THE MAN WHO INVENTED TROUSERS: Chapter 12 – Two Chief Wig Makers!

Geraldine was having fun.

Having put on Sophie’s wig, she’d gone straight to her old acquaintance, the Laundry Boy. He hadn’t noticed her yet: his back was to her, and he was scrubbing some clothes. Odd, thought Geraldine, that he should actually be doing some work. Odd that he knew how to do any work. He was probably doing it wrong, somehow.

As it happens, her instincts were right. The Laundry Boy had mixed the whites with the reds, and was now trying to wash the pink from His Majesty’s fifth-best tablecloth.

“Good morning, Laundry Boy,” she declared impressively. She stood on tiptoes, in a vague attempt to reach Sophie’s lofty heights.

The Laundry Boy turned around. “Wh… bl… Chief Wig Maker.” this was unusual, he’d never seen her in the laundry room before. “How-”

“Laundry Boy, what are you doing?” Geraldine had lowered her voice to disguise it, not that Sophie talked in a particularly low voice.

“Ma’am, I’m, I’m…” he desperately tried to hide His Majesty’s fifth-best tablecloth behind his back. “Nothing, mi’lady.”

Nothing?” she boomed.

“Nothin,” he confirmed, shaking slightly.

“What kind of low servant does nothing?”

He had no reply to this.

“Very well, Laundry Boy, I have a job for you.”

“A job?”

“A job, ma’am,” she insisted, correcting him. Being powerful was fun!

“I’m sorry, Ma’am.”

“You should be. I have a job for you. I would like you to put your head down the loo.”

He blanched.

“Now, Laundry Boy!”

“Yes, ma’am.” Taking care to stuff the tablecloth deep inside the laundry basket, he scuttled off to find the nearest loo. Once he was safely out of earshot, Geraldine rumbled with laughter, to no-one in particular.

Geraldine was only just discovering the mischief she could play around the palace. She wondered, idly, how many times she could make the Laundry Boy put his head down the lavatory in a single day, and she speculated that it was probably double figures. Even as normal Geraldine she could usually persuade him to do it once a day: it was amazing how many times he’d fall for the old ‘they’ve found gold in the toilet’ story. An eternal optimist, our Laundry Boy.

But Geraldine knew the mischief wouldn’t stop with the Laundry Boy. Sophie had power over far more important people than mere servants, and Geraldine wanted to exploit this to the full. Leaving the laundry room, she boldly flung open the door to the central hall, and strode out into the palace’s central corridor.

There were few people about, disappointingly. The last court session had ended much earlier that afternoon, and only a few courtiers stayed around once their daily duties were done. None of them had meaningful employment at the palace, but that was only part of the reason they didn’t hang around for the evening. The longer you stayed at the palace, common wisdom held, the more likely to interact with the King in some way, and the more likely you were to interact with the King, the more likely you were to find yourself up for execution.

So Geraldine only found a couple of people in the palace’s main corridor. An antiquarian Duchess was shuffling away from the dining room, but Geraldine decided she wasn’t worth it. A congregation of Counts circled a door a few paces down the corridor, mumbling amongst themselves, shutting out the world. These, thought Geraldine, were a much more interesting group to mess with.

“Good afternoon, sirs,” she declared.

They fell silent, respectfully.

“Is that last year’s wig, Count?” Geraldine asked, spearing her eyes at one specimen of Count. He shook awkwardly.

“And as for you, Count…”

Before she could continue, however, there was a tap on her shoulder. She turned round haughtily.

“And who are you?” she demanded. She suddenly realized that she had come down from her tiptoes to turn around, and hastily bobbed up again.

“Begging your pardon, Chief Wig Maker, but I’m the new Court Secretary.” The new Court Secretary gulped at having to say his title. It was a permanent post in the gravest sense.

“Ah, of course.”The previous post holder had been executed twenty minutes previously for pronouncing ‘café’ in the French way. “What do you want, Court Secretary?”

“The King requests your presence in the court room, Chief Wig Maker, where you will be joined by the other chief aides. His Majesty desires that you bring him the completed wig for tomorrow’s diplomatic proceedings. Half an hour before dinner, in the court room. Good day.”

“Very well, Court Secretary,” the fake Sophie replied, a little daunted, and the latest Court Secretary departed to his duties. Geraldine hadn’t been prepared for this. She’d assumed Sophie’s appearance to have some fun at other people’s expense, to exercise some power, not to have power exercised upon her. She left the group of Counts and pondered down the corridor.

It suddenly struck her that she was in a bit of trouble here. Impersonating someone else by wearing their wig was a serious offence, and being discovered could put Geraldine in a very difficult position. If the impersonation were found out, she would also be accused of stealing all the wigs from the wig workshop, almost certainly leading to immediate death. She’d have to see the impersonation through now: maybe she’d still get the chance to play a few tricks on people, but she’d also have to produce the King’s new court wig as required.

Where would the wig be? Geraldine couldn’t know the answer, but the wig workshop was clearly the first place to look. Turning her tiptoed sneak into a tiptoed trot, she walked as quickly as she could to the wig workshop stairs, and made her towards the top floor, inelegantly stomping over the velvet red carpet in her haste. A Viscount bowed slightly as she passed, but she ignored him. A Duchess curtseyed, but she too was ignored. All that mattered was getting to the workshop, getting that prize wig, and getting back down again in time for the meeting with the King.

Someone else, however, was ascending towards the wig workshop equally rapidly. The footsteps were behind her on the stair, accompanied by the puffing harmony of an out-of-breath courtier, unused to any physical effort so demanding as climbing a flight of stairs at pace. Geraldine didn’t turn, she didn’t have time, but the puffer was catching her, despite her own speed. She moved even more quickly, irritated at the wheezing she could hear behind her, almost tripping up the stairs. The wheezing grew louder and higher. The bannister behind her squeaked. The squeak was loud and close and near, and she knew she’d have to confront whoever was following her.

“What?” she barked, turning round to face the puffing man.

It was the Admiral.

---

England’s great naval hero was, indeed, on a voyage to the wig workshop. Whilst he really had meant to give Sophie enough time to reflect and ruminate on his proposal properly, he was a very impatient man. He’d never had much cause to be patient: he was so used to his own way in his own time that any departure from his desire seemed devilish and unnatural. Assuming that he would get his own way whenever he wanted, he’d decided to hear Sophie’s acceptance sooner rather than later.

The only obstacle was that dreaded flight of stairs. The world, succumbing to his will, had made it rather easy for him. He’d seen Sophie near the bottom of the staircase and smiled a little smile inside. She’d probably been waiting for him all this time, just to make it a little bit easier for him. How thoughtful of her. She would make an excellent wife.

He considered shouting to her, but even he decided that shouting would be improper and unromantic for a man of his stature. Instead, he followed her as she stepped up towards her workshop. Oh, what an elegant tread she had! Light and airy on each step, so light, in fact, that he was finding it very difficult to catch her. He breathed more heavily, but he’d run once in his youth, and was confident of ascending the stairs without losing too much steadiness. Maintaining composure, one hand on the balustrade, he soon found himself, after a few dozen steps, close behind her, ready to begin the conversation.

Her sudden yell surprised him. She had only been a couple of steps above him, and the noise startled him. It was fortunate that he’d already gripped the balustrade, for the shout nearly caused him to lose his balance and tumble down the steps he’d so determinedly climbed. He looked up at her, the woman he’d proposed to, and felt an odd combination of contentment and apprehension. She was bound to accept him, of course, but she hadn’t yet, and it was always best to have these things confirmed.

Geraldine looked at the Admiral, who was very red faced, and tried to hide her panic. He was bound to recognise her. Sophie and the Admiral had both been courtiers for some time, Geraldine knew. Plus the Admiral was always leering at Sophie, or staring in her general direction. The naval captain must know her features very well by now. Come to think of it, after the recent travails with French pastry, he was bound to recognise Geraldine too. This was it, the moment when she got caught. It had been fun, she reckoned, but probably not worth execution, not really.

Yet, somehow, he didn’t recognise her. Perhaps it was the fact that Geraldine was standing two steps above him, looking for all the world as tall as Sophie. Perhaps the wig alone was enough to fool him, being one of Sophie’s most distinctively Sophie-like wigs. Whatever the reason, the Admiral hadn’t learned his lesson from the coach encounter with Billy. He grinned at her.

“Good afternoon, Sophie.”

She could smell his pea-souper breath from a whole two steps away.

“Good afternoon, Admiral,” she replied, in her best Sophie-like manner. Even calling him ‘Admiral’ was a risk. Geraldine had no idea how Sophie addressed the Admiral, or what tone she took with him.

“I’ve just been informed we’re to meet the King before dinner,” he said pleasantly, as if he actually enjoyed meeting the King.

“Yes,” Geraldine replied. She wanted to get this conversation over with as soon as possible. She was stunned that he didn’t recognise her – it could only be a matter of time before he realised he was talking to someone wearing Sophie’s wig rather than Sophie.

“Do you have the new wig ready?” he asked, as if she’d forgotten something very trivial.

“Oh yes.”

“What is it made of?”

What a stupid question.

“Dragon hair.”

A stupid question deserves a stupid answer, thought Geraldine, who came quite close to sticking her tongue out at him in defiance.

“Dragon hair? That’s a new one! Did one of the servants fetch it? Where does it come from?”

“Dragons.”

The Admiral was at a loss to respond, so Geraldine replied to herself.

“Surely, Admiral, you must know precisely what countries dragons live in, from all your brave sea voyages?”

“Oh… oh yes, yes.” It had been a long time since the Admiral read the ‘D’ section in the dictionary, which described dragons as mythical beasts. Even if he had remembered, he would have also remembered not knowing the word ‘mythical’, which came far later in the book.

Geraldine decided enough was enough. She had a wig to fetch, and this conversation needed to move.

“So, Admiral, what did you want to talk to me about?” she asked impatiently.

“Well, Chief Wig Maker, I was wondering… I just wanted to know… was wondering-”

“Yes?”

