by Edward Cline
Where was the victim of this crime? And what was the crime? Where was the outraged, offended victim who could lead the mob in the physical and verbal abuse of these pilloried felons? There were clerics in the crowd, more than the usual number present on such occasions. Some of them explained to fellow spectators what was meant by blasphemous libel, and why the men on the pillory this morning deserved to receive the full wrath of public outrage. As shepherds, they themselves were barred from tossing a single stone; it was their frank hope that their sheep would do it for them. But, because God was invisible, the king was at the royal palace in Kew, and Parliament had not yet reconvened, they could not point to a victim, and their humble diatribes came to naught. The crowd wanted a flesh-and-blood victim with whom to share vengeance, not some collection of sermonized abstractions. Some stones had been thrown, but only, as everyone knew, from the sport of the thing; bets had been made, that was all.
The young man who stood on the pillory now had an electric effect on the crowd. Everyone assumed that he would enlighten them about the depth of the prisoners’ crimes, and name the victims of their felonious actions. The crowd’s murmured speculations ceased as it noticed the city marshall and the under-sheriff edge toward the pillory, while several javelin-men coaxed their mounts back through the throng.
“My friends,” said Hugh to the Pippins, who seemed both glad to see him, and afraid for him, “I apologize for not having joined you here sooner. I did not know this evil thing had happened. But I am here now, and will not leave until you do.”
Meservy shook his head. “It is not necessary, Miltiades,” he said with urgent gratitude. “Please, leave us! Go now, before they can reduce you to…this!”
“Live as we would live,” said Sweeney. “As you have.”
“But do not die as we are sure to die,” said Brompton, “with more iron to keep us warm, than cloth. Die in glory. But live first, as we have lived!”
Hugh went to each man. “Long live Lady Liberty!” he said as he grasped the hand of each man and shook it.
“You, sir!”
Hugh turned to face the now strangely quiet crowd, only to meet the stern, priest-like scowl of the city marshall. “Sir,” said this man, “you may not stay here!”
“I belong here, sir,” replied Hugh. “I should have been arrested with these men, and similarly punished. They are my friends. So I have come to take my place with them.”
“What do you mean?” asked the under-sheriff.
“I am Hugh Kenrick, a member of the Society lately dissolved by the Crown.”
“I know nothing of that, sir,” said the city marshall. “These men are guilty of blasphemous libel, of besmirching God, the king, and the constitution.”
“Then I was tried in absentia, and am likewise guilty.”
The under-sheriff pointed a finger at Hugh. “If you stay, sir, you will be arrested for trespassing, disturbing the peace, and interfering with the lawful punishment of felons!”
“I will leave when my friends’ time is up. I will resist any attempt to remove me.”
“Let ’im be, your honor!” shouted a man in the crowd. “We’ll take ’im down!”
The under-sheriff turned in his saddle to glower at the crowd. The city marshall studied Hugh for a moment, and fidgeted with the reins of his mount. “Your loyalty and bravery are laudable, sir, but you are violating law. You will please step down, or I will order the sheriff here to remove you by any means he sees fit to employ.”
“If these men are to be punished, then I will stand with them. However,” cautioned Hugh, “I can and will brain any man who abuses them.”
“You are inviting riot, sir!” shouted the under-sheriff, “and I am thereby empowered—”
A stone flew over the heads of the officers and struck the board below Sweeney’s chin. Hugh picked up the stone and threw it back at the crowd. It sailed cleanly between the heads of the officers’ mounts to hit a man on the forehead.
This man yelped in pain. The crowd responded with a roar of anger. Instantly a barrage of missiles rained on the pillory, striking the prisoners, the officers, their mounts, and Hugh. Hugh ran back and forth between the pilloried prisoners, trying to protect them and hurl back as many stones as he could. His madness rose with that of the mob, yet he felt a sense of power over the mob and hopelessness at the same time. All he knew was that this was something he must do, without thought of consequence, future, or harm to himself.
