Preamble – The Sheep
Once upon a time, there were no such things as trousers.
There were tights, britches, breeches – which, on closer inspection, turned out to be the same thing as britches – kilts, skirts, hose, pantaloons. People who wanted to keep warm had to wear very big socks.
But no trousers. They didn’t exist.
Trousers had to be invented, they had to have a moment of genius. A few hundred years ago, in the days of enlightenment and revolution, the era that started the modern world, a man invented trousers.
This is his story.
And, like all stories worth telling, it starts with a sheep.
The mountain was, to begin with, a lawless place. Terrible deeds are done in the wild, even without humans. Horses ran amok. Pigs fought each other with reckless, wanton violence. Rabbits pulled each others tails. In general, there was no rule, except the brutal yoke of moley militias.
For a brief while, however, all this was to change. An individual would be born who could bring some hope to that desolate hill.
Davey was a wise sheep. All the animals said so. In the late days of his lambhood he grew the most magnificent white woollen coat, so that all others looked upon him in awe. Such a magnificent coat on a young lamb like that, well, that sort of thing marked out prophets and priestesses, not your common sheep. This Davey was to be listened to, the other animals of the mountain reckoned.
And so it proved. When Lulu the Donkey had her breadcrumbs stolen by Tobias the Duck, Davey observed that a crumb for a crumb makes the whole loaf fall to pieces, and so Tobias gave back the bread. When Nebuchadnezzar, Leader Of The Angry Geese, declared war on the rest of the mountain, Davey declared that happiness resides not in material possession, not even in owning all the big field, and so Nebuchadnezzar laid down his great goose talons and lived for the soul. When Zanzibar the Hedgehog claimed the lower stile as her own, Davey reminded her there would be as much of the stile if it were shared, and so she abandoned her lust for glory.
By deeds such as these Davey became revered throughout the valley. His wisdom and prudence governed every discussion, eased every warring instinct. Soon there was serenity on the mountain, and all could live as brothers.
Yet peace would not last for ever. One day the skies thawed, and something happened to send the rabbits scurrying from their warrens in alarm, and to prompt the sober-headed fox, normally so cool and cunning, to chase his panicked tail in circles.
On a cold bright April morning, Davey went for his morning waddle. Kept his coat fresh, he said, and he loved the gorse bush beyond the hill. Smelling it gave his nose a good bit of exercise, all the better for sniffing out justice. So the other sheep watched Davey disappear over the hill and out of sight, as always, and then they continued their daily affairs.
It just so happened that, on that particular day, Zanzibar and Tobias were having a tiff over the correct preparation of grass. Zanzibar said that grass should be rolled about in, as every good hedgehog knows, whereas Tobias opined that grass was to be waddled on. Of course, there was only one animal capable of settling this dispute, and he was over the hill with his nose in the gorse. So they waited.
And they waited.
And they waited.
But Davey didn’t come. So the sheep huddled together, and they worried a bit, but they couldn’t think up a plan. There wasn’t much else to do, other than argue some more about grass, so they grumped in their huddle.
But still Davey didn’t come.
Eventually one of the sheep broke away from the fold and began to totter up the hill, in the direction Davey had gone. No-one would remember whether the sheep had a plan to find Davey, or whether it just wanted to have a peek at the gorse bush for itself. It didn’t really matter either way, for as soon as the sheep started to climb, a figure appeared at the top of the hill, startling against the clouds.
The figure was entirely hairless. Four legs wobbled pink in the sun. A body itched rouge where wool should have been. The head of this creature poked vulnerably forward, a tiny face squinting small in front of the never-ending sky.
The figure tottered down towards the animals, slowly. Soon they could tell it was a fellow sheep, although an unfamiliar one, shorn fully of wool. If they had ever seen a ship, it might have reminded them of a broken galleon, unable to find the North Star on a misty night. It had that sense of longing, that sense of tossing and turning in the waves, is only be found on land when a sheep is shorn.
It was Davey.
That wise sheep, whose wool had spread justice, temperance and virtue across the mountainside, had been cut clean, hairless as the day of its first sigh. Its skin trembled in the light as it staggered, weary and cold, towards the waiting crowd.
Young Lucien, the sheep who had started climbing the hill, looked on his guru helplessly. Perhaps, if Lucien had been a bit more articulate, he might have observed that Davey suffered from the chilling morning breeze just as the rest did. Stripped of his pomp, his majesty, his woolly wisdom, Davey shivered as any animal would. Somehow Davey was a little more sheeplike, and a little less divine.
That’s how the others saw him too. Cold, fragile, mortal. No prophet, no divine power lurked here. Only an unhappy sheep. Whether or not grass was to be rolled in or trodden on was beyond his ken, in the same way that heavens cannot be understood by the likes of lambs. Faith, like the coat, had gone.
And so Davey was shorn of wisdom, and the mountain had lost its healer. Chaos took charge of the valley. Nebuchadnezzar declared himself Imperial Majesty and invaded the bracken, but no-one could reason with him. Zanzibar and her minions occupied the stile and demanded a toll, but there was no sheep to insist upon the common good.
And so it stayed. Davey shivered somewhere in the corner, his sheepish locks never regaining their former grandeur. He was not listened to, not respected in the way he once was. The other sheep looked upon him and wept. It seemed, for the moment, that peace could never be restored in that miserable valley.
As it turned out, they were wrong.
Chapter 2 – The King’s Court
Far away from the valley, in the trouser-less world of men – not that there were any trousers in the world of sheep, either – Billy was buying a goldfish for the Admiral. A croissant, too, although the pastry would not be eaten by the eminent seaman, but be given away as a present, a grand gamble.
The day had started, as days in court often do, with minor courtiers arguing major issues in petty ways. The Admiral, a Baron and a Count had been waiting for the canteen to open, but being the olden days, before canteens were invented, it wouldn’t hand out milk for another 150 years. Nonetheless, the courtiers, smelling bread, presumably from the King’s private stores, grew hungry, and naturally their thoughts turned to breakfast.
“I think,” declared a Baron, pompously, with a bulbous nose, “I think the King’s favourite pastry is a pain au chocolat.”
The Admiral was having none of it. He’d nearly seen action once, after all.
“Nonsense. If you knew the King at all, you would know that His Royal Highness’s favourite pastry is the croissant. The crescent shape matches his munificent, majestic morning demeanour.”
An upturned dictionary lay on an embroidered card, table, spine like a mountain ridge, showing its mysteries and myopia to the disinterested table. The Admiral liked to keep up to date with the latest literature, and he was nearing the end of Chapter M. Where the canteen would one day be – opened, of course, to serve tourists visiting the palace where trousers took off – there stood a wobbly bookcase, full of books on dentistry. The King’s young son, his magnificent heir to the throne, had just lost his first milk tooth, and the courtiers had sought to please their King with presents relating to oral hygiene.
“You’re both obtuse,” said the Count. He’d just started on Chapter O just before going to sleep the previous evening, huddled up in his four-poster with a candle and a bobbly nightcap on, and he wanted to make the most of his temporary advantage. “His Majesty is obviously oblivious to both croissants and pain au chocolat, and prefers those round snail things with raisins in.”
“How much do you bet?”
“I bet you a ship.” The Admiral was in a position to bet a ship or two. He had nearly seen action once, after all.
“You’re on,” the others replied. “How do we settle this?”
“Oh, that’s easy. We each send for the pastry of our choice, then we present the King with our pastries and see which he eats.”
“Agreed.”
So that was why Billy was, this lunchtime, obtaining a croissant for the Admiral. Billy did not like croissants himself. When he got to the shop, he thought, they were either cold already, which made him pine for a hot pastry, or they were still warm and fresh, meaning that, by the time he had carried out his lowly errands the pastry would inevitably be cold, leading him to long for a hot pastry. In this way, really, pastries made Billy long for pastries and…
Billy’s musings – for a man yet to spell his name in the dictionary of the world is prone to musings – were interrupted by a goldfish-seller.
“Goldfish?” the seller asked Billy. The young gentleman looked like a man looking for a goldfish, thought the seller. It was easy to be perceptive when you’d been flogging goldfish to worried-looking aides these past twenty years.
The goldfish had nothing to do with a bet or a breakfast. There were certain requests made of young aides, and each expressed some nuance of feeling, the range of scenarios befalling court life. For example, if Billy were asked by the Admiral to purchase balsa wood and glue, the distinguished seafarer was probably going to build another model boat for his naval scene. Of course, the Admiral would not actually build the boat himself – that would be beneath him – but it generally signified a calm moment in his life, one where he was not to be called to sea, or required to do anything in particular. On the other hand, if the Admiral demanded a new hat from the merchant tailor’s, then he would be grumpy, for he was attending a state banquet. Procuring a fish was the worst request of all, for it meant that the Admiral was in danger of execution, and that sort of thing could ruin a morning.
The morning, as the goldfish signified, had not started well for the Admiral. Soon after the pastry conversation, all courtiers were summoned to the King’s Chamber, on pain of execution. Not that anyone would ignore the summons for, being courtiers, they were inclined to go to court at every possible opportunity – it was more that the King liked the idea of execution. Execution was one of His Majesty’s favourites, and everybody likes to have their favourites around them. It got him up in the morning: that, and his favourite pastry.
One by one, courtiers gathered in the court bar before the morning meeting. The staff at court had found it necessary to serve alcohol whenever and wherever the King held court. As far as the courtiers were concerned, a stiff brandy, even at 10 o’clock in the morning, made their wit ever readier when impressing the King, and strengthened their courage if the King was likely to order their death. As far as the King was concerned, alcohol made his courtiers more susceptible to commit minor indiscretions or breach the court’s intricate customs, allowing His Royal Highness to amuse himself by ordering more executions.
The Admiral took the Court Secretary to one side of the bar. It was easy to spot the Court Secretary in a crowd, because he wore a huge keyring around his neck, upon which, flimsily dangling from the ring, were several small keys, most of which opened the court room, or various unimportant cupboards.
“Mister Secretary, how does the Agenda look this morning?”
“Oh, it is comprehensive, Sir. We have two items. We must be careful not to make the King late, for he has an important game of billiards before lunch.”
“Yes, I remember what happened to the last person who made the King late for billiards.” Everyone had seen the head on a billiard cue outside the Tower. “I shall not trouble the King further this morning.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Although…”
The secretary looked slightly aghast. The last thing he needed was another execution to arrange, especially during this long summer drought. “Although what?”
“Mister Secretary, in your conversations with the King today, would you mind mentioning pastry to him? I am desirous of pleasing His Royal Highness with a pastry, and I need to know – surreptitiously, of course, which pastry the King is particularly fond of. Would you slip it into conversation for me? Use that subtle tact by which you earned this great post of yours.”
Without waiting for an answer, the Admiral sidled away, waiting between the bulbous-nosed Count and an impassioned Duchess.
The summons was sounded, and the great doors of the court swung open, knocking a small, poorly-placed Viscount right off his feet. The scrum began, with a roar of courtiers jostling for the door. The courtiers at the bar, desperate to enter the chamber, surged forward, squeezing wiggling Lords and bewigged Countesses, disrupting perfumed nobles and smug royal bastards. A pince-nez snapped between the Count’s clumping feet. The Baron’s beehive wig, curled like a big sheepy brain, flopped in the hurricane of courtiers. The Admiral’s own wig wobbled a little, a swaying tower in the sycophantic storm.
Three by three the courtiers popped through the door, pushed further into the chamber by a yelling, tipsy crowd. His Royal Highness looked on with satisfaction as the front rows hurtled through the door, towards his lofty throne. The King loved his throne. It had been crafted from a single block of turquoise marble, swirled with sea blue, black and white. Tiny emeralds glittered, shyly, from the arms, and two lumpen diamonds led the armrests, glowing gently. The King liked to stretch his arms along the armrests, placing his hands firmly over the diamonds, feeling their cold, smooth wealth beneath his fingers.
In front of the King’s throne stretched a grainless red carpet, circling the throne in a great arc. The carpet was pristine, without a single blemish or undulation. This was the way the King liked it, and this was the way it would stay, on pain of death. As the great crowd of courtiers pressed forward, the front rows, realizing the peril they were in, eyes widening, fought against the force taking them forward, edging them ever closer to the blood red fabric. Arms flailed, hands grasping for teeth, eyes, wigs, anything that might pull them away from the carpet and the King’s wrath. His Royal Highness began to smile as the crowd, though slowing, ground closer and closer, sliding forward, inching towards another messy public display of death…
The crowd stopped. There were only a few inches between the front rows and the red velvet. A quivering Duke looked down in relief at the carpet, though such relief had, on occasion, been extremely short-lived. If a courtier made enemies in the court – and all courtiers had enemies, it was practically the local sport – then they had better not be standing behind in the crowd, handily placed for a gentle, surreptitious push. The King, as he always did on these occasions, felt both relief and regret. He looked over the crowd of courtiers, which, despite the crush, filled only half of the hall.
Aides stood at the sides of the hall, watching proceedings. The Chief Dentist stood, upright and serious, examining courtiers from afar, looking for a chipped tooth or two. The twice-daily court gatherings were a blessing for his business. Next to him stood Lillian, the Keeper Of The King’s Fish, holding a net on a long wooden pole. Her glasses were mildly askew, despite having kept well clear of the melee. Beside her was a rising star in the court of His Royal Highness – Sophie, Chief Wig Maker. We shall hear a lot more from her later – it will suffice, for now, to learn that the Admiral was, as usual, trying to catch her eye. Most of us, if confronted by the eye of a fishy seafarer, would have feigned ignorance, perhaps becoming unusually entertained by paintings on the walls, or the size of our shoes. Sophie, however, stared back, arms folded, until the Admiral became unusually entertained by the size of his own shoes.
Billy stood at the back. That was his place, standing at the back, if he could be said to have a place at all. His only job so far that day had been to put his head in the Baronial toilets, which, now he thought about it, had been an odd task for the King to request. What made it especially strange was that the King had ordered Geraldine, the Kitchen Assistant, to ask Billy to do it. Perhaps Geraldine had been promoted recently, even if she still peeled carrots all day.
The King, impatient for his game of billiards, clapped his hands. Everyone bowed, as was customary, and the morning session began.
“Secretary,” waved the King, dispassionately. “Items of notice, please.”
“Thank you, Sire. Two items, Your Majesty. First – the Baronial toilets are blocked. We believe someone stuck their head in them, and this has caused the system to jam.”
The Barons groaned. The King made a decree.
“Very well. For the time being, Barons are absolutely prohibited from using any other toilets in the Royal Palace. Everybody has a place in the natural order of things, and no Baron shall be allowed to usurp it, by pain of death.”
The Barons stopped groaning. Any decree from the King was a good decree.
“Continue, Secretary.”
“Thank you, Sire. Item number two: we have received a meeting request from the King of France.” The Secretary unfurled a note, and handed it to the King, who held it between the corners of his fingers like a soiled handkerchief.
“A paper request! Couldn’t he have sent an email?”
“Not for two hundred and fifty years, Sire.”
The King grumbled again, but opened the note and read aloud.
“Recent meetings at sea have altered the relations between our two countries. His Glorious Gallic Majesty will be attending the English Court in one week, and He requests the presence of His Britannic Majesty.”
There was a hushed, trembling silence in the court room. The King did not like his French counterpart, and when the King did not like someone, nasty things tended to happen to innocent bystanders. In general, the King of England’s life was one long summer’s day, except for five things. Rebellions. Haircuts. The Poor. Dentists. And, worst of all, worse even than the six-monthly check-up, State Visits From The King Of France. Nothing ruined a week like a visit from the King of France.
For those of us lucky enough never to have co-existed with that era’s Gallic Majesty, it might be hard to understand just why the King of England despised him so. Fortunately, history has, quite accidentally, given us a clue. It just so happens that, on a standard pack of cards, the King of Spades is modelled on the very Gallic Majesty of this story. Now we may comprehend the King of England’s rage. Imagine the King of Clubs, or find a pack of cards, if you have one about. Focus on his face. His eyebrows have an annoying little wave in them as they reach the nose, an utterly pointless act of male grooming. The eyes are a pale, sickly blue, with one single eyelash pointing straight out, away from his face, a single hair striking hopelessly for the light. His moustache, divided obscenely in the middle, curls back on itself on the ends, mirrored and irritating, drawing attention, to his smug, eyebrow-shaped lips.
Yet, despite these irksome features, it is when we look beyond the King of Spades’ face that we really start to lose our tempers, even after centuries have passed. His abnormally straight hair performs a neat curl at the end, like an inquisitive worm. Presumably the King of Spades thinks the hair matches his eyebrows. It does, but only in the sense that they are both entirely loathsome. Even worse is his beard which, in an unprecedented act of self-mutilation, is arranged in six perfect ovals, hanging down from the chin, obscuring the King’s neck and collar entirely. Recent historians have speculated the curls to be a ruff rather than a beard, making the King of France somewhat less of an abhorrent monster, but this is pure revisionist drivel.
Worse, even worse, are the King of Spades’ clothes. Firstly, there is the hat, if you can call it a hat. It is actually a gigantic Grecian urn, mustard yellow, perched upon his head, in an attempt to look mysterious and interesting, but really making him look like a man with a vase on his head. Secondly, there is the cloak. It has spades on it. He is a King, yet he has spades embroidered on his cloak. Whilst rudimentary agriculture was the foundation of the 17th-century French economy, a King with spades on his cloak merely looks desperate for popularity with the peasantry. Of course, this only increased the ire of the King of England, who strongly believed that the best use of a spade was for burying a peasant. Thirdly, and perhaps worst of all, is the King of Spades’ sword. When the painting was made, the King did not have a sword near him, and even the smallest spade was too heavy for his puny Royal arms. As you can tell – if you take a closer look at the painting – the King of spades is actually holding a wonky, misshapen tie upside down. Every time the King of England looked at this tie, he felt livid.
The King of England (henceforth to be known as the King, for every true Englishman admits there to be one and only one monarch in this world), in his fury at having to see that cultivated, curly-haired buffoon yet again, threw the note with all his might from the throne. Being paper, it fluttered crazily through the air, floating limply from side-to-side. From the folded paper a firmer piece of cardboard, initially unseen by the King, fell straight down, on the left-hand ruby of the King’s magnificent turquoise throne, and lay facing the ground.
The King moved his hand back to his armrest. He picked up the card. He began to turn it over, but really he knew what it would be. Sure enough, as the King turned the card to face him, a familiar face leered back at him.
It was the calling card of the King of France. It was the King of Spades.
The King, roaring, ripped the card in five, and, scattering the pieces about him, rushed to his feet. He took his own gnarled index finger, loaded it with gunpowder, peered forward, and took aim at the target.
“Secretary?”
The Secretary, the poor messenger, knew his time had come, knew that the musket would crack for him. The courtiers remained, silent, too afraid to utter a sound, for fear of the King’s arm.
“Sire?”
“Secretary, you are to be executed. Miss Lillian, here please.”
“Sire?”
“Miss Lillian, take the Secretary to the lake.”
“At once, Sire.”
The guards appeared, Lillian walked forward, and the guards took the Secretary’s hand. He made no sound, when led by Lillian, the Keeper of the King’s Fish, to the wooden door at the back of the hall. The door was exceptionally low, forcing traitors to stoop before they left the King, their great benefactor.
The King, slightly more at ease, clapped his hands once. He might be seeing the King of France next week, but at least he had a good execution to look forward to today. Even worth postponing a game of billiards for half an hour, an execution.
“Court. We are to witness the just execution of this treacherous rogue – and by ‘we’ I mean ‘I’, for no commoners shall be allowed anywhere near my lake today – and then we shall play billiards and partake of a magnificent luncheon feast – and again, by ‘we’ I mean ‘I’, for we are very hungry today and shall not share with anyone. Prepare to gather after lunch for our afternoon session in court, as usual.”
The King started to rise from his throne, but, by way of afterthought, paused again.
“One moment. The note said that recent meetings at sea have altered the relations between us and France. We are not aware of any such meetings at sea. We would be briefed, this afternoon, by whomever is in charge of Our navy. Good morning.”
The King rose completely from his chair and, ignoring the deeply bowing courtiers, made his way to a great stone door in the wall, towering over the little gate of traitors. As the King left his courtiers raised themselves from their bows, rubbing aching knees, holding stinging backs. A few courtiers re-adjusted their resplendent wigs, which were still misplaced from by earlier crush.
The Admiral felt slightly disappointed. The Secretary would not be able to ask the King about his favourite pastry after all. No big problem – he would send one of the minor aides to buy a croissant later, and see if the King accepted it. A courtier would be extremely unfortunate to lose his head for buying the King the wrong pastry, for the King preferred to encourage such dainty gifts. There was little danger in the old plan, just a bit more inconvenience. Acknowledging the existence of the aides was always to be avoided, except for Sophie, of course. He thought of Sophie, who was bound to consent to marriage. She was lowly compared to him. He had nearly seen action once, after all.
Nevertheless, there was some unease in the Admiral’s mind. A week beforehand, he had received a message from his fleet in the Bay of Biscay. They had reported a French convoy close by, and had requested orders. The Admiral had meant to give orders, he really had. But by the time one has chosen one’s favourite wig, and adjusted one’s hat, and made a start on Chapter L of the dictionary, and thrown some cutlery at the Baron, the moment can pass.
Besides, the Admiral had never liked the sea very much. Yes, boats were fine – he loved all the wood, and he dearly loved the naval scene he was building – but the sea itself was a pain. All those angry waves, and the lack of fresh vegetables, and sharing the boat with all those loud noisy people you needed to steer the thing. The Admiral didn’t enjoy water at all, he’d never learned to swim. Who needs swimming lessons when you’re in charge of all those boats? No, it was enough for him to put on his huge three-cornered Admiral’s hat, and take his enormous Admiral’s telescope from the drawer, and put on his navy Admiral uniform, and sit in front of his naval scene, imagining the boats pinging each other with tiny shiny cannonballs. Sir Francis Drake had played bowls instead of sailing, and everyone loved him. Why couldn’t the present Admiral do the same, just with model boats rather than bowling balls?
The Admiral’s conscience was clear. When he received a note the next day to say that his fleet had been destroyed and France was demanding unconditional surrender, he felt no pangs of guilt. These things will happen. Worse things happen at sea. He still had his hat. The one worry he had, a worry which slowly developed over the coming days, was that the King would find out.
The King didn’t want his fleet to go down. If the King lost his fleet to the French, there would inevitably be repercussions. The King would have to meet his loathed French counterpart. His Britannic Majesty would be grumpy and prone to mindless violence for weeks. No courtier would be safe, least of all the Admiral, who the King might, entirely unreasonably, decide was responsible for the whole affair.
So the Admiral didn’t tell the King, and hoped nobody else would either. He spent the days playing with his boats and eating pastries, studiously avoiding all mentions of seas or battles or diplomacy. But now, since the King was to be visited by the French King, and the French King had said something about a sea battle, the Admiral would have to break the news to him, in as gentle a way as possible. Fortunately for the Admiral, if not for England, the seafarer was well-prepared in the art of placating the King.
“Aide!” the Admiral shouted, not knowing any of their names. Billy came running.
“Ah, aide, I want you to fetch me two things,” said the Admiral, remembering his earlier bet. “First – I want to give His Majesty a croissant. Fetch one for me, and have it wrapped-up fit for a King.”
Billy jotted this down quickly.
“Second – I need a goldfish. Find a fish, and bring it to me. If I do not receive these items before the end of my luncheon, you will be sent to the colonies.”
And with that the Admiral made his way to his lodgings, to dress for the midday meal. His best pair of britches was freshly pressed, and little did he know that the entire world of fashion was soon to change for ever.
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 18th 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.”
The Court Secretary fiddled with his necklace-keyring. “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.
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 chocolat, 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, roughly dragging the keyring over his head in the process. 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.
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 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 18th 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 18th 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.
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.
Chapter 7 – Descent Into The Valley
After another full day of bumping and rumbling, hours of clattering horses and endless howling of wheels, the coach finally arrived in Chester, to the passengers’ stomach-settling relief. The coach slowed to a halt, the horses having done their work, and the passengers alighted, one by one, the quill faced courtier departing, forever, to goodness knows where, the vacant Lieutenant absent-mindedly wandering down an alleyway, off to pursue whatever empty dreams and schemes made up the rest of his years. Driver and horse together trotted away, off to stick their noses in pints or troughs, as appropriate, and prepare themselves for the next day’s labour.
This left Taylor and Billy alone in the centre of Northgate Street. The light was fading, and the grand old cathedral stood to the left, half hidden by fledgling spring trees, who were stretching in surprise at their new green leaves. The dusk cooled on the right of them, drifting past the town Exchange, over Billy and Taylor’s heads, and its half-light floated past the cathedral and on, gliding towards the hills and valleys of North Wales. The stern municipal building frowned over the silent, empty street, casting disapproving glances over their neighbours, the garish, criss-cross Tudor homes.
“So this is it, Chester,” said Billy.
“Taylor.”
“No, I…”
The merchant laughed. “Just joking with you, son. Yes, here’s Chester. I’d buy you a drink, but I’ve got trade to attend to. Need to get my deals wrapped up before the end of the day.”
“Is that what you’re selling?” asked Billy, pointing to the cloth, no stained a little with red spots of sherry.
“This? No, wouldn’t get much for a single strip. It might buy me an ale or two, but it’s not worth the passage to Chester! This bit of cloth’s to show how good my textiles are, so prospective buyers can get a good idea of what I sell. Feel the texture on that!”
Billy took the cloth between his fingers. It was strong and smooth. He made appreciative noises.
“Fine cloth, this,” the merchant said, “Though it wouldn’t fetch me much if I were to sell it, not in this state.”
Taylor, glancing at the length of cloth, realized that it wouldn’t do for prospective buyers to see spots of sherry on the material. He’d have to remove the stained part, and find something else to do with it. In fact, he had an idea. He tore the strip in two, width-ways, and handed the half with sherry splatters to Billy.
“Actually, sir, here’s a gift for you. With compliments from Master Taylor, finest cloth merchant in the land, or at least the luckiest.”
Billy didn’t quite know what to say or do with the cloth.
“Thanks?”
The merchant looked at him right in the eye, smiling quizzically.
“Well, I just said I could buy an ale with this, didn’t I? And you’ve arrived in a new town, dusk falling, nobody about, with no money” – Taylor didn’t mention the reason Billy had no money, which was, of course, that Taylor had won it all from him in a game of cards – “and you need a pint. So here’s a chance to improve your salesmanship. Find somebody, exchange the cloth for a pint, and get yourself a glass.”
Billy nodded, understanding.
“Good luck, Billy. When you’re done with your wool-gathering, come see me in Birmingham. I’ll teach you the French tricks.”
Billy, worried by the mention of the French, quickly checked over his shoulder to see if anybody was listening. No-one was there and, by the time Billy had turned round again, the savvy merchant was off towards the nearest pub, looking for his custom.
As it happened, Billy didn’t exchange that cloth for a pint. The young man had never been a fan of public houses – too rowdy for him, and beer made him queasy. Instead he resolved to find his inn – pre-arranged, obviously, by an overworked court aide – and settle down for his night, planning his route for the morrow. Isolated Welsh valleys are hard to find, and Billy had not spent much time in London checking his route. No, he would settle down, candle lit, map and instructions in hand, to study his journey along the River Dee.
Making his way through a crowded inn, ignoring legions of odd, far-flung travellers, who doubtless had rip-roaring, intrepid stories, some of which might have enriched this narrative immensely, Billy selfishly passed them, eschewing friendly looks, and ascending the stairs to his room. Map open, Wise Wig on the bedside table, cloth folded over the chair, Billy rested his head on the pillow and immediately fell asleep.
The night passed, darkness a peerless black, a sky empty of stars. Cloud had settled over England’s sleeping pastures, shrouding all manner of dreams and dark deeds; robbers sneaking from earthy cellars, smugglers hauling barrels from ocean caverns, stowaways peeping from the corner of a Channel deck. Liaisons were achieved in lightless fields, conspirators plotted in sleepless town squares. The night chattered and chirped across all England, from the red rocks of Torbay to the craggy coasts of Northumberland, with a thousand tiny crimes, each making a disordered, restless mockery of slumbering peace.
But no such schemes affected the Admiral. His plots grew only in sunlight; they rooted and flowered in the open day. He woke to a London dawn: having reached home, exhausted, he’d taken a day to recover from coaches and puddles and misplaced wigs. Having had a long rest and prepared himself for the fight, he woke early, soon after dawn. The Sun rose over the City, beaming from the East, over the farms of Spitalfields and rural Bethnal Green, waking the town. Although England did not know it yet, this would be a crucial day in its history, the most crucial in our story, one which would change the country for good, and usher in the relentless march of the modern world.