“As to our little conversation earlier, the little talk we had, you know-”

Geraldine had no idea, but she wasn’t interested in finding out.

“I do know. What about it?”

“So, so, your answer to my, my little question…”

Geraldine had no idea what the question was, but it couldn’t have been very important. She might as well just agree.

“Yes, yes, very well.”

His smile broadened. It was so nice to have these things confirmed.

“Good.”

“Yes. I’ve got wigs to make,” said Geraldine, trying to convey Sophie’s towering authority, “I’ve got wigs to make. Good day.”

She strode – or tiptoed hurriedly, like a bouncing marsupial – towards the wig workshop at the top of the stairs, careful not to turn around and look at the departing naval officer.

The Admiral, for his part, gazed after her, admiring her confident, easy manner. She did have a wonderful sense of humour. He would be the envy of the entire court. Things would have to be put in place over the next few days – notices in the papers, the buying of a ring, wedding arrangements – but these were administrative procedures to delight in. As his new fiancée disappeared at the top of the stairs, the Admiral turned and began to totter back down, seeing fair weather ahead at sea.

High above the Admiral, Geraldine soon reached the top of the stairs. The game was still fun. Exhausting, but fun. Yes, she now had to meet the King dressed as someone else, which was almost certainly an executable offence, but she’d already fooled several people, so it couldn’t be that hard. It was the best game of make-believe she’d played in ages. That exchange with the Admiral had been masterly. Fooling even him, the arch-strategist of court politics! All she had to do now was grab the wig, wherever it was in the workshop, chat with the King – something she’d already got a taste for, and looked forward to again with excitement – and return the wig before anybody noticed. Easy.

Geraldine strode up to the workshop door as if it belonged to her, which of course it did, in a way, and gave it a great big pull. The door creaked open, slowly, deliberately, and Geraldine was there, in the place England’s wigs are made.

But she got something she didn’t bargain for. Sophie. The real Chief Wig Maker was standing right there, in the middle of the workshop.

---

Since returning to the workshop, Sophie had been sitting and waiting. The King of France would arrive the next morning. The King of England would have no majestic wig to wear, depriving His Majesty of a major psychological advantage before the diplomatic negotiations. Sophie would undoubtedly get the blame, unless the King believed the wig to be stolen. There had, apparently, been a robbery of the workshop. So far, so good. However, many of the wigs were neatly wrapped up in a big box in the kitchen, close to the workshop’s secret back stairs, hinting, possibly, that it was an inside job. Someone had found that box. If they came forward, all could be lost. If they didn’t, or if the wigs turned up safely, Sophie might still live another week. Sophie, then, sat and waited.

She’d been surprised that the King hadn’t asked to see her yet. It was the day before the big event, and he wasn’t usually the most trusting of monarchs. He’d normally demand to see the wig several times before the day, just to check it and fondle it and coo at it. Not this time, apparently. Admittedly, Sophie had always provided the right wig on time. He might just have learnt to trust her. Nevertheless, it was fairly puzzling.

So, when the workshop door creaked and groaned, and the big old wooden doors shimmered open without so much as a knock, Sophie’s attention picked itself up and brushed itself down. Who on earth would storm in – well, creak in – without so much as a knock?

That was when the Chief Wig Maker met the Chief Wig Maker.

Sophie stood up and walked slowly from her stool, open-mouthed. The other Chief Wig Maker, wearing exactly the same wig, mimicking the exact same posture stood open-mouthed back. Sophie walked towards her double. Her double walked towards her. Sophie blinked in astonishment. Her double blinked in astonishment. Was this a dream? Some kind of great mirror? Sophie scratched her nose. Her double, unthinkingly, scratched her nose too.

Everything Sophie had done, the double had done. Sophie stopped and stood still. The double stopped and stood still. Yes, it must be some sort of reflection. Just to make sure, just to make absolutely sure, Sophie raised her right arm and started patting her head. With the other arm she rubbed her stomach in great big circles.

“What in God’s name are you doing?” asked Geraldine the double, forgetting her status for a moment. Sophie jumped several inches into the air, briefly losing all composure. Geraldine, again forgetting herself, giggled, then remembered who she was, where she was, what exactly she was doing, and fell utterly silent, more from self-preservation than respect.

The situation was, in the tiniest flash of a second, back to the usual hierarchies of 18^th century society.

“Take that off.” Sophie hadn’t shouted, hadn’t barked, but this made her authority all the more potent. Geraldine, her gleefulness turning to fear, slowly removed Sophie’s wig, and Sophie was no longer looking at her double.

“Geraldine.” There was no longer any shock in her expression, just ruthlessness. “Geraldine.”

She’s deciding what to do with me, thought Geraldine. It was like being a spider in the sights of a snake, which was ready to devour the spider whole. That is, if snakes eat spiders. Do they? Geraldine reckoned they did.

“Geraldine, where did you get that?” Sophie’s voice was soft now, tuneful, almost pleasant. Geraldine wasn’t going to be fooled, however, not that easily.

“Oh, I found this in in a box.” There were times when the truth was best, because the other person knew it too.

“Where was this box?”

“In the kitchen cellar, at the back, in the corner.”

“In the corner?”

“Yes.”

“That seems unlikely.”

“It does, doesn’t it?”

It was definitely Sophie who put it there, definitely, Geraldine thought. I know she put it there, she knows I know she put it there. But, all the same, who’s going to be believed?

Sophie had a decision to make, and made it very quickly. There was too much to risk by handing Geraldine in. The whole story could come out, or some doubt could be raised about her version of events, and the story wasn’t perfectly coherent anyway. Besides, Geraldine would be much more useful as an ally, however unwilling. Sophie looked at Geraldine’s rude, defiant expression for a moment longer, then spoke.

“Did you steal the box?”

“No.”

“Do you know who stole the box?”

“No.”

Sophie paused a moment again, and spoke more quietly.

“What have you done since putting on that wig?”

“I walked here from the kitchen, that’s all.” Geraldine timed it just right, with just the right level of detail. There really was no need to tell Sophie about all the conversations she’d been having. After all, the Chief Wig Maker might change her mind.

Sophie couldn’t tell whether Geraldine was telling the truth or not. Yes, she would be more useful as an ally. She continued to speak quietly.

“I expect to see that box outside the back door of this workshop.”

“I hope it gets returned there,” replied Geraldine, understanding.

“I hope it does too.”

Geraldine backed towards the door, taking her own wig out of her pocket and putting it back on her head, leaving Sophie’s wig behind.

“Oh, and Geraldine?” Sophie’s voice had become her usual tone, more formal and officious.

“Yes?”

“I’ll need a servant to do a task or two once the French visit is over.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“|Good. That will be all.”

The big door creaked open for Geraldine, who disappeared from sight. Sophie, left all on her own, breathed a sigh of relief. That box had better appear. At least there were no more of her own personal wigs in it.

THE MAN WHO INVENTED TROUSERS: Chapter 11 – The Merchant Again

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 18^th 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.

THE MAN WHO INVENTED TROUSERS – Chapter 10: The Thief

Sophie might have known that the Admiral would stay behind. She hadn’t noticed him in the crowd, but he was always difficult to notice in crowds, and he seemed to like it that way. No, he’d been looking for an opportunity to walk into the workshop and poke his nose around for ages. Today was finally his opportunity, and he was clearly relishing the chance.

As for the Admiral himself, his time back in London had been eventful. For a while it didn’t look like it was going to be. Nothing much was scheduled, and, having bumped into the Baron and the Count, the Admiral quickly discovered himself to be well behind on his reading. The Count had made it all the way to P in the dictionary. Hurriedly, discarding his plans to work a little more on the frigates of his naval scene, the Admiral rushed home to his own copy. Furious, he skimmed some pages of the weighty tome, burning out two good candles in the process. His efforts were rewarded, however, for he read all the way from O to S, giving him a decent lead over his adversaries.

Unsurprisingly, not that many words stuck with the Admiral. He smiled at some of his old favourites, like ‘naval’, ‘nautical’ and ‘quarterdeck’. He grimaced at some of the more distasteful ones, like ‘sea’, ‘serf’ and ‘stowaway’. He pretended not to see those banned or disregarded by the King, like ‘pastry’, ‘swimming’ and ‘society’.

Despite the competitive nature of his reading, the Admiral did learn a few new definitions. In particular, he discovered two new words. Firstly, ‘responsibility’, which made him feel an odd sort of wounded pride. Secondly, and of more relevance to this story, he’d learnt the word ‘sleuthing’.

There had always been a subtle nuance to the Admiral’s strategies. Yet he had never really appreciated the role of investigation or enquiry up until now. A whole new tactical approach opened up with the dictionary definition, one which could go well beyond the kind of reactionary self-defence he had formerly practised. He could now discover secrets, interrogate witnesses, and hence learn new information about people and places, knowledge he could use to bargain and barter. That was precisely what he was up to now.

“Good day, Miss Sophie.” He smiled his most charming smile. He knew he could be very charming.

“Good day,” she said stiffly. It wouldn’t be easy to escape this conversation. She couldn’t very well say she needed to be somewhere else. The wrecked workshop demanded her attention. Besides, she didn’t want to leave him alone in the workshop. Goodness knows what he might do to the place. Instead, she forced herself to look right at his lopsided leer.

Before continuing, he remembered to ask her how she was. That was the done thing. “How are you today, Sophie?”

“I’m well.” No detail, she thought, don‘t give him anything to talk to you about. “How are you?”

“What a charming question! I’ve had a splendid morning. I’ve been engaging with some of the latest literature, you know.” That was bound to impress her. He knew that women liked intelligent types, he thought to himself, stepping over the scattered remains of her life’s work. “Samuel Johnson’s latest. You’ve read it, I’m sure?”

Sophie picked up one of the cheaper wigs from behind the worktable. “Oh, I’ve glanced through it,” she lied. She had a general rule with books: if the author couldn’t execute her, then she wouldn’t read their book. Unfortunately, her principles hadn’t saved her from spending a long afternoon with the King’s own effort at literature, a ghost-written, 600-page epic about an English monarch who conquered the world through sheer majesty. It hadn’t been the King’s idea – he assumed that everyone knew about his royal bearing – but some particularly inventive courtiers had paid for the work from their own pockets.

