Hugh Kenrick (50 page)

T
HE CITY MARSHALL ORDERED THE CROWD TO DISPERSE
. T
HE MOB, SILENCED
by the pistol shot, obeyed; it broke up and drifted away. Some left in shame, some in spent righteousness, some with slaked curiosity. A man had been shot on the pillory, another was arrested. It was not yet noon, but the keeper from Newgate Prison had pulled his cart up to the pillory and the prisoners were being taken off the platform. One had to be carried to the cart by two constables. Another cart appeared with its own escort of constables, carrying three new occupants for the pillory. And behind that cart, another one, from the College of Surgeons. This one was empty; the surgeon and his assistant on it hoped to return to the College with at least one corpse. A tout scurried among the departing spectators, hoping to sell a list of the names, ages, trades, and offenses of the new felons. The boys had climbed down from under the belly of Charles I’s steed.

Three men had observed the event from a distance: Sir Dogmael Jones, Sir Henoch Pannell, and Alden Curle. Jones had come out of a sense of penance for having lost a case, and also because he suspected that the mysterious black man, who called himself Muir, would be here today, and perhaps even his intriguing visitor in the library at Serjeant-at-Laws Inn. Sir Henoch was returning from a meeting with some allies in the Commons, during which they had agreed on the wording of some new bills to be introduced at the next session. He did not attend pillory days, but had stopped on his way back to Bucklad House when, to his astonishment, he saw his neighbor on the pillory, tossing stones at the crowd. Alden Curle, taking advantage of the absence of the Earl, who had gone on another visit to the Duke of Bedford, and of the Baron’s family, who had gone to Hampton Court, was about to stroll down the Strand to visit his favorite tavern, when he, too, noticed his master’s nephew on the pillory.

Jones walked away from the pillory in a thoughtful daze. Pannell could hardly contain his glee. Curle rushed back in alarm to Windridge Court.

*  *  *

A peer could expect no actual punishment for any crime but murder and treason. All else was, for him, vaporous misdemeanor. Hugh Kenrick was denied the honor of sharing the Pippins’ punishment. He was escorted to a local magistrate’s home by the city marshall and two constables to be charged with whatever the magistrate decided was the offense, once that worthy heard the marshall’s account.

From a distance, they were followed by an elegant stranger.

Before entering the magistrate’s house, the city marshall asked Hugh to remove his sword. Hugh obliged him. The officer eyed with some suspicion the coat-of-arms engraved below the pommel of the weapon. The lad was a gentleman, to be sure. But of what degree? He approached this subject cautiously. “What was your dead friend’s name…sir?” he asked.

“Muir…Glorious Swain,” answered Hugh.

“Had he family?”

“I am his brother.”

The city marshall looked startled by this reply, then doubtful. “Hmmm…” He cleared his throat. “There will be no inquest or coroner’s jury concerning his death. He was shot lawfully by the under-sheriff in the course of his duty.”

“I wish to have him buried,” said Hugh. “I will purchase a plot and a gravestone.”

The city marshall shook his head. “I am sorry, sir, but the College of Surgeons has already claimed him…for study, you know. Two of their number arrived at the punishment, and took your friend away immediately in their cart.”

Hugh sighed in resignation. “I see… Well, Muir was a great lover of knowledge. He would be glad to know that he will help advance the science of anatomy.”

The city marshall blinked in surprise. He had expected any response but this. “Now…as to your name, sir,” he broached.

“I am Miltiades, of the Society of the Pippin,” stated Hugh.

The city marshall examined the sword. “How did you come by this fine steel, sir?”

“I purchased it in the thieves’ market,” answered Hugh.

“It is the property,” said a third voice, “of Hugh Kenrick, Baron of Danvers, whom you address, sir.”

Everyone turned to face this person.

This person wore an oddly apologetic, but satisfied smile. “Sir Dogmael
Jones, serjeant-at-law, King’s Bench, and a recent acquaintance of the gentleman now in your custody, sir,” he said.

“What is your interest in this matter, sir?” inquired the officer.

Jones shrugged. “My interest? To ensure that his galliard lordship here sees better days, so that he might hurl bigger stones at greater Goliaths. That is my interest.”

Hugh frowned. “Why are you doing this? This is not your affair.”

Jones raised his eyebrows. “Not my affair? It was my affair when I accepted the brief for the defense, milord. Forgive me the contradiction, and for the intrusion. I merely wish to see at least one Pippin escape the Crown’s attainder. And my compliments to you, milord. I have witnessed what is likely to be the one and only time the pillory has struck back.” He bowed slightly, and tipped his hat. Then he addressed the city marshall. “Do you wish me to vouch for his lordship’s identity and character for the magistrate, sir?”

“No, thank you,” answered the officer after a moment. “That will not be necessary. Thank you for the information.”

Jones tapped the brim of his hat with the shoe of the cane he carried. “Then, good day to you, gentlemen.” He turned without further word and strode away, knowing full well the consequences of his action. He had acted, partly from a sense of justice, partly from a sense of vengeance, partly from a sense of admiration. The moment gave him a bracing quantum of contentment. The young baron would be protected by the same phenomenon that had cost him the case.

The city marshall regarded Hugh for a moment, then stepped back from his captive, and held out his sword in its scabbard. “Milord, a thousand apologies, but I must still have you charged and held in custody.”

Hugh was arraigned by the magistrate for disturbing the peace and obstructing officers of the law in the performance of their duties. The first offense could be discharged with the payment of a half-crown fine. The second was more serious and neither fine nor bail could be set.

