THE MAN WHO INVENTED TROUSERS – Chapter 5: The Stagecoach

The Admiral was, understandably, a little shaken by recent events. Not only had he come close to losing his life over something so insignificant as croissant, but he had also lost his favourite survival manoeuvre. The King, having cast his fish into the wilderness, would no longer look kindly upon every wiggly orange sea creature presented to him. The Admiral would need to lie low a while, keep out of danger, and think up a new plan to keep himself alive in the King’s court. His life’s work, the naval scene, could not remain unfinished, not now, when completion was so close at hand.

After a quick brandy – a very quick brandy, finished neatly in a single naval gulp – the Admiral was in a better position to think. Firstly, he decided, brandy burning him softly, he would find Geraldine and buy her silence. That pastry incident could rise to foil him. Secondly, he would travel out of town for a few days, let the croissants cool and set. Once everyone had forgotten – the King was notorious for his short memory, often demanding the presence of courtiers executed only days before – then the Admiral would return, and things would go straight back to normal. The seafarer hurried towards the kitchens.

Geraldine was having a boring morning. Nobody had entered the kitchen, not even the kitchen cat she usually threw sprouts at. The Laundry Boy had been called away on an errand. He was stupid, she thought, and had a face like a slug, but he laughed at everything she said, and that made his company vaguely tolerable, a way to pass the time. There was no Billy to play tricks on, either. Maybe they’d finally got rid of him for good, the useless idiot. Or maybe that wig maker, whats-her-name, had given him some duties. Just like Billy, that talentless waster, to have all the luck. She’d show him when she was all high and mighty. Idly, ignoring the carrots that lay unpeeled and impatient on the counter, Geraldine started playing the bins like bongos. Giving that up after a few seconds, she turned around, just in time to see the Admiral walk in.

This was a delicate moment for the Admiral. He needed Geraldine to keep quiet, but he couldn’t appear weak. If he was pleasant to an underling he’d never hear the last of it from the Baron and the Count. Execution would be preferable, almost. No, he had to remain lofty and indifferent. No-one would respect him otherwise.

“Assistant, what are your duties today?”

Geraldine smiled. She’d heard about the pastries, and knew the secret. The day just became more interesting.

“Oh, not much, Sir. The kitchen’s quiet, Sir. Not many breakfast requests.”

“Oh, is that so?”

“Yes, Sir. I thought there would be lots of requests today for good English breakfasts, you see.”

“Yes, I suppose so, Assistant,” the Admiral replied. Geraldine was leering.

“The reason I thought there would be loads of English breakfasts,Sir,” she began, just to make her meaning utterly transparent, “is because of this here ban on French food. No-one will go out and buy pastry baskets today, Sir!”

Her leer ascended her nose and ears, gliding to the lofty heights of her eyes.

“Were courtiers buying pastry baskets, Assistant? I hardly think courtiers of the English Crown would stoop to such base acts.” Wait for the demand, he thought, don’t prompt it.

“Now you say it, Sir, I don’t remember. Perhaps I’m imagining things.”

“Yes, I think you are. I expect it’s what happens when you’re in the kitchens every day. Perhaps you should be assigned to different duties in the palace, something more restful?”

“Perhaps, Sir,.” Geraldine looked at him thoughtfully, a red hair slyly curling down her cheek, whispering in her ear. How much leverage did she have? Geraldine was a realist. She knew that, in the King’s court, her word probably didn’t match the word of an Admiral. Nevertheless, her testimony would make things uncomfortable for him, at least for a while. And this might be her chance, the moment her road to power began.

“Although, Sir, I think I know what would end my delusions.”

The demand was about to come. How heavy a price would it be? the Admiral wondered.

“And what is that, Assistant?”

Geraldine composed herself, solemnly, looking into the Admiral’s ocean-grey eyes.

“I haven’t seen enough of the truth, of how the world really is, down in these kitchens. That’s why I’m imagining stuff, Sir. What I really need is to come face-to-face with the Truth, to meet real honesty. If I could be introduced to the King sometime…”

Her face remained a study of innocence.

“To the King?” The Admiral hadn’t expected that. “Well, I’m sure it can be arranged. After all, the King loves all his subjects, and I’m sure he would welcome the opportunity to meet you.”

“It’s settled, then?” The leer was coming back, fighting the bad fight with her countenance.

“Yes, it’s settled. You shall greet the King, Assistant.”

“A proper greeting? Not a shake of the hand, a quick smile, and that’s it? A few sentences of conversation.”

The Admiral wasn’t sure whether that was in his power, but a courtier wouldn’t survive long if he expressed uncertainty, or admitted a lack of power. “Of course.”

“Good. In that case, I had better be getting back to work, Sir.”

“I will leave you to your duties, Assistant.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

Somehow, as the Admiral left, he wasn’t so sure who was the assistant, and who the courtier.

---

Elsewhere, Lillian was struggling with negotiations of her own. She and the French Ambassador were seated on a picnic bench, a few metres away from the Royal Lake.

The Royal Lake is the second most crucial site in the early history of trousers, the Jerusalem of blue jeans. As everyone knows, that’s where the famed plaque sits, right by the water’s edge, covertly under the trees on the lake’s far side, well out of sight of the benches. As such, it’s worth describing the lake in detail now, before it makes itself known later.

To call it a lake is slightly presumptuous, really. It was, at the time, a single, rectangular stretch of water, suspiciously straight at the edges, with stone-backed sides and frail wooden fences to lean contemplatively against. Previously, the lake was a thriving dockland, the birthplace of the King’s fleet, the origin of England’s proud, straight-backed galleons, but now brooded empty of ships. In the immediate pre-trouser era, England had recently lost her reputation as the builder of the world’s fleet, losing that accolade to the master craftsmen of the Netherlands and the buccaneering shipbuilders of the King of Spades.

The King of England, in his greener years, had decided to convert this bustling dock into a pleasure lake, complete with paddle boats and ice cream sundaes. It never really worked out that way. The stone sides and wooden fences stayed, the new murmurous island towards the far end of the shorter rectangle side isolated, bereft of followers, its trees moving haphazardly in the whistling breeze. The island did provide some homeliness, a little shelter from the stark boatbuilding landscape, but there was something covert about its canopy, constructed more to hide departed ships than grow a new world of pleasure. A few wooden picnic benches were erected by the water’s edge, initially to provide lovers and families with a view of the lake, but could never change the scene, however hard they tried. Dotted insignificantly on a grey background, they only became useful when the King began to use the lake for executions, throwing his enemies to the water and watching them struggle, unable to paddle. The benches housed onlookers who, cruel and obedient, watched this sorry spectacle from afar, over the rotten fences. Now, with the King’s own leaves starting to fall, the lake was gloomy and still. Life still carried on under the water, in the hordes of gifted goldfish, but, with the King’s new decree they were being removed. A handful of thinning, dead-eyed fishermen sat at various points round the water’s edge, fishing rods skewing ripples across the lake, hoping to catch a fish, a foe or a rotten limb.

Lillian and the Ambassador sat at the bench, a cold spring wind blowing uneasily, drawing tedious argument from tedious administrative procedure.

“How about,” Lillian began for the thousandth time, “we put, when the Kings arrive, the English courtiers on the left-”

“Are you suggesting the French dignitaries are not worthy of being on the left?”

