The Baroque Cycle - The System Of The World Part 72

"I'll be up all night anyway anyway," Daniel said, "doing all kinds of unnatural things."

Friday

29 October 1714

Westminster Abbey MORNING.

HE GETS THERE much too early because he overestimated the Hanging-Traffic. much too early because he overestimated the Hanging-Traffic. So So many people want to see Jack Shaftoe drawn and quartered that many people want to see Jack Shaftoe drawn and quartered that everyone everyone has gone early to line the route. Daniel need only walk out of Sir Isaac Newton's town-house, turn his back on the dim roar that resounds against the vault of heaven to the north-a sort of Aurora Borealis of Crowd-clamour-and stroll for a few minutes on quiet streets, and there he is in the Broad Sanctuary: a sweep of open ground splayed out north and west of the Abbey. has gone early to line the route. Daniel need only walk out of Sir Isaac Newton's town-house, turn his back on the dim roar that resounds against the vault of heaven to the north-a sort of Aurora Borealis of Crowd-clamour-and stroll for a few minutes on quiet streets, and there he is in the Broad Sanctuary: a sweep of open ground splayed out north and west of the Abbey.

He must be a very old and strange man indeed to be approaching a stained Pile such as this one on official business on official business. So peculiar is his errand that he falters, knowing not which entrance to use, which presbyter to accost. But the place is all out of kilter anyway because laborers are still taking down the galleries and bleachers put up for the Coronation. c.o.c.kney and Irish demolition-men are strutting out the doors with great rough-sawn planks on their shoulders. There is nary a churchman in sight. Daniel elects to go in the west entrance, which seems a bit less congested than the north with bulky blokes and baulks of wood. Moments later he is struck to find himself walking over the stone where Tompion was planted eleven months ago. It being a great peculiarity of this aera that a horologist should be given a resting-place that one or two generations before would have been reserved for a knight or a general.

He puts Tompion's bones behind him, ducks beneath a moving plank, and gets out in to the cloisters. This is a square courtyard framed in a quadrilateral of roofed stone galleries, but otherwise open to the elements. Those elements today consist of raw bright autumn sun and cold turbulent air. Daniel shoves hands in pockets, hunches, and stiff-legs it to the next corner, turns right, follows the East Cloister to its end. There on the left wall is an unmarked medieval fortress-door, ma.s.sive planks hinged, strapped, gridded, and pierced with black iron. Diverse ancient hand-crafted padlocks depend from its hasp-system like medals on the breast of a troll-general. Daniel has a key to only one of them, and no one else is here. He is freezing. Men half your age and double your weight have been slain on these wastes by Extremity of Cold. Men half your age and double your weight have been slain on these wastes by Extremity of Cold. The cloister blocks the eastern sun but does nothing to shelter him from the breeze, which is coming out of the northwest, striking down into the Cloisters and nearly pinning him to this door. So he back-tracks a few paces and pa.s.ses through a doorway that does happen to be open. This gets him into a corridor that is out of the wind, but cold and dark. Light beckons at its other end, and he can sense warmth on his face, so he goes that way for several paces, and is rewarded, and astonished, to find himself all alone in the most beautiful room in Britain. The cloister blocks the eastern sun but does nothing to shelter him from the breeze, which is coming out of the northwest, striking down into the Cloisters and nearly pinning him to this door. So he back-tracks a few paces and pa.s.ses through a doorway that does happen to be open. This gets him into a corridor that is out of the wind, but cold and dark. Light beckons at its other end, and he can sense warmth on his face, so he goes that way for several paces, and is rewarded, and astonished, to find himself all alone in the most beautiful room in Britain.

Any other Brit would have known in advance that this was the Chapter House. But because of his Revolutionary up-bringing, this was the least likely place on the Isle for Daniel ever to have set foot-until this day. It is a great octagon whose walls seem to consist entirely of stained gla.s.s-a structural impossibility given that the vault overhead consists of numberless tons of stone. It is all held up, he reasons, by pillars at the eight vertices, and a ninth one in the center of the room, so tall and slender it seems doomed to buckle. But it has stayed up for something like four hundred years, and only the most bitter and skeptickal Empiricist would inspect it with such a jaded eye. The place is not going to collapse on him. Those windows are harvesting the sunlight and warming the place. Daniel falls into an orbit around the central pillar. Some of his lessons are coming back to him, and he recalls that this was where the King's Council, and later Parliament, convened until the monks got sick of their hollering and kicked them out and across the street to Westminster Palace. From the way one old man's footfalls and breathing echo around the place, Daniel can't imagine how raucous it must have been when it was filled with politicians.

The brilliant windows capture his attention during the first few orbits, but later his eyes are drawn to the wooden panels below them, at head level. These are painted with scenes that Daniel recognizes, almost without even having to look at them, as the Revelation of that scary lunatick St. John the Divine. The Four Hors.e.m.e.n on their color-coded steeds, the Great Beast spitting terrified Saints, misguided humans queueing up to receive the Mark of the Beast. The Wh.o.r.e drunk on the Blood of the butchered Saints, and later being burned for it. Christ leading the armies of Heaven on a white horse. Much of this is so faded that it can only be made out by one such as Daniel who had to memorize it when he was a boy, so that, like an actor standing backstage awaiting his scene, he'd be able to follow the script, and know his cue, when it happened for real. In the more dilapidated Mobb-scenes, only the eyes stand out among the faded and peeling pigmentation: some sleepy, some upraised, some darting about for Earthly advantage, others attending to the faraway deeds of Angels, still others lost in contemplation of what it all means. He can not help seeing this all as a final message from Drake. A reminder that, in spite of all Isaac's lucubrations, Isaac still does not know the date and time of the Last Trumpet, and that in spite of all Drake's methodical preparations, Daniel has yet to step out of the wings and play his a.s.signed role.

Footsteps and jolly hallooing come his way: sounds more terrible to his ears than the hoofbeats of the Four Hors.e.m.e.n, for they signify that he shall have to be civil to chaps he barely knows. He turns toward the entrance. In comes the First Lord of the Treasury his Clarke, Writer of the Tallies, and Auditor of the Receipt of the King's Exchequer (one man) in his finest clothes. On his arm is the almost-as-well -turned-out Chamberlain's Deputy of the Receipt of the King's Exchequer. These men, of course, have names and lives, but Daniel has forgot the former, and has no interest in the latter. This is one of those occasions in England when names do not matter, only t.i.tles. "Good morning, Dr. Waterhouse!" exclaims the first, "have you your Key?"

It is an inane question, as there'd be no point in Daniel's being here if he didn't have the b.l.o.o.d.y key; but the man who asks it does so with a twinkle in his eye. It is nothing more than a rhetorical and facetious chat-starter, and perhaps a way of taking Daniel's measure.

"Have you yours, sir?" Daniel returns, and the oppressively cheerful Writer of the Tallies (&c.) whips it out of his pocket. Not to be outdone, the Chamberlain's Deputy (&c.) pats his breast; a key hangs on a ribbon there.

Daniel's key is in his left coat-pocket and his hand is clenched around it. In the right pocket, his other hand cradles a small wooden box, like a jewelry-chest, that he nicked from a storage-closet at Isaac's a couple of hours ago. He is struck by a little spell of dizziness for a moment, and spreads his feet wider, as a precaution against toppling and splitting his head on the old floor-tiles. The Key and the Chest, the rite of the Six Padlocks-why, it's as if he's been dropped in to some hidden, never-published Chapter of the Revelation-perhaps even a whole separate book, an apocryphal sequel to the Bible.

Other voices can be heard out in the cloisters, and Daniel reckons they must be nearing a quorum. Noting Daniel's interest, the Writer of the Tallies steps aside and settles into an after-you posture-whether because of age, rank, or general obsequiousness, Daniel can't tell. Daniel's here as one of the Treasury delegation. He leads the Writer of the Tallies and the Chamberlain's Deputy back out to the gusty Cloister. Men have gathered before the door of the Pyx Chamber, some sitting on the huge mottled stone benches, others standing on stones bearing the names of middling-famous dead people. But when they spy Daniel and the others approaching, all rise and turn-as if he's in charge! Which-given what he's got in his pockets-he has every right to be. "Good morning, gentlemen," he says, and waits for the answering murmur to die down. "Are we all present, then?" He sees a gaudy cleric, but not a bishop (no mitre), and pegs him as the Dean of Westminster. Two other gentlemen step up fondling great keys. Some very junior Church-men stand by with lanthorns at the ready, and there is a contingent of befuddled/suspicious Hanoverian n.o.bles, escorted by a personable English Duke who's been despatched to explain matters to them, and Johann von Hacklheber, serving as interpreter.

"His Majesty's Privy Council have demanded a Trial of the Pyx," Daniel reminds them, "and so provided there are no objections I say that we should give them satisfaction by fetching the necessary bits and conveying them to Star Chamber with no further ado."