The Admiral had a reason for waking up so early this morning. There were conversations he needed to have, and they could not be overheard. His scheme, his ploy to exact the most humiliating revenge on Billy, would start, as such schemes often do, in the kitchens of the palace, and to those kitchens he sailed.
Billy, on the other side of the country, woke sharply too, but for very different reasons. He had another journey to make, one which filled him with dismal feeling. His feeling was not against Wales, as such – for he bore no ill towards that particular land – but against the dangers he might encounter within it. For Wales in the 18th century was not the peaceful, poetic haven that it is today. The mists and valleys of North Wales lay a long way from the King’s power, even if he had chosen to exercise it responsibly, and so lawlessness abided through much of the mountainous region. Billy dressed, took his wig, his cloth and his shears, and headed for the coach, trembling slightly.
There was another reason for Billy’s nervousness. He’d never sheared a sheep before. He didn’t really know how you did it, although the big scissors gave him a clue, of sorts. He didn’t know whether the sheep would mind, or whether the sheep would make it easy for him. What’s more, he’d never been formally introduced to a sheep. He’d seen them on the hillsides, of course, but he hadn’t conversed with one, or asked about its life. Billy might be a confident young man, but even he could recognize when experience was helpful. Sophie’s presence would have made all the difference, he reckoned.
Billy, the only passenger on this coach, was greeted by the driver, who was carrying two large bags. Wordlessly, the driver handed one of the bags to Billy.
“What’s this for?” Billy asked.
“Highwaymen on these roads,” the driver replied, gruffly. “You might need it.”
Billy peered inside the bag. It was a musket. He nearly dropped the bag.
Billy had never touched a musket before. Of course, he’d spied them from afar, in soldiers hands on the parade grounds, but he’d never seen one up close, and had certainly never held one. It was an ugly old thing, not the subtle tool of the craftsman. Instinctively Billy didn’t like it, but took it anyway. He was sure he’d be able to use it, if needed, and started waving it aimlessly at imaginary highwaymen.
The driver took the reins and the coach set off, leaving houses and cobbled roads behind, following the River Dee upstream, into the dark valleys of Wales. They passed brooding forests, empty of people, hopefully. They navigated winding streams without encountering nationalist bandits, or opportunistic robbers. They climbed hills and sped into valleys, horses shaking at the uneven ground, hooves disturbing pebbles, rolling stones and dust from their stuttering path. Little danger befell them, except the ever-present danger that silence brings, or the huge, subtle menace of the quiet River Dee, but nevertheless Billy felt peril ahead, below and behind. There was menace in those trees, the sort of anxiety that comes with being lost deep in an unknown place, far from home. He could not have found his way back, he thought, and when they finally reached the small village that was the coach’s destination he was grateful for some sort of way marker.
The coachman gestured for him to leave. He did. Looking around the village for a second, working out the route to the valley, he walked into the Welsh morning, starting out on the three mile trek to the heralded valley, where Sophie had once been, and a Wise Sheep had once ruled.
Meanwhile, all the way down in London, the court’s morning session had begun. The Admiral hastily whispered something in the ear of the new court secretary as the nobles took their places. The court formed as usual, and the secretary was called forward, keyring chiming merrily.
“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.
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.
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 himself 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 on Billy’s person, or pounds, for that matter. Billy felt a peculiar 18th century fury, one not found in later centuries, where pockets were ubiquitous, arising from the inability to store small amounts of change about his person. At that very moment, he made himself a resolution. If he did make a fortune from his invention – these trousers – he would make sure they all had somewhere you could store coins about their person. He’d make sure they all had little pouches – he’d call them pockets – at the top of the leg, where you could just slip a coin or a note or lots of notes. 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.
Chapter 10 – Opportunities and Opportunists
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 fortunes.
“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 clock, 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.
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 simple merchant. But it’s good to see you all the same,” giving Billy a gentle push on the arm.
Billy frowned, not understanding. He was also surprised that the merchant hadn’t already bowed down in worship. Perhaps he hadn’t noticed the extra cloth attached to Billy’s britches yet.
“It’s good to see you too, merchant. Have you noticed anything different about me today?”
Worried, the merchant stared back at Billy. He couldn’t afford to offend his star attraction. The boy still wasn’t wearing a wig. He looked quite dirty from the neck down, and there was something wrong with his breeches. There was a filthy bit of cloth, extending all the way from the end of the breeches to the boy’s ankle, and it looked quite revolting.
The merchant looked again at Billy, who suddenly looked wounded. It must be the extra bit of cloth, Taylor thought. A new court fad? No, he’d have heard about it, being a fashionable cloth merchant. Still, it was the only thing the merchant could think of, and Billy was looking more and more bemused.
“Oh, the… the britches. Whatever did you do?” the merchant asked. “I love them!” he added, hurriedly.
He’d said the right thing. Billy’s bemusement turned to gentle pleasure.
“You do?” he asked, forgetting his status for a moment, then quickly finding it again. “I know that you recognize a great fashion when you see one, merchant,” he said, more impressively this time.”
“Yes, yes, a great fashion!” exclaimed Taylor again, hoping that he wasn’t overdoing it. “It’s really… really brilliant,” he finished, unable to find a more precise compliment.
“It’s all of my invention,” Billy boasted.
“Yes, yes, I can see that.” The cloth really was filthy.
“Shall I talk you through my thought process?”
“Yes, do.” The merchant was frightened now. Clearly, this boy was a deranged lunatic. Pursued by the law, hunted by all the King’s horses and all the King’s men, the kid was only concerned with creating appalling new items of clothing. The merchant knew not why Billy had chosen to betray his King, but in the face of the utmost peril, the young man was strapping horrendous pieces of fabric to his legs when he ought to be fleeing the country. Taylor began to wonder whether welcoming Billy was really the right thing to do. Yes, he would attract gamblers, but at what cost?
“There’s a problem with the britches you make, merchant.”
“Son, I only sell britches, I don’t make them,” said Taylor, exasperated once again by his own name.
“Quite, merchant. There is a problem with britches.” He paused for effect, still slightly hurt by how slowly the merchant had reacted to the incredible invention.
“What’s the problem with britches?” replied the merchant as brightly as possible, as if it were a Christmas cracker joke, even though they hadn’t been invented yet.
“The problem with britches, merchant, is that they do not extend to the ankle.”
“But,” replied the merchant, humouring the madman, “that it was stockings are for, to keep the lower leg warm. Why extend breeches, when you can wear stockings?” He kept his voice light and conversational.
“Because, merchant, stockings do not offer adequate protection against threats. They are light and flimsy, unable to stop an aggressive predator. My garments, on the other hand, protect against all sorts of peril, accidental or otherwise.”
Oh, the merchant knew where this was going now. He’d suffered this sort of threat before, all merchants did. A thug would approach you, say that they’re goods or services offered protection, and by buying them you’d be, implicitly, buying the thug’s protection also. In later centuries people would associate this kind of behaviour with the mafia, but in 18th century England it was just an everyday transaction. Having said that, there was no hint of malice in either Billy’s countenance or his voice. Quite the actor, this boy. Far more of a threat than anyone had realised, thought the merchant, and possibly not quite so mad after all.
“Ah, I understand now,” said Taylor. “What price are you charging for the protection of your… garments?”
“Price? Ah, these aren’t for sale.”
The merchant was puzzled again. That last sentence didn’t really make sense in this context.
“Not for sale?” He tried another approach. “Very well. How much did it cost you to make them?” He was going to put a fixed price on Billy’s protection, come what may. He wasn’t really sure what Billy was going to protect him from, but he could no longer read this kid.
“Oh, it didn’t cost me anything to make them,” Billy replied cheerfully. “This is the piece of cloth you gave me back in Chester.”
That didn’t make sense at all to the merchant. Thugs didn’t reply like that. And it was the spare bit of cloth the merchant had thrown Billy in Chester. He recognized it now: decent quality material, but too ruined for commercial purposes. The boy really was mad. He’d tied the cloth round his legs and gone running off into the wilds, just like a fully-fledged lunatic.
“In fact,” Billy continued, “I haven’t found any money at all since you last met me. Didn’t have anything on me then, don’t have anything on me now. I’m here to ask you a favour.”
Oh no. If crime lords seeking protection money were bad house guests, then there was an even worse kind: penniless fugitives looking for cash. You wouldn’t get anything in return, and they’d never be in a position to pay you. Usually the money ended up going to the gallows, enjoying the best seat in the house: the fugitive’s purse.
“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! I’ve had one small innovation since I made these, actually: I want little cloth pouches – I call them pockets – at the top of the legs, to store coins in. Give me those too and I pay you 15% 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. Fifteen 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 someplace 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. With pouches – pockets – too. 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.
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, keyring tight around his neck, a true chain of office. 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 18th 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 from behind her back 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.
Chapter 13 – The First Game of Cards
Billy awoke from his nap. The house had, superficially, changed. The bare, dusty look had been replaced with a shadowy darkness. The sun was setting outside, and candles had been hastily arranged in the corners of the room, their brightening light somehow making the room gloomier than it ought to have been. A faded, functional tablecloth had been lain over the table, resplendent with old scorch marks, which had long since blended gracefully into the fabric. Chairs were drawn, attentive and upright, to the table, and a few harsh spirits had been arranged upon the tablecloth. There was a small, ornate box beside these bottles, decorated with a confident, ribbon-like leaf pattern, self-assuredly keeping its own company amongst the spirits and the scorch marks. Nobody else was in the room, but footsteps were coming towards it.
“Ah, Billy, a good sleep, I take it,” said the merchant, stating more than questioning. Billy nodded sleepily.
“My gathering’s assembling, Billy,” the merchant said again, “Need you at your best for the festivities. People are coming to see you.”
Taylor straightened the bottles on the table. Noticing the scorch marks, he made a great play of hiding them with the bottles, then frowning at the now misaligned bottles, then half-covering the marks with the bottles, then replacing the bottles in their original position. He made a prissy, ineffective attempt to dust the tablecloth with his fingers. Billy, slightly more awake now, did so too, purely from politeness. It didn’t make any difference, as the dust wasn’t leaving that tablecloth – not now, not ever.
There was a knock on the door.
“They’re here! They’re here!” In a spirit of homeliness Taylor brushed again at his table, almost knocking over the tankards of alcohol. He started to rush for the door, but halted, remembering something.
“Oh, Billy, sir, I have a present for you.”
He disappeared from view and returned, hurriedly, with a bag.
“Best tailor in the city made what’s in there,” he proclaimed proudly, “Least I could do.”
That was a lie. It was the best taylor Taylor could find that afternoon, and by ‘best’ he meant the first he could find who was free all afternoon. The craftsman had been a big man with a squidgy nose, who’d never made anything more complicated than children’s socks.
“Take a look at them. Oh, and you’ll find a few coins in there, just to help you blend in this evening. Another little gift from yours truly.” He smiled, self-satisfied.
Billy plunged a hand into the bag. He didn’t find the coins immediately – they were at the bottom of the bag – but he did find something else, something heavy and made of fabric. Were these what he thought they were? Trying not to get too excited, he pulled the fabric item from the bag.
TROUSERS
Strong, soft, shiny trousers. They were made from cloth, and were long, so long, so much longer than fashionable breeches. Billy held them to the light, such as it was. There would be no need for hose with these. The trousers were just what he wanted, his invention come to life. The trousers even had pouches – pockets – at the top, all strong and secure, just big enough to hold lots of coins, or conceal plenty of bank notes.
Some people have felt what it is like to create something for the first time, never before seen in the world. They know the delight of finishing a painting, or of holding their new-born child, that unfelt joy which is, itself, something entirely new in the world. They feel this, and they remember feeling it, and they remember for as long as they remember anything at all. Billy, to his final days, would remember this moment, the instant he first held his trousers to the light, let the candle-light shine on them, and let them see the light to which, someday, they would grow accustomed, as they would follow wherever people went. Billy’s great idea had become reality.
It wasn’t just the realisation of an idea. There were practicalities too. Billy started to measure the trousers up against his own legs, to which the merchant, quickly noticing Billy’s awe – despite his own rush to answer the door – hastily intervened.
“Billy, son, I wouldn’t put those on tonight.”
“Why not?”
“Billy, they’re, they’re” – he couldn’t have his guests see the kid in those awful things, not his star attraction – “they’re a bit much for my gathering. It’s not a formal event tonight, see? You need to unveil them properly, at a salon or a fashion house or something.”
To his relief, Billy saw sense.
“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” Billy replied, sadly turning back to the bag. The trousers would just have to wait. Instead, Billy rummaged through the bag again, bringing out the coins. Whilst Taylor answered the door, Billy felt the coins and put them back in the bag. Suddenly realizing that his only valuable, the Wise Wig, still sat in the damp canvas bag that had travelled through Wales, he moved the Wise Wig to the new, sturdy sack, taking care not to tangle the coins in its omniscient curly spirals. He didn’t really understand how the coins would come in useful tonight, but he didn’t have much time to think about it.
The first guest walked in. He had really bushy eyebrows and a big bristly beard. He reminded Billy of a hedge.
“This is-”
“So you’re Billy,” said the Hedge, interrupting Taylor.
“Yes.”
The Hedge looked at him, looked away, and sat down. There was another knock on the door, and the merchant scampered towards it.
The Hedge stared at Billy again.
“So you’re Billy.”
“Yes.”
The Hedge looked him up and down again, and scrutinised Billy’s face. Billy didn’t stare back. He might be the man who invented trousers, but there was something about the Hedge which inspired politeness. It was not clear what The Hedge was thinking, or whether he had thoughts at all, being a hedge.
The merchant returned to the room, followed by a noise. An ululating, jabbering sort of noise.
“And as I was saying to the guild, prices are going higher and higher these days, and the yarn doesn’t come cheap either, you know, not in the spring, and there’s all sorts of costs to pay, I said, and you know how… oooh!”
The noise had a face and a pair of eyes, and it had laid eyes upon The Hedge.
“Are you Billy? You’re just what I was expecting, the hirsute look of the, well, you know, the powerful gaze, the self-strong disregard of what is expected of you-”
“He’s Billy,” said The Hedge.
The Noise nearly stopped, but somehow interrupted his own silence before it could begin, and jumped in surprise, spying Billy’s youthful features.
“Billy, what a pleasure to meet you! I… well… yes, of course you are, full of the rebelliousness of youth, all your plots and schemes and tricks, I daresay, but it’s a pleasure to have your acquaintance of course, I know of your name, most certainly-”
He was only interrupted by another knock at the door. It was louder than the others had been, and was rhythmically, inevitably followed by a second impressive knock, and a third.
“That must be our final guest,” Taylor whimpered fearfully, excitedly, and he scurried out of the room, nearly knocking over a corner candle in the process.
Billy, still unaware he was a wanted man, felt more confident still. His trousers had been described as the rebelliousness of youth, as a plot and a scheme and a trick! He must be a true entrepreneur, the sort of man merchants looked to as their guiding light, their inspiration, their one true saviour. This was only the beginning, this sort of recognition.
Yet his confidence wouldn’t last long.
The merchant hobbled back into the room. It wasn’t clear why he was hobbling, but lines of pain had formed on his round face, grooves in the big blue world, Nobody appeared to be following him. They all watched as the Taylor sat in a seat, remembered his hosting duties, and sprang up again to lean, instead, on the far wall of the room, wearily relaxing his shoulders.
“Taylor, who-”
“She’ll enter in a second.”
“Wonder who it could be,” stated The Noise, eager not to be interrupted by an answer, “I think it’s some sort of important guest, by the looks of it, don’t you think, and someone with quite a bit of temper, I can see, and-”
He was interrupted by the door’s creak, or, rather, a full-blown scream, as the old wooden frame was wrenched open in one solid, impressive movement. The guests, sitting round the table, turned to the doorway in fear.
A masked figure stood at the door, legs shoulder-width apart, impressively surveying the room. A highwaywoman, clearly, to even the most naïve, law-abiding youth, or the most experienced, world-weary criminal. Her attire was just different, illegal in every sense, and boastfully so, with no attempt to hide its lawlessness. First, the mask. A length of black material, tied in a functional bow at the back, concealed the upper half of her face, with small, torn openings for her eyes. Yet, somehow, this mask, rather than hiding her, rather than an item of subterfuge, made her more conspicuous; for it told you she was breaking some rule, up to some malice.
Second, the hair. She wore no wig, none at all. Her dark brown hair, unremarkable in most ages, positively revolutionary in the wig era, fell to her shoulders, just brushing the top of her red cape. The cape trailed down, unbuttoned, over a white top and matching breeches, which in turn were divided, punctuated, by a brown buckled belt. The cape flowed further, just catching long black boots, which matched her creased leather gloves. She was holding a small, string-drawn bag in her right hand.
“Gentlemen.”
They knew who she was. Well, Billy didn’t, but The Noise, having been placed next to Billy, drew his chair very close to Billy’s right ear and whispered loudly into it.
“The Highwaywoman of Hertfordshire,” he explained, watching the merchant draw back the chair for the highwaywoman. “She’s the reason people are afraid to leave London, you know.” Across the room, the highwaywoman was ignoring the merchant’s welcomes, almost unconsciously, as if she simply hadn’t acknowledged his existence. The Noise gabbled some more information in Billy’s ear, but he was so afraid of the highwaywoman hearing him that it garbled into drivel.
Billy nodded nervously, pretending to understand what he was being told. The Highwaywoman of Hertfordshire looked at him, unconcerned. She clearly knew who he was, and she wasn’t the least bit surprised by him.
“Let’s start the game.” She put her hand on the little ornate box on the table and opened it. She put her hand inside and, to Billy’s horror, removed a small pack of cards. Seeing Billy’s face, she looked evenly at him.
“One more act of treachery won’t hurt, will it?” she said, looking knowingly at his worried countenance. She chuckled, laughing at her own private joke.
Act of treachery? Billy didn’t understand why she was looking at him so conspiratorially, expecting him to understand. He had no idea what kind of treachery she got up to, but he suspected all sorts of evil deeds. As the merchant started to pour strong-smelling spirits into The Hedge’s glass, the highwaywoman, with her free hand, turned over her own glass, indicating for it to remain empty. Even The Noise was too cowed to speak in her presence: he satisfied his silence by restlessly playing with his glass, taking the smallest sips possible as the highwaywoman dealt the cards.
“First round, we empty our purses. Then we move on to the bags” – she indicated her own bag, presumably bulging with money, and the bags each player held, including Billy’s. Clearly, this was the most she was prepared to explain. She picked up her hand. The Hedge did the same, impassively staring straight ahead, as if the cards weren’t there at all. The Noise picked up his own hand and began to rearrange it impulsively, continually shuffling the cards.
Billy picked up his own cards. There were a couple of kings and a few numbered cards. He didn’t know what the kings did, or why they did it, or what to do. All he knew was that, by putting one of those kings down, he would be betraying his own. He hesitated, and suddenly realised the others were looking at him.
“We start with the Purse Round. Empty your purses on the table,” the highwaywoman ordered. There was already an odd collection of objects on the wooden surface. A few coins from The Noise, plus an old bottle cap; a few receipts from The Hedge, with a nail and some safety pins; combined with three pennies, a rusty key which had seen better days, and a small, empty phial, all originating from the highwaywoman’s purse.
Billy did as he was told. He wasn’t carrying a purse, but he did find a wispy bit of wool clinging to his person. He considered rifling through his new trousers, which had pockets, but decided not to show those fantastic garments too early. The others looked at the wool dispassionately, except the highwaywoman, who scrutinised it carefully.
“That’s not enough, is it,” pleaded The Noise, “He can’t just bet that, not that little bit of fluff, it’s not-”
“It’ll do,” interrupted the highwaywoman, “Left of dealer, play.”
And so The Noise put down his first card. King of Spades. How appropriate, thought Billy. Well, there was nothing for it. Play random cards and hope for the best. He put one of his own down, and The Hedge followed quickly, the highwaywoman quicker still.
“Another.”
They each put one more card down.
“And one final card,” ordered the highwaywoman. The Noise put down his card and leaned back with a sigh of defeat. He was going to have to give up his bottle cap.
Billy picked up his cards and stared bemusedly at them, hoping that sight alone would give him a way to win. With everything to lose and nothing really to gain, he decided to play one of the kings. He laid it slowly on the table.
A look of resignation coiled the other players. Even The Hedge nearly showed emotion, laying his hand face down, not even bothering to play. The highwaywoman nodded to Billy, almost deigning to show him respect.
“Well played.” She pushed the bits and bobs on the table towards him, and he gathered them up gratefully, returning them to his big bag.
“Now, the bags.” The highwaywoman undid the rope around her small, rough bag, taking out real, serious money this time. She placed it on the table, and gestured for the others to do the same. They did. Great rolls of cash, heaps of coins, glittering trinkets, emerald bling. The merchant nodded at Billy from the other side of the room, where he was adjusting an ornament, and Billy took out his new-found heap of gold from the merchant’s bag.
The heap wasn’t quite as large as the others’ mounds of coinage. Billy looked curiously at the players’ fortunes. He could understand how the highwaywoman had earned her money, but he couldn’t possibly guess how The Noise became wealthy, or The Hedge. A small pearl winked at him from beneath The Hedge’s deadpan gaze, and a crystal-studded monkey leered obscenely from The Noise’s side of the table.
“He’s not betting enough again, this kid, don’t you think, not enough money for the game, for someone who’s-”
“It’ll do,” interrupted the highwaywoman, again. “Now play.”
Billy’s glass, between him and The Noise, had been re-filled. Owing to his dislike of alcohol, he’d secretly poured the first away, where it made a foul-smelling puddle on the floor behind him, but he couldn’t very well keep doing that, for someone would soon notice. To be polite, he started on the liquid, recoiling at the bitter taste. The hand played out, and the crystal-studded monkey soon found itself gliding towards The Hedge’s gleaming treasure trove, as did Billy’s first few coins. A second hand had much the same result, except for the identity of the victor: the highwaywoman picked up her first hand.
The evening passed very quickly for Billy. Unused to either strong spirits or the rules of the game, he watched the night slowly drift past him, like the sea washing a cold shoreline. Fog rolled in, and Billy’s coins rolled away, to The Noise and The Hedge and the Highwaywoman. Rounds were fast and they were frequent: the merchant had no time to fill glasses between hands, and he rushed frantically between the players, spilling evil liquids on the table, on the cards and on The Hedge’s beard. He spilt nothing on the highwaywoman, however, fearing the gun that must surely be concealed about her person. He spilt plenty on Billy, on the other hand, almost making up for the cleanliness of The Highwaywoman of Hertfordshire, and the courtier was dimly, mistily glad he hadn’t put his new trousers on earlier.
The highwaywoman liked to play as quickly and impatiently as possible, and when she spied Billy’s last remaining coins taking a peek at the centre of the table, she decided to move things along further.
“Doubles,” she declared, not that Billy knew what the word meant. He didn’t care too much, either. It was the merchant’s money he was losing, after all, and that could come and go as it pleased.
Billy pushed his final coins into the centre of the table and waited for the end. It came swiftly. A few choice cards from the highwaywoman, a failed bluff from The Noise – he jabbered loudly about how good his cards were, and did it so often that everyone knew the opposite – and the trick was won by Hertfordshire’s finest.
She pulled The Hedge’s coins towards her. He stared a shrubbery stare from behind his foliage. She pulled some of The Noise’s coins towards her. He bleated a few sad, last moans, but the greater part of his fortune was gone. Finally, she pulled Billy’s final coins towards her, looked up at Billy, and smiled.
Billy recoiled. That smile, that particular smile – well, it wasn’t something you’d want to see in the waters of the Zambezi, put it that way.
“Doubles,” she repeated. The crocodile grin grew wider still, reminding Billy very much of the geese he’d encountered on that dark Welsh hillside.
“Doubles?”
“Doubles. What else do you have?”
With a tremble, he understood. ‘Doubles’ meant he owed double what he’d put down on the table, and he’d put down everything. He owed her something more.
“Open the bag,” she commanded. “I want something worth at least as much as those coins. Give it to me.”
She leaned back and rested her hand on the side of her belt. Billy, terrified, looked desperately in his bag. So this was how it felt to be robbed on the highway. Your money or your life, and he had no more money. What he did have in that bag, he valued far more than money…
He looked up again, without drawing anything from the bag. The highwaywoman was still smiling, but the smile was getting more and more vicious with every passing, pounding heartbeat. Her hand rested on something to the side of her belt, clasping something.
Billy reached down into his bag. This was a highwaywoman, he told himself. There was no choice. Weakly, despondently, he took out his beloved trousers from the bag. Fresh and new, they were, straight from the maker. They were neatly folded about the leg, neatly pressed, a quiet fashionable revolution. He took them out and laid them on the table, taking care to avoid the bottles, stains and spillages.
The highwaywoman did not react as he was expecting. She sniffed and scowled.
“What are they?”
“They’re called trousers. They’re, they’re yours,” he finished, defeated.
“No they’re not,” she pronounced, disgusted, “They’re hideous. I wouldn’t pay a single penny for them. Put them away.”
Billy quickly put them away, relieved. He wouldn’t have to give up his trousers after all. The invention was safe. The highwaywoman clearly had no taste in haberdashery.
“No, what else do you have in the bag?” the highwaywoman asked again, meaningfully, “Take it out.”
Billy felt smug. He’d keep the trousers. After the trousers, he didn’t have much else of importance, he thought, opening the bag again and showing it to the table…
He then remembered had something else in the bag, something of much greater importance than those trousers.
“What’s that?” the highwaywoman asked, her crocodile grin composing to a reptilian lullaby of curiosity.
It was the Wise Wig. There’s no hiding it. Everyone could feel, even in the flickering, drink-drowned fog, the eminence, the grace, the fortitude of England’s most noble wig. It was as if Jerusalem itself had been built amid the dark gutter-light of the gambling hole, and the Truth and the Way and the Light themselves perceived in that satanic den, and the gaze of the boorish infidel wrested by the divinity of the Holy Spirit, albeit in headpiece form.
To his credit, Billy didn’t take the Wise Wig out of the bag. He was an Englishman, a true Englishman, and the thought of handing over England’s prize wig to the most notorious highwaywoman in all of Hertfordshire was something he just couldn’t countenance. Yet the highwaywoman’s fingers clasped the thing on the side of her belt, and she drew her hand from her cloak, and she laid her revolver on the table in front of her.
“Give me the wig,” she said softly, evenly.
Billy was no traitor, but he was no hero, either. Forgetting that loss of this wig would surely mean certain death if he were to return to the court, he silently handed the Wise Wig to the highwaywoman, who quickly put it in her bag. She slipped the treasure she’d amassed that night into her sack too – the other players had been no match for her – and she stood up.
“Goodbye,” She flung the sack over her shoulder and strode through the door, not turning back. She moved through the doorway and soon, from afar, the front door could be heard to open.
The remaining players, plus their merchant host, looked at one another in silence for a moment. Evidently the wisdom of the wig had a curious effect upon The Noise, because he was utterly still, not making a sound. Before they could speak, and to their great surprise, the highwaywoman returned, poking her head round the door.
“You might like to take look out your front door,” she said, quickly removing her head. Her nimble, urgent footsteps ran up the stairs and were gone.
The others did as she suggested. The merchant was first out the card-room door, ferociously followed by The Noise. Billy was next, with The Hedge pacing methodically behind. She’d left the front door open, which the merchant grabbed, flinging it wider, easing himself awkwardly through the gap, peering into the dark street. Billy watched the merchant look out into the street, whilst The Noise pushed the merchant outside and peered round the corner of the door too. Billy could hear a rumbling sound. He leaned over The Noise, who by now was gesticulating furiously, almost lost for words. Billy couldn’t quite see what was causing the rumbling sound or the commotion, but he could see the merchant in the tiny narrow road, turning circles in panic and fear, holding his hands to his mouth, hopping.
“It’s the magistrate! It’s the magistrate! They’ll catch us playing cards! They’ll…” he stumbled into the road, turning to face Billy, “they’ll catch us with you!”
Before Billy could work out what he meant, the merchant took his chance. Seeing The Noise in the road, the merchant dashed back into the house, through the gap The Noise had left. Before Billy could wonder where Taylor was off to, he saw something in the night sky.
