5th September, A.D. 1666
Leg’s Rest Inn
Apington, Essex
The man stared deep down into his mug, unconsciously gripping the metal handle intensely, the rough edges cutting into his skin. The barmaid had handed him an inviting, frothing ale almost an hour ago, but thanks to dwelling on other, less wholesome matters, he was left with half a stein of stale, black soup. In the weak light coming from the fluttering candle on his table, the gentleman could almost see the blurred, dull reflection of his bloodshot eyes swimming about on the surface. He had hoped a nice drink would cheer him up but beyond his own demeanour, the surroundings hadn’t help.
The Leg’s Rest Inn was a dreary place. Renowned throughout the county for its food and ale, both of which were of appalling quality, it attracted only a smattering of travellers, who knew no better. A decrepit thatch and timber hall that sat opposite its landlord’s cottage, it leaked when it rained, whistled when wind blew through the cracked windowpanes and in the summer heat the smell of rot and mould rose to an unbearable stench. The lodgers, of which there were two dozen or so scattered around the small wooden tables, mostly kept themselves to themselves. One group of young men had been singing bawdy love songs on and off for much of the evening between conversations, but they had received no company no matter how much that had called on their fellow patrons to join in. Most sat quietly, nursing their drink or were beginning to fall asleep were they sat, tired from a long journey.
“Fancy another”? Called over the publican from behind the bar, breaking the silence. He had a look of tired concern in his face; the sort of deportment that only a person versed in dealing with the drunkenly depressed could manage: half sincere, but with little real interest.
“No thanks innkeeper”, the patron grumbled, raising his pint as if to prove the point.
He looked over his shoulder through a grimy leaded window, looking out into the hamlet of Apington. It was no more cheerful than the Leg’s Rest. A motley collection of cottages and small farms, making what money they did from travellers heading along the London road. He could make out a small congregation gathering on a nearby hill, no doubt watching the dying fires in the capital, regardless of the galloping wind and drizzling rain. The last few nights the flames had been seen for almost fifty miles in every direction, illuminating the heavy cloud. Here in Apington they were only ten miles away. Apparently the local vicar had even made a little money, charging people to watch from the belfry, the landlord said there’d even been a queue. A chill went down the man’s spine. ‘Sick gawking’, he thought, ‘nothing but a bunch of Neros, getting pleasure from watching a entire city burn to the ground’.
‘Then again’ answered a voice in his head ‘there simple peasants, a fire’s such a captivating thing. You know all about that, after all’.
“Aye”, he breathed out loud, taking a swig of his ale, “Aye”.
Just then, the group of three men who had been singing the night through approached his table, staggering slightly from the drink.
“Excuse me sir”, asked one of them in a giddy tone, as he glanced to his friends either side, “we reckon we might know you”
The older man looked up from under his battered, broadbrimmed hat to reveal a worn, pale face, given colour only by the thick black stubble and sunken, pale green eyes. “Is that a fact”?
“Indeed sir, me and my brothers here used to live up in Norfolk”
“Fascinating”, he answered sardonically
“Around the town of Idlewood to be exact”
“I see”, the man responded casually, however his dull eyes betrayed him with a brief flicker on hearing the name.
“What exactly is your profession”? The trio’s leader asked, looking over to a large satchel sitting on the table “It might helps us remember”
“An apothecary, of sorts”
“No, no it’s not an apothecary we were thinking of”
“Well then I think you’ve got the wrong man”, he said curtly, raising his tankard to his lips
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that”, the younger man grimaced, his tone hardening “And I don’t take kindly to liars either”. Suddenly he grabbed the man’s left hand and slammed it down on the table, revealing a bronze ring on the middle finger, engraved with a silver ‘M’. As the older man squirmed to get loose, his attacker produced a narrow, long dagger from his belt, which soon lead him to desist. “Not many apothecaries going round wearing these now are there. Mr. