A Beggar's Kingdom

by Paullina Simons

The only one in the hall who remains as quiet as Flora is Miri. She has danced and eaten and drunk, and now sits on the bench a few places away from Julian. At least she is at his table. After Julian has had enough gin, he sidles up to her. “I was going to offer you my winnings,” he says in his rumbly baritone. “I only took my half of the pot to give to you. But I remembered just in time how upset you get when I offer you money, even though I keep telling you there are no strings attached.”

  “Are there any strings attached?” Miri says, studying the table.

  Beat. “No.”

  “None?” Her gaze rises and meets his dilated gaze. “How’s your lip?”

  It must look pretty bad if she’s asking. She has raised her eyes and his hopes. “Fine.”

  “So where’d you learn to fight like that?”

  “Once upon a time I used to be a boxer. A prizefighter. Once upon a time I was a contender.” Julian smiles.

  Miri doesn’t quite smile back, but she almost smirks from the side of her mouth. “I mean, where did you learn to fight with your left? No one fights with their left.”

  “I do,” Julian says. “I learned when I was forced to. You’d be surprised how many things you learn to do because you’re forced to.” Be alone. Fall into wormholes. Help girls dress as boys. Prepare murdered bodies for shallow graves. Purloin gold. Dive head first into fires. Fight Goliath. Stay patient though your heart screams in panic.

  “You don’t have to tell me about it,” says Miri.

  Julian palms his empty glass. “I came from a family of teachers. They used nothing but words to resolve their conflicts. Every dinner-table argument was gray. Nothing was black and white. Nothing was ever settled, and no one ever won. A physical fight, on the other hand, is so cathartic. No words are necessary.” He smiles. “And there is always a winner.”

  “Do you like that?”

  “I like the winning, yes. Your life force is literally in your hands. Swift justice, certain victory, raising my arms above my head like I’m some kind of hero.”

  Miri asks him to show her.

  Raising his arms above his head, Julian pumps his swollen fists through the air.

  “You’re some kind of hero,” she says, her eyes softening. Or is the softening only his gin-soaked imagination? “I saw your reflexes against that guy. He swung at you a hundred times yet couldn’t land a punch.”

  “He didn’t try very hard.”

  “So how come I connected with your jaw the other day? And you didn’t even get mad.”

  He mines her face. What is he going to tell her? That he let her hit him? He doesn’t know what to say.

  “So what else do you like besides a fight?”

  Julian struggles to focus. That could almost be flirtatious, right?

  “Many things.” He leans toward her. She leans away, slightly. His sore and swollen hand reaches for her skirt. This bare-knuckle fighting is for chumps. He wishes his hands had at least been taped.

  She rises from the bench, away from his hand. “I meant…would you like some gin and water?”

  Julian struggles to focus. “Since one of your jobs is fleecing drunken men, Miri, reluctantly I’ll have to say no.”

  She inclines toward his head. Her breath tickles his ear. “You don’t want to be fleeced by me, Julian?” For half a moment, her deepening eyes half-hooded, she fixes into his face. Miri has called him by name. It’s like the hammer of Thor in his gut.

  “Bring me gin only,” Julian says. “Leave the water.”

  20

  The Advocate

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING ONLY JULIAN IS HUNGOVER. HIS crew is as fresh and clear-headed as if they’ve just enjoyed a royal slumber. Sober—and wealthy!—having danced and drunk the night away, they begin by having a kingly breakfast and making feverish, grandiose plans; plans that unfortunately include their new best friend, the lackluster Julian. Now that he’s proven to them he can do anything—travel through time, predict the future, knock out giants—anything but be well in his liquor, they entrust him with going to the Old Bailey—London’s central criminal court for over 1500 years—to haggle with the magistrate over Fulko’s fate.

  A few days later, with his lip almost healed, Julian sets off—with half of the prize money in his pocket as a potential bribe. Neither Jasper, nor Mortimer, nor Monk, Fulko’s ever-loving brother, are willing to part with their loot to bail out their own. Julian is dressed in his Sunday best, a scarlet waistcoat, embroidered in gold, a ruffled white shirt, nankeen buff-colored breeches, and Miri’s black silk cloak.

