It’s back! The Man Who Invented Trousers is back! This is the second installment, to follow Chapter 1: The Sheep (or whatever it was called, I don’t remember), after an unacceptably long hiatus. All other drafts are declared null and void. Wooo!
Chapter 2 – The King’s Court
Far away from the valley, in the trouser-less world of men – not that there were any trousers in the world of sheep, either – Billy was buying a goldfish for the Admiral. A croissant, too, although the pastry would not be eaten by the eminent seaman, but be given away as a present, a grand gamble.
The day had started, as days in court often do, with minor courtiers arguing major issues in petty ways. The Admiral, a Baron and a Count had been waiting for the canteen to open, but being the olden days, before canteens were invented, it wouldn’t hand out milk for another 150 years. Nonetheless, the courtiers, smelling bread, presumably from the King’s private stores, grew hungry, and naturally their thoughts turned to breakfast.
“I think,” declared a Baron, pompously, with a bulbous nose, “I think the King’s favourite pastry is a pain au chocolat.”
The Admiral was having none of it. He’d nearly seen action once, after all.
“Nonsense. If you knew the King at all, you would know that His Royal Highness’s favourite pastry is the croissant. The crescent shape matches his munificent, majestic morning demeanour.”
An upturned dictionary lay on an embroidered card, table, spine like a mountain ridge, showing its mysteries and myopia to the disinterested table. The Admiral liked to keep up to date with the latest literature, and he was nearing the end of Chapter M. Where the canteen would one day be – opened, of course, to serve tourists visiting the palace where trousers took off – there stood a wobbly bookcase, full of books on dentistry. The King’s young son, his magnificent heir to the throne, had just lost his first milk tooth, and the courtiers had sought to please their King with presents relating to oral hygiene.
“You’re both obtuse,” said the Count. He’d just started on Chapter O just before going to sleep the previous evening, huddled up in his four-poster with a candle and a bobbly nightcap on, and he wanted to make the most of his temporary advantage. “His Majesty is obviously oblivious to both croissants and pain au chocolat, and prefers those round snail things with raisins in.”
“How much do you bet?”
“I bet you a ship.” The Admiral was in a position to bet a ship or two. He had nearly seen action once, after all.
“You’re on,” the others replied. “How do we settle this?”
“Oh, that’s easy. We each send for the pastry of our choice, then we present the King with our pastries and see which he eats.”
“Agreed.”
So that was why Billy was, this lunchtime, obtaining a croissant for the Admiral. Billy did not like croissants himself. When he got to the shop, he thought, they were either cold already, which made him pine for a hot pastry, or they were still warm and fresh, meaning that, by the time he had carried out his lowly errands the pastry would inevitably be cold, leading him to long for a hot pastry. In this way, really, pastries made Billy long for pastries and…
Billy’s musings – for a man yet to spell his name in the dictionary of the world is prone to musings – were interrupted by a goldfish-seller.
“Goldfish?” the seller asked Billy. The young gentleman looked like a man looking for a goldfish, thought the seller. It was easy to be perceptive when you’d been flogging goldfish to worried-looking aides these past twenty years.
The goldfish had nothing to do with a bet or a breakfast. There were certain requests made of young aides, and each expressed some nuance of feeling, the range of scenarios befalling court life. For example, if Billy were asked by the Admiral to purchase balsa wood and glue, the distinguished seafarer was probably going to build another model boat for his naval scene. Of course, the Admiral would not actually build the boat himself – that would be beneath him – but it generally signified a calm moment in his life, one where he was not to be called to sea, or required to do anything in particular. On the other hand, if the Admiral demanded a new hat from the merchant tailor’s, then he would be grumpy, for he was attending a state banquet. Procuring a fish was the worst request of all, for it meant that the Admiral was in danger of execution, and that sort of thing could ruin a morning.
The morning, as the goldfish signified, had not started well for the Admiral. Soon after the pastry conversation, all courtiers were summoned to the King’s Chamber, on pain of execution. Not that anyone would ignore the summons for, being courtiers, they were inclined to go to court at every possible opportunity – it was more that the King liked the idea of execution. Execution was one of His Majesty’s favourites, and everybody likes to have their favourites around them. It got him up in the morning: that, and his favourite pastry.
One by one, courtiers gathered in the court bar before the morning meeting. The staff at court had found it necessary to serve alcohol whenever and wherever the King held court. As far as the courtiers were concerned, a stiff brandy, even at 10 o’clock in the morning, made their wit ever readier when impressing the King, and strengthened their courage if the King was likely to order their death. As far as the King was concerned, alcohol made his courtiers more susceptible to commit minor indiscretions or breach the court’s intricate customs, allowing His Royal Highness to amuse himself by ordering more executions.
The Admiral took the Court Secretary to one side of the bar.