There are no objections and so Daniel turns significantly toward the locked door. The First Lord of the Treasury his Clarke, Writer of the Tallies, and Auditor of the Receipt of the King's Exchequer moves into position on one side of him, and another Key-holder on the other. They make a second echelon behind another group of three Key-holders who form up directly in front of the door: the Dean of Westminster, the Chamberlain's Deputy of the Receipt of the King's Exchequer, and a representative of the Company of Goldsmiths. The Dean steps up, pulling off a key that has been dangling on his breast-bone on a golden rope, and sets to work on one of the three padlocks visible on this, the outer door. When he is finished, the other two Key-holders play their parts. The padlocks are carried away in pomp and laid out on the stone bench where important men make it their business to keep an eye on them. The great hasp is dismantled by a brawny Acolyte and the door is pulled open.

Two steps lead down into a small anteroom. The way is barred by a second door, no less formidable than the first. Daniel steps forward and down in to this s.p.a.ce, takes out his key, and after a few moments' trial and error, works out which lock it is meant to open. That achieved, he ascends back to cloister level, for there is only room there for one Key-holder and one lanthorn-man. Presently all three inner-door locks have been removed, and brought out into the light, and the hasp is undone. Eyes turn to Daniel again. He goes down in there and puts his shoulder to the door and shoves. It swings halfway open and stops resolutely, as he knew it would. The vault beyond is twice as ancient as the Chapter House. It was rifled during some 13th-Century disturbance-for this is where the Abbey stores its plate and other treasures-and so they installed a stone kerb on the floor so that the door could not be swung fully a-gape, and any future looters would have to ferry the goods out one bauble at a time, as opposed to by the chest-load.

It is Daniel's privilege now to go in, so he takes possession of a lanthorn and side-steps into the Pyx chamber-then quells a misanthropic urge to slam it behind him and bar it, and live here for a thousand years on the Philosopher's Stone. The place is bigger than he'd expected: thirty feet square, with a single squat pillar in the center holding up the four low-slung vaults that converge there and give the place such a hunched, dwarvish feel. After all of this fuss, Daniel's bemused to find that it is just a dusty old storage-cellar with black lock-boxes strewn about according to no especial plan.

Others follow him in. Some seem to know their way around the place. They converge on certain of the treasure-chests, and there is much more finagling with keys. The last group to sack the place were Cromwell's men, who shot the locks off the chests and helped themselves to the Coronation regalia. But Cromwell had needed a sound coinage as badly as any King of old, and so he'd had to mend the chests and replace the locks. Daniel is tempted to point this out as he watches hereditary n.o.bles fumbling with the Puritan hard-ware, but he stifles himself.

Three important objects come out from their respective lock-boxes: (item) A leather case containing Terrible Doc.u.ments: the counterpanes of the indentures signed by Isaac and other Mint officials. The First Lord of the Treasury his Clarke takes possession of these.

(item) A boxy wooden chest containing standard weights.

(item) A broader and flatter chest containing standard plates: sheets of precious metal of known fineness, produced in the furnaces of the Company of Goldsmiths. It is against these that Isaac's coins are to be compared.

These three treasures are borne up into the Cloister as if they were royal triplets being trotted out for some fresh air. Long and loud is the clicking of keys and clanging of hasps in their wake. This rite must have been a lot more efficient, Daniel reflects, back in the days when Parliament and the Council both held their deliberations a few paces away in the Chapter House. When the monks booted them out, there must have been some discussion along the lines of "Oh yes, and one of these days we must fetch the Pyx stuff out of the Abbey and store it where it is actually used." But that was one of those errands that, if not achieved in the first twelve hours, would remain undone centuries later. And, as all of this was shewing, the fetching-out of these three items had long since ossified into a ceremony.

A procession forms up and marches back along the Cloister, into the Transept of the Abbey, and across the Quire. The demolition-crews taking down the galleries in the North Transept seem to sense that something very grave is underway, and shush one another, and clear a path for them; some take their hats off, others stand at attention, holding their crowbars at parade rest. As soon as the last of the parade has gone out the north door, they descend back into joyous mayhem.

The procession right-faces as it clears the door, entering in to a pa.s.s between the Abbey and St. Margaret's Church. Their path toward the River is squarely barred by the gloomy, encrusted hulk of Westminster Hall. To the left or north end of it lie those encrustations belonging to the Exchequer, including the Star Chamber. This is where Sir Isaac Newton's travail began, back in June. It is where the final settling of accounts is going to take place now, or as soon as Daniel and the others cross the street.

Chapel of Newgate Prison IT IS A WHOLE new look for the chapel: the black window treatments have been pulled down, and sentenced to a period of confinement, not to exceed one-eighth of a year, in a wooden box where moths will feed upon them. Light is cautiously admitted through the window-grates. The tourists in the back pews are absent. On the altar before the Condemned pew, the coffin has been replaced with a platter of bread and wine. The wine looks as if it's to be metered out in thimbles, which is an offense to Jack. For if the Church believes, as it plainly does, that a little bit of communion wine is a good thing, then why should not a bucket of it be excellent? new look for the chapel: the black window treatments have been pulled down, and sentenced to a period of confinement, not to exceed one-eighth of a year, in a wooden box where moths will feed upon them. Light is cautiously admitted through the window-grates. The tourists in the back pews are absent. On the altar before the Condemned pew, the coffin has been replaced with a platter of bread and wine. The wine looks as if it's to be metered out in thimbles, which is an offense to Jack. For if the Church believes, as it plainly does, that a little bit of communion wine is a good thing, then why should not a bucket of it be excellent?

