Chapter 9 – The Rule of Lawlessness
The King’s Chief Wig Maker was acting strangely. If anyone could see what she was up to, they would struggle to explain her actions. She hoped that no-one could see what she was doing. If anyone came into her beloved wig workshop at this moment, they would either think she was completely mad, or, worse, they would organise a jury right away.
The problem was Billy’s disappearance. Not so much Billy himself, but two things that accompanied him. Firstly, the Wise Wig. Sophie needed to work out how to get the wig back, or how to replace it, before the King learned about the loss of his favourite headpiece. Secondly, there was the little matter of the coach. Billy and the Sophie had been on the coach together. The King’s agents were bound to make enquiries, and someone would surely have noticed them. It would not do to be seen with a fugitive, especially when that fugitive faced a death sentence.
So that was why Sophie was destroying some of her workshop. Not too much, mind – she was far too proud of her wares for that – but just a little bit, enough to make her story that much more credible. The cheaper wigs tended to be hidden from view, so she couldn’t do too much with them. Instead, she toppled a few wig stands in the main clearing, and cleared a few prominent shelves with a hasty swipe of her hand. There wasn’t much time. Someone could knock on the door at any moment. She threw a few wigs on the floor, taking care not to step on them, only creating the illusion of chaos, not the reality. Something would have to be done about the best wigs in the workshop, too, otherwise nobody would believe her. Thinking, she paused, ruminating amid the chaos and tumult of an overturned workshop, and, seconds drumming, she tried to solve the problem. Whilst thinking, she remembered the front door. It had to be open! With no time to lose, she turned the handle and dragged the door open, as quickly as the great frame would move. She returned to the centre of the clearing, carefully stepping over debris, and pondered again.
Footsteps could be heard on the stairs. She couldn’t tell whether they were approaching, as they were too distant, but she knew that a solution was needed right away, just in case a bystander came. Sophie looked around, trying to work out a way of hiding the best wigs. The footsteps slowly grew louder. Someone really was coming closer. She needed to solve the problem now. She ran silently, hurriedly, tiptoeing, around her workshop. Ah! Against the back wall, near the back door beside the servants’ stairs, lay a large case. Did she have time?
The footsteps were close now. Sophie could hear two people outside.
“The door to the wig workshop is open.”
“So it is. How peculiar! I’ve never seen it open before.”
“I don’t think the King’s Chief Wig Maker is the open sort, somehow.”
“No,” the other agreed, whoever he was. Sophie didn’t recognise the voices, but wasn’t particularly curious. She was too busy stuffing the case – as carefully as possible, given the lack of time – with a few of her best creations. She noted, with a smile, that a couple of the Admiral’s own bespoke wigs were going in the bag. Maybe she could lose them altogether somewhere, just to spite him.
The people outside had clearly paused outside the workshop.
“It really isn’t normal for the door to be open.”
“No. Do you think we should check what’s happened?”
“Won’t she be mad at us?”
“She’d be madder still if we didn’t. And I’ve always wanted to see what goes on in there.”
They paused for a second more, and that gave Sophie her chance. Sealing the bag and picking it up, she lumbered towards the back door. The bag was heavy and full of wigs, but she could just about carry it, and she creaked the exit door open. Just when the curious passers-by started to enter the workshop, Sophie slipped through the back exit, and rushed down the stairs, taking care not to clatter the steps too loudly.
Her urgent escape took her all the way down to the kitchen, still hauling the bag full of valuable wigs. She had to get rid of the bag, and she had to escape notice until she’d done so. Peering into the kitchen quarters, making sure no-one was around, she quickly found a remote corner of the scullery, and dropped the bag, pushing it deep into a dark, forgotten crevice. Glancing around again, she left the kitchen. Nobody was about, and perhaps, just perhaps, her plan was working.
On the other side of the country, over in Chester, the sergeant was continuing his investigation. Having learned that the traitor was travelling by coach, he was examining the coach stop, interrogating the staff there.
