The Pale Companion Read Free Page A

Usually I have a good sense of direction, know my east from my west, &c., but the beating I’d sustained at the hands (or feet) of the locals had muddied my brain. Warily, I skirted the square. The fighting seemed to have stopped but people were still milling about in the gloom. I spat to clear my mouth of blood. One side of my face felt raw where it had scraped the cobbles. I wasn’t hurt – or not much – but I’d be glad enough to get back among my fellows and to slide into bed. Though not before I’d roundly rebuked friend Wilson for his flight from the field.
    Fortunately, there was one way to establish my rough whereabouts in the town. There is a great church here in Salisbury, greater than any such edifice in London, indeed the greatest church I have ever seen. As tall as Babel tower, it looks roomy enough to house half the town. Its spire shoots heavenward like an arrow, as if impatient to be rid of the earth. Crossing the last few miles of downland that afternoon, we’d kept our eyes on the spire glinting in the sun and guiding us to our destination for the night. This mighty church lies a little to the southward side of the town. So, I reasoned, if I kept it on my right hand I’d be able to find my way back to the street of the Angel Inn. There were a few passengers out and about in the side-streets but my recent experiences of how they regarded outsiders – admittedly, an outsider who had said some provoking things – made me reluctant to ask for directions.
    Down the end of the road which I was now travelling I could glimpse, above the roof-tops, the arrow-like spire, its slender form slipping upward into the twilight. So . . . if I crossed into this small street . . . and then turned left . . . no, right . . . or perhaps straight across and down that alley? I gasped as a sudden pain seized me in the side. I was not hurt, not much hurt, but I had to rest for a moment to recover from the insolence of the beating I’d received. If I got my hands on that raw-breathed fellow who’d kneed me in the back and then encouraged the bystanders to add their pennyworth, he’d know what it was to . . .
    All at once I found myself on my knees in the middle of the highway, retching. A yellow and red taste in my mouth. Bile and blood. But not much. Ah, that was better. Nevertheless, I needed to stop for a moment to consider the way forward, or rather the way back to the Angel Inn, otherwise I’d be wandering around Salisbury until daybreak. There was a convenient doorway . . . yes, that one over there, with a sheltering porch. I crawled on hands and knees to the porch and hid myself in there.
    It was dark, it was secure, and I must have fallen asleep for a few moments, because the next thing I knew was that a light was hovering in the air in front of me.
    I put up my hand to shield my eyes. The lantern was shifted to one side but a firm, dry hand grasped mine and pulled it away from my face.
    “Let’s have a look at you.”
    Through half-closed lids I was aware of a large looming face.
    “Ah yes,” it said.
    “What?” I said.
    “You are not from these parts.”
    “Oh God, you’re not going to beat me up too?”
    By now I’d fully opened my eyes and realized that my question was absurd. Crouching down in front of me was a man of middle years with a greying spade beard and mild grey eyes. He was wearing a nightgown. I was able to see so much because, in addition to the lantern which he’d placed on the ground, the door to the house was open and there was another figure in the entrance, dressed in white and holding a candle.
    “I . . . I was on my way to the Angel Inn. Perhaps you can direct me to it?”
    I made to get up, and the man hooked his hand under my arm and helped me to my feet.
    “The Angel is in Greencross Street. A few dozens of paces from here.”
    “Thank you, then I’ll be on my way.”
    But I made no move and I don’t think the grey-bearded man expected me to.
    “Will your company be