But there'll be plenty of opportunities to get drunk on the way to Tyburn, and so this is a mere pa.s.sing flicker of annoyance. He is here to be Churchified. It is the next in the steadily building rite of mortifications and tortures that began with the Bell-Man last night and will culminate, in a few hours, with quartering.

Jack Shaftoe is brought in separately, after the wretches who spent the night in the Condemned Hold have already been frogmarched up the aisle and chained to the awful Pew. He feels like a bride, the last one into the church, the one all heads turn to look at. As well they might! For Jack got up two hours ago, not wanting to waste a single minute of this most special of all days, and has spent the intervening time getting dressed up in his Hanging-Suit.

He does not know whence the Hanging-Suit came. It arrived at dawn, delivered, the turnkey insisted, by a blond man who roared up in an immense black carriage, and did not speak a word.

Several boxes were needed to contain the entire Hanging-Suit. By the time Jack first saw it, they'd all been gone through by the gaolers, to make sure that no s.h.i.+vs, pistols, saws, or Infernal Devices were wrapped up in the finery. So all was in disarray, all blotched with grimy hand-prints. And yet the inherent majesty of the Hanging-Suit was in no way diminished.

The innermost of the Hanging-Suit's three layers-the part that touches Jack-comprises white drawers of Egyptian cotton, white hose of Turkish silk, and a s.h.i.+rt made from enough fine white Irish linen to keep a company of Foot in tourniquets and bandages through a brief foreign war. And it must be understood that the adjective "white" here means a true, blinding salt-white, and not the dirty beige that pa.s.ses for white in poorly illuminated textile markets.

The next layer comprises a pair of breeches, a long-skirted waistcoat, and a coat. All of these are in metallic hues. As a matter of fact, Jack's pretty sure that they are literally made out of metal. The waistcoat seems to be cloth-of-gold. The breeches and coat are silver. All of the b.u.t.tons are golden, which Jack takes to mean that, like counterfeit guineas, they are lumps of solder, cleverly jacketed in whispers of gold. But when he bites one, it bites back. Only faint impressions are left by his [false] teeth, and he can see no trace of gray in them-no evidence of base metal underlying the gold. These b.u.t.tons were made by pouring molten metal into a mold, so each one bears the same imprint: a figure too tiny and involved for Jack's eyes to make it out in the dimness of his Castle apartment.

The third layer-what comes into contact with the dirt of the world-consists of black leather shoes with silver buckles; a cape, purple on the outside, lined with fur, and hemmed and piped and beb.u.t.toned with additional silver and gold; and a white periwig.

The Hanging-Suit is replete with pockets, several of which came pre-loaded with coins, placing Jack in a position to dispense Civility Money to the sundry turnkeys, gaolers, blacksmiths, drivers, and executioners who'll be handling him during the course of the day. It is extraordinary that those coins were not pilfered and the b.u.t.tons not ripped off by the gaolers when they inspected the Hanging-Suit; Jack concludes that the Mysterious Personage who brought it to him must have employed not only bribery, but threats of Prosecution and of Physical Violence as well.

On his way up stairs to the chapel here, he has advanced the turnkey a s.h.i.+lling for the following favor: Upon entering the Chapel, every denizen of Newgate stops in his tracks for a few moments because staggered by a blast of light, a sort of optical fanfare. To be honest, the chapel is just sufficiently illuminated for the Ordinary to read from his hundred-pound Bible. But compared to the rest of Newgate, it's brilliant.

The Lord's House gets the best part of the prison, viz. the southeastern corner of the top floor. This means a few windows face the morning sun, and several more take the sun during the day-a.s.suming there is any sun. Today the sky is cloudless. The favor that Jack has requested of the turnkey is simply that he would like to have a few moments to bask in the sun that streams into one of those east-facing windows, at the back of the chapel, before he is led up to the doleful Pew.

The transaction comes off as agreed. Into the southeast corner Jack goes, and stands in a prism of sunlight for a few moments. His eyes are seared by the radiance of his own clothing. He is forced to gaze out the window for a few moments, to give his stiff creaky old pupils time to shrink down to the size of fleas. He is therefore gazing roughly eastwards, down the length of Phoenix Court. Just below him, Phoenix Court makes a sort of intersection with the Straight and Narrow Way that connects Newgate with the Court of Sessions in the Old Bailey. Moving away from the prison, then, it forms the northern boundary of the garden that spreads behind the College of Physicians.

