I scrambled to my feet and hailed the last man, who waited, a trifle impatiently I thought, while I picked up my pack and approached him. Nevertheless, his smile was good-humoured enough until I mentioned the outlaws.
‘Oh, aye!’ he exclaimed bitterly. ‘We know all about them. Been terrorizing these parts for months past, they have. The Sheriff and his posse have been searching for ’em since well afore Christmas, but with no success. They hunt by night and go to ground in the daytime. They’ve bolt-holes impossible to find unless you know every inch of the forests. Which no one does, o’ course. Our enclosures are mainly within a mile or two of the edge. I wonder whose farms and holdings they raided last night, then, the devils!’
‘Is it impossible to mount guard at night?’ I asked, and he shrugged.
‘A few foolhardy fellows’ve tried that, Master, but there’s too many of the outlaws and they’re murderin’ bastards. One man who challenged ’era was run through with his own pitchfork and another had an arm lopped off. Worse than that, they killed a couple o’ children. Since then, we all bury our heads under the blankets at night and hope that if our property’s attacked, we don’t hear ’era. Better to be robbed of all you have and live to tell the tale, rather than be a dead hero.’
I nodded agreement and said with forced cheerfulness, ‘The law will catch up with them some day.’
The man grunted doubtfully. ‘Maybe. More like they’ll move on to another part of the county and disappear as suddenly as they arrived. It’s understandable, I suppose. No member of the posse wants to risk his life unnecessarily, and these rogues have no compunction when it comes to killing. You were wiser than you knew not to tangle with ’em. They’d’ve made minced meat even of a great fellow like you. But if you’re headed for the town, you can report what you saw to one of the wardens, who’ll tell the Mayor, who’ll pass the information on to the Sheriff. That way, you’ll’ve done your duty.’
‘I’ll do that,’ I promised and wished him good morning. I was halfway across the bridge, when he called after me.
‘Chapman!’ I turned enquiringly. The woodsman was grinning. ‘Be warned! The women of the villages hereabouts are out in force today.’ I must have looked confused, because he added impatiently, ‘It’s Hock Monday!’
Was it indeed already two weeks since Easter? I seemed Io have lost track of time. I raised my hand. ‘Thanks for the warning, friend. I’ll be careful. Have you been caught already?’
He shook his head. ‘I came the long way round, but there won’t be any avoiding ’era by now. They all rise early for hocking. Dessay I’ll be caught myself by nightfall.’ But he spoke cheerfully, as one looking forward to his ordeal.
‘Ah well,’ I answered, ‘you and the rest of the men can get your own back tomorrow.’
The woodsman’s eyes gleamed predatorily as he said goodbye. ‘Can’t stand here talking all day. There’s work to be done. I’ll wish you good luck at the hands of the women.’ He winked. ‘They won’t let a good-looking young fellow like you so easily once they trap you. I can guess what sort of forfeit they’ll demand from you!’ And he disappeared amongst the trees, roaring with laughter.
The sun was by now quite hot, presaging one of those April days which can often prove to be warmer than those of high summer, so capricious is the weather of this island. I toiled up the slope ahead of me, the trees gradually thinning and falling away on either side of the track until only one or two bordered the rutted pathway. I had refilled my pack from a cargo ship lying in the roads at Dartmouth, and in consequence was weighed down by my load, head bent forward, not looking where I was going. All my attention was concentrated upon my feet, making sure that I did not trip or twist my ankle. I had the assistance of a stout cudgel, my trusty ‘Plymouth cloak’, as such weapons were called in this part of the country, so I was able to make the ascent without too much trouble. Nevertheless, I was tired as I crested the rise and off my guard…
Something caught me across my shins and sent me sprawling, face downwards in the dirt. For a moment or two, I lay there, winded, trying to gather my wits and figure out what had happened to me. Before I could do so, however, there were shouts of laughter and I found myself surrounded by three or four women. From my prone position, all I could see at that moment was the hems of their skirts and their shoes. I dragged myself to my knees, painfully aware of cutting a ridiculous figure and, as a result, seething with anger.
I had been hocked and must now pay a forfeit. I slipped the pack from my shoulders and rose, drawing myself up to my full height, which in those days, before rheumatic pains caused me to stoop a little, was over six feet. It was a great height, even more so then than it is today, when young people have grown much taller, and few men I ever met could equal me in stature. (One exception, of course, was King Edward, that golden giant, grandfather of our present Henry.) I heard one of the younger women draw in her breath in wonder, while the eldest of the group, a toothless granny, cackled with laughter.
‘God save us! It’s Goliath himself come amongst us. Right, Master Chapman, you knows the rules. You’ve to pay a forfeit.’
The women, some half-dozen of them, had by now formed a circle around me. The rope which had been tied between two trees, one on either side of the track, and used to bring me down, was removed and bound lightly about my wrists.
‘There’s plenty of stuff in my pack,’ I said hurriedly. ‘Needles, thread, ribbons, lace and a length of silk brocade from the hold of a Portuguese merchantman, lying off Dartmouth. You may help yourselves.’
The old woman laughed again. ‘These fine girls can buy those things, my honey, with the pin-money their goodmen do give them. But a splendid young fellow like you, why you’ve better things to offer.’
I felt the blood surge into my face, which seemed to afford all the women great amusement. I have often noticed throughout the course of my life, that whereas a single woman, on her own, will be all maidenly blushes and modesty, women hunting in a pack can be cruder and rougher than men. One who looked to be the youngest, an apple-cheeked lass of barely – or so I judged – fourteen or fifteen summers, giggled, ‘Let’s ask for the laces from his codpiece.’ My colour deepened even further and I took an instinctive step backward in order to protect my person, causing a storm of merriment from my captors.
‘He’s bashful!’ exclaimed a pretty young girl with wide, cornflower-blue eyes and a strand of hair, the colour of ripe wheat, escaping from under her cap. ‘A great lum-cock like that, and he’s blushing!’
‘Anything in my pack!’ I offered again in desperation.
The granny wagged an ancient, admonitory finger. ‘It’s Hocktide, chapman! You knows the rules as well as anyone. Men’s turn to hock tomorrow, ours today. So if Janet here wishes the laces from your codpiece, she’s within her rights.’ She gave her toothless grin, plainly enjoying my discomfiture.
My tormentors began edging towards me, giggling and nudging one another in the ribs. I struggled to free my hands from the rope which bound my wrists behind my back, but discovered that although my bonds were lightly tied, they were nonetheless knotted fast. If I took to my heels, apart from breaking the rules and traditions of hocktide, I should have to abandon my pack and cudgel, which might then be considered the women’s legitimate booty.