He was proud of the carriage that stood at the front door. It had been made for him by the royal coachmaker, John Hatchett, in Long Acre, London. As a boy he had seen vehicles like this and longed for one. It was a model called a Berline, fast but stable, less likely tooverturn at speed. The body was blue with gold-coloured coachlines, and the paintwork gleamed with varnish.
Riddick was already inside. They were going to Earlscastle together. The lord lieutenant would surely find it hard to ignore a complaint by two justices.
They drove through the market square, already busy though it was early. Hornbeam stopped the carriage so that they could look at the people being punished.
The contraption called the stocks clamped the legs, forcing the offender to sit in an uncomfortable position on the ground all day. It was more humiliating than painful. This morning all twelve people found guilty by the justices were on display in the rain.
Often offenders were mocked and abused, helpless to resist. Ordure from dunghills might be thrown at them. Actual violence was prohibited, but the line was narrow. However, today the people in the square showed no hostility. It was a sign that they sympathized.
Hornbeam did not care. He had no wish to be popular. There was no money in that.
He looked at Jarge Box, the ringleader, and his sister, Joanie, side by side. They did not appear to be suffering much. Joanie was chatting to a woman with a shopping basket. Jarge was drinking ale from a tankard, presumably brought to him by a well-wisher.
Then Hornbeam noticed Sal Clitheroe, the organizer, who had not even been charged. She stood beside Box holding a heavy wooden shovel on her shoulder. She was there to defend Box if necessary. Hornbeam doubted that anyone would challenge her.
It was all very unsatisfactory.
Riddick commented: ‘The real culprits are the organizers, and they aren’t there.’
Hornbeam nodded agreement. ‘When we return from Earlscastle this afternoon we should have firmer control of the courts in the town.’
He told the coachman to drive on.
It was a long journey. Riddick proposed a few hands of faro, but Hornbeam declined. He did not enjoy games, least of all the kind in which a man could lose money.
Riddick asked him how well he knew the earl. ‘Hardly at all,’ he said. He recalled an older version of Viscount Northwood, with the same big nose and sharp eyes, but a bald head instead of brown curls. ‘I’ve met him on ceremonial occasions, and he interviewed me before making me a justice. That’s about it.’
‘The same with me.’
‘He doesn’t understand business, of course, but few of these noblemen do. They think wealth comes from the land. They’re still in the Dark Ages.’
Riddick nodded. ‘The son has a soft streak. He’s inclined to talk about England being a free country. I don’t know whether the old man is the same.’
‘We’re going to find out.’ A lot was at stake. If the meeting went well, Hornbeam would return to Kingsbridge considerably more powerful.
Several hours later they saw Earlscastle. It was no longer a castle, although a short section of defensive wall remained, with its battlements and arrowslit windows. The modern part of the dwelling was made of red brick with long leaded windows, and featured many tall chimneys sending smoke into the rain clouds above. Rooks in the high elms cawed scornfully as Hornbeam and Riddick got down from the carriage and hurried inside.
‘I hope the earl is going to offer us dinner,’ said Riddick as they took off their coats in the hall. ‘I’m starving.’
‘Don’t count on it,’ said Hornbeam.
The earl greeted them in his library rather than the drawing room, a sign that they were below his social level and that consequently he considered this a business meeting. He was wearing a plum-coloured coat and a silver-grey wig.
Hornbeam was surprised to see Viscount Northwood there, out of uniform and wearing riding clothes. This must be where he had been on the evening of the Socratic Society meeting. His presence was an unwelcome surprise. He was unlikely to approve the scheme Hornbeam was going to propose.
There was a good blaze in the enormous fireplace. Hornbeam was glad of it, for the coach ride had been cold.
A footman offered them sherry and biscuits. Hornbeam declined, feeling he needed his wits about him.
He told the story of the Socratic Society meeting: a revolutionary speaker, a protest by citizens loyal to the king, intimidation by republican bruisers, and a riot.
The earl listened attentively, but Northwood’s face showed scepticism, and he said: ‘Was anyone killed?’
‘No. Several were injured, though.’
‘Seriously?’
Hornbeam was about to say yes, untruthfully, when it occurred to him that Northwood might have received a report from his aide-de-camp, Lieutenant Donaldson. He had to admit the truth. ‘Not very,’ he said.
