‘Don’t be a bloody fool,’ I told him, indicating with a jerk of my head to Robin that he should go while the going was good.
He didn’t need a second bidding and sloped off into the night, but not before he had given Burl a vicious kick on the shins. And that about summed up the man: valiant only so long as there was no risk to himself.
Burl, robbed of his prey, was beside himself with fury. As soon as I released his wrists, he took a wild swing at my jaw but missed me by miles. I made the mistake of laughing. He came for me then, throwing all his weight against me and bearing me to the ground, where we rolled over and over in the dirt, writhing and kicking and hitting each other like two gutter urchins. How long this undignified spectacle might have continued is difficult to say, but the sudden yells of ‘Riot! Ware riot! Apprentices! Apprentices!’ made us leave off and scramble hurriedly to our feet.
It was a year or more since there had last been an apprentices’ riot in the city, but the long, hot, toilsome day and evening, waiting on others, followed by the release from labour and some heavy drinking, had fuelled tempers and made them ripe for mischief. Suddenly boys were everywhere like a pack of bloodthirsty hounds in full cry, hallooing and hollering to their fellows to join in the hunt. I had seen a few apprentice riots in my time, but this bade fair to be one of the worst. Anyone who stood in their path was knocked down and mauled.
Within ten minutes or so, the whole of Redcliffe was a seething mass of violent, drunken apprentices, and the riot was spreading across Bristol Bridge and into the main part of the city. Someone had ordered the alarm bell to be rung, and its deep notes tolled out, warning all respectable citizens to seek the safety and shelter of their own homes. But even these citadels were not necessarily safe, as pot-valiant youths hammered on windows and shutters and mouthed obscenities through keyholes.
Wishing to heaven that I had brought my cudgel with me, and wondering how long it would take the Watch and the City Militia to arrive and quell the riot, I fought my way through the melee by the simple expedient of knocking heads together and generally making use of my superior height and strength until I reached Margaret Walker’s cottage. There, I discovered a handful of youths banging on the door and laughing uproariously at the sound of my children’s frightened wailing on the other side. But I made short work of them. Furious, I booted one up his backside so hard that I reckoned he wouldn’t be able to sit down for a week; I hit another with such force that I heard his jawbone crack, and I drove a third one’s head against the wall so violently that he slid to the ground unconscious. The fourth didn’t stop to find out what I had in store for him, but took to his heels, vanishing into the flame-reddened night.
‘It’s me!’ I shouted. ‘Adela! Margaret! Let me in!’
The cottage door creaked open an inch or two, just wide enough to admit me without doing permanent damage to my limbs and other vital parts. I squeezed inside, but if I had expected to be the hero of the moment after my admirable display of Herculean prowess outside, I was destined to be disappointed.
‘Roger! Where have you been?’ my wife demanded reproachfully.
Margaret Walker was more forthright. ‘Just like a man to go sloping off somewhere when he’s needed. Your womenfolk and children could all have been murdered where they stood.’
I was irritated and showed it. ‘A gross exaggeration, Mother-in-law, and you well know it. No one gets murdered during an apprentices’ riot. Oh, I grant you there’ll be a fair lot of damage to property, broken noses, black eyes, bruised shins, that sort of thing, but nobody will be dead. It’s mostly high spirits and mischief exacerbated by drink. They don’t mean any real harm.’
‘Harm!’ screeched Goody Watkins, and for the first time I became aware of her and Bess Simnel’s presence in the cottage. ‘Harm! The varmints have broken one of my shutters and Bess here has had her door kicked in! If I catch one of ’em what did it, I’ll cut off his balls with my carving knife!’ With which bloodthirsty utterance she burst into tears.
Margaret tried to comfort her, glaring at me as she did so. ‘Now see what you’ve done!’
‘Listen!’ I held up my hand for silence.
The quality of the noise outside had altered. The triumphant yells of the apprentices had changed to cries of dismay. There were sounds of horses’ hooves, the rattling of swords, the upraised voices of Authority. The Watch, the Petty Constable and the City Militia had arrived at last, followed eventually by the Mayor, who climbed on to one of the remaining tables and read the Riot Act. Some youths were rounded up and marched off, under escort, to the bridewell. The rest were claimed by masters whose wrath would only be appeased by beatings and floggings that would continue for many days to come.
At last, we were free to go home.
Twelve
It was a disturbed night. Adela, myself and the three children, not to mention Hercules, were awakened in the small hours of the morning by the thunderstorm that had been threatening the previous day. I went downstairs to calm the dog, and returned to find my place usurped by Adam, who refused point-blank to return to his attic room.
By this time, I was in one of my foulest moods, the bruises and cuts I had received during my fight with Burl Hodge beginning to make themselves felt. I shunted my son to the middle of the mattress, fell in beside him and tried to sleep.
But the events of the previous evening kept going around and around in my head while I tossed and turned and tried to get comfortable. It must have been nearly dawn when I finally drifted into an uneasy doze, from which I was aroused all too soon by the sound of someone banging loudly on our outer door. Groaning and cursing, I heaved myself up, searching for shoes and a cloak with which to cover my nakedness.
Adela was already out of bed, shrugging on a long, loose gown over her nightrail and twisting her two thick braids of dark hair up around her head.
‘Whoever can that be?’ she asked, perturbed. ‘I hope Margaret hasn’t been taken ill!’
I ran downstairs, careless of my state of undress, and unbolted and unlocked the street door, expecting to see either Maria Watkins or a distraught Bess Simnel standing outside. Instead, it was one of our neighbours from across the street, a widow who, so far, had steadfastly refused to acknowledge our existence. But now, she was even moved to seize my hand.
‘Have you heard?’ she gasped. But before I had time to shake my head, she continued. ‘Robin Avenel was found murdered late last night in Jewry Lane.’ She shuddered dramatically. ‘Stabbed through the heart, they say. Left to welter in a pool of blood!’
It was Midsummer’s Day, the Feast of the Nativity of Saint John the Baptist, and we were all going to church at Saint Lawrence’s.
Dressing was a difficult business: it was impossible to concentrate with a mind in turmoil. I cut myself twice while shaving because I had forgotten to sharpen my knife, and because I wouldn’t wait for the water Adela was heating over the fire, but used cold from the pump instead. My fingers were all thumbs, and in trying to fasten my shirt to my breeches I tangled the laces and had to stand impatiently while Adela unknotted them.
‘For goodness’ sake, you’re worse than a child,’ she admonished me in a very wifely fashion. ‘This doesn’t concern you, Roger. It’s not your business. What needs to be done will already have been taken care of by the Sheriff’s Officers and members of the Watch. Now, sit down quietly and eat some breakfast before I lose my temper. You look terrible. Your face is covered in scratches, your eyes have black rings under them from lack of sleep and you’re wearing a dirty shirt that I had put aside to be washed. In addition,’ she went on severely, ‘you’ve been warned by Timothy Plummer to steer clear of any matter concerning Robin Avenel.’