to say or how to pull from this troublesome brew. The humiliation of getting caught burnt her hairs right into her brains. She bent to retrieve the leaf from the bucket of water.

"Leave-that-alone!" the man thundered.

She gasped and backed against the wall. Flattened like prey before a snapping wolf, there was nothing for it. She squeezed her eyes shut, and waited for him to fall on her with murder.

Nothing.

She opened her eyes. The man stood at the desk, glaring at her. Then, winds gusted up most fierce. They slammed and roared against the house. More plaster fell from the ceiling. The candle snuffed out and fell to the floor. The milk dish tipped and spilled, following the candlestick to the boards.

Poised to flee, Beatrice readied herself to run out of the chamber when a loud boom cracked desperately close. The house shifted. Window glass blew in shards across the chamber, and a tree limb exploded into the room. It scudded across the floor to block the doorway. Roof tiles and other debris buffeted through the gaping hole, and clattered against the walls. Papers swirled off the desk to spin around the room.

Beatrice screamed. The man leaped out of harm’s way, closer to where she stood. Servants ran shouting, but came to a halt with infinite branches and stems choking the entry.

With a sigh of relief, Beatrice saw Auntie peek through the rubble.

Auntie tried to lower a tree branch but could not. She stretched high and asked, Art the two of you well?

The man brushed off his doublet and breeches. We are not hurt. He snarled. Who is this girl, and how is it she’s been a’ rifling through me private things?

Auntie’s brow furrowed. She’s me niece, Mister Josephson, and she ain’t of a bad nature to do as you’re accusing her. She rounded her gaze on Beatrice. Are you, now?

Beatrice shook her head. Nay, Auntie. I was cleaning is all, as you requested.

You broke me locked door. You are a thief, Josephson grimly stated.

Beatrice’s jaw dropped. Nay, I am not. The lock broke of itself, and I haven’t taken a thing.

You can apparently read what’s on those papers, so you stole information from me private letters. He raised himself tall and glowered. When you steal from me, you steal from our king. I’ll not have a wicked jade invade me private quarters. I shall cry up the bailiffs and have you thrown in Clink.

He faced the folk trying to push their way through the broken tree at the door. Go fetch Paul and Harry. They must take away this rubbish and block the window against the weather. I will stay with this woman.

He crossed his arms over his chest, waiting for them to do his bidding. The servants scampered away.

As Beatrice and Mister Josephson waited, wind pummeled the house, shooting more debris through the broken windows. Finally, after what seemed a very long time, two burly men came and hacked at the branches. They broke away enough to form a pathway out of the chamber.

Josephson pointed at her. Out with you, and never come back.

Beatrice skittered around twigs and sticks, and ran out the chamber fast as she could. She’d lost her shilling, but her life had been spared. If he knew how much roguery she’d learned a’ reading those leaves, he’d be quite annoyed.

It would put her mind to rest if he were a storyteller. If he truly plotted to kill the king, she didn’t know what she should do, or who to warn.

Auntie could be in dire straits.

Reaching the street, Beatrice realized she’d not said farewell to Auntie, but she would not go back in the house. It was far too dangerous, and she turned to look at the place. If you didn’t mind the roots of a big tree upended in the front garden, and the trunk tipped over so that much of the top mangled against the house, it all seemed quite harmless. No one would think a dangerous, desperate man lived there.

She tried to reckon what she should do next, and realized the winds had tempered. The airs were very brisk with church bells ringing far and near, but there were fewer horrid things flying about ready to break one’s skull.

Beatrice faced the way going home, and her eyes widened. The tangle of houses and rubbish in the street astonished her. Gingerly working her way from Turnagain Lane toward Snow Hill, she saw much in ruin. Everywhere she looked, trees were toppled over. Roofs had collapsed. Windows were broken and doors blown away. As she made her way to Newgate and the City, she came upon a house collapsed to pieces. People scrambled across and the around rubble, hollering for loved ones. A young lad cried desperately for his mam. The loud crash she heard earlier must have been the house coming down, and Beatrice’s heart sagged heavy in her chest.

Not able to endure such a terrible tragedy, she tucked her head and picked up her pace. With the loss of that shilling, she must make her way home and have a serious think how to pay for music and dance lessons. Already, she knew of a fellow who taught good folk and actors alike, but she did not know the cost.

Beatrice would do anything to go on stage. She’d even bed with a playwright if he held the latch that would open the theatre door. But she must have coin to make her way there. She was too raw, and would be tossed out on her ear should she audition for a part. Before that moment, she must learn to control her warbly voice, and dance like a fairy.