At first, Billy thought the blur was a comet flying through the air. A huge comet, close to Earth, for most comets were not so large in the night sky. His eyes adjusted quickly, and soon he realised it was not a comet, but a person. A red cape, fluttering over strong black boots. The cape belonged to a person, and that person was leaping from the window above Billy, over the narrow, filthy alleyway, to the house opposite. Landing comfortably, easily, the highwaywoman, still holding her great bag, disappeared into the dark house opposite, making a practised getaway.
If only he’d thought of that. Billy turned to the street, where the magistrate’s carriage was quickly rumbling towards them, knocking over piles of rubbish as it went, crashing into houses, breaking walls; and Billy turned again to the merchant’s house, where the merchant had disappeared up his old, crumbling stairs; and Billy looked back at the street again.
Soldiers were leaping from the carriage now, shouldering muskets. A distinguished-looking man, in a wig Sophie would have recognized as Judicial Wig Number 4, peered over the top of the coach.
“Soldiers, arrest that man!” he declared, pointing at Billy. “We’ve got him!”
Billy stared open-mouthed at the soldiers and their muskets. The magistrate flourished a bright lantern, which he shone right in Billy’s eyes. Somewhere overhead there was a large crash, and a couple of the soldiers raised their guns. Billy looked up too: a large figure, far less nimble than the highwaywoman, was scrambling over the far balcony, escaping via the house opposite. Two soldiers, out of habit, fired, but conditions were unhelpful, and they missed by a long way. The merchant, too, disappeared into the dark house opposite.
“We’ll get him later,” said the magistrate, “Let’s take this lot in first.”
The Noise whimpered. The Hedge, who’d generally been too slow to react – probably owing to the large amount of whisky he’d watered himself with – stoically raised his arms in surrender. Troops walked towards the three of them, guided by the lantern light, steadily directing their guns at the criminals.
“Put the other two in the back,” ordered the magistrate again. He did enjoy giving orders. “As for you, Billy, I want to arrest you personally.”
The Noise and The Hedge were led away, at different decibels. The magistrate disembarked from the van and, traversing the narrow crevasse between the wall and his vehicle, he struggled through to the front of the coach.
“Billy,” he said again, “Billy, you are under arrest.” He laid a hand on the younger man’s shoulder, a gesture which might have been oddly avuncular, in a different context.
“I am arresting you, Billy, for high treason. You may not say anything. The gallows await you.”
Chapter 14 – The Day of Diplomacy
Geraldine was trying to sleep, but she was too excited. Hours had passed since she’d met Sophie, and she was eagerly anticipating the morning, for two reasons. Firstly, it was a big day. There hadn’t been a good diplomatic negotiation for ages, and the last had been brilliant. To resolve some minor dispute over a portion of Schleswig-Holstein, the Kings of England and Denmark had competed in a dance-off. Fortunately, the Danish monarch had forgotten to bring anyone for the judging panel, so the five English judges unanimously declared England’s King the new Dance Champion of Dithmarschen. Apparently there would only be a swimming race and a card game this time, but Geraldine wouldn’t bet against the King getting out his disco shoes.
She was excited for another reason too. Looking back on the events of the day, remembering the fun she’d had as Chief Wig Maker, she’d astutely realised that she was about to get revenge, and soon. Geraldine wasn’t really that bothered about avenging herself on Sophie, as there wasn’t a great deal to avenge for, but the more accidental vengeance the better, in her opinion. The thing was, she hadn’t told Sophie about the meeting with the King. As far as Sophie knew, she was just going about her business that evening. As far as the King knew, Sophie was meeting him to update him on the progress of the new Wise Wig. Sophie would not meet the King. Therefore, the King would execute Sophie. It was all very simple.
It might have happened already, Geraldine thought. There was sure to be a commotion the next morning, anyway. On second thoughts, she could wait for that. Thinking happy things, Geraldine fell asleep.
Billy, meanwhile was not thinking happy thoughts. The coach, heavily fortified with soldiers, had almost trundled its way to London, bringing its criminals to justice, in an almost literal sense. Billy’s unhappiness won’t come as much of a surprise: he’d just been arrested for high treason, after all, and he was on his way to the gallows. Well, the magistrate had said the gallows, but Billy knew he was more likely to end up in His Majesty’s swimming lake.
What high treason had he committed? Playing cards, that must be it. If only he’d not accepted the merchant’s invitation, not been lured to the dingy house on the dingy street by the promise of trousers. His trousers had been his undoing – he’d quite literally gambled his life away for them. After all that, losing the Wise Wig didn’t matter much: they’d find out it was gone later, but his fate was decided, with or without the King’s best hairpiece.
There wasn’t much more to think or say or do, and the three prisoners – The Noise, The Hedge and Billy – were soon bundled from the coach. Still escorted by the soldiers, they were led into a particularly small, smelly prison cell. Billy, who’d half-heartedly attempted to clean out these cells many a time, knew they were on the premises of the court. A guard slammed the cell shut, and a lock automatically clinked into place.
Billy recognised the courtly smell, anyway, a familiar tang to his nostrils; but it was generally more diluted than this, and he recoiled at the stench of his new smell. Having The Noise and The Hedge in there with him didn’t help.
“This is most dreadful, isn’t it,” The Noise chattered, “This cell, the last few hours of our lives, being together here, not much to do, but stand here-” he paused for breath – “very squashed together, very cosy, just like rabbits in a trap, if you ever seen rabbits in a trap, which I have actually… I remember a play, and I think it’s set in a prison, or there are people in a prison in the play, I forget which; anyway, they say prisoners should be happy and sing like birds, or something, so we should sing…”
At which point The Noise made a bleating sound and poked his head through the bars.
The Hedge wasn’t much better company either. He smelt of cauliflower.
Billy started to wonder how much time they’d have. He knew it was the day of the diplomatic negotiations, so the King would probably want to get rid of them fairly quickly. An opening act, perhaps, before the day’s festivities got underway.
He didn’t have much time to speculate on these matters, however, as the guard came back a few minutes later.
“Traitor.”
Billy looked at the guard, who started unlocking the door.
“Visitor to see you. Says she’s your aunt. Bring your bag.”
The guard took Billy’s arm and led him down the corridor. A bit puzzling really, because Billy didn’t have an aunt.
Sophie was taking a real risk. Geraldine hadn’t predicted correctly: despite failing to tell Sophie about the meeting with the King, and despite Sophie’s subsequent non-attendance, she hadn’t been hauled for execution, at least not yet. Not that Sophie knew any of this. She had plenty of urgent business to occupy herself with.
Now Billy had finally been arrested, she could get the Wise Wig back. Either the guards would have taken it off him or, more likely, the guards being pretty useless at searching prisoners, he’d still have the wig on his person. All she needed to do was go down to the prison – sneak down, lest anyone should catch her – and reclaim the wig from him. She’d have to force him to give up his possessions, but the guards would almost certainly let that happen.
So, with the necessary secrecy, she found an old wig in her workshop, one that would do for the standard minor gentry, and disguised herself as a disapproving aunt. Safe in her costume, she dashed down to the dungeon prison, which was on the palace grounds. Having introduced herself to the guards, established that, no they had not searched little Billy for anything a disapproving aunt might approve of, such as a warm winter cloak or a good sturdy wig, she demanded to see her errant treacherous nephew, the scallywag. The guards permitted this without a murmur and went to fetch him.
Sophie was led to a small, featureless room at the side of the corridor and told to wait. She waited, and the door opened. Billy and the guard walked in, and Sophie gestured for the guard to leave them alone, which he did. Billy looked at her, puzzled, trying to work out where he knew her from. Sophie removed her ‘aunt” wig and replaced it tetchily with her own.
“Sophie!”
“Yes, that’s right,” Sophie said, exasperated. Why couldn’t anyone recognize someone in a different wig? She’d had to do it for years, seeing as she helped people choose and try on headpiece after headpiece every single day.
Billy still looked confused. “What are you doing here? Have you come to set me free?”
“I’m sorry, Billy,” she said gently, “but I can’t set you free. The King’s ordered your execution, and I can’t fight the King. No-one can.”
Billy looked disappointed. He knew that Sophie couldn’t beat the King, in the same way that people, however strong, can’t control the wind, but he had hoped, briefly, when he saw her.
“There isn’t any time, so you’ve got to help me. You’re not really a traitor, I know that. But you’ve got a couple of things belonging to me. Did you get the wool from the wise sheep?”
“No.”
She wondered if he was just being obstinate.
“I know you still want to help your country, Billy. If you’ve got the wool, please hand it over.”
“I’ve not got it, I swear.”
And he told her the story of the mountain. He told her about the approach in the carriage, the goats, how none of the sheep were wise. He told her, then, about the geese, their formation, the way they’d attacked him, the way he’d defended himself by winding cloth round his lower legs. He even, with a hint of excitement, told her about trousers.
She wasn’t interested in trousers. She asked him how’d he’d got to Birmingham, where he’d been arrested, so he told her about his trip to Chester, about the squadron of soldiers. She frowned.
“Why did the soldiers let you go? Why didn’t they arrest you?”
Now it was Billy’s turn to look confused. “Why would they have arrested me then? I didn’t play cards until I got to Birmingham. No, I reckon it was my invention. They were really impressed by my trousers, that’s why they were so subservient.”
“I’m not quite sure soldiers are that impressed by haberdashery, Billy, however good your – trousers – may be.”
Billy’s disappointed frown grew more disappointed still, so Sophie tried to reassure him.
“I mean, I’m a decent wig maker myself, obviously, but I’ve never successfully used wigs to subdue a whole troop of soldiers intent on arresting me-”
“Why would they have arrested me? What did they think I’d done?” Billy wanted answers.
“Because, Billy – there was a bit of trouble at the court, the King was sent a box of French pastries, things got out of hand, powerful people blamed you.”
“Blamed me? But it wasn’t me who sent those pastries, it was the Admiral!” Billy shouted indignantly.
Sophie motioned him to keep quiet, and replied, “I know, I know.”
“So we’ll testify, the two of us! I’ll go to court and tell him it was the Admiral. You’ll back me up, everything will-”
“No-one will believe you, Billy. You’re a convicted traitor.”
“For the crime I’m testifying about!”
“And they won’t believe me, siding with a traitor. No, that’s it. You were lucky not to be arrested in Chester, what with the whole troop finding you. A stroke of luck, that’s all it could have been.”
“I still think they liked my trousers,” Billy replied, defiantly.
“As I was saying,” Sophie continued, wishing Billy would actually listen so she could get out of here and back to safety, “Soldiers don’t care about what you’re wearing. My wigs don’t work. They don’t see the Chief Wig Maker and bow down to her, just because she’s got a great hairpiece. The only person who they’d bow down to is the King, and they’d probably only worship him if he’s got the Wise Wig on…”
She stopped, suddenly understanding. Billy, still not understanding, gawped worriedly at her.
“Billy,” she said, slowly, “were you wearing the Wise Wig when you met the soldiers in Chester?”
“Er, I don’t think so, I’m pretty sure it was in – oh.”
He had been wearing the Wise Wig. He’d taken it off on the way to Birmingham. He must have been wearing it in Chester, and in the Welsh village. No wonder everyone had bowed down to him. They must have thought he was the King of England, wearing His Majesty’s most magnificent, most regal wig.
“Oh. Maybe I was.”
Sophie put her head in her hands. Even that wasn’t enough, and she banged her forehead on the table, quite hard. She sat up, folded her arms, and looked back at Billy.
“Didn’t you think… no, obviously not. Why on earth did you put the Wise Wig on in the first place?”
Billy couldn’t recall. There was a good reason, there definitely was, but he couldn’t remember it for the life of him.
“Even if I could have saved you before, there’s no saving you now. You wore the King’s wig in public. People saw you.”
Billy bowed his head. He knew he was done for. What the geese failed to do, the King would manage in the blink of an eye.
“Were you wearing the wig when you were arrested?” Sophie asked.
Billy shook his head sadly. He knew what the next question would be.
“Do you still have the Wise Wig? Is it in your bag?” Sophie pointed at his bag, and Billy kept his eyes down, refusing to meet hers.
“Do you still have the Wise Wig? She asked again, now scared of Billy’s answer.
He shook his head, still refusing to look her in the eyes.
“Where is it? Where is it?” She slammed the table with her fist, but he still didn’t reply.
As if in answer, someone knocked on the closed door of Billy and Sophie’s room. Sophie, reacting immediately, pulled her own wig from her head and replaced it with her aunt wig. The door opened.
“Visit up,” said the guard self-importantly. “What was all that racket about?”
“He’s a disgrace to his family,” Sophie shrieked. “I’ll always said he’d come to no good, didn’t I? She cackled in a strange, old-fashioned-aunt sort of way. As they led her out of the room, she bumped heavily into the guard. Regaining her balance, she turned back to Billy.
“I hope they throw away the key!”
She stormed out. Billy wondered whether she’d been in character or not, as he heard thumping, angry footsteps disappear down the corridor.
“All right you, back to your cell,” said the guard, and he escorted Billy back to The Hedge and The Noise, one of whom was still talking rapidly. The guard hadn’t shut the cell when escorting Billy away, preferring instead to leave two colleagues watching the inmates, and The Noise was loudly planning his escape.
“Now, when the guards turn their backs-” one mimicked turning his back -” we’ll make a run for it, won’t we, one of us left, one of us right, they can’t catch both of us, or maybe you hit him over the head, being the brawn of the operation, and I’ll make a run for it, being the brains-”
The Hedge said nothing. It wasn’t the guard he was planning to hit over the head right now.
The two of them saw Billy, and The Noise cheered, possibly because he’d just wanted to make a different king of bellow. Billy was led back to the cell, where the two figuratively greeted him with open arms, and the cell door clinked back into its automatic lock, in a satisfying sort of way.
Sophie wasn’t so satisfied – although, if she’d heard the click of that door, with Billy safely locked inside, she might have felt a little better.
There was no new Wise Wig. There was no old Wise Wig. The King, on the day of his most important diplomatic negotiation since he’d taken on the Holy Roman Emperor in a game of Hungry Hungry Hippos, had no wig to wear, no wig that would suit a state occasion. His Chief Wig Maker could expect to be executed for not doing her job.
But you’ve prepared for this, she kept telling herself, you’ve planned ahead. And she had, to some extent. She’d made her own workshop look like it had been robbed. She’d hidden several of her most expensive, most valuable creations.
This was the story: Billy had disappeared after being invited to her workshop and asked to do a job. A couple of days later, after returning from a mini-break in Hertfordshire, she’d returned to find her workshop burgled, with many of the most expensive wigs missing. Everyone had seen it. Everyone had seen her faint in her workshop. On closer inspection of her workshop, she’d found the Wise Wig missing too. Clearly, Billy had stolen it. It was the only explanation. And he’d been the one tasked with getting more wool for the new wig, so no wonder the King didn’t have a wig ready.
But that last bit was where the story had gone a bit wrong. Billy was supposed to have the Wise Wig on his person, proving that he committed the crime. Whether he confessed or not, possession of the wig would serve as irrefutable evidence of his guilt: he would be promptly executed, and Sophie would be exonerated. The King would be grumpy at not having a new wig and at having to make do with the old one, but he would be relatively happy, if she brushed it down and made it sparkle.
Without the Wise Wig, there was no irrefutable proof of Billy’s guilt, although that wasn’t strictly necessary where the King’s justice was concerned. No, the problem was that the King would have no wig, and so he was bound to take it out on the Chief Wig Maker, however well she’d served him in the past. There wouldn’t be any mercy, even if her workshop had – apparently – been burgled, and the Wise Wig stolen. The King didn’t have a wig to wear, and that’s all he valued her for. She’d spent a long time in a powerful position, but she wished she could spend a little longer there. She started to toy with the prison door key in her hand. To try and give herself a bit more time she’d stumbled into the guard when saying goodbye to Billy, and taken the key from the guard’s hand in the process: impressively, without him noticing. Her idea was straightforward: Billy was an idiot. The more he was questioned, the guiltier he’d look, and maybe, just maybe he’d reveal what happened to the Wise Wig, or it would accidentally turn up as a result of his interrogation, or something. He wasn’t any good to Sophie dead, therefore she’d stolen the key, so that the guards wouldn’t be able to take him out of the prison cell and execute him. Keep him alive for as long as possible, then there’s the slightest chance he might make another mistake. She knew he was well capable of making mistakes…
BUMP
She’d just walked into someone. Oh no, it was the Admiral. She probably wouldn’t have much longer to live, and he was the last person on Earth she’d want to spend her remaining hours with. He’d be so smug at her downfall. And now, before her downfall, he’d want her to answer his proposal. At least she could say no. There’s nothing he could do to her now. She was already going to be executed: there wasn’t anything further.
For once, he didn’t even attempt his version of pleasantries.
“Chief Wig Maker, you need to take the King’s new wig to him straight away.”
Sophie was determined not to show her fear, least of all to this man.
“That’s just what I’m doing.”
“Good. He needs it right away. For the diplomatic negotiations. They’re today, you know.”
“I’m taking him the wig,” she said, not showing any irritation, not showing her impatience.
“He needs that wig. I can’t vouch for you any longer, you know.”
She had to ask. She hated that she had to ask.
“Vouch for me?”
“Last night. When you didn’t show up.”
“Show up to what?”
“The meeting with the King. I know you were invited.”
Sophie didn’t know what he was talking about. She hadn’t received an invitation.
“You were delivered an invitation. The Court Secretary said he’d seen you and told you about it, so don’t deny it.”
The Court Secretary had seen her? She hadn’t met the new Court Secretary… oh.
Geraldine.
The Court Secretary must have met Geraldine, disguised as her, in the corridor, and ordered her to the King’s rooms. The girl hadn’t told her about it either. Sophie had been expressly invited to an appointment to the King and she simply hadn’t shown up. It was a small miracle that she hadn’t already been arrested.
“Oh yes, yes, I, I had other business to attend to.” What a terrible excuse. Sophie prided herself on her excuses, but this one was truly awful, not up to the standard of the greenest court amateur.
“What business could be more important than the King?” The Admiral waited for a reply, but seeing none was forthcoming, continued the conversation himself. “No matter. I vouched for you, as I said. You were lucky, I think, that Lillian wasn’t there either. I’m told she’s finalising today’s arrangements, but no-one’s quite sure where she is.”
“What did you tell the King?”
“Oh, I merely told him you were putting finishing touches on the new wig. You’d been burgled recently, which is why everything was a bit late, but you were very nearly ready, and it would all be sorted by this morning. That’s true, isn’t it?” He peered at her.
“Yes, yes,” she said. Why exactly had the Admiral vouched for her? He had quite possibly saved her life by doing so: well, he hadn’t actually saved it because the King would surely execute her this morning – just as soon as His Majesty found out about the missing wig – but he’d certainly postponed her execution overnight. Unfortunately, he was about to answer her unspoken question.
“I can’t continue to vouch for you, you know. A courtier has to stand on his – or her, courtiers can be women too, I’m not old-fashioned – on her own two feet. Own two feet, you hear? I’ll let you off this one time, seeing as we’re soon to be married, but I can’t keep defending you.”
He gave Sophie – unblinking, horrified Sophie – a quaint little bow, and went upon his way.
Soon to be married? Geraldine! That kitchen assistant had wrought all manner of mischief in her short time as the Chief Wig maker. She must have accepted the Admiral on her behalf. Well, no matter. Bizarrely, it wouldn’t ever be an issue. The King wouldn’t give her enough time to get married. In a sense this was nearly a favour. The Admiral, by being engaged to her, had been persuaded to stick up for her, meaning he was slightly implicated in her failure. Not enough, probably, to send him into the lake too, but it might make his life uncomfortable for a while.
Anyway, she might as well get it over with. No Wise Wig. No new Wise Wig. Her time was up. She was not one to shamble timidly to her execution. Instead, she held her head up high, lifted her arms, and strode towards the King’s chambers. She passed all manner of courtiers, assistants, onlookers, with her head staring straight ahead, far above the heads of those she passed. She nodded occasionally at an acquaintance or a rival. She marched, almost, through the palace corridors, and once again she saw respect in the eyes of those she passed. She knew, as she’d always known, that she played a good game, fought a good fight, and she knew all wars had to end someday. She’d end hers proudly.
Finally, she reached the door to the King’s court chamber. The Court Secretary was outside. He showed no emotion.
“Chief Wig Maker, you may go in.” He looked quite pleased, Sophie thought, and not in a particularly vindictive way. The Court Secretary unlocked the door with the keys about his neck.
The doors opened and Sophie strode in, marching to her death. A few assorted courtiers were already there: a Count, a Baroness. Lillian, Sophie’s old friend and rival, who smiled at her. The King, too, in his chair, as still as a great mountain.
It was then she saw it.
The Wise Wig. The King was wearing it.
Chapter 15 – The French King Arrives
Outside, the morning burst in, bright and clear and cloudless, but bitterly cold, unseasonably so. There was something hopeful, magnanimous, about the fresh blue sky, suggesting that all dreams were possible, all plans could succeed, all inventions would spark revolutions, all haberdashery would match fashion.
And yes, it was this day, the day of the French King’s visit, that marked the first day of the free world – the new epoch of trousers. Before the day was done, a decisive triumph would be won. This victory would mark the beginning of the end for stockings, britches, pantaloons, and would come in the most unexpected of ways. Historians generally agree that this day, whilst more the Leibniz of trousers than the Newton, is fundamentally important to the history of humankind.
But more of that later. As we’ve already heard, Sophie has just seen the King in the Wise Wig, and stands in the King’s court, astonished and baffled and relieved. Billy is locked in his cell. The key has been stolen by the aforementioned Sophie. Neither of them can see the clear blue sky, the cold hope which marks this precious early morning.
One person has been able to see this fresh dawn, however, and that’s Lillian. We haven’t spoken of her much in a while. For all we know, she’s been going about her business cleverly and efficiently, setting up the palace for the visit of the loathed King of Spades. And how grandly set up it all is.
At this vague, unspecified time in the 18th century, England was not, in general, up to standard. Deficiencies included inadequate naval leadership, frivolous capital punishment, lack of suffrage – and so on – but it was good at pageantry. Today, of all days, showed that well.
To start with, the palace itself had been thoroughly redecorated, at Lillian’s orders. A great red carpet had been laid from the palace’s solid iron gates. It covered the whole route from the gatehouse to the palace, snaking right to the palace’s grand entrance. Ostensibly, it was a mark of respect to His French Majesty, but really the English King wanted to remind himself of the blood of the French soldiers he’d love to slay. Golden statues had been dragged from every storeroom in England. Hurriedly cleaned, they sparkled in the morning sunlight, cold air cooling the statues to a precise, icy dignity. Glittering chandeliers were placed in every room, though everyone was taking care not to call them ‘chandeliers’, because the name sounded too French. Though few people had been brave enough to discuss it, it was actually quite difficult to speak English without using French-sounding words, and most of the court had taken to keeping quiet when the King was within earshot.
Alongside these traditional displays of courtly wealth, Lillian had tried to express a very English sense of grandeur, contrasting the English King’s wise, thoughtful mode of government with the French King’s reckless Gallic wastefulness. There were suddenly more fireplaces in the palace than ever before, two new grates having been erected in the palace’s main corridor overnight. They’d been hastily installed by expert craftsman, who were only to eager to serve their King at a moment’s notice, and anxious not to be thrown into His Majesty’s execution lake. Comfortable armchairs littered the palace, taking their positions next to new, oddly-placed mantelpieces. These furnishings conveyed a sense of warm winter comfort, a place not merely opulent, but homely enough to take measured decisions, to recline thoughtfully. At least, that’s what the furnishings supposed to convey, but the hundreds of chattering, excited lords and ladies ruined, in practice, any pretence of tranquillity.
The lake, all decorated with bunting, was ready for the French diplomats too. Somehow Lillian, formerly Keeper Of The King’s Fish, had done the impossible, and turned the King’s execution lake back into its former self: a pleasure lake. Every single one of the skeletons had been cleared from the lake’s grim depths. There was a burger van, or the closest 18th century equivalent. Someone was preparing to make sundaes. Little English flags waved happily, in greeting, to the quickly gathering crowds, who approached the sides of the long, rectangular lake. It was difficult for the audience: they wanted to see as much as possible, and so stand right by the water, but they really couldn’t afford to fall in, given that none of them were able to swim. Thus crowds gathered nervously, excitedly, as close to the water’s edge as they dared, and no-one was brave enough to go the other side of the lake, where the dark island loomed. Shimmering moodily near the far shore, the island was the designated finishing line for the Kings’ swimming race. You didn’t want to be standing there if the King lost the race. He might be in a temper. Not that His Majesty could lose, of course, being such a distinguished swimmer.
Lillian had planned the day carefully. First of all, just to get things off to a good start, Billy, the traitor in the dungeon, was supposed to be executed. She’d provisionally set aside a small bit of the lake for his death. The audience there had gathered fastest, in expectation of a good drowning that morning. Ironic really, Lillian had thought, when she saw the crowd start to gather. They didn’t know what she knew – that, despite the King’s orders, Billy wouldn’t be executed this morning. She’d seen to that personally last night…
Lillian smiled to herself and continued her preparations. She’d planned meticulously. First, the two Kings would meet. Then they would go and watch the execution together. Well, they wouldn’t, but the English King didn’t know yet, and Lillian had carefully failed to inform the King of Spades about the traitor, so the visiting delegation would be none the wiser when the execution didn’t happen. After the execution, or lack thereof, the two Kings would depart into discreetly hidden huts on this (near) side of the lake and change into their racing costumes. Once changed, the two Kings would swim. As agreed, the Kings would race to the dark island, where there were two pre-arranged piles of clothing, one for each King. From the island they would change into ceremonial card-playing robes and row themselves back to the shore on the far side of the island – a test of strength very recently insisted upon by the French King’s negotiators – to the designated card-playing spot, where a grand table had been set up. Then they would play cards to determine who would win the diplomatic negotiations, and hence whether the King would win Burgundy for the Britannic throne, or lose Kent to the hated King of France.
Having checked whether preparations were fully complete – they were, just about – Lillian adjusted her prim, exemplary wig and hurried back to the court, where she’d been summoned to the King’s court chambers. She didn’t go straight to the King, however. There was something she needed to collect first.
We haven’t heard much about Lillian for a while. She’s been an effective administrator, clearly, but there isn’t much we know about her, about her background, about where she came from. That, unfortunately, is how it’s going to stay. Historians really don’t know much about her at all. No-one knows where she was born, where she grew up. No-one really understands how she actually managed to get a position in the court in the first place, or what her motivations actually were. All they know is that she liked being an administrator, or guarding the King’s fish, or any other role, in fact, that allowed her to remain hidden in the background, coming and going as she pleased.
We historians, do, however, have our suspicions about Lillian.
And most of our suspicions come from the fact that, on the way to the King that morning, she stopped off at her locker to pick up something. And that object, which was sitting in her locker beside a small eye-mask, a pair of leather boots and a flowing red cape, was the Wise Wig.
Meanwhile – there’s another crucial piece of information about the Day of Diplomacy, one that is guaranteed to inspire dread in you, the reader of this great history. Geese.
The last time we saw Nebuchadnezzar and his troop, they were commandeering a coach and making their way to London. By the morning of the Day of Diplomacy, they’d made it.
To a human being, 17th Century London was a stinking, filthy mess, full of dirt and muck, sullied by the noise and stench of humanity, all of whom were desperate for sustenance. If that was how humans felt about a great city of humans, imagine how it must have looked to a Welsh mountain goose. A goose, moreover, who was used to ruling a quiet, grassy kingdom, one unblemished by human presence.
Nebuchadnezzar was not fazed, however. Having alighted their coach, he and his geese mingled in the crowds. The masses moved towards the palace. It was match day, and even the surliest enemy of humankind could be lost in a happy crowd such as this. The troop moved slowly, patiently, biding their time. The geese had waited so long to avenge Davey, to take revenge on those who had stolen peace from the mountain, to seek retribution for wisdom lost in the slice of a shearer’s blade, that they could wait a little longer while they slowly, menacingly, inched towards the palace grounds. They were here, in London, and off to see the King.
Anyway, back to Sophie. She’d just walked in to the King’s court chamber, finding him accompanied by Lillian, and wearing Wise Wig. This made absolutely no sense. Billy had lost the Wise Wig. He’d lost it on his travels. Now the King had it back. It was even well-brushed.
“Thank you, Chief Wig Maker, for this wonderful new wig, just in time, too. Our faith in you was well-placed, as always.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” she curtseyed, still failing to understand. It wasn’t a new wig, but it was generally pretty easy to tell the King you’d got him a new wig when it was actually the same old one. Nevertheless, someone must have convinced the King it was new. They must have gone out of their way to do so. Whoever this mysterious benefactor was, she owed them one.
