After another full day of bumping and rumbling, hours of clattering horses and endless howling of wheels, the coach finally arrived in Chester, to the passengers’ stomach-settling relief. The coach slowed to a halt, the horses having done their work, and the passengers alighted, one by one, the quill faced courtier departing, forever, to goodness knows where, the vacant Lieutenant absent-mindedly wandering down an alleyway, off to pursue whatever empty dreams and schemes made up the rest of his years. Driver and horse together trotted away, off to stick their noses in pints or troughs, as appropriate, and prepare themselves for the next day’s labour.
This left Taylor and Billy alone in the centre of Northgate Street. The light was fading, and the grand old cathedral stood to the left, half hidden by fledgling spring trees, who were stretching in surprise at their new green leaves. The dusk cooled on the right of them, drifting past the town Exchange, over Billy and Taylor’s heads, and its half-light floated past the cathedral and on, gliding towards the hills and valleys of North Wales. The stern municipal building frowned over the silent, empty street, casting disapproving glances over their neighbours, the garish, criss-cross Tudor homes.
“So this is it, Chester,” said Billy.
“Taylor.”
“No, I…”
The merchant laughed. “Just joking with you, son. Yes, here’s Chester. I’d buy you a drink, but I’ve got trade to attend to. Need to get my deals wrapped up before the end of the day.”
“Is that what you’re selling?” asked Billy, pointing to the cloth, no stained a little with red spots of sherry.
“This? No, wouldn’t get much for a single strip. It might buy me an ale or two, but it’s not worth the passage to Chester! This bit of cloth’s to show how good my textiles are, so prospective buyers can get a good idea of what I sell. Feel the texture on that!”
Billy took the cloth between his fingers. It was strong and smooth. He made appreciative noises.
“Fine cloth, this,” the merchant said, “Though it wouldn’t fetch me much if I were to sell it, not in this state.”
Taylor, glancing at the length of cloth, realized that it wouldn’t do for prospective buyers to see spots of sherry on the material. He’d have to remove the stained part, and find something else to do with it. In fact, he had an idea. He tore the strip in two, width-ways, and handed the half with sherry splatters to Billy.
“Actually, sir, here’s a gift for you. With compliments from Master Taylor, finest cloth merchant in the land, or at least the luckiest.”
Billy didn’t quite know what to say or do with the cloth.
“Thanks?”
The merchant looked at him right in the eye, smiling quizzically.
“Well, I just said I could buy an ale with this, didn’t I? And you’ve arrived in a new town, dusk falling, nobody about, with no money” – Taylor didn’t mention the reason Billy had no money, which was, of course, that Taylor had won it all from him in a game of cards – “and you need a pint. So here’s a chance to improve your salesmanship. Find somebody, exchange the cloth for a pint, and get yourself a glass.”
Billy nodded, understanding.
“Good luck, Billy. When you’re done with your wool-gathering, come see me in Birmingham. I’ll teach you the French tricks.”
Billy, worried by the mention of the French, quickly checked over his shoulder to see if anybody was listening. No-one was there and, by the time Billy had turned round again, the savvy merchant was off towards the nearest pub, looking for his custom.
As it happened, Billy didn’t exchange that cloth for a pint. The young man had never been a fan of public houses – too rowdy for him, and beer made him queasy. Instead he resolved to find his inn – pre-arranged, obviously, by an overworked court aide – and settle down for his night, planning his route for the morrow. Isolated Welsh valleys are hard to find, and Billy had not spent much time in London checking his route. No, he would settle down, candle lit, map and instructions in hand, to study his journey along the River Dee.
Making his way through a crowded inn, ignoring legions of odd, far-flung travellers, who doubtless had rip-roaring, intrepid stories, some of which might have enriched this narrative immensely, Billy selfishly passed them, eschewing friendly looks, and ascending the stairs to his room. Map open, Wise Wig on the bedside table, cloth folded over the chair, Billy rested his head on the pillow and immediately fell asleep.