“No, I’m… ok, how about the French dignitaries go on the left-”

“Ah, I see what you’re trying to do. You’re trying to fool me into putting the French dignitaries on the left, aren’t you? No, the French dignitaries will go on the right. I see through you.”

Lillian stifled a yawn.

“Dignitaries on the right then, I don’t care.”

“Enough of your trifles,” the Ambassador said, abruptly. “We must discuss the talks themselves.”

“His Britannic Majesty is keen to discuss terms,” Lillian lied, “ of a perpetual peace between our nations.” The word ‘perpetual’ was an in-joke amongst administrators. In the last five hundred years of diplomacy no peace described as ‘perpetual’ had lasted longer than seven months, and the seven-month one happened only because the English and French kings had simultaneously contracted gout.

“Discussion? Discussion is the natural sin of the English. No, His Gallic Majesty will not be entering into discussion,” the French Ambassador said scornfully.

“But we’re discussing talks…” Lillian replied, wide-eyed.

“You do not understand any other language but the language of talk. As my King knows, true diplomacy does not come from the voice-box, but from the muscles and the heart!”

Lillian tried to interrupt, but failed, as was often the case with the French Ambassador.

He continued. “His Gallic Majesty is a man of action, not of words. Words can be used, manipulated, tampered with. Anyone, of any birth, from the lowliest peasant to the most treacherous beggar, can use words to say other than what they really mean, or to bring about whatever fantasy world they wish. But an action cannot lie. It is there, done, a true herald of power and glory and greatness. It is with actions, then, that our kings shall make terms.”

Oh no, not another duel. The last time the English King was challenged to a duel, he had the then-Court Secretary write him a sick note. The King had only recovered from the international humiliation by sending every European head-of-state a tank of goldfish, and that clearly wasn’t an option this time around.

“Of course,” the French Ambassador went on, “Our recent naval victory gives us a slight advantage in diplomatic proceedings. May I suggest that, on the basis of this advantage, His Gallic Majesty recommends which diplomatic activities take place?”

“What if we refuse?” Lillian asked, warily. “Hypothetically, of course.”

The Ambassador raised an eyebrow. “Hypothetically, then, we will invade Kent.”

Lillian thought for a moment. Whatever the English King believed, this was a definite possibility.

“If you really think you can invade Kent, why are you bothering with diplomacy?”

The Ambassador shook his head wisely, amused. “Oh, you English. Always with your conquests. Do you think the point of power is conquest? Of course not! We will resort to it, if necessary, as a show of strength. But we do not want to annihilate you. Our aim – and I am very candid with you now, this is not something we Ambassadors do often – is to make you look ridiculous, and to show Our Beloved Gallic Majesty as the swashbuckling adventurer he is, the Romantic of Europe! He will lord over you, not at the barbaric point of a sword, or even at the end of a ship’s cannon, but in panache, fortitude, and swagger!”

So that rules out a duel then, Lillian thought to herself. She let the Ambassador continue, not that she had much choice.

“So here is our proposal. The French King challenges the English King to two competitions. These competitions shall be the envy of Europe’s buccaneers, and will be the subject of stories and poems and aspiring novels down the centuries! By merely agreeing to compete, your King robes himself in eternal fame’s glorious cloak – that is, until he is humiliated by the most gallant King in Christendom.”

Lillian smiled incredulously. “What competitions do you propose?” She hoped it would not involve fish. She’d had enough of fish for one lifetime.

“Our King is a brilliant gambler, a lover of cards. His second competition, the one which will decide the fates of our kingdoms, will be a game of chance, of cards. If His Britannic Majesty wins, he shall win Burgundy, and bask in luxuriant local wine for the rest of his days.”

“And if His Gallic Majesty wins?”

“Then France will be given Kent. Not as the spoils of battle, but gladly, as the garlands of sport.”

Lillian adjusted her glasses again. Yes, she understood now. Losing Kent in battle would be a grave tragedy to the English citizenry, but to lose it in a game of cards? That meant fortune did not favour England, that God was not on Her side. Revolution, perhaps. Widespread defection to France, almost certainly.

The French Ambassador spoke again. “Of course, the stakes will need to be decided before the game. The rules for who wins and who loses will be proposed by whichever King wins the first competition.” He smiled mischievously, and Lillian dreaded to think what the first competition could be. Moustache growing? The Ambassador’s misshapen replica was bad enough. Wine swilling?

“His Gallic Majesty proposes,” said the French Ambassador, his eyes twinkling, “that the first competition be something the English king enjoys. My King is so confident of his superiority over yours that he challenges the King Of England, the greatest swimmer in His country, to a swimming race. Here, in this very lake.”

He relaxed, a face of victory, revelling in Lillian’s astonishment, as little as it showed on her countenance.

“Take these proposals to your King,” he said, holding all the cards, “and give me His Britannic Majesty’s answer.”

And with that he stood elegantly, pirouetting over the bench seat, flourishing his facial hair, and left Lillian beside the water, where goldfish still swam their last.

---

While this was all going down, the Admiral was striding from the kitchens, across the palace’s estate.

He was carrying out the second part of his plan. He had to lay low for a while, get out of town for a few days. The inevitable conclusion to his ruminations, then, was to go to the coach stop, find the next carriage out of town, and leap aboard, post haste. Wherever he ended up, that would be his home, just for a bit. He would sit in a village pub. He would eat village grub. He would chat with the local gentry. It would all be marvellous, and he wouldn’t have to see another seaman for days.

The coach stop was all action when the Admiral arrived. The stable was empty of horses, the attendants were hurrying to and fro, and hay was scattered all over the ground, desperately attempting to flee before the cleaner could sweep it back into place. He went over to the ticket office, and stared at the timetable.

Timetables in the 18^th century were less mechanistic than modern ones. They consisted almost entirely of parchment strips, each listing the destination of a coach, and the names of the coach’s travellers. The Admiral, not interested in destinations, addressed the coach stop attendant, who was lingering nearby, almost helpfully.

“Attendant, which is the next coach?”

“It’s the coach to Chester, sir.”

“And where would I find it?”

“Somewhere in this coach stop,” the attendant shrugged, less helpfully. “It’s that one,” he said, pointing to the closest parchment, as if that would tell the Admiral everything he needed to know.

Well, in a way, it did. For the parchment told the Admiral the names of the passengers, and standing out, at the top of the list, were the names of Sophie and Billy.

The Admiral had always known he was a fortunate man. Not so much in his birth or position – he had earned his nobility and commission by right, he reckoned, through brilliant intelligence and careful construction of toy boats – but in his general, day-to-day life. Everything about him, he believed, demonstrated fortune’s care for him. His looks – he was one of those people who, even in middle age, are physically incapable of seeing a middle-aged person stare back at them in the mirror – his ready wit, his charm, these were all marks of grace. Yet this seemed an ever greater moment of fortune. A long coach trip with Sophie, all the way to the north west of England. He could delight her with his stories and yarns. He could tell her all about the mansions he grew up in, and impress her with his subtle references to his wealth. He could read aloud the poems he’d composed about her, and hold her coat as she stepped from the coach. In short, he would be the perfect gentleman, and she would doubtless consent to marry him. This was the coach that would make him a married man, and impress all the Barons and Counts and Dukes in the court bar. The Admiral walked towards the parked coaches, and had a good squint for the Chester coach.

Sophie and Billy, meanwhile, were seated on the Chester coach itself, ready for the journey. It wasn’t comfortable. Of the six seats, five were taken, and none were really big enough. They mitigated it somewhat: of the two rows of three seats, Sophie and Billy occupied one whole row, empty seat between them, Billy leaning on the window sill. In front of him sat the cloth merchant, cheerfully munching on something. They were new enough to the carriage to think it personable and homely, as carriages usually seem to new occupants, if only for the first few minutes of their occupation.

Sophie leaned on her window sill too, gazing out into the coach stop courtyard. She watched as horses trod on cobbles, testing them out, looking for weak spots. She drummed the window sill impatiently with her fingers, tapping out the count for the horses hooves to kick in and the beat of the coach to start for Chester.

“We’re just holding for a final passenger, ladies and gents,” called the coach driver over his shoulder.

Sophie groaned audibly. It had been bearable with a spare seat, but the cabin wasn’t really built for six people. Even in the classiest seats she struggled for legroom, and this would be intensely uncomfortable. She looked out the window, irritated, and that was when she saw the Admiral. Her stomach started to lurch over the bumpiest, most horrible cobbles already, even while her body sat stationary and cramped.

It was the Admiral’s struggle to find the location of the coach, unguided as he was by the parchment timetable, which gave her a second to think.

“Billy,” she whispered, hurriedly, “Billy!”

Billy, of course, hadn’t seen the Admiral, preoccupied as he was with trying to avoid the gaze of the cloth merchant. He turned to look at her.

“Billy, change of plan. I can’t go with you. You’ve got the wig?”

He nodded.

“You’ve got the shears?”

He nodded, and still hadn’t noticed the Admiral, who started to notice the coach, from the far side of the courtyard.

“Right, now swap wigs with me.”

He looked astonished, utterly bamboozled. This was a gross breach of court etiquette. She might as well have asked him to eat dessert before the starter, or curtsey to the laundry boy.

“Wig, now!” she whispered, ever more urgent. Panicked, Billy removed his wig, revealing messy brown hair underneath, and found an elegant travelling hairpiece thrust into his hand. His own wig snatched off him, he carefully put Sophie’s wig on.

“And look out your window until the coach has left. Safe travels,” she said.

Obviously, the first thing Billy did was to turn back to Sophie, but she was leaping from the coach, Billy’s wig on her head, carriage door left to wave in the gentle wind. Billy, still none the wiser, turned back and looked out his window, just as he was told.

It was too late for Sophie to make a clean getaway. For, just as she landed from the carriage’s high door, knees bent for a safe landing, the Admiral was making his way to the coach, striding triumphantly, setting sail for his own personal Trafalgar. You might have thought that, being England’s foremost admiral, he had ample opportunity for a real Trafalgar, but you would have been wrong.

Sophie had no more time to think, but she could make the best of the situation. Remembering herself to be a good head taller than Billy, at least, she kept her knees bent, and started to bow her head. But the Admiral was only a few yards away now, too close for her to hide her face, and there was nowhere left to hide, no place to put her face. Surely the Admiral would recognize her, the woman he wanted to marry, even if she was wearing another’s wig.

Only one last, desperate tactic presented itself. The Admiral mustn’t recognize her features, so she contorted them. She twitched her nose and wiggled her ears. She pulled them sides of her mouth apart, and stuck out her tongue, taking care not to direct the grimace towards the Admiral – she didn’t want to get her assistant in trouble, after all. She wobbled her eyes and puffed her cheeks, thinning them to pull her mouth apart again, and rotated her nose around in a great big circle.

The moment remains one of the mysteries of history. Maybe the Admiral just wasn’t expecting to see Sophie in Billy’s wig, pulling childish faces, and so didn’t notice her. Maybe, by ignoring the person he thought was Billy, the Admiral simply failed to learn the real lesson of the 18^th century, the one we all learned at school, that nobles should have paid more attention to those they outranked. Either way, he ignored the squatting, hopping, grimacing, false-wigged Sophie, and clambered aboard the coach.

Sophie, in a cold bath of relief, floated through the coach stop, returning herself to natural height, and returning to her week in the workshop. The Admiral, meanwhile, took his seat in the middle of the coach, next to the person wearing Sophie’s hairpiece, in perfect contentment. He coughed politely, and turned to Billy on his right, who was still facing, resolutely, faithfully, out of the window, determined not to show his face.

It was a good three miles before Billy turned round, duty done, to see an appalled Admiral staring right back at him.

THE MAN WHO INVENTED TROUSERS: Chapter 4: More Wigs

Chapter 4 – The Stagecoach

The afternoon session of court ended, and with it the day’s formalities closed. The King was sated. He had a fish. The Admiral was sated. He had his life. The Barons and Counts and Duchesses and Viscounts were sated, for they had a fine spring afternoon, several brimming kegs, and a menagerie of bar staff to wait upon them.

Billy was waiting too, not at the bar, but outside the wig workshop. He was standing in a long, wooden landing, in front two great oak doors. A little strand of wool wisped through the crack of the door, hinting at some hidden chaos within, masked by the imposing, statuesque entrance.

His journey had not been easy. Many perils lay between the court room on the ground floor and the wig workshop far above. Several Counts needed help tying their shoelaces. A group of barons had been looking for an orderly to throw paper at, in a misplaced attempt to invent professional sport. Nevertheless, Billy had ducked and dodged these hazards, and had made it to the highest floor.

Billy, peering at the door as if it were a gargantuan monster of legend, raised his knuckles slowly to its wooden frame. Pausing for a moment in front of the door, his fist a tiny speck in the face of the towering oaken dragon, he knocked, lightly, making little impression on the ornamental façade. A tiny knock, not enough to wake a mouse. He hit harder, as hard as he dared, but the door remained, unmoving.

Billy stepped back from the door, wondering whether to knock again. A few seconds passed, slowly, increasing Billy’s doubt. Just as he raised his hand again, slightly curled, ready to knock through his nervousness, the doors began to move. It would be inaccurate to say they were flung open, as nothing that size can ever move impetuously, but they were cast apart as fast as possible, revealing a scene which, to the likes of Billy, was even more fantastical than a mythical door.

There are some rooms when, first viewed, muddle the attention. It is not possible to notice one thing first, and so any description of them inevitably fails to be truthful, as the description must proceed in some order. If Billy had, after leaving, been approached by the court pollsters, armed with clipboards, and asked to describe the wig workshop one feature at a time, he might, with careful deliberation, have started with the roof. The dome – the half that could be seen, at least – curved splendidly over the workshop. Towards the dome’s apex, fitting the walls as closely as rectangles can fit a curve, were great bookcases, books distant and blue and green and grey on the shelves, too far away for detail to be seen. These bookcases stood on a thin, tottering, rounded balcony, behind a short wooden balustrade, which offered little safety to any literary buccaneer, even those gallantly seeking to climb the mast in sight of rare and dusty tomes.

Below the balcony, however, lay the real work of the room, the decks on which the enterprise sailed to sea. There was a sizeable clearing in the room, vaguely circular in shape, deliberately so, in which a pristine worktable sat, accompanied by boxes. Surrounding the clearing, making the workshop as much a forest as a ship, were looming shelves, roughly metallic, shading the floor from the far points of the dome. The shelves stood, comforting, sequoia-like, row after row of criss-crossing patterns, letting a little light through their silver gaps.

And on these shelves, these sequoias, perched wigs. Wigs of all shapes and sizes. Light, powdery wigs for state banquets. Smooth safety wigs with soft corners, perfect for sporting contests. Bushy, protruding wigs, ideal for maintaining adequate personal space in crowded rooms. Wig after wig nesting contentedly in the upper branches, ready to take wing, observing all who might crawl on their ground, maintaining a cool, calm detachment.

“Welcome to my church,” Sophie said. She was standing at the entrance now, blocking half the room. Billy wondered whether the dome was built high to stop her bumping her head. A half-worked wig slept in Sophie’s hands, ready to be awakened by studious craft.

Billy looked around, taking everything in. He had never seen anything like it. Wigs, wigs, wigs, wigs, everywhere.

“Come in,” Sophie continued, “I’ll give you the guided tour.”

Billy glanced around, with pleasure.

“First,” Sophie began, pointing to a pristine shelf, “are the courtly wigs. Each wig is for an occasion, each wig has its purpose, and each wig has its power. Here we have wigs to increase the wearer’s gracefulness, here there are hairpieces to enhance a commanding presence. Some of the pieces are for plays, some for rehearsals, some for state functions. Each is crafted to give the wearer an extra air to fit the circumstance.”

Billy nodded. He’d seen the wigs at all these occasions and, for the first time, he realized that he could tell the difference, even when the wigs were near identical to one another.

“So you’re trying to change the way people see the wearer?”

“Exactly. I make the wigs unique for each person. With some wigs you’d struggle to recognize the wearer at all, if it was someone else’s wig.”

Billy nodded. Wig-swapping was wildly inappropriate in the court. It wasn’t strictly illegal, but wig-swappers often found themselves pushed into the circle round the King’s throne, or charged extra at the bar.

“Next,” she said, turning the corner, “are the court room wigs, for trials and lawyers. A bit of a radical idea, not sure it’ll catch on.” She moved swiftly onwards. “Then we have execution wigs, to make your head look a bit more pleasant when it’s knocked off or floating in the lake, and after that the dinner wigs. They’re specially designed to let food fall through, so you don’t get crumbs in your wig when Viscounts start throwing the fishfingers around. Behind them are hairpieces to see the hairdresser, to ask the butler to get the post, to drink milk, to walk the dog, to demand a duel, to undertake a journey, to decide on a course of action, to have an abstract conception of the self… and so on. You get the picture, I’m sure.”

Sophie finished the tour as quickly as politeness would allow her to. Billy, on the other hand, was enthralled. He stared, lagoon-eyed, at the wigs of the forest, the books atop the mast, whatever vistas they might hold, and felt himself in some strange and lonesome adventure, the dreamland of pirates and merry men, consumed with heightened, wig-based passions.

“So, to business,” Sophie declared.

To business, thought Billy, and suddenly this phrase did not fill him with terror. Not being a Viscount or a Baron or a Count, he knew that employment was necessary, and suddenly a trade had opened its pages to him, one more enticing than carrot-peeling or croissant-fetching.

“You were at the court session this afternoon, weren’t you?” Billy nodded. “You heard what the King said?”

Billy nodded again. “He wanted a wig like the Wise Wig.”

“Yes. The thing is, I don’t have the wool for it right now. You see, to make a wig which conveys wisdom, you need the wool of a wise sheep. I don’t know how many sheep you’ve met, but they’re generally not the wisest of animals. Folly is their bread and butter. When you see a sheep, they’re generally gambolling through fields, or bleating wispily, or staring with surprise at a passing cloud. Not many great works of the Western canon have been authored by sheep. I can’t just go out into the next field, find the nearest sheep, and bring her home for the Wise Wig.”

She paused, gazing into the treetops, looking back on yesteryear.

“Once, young Billy, I found the wool of a wise sheep. When the King commanded me to make him the Wise Wig, I knew it was a difficult task. I searched far and wide, through the lowlands of England, but all the sheep I found were vapid and insecure, wrapped up in wool of mindless frippery. My travels took me further and further west, over the great rivers of The Marches, into the distant mountains of Wales, but I still found no wise sheep. Then, one day, I found my object.”

She paused for effect, Billy clinging to the tale.

“He – for it was a he, to my surprise – was right there, in a misty valley, nose in a gorse bush. I can’t quite describe how I knew, or how I felt, but there he stood, my woolly Khayyam. I looked at him. He looked at me. There was a shared understanding, a mutual acknowledgement. From the intensity of his gaze I could see he was a lover of the good, a defender of the just. Here was a sheep who had read his Plato, studied the collected works of Kant under candlelight, contemplated the eternal through a starless night. Not for the passing glories of this world was he, nor the empty promises of the next. He would have paid scant attention to the pulpit, and scorned the idols of the Temple.

“And yet, he knew this was his time. Everything must pass, thought he, even wisdom is swallowed by Time, the thousand-headed leviathan that must devour us all, and it was time for his coat, the manifestation of his wisdom, to become a hairpiece for the landed nobility.

“I took out my shears, and I sheared his wisdom, deprived him of that nobility which even Kings and Emperors may not truly obtain, and hence I created the Wise Wig.”

She finished, and lowered her head, Billy lowering his too, in memorial.

“So,” she began again, briskly, “We need another Wise Wig. I want you to go back to that valley and get me some more wise wool. Find me that wise sheep, or – actually, it’s quite likely that his coat of wisdom won’t have grown back – find me one of his relations, as it might have continued in the family, and bring me back their wool. Here’s some shears-” she handed him a large scissor-like contraption – “and here are the directions to reach the valley.” She handed him a map. “Oh, and you’ll need to take a couple of coaches to get there, so I’ll reserve a ticket for the coach first thing tomorrow.”

Billy took the shears and the paper happily, but was suddenly struck by a wrecking ball of nerves.

“What does wisdom look like?” he asked.

“It looks, well, wise,” Sophie shrugged. “I can’t describe it. You look at it and you know it, or you never will. “How many wise people have you met? Present company excluded, of course,” she added, hastily avoiding sycophancy.

“Well, there’s the King, especially with the wise wig on…”

“Anyone else?”

Billy searched, in his mind, through all the nobles, kitchen staff and miscellaneous underlings. “I can’t think of anyone right away, not specifically.”

There was silence for a moment, as Sophie realized that her week would be eventful after all. This was the Wise Wig, not a standard pattern, and if Billy got this one wrong she might be done for, even if she presented the King with a goldfish. The King could just about cope with losing his armada, but nothing could heal a broken wig.

“Ok, so you haven’t seen much wisdom around the place. Other than the King,” she said quickly, “that goes without saying. Maybe I should go with you to get the wool. You can learn the trade.”

If Billy accompanied her, he would eventually be able to do these things himself, she thought.

“So, Billy, I’ll go down to the coach station and write our names down for tomorrow’s first coach, and you turn up tomorrow with the map and the shears. Acceptable?”

Billy nodded. “Thank you for the tour!”

“No problem. See you tomorrow.”

Billy turned out of the clearing and walked back to the entrance, shears and map in hand. Pulling open the door, Billy gazed wistfully back at the workshop one more time. Wigs. Wigs everywhere. Wigs in cabinets. Wigs on bookcases. Wigs loftily atop hat stands, perching like larks at dawn. Wigs.

---

The morrow did not begin well. Sophie turned up a little early, as expected, and Billy turned up a little early, with the things, as expected, but the coach did not. Some stable mishap, the sort of thing that only 18th-century transport aficionados could conceivably understand, had delayed all the coaches that morning, leaving every passenger anxiously staring at horses and coachmen, hoping for a sign, a change in pattern. Beside them a plushly-attired merchant, a long, flat sack folded over his left arm, pointed at a horse.

“There, see that?” he said to no-one in particular, “Looks like it’s about to move.”

The horse twitched, then looked back down at the ground. The merchant continued to stare, hesitant for an omen.

“I’ve had enough of this!” roared a budding, smelly Captain. “I’ve got duties to attend to. Take my seat and give it to some pauper.” He strode off, disgusted.

“How much longer do we have to wait?” Sophie asked the coach stop attendant. He gave a non-committal shrug, turned his back and carried on with his duties, whatever they were. Billy continued to stare into the distance, numbed by the wait. At least, he thought, there would be slightly more room on the coach, now that the cheese-scented Captain had gone.

Although the coach was supposed to depart soon after dawn, the hours had tarried, and now, in the main palace, it was time for the morning court session. Sophie and Billy did not, of course, attend, but the Admiral did, and, as it happened, his morning would not begin well either.

The Admiral still had a bet to win. In another effort to find the King’s favourite pastry, the Admiral had ordered a huge basket of dainties – Geraldine collecting and presenting them primly that morning – and had made his way into the court room carefully, at the back of the crowd, taking care to protect the basket from all jostles and shoves. Attached to the handle was a note, declaring the King to be the greatest ruler in the world, a man with exquisite taste, and most deserving of pastry products. It was signed by the Admiral himself. The seafarer, if we can loosely describe him as such, stood next to the Court Secretary and passed him the basket, with instructions to present it to His Royal Highness.

It was clear that all was not right with the King. From the very moment the entourage were invited in to the court room he gnarled his hands tightly around the throne’s great jewels, and he took some time to start proceedings. The Admiral waited patiently beside the Court Secretary, slightly apprehensive. He noticed, with some amusement, that there were two courtiers holding goldfish bowls in the crowd, evidently with bad news to break. On days like these it was somewhat risky to present the King with more presents, thus attracting attention, but it could also turn the King in your favour too, if you judged it right.

Suddenly it became clear why the King was in a bad mood. Stood at the front of the room, in a space all to himself, was a man with a moustache. The moustache was suspiciously similar to that of the French King, in that it was crafted in the same stupid shape, although far less lustily. Perhaps the man had tried to emulate the King Of Spades himself, but in a more youthful and hurried manner.

“Before we undertake the usual and rightful proceedings of Our court, we welcome the French Ambassador,” the King said, in a voice that did not sound very welcoming at all. “He is here to finalise the details of the French-” despite the King’s attempted diplomacy, he shuddered at the very word – “the French King’s visit.

“Please make him feel welcome,” the King finished, in a voice implying that, if anyone tried to make the Ambassador feel welcome, they would find themselves in the Royal Lake.

“Thank you, Your Britannic Majesty,” bowed the Ambassador, pronouncing ‘Britannic Majesty’ as if it were a contradiction in terms. “And before I watch your admirable courtly proceedings, I would like to add that I was given the chance to observe your beautiful aquarium and lake on my last visit, and I failed to convey my thanks in person. “

Pausing only for breath, the Ambassador continued. “I greatly admire Your Majesty’s fishes. They swim so elegantly. Perhaps even more elegantly than Your Majesty himself.” The Ambassador laughed. “Certainly more elegantly than your sailors in the Bay of Biscay.”

The Ambassador retired gracefully, smiling the smug smile of diplomatic immunity. The room, every woman and man, held its breath, horrified.

The King started to boil and bubble. Even he was powerless against diplomatic immunity, and he felt it immensely. The Admiral, although far away, could see the steam rising from the King’s temper, and he feared how the scolding water would flood the shivering crowd.

“Well, my fish must either be of royal blood, or they must be French fish, to swim so well. For everyone knows that, for those who are not of kingly bearing, swimming is only for the ungainly, or the weak,” said the King, never the best at maintaining diplomatic relations, especially when they were most required. “Lillian,” he addressed the Keeper Of The King’s Fish directly, “are the fish of royal blood?”

It was a leading question, Lillian knew. She also knew that it was either her life or her job, and preferring the former, replied, “No, Your Highness. So great a lineage could not be found in fish.”

“So the fish must be French, then?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“In that case, the fish in Our lake are enemies of God and the noble country of England, yes?”

“It must be as you say, Your Majesty.”

“Traitors to the crown?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Have them removed as soon as our session is over.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” There was a loud smashing of glass as the two courtiers holding goldfish bowls hastily dropped their charges on the floor. A small puddle formed in the centre of the room, but everyone ignored it, preferring not to acknowledge the existence of such treacherous fish.

Lillian was phlegmatic about losing her position. Keeper Of The King’s Fish was a difficult role to play: with the lake so regularly used for executions, it had always been tricky to maintain a suitable environment for the fish, and Lillian was not sad to lose her responsibility. Besides, more opportunities were bound to come along. Staff turnover was high in the court of the English King. She adjusted her glasses and remained composed, patient.

The King turned back to his court. “We must remember, nobles of England, to spurn all things French. They are our mortal enemies, and forever shall be. If any of my court are found fraternizing with the French, if they are discovered to be in possessions of their trinkets, if they are observed undertaking barbaric French customs, they shall be cast into the lake, where Frenchmen belong!”

The court clapped heartily. The Admiral raised his hands and applauded over the crowd. He liked the French less than anyone, as their frequent naval attacks tended to distract him from eating and napping.

“Enough of that,” said the King. “Let normal service commence. Court Secretary, agenda please.”

The Court Secretary started to move forward. It was then, and only then, that the Admiral realized his mistake. A basket full of pastries. A basket full of French pastries. Croissant, pain au chocolate pain aux raisins, apricot croissant. French. All French. And on this day of all days, too. The day when the King Of England declared French trinkets and customs to be punishable by death. This was it. The Admiral was done for…

A man less used to avoiding execution might have reacted more slowly, but the Admiral was the great survivor of his age. The Court Secretary had started to walk towards the King, basket in arms, and it was too late to snatch the pastries away, but the note dangled invitingly from the handle still. With the deftest, subtlest movement, the Admiral grabbed the note, the card bearing his signature, and ripped it free from the basket, cord and all. There was no longer any trace of the Admiral’s work, except in the mind of the Court Secretary.

The Court Secretary, moving through the crowd, carrying the basket past puzzled onlookers, steadily approached the King. The basket came right up to his chin, and a periscope of a pain au chocolat peeked above the basket’s rim, eyeing its new surroundings with appropriate apprehension. He began to speak, but the King quickly interrupted him.

“What’s in the basket, Court Secretary?”

“Pastries, Your Royal Highness. They are a gift.”

The Admiral could have whooped. The Court Secretary had forgotten to say, right away, who the gift was from.

“A gift of pastries?” The King peered closer, making eye contact with the protruding pain au chocolat. “French pastries? French pastries!”

This last utterance of ‘French pastries’ turned into a roar, an eruption, another sort of really loud natural disaster.

Spare a thought for the poor Court Secretary. It hadn’t dawned on him that these were French pastries, and he hadn’t a mind to question the basket thrust into his hands at the start of session. People with questioning minds didn’t get to be Court Secretary, as a rule. But here the Secretary was, through no fault of his own, other than a little slowness, holding the pastries, standing before the full torrent of royal vengeance.

