The countryside was darkening, unnaturally so, yet it was only the morning. Billy’s coach, having made the long journey southwards, dragged itself through the Black Country, the coal-lands, stuttering through new, industrial landscapes-. Billy ruminated in the back. Should he wear the trousers, or should he keep them in reserve? Would Merchant Taylor be so astonished that he would immediately have a pair of trousers drawn up there and then? Or would that be playing the ace too early? Billy was suddenly glad that these were only thoughts, and that he was not speaking them aloud. It wouldn’t do to talk of cards, the game so dearly treasured by the King of France. Such words would be treachery, the kind of thing you could get executed for.
Billy decided to wear the trousers. He’d explain things to the merchant first, then show him just how brilliant his new creation was. The merchant would doubtless be impressed, make a pair that very day, then dispatch both garment and wearer to London right away. The King of France was due to visit soon, and Billy didn’t want to miss his own King’s glorious triumph over the lowly French coward.
That was settled, then. Billy relaxed in his seat, utterly confident. He was the star in the car, the real deal in the horse-mobile. He was on the coach ride to fame now. They’d all be looking for him when he stepped out the coach. He watched as the carriage pulled into Birmingham and made for the central coach stop. On a whim, Billy changed his destination. These people were so obedient, perhaps they could make things quicker for him.
“Driver?”
The driver saluted in reply. He’d been too afraid to take a look at his passenger. The King didn’t like people talking to him or meeting his eyes, so the driver had taken every care not to stare at his charge, just in case he got executed for it.
“Driver, could you take me to a different address than the central station? I want to see an old business associate of mine.”
The driver nodded and saluted again, careful not to address His Majesty.
“Excellent, thank you,” Billy said courteously. He relaxed again. The address he provided was the merchant’s own address, so that Billy wouldn’t have to change at the coach station. Much as he wanted to bask in his new-found fame, Billy didn’t want to waste any time trying to escape the vast crowds that would surely be waiting for him. Instead he’d rather just get on with things, and make his way right to Merchant Taylor’s door.
As it happened, it was a good decision. There were crowds waiting for Billy – well, not really for Billy. They were waiting for their King to show up, and, if the coach had turned up without the King, ferrying a notorious traitor instead, Billy’s trousers would have been lost forever, and the modern era might never have come to pass. On such little moments great events can turn, but the only things to turn this time were the coach’s wheels, and they rolled towards the merchant’s house.
On the face of it, the house wasn’t particularly grand. It was in an old-fashioned street, where balconies jutted out over the road, close enough for people to clamber across. As a result little light made it to the ground, creating a lawless night time in the heat of day. Bags of rubbish spilled moodily on to the narrow road, and off-cuts of meat spilled beyond the rubbish, making the dark corridor a long, festering tunnel. Billy’s coach, designed for nobility and gentry, stooped into the street, crouching beneath the balconies, and only just squeezed in at the sides, so that the coach, although moving, was almost buried in this dark cave. There was no space for both the coach and the rubbish bags, but the driver didn’t care. He was ferrying the King, after all, and any rubbish would just have to move, whether alive or dead. He did wonder why on earth the King of England was escaping the crowds for this filthy alleyway, but he knew better than to question a direct command. This was just the kind of street where criminals could hide, but, if the King was brave enough to come here, then the coach driver had to be too.
The horses had to be forced down the street. They could see very little ahead, and what they did see, they didn’t like very much. Occasionally they trampled on bones, which caused the horses to jump in alarm, and caused the coach to do so too, nearly forcing it into the balcony floors so close to the carriage roof. An occasional squelch accompanied the stench, and Billy often had to cover his ears as well as his nose.
Finally the coach drew to a stop, the driver secretly proud of his day’s work. He’d driven the King. Not only that, but he’d driven the coach right down the narrowest of Birmingham alleyways, where coaches never normally went. If it had been any other passenger the coach driver would simply have refused, saying it was impossible. It was impossible. Yet he’d managed it. For this skill the King must surely reward him. A mansion? A peerage? At the very least, a decent tip.
But the tip never came.
“Thank you, my good man,” Billy said, clambering from the coach, “God bless you.” The young courtier, still wigless, squeezed himself between the coach and the wall. He turned to the door of the merchant and knocked, paying no more attention to his driver. The driver, however, accidentally catching a glimpse of Billy as he knocked on the door, paid a great deal of attention to his former passenger.