The night passed, darkness a peerless black, a sky empty of stars. Cloud had settled over England’s sleeping pastures, shrouding all manner of dreams and dark deeds; robbers sneaking from earthy cellars, smugglers hauling barrels from ocean caverns, stowaways peeping from the corner of a Channel deck. Liaisons were achieved in lightless fields, conspirators plotted in sleepless town squares. The night chattered and chirped across all England, from the red rocks of Torbay to the craggy coasts of Northumberland, with a thousand tiny crimes, each making a disordered, restless mockery of slumbering peace.
But no such schemes affected the Admiral. His plots grew only in sunlight; they rooted and flowered in the open day. He woke to a London dawn: having reached home, exhausted, he’d taken a day to recover from coaches and puddles and misplaced wigs. Having had a long rest and prepared himself for the fight, he woke early, soon after dawn. The Sun rose over the City, beaming from the East, over the farms of Spitalfields and rural Bethnal Green, waking the town. Although England did not know it yet, this would be a crucial day in its history, the most crucial in our story, one which would change the country for good, and usher in the relentless march of the modern world.
The Admiral had a reason for waking up so early this morning. There were conversations he needed to have, and they could not be overheard. His scheme, his ploy to exact the most humiliating revenge on Billy, would start, as such schemes often do, in the kitchens of the palace, and to those kitchens he sailed.
Billy, on the other side of the country, woke sharply too, but for very different reasons. He had another journey to make, one which filled him with dismal feeling. His feeling was not against Wales, as such – for he bore no ill towards that particular land – but against the dangers he might encounter within it. For Wales in the 18th century was not the peaceful, poetic haven that it is today. The mists and valleys of North Wales lay a long way from the King’s power, even if he had chosen to exercise it responsibly, and so lawlessness abided through much of the mountainous region. Billy dressed, took his wig, his cloth and his shears, and headed for the coach, trembling slightly.
There was another reason for Billy’s nervousness. He’d never sheared a sheep before. He didn’t really know how you did it, although the big scissors gave him a clue, of sorts. He didn’t know whether the sheep would mind, or whether the sheep would make it easy for him. What’s more, he’d never been formally introduced to a sheep. He’d seen them on the hillsides, of course, but he hadn’t conversed with one, or asked about its life. Billy might be a confident young man, but even he could recognize when experience was helpful. Sophie’s presence would have made all the difference, he reckoned.
Billy, the only passenger on this coach, was greeted by the driver, who was carrying two large bags. Wordlessly, the driver handed one of the bags to Billy.
“What’s this for?” Billy asked.
“Highwaymen on these roads,” the driver replied, gruffly. “You might need it.”
Billy peered inside the bag. It was a musket. He nearly dropped the bag.
Billy had never touched a musket before. Of course, he’d spied them from afar, in soldiers hands on the parade grounds, but he’d never seen one up close, and had certainly never held one. It was an ugly old thing, not the subtle tool of the craftsman. Instinctively Billy didn’t like it, but took it anyway. He was sure he’d be able to use it, if needed, and started waving it aimlessly at imaginary highwaymen.
The driver took the reins and the coach set off, leaving houses and cobbled roads behind, following the River Dee upstream, into the dark valleys of Wales. They passed brooding forests, empty of people, hopefully. They navigated winding streams without encountering nationalist bandits, or opportunistic robbers. They climbed hills and sped into valleys, horses shaking at the uneven ground, hooves disturbing pebbles, rolling stones and dust from their stuttering path. Little danger befell them, except the ever-present danger that silence brings, or the huge, subtle menace of the quiet River Dee, but nevertheless Billy felt peril ahead, below and behind. There was menace in those trees, the sort of anxiety that comes with being lost deep in an unknown place, far from home. He could not have found his way back, he thought, and when they finally reached the small village that was the coach’s destination he was grateful for some sort of way marker.
The coachman gestured for him to leave. He did. Looking around the village for a second, working out the route to the valley, he walked into the Welsh morning, starting out on the three mile trek to the heralded valley, where Sophie had once been, and a Wise Sheep had once ruled.
Meanwhile, all the way down in London, the court’s morning session had begun. The Admiral hastily whispered something in the ear of the new court secretary as the nobles took their places. The court formed as usual, and the secretary was called forward.
