“Been rusticated, have you! So what was the crime? Climbing in late? Boxing the watch?”
Damn the boy! By what right should the drab squib give him such a supercilious look? Mr. Strickland checked himself. Sorry for his lapse in noblesse oblige, he became over-jovial to compensate.
“Always had more mischief in you than met the eye, eh? Remember Hal telling me of the time you blew the top off old Dr. Hamgold’s desk. Laughed ’til I cried. Should have liked to have seen it. Never fear—you’ll not hear a word from me. Good shooting up there. I envy you. ’Deed I do.”
Favian burned with a strong sense of injustice. Mr. Strickland’s thoughtless words belittled his poetic gesture, reducing it to the unthinking foolery of a schoolboy’s prank. It was fortunate for his composure that at that moment a man came to the door to announce the arrival of the Carlisle stage. Favian mustered his dignity in a stiff bow.
“I must be off. This has been a happy chance, sir. Do give my regards to Sticks when you see him next.”
“’Deed I will. Give your cousin Jarrett my regards when you see him. A good man. Knew of him in Portugal.”
Mr. Strickland smiled after the boy as he left. He looked peaked, poor soul. He remembered his brother telling him that Adley suffered with his chest. He looked down and saw that the boy had left his pamphlet on the settle. Pig’s Meat—Mr. Strickland frowned as he read the dedication. Silly puppy. He was half inclined to go after the boy and give him some sound advice, but then no doubt his cousin would put him right. Good man—excellent riding officer. Mr. Strickland looked at the pamphlet in distaste. It was a mystery to him why anyone should be allowed to print such rubbish. It was positively incendiary in these times—particularly in this troubled district. For a sliver of a moment he wondered if he was wrong about the boy. The ridiculous notion of Favian’s elfin frame concealing a dangerous Jacobin amused him greatly. Mr. Strickland chuckled to himself as he threw the pamphlet into the fire.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Down to the bottom of Cripplegate and up t’hill,” Favian repeated under his breath. On a sunny day, when the sliver of sky above was blue and the sun’s rays might slant a little way down the walls, the alley might have been considered picturesque. Today with the slate sky pressing down, there was an air of oppression about it that left Favian breathless. Descending at Greta Bridge he had chanced upon a currier who offered to convey him into Woolbridge. Leaving his trunk for collection he set off in the man’s gig. The currier had deposited him at the end of the alley with instructions that a short walk would lead him into the heart of the town and to the Queen’s Head, from where he might send a message to his host.
Favian congratulated himself. If a poet was to speak for the people he must acquaint himself with all conditions and here he was, for the first time in his life, in the midst of the dwellings of working men. It was a mercy that all smells were deadened in the cold air, for rotting sewage clogged the simple drain cut through the packed earth. A building straddled the street over a barrel-vaulted arch. Following the curving passageway, Favian saw a flight of stone steps to his left. They rose to a half-court enclosed by several stories climbing up to the sky. He heard the sounds of a horse entering the narrow alley behind him. He climbed the steps out of its path.
The hoof beats and the clean ring of metal bridle furnishings were amplified within the high walls. Favian watched unseen as a horseman filled the narrow frame of the street, an officer on a black mount. The horse’s eye was bright. Its neat head posed proudly on its glossy, curving neck. From the soft shine of the rider’s boots to the sky-blue hussar jacket and the tall red-tasseled cap, the lieutenant was the perfect print of the military hero.
Favian felt an overwhelming sense of trespass. The pristine colors of the rider’s presence seemed an unwarranted intrusion into the drab reality of the alley. He had an impulse to throw filth at the vibrant blue of the jacket, to rub mud into the insulting scarlet of the sash. The lieutenant seemed oblivious of his surroundings. His features were placid as he passed. The hoof-beats receded. Favian’s chest was tight. It hurt. He sat down on the steps. He knew of old that if he could but sit a while and calm himself, he might avoid a full-blown attack.
Time passed, measured by each shallow breath. Favian glanced up to see a woman stagger down the alley toward him. She listed against the weight of a heavy basket, helping herself along the wall with an outstretched arm. She dropped her burden and straightened her back.