“Now, We shall got to the lake and meet-” the King paused, just to gather enough spit to say the name – “His Gallic Majesty.”
Everyone looked faithfully disgusted. The King rose, and his entourage made ready to follow him. Just as he was climbing down from the throne, however, his latest Court Secretary rushed into the room.
“Your Majesty! Your Majesty!”
“Court Secretary?”
“Your Majesty, there’s been a problem at the dungeons,” the Court Secretary said boldly.
The King looked thunderous. “A problem?”
“Yes Sire. It’s… it’s the traitor.”
“What about the traitor?” Thunder clouds were gathered, and the King’s entourage heard the first faint rumble from those royal skies.
“We can’t get him out.”
A pause.
“What do you mean, you can’t get him out?”
“I mean we can’t get him out. He’s trapped.”
“Of course he’s trapped, it’s a prison. That’s the point.” The King’s thunder was still faint, and the entourage still waited for the first bolt of lightning.
“No, I mean we can’t get him out of the prison.”
“Use the key.”
“That’s just it, we can’t use the key. We haven’t got the key.”
“You haven’t got the key?!” stormed the King.
A rookie error on the part of the Court Secretary, thought Sophie. If something’s gone wrong, ‘we’ didn’t do it. ‘They’ did it. You’re never part of the problem if you want to stay alive. She didn’t say anything out loud, obviously, but let the scene play its course. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself, particularly as the key was in her purse. Thank goodness the prison guards hadn’t followed the Court Secretary’s example and kept their keys on a chain around their necks.
“I’m sorry, Sire. The guard swears he had the key early this morning – he let Billy out to speak to his aunt-”
“He released the prisoner?!”
“Just for a moment-”
“Do not dare to speak to me, boy!! Guards, have this traitor executed!” Guards appeared from nowhere and dragged the short-lived Court Secretary away.
“Don’t do it publicly,” the King called after his guards, once they’d nearly left the room, “In a quiet corner somewhere, where nobody’s watching. He’s not important enough to be executed in front of that crowd.”
The guards nodded and dragged their charge in a slightly different direction. The King yelled after them again, lightning striking once more.
“And fetch the prison guards. Have them executed too, at the same time.”
The guards nodded their assent once more as they dragged the sobbing Court Secretary through the doors and out of sight.
The King trembled with anger for a few more seconds, before the storm subsided. He turned back to Sophie, Lillian and assorted followers.
“To the lake, then. No matter about the traitor, we’ll dispose of him later. What will We tell the King of France?” he asked Lillian.
“Sire, His French Majesty is unaware of the traitor. There is no need to tell him anything.”
“Very good,” the King said. “Let us go.”
In the distance trumpets blasted. French trumpets. As the King of England, His Britannic Majesty, strode regally through the palace, along the long palace corridor, ignoring his awed subjects, who bowed deeply at his passing, the trumpets grew louder, more discordant, and shrill. The King’s mountainous face grew grimmer. Courtiers were waving English flags as their monarch passed, roaring the King, chanting his name. It was England versus France today, and they left no doubt which monarch they thought the greater ruler. Sophie and Lillian were behind him, watching as he turned the final corner of the corridor, passing between cheering subjects, young and old, beaming with pride at their splendid King. The monarch walked through the entrance of the palace.
And there, standing before the King, on the threshold of the palace, legs wide apart, was the world’s most famous gambler, Europe’s most extravagant adventurer, the most dubiously fashionable man in Christendom. Yes, it was the King of France.
The King of Spades, it turns out, isn’t nearly as impressive as his portrait would make out. We’ve already discussed his picture in the standard pack of cards. The picture isn’t accurate. To be fair, nobody’s picture ever looks like them, not really, and the picture on the card is certainly within the margin of error: you’d recognize the King from the card, but it isn’t quite right, all the same. On the card the King of France looks determined, with a powerful, steely gaze into the middle distance, making his stupid beard of curls nearly look authoritative. In real life his eyes were squidgy and small, and a bit too close together, and Sophie felt the King of France could only look determinedly at his own nose. On the card the King of Spades’s moustache looks deliberate, carefully cultivated, albeit ridiculous. In real life his moustache looked like two flimsy tadpoles trying to swim up his nose, the sort of thing a reed-voiced teenager would grow – if he liked reptilian life-forms and topiary, that is. On the card the King of Spades’s hat may look like a giant fruit bowl, but it’s a well-decorated one. In real life the hat looked like a large cushion, one which someone had sat on, hurriedly trying to squeeze it to a hat-like shape. All in all, the guest’s appearance was a little disappointing, thought Sophie, but then King’s usually do look a bit worse for wear.
The French King’s entourage possessed that same quality of disappointment. They’d all tried a bit too hard, Sophie felt. Everyone had gone for the dashing look: big hats, long curly black wigs, twirly moustaches like the idealized King of Spades, flamboyant cutlasses by their sides. Yet, somehow, none of them looked quite right. A couple of followers had greying moustaches, which presumably, at their time of life, didn’t like being twirled elegantly. Clearly none of the French King’s followers usually sheathed cutlasses by their sides, being administrators, and some looked exhausted from standing still under the weight of their swords. Wigs had been blown about by the wind – and were of poor quality anyway, noticed Sophie with satisfaction, eyeing the dreadful standard of wool they were made of – and their flowing cloaks were clearly no match for the English springtime, as all the Frenchmen were trying and failing to conceal their shivers. The King of England, no doubt, would be interpreting their shivers as fear, and this could only give him confidence for the approaching negotiations.
The kings re-introduced themselves to each other, with seven centuries of war in their eyes. Their closest courtiers shook hands, either viciously, squeezing as hard as they could, or quickly, as if touching something they’d rather not. Then the two parties, keeping their distance, accompanied each other to the lake, posing for brief portraits from painters in the crowd. Official French merchandisers scrambled through the hordes, selling the official French pack of playing cards, approved by the King of Spades himself, and their English counterparts were trading traditional English snacks, made from all kinds of endangered British animal. Banners flew; faces painted in English colours grinned; bunting whipped wearily in the gentle breeze; someone held up a giant rooster, but it was quickly torn down by zealous English patriots; berets with the King of France’s determined face on it were waved aloft by small children. The crowds parted as the King walked towards the lake.
Trepidation, excitement and fear. That’s how Sophie felt, walking towards the lake. Earlier that morning she thought she’d be executed in those waters today, or possibly tomorrow, if the weather was fair. Now she was walking behind her King, reinstalled as one of the most powerful people in the kingdom. How fate could turn, she thought, how fate could turn.
She wasn’t the only one whose fortunes were changing today.
Billy was still in prison, just where we left him. As the Court Secretary reported to the King, the guard had lost his key. It was the only key. That is, it was the only key since the spare went missing a month or so ago, and now it was gone.
At first, Billy hadn’t realized what had happened, and neither had The Noise or The Hedge, who were still there with him. Upon returning to the cell, Billy had been questioned at length by The Noise, but refused to answer. This questioning distracted them, for a while, from the panic right in front of them.
The first guard lost his key. He accused the second guard of stealing it. The second guard accused the third guard, who in turn accused the fourth guard, who accused the first guard of hiding it and pretending to lose it, just to get everyone else in trouble. The first guard replied that this made absolutely no sense and he’d just be getting himself in trouble, to which the third guard agreed, and accused the fourth guard of making up stories. The third and fourth guards fought, with the fourth guard winning, meaning that he was no longer accused of having stolen the key, but was now accused of making up stories and starting a fight.
The second guard, who by this time had realized that the key had gone and wasn’t coming back, and had also realized that he was sure to be punished as a result, made a run for it. The first guard was too busy to notice the second guard making a run for it, being too busy accusing the fourth guard of starting fights, and instead started a fight with the fourth guard. The first guard soon finished the fourth guard off and, with two dead guards in front of him – the fights had been pretty brutal, and much appreciated by The Hedge – decided to scarper too. Thus there were no living guards in the prison, but two dead ones remained, ready to face whatever punishment the King would later devise for them.
“I think the fighting told us,” Billy remarked, “that they’ve lost the key to our cell.”
“So that means they can’t chop our heads off, it means we can’t be sliced into stew, it means we’re not to be tried, it means, doesn’t it, that we’re not dodos yet-”
“It means,” said The Hedge, speaking for the first time in a long time, “that we’re trapped.”
Billy grasped the bars, forlornly poking his head through the space, anguished. He wasn’t under any illusions. If they couldn’t get him out to execute him, they weren’t going to let him out for any other purpose either. Life imprisonment. They hadn’t bothered to feed him yet, so it might not be a long life. This might even be worse than the lake.
Water slowly dripped from the roof of the cell, just as it had dripped all night. There was a green gooey puddle at the back, nestling against the wall. No natural light entered the cell at all, although one of the guards had left his candle behind outside, and the inmates could still see. There were no other people in the prison but them, and no-one would be checking the cells any time soon, Billy reckoned, not with the day’s festivities, if it was day yet. They might just be left here without water. Strange, really, that the one thing he’d feared since being arrested was the water of the King’s lake, but now it was the complete absence of water which he worried about most.
“Terrible, really, this,” babbled The Noise, almost incoherently, “Terrible, when you think about it, that there are no guards about, and we’re completely undefended, and we could just slip out and run and never be noticed, but we can’t, you see, we can’t because we don’t have a key, and no-one else does, and prison cells aren’t designed so people can ever break in or out of them, and we’re locked here, without a key, without anybody to help us, for ever…”
The Noise, theatrical as ever, mimed checking his purse for a key to the cell. He mimed not finding anything, not having a key there. Billy sighed in exhaustion, in irritation. Spending life in a prison cell wouldn’t seem such a bad thing if he could just be free of The Noise, just for a few hours, at least.
Yet there’s something about a mime which makes miming infectious. If one person starts miming something, it’s amazing how many people in their company, even if they’re really annoyed with the mimer for doing something annoying like miming, actually start copying the person they’re irritated with, and mime the action too. This was precisely what Billy did. He didn’t mean to. He wouldn’t have started checking his bag for a key if someone had pointed out that he was copying The Noise’s stupid mime. But he did, and it’s just as well for our story that he did, because otherwise Billy, The Noise and The Hedge might be in those dungeons still.
Billy put his hands in his bag, without thinking, and pulled out a key.
The Noise stopped making his noise and made a different noise instead. “You have a key? What?”
Billy stared at his key in surprise, not comprehending. Suddenly, however, he remembered where it came from.
“From the card game. I won this in the card game. You remember? The first round, the purse round. The Highwaywoman of Hertfordshire. She pulled out loads of stuff from her purse, including this key, and I won the round.”
“So you did, so you did,” said The Noise. “A turn-up for the books that, me miming not having a key in my purse and you having a key in your bag, eh, a turn up for the books, that, strange coincidence-”
Billy frowned as he thought about the situation.
“It’s not likely to be a key for this cell, though, is it? I win a random, meaningless key in a card game from a highwaywoman. It could be the key to any door in England, in the world. It’s not going to fit this lock, is it?” He sighed. He didn’t suspect, as we historians now suspect, that – in case you read the bit earlier too quickly, thinking about your afternoon cup of tea or something instead of actually paying attention – the Highwaywoman of Hertfordshire was none other than Lillian, formerly Keeper Of The King’s Fish, in a mask, without a wig. He didn’t realize that the probability of the key fitting the lock was much higher than he hitherto had suspected, and he started putting the key back in his bag, without even trying the door.
“Whoah,” said The Hedge, speaking twice in two minutes, a new record, “Don’t put it away just yet.”
The others looked at him quizzically.
“That key’s shaped quite like the lock,” The Hedge pointed out.
Billy looked at The Hedge, took the key out of his bag, and looked over at the lock. Walking cautiously, trying not to hope, trying to hold everything in his heart from hoping, he put his hand on the grimy metal door of the cell. He drew out the key. He looked at the lock again. He put the key in the lock and it seemed to fit, or nearly so. He was still trying not to hope, not to dream, keeping that heart’s rhythm to a steady time, trying not to think himself out of this cage, just in case, in the probable case, that he’d still be here in one minute’s time…
He turned the key. The lock turned with it. A clink, a familiar clink, and the door opened.
The prisoners looked at each other, mouths wide open, gasping with delight. Then, with one thought, one competing thought, the three clawed at the door and at each other, desperately keen to flee from the cell, just in case one of the others left and shut them in, leaving them to their fate.
After the briefest of wrestles, the slightest scrambling, they’d all reached the door, and they’d all flung the door wide open. They hopped from the cell into the corridor, towards the dungeon entrance and, with one bound, two bounds, three bounds, they were free.
Chapter 16 – The Swim
It’s funny how things turn out, Billy thought, as he hurried away from the prison, down the deserted corridors at the back of the palace. He was free, having been arrested as a notorious traitor. He still had his trousers, his great invention, with which he would impress the world, he was sure. He didn’t have the Wise Wig, so he was bound to be tried for that sooner or later, but for now he was at liberty. All he needed to do was escape the palace and head for the ports. Perhaps he could go to Paris or Bohemia, places where they hailed craftsman and visionaries. He’d sell his wares there, spending his days in moodily lit cafés, being all sullen and artistic, repeatedly hailed as a genius by everyone who came in for a cappuccino.
The Noise and The Hedge were following him.
“Billy, how do we get out of here? They could find us any minute, escaped traitors roaming the palace, doesn’t look good, does it, still under arrest-”
The Noise, unused to running, ran out of breath, mercifully for the others. Ahead of him, Billy stumbled to a halt and flung himself behind a doorway, gesturing for the others to do the same. A trim footman wandered past, without a care in the world. Billy peered from behind the doorway, checked the corridors, then crept forward again, motioning for the others to follow. The three turned another corridor, which led to the servants’ entrance.
They sprinted, the three of them, looking for freedom, heading for the servants’ exit. It was a long, long corridor, with, heavy stone flooring, and their shoes made a dull thump on the cold grey floor. Thump, thump, thump, louder still as they approached the exit…
CRASH
“What was that? Is someone looking for us, someone searching out there, do you think-”
The Noise shut up as Billy skidded to a halt, shaking his head from left to right and back to left, looking for somewhere to hide. Turning, he saw The Hedge’s strong hand over The Noise’s mouth, and the bushy one gestured for Billy to try the door next to him.
“Is someone there?” called a voice, a very familiar voice to Billy…
“Who is it?” the female voice called again.
Billy, panicking, slammed his shoulder against the door, knocking off the door sign, which said LAUNDRY ROOM. The door whimpered, but didn’t quite move.
“Who’s there?” Geraldine’s voice called again, much more sharply this time.
Billy slammed into the door again. This time it smashed open. The three dived into the room.
There were footsteps in the corridor. Booming, thudding footsteps, which echoed off the stone.
“Laundry Boy, is that you? Why aren’t you flushing the head down the toilet as the Holy Roman Emperor asked you to? He told me to tell you.”
Billy searched for somewhere to hide. There were no cupboards in the laundry room, or little hidey-holes. The only things in the laundry room, funnily enough, were piles of laundry.
“Laundry Boy, where are you?” Geraldine’s voice called sweetly, “Are you actually in the Laundry Room? Whatever happened to the door?”
There was only one choice. Billy seized a pile of the King’s tablecloths and threw himself beneath them. The Noise and The Hedge, lacking enough presence of mind to pick up another pile, leapt under the tablecloths too, so there was a large, wriggling, human-shaped mound of tablecloth in the middle of the room. They held their breath.
The footsteps were very close now. The fugitives couldn’t see where Geraldine was, as they couldn’t see anything through the tablecloth, but she was definitely close to the door. Billy knew their hiding place wasn’t much use – it hid her from them, rather than the other way around.
Before Geraldine could enter the Laundry Room, more footsteps clunked down the hall.
“Oh, there you are, Laundry Boy!” Geraldine, close by. More footsteps were heard, and she could be heard to disappear down the hall. Before she left completely, however, she spoke again.
“The King says we’re to guard the servants’ entrance, just in case any of those Frenchmen try to sneak into the palace.”
Billy threw the tablecloths off and walked to the door, peeping round the side. He motioned for his co-fugitives to join him. Their exit was blocked and, while Geraldine and the Laundry Boy took up positions facing the servants’ exit, the three tiptoed silently back into the palace.
“There’s nowhere to go,” said The Noise, his optimism matching his apparent understanding of the palace’s layout, “It’s true, isn’t it, that we’re stuck here, no front exit, because the crowds are there, no servants’ exit, no other way out-”
“I usually use a window,” said The Hedge.
Billy looked at The Hedge, who remained steady.
“Let’s find a window,” he replied.
They searched for a suitable window to escape from. They rushed through corridors. They turned round corners. They dodged opening doors. They waltzed past unsuspecting parlour maids. They sidestepped ceremonial suits of armour. There were no suitable windows anywhere on the ground floor. All the windows were locked.
“Come on, let’s try upstairs,” said Billy, reaching a staircase.
But there were no good windows to be found, it seemed. After a rushed search of the first floor, there was no way out. Surely it was only a matter of time before someone caught them, Billy thought, pulling at another locked window. They’d been lucky so far, what with the entire palace being out by the lake, but their luck could only last so long…
“Found one,” The Hedge called. There was a half-open window, rattling slightly. The Noise skipped through it, and a faint “Ow!” could be heard as he clattered into the ground.
Billy reached the window to find The Hedge lowering himself from it. He disappeared from view, and there was another hefty clunk.
Billy raced to the gap. He was quite surprised not to have heard The Noise jabbering excitedly after landing: the man had insisted on providing a running commentary of their failure to find a way out of the palace, and it was strange that his reaction had begun and ended with a muffled yelp of pain.
The inventor of trousers grabbed the window frame and lowered himself as best he could from it, turning his back and leaning into the palace wall. One last glimpse of the room they’d come from, and he dropped himself from the window. He landed on the ground heavily, but the drop was quite short, and he was only slightly winded. Getting up, he brushed some grass from his garments and turned to face the others.
They’d emerged at the back of the lake. Billy had never been round this side of the palace before, but today, diplomacy day, was clearly not the time to pay a visit. To their right was a grand, ceremonial card table, ornately lined in gold leaf, with delicately carved, curving legs. The legs, despite their elegance, were not moved by the stiff breeze: there was nothing flimsy about their standing. Next to the table were two high-backed, highly-detailed chairs, with red velvet cushions subtly tied to their seats. Such elegant furniture was rarely seen outside, and the cards upon the table, embroidered too with gold leaf and plush design, discreetly held down from the wind by unobtrusive, glassy paperweights, gave the clearest indication of that table’s purpose. Fortunately, no Kings had yet arrived to play, and no attendants attended the scene, so Billy and his comrades were still free.
Ahead of the fugitives, over the water, the dark island loomed, unruffled by the breeze, brooding in its loneliness. A small, rickety rowing boat sat in front of them, almost pleading with them not to be rowed to the undiscovered country. The wind ruffled the surface of the water, and dark, verdurous shadows lingered over the lake. Billy’s two companions weren’t paying attention to the lake, however. No, they were staring straight ahead, mouths open, trembling. The Noise was silent. The Hedge’s countenance had uprooted itself and, blown about his face, in the grip of some Arctic storm, shivered with fear.
Had they been caught? Were these the King’s guards? Was this it?
As Billy turned to face their foe, his companions fled, sprinting as fast as they could, as fast as they could get away, back towards the crowded side of the lake, where the audience was roaring the Kings on. Abandoning all hope of escape, they ran madly towards the sound of the crowd, no longer wishing to escape its justice, seeking safety from a more terrible foe than death.
Billy, left alone, found himself facing the enemy. They weren’t the King’s guards. It was worse. Much worse.
For, right in front of Billy, facing him once more, were seven large adult geese.
They were the same geese he’d seen on a Welsh mountainside, there was no doubt of it. The same disciplined phalanx, the same practiced trot, the same lifting of the wings, the same gigantic, brooding leader, taller and wider than the rest, leering from the middle of the group. And Billy had no weapon. He considered putting the trousers on again, but felt sure the geese would be more prepared on a second occasion.
The geese did not parade this time. There was no encircling their prey, nor did they lift their wings in ritual. No, they just hovered closer, looking to strike. Billy did the only thing he could. He backed away, more and more quickly, trying not to trip over his feet, and turned to run. He didn’t quite manage to run, however, because, right where he’d turned around, there was the shore of the King’s great execution lake. Lakes aren’t a good place to come, not when you can’t swim.
The geese closed in, closer now, close enough to strike, and Billy didn’t have anything he could strike back with. Standing before him, though, was the old rickety rowing boat. It pleaded still, sadly, and Billy wasted no time. With the execution lake in front, and seven angry geese behind, he threw his beloved trousers onto the boat, trusting in its precarious sanctuary, and jumped onto its timbers himself. It creaked in gratitude, and Billy thrust the oars into the air, plunging them into the water. One stroke, two strokes, and he was away, wobbling slowly into the deeper waters of the lake.
Now, with the geese reaching the lake’s shores, staring bemusedly at the water lapping their webbed feet, their bills turning left and right in confusion, Billy needed a plan. He hadn’t thought this through. He stared back of the geese, one or two at which looked at him resentfully, and he pondered anxiously. The boat barely floated. He didn’t know how to swim. This was the King’s lake, the King who wanted him executed, probably in that very lake. Even worse, there were seven sour-faced geese on the shore, and sooner or later they were bound to remember they could fly. A rowing boat has its uses, but it isn’t the fastest method of transport, and those geese were sure to fly faster than Billy could row.
Billy drifted slowly, further into the lake, oars flapping feebly at the surface, water purring contentedly beneath the blades, smiling in ripples towards the shore, where the geese still stood. Trying to paddle harder, Billy nearly dropped the oar. He stared at the geese, who stared back at him. One of the goosey lieutenants flapped its wing tentatively and looked wide-eyed at its own feathers, contemplating them for the first time. The human tried to disturb the lake’s surface again, dipping the blade further into the water, pushing harder. The boat moved a bit faster. He tried again, and the boat continued to move a bit faster. A third time, and he almost dropped his paddle once more.
A goose flapped its wings more and hovered slightly, immediately toppling over in surprise. Billy redoubled his efforts. The water, no longer purring, floundered frantically, and then began to run purposefully, away from the boat. The courtier pulled the oars, let the paddles drift back to position, then pulled again; repeating the motion over and over. Soon the geese grew smaller and smaller, even if they were all flapping their wings now, hovering over the shoreline, and Billy did not fear the peck of beaks as he had just a few moments earlier. He took a moment to look up at the sky, and around at the trees.
His boat collided with something hard and heavy behind him, quickly bringing him back down to earth. Billy turned to look at the obstacle. He’d smashed into a great big rock, and the planks of the boat creaked unhealthily. There was a large, uncomfortable tearing of wood, although the boat continued to float. Billy had reached land. In fact, he’d reached the island in the middle of the lake.
The island was entirely new to Billy – actually, it would have been entirely new to just about everyone in the court. It had always been there, awkwardly sitting in the middle of the lake, looking slightly out of place against the harsh converted dock that was the King’s skeleton-filled execution lake. Then again, it had, over the years, blended in to that panorama, so that its lush, forest-green woodland exuded a distant, dark menace under cloudy skies. No courtier dared visit, not that they would wish to, for all kinds of murky subterfuge might lurk under those conspiratorial island oaks. There was an unspoken feeling though, widely shared, that for all the terrible mysteries of the island, whatever secrets it hid, they could not be as bad as the horrors that lay openly, languishing in the surrounding water.
A couple of metres left of Billy’s rock lay a small, functional wooden jetty, where the boat was supposed to dock. A second wooden boat – equally dilapidated, but solid enough – was moored neatly to a post. A second post, the other side of the jetty, stood stoutly; and a thick, coarse rope wound around this post, one end wriggling invitingly over the edge of the wooden planks. Billy took up his oar and, inexpertly using it as a rudder, tried to guide his boat to that second post. He didn’t know exactly where the wood-ripping noise had come from when he hit the rock, but it couldn’t have been much good for the boat, and the sooner he got to dry land, the better.
Billy suddenly remembered the geese.
Not that he could fail to remember them, now. High in the sky, still some distance away, seven geese flew. They were in formation, nearly halfway between the palace and the island, arrowing over the lake, a menacing sight, a squadron preparing for battle. On the far shore, not that Billy was paying much attention to it, a far-away figure was scurrying out to the card table. Billy, however, was looking at the geese, who were approaching rapidly, looking for their prey.
There was no time to waste. Billy, whose makeshift rudder ineffectually sent the boat spinning in circles, gave up on his plan to tie up the boat. Instead he threw his trousers over the rock, landing them neatly on the jetty, where they curled up into a little pile of material. Billy grabbed the big black rock and vaulted over it, landing safely, if slightly clumsily, on solid land. Bounding to the jetty, he hastily picked up the treasured garment and turned to the woodland.
Ahead were wide, shallow carved wooden steps, arranged in a neat trail through the high trees and bushy foliage. He bounded up a few of the steps, halfway up a long incline, looking for somewhere to the side, a hiding place from his hunters. He could faintly hear goosey squawks behind him. He looked about him wildly, trying not to follow the designated path, the only path, and be easy prey. There was no suitable in the thick undergrowth. He continued to climb, to scramble up the shallow steps. Nowhere still, and he soon reached the crest of the hill. Right at the crest, a yard or so on the left, he finally spotted a path. Not a human path, not a trail someone had carved, but a slight thinning of the foliage, a small gap he could squeeze down. Billy, with little time to spare, pushed his way through that gap, edging his way as quietly possible, slowly burrowing through undergrowth on the hill’s ridge. Deciding he’d travelled far enough from the track, Billy stopped and nestled himself deep into the leaves, lying amid the bushes, peering down the other side of the hill. The sounds of the wood died away, and he waited silently, heart thumping.
Billy lay on his front. There was a tiny gap in the brambles ahead of him. The gap was too small for anything, human or bird, to squeeze through, but it afforded him a clear line of sight down the hill. He moved his head a little, positioning himself to get a look at the slope. The hill fell down to a clearing, which lay at the bottom. There were two resplendent banners in the clearing: one was embroidered with the arms of England, and the other waved with the flamboyant design of France. The banners stood at arm’s length from one another, as if distancing themselves from the designs of the foreign flag. Below each banner, on small, quilted stools, there were garments, folded precisely. These clothes were fancy, thin, billowing a little in the wind, silkily flowing in the zephyr. A leaf or two blew from the trees and fluttered around the fluttering clothes, but otherwise all was still in the clearing. Next to those stools were two long poles, about as tall as a king, standing straight-backed, to attention, plugged resolutely into the ground; and on one of those poles, the pole next to the English banner, perched something very familiar to Billy.
It was the Wise Wig.
Well, it looked different to the last time Billy saw it. The Wise Wig had obviously been cleaned, smartened up. The wool was more neatly arranged, and the style had been altered, with an extra coil in the wool, crafted to the latest fashion, so that a casual observer might have thought it a new wig. Only a master wig maker could have made those adjustments in so short a time, Billy thought.
On the second stick, another wig perched. From the foreign-looking style, Billy presumed it was the King of France’s own diplomatic wig. It couldn’t hold a candle up to the Wise Wig though, Billy thought. It was just inferior. The Wise Wig, despite its additional stylings, radiated, even from here, even in this dark woodland, with its knowledgeable charm, its ready, well-informed wit. It felt like an old friend, over there in the clearing, a companion from Billy’s great adventures, a kind of wiggy Huckleberry Finn (had Mark Twain been a century or two earlier, and hence available as a ready analogy for this story).
The thing was, however, that it didn’t make sense for the Wise Wig to be there. The last time Billy saw the Wise Wig, it was in the hands of the South of England’s most notorious highwaywoman, who’d been leaping over balconies to escape a magistrate and his men. There was no way it could be here, waiting for the King after a swimming race. That highwaywoman had never been caught before. She was far too cunning for the authorities, everyone knew that. For the wig to turn up here, right after it had been kidnapped – well, it was simply extraordinary.
There were still explanations. Perhaps it could have been ransomed back to the King’s court, at astronomical cost. Maybe the highwaywoman had taken one risk too many, and finally been caught. Billy didn’t know. All he knew was that the Wise Wig was there, the most valuable wig in the land, the headpiece everyone was seeking, the wig which had even driven geese berserk with desire when they’d laid eyes upon it…
Oh.