“Secretary, first item of the day.”
“Our first item is an update on arrangements for the visit of the King of France.”
Several courtiers spat at the very mention of His Gallic Majesty, forgetting that they were in the middle of an extremely crowded room. Several new rivalries and blood feuds were unintentionally created that day as a result.
Lillian stepped forward to give her update. She had a coach to catch that day, and wanted to get this over with quickly.
“Sire, we have preliminary arrangements. The King of France will arrive with his retainer, you will both bow at exactly the same time, you will shake hands, you will both bow at exactly the same time again” – she had been eager to restrict the ceremony to two bows, lessening the chance of a diplomatic incident if one bowed before the other – “You will change into your swimming costume-”
The King had of course been briefed in detail about the French King’s challenges, but nevertheless he still looked a little smug at the thought of this certain victory.
“Has Our new swimming costume been arranged?” he asked Lillian.
“Yes, in the colours of England and your lineage, just as Your Majesty asked. The colours of England and the King’s lineage were not well disposed towards one another, but she decided not to mention that.
Lillian continued. “After the swimming contest – which Your Majesty is sure to win – Your Highness and the French King will change to finer garments-”
“Has my Wise Wig been crafted for the game?” the King asked Sophie.
“The wisest of wool is being gathered as we speak,” Sophie replied promptly, from the side of the room. The King nodded.
“It had better be ready in time,” he cautioned. This was the closest the King ever got to approval.
Lillian took up her narrative again. “Then you will play cards. Once the game has finished, Your Majesty will shake hands with the French King, and all will retire.”
“Apply the Royal Seal to the proposals,” the King agreed, wanting to be out in the fresh Spring morning too. “Second item, Court Secretary.”
“The second item,” read the Court Secretary aloud from his notes, clearly having forgotten what the second item was, “is… French pastries.”
The Court gasped as one. A particularly sensitive Viscount fainted, knocking another Baron over like a domino.
“French pastries?” asked the King, crescendoing. This looked like the end of yet another Court Secretary. Nevertheless, the nameless official pressed on.
“A witness has come forward.”
“A witness?”
“Yes, Sire, a witness to the crime. They are prepared to testify.”
“What are you waiting for, then? Witness, come forward!” In his eagerness to prosecute he nearly fell off his throne, managing to catch the chair’s rubies just in time. “Witness!”
Geraldine made her way from the very back of the hall, where she had been crouching, unseen. When the Admiral arrived in the kitchen earlier that morning, she knew today would be her big break. The opportunity to speak to the King. The first time to demonstrate her potential. The start of a great career, the kind that brings untold power and wealth and more power. But when the Admiral told her what she would be speaking about, it seemed too good to be true. Meet the King and send Billy to his execution! Billy had always had all the luck. Well, not any more. Now it was her turn.
She jostled past the nobles, no-one attempting to move out the way. After a long struggle she emerged at the front of the crowd, taking care not to step into the throne’s circle, stopping right in front of the King. It took her slightly by surprise, a weary traveller turning another bend to find the sought-for natural wonder right there.
He wasn’t all that magnificent, she thought. A medium-sized man on a big throne, making him look like a slightly less than medium sized man. His face scowled more than the portraits, making him look more concerned with the smell of the room than lofty matters of state. He gripped the rubies on his throne tightly, seeking reassurance. On the other hand, he did smell fragrant, which was always a plus, and his crown and wig fitted perfectly, making him look prepared.
The King, for his part, glanced, irritated, at a red-headed young girl, who he was quite ready to forget in an instant.
“Speak.”
She spoke, “Sire, it is a pleasure to meet Your-”
“About the pastries,” he interrupted, cutting her off mid-simper.
“The pastries. I saw who did it, Sire.”
The audience waited expectantly, blood-lust rising. Sophie, who, at the side of the room, had been paying little attention until that moment, suddenly started to take note. Sophie, obviously, knew that the Admiral had provided the pastries. She also knew that a servant would not accuse the Admiral publicly, not in a court session. His word held sway with too many people: if it was a servant’s word against his, it wouldn’t be the Admiral who met his end. Either this servant had really compelling evidence against the nautical man – and it really would have to be compelling, given that the word of a trusted man usually outweighed any sort of evidence in this court – or she was going to accuse someone else. It was the latter possibility which alarmed Sophie.
