Great Britain -- History -- Mary I, 1553-1558 -- Fiction; Historical fiction
"To be sure; and so I will report him. Tell him that so I will report
him. And here, my good friend, take one of these for yourself," I
added, magnificently giving him back half my fortune--young donkey
that I was. "Drink to the Queen's health; and so good-night to you."
He went away, bowing to the very ground, and, when the landlord
likewise had left me, I was very merry over this, being in no mood for
weighing words. The world seemed--to be sure, the ale was humming in
my head, and I was in the landlord's best room--easy enough to
conquer, provided one possessed a white staff. The fact that I had no
right to mine only added--be it remembered I was young and foolish--to
my enjoyment of its power. I went to bed in all comfort with it under
my pillow, and slept soundly, untroubled by any dream of a mischance.
But when did a lie ever help a man in the end?
When I awoke, which I seemed to do on a sudden, it was still dark. I
wondered for a moment where I was, and what was the meaning of the
shouting and knocking I heard. Then, discerning the faint outline of
the window, I remembered the place in which I had gone to bed, and I
sat up and listened. Some one--nay, several people--were drumming and
kicking against the wooden doors of the inn-yard, and shouting
besides, loud enough to raise the dead. In the next room to mine I
caught the grumbling voices of persons disturbed, like myself, from
sleep. And by and by a window was opened, and I heard the landlord ask
what was the matter.
"In the Queen's name!" came the loud, impatient answer, given in a
voice that rose above the ring of bridles and the stamping of iron
hoofs, "open! and that quickly, Master Host. The watch are here, and
we must search."
I waited to hear no more. I was out of bed, and huddling on my
clothes, and thrusting my feet into my boots, like one possessed. My
heart was beating as fast as if I had been running in a race, and my
hands were shaking with the shock of the alarm. The impatient voice
without was Master Pritchard's, and it rang with all the vengeful
passion which I should have expected that gentleman, duped, ducked,
and robbed, to be feeling. There would be little mercy to be had at
his hands. Moreover, my ears, grown as keen for the moment as the
hunted hare's, distinguished the tramping of at least half-a-dozen
horses, so that it was clear that he had come with a force at his
back. Resistance would be useless. My sole chance lay in flight--if
flight should still be possible.
Even in my haste I did not forsake the talisman which had served me so
well, but stayed an instant to thrust it into my pocket. The Cluddes
have, I fancy, a knack of keeping cool in emergencies, getting,
indeed, the cooler the greater the stress.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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