“Who dares affront the King? We do not like French trinkets!” the King shouted again, making his point.

“There’s, there’s a note, Sire,” stuttered the Court Secretary, composure drowned. He looked at the handle. There was no note. He searched desperately in the basket, sending apricot croissants and pain aux raisins toppling onto the floor, fleeing the scene in a static, bread-y way.

“Who dares affront the King?” His Majesty shouted again.

It was then, possibly, that the Court Secretary made his truly fatal mistake. The Admiral could still have escaped. Sophie, if she had been in the room, could still have escaped. The Court Secretary should have blamed the French, suggested that the basket was a further insult from the King Of France, a mockery of England’s sailors and soldiers and food manufacturing industry. It probably wouldn’t have done the country any good, as even diplomatic immunity would have struggled to protect the French Ambassador then, and England’s remaining armed forces would have struggled to protect England from a French invasion, but it would have saved the Court Secretary. As things turned out, however, the Secretary hesitated, turned to look at the crowd, and sought the Admiral’s eye.

This moment was, to the King, a frank admission of guilt, a moment in which the Court Secretary looked for someone to blame. As the Admiral expected, the Court Secretary’s gaze found the Admiral, a full two seconds afterwards, a full two seconds in which the Admiral had hidden his face, just to prolong the moment of self-incrimination.

“It was the Admiral,” proclaimed the Secretary, pointing at the naval commander. “There, at the back. He gave me the basket to give to you.”

All faces turned to look at the Admiral. They expressed surprise, thought the Admiral, meeting some of their eyes, but none really expressed accusation, or belief in his guilt. The Admiral, knowing the game, did not immediately deny the Secretary’s words, but rather waited to be spoken to.

And the King did speak. “Admiral, is this true?” The King hadn’t believed a word of it, and the Admiral knew he was relatively safe now. The King had turned prosecutor, and the Admiral was not the defendant, but rather the star witness.

“No, Your Majesty.” In the crowd he could pick out his rivals, the Baron and the Count, smiling little knowing smiles. There was nothing to fear, though. If he died they wouldn’t win their bet.

“Just as We thought. Court Secretary, you present Us with a basket of enemy foodstuffs, you offend Us with French delicacies, and for that you shall be executed. Guards!”

The guards came and they dragged the Court Secretary away. He was weeping softly. The Admiral was thankful that the condemned man did not throw him a final glance whilst being pulled through the exit door. The looks on dead men’s faces could be so tiresome.

Regarding the scattered pastries, the King thought quickly, his waters cooled. Recent events had marred his attempts at diplomacy somewhat, and he sought to make amends.

“French Ambassador,” he said quietly, though hardly softly, “You may take the pastries and eat them at your leisure. The Court Secretary was supposed to assist you with the arrangements, but an officer of the court will assist instead.” He looked towards the space where the officers stood, and found only Lillian. “My Keeper Of The King’s Fish – We shall think of a new title for her – will plan with you.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty. Most gracious,” bowed the Ambassador. He and Lillian nodded to one another. Patience, that’s what you need, thought Lillian, unmoved by what she’d seen. Another job turns up soon enough.

She moved towards the entrance, Ambassador following, as the King dismissed the court.

THE MAN WHO INVENTED TROUSERS – Chapter 3: The Wig Maker

Chapter 3 – The Wig Maker

Sophie didn’t have time for the midday meal. Unlike the King, unlike the courtiers, she had a job to do, and too little time to do it in. The lunch hour was prime wig-making time, a tiny bit of blue sky where, unclouded by courtiers demanding bigger wigs and lower prices and precise measurements of bald spots, she could bask in her craft. Instead, Sophie liked to sneak down to the kitchens, plunder anything that was going, and sneak back up.

She waited until no-one was about. Her wig workshop, with its back door creaking on to the top floor servant’s passage at the rear of the house, afforded a perfect route to the scullery. Sophie opened her door, trying not to move too warily, and strode on to the passage, with its paperless walls and scuffed skirting boards, a total contrast to the splendid scarlet plaza that greeted her workshop’s front entrance. The servants’ passage led her to the spiralling, rusty staircase in the rear turret, an uneasy walkway through the levels of the palace.

Down she went, holding the balustrade in one hand, holding her other hand out for balance. No-one noticed her descent to the basement, not that anyone would have cared very much. Despite Sophie’s love of a secretive kitchen raid, the servants generally knew about it, in the same way servants generally knew about everything. Even if they had noticed, they had more important topics of conversation today: the Secretary’s execution, and the state of the Baronial toilets.

Next to the kitchens, slightly above them in the scullery, servants were conversing.

“And then I said,” Geraldine the Kitchen Assistant said, for the third time that morning, to the second person willing to listen, “His Royal Highness wants you to inspect the toilets!”

“What did Billy do?” the Laundry Boy asked.

“Billy, he, he…” Geraldine broke down in giggles again. “Get this, he…” More laughs.

“Yeah?”

“He only went and did it!”

“Put his head down the loo?”

“Yeah, right down the loo!”

Geraldine’s bobbly orange hair, in a roar of mirth, rolled wildly from left to right. She and the Laundry Boy shook, dancing round the room, limbs flailing awkwardly, riotously.

“He fell for it, proper. Here, did you hear about the Secretary?”

“Third one this month. His Majesty does go through them. Still,” the Laundry Boy continued, affecting wisdom, “they ought to do right by the King, that’s what gets them.”

“Too right,” replied Geraldine. “He’s a fair leader, His Royal Highness.”

The door to the scullery opened, and a familiar figure emerged through the wooden exterior entrance, carrying a small cloth bag.

“Look who it is! If it ain’t Mister Bog Head himself.”

“Loo for brains! Loo for brains!”

Billy turned to them, spirited, drawing the lapels of his jacket together scornfully.

“If the King asks me to inspect his toilets, then that’s what I’ll do,” he replied, secretly wondering why the King asked him to stick his head down the Baronial toilets. The other two roared.

“He worships the King! He sticks his head down the loo! He thinks,” Geraldine paused, overcome by the sheer genius of her own wordplay, “He thinks… His Royal Majesty is Loo-King Good!”

The Laundry Boy spluttered into helpless tides of mirth, clutching the kitchen counter, holding on through merriment’s ceaseless storm. Nothing this funny had happened since last week, when he’d seen a mouse scuttle into the larder and steal a piece of the Sous-Chef’s favourite cheese.

Geraldine did a mock-curtsey. “Billy, if the King asked you to do anything, would you do it?” She smiled coyly.

“I… I don’t know-”

“If the King asked you to… if you had a choice between a tiger eating your britches, and disobeying the King, what would you do?”

“I’d let the tiger eat my britches, I suppose-”

“Ew! You want a tiger to eat your clothes! If the King ordered you to run into that wall” – she pointed to the far scullery wall – “would you do it?”

“Yes.”

Geraldine’s face went completely serious. “Actually, that’s what he wants you to do. He told me.”

Billy looked puzzled.

“He came down here just now,” Geraldine continued, “And he asked me to tell you that he wants you to run into that wall.” Her face expressed complete conviction, a countenance of intense seriousness. “Go on, run into that wall.”

Billy’s face creased a little, and he looked as if he might cry.

“Go on, as fast as you can. Go on.”

Billy turned to the wall, but, just before he could start sprinting, the door between the scullery and the larder opened.