“You ill?” she asked.
“Long day. Been traveling,” he managed to squeeze out, smiling at her as cheerfully as he could.
“Come up and sit by the fire.” Leaving the basket on the ground she grasped him unceremoniously by the arm and helped him up. She was a strong woman. Before Favian could protest she was steering him up the steps to her door.
“You sit there,” she said, depositing him in a chair by a scrubbed pine table. “Sara Watson.”
“Favian,” he croaked, between gasps, “Adley.”
“That’s a fanciful name.” She set a tumbler before him and poured him some water. “Have a sup of that. I’ll be back.”
The room was dim and calm and warm. Although his wheezing was a distraction, Favian was nonetheless thrilled by this novel opportunity. He had never seen the inside of a laborer’s cottage before. He looked about him curiously. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. The light from the window was as thick as amber. At first he thought there was parchment in it, instead of a broken glass, then he realized it was patched with newspaper, yellowed and faded in the light. The room seemed well swept and neat. There was a board floor under his feet. He didn’t recognize the fuel smoldering in the stone hearth. It gave out a musty smell. There was a rack standing by the fire with some sort of flat cakes on it. Shelves in the corner displayed a collection of earthenware pots and bunches of dried herbs. On the table stood a wicker basket filled to the brim with neatly folded stockings, a bobbin of matching thread balanced on top.
The air felt thick in his throat. He turned his face to the cold air flowing in from outside. The open door was an oblong of light. Through it he heard his hostess grunt as she wrestled her burden up the steps. She filled the doorway: a solid determined outline leaning out in counterweight against her laden basket. Face flushed, she heaved it onto the table with a crash.
“Turnips! They’re a weight, I don’t mind telling you.” She gave him a shrewd look. “Any better?”
Favian took a dutiful sip of water and nodded, fighting the impulse to cough.
“I am most grateful to you for your kindness, Mrs. Watson. May I … ?” He put his hand in his pocket. He paused at the look on her face. The room was so sparse, so bare, he could not help himself. He drew out his coins. They clinked under his fingers resting on the table top. Sara Watson stood very still. He glanced at the turnips piled in her basket and back to her face.
“To buy your family a better dinner,” he pleaded.
“They’re for pigs out back!” she exclaimed, outraged.
Favian’s cheek burned red hot. He heard a snort.
“Eeeh! Look at your face!” His hostess laughed out loud. “Where are you from, lad?”
“London.”
“Eat moldy turnips down there, do they? Times must be bad.”
Favian was overcome with a bout of coughing that bent him in half. Through his fit he felt the firm touch of a human hand. His hostess was rubbing his back. The intimacy from a stranger was startling. It was oddly comforting. He had had a nurse once who would rub his back like that when he was a little boy. He glanced up to see Mrs. Watson’s face full of warm concern. Dimly he registered the sound of boots with metal rims on the outside stairs.
“Heard they’re here already,” a male voice said. “A couple of days early; no one’s sure why. They’re resting out of town; at inn on’t Carlisle road …”
The speaker blocked the light from the door, a young giant with a ruddy complexion. A slighter young man wi
th thick brown hair with a curl to it stood behind him. He peered past his companion’s meaty shoulder. He had well-spaced eyes and a generous mouth that looked as if it smiled easily. Favian gasped for breath trying to compose himself.
“Mom,” the first youth said, “you remember Jo.” He nodded in Favian’s direction. “Who’s this then?”
“He’ll have to tell you, didn’t catch the name,” Sara Watson replied, her hand maintaining its soothing rhythm on Favian’s back. “Found him on the steps. Poorly chest.”
“Can see that.”
“Dickon, my eldest—and his friend Jonas.”
“Favian Adley,” he squeezed out, half extending a hand. The movement caught his throat and Favian spasmed with another hacking cough. His eyes were level with Dickon’s waist. He carried a knapsack slung across his chest. A sheaf of papers poked out from its open maw.
Dickon straddled a stool and sat at the table, his arms folded, watching Favian struggle for breath. He was as broad as a young ox. His skin was flushed as if he had been exerting himself. His shirt was open about his throat. Favian found his eye drawn to the triangle of muscular chest visible beneath the handkerchief tied loosely round his neck. The pulse of health seemed to reside in the smooth skin as it rose and fell in an easy rhythm.