  Being a superstitious lot, his new friends don’t accompany him to the courthouse. They wait in the rookery where they’re more comfortable—and safer. Monk tells Julian that he hasn’t left the rookery of his own accord since 1770. “Last time I set foot in the Old Bailey,” Monk says with a sniffle, “I thought I was coming in for a small infraction of pilfery of a hat and a pewter mug and maybe a cufflink or two, and it was seven months on the hulks before I saw the spire of our beautiful St. Giles in the Fields again.” He crosses himself.

  ∞

  Julian heads down Holborn to the Old Bailey. Up on Ludgate Hill, the rebuilt and stunningly familiar enormous white marble dome of post-Great-Fire St. Paul’s shines in the sparkling morning. The courthouse is just outside the London Wall, and the adjacent Newgate prison is just inside. Past, present, and future, the Old Bailey has only one main courtroom. The rest of the massive building contains spaces for wheeling and dealing before getting into that courtroom.

  Julian waits a long time in the cavernous reception chamber for someone to call Fulko’s name. Finally, he is shown into one of the small rooms and left there to chafe for another hour until the unapologetic magistrate arrives.

  The magistrate is an elderly phlegmatic gentleman by the name of Colin Ford, in an ill-fitting, rumpled suit. Ford looks like he was ready to retire twenty years ago. He is slumped, dogged, and resistant to animation except for the teeth bared in a frozen smile; that is his resting “I’ve seen it all before” face.

  Colin Ford has no patience for Fulko Gib, or for Julian’s half-hearted entreaties on the prisoner’s behalf. Julian suspects he might not be the best man for the job. He told the lost boys as much. No one listened. They thought they stood a better chance with Julian. “You pulverized Smackdown Brown,” Monk said. “You’re not afraid of a little magistrate, are you?”

  Yet in some ways Colin Ford is more intimidating. For one, he is not afraid of Julian’s fists. Ford holds Fulko’s papers on the table in front of him without referring to them once. He appears to know the case history by heart. “I’m not entirely certain what you are here to accomplish, Mr. Cruz—as Mr. Gib’s advocate, as you call yourself. Do you wish to arrange a visit with the prisoner, to say goodbye?”

  Julian is mealy-mouthed but acts most sincere in stating he has a different purpose. “The purpose of computing his sentence.” Celebrating with the crew these last few days has been terrible on his English. “I mean commuting.”

  “Commuting his sentence.” Colin Ford folds his hands. “Where are you from, sir? Not from London, clearly, but from where? Do they have laws in your country? Do you know how laws work?”

  Mumble, mumble. Colin Ford is sharper than Julian anticipated. A small bribe looks unlikely to solve the matter. Julian sits up straighter, pays attention. Something else is being required from him—like his active presence in the living moment.

  “After Master Gib killed a man in the course of separating him from the gold watch, worth eight pounds,” Colin Ford says, “he compounded his crime by immediately taking the watch to Lou’s Pawnshop, a known destination of stolen goods. But even Lou had the sense to say that he would not give Fulko money for the watch until he produced the gentleman who had given it to him. Needless to say, Fulko could not produce this gentleman on account of the gentleman’s being dead. So he produced Little Legs instead. Are you familiar with Little Legs? Yes, I see by your expression that you are.

 
“This occurred just after Christmas,” Ford continues. “The wheels of justice have not turned swiftly. Master Gib was indicted, evidence was collected, witnesses were produced, facts were presented. He stood in the dock and was tried before a jury and a judge. He was convicted. As the law requires, he was given three months to appeal. That period has expired. He’s not awaiting trial. He has been sentenced to death. No more advocacy is required.”

  “It’s your last sentence that I would like to discuss with you, Mr. Ford.”

  “The time for negotiating has passed. The time has come for a hanging. Oh, and by the by, would you like to know what Master Gib said in his own defense? That he was as innocent as a child unborn. His words, not mine. That was his entire summation: I am as innocent as a child unborn.” Colin Ford sits back as if he’s made an irrefutable case.

  “Well, he didn’t have money for a more robust defense,” Julian says. “But we have money now.”

