Hugh Kenrick (48 page)

They would be pilloried—because of him. Elspeth and Abraham were
dead—because of him. The Society had been the excuse for striking back—at him. It was he who had been the object of malice, that of Mathius and of Brice Blissom. How could he abandon the three surviving Pippins? How could he not share their punishment? He began to feel absurdly guilty for not having been arrested, tried, and sentenced to the same punishment. Then he thought of Glorious Swain, who felt guilt neither for his freedom, nor for having killed the Marquis.

His guilt fought quietly with his sense of injustice. Laws existed that could punish men for thinking. Men could use those laws to punish others. Men could corrupt a court to seek an end that would get them some lucrative preferment—such as the Viscountcy of Wootton and Clarence. The guilt clashed also with his shattering disappointment that such a thing could happen in England. But, he asked himself: Why should he be so surprised? There was his uncle, who could sit in Lords and wield power. There was Henoch Pannell, who could sit in the Commons and wield power.

I do not wield power, he thought, and yet I am feared. Is that such a vain observation? John Hamlyn had tried to crush him. His uncle had tried to crush him. As had Brice Blissom. Yet Glorious Swain said that he was the future. Did his uncle and Pannell see that, too?

Hugh spent many evenings at home, sitting at his desk, spinning his brass top on its cleared surface, thinking, pondering, attempting to reconcile a host of opposites. He could not. The top would spin until it began to wobble, and he would put a finger on it so that it would not fall.

“O
NE MAY CURSE IN
F
RENCH, AND STILL SOUND BEAUTIFUL AND
profound.”

“Oh, no! One may not curse properly in French at all!”

“Depend on it, gentlemen: If you are cursed by a Frenchman, you would not need to understand a word he says, to know that you are not being called beautiful or profound!”

The guests and hosts at the table of the supper room at Windridge Court laughed at this exchange between Garnet Kenrick, John Swire, and George Formby. James Pursehouse, the fourth partner of the bank, had bitten into his mince pie and found a stone. His muttered curse in French had provoked the exchange. Hugh was present, sitting next to his sister, Alice, now ten years old. Garnet Kenrick sat at the head of the table, next to his wife. Swire’s and Formby’s wives were also at the table.

Hugh merely smiled. His uncle arrived first at the London home, followed by his parents and sister two days later. He had already moved most of his things to Cutter Lane, and had seen the Earl only briefly in one of the hallways. In a week, he was to begin a new term at Dr. Comyn’s school. Hugh would not speak to his uncle under any circumstances, except in reply. His uncle would not tolerate being snubbed by his nephew, at least not in company or in public. Effney Kenrick worked hard to keep them apart. Hugh was here tonight because the Earl was not.

Neither Garnet Kenrick nor his wife could penetrate the grim reticence of their son. They had never seen him so preoccupied before, and they knew not with what. They were certain it had nothing to do with the estrangement between their son and the Earl.

“Has Reverdy slighted you in a letter?” asked the Baroness gently one day.

“No,” Hugh had said with a warm, incredulous smile.

“Has Mr. Worley done something I should know about?” asked the Baron. “In the business, that is.”

“No,” said Hugh. “His sons lost some wares that were to go to Spain while Mr. Worley was serving on a grand jury, that is all.”

“Are you in any trouble…or difficulty?”

“No,” replied Hugh. “Aye, there’s the rub,” he added, more to himself than for his parents’ benefit.

“What do you mean, Hugh?” asked his mother.

“Yes, what do you mean?” echoed his father. Mistaking Hugh’s quotation from Hamlet for some attempt at wit, he tried to use wit to coax an explanation from his son. “Leave moping about to the likes of that morose Dane, and drop that Melpomenic mask!” He followed this with a laugh and an inviting smile.

Hugh had merely grinned weakly, shaken his head, and would not explain what he meant.

The Baron remembered that his son had boasted of having friends in London. Some suspicion he could not explain to himself caused him to ask, “Well, what about these mysterious friends of yours, Hugh? I’d like to meet them, if I may. And your mother, too.”

Hugh shook his head again. “Not now, Father. The time is not right.”

It was not as though his reticence was deliberate. He seemed to be his usual, exuberant self—except that they detected a lag between his words and actions, as though he were struggling against some torpid melancholy that warped his normal behavior. This, in their son, meant that something was bothering him. He played chess with his sister, taught her some mathematics, and read stories to her. He seemed to take delight in being called “brother” by her. He spoke with some animation about his work with Mr. Worley, and the new things he was learning at Swire’s Bank.

Still, Hugh’s parents were certain that something awful, perhaps even tragic, lay beneath the confident exterior of their son.

