IT WAS THE SECOND SESSION of the week in the House of Lords; the previous one had been abruptly suspended after the third incendiary intervention by the controversial Baruch Hawkings. Some swore that, on this occasion, the veteran lord would once again provide a spectacle—not merely rhetorical, but one capable of literally setting the red chamber ablaze.
The subject under discussion was an old political battleground, debated since 2004: the proposal to transform the House into a largely elected institution—a reform that promised to rearrange seats, privileges, and political destinies. If the proposal advanced, many pointed out that Baruch Hawkings, with his abrasive style and outdated convictions, could lose the place he had occupied for decades among the elegant panels and worn tapestries. For the overwhelming majority, the prospect was cause for restrained celebration; for Hawkings, it was a matter of honor and public survival.
As soon as the Speaker introduced the agenda with the customary ceremonial pomp, Hawkings rose to his feet. He walked to the lectern with the confidence of a man who knew his role on the stage and, wearing a smile that blended irony and defiance, began to sing a tune everyone in the chamber knew by heart:
— "Remember, remember the fifth of November, gunpowder, treason and plot, I see no reason why gunpowder treason should ever be forgot. Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes, 'twas his intent to blow up the King and the Parliament..."
The ancient melody drifted beneath the vaulted ceilings like a provocation. Heads turned toward him; a tense silence settled for a fraction of a second—the kind of silence that serves as a prelude to something larger.
— Order, Sir Hawkings. This is hardly the appropriate place to display your musical talents, assuming such talents actually exist, — the Speaker interrupted firmly, barely concealing the laughter rippling through parts of the chamber.
— And let's be honest, you're terribly out of tune, — one of the Crossbenchers shot back, laughing at the lord's expense.
Hawkings, however, was not intimidated. He adjusted his tie with theatrical flair, paused dramatically, and continued, speaking with the enthusiasm of an orator accustomed to turning anecdotes into sermons.
— Gentlemen, all of you know the Gunpowder Plot, — Hawkings continued, as though reminding the audience of a living history lesson. — The terrorists intended to blow up Parliament during the State Opening. Imagine if those thirty-six barrels of gunpowder had been detonated. Yet, as the song says, divine providence intervened, and Guy Fawkes became a traitor.
His eyes sparkled. Every word was carefully calibrated to inflame hidden indignations.
— Bonfire Night is still months away, Sir Hawkings. I fail to see the relevance to our debate on constitutional reform, —the Speaker insisted, attempting to restore order.
— Of course you don't. May I explain first? — Hawkings replied with affectionate contempt.
— Be brief, — the Speaker ordered, rolling his eyes.
— What is the difference between a hero and a villain? — Hawkings asked, almost as a rhetorical challenge.
— Intentions, — murmured a fellow lord, offering the obvious answer.
— No, my dear fellow, — Hawkings countered with a mischievous smile. — Timing. If Guy Fawkes lived in the twenty-first century and blew up Parliament, he would be a hero. The people destroying poor England are already inside these walls. The traitors sit in these very chairs, poison the air with opinions, and spew nonsense that dismantles centuries of tradition!
His voice rose. The audience held its breath.
The speech took on a deeply personal tone: indignation, nostalgia, and an almost messianic desire to preserve the past.
— Respect the rules of the game, Sir Hawkings. You are a subject of His Majesty, — the Speaker intervened with the authority of protocol.
— My game is a different one, — Hawkings thundered.
With a sudden flourish, he plunged a hand into his coat pocket and produced a small paper-wrapped package.
The gesture was slow, deliberate, the gesture of a man unveiling a secret capable of changing everything.
A murmur spread through the chamber. Eyes widened; several lords instinctively stepped back. Without hesitation, Hawkings flicked open a lighter, touched the flame to the package, and set it alight.
The paper crackled.
With a sharp motion, he hurled the burning object toward the empty seat reserved for the King.
A brief explosion shattered the formal air of the House of Lords.
The Speaker threw himself to the floor as the small gunpowder bomb triggered immediate panic. The lords, utterly disoriented, shoved one another aside, abandoning their seats and speeches in unprecedented haste as chaos spilled through corridors and galleries. The sound of pounding footsteps, shouted orders, and rustling robes merged into a human storm.
— God save Guy Fawkes! — Sir Hawkings shouted, his voice ringing with triumph and defiance, as though reciting an oath of war.
ONLY A FEW YARDS away from the turmoil, beneath the imposing portrait of Winston Churchill, two men observed the scene with dangerous calm: the Earl of Norfolk and the Earl of Essex.
They were shadowed figures, faces carved by time and by knowledge more wounding than swords.
— Have you ever met the Ipsissimus in person? — the Earl of Essex asked quietly, slicing through the tension.
— For security reasons, he commands the organization anonymously, — the Earl of Norfolk replied in a cautious whisper.
There were pacts built on secrecy. Names not spoken aloud.
— I've heard rumors that he might be... — Essex hesitated, searching for a word no one dared utter in the corridors of power.
— Baruch Hawkings? Nonsense, — Norfolk replied with a dismissive grimace.
Yet his denial lacked certainty.
And doubt flourished nonetheless.
— It would be an excellent cover. No one would suspect that the Ipsissimus is a buffoonish lord, —Essex continued coldly. Then, becoming more practical, he added: — But let's discuss what matters. The Vatican messenger was cornered by the bastard and is returning to Rome today.
— Is the information reliable? — Norfolk asked, measuring every syllable.
— He's already purchased the ticket and informed the journalist that the mission has been aborted, — Essex replied with the calm certainty of a man who understood the value of evidence.
The information passed between them like the tip of a needle.
— And what's the bad news? — Norfolk asked, stepping closer.
— Doctor Walton called me two hours ago, — said the Earl of Essex. — The bastard was attacked twice. As always, luck protected him. The stab wound struck a rib; the cut on his face required thirteen stitches. Nothing more than a cold number in a medical report.
He's exposing himself too much.
— You think he's becoming reckless? — Norfolk whispered, his voice reduced to a blade.
— I think he's acting independently, — Essex answered. — This morning, the BBC reported that several objects were stolen from the British Museum. They belonged to the John Dee collection.
The name echoed like shattered glass: mystery, occultism, immeasurable value.
— And what makes you think the bastard was responsible? — Norfolk demanded.
— One of our contacts at Scotland Yard approached me, — Essex explained. — He said the bastard requested the complete file on the museum curator. A few hours later, the curator's son disappeared outside a pub where he was scheduled to perform with his band. Witnesses claim the kidnapper walked with a limp, injured in the leg—the same leg where the bastard was stabbed by the American detective.
Norfolk closed his eyes for a moment.
Mental chessboards flashed through his mind: too many moving pieces, risks becoming unavoidable.
— This is very serious, — Norfolk murmured, moving even closer, lowering his voice until no one else could hear. —If your suspicions are correct, he's lost his balance and is placing the organization at risk.
The whisper carried the weight of a sentence.
Norfolk leaned nearer still, as though extracting a secret directly from his companion's ear.
— The Ipsissimus is supposed to call me later today. I'll suggest that he rearrange the pieces on the board.
— The bastard must be removed from the game entirely, — Essex concluded flatly, as though pronouncing a final judgment.
Hidden from public view, amid curtains, symbols of power, and the lingering echoes of explosions, a deadly chess match was unfolding—one in which every move could determine not merely a political career, but the fate of secrets buried for centuries.