“When did he leave the coach stop?”
“Earlier.” The woman in charge of the Chester coaches was not the talkative type.
“How much earlier?”
“Earlier earlier.”
The sergeant attempted to assert the force of the English Army. “Madam, you are addressing an Army officer. I must request that-”
Her stare interrupted him. Shaken, he try to reassert himself, but found himself unable to command any sort of authority. Humbled, he continued to ask questions.
“Where did he go?”
“Wales.”
Ah, now they were getting somewhere.
“Where in Wales?”
“The Welsh part.”
Perhaps they weren’t getting anywhere. He tried a different line of questioning.
“Is he coming back?”
“He might be.”
“Oh?”
“I don’t know his mind,” she replied scornfully.
“Has he booked a return coach?”
“Aye.”
“When?”
“Now. Arrives shortly.”
The sergeant, were he not disciplined in the true English way, would have shown great emotion. His reputation as a master interrogator would not be diminished. However uncooperative a witness, he could still find out what he wanted. He nodded civilly to the woman and walked outside, where his troops were waiting.
“Men, our target will be returning shortly. Prepare your muskets, attach bayonets, and take up positions.”
Billy, by this time, had nearly reached the Welsh village three miles from the valley. The cautious tread quickly became a triumphant stride. Once Billy realized that the geese weren’t immediately behind him, he relaxed. Stopped following a while ago, he reckoned. They must have thought the bullet had hit and the body was in the bracken. He smirked to himself. He’d beaten the geese! He’d escaped the valley! Now it was time to return to Chester, to London, and get back to safe, warm civilization, where he could tell everyone of his adventures.
He’d forgotten one thing. Or, rather, he’d forgotten two things, but they were really the same. First of all, he’d forgotten all about collecting wool for the second Wise Wig. Secondly… well, the story tells itself.
The village came into view over the hill. The villagers appeared too. Billy wondered whether they’d all been standing there since he left. The couple, the young boy, the father, the old woman, they all stood there, looking at nothing in particular. Billy wasn’t looking forward to this. He had two pieces of dirty cloth on his legs and his map was torn. He must look a right state. These Welsh villagers would judge him even more than before.
It’s bizarre, thinking about it, that Billy cared about the opinion of these rural strangers, whom he’d never really met, just as much as (if not more than) the opinions of his fellow courtiers. But, such is life, and such is a person who wishes for the approval of others, that they must wish for the approval of all, and not just those they care about. On that note, what happened next came as a great shock to Billy, albeit a pleasant one.
The first people he came to were the husband and wife. Billy expected a stony stare, or perhaps a look of disgust. Instead, something entirely unexpected happened. The husband doffed his cap. The wife curtseyed slightly, awkwardly, as though she wasn’t used to it. Before Billy could reflect on this surprising politeness, the father doffed his cap too, giving a little bow. The boy tried to hide behind his father’s leg again, but the man ushered the child forward, gesturing for the little one to bow. The old woman was no longer giving him a look of eternal damnation, either. She was still making the sign of the cross, but now a look of beatific sunshine broke through her darkened clouds. Billy continued, in a dream-like state, to his return coach, which was waiting for him at the far side of the village.
The driver, the same gruff one who’d given Billy the gun, showed the courtier a new-found level of respect. His cap, too, was doffed, and he half-bowed, half-curtseyed to Billy, without uttering a word. Billy, mystified, clambered into the coach. He needed a little time to process this new turn of events. Everyone was respecting him. They were doffing their caps. They were being pleasant. He wasn’t used to this. No-one ever showed him respect, not in the court, not in the provinces, nowhere. Maybe the villagers and coachman were showing the respect due to a member of His Majesty’s Court. Probably not, though. Besides, they’d have showed that respect when he first turned up, and they definitely hadn’t. No, that couldn’t be the explanation. And Billy was less presentable this time. He was a bit dirty, and there were two bits of cloth round his legs…
Ah! That was it! The cloth. That was the real difference. Cloth round both his legs, right down to his ankles. It must look sensational, for the villagers to respond like that. Perfect sartorial elegance. Billy hadn’t been thinking about style, he’d been thinking about survival, but clearly his new look was captivating.
