When Gods Die

“Oh, it’s a grand-sounding piece o’ writin’, no gettin’ away from that. All about equality and natural rights and liberty. Only, them fine words, they was only meant for white folks, not for black slaves like me.”

Sebastian studied the thickness of the man’s strong neck, the way the veins stood out on his forehead. It was a long way for one man to have come, from being a slave on a South Carolina plantation to owning an inn on Giltspur Street in Smithfield. “I understand they’re a sanctimonious lot, the Americans.”

The black man laughed, a deep rumbling laugh that shook his chest. “Sanctimonious? Yeah, that’s a good one. They like to think they’re a glorious, godly nation, sure enough, like some shining beacon on a hill that’s gonna lead all mankind out o’ the darkness o’ tyranny and into the light. Only, look at what they done. They done killed all the red men and stole their land, and then they brung us black folks from Africa so’s we could do all the hard work and them white folks, they don’t need to get their lily-white hands dirty. Uh-uh.”

“Squire Lawrence always says the Americans really fought their revolution because the King refused to allow them to disavow their treaties with the red men.”

“Your Squire Lawrence sounds like a smart man.”

Sebastian leaned forward as if imparting a secret. “To be honest with you, the Squire asked me to come here to London to make a few inquiries for him. A few discreet inquiries,” Sebastian added with emphasis, clearing his throat and glancing hurriedly around, as if to make certain no one could overhear. “It’s his sister, you see. She left the protection of her home last week. We believe some folks from the village gave her a ride to Smithfield, and I’m hoping she might have come here. For a room.”

The big man’s broad African features remained impassive. “We don’t get a lot of ladies around here. You might try the Stanford, over on Snow Hill.”

“I checked there already. The thing is, you see, I’ve discovered that a lady was seen entering the Norfolk Arms, just last Wednesday. A young lady with dark hair and a red pelisse. Now, as far as I know, Miss Eleanor’s pelisse is green, but she certainly has dark hair, and she could always have bought herself a new pelisse, couldn’t she?” Sebastian paused, as if reluctant to divulge the truth. “I hesitate to say it, but we fear a man may be involved.”

The innkeeper wiped a cloth over the ring-marked surface of the bar. “Last Wednesday, you say?”

“Yes,” said Sebastian, all effusive eagerness. “Have you seen her?”

“Nah. I don’t know who told you such a daft thing, but we’ve had no ladies here. Must have been some farmer’s wife he seen, up for last week’s market.”

The innkeeper wandered away while Sebastian went back to sipping his ale and regarding his surroundings. The Norfolk Arms might be in Smithfield, but its clientele was not, for the most part, drawn from the likes of drovers and market people. The two Israelites conversing in low voices over near the window could probably buy and sell the King of England several times over, while at a table near the door, a small huddle of men was sharing a bottle of brandy.

Good French brandy, Sebastian noticed, his eyes narrowing. One of the men bore ink-stained fingers that suggested a clerk, while the rest had the look of barristers and solicitors from the nearby Inns of Court. As Sebastian watched, one older gentleman with a shock of graying hair and a powerfully jutting jaw raised his brandy and proposed a toast. “To the King!”

The words were quietly said, so quietly that someone with hearing less acute than Sebastian’s would never have heard them. The others at the table likewise raised their brandy, their voices murmuring, “Hear, hear, to the King,” as they deliberately waved their glasses above a nearby water pitcher before taking a sip.

Sebastian paused with his own ale halfway to his lips. To the King over the water. It was an old toast, dating back a hundred years or more, a ruse by which men could seemingly drink to the health of the reigning Hanoverian monarch while in reality maintaining their allegiance to that other

king, the dethroned Stuart King James II and his descendants, condemned forever to live in exile.

Over the water.

Chapter 27

Leaving the Norfolk Arms, Sebastian had reason to be grateful for what Kat Boleyn liked to call his cat’s eyes. At some point within the last hour, the dark afternoon had slid into night, the heavy clouds left over from the day’s rain blocking out whatever moon and stars might have hung overhead. Here were no neat rows of streetlamps, their oil receptacles lit at sunset by a ladder-toting lamplighter and his boy, as in Mayfair. The shops were shuttered and the narrow lane, though still thronged with people, had few lanterns.