“He needs some coltsfoot tea,” said Jonas, watching Favian’s narrow back shudder under the racking cough. “Got any coltsfoot, Mrs. Watson?” He walked over to inspect the stand of shelves where some herbs hung drying. She gave him a blank look.
“Coddy foalsfoot, Mom,” her son translated.
“Oh! Foalsfoot. I’ve some fresh flower heads,” said Sara, pointing to a particular section of shelf. “Plucked last week.”
Jonas picked out a few yellow flower heads, intent on his task. His brown fingers moved through the neat bundles of herbs, lifting the lids off earthenware pots to check their contents, culling a sprig here, a root there.
“Eh up—elderflowers,” he pronounced with satisfaction. He stepped over to the fire and poured a little water into an iron pot. He hung it on the hook. “You don’t mind?” he said, with a glance at his hostess.
“Feel free,” said Sara, dryly. She seemed amused rather than offended by his invasion of her kitchen. Jonas flashed her a grin, his attention on the ingredients he was adding to the water.
“Coltsfoot and a handful of elderflowers, some mallow root, a bit of liquorice and a touch of honey,” he said with assurance. “This’ll help that cough.”
“I don’t want to be such trouble,” Favian murmured, embarrassed.
“Don’t look like you can help it,” said Dickon. He took off the knapsack and let it drop down by the table. “So—what you doing here, then, Favian Adley?” He had a quick ear. He echoed the unfamiliar name perfectly. “What business have the likes of you in Powcher’s Lane?”
“Just arrived from the south,” Favian wheezed as best he could. “Told this was the short cut to the Queen’s Head.” He ran out of breath.
“Let the boy be,” Sara intervened. “Let him get his breath back. How did it go?” she asked her son.
“Got a couple of days’ work building pens for t’markets.”
“Good on you.” Sara pulled her sewing basket toward her, selecting a stocking from the pile. “Soon as I finish these Mr. Foster says he has another hundred. He’s building stock for t’fairs.” Jonas strained his brew off into a mug and placed it in front of Favian.
“There,” he said. “Try that.”
Favian took a dutiful sip. He was fully prepared for it to taste disgusting. In his experience such concoctions generally did. He was pleasantly surprised. For the most part it was sweet and fragrant. He could smell the elderflowers. He felt the hot liquid seep down his throat, calming it. Jonas stood looking down at him with his arms folded across his chest, like a craftsman waiting for his patron’s verdict.
“Good,” Favian told him, surprised by the warm feeling spreading through his chest. He watched Sara’s needle as it flashed through the fabric. His shoulders relaxed. The company seemed perfectly at ease with his presence among them. He felt oddly at home. His eye fell to the papers sticking out of Dickon’s bag. They seemed to be a sheaf of printed sheets.
“Jo’s a singer too, Mom.” Dickon’s remark seemed to have some significance Favian didn’t quite catch. Sara gave her son a sharp look over her sewing.
“He’s brought a new ballad.” Dickon pushed a sheet across the table. Favian leaned forward to peer at the title, intrigued. It was a crudely printed ballad sheet, “The Weaver’s Lament.”
“Know it?” Dickon asked. Belatedly Favian realized the question was addressed to him. He shook his head.
“Your mouth it is shut and you cannot unlock it,” Dickon sang, completely at his ease. “The masters they carry the keys in their pocket.” His voice was tuneful and direct.
“Why, that’s poetry!” exclaimed Favian.
“Verses that speak to a man’s heart,” said Dickon.
“Poems for the people.” The words just formed themselves. As he heard himself speak them, Favian felt something click into place.
“Poems for the people,” repeated Dickon, considering the phrase. He shrugged. “If you like. Written by working men—even ’tho they canna risk printing their names on it.” The remark was a challenge.
“And men should speak their hearts,” Favian responded eagerly. “I believe that.”
“And what do you know of working men’s hearts?” Dickon’s tone was belligerent.