This was not the King. That was the driver’s first thought. What a terrible mistake. All this way for a mere commoner. The driver couldn’t see who the passenger was yet, but out of a morbid curiosity, tried his best to get a look. The man – who had no wig, of all things! – was entering the house, back turned to the coach, until the house’s occupant, opening at the door, gestured to the coach, marvelling at its presence in the tiny road. The young man, the driver’s former passenger, laughed and gesticulated at the coach, rotating his head slightly in the process. It was then that the driver saw Billy’s face.
The traitor! The driver had seen the posters. They were all over the country. And the traitor was here, now, in this low Birmingham street. He’d been in the back of the coach the whole time. He’d tricked them all, and the driver had driven him all the way across the country, away from the law. He had, quite literally, been taken for a ride.
He’d been an accomplice! The driver realized, horrified, that he’d now betrayed his King. The most wanted man in England and Wales, and he, the driver, had aided a plot against His Britannic Majesty himself. Maybe it wasn’t too late, though. Maybe, if he explained himself, handed himself in, went straight to the magistrate, he could save his reputation. He knew where Billy was. He’d disclose Billy’s whereabouts. He’d lead the law to the traitor, and perhaps he’d be rewarded after all.
The driver, then, picked up his whips, just as Billy entered the house, and, leaving the closing door behind, urged his horses on, through the dark and the dirt and the smell.
The merchant greeted his guest inside the house.
“Ah, the young gent himself! It’s good to see you, sir.”
“Yes, yes, good to see you too.” Billy’s recent experiences had disinclined him from pleasantries. He had needed no pleasantries to shake off the geese. The villagers hadn’t bowed to him because of his manners. The King’s soldiers hadn’t saluted him out of ordinary respect. Billy had trousers. He didn’t need courtesy.
“I’ve got something to show you,” he grinned triumphantly, looking around him. My, this house was bare. Clearly the merchant had fallen on hard times. There were no portraits, no decorations. The interior suited the street, in that it was festering and mouldy. Small black spots formed on the ceiling, and brown trickles snaked down the walls, slithering towards the dusty floor. There was little real flooring, either: cracked pieces of dark, uneven wood crunched against the ground, and, as the merchant gestured for Billy to enter the parlour, this floor gave way to a thin layer of sand. In the context of the general décor of the dwelling this sand was obviously intended to be the showpiece, the nod to finer times. Yet it too was dwindling, bald in places, particularly around the curiously ornate table which stood in the centre of the room. A few sturdy dining chairs were placed round this table, hardly glamorous but not decrepit either, and Billy wondered why the furniture was in such contrast to the house in which it resided.
The merchant, having shown Billy into the parlour, looked perplexed. He was now harbouring a wanted traitor, a criminal who would surely be put to death as soon as he returned to London. Taylor, for colluding with a criminal, would also be put to death, were he caught. The merchant knew all this, and yet he did not turn Billy in right away. Billy was a minor courtier, and hence had money. And Billy’s money would come in useful today, the merchant thought. For the illegal activity he was planning was very much about money. Paying money to play, winning money, losing money, being reckless with money – not the merchant’s money, but other people’s. In short, the merchant was organising a card game.
In the days since the Royal decree banning French activities, the merchant had been understandably nervous. Yes, Taylor made a fair living from his trade, but he made a better, unfair living from his gambling. Now this was no longer lawful, he risked losing his disposable income, or, if he continued, being disposed of for his income. Nevertheless, the merchant wanted to pursue his card games. They were far more exciting than selling socks, and there were still plenty of people to play, whatever the King said. He just had to market his games to a different clientèle.
Taylor’s new clients were lowlifes. Disreputable crooks, robbers, gravediggers, cut-throat villains. They wouldn’t be worried about adding another little misdemeanour to their already lengthy list of crimes. Hence the merchant bought this dingy house, on a street abandoned to the poor, far away from the sombre eye of the magistrate. The criminal classes could come and go as they pleased, he reckoned. They’d pay him a fee to play, he’d keep them refreshed and happy, they’d play cards. A simple business model, and one guaranteed to earn him plenty, as long as he didn’t get caught.
It wasn’t just Billy’s money that would come in handy. As soon as Taylor found out who he’d been sitting next to that day – the notorious traitor wanted across the land – he’d made sure to spread the word through the under-classes. He knew Billy the Traitor. He’d met him on a coach. The boy had seemed pleasant enough, but then they always do, these criminal masterminds. What’s more, Billy had promised to pay the merchant a visit in Birmingham, play a game of cards or two. Maybe, just maybe, if you were lucky, Billy might just be there when you turned up, ready to play a game of cards. This kid could draw the big bucks.