“Mister Secretary, how does the Agenda look this morning?”
“Oh, it is comprehensive, Sir. We have two items. We must be careful not to make the King late, for he has an important game of billiards before lunch.”
“Yes, I remember what happened to the last person who made the King late for billiards.” Everyone had seen the head on a billiard cue outside the Tower. “I shall not trouble the King further this morning.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Although…”
The secretary looked slightly aghast. The last thing he needed was another execution to arrange, especially during this long summer drought. “Although what?”
“Mister Secretary, in your conversations with the King today, would you mind mentioning pastry to him? I am desirous of pleasing His Royal Highness with a pastry, and I need to know – surreptitiously, of course, which pastry the King is particularly fond of. Would you slip it into conversation for me? Use that subtle tact by which you earned this great post of yours.”
Without waiting for an answer, the Admiral sidled away, waiting between the bulbous-nosed Count and an impassioned Duchess.
The summons was sounded, and the great doors of the court swung open, knocking a small, poorly-placed Viscount right off his feet. The scrum began, with a roar of courtiers jostling for the door. The courtiers at the bar, desperate to enter the chamber, surged forward, squeezing wiggling Lords and bewigged Countesses, disrupting perfumed nobles and smug royal bastards. A pince-nez snapped between the Count’s clumping feet. The Baron’s beehive wig, curled like a big sheepy brain, flopped in the hurricane of courtiers. The Admiral’s own wig wobbled a little, a swaying tower in the sycophantic storm.
Three by three the courtiers popped through the door, pushed further into the chamber by a yelling, tipsy crowd. His Royal Highness looked on with satisfaction as the front rows hurtled through the door, towards his lofty throne. The King loved his throne. It had been crafted from a single block of turquoise marble, swirled with sea blue, black and white. Tiny emeralds glittered, shyly, from the arms, and two lumpen diamonds led the armrests, glowing gently. The King liked to stretch his arms along the armrests, placing his hands firmly over the diamonds, feeling their cold, smooth wealth beneath his fingers.
In front of the King’s throne stretched a grainless red carpet, circling the throne in a great arc. The carpet was pristine, without a single blemish or undulation. This was the way the King liked it, and this was the way it would stay, on pain of death. As the great crowd of courtiers pressed forward, the front rows, realizing the peril they were in, eyes widening, fought against the force taking them forward, edging them ever closer to the blood red fabric. Arms flailed, hands grasping for teeth, eyes, wigs, anything that might pull them away from the carpet and the King’s wrath. His Royal Highness began to smile as the crowd, though slowing, ground closer and closer, sliding forward, inching towards another messy public display of death…
The crowd stopped. There were only a few inches between the front rows and the red velvet. A quivering Duke looked down in relief at the carpet, though such relief had, on occasion, been extremely short-lived. If a courtier made enemies in the court – and all courtiers had enemies, it was practically the local sport – then they had better not be standing behind in the crowd, handily placed for a gentle, surreptitious push. The King, as he always did on these occasions, felt both relief and regret. He looked over the crowd of courtiers, which, despite the crush, filled only half of the hall.
Aides stood at the sides of the hall, watching proceedings. The Chief Dentist stood, upright and serious, examining courtiers from afar, looking for a chipped tooth or two. The twice-daily court gatherings were a blessing for his business. Next to him stood Lillian, the Keeper Of The King’s Fish, holding a net on a long wooden pole. Her glasses were mildly askew, despite having kept well clear of the melee. Beside her was a rising star in the court of His Royal Highness – Sophie, Chief Wig Maker. We shall hear a lot more from her later – it will suffice, for now, to learn that the Admiral was, as usual, trying to catch her eye. Most of us, if confronted by the eye of a fishy seafarer, would have feigned ignorance, perhaps becoming unusually entertained by paintings on the walls, or the size of our shoes. Sophie, however, stared back, arms folded, until the Admiral became unusually entertained by the size of his own shoes.
Billy stood at the back. That was his place, standing at the back, if he could be said to have a place at all. His only job so far that day had been to put his head in the Baronial toilets, which, now he thought about it, had been an odd task for the King to request. What made it especially strange was that the King had ordered Geraldine, the Kitchen Assistant, to ask Billy to do it. Perhaps Geraldine had been promoted recently, even if she still peeled carrots all day.
The King, impatient for his game of billiards, clapped his hands. Everyone bowed, as was customary, and the morning session began.
“Secretary,” waved the King, dispassionately. “Items of notice, please.”
“Thank you, Sire. Two items, Your Majesty. First – the Baronial toilets are blocked. We believe someone stuck their head in them, and this has caused the system to jam.”
The Barons groaned. The King made a decree.