“Yes. Anyway, how are you? Oh no, I’ve asked you that already. To business. Or, rather, pleasure. Did you enjoy your coach trip?” he asked.

“My coach trip?” Sophie frowned. “Which coach trip would that be? I haven’t been out of London for a while. Too many wigs to make for the new season.” She inconveniently forgot her story about going to Hertfordshire.

“Your recent coach trip. The other day.”

“You must be mistaken-”

“I’m not mistaken, my dear. I just so happened to be down at the coach stop myself the other morning, looking to see when I could next visit my beloved English Channel-” that was a lie, thought Sophie. He’d never willingly gone to the English Channel in his life. It reminded him too much of his job – “and I saw your name down on the sheet!”

“What sheet? I haven’t been to the English Channel recently.”

“Oh no, it was a different coach.”

Somewhere far away a clock chimed, in the way clocks chime when no-one’s saying anything. Sophie had a quick, instant decision to make – bluff or no bluff? She decided, with the tactical instinct of a true courtier, to bluff.

“Oh” – she remembered her story – “do you mean my quick trip to Hertfordshire? I took a little time away from the city. Relaxed in the countryside. And now I’ve just got back to find this,” she cast her arms helplessly at the room. “Do you know who could have done this, Admiral? Can you help-”

“No, not Hertfordshire,” he interrupted, not listening to the rest of her tale. “Chester.”

“Chester? I haven’t been to Chester recently either. Certainly not the other day. You must mean Hertfordshire.”

She should have known that her story wouldn’t work on the Admiral. He understood the pressures of power too. At this rank you didn’t go for relaxing visits to the countryside, however short. When you got back your enemies might have arranged for your death sentence. No, you had to be on hand to stop the plots. There weren’t any holidays from power.

“Your name was on the list for the Chester coach.”

She looked bemused. “Well, that’s the first I’ve heard of it! How bizarre.”

“Yours was not the only name on that coach.”

“I imagine more than person would take the public coach, yes. What’s your point?”

She knew what the point was. He knew what the point was. She knew he knew she knew what the point was. Nevertheless, they still had to play.

“Billy’s name was on that coach list too,” he said quietly.

“Oh.”

“Oh indeed.”

She paused for a second. The colck, far away, chimed again. “Have they got the traitor yet?”

“Not that I’m aware of. But that really isn’t the issue here, is it?”

“Isn’t it?” She knew there wasn’t much point now, but had to keep going, or lose face.

“The names – both yours and Billy’s – were in your handwriting.”

Another pause. “What are you accusing me of?”

“Accusing? I am merely pointing out that a traitor appears to have escaped London on a coach ticket that you signed for. Make of that what you will.”

He wasn’t leering now, and that was suddenly much worse, Sophie thought. He was rather grave, in fact.

“Well, my writing must have been forged then. This is outlandish. Who can have done such a thing? Still, at least this tells us that the traitor – or a close associate of his, for there could be any number of them – is a master forger too. That might be an important clue.”

The Admiral hadn’t really been listening again. The now-tattered workshop, with its beauty washed up against the shelves, contrasted with Sophie’s own beauty, he remembered. She looked even more elegant in the ruins of this place. Somehow, for some reason, this moment of understanding gave him that flicker of confidence he had so desperately been lacking in this whole affair.

“Sophie, whilst I am here, may I discuss another matter?”

Those words might have calmed Sophie. If they had been spoken in any other tone of voice, they would probably have been slightly soothing, even if uttered by the Admiral. Yet they were said in such a broken, cracked attempt at affection, that she was suddenly far more afraid.

“Um, you may?”

“Thank you. Sophie, seeing you in this predicament, this-”

Even with the appropriate confidence, the Admiral still wasn’t really sure what to say. Nevertheless, he pressed on.

“Well, anyway. Your mishap reminds me of your extensive personal charms. You may well know this. With your feminine guile and fashionable ways, you are probably well acquainted with the ways of men,” he quickly suppressed a burp, “but, nonetheless, I shall be forthright. I have long admired you, and would seek to make you my wife.”

He held up a finger, staying her voice should she blurt out her feelings. He didn’t need to, since she remained mute.

“I do not wish for an answer now. But tell me soon, I pray.” he smiled his charming smile again, and somehow failed to see the repulsion which Sophie, despite herself, now decorated her features with. Nodding rather than bowing, he turned and made for the door. Remembering, at the last moment, his other subject, he turned again, just before leaving.

“Of course, in my affection I shall protect your honour. Whatever you may be accused of, whatever accusations concerning the coach may be made, I will remain your champion.”

Turning again, forgetting to bow, he left the workshop, respectful and proud, admiring just how gallant he’d been.

The Admiral genuinely hadn’t made the connection between the two parts of his conversation with Sophie. He hadn’t walked into the room intending to propose. He’d walked into the room intending to get an advantage over a dangerous court rival, and he happened to propose to his beloved at the same time. Their being one and the same person was pure circumstance, as far as the Admiral was concerned, and the timing, if he had understood the magnitude of what he’d just done, would, from his perspective, been completely coincidental, at least to his conscious mind.

Sophie had noticed the connection, however. Blackmail. That’s what it was, impure and simple. Marry me and you won’t get executed. And, for once, she didn’t know what to do. The wigs lay around her, an artificial wreckage that was becoming all too real. She had accidentally aided a traitor, or so it looked. They all believed that Billy, arrogant, stupid Billy, had somehow clubbed more than one idea together and tried to betray his country. It was his fault, his stupid fault. Now she had the worst choice of all. The Admiral or death. If she didn’t marry the fake seafarer then he was bound to betray her trust, and that would be that. The Admiral or death.

She didn’t blame the Admiral as such, not for the death threat. Execution was just something you used to your advantage in the court. Those that knew how to use the King’s habit of killing off his subjects prospered, and those that didn’t, well they just got executed. She herself had always been a true grandmaster of the game, and she did not resent someone for playing it also. No, she simply resented the consequences of the Admiral’s tactics.

Half an hour had passed, while she thought, in a moment, as it so often does when someone is truly worried, or in trouble. The wigs still lay around her. She tried to put aside her worry. Strategy. One action at a time. Put together a plan, do each little bit of the plan, and get through it. That was the way. So, trying to think only of the task ahead, she picked up her wigs, her pieces of wool, her tools of the trade, and stared putting them back in their rightful place. A fairly easy job, given that she been fully in control of the workshop’s dismantling, but it was something to get on with, to achieve. Soon the workshop was back to something approaching normal. Wigs were missing, and she made sure they were clearly missing, but they were downstairs in the case, waiting patiently for her. She’d go and get them, find somewhere better to hide them.

Sophie, having brushed up the floor with a broom, walked to the front door, not quite able to discard the Admiral’s threat from her mind, and locked the great wooden entrance, testing it to make sure. She paced to the back of the workshop, door safely locked, and sneaked on to the back stairs, heading for the kitchen basement, where her wigs were. She tiptoed firmly down the stairs, sliding her hand slowly along the balustrade, pressing her feet into the stairs beneath her, trying not to make a sound.

She realized, only when walking down the stairs, that it had been quite a risk to leave the wig box in the kitchen basement. There’d not been much choice – there had not been much time to hide the wigs before the crowd rushed in – but the kitchen was hardly secure. All sorts of people would be passing in and out of the pantry and scullery, and the box was not locked in any way. There were a few priceless wigs in there: none of them were quite the Wise Wig, but there would be some angry customers, least of all the Admiral…

Come to think of it, he hadn’t noticed that so many of his own wigs, the ones created for him, were missing. He didn’t seem to have noticed that any were missing, in fact. The thought just hadn’t occurred to him. Sophie wondered whether all the courtiers were like that. No-one had actually mentioned that any particular wigs had been stolen. Instead, the crowd had been busy watching the spectacle, the performance, and hadn’t observed any real details of the burglary. Maybe much of the act had been for nothing: even the disappearance of the Wise Wig, the most famous wig of them all, had gone unnoticed. In some ways it made the whole strategy easier, because it gave Sophie complete freedom to declare what was taken and what wasn’t, but it now made the removal and concealment of many of her most valuable headpieces an unnecessary risk.

Sophie was nervous, then, and more nervous still as she approached the kitchen basement for the second time that day, though she took care not to display any emotion, just in case someone showed up. She cautiously peeked into the pantry, checking no-one was there – no-one was – and, remaining watchful, she glided through the basement, towards the dark corner where she’d left the trunk. Nobody showed up still, and Sophie’s only enemy was her own beating heart, insistently reminding her that the wigs might not be there, that they might have gone, that someone might have taken them.

It wasn’t likely though. Sophie only left them there an hour or so ago. They were probably still in the corner. Once Sophie collected them, she could safely drag the box back to her workshop, clear the remaining mess away and hide the wigs somewhere else, or put a few back on the shelves. The plan wasn’t sorted, but it was clear enough, for now. She finally reached the dark corner of the kitchen basement.

The trunk wasn’t there.

Sophie checked the corner again. She looked further into its darkness. She traced her finger along the wall at the back. She peered along the sides of the floor. It definitely wasn’t there.

Sophie looked round the room. She walked all the way around its sides, following each wall, checking every little inch of it. The trunk of wigs wasn’t against the left wall. Panicking, the Chief Wig Maker leapt to the other side of the room. The box wasn’t against the right wall. It wasn’t in the middle, or round the sides, out of sight. It had gone. It had most certainly gone. There was no way she could have simply missed it. It had been removed. It was gone.

Now Sophie was finding it hard to breathe. The valuable wigs. They’d gone. They weren’t where she’d left them. Someone had taken them. Not only had the Wise Wig gone, but her attempts to cover herself had led to many of her favourite creations disappearing too. It was her fault for being so thoughtless, and there was nothing she could do.

