With the sun now almost directly overhead, the day was fulfilling its early promise of warmth and my brisk pace was starting to flag. Once or twice, I was forced to sit down in order to rest my aching legs and to scoop handfuls of water from the river to quench my thirst. By following the river bank I had left the main track to Bristol and consequently found myself alone in the landscape except for a lone figure on the far horizon behind me, plodding along at a steady rate, but too far away to catch up with me. It did cross my mind that I might wait, for my own company was, for once, beginning to pall, but I was a long way ahead and if I was to stand any chance at all of reaching Bath before dusk, I had to press on.
But even my stamina eventually gave out. Twelve, maybe thirteen, miles in a single day proved too much for the fittest body without the rest and ease normally provided by cottage and farm or manor house kitchens and their attendant offers of refreshment. My third stop along the river bank resulted in my falling sound asleep in the lee of some rising ground and not waking up again for several hours.
I knew I must have slept for a long time because the sun, which had been just past its zenith when I closed my eyes, was now sinking slowly westwards, its rays beginning to strike the distant treetops, tipping them with gold. I woke with a start and a snort and a feeling of chill in my bones that set me shivering. The heat of midday had evaporated leaving a freshness in the air to remind me that April could be a treacherous month, pretending to be summer one hour, but then reverting to a cold and bitter spring the next.
‘You been asleep a fair long time, Chapman,’ remarked a voice close to my left ear. ‘I thought you was never goin’ to wake up.’
I jumped, my heart pounding, and slewed round, at the same time reaching for my cudgel which lay on the ground beside me. A most unwelcome sight met my eyes.
‘Jack Gload?’ I must have looked as incredulous as I sounded. ‘What in heaven’s name are you doing here?’
Richard Manifold’s henchman did his best to appear offended, but only succeeded in looking vacant, as usual.
‘Why shouldn’t I be here? I’ve got as much right as a pedlar to walk anywhere I choose.’
‘I never reckoned you or Pete — ’ Peter Littleman was his fellow lawman and best friend — ‘cared for the countryside.’
He considered this with a slight frown creasing his brow, not quite sure of my meaning.
‘Goin’ t’ see my daughter,’ he announced after a momentary silence. ‘She lives in Bath.’
I made no effort to conceal my surprise.
‘I didn’t know you had a daughter, Jack. I didn’t even know you were married.’
‘I ain’t. Not any more. Not for a long time, come to that. My goody died when Cecily were born. She’s married now — Cecily, I mean — to a baker. He has a stall not far from the North Gate. Don’ know why she couldn’t have married a decent Bristol man,’ he grumbled. ‘Plenty of ’em. ’Stead, she has to go off to Bath to live. No thought for me, left all on me ownsome. But that’s children for you, as you’ll find out afore you’re much older, I daresay.’
I thought that if I’d been Cecily Gload I too would have seized the chance to escape and put twelve miles between myself and Jack. If she was a person of any spirit, the idea of spending the rest of her life with her father must have been daunting in the extreme.
Jack went on, ‘I been following you, but you was too far ahead for me to catch up. Good job you fell asleep when you did, and for as long as you did. I’d never have been able to overtake you otherwise.’
I wished I could share his enthusiasm and began to cast about in my mind for ways to shake him off. His next words sent my heart plummeting. ‘We can go the rest of the journey together.’
‘We won’t make it into the city tonight,’ I said. ‘It will be sunset soon and the gates will be closed. I’d guess we have another two or more hours’ walking.’
‘More like three,’ he answered cheerfully. ‘But the North Gate — where my daughter lives, like I told you — has a little gate for people on foot alongside it. That door’s not always locked for a few hours after sundown. Lots of folk use it for getting in and out o’ the city after dark. Or if ’tis locked by any chance, there’s one or two places where the walls are broken down and ain’t been mended for a while. There are gaps in the stonework easy to get through, same as at home.’
Probably the same as every other city in the land, I reflected. Unlike our less fortunate neighbours across the Channel, long centuries free from the threat of invasion had made city authorities everywhere more than a little slack when it came to keeping up their towns’ defences. It seemed a waste of good money that could profitably be spent on other things (preferably the Mayor and Council).
‘I don’t fancy walking in the dark unless it’s necessary,’ I cavilled. ‘There’s sure to be somewhere — a barn or cottage or even a dry ditch beneath a hedge — where I can lie up for the night.’
‘Never thought of you as a coward, Chapman,’ Jack Gload scoffed. ‘Big fellow like you ain’t afraid o’ the dark, are you?’
‘Not at all,’ I retorted, nettled, then heaved a quiet sigh as I accepted that there was no way to shake off my unwanted companion without sacrificing my reputation. I made one last throw of the dice. ‘But perhaps your daughter and her husband won’t want a stranger, as well as yourself, cluttering up their house.’
The lawman guffawed. ‘They won’t care. They got four children, two cats and a dog, so they’m pretty crowded already. Two more — even two more as big as us — ain’t goin’ to make no difference. There’s plenty o’ room in the bakehouse and it’s warm by the ovens.’
My heart sank at the prospect before me, but I could see no way of refusing Jack’s invitation, only stipulating that if either his daughter or son-in-law made the slightest demur about housing me, I was to be allowed to depart in search of other lodgings without any rub thrown in my way by him. Reluctantly he agreed, and it crossed my mind to wonder why Jack Gload of all people was suddenly so anxious for my company. We had never been friends and, at times, had been positive enemies. And I must surely have offended him on many occasions by my lack of respect for both himself and his office. However, he seemed determined at present to stand my friend, and I could only hope that I might find a means of escape before we reached Bath.
But luck was not on my side. After what seemed an interminable walk in the steadily gathering gloom, which deepened into a profound darkness before a half-moon rose to light our pathway, the walls of Bath, twenty feet or so high in places, crumbling in others, rose up before us. We had left the river bank some time earlier and now skirted the walls and the West Gate until we came to the north of the city, where, as my companion had told me, there was a small arched portal set alongside the main gate, the latter by then being locked and barred. And he was correct, too, when he had said that this postern might still be open, although we were not a moment too soon. As we pushed our way through, the night porter was approaching from the opposite direction with his bunch of keys.
He greeted the pair of us with a nod and a grunt and the remark that Jack’s youngest grandchild was giving his lungs an airing.
‘Heard him,’ he said, ‘as I passed the bakehouse not two minutes since. Fact, you could hear ’im right down the bottom of the marketplace.’
‘Ay, he’s a grand little fellow,’ Jack replied proudly.
My heart sank even further, but by the time we had gone a little way down the high street, peace reigned in the two-storey house next to the baker’s shop (now boarded up for the night) and bakehouse with its funnelled chimney.