  “But he’s been convicted. The defense part is over, robust or otherwise.”

  “Perhaps he can appeal.”

  “Are you hard of hearing, Mr. Cruz? Or have I been unclear? The period for appeal closed on the 15th of April.”

  “Are you going to let a few days stand in the way of a man’s life, Mr. Ford? A few arbitrary days, against a human soul?”

  Dot 22.

  “It’s not arbitrary. It’s the law.”

  Julian shrugs as if to say law, schmaw.

  “Master Fulko is incurable,” Colin Ford says. “As are many of his ilk. The man has lost all respect for the court and its punishments. There is no remorse. There’s no terror in his heart for any fate that awaits him, there is only defiance. I’m afraid no accommodation can be made for a man like that. The Honorable John Jenkins has had enough. Fulko Gib is sentenced to hang a fortnight from June 22, and hang he shall, by the neck, until he is dead.”

  Julian must think fast. “What about clemency? There must be something I can offer you in return for some clemency for the young man.”

  Ford clasps his hands. He is tired, looks tired, talks tired, but his eyes burn bright with life, with knowledge, with opinion. “I have no need of your gifts, sir. But please—do let’s talk about clemency. In one of his previous twenty-six indictments, Master Gib was charged with treacherously and feloniously counterfeiting silver coinage in contravention of the realm. He was also found guilty of forging a thousand pounds’ worth of bank notes. Both are capital crimes. Somehow he escaped death by sweet-talking the bailiff into leaving open one of the side gates in the yard during a torrential rain. The bailiff claimed the bolt had slipped out of the lock. That was clemency, was it not? Gib fled, hid in the rookery—really just another form of prison—and did not resurface for four years.”

  Julian must think faster than that! Soon his time with the magistrate will be over and he will have accomplished nothing. He decides to use some of what Agatha has taught him. To move the needle in his favor, Julian pleads the belly.

  He tells Colin Ford that Fulko’s fiancée is with child. She has no means of support other than her future husband. If Ford doesn’t help Fulko, his bride and baby will become another pair of paupers who are doled out a pittance from collections in the poorest parish in London.

  “I am well aware of the penury of St. Giles in the Fields,” Ford says. “We have corralled our poor into one paddock, at some distance away from the regular folk, to conceal their suffering. No one wants to look at dissolute people in decay, it hurts our sensibilities. There’s nothing to be done about it. The poor will always be with us. We must muddle through as best we can—together. Our problem is that unfortunately we can’t forget about St. Giles. There’s too much crime steaming up from that boiling sea. Of course, because of it, we all remain gainfully employed, which is more than I can say for the members of that parish—a hidden half-city of masterless men, idle and unapprenticed, who make their living through crime, petty and grand—men who can work, but prefer not to.” Colin Ford clears the phlegm from his throat. “What I’m saying with all due respect for the parish and its situation is that Master Gib is not a means of support for a woman with child. I’m not entirely certain that scoundrel can support his own neck on a gallows rope.”

  “And yet, he’s the father of the young woman’s baby,” Julian says. “Please consider a commutation. I will pay you any sum you require. Perhaps Judge Jenkins can commute his sentence to transportation?”

  “What’s the difference between transportation and a hanging?” Colin Ford asks. “The wife and child are on their own either way. Or is your plan to send his wife and baby to America with him?”

  Julian becomes enlivened. “Why not?” Possibilities spring up he hadn’t seen before. There’s a way to get Miri out of London! “Yes, absolutely, put him and his wife and child on the boat and send them far away. Rid your country of his nuisance. He’ll be America’s problem. Exile him.” Julian breathes out. “While there’s still time. While you still can.” What Julian knows that the judges and the barristers and the magistrates do not yet know is that the American option is five minutes away from being eliminated. Once war begins in earnest, once the Royal army is unable to dispatch with the Rebels as planned, the “transportation” of British criminals across the Atlantic is going to come to a permanent halt.

  “She’s with child, you say?” Colin Ford cleans his glasses with his handkerchief. “And what reason does this woman have to suspect Fulko Gib is the father? Perhaps she has him mixed up with someone else. I’ve seen that happen.” Ford pauses for emphasis. “Many times.”