Those very same geese, the geese who’d attacked Billy far away in the Welsh mountains, and who’d inexplicably turned up in London to attack Billy again, arrived. Their squawks, their cries of battle preceded them, somewhere high over Billy’s shoulder. Fearing once more for his life, Billy flattened himself against the floor, putting his head right down into the undergrowth, still maintaining a small, clear line of sight into the clearing. He didn’t dare breathe. If they spotted him now there was no escape, with or without trousers.
There were more avian cries. They’d probably seen him disappear up the path – or they’d just have assumed that was the direction he took, as there was no other way – but, given the way the squawks were circling, they must have lost his scent or trail or whatever geese used to track their victims. The squawks quickly turned to discontented murmurings and Billy felt safer, tucked deep in the forest. He was more worried, however, about the Wise Wig.
He had cause to be. There was one sudden, triumphant squawk, and seven deadly geese appeared in Billy’s vision, darkening the hole in the thicket. They dived, screaming, at the English banner, where the Wise Wig stood. The largest goose, the leader – Nebuchadnezzar to you and I, not that Billy knew its name – went straight for the pole. Swooping, adjusting its wings, gliding stealthily for the headpiece, the pack-leader pinned back its feathers, streamlining itself, making no sound as it dived for the kill. Closer, closer, and gone! – the goose, without altering its flight path, in a smooth, practised, deadly motion, cleanly clutched the Wise Wig, mid-flight, in its beak, and circled high, looping above the banner, turning over in the air, rotating in triumph, Wise Wig held firmly within its grasp. It wheeled high in celebration, and the other geese turned on its wheel, following the rotation down to the banner and the stool, following the wheel round to the sky, where the leading goose had reached the uppermost point of the circle, and calling in victory. Each of the seven followed, celebrating, triumphing in the recapture of the Wise Wig – of the wool that belonged to their valley, their land – and each flew down, down and up, up again to the trees. The second-to-last goose, cocky with the joy of winning, swooped slightly out of the circle, opportunistically descending on the English King’s stool, grabbing the first garment it saw, holding the garment as a trophy in its beak, and flying up to join the others. The seven geese flew wildly, happily, crazily in the air, one goose with a wig in its beak, another, much smaller goose with the King of England’s britches in its mouth, and the seven flew in circles for seconds, ten seconds.
Billy watched the geese course dreamily in the air, task accomplished, and he saw them regather, straightening their flight, regrouping in the air. The geese, clustering together, adopted their formation again and, forgetting the young man they had been hunting, who they were no longer interested in, flew back the way they had come, back up the hill, taking the Wise Wig and the King’s britches with them, trophies of a successful mission. The sound of beating wings slowly subsided, and the clearing was once again at peace.
Billy, making sure the clearing was actually clear, poked his head from the undergrowth. It was clear. He pulled himself from the thicket, shaking off brambles, and stood on top of the hill. He slowly descended the slope, towards the banners, turning his head to look up the slope as he did so, checking once again for any sign of geese. He needn’t have feared. The geese had gone. They’d got what they wanted. They’d taken their prize and left. Billy, stumbling at the bottom of the hill, confident of his safety, faced forwards again.
He should have faced forward sooner. For there, right in front of him, stood the most fearsome sight of all.
In front of him, shaking off water, stood the King of England.
The King, having reached the island first, wasn’t prepared for a slightly untidy young man.
“Who are you? Turn your back. We have to change.”
Billy obediently turned his back. He was just glad not to have been recognized. There were some advantages, it seemed, to having no real position at the court: when you were on the run for crimes punishable by death, the King wouldn’t necessarily know you on sight. The relief surely wouldn’t last long, though. His Majesty hadn’t yet noticed there was no Wise Wig on its perch, and Billy was dreading the moment of realization. Billy stood, trembling in fear, listening to the sounds of a hurriedly-dressing King. The young courtier-turned-fugitive desperately tried to think up a story for why the King of France had a wig there, but the King of England didn’t.
“Boy.”
“Yes, Sire?”
“Boy, turn around.”
Billy turned around, only then understanding what the problem was. The King had no britches on.
“Why are there no britches here?”
Billy tried to respond, but was at a loss for words. He couldn’t exactly tell the King they’d been stolen by geese. That wouldn’t go down well.
“What are We supposed to wear?”
Billy didn’t know.
“We have a card game with the King of France to determine the future of this land! And you’ve forgotten to give me britches! Where’s Lillian? She’s supposed to be sorting this, not you. Where are Our britches? To play cards, We require something about our legs!”
It was the King’s mention of the word ‘legs’ which gave Billy the idea. It was a ridiculous, impossible idea. He couldn’t possibly suggest that, could he?
Perhaps it was the fact that the most powerful man in England, a true force of nature, was standing before Billy with no britches on, but Billy suddenly felt emboldened. He found, somewhere, the confidence to suggest his crazy idea.
“Your Majesty, I have a far better idea than britches.”
The King looked at him with puzzlement. “What?”
“These are called trousers.”
From behind his back, where he had been carrying them all along, Billy revealed his greatest creation.
The young courtier dangled his trousers invitingly. They were, after all, brand new, made of the best soft, strong flannel the merchant could muster, and they’d somehow escaped the dirt of the day, retaining their fresh, original sheen.
The King’s eyes bulged, toad-like.
“And what, exactly, are We supposed to do with them?” He wobbled his lip.
“Wear them. On Your Majesty’s legs. They’re like britches, but go all the way down to the ankle,” Billy explained.
“All the way to the ankle?” The King echoed, hearing this concept or the first time. “What are We to do with garments that go all the way to the ankle?”
Billy thought quickly, trying to be more persuasive. “They take a lot less time to put on than britches. No stockings and garters to put on as well, Your Majesty will observe. And they stand up better to water.”
He didn’t know if this last bit was true, but like a natural salesman, he didn’t much care.
The King’s face started to take on its customary expression of natural disaster.
“We cannot be seen by the King of France in those – those things, whatever they are called.”
“Trousers, Sire.”
“Guards, seize…” The King remembered they were alone in the clearing. “You will just have to wait for your punishment, you impudent rogue! You dare offend your King with these, these…”
The King was interrupted by the distant roar of the crowd, a distinctly French roar, followed by a distinctly French bellow of triumph.
“The French King must have reached the island! Even a swimmer of his ponderousness was bound to reach her eventually!” the King gasped. “Quick, be quiet, and aid your King! We may pardon you for good service.”
Billy said nothing. Billy merely held out his trousers. The King stared at the trousers once more, gasping, understanding his predicament.
“We, We, We…”
“We do not have much choice, Your Majesty.”
His Majesty realized it too, and with no time to spare, took what chance he had.
“Very well, pass me those.”
“Trousers.”
“Yes, those trousers.”
Billy handed the King his trousers. His Majesty put them on very quickly, far more quickly than it would have been possible to put on a pair of breeches.
“Hmmm. They are easy to put on.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Very well. Now, where is my wig?”
Silence. A bird cheeped.
“Where is my wig, boy?” Billy, looking at his King’s face, felt like a mountaineer seeing the first signs of an avalanche.”
“Wig.” Rocks started to tumble from the King’s crevasses, and Billy feared for his life. Yet Billy had learnt a trick or two in the past few days. He’d realized a few things. He had, in short, learned how to act.
“Ah, your wig! Your Majesty was not expecting to wear the wig here, surely?”
The King looked confused. “Weren’t We?”
“No, Your Majesty. You are about to row to shore. The wig might get wet.”
“Oh,” the King began to understand.
“That is why you have trousers rather than britches, and why you will not wear a wig until you reach land. Someone by the card table is waiting with the Wise – I mean the new Diplomatic Wig.”
“Oh, of course. We knew that. Thank you, young master.”
“No, thank you, Sire.”
The King, although slightly offended by Billy’s manner, remembered where he was, and that the King of France must be close.
“Enough of this talk. We must away! That is the Royal We, of course. You, impudent man, will stay here. We would not recommend crossing the King of France. He is armed.”
“Very well, Your Majesty.”
“Good. The boat is over the hill?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Hmmm. Good day.”
And with that the King scarpered, majestically, up the hill, towards the boats. Billy, taking no time, lest His Gallic Majesty the King of France should appear, dived backed into the bushes, hiding himself in his old, trusted spot. Not a moment too soon, for, galloping round the corner, making his way boldly around the trees, came the demigod himself, the French King, the King of Spades. The French King ran in the way a horse trots.
Billy, like Sophie before him, wasn’t particularly impressed by the King of France, seeing him in the flesh. His hat was silly. His moustache looked undernourished. He appeared to be concentrating on his own nose. All in all, not too impressive a sight. Nevertheless, His Gallic Majesty carried, in a sheath by his side, a huge ornamental sword. It explained how His Gallic Majesty finished so far behind his rival in the swimming race – imagine swimming with that sword! – but, ornamental or not, it could still do a substantial amount of damage. Billy remained hidden.
The French King moved to his banner and picked up his dry, clean clothes. Billy closed his eyes. He had no desire to watch the King of France dress himself. In fact, Billy felt distinctly uneasy in this situation. He already had enough trouble coming, what with the English King about to realize his wig had been stolen, without being caught peering through the bushes at a britch-less King of France. Finally, after what seemed like a decade, Billy heard hefty, galloping footsteps draw closer, bounding up the hill. The footsteps soon receded away, as the King of France rumbled down the hill, down towards the boat Billy had arrived in.
Certain that he was completely alone, Billy emerged from the undergrowth. The geese were gone. The King of England had arrived and gone. The King of France had arrived – less dramatically – and gone. It was just Billy now. He started making his way back down the hill, back the way he had come, when he spied the King of France at the water’s edge, face down, struggling to hold on to the big black rock. He had obviously slipped into the water when trying to alight the unmoored boat, and, whilst his top half was dry, his legs floundered and splashed in the water. Billy continued to watch the French King. He considered helping, but wondered whether it would be a further act of treason. Besides, the French King could swim and Billy couldn’t, plus the delay could only be helping the English King.
After a brief struggle, the French King hauled himself back to the rock. Grabbing his boat with one hand, the King of Spades pulled it to shore. The French King, with surprising vigour, vaulted on to the boat and, picking up the oars, began to row away from the island, as fast as he could, trying to make up for lost time.
Now Billy really was alone on the island. He watched the French King row towards shore, where the English King had already sat down, attended by a courtier – which courtier, Billy couldn’t tell, not from this distance. Now, Billy thought, it was his turn to leave the island, to make it back to shore. He’d have to go as secretly as possible, of course, trying to avoid the Kings and the audience, who he could see, out of the corner of his eye, walking towards the card table where the final struggle would play out. He’d secretly make it to land, then he’d run – where to, he didn’t know, but he’d work that out when he moored the boat…
Ah. The boat. There was no boat. The French King had taken it. There was no other way to return to land, either, except to swim, and Billy couldn’t swim. He was stranded on the dark island, without means of escape. Unless someone rowed out to him, he’d be stuck here for ever. Even if someone did row to the island, they were bound to be an agent of the King, and so would demand his life for lying to the King, or for stealing his wig, or for giving him trousers, or for stealing the rowing boat, or for being discovered playing cards, or for breaking out of the King’s prison, or for wearing the Wise Wig, or for impersonating the King, or for giving the King’s prize wig to a notorious highwaywoman. By Billy’s reckoning, he had nine counts of high treason to face.
This was it, thought Billy. The end of the adventure. Marooned on an island in the middle of the King’s execution lake, with no hope of rescue. A daft way to finish, really. And, ironically, just when he’d had his first real success. Just when he’d finally persuaded someone to wear trousers.
Chapter 17 – The Second Game of Cards
Lillian, Keeper of the King’s Fish, Organizer of Festivities, was having a very different morning. The last few days had been a bore for her, and today, although intensely dull, like all diplomatic days were, marked an end to the tedium, at least for now.
Actually, Lillian didn’t really enjoy her job at all. Jobs were generally tedious in 18th century England, and being Keeper of the King’s Fish was no exception. There was a simple problem: fish were so dull. They didn’t do anything. They just sort of swam around a bit, blowing bubbles and looking wet. Fish weren’t going anywhere. They weren’t making anything of life. And the other parts of her role didn’t make the job a vocation either. Organising executions and cleaning out the lake? She didn’t have any particular problem with skeletons and dead people – this was the 18th century, after all – but once you’ve seen one dead body, you’ve seen them all. She felt cleaning to be beneath her. She was capable of so many more interesting things than that. No, it wasn’t fun. She’d never really wanted to be an organiser, either, so the final part of her role, the part where she had to organise all the diplomatic events and generally make things work, didn’t provide much of an intellectual challenge. The King, being an idiot, had insisted of giving her a stupid administrative job, rather than a big military job. Naturally, the King had given command of the navy to a man, an idiot man, the Admiral, who’d only succeeded in destroying his own fleet.
This was, probably, she reflected, why she’d taken to being a highwaywoman at weekends. Plenty of intellectual challenge there. You had to understand the law, for a start, which took some time, given that it was designed to be perfectly incomprehensible to everyone who didn’t write it in the first place. Then there was the actual robbing; the planning of the approach; constructing a veil of secrecy; working out who the best targets were; hiding the loot; reintroducing the loot into the economy in a way that couldn’t be noticed, but continued to make you rich. There was the construction of alibis; the recruitment of accomplices; the evasion of soldiers; the fight scenes. Yes, highway robbery was a vocation worthier of Lillian’s talents.
At first, the negotiations between the two kings had been easy to organise. They usually were. For instance, the famed dance-off between England and Denmark had been straightforward: it was Lillian who’d sabotaged the boat of the arriving Danish judges, leaving only English judges to decide the fates of the two countries. She thought this one would be easy too. Let the French decide things with a game of cards, to lull them into a false security, then suggest a swimming race beforehand, just so the King could get a good head start before the card game. On the day she’d arrange things so the King of France didn’t quite succeed, and England would be victorious once more. Of course, it wouldn’t have been necessary in the first place if the Admiralty had been given to her rather than the Admiral. She could have simply destroyed the French fleet in a sea battle, rather than the English one, but she knew she could put things right again, even if the Admiral had completely failed.
Things hadn’t been quite so straightforward, however. Her network of spies – being a highwaywoman, she needed a spy network – had informed her, a few days before, that the King was progressing through the north west, had been sighted at Chester, and had commissioned a coach to Birmingham. This puzzled her, because the King was rarely allowed to leave her sight. Quickly checking that her monarch was still in the palace – he was – she made further investigations. On closer inspection, there were very few hard facts about this impostor, except that everyone remarked on his bearing of otherworldly wisdom, and on his magnificent wig. From this Lillian deduced, as well she might, that the impostor had stolen the Wise Wig. Her suspicions were further aroused when news of the wig workshop burglary spread through the palace, and when sources at the palace coach-stop informed her that Sophie had been spotted early one morning at the stables, where she was attempting to travel to the very city where the impostor had been spotted. This looked like an inside job, Lillian thought. She’d done a few of those in her time. A botched one though, else the culprit would have made a clean getaway via a port, taking the wig to a distant land, where it would fetch untold millions. No, there was another reason for all this, one that didn’t have anything to do with stealing for wealth – not that Lillian had anything against that. She didn’t know what it was, but she did know that the impostor was heading back south, presumably with the wig in possession, which was why people were still mistaking him for the King.
A few more enquiries and she had located the impostor’s whereabouts. He was attending the house of a poor merchant, of all places, further proof that this was a botched job. Lillian suspected that the culprit had little understanding of what he was doing, and, when she remembered that a young courtier had recently fled the court and subsequently been suspected of high treason, she started to solve the mystery. The courtier who had sent the King a box of pastries – or was accused of doing so – and the impostor who had fled with the Wise Wig, apparently with the Chief Wig Maker’s blessing, were one and the same. Further witness sightings confirmed this suspicion. Lillian immediately arranged a coach to the merchant’s street and, having secured an invitation to his gathering, met the impostor face-to-face. The Wise Wig was crucial to the diplomatic day’s success, as it was the only worldly object capable of making the English King look relatively cunning.
It was the courtier, the one accused of treason, just as she suspected. She won the Wise Wig back easily, of course. Before winning the Wise Wig back, however, she did something she would never normally do: act from impulse. Somehow, she felt she could gain an ally here, in the fullness of time. This courtier – Billy, she believed him to be called – wasn’t much use to her dead or executed. She knew, from her spies, that the magistrate was coming that night to make Billy’s arrest – she’d prepared her own exit across the balconies, as always – so she knew he would end up in prison. Lillian had her own key to the only functioning prison cell in the court jail. She wasn’t supposed to have a key, but she’d taken it from the prison on a routine visit the previous month, just in case it ever proved useful. During the game, she ensured that Billy won the key, and hoped he would have the wherewithal to use it. Sooner or later, she decided, she’d subtly make it clear to Billy that she’d aided his escape, and he would forever be in her debt.
So that was how things stood with Lillian at the beginning of the day. Preliminaries concluded, she began to put the finishing touches to the day’s preparations. She set up the card table. She made sure there was only one boat on the island by rowing the other back to the shore, where the card table was: the King of England would win the swimming race, undoubtedly, not because he was really much of a swimmer, but because the French King was vain enough to carry a pointlessly heavy sword at all times, and the weapon would slow him down enough to lose. Once the English King reached the island, changed into his card-playing robes and put on the Wise Wig, he would reach the jetty, finding only one boat there, and row back to the card table. When the French King reached the island he would find there was no boat. He would be forced to swim to shore, still carrying that expensive, ornamental sword. By the time the French King reached the card game, the English King would have been playing for some time, and so would have a huge head start: even the King of England couldn’t throw that sort of lead away, regardless of the King of Spades’s very real gambling proficiency. Card games were very different back then: a head start mattered.
The day didn’t turn out like that.
After setting up the card table, Lillian left the scene for a few minutes. Had she not needed the loo at that particular moment, the history of the world might have gone very differently. For, in those few moments, the card table was left unguarded, and things weren’t the same when she returned.
Well, one thing was different. The boat, the old creaky boat she’d rowed back to shore from the island, was gone. She looked around for it, but there was only one place it could have gone to, and she wasted no time in turning her attention towards the distant island. There it was, a tiny pinprick in the distance, right next to the boat, rotating slowly. Lillian guessed it hadn’t been tied to the jetty.
Someone must have stolen it and rowed it to the island. Lillian didn’t know who, but the thought filled her with dread. Nothing good could come of this. The situation was already set up for the English King to win the day, and any interference would only damage England’s prospects. Anyone could have taken that boat. An assassin, intent on killing one or both of the kings. A French servant, attempting to help their monarch, or sabotage the English one. Neither possibility was good, and there were no further clues. The only signs of life were a few birds flying above the island.
Lillian couldn’t do anything. There was no way of reaching the island. She couldn’t swim either: she might have broken many English laws, but learning to swim wasn’t one of them. No, the only thing she could do was stand, watch and hope.
Nothing happened for a few minutes. Then something utterly unmemorable happened. The birds reappeared, taking off from the island, flying towards her. That is, it seemed unmemorable, but Lillian started to change her mind as the birds – geese – approached.
The geese were carrying two objects. She couldn’t see what the smaller, paler object was, but as the geese drew into view, it was perfectly clear what the bigger, flappy object was. It was the King of England’s britches.
Lillian stood and stared at the geese in the sky, amazed. They’d stolen the King’s britches. This was unbelievable. Since when did geese go about stealing clothes? She’d never trusted the animals – everyone knew angry geese were pretty dangerous – but she never heard of them taking people’s clothes. It was then she realized what the other object they were carrying was.
The Wise Wig. They were carrying the Wise Wig.
Lillian knew she had to act. She knew a patrol of highway robbers when she saw one, human or avian, and she had to stop it. The King had no britches, and the King had no wig. All the head starts in the world wouldn’t help the King without the Wise Wig. Lillian knew she had to confront the geese, who were fast approaching the shoreline now, starting to land.
The Keeper of the King’s Fish walked in front of the card table, a couple of metres from the edge of the lake. She stood dead still, legs shoulder-width apart, arms folded. She narrowed her eyes, and turned to face her foe.
The geese weren’t scared either. Landing gracefully, they spread out in their phalanx. They formed a line seven long, parading side-to-side, Nebuchadnezzar in the middle, his lieutenants either side, ready for the fight. The troop slowly fanned out, curving back, sizing up their prey, and beginning to hiss. Yet, to the omniscient observer, one who had seen their previous battles, this occasion wasn’t quite the same as previous ones. They were still threatening, yes, with huge wings and great orange beaks. Many victims would have been terrified by the presence of these deadly creatures. Somehow, though, there wasn’t quite the certainty, the assured swagger, in this attack. Previously, the kill was a simple procedure, almost a procession, a playfulness before the predation. It might have been the exertions of the day thus far, they might have been tired, but the aggression didn’t quite ring true.
More likely, however, it was the behaviour of their prey. Billy, when he’d faced the geese, had looked about himself wildly, hoping for escape. The coachman had simply shaken, terrified. This foe acted completely differently. Lillian didn’t move, not at all. Her arms were folded. Her stance spoke for her. She made it clear that she’d fought plenty of battles, with enemies just as strong as these, and she wasn’t scared at all. This was no victim. This was not the hunted. This was the hunter, and she’d come for her King’s wig.
The fight didn’t last long. The geese were powerless against the Keeper of the King’s Fish, the most feared highwaywoman in all of Hertfordshire. A few minutes later, Lillian held the wig and the britches triumphantly aloft, both immaculate and pristine, and the geese were flying away, confusedly, defeated, over the palace. She was actually a bit disappointed. They hadn’t put up much of a fight, not really. She expected seven angry geese to be more of a challenge. Anyway, it was probably for the best. Lillian looked back at the island, wondering what was happening there.
At just that moment a figure, too distant to recognize, appeared by the boats. It alighted the boat Lillian had left there earlier, tied up to the wooden post, and began to row. The boat moved slowly towards the card table, and Lillian fixed her eyes on the boat, trying to work out who was piloting it.
The boat moved closer and she was finally able to make out the large, robed figure pulling the oars. To her relief, it was the King of England, steadfastly rowing to shore, towards his card game. He was wigless, obviously, and Lillian couldn’t see what he was wearing. Presumably he’d taken the King of France’s breeches, but the prospect worried Lillian. Firstly, he’d be wearing a foreign style, and the entire court would be dismayed. Secondly, the French King would have legitimate reason to complain of an unfair contest, having had his britches nicked by the King of England mid-competition. There wasn’t much else he could have done, but the aftermath would be more complicated than Lillian would have liked.
Just as the boat was approaching, Lillian’s attention was diverted by further activity on the island. Another figure could be seen, small yet swashbuckling, trying to alight the remaining boat. Given that the boat hadn’t been tied up, it was having difficulty. It even appeared to fall in the water, partially submerging in the newly-cleaned lake. A large hat flopped around, unmistakeable even from here, giving away the figure’s identity. It had to be the King of France. Lillian frowned. She knew there was someone else on that island, but no-one was helping the French King. Whoever it was, it was no traitor.
She’d know very soon who it was. Her attention having been diverted by the distant figure, she hadn’t been paying attention to the King of England’s boat, which then slammed against the shore.
“Keeper of the Fish! Moor this boat!”
Lillian, remembering where she was, reached for the rope, and tied it to the jetty. The King stood up and Lillian stared at him, mouth open in shock. He hadn’t stolen the King of France’s britches. No, he was wearing something entirely different.
The material on his legs stretched right from the waist to the ankle, covering the whole leg. There were no stockings, no garters, no socks. No breeches, no pantaloons, no hose. Just one long, single piece of clothing.
And Lillian, mouth open in shock, remembered she’d seen these before. The previous day, in fact, when, dressed as the Highwaywoman of Hertfordshire, she’d gambled for the Wise Wig. This garment was exactly the garment Billy had tried to bargain with in last night’s card game. These were Billy’s – well, she didn’t know what they were called, but they were definitely Billy’s.
Even before Lillian could react to the King’s new clothes, she’d made the crucial inference. The King needed something to wear on the island. He was wearing Billy’s trousers. Therefore, Billy, after escaping, must have made his way to the island. It must have been Billy who took the boat, Billy the person she saw on the island, the one she thought might be an assassin or a French courtier. It was, then, with a little relief that she saw the King, even if his new clothes were faintly hideous.
“Sire.” She stood to attention.
“They’re called trousers.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“They are the latest fashion. They are particularly easy to take on and off, hence my considerable head start. We have examined the fashions closely, and deigned them worthy of a diplomatic day.”
The King must have grown fond of these – trousers – on the journey, Lillian thought, like succumbing to Stockholm Syndrome. Nevertheless, he needed to wear the correct attire for the card game.
“Sire, I have your competition britches here, plus Your Majesty’s new wig.”
The King gushed with joy at seeing his wig.
“Ah, the assistant told the truth! Pass Us the wig.”
He put the wig on, and a great peace emanated from his person. A quiet determination issued from his eyes, and he contemplated the britches once more.
“You may keep the britches.”
“Your Majesty will not wear his britches?”
“It is prudent,” His Majesty declared, with the greatest air of serene pomposity, “To put your trust in those who have served you most well, and steadfastly. These trousers have served me well. They were there for me in my time of need. When I needed trousers, trousers came to me. These britches, on the other hand, they have not served me well. When I was alone in the forest and I had no britches, they did not come to my aid. No, they stayed here on shore, too cowardly to heed my call. The trousers are my most faithful servant, and I shall continue to wear them, at least for the card game.”
Lillian accepted the King’s decision. Even she was swayed a little by the aura of the King in the Wise Wig, and made no plan to argue. Besides, the King was right: it would take time to put the britches on, and the King might lose some of his head start.
The audience, meanwhile, who’d gathered round the card table, at a safe distance; were fixated on the lake. The second figure was halfway across the lake and approaching steadily. The King of France’s floppy hat bobbed through the air, as did his long, elegant curls.
“He’s coming!”
“The King of France is coming!”
“Quick, start the game!”
“Long live the King!”
Someone waved a big picture of the English King’s face. The French Ambassador, the one who’d argued with Lillian about the event organisation all those days, shimmered into the scene. He, along with Lillian, was to referee the card game. He smiled patronisingly at the King of England, feigning subservience.
“Good morning, Your Majesty.”
His Majesty ignored the Ambassador’s courtesy. He’d wanted, for years, to swat this gangly diplomatic insect from his court. The Ambassador, for his part, smiled smugly, knowing that even this much of a head start could not stop his great King of Spades from claiming victory. The King of England sat down at the card table, gesturing for play to begin.
As previously stated, card games worked very differently in the 18th century. This fact isn’t known to many historians of the period, but I can assure you it’s absolutely true. Completely. I’ve done my research. In later centuries people would take it in turns to play. People still did that sometimes in the 18th century – for example, that’s how they played at the merchant’s gathering the previous day – but it really wasn’t necessary, and this particular game of cards didn’t require players to take turns.
“May I explain the rules, Your Majesty?”
“No.” The English King didn’t want to give his French counterpart any more time to catch up. The King of Spades was bound to know the rules himself, having invented nearly all the games available at that period. The English King, with the benefit of the Wise Wig’s wisdom knew this, and knew the extra seconds were more important than the extra understanding.
“Very well. Let us begin.”
The Ambassador began to lay the cards down as slowly as he could possibly get away with.
“Your Majesty,” Lillian blurted, trying to cheat the rules too, “The objective is to lose all your cards!”
“Quiet!” yelled the Ambassador, extending his tentacle arms menacingly. “I am the referee. I shall not tolerate further interruption!” In fact, there wasn’t a great deal he could do. He was surrounded by a (mostly) English crowd in an English court. Behind him stood the English King’s two most senior officers, the Chief Wig Maker, who was looking on dispassionately, and the Admiral, who, having had nothing much to do with the story for a while, looked moderately disgruntled. Together, they could easily stop the French Ambassador’s attempts to be threatening.
“King, your cards.” The Ambassador walked back from the table, bowing gently, and folded his arms, ready to interrupt at a moment’s notice. The King of England laid down a diamond.
“Foul!” Pick up!” said the Ambassador. The English King picked up the card again. His first attempt to lose a card had failed, and he laid down a heart.
“Foul again! Pick up!” said the Ambassador again, struggling to contain his exuberance. This King really didn’t know the rules.
The English King looked back at his hand, and back again at the table. He didn’t know how to play at all, thought Lillian, even with the Wise Wig on. She looked up from the table, which the audience were also transfixed by, and she looked back at the lake. The French King was closer now, approaching quickly. He had a third of the lake left to traverse, and he’d clearly got the hang of rowing, for he was moving smoothly across the water, even in that old rowing boat.