Tonight, after all the guests had gone, and as Hugh was preparing to leave, his mother said, “We are planning to row up to Hampton Court early Tuesday morning to see the Palace and the Chinese Bridge, and then perhaps stop at Richmond and Chelsea on our return, and stay the night. Please, Hugh, come with us!”

“Your uncle will be at Bedford’s all day,” said his father. “You could meet us at the Manchester Stairs. I’m sure the fresh air will perk you up.”

Hugh smiled. “Perhaps it may.” He paused. “I must think about it. Perhaps you are right.” He bussed his mother on the cheek, and shook hands with his father. “Good night.”

When he returned to Cutter Lane, Mrs. Rickerby handed him a sealed note. It was from Glorious Swain.

“I have it from a bailiff’s groom of my acquaintance that our friends’
pillory sentence has been abridged to mornings until noontime, and reduced to five days only. There appear to be too many felons, assigned the same punishment, to oblige the court’s original sentence. Their first morning will be this next Tuesday. Let us go together. G. Swain.”

Hugh knew that he could not trust himself to go alone to the pillory. He would need Swain’s cooler head and steadying hand. On his way to Lion Key the next morning, he stopped by Swain’s garret to fix a time and place for their rendezvous. Their meeting was brief and hurried. Swain was going to Stepney to work with other hired men to assemble bags of smuggled tea, sugar and salt for sale on the streets; Hugh was to meet his father at Lion Key, where the Baron planned to review family accounts with Mr. Worley. When he left Swain’s place, he had to smile. As he was a brother to his adoring sister, and even, if only in name, to Roger Tallmadge, Swain seemed to be one to him.

When he met his father in Mr. Worley’s office, he told him that he had pressing personal business the next morning, but that he would either take a coach from the Bear Inn, or ride one of the mounts from the family stable, and join the family at Hampton Court later in the day. He would want to leave the city for a while, he thought, after seeing the Pippins on the pillory.

Then he lost himself in the task of preparing a customs cocket for one of the loaded merchantmen, the
Antares
, which was ready to weigh anchor and be piloted back down the Thames. At the end of the day, before he left with his father for supper at the Angry Angel, he reviewed a list of merchantmen, compiled by one of Worley’s sons, waiting to be unshipped at Lion Key. Among the names was the
Sparrowhawk
, returned from her latest voyage. He thought that it would be pleasant to see Captain Ramshaw again.

He slept fitfully that night. He tossed and turned in that purgatory of rest that lay between nervous exhaustion and dreadful expectation. His body wanted to sleep, his mind would not. And when he managed to sleep, vivid nightmares raided his head, and hurled him toward calamitous near-death, only to vanish, without memory, when he woke up in panicked surprise.

*  *  *

On Tuesday morning, Hugh left his room on Cutter Lane, bid the Rickerbys good day, and strode over to St. Martin’s Lane, which let out on the Strand opposite Northumberland House. He was to meet Glorious
Swain in front of Corsan’s Book and Print Shop at nine; the Pippins—Claude, Tobius, and Steven—would have been on the pillory for an hour. Ahead, through the rumbling traffic of coaches, drays, and wagons passing through Charing Cross, he could see a throng gathered around the place. The city marshall, an under-sheriff, and some constables on foot and a few javelin-men had stationed themselves loosely around the pillory. Some boys sat on the pedestal beneath the hooves and belly of Charles I’s prancing steed for a better view. Hugh turned his back on the sight. He would wait for Swain. He tried to study the etchings and prints displayed in the shop’s bow window, then stepped near the shop door to get out of the way of the stream of people heading for the pillory.

Two men walked briskly by. “Well, sir,” said one of them, “what miscreants do you think we’ll see today? They must be special, to bring you so far out of doors. And, look at this mob!”

“Three capons turning on the hangman’s spit, Mr. Gould!” exclaimed the other. “They crowed and strutted themselves right into the king’s vise!”

Hugh turned sharply at the sound of the second voice, and stared at the backs of the pair. He recognized the voice. He recognized its owner.

“Who are these capons, sir?”

“Caitiffs who took God’s and His Majesty’s names in vain! Two others, I have heard, have perished already and gone to hell! And two more of their fellows are at large. One of them, I am certain, murdered my patron for having informed His Majesty’s servants of their depredations!”

“And that is a sad thing, sir, to lose one’s patron—and to such a terrible crime! I don’t wonder at your eagerness!”

“Much of a muchness, sir,” commented the man. “The father is as good as the son, and more generous.”

“Perhaps their cronies will be here this morning.”

“Not them, Mr. Gould!” scoffed the man. “No! They would not dare show their faces! They are cowards!” The men threaded their way through the coach traffic. The man spotted a boy in rags who was hawking missiles. “Here, you! What are you asking?”

“Stones!” answered the urchin. “Broken bricks! Addled eggs! Cow and horse hooves! Penny a toss, sir!”