*  *  *

The Tower of London, east of London Bridge, served many purposes then. It housed a menagerie, the Royal Mint, an arsenal, and important prisoners. Among its more famous detainees were the two nephews of Richard the Third, who were murdered, and Sir Walter Raleigh, who was
executed. Hugh had the dubious honor of being briefly confined there. The city marshall and the authorities above him were taking no chances. If the prisoner must be incarcerated, it would need to be in comfortable circumstances. Hugh was escorted to a cube on its fourth floor that was more a drawing room than a cell. It contained a bed, chairs, a desk, an empty bookshelf, and a washstand. Only the padlocked door and a barred window that overlooked the Thames defined its true purpose. For a gratuity, the jailer, turnkey, and their subordinates were at a prisoner’s beck and call.

Hugh lay down on the bed and stared at the stone ceiling. He was immobilized by a kind of trauma, a mental and emotional daze the result of experiencing a great, soul-shattering event. His mind could dwell only on what had happened, not on what was happening or what was to happen. It was not fixed on the future. The future was on others’ minds.

*  *  *

Basil Kenrick returned early from the Duke of Bedford’s informal meeting with other peers on what agenda the Lord Chancellor ought to establish for the upper House to address in the coming session, especially on how to settle some bothersome divorce bills left over from the last session. The Earl was sitting on the terrace of Windridge Court, sunning himself, wearing only a gown and a daycap, reading William Horlick’s
Twenty Moral Fables
, when Alden Curle appeared and begged his forgiveness for interrupting his leisure.

Curle was unsure about which would incense his master more: his own absence, or his news. He had invented a story to tell, if he was asked—about going to the market to procure some fresh fruit for the supper table this evening, when the Baron and his family were expected to return from their outing. He stood some distance from the Earl, and when asked, conveyed the facts of what he had witnessed at Charing Cross.

Basil Kenrick did not immediately respond. After a moment, he asked, “Where was he taken?”

“I do not know, your lordship.”

The Earl merely looked at his servant.

“Yes, your lordship.” Curle bowed, and hastened away on his new task.

Twenty Moral Fables
dropped from the Earl’s hands to his lap, and from his lap slid to the flagstone. He had been reading it because the book was written by a favorite of the Marquis of Bilbury, and he wished to prove
some knowledge of it when next he spoke with the man. He was entertaining the idea of patronizing literature himself. It would be a suitable pastime.

He rose from his chair, and in the act knocked over the little stand that held a tea service. Annoyed by the clatter the crashing silver and porcelain made, he kicked the overturned stand with a slippered foot, breaking the teakwood beyond repair. He paced back and forth and in circles, stepping on the broken porcelain and spilled sugar and splashing the spreading tea. He was wrath out of control, unaware of anything else around him, even of his own body. The sun glinted on the teapot, blinding him for a moment. He glared at it but was unable to perform the simple task of picking it up. He kicked it, then tried to crush it with his feet. He began to curse, and his curses gave way to babble.

Some servants watched this raving from a window above. Curle told them the news, too, instructing them to decide who would inform the Earl that he had an important visitor in the waiting room, Sir Henoch Pannell, who had arrived just minutes before. Then he gladly slinked out on his chore to locate the young Baron.

The servants withdrew to the kitchen, and drew straws.

*  *  *

Hugh became fully conscious of his surroundings later in the afternoon. His mind, having tortured itself to exhaustion reliving the events at Charing Cross, came to rest, and allowed him to become aware of the bed, desk, and other furnishings. The cell was not unlike his room on Cutter Lane, though it was smaller by half. He rose and went to the window. Across the tops of the masts of the merchantmen at anchor in the Pool of London, he could see the smokestacks of the tanneries, candle factories, and soapmakers across the Thames in Southwark. And there was London Bridge, where Glorious Swain had been born. The house that was once his was gone, too. An idle thought came to him then, on how the city could consume so many men and things.

His body began to register his injuries. A throbbing pain on his forehead was particularly acute. There was a small mirror fixed over the washstand. He went to it and saw that his face was blotched with dried blood and dirt. He took the pitcher of water and filled the basin with it, then dipped a cloth into it to dab his wounds and scrub his face.

At seven o’clock, as he was listening to the city’s church bells mark the hour, he heard voices and steps outside the door, and a key play with the lock. Two guards came in with an assistant jailer, who informed him that he was free to go.

“Why?” asked Hugh.

The jailer and guards looked at him as though he should know why he was being freed. The jailer said, “The charges against you have been settled, milord.”

“How?”

“We do not know, milord.”

The guards escorted Hugh without further comment from the cell and out of the Tower.

At the gate waited the Kenrick family coach. A footman rushed to open the door. Inside was Hugh’s uncle, who looked at him once, then away. “Get in,” he said.

Hugh obeyed.

The Earl wasted little time and few words. As the coach moved away from the Tower, he said, “I have bailed you out, bought off the law, and purchased silence, sir. Not for any love of you, but for our family name. You will now pay me the courtesy of explaining to me why such expense was necessary.” He did not look at Hugh as he spoke.

Hugh told him about the Society of the Pippin, the young Marquis of Bilbury, the arrests, the trial, and the pillory.

When he had finished, his uncle said nothing for a long moment. “You will repair to your own place for the time being. I will speak to your father when he returns. We will decide then what is to be done with you.”

The coach rolled on. Hugh asked, with incredulous contempt in his words, “How could one buy off the law?”

“Any magistrate may decide he is mistaken, for a handful of silver.”

“That is corrupt.”

“No, sir. It is power. Accustom yourself to it.” The Earl paused. He braved a look at his nephew. “I am waiting for a word of thanks, sir.”

“You will not hear one,” said Hugh. “I wish to leave the coach—now, please.”

The cane in the Earl’s hand shot up and struck the roof twice. The coach stopped. Hugh opened the door on his side and jumped to the ground.

“You will not enter Windridge Court ever again, sir!” shouted the Earl
after his nephew.