Gazing over the wall from this privileged vantage-point, Jack is just a bit let down to see that the College of Physicians is still standing. Oh, there are columns of smoke rising from its property. But this is not because the Mobb burned it down last night. The smoke issues rather from cook-fires. The garden in the back has been turned into a bivouac for (counting the tents) a company of soldiers. No, strike that, they are (examining the colours) grenadiers. Of soldiers, these are the biggest (in that they are obliged to march around with large numbers of iron bombs strapped to their bodies), stupidest (obviously), and the most dangerous to the Mobility (considering the effect of a grenade lobbed into a crowd). Just the lot you'd want to have camped out in your garden if you were n.o.ble, and expecting a nocturnal visit from the Mobile.

As long as he's here, Jack takes a moment to fondle one of his golden b.u.t.tons, and to twist it round for a good look. He notes, first of all, that it's not attached very firmly: just a few threads hold it in place. But he already knew that from fumbling with it in the dark, back in his apartment. What he really wants is to examine the emblem that is molded into every one of those b.u.t.tons. Now that he has light, he recognizes it instantly: this is the symbol written by Alchemists to denote quicksilver.

These preliminaries, small as they might seem, put all into a new light-and not just literally-for Jack. He allows himself to be escorted up the aisle, very much like a radiant bride, and very much to the dazzlement of his pew-mates and the dismay of the Ordinary.

The only thing lacking is the bridegroom, one Jack Ketch, who is down in his kitchen putting on his black formal attire and getting ready for the big day. But that part of the ceremony will be conducted later, al fresco, al fresco, before, give or take a mult.i.tude, the entire population of Southeastern England. before, give or take a mult.i.tude, the entire population of Southeastern England.

The service follows the usual pattern, complete with Old and New Testament readings chosen to fit the occasion. The Ordinary has pre-positioned bookmarks. The Old Testament one is a length of black grosgrain ribbon that takes him into the type of pa.s.sage whose sole purpose, in a Christian service, is to demonstrate just how much trouble we would all be in, if we were still Jews. Finis.h.i.+ng this, the Ordinary grips three inches' and fifty pounds' worth of pages and heaves them over, bypa.s.sing a lot of zany Prophets and tedious Psalms, and dropping smack dab into the New Testament. A small adjustment then takes him to a page that has been marked with the gaudiest, most whorish bookmark Jack's ever seen, a fat swath of yellow silk with a gold medallion dangling from the end. The Ordinary pulls this exhibit all the way out of the Book, gripping the golden disk in his hand, and letting the yellow silk dangle before them, and rather deliberately folds it up and slips it into his pocket, slips it into his pocket, all the while keeping a curious eye on Jack. all the while keeping a curious eye on Jack.

It occurs to Jack that he is being Sent a Message.

The Ordinary reads. It is not a single continuous selection but a whole series of snippets, for wors.h.i.+ppers with short attention spans, and short life expectancies.

"Now about eight days after these sayings he took with him Peter and John and James, and went up on the mountain to pray. And as he was praying, the appearance of his countenance was altered, and his raiment became dazzling white. Luke 9:2829.

"As they were going along the road, a man said to him, 'I will follow you wherever you go.' And Jesus said to him, 'Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests; but the Son of man has nowhere to lay his head.' Luke 9:5758.

"A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and he fell among robbers, who stripped him and beat him, and departed, leaving him half dead half dead. Now by chance a priest was going down that road; and when he saw him he pa.s.sed by on the other side. So likewise a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, pa.s.sed by on the other side. But a Samaritan, as he journeyed, came to where he was; and when he saw him, he had compa.s.sion, and went to him and bound up his wounds, pouring on oil and wine; then he set him on his own beast and brought him to an inn, and took care of him. Luke 10:3034.

"There was a rich man, who was clothed in purple and fine linen and who feasted sumptuously every day. And at his gate lay a poor man named Lazarus, full of sores, who desired to be fed with what fell from the rich man's table; moreover the dogs came and licked his sores. The poor man died and was carried by the angels to Abraham's bosom. The rich man also died and was buried; and in Hades, being in torment, he lifted up his eyes, and saw Abraham far off and Lazarus in his bosom. Luke 16:1923."

"I'll be d.a.m.ned, that Luke was a h.e.l.l of a scribbler," says Jack.

The Ordinary pauses and stares at Jack over his half-gla.s.ses.