Going into the City, she saw the great Newgate Market all foul with bricks, broken gutters, and the like tossed about like skittles. Heavy market tables were cast a’ jumble against garden walls and shops. A cart sat on its side with its wheels spinning. Along row houses, shutters hung askew, and clutter marked the way.

Toward the river, a house burned furiously. She very much hoped the fire would not spread, for the City within its walls was cramped.

All agog, she struggled through the area called the Shambles, very old and tight, to Cheapside Cross, then down Budge Row where she passed Walbrook Street. She fought over rubble at London Stone, then up again to St. Swithins Lane where she and her aunt lived.

She’d only just come to be with Auntie last August after her parents died of that ague going about the City. It pulled her to the very saddest of droops to remember it, for many died. She’d been laid low with it, too, but did not cross the veil. Why God spared her, she could not think. Auntie said He must have a plan for her. What that was, Beatrice knew not, and she shook her head.

Everyone thought the fever was due to the weather. Green winters brought hot summers. Last winter was green, much like this one. Two warm winters together warned of ominous times. Gypsies ran about crying apocalypse of the plague to come. It turned folk downtrodden with fears of calamity.

If plague came to the City, the Lord Mayor would shut down theatres until it passed, which could be a long while, depending on the strength of it. She would not like that one bit, nay she would not. She desired to have music and dance instructors teach her all they knew before summer, the very best time for theatre, and she hoped to get on with one of the better troupes. The duke’s or king’s theatres were in her desires. They brought in all the best people.

Beatrice looked down St. Swithins Lane.

It wasn’t as bad as the way getting there, and she reckoned it was due to the lane being so snug. As expected, mounds of wind debris piled in corners, but looking up and down the row—every house with one room on street level and one room above—she did not see a broken window. Doors were still shut tight with no shutters askew.

She smiled, and trotted right quick to Auntie’s little house. She pulled the key from a pocket within her skirts, and unlocked the door.

Going in, all seemed well until she noted ash from the hearth blown across the floor. Dirt had wrested itself from the walls and ceilings to land on the table and stools. Plaster covered the settle against the wall. Gazing at the hearth, she reckoned it a good thing they’d put the fire out before leaving that morning. Hot coals would have done to their little row what was going on this very minute to the poor house across City.

Frowning, Beatrice gathered up a broom to put the house to rights. Auntie would hopefully return safely and together they’d have a nice supper.

She must warn Auntie of her employer’s treachery, too.

Quite late, a linkboy carrying a flickering lanthorn brought Auntie home. The winds still rolled brisk, but not anything like during the earlier part of the day. The night was dark, though, and the air cold with the threat of rain.

With the house tidied, a very nice supper of boiled carp, bread and cheese sat on the table, along with a wooden pitcher of new beer. Beatrice met Auntie at the door, her heart filled with joy. Oiy, Auntie, how are you this brusque night? Come sit by the fire where the coals are nice and warm. I shall bring you a horn of new beer.

Auntie rubbed her hands together. Thanks, me dearling girl, that would be lovely, indeed. I could do with a drink.

Are you hungry? I have a couple of dishes for us in the ready.

Sitting on the stool in front of the fire, Auntie wrapped a shawl tight around her and shivered. Nay, I shall warm me bones first.

Beatrice pushed a stool near the hearth and sat down. The drafts through the house were wicked tonight, and she wondered if the winds were kicking up again. If it rained, the night would be filthy.

She took Auntie’s hand. I did not say farewell to you today, and am sorry for it.

Auntie regarded her. What happened? I’ve never seen Mister Josephson in such a state. While we were scraping and cleaning his chamber, he picked up all the scattered papers then stood at his desk, and went through each and every leaf.

He did?

Aye, he did, and mumbling the whole while. He’s generally never ruffled, I can tell you.

Who is he, Auntie? What does he do at Whitehall?

He’s undersecretary to the king, ain’t he? He’s very well thought of, too.

Beatrice pursed her lips together. Could the palace hold treachery at the highest rungs of the ladder? Is he to be trusted, Auntie? Is he a good man?

Why do you ask these things, niece? What’s afoot?

He’s either a wicked person, or a storyteller of high-minded mysteries.

Auntie frowned. He ain’t a storyteller, but one high in our new king’s government.

Fretful, and wanting to be reassured Auntie worked for an honorable man, Beatrice quickly jumped up and began to pace. She wagged her head and mumbled.

Out with it, lass, Auntie finally cried.

I found skullduggery written all over those there papers on his desk, didn’t I? They told of killing the king, and the duke, along with anyone alongside them. Houses are to be put to fire all about the City at the same time, too.

She paused to gaze at Auntie. "The plot’s base stupid, and he’ll get caught afore he puts it into place. There’s