If Sophie had been in court, talking her way out of an execution, or fighting a court rival, she would be utterly cool and collected. No anxious thought would be going through her head. It would be the simplest situation – just action, behaviour: no thought. But this was different. There was no-one to argue against, no strategy to counter. She used to have a box – now she didn’t. Many valuable wigs, made for the richest, most powerful people in the land, had been stolen. Suddenly this wasn’t fake, make-believe, it was real.

In one way, she would be fine. The thought slowed her heart slightly. Her workshop had, apparently, been burgled. She’d hidden many of her best wigs so that people would think they had been burgled. Now that they’d actually been burgled, well, she didn’t have any explaining to do. They might belong to powerful courtiers, capable, if they worked together, of destroying Sophie’s own power, but those courtiers would assume that the wigs had been robbed in the workshop burglary, as Sophie had intended. No, she wouldn’t be blamed, thankfully.

There was a new problem, though. Somebody had all those wigs. They had the headpieces of the rich and powerful. The thief now had options. Sophie, trying to think calmly and clearly as she left the kitchen by the back stairs again, thought about the ways they could be used. They might be sold on, for profit. Even worse, the thief might alter them, attempt to re-craft the headpieces. Sophie couldn’t bear that. Her beautiful creations, mangled by some shoddy, amateur designer.

Worst of all, the thief had power, a power that the fake workshop burglar would never have had. The thief took the trunk from the kitchen, not the workshop. They knew that these expensive wigs had been deposited down there in the basement, away from the workshop. Maybe they believed the wigs to have been left there by a robber, hastily hiding plunder from the workshop, but more likely, since it was so near the back stairs, the thief would surmise that Sophie left them there herself. An inside job.

Sophie’s secret, then, was not safe, and neither was her power. The wigs were gone, and she had no choice but to return to the workshop, and see what terror might strike in the next few hours.

---

That terror, as it happened, was in the form of a kitchen assistant.

A few minutes earlier, Geraldine passed through the kitchen basement. It was another day, and her rise to power was not going as she’d hoped.

Geraldine assumed, after meeting the King and being a key witness, that she would be the court favourite. Gifts would fall from the sky. Great banquets would be held in her honour. Countesses and barons and dukes would praise her for being the star, the one who brought down a traitor, and would beg for her attention.

It hadn’t gone that way. Instead, she’d been sent back to the kitchen, back to peeling spuds. Of course, she still had a bit of leverage over the Admiral, but his power only disappointed her. The only thing he seemed powerful enough to do was save his own skin, and that wasn’t something Geraldine was particularly interested in. Oh, and he seemed able to command food at will from the kitchens – hence the pastry scandal in the first place – but Geraldine could already steal food herself whenever she felt like it. She’d just have to find another way of rising through the ranks.

And, as Geraldine walked through the kitchen basement, looking for the second bag of spuds, she found another way. A great big box stood in the corner. This was a surprise to Geraldine. Usually it was the same old dusty kitchen, the same old dirty basement. But today there was a box there.

Probably nothing, she thought. But Geraldine wasn’t the type to ignore a curiosity, and she walked up to the box, checking that no-one was around. She lifted the lid.

Wigs. Lots and lots of wigs, all folded neatly, wrapped up elegantly in protective paper. At first, Geraldine thought they were rabbits. That, although still very unusual, might have made sense in a kitchen basement. But wigs? They did not make sense. Geraldine blinked, just to make sure she saw the same thing a second time around. She did. They were wigs.

Slowly, Geraldine started to understand, at least a little. She knew there had been a burglary in the wig workshop – that news was spreading round the palace. These must have come from that workshop, been a part of the robbery.

But they didn’t look stolen. Or, if they were, the burglar must have had a lot of time, and cared a lot about the safety of the wigs. They really were very neatly wrapped. If the burglar was going to sell them on, then they would want to keep the wigs safe. Yet it still didn’t make sense. Why would the burglar leave the wigs here in the basement, rather than finding somewhere much more secure for them? They couldn’t have been rushed – they’d been able to wrap all the wigs up individually and press them neatly into a box, so they can’t have expected to be disturbed. And even if they had been disturbed and forced to rush down the back stairs – Geraldine knew that the wig workshop exited on to the back stairs – then they would have planned a much better place to hide the box. If you’ve got enough foresight to bring a box and wrap each wig carefully, then you’re going to plan an alternative means of escape, or at least somewhere to leave the box if something went wrong. No, this didn’t feel like the work of a burglar.

Who, then? The only person with access to the wig workshop was Sophie, and she’d have no reason to leave the box down here, would she? Nevertheless, the box was here, and since Sophie was – to Geraldine’s knowledge – the only person who could have put it here, it must have been the Chief Wig Maker herself.

Whereas other courtiers, such as the Admiral or Sophie herself, would have continued this line of enquiry, seeing what they could extract from it, Geraldine’s response was much simpler. Bored of thinking, she unwrapped a wig or two, just to take a look, naturally. They were pretty good, these wigs, even Geraldine could see. And she recognized one or two: that one was the property of a particular big-headed Count, those two belonged to the Admiral, that one was Sophie’s, that one was the dinner wig of a Duchess…

A thought occurred to Geraldine. An irreverent, dangerous thought. It was always difficult to tell who was who in the court. You generally went by their wig, because these were easier to recognize. If Geraldine wore someone else’s wig, maybe she’d get their privileges. People would see Geraldine, think she was a Duchess or a Baron or whatnot, and treat her accordingly. A new route to fame and fortune and power!

Smiling, Geraldine went through the wig trunk. She always did like dressing up. Who would she most like to be? A Countess? A Lord? No, neither of those would suffice. Someone who was really listened to, someone with real authority in this palace. Again, Geraldine shuffled the wigs, before finally finding which one she was looking for: Sophie’s wig.

Let’s see what two Chief Wig Makers can accomplish, thought Geraldine, as she adjusted the pristine headpiece to her own features. She smiled wickedly and closed the box. The wig was on the other head now.

THE MAN WHO INVENTED TROUSERS: Chapter 9 – The Rule of Lawlessness

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.

THE MAN WHO INVENTED TROUSERS – Chapter 8: The invention of Trousers

Billy, oblivious to the events in court, unaware that the English Crown wanted his life, set out on the valley trail. ‘Set out’ is perhaps too praiseworthy a phrase for what was, initially, abject failure. The arrival of the coach caused commotion in the hamlet. The locals – all three of them – gathered outside their houses to watch this fancy courtier, rigged out in frilly clothes, leaping ungainly from the stagecoach. He must have been quite a sight. The young man, still wigless, was not dressed for the hardships of North Wales. His long coat, though considered out of fashion at court, was something entirely new to the villagers. It blew in the wind and billowed from Billy’s head to Billy’s ankles, airily threatening to trip him up. Over his shoulder was a heavy bag, containing a wig, a gun, some shears and a long strip of cloth – a combination rarely seen before or since, and one which clunked awkwardly against his back. In addition to this, Billy attempted to unfold his map which, although it rolled into a neat bundle, unrolled into an unmanageable mess. The scroll was far longer than Billy could actually reach, causing the map to roll back up again every time Billy tried to work out where he was. All together, as Billy stood scrutinizing the map, he made a singular appearance to the locals, who, noting the coat fluttering around his ankles and the map rolling and unrolling windily in his hands, were convinced that he was a spirit of the air, soon to be borne away completely by the breeze.

Billy walked past the locals. A husband and wife were stood at a garden gate, and stared stonily as he passed. Beyond them a young boy huddled to his father, scared, as the courtier glided past. In front of the final house an old woman leered at Billy and, as he strode by, made the sign of the cross with her fingers. Billy did not care. He had a job to do, and started to leave the village. However, as he turned the bend and started to make his way down the hillside, he realized that he’d gone the wrong way. It took him a while to realize, given that the map had, briefly, entirely unravelled, billowing in the wind, but eventually he discovered his mistake and walked back up the hill. The hamlet returned into view. He walked on, embarrassed, as the old woman once again made the sign of the cross. The little child peeked at him from behind his father’s back. The couple gave him another steady, stony stare. He continued down the other side of the hill, past the village.

The village clearing gave way to deep, dark forest. Billy had heard tales of these woods. Wolves and bears, driven from the sunlit farmlands of England, lurked in the trees, hungry, waiting for food. They’d tear the Wise Wig to pieces, if they could. He wasn’t afraid though, not Billy. He’d use his gun to drive them off, then wander back to London with all his new found tales. He pressed on through the trees confidently, ignoring all the minor squeaks and whistles of the woodland.

The forest continued, quietly taunting the Englishman within, and Billy made his way along the valley floor, until the trees began to thin. Finally the forest disappeared, and in front of Billy stood a modest, bracken covered hill. There was no clear path to the top, where gorse clustered on a long plateau, but the bracken thinned out halfway up the hill. Billy pushed his way through the vegetation and started to climb. He was sweating now, in his long coat, and the bag jabbed uncomfortably into his shoulder. His garments repeatedly caught on bracken, which, much taller than Billy, soon swallowed him whole. He pushed blindly through dark green brambles and spiky twigs, looking for the clear blue sky.

Finally, he found it, the clear blue sky. The crest of the hill was close now, gorse bushes on top, staying where’d they been for ever, just waiting for him. Billy dropped his bag in tiredness. It thumped on the ground, and he looked inside it, searching for some weight he could take off his aching shoulder. The shears had to stay in there – they were just too awkward to carry. The strip of cloth? Not much weight, but he draped it over his other shoulder nonetheless. The gun – well, he could try and carry that, though he wasn’t really sure how people held muskets when they weren’t firing them. He rested it on his other shoulder, over the cloth. That just left the wig. It wasn’t any weight at all, but Billy wanted it removed from the bag anyway. Besides, he still hadn’t found a replacement for the wig that the Admiral took from him, and he’d felt under-dressed ever since. Billy put the Wise Wig on his own head.

It was fine, no-one would see him wear the King’s wig. There wasn’t anybody about. An offence punishable by death, but what were the chances? Billy, wig on head, cloth and gun on shoulder, bag on the other shoulder, trudged up the last section of the hill.