He’d done something. Something that impressed people straight away, a style so powerful that anyone could see it, even the least fashion-conscious peasants. If the peasantry were so enthralled, then Billy couldn’t imagine what the sophisticated men and women of the court would think. Maybe they’d faint clear away, overwhelmed by sheer flamboyance. Billy fondly pictured everyone at court, all the Barons and Viscounts and Counts, falling to the floor, astounded. The young courtier smiled. This was it! This was his moment! The first great moment in a great career. His breakthrough discovery, invention, or whatever.
They were halfway to Chester by now. Billy suddenly knew his calling. He would have to champion these garments. He’d name them, advertise them, get a few better pairs made. They were his ticket to success, his baggy, flappy ticket to success. All he needed now was to develop his prototype, sand them to a smooth edge, improve on the scrubby, good quality material with something of pristine perfection. Luckily, he now knew someone who could help: the merchant. His recent travelling companion might not be able to tailor them himself, but Billy betted that the merchant would know someone who could. When Billy arrived in Chester, he thought, he’d try to get to Birmingham. Quite how he would the pay the fare he didn’t know, but he’d find a way. Luck seemed to be on his side today. Billy relaxed into his seat, now that Chester was drawing close.
He didn’t know he was wanted. He didn’t know there were a troop of soldiers at the main coach stop, waiting patiently for him, muskets at the ready.
Over at the King’s court. Sophie was slowly making her way up the main stairs. She’d left the kitchens, wandered round the grounds for a bit, and shown her face in the dining hall, just to give herself a bit of an alibi. Not that an alibi was really necessary, because she wanted the incident to look like it happened the morning Billy left, and so she’d been telling everyone about her wonderful mini-break in Hertfordshire, and hence didn’t need an alibi for today. Nevertheless, it was best to remind everyone that she was about and not in her workshop, just to make everything look a bit more legitimate.
Anyway, she was near the top of the stairs now, approaching the wig workshop, where a large crowd of onlookers had gathered. So large a crowd, in fact, that they were jostling at the door for a look in. Sophie prepared to adjust her expression accordingly. First, puzzlement. Then, as she approached the crowd, worry. Next, when the door came into sight, a kind of trembling, open-mouthed fear. The crowd suddenly noticed her, and their mouths opened too, unsure of how to tell her the bad news. A second passed, and another, whilst the crowd left responsibility to each other, to someone else, to no-one at all, before some brave soul finally spoke up.
“Chief Wig Maker,” he started, “Your workshop…”
“What about my workshop?” Sophie replied, looking suitably horrified. It was particularly odd, as she knew exactly what was coming. She felt a strange mix of emotions: triumph, at being ahead of the game, and impatience, for knowing exactly what was coming, eventually.
“Your Workshop, Chief Wig Maker, is…”
Get on with it.
“It’s… been burgled.”
Sophie fainted, bundling to the floor in a whirl of wool and corsets. Too much? No. Sophie was aware that she wasn’t known for dramatic behaviour. Yet it felt appropriately decorous, conveying the natural horror a wig maker would feel when her wigs were burgled, whilst ridding her of the need to construct a really lifelike facial expression. It was the best option, even if it was out of character. She lay on the ground, eyes shut, almost enjoying the uncomfortable, uneven floor.
Courtiers rushed to her aid. Nobody had smelling salts – none of them would, the unprepared fools – but a few of the Barons hadn’t washed their feet in quite some time, and this, Sophie decided, definitely did the trick.