Bribing the Ordinary is nothing new, of course, it is nearly as ancient and hallowed a ritual as celebrating the Eucharist. But the yellow silk, the gold-this is a kind of signature, a way of letting Jack know just who who did the bribing. did the bribing.

"Your Reverence, could I trouble you to read the Old Testament pa.s.sage one more time?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Read it again. Consider it, sir, to be part of those Duties for which you have been already Compensated."

With great rakings and shovelings of pages, the Ordinary returns to the very beginning of the Tome. The other condemned prisoners s.h.i.+ft and mutter; some even rattle their chains. To be hanged by the neck until dead is one thing; but to be forced to listen to a reading from the Old Testament twice, twice, why, that is not only Unusual but Cruel. why, that is not only Unusual but Cruel.

"Cain knew his wife," the Ordinary intones, "and she conceived and bore Enoch; and he built a City, and called the name of the city after the name of his son, Enoch..." There now follows a quarter of an hour of men knowing their wives, and becoming the fathers of other men and living for hundreds and hundreds of years. This was the bit where Jack lost his concentration on the first read-through. And to be perfectly honest he loses it again now, somewhere around the time when Kenan becomes the father of Mahalalel. But he snaps to attention later when the name of Enoch comes up again. "When Enoch had lived sixty-five years, he became the father of Methuselah. Enoch walked with G.o.d after the birth of Methuselah three hundred years, and had other sons and daughters. Thus all the days of Enoch were three hundred and sixty-five years. Enoch walked with G.o.d; and he was not, for G.o.d took him. The Book of Genesis, Chapter 5." And the Ordinary heaves an immense sigh, for he has been reading for a long time, and lo, he thirsteth mightily for the wine on the Lord's Table, for his throat is as dry as a place in the wilderness without water, amen.

"What the h.e.l.l does that mean? 'Enoch walked with G.o.d, and he was not, for G.o.d took him'?"

"Enoch was translated," the Ordinary says.

"Even an unlettered mudlark like me knows that the Bible was translated from another tongue, your Reverence, but-"

"No, no, no, I don't mean translated that way. It is a term of theology, theology," the Ordinary says, "it means that Enoch did not die."

"Pardon?"

"At the point of death, he was taken away bodily into the afterlife."

"Bodily?"

"His body, rather than dying, was translated away," says the Ordinary. "Is it all right with you if we continue now with the service as planned?"

"Carry on, sir," Jack says. "Carry on."

New Palace Yard, Westminster EVEN AS D DANIEL'S PROCESSION has been a.s.sembling in the Cloisters of Westminster Abbey, in other buildings, palaces, and compounds around London other groups have been coalescing in more or less ancient and awesome buildings and converged on Westminster by boat, foot, or gilded carriage, and are now stacked outside of Star Chamber like so many battalions waiting to be summoned onto the Fields of Mars. It is no mean similitude. The Trial of the Pyx is so pompous precisely because it is such a dire and vicious clash. In its rudiments, this is a four-way knife-fight among the Sovereign (here represented by the Lords of the Council and the King's Remembrancer), the Exchequer (which is playing host to the Trial), the Mint (today, synonymous with Sir Isaac Newton), and a medieval guild called the Company of Goldsmiths. In effect, what they are all here to do is to construct an airtight legal case against Sir Isaac, and find him guilty beyond doubt of Treason, in the form of embezzling from the Royal Mint, so that he may be punished straightaway and with no thought of any appeal. The penalties might range from aeternal shame and obloquy on up to loss of the right hand (the traditional fate of fraudulent coiners) or even to the same treatment that Jack Shaftoe is about to receive at Tyburn. The challengers are the Goldsmiths, here represented by a jury of chaps in suitably medieval-looking garb, flashy with cloth-of-gold. They are Prosecutors, Mercenaries, and Inquisitors all rolled in to one. The choice is cunningly made, for the Goldsmiths have a natural and long-standing suspicion of the Mint and its produce, which from time to time flares up to out-and-out hostility. Hostility has been the rule during Sir Isaac's tenure. Isaac has found ways to reduce the profit that the Goldsmiths reap when they deliver bullion to the Mint to be coined, and they have retaliated by crafting new trial plates of such fineness that Isaac has been hard pressed to mint guineas pure enough. For the Goldsmiths, as well as others in the money trade, such as Mr. Threader, the rewards of bringing down Isaac shall be immense. has been a.s.sembling in the Cloisters of Westminster Abbey, in other buildings, palaces, and compounds around London other groups have been coalescing in more or less ancient and awesome buildings and converged on Westminster by boat, foot, or gilded carriage, and are now stacked outside of Star Chamber like so many battalions waiting to be summoned onto the Fields of Mars. It is no mean similitude. The Trial of the Pyx is so pompous precisely because it is such a dire and vicious clash. In its rudiments, this is a four-way knife-fight among the Sovereign (here represented by the Lords of the Council and the King's Remembrancer), the Exchequer (which is playing host to the Trial), the Mint (today, synonymous with Sir Isaac Newton), and a medieval guild called the Company of Goldsmiths. In effect, what they are all here to do is to construct an airtight legal case against Sir Isaac, and find him guilty beyond doubt of Treason, in the form of embezzling from the Royal Mint, so that he may be punished straightaway and with no thought of any appeal. The penalties might range from aeternal shame and obloquy on up to loss of the right hand (the traditional fate of fraudulent coiners) or even to the same treatment that Jack Shaftoe is about to receive at Tyburn. The challengers are the Goldsmiths, here represented by a jury of chaps in suitably medieval-looking garb, flashy with cloth-of-gold. They are Prosecutors, Mercenaries, and Inquisitors all rolled in to one. The choice is cunningly made, for the Goldsmiths have a natural and long-standing suspicion of the Mint and its produce, which from time to time flares up to out-and-out hostility. Hostility has been the rule during Sir Isaac's tenure. Isaac has found ways to reduce the profit that the Goldsmiths reap when they deliver bullion to the Mint to be coined, and they have retaliated by crafting new trial plates of such fineness that Isaac has been hard pressed to mint guineas pure enough. For the Goldsmiths, as well as others in the money trade, such as Mr. Threader, the rewards of bringing down Isaac shall be immense.