Over on the other side of the mountain, it had been a quiet morning, quieter than recent mornings, anyway. Nebuchadnezzar, Leader Of The Angry Geese, Imperial Majesty Of The Mountain Valley, was content today. His goose-pack had recently taken control of the stile from Zanzibar the Hedgehog, so geese no longer had to give crumbs of bread when entering the lower field. Zanzibar and her hedgehog minions had, of course, retaliated, but their attacks had been decisively thwarted by Nebuchadnezzar’s sheep legions, expertly led by Tobias the Goat, a veteran of the valley.

Nevertheless, Nebuchadnezzar was restless, unsettled. Now that the lower stile was taken, there was little for him to do. Yes, he would have to defend his lands against future attacks – Zanzibar was still out there somewhere, lurking in the bushes or the bracken, and she would continue to pose a problem – but the goose was not a defensive animal. He longed for conquest. He loved the scent of victory. He wanted to venture into new lands and bring them into his ken, under his control. Nebuchadnezzar was truly an Imperial ruler.

There was something else too, a longing beyond that of simple conquest. Nebuchadnezzar, like all others in the valley, had deeply admired one sheep above all others. Once upon a time, in the preamble of this story, Davey the Wise Sheep had impressed all who met him with knowledge, learning and wisdom. Nebuchadnezzar knew, deep down, that, for all his strength of might, he could not conquer a wisdom such as that. For all the battles, the carnage, he would never be a knowledgeable goose, and he felt that insecurity more than he’d felt anything else. Now, with Davey’s wisdom shorn from him, Nebuchadnezzar mourned its loss.

He waddled around the central field, surrounded by his guards. Somehow this grass was not so lush, not so dewy, not so soft, as he had imagined it when, as a gosling, he’d dreamed of ruling over it. The field was not so big, the brook not so fast. Over the mountain, past the bracken, there might be greener fields, more swollen streams. Breadcrumbs might be crisper, and the water might be a more startling blue. Perhaps there were other wise sheep for counsel, or teachers of knowledge, teachers that could mature an angry goose. Nebuchadnezzar felt all this, and waddled some more.

It was at that moment, that precise moment, as it so often is in stories, that the sentries sounded the alarm. The signal quickly passed along the beacons, back to the biggest field, where Nebuchadnezzar stood with his guard of geese. A human being had been spotted! The geese huddled round, waiting for news.

Sure enough, soon afterwards, right on the crest of the hill, a figure could be seen. A tiny spot in the distance started tripping and tumbling down the mountain, scattering little stones as he did so. The figure slowly came further into view, and the animals could see that it was carrying things, lumbering with objects on either shoulder, and struggling with the extra weight.

Lucien the Sheep had spent the morning on the lower slopes of the mountain, contemplating. He wasn’t in the best of moods. Despite his collaboration with Nebuchadnezzar’s regime, he was only cooperating from political necessity, not from shared conviction. His hero and mentor Davey was his one guiding star, or at least the memory of Davey was. For the sheepy Solomon now stood beside him, absent-mindedly chewing grass, unable to recall the Upanishads at all, or even a single line of Wordsworth. Lucien wanted the glory days back, and he thought on them for the thousandth time, gnawing sadly on the daffodils.

Once the sentries had sounded, however, thought was put away in its box, and Lucien bleated to action. Seeing the newcomer, he led his skirmishers up the hillside, cautiously peering towards the approaching figure. Davey followed behind, still chomping his cowslip. He didn’t have much of an opinion about the human, but just went because the others were going. That tended to be his only reason for doing things, these days.

The sheep advanced. The human drew closer, stumbling down the hillside, looking confusedly around him. He had a large scroll in his arms, which was flapping in the Welsh wind. His long cloak tripped him up occasionally, making his descent easier than he might have liked. Yet it was neither of these things which most attracted the attention of Lucien and his skirmishers. No, there was something else about him. Despite the cloak, the scroll, the lack of coordination, there was a presence to the man, a trustworthiness. He was still some distance away, but the animals felt, nevertheless, that this figure was someone to be revered, honoured. There was something steady in his stumbling gait, a knowledge of the world in the way he walked. Lucien looked on in wonderment as the man grew closer. Hardly a human, a God perhaps. What was the word that described such beings? The human being reminded Lucien of a young Davey, strangely. That same aura of understanding emanated from this person. Wisdom. Yes, that was the word. Pure wisdom…

Wisdom!

With a terrible, sudden click of consciousness, Lucien understood, and felt the most intense anger, a rage more powerful than he’d thought himself capable of. The man, close now, was wearing a wig, and Lucien recognized that wool. It was Davey’s wool. The wise wool which had once made Davey so knowledgeable and elegant and refined, the wool whose presence had once blessed the valley with peace. Well, it was clear what had happened to Davey that fateful day. This human must have found him in the gorse, seen his fine coat, and taken it for himself. Thief.

Billy, seeing the sheep staring at him, felt slightly nervous. There were five sheep, one of which stood just in front of the others, with the wide stance of a leader, Billy fancied. The leader stared at him, with a sheepy sort of malice in its eyes. That was ridiculous, Billy thought to himself. Sheep aren’t malicious. They eat grass and marvel at the rise of the sun each morning. They don’t have the power in their woolly little heads to be malicious. Nevertheless, there it was was, eyes narrowed in a threatening way. Another of the sheep, as bald as the day it was born, wandered around pointlessly in circles.

Slowly, purposefully, Lucien advanced towards the human, bleating a battle cry. His skirmishers followed, bleating too. Billy stood still, unsure whether the flock, who showed no fear of him, were curious at his arrival, or, as their eyes seemed to suggest, thirsted for his blood. The sheep continued to bleat and walk closer. Suddenly, without warning, Billy’s heart thumped. He was no longer still, The world thumped too. There were animals moving towards him, threatening him. This was danger.

Billy had no negotiation skills with sheep. He’d never been a diplomat or a talker, and even if he had been, he’d never met a sheep before. This wasn’t a situation he knew how to deal with. There was only one thing he had, one thing that might stop the threat, and it was also his last resort. Shaking and fumbling, he hastily reached inside his bag and pulled out the gun the coachman had given him. In mock competency he raised the gun and pointed it towards the oncoming sheep.

That made them think. Lucien looked at the man and the big stick he was waving at them. Lucien had never seen a gun before. He wouldn’t have known what it did, or that Billy was not holding it correctly, or that the safety catch was still on, but he did know it was heavy and wooden and liable to do injury. Lucien, gesturing to his troops, held back to a safe distance. It is fair to say that, if Billy had been given a pistol by the coachman rather than a musket, the sheep wouldn’t have been so cautious.

Lucien looked at the man. Billy looked at the sheep. Neither understood the other. Billy wondered where things went from here. At the first sight of trouble he’d pulled out the gun, leaving nothing in reserve for future peril. The gun was out, it was in his hand, he had a gun. That much was clear. There was no room for a bargain. He and the sheep stood, unmoving.

Something else had dawned on Billy. These weren’t wise sheep. Sure, there was something about the leader, a sort of military officiousness. If you were sneaking into a country you wouldn’t want it checking your papers. It might even have the acumen to command a minor garrison. Yet it wasn’t wise. It wasn’t steady, cerebral, unchanging. It knew not the ways of the world. It could give and receive orders, perhaps challenge military assumptions, and could be a leader in battle, but it was not world-wise. Its fleece would not, could not, confer wisdom upon its wearer. The sheep following behind were no better, they were just sheep. As for the sheep off to the side, chewing absentmindedly upon the cud – well, that looked the most foolish creature imaginable. If it possessed so much as a strand of wool it might make the career of a court jester, but would never grace the temple of a King.

Billy waved the gun some more, building up a primitive language that consisted solely of threats, and the sheep backed away, moving quietly down the hill before him. Billy trudged slowly, thoughtfully, down into the valley. If these sheep were representative of the valley, then this mission would be a failure. It struck him now that, despite his confidence, it was always bound to be futile. Sophie had found a single sheep amongst all the dales and valleys of England and Wales. Only one animal possessed a wise fleece in the entire land, to Billy’s knowledge, and it was unlikely that human beings would ever find it again.

The sheep had gone now, fled into some other field. Yet Billy was not calm. It was probably his mind leaping to conclusions, but it seemed like they’d retreated in a coordinated way. There was a plan. No, that was ludicrous. These weren’t the Russian steppes. These animals weren’t the vast hordes of Genghis Khan, trained to preform a perfect pincer movement. They were sheep. Billy continued through the bracken, far less dense on this side of the mountain, towards a large field at the bottom of the valley.

But they weren’t just sheep. And this might not be the steppes of Central Asia, but the valley was controlled by just as deadly a force.

Billy had just reached a flatter part of the hill. He was still a long way above the floor of the valley – valleys do seem to descend forever sometimes – but the hill had temporarily flattened, creating a small, gentle plain. Just as Billy reached that plain, wielding his gun like a log, the true extent of the peril made itself known.

It is difficult to gauge just how much knowledge of the world a reader has. Some audiences have seen country after country, foe after foe. Others are but children in life, innocent of all brutality, suffering and danger. If you, reader, are the former, then you will immediately grasp the terrible danger Billy was in. If you are the latter, then you must avail yourself of the horror that may lurk in a simple farmyard tale.

From the other side of the undergrowth, on the far side of that small plain, appeared a large, white object. Billy, not really understanding what it was, blinked. Suddenly, by the time his eyes had opened and shut, there were seven large, white birds. They just appeared, it seemed, out of nowhere, bright bodies against the morning sun. The birds, a good ten metres from Billy, 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 field, ignoring Billy 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, mecurial architect. Despite their delicate wings, there was something substantial about them, Billy thought, a certain heft. In their confident struts and broadened appearance there was a flighty, malicious air of power.

These geese were angry geese. They weren’t ignoring Billy.

The geese, precariously, turned to face the human, who realised, with lurching dread, that he was no longer disdained. The foremost goose, the creature leading the diagonal, arched its 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. They had their prey. It wore the fleece on its head, the wise fleece of Davey, and for that it must pay. It was time to take revenge, for the sake of the mountain.