  Julian assures the magistrate this is not one of those times.

  Ford doesn’t say yes, he doesn’t say no. He takes a pinch of snuff from a tobacco box in his desk. “What’s your interest in this?” he asks Julian.

  “I’m the young lady’s cousin,” Julian replies. “I care deeply about her well-being. Her mother and my mother are sisters.”

  “Who is her mother?”

  “You don’t know her, I’m sure.”

  “I know everyone. Been doing this job a few years. Who is it?”

  “Agatha.”

  “Agatha Bromley?” Ford nods. “I know her well. And I know her daughter, Miryam Bromley. I haven’t seen her for some time. I was hoping she had gotten out. She was always too good for that life. At eleven, she was brought to me for nearly killing a constable. After what she told me about the man, I’d say he was lucky to escape with his life. At fourteen she was brought to me again, this time for grand larceny. Miryam was charged with breaking into a home and taking two satin pillowcases, two blankets, and, most remarkably, an entire feather mattress. She also took linen sheets, two pillows, a linen nightgown, and one bound and printed copy of the Holy Bible.”

  Julian tries hard not to clench his fists in front of the magistrate. He doesn’t want the unflappable man to see how tense and unhappy the words are making him.

  “Miryam told me she took those things,” Colin Ford continues, “so her ailing mother could have a place where she might rest comfortably, a proper bed with pillows and blankets. She took the Bible, she said, so she could learn how to read so she could read to her mother. Both times, I didn’t brand the girl, or beat her, or imprison her. I let her go. That was clemency, was it not?” Ford shakes his head. “I can’t believe that bright young lady has got herself embroiled with a no-good ruffian like Fulko. I must have been wrong about her.”

  “You weren’t wrong about her,” Julian says.

  The magistrate leans forward. “Are you sure you want to force her hand in marriage to that thieving vagrant? A marriage to a man who assaults men and women alike, who can’t hold a job and has zero desire to. A man who has not spent a single sober free day on earth since he was ten years old. That parish, sir, is raised on gin.”

  Julian fights the impulse to hang his head.

  “Is it your opinion that by arranging this journey to America, you will be saving the troubled young lady from the rookery?”
>
  Julian barely nods.

  “It will mean her marrying that man and then being sent away—while pregnant—on a treacherous passage to an unfamiliar colony, a colony that’s having some difficulties. I ask you again, is there no better way?”

  “There isn’t.” There must be a better way. Julian just can’t think of one.

  After a contemplation, Colin Ford speaks. “Very well. Bring the young woman to me. Let me talk to her. Let her plead her own belly to me. Then I’ll decide if I can help you. Oh, and you said you were willing to pay for her way across?”

  “You mean for the commutation of Fulko’s sentence, don’t you, Mr. Ford?”

  “That’s what I meant. How much might that sum be?”

  “Whatever it costs,” Julian says.

  Colin Ford’s eyes flare. He sits up a little more alertly, speaks with slightly more enthusiasm. “Bring her to me tomorrow. I must be in court by 10 a.m. Bring her to me at nine. They’re usually not up and about in the rookery until well past noon. If she comes to me early, I will know she’s taking this plan seriously. Oh, and I almost forgot—has her mother finally passed away?”

  “No. Why do you ask?”

  “I ask,” Colin Ford says nasally, “because the Miryam Bromley I know would not sail so much as across the Thames and leave her mother behind. Her mother is the only family the girl has, your, um, connections to her notwithstanding. And her mother is most certainly not well enough to survive a voyage across an ocean.”

  Julian is mute.

  Colin Ford smirks. “Quite a pickle, isn’t it, sir? I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  ∞

  Julian reveals no details of the conversation with the magistrate to his anxiously waiting Bloods and Crips. He says obliquely that there may be hope, that he must return in the morning and must bring Miri with him. No one is happy with this, least of all Miri. Julian declines any mention of joint transportation to perilous lands unknown and phantoms unborn. He keeps repeating that Colin Ford has asked to see her first thing in the morning and leaves it at that.