The Serjeant at Arms Attending the Great Seal comes out in to the yard and summons Daniel's contingent. They troop into the Palace and enter presently into Star Chamber. Last time Daniel was in this place, he was tied to a chair and being tortured for sport by Jeffreys. Today the scene's a bit different. The furniture has been removed or pushed to the walls. In the middle of the chamber, planks have been laid down to protect the floor, and bricks piled atop them to make a platform at about the height of a man's midsection. Resting atop this is a small furnace, similar to the one in which Daniel melted his ring last night. Someone must have been up tending it since the wee hours, for it's already heated through, cherry red, and ready to go.

They pa.s.s out into a side chamber. Marlborough's here, seated at the high end of a table along with the Lord Chancellor, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, the new First Lord of the Treasury-Roger's replacement-and other Lords of the Council. Seated in the middle of the table, facing the door, and flanked by clerks and aides, is a chap in a white judicial wig, a three-cornered baron's hat, and black robes. This, Daniel reckons, would be the King's Remembrancer: one of the most ancient positions in the Realm. He is the keeper of the Seal that is the sine qua non sine qua non of the power of the Chancellor of the Exchequer, and in the King's name he rides herd on the Exchequer in diverse ways-including presiding over Trials of the Pyx. of the power of the Chancellor of the Exchequer, and in the King's name he rides herd on the Exchequer in diverse ways-including presiding over Trials of the Pyx.

Such a Trial cannot even get underway without the necessaries that it has been Daniel's honor to fetch from the Abbey vault. And so what occurs next, encrusted as it might be with protocol and ceremony, is ever so straightforward: Daniel and the other five Key-holders are summoned to the table. The King's Remembrancer asks for the Indentures, the Weights, and the Plates. These are handed over, but not before Daniel and the others have sworn on stacks of Bibles that they are the genuine articles. One of the King's Remembrancer's Clarkes opens up the chest containing the trial plates. There are two of these, one of silver and one of gold: slabs of metal inscribed with great hairb.a.l.l.s of cursive a.s.serting just how fine and just how authentic they are, and pocked here and there with goldsmiths' seals. The Clarke reads these aloud. Another contingent of blokes is summoned and sworn: these have come from his majesty the King's Treasury at Westminster, whence they've fetched out a little chest, sealed shut with a lump of wax. The seal is that of the Lord Mayor. The Lord Mayor himself is hauled in, at the head of a jury of twelve Citizens, Mr. Threader among them. The Lord Mayor verifies the seal on the chest. It is opened and a die is removed from a velvet bed. The die is compared, by the Mayor and the Citizens, to the stamps on the trial plates, and all agree that the match is perfect. These are indeed the true plates made by the Goldsmiths as a challenge to Sir Isaac Newton; the Trial may proceed.

Similar rites attend the box of weights. This is lined in green velvet, with neat depressions to contain the individual weights: the largest, a full pint or so of bra.s.s, marked 500 s.h.i.+llings 500 s.h.i.+llings and much smaller ones for and much smaller ones for 1 s.h.i.+lling 1 s.h.i.+lling and and 4 pence 4 pence and and one pence, one pence, &c., &c., and finally a set of ivory-handled tweezers for manipulating the tiniest of them. &c., &c., and finally a set of ivory-handled tweezers for manipulating the tiniest of them.

