[Roger the Chapman 03] - The Hanged Man Read Free

it was now almost completely dark, in addition to which that single effort had once more started me retching. My pack had been removed from my shoulders, and Lillis was instructed by her mother to bring it with her and to stop grumbling because it was heavy.
    'You may deceive others with that fragile look of yours, my girl, but you don't fool me. You're as strong and wiry as a mule.'
    Her daughter muttered rebelliously beneath her breath, but struggled obediently with the pack, which fortunately was none too full just at that present. As for me, I was too far gone to suffer any pangs of conscience. I had been rescued by two Good Samaritans, and that was all I knew or cared about. As we all set off down High Street, Hob and Bull each carrying one end of the litter, my long-suffering body jolted roughly from side to side as they made for 'home', wherever that was, I thankfully let my worries slide and gave myself up to the prospect of a warm bed and the ministrations of a pair of capable women. As we plunged into the dark canyon of Bristol Bridge, the houses and shops rearing up on either hand, I was once again violently sick before mercifully losing consciousness.

Chapter Two

    During the next few days, I lay in that twilight state, half waking, half sleeping, between sanity and nightmare, when evil seems to gibber at the edges of the senses and has to be fought with might and main to be held at bay.
    Only on three occasions before the fever finally abated did I have moments of conscious clarity.
    The first time, I think, must have been briefly on the morning following my arrival, for just long enough to remember what had happened and to take in my surroundings. I had been undressed and was wearing a clean linen shift a size or so too small for me. The material was strained across my chest and had already split a little near the top of one of the sleeves. I was lying on a straw-filled mattress, covered with a couple of rough blankets which smelled sweetly of dried lavender, close to a central hearth. A fire of driftwood and sea coal, both doubtless scavenged for along the shores of the tidal River Avon, belched smoke through a hole in the roof of the cottage's single room. An adjustable pot-hook hung from the metal crossbar of a cooking crane, and from the hook was suspended a sizeable iron pot which made bubbling noises as well as giving forth the smell of a good broth; an aroma which at any other time would have made my mouth water, but then only made me heave.
    I closed my eyes for a moment and did not open them again until my stomach had settled. This second glance informed me that a spinning-wheel stood near the only window whose shutters were open, allowing the pallid daylight of a January day to filter through the oiled parchment pane. The dim outline of a bed, large enough to a accommodate two people, could be seen at one end of the room, while a chest, a table, two stools, a wooden bench and a narrow cupboard were ranged around the walls. Recollecting the direction in which I had been carried in the litter, down the gentle slope of High Street and across Bristol Bridge, my previous experience of the city, nearly three years old now but still vividly remembered, told me that I was in the Redcliffe district where the weavers had their quarters, huddled in the lee of St Thomas's Church. There were rich dwellings here, as I recalled, but this was a weaver's cottage. Or had been, I guessed, when Mistress Walker's husband was alive; and it said much for the master that he had not turned her and her daughter out after the man's untimely death, although she was undoubtedly valuable as a spinner.
    That was my last thought as I drifted once more into a semi-conscious state. The soft, low tones of women's voices, the rustle of their feet among the floor rushes, were only dimly heard; their gentle touch, as they washed mid fed me and attended to more intimate needs, only vaguely felt. I had retreated again into darkness and a