“Nothing, it’s true. But I wish to learn. I am a poet.” Favian felt himself blush at the confession but he carried on bravely. “I want to speak truths. It is as the poet Wordsworth says: we must be free or die, who speak the tongue that Shakespeare spake …”
“Speak what?” Dickon cut in. He leaned forward and plucked Favian’s mug from where it rested on the table top between his hands. He sniffed the contents and put it back with a grimace. “Don’t smell too bad.”
Favian dutifully drank another mouthful.
“Shakespeare,” Jonas’s voice caught Favian by surprise. He had been sitting a little back from the table, calmly observant. “He wrote a play called Hamlet. Me grandfather took me to see it once in Leeds.”
“Ham what? To a play about a pig?” Dickon’s eyebrows shot up.
“Not a pig. A prince. A foreign prince called Hamlet. He saw the ghost of his father and had to right a wrong.”
“And did he?”
“Think so.” Jonas considered the matter. “His lass went mad and drowned, though, and they all died in the end.”
“Don’t sound like much.”
“There were some fine speeches in it.” Jonas leaned back his head and fixed his eyes on the ceiling. “Oh that this too, too solid flesh would melt and resolve itself into a dew,” he said, his mouth taking pleasure in the words. He straightened up. “Well, you’d have liked the fighting.” Favian stared at him amazed.
“You remember that—though you only heard it once?” he asked.
“Stuck in me head. Words do that sometimes.”
Favian felt a rush of fellow feeling. “It is the same for me,” he said.
“Well now, Favian Adley, you’re looking better,” said Dickon. He rose, his full frame suddenly making the room feel small. “Jo. We’d best get goin’. They’ll be ringing the bell at Bedford’s soon.’
Favian got to his feet.
“I will walk out with you,” he said. He addressed his hostess shyly. “Mrs. Watson, I cannot thank you enough for your kindness. I shall never forget it.”
Her smile transformed her face. All at once he saw a young woman before him. She patted his arm.
“You’re welcome, lad. You take care o’ yourself and that chest. Any time you’re passing Powcher’s Lane, come visit.”
She watched the lads leave together, smiling at the comical contrast between the slim back of the boyish gentleman and her young giant more than twice as broad towering beside him.
Favian had his head poked forward as he addressed her son, his expression intent.
“Tell me more about these poems for the people—these ballads; I should like to hear more,” she heard him say as they descended the steps.
CHAPTER FIVE
The smoke rising from the chimneys of Woolbridge hung still against a gray, frozen sky. A couple of drovers stood warming their hands at a brazier near the tollbooth that marked the top of the market. One nudged the other. An eccentric figure was marching up Cripplegate Hill. It was clothed in a gentleman’s greatcoat. The hem of the garment swung with the rhythm of each determined step. A drover stepped into the oncomer’s path. The crown of a mannish beaver hat bobbed as Miss Josephine Lippett straightened her spine.
“Well, now—what’s this, you reckon Michael, fish or fowl?” he said.
Miss Lippett stared beyond the man with a furious intake of breath.
“Buggered if I know,” responded his companion. The warmth of the pair’s bulky presence carried in the cold air with the stink of cattle.
“Does your cock stand?” the drover called out as the gentlewoman pushed past. Miss Lippett spun round in fury. Hobbled in her skirts, she lost her balance and fell into the muddy gutter. The spatter exploded around her with the men’s laughter.
Nailed boots pounded on the cobbled stone and Jonas Farr sprang between them, pushing the bigger man’s chest.
“Ask me if my cock stands, why don’t you?” he demanded. He shoved the man again. The drover backed away from his fury.
“She tripped. It was just a lark.” The herdsman was shame-faced.
“I’ll give you larks!”
Half truculent, half embarrassed, the drovers retreated behind the tollbooth. Jonas leaned down. Miss Lippett gathered her collar about her lower face in a defensive gesture. Her eyes met his, framed between the line of her hat and the mud-spotted fabric she held close in her gloved hand. There was a frozen moment and then Jonas helped her up. As Miss Lippett resumed her full stature she brushed him back, her voice trembling with emotion.
Death of a Radical Page 5
