‘There are a dozen or so barrels of ale in the cellar that want bringing up and standing along the back wall. I’m not an unreasonable man, and if you do that for me, I’m willing to call it evens.’
‘I should just think you would be!’ I exclaimed bitterly when I had lifted the trapdoor and surveyed the steep, almost vertical ladder that descended into the cellar’s depths. But I had no choice. I stripped down to hose and shirt and began.
It was well past dinnertime — almost noon I guessed by the position of the sun, which I could see through the window — before I had finished this labour of Hercules. It had taken a good deal of cajoling — and a solemn promise not to escape — to persuade my host to open the shutters, and it was only when I genuinely appeared in danger of lapsing into unconsciousness from the heat that he finally agreed. But in the end, all the casks — and there were fourteen of them, not twelve — were lined up against the back wall of the ale room and I was at last free to resume my journey. I was drenched in sweat; every stitch I had on clung to me in such an indecent and revealing fashion that I hoped I should encounter no females for an hour or two until I was once again fit to be seen. (Mind you, I can’t answer for the ladies. It might have given them the treat of their lives.)
To the landlord’s credit, he had plied me with ale throughout my ordeal, and pressed another, final stoup into my hands just before I wished him farewell.
‘I’d have a word with that so-called friend of yours,’ he advised me on parting. ‘If what he did was meant as a joke, it’s a mean sort o’ trick, that’s all I can say. He’s been here afore and he knows my rules, cause he asked me once what I’d do if someone couldn’t pay.’
‘Oh, I shall be having a word with him, you needn’t worry about that,’ I responded grimly. ‘I shall also be reporting him for theft.’
‘I shan’t be worrying,’ my host chuckled as he held the door wide for a couple of dusty travellers (both men, thankfully) who were making their way up the grassy incline from the track. ‘I’m darned grateful to him. Between you, you’ve saved me a back-breaking job. God speed you, friend.’
The warmth of the April day and a slight breeze dried my clothes faster than I had expected, and by the time I had passed through Keynsham, I presented a more or less respectable sight, but I was, of course, unable to stop for any refreshment, having no money. I did, however, pause in a sheltered spot on the banks of the little River Chew, strip to the waist and wash away the dust and sweat of the morning as well as I was able. After which, feeling somewhat better, in body at least, I settled down to walk the remaining five or six miles to Bristol.
I had ceased wondering what Jack Gload’s game might be. Physical strain had taken over to such an extent that my mind felt numb, and all my effort was centred on putting one foot in front of the other. My cudgel saved me on more than one occasion from actually falling over, while my satchel felt as if it were packed with stones instead of the few necessities Adela had insisted I carried with me. Tomorrow, after a good night’s sleep, I would seek out the errant law officer and lay a charge of theft against him. But until then, I had enough to cope with in my aching back and arms and my general fatigue.
This all-encompassing tiredness is the only excuse I can offer for the way I walked into the trap without even the smallest presentiment as to what was coming. The walls of the city were within sight, the din and the stench reaching out to fill my ears and nostrils as they do with every big town in the kingdom. I had approached from the east and could already make out, from certain vantage points of high ground, the people passing in and out of the Redcliffe Gate. Although I guessed it to be late afternoon, the days were lengthening apace and there was still plenty of traffic, both of the two-legged and four-wheeled variety, on the roads. But there were also those pockets of quietness which every traveller experiences, where both people and carts suddenly, and for no apparent reason, thin out, leaving one almost alone in the landscape.
This happened as I descended into a hollow with thick scrub on either side. I had deviated from the main track by some yards on to a narrower path where the going was softer for my aching body. As I dropped down between the banks of the hollow, I was aware of nothing except the overmastering desire to reach home; certainly not that I must have been followed for the last half mile or so. Normally, my senses would have alerted me to danger, but, as I said, my mind had ceased to function. I was thinking of nothing but a hot supper and one of Adela’s concoctions of primrose leaves and honey which, applied externally or taken internally, would ease my joints and muscles of the worst of their pain.
A pair of heavy hands fell on my shoulders, nearly bringing me to my knees.
‘I want a word with you, Chapman,’ said a surly voice, and I was swung around with no more difficulty than my daughter had when she manhandled the bundle of grubby rags she called a doll.
To my utter astonishment, I found myself staring into the face of Ranald Purefoy, and what he could want with me I was unable even to guess.
‘A word? What about?’ I mumbled.
‘What about? What about!’ he shouted, the noise reverberating through my head almost as if I were recovering from a bout of drunkenness. ‘Comin’ the innocent won’t help you, Chapman.’
Anger began to steady my nerves and make me forget my weariness.
‘This is stupid!’ I said, trying to turn away, but his big, shovel-like hands still held me fast.
‘You been after my wife!’ he exclaimed. ‘Goin’ t’ my house when I weren’t there and making up to her.’
The charge was so absurd that I was bereft of speech and could only goggle at my assailant for several seconds before bursting into laughter.
‘Why in the name of all that’s holy should I want to make up to Mistress Purefoy?’ I managed to gasp at last. Then I made my fatal mistake by adding, ‘She’s as ugly as sin!’
His hands tightened their grasp. ‘So now you’re insulting her as well as trying to deflower her!’ he stormed, and brought up his right foot to kick me in the groin.
Fortunately for Adela’s and my future happiness, my instinct suddenly raised its hitherto dormant head and I twisted sideways just before his boot landed with a bruising thud against my hip. The impact, however, felled me to the ground, and he threw himself on top of me, rolling me over to lie face downwards and grinding my nose and mouth into the dirt. Next, he seized me by the hair — my hat having fallen off during the encounter — and started to bang my head up and down against some stones that had, over the years, accumulated in the hollow. I could feel blood trickling down my cheek. I recall wondering feebly where my cudgel was — I had dropped it as I fell — but had no means of groping for it, both my upper arms being pinioned to my sides by Ranald Purefoy’s massive thighs and knees. Such was my weakened state after my morning’s exertions that I began to lose consciousness.
‘This’ll teach you to leave my goody alone,’ I heard him say, his voice seeming to recede into the distance. I even remember chuckling to myself in a stupid, hysterical, meaningless way as darkness threatened to close in around me. But before it quite did, I received a blast of foul breath on one half of my face and up my right nostril as my attacker lowered his head to whisper in the ear that was uppermost. ‘And you leave off askin’ questions about that there Isabella Linkinhorne. D’you hear me? Jane don’t like it. And there’s others don’t like it, neither. So you do as you’re asked like a good fellow-me-lad and don’t you go upsetting Jane no more!’
My hair was once more tugged at ruthlessly, my head was raised and crashed down on one of the larger stones, and the weight was finally removed from my back as Ranald heaved himself to his feet. But he hadn’t altogether finished with me, landing me two hefty kicks in the ribs before pounding away to join the main Bristol track and make his way home.