Hugh Kenrick (36 page)

In addition to formulating and promulgating these axioms, checking the Danish Viking invasion of England and thus saving the isle for Christianity, and translating Bede and Boethius, Alfred the Great, the ninth-century Saxon king, could also be credited with many other things, among them: making London the capital of Saxon England; founding Oxford University to produce semiliterate nobleman and court placemen; patronizing foreign scholars and welcoming learning at court; inventing the notched candle to mark the passage of time; and redesigning lanterns so that their light would not be extinguished by wind or draft.

The contradictions rife in his axioms, however, were not so obvious to this warrior king who seemed to be everything but a logician. Nor were they apparent to most of the guests seated at the supper table at Windridge Court, to whom the axioms represented the apex of their moral instruction, beyond what they absorbed in church and from the Bible.

Mrs. Brune, seated next to Reverdy, said, “My memory needs refreshment, Vicar. Please, forgive me, but what are those axioms?”

Alex McDougal, eager to display his learning, turned to the clergyman. “May I, reverend sir?” The vicar nodded with a smile.

Alex McDougal spoke. “The five axioms of Alfred the Great were that a wise God governed; that all suffering may be accounted a blessing; that God is the greatest good; that only the good are happy; and that a foreknowledge of God does not conflict with man’s free will.”

Hugh Kenrick laughed. The table was startled. He assured his guests that he was not mocking Mr. McDougal, but the axioms. And because he had laughed, he felt honor-bound to explain his reaction. “In the spirit of dispassionate argument,” he began, “let us examine these axioms.” He smiled at his guests. It was a daring smile, a smile of warning. “If a man can be governed by an all-knowing, all-powerful being—wise or not—then he cannot have a free will, or, at least, none that mattered. Such a will would be useless, a fiction, for whatever he thought or did would be approved or opposed by this being, not to mention foreseen by it before the fellow was born. And if he has free will, then he cannot be governed by such a being, who would be peripheral to that man’s existence. In which case, how could that being be a good? And—good for what?”

Mrs. Brune gasped. Vicar Faure began to reply, but changed his mind. James Brune and Alex McDougal stared at Hugh with incomprehension.

The table was quiet. Hugh waited for a reply. No one, however, not even the vicar, gave the least sign of agreement or protest. Reverdy Brune stared at Hugh with a subtle smile, and looked pleased that the force of his words had overwhelmed the others. Hugh was not certain whether he had offended the others, or lost them. He suspected the latter.

Vicar Faure at length cleared his throat and spoke, addressing the table at large, but actually Hugh, whom he had studied throughout the evening. “Logic is not to be the sole test of men’s understanding, milord. God and man work hand-in-hand, and thus determine man’s destiny. You impose strict reason on a subject which does not admit its unadulterated role.” He paused to smile. “Why, even Mr. Locke acknowledged this point,” he concluded with smugness.

Hugh shrugged. “I disagree with Mr. Locke on many points, reverend sir, and that is one of them.” His grin invited the vicar to pursue the matter.

Vicar Faure’s appraisal of Hugh’s knowledge and powers of argumentation was more acute than that of anyone else present. He raised his eyebrows, cocked his head in careless concession, and chose not to answer.

James Brune glanced around the silent table, and changed the subject.
“Have any of you read that new book of Mr. Horlick’s,
Twenty Moral Fables
? I purchased a copy yesterday, and found it not only amusing, but quite instructive, as well.” The vicar, Alex McDougal, and Mrs. Brune all admitted to having read the book, and the conversation revived on that subject.

Later, when they had a private moment together, Hugh remarked to Reverdy, “Well, that was the shortest exchange on a serious subject I have ever provoked.”

Reverdy stood looking up at him with undisguised adoration. “That is because Vicar Faure could not answer you so easily,” she said. She clasped her hands together. “Oh, Hugh! Someday, when you chance to speak in Lords, I shall be there to see you cause the other lords to squirm, just as you caused the vicar to fidget! I’m so proud of you!”

“I was not entirely dispassionate, Reverdy, and that was no mere exercise in algebra. I meant what I said.”

“How could you not mean it? So vigorous a mind as yours would not waste time on drolleries.”