“Help her up, help her up!” called a Count, secretly jealous. He wanted the attention, and, to his unconscious satisfaction, received his fair share, fellow courtiers following his instruction. Sophie was raised to a sitting position, reeling from the shock. Courtiers kneeled, crowding close, examining the latest episode of the drama.
“Help her away,” advised the Count again, under the influence of new-found influence. “She shouldn’t see this. Let her work up to it.”
Nobody listened, however. Taking Sophie away would be an anti-climax now. They wanted to see her full reaction to the burglary. Baronesses whispered helpful advice in her ear.
“Take cod oil!”
“Bring her a fan!”
“Does anyone have a Waking-Up Wig?”
Sophie, obviously, didn’t believe in any of these things, least of all a Waking-Up Wig, which was just a marketing strategy she’d once used to flog off a few second-hand hairpieces at full price. Instead, she slowly roused herself, looking more determinedly around her, and straightened her wig to its rightful place. She looked straight ahead, blinked, and raised her eyes a little. Quickly, she snapped her attention back to normal.
“Let me see.”
“Are you sure? It’s not-”
“Let me see.” She said this with such certainty, such moral courage, that the onlookers felt completely duty-bound, and curious, to let her see the extent of the robbery. Pushing off onlookers, she stormed to her feet.
“Show me.” The crowd parted, watching nervously as she walked between them. Sophie jostled her way to the door, already knowing what she was going to see. The crowd were excited, but Sophie remained entirely calm.
The door was open, and she rushed through.
“My wigs!”
There they were, her wigs, or some of them, at least. Lying on the floor, scattered hastily from shelves, clinging desperately to wig stands, like mariners in an Atlantic storm. The work table had been overturned, and its tools lay scattered over the clearing. Wisps of wool, forlornly separated from their former purpose, lay sadly on the ground. Some wisps had clumped together, trying to create a wig anew, and regain some vestige of their former dignity. But it was no use. Some wigs remained in their usual place, wondering what all the fuss was about, or smugly contemplating the jotsam that lay before them, and congratulating themselves on their own miraculous escape, due no doubt to their own extraordinary strength and character.
Sophie tottered through the wreck, swooning and dazed. She staggered from puffy wig to powdered headpiece, hands on her cheeks, sombrely mourning, apparently. After circling the clearing a few times, picking up the occasional wig and replacing it on a shelf, she turned, slowly, unsteadily, to face the crowd. No wig could hide the hardness in her eyes.
“Who did this?”
No-one spoke. People in the crowd started catching each others’ eyes, then trying to avoid each others’ eyes, then looking, worried, at the floor. Sophie asked again, louder.
“Who did this?!”
Someone mumbled something. Sophie looked at the mumbler, who mumbled a bit more confidently.
“We don’t know.”
Sophie stared at the mumbler, who stared again at the floor. Sophie’s eyes narrowed some more, and the crowd, as one, had the same idea. They left, the ones at the front moving first, squashing those behind them in the doorway. Silent apologies, hurried shoving, and they squeezed through, one great big ball of nobles, scurrying away from the scene of the crime.
They all left, that is, except one person.
Billy’s coach clattered along the River Dee towards Chester. They were on the outskirts now, an unremarkable coach making an unremarkable journey, as it must have looked to passers-by on the road. Billy, however, knew better. This coach contained an Inventor, one about to make his fortune.
He didn’t know why he decided to call them trousers. The idea just came to him, in that coach, approaching Chester. The word held no significance. It came not from Old Norse. No Norman King had mispronounced some Saxon epithet, and hence given rise to it. Billy simply liked the sound of the thing. Trousers. Of course, some etymologists will always try to find a history for bits of our language. Someone has come up with some theory, I dare say. But the fact of the matter is that they’re wrong, and Billy had spluttered two syllables and put them together. Trousers.