Billy, for his part, stood transfixed, hypnotized by the graceful birds. Realizing the beautiful, terrible danger he was in, he lifted his gun high, waving it frantically. The musket was heavy though, and he could hardly flourish it. He was sure that the leading bird was smirking in triumph. The birds advanced, unafraid. Billy, understanding that now was the moment, lifted the gun to his shoulder, just as he’d seen the musketeers do on the parade grounds. To his credit, Billy did not hesitate. It was kill or be killed, and this was no sort of choice. The birds closed in. Billy fired.

That is, he would have fired, had the safety catch not been on. Nothing happened. Billy, in terror, clicked the trigger again, but still nothing happened. Another click, and another and another, and, faster still, another. The geese were all smirking now, in unison, as they moved in to kill. Billy screamed and waggled the gun with all his strength, but the geese knew this was no weapon. Billy waved the musket one more time, but, unable to bear its weight, he lost control of the gun, and it fell limply to the ground.

A perfect start to the morning, thought Nebuchadnezzar, a good kill before lunchtime. An unarmed man. He and his geese lined up for the death.

At this point in a story the narrative usually goes to something else, and we don’t see the kill. It’s just assumed that attackers know how to finish someone off. When you think about it, though, it’s probably quite difficult to take someone out properly. Maybe that’s why stories are often about soldiers and gangsters, who really understand how to get the job done – at least, they have more of a clue than the author, who turns his attention to something else and lets them get on with it. In this case, however, despite their murderous intent, the geese were pretty clueless on how to get Billy down. Yes, they had big wings and the weight of numbers, but they were used to killing small rodents and the occasional partridge, not human beings. Instinctively they looked for the parts of Billy that had no protection, no covering. The coat, utterly insubstantial, had been blown into a ball by the wind, so that it bunched moodily at his hip, and no longer covered the lower half of his body. His wig, wise as it was, protected his head. He was well attired on the upper body, with a strong jacket and jerkin. His britches stoutly protected his thighs, leaving only his shins to be pecked at.

Nebuchadnezzar had the first shot. He lunged at Billy’s ankles, catching him sharply.

“Ow!”

Nebuchadnezzar’s second-in-command lunged as well.

“Ow!” Direct hit.

Billy didn’t want to go down without a fight. There must be something he could do. He thrust his hand into the bag over his shoulder, desperately searching for something he might use to protect himself against these beasts. The map was no good, they’d tear straight through that. He tried to wrench the shears from the bag, but they caught in the folds of the fabric. Billy, panicking, tried to wrestle the shears free as geese pecked at his legs, but it was no use, They held fast in the bag and, even though Billy tugged and tugged, and there was a loud ripping sound from the sack, the shears would not budge.

So this was it, though Billy, as another bird swiped at his legs, narrowly missing. His shins were sore and cut, and Billy could not stand much longer. One more peck on his bare skin and that was surely it. The courtier looked down towards his legs, bruised and bleeding, and suddenly noticed something lying on the floor. Or, rather, two things.

There was one object that Billy hadn’t considered – the strip of cloth. It – or, better, they, for the ripping sound Billy had heard must have been the shears tearing the cloth in two as he’d swung the bag around, tried to wrestle them from the sack – lay on the ground, having been wrenched free in Billy’s struggle. It wasn’t much use, really, for Billy would much rather have had the gun or the shears, both of which were now useless – but it was something, nonetheless. Billy hurriedly picked up the two strips of cloth.

The geese circled, smirking in triumph, ready to strike the final blow. The human now had two bits of material in his hands, but those bore no danger to the geese. What a beautiful morning, thought Nebuchadnezzar again, as he licked his own beak in a goosey sort of way.

Billy held up the strips of cloth. The merchant had been right, they looked quite hardy, quite tough. As it happened, they were just the same length as his legs, curiously…

At that moment Billy had his great idea. People often say that the best ideas are forced on us by the situation. The war poets might never have written so well without the monstrous anger of war. Archimedes would never have worked out how to measure volumes without finding himself in a bathtub one morning. Similarly, Billy’s invention, his gift to the world, the idea that ushered in the modern world, occurred to him while being attacked by geese. This was the Invention Of Trousers.

The courtier’s shins were being pecked. He had to protect his shins. The two strips of cloth were the same length as his legs and, fortunately, were thick enough to wrap round them. Ergo, he took the cloths and wrapped them around his lower body, working quickly before the fatal blow could be delivered.

Nebuchadnezzar, disdaining the cloth, struck again at Billy’s ankles. His beak, glowing a venomous orange, scythed at Billy, now guarded by his makeshift garment. The beak struck hard against the cloth, but the cloth withstood the attack.

The merchant really did know what he was talking about. This fabric was tough stuff. Nebuchadnezzar reeled back, expecting Billy to fall to the floor, but instead finding his prey grinning inanely. That blow hadn’t hurt at all. The killer blow, in fact, and the victim almost seemed to enjoy it. The second bird lunged for the shin too, but he was rebuffed. As was the third, the fourth and the fifth. The sixth and seventh birds swiped as well, but their efforts came to nought, leaving the troop staring confusedly at the human. This was a much tougher fight than they were expecting.

The clarity of Billy’s thought-process was admirable. Not only did he realize that, without a weapon to fight these birds, his only hope was to run, but he also had the presence of mind to understand that running was hopeless too if he failed to take the map with him. Dropping the bag and seizing the map, Billy turned from the birds and legged it away, holding his makeshift trousers – not that a name for them had been decided just yet – round his waist with one hand, pinching them with his fingers. With the other hand he clutched the map, simultaneously holding on to his wig, keeping it steady on top of his head. His garments billowed crazily as he wobbled towards the summit.

The angry geese got angrier still. Their prey, far from being weak and defenceless, was now galloping away up the hill. Nebuchadnezzar grabbed the big stick-like thing the human had been carrying, and set off after him. Between them the others managed the canvas bag, which, although heavy, was clearly too important to leave behind. Together the birds squawked louder and louder, abandoning all pretence of subtlety and strategy.

A human being might normally be too slow to outrun some angry geese. Such mythical beasts are famed for their speed, their ability to blitz a foe. Billy certainly thought so as he scampered breathlessly to the peak of the mountain. Any second now, he believed, a bird would descend upon him, cutting him down. Yet he continued to land his feet on the land, step by step, and no blow came. Perhaps it was the head start, the element of surprise, that kept him in front. Perhaps it was the fact that the birds were carrying such heavy objects that helped him evade their clutches. Perhaps it was because Nebuchadnezzar, His Imperial Majesty of the valley, was quickly working out how to use a gun.

And the goose was a great deal faster of thought than Billy.

BANG

The bird must have accidentally set the gun off, thought Billy, who was very close to the summit. Perhaps it’s shot itself.

BANG

Well, it definitely didn’t shoot itself the first time, then. Maybe one of the others…

BANG

At the third noise, which sounded a lot louder than the others, Billy turned his head. This was no accident. The first goose, the obvious leader of the gaggle, was holding the gun on his shoulder, safety catch off, and pointing it towards Billy.

BANG

Billy felt a rush of air past his own ear. This was really it. About to be shot by a goose with a gun. The bird, still running behind Billy, a distance away, steadied itself. It halted mid-stride, with Billy scarpering desperately up the hill, and it lowered the gun to the horizontal. Billy was stumbling, tripping now, turning backwards, chasing his own feet. The goose was utterly motionless, aiming the gun, training it right on the temple of Billy’s turning head…

---

Back in the world of human beings, the King’s lackeys were co-ordinating a manhunt. Once Geraldine’s testimony had been heard in court, the King’s agents worked quickly. Posters were hurriedly plastered across public buildings. Messages were sent out to the ports. The King’s men questioned witnesses in the capital. The King wanted someone executed, and so finding the fugitive became the court’s first priority.

Not that much detective work was necessary. Billy, the wanted man, left a straightforward trail. The King’s officers quickly discovered that he’d been to the coach stop, where he’d jumped on a coach to Chester. The exact events in Chester were unclear in far-away London, but a messenger was quickly dispatched on horseback to find out. The King’s officers had caught the scent of the chase. They’d get their man.

---

BANG

Billy fell to the ground, body bouncing once, twice, three times as he tumbled down the mountain. He rolled over and over, disturbing the occasional songbird, scuffing the grass. His body made its way, heavily, down the side of the mountain from whence it came.

The other side of the mountain, that is.

Nebuchadnezzar had fired his gun at the scrambling figure. Just as he was about to pull the trigger, the human, not paying attention to where he was going, tripped over the very summit of the hill and disappeared from view. Understandable, possibly, that the human wasn’t looking where he was going, but clumsy nonetheless. Nebuchadnezzar didn’t know whether he’d hit the man or not – he couldn’t see over the brow of the hill. Waiting for the musket smoke to clear, he silently gestured to his comrades to follow him. Treading slowly, carefully, alert to any sudden movements from the unseen enemy, they inched towards the hill’s summit. Quite why they were being so cautious would seem, afterwards, pretty inexplicable. The man was unarmed. Of curse, he might be able to spring a surprise, but there were seven geese, and no man could take on seven angry geese.

Nebuchadnezzar reached the peak first. Gesturing to his followers to stay back, he peered cautiously over the hill. There was no-one on the other side of the hill. The human was gone.

The goose’s shot had missed Billy. Instead, the courtier had tripped over the hill and rolled half way down, until he came to rest in the dense, thick bracken. Knowing that the geese would be following him, Billy crawled further into the undergrowth, making as little noise as possible, hiding quietly in the prickly bushes. The bracken really was thick, too. A standing adult human would be fully concealed – one lying down was totally immersed in the greenery.