“Drolleries, indeed,” said Hugh. “I questioned God, Reverdy, and to question Him is to question our ethic. To question that is to question the church, and to question the church is to question the state, doubt the king, and to flout everything associated with them. Vicar Faure knew that, which is why he did not pursue the matter. He is a slyly civil man, and an uninvited guest.”

“He is a coward.”

“He can afford to be one. The Crown stands behind him.”

Reverdy glanced to either side of her, then lightly placed her palms on Hugh’s chest. “Hugh,” she whispered, “you are going to be a great man, and I shall be proud to stand in your temple…or lie in your bed.”

Hugh took her hands and pressed their palms to his face.

They heard the swish of a gown, and turned to see Mrs. Brune standing in the hallway where they stood. They could not tell by her expression whether she was pleased or scandalized by what she had witnessed. “Milord, your guests are about to take their leave. Will you see them off?”

Hugh nodded. “Yes, of course.” He paused. “Please, Mrs. Brune, favor me by calling me Hugh.”

“I will so favor you, milord, when you are my son-in-law. Not until then.” The woman glanced at her daughter. “I hope, milord, you were not
putting wicked thoughts into my Reverdy’s head.”

Hugh laughed. “No, Mrs. Brune, I was not. The thoughts were already there.”

Mrs. Brune blushed and her eyes grew wide. Reverdy hid a silent laugh behind her fan. Her mother turned with dignity and left the hallway.

Hugh said to Reverdy, “Good night, my wicked wife-to-be.”

“Good night, Hugh.” They both knew that she did not need to do it, but Reverdy solemnly bowed her head and performed a half-curtsy, then turned and followed her mother back into the supper room.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
H
UGH ACCOMPANIED THE
B
RUNES AS FAR AS
C
ANTERBURY
, and stayed to see them depart in a Dover-bound inn coach. He would see Reverdy again soon, in another month, when he made the same journey back to Danvers.

On the coach ride back to London, Hugh’s mind was pulled by two passions: his future with Reverdy, and answering Vicar Faure. He was intrigued by how they vied for his attention. When he arrived at Windridge Court, he ordered a light dinner to be brought to his room, and went to work on an essay he was to present to the Society of the Pippin in two evenings. Vicar Faure’s pronouncements had given him a better idea for a subject, which was to discuss the link that John Milton, in many of his works, had made between tyranny and superstition. In the coach he had remembered a line from John Toland’s
Christianity not Mysterious
, a book in his collection that had been overlooked by his uncle: “To believe the divinity of Scripture, or the sense of any passage thereof, without rational proofs and an evident consistency, is a blamable credulity and a temerarious opinion.”

He also recalled something his father had written in one of his letters: “There are some five hundred and sixty members of the Commons, though no more than thirty understand reason, or even recognize it. The rest are cabbage heads. The thirty require only plain common sense on which to decide their actions or votes, reason clothed in good language. All the others are susceptible to flowing and harmonious rhetoric, whether it conveys any meaning or reason or not. These latter have ears to hear, but lack sense enough to judge; or, they have sense enough, but are hostile to reason because they have cut cards with the devils of complacency or vested interest. One or the other devil has claimed their souls, and has put a cork on their minds. Sir Henoch Pannell’s speechmaking can thereby be grasped and explained.” And this wisdom of his father’s prompted him to remember another of Milton’s truisms: “It is the vulgar folly of men to desert their own reason and, shutting their eyes, to think they see best with other men’s…”

Hugh worked feverishly on his address for the next two days, breaking
only for short naps and wolfishly consuming plates of food. He was so caught up in his task that he sent word to Benjamin Worley that he would not be able to go to Lion Key. He was determined to build his arguments, complete the thought, and finish his labor. Nothing else mattered to him. He even forgot about Reverdy, until he would occasionally notice her locket suspended above his desk.

When he finished one morning, he forced himself to take a turn around Whitehall, to pay the servants, and attend to the duties of ownership. He did this to freshen his mind. When he returned to his room, he reread his work.