So, while the merchant was a bit nervous about letting a traitor into his makeshift gambling house, he knew it was good for business. Just as long as the kid now had some money to play with. Then again, he was a traitor with a plan, so he was bound to have picked up a bit of cash along the way.
“Ports closed before you could get to them?” Taylor asked, jovially. “Only joking, sonny! I’m not one to judge. Not political, me. I’m a sim ple merchant. But it’s good to see you all the same,” giving Billy a gentle push on the arm.
Billy frowned, not understanding. He was also surprised that the merchant hadn’t already bowed down in worship. Perhaps he hadn’t noticed the extra cloth attached to Billy’s britches yet.
“It’s good to see you too, merchant. Have you noticed anything different about me today?”
Worried, the merchant stared back at Billy. He couldn’t afford to offend his star attraction. The boy still wasn’t wearing a wig. He looked quite dirty from the neck down, and there was something wrong with his breeches. There was a filthy bit of cloth, extending all the way from the end of the breeches to the boy’s ankle, and it looked quite revolting.
The merchant looked again at Billy, who suddenly looked wounded. It must be the extra bit of cloth, Taylor thought. A new court fad? No, he’d have heard about it, being a fashionable cloth merchant. Still, it was the only thing the merchant could think of, and Billy was looking more and more bemused.
“Oh, the… the britches. Whatever did you do?” the merchant asked. “I love them!” he added, hurriedly.
He’d said the right thing. Billy’s bemusement turned to gentle pleasure.
“You do?” he asked, forgetting his status for a moment, then quickly finding it again. “I know that you recognize a great fashion when you see one, merchant,” he said, more impressively this time.”
“Yes, yes, a great fashion!” exclaimed Taylor again, hoping that he wasn’t overdoing it. “It’s really… really brilliant,” he finished, unable to find a more precise compliment.
“It’s all of my invention,” Billy boasted.
“Yes, yes, I can see that.” The cloth really was filthy.
“Shall I talk you through my thought process?”
“Yes, do.” The merchant was frightened now. Clearly, this boy was a deranged lunatic. Pursued by the law, hunted by all the King’s horses and all the King’s men, the kid was only concerned with creating appalling new items of clothing. The merchant knew not why Billy had chosen to betray his King, but in the face of the utmost peril, the young man was strapping horrendous pieces of fabric to his legs when he ought to be fleeing the country. Taylor began to wonder whether welcoming Billy was really the right thing to do. Yes, he would attract gamblers, but at what cost?
“There’s a problem with the britches you make, merchant.”
“Son, I only sell britches, I don’t make them,” said Taylor, exasperated once again by his own name.
“Quite, merchant. There is a problem with britches.” He paused for effect, still slightly hurt by how slowly the merchant had reacted to the incredible invention.
“What’s the problem with britches?” replied the merchant as brightly as possible, as if it were a Christmas cracker joke, even though they hadn’t been invented yet.
“The problem with britches, merchant, is that they do not extend to the ankle.”
“But,” replied the merchant, humouring the madman, “that it was stockings are for, to keep the lower leg warm. Why extend breeches, when you can wear stockings?” He kept his voice light and conversational.
“Because, merchant, stockings do not offer adequate protection against threats. They are light and flimsy, unable to stop an aggressive predator. My garments, on the other hand, protect against all sorts of peril, accidental or otherwise.”
Oh, the merchant knew where this was going now. He’d suffered this sort of threat before, all merchants did. A thug would approach you, say that they’re goods or services offered protection, and by buying them you’d be, implicitly, buying the thug’s protection also. In later centuries people would associate this kind of behaviour with the mafia, but in 18th century England it was just an everyday transaction. Having said that, there was no hint of malice in either Billy’s countenance or his voice. Quite the actor, this boy. Far more of a threat than anyone had realised, thought the merchant, and possibly not quite so mad after all.
“Ah, I understand now,” said Taylor. “What price are you charging for the protection of your… garments?”
“Price? Ah, these aren’t for sale.”
The merchant was puzzled again. That last sentence didn’t really make sense in this context.
“Not for sale?” He tried another approach. “Very well. How much did it cost you to make them?” He was going to put a fixed price on Billy’s protection, come what may. He wasn’t really sure what Billy was going to protect him from, but he could no longer read this kid.
“Oh, it didn’t cost me anything to make them,” Billy replied cheerfully. “This is the piece of cloth you gave me back in Chester.”
That didn’t make sense at all to the merchant. Thugs didn’t reply like that. And it was the spare bit of cloth the merchant had thrown Billy in Chester. He recognized it now: decent quality material, but too ruined for commercial purposes. The boy really was mad. He’d tied the cloth round his legs and gone running off into the wilds, just like a fully-fledged lunatic.