A squawk of a bird told Billy that the geese were starting to make their way slowly down the mountainside. He briefly considered staying hidden, but he didn’t understand the ways of geese. Did they locate their enemies through sight, sound or smell? If it were the first, he should probably stay put. If the second, he should probably stay just where he was. If, however, it was the third, then he should move as fast as he could, for the bracken would be no obstacle to the keen noses of the geese. He could just imagine them now, sniffing him out, tearing him apart with their bullets and their beaks…

In short, he decided to make his escape while he could, just in case geese had a dog-like sense of smell. Billy pulled hard at the bracken, squeezing himself through the densest of shrubbery, whilst making as little noise as he could, trying his best not to alert his pursuers. Inch by inch he crawled, stomach scratching the ground. He could hear no bird song. He could hear no deadly bird song. The undergrowth seemed to go on for ever, and soon his arms, which had done little physical labour in the past, ached with the effort. Red lines quickly appeared on his hands, bleeding slightly from the stiff sharp vegetation.

Yet still there was no sign or sound of geese. And, as the minutes passed, Billy started to wonder whether he’d lost them for good. It must be harder for them to traverse the greenery, and he did have a good head start. Such a start, in fact, that the bushes were slowly becoming less dense, and little spots of light made their way through the thorns. Freedom was approaching.

---

The King’s relay of messengers sped their message to Chester. A sergeant in the local garrison was quickly dispatched to investigate, and he sent his troops out into the town. They began by putting up posters, complete with a depiction of Billy, on every prominent post they could find. The townsfolk would have no trouble recognizing the traitor, were he still here.

The sergeant started, as sergeants are wont to do, by going to a local pub. It just so happened that this pub was the very inn in which Billy had stayed the previous night. The sergeant showed the landlord a poster.

“Ay, I do recognize him now. He was here, just last night.”

“Just last night?” This wouldn’t be too difficult, thought the sergeant. Catch the traitor, and there might be a promotion in it, too.

“That’s right. Came in here. Didn’t mix much – at least, I didn’t see him in the bar – but then these traitors don’t, do they. They don’t spend their time in a good honest pub like this one. No, they go to shady-”

The sergeant cut him short. He wasn’t much interested what a barman thought.

“When did he leave?”

“Oh, er, this morning. Stayed the night. Neat and tidy. You know, I don’t think he touched a drop of ale. At least, didn’t act like it. Me, I’d shared a pint or two with the lads last night, I can tell you-”

The sergeant did mind hearing.

“Where did he go?”

“Can’t tell you that. There was a coach parked outside. He got in it. I’m pretty sure I saw a gun of some kind. But then, I suppose that’s normal for these traitors, isn’t it? Get up to all sorts, they do, need a gun just to say hello. One of the lads reckons-”

But the sergeant had already left the inn.

---

Billy, meanwhile, was fighting his way through the undergrowth, which was steadily thinning. The bracken came unexpectedly to a stop, and a gentle valley clearing lay before Billy. He paused, peering cautiously into the clearing, dreading the worst. He could still hear no geese. He put one foot out in front of him, treading the first step of clear ground. No geese appeared. He put the other foot in front of him, treading the second step of ground. No geese appeared. Billy, all calm flying away in a rush of air, burst into the clearing, not looking up, not looking left, not looking right, sprinting, rushing forward, hoping that no wings would flutter, no beaks would land, and no guns would fire.

No geese appeared. No guns fired. Billy was indeed free, for now. What Billy didn’t know, what he couldn’t have known, was that the land beyond the mountain was outside Nebuchadnezzar’s empire. The bracken marked the border between the goose’s fiefdom and that of his enemies. It is always the way of the tyrant that, away from their own lands, they cannot tread lightly, for they are immediately in the gravest danger, without the shield of their power. Billy, having no power, requiring no shield in the mountains, could flee as fast as his legs would go.

He’d forgotten just one thing.

THE MAN WHO INVENTED TROUSERS: Chapter 7 – The Chapter With No Obvious Title

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 18^th 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.

THE MAN WHO INVENTED TROUSERS: Chapter 6 – The Merchant

Chapter 6 – The Merchant

The morning, fresh with lark song, cow parsley and dew, was a joy for the merchant, squashed merrily in the corner of the Chester stagecoach. Waiting hadn’t bothered him much – his provisions were plentiful and many, and his hip flask was newly filled to the cap. He had spent hours speculating on the names of the horses, and establishing which of the animals were friendly with one another. Having determined these matters to his own satisfaction, he proceeded to sit on a handily-placed stool, gazing contentedly at the coach stop activity, such as its was, and make sporadic attempts to engage the horses in conversation. Finding that none were willing to talk that day, he turned to his attention to the coach stop attendant, and, finding that the attendant was unwilling to talk that day, he turned his attention back to the hip flask.

Stagecoach journeys were, even for the merchant, an ordeal, in normal times. There was little rhythm to trips in those vehicles; they did not move in four beat bars, and the carriage quavered erratically, to the thumping percussion of the hooves and the horses and the cobbles. The coaches were small, cramped for room, and too many people crammed into them, compromising on breathing space, muffling the vocals. The tempo was further interrupted by the condition of the roads, which were haphazard, misshapen and broken. Even when the movement of the coach got close to comfort, the road could thin to an end at any minute, jolting the coach from its fragile rhyme.

This time, however, none of that mattered. To the merchant, the little unexpected joys of life were all the better for being unexpected, and the drama that took place in front of him was a tiny bit extraordinary. Out of context, it looked all the more strange. After climbing on to the coach and sitting himself snugly in his favourite corner seat, the merchant had watched a young man in an ill-fitting wig take the seat opposite him. Both men liked to stretch out their legs, but the initial battle for space was quickly won by the merchant, simply because he’d got there first. The young man was joined by a taller woman, who had to bend her head slightly to fit the carriage, and held on to the top of the window frame, as if keeping her balance. Despite being the last to board the coach – following a small, quill-faced courtier, plus a Lieutenant so vacant-looking it was ironic he had ever been asked to fill an Army commission – she easily won the skirmish for legroom with the Lieutenant opposite.

The ensuing events, already covered in the previous chapter, improved the merchant’s day further. The young man, ordered by the woman, swapped his cheap, ill-fitting wig for a larger female wig, which covered rather too much of his ears for comfort. The woman put the young man’s wig on, and it didn’t fit her either. It was not clear to the merchant what sort of head would have suited the wig, but he had never seen such a head, for he would certainly have remarked on it to strangers. She jumped from the coach and disappeared, and the young man turned to stare through the window. The merchant tried to catch his eye, but this man’s eye was not for catching, it seemed. A few moments later, the carriage door opened and an older man attempted to pull himself up. The merchant, gazing through the rear window of the carriage, could make out the woman in the distance, inexplicably squatting as she walked, as if she were descending into a low tunnel. This intrigued the merchant even more.

But it was the arrival of the new man that really amused the merchant. This older man, clearly a naval officer, by virtue of his gargantuan three-cornered hat, embarked with the Lieutenant’s salute and help, stepped on to the carriage, and, with two empty seats to choose from, picked the middle seat, anchoring himself as close as possible to the young man in the female wig, who was steadfastly hiding his face in the corner. The naval officer, instead of relaxing in his seat, leaned forward, attempting to catch the wig-wearer’s eye. He failed. The young man continued to stare, determinedly, at something far away. Unperturbed, the naval officer moved his left shoulder back, opening his stance and, leaning back in his seat, faced forward, stretching his knees into and beyond the remaining space. Grin broadening, the naval officer’s hat completely obscured the merchant’s view, and its corner insistently poked the back of the young man’s wig.

The horses started and the carriage cleared the coach stop, leaving behind muffled attendant cries and a persistent horsey smell. Soon – because London was far smaller in those days – the coach found green fields, and the merchant could look longingly on the aforementioned dew and cow parsley in the hedgerows.

Yet the merchant’s attention remained on the couple in front of him, on the dogged young man who, like Orpheus returning from the underworld, fixed his eyes on the way ahead, determined to keep his eyes on the journey’s end, and did not turn to face his companion, lest all the troubles of Hades should strike. His suitor, still fooled by the switch of wigs, cast loving glances to the hairpiece of his own Eurydice, waiting patiently for his beloved to turn her head, and to find themselves in life’s sunlit meadows.

Or not so patiently. The naval officer had tried clearing his throat. No response. He had tried clearing his throat again. No response. He had tried poking the wig further with his three-cornered hat. Not so much as a flinch. He had tried stretching his knees further into the wig-wearer’s space, invading territory, but the merchant had repelled him, his own space being invaded too. The merchant, looking on, staring straight at the Admiral, knowing that the naval officer would never condescend to notice a mere cloth merchant, took a happy swig from his hip flask. He may never have spoken to the Admiral, but the comeuppance would still be sweet.

Finally, the naval officer, his amour throwing patience to the high seas, resorted to the unthinkable, the impolite. He tugged at Sophie’s wig. The merchant watched, a little horrified, but delighted too, as the wig came away in the Admiral’s hands, revealing young, short, male hair. Billy could no longer ignore the Admiral. Resistance broken, he turned to face his suitor who, heart leaping to heights above the coach’s motion, saw his Eurydice spirit away, back to the dark lands. He saw Billy, the foolish servant, wearing Sophie’s wig. Unluckily, the Admiral’s action had caught the merchant in the very act of swigging from his hip flask, and the merchant promptly managed to splutter a mouthful all over his own strip of cloth, which still hung from his shoulder.

Disappointment, however, did not last long in the Admiral. Within seconds – long seconds of stillness, the world fading into unreality – his disappointment became outrage. Not quite anger, not yet, for his anger was generally the culmination of a long plan, but indignation. He had been duped. Here was an inferior wearing Sophie’s wig, a hairpiece he had clearly stolen – to someone like the Admiral, it would never cross the mind that an object of his affections could fool him, since the object is contemplated so often as to be, apparently, utterly transparent.

Those few seconds gave the Admiral, the great schemer, enough time to compose himself a little, despite his contorted grimace.

“Aide,” he remarked, stiffly, as though observing a passing bird. His grimacing mind was only capable of rudimentary language.

“Sir,” replied Billy, halfway between a question and an answer. Wigless, he glanced meaningfully at the wig in the Admiral’s hands, but the Admiral did not acknowledge the glance. Instead, he drew his hands carefully away, and held the wig in his own lap, as if it were a treasured kitten. Billy considered taking the Wise Wig out and putting it on, but decided against it. The world can turn on such little decisions.