“Very well. For the time being, Barons are absolutely prohibited from using any other toilets in the Royal Palace. Everybody has a place in the natural order of things, and no Baron shall be allowed to usurp it, by pain of death.”
The Barons stopped groaning. Any decree from the King was a good decree.
“Continue, Secretary.”
“Thank you, Sire. Item number two: we have received a meeting request from the King of France.” The Secretary unfurled a note, and handed it to the King, who held it between the corners of his fingers like a soiled handkerchief.
“A paper request! Couldn’t he have sent an email?”
“Not for two hundred and fifty years, Sire.”
The King grumbled again, but opened the note and read aloud.
“Recent meetings at sea have altered the relations between our two countries. His Glorious Gallic Majesty will be attending the English Court in one week, and He requests the presence of His Britannic Majesty.”
There was a hushed, trembling silence in the court room. The King did not like his French counterpart, and when the King did not like someone, nasty things tended to happen to innocent bystanders. In general, the King of England’s life was one long summer’s day, except for five things. Rebellions. Haircuts. The Poor. Dentists. And, worst of all, worse even than the six-monthly check-up, State Visits From The King Of France. Nothing ruined a week like a visit from the King of France.
For those of us lucky enough never to have co-existed with that era’s Gallic Majesty, it might be hard to understand just why the King of England despised him so. Fortunately, history has, quite accidentally, given us a clue. It just so happens that, on a standard pack of cards, the King of Spades is modelled on the very Gallic Majesty of this story. Now we may comprehend the King of England’s rage. Imagine the King of Clubs, or find a pack of cards, if you have one about. Focus on his face. His eyebrows have an annoying little wave in them as they reach the nose, an utterly pointless act of male grooming. The eyes are a pale, sickly blue, with one single eyelash pointing straight out, away from his face, a single hair striking hopelessly for the light. His moustache, divided obscenely in the middle, curls back on itself on the ends, mirrored and irritating, drawing attention, to his smug, eyebrow-shaped lips.
Yet, despite these irksome features, it is when we look beyond the King of Spades’ face that we really start to lose our tempers, even after centuries have passed. His abnormally straight hair performs a neat curl at the end, like an inquisitive worm. Presumably the King of Spades thinks the hair matches his eyebrows. It does, but only in the sense that they are both entirely loathsome. Even worse is his beard which, in an unprecedented act of self-mutilation, is arranged in six perfect ovals, hanging down from the chin, obscuring the King’s neck and collar entirely. Recent historians have speculated the curls to be a ruff rather than a beard, making the King of France somewhat less of an abhorrent monster, but this is pure revisionist drivel.
Worse, even worse, are the King of Spades’ clothes. Firstly, there is the hat, if you can call it a hat. It is actually a gigantic Grecian urn, mustard yellow, perched upon his head, in an attempt to look mysterious and interesting, but really making him look like a man with a vase on his head. Secondly, there is the cloak. It has spades on it. He is a King, yet he has spades embroidered on his cloak. Whilst rudimentary agriculture was the foundation of the 17th-century French economy, a King with spades on his cloak merely looks desperate for popularity with the peasantry. Of course, this only increased the ire of the King of England, who strongly believed that the best use of a spade was for burying a peasant. Thirdly, and perhaps worst of all, is the King of Spades’ sword. When the painting was made, the King did not have a sword near him, and even the smallest spade was too heavy for his puny Royal arms. As you can tell – if you take a closer look at the painting – the King of spades is actually holding a wonky, misshapen tie upside down. Every time the King of England looked at this tie, he felt livid.
The King of England (henceforth to be known as the King, for every true Englishman admits there to be one and only one monarch in this world), in his fury at having to see that cultivated, curly-haired buffoon yet again, threw the note with all his might from the throne. Being paper, it fluttered crazily through the air, floating limply from side-to-side. From the folded paper a firmer piece of cardboard, initially unseen by the King, fell straight down, on the left-hand ruby of the King’s magnificent turquoise throne, and lay facing the ground.
The King moved his hand back to his armrest. He picked up the card. He began to turn it over, but really he knew what it would be. Sure enough, as the King turned the card to face him, a familiar face leered back at him.
It was the calling card of the King of France. It was the King of Spades.
The King, roaring, ripped the card in five, and, scattering the pieces about him, rushed to his feet. He took his own gnarled index finger, loaded it with gunpowder, peered forward, and took aim at the target.
“Secretary?”
The Secretary, the poor messenger, knew his time had come, knew that the musket would crack for him. The courtiers remained, silent, too afraid to utter a sound, for fear of the King’s arm.
“Sire?”
“Secretary, you are to be executed. Miss Lillian, here please.”
“Sire?”
“Miss Lillian, take the Secretary to the lake.”
“At once, Sire.”
