Death of a Radical (7 page)

“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.

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.

“Leave me!” She looked away to soften her brusqueness. “Filthy brutes! They are fit for nothing but cattle company!”

“I wish you'd let me walk with you, mistress.”

Miss Lippett gripped her coat to mask her shaking hands. There was a large stain on the cloth to which a cabbage leaf clung. She flinched as Jonas brushed it away.

“It will be a sorry day when a Lippett of Grateley is
afraid to walk through this town in broad daylight. I will not be so insulted.” She stamped her foot. “Did you mark them? You are my witness! The magistrates are meeting at the Queen's Head. I shall pursue this. Those filthy beasts shall not go unpunished.”

Passers-by were staring at her from the opposite pavement.

“Come away,” Jonas coaxed. “Your coat is damp. It should be dried and cleaned.”

“Not before I have laid my complaint before the magistrate!” Miss Lippett set off at a furious pace, Jonas following after her.

Across the street Raif Jarrett watched the scene from a shop window. He had been contemplating the composition made by the drovers and the smoke and color of the brazier. He had been thinking how he might capture it in lake and burned earth when the drover stepped into the woman's path. It all happened so quickly he did not have time to respond, and when the servant came up he thought it best not to interfere.

“What an extraordinary woman!” he muttered. He supposed from the quality of her clothes that she was a gentlewoman, but to stride about dressed in such an odd fashion was to invite insult.

“What?”

Charles looked up from the counter where he stood with the shopkeeper in rapt attention at his side. The shopkeeper craned his head, watching the woman disappear from view.

“That's that Miss Lippett—Miss Josephine from up Grateley Moor. Gentleman Jo some call her.” The shopkeeper recalled the company. “Not to her face, mind,” he added hurriedly. “An old family.”

Charles was concentrating on his task. Three little heaps of gunpowder stood side by side on a piece of white paper.

“See now, if I fire this one and it takes readily …” Charles struck a flint above the first pile.

“You've piled those too close,” Jarrett remarked.

The marquess ignored him and struck the flint again.

“If the composition is pure,” he continued, “the smoke should rise upright and the powder burn without firing the other two heaps.”

The flint struck a spark. There was a sharp bang followed by another, a puff of black smoke and all three heaps burned merrily. With remarkable alacrity for a man of his bulk, the shopkeeper sprang forward to smother the flames with his leather apron. Charles stood his ground.

“This is bad powder,” he declared, slightly loudly. “I dare say the manufacturer has mixed common salt with the nitre. You must complain to your supplier, McKenzie. He is rogue to sell you such poor stock.”

“I told you, you piled the heaps too close,” Jarrett repeated, his attention caught by the sight of a familiar face on the street opposite.

His arrival in Woolbridge the year before had not been without incident. Isolated communities are inclined to
be suspicious of strangers. For a time, some had cast Raif Jarrett as a murderer. That misunderstanding had been resolved but at his darkest hour a youth called Nat Broom had stolen his boots. Jarrett considered himself a tolerant man and his boots had been returned, but they were his favorites and he remembered the insult. And there was Nat Broom. He seemed to have improved his lot in life. His wiry, insignificant frame was dressed after the fashion of a respectable domestic. He was scurrying down the hill.

“I'm for the Queen's Head.” Jarrett made for the door. “If you're determined to avoid the magistrates, Charles, don't show your face there before one.”

He pulled the shop-door closed behind him. Cripplegate Hill fell sharply down toward the river. The river itself was obscured by the jumble of warehouses and alleys that made up the working quarter of the town. At the foot of the hill the road divided, the one branch turning in a broad swathe between the gates of Bedford's Mill and the imposing frontage of Mr. Bedford's home opposing it. The other branch turned toward the bridge over the river. Nat Broom approached the house.