William Horlick chuckled and reached into his coat. “Seven stones, boy, with sharp edges, now!” He held out a handful of pennies.

The boy hunted through his bag and produced seven stones, handed them to Horlick, and snatched up the proffered coins. Horlick dropped the
stones into one of his frock coat pockets.

“Only seven, Mr. Horlick?” asked Mr. Gould. “Why only seven?”

Horlick looked thoughtful. “Oh…I would say in honor of the seven hills of Rome, which did Rome no good, by the bye! Or, in honor of the Seven against Thebes, who all perished! Or, in honor of the seven Pippins who provoked the Crown—who will be slain by Orion, or swallowed up by the earth!”

The pair moved around the outskirts of the crowd, which was between one and two hundred people. Objects flew through the air now and then, mostly rotted vegetables and fruits, and missed their mark. A number of men in clerical garb were present. Mr. Gould addressed one of them. “Reverend sir, what are their crimes?”

“Only one, sir,” replied the cleric. “Blasphemous libels uttered and published in public places. That was the charge the good sheriff read out to us.”

“Thank you, reverend sir.” Gould smiled at his companion as they moved on. “You seem to be especially in earnest about these fellows,” he said. He gestured to the crowd. “But the mob here does not seem to know what to make of them, or how to hate them. Not even the regulars.”

Horlick made a face. “Well, look at them, Mr. Gould! Mere artisans, and barrow-pushers, and common women in trade, and servants, and untutored boys! How often do you think they encounter atheists, doubters, or pagans? Cheats, and extortionate letter-writers, and cuckolding wives, and false witnesses—these they know! But half these people haven’t the noodle to distinguish between the plainest verity of John Locke and the obscurest anagogy of the Rosicrucians! They will, however, punish whoever is put on the pillory, for they believe that if a man did not commit a wrong, he would not be there! They need but one example!” He put on a sly smile, and reached into his pocket for a stone. He glanced at it once, then hefted it. “Watch, sir, as I ignite a fusillade!” He drew his arm back and hurled the stone. It arced over the heads of the throng and struck a board near Robert Meservy’s head with a loud smack that could be heard in the rear of the crowd.

“Bravo, sir!” exclaimed Mr. Gould. “You are in earnest!”

As they watched, more stones shot from the crowd, some hitting the Pippins, others falling into the crowd on the other side of the pillory. The marshall, under-sheriff, and guards moved discreetly away from the platform.

Horlick laughed in triumph at the sight, and reached into his pocket for
another stone. But when he brought it out, something sharp pricked his wrist and caused him to drop it to the ground. He glanced at his wrist; it was bleeding. Then he turned and saw Miltiades looking at him, sword in hand. “You…!” He raised his hands in the air, as though he was being robbed.

“Good morning, Mathius,” said Hugh. His face was a pale, rigid visage of contempt and unholy purpose that did not invite a reply from the object of its study. “You are wrong about the Seven of Thebes. They did not all perish. Adrastus, king of Argos, survived.”

Mr. Gould also turned, and was about to protest, but Hugh said, “You, sir, will say nothing. This man knows me. I know him as Mathius. He belongs up there, on the pillory, with his friends. This is a personal matter, between him and me. Begone, or stay as a witness.”

Mr. Gould glanced at the dumbstruck face of his companion, and knew that this was no affair of his. He muttered some apology, and slipped away into the crowd.

“Miltiades, I—” began Horlick.

“Who was he?” asked Hugh.

“Him? That was Mr. Gould!” stammered Horlick. “He composes tradesmen’s cards, and advertisements.”

“A more honest dealer in words than you, you must own,” said Hugh. “He conveys plain information. You compose bilious verse, froggish fables, and libelous forgeries—William Horlick.”

“You misjudge me, Miltiades!”

“Do I? I know what you did with the minutes, Mr. Horlick. I know your authorship of the poster, and of your connection with the Marquis of Bilbury. I waited until you tossed the first stone. That action marked the conclusion of your treachery, that you have turned against all that you believed in, that you have traded Olympus for a sack of guineas.”

“But, I—”

“I am not finished, sir.” Hugh had not moved a step. He stood with his sword grasped at both ends, by pommel and tip. “Do you know who I am?”

Horlick shook his head. “No.”

“The Marquis did not tell you?”

“No, dear, merciful sir, he did not! He was very secretive…”

Hugh scoffed. “Perhaps he did not trust you enough with my name. Perhaps he suspected you would betray him just as you betrayed your friends. Still, I cannot blame you for his part of the crime—unless you
knew what he planned to do.”

“I didn’t know what he planned, gracious sir!” said Horlick. But then his face wrinkled in confusion. “What crime?” he asked, partly in fear, partly in disdain.

“The crime of not being man enough to be a man.”