“What’s going on?”

It was Sophie, Chief Wig Maker, holding a pleasingly large pie. Geraldine and the Laundry Boy, outranked, looked at her with expressions of the purest innocence. Nothing was going on, nothing at all.

“You’re not going to kid me. Out.”

“Miss Sophie, I have duties to attend-”

“If you had duties, you’d be doing them, not idling. There’s the door.”

Geraldine and the Laundry Boy turned to the door, their faces turning away from Sophie, their countenances turning from day to night, moons of malice, orbiting from authority. As the door closed behind them and their footsteps hurried away, there was the hint of a snigger, but the sound soon passed.

“Billy, yes?”

Billy nodded. Somehow, Sophie thought, this was a young man who looked older than he looked. His wig was not real wool, her expert eye noticed immediately. It had the texture of cotton wool, a puffy, over-inflated cloud of artificial hair. It had been put together in a hurry, not by a skilled craftsman, but by someone who had a lot of wigs to make that day for a lot of people, and was prepared to forgo any truly discerning custom. Sophie decided not to mention the scene she had overheard.

“Billy, I need some help over the next few days,” she said, kindly, “It’s soon to be prime wig season, and I’m quite short of materials. I need someone to go to \all the local merchants and find some good quality supply. Come to my workshop with me, and I’ll talk you through it.”

Billy smiled, thankfully yet uncertainly, but he hesitated.

“I’m supposed to do a task before the Afternoon Session of court. The Admiral asked me to fetch him some things. I can come along after court, though. I’d really like to help!”

He beamed, and Sophie smiled back.

“Sure, come round after court. What has the Admiral got you fetching for him? Is he still putting together that naval scene of his?”

“Oh, yes. But it’s not for his naval scene. He wanted me to bring him a goldfish.”

Billy, too late, realized his mistake. The Admiral only ever requested a goldfish when he was in danger of being executed. Billy knew that. If the Admiral had enemies in court, then perhaps his enemies knew that too. Enemies would, surely, want to prevent the Admiral receiving his goldfish. If the seafarer found himself in front of the King, and Billy hadn’t brought him the goldfish, His Royal Highness would…

Perhaps Sophie was an enemy of the Admiral. And she was between him and the inner door, the way to the main palace.

Sophie’s face remained impassive, but underneath her heart was slamming against her ribs, again and again. She hadn’t known about the Admiral’s predicament. Had she known, she wouldn’t have mourned much. She did not return the Admiral’s feelings for her, true, but that was not the cause of her enmity.

Sometime, ago, a year beforehand, perhaps, Sophie had pioneered a new wig. It was a small, flat-ish wig, conveying neat, sophisticated elegance, and was supposed to be worn at operas, theatres, and the like. Previously, rows B to Z of the King’s Theatre were regarded as restricted viewing, on account of the ceremonial, unceremonious wigs which everyone in the front row insisted on wearing. No-one behind them could see a thing. As a result, war broke out every time the theatre doors opened, when England’s art lovers battled for the treasured, unrestricted seats at the front. It was bad enough when four people lost their limbs before the Christmas pantomime, but that winter’s performance of Hamlet was fatal to the British cultural scene. Half of England’s young poets and playwrights were cut down in the killing field of seats A4 to A7, a national tragedy. It has long been said that that season’s Hamlet was to the British literary establishment what Crecy was to medieval French nobility.

Anyway, in response to the great tragedy of Hamlet, Sophie had made this new wig, a kind of Davy Lamp for the visual arts. By adopting this new, insubstantial headpiece, theatregoers would now able to see above one another’s heads, leading, hopefully, to a harmonious era of piece, a lasting happiness throughout the operatic orders. A triumph for the King’s Chief Wig Maker, you would think, and one that Sophie could enjoy in person, being an avid theatregoer herself.

Now that Sophie had fashioned the wig, she had to make it fashion. In the 18^th century everyone thought themselves a judge of fashion, but only one opinion really mattered: the King’s. If the King took to wearing something, everyone would wear it. If the King developed a new gesture the whole court adopted it. One afternoon the King started choking on a piece of bread, and so choking slightly on bread became the court’s new craze. If Sophie wanted people to wear her wig, and for people to stop dying at the theatre every time they went to buy one of those cute little ice creams, then she had to persuade the King first.

Fortunately, he did not take much persuading. Sophie was the Master Crafter, the ultimate headpiece talent. When she made a wig, she made a wig. Her wigs were never rushed or faulty, and even when there was a slight flaw in construction, she was exceptionally tall, and no-one could actually make out the imperfections in her design without a stepladder, as long as she was modelling. All Sophie had to do was gain an audience with His Majesty – granted, as always, for his Chief Wig Maker – and he agreed to wear the wig for his next theatre trip.

The first play of the season came, and with it the spring. As Earth came to life again, the King entered his theatre, wearing the new Theatre Wig, followed by obedient, collected courtiers. They followed his lead. They all wore the wig. Success for Sophie, perhaps a career-defining one, or so it seemed.

Some might have put succeeding events down to the cruel ironies of fate, but Sophie did not. She put it down to the Admiral. For it was that very naval officer who, in Sophie’s moment of triumph, happened to be sitting in front of her when the curtain came up. He was wearing the new Theatre Wig, yes, but that was not all he was wearing.

The audience began to clap for the opening act, able, for the first time, to witness its marvels, free from the terrible wall of wigs that had previously divided them from True Art. Sophie, however, was stuck behind a massive Admiral’s hat. When the farce began, all she could see was the three-cornered hat bobbing in front of her. When the audience fell about with laughter at the hero’s antics, she could not see beyond a hat shaking in mirth. She tried to look to the left, but the corner of the hat was too wide. She tried to look to the right, but the corner of the hat extended right into the aisle. Even from her lofty height, a natural advantage in these situations, it was no use whatsoever. Eventually, in a mix of trembling anguish and uncontrollable rage, she left her seat, unable to find joy in her own hard-won victory.

And now she had a chance for revenge. If the Admiral did not get his goldfish, he would not escape execution. His life, his naval scene, his bloody Admiral’s hat, were all in her hands…

She stepped away from the door. There was a moment’s hesitation, possibly, but she stepped aside, nonetheless.

“Give the Admiral his goldfish.” She smiled. “Come and find me later, after the afternoon session. I’ll explain exactly what materials I’m looking for, and you can help me out.”

Billy, slightly more at ease, smiled back, and hurried through the open door. He went straight to the dining room.

The afternoon session of court began in much the same way as the first, with the usual crush and the ever-present dangers of execution. The King preferred the afternoon session, generally. Being later in the day, the courtiers were significantly more drunk, and hence far more likely to commit a minor indiscretion or two. Besides, the King usually had time, late in the morning, to do something he really enjoyed, and so was far more satisfied with life by mid-afternoon. Today he had kept his Billiards Wig on, lazing himself in the joy of winning four matches in a row. Not a single opponent had managed to pot a ball against him. The King knew that adversaries let him win – he wasn’t a total fool – but no-one had even potted a ball by accident, which he put down to remarkable skill on his own part.

Sophie, as before, stood at the side of the room, peering over the massed ranks of courtiers. There were some splendid wigs on show today. Many of the barons had, understandably, selected something from the baronial range, a line of wigs designed to convey a certain Prussian-esque authority, complementing the noble dignity that must infuse all court wigs. A sophisticated actor, on the far side of the room, was wearing a huge, leaning bouffant wig, all curls and quiffs. You could always tell who wanted to be noticed, thought Sophie, and, thankfully, they always made the highest-paying customers.