It was flawless, correct, and beautiful. “This is mine,” he said to himself. He felt tears well up in his eyes, tears of joy. Oh, what a blessing it was to be a man, to create, to labor and produce such a great thing—to be alive! It was a splendid thing he had done! He rose from his desk and looked down on the neat pile of paper before him with a smile and eyes narrowed in fierce, immaculate greed. He raised his arms in triumph, fists clenched, and laughed once. What a glorious thing is pride! It is almost an end in itself! No wonder churchmen preached against it! A truly proud man is not to be found in their flocks of souls humbled by the rumor of a great invisible wizard and the inexplicable! If it is a sin to feel such pride, then it is a sin to be a man!

A servant knocked on his door and announced that a “negro gentleman” had called. Hugh had even forgotten Glorious Swain and his promise to meet him in front of a toy shop on the Strand before the Society convened tonight. Hugh threw on his coat and hat, rolled up his essay, and rushed out.

“I’ll be gone for a month or so,” he said to Swain as they walked up Whitehall Street to Charing Cross and the Strand. “In Danvers.”

“I’ll envy you for being away from London in August,” said Swain.

“I must apologize for having forgotten our rendezvous.”

“It must have been something important that made you forget.”

“It was,” sighed Hugh happily.

Swain glanced at his friend in the early evening light. He chuckled. “You are in love, my friend. Your eyes have that special set I know so well.”

Hugh grinned in concession. “My betrothed was a guest for the last few weeks, together with her mother and brother. You’ll meet her some day.”

“She must be an exceptional woman to solicit and encourage
your
attentions.”

“She is.” Hugh shook his head. “But—I am in love with other things, too, Mr. Swain.” He brandished the rolled-up essay. “Wait until you hear my address! I surprised even myself, this time!”

“What is the subject?”

“Milton’s notion of tyranny and superstition, and how he thought they were inseparable monsters. It meant rereading
Paradise Lost
,
A Second Defense
, and
The Ready and Easy Way to Establish a Free Commonwealth.
It was quite a task. I have slept very little. I’m glad I had no school chores to complete. They would have suffered.” Hugh asked, “Who is chairman of this meeting?”

“Steven,” said Swain. “And it is Mathius’s turn to be secretary.”

*  *  *

“…And so, one can see the influence of Plato even on Cicero, who wrote that ‘the world which we see is a simulacrum of an eternal one.’ The arm of the past has not always had a benign effect on our age. No one today, not the basest criminal, nor the most enlightened lord, asks why a sovereign is credited with special sight and intelligence, and not a common man. The notion supposes that a sovereign is privy to a more perfect world and a more perfect order. The claim is unfounded, yet is asserted by any sovereign or prince or group of men who wish to rule a nation. They proclaim, ‘We are the special hosts of perfect wisdom and flawless, temporal action. Question not our edicts and actions, even though they may impinge upon your life and liberty.’ Is this not the argument of the Crown, whether or not divine origin or inspiration or purpose is claimed?”

Hugh paused to assess the effect of his words on his auditors. Seven intent and expectant faces waited for him to continue. The din of the Fruit Wench was a distant sound not heard by any of the men. The scratching quill of Mathius, as he took down Hugh’s words in the Society ledger, was the only intrusive thing heard by the group.

Hugh continued. “Now, we are either true to the world as we find it, or we defer to the vision of one who denies that our existence is the end of all life. Milton was a great lover and advocate of liberty, but he, like his predecessors and successors, was not wholly immune from this
Corpus Mysticum
—that is my term for the phenomenon—and his wonderful works are corrupted by a belief in a temporal philosopher-king, or in a manly viceregent over the rest of his fellows. I have read nothing in the sophist
whirligigs of casuists and theologians that cannot be reduced to the level of palmistry, or tarot cards, or magician’s tricks. It is a great jumble of sea-devils, that whole mass of cobwebbed literature arguing for this or that God, or for this or that prince or king or protector. The tentacles of these hideous creatures are intertwined in a thousand Gordian knots! But once one has detected and exposed a single fallacy in that maleficent lore, why must one bother to master every twist and turn of those tentacles? The untying of one will unravel the others, and free one to go on and scale the heights of Olympus!”

Hugh put down his essay, bowed once to indicate that he had finished, and sat down. He tasted his tankard of ale to soothe his dry throat.