At some point in the noise and confusion he saw that his friends’ faces were bloodied. Their mouths, heads, and ears were bleeding. A great sob of futility welled up inside Hugh. A stone struck his forehead. It was not the first missile to hit him, but he felt its thick sting more than he had any of the others. In murderous rage, he bent and found the stone. It was red with blood. It could have been the one that struck him, or one of the prisoners. It did not matter. He rose and shot it back with all his strength, not caring whom it hit.
It struck the nose of a fat, sweating cleric, who howled in pain.
The under-sheriff had signaled the constables and javelin-men to form a cordon around the pillory. He and the city marshall had also taken pistols from their saddle cases.
Then Hugh noticed a familiar face at the front of the crowd. Glorious Swain! Swain was shouting something up to him, and gesturing for him to leap down from the platform. Hugh could only stare dumbly at him. Then he saw the man bolt from the crowd, knock aside the old constable, and dart up the pillory steps. Swain rushed up to him, glanced once at the pilloried men, then grabbed Hugh by his shoulders. “You must go, my friend! Go now! You are hurt! Go, you damned fool, before they can—”
A javelin-man reached out with his spear and prodded Hugh with it. Swain whirled around, yanked the weapon from the man’s hands, then raised the butt end of it and jabbed the man on his chest, tumbling the officer from his horse.
There was a pistol shot. Swain gasped, the javelin dropped from his hands, and his legs crumbled from beneath him. Hugh saw the under-sheriff sitting with his pistol still raised, a cloud of smoke drifting away, and at the same time became aware of a new silence.
He rushed to Swain. There was a look of surprise on the man’s face, rather than one of pain. Hugh knelt, removed Swain’s hat, and rested his head on his lap. He saw the spreading blob of blood on his friend’s waistcoat, close to the heart.
“Go…Hugh Kenrick,” said Swain. “Go…I am going, too…”
“No!”
“It is necessary,” said Swain. “And…proper. Haven’t you noticed the sky? It is blue. It is a ‘glorious’ day, today, this day…I come and go…on glorious days…Look,” said the man, nodding to the sky. Hugh glanced up, and back down at Swain.
“Glorious,” repeated Hugh, “and so you will not go! I command it! I command you to stay! To live!”
With difficulty, Swain chuckled. “I give such commands, young Baron of Danvers! I give commands to a baron!”
“As…an older brother,” whispered Hugh.
Swain looked up and smiled into Hugh’s eyes, and took one of his hands. “Thank you, my friend…my younger, most impetuous brother,” he said softly.
The under-sheriff and city marshall had dismounted. Their boots thumped on the boards of the pillory and came to a stop. The officers stood over the young man and his dying friend.
“Listen, now,” said Swain. “I know I have not long…before I go to our Olympus. My room…all that is there…is yours… The book, and my own scrivenings… They are of some value. Promise me they will live on…at least…I can no longer protect them…”
“I am responsible for this,” said Hugh.
“No… It must have happened, sooner or later, my friend…one day or another… Our minds cannot be contained, our minds, our spirits—” Swain coughed violently. Blood spurted out of his mouth and wound with each spasm. “Be sure to construct our golden orrery, younger brother…” Swain’s sight moved to look up past Hugh. “The sky is growing more blue…a ro
yal cobalt…the canopy of Olympus…” Swain’s eyes moved sluggishly to hold Hugh’s. The grip on Hugh’s hand became desperate. “Do not…regret what has happened here, Hugh. I thank you…for in thanking you…I thank myself… We were worthy of each other…” He gripped Hugh’s hand more tightly. “Long…live…”
“…Lady Liberty,” whispered Hugh.
Swain’s grip loosened and his head rolled to one side, and it seemed that he was staring at the under-sheriff. But Hugh knew that his friend had died. The dead hand fell to a plank of the platform, and Hugh raised his head to look at the sky. Then he moved his own hand to close Glorious Swain’s eyes.
Chapter 40: The Prisoner
THE CITY MARSHALL ORDERED THE CROWD TO DISPERSE. THE 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 fr
om 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.