Lillian, the Keeper Of The King’s Fish, took her place beside Sophie. Lillian’s wig, although utterly unique, somehow looked like the rest of Lillian’s wigs. Sophie always made Lillian a standard, regular headpiece, yet, within a few days of presenting it to The Keeper Of The King’s Fish, it had become lopsided and bushy, with various strands of wool launching from the top, bravely embarking on new adventures of geometry.

Sophie leaned across to her, “Lillian you’ve got a new goldfish coming your way, I hear.”

Lillian rolled her eyes. “Who is it this time?”

“The Admiral,” Sophie nodded her head vaguely in the Admiral’s direction, not wanting to acknowledge his stare, “Don’t look right away. I really don’t want him to think we’re talking about him.”

The Admiral, who had been looking towards them, as might have been expected, was carrying a small, bowl-shaped parcel in his hands. The giant hat was firmly on his head, and had completely dislodged a few wigs in the scuffle for places. A bald Viscount, stopping behind the Admiral, was sadly replacing his own headpiece.

“Bad news again?” Lillian asked.

“I presume so.”

The new Court Secretary called for hush and, one by one, the crowd stopped whispering. The King cleared his throat, and a few fashion-conscious courtiers did the same.

“Begin, Secretary.”

“Item number one: the King wishes to hear, from the Admiral, of recent naval developments, and why this may have changed relations with the French.”

The crowd parted in the middle, forming a wider semicircle away from the King, allowing the Admiral to move forward and face His Majesty. The King, for his own part, gripped the diamonds underneath his hands more tightly. He crushed them a little with his palms, imagining them to be the smug smile of the King of France.

“Admiral, explain.”

“Yes, Your Royal Highness.”

Sophie knew what was about to happen. She’d seen it so many times before. The Admiral was a true survivor – you had to be to get this far, she supposed – and his survival technique was often imitated by other courtiers, but rarely bettered. What the Admiral understood, and what had slowly become common knowledge around the court, was that the King needed to be given good news. Whenever the Admiral presented dangerous information – when the fleet ran aground on the Italian coast, or when the King’s barge needed urgent repair to remain riverworthy – he also presented something joyful, or gave the King a gift. If the King was told only gloomy tidings, heads tended to roll. If the King had something shiny to distract him, the messenger would escape unscathed, if not rewarded.

“Your Royal Highness,” the Admiral continued, “I have two pieces of news. First, I have, with my own eyes, discovered a new species of goldfish, one markedly similar in appearance to other fish, but, to the perceptive eye such as yours, completely superior in all respects. In honour of your patronage, I have recommended to the Keeper Of The King’s Fish,” he pointed at Lillian, who had little choice but to play along, “that, in honour of your noble patronage, by which we humble servants of yours are able to make such scientific discoveries as these, the new species of fish be named after you.”

The court clapped. The King raised his statuesque head to the skies, accepting the acclaim.

“It shall be called,” said the Admiral, “Fishicus Majesticus!”

The court clapped again. The Admiral unwrapped the goldfish bowl and handed it to the the King. His Majesty lifted the bowl to his eye.

“Ah, as you say, a superior fish. One worthy of my name, I think. Miss Lillian.”

He handed her the orange goldfish, which was swimming about dejectedly in its bowl, as if it had realized its world was forever limited to the tiny stretch of water between the bowl’s curved glass. Lillian took the goldfish with her to the side of the room. Later she would put it with its brothers, Fishicus Kingifous, Swimmingum Royalum and Flappius Kingyus. You had to hand it to the Admiral, thought Lillian, grudgingly. He really was the master of flattery.

“The second piece of news, Your Highness,” said the Admiral. “As for our relations for the French – Your Majesty remains England’s greatest swimmer! It has been confirmed.”

The King looked pleased at this unexpected news. It was not a surprise, in the sense that England’s King had long believed himself to be the best swimmer in the land, and had won numerous races against hundreds of his fellow citizens, from ambitious courtiers to peasant-born champions to condemned criminals. The King had been winning races ever since he first learned to swim, after which he decreed it to be a criminal offence, punishable by death, for anyone in his realm to receive swimming lessons. Coincidentally, the King had never been beaten in a swimming gala.

“We welcome this news,” frowned the King, “but what does it have to do with the King of France’s visit?”

“You see, Sire, greater evidence for your swimming prowess was provided by the sailors of my fleet, who were recently – a little against their wishes, it must be said – forced to take a dip in the Bay of Biscay, on account of having met the French fleet there. All of our brave, strong-willed sailors, unable to swim, perished in the Bay, thereby confirming your status as fair Albion’s strongest swimmer. The King of France wishes to meet you as a result of this nautical adventure, partly because of our slight military mishap, but mainly, I’m sure, to congratulate you.”

The Admiral, unsure whether he had quite succeeded in his speech, turned back to the goldfish in Lillian’s arms.

“You have succeeded tremendously with your goldfish, Your Majesty.”

“Thank you, Admiral. We have done well, haven’t we?”

“Yes, Sire. Oh, and I nearly forgot. Here is a pastry for you.”

The King, deep in thought, put the pastry to one side. The Admiral couldn’t tell if this meant His Majesty did not like croissant, or if the King had other things on his mind, such as the execution of Admirals. The crowd waited, utterly enthralled, to see whether the Admiral was to die. He had, after all, just led the entire British fleet to ruin against their worst enemy, the French. This sort of thing upset the King. It made him feel weak.

Sophie was sure of what would happen next. She had seen this far too many times, and the Admiral was far too skilful, damn him.

“Secretary,” started the King, slowly, “Add a new item to the agenda: to discuss the King’s choice of headwear for the upcoming visit of the King of France.”

The court murmured in disappointment. The Admiral was safe, and there would not be an execution today.

“Chief Wig Maker, your advice please.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Sophie was expecting to be called. Since the morning session of court, when the prospect of a French visit was raised, she had meticulously planned for the big occasion.

“Your Majesty will want something new. It would not be wise to greet the King of France in something previously worn – Your Highness needs to show just how magnificent England is, and for that Your Highness needs a completely new wig. Yet it would not do to be radical here. This is not time for experiment – rather it is a time for doing what we do best.”

The King nodded. “Old but new, I see.”

“I would recommend, Sire – not that you need recommendations, for you are the leading expert on these matters – a wig which shows your ability to calculate, which highlights your esteem in thought, and which illuminates your wisdom. It is crucial to demonstrate to the French usurper the full extent of your genius, so that he concedes defeat in negotiations.”

“That is precisely what I was thinking, Chief Wig Maker.”

“Of course, you have no need of my advice, Your Majesty, but I would suggest something resembling the Wise Wig.”

“The Wise Wig. A fine suggestion. Yet – We need something new, don’t we?”

“Yes, Sire.”

“In that case, make me an exact replica of the Wise Wig – from the same material, in nearly the same style – so that I can wear for the State Visit.”

“Very good, Your Majesty.” Sophie walked back to her mark respectfully. A gentle week’s work, she thought. A wig she’d made before, with the same wool, in the same style. She could be certain of success, pleasing the King with no hint of a risk. Billy could fetch the material, she could craft the wig, and everything would turn out just fine.

Things would not be so easy, alas.