The guards appeared, Lillian walked forward, and the guards took the Secretary’s hand. He made no sound, when led by Lillian, the Keeper of the King’s Fish, to the wooden door at the back of the hall. The door was exceptionally low, forcing traitors to stoop before they left the King, their great benefactor.
The King, slightly more at ease, clapped his hands once. He might be seeing the King of France next week, but at least he had a good execution to look forward to today. Even worth postponing a game of billiards for half an hour, an execution.
“Court. We are to witness the just execution of this treacherous rogue – and by ‘we’ I mean ‘I’, for no commoners shall be allowed anywhere near my lake today – and then we shall play billiards and partake of a magnificent luncheon feast – and again, by ‘we’ I mean ‘I’, for we are very hungry today and shall not share with anyone. Prepare to gather after lunch for our afternoon session in court, as usual.”
The King started to rise from his throne, but, by way of afterthought, paused again.
“One moment. The note said that recent meetings at sea have altered the relations between us and France. We are not aware of any such meetings at sea. We would be briefed, this afternoon, by whomever is in charge of Our navy. Good morning.”
The King rose completely from his chair and, ignoring the deeply bowing courtiers, made his way to a great stone door in the wall, towering over the little gate of traitors. As the King left his courtiers raised themselves from their bows, rubbing aching knees, holding stinging backs. A few courtiers re-adjusted their resplendent wigs, which were still misplaced from by earlier crush.
The Admiral felt slightly disappointed. The Secretary would not be able to ask the King about his favourite pastry after all. No big problem – he would send one of the minor aides to buy a croissant later, and see if the King accepted it. A courtier would be extremely unfortunate to lose his head for buying the King the wrong pastry, for the King preferred to encourage such dainty gifts. There was little danger in the old plan, just a bit more inconvenience. Acknowledging the existence of the aides was always to be avoided, except for Sophie, of course. He thought of Sophie, who was bound to consent to marriage. She was lowly compared to him. He had nearly seen action once, after all.
Nevertheless, there was some unease in the Admiral’s mind. A week beforehand, he had received a message from his fleet in the Bay of Biscay. They had reported a French convoy close by, and had requested orders. The Admiral had meant to give orders, he really had. But by the time one has chosen one’s favourite wig, and adjusted one’s hat, and made a start on Chapter L of the dictionary, and thrown some cutlery at the Baron, the moment can pass.
Besides, the Admiral had never liked the sea very much. Yes, boats were fine – he loved all the wood, and he dearly loved the naval scene he was building – but the sea itself was a pain. All those angry waves, and the lack of fresh vegetables, and sharing the boat with all those loud noisy people you needed to steer the thing. The Admiral didn’t enjoy water at all, he’d never learned to swim. Who needs swimming lessons when you’re in charge of all those boats? No, it was enough for him to put on his huge three-cornered Admiral’s hat, and take his enormous Admiral’s telescope from the drawer, and put on his navy Admiral uniform, and sit in front of his naval scene, imagining the boats pinging each other with tiny shiny cannonballs. Sir Francis Drake had played bowls instead of sailing, and everyone loved him. Why couldn’t the present Admiral do the same, just with model boats rather than bowling balls?
The Admiral’s conscience was clear. When he received a note the next day to say that his fleet had been destroyed and France was demanding unconditional surrender, he felt no pangs of guilt. These things will happen. Worse things happen at sea. He still had his hat. The one worry he had, a worry which slowly developed over the coming days, was that the King would find out.
The King didn’t want his fleet to go down. If the King lost his fleet to the French, there would inevitably be repercussions. The King would have to meet his loathed French counterpart. His Britannic Majesty would be grumpy and prone to mindless violence for weeks. No courtier would be safe, least of all the Admiral, who the King might, entirely unreasonably, decide was responsible for the whole affair.
So the Admiral didn’t tell the King, and hoped nobody else would either. He spent the days playing with his boats and eating pastries, studiously avoiding all mentions of seas or battles or diplomacy. But now, since the King was to be visited by the French King, and the French King had said something about a sea battle, the Admiral would have to break the news to him, in as gentle a way as possible. Fortunately for the Admiral, if not for England, the seafarer was well-prepared in the art of placating the King.
“Aide!” the Admiral shouted, not knowing any of their names. Billy came running.
“Ah, aide, I want you to fetch me two things,” said the Admiral, remembering his earlier bet. “First – I want to give His Majesty a croissant. Fetch one for me, and have it wrapped-up fit for a King.”
Billy jotted this down quickly.
“Second – I need a goldfish. Find a fish, and bring it to me. If I do not receive these items before the end of my luncheon, you will be sent to the colonies.”
And with that the Admiral made his way to his lodgings, to dress for the midday meal. His best pair of britches was freshly pressed, and little did he know that the entire world of fashion was soon to change for ever.
Jezknee 