Anyway, the town of Chester came into view. The great western gate opened for the coach, because Chester’s gates usually did open in that period. The era of great Welsh rebellion was long done. The fortifications of Chester no longer had any real use, except to stand there and look handsome in the weak morning light, which they duly did. The coach rumbled towards the gate, hopping on the stones, prey to sudden jumps which could take it right into the roof of the gate. Happily, no jump occurred, and the coach jolted its way through the opening, which was high enough to tolerate the vehicle’s jitters. Slowly, unevenly, the coach made it through the gate and into the town. It passed along a central street, rumbling its way to the coach stop, its final destination. One more corner, which it turned, and there it was, the coach stop…
Muskets. Lots and lots of muskets. Men were holding the muskets. The guns were pointing at Billy.
Well, not exactly at Billy. More at the coach in general. Billy couldn’t be seen. He perched in the back of the coach, wondering, at first, why the driver had stopped, and what all the fuss was about. His understanding grew, however, when he noticed the nuzzle of a gun out of the side window, and then the arm of a man holding that gun.
Highwaymen! Billy frantically searched his pockets for some loose change, hoping that he could fob off the robbers. Most of these villains couldn‘t tell a pound from a penny, or so the Barons at court said. There were no pennies in Billy’s pockets, or pounds, for that matter. What was in the bag? Nothing. Just a map. Billy began to panic. If the highwaymen found a gentleman – as Billy fondly supposed himself to be – without a single penny, then that would be it. In their fury, the highwaymen should surely dispose of him.
Billy began to panic. It had not occurred to him that the centre of Chester, a large town, probably did not contain many highwaymen, and if it did, they were unlikely to rob coaches right outside the coach stop in the middle of the day. Excusable, in some ways, for it is difficult to retain composure in such an unknown situation, but clear thinking might have eased the tension.
A loud knock on the door. “Open the door, in the name of the King!”
The low swine, thought Billy. In the name of the King! Traitors! To take the name of His Royal Highness, the monarch of the fair land of England, in such utter contempt as this, to usurp the authority of the throne, simply to rob poor gentleman travellers of pennies and maps, was as diabolical a scheme as Billy had ever come across. And he’d seen a few, after all, having carried out the Admiral’s duties from time to time. But this was too far. Nevertheless, Billy complied, mechanically, with the order, struggling with the door latch until it finally swung open. What happened next astonished him.
The Sergeant had been waiting for Billy. After knocking on the door, informing the occupant of the authority he had to demand entry, in line with correct procedure, he stood back and waited officiously, patiently, for the villain. The traitor would be inside. The fugitive would be brought to justice. The whole chase had been speedy, efficient, and expertly led. There was a promotion in this, for sure. The door opened sharply. The Sergeant looked forth in triumph, but recoiled with the greatest shock of his life.
He had been expecting, there in the cabin, a condemned man, a court underling who had betrayed his country. This was not what he saw.
An aura beamed from the cabin. A sheer presence, a quiet majesty. This was no ordinary man, no fugitive, no despicable rebel. This was the very face of wisdom, right there, alone in the cabin. It was not that the face expressed deep knowledge: it expressed a little confusion, if anything. No, thought the Sergeant, wisdom was deep inside this person, right to their very being. An understanding evidenced, illuminated, by the headpiece above that face, the magnificent, stately woollen wig which enthroned the passenger’s features.
Like the Welsh villagers, the Sergeant had heard of the Wise Wig before. Like the Welsh villagers, he knew that the wig belonged to one, and only one man, the wisest man in the kingdom. The Sergeant had never before had the opportunity to meet His Britannic Majesty, but he quickly deduced that the King Himself must be the occupant of the coach, sitting there before him. Face-to-face with the King – the greatest honour that a mere soldier may have…
The greatest honour, that is, in normal circumstances. These, however, were not normal circumstances, and certainly not the sort of circumstances one would wish to meet a King. His Majesty was famed for many things throughout the land, and one of those things was his love of justice, his love of retribution for crimes done. A criminal could not go free in the land, it was said, warmly. Wrongdoers would be struck down by the King’s mercy. They would be executed fairly, without a cowardly appeal. The people feared the wrath of the King, as was right and proper. And now the Sergeant would incur that wrath.
