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The boy standing before us was wiry and small, but I could tell right away he weren't no Kentish commoner like the rest of them, neither. I could tell this from three reasons:
1. His voice weren't Kentish, but all thick and sharp like they speak up north, although he did have a touch of the fresh London accent, which I could tell from his "r"s. I know these things after travelling the country with my da, selling laces, and I reckon I can tell a Kentsman from a Londoner, and though I tell you he en't no Londoner, at least not by birth, he en't no Kentsman either.
2. He held his sword, which was awful nice and the hilt was made from some kind of rich silver, with his left hand.
3. This was because he had an enormous crook-backed hump on his back that were exactly the same as that of the son of my husband's one-time employer, Richard duke of York, which would make him in my opinion none other than young Richard.
This put in my mind the following question: of why the son of Plantagenet was sneaking into our camp in the evening twilight with the stars a-twinkling, and offering his sword and services up to my husband when all in the world knew that we meant to conquer London and burn parliament and take over the city and have a banquet of salt pork and fine wine on Tower Hill every Tuesday, Thursday and Friday. That seemed to me to be the most important information to discern.
But I kept these observations and this feeling to myself, for although I am not of high-born steed like some, such as my husband -- who, as you may know, is John Mortimer and the only true righteous heir to the crowns of England and France -- I can be canny when needs be, and I did not think it sensible to turn to one young Richard son of Plantagenet and say, "Excuse me, what the bleeding fuck are you doing here and have you brought guns to kill us all?" For if he had, that would certainly set him off, and if he had not, well, no reason in putting off one who might help our Great Cause, god save us all from parliamentarians.
All these thoughts ran through my mind as the boy presented himself to my husband and said, "I am come to offer my assistance in your just and righteous war, and do you any duty in your service, my liege."
Well, my husband was always fond of pretty speeches -- especially when he was making them, but from other people too, especially when they were for him -- so he bounded right up out of his chair and tapped him three times on the nose and said, "That's certain, and we'll take it, too! From whence do you hail? For I have many noble knights in my service" -- by which I think he meant the night-watchmen -- "and we must take care not to place you according to your rank."
The boy looked thoughtful, and couldn't I just see the workings of his little dark head as he said, "My family is poor, my lord, but honest, and my father now in disgrace, and so I join you seeking retribution on my foes."
"Oh, very good!" my husband said approvingly. "I was always up for a spot of crisp and proper retribution. Yesterday I served the best retribution you'll ever see on Tom Tanner for serving my cheese too thin. Do you know," and I am certain he was going to begin one of his most famous and terrible speeches, about the moral sickness of thin-sliced cheese (it is one I have heard many a time before), but the boy nodded, grave and fierce like a statue.
"My sword will fly to meet them," Richard son of Plantagenet said. The words hovered in the still air like arrows, but he did not seem to feel this was strong enough, so added, "I will rip off their faces and wear them as festival masks."
"Splendid, I'll put you in the creativity department," my husband said. He was not too put out about losing his rhetoricising, for which I was glad. He will complain for hours if he feels he has lost a good speech, and sulk behind the ale-vats leaving me very cold and alone until dawn. "I'm sure Dick and the boys will be happy to hear your fresh ideas." He clapped him on the back and with that they were away.
Later in our bed I said to my husband, who was not sulking but very cheerful, "Do you know that boy you took on this afternoon?"
"Oh, yes," he said. "He's got the revolutionary spirit, all right, I can't wait to see what sort of ideas he comes up with. Why, I overheard him saying to John Cooper that he had a much better use for his barrel-hoops -- I couldn't hang around to watch him demonstrate, but I'm told it was as invigorating as a punch of pigs. John fainted!"
"You know he's the son of Richard York your sometime employer," I said.
"Oh, out of question," my husband said, and I could hear him grin at me. "This rebellion's a funny business! I always hoped it would be."
----
I figured the reason for young Richard's joining us and offering his sword to the cause could be down to one of two whys:
1. He being sent from either his father or someone else in the court or parliament who thinks we are going too far, with killing Lord Say and all, no matter how funny it were, and has come to destroy us all from within, like a termite, or a digger with a mace, or one of those French who puts charges below the water to sink our ships.
2. He being possessed of a legitimate grievance, or else he is mad, but either way has come to contribute to our side in full faith and honesty.
Now, it seemed to me at first that 1. would be the most likely source of young Richard's assay into our camp, because how often do you hear of the grandson of almost-kings running off to join the rebels who have deemed themselves to be, as my husband calls us, anti-monarchos (that is, anti-the wrong kings, by which he means the ones who aren't him)? But since it has been two weeks past and there has been no sign of him turning on any of us, and in fact he has been most helpful at the battle of London Bridge, using the barrel-trick he devised his first day here, I am forced to conclude that the answer is indeed 2. and that he has come to fight for the pure justice of our cause.
Which brings me to ponder on the nature of the legitimate grievance, or madness, which he must bear. I believe it to be one of three whys:
1. He being angry at the false king Henry the so-called VI, for reasons similar to the ones enumerated by our cause, and likely the more complicated ones, such as witholding lands from and slandering his father the duke of York, rather than anything related to pissing-conduits and claret wine, which he must have enough of all right.
2. He being angry at the court more generally and has come to live a simpler life among country folk, who are of better quality and cheer than the sour-faced parliamentarians. My husband says he thinks it is this reason, but I say that, were I young Richard, my good wine and fare and fine horse and clothing would be of more quality and cheer than a bunch of dirty-faced countrymen, even if it were a beautiful June with the larks a-twitter which this is. For this my husband kissed me with his dirty face and I forget where the argument ended but I am fairly certain it was I who won it, for I usually do.
3. A woman spurning him. I consider this to be most likely, as it is both a grievance and a form of madness. I have seen love to make fools out of the greatest of men, including our current false king Henry so-called VI, and also the greatest of women, such as his wife our purported queen Margaret the French, and therefore I think it to be a powerful component of stupid acts, such as running away from court at a green spring-like 15 years of age to join a big band of rebels who may well kill him for his nobility and good horse and sword.
Or perhaps it is all three together. Or perhaps it is none of them. But I am quite certain that it must be something such as that which I have outlined above, for else he would have come to us simply to be able to freely swing a sword and mace and think of new ways to kill men using tools of simple trades such as barrel-making, smithing and cobbling, and watch them die in slow dreadful ways -- and that, an it were true, is too terrifying to bear thinking about, so I will not.