Hugh Kenrick (49 page)

“I—”

“How much were you paid to invent the poster?”

Horlick glanced around. People had gathered to watch and listen. He saw curiosity and fascination with his predicament in their faces, but no sympathy. He did not wish to give forthright answers to the questions, but the threat in Miltiades’ carriage and in his voice compelled him to be truthful.

“How much?” repeated Hugh, tapping the blade end of his sword in the palm of his other hand.

“Twenty guineas,” whispered Horlick.

“Well, at least that is more than thirty pieces of silver,” remarked Hugh. He sighed. “I had a score of other questions for you, Mr. Horlick, but your admissions have answered most of them. I have not seen the poster for which your friends are being punished. Few people have. Perhaps you have copies in your own home, whereas your friends did not, and they are up there.” He indicated the pillory. “But—” Hugh interrupted himself to ask in a mocking voice, “Why do you stand with your hands up, Mr. Horlick? I am not the royal scamp here.”

The spectators around them laughed. Horlick, surprised, glanced at his hands, which were shaking, and quickly lowered them.

“But,” continued Hugh, “the poster was merely a device to strike back at me, and at our friends for accepting me. Is this not true?”

Horlick blinked in answer.

“You did not mind the company of freethinkers, so long as their free thought did not put you in jeopardy. Is this not true?”

Again, Horlick did not answer.

“Your silence speaks volumes, which you lack both the talent and courage to write.” Hugh paused. “Confess it, Mathius: You hated me, and feared me, from the beginning, because I am what you are not, but knew you ought to be.”

This time it was Horlick’s turn to express contempt. “You are vain,” he spat.

“Vain? No. Observant, perhaps. But I know my own worth, sir. It
would appear, however, that you have no worth to know. Not to yourself, at least. Others know that your pen may be prostituted, and that is your worth to them.” Hugh sighed. “You have only five stones left in your pocket, Mr. Horlick. Surely you would want to move closer to your friends, so as not to miss them.”

Horlick gulped.

“Do you stand so far away because they might identify you—or is it because you cannot face them?”

Horlick looked at his shoes.

Hugh used the tip of his sword to tap the cleft of Horlick’s chin. “If you cannot face them, sir, at least have the bottom to face me. I am only one.”

Horlick’s face grew livid. He instinctively reached for the pommel of his sword, then changed his mind. He remembered how he came to know this young man. He remembered whose life this man had saved from three brutal Mohocks.

“Why do you not draw it, sir?” asked Hugh. There was no answer. “I understand. You remember the circumstances under which I made your acquaintance.” He raised his sword again and pressed it against a button of the man’s waistcoat. “Enough talk, sir. Let us move closer to the pillory. There I will identify you to the king’s men there, and to the crowd. And you will identify me.”

Horlick’s body stiffened. “No,” he said.

“No?”

“You must cut me to pieces here, for I will not do it!”

“Very well,” said Hugh. “You are of the public, but afraid of it. So I shall mark you for the traitor you are—a traitor to freethinkers, a traitor to Lady Liberty.” Before Horlick could comprehend the words, Hugh’s blade flicked up, and in two deft strokes, cut a capital T on the man’s left cheek.

The spectators gasped, and Horlick cried out in pain. His hands flew up to cover the bloody wound. Horlick could not see the wound, but knew by touch what letter had been carved into his face and would disfigure him for life. He looked at Hugh with eyes round with a new terror. Still holding his face, he took two steps back, then turned and bolted through the crowd.

“Run to your patron, Mathius,” shouted Hugh. “Perhaps he will reward you with a coward’s purse.”

Horlick’s abrupt departure left Hugh with an unobstructed view, over the heads of the throng, of the pillory. He could not distinguish the faces of the three men whose heads protruded through the holes. He sheathed his
sword and moved forward, not knowing whether he was drawn to the sight or drawn to it by some irresistible force. There were people in his way; his hands grasped their shoulders and firmly pushed them aside. All anyone could see was a young man in an immaculate pearl gray coat and black tricorn who did not need to excuse himself or acknowledge their presence or existence, for they knew that he was an aristocrat and that he had better reason to be here than anyone else.

He stood in front of the crowd now, and could see the faces of his friends: Tobius, Claude, and Steven. They were sallow, unshaven, and filthy. Their faces were marred with bruises and smeared with blood and dung. Steven’s hands were wrapped in dirty bandages. Tobius’s hose was in shreds. Claude was barefoot. And the eyes of the men were lifeless; from shame or from resignation, Hugh could not tell.

There were some men and women near him who did not jeer at or taunt the prisoners, nor toss missiles at them. They stood looking up at the men with dull, helpless expressions, or with incredulous wonder, or with tears. These, Hugh presumed, were friends or relatives of the men who had not abandoned them.

When he looked at the men again, he saw that they were looking at him. He did not smile, but they seemed to smile in answer to him. He nodded once in acknowledgment, then made up his mind.

There was only one constable at the foot of the steps leading up to the pillory. Hugh crossed in front of the crowd and approached him. The constable was an old man, armed with only a stave. Hugh made as though to pass him, but turned and dashed up the steps. The constable began to follow him, but changed his mind when he saw the gleaming sword in Hugh’s hand. He raised his stave in the air to signal the under-sheriff and city marshall, who sat together on their mounts beyond the crowd.

The crowd stirred when it saw a young man sheath his sword and walk with authority across the platform to the prisoners. And, until now, it had been a relatively tame mob that could not decide what to do about the prisoners. Horlick was right, thought Hugh: What was blasphemous libel to this mob? It was not lurid, gross, or contemptible. There was not a man in the crowd who had not blasphemed, or cursed the king, or questioned the competence of God, George, or Parliament. The men on the pillory could just as easily have been punished for disputing a mathematical theory, questioning the existence of ether, or refuting Ockham’s razor. The proclaimed offense was too intellectual. Where was the cuckolded husband?
Where was the receiver of threatening letters? Where was the buyer of diluted cream?

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…”