The King of England was lost, surely. He didn’t know the rules. He hadn’t even played a legal card yet, and by the time he figured out how to lose even one card, the King of Spades himself would reach the shore, ready to demonstrate the game. Yes, he might have stupid hair and a complete lack of fashion sense. He might not have the sense to swim without carrying an enormous ornamental sword. He could, however, play cards, and he would win this game without any genuine exertion. Lillian was out of ideas, too. Her strategy had been to leave only one boat on the island, so the French King would be stranded, but that fool Billy had interfered and given the French King an escape route. If only she hadn’t have acted on impulse. If only she hadn’t handed Billy a key to the prison cell. Behaving on a whim ruined everything. Careful planning, that’s what won the world, she thought…
Then, right at that moment, something miraculous happened.
When Billy had landed on the island and smashed the boat against the big black rock, there had been more damage than he realized. He’d splintered one of the many planks of the boat and, although it had held for some time now, sooner or later it was bound to give, especially given the weight of the French King and his ornamental sword. At that very moment, just when the day seemed done, the plank finally broke in two.
There was a huge splash. The audience looked up from the game, startled. They looked on, astonished, as water gushed in the air, and wooden planks spiralled in every direction. The King of France had disappeared. The crowd gasped as planks began to float away, the boat unpacked, dismantled into its smallest components. A few seconds passed, the crowd motionless in shock.
Then the lake roared into life, a sleeping beast awakening, sending droplets flying through the sky, water white and blue black beneath the pale morning, and the King of France emerged again, head shooting out of the lake, fearfully upright. He splashed his arms wildly, regaining his balance, and shook his head in all directions. Perhaps it was the head’s bid for freedom, for the large, floppy hat had fallen off, and was floating dizzily in the water. The audience were too far from the King of France to tell whether he was spluttering, but he undoubtedly was, seeing as he’d been submerged for several seconds.
The English King, forgetting the occasion, leapt to his feet, hollering in jubilation, raising one fist high in the air. The crowd hollered too, waving English flags, raising their fists to the sky. Chants of “Long live the King!” pummelled the cold spring morning, and the King sat back down again. With renewed vigour, with the crowd chanting his name, he took his deck of cards once more, and threw a club onto the table.
The Ambassador said nothing. It was a legal move. The King of England had successfully lost a card, and the Ambassador was helpless to do anything about it. He looked back to his own King, the French King, who was now doggy-paddling in circles, trying to retrieve his hat. The hat, though, clearly liked the lake. Like a big floppy spaniel, it panted round and round the water: whenever the King of Spades paddled himself near, the hat sprang away again, enjoying the sport. When the French King drew near to the hat once more, it hopped off to the side. All in all, it was not a dignified sight.
At the table the King of England was persevering with the game. He laid down an ace.
“Foul. Pick up,” said the Ambassador, more wearily this time. Unfortunately, the English King was only required to pick up the card he’d laid down, and not the whole pack. The Ambassador decided to suggest this rule amendment to the King of Spades in future. It would make things even simpler.
The English King laid down another card, which was, this time, a legal move.
Finally, out in the lake, the King of France grabbed hold of his hat. It had clearly tired of the game, and limply gave up, allowing its regal master to reclaim it for his head. The Ambassador still held out hope, though. His monarch merely had to swim to shore, then he could finish off his opponent. Time was slimmer by the second, but it was still a contest. The thing is, the French King knew the rules and the English King didn’t. What’s more, thought the Ambassador, there was only one rule to the game, and it was this: to lose your cards, and hence win the game, you had to lay them down in a particular order, namely you had to play whichever card in your hand the French King disliked the most.
On the other hand, the King of France still had a third of the lake to go. He was dressed in his card-playing britches, not his swimming ones, and he was wearing far too many ceremonial objects about his person. Dressed for card playing, not for swimming, his progress was immeasurably slow. And, all the while, the English King, with the aid of his most reverend counsel, the Wise Wig, was starting to succeed.
“Four of clubs!” Legal move. The King didn’t understand why, but if he just played the clubs first, he seemed to make legal moves. He laid down another club, and that was accepted too.
The Ambassador watched his own French King anxiously. For such a swashbuckling monarch, he didn’t swim very quickly. It was not his place to criticise the greatest, manliest man in Christendom, but you would think, wouldn’t you, that someone attempting to win a competition would swim front crawl, and not try an experimental mix of doggy paddle and bobbing. The English King took advantage of the Ambassador’s distracted attention, and secretly a dropped a few of the more troublesome cards into his lap. He played his final club, and the Ambassador studied the move, biting his own fingernails.
The King of England tried to play a spade, but this was immediately deemed illegal. Hearts or diamonds, then. He looked at the hearts, and looked at the diamonds, and the Wise Wig told him what to do. The King played a diamond, and it was legal.
The French King, despite his unorthodox stroke, was making good ground, or more precisely, good water. The shore was close now, and he was travelling faster, paddling frenetically, knowing that the clock was progressing. The King of England, immersed in the game, slowly started to lose more cards. Through trial and error, he gradually managed to lose all his diamonds, making the occasional mistake, and, dropping a couple of high cards into his lap when the Ambassador wasn’t looking, moved on to the hearts. The crowd applauded his progress. They were singing their King to victory. Amid the applause, the English King made another discovery. Trousers were different to britches. Whereas britches were simply pieces of material, these trousers had small holes at the sides, where objects could be stored.
The King had heard of the concept of pouches before. He’d never seen them in lower-body clothing, though. What a superb idea, he thought. He’d been wondering what to do with all the cards in his lap. He’d considered dropping them on the floor, or hiding them behind his chair, but the cards would be found very easily if he dropped them, and the audience, which was partially French, would notice him leaving them behind the chair, even if the Ambassador somehow didn’t. He couldn’t surreptitiously hand them to an aide either, for the referee had expressly forbidden secret conversations with subjects, lest the King were to cheat (heaven forbid). The Wise Wig had told him, though, that there would be a way, and he’d found it now. With the deftest of movements, he picked up the cards in his lap and transferred them to his pocket, where they squeezed in snugly.
The French King was close now. He could smell the shore. The game was still going, and the Ambassador could see the gleam in his monarch’s eye, the gleam that signalled he’d spied a game of cards, the gleam that showed he was ready for a gamble. He started to emerge from the water, hat dripping with courage, ornamental sword issuing from the lake, a mad enthusiasm illuminating his drippy beard.
Whether it was the English King’s subtle cheating, or whether he’d just got the hang of things, by the time the French King was out of the water, the King of England had played all his hearts. He only had the spades left to play, and started to consider them with gusto. Meanwhile, the French King, utterly waterlogged, rapidly towelled himself, and adjusted his hat. There was nothing for it. He didn’t have a change of clothes, so would have to play in his wet gambling breeches. He looked at the English King’s new garments, impressed despite himself by the adventurousness of the unfamiliar fashion, and sat down to play.
The handicap was huge. The English King had one suit left, and the French King had all four. Despite this, the King of Spades had a distinct advantage, sitting across from his foe. They each paused, straightened their backs, and locked eyes, attention captured in mutual, national loathing. The crowd hushed, knowing this was it. This was where the fates of the two countries would be decided. Right here, right now.
The French King, somehow, looked better than usual. Perhaps this said more about his usual appearance, but with the tufty beard weighed down with water, and with the hat deflated by the lake, and with his hair washed to a sleek long mane, he looked as though he might be quite distinguished, once dry. This wasn’t the case, but a new acquaintance might easily be fooled, for once.
He picked up his hand, knowing the rules, and began to lay out the cards in order, from least favourite to most favourite. First, all the clubs were laid. This happened in seconds, and, seeing how quickly the French King managed this, the King of England frantically tried to lay down some spades. Making mistakes, having to pick up his card several times, the King of England could only watch as the French King moved on to the diamonds. He did, however, manage to drop a couple of medium-value spades into his trouser pockets. He liked that these trousers had pockets. Very useful.
Finally, he laid down one spade, then another. The French King had laid down all his diamonds, and was gleaming at the King of England in malicious triumph, picking up the hearts. Frantically, the English King picked up his last three spades, unable to take his eyes off the French King, who laid out half his hearts in one single swoop of the hand, earning a little round of applause from his Ambassador, the match referee. The King of England focused again on his three remaining cards. The Ace of Spades, the King of Spades, and the Jack of Spades. Well, the Jack was the lowest value card, so he’d play that one first.
“Foul. Pick up,” the Ambassador crowed, almost doing a little dance. The French King’s hearts were all on the table now, so he was down to his final suit too.
Which card? The English King had tried the lowest valued card, although nothing had yet convinced the English King that the card value mattered much. Picture cards did seem to be played later, however. Perhaps aces were low in this game. He played the Ace.
“Legal move,” said the Ambassador, “You have two cards left. As I’m sure you know,” he said, forgetting his earlier agreement not to tell the English King the rules, but tangling himself in his own premature smugness, “Once there are two cards left, you only have one chance. Play the wrong card, and you lose the game.”
A whole audience gasped. The King of England had but one chance to save Kent. Meanwhile, the French King was calmly laying spades down on the table. Trust the King of Spades to leave the spades until last…
That was it! Thought the King of England. More accurately, it was probably the Wise Wig that caused the thought, rather than the King’s own mental powers, but it was certainly the Wig who understood. The King of Spades, the card the French King was named after, would win the game! With no time to lose, the English King played the Jack.
Legal move! The French King, rapidly laying out cards, looked on, mouth open. The Ambassador’s mouth was open too, shocked that the English King had guessed right. The French King was throwing down his third-from-last card, desperately drawing his final two…
The English King, calm as the balmiest summer day, placed the King of Spades on the table, face up.
A huge, low scream of joy. The crowd jumped, as one, their feet leaving the ground together, their cheers leaving their hearts together. Sophie and the Admiral high-fived. Lillian danced a bit. The King of England raised himself slowly from the table, his adversary sinking head into hands, and powerfully punched the air three times. English men and women started to chant in unison again, “Long live the King! Long live the King!” They didn’t have much imagination when it came to chanting. French citizens, the few to have gathered in London that day, sobbed on each other’s shoulders, scattering breadcrumbs everywhere. Flags waved, great pictures of the king jigged to the rhythm of the chanting, hands clapped out of time. Someone started a conga line but, because it was the 18th century and no-one knew what a conga line was, nobody joined him, leaving him weaving around on his own.
The King of Spades, the real one, took his head from his hands and stared at his namesake, the card on the table. He’d lost. He’d lost a game of cards. The French Ambassador discreetly removed the deeds to Burgundy from his purse, and handed them to Sophie, who’d finished high-fiving various landed gentry.
“Your deeds, English,” he spat, distinctly undiplomatically. She smiled, taking the documentation from his hands. This constituted legal proof of England’s new ownership of Burgundy. The King would be happy. He finally a had a wine region to call his own. Well, for the next couple of months anyway, until the French King inevitably cancelled the perpetual peace and invaded. It was really rather unlikely that England could defend Burgundy for very long, but at least they didn’t have to explain the humiliation of losing Kent to future generations of historians. The Ambassador put a hand on the French King’s shoulder and they left silently, without acknowledging the English crowd.
Amongst all this commotion, nobody had noticed Lillian disappear. She’d remembered the one person who wasn’t here, the one person who’d been central to all this. Lillian didn’t know what Billy had done to sabotage the second boat, but she knew he’d done something. That boat had been perfectly seaworthy, if a little old, when she last used it. His solution was a much better one than hers. If the French King had only found one boat at the island, he’d have had cause for complaint. Finding two boats meant that Lillian had, as far as could be expected, played by the rules, making this a genuine diplomatic victory.
Lillian sneaked down to the one remaining boat and, making sure the audience and the King were busy celebrating – they were, the whole lot of them were doing the hokey cokey – she mounted the wooden vessel, took up the oar, and began to row.
After all, someone had to rescue the hero.
Chapter 18 – The Next Day
Twenty-four hours passed. A whole day of singing, dancing and party hats. An afternoon, evening and morning of national jubilation, as news spread round the country, and the population learnt that England was the proud owner of a wine region. Citizens of the land – the less downtrodden citizens, at any rate – rejoiced in the new opportunities this provided them. Some were even planning quick Burgundy trips to pick up as much booze as a coach could carry. The King even called the morning court session off, giving his subjects a rare lie-in.
The extra morning gave courtiers time to do something else too. A busy trade was done by tailors that morning in London Town. So busy, in fact, that all sorts of folk, some who’d never handled so much as a ball of string before, suddenly advertised themselves as expert haberdashers. On Savile Row the queues stretched right round the corner, right through the next street. Queues were so long that they snaked into one another, and the streets became a confused mass of ladies and gentlemen, not really sure which craftsmen or craftswomen they were waiting for, all bundled haphazardly in a great big tangle of custom. Nevertheless, despite the disorganisation, everyone bought what they wanted, and still made it back to court for the afternoon, easily in time for business to resume.
Early afternoon arrived, unmistakeably warmer than the previous day. Sophie was the first to enter the King’s court room, and she took her usual place at the side of the hall. She’d had a visit from her personal tailor this morning, of course, and a transaction had been hastily completed. Her new garments gleamed in the sickly spring light, which sprinkled itself from the windows, weakly scattering across the room.
Sophie, Chief Wig Maker had, despite the nation’s triumphs of the previous day, problems of her own to resolve. There had clearly been a sartorial rebellion over the last day. Not a bad thing in itself, but it presented both risk and opportunity to the Chief Wig Maker, a leader of fashion across the kingdom. She didn’t know whether the change was merely a fad, or whether it was a true revolution, a trend for the ages. Adapting to the latest fashion, judging whether it would last, would be a tricky problem for some time. It mattered when you had so much to lose.
However, she was used to that sort of problem. She had two larger difficulties. Firstly, Geraldine. The kitchen assistant knew too much. Her testimony might not be believed if she did become an enemy, but it was evidence nonetheless, and it was never beneficial for other people to know about your weaknesses. The risk would have to be mitigated, and quickly.
The remaining problem was the worst of all. Sophie was engaged to the Admiral. She did not want to be engaged to the Admiral. She had not agreed to marriage. Geraldine, dressed as Sophie, had agreed to marriage on her behalf. Sophie would have to find an escape route. And, in that day and age, you couldn’t just say you didn’t want to marry someone, not after you’d agreed to it. There was no chance of exposing Geraldine’s deception either, because Geraldine knew too much, and could reveal far too much information about Sophie, and about her staged robbery.
Sophie had a plan though, a bold one, a drastic one. It was a huge gamble, but a calculated one. There was something she’d wanted to do for a while, but it could seriously undermine her own position, and she could put everything she’d worked for in jeopardy. Get it right, however, and each of her three problems would dissolve away, and life would be ever so much easier. It was all about the execution.
Lillian entered the room and stood next to her. She’d never really understood Lillian – her friend, her rival. They didn’t talk much, and Sophie didn’t know what Lillian got up to when she wasn’t at court. She wasn’t someone you’d try and take on, though – Sophie understood that much. She had a quiet, undramatic way of getting what she wanted, and Sophie respected that. They were soon joined by the Admiral, who had clearly been to the tailor too. His new clothes didn’t suit him as well as they suited Sophie and Lillian. Sophie looked smart, as if she always dressed like this on formal occasions. Lillian looked casual, relaxed in her new look, completely at home. The Admiral, however, looked like an uncool dad attempting to fit in, or like a teacher on non-uniform day, completely alien, trying too hard.
The new Court Secretary, similarly attired, appointed that very day, knowing the King was on his way via the other entrance, signalled for the court room’s main doors to be opened. All the courtiers, newly arrived from their tailors, tumbled in as usual, jostling one another, elbowing the person next to them, creeping slowly, inexorably forward; dragged by the mob, fighting the flow, screeching to a halt right in front of the King’s throne, where His Majesty was just taking his place.
The King of England gripped the rubies on his throne once again. Nobody fell over the line round the throne, leaving him with no-one to execute, but he didn’t care, not today. Today was a good day. He’d got one over on the King of France. He’d beaten the King of Spades at cards. This was news. It would be proclaimed throughout the halls and corridors of Europe. France would be laughed at by every Crown Prince from here to Constantinople. The King looked at his courtiers with an extra measure of satisfaction, for they were following his sartorial lead.
The previous day’s events had, indeed, had a dramatic effect on the court. Having seen their King emerge from the boat wearing, instead of britches, an entirely new fashion, and then heroically defeat the King of Spades himself in a card game, they could only draw one conclusion: it was down to the trousers. Spirits fired by regal haberdashery, they had all rushed to Savile Row for one thing this morning: trousers.
And wearing trousers they all were, detailed replicas of the King’s: long flannel trousers, with prim pockets, and with fabric down to the ankle. The quality, however, differed wildly. Some, the earliest to reach Savile Row that morning, had flowing, pristine flannel trousers, perfectly matched to the trousers created two days previously, by the merchant’s friend. Many, however, had enjoyed their lie-ins a little too much, or had been fooled by all the fake tailors who’d assembled in Mayfair that morning, or didn’t have good tailors of their own. There were plenty of poor replicas that afternoon. Some were made from a kind of cheap, greasy cloth. Others didn’t quite extend to the ankle, and were left dangling in mid-air, somewhere in the no-man’s-land between knee and shin. Others hadn’t got the pockets right, and just had big holes were pouches should be. One Viscount was simply wearing a chicken.
The King had trousers on. Sophie, Lillian and the Admiral had trousers on. Billy, had he been in attendance, would have looked on, awe-struck by his own success. The King, trouser-clad, motioned for silence, and the court session began.
The new Court Secretary, mistakenly wearing his trousers inside-out, tiptoed nervously to the front. He was carrying a fish bowl. Sophie would have put her head in her hands at this stupidity, but knew not to show emotion here. Besides, she was curious for whatever bad news the Court Secretary was trying to disguise.
“A fish, Your Majesty.” These were the first words the new Court Secretary had ever spoken to the King.
“We are not interested in fish, Court Secretary.”
“No?” queried the Court Secretary. Don’t question him! – thought Sophie, but said nothing.
“No, Court Secretary. We are interested in trousers.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” The Court Secretary was visibly sweating, thought Sophie. His first piece of bad news, and the King hadn’t been adequately placated. He’d be hoping that yesterday’s triumph would put the King in too good a mood to execute anyone, but Sophie knew that executions didn’t only happen when the King was angry.
“Any other business, Court Secretary?” demanded the King.
“Yes, Your Majesty.” The Court Secretary gulped, but continued nonetheless. “The King of France has broken the perpetual peace Your Majesty so wisely established, and has invaded Burgundy.”
“We see. Have Our armies routed the enemy?”
“No, Your Majesty. The English Army was too busy learning the bassoon, and were surprised by the enemy. They were thoroughly annihilated, Sire.”
For once, the King didn’t show much anger. There were no volcanic eruptions, no tidal waves of rage. He didn’t even shout an order to his security personnel. What mattered to the King, more important than Burgundy, was getting one over the King of France, and it was with a cheerful, almost nonchalant flick of the hand that he sent the Court Secretary to execution.
With no Court Secretary, the King had to take charge himself. Seizing the piece of paper left behind by the late administrator, he read the agenda aloud.
“An update from the King, followed by another update from the King, followed by a presentation by the Chief Wig Maker. Very well. Let us begin.”
He went quiet, waiting for the speaker to start, before realizing it was his turn. The King nodded approval at this order of events, and began to speak.
“Good. My first update is this. We have defeated the King of France!”
The courtiers whooped and yelled for a few seconds. The King smiled, pleased with himself. The court gradually quietened, and the King continued.
“Who was the assistant We met on the island?” the King asked of Lillian.
“His name is Billy, Your Majesty.”
“Have this Billy sent for,” the King declared, forgetting entirely that Billy had been declared a traitor only days previously. “He shall be welcomed to this court room from now on.”
The court, also having forgotten who Billy was, clapped heartily at their King’s benevolence. A runner was despatched to find Billy, and did so promptly, locating him in the kitchen, where he’d been peeling spuds.
“Billy.”
“Yes?” Billy lifted his head from the growing pile of potatoes. Life seemed to have gone back to normal today. Geraldine was also in the kitchen, wrestling with carrots. He didn’t even notice that the runner was wearing trousers, although he couldn’t have been expected to. The runner, not having seen yesterday’s events first-hand, hadn’t encountered trousers in the flesh, and had simply relied on reports. The tailor he’d gone to – who, naturally, wasn’t a tailor at all, but a baker with a sewing needle – had exploited the runner’s ignorance by making him inferior britches and calling them trousers.
“The King sent for you. You are to attend court from now on, by Royal decree.”
There was a clatter in the background. Geraldine had dropped the saucepan she was holding. Billy stared at the runner, bewildered.
“You’re to come with me,” the runner finished.
Billy obeyed, following the runner as he left the kitchen. Remembering that he needed to appear vaguely presentable, he removed his apron, chucking it on the floor. Geraldine scowled, and went back to her carrots.
The runner led Billy back along the corridors of the palace, through winding passageways, all the way to the court room. Mechanically, the runner pulled open the door, standing aside to let Billy pass. The young courtier nodded to the runner in gratitude. He walked into the court room. He didn’t expect the sight before his eyes.
Trousers. Trousers, everywhere. All the courtiers were wearing them. He looked past everyone, to Lillian, Sophie and the Admiral. They were wearing trousers too. The Admiral was leaning on the wall, trying to look relaxed. Lillian lounged. Sophie stood upright, tall. Billy craned his neck further, peering from the back of the room. He pushed his head over someone’s shoulder, and got a good look at the King.
The King was wearing trousers. Billy’s trousers. The trousers he’d given to the King yesterday, the ones the merchant’s friend had made for him. The King sat there, wearing them proudly. And the whole court, all the Countesses, Dukes and ladies, they’d followed suit, quite literally. They were all wearing trousers.
This was it. This was the culmination of his effort. All that work, all that peril. The nine counts of treason. The seven angry geese. A whole troop of soldiers. The Highwaywoman of Hertfordshire. The night in prison. Hiding from the King of France. Being marooned on an island. All worth it now, now that everyone had taken to his invention, now it was the talk of the nation. He’d changed fashion. All his dreams had come true.
Sophie watched Billy carefully from the front of the room. The King hadn’t acknowledged him, and the courtiers ignored him, but Sophie saw him. His eyes were wide with disbelief. His grin, unnaturally skewed in supreme joy, triangled at the corners of his cheeks. His teeth towered tall, and his face stood on end. Soon he would become used to his success, but for now, in the first few moments of victory, he was a privilege to watch. It was going to get even better for him, Sophie knew. These trousers weren’t just a passing fad, she understood. She seen passing whims of fashion before, and this wasn’t one of them. The garments were simply too useful. They’d played too big a part in a major triumph to be discarded with the seasons. Trousers were here to stay, and she was going to move with the times. She waited impatiently, ready to receive the floor.
The King, for now, continued with his second item.
“My second update is as follows: trousers are now Our preferred clothing item of choice. We expect courtiers to be clothed in trousers from now on.”
The crowd cheered and applauded. Everyone loved trousers.
“Excellent,” said the King, “That concludes- no, it doesn’t,” he self-interrupted, looking down at the agenda, “The Chief Wig Maker has a presentation for the court. Chief Wig Maker,” he gestured at Sophie, “You have the floor.” He leaned back in his chair, gripping the large, reassuring rubies again.
Sophie walked to the front of the room, where the courtiers had cleared a space for her. She turned and addressed the crowd, who looked a bit bored. Plenty of courtiers had spent their morning, besides having a lie-in and going to the tailors, drinking a bit more than usual, meaning that several were slightly unsteady on their feet, and needing either the bar to prop themselves up, or the toilet. Tough crowd. She continued nonetheless. Fortunately, her presentation was going to be very simple.
“This,” she said, indicating the object her first assistant was holding, “is a wig.”
The courtiers clapped.
“This,” she said, indicating the object her second assistant was holding, “is a pair of trousers.”
The courtiers clapped again. Even the drunk ones understood. Sophie continued.
“I like trousers.”
Everyone clapped harder still. This much, they were agreed on. So far, so good, thought Sophie.
“As you know, I am the Chief Wig Maker. I make wigs.”
The crowd nodded in agreement. She did make wigs. Good, thought Sophie. Time for the punchline.
“I don’t think we should wear wigs anymore.”
The whole court gasped. Lillian gasped. The Admiral gasped. The crowd gasped. Billy gasped. Even the King gasped. This must be a joke, surely? Everyone wore wigs. They’d always worn wigs, as long as anyone could remember. And this was the Chief Wig Maker too, the one who loved wigs more than anyone else, the one whose livelihood depended on wigs! This was the most astonishing presentation the court had ever heard. After gasping, everyone held their breath, gripped by their speaker.
“I just think,” said Sophie, “That wigs aren’t that great. Trousers, now they’re great.” Nods. “Wigs, though, aren’t you just sick of wigs? We’ve been wearing them for too long. You have to buy a new one all the time, if only because they don’t last that long. Wigs go stiff, or they curl up, or they unravel, or you just can’t find enough quality wool to make them with. Wigs aren’t worth it. Trousers are the future, wigs are the past.”
Everyone looked at each other, not sure what to say. Yeah, wigs weren’t perfect, but getting rid of them would be too radical, wouldn’t it? You can’t scrap things simply because you don’t like them, surely? That’s why England still had a class system, for goodness’ sake. Was there widespread agreement on this one?
The King looked at his subjects, unable to measure the mood of the room. Their mood didn’t matter, not really, but it was always preferable to appear magnanimous and interested in other people’s opinions, even if you had total control of the final decision. No-one dared speak, so the King decided to remain non-committal.
“Very well, er, Chief Wig Maker. We will consider your suggestion carefully. There is one question We would like to ask you. As the Chief Wig Maker, how do you see your future, if wigs go out of fashion?”
“Your Majesty, I would like to take this opportunity to be presumptive. I would like to put myself forward as Chief Guardian of the King’s Trouser!”
The crowd sort-of gasped, but it was really more of an ‘oooooh’ sound.
“We did not know there was such a title, Chief Wig Maker.”
“Well, if it pleased Your Majesty, as the most powerful ruler in all of Christendom, you might like to create such a title, if it was Your will.”
The King considered this for a moment. Sophie retreated. Perhaps she’d misjudged the mood of the room. Perhaps this wasn’t the right move, perhaps the court wasn’t ready to dispose of trousers just yet. Perhaps she should have started this with a piece of good news – by handing a shiny new pair of trousers to the King, perchance. Either way, her fate, and her job, were far more at risk than she’d hoped. It had been a bold move, an extravagant one, possibly too much so. She would have to wait and see.
“We shall see, Chief Wig Maker,” said the King. “There is one more question, incidentally, on this very topic, one which We ask the whole court, one which We are deeply curious about. We were handed trousers by an assistant yesterday, the one who now attends Our court. Who gave him those trousers? Who – which member of Our great court – created these wonderful garments? Which of you first invented trousers?”
Billy, taking in the occasion, knew this was it. This was his moment of recognition. A great title might be his. This was the sweet, sweet moment of victory. He hesitated slightly, or paused for a second, just to breathe in the air, to imbibe the sweet scent of glory.
He paused a moment too long. For someone else, another face in the court, the consummate survivor, the great seizer of the day, stepped forward.
“It was me,” said the Admiral, “I invented trousers.”
Chapter 19 – The Sinking of the Admiral
He’d gone too far, thought Sophie, gritting her teeth as she left the court room. He had to be stopped.
Alright, the Admiral had already done enough to require thwarting. There was no way she could marry him. But she’d have had months to put a stop to that. Now there were days, hours probably.
It wasn’t just that he’d claimed to have invented trousers. It was also that, immediately following this claim, he’d put himself forward as a prospective candidate for Chief Guardian Of The King’s Trouser. Not only had he tried to steal the invention of trousers and steal her hand in marriage, he’d also tried to steal her job.
Well, he wasn’t getting his own way, not this time. The King was sure to select the Admiral as Chief Guardian Of The King’s Trouser, if the King continued to believe the Admiral was the inventor. Otherwise it would look as though Sophie was profiting from someone else’s work. The Admiral would get the job, the court would stop wearing wigs, and Sophie would lose hers. It was time to act.
She would have to prove that the Admiral did not invent trousers, could not have invented trousers. Anyone in their right mind would not have credited him with the invention – he obviously didn’t have the wit for it – but 18th century politicians were rarely in their right mind. No, she’d have to prove that the Admiral didn’t invent trousers, and then he’d be shown up for lying, and his reputation would be in tatters. She could safely reject his proposal then, knowing him to be a liar and a cheat and a scumbag, and all could carry on as normal.