For the past couple of days she had, naturally, been avoiding the Admiral. For once it had been easy to stay out of his way, and that worried her. Usually he could be counted on to appear at the most annoying moments – when she was working on the most technically demanding wigs, or when she was meeting a wig deadline, for instance. It occurred to her that her conduct on the coach, although absolutely necessary, was slightly rash, when viewed another way. The Admiral must have, sooner or later, realized that it was not her on the coach, but Billy; and the Admiral must have sworn revenge. Against her, perhaps, against Billy, almost certainly, but either way, her interests were in peril, given that Billy was fetching Wise Wool for her at this very moment. The Admiral, the chief player in the French pasties game, could well be behind this so-called testimony, and that was dangerous for Sophie.
“Who was the culprit, servant?” asked the King.
“It was a low assistant called Billy, Geraldine declared.
That wasn’t too hard to guess, thought Sophie. Geraldine must be enjoying herself.
Geraldine spoke louder, gaining confidence. “He’s a low traitor, Your Majesty. I’ve heard him in the kitchens, plotting against you, saying all sorts of treacherous things, telling us all about France and how much he loves pastries and gambling and moustaches, and how the French King should invade Surrey.”
“And you saw him do this evil deed?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. He had this big basket under his arm, a big wicker basket, it was. It smelt awful, a really French smell. I asked him what was in the basket, but he wouldn’t say. Then a little, a little – oh, I can’t say it, it’s too awful – a little croissant fell out. He said he was going to take them all to the King, as an insult. And he said something about going swimming too. Then he gave the basket to the Court Secretary, and ran off. We haven’t seen him for days. No-one knows where he’s gone. He could be with the Fr… the Fr… the French!” She covered her face and bent double, constructing herself into carefully-rehearsed sobs.
The crowd roared in outrage, sympathy and jingoism. “What a brave servant,” a Baron was heard to cry, “Punish the villain that did this to England!” Some more nobles spat in disgust, blossoming future feuds and misery for their next of kin.
The King remained magisterial, composed, dignified in office, as he was meant to. “Thank you, servant. You did the right thing.” Courtiers nodded at the King’s wisdom.
“Can anyone else vouch for her?” the King asked, looking at his audience. Once again, as had happened so many times before, his eye just happened to meet the Admiral’s own steady gaze.
“It is true, Your Majesty,” called the Admiral, in a clear, ringing baritone.
That was enough for the King. “Very well. Have this – Billy – found, and executed.” With that he swept from his throne, robes wagging in companionship, and made his way out of the room.
Uproar. Courtiers were chanting “England, England!” A normally-sedate Countess was trying to sing the national anthem, but couldn’t get past the first verse. Barons attempted to outdo each other’s patriotism, some throwing their wigs in their air from national pride, others calling for all out-war with an ever-increasing cast of countries.
In this downpour of national identity, only one figure stood aloof. Sophie needed a plan, and fast. Billy was fetching pristine wool for her, wool she needed. Billy was also in possession of the Wise Wig. If Billy was captured before she could receive either her wool or the wig, questions would be asked. She might not receive the new wool. Billy’s ownership of the Wise Wig could be passed off as common theft, but her ability to protect such a valuable object would be queried, and her failure to report the crime would be widely condemned. Another possibility, possibly even worse, was that Billy would flee the country. Of course, he wasn’t the best strategist, and so might not work out how to leave, but he would gain all sort of powerful allies from a concerted attempt at capture, and they could help him escape. If that happened, then neither the new wool nor the Wise Wig would come back, and she would have the smallest amount of time to resolve the situation for herself. The King must have his wig. If he did not wear the Wise Wig, Sophie might never wear a wig again. It was time to plan. She joined the remaining courtiers, who were horsing from the courtroom, and she schemed busily.
Nobody had noticed Lillian sneak out. She did have a coach to catch, after all.
Jezknee 