“In fact,” Billy continued, “I haven’t found any money at all since you last met me. Didn’t have anything on me then, don’t have anything on me now. I’m here to ask you a favour.”
Oh no. If crime lords seeking protection money were bad house guests, then there was an even worse kind: penniless fugitives looking for cash. You wouldn’t get anything in return, and they’d never be in a position to pay you. Usually the money ended up going to the gallows, enjoying the best seat in the house: the fugitive’s pocket.
“What kind of favour?” The merchant kept his face expressionless.
“I can see just how impressed you are with my garments.”
“Oh, absolutely.”
“They’re called trousers,” Billy beamed, proudly. “All my own work.”
“What a fabulous name,” Taylor stated, impatiently.
“What would be really helpful, Taylor, is if – well, I know you like these trousers so much, I can see that – what would be really helpful is if you’d like to be part of my enterprise?”
Before the merchant could channel his tactfulness into a response, Billy continued.
“It’s a wonderful chance. People for centuries to come will remember your name, remember your part in it. ‘Taylor the Merchant. You remember him of course. He was the business mind, the one who turned Billy’s genius into real sales.’ They’ll be saying that, they will, centuries off.”
“I’m sure,” the merchant said. “And for what service will I be part of this story?” He was strongly regretting his decision not to hand Billy in to the authorities the moment he saw him.
“Well, here’s the deal. Can you have 5 pairs made for me by tomorrow?”
Here we go. At least there was a way out of this deal.
“Ah, I’m sorry, Billy, but I can’t help you. I’m a merchant, not a tailor, as I’m sure you’ll remember, son. I can’t make britches, let alone these… trousers.” He pronounced the word uncertainly.
“Sure. But you can have a word with colleagues, friends? I know how impressed you were by the trousers, and here’s the clincher: if you get me five pairs by tomorrow, I’ll give you 10% of my profits!”
Billy looked at Taylor expectantly, certain that the merchant would practically faint in shock at the astonishingly good offer Billy had just made him. The merchant looked back, secretly shocked at just how far developed Billy’s insanity was. Taylor looked down again at Billy’s makeshift trousers, with the dirty, ragged cloth hanging from the britches. The cloth wasn’t even the same colour as the britches were. They clashed horribly. Ten percent of zero was still zero.
“I’m sorry, Billy, but in my line of work you need to take some kind of cash payment up front. Even the greatest ideas – like those trousers of yours – can go horribly wrong. Even my most talented friends might not get the stitching right. You never can tell. Are you sure there isn’t anything in that bag of yours you can pay me with?”
Billy stared back, appalled. This was the greatest invention of its day! There was absolutely no risk whatsoever! The merchant must have no eye for a bargain at all. No wonder he’d ended up in this disgusting pauper’s house, well away from the fine streets of the swanky tradespeople. The merchant must have taken no risks and ended up making no money. Well, so be it. He’d just have to take his custom elsewhere. There must be someone else around here who could make clothing. Maybe Billy would find an actual tailor this time, and make his fortune some place else. Too bad the merchant wouldn’t be involved – Billy had liked and trusted him.
Just to show Taylor that he had no money, and hence wouldn’t be able to pay, Billy opened his bag. This was entirely thoughtless, Billy realised, as soon as he’d opened it. For, gleaming brightly in the bag’s canvas, was something of the utmost value.
The merchant’s mouth opened wide despite himself, destroying the expressionless business face he had so carefully constructed. For, sitting there in the bag, was the most magnificent wig the merchant had ever seen. He knew, instantly, that it was the King’s prize wig. The merchant quickly shut his mouth. Now that would do as payment!
“So,” he began, casually, “What about that wig there? I’d accept that in return for five pairs of trousers.”
“Oh that,” Billy replied, mortified by his mistake, “That’s not for sale.” he shut his bag as quickly as he could.
“Not for sale? But you wanted those trousers, didn’t you? Five wonderful new pairs of trousers.” Goodness, the kid really had betrayed his King. His Majesty’s finest wig, the Wise Wig, stolen by this lunatic thief. The wig would fetch a pretty penny though, and the merchant had a really infamous highwaywoman coming to gamble that night. She’d pay a very high price for something so important to the King.
“I told you, it’s not for sale, not even for trousers. It’s not really mine, actually.”
A strange attitude in a thief, that, thought the merchant. But never mind. Taylor was far more willing to play now. Maybe, if he got Billy those trousers, the boy could be persuaded to pay up with the wig later, particularly if he didn’t have any other money. Yes, the young courtier, however unbalanced, really could generate a good income for the merchant.