It was just a question of how to do it.
Sophie was stuck in the afternoon rush. A crowd of assorted nobility, Countesses and Dukes of all flavours tumbled away from the court room, servants and court assistants bumbling behind, each jostling to reach the canteen for a cup of well-earned afternoon tea, or stronger. The assistants, intent on succeeding in their errands, vainly tried to reach their social superiors before their superiors could reach the bar, where all errands would be doomed to fail. Sophie had a purpose, too. She nudged aside a reluctant-looking Geraldine, and waded between a porter and the Laundry Boy, who was juggling a huge, over-packed suitcase of dirty cravats. Quite why he’d chosen to take the dirty laundry through the main palace corridor was anyone’s guess, and why he’d chosen to go at this time, the busiest time of day, was known neither to God or man.
In the crowd, Sophie found the person she was looking for, her intended accomplice. She spotted Billy walking in front of her, swaying unsteadily as he walked, disorientated by thought, solitary in the coiffured, messy mass of gentry. She tapped him on the shoulder. He jumped. She whispered in his ear.
“Billy, I need your help. Come to the wig workshop. We’ve got to plan.”
He clearly hadn’t heard, so she repeated herself, more loudly this time. He heard the second time, and nodded. They wriggled their way through the crowd, against the push, and soon found the main court stairs, which, clutching the balustrade for safety, pulling themselves onto the staircase, they ascended, starting the climb towards the top floor, and towards the wig workshop.
They didn’t know it, being too distracted by their respective troubles, but someone was following them.
Sophie, attempting to talk to Billy in the crowd, had shouted more loudly than she’d realised. Not loudly enough for the aged nobility to hear her, nor vocally enough for a casual bystander to overhear, but loudly enough for someone to catch the thread of her instruction and, whether through insidious intent or habitual law-abiding, follow too. That inquisitive snooper, feeling sure they would not be missed in the rush, and with nothing more interesting to do, decided to spy, and fought against the crowd too, arriving at the stairs just after Sophie and Billy. Realizing it was difficult to sneak into the workshop unaided, the snooper followed the pair closely as they ascended: hidden by the soft tread of the stair carpet, and by remaining a few steps below, under Sophie’s high line-of-sight, the spy was not noticed.
Sophie and Billy finally reached the workshop, having climbed all those stairs, and the snooper lurked behind, unsure of how to proceed. Sophie opened the door, standing aside to let Billy walk through first. Acting rather than thinking, noticing that Billy was looking into the air, admiring the highest wigs perched upon their shelf-tops, the snooper crouched down on all fours, far lower than Sophie, with her great and upright manner, could possibly glimpse; and crawled hurriedly into the workshop, entering just before Sophie followed Billy inside, closing the door. Whilst Sophie and Billy moved to the clearing, which waited in the centre of the workshop, the snooper found a snug hiding place, encased in the other side of a wide wig shelf, and began to listen to eager conspiracy.
Before Sophie could speak, Billy spoke. Like all the assistants, he’d heard about her recent engagement. Assistants know everything, as a rule.
“I just wanted to say, Chief Wig Maker, congratulations for your- “
“Thank you,” she interrupted, and cleared her throat.
“Let’s get to the point,” said Sophie. “The Admiral didn’t invent trousers. You did.”
“Yes,” said Billy, with some relief. Since the court room scene, he’d had all sorts of thoughts, feelings and confusions. Victory had been taken away from him, right when it seemed certain. After all the trials of the past few days, it seemed that a trouser-full future belonged to him, that he could hold his hopes close, that his ambitions would fold snugly into his arms, but the hold was not tight, and his hopes had tumbled, limply, to the floor. Next, he was quick to cast blame, rightly so. The Admiral was a cheat. How dare he claim to have invented trousers! How dare he! Billy was righteous with anger. He wished all sorts of harm on the Admiral. Billy wished the Admiral to turn up at a formal luncheon in the wrong wig. Billy hoped the Admiral would lose his dictionary and hence decrease his potential vocabulary. Billy wished the Admiral to endure uncomfortable coach journeys for the rest of his days.
The court would think the Admiral really had invented trousers. It was Billy’s word against the Admiral’s and, now that Billy thought about it, his own version of events seemed utterly implausible. He’d invented the new court fashion after being attacked by geese. Birds didn’t really try and kill humans – or, if they did, it would be the big ones like albatrosses or eagles, not small farmyard ones like geese. Everything about the story looked a bit false: the treason, the highwaywoman, the arrest, finding the King not wearing britches. This was the account of a madman. If he told anyone the truth they’d never believe him.
So it was encouraging when Sophie stated that the Admiral had not invented trousers, and that Billy had invented them, and hence Billy was not insane.
“You did all the hard work, Billy,” Sophie continued, softly, “You should get all the credit. Well done.”
“Thank you,” replied Billy. “But no-one would believe me now.”
“Then,” interrupted Sophie, “We’ll need a plan. And that’s why you’re here. I want to help you. I think people if they invent something, should get the credit for their invention. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes.”
“So, for justice, I want to help you get the credit. Let’s come up with a plan. You’re still my Wig Assistant, after all.” She smiled, and her smile was kind. Billy smiled back.
“Ok, so I can come up with a plan, but I need to know some more details first,” Sophie said. “You know how trousers were invented and he doesn’t. Did you make them yourself?”
“No, a merchant in Birmingham found a tailor to make them for me.”
“Hmmm. The tailor and this merchant could be witnesses.”
“Yeah!” Billy exclaimed. “We’ll call them to court, and they can tell the King that I invented trousers, that it wasn’t the Admiral.”
Sophie thought for the briefest of seconds. “No, we can’t. Assuming they’ll testify against England’s most powerful naval officer, which they probably won’t, the story won’t convince the King. They’re just merchants, and the Admiral outranks them considerably, so he’ll be believed. Besides, the Admiral could just say that he sent you to have the trousers made and fetched – maybe you pretended you’d invented them and lied to the merchant, or maybe the merchant misheard you, or got confused. It doesn’t work as a story.”
Billy accepted this, and stood pondering. Sophie continued.
“Tell me some more about the invention. You told the merchant or a tailor or whatever to make these trousers?”
“Yes.”
“So how did you come up with the idea in the first place? How did you actually invent trousers?”
Billy hesitated. Sophie might believe that he invented trousers, but she still might not believe the tale. He could still be certifiably insane. He didn’t want to be certifiably insane.
Seeing his hesitation, Sophie spoke again, gently, “Go on. I promise not to judge.”
Billy, worries soothed, began to talk, and found that talking was so easy, so relieving. He’d been clutching this tale to himself for so long now: harder than ever to restrain his account, not to blurt it out to every passing stranger, now that such injustice had been done to him; the story flew from him, soaring so quickly. He told Sophie about the rest of his coach journey to Chester, about meeting the merchant, about the trip to Wales she’d ordered him to undertake, about the geese he encountered there, about their attack, and his defence with the cloth – how it had fallen, imperfectly, into the shape England now knew as trousers – and how trousers had saved him from those vicious birds. He ended the tale where he’d fled back to England, and she nodded in understanding.
Sophie sensed his worry.
“I’ve been to that place too, remember? When I first found the wool for the Wise Wig. There were some vicious geese there. They sound more organised now, but I did have to fight them off with a stick.”
She nodded again, and Billy relaxed. She believed him! He wasn’t insane, this was genuine proof. She’d met the geese too. He grinned, losing his doubts, and tried to think of a new idea.
“Maybe we could get the geese to testify! I mean, we could get the geese in court, line up me and the Admiral, release the birds, and see which one of us they fly at-“
“I don’t think that would work, Billy. We’d have angry geese flying round in the court room. Too dangerous, even if we could find the geese. No, there’s nothing in that story which helps us. We need to find another plan for the Admiral.”
At the mention of the Admiral Billy rediscovered his rightful indignation.
“And the Admiral’s claiming my invention! He can’t do that! He-“ Billy suddenly remembered he was talking to the Admiral’s fiancée, and tried to scale his rhetoric back. “I mean, he, I…”
“It’s fine, Billy. I know he did wrong.”
“Then why can’t you just tell him to change his story? Surely you, of all people, can persuade him?”
“I’m sorry, Billy, but the Admiral won’t listen to me on this. He doesn’t listen to anyone. With some justification, too. He alone has kept himself powerful all these years, in one if the highest offices of the land. He trusts his own counsel above other people’s, and he’s got a point. He’s kept in with the King. In fact, the only person he listens to is the King, mainly because His Majesty has the power to carry out justice…”
And then Sophie saw how to do it.
“The Admiral isn’t great at recognising people in different wigs,” she said aloud.
“What?” Billy asked, not sure how this followed from the previous conversation.
I mean, Sophie thought to herself, the Admiral hadn’t recognised her when she’d run from the coach in Billy’s wig. It must have taken him some time to recognise Billy in her wig, otherwise he’d have leapt off the coach well before it left the coach stop. And he clearly hadn’t recognised Geraldine when she’d pretended to be Sophie…
“The thing is Billy, you’re nearly right. He doesn’t listen to me, but he does listen to the King.”
“Yes, but aren’t we trying to persuade the King that I invented trousers, not the Admiral? So we can’t ask the King to tell the Admiral, because the King doesn’t know I invented trousers.”
Sophie paused, considering how to persuade Billy.
“I’m going to ask you to do me a really big favour, Billy. It’s difficult, and brave, but it’ll clear your name. I understand if you say no, I really do. It’s a big ask. Will you help me?”
Billy agreed. Uncertain as he was, he wanted to help.
Sophie nodded back. “Ok. So the King himself can’t persuade the Admiral. But the Admiral looks at the wig more than the face. If someone wearing the King’s wig were to persuade the Admiral to change his story-“
“He’d change it!” Billy, in his enthusiasm, had forgotten rank, and interrupted the Chief Wig Maker.
“Exactly. You’ve got it.”
“So…”
“So, Billy, if you help me, I’m prepared to help you too. I’m going to need a Deputy Chief Guardian of the King’s Trouser.”
Billy stared at her, quickly understanding, quickly realizing the importance of his decision.
“Are you saying you’ll… you’ll make me your deputy if” – he slowed down his speech, contemplating how great a promotion this would be – “if I wear the King’s wig.”
“Yes,” said Sophie. “If you can wear the King’s wig – the Wise Wig, let’s give ourselves the best possible chance – and persuade the Admiral to recant his claim that he invented trousers, and persuade to give up his courtly attachments and retire from public life, I’ll make you my deputy.”
Billy frowned.
“Retire from public life? What’s that got to do with it?” He was even more confused. “Give up his attachments? What about your engagement to him? I don’t understand.”
Sophie groaned inwardly. She didn’t really want to confess her own motives to Billy, but she couldn’t really avoid answering this question truthfully, not if she wanted him to persuade the Admiral not to marry her.
“Yes, I want him to break all his courtly attachments. I don’t want to be the Admiral’s wife. I want you to persuade him not to marry me.”
There was an odd squeak from behind one of the wig shelves. Mice, probably. Sophie ignored it, and delivered the ultimatum.
“So, Billy, will you wear the Wise Wig or not?”
Billy never got a chance to answer the question. Before he could speak, there was a loud creak from the wig shelf behind. Sophie, despite ignoring the initial squeak, couldn’t ignore a huge crash. The wig shelf tipped and groaned to the ground, sending wigs spinning, through the air, this way and that, tentacle-like, in a cacophony of wool.
To her horror, it wasn’t just the wig shelf which had fallen down. There, on the ground, staring up at the two conspirators, was a very familiar figure.
Outside, the afternoon’s executions had just finished. Owing to the recent congested schedule, a few executions had been saved up for this late afternoon. The late Court Secretary had been executed, along with two unkempt thieves who’d been found in the palace grounds. Lillian and the King stood together as the cold spring light began to fade, and they were contemplating the water. The lake was calm, peaceful, now: the ripples from the prisoners’ struggles had waved their way to the edges of the lake, departing these waters, going wherever worlds go when they reach the farthest shore.
Lillian turned to the King. She had been ruminating to herself ever since Sophie’s shock presentation at the afternoon court session. The whole business with the Wise Wig over the last few days had been too much. The court had come very close to disaster – the wig had taken an impromptu tour round the country, nearly finding itself in the wrong hands, and the Highwaywoman of Hertfordshire had been forced to fetch it herself. Wigs were a lot of trouble. People could wear wigs and pretend to be the King, which was just the sort of thing that ruined the careful plans of an able court administrator. Sophie had a point, Lillian reckoned. Wigs didn’t proffer many advantages in return. They looked fancy, but many fashions looked fancy, and few other fashions presented such opportunity for misfortune.
Therefore, Lillian had decided to support Sophie’s push for the abolition of wigs from contemporary fashion. Trousers could be the new way. With the King thinking about wigs, and hence about completely new fashion, Lillian felt the King needed a subtle, helpful suggestion.
“Sire?”
“Yes, Chief Administrator?”
“I was wondering whether you had considered reviewing the security arrangements for the wig workshop?”
“Why would We review the security?”
“In light of the recent security breaches that caused the recent burglary of the workshop. Valuable wigs were stolen, and, as Your Majesty knows, wigs are dangerous items to lose. Criminals may get hold of them and use them to impersonate important persons.”
“Oh, We see.”
“Yes, Your Majesty. Of course, additional security, round-the-clock cover, will be costly, but worth it, I’m sure, given the danger of wigs falling into the wrong hands-“
“How much?” The King often wanted to get straight to the money, if it was his money.
“I think, Sire, that a large ruby should cover the cost. One similar in size to the ones embedding in the arms of Your court room throne, although I would never suggest-“
“Let Us think about this suggestion,” the King interrupted, abruptly.
“Yes, Sire.”
The King turned away from the lake, and began to walk quickly back to the palace. Lillian followed, walking well behind him. That ought to do it, she thought.
We haven’t heard from Geraldine in a while.
We last saw her scowling at Billy’s summons to the court room. One minute he was accused of treason, she thought, the next he’s being summoned merrily to the King. Some people get all the luck. No such fortune for her, blackmailed into mutual silence by Sophie, confined to the wafty, groggy confines of the palace kitchens. She was better than this. They’d all see.
It was nearly time for afternoon tea. She wasn’t allowed in the main canteen, not yet, but the assistants’ kitchen did a fine cream tea, and she was particularly hungry that day. Time to go and find cake. So she left the kitchens and walked to the main area of the palace, searching for the smell of scones.
Most days, Geraldine was expert at timing her ascent to the assistants’ canteen. She was adept at arriving early, dodging the crowds that emerged from the afternoon court session. Today, however, she’d spent so long boiling her temper, obsessing about Billy’s rise in status, that she’d missed her chance. The crowd had already left court, and were bustling, squeezing themselves through the grand corridor to the canteen. It was always surprising just how busy it was, seeing as so many courtiers tended to remain at the court bar rather than walk all the way over to the tea serving area, but the court was full of quirks.
Geraldine decided she’d just have to go with the crowd. She snuck into the mass of people, pushing her way past nobles and servants alike, with no regard for rank. All around her there was whispering, discussion. Something about Sophie announcing that wigs were to be scrapped. People were mumbling discontentedly, and some nervously speculating a wig-less future. Geraldine even heard a few entrepreneurial Baronesses betting which courtiers would turn out to be bald. The kitchen assistant continued to shove people aside, aiming for the canteen. Some people were in more hurry than others. Used to pushing people unconcernedly out of the way, Geraldine was slightly surprised to find herself overtaken by a determined-looking Sophie, who shoved the Laundry Boy so hard he nearly fell over, although that wasn’t particularly hard to do. To Geraldine’s surprise, Sophie stopped when she found Billy, and whispered something in his ear.
This was too much. First Billy was summoned to court. Now powerful people were whispering things in his ear. It should be Geraldine that important people whispered to. Billy was useless. He was just about capable of running errands, which put him far ahead of many assistants, but he wasn’t intelligent. You could make him believe anything. He was far too self-important at the wrong times, and followed far too easily at the wrong times. This wasn’t fair.
Geraldine wanted to know why this fool was being entrusted with things secret enough to be worth whispering. So, taking care not to be noticed, she sneaked closer to Sophie and Billy, determined to find out their secret. It wasn’t difficult. Billy, the mindless idiot, obviously hadn’t heard the first time, so Sophie had to yell it at him over the crowd. Well, the message didn’t reveal anything, but Geraldine knew she needed to follow them to the wig workshop.
We know what happens next. A short string of events, and Geraldine found herself lying on the wig workshop floor, covered in wool and hair, stranded amid splintered wooden shelves, unpicking lengths of wool from her hair, and gazing up at Sophie and Billy, clothes askew, lips curling in triumph.
“I heard everything,” Geraldine said.
Sophie stood I front of Geraldine, arms in front of herself, shaking slightly. Billy’s face had blinked into angular fear. Geraldine looked back and forth at the two of them.
“Everything,” Geraldine repeated. She rose to her feet, brushing off more wool, ignoring the wigs beneath her. “And I’ll tell everyone about it.”
“You’ve heard nothing,” replied Sophie, folding her arms.
“Oh, but I have,” said Geraldine, doing her best alligator grin. “I’ve heard lots of interesting things here today. I think a lot of other people would like to hear them too.”
“I don’t think they would,” replied Sophie.
“Oh, I think they would,” leered Geraldine again. “A plot to imitate the King? I bet the King would be interested, for a start.”
“I think the King would be more interested in how an assistant broke in to the wig workshop and was hiding there. Particularly when the workshop was burgled recently. His Majesty might even think the assistant might be connected to the crime.”
Geraldine continued, as if Sophie hadn’t responded to the point at all.
“And then there’s the Admiral. I bet he’d like to know about this conversation. How two courtiers were plotting against him, planning to dress up as the King, trying to persuade him to retire from public life. One of those courtiers was his fiancée as! Scandalous. Jealous of his success, and of his brilliant new invention, she plots against him with a young male courtier, scheming to break the engagement and ruin him. Destroying the career of the celebrated naval officer – a brilliant commander attacked not in battle, but by the scandalous schemes of a scarlet woman. Sensational.”
Sophie did not unfold her arms. “The Admiral doesn’t believe assistants over courtiers, especially not his future wife. He’ll think you’re jealous of Billy’s success, or of mine.”
“You’re right, he doesn’t trust the word of lowly assistants. He might not believe me,” Geraldine acknowledged the point, but had yet to play the winning move. “But he certainly won’t fall for the old imitating-the-King trick, not after he hears my story. And he’ll be utterly determined to assert that trousers were his idea. You won’t budge him. He’ll get the job you covet – what did you say it was, something about guarding trousers? – and you’ll have to marry him or face disgrace. He’ll be the Admiral, the celebrated inventor of trousers, the most powerful person under the King, and you’ll just be his wife.”
Geraldine smiled a sweet smile of teddy-bear smugness. She’d won. Sophie stood utterly, still, arms folded, resisting the urge to change her expression, and simply thought about her options. One second, two seconds, Billy still standing there, blotchy-white and trembling, the three of them fully conversational, yet completely silent. A few more moments, and Sophie spoke, right to the matter at hand.
“What do you want?”
“I’m bored, Sophie,” sighed Geraldine, “May I call you Sophie? In the circumstances I’m sure it would be appropriate.” Without waiting for an answer, she kept talking. “Peeling potatoes and chopping carrots is far beneath my intelligence. My only company is the Laundry Boy. You have not known boredom until you have spent a day in the company of the Laundry Boy, let me tell you.”
She paused for breath. Neither of her listeners dared interrupt her.
“What I really want is an adventure.”
Sophie unfolded her arms, and placed her hands on her hips.
“What kind of adventure?”
“Well,” Geraldine replied, “There’s a rumour going round that wigs might have had their day. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind. I like change. I want everything to be different. I don’t want to remain a kitchen assistant, you want wigs to go, I understand. I’m prepared to let the past be the past. Thing is, though, I’ve quite enjoyed wigs. I like what you’ve done here. This place is great-“
Sophie, hip-holding, started to get bored herself.
“Do you want all these wigs? Is that what you want?”
“Patience, Sophie! I’m speaking!” Geraldine was enjoying herself. “No, I’m not after the wigs. I mean, they’re going to be worthless soon. You’ll get you wish – you always do, I’ve noticed – and wigs will be worth nothing at all. They’ll recycle the wool for jumpers. No, I don’t want the wigs.
“Actually, Sophie, I like wigs for what you can do with them. The way you can disguise yourself as other people. I’m sure you, as an upstanding member of the court, have never worn another person’s wig, but, as you know, I have.”
“You’ve worn my wig,” Sophie pointed out.
“Yes I have,” beamed Geraldine, “It was a lot of fun.”
“Hmmm.”
“Anyway,” continued Geraldine, “The point is – I’m going to miss dressing up as other people and convincing their friends. I convinced the Admiral I was you! Fancy that.”
Sophie did her very best not to scowl, but didn’t interrupt again.
“I had a good time. So, here’s the thing – I know wigs are on the way out, but I’d like to have one last hurrah. In short, I just heard you ask Billy to dress up as the King. I would like to take his place. I will dress up as the King. I will tell the Admiral to retire from public life.”
She ended there, happily, grinning at Sophie and Billy, looking at each in turn. Sophie griped her own hips harder.
“What you want is to do a favour for me?” She didn’t quite understand.
“Yeah, it’ll be an adventure! And it’ll help you out. I’d be far better at it than Billy. We already know the Admiral doesn’t recognise me under a wig.”
Sophie was astonished. This couldn’t be it, surely? She couldn’t escape that easily.
“You just want to do a job for me?” Suddenly she thought she understood. “Oh, you said ‘take Billy’s place’. Do you mean you want to be my deputy? He gets his invention, we get new jobs, is that it?”
Now it was Billy’s turn to be scandalized. Now, unlike Sophie, he openly, accidentally, displayed his outrage, but didn’t dare say anything. Instead, Geraldine spoke.
“Oh, I don’t want that job. Being your deputy, Sophie? Sounds awful. We wouldn’t get on at all. Not after this conversation.”
“No,” Sophie agreed.
“I mean,” said Geraldine, “We just don’t have the same world-view. No, I want something else. If the Admiral retires from public life, it could really help me. There hasn’t ever been a woman in charge of the English Navy, has there? I reckon it’s about time.”
Sophie stopped holding her hips, and dangled her hands by her sides.
“It would be a huge promotion for you, from kitchen assistant to the Admiralty.”
“Yes, but totally deserved, don’t you think?”
Sophie paused again.
“It’s the King’s privilege to confer the leadership of the Navy…” she began, slowly.
“Yes, but I’ll have your backing, Sophie. And, as I’ve already said, you always get what you want around here. Everybody knows that.”
Sophie considered the offer.
“Let’s get this straight,” Sophie said, “You’re having a perfectly ordinary day today, and you haven’t heard any unusual conversations. But you’re going to help me out with something, and, having seen how competent you are, I’m going to support your future aspirations, should any high-ranking military positions suddenly become available?”
“Yes, that’s absolutely right,” said Geraldine, “That’s exactly how I see things, too.”
The three looked at each other, co-conspirators together. Sophie rubbed her hands together briskly, as if brushing her hands clean of machinations. Circumstances had changed, and once again she would have to adjust immediately. In many ways this made the task far easier.
“Right, let’s finalise some practical arrangements. Billy, you’re no longer wearing the Wise Wig, but you still have a very important role to play. If you want to go down in history as the inventor of trousers, you’re going to have to do something very brave. You’re going to have to risk death. Are you ready for that? Death or glory?”
“I’m ready for that,” Billy repeated. He was. His courage was going to stick to the place designated for courage-sticking.
“Good. Here’s the plan.”
Chapter 20 – The New Court Secretary
A night passed. Everyone, nearly everyone, slept soundly, comfortably. Sophie slept the sleep of a well-prepared conspirator. Geraldine slept like someone ready for an adventure, and a promotion. Lillian slept well. The Admiral slept well, untroubled. The King slept well.
Everyone, that is, except for Billy. He didn’t sleep well at all. He had good reason not to sleep: he was probably going to die in the morning. His first feeling, when Geraldine concluded her demands, was relief: he didn’t have to wear the Wise Wig again, risking the King’s wrath once more. His second feeling was trepidation, because a new, powerful Geraldine meant trouble, even more trouble than when she’d been a meddling kitchen assistant, repeatedly ordering him to stick his head down the loo. His third feeling, once the plan had been fully conceived by Sophie, was fear, immense fear.
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Sophie had said, Geraldine and Billy listening intently. “We’re going to do this somewhere believable. We can’t get the Admiral to come up to this workshop and talk to the King, because he’d suspect something. The King just wouldn’t meet him here, and he might even suspect there was an impostor under the Wise Wig. So we’ll – or rather, you, because me being there would be suspicious – you, Geraldine, will have to meet the Admiral in a place where the real King would actually meet the Admiral.”
“Outside?” interrupted Geraldine, almost yelping with anticipation.
“No, we can’t do it outside. Too many people about. Plus, it’s quite difficult to predict when the real King will be there. He does like to hold impromptu executions.”
“Where then?” asked Billy.
“In the court room.”
The two assistants were aghast. “We can’t meet the Admiral in the court room! It’ll be full of courtiers!”
Sophie explained patiently. “It’s only full when court is in session. That’s twice a day. If we can get to the room between sessions it’ll be completely empty. And there’s no chance of the real King turning up either. He’ll be out executing, or playing billiards, or swimming. We’ll tell the Admiral to come to the court room.”
“Isn’t it always locked?” Billy asked. He’d had to access the court room for an errand before, and he’d had to ask the Court Secretary for a key.
“Yes, Billy,” replied Sophie. “That’s where you come in.”
Billy was slow, almost mercifully so, for the moment.
“How do I come in? I don’t have a key. Only the Court Secretary has a key.”
“And they just killed the last one off,” Geraldine said.
“Precisely,” said Sophie, trying not to startle them, “Whoever holds the post of Court Secretary has a key, and the position’s vacant, Billy. You’ll start in the morning.”
And that’s why Billy hardly slept that night.
This promotion – for it was, technically, a promotion – was basically a death sentence. In this noble history we’ve seen Court Secretaries come and go, mayflies circling the setting sun. The life of a Court Secretary is but brief; it is a meagre existence, short and violent and drowny, not one of happiness or honour. The most loved Court Secretaries worshipped every hour, knowing it could be their last. They marvelled at sunsets; they partook of the fragrant morning air; they awoke to dewy dawns, tracing the silver-singing meadows; they, like Keats, burst Joy’s grape upon their palette fine; they, like Wordsworth, cut across the shadow of a star. The wisest Court Secretaries knew their lives were short, and ill-tempered, and rejoiced in it.
Billy could not rejoice in his fate. Sartre talked of the agony of the prisoner, sentenced to death, who leans on the death-wall, before a firing squad, and imagines himself, craves himself, sinking through that wall, through the cold stone, and leaving the guns, escaping them, defying the grey limits of mattered life. Billy found himself imagining that wall, or rather, that lake, the chill grey water he’d crossed so recently on the rowing boat. The young courtier, terrified of his new position, lingered through the night, between sleep and slumber, dark night and foggy rest. For a little while he went to sleep properly. His dreams were full of shadowy spectres, water. He dreamt he was in that rowing boat, sitting there, pulling the oars, strongly, smoothly, on a darkening twilight day, whilst voices from the far side of the lake, voices from the dark island, where he’d escaped from his predators, called to him, murmuring closer.
This was different, somehow, from his night in prison, awaiting execution. He had company then – The Noise had talked incessantly, which looking back, must have been consoling, unintentionally. More pressingly, there hadn’t been any hope. There was the sentence, the judgement, the lake, and that would have been it. He had invented trousers, but there was no hope of anyone wearing them, not really. This time he’d saved the King. His invention was the darling of the court. If he could just survive the day, or however long he needed to survive, long enough to achieve the plan, there was so much to gain. The enormity of the day was not lost upon Billy.
Gradually, the morning dawned. Billy couldn’t appreciate it. The light usually came up so slowly in Southern England. Today it shot into the air, faster than light, and it might never come down again, or it might come down too fast, boiling to earth, falling like fire, down to the lake. A short time later, it seemed, Billy left his bed, dressed briskly, putting on a fresh pair of trousers, and made his way down to the court, where he’d been told to go. Trying not to think, he made his way through the corridors, early, to collect the tools of his new trade.