"Summon the Goldsmiths," intones the King's Remembrancer. To Daniel and his coterie, he says, "You may stand over there," and waves at an open s.p.a.ce in the corner. Daniel leads the group over, and turns around to find the eyes of the Duke of Marlborough on him: a reminder-as if Daniel needed any-that this is it. The new System is facing its first test, and it's doing so under the most adverse possible circ.u.mstances: a sick and possibly demented Alchemist is in charge of the Mint and a Vagabond has tampered with the Pyx and is now going to meet his Maker without having coughed up the evidence they want. And Roger's no longer around to make it all better.

The Stone Anvil, the High Hall, Newgate Prison "I HAVE FOUND HAVE FOUND G G.o.d!" Jack Shaftoe announces. Jack Shaftoe announces.

"What, here here!?" says his interlocutor, a heavy-set chap in a black leather hood.

They are standing in a queue in the High Hall. Or rather Jack Shaftoe is, and the hooded man has come up to him, the better to inspect Jack's Hanging-Suit.

The High Hall might be a bit of a grand name for it. It is simply the biggest room in the gaol, outside of the Chapel, and so it is where fitness-conscious felons come to toddle around, in an endless ragged procession. The center of their orbit is a block of stone set in the middle of the floor, and equipped with a few basic smithy-tools. Normally they are a wordy bunch, the Hall a hurricanoe of profanity, a Vortex of Execration. Today they are gagged by their own amazement. All stare inwards toward the two most famous Jacks in London: Shaftoe and Ketch, exchanging civilities like Addison and Steele. There is no sound except for the sc.r.a.ping of their chains on the floor, and the organized chants of the Mobb outside.

Then an ear-splitting clang sounds from the stone anvil. Another prisoner has just had his ankle-fetters struck off. The only restraint upon him now is a length of cord with which Ketch has lately bound his elbows together behind his back.

"The communion-bread, you know, is in the shape of coins," Shaftoe remarks.

Then he thinks better of it, for Ketch thinks it's funny, and forgets himself, and exposes his empty tooth-sockets, as well as a few that are soon to be empty. For the hood unfortunately stops at the level of his nose. Somewhere, Ketch must have a whole foot-locker filled with false teeth, as no man in London is in a better position to collect them; but he has not worn any today.

"But how richer a treasure are those coins of bread, than ones of gold!" Shaftoe exclaims. "For gold and silver may buy admission to a Clubb, or other place of debauchery. But coins of bread have bought me admission to the Kingdom of Heaven. a.s.suming I can manage a few things in the next couple of hours."

Ketch has utterly lost interest. How many times has he heard this identical speech from a client? He excuses himself very civilly, jumps to the head of the queue, and devotes a few moments to pinioning the next prisoner's elbows with another length of cord.

When Ketch comes back, it is evident he has been thinking about Jack's Hanging-Suit. "After this," he remarks, "it will not be possible for you to change clothes."

"Oh, you are a subtile one, Jack Ketch!" Shaftoe remarks.

"It is just that-according to some who style themselves in the know-you are dest.i.tute."

"You think I borrowed borrowed this suit!? Fie on all such gossip-mongers, Mr. Ketch, you know better than to pay heed to them. This suit is every bit as much my own property, as that handsome hood is yours." this suit!? Fie on all such gossip-mongers, Mr. Ketch, you know better than to pay heed to them. This suit is every bit as much my own property, as that handsome hood is yours."

Another clang. Ketch excuses himself again and binds up the bloke who's directly in front of Jack. While he is doing so, he sniffles once or twice, juicily, as if the air in the High Hall does not agree with him. But of all men in London, Ketch must be the least sensitive to miasmas, damps, and vapours.

When Ketch turns back round, Shaftoe's startled, and even a bit alarmed, to see, below the fringe of the hood, a teardrop trickling down his cheek. Ketch steps close to Shaftoe, close enough that Shaftoe, craning his neck (for Ketch is a head taller) can resolve individual cavities in Ketch's last remaining incisor. "You can't imagine what this means to me, Mr. Shaftoe."

"No, I cannot, Mr. Ketch. What does it mean to you?"

"I'm in debt, Mr. Shaftoe, deep in debt."

"You don't say!"

"My Betty-the missus-can't stop having little ones. Every year for the last eight."

"You have eight little Ketches? How remarkable, that a man in your line of work should be such a fount of new life."

"After the last hanging, one of my creditors tried to arrest me in the street! I've never been so ashamed."

"Indeed! For a man in such a respectable profession, to be accosted in a public place, and accused of indebtedness, that is a grave humiliation!"

"What would my boys think of me if I wound up here, here, in Newgate?" in Newgate?"