“Tell you what, son. I liked the look of you when we first met, and you seem an honest man, whatever scrapes you might have gotten yourself into lately. I’ll get you made a shiny new pair of trousers for tonight, if you’ll stay.” Just one pair of trousers, no need to be too generous. “I’ve got a few friends over tonight – they don’t judge either, don’t worry – and I’m sure they’d like to meet you. Stay for my social gathering and I’ll give you the trousers. What do you say?”
Billy looked into the merchant’s broad, smiling face. What a good, trustworthy man this merchant was. It’d be a pleasure doing business with him. Billy nodded.
Billy passed a few hours in the merchant’s house. The merchant wasn’t there – he’d been frantically running around Birmingham, trying to find someone prepared to make those stupid garments Billy had set his heart on – but Billy had enjoyed himself nonetheless. It was the first chance he’d had to get warm since his Welsh adventure, for coaches at the time were hardly cosy. There was nothing to do, so Billy sat in a chair and went to sleep. He still had no idea that half the country were searching for him. He didn’t know that brave English troops were marching through Wales, looking for the fugitive. He didn’t know that he was the first agenda item on the daily court meetings, as the King, angry and impatient, demanded news from his subjects on the public’s greatest enemy. He didn’t know that, right at that moment, his former coach driver had found the magistrate’s chambers, woken the venerable old judge from a quiet afternoon murder trial, and was hurriedly, almost incomprehensibly informing the magistrate of Billy’s whereabouts. No, all Billy knew about was sleep, and how to do it.
Another thing Billy didn’t know about, at that moment, was geese. If he had, if he’d entered his dreams, he’d never have napped so soundly. Those Welsh geese had harangued him within an inch of his life – it could hardly have been a surprise if they’d marched their way through his nightmares too.
It was a different story in the town of Chester.
The sergeant-at-arms, so crucial to the defence of the town, was away from Chester, searching for Billy. He and his men were deep in the Welsh mountains, unable to guard the old Roman town. A risky manoeuvre, but given that Billy was seen as the town’s principal threat, one worth taking.
Not so.
The coach stop was quiet, with a single coach parked alongside. The driver, although scared in case the great traitor should suddenly appear, was relaxed, enjoying his afternoon. He’d considered having a bit of a snooze too: it was just that kind of afternoon across England. We’ve all been there. Resolving to follow through with this mischievous plan, he’d taken a short wander around the coach stop courtyard, before ambling slowly, contentedly back towards his vehicle. A few hours before the next journey. He’d get a bit of shut-eye. This was the perfect kind of day.
That was when he saw them. Birds. They stood between him and the coach, forming a line in perfect unison, unnaturally still, their pristine, uniform feathers arched together. The geese stared at him, a hint of curiosity moving across their features, but without unsettling their disciplined stand.
The coach driver didn’t like swans. No-one did. He did, however, know a thing or two about birds. If you moved towards the with a bit of urgency, they’d fly off. Didn’t want to attack you. Humans were just too dangerous to birds. They’d fly away in terror if he approached, just as long as he didn’t show any fear. With that in mind, the driver started to stride confidently towards the swans.
They didn’t fly away.
The birds had smooth, sharp orange beaks, and tilted those beaks slightly upwards, disdaining the ground. The first bird padded slowly from left to right, lifting its beak high, treading as if on tiptoes, stretching its long white legs as thinly as they would go. The second bird followed with the same movement, in the same tempo, tiptoeing a diagonal line across the courtyard, ignoring the coach driver entirely – or so it looked. The third made the same path, and the fourth, and the fifth, and the sixth, and the seventh. Seven identical birds, with big white wings and bright orange beaks, with long feathery wings and intricate bodies, sculpted by some natural, mercurial architect. Despite their delicate wings, there was something substantial about them, the driver thought, a certain heft. In their confident struts and broadened appearance there was a flighty, malicious air of power.
These geese were angry geese, and the coach driver didn’t have any trousers to protect him.
Nebuchadnezzar, leading the diagonal, arched his neck and began to hiss, gently at first.
The second goose, the second in command, began to hiss too.
The third goose joined in, hissing louder.
The fourth goose hissed louder.
The fifth goose hissed louder still, with urgency.
The sixth goose hissed, with heart-stopping venom.
The seventh goose hissed to crescendo, with high-pitched frenzy.
Slowly, the seven lifted their wings from their sides, raising them slowly, determinedly, viciously. Nebuchadnezzar was in pursuit of his old friend’s fleece, and now the geese had command of a southbound coach.
Jezknee 