The soldier had just marched to the King’s coach with a troop of armed men. He had knocked on that coach and demanded that the door be opened. This was outright rebellion. This looked like the culmination of a plot to assassinate the King. This was treason in its purest, most diabolical form. It made Billy’s actions, wherever he might have got to, look almost innocent by comparison. No, the Sergeant was now committing high treason, and would surely die.
It had been a mistake, a complete mistake. He had been acting only in the King’s interests, serving the King by rooting out traitors. Yet here he was, about to die, about to lose his life, simply for a misunderstanding! This was the lot of the soldier, thought the Sergeant, as he bowed his head in reverence and sank, kneeling in hurried devotion to his king. With one hand, and still kneeling, the Sergeant gestured for his men to lower their muskets and stand down, which they did.
The Sergeant kept his eyes to the ground, hoping desperately to be spared his life. He, too, failed to think clearly about the situation he was in. he knew that the King had been in London to order Billy’s arrest. He also knew how far London was from Chester, and that the King could not possibly have arrived in that time. He knew also that the King, with his ambition and majesty, would never consent to travel in an ordinary vehicle such as this. The Sergeant, however, was too overwhelmed by awe, by the stateliness of the Wise Wig, and hence could not reason away his predicament.
It is fair to say that Billy was astonished. The courtier watched the Sergeant kneel, he saw the soldiers lower their muskets and salute also. Billy had forgotten all about the Wise Wig. All he remembered – incorrectly – was that the villagers had admired his new garment, his trousers, and had show the greatest respect to him. He could only assume that these men of war were doing just the same. Billy, then, clambered from the carriage, saluted the soldiers, and marched briskly past them, trousers adhering smartly to his legs.
That settled it. It was time to find the merchant. The man would know someone who could smarten up Billy’s trousers, make a copy or two. Clearly, Billy had great skill in hosiery, but it wouldn’t hurt to employ someone to do it, if only to save Billy time. Smiling, believing all the world to be on his side today, Billy strolled to the manager of the coach stop, who was bowing too.
“When is the next coach to Birmingham, my good woman?” Billy asked the coach stop attendant.
A coach immediately pulled up alongside. A driver jumped out. Following the example of the Sergeant, he and the coach stop manager bowed low, saying not a word. Billy thanked them with a studied nod.
“What perfect timing!” He paused, suddenly worried, “How much will it cost?”
Startled, the coach driver indicated, with a movement of his hand, and without making eye contact, that it would cost nothing at all. Billy, gratefully, alighted the Birmingham coach, waving goodbye to the soldiers and attendants. The driver instantly alighted too, and the vehicle was off, speeding towards Birmingham.
A few minutes later, Billy realised his head was itchy. He started to scratch his temple and found the Wise Wig there. In horror, he tugged it from his head.
“That could have been close,” he said, almost inaudibly, too quiet for the driver to hear, “They might have thought I’d stolen the King’s wig, and then I’d have been for it!”
Billy did not cast a thought back to the morning’s earlier events. He forgot entirely about the Welsh villagers, and he made no attempt to bring the geese to mind. If he had remembered the villagers, presumably he would have picture them standing where he left them: pious old woman, protecting her homestead from evil forces; the couple, young in their love and their land; the young boy, clinging to his affectionate father, trusting him to guard against unfamiliar countries beyond the garden gate.
That picture was no more.
By the afternoon, the village was silent, unnaturally so. No old lady tended to her garden. No couples sat snug in their living rooms. No families congregated around the hearth. They never would again.
All that remained were seven figures, and they were departing too. Seven geese wandered slowly, deliberately, away from the hamlet, where only the last, sad wisps of smoke continued to breathe.
Nebuchadnezzar and his troop were in search of the Wise Wig, and they were following the River Dee to town. The angry geese were coming.
Jezknee 