Lillian stood outside the court room, tapping her feet, waiting for the new Court Secretary, as she did most days. It was part of the daily routine, waiting for the new kid. They were usually young men from aspirational mercantile families, whose parents knew nothing about the court and its ways, and naturally assumed that Court Secretary was the greatest of honours, something to boast to the neighbours about; or they were dull-witted younger sons from poor noble families, whose parents were fortune-bound to cast their talentless offspring aside as fodder. Either way, they were quickly forgettable, thankfully. Lillian saw meeting each new Court Secretary as one of those chores everyone has to do, like putting on shoes or taking out the bins. There was no point giving thought to each new Court Secretary. This morning, then, proved to be a slight surprise.
“Good morning, Chief Administrator,” a familiar voice said, respectfully.
“Billy?”
“Yes, Chief Administrator.”
“What do you want?” Lillian was not keen on granting more favours to Billy. Rescuing him from the lake had been quite enough. She didn’t do favouritism. It only led to rivalry.
“I’m the new Court Secretary.”
“Are you?” she asked, sceptical. The boy looked terrified.
“Yes. I’m here to pick up the keys.”
“Hmmm.” There was a plot afoot, that was for sure. Billy, unlike everyone who’d she’d ever handed the court keys to, knew just how dangerous this job was. He wouldn’t have put himself forward without some ulterior motive. Not Billy’s idea, clearly, the plot; because he was pale and shaking and gaunt-eyed, but there was definitely a scheme going on. Lillian didn’t know what it was, but the only suspicious events of the past day had been the Admiral’s – false – proclamation of his trouser invention, and Sophie’s wig-ban presentation. Maybe they had something to do with it.
Lillian did consider taking the keys back, telling Billy he wasn’t to be Court Secretary. She didn’t know what the plot was, couldn’t work it out, and that was always dangerous, because if you weren’t in on the plot it was probably against you. That’s how the court worked. But she couldn’t see the others being against her, not right now, not when there were other fights, like banning wigs or taking charge of trousers. She decided to let things go, and see what happened. Preventing Billy from becoming Court Secretary would be acting upon a whim, after all. Never act on a whim.
Lillian handed Billy the keys. He struggled to put the big keyring around his neck, hands too clumsy to clutch the clunking metal loop. Eventually Billy wriggled his head through the ring, and the keys dangled round his neck, flimsy, pathetic trinkets against the young courtier’s robes. The Chief Administrator nodded to the youngster and wandered away. She wondered if he’d last the morning.
Billy had received his instructions from Sophie. Unlock the court room, read the agenda, get through the morning session, stay in the court room, and let Geraldine and Sophie in. Simple, Sophie had said. It didn’t feel that way. Keep the agenda short, she’d said. The less you talked, the less likely you were to be executed, she’d said. Billy took a deep breath, entered the court room, and took a quick look around. Empty, deserted, the room looked entirely different from the normal bustle. Billy wandered across the floor. He examined the scuff marks on the floors, the distant traces of blood that cleaners hadn’t been able to remove. He walked as close to the throne as he dared, peering at the rubies on the arms, taking care not to cross the circle in front of the King’s seat. He wandered back down the hall, bracing himself, walking as slowly as he could, searching for calm, and found the far door, the one connecting the room to the court bar. Taking another bowlful of air, he put the keys in the door, stood as far to the side as he could, and wrenched open the door.
Courtiers stampeded, left right and centre, buffalo to the watering hole, ready to graze at the feet of their King. Billy leapt to the side, saving himself from the gathering crowd, and slammed himself against the side of the hall. The crowd continued to roam, Lord after Lord, Lady after Lady, rioting into the room. Billy stared at them, wondering what the point of it all was…
“Court Secretary?”
Billy recognised that voice in his ear. He’d heard it many a time. Turning his head awkwardly to the left, in the tiny space he’d found himself, he poked his eye sharply into a familiar tri-cornered hat.
It was the Admiral.
The naval officer clearly recognized him – he was wearing his own wig, after all – but the Admiral contemplated him impassively. The seaman had news to impart.
“Something to add to the agenda, Court Secretary. It’s not my news. It’s from the Commander of the Army. We’ve run out of muskets.”
“Run out?”
“Yes, run out. We don’t have any guns left. Just tell that to the King, would you? Thanks. You didn’t hear it from me. It’s from the Commander of the Army. Thanks again.”
And with that the Admiral camouflaged silently into the crowd. Billy stared at his agenda, horrified. The King wouldn’t like this news. He preferred his army to have guns so they could fight enemies and prevent the King from having to take part in any humiliating diplomatic negotiations overseas. The King hated overseas travel. It was all like England, but bad, His Majesty said, and the King didn’t own any of it. His Majesty would much rather stay at home. He’d surely execute anyone who dared to break such news to him.
On the other side of the room the King entered. Motioning to his audience, his subjects, and taking his usual seat on the throne, he beckoned the room to silence.
“Court Secretary.”
Billy, keys jangling, eyes upon him, walked towards the throne, down the side of the room. Sophie ignored him. Lillian ignored him. The King barely noticed him, and clearly didn’t recognize the man who had given him trousers.
“Agenda please, Court Secretary.”
Billy looked at the King’s knees, not daring to raise his head any higher. There was only one thing on the agenda: the news the Admiral had given him. There was no trick to pull from under his wig. No happy news, which would warm the King enough to receive such bad tidings. There were no trousers to impart. The King was no longer appeased by goldfish, and even if he had been, there were no goldfish. Billy was alone, present-less, gift-less, without defences. He had one piece of bad news, he would be executed for it, and that would be it. It wasn’t even the Admiral’s news, so the naval officer wouldn’t be executed for it either. A tenth count of treason awaited Billy.
Or did it?
Billy had an astonishingly simple idea, one so ridiculously simple that even the Laundry Boy could have thought it up. Geraldine would have done it in a second. He couldn’t could he? It was brilliant in its utter childishness…
“Court Secretary, the agenda please. Now.”
“Your Majesty,” Billy said, “There are no agenda items today.”
Billy had expected a pause. He expected his lie to be immediately found out. He’d never been a good liar, not ever, not from his earliest days. There were no noble stories about childhood Billy telling the truth after cutting down his father’s apple tree. He’d have been so clearly lying that he’d always had to tell the truth straight away. There was, however, no pause. The Admiral didn’t interrupt. After all, the Admiral didn’t want to implicate himself in the Army Commander’s problem.
“Thank you, Court Secretary,” the King said, a gladness in his voice. The King hated these sessions. He’d much rather be playing billiards. He remembered, however, that he did have one item to inform the court about, and that he’d better get it over with as quickly as possible.
“We have one piece of information for the court,” the King said. “Having considered the matter carefully, We decree that wigs are no longer to be worn in court, starting from tomorrow. Court dismissed.”
Billy had got away with it! He’d got away with a lie. The courtiers all rushed from the room, eager to return to the bar, slamming each other out of the way, desperate to be served first. None suspected the Court Secretary, none cared. All that mattered was the outlandish piece of news. Wigs were no more! This was the final day. They’d share the news with everyone they met at the bar, and those would share it further, and within hours the whole country would know that wigs were no longer fashionable, that the Hairpiece Age had passed, gone the way of the Romans and the Saxons and chain mail and longbows and ruffs and jockstraps.
The King exited at the other end of the room, pleased to leave, pleased to return to his unfinished game of billiards. He’d managed to win 342 games in a row without an opponent so much as potting a single ball, and the King wanted to reach that elusive 343. One by one the remaining nobles left the room, Lillian among them, Sophie and Geraldine rushing off particularly quickly, towards the wig workshop, where the Wise Wig waited for them, perhaps for the last time. Billy waited until the crowd had safely departed, and made his way out too, relieved. He could not bask in his relief, however, for there was still a job to do. He had to find the Admiral.
Not a difficult job, because the Admiral found him.
As soon as Billy closed the door of the court room behind him, a clear cough caused him to jump sharply to his left, narrowly missing another tri-cornered hat. The same tri-cornered hat, in fact, that he’d already poked his eye on once today.
“Court Secretary.”
“Admiral.”
“There was one item on the agenda, Court Secretary.”
“Admiral?”
“You announced there were no items on the agenda, Court Secretary.”
“Admiral.”
“Why did you fail to announce my – the Commander of the Army’s – item to the King?”
“I must have forgotten it.”
The Admiral sniffed in disapproval. This young courtier looked almost pleased.
“Well, now that I’ve reminded you, perhaps you would like to go and tell the King yourself.”
“I would, Admiral, but I feel you may be in a better position to tell the King yourself.”
The Admiral, England’s greatest seafarer, stared at Billy, almost unsure of himself. Such impudence! Court Secretaries usually could be swatted away, made to buzz out of sight. This one was altogether different.
“I shall do no such thing! I shall, however, let your insolence be known to His Majesty. Billy was enjoying this.
“Good. You have an opportunity to do so now, Admiral. His Majesty has requested your presence. I am to let you into the court room, where you will wait for His Majesty.”
The Admiral stopped, a fixed pole in a spinning universe.
“Our King must be informing me of my new appointment as Guardian of the King’s Trouser, I suppose. He shall find this matter of much interest too, I am sure.”
“His Majesty did not confide the details to me. This way, Admiral,” said Billy, before the naval officer could respond further. Tugging gently at the Admiral’s robes of office, Billy led him gently back to the court room, took the keys from around his own neck, and turned the lock. Smiling smugly, he opened the door, ushered the Admiral inside, and turned the key again, remaining outside. He walked purposefully away, with a job to do. He traversed steps, corridors, towards the entrance of the palace, knowing there was little time. He avoided anyone and everyone – the Admiral could be relied upon to be patient, as he was waiting for the King, but every minute mattered, because it was another minute the King could be seen somewhere else, and for the Admiral to later learn of the deception.
Long minutes passed, five long minutes, minutes that felt like days, and Billy eventually reached the outside entrance to the court room, the one close to the lake, where the King usually entered. Billy, checking nervously for spectators, lest he should be sighted lurking by the court; stood to attention. Soon, very soon, right on time, the Chief Wig Maker arrived with Geraldine, who was holding something behind her back. They were both grinning stupidly. Geraldine was wrapped in a huge, oversized coat, like a great big bag which covered her entire body, chin to toenail.
“Thank you, Billy,” Sophie said. “Keep a lookout. Start by making sure no-one can see us.”
Billy nodded and checked the vicinity. Seeing that nobody was there, he indicated as such with his hand, and continued to watch the walls, ignoring the rustling sounds behind him; the sounds of Geraldine and Sophie removing Geraldine’s coat, changing her wig for the Wise Wig, whispering inaudibly to one another, final words.
“Billy, door please.”
He turned. The King was standing there.
Well, not really the King. But it took a good few seconds to be sure, and he was only totally convinced once Geraldine burst into scornful giggles at his awkward bow.
“I think the costume works, Geraldine,” Sophie smiled.
Billy looked back at Geraldine, who was wearing long, sequined robes, with small jewels peeking from the hems. Her youthful impudence took a whole new hue: it seemed, now, that such precociousness came from instinctive understanding, a knowledge that the world was too solemn, too rule-bound, too populated with Kingly authority and savage geese and unnecessary execution, and that rude, impulsive rebellion was the only serious action one could take in response…
“The Wise Wig suits her, don’t you think?” Sophie chuckled. “Alright. Geraldine, are you ready for this pleasure?”
Geraldine smiled serenely. It really did look like a pleasure to her.
“Ok,” said Sophie, “Billy, unlock the door now please. Good luck, Geraldine.”
With Sophie quickly moving out of sight, Billy unlocked the door, taking one last awed look at Geraldine in her wig, and she stepped around him, hitching up her robes, which were a millimetre too long for her, and walked past, into the court room. Billy closed the door again.
Billy and Sophie looked at one another. This was the biggest gamble of all. If Geraldine succeeded, persuading the Admiral to retire from public life, their futures would be secure, even without the glamour of the wig workshop. If Geraldine failed, however, and the Admiral saw through a disguise – for once – they were all ruined. The King would learn of the impersonation. Billy would be implicated. Sophie, too, would surely be suspected of loaning the Wise Wig, and Geraldine was bound to confess all, just to give herself a chance. Whatever happened in that court room, it would determine their fates, and they were powerless to do anything about it.
Sophie paced back and forth, occasionally gazing at the lake. Eventually she spoke.
“Billy, you need to get to the other door again to let the Admiral out. I’ll wait here for Geraldine.”
Billy, having momentarily forgotten his duty, scampered away. Time passed.
Geraldine walked the way the King walked, the way she’d seen him walk. Long strides, yet slightly doddery, a regally-angled chin, looking above the distance, as if the horizon, gazed upon by prince and peasant, was too common for the favour of a King. The Admiral was bowing when she walked in.
“Your Majesty,” he purred, not raising his eyes to meet his monarch’s.
“Admiral. Be seated.”
Geraldine suddenly realized that this was a daft thing to say, because there were no chairs. The Admiral, showing no signs of surprise, sat cross-legged on the floor, uncomfortably twisting his knees into position. Concealing her glee, Geraldine leapt on the throne. The blood-red rubies felt so cold and smooth to the touch. Remarkable. Truly remarkable. Worth all the mining and killing and conquering required to get hold of them, at least as long as someone else was doing all that unpleasant stuff-
“Your Majesty,” the Admiral began, taking advantage of his monarch’s momentary silence. “It is delightful to be welcomed to your presence. There is a matter I which to discuss with Your-“
“Not now, Admiral.”
“Of course, Your Majesty.”
We have more important things to discuss. I have – We have – been thinking.”
“Yes, Sire?”
No, that wasn’t the right way to begin. “That is, We have had a little matter brought to our attention. Do you recall yesterday’s court session?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Good. I – We – do too. I – We – distinctly remembering you claiming to have invented trousers, these wonderful new garments.”
“I did say that, Your Majesty. I invented them a few days ago, and instructed for them to be brought to you for the Day of Diplomacy. It was my belief – correct, as it turned out – that trousers would give you an even greater advantage over the deplorable French King than Your Majesty already had, not that increased advantage was necessary, and Your Majesty would appreciate the gift.”
“I – We-“ Geraldine decided she’d just stick to the third person from now on, it was much easier – “The King did appreciate the gift.”
“I am glad, Sire.”
“What has come to the King’s attention, however, is that you did not invent trousers.”
Silence, for a second.
“Sire?”
“You did not invent trousers, Admiral. There is no use pretending,” Geraldine said, in her most certain of all her certain-sounding voices.
“Oh, I see.”
“The King is glad that you see.”
The Admiral coughed. His hands were shaking, Geraldine noticed.
“May one inquire, Your Majesty, how Your Majesty came to know this?”
“One may not inquire. We are most displeased. You, Admiral, have lied to your King. I think you know what this offence entails.” Momentary lapse of the third-person there.
The Admiral coughed again. He looked down into his hands and back up again to his monarch’s knees.
“Your Majesty,” he said, “Your Most Beloved, Most Noble Britannic Majesty. Your Most Noble Britannic Majesty, Defender Of The Faith, Ruler Of The High Seas-“
“The King was the Ruler Of The High Seas. Until you lost the entire fleet in a routine skirmish on the Bay of Biscay, that is.”
The Admiral coughed some more, close to a choking fit. Something of the great bay could be seen in the Admiral’s eyes.
“No, you have committed a grave offence, Admiral. You understand the punishment this crime deserves.”
The Admiral continued to stare at his monarch’s knees. Tears ran from the Admiral’s eyes, steadying a course, and trickled towards his chin. A slight gurgle at the word ‘consideration’, but otherwise he was still.
Geraldine had expected to enjoy this, wearing the Wise Wig, pretending to be the King, getting one over on the Admiral. She’d emphasised the crime a bit more than strictly necessary, to appreciate the moment, but somehow the room was a different colour from the one she expected. She scrutinised her old foe, her defeated foe. The Admiral’s mouth opened, much wider, a drop of water meandering to the corner, descending over the lip. His shoulders shook now, much more obviously than before, and Geraldine could hear him breathe hard. She felt a peculiar coldness – not a deliberate, cultivated coldness, but one uniquely unfamiliar, and entirely affecting – run from the crown of her head, down through her own shoulders, and settle reproachfully in her stomach. Unexpectedly, she wanted to speed this up.
“Nevertheless, Admiral, you have served me – We – The King – Your King – well. Your King shall take that service into consideration.”
Nothing much changed with Admiral, other than his eyes, which opened much wider, almost grotesquely so, revealing the shores of the sea.
“Your King will not execute you, Admiral.”
The Admiral clasped his own hands together, clutching them firmly.
“Oh, thank you, Your-“
“But you cannot stay in this court, having lied to the King.”
“No, Your-“
“So I – We – must bid you to leave this court.”
The Admiral’s mouth was still open, although his tears did not run so freely. He shut it slowly.
“Admiral,” Geraldine continued, “Having lied to the King, you are to remove yourself from this court. You will tell no-one of this meeting, nor of your decision. You will abandon all your attachments, all your titles of office, all your plans of action, all your romantic entanglements, if such engagements should exist, and return to your own dwelling place. You, from the moment you leave this hall, are no longer welcome at this court.”
“Yes, Your Majesty, Thank you, Your Majesty.” He was trembling still, and Geraldine, of an impulse she knew not, wanted to still that trembling.
“I believe – We believe,” she began, softy, “that you have a pastime.”
The naval officer – or former naval officer, as he should now be known – nodded slowly, bemusedly.
“We believe,” continued Geraldine, “That, away from your office, your courtly duties, you have created a naval scene? That you are building a great model, a replica of one of England’s great military victories, out of wood, which you carve yourself, and paint with your own hand? That this is your true concern, your plan for retirement?”
The former Admiral nodded much more emphatically.
“Having relived you of your cumbersome duties, Admiral, you may now return, without disgrace or loss of wealth and privilege, to this naval scene of yours, and spend the rest of your days tending to your craft. Good luck, my Admiral.”
Geraldine cast her best smile, her best regal smile, upon the Admiral, but it was nothing compared to the smile returned, once he realized the rewards of passing power. A rainbow, a true rainbow, greens and reds and golds, elevated his expression to the clouds, clearing the bitter Atlantic storms, rescuing an old sailor from his last tempest, and from the rain. The rainbow took the lines of his face, diffused them, infused him with colour, and left the old fears to the breeze.
He rose, head bowed still, dutifully avoiding his monarch’s eye. A final bow, gentle, and he backed away, towards his door. The doors at the end, where he’d entered, towards the bar, creaked open as he stepped backwards, automatically so, it seemed, by Billy’s unseen hand. Then, with one last look at the room, the Admiral disappeared from sight, leaving to find his rainbow’s end.
Post-amble – The Sheep Again
A cold mountainside, on a grey August day. It could only be Wales. Billy didn’t quite know why he’d chosen to come here, to this lawless place, in the court’s short summer break. The last time he’d been here, he nearly died. It was a strange choice, and the perils were still so familiar, that he’d nearly decided against it. Yet there was a job that needed doing, a personal one this time, and he’d had to go back to that Welsh mountain, even if there were geese. He’d never really understood how the geese had come to be in London, or how they’d found Billy again, or how the Wise Wig and the britches had later turned up safe and sound, or where the geese had actually gone. From what Lillian had said when they rowed back to shore he guessed she’d fought them off somehow – not to be underestimated, Lillian – but quite where they’d gone remained a mystery. Perhaps they’d come back here, but Billy reckoned he’d be better prepared for them this time around.
The new order at court had taken some getting used to. He’d been quickly moved on from Court Secretary, not that the King had ever paid much attention to the role – and he’d been installed in a higher position still, as Assistant to Sophie, Guardian Of The King’s Trouser. With the old Admiral’s sudden departure, heads had been turned by the astronomical rise of Geraldine, the Kitchen Assistant, to the firmament, taking over the role of Admiral, Commander Of The King’s Fleet. Her first task had been, naturally, to actually procure a fleet.
Amidst all this intrigue, wigs were gone. Nobody wore them in the King’s palace. Nobody wore them around the country. Except for the judges and the law courts, who were claiming some sort of legal right to continue wearing wigs, and hence making the King very angry indeed, wigs were consigned to history, a distant memory, a footnote to fashion.
As a result, the wig workshop had been dismantled too. Sophie’s lifetime work, her great creation, had been roughly taken apart, hairpieces aggressively shoved into poorly-stitched sacks, wigs taken away, recycled as jumpers. Now, jumpers, they were doing well. Trousers went particularly well with cardigans. And there was enough wool from all the wigs to supply jumpers to everyone. People were stocking up on good woollen sweaters before winter came along.
All wigs had been recycled, that is, except one. And that wig was here, in Billy’s new bag, on a windy Welsh mountainside.
Billy didn’t quite understand why he’d come here. If you’d asked, he probably wouldn’t be able to articulate his reason for returning to the valley, the hill where he’d first invented trousers. It was something to do with the wig in his bag, the Wise Wig. It wasn’t an ordinary wig. It had given him so much, given the world so much. He’d been wearing it when he invented trousers, after all, and it had seen so much of his strife, that to simply recycle it, turn it into a common jumper, seemed such a poor end. No, he needed to return here, to give the wig back to its rightful resting place. In the same way that Excalibur needed to be returned to the Lady of the Lake, once Arthur’s fight was done, the Wise Wig needed to be returned to the cold, wet outlands from whence it came.
He came down the far side of the mountain, where he’d first seen the animals. Sure enough an inquisitive goat rushed out towards Billy, and generally sniffed in his direction. Another goat – more timid, perhaps – peeked at him from behind a bush, almost sweet in its shyness. Billy knew better, though. He knew one of them would scamper for help, and something would return. Seven geese, perhaps. Billy, today not so young, stood on that grey hill, terrified, despite himself, and waited.
Slowly, almost ponderously, with none of the murderous menace of the previous encounter, animals assembled at the bottom of the hill, in the valley, and began to meander towards Billy. This was no blitzkrieg, no lightning strike. It was gradual. No surprise ambush was afoot, no meticulous counter-attack. Instead a small, motley collection of creatures trotted up the mountainside, with no urgency, no panic. Some hedgehogs, a few ducks, a couple of donkeys, the odd squirrel. No geese in sight.
Someone else, too. Someone Billy immediately recognized, despite never having met. Someone who Billy felt he instantly trusted, someone whose presence, pacing gracefully uphill, soothed all those grey clouds, and made Billy feel peace, true peace.
Billy could never have known, but things were different in the valley now. Things had changed since Nebuchadnezzar and his geese flew away so long ago. With them gone, the tyrants of the valley, the animals no longer lived in fear. There was still strife, of course, as there always will be, but, other than bickering between Lulu the Donkey and Zanzibar the Hedgehog, no pain ensued. With the geese gone, peace returned.
It wasn’t the only thing that returned.
Over the summer, a change occurred in Davey. He’d spent the spring wandering dazedly around the mountains, cold and fleece-less. He’d been a pink, normal, confused sheep, with no hair of his former self. But, as summer started to bloom, with yellow flowers bravely seeking Welsh sunshine, a miracle had happened. Davey’s fleece started to grow back.
Lucien the Sheep would scarcely have believed it at first. He’d been hopeful when Davey had first returned from the hills, al that time ago, fully-shorn. He’d stayed true to his hope, believing, despite everything, that Davey’s wisdom would return, that there’d be tranquillity in the valley once more, that the world could be as perfect as he’d once dreamed it to be. As the months passed, however, that hope had gone, and he’d grown familiar with life in the power of ever-vigilant geese.
But then the human had arrived, and he’d fought the geese, and the human had left unscathed, and the geese had gone too, presumably to chase the human. Lucien had waited in the valley, cautiously, none of the animals daring to break the goosey laws, despite their absence; all feared Nebuchadnezzar’s return, all expected punishment, should they change the land. One day passed, however, then a week, then a month, yet the geese did not return.
Slowly, gradually, the animals started breaking the bad laws. Donkeys moved into the wrong field. Goats grazed on forbidden parts of the mountain. Hedgehogs, the most daring animals of all, burrowed right into the very field the geese liked best; and started, tentatively, to occupy the space. Confidence growing, the animals returned to familiar ways and, with the geese gone, their tyranny a fading memory, calmness, like settled weather, descended once more.
And Davey’s fleece returned. Single hairs, at first, then scattered clumps, like single clouds on a winter’s day, then greater, fluffier patches; then swathes of wool, crops in a great white field, and finally a thick, even fleece.
With that wool came wisdom, Davey’s wisdom, the fortitude and thoughtfulness of old. Gradually, mind: first, he remembered how to distinguish between fresh, dewy grass and bare, scorched earth. He moved on to identifying plants, trees, recollecting the wild knowledge which wild things know; and then began to make decisions again, good ones, unerringly, understanding simple matters, like basic disputes, sharing breadcrumbs. Within weeks, though, he could be relied upon to resolve complex matters, reconcile warring parties, and arbitrate in the name of Truth. The empty space left by the goats, which could so easily have been filled with another tribal power, or another show of violence, was gently warmed by the loving kindness of Davey, the Wise Sheep.
So Davey, the counsel of the valley once more, was informed of today’s return of the human, the man who’d fought the geese. This human, he was told, had no weapon, just a bag. Davey, followed by the other animals, his peers, decided on peace, not war, and calmly approached the figure descending the hill.
Billy saw them approach, and he detected no malice. He decided to make his intentions clear. Loosening the coarse bag he’d brought with him, he reached inside and took out the Wise Wig. Holding it aloft, in front of him, a peace offering to the animals, he inched down the slope, meaning no harm, trying not to scare, startle or frighten those who waited for him.
Davey saw this, comprehending, and was gratified. The sheep, accompanied by his friends, trotted to Billy, and stared into the young man’s eyes. Yes, this man meant no harm. The human offered peace.
Billy stared back into this sheep’s eyes. He knew this was the sheep whose wool had been the Wise Wig. You could just tell. An infinity, an eternity, reigned forever. The sheep was not of this world, somehow. It had nothing to do with human beings, and yet Billy felt it could have everything to do with human beings, if it wanted to. This was something truly magnanimous, in the way the Wise Wig was, something not to do with this haphazard universe, with its fears and hatreds and cravings. True beauty, true courage, lay calmly within those eyes.
Billy, so close now to Davey, the Wise Sheep, lay the Wise Wig on the ground, presenting it as an offering to its brethren, the sheep who had given it life. Sinking to knees, almost reverently, despite himself, Billy wondered how Sophie had not felt the same. He wondered how Sophie had, upon seeing this wisest, most holy of sheep, thought to shear the wisdom of this wig, to desecrate the lamb. Such an act would be depravity of the worst kind, blasphemous to the best of this life.
And then he understood. He understood it all, looking into Davey’s serious, laughing eyes. Billy remembered that he’d been wearing the Wise Wig when he invented trousers. He remembered that the King had only defeated the French King, the world’s most accomplished card player, whilst wearing the wig. He remembered how serene Geraldine had looked with the Wise Wig on. He remembered how rarely the King had worn the Wise Wig, the good decisions the King had made wearing it, and some of the poor decisions the King had made without it.
And Billy realized, almost too late, but finally, that Sophie had not stolen the wig, would not have been able to, would not have had the devilish strength; but that the wig was borrowed, not taken; that the wig was given, not received; and that Davey had willingly given his fleece to the world of men and women; sent it out into the realm of humanity; sent it to cure human beings of their fondness for britches, and wigs, and deception; and delivered the people trousers.
And Billy realized, then, arrogance now sheared from his sight, that he hadn’t invented trousers, not really; that trousers came from an older, subtler wisdom. He understood this, finally, and smiled at the loss of responsibility, the casting away of power. And all the while, he kept his gaze steadily on the sheep, Davey, who’d gifted him so much.
And Davey smiled back, now that the gift was given, now the gift was returned, now that joy was mutually received. This young man comprehended, and he was glad. The gift Davey had given himself, too, had taken hold, and wrapped him softly. Davey’s wisdom, the wisdom of his new fleece, was stronger, more assured than the old. For Davey had lost his wisdom, let it go into the wide world, happily, and had lived as a fool. He’d seen life from eyes that were not his own, and comprehended his own sight: he’d picked at tufts at grass, and advised against stealing it; he’d lived destitute under imperial rule, and had wandered freely in the mountains. His wisdom had grown back, not of birth, but of life and of summer and of light, and it shone all the more sweetly for being found again.
So Billy rose to his feet, and Davey smiled sheepily, warmly, at him. Billy gazed back, tenderly. With a little woolly shake Davey acknowledged the return of the wig, the returning of the favour. The two tender creatures looked upon one another once more, and bowing their heads respectfully, each went upon his world-wise way.
Jezknee 