“Aide,” the Admiral acknowledged again, and turned away, facing straight ahead once more, marking an end to the exchange, sort of. It was not comfortable, however, and the Admiral’s cheeks glowed red. He started to sweat a tiny bit, and the carriage was far too small a place to hide a sweating brow.

Silence, uneasy as it was, might have reigned, had the Admiral’s initial wig-tug not caught the merchant mid-swig. Trapped between laughing and swallowing, the merchant faced the inevitable result: hiccups. And, with the Admiral and Billy awkwardly looking away from one another, the merchant could contain it no longer.

HIC

The Admiral jumped, startled, at the merchant, noticing him for the first time. The merchant was one of those people who, despite a low speaking voice and enough gravitas to fill his allotted room and more, hiccuped higher than a soprano at audition.

HIC

The merchant giggled, and, despite himself, Billy sniggered slightly too. It was quite funny, when you thought about it, although Billy immediately regretted his snigger. The Admiral was not somebody you laughed at, especially when there was really something to laugh about. Nevertheless, the naval man stared straight on, at a point just over the anonymous thin man’s head. The thin man stared back, right at the Admiral, but not really seeing him, lost in some anonymous dream.

HIC HIC

Billy giggled again, more at the merchant’s stupid hiccups than at the Admiral, but the damage was done. The Admiral, outrage now turning to fury, decided to inflict eternal vengeance on Billy. He wasn’t sure how, or where, or when, but revenge was coming. Billy, struggling desperately to contain his giggles, shook slightly as the merchant managed to suppress another hiccup. The merchant was as jovial as ever. He winked back at Billy, co-conspirators.

Minutes passed. The Admiral stayed scarlet. The merchant continued his hiccup fit. Billy shook. Eventually, ten to fifteen miles away from London, the coach stopped, the driver attending to the horses.

Clearly the pressure had been too much for the Admiral, his cheeks gathering more and more steam with every passing mile. Finally, his chance arriving, he took it. With the stagecoach stopped in empty countryside, the Admiral flung himself to the left, wrenched open the door with two attempts at the handle, and leapt from the vehicle. The merchant watched joyfully through the back window as the naval officer legged it away from the coach, back towards London, with his three-cornered hat wiggling in the gentle breeze.

The merchant gave one loud, last HIC and smiled at Billy, who smiled back.

“Oh, that was something,” said the merchant. Laughing, and squashing the thin, quill faced man even more, he offered his hip flask to Billy, who declined. “I’m Taylor,” he said, “Nice to meet you.”

“Court aide. What’s your name?”

“Taylor.”

“No, your name,” Billy said again, slightly more clearly.

“That is my name,” Taylor replied, “Taylor.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I assumed…” Billy pointed at the cloth on Taylor’s shoulder.

“Yeah, that’s often a problem. So you’re a court aide, Billy. What does that involve?”

“I make wigs, Taylor.” This wasn’t quite true, but that’s to be expected, when people tell you what their job is.

“Wigs, pah! Not as good as my job,” Taylor boasted.

“Better than being a tailor, I think.” He was a tailor called Taylor!

“I wouldn’t know, I’m not a tailor.”

“Why are you carrying that cloth then?” Billy asked, feeling that this won the day.

“Because I’m a cloth merchant.”

“So you are a tailor?”

“I sell the cloth. I don’t make it,” explained Taylor, frowning. Billy’s confident expression wavered, having queried this man’s name and profession, and been wrong on both counts, but the merchant relaxed again by hiccuping, even more squeakily than before, and both sniggered.

“You’ll have a bit of trouble back in London, won’t you?” Taylor asked, pointing at the Admiral’s empty seat.

Billy shrugged, and Taylor offered the hip flask again. For some reason, Billy sought another argument.

“Wig making’s still better than cloth selling, though.”

“Wig making! That court tomfoolery? I’ll tell you, lad, that real people wear cloth. It gets made into shirts and stockings and britches, cloth. Proper clothes that keep you warm.”

“Wigs keep your head warm.”

“Thinking keeps your head warm! That’s why those court types wear wigs, isn’t it? They don’t have to think. Sure you don’t want a swig?”

“No, you’re fine.”

“How about an apple?” Taylor reached into his bountiful lunch and pulled out some fruit.

“Still fine.”

“What about a game of cards?” The merchant took out a pack of playing cards and lay them on his lap.

Billy was curious. He’d never seen a pack of cards before. “Ok.”

“How much do you want to bet?”

“I… how much do you want to bet?” Billy might never have played, but he reckoned he could still beat this merchant. He thought cloth was better than wigs. He couldn’t be that good.

The merchant smiled and removed a few coins from his wallet. Let’s keep the stakes low for now, he thought, and then increase the gamble, if he doesn’t catch on.

A couple of hours later and Billy was out of money. Luckily, he didn’t have much on him, but he’d lost it, all the same. After a round or two it was obvious that the young courtier didn’t know what he was doing, and so the merchant proceeded to clear up, contentedly watching the fields go by as he did so.

Billy had taken the chance to get a good look at the merchant. Apart from his hiccup, the most noticeable things about him were his eyes. They shone tipsily, almost sleepily, more moons than suns, but they did shine. There was something nocturnal about him, wakeful while others might have been snoozing. A good mercantile trait, probably. He roared deeply when a hand was won, and his elbows put the man beside him in constant peril, but Billy felt he could trust Taylor, somehow. A man you’d buy linen from, certainly.

“Tell you what,” Taylor said, “It’s no shame to lose to me. There’s a reason I’m good at this.”

“Yeah?”

“I’ll let you in on something. There’s been a bit of a revolution in France.”

Billy thinned his lips at the mention of France. It was dangerous to talk about the other side of the channel, with the King so touchy about the upcoming negotiations.

“Revolution?”

“That’s right. It’s strictly between us – they’d get in all sorts of trouble if you spread the news, they would.”

“Who would?”

“The French gamblers. Making money from cards isn’t allowed in France, you see. The King chops your head off for gambling. Not a free country, not like here.”

Billy nodded vehemently.

“Anyway, Billy, there’s a revolution going on. I met this French merchant – can’t tell you his name, of course – and he’s a bit of a whizz with numbers and figures. Not a surprise, all us merchants our. We need to count quick in our heads, so we can work out prices. But this merchant, he reckons you can apply numbers to cards. You can count how likely it is that you’ll win a card game, so you know when to bet and not to bet.”

Billy didn’t believe a word of it. “Count a card game? It’s luck! It doesn’t obey rules. Or, if it does, it’s fate. You can’t change it.”

“That’s just what I said, Billy, just what I said. But he showed me how he did it, and you know what, I’ve started winning more than I used to. Bought a new load of cloth with my winnings, only this morning.” He pointed to the length of cloth along his shoulder. “Supplements my earnings.”

Billy looked on, unbelieving.

“I can’t show you how,” the merchant continued, “Not here. But we’re equals for now, you and I. Not for much longer, because I’m sure you’ll go far” – the young courtier had squandered his money for no reason, so Taylor was sure he’d go far in court – “but we’re still equals right now. Where are you heading?”

“Wales,” Billy said. “I’m collecting more wool for my wigs.”

“And the woman who was with you?”

“My colleague. Also a wig maker.”

“Your boss?”

“Maybe. But I don’t really have a boss. I’m freelance,” Billy boasted, lying slightly.

“Freelance, eh? I’ll tell you something else. On your way back to London, once you’ve collected your wool – you are going back to London, I take it, Mister Freelance?”

Billy nodded.

“Ok, on your way back to London, stop by my house. It’s in Birmingham. After I make some trades in Chester, I’ll be heading back there. Do drop in. I’ll show you the tricks of the gambling trade.”

“I’ll be sure to stop by,” Billy lied again. He had absolutely no intention of stopping by, but he was certain that the kindly merchant, being of so trusting a nature, would accept this small fib.

Taylor smiled again and found a crusty sandwich in his lunch bag. “I’ll be delighted to welcome you,” he said, finishing the sentence before the food reached his mouth.

Billy, tactfully, turned away from the man eating his lunch and looked at the passing fields. While the merchant continued to eat from his bag and swig from his flask, the coach cheerfully rumbled on to Chester.

The Admiral was less cheerful, understandably. Ten to fifteen miles is a long way to walk when you’re not used to it, and the Admiral had done no physical exercise in ten years. The state of the roads didn’t help. The King had spent very little on his highways over his reign, preferring instead to invest in jewellery and fish food, and thus the public ways were falling apart. Two main problems plagued the highways. Firstly, potholes opened all over the place, some as big as a man, and some so large that entire coaches disappeared through them in the dark, racing away to deep underground caverns and chilling subterranean streams. Secondly, highwaymen, encouraged by the lack of attention to the streets and lanes of England, set up camp here, there and everywhere, preying on commerce and private travellers. An entire region of the South East Midlands had been renamed the Mysterious Triangle, on account of so many lost travellers. No-one knew whether it was potholes, or highwaymen, or a mythical monster nicknamed the Northampton Nessie, but, whatever it was, no-one had the courage to look. More robust souls such as the merchant had learned to ignore these evils of life, but to a sheltered courtier such as the Admiral, these were living nightmares.

The going was tough. Most stones were loose and uneven, tripping the Admiral when he became too preoccupied in his woes. The pebbles, microscopic and sharp, somehow sneaked through his boots, stabbing him every third step. Potholes caught his feet. Five miles along, a particularly large puddle, hiding between two large stones, made its mark on the Admiral’s day. He fell into it, drenching himself with muddy road water.

Climbing from the puddle, the Admiral shook water from himself, angry as could be. This was it. This was the worst day possible. And, what’s more, it was all the fault of Billy, that wretched youth. He would get what was coming to him, all right. By the time the youth arrived back in London, his fate would be sealed.

It is a bad idea to upset someone capable of cunning schemes, and Billy had upset the greatest plotter in the land. Billy might be miles away, safe in a crowded coach, but he could not look forward to a secure future back in London.

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.