Free A Rag-mannered Rogue by Hayley A. Solomon

businesslike rows, and it was cold, so each man wore a warm coat against the chill. The windows were covered in woven cloth—dark navy, so the lanterns could not be detected from outside. There were several of these lit, heavy and scattered all about, from front to back. The remaining gloom was alleviated somewhat by an open fire near the entrance. Wisps of smoke coiled toward the doorway, where a sentry, dressed grimly in the foggy gray of the Midlands, stood guard. Each Luddite entered and spoke his piece quietly.
    Nicholas, looking nothing like himself, removed his hat and nodded curtly to the guard. The only chair in the place—a heavy oak confection that looked out of keeping with the barn—was occupied by a surly-looking character referred to throughout the night as Fagan.
    Nicholas, being waved to one of the makeshift seats, selected an inconspicuous hay bale near the back and folded his arms.
    â€œ ’Is majesty, bein’mad, is no ‘elp to us no more, savin’ ‘is grace. Would we could still ’ave the ear of ‘is majesty. Farmer George, for so we ’ave called ‘im and so ’e ’as become. But the reign of George the Third is over, me mates, for regency or no’ it is not flamin’ likely ’e is goin’ to recover ’is senses.”
    â€œLong live George IV!”
    â€œWhat bloody madman said that?”
    There was a scuffle and an angry murmur, wherein Nicholas regarded the flames of the lantern steadily, and met no one‘s—least of all the miscreant’s—eye.”
    â€œIt is MacAlistair of Tottam, said that.”
    â€œStand up, MacAlistair.”
    A thin gentleman with a bulbous nose and several red, spidery veins about his face rose from the hay bales. He chuckled, not at all put out by several sets of eyes glaring at him ominously.
    â€œLord love us, does none of you kens ‘ave a sense of ’umor?”
    There was a whisper and a small sigh, then an answering gleam from two of the northern gentlemen.
    â€œSit down. This is not the time to be joking, Kenneth MacAlistair. That soddn’ bastard is squanderin’ all the freakin’ wealth of the kingdom! ’E needs to go, for else there will be looms and what have you all over the isles. The day will come when an honest man don’t ’ave no bread to eat nor no ale to drink, think you on that! We need to get rid of the machines, gentlemen! The workers need work!”
    â€œAye! Aye!” There was general assent in the room.
    â€œThere is a plan afoot, even now, to rid the realm of the Prince of Wales. Nothin’ but trouble, him! Now, if you look to France . . .”
    â€œFrance is naught but a quagmire of Frenchies, and if you’ve taken a loikin’ to that new Bourbon chappie . . .”
    â€œIndeed I ‘ave not, parding me language, but some among yer coves ’ave ’eard rumblins’ . . .”
    â€œWot sort of rumblins’?”
    â€œNapoleon is free, that’s wot. Now, ’e is a fella to support the Luddite cause. . . .”
    The voice rattled on, and no one listened more intently than a certain gentleman seated to the back, the scar at his temple seeming more livid than usual. That Napoleon and the Luddite cause were rather hard to reconcile on an intellectual level seemed irrelevant. Someone was manipulating these men, and someone, whoever he was, was good at it. Honest workers were red hot for action, drawn into this mood of conspiracy like ignorant moths to a lingering flame.
    When the meeting drew to a close, each man was allotted a task, and the burden of carrying the message through to his own county and borough. Pens and ink were not permitted, for besides being unsafe, they were not the tools of workingmen. Every detail had therefore to be committed to memory, every man suffering the grueling task of reciting the names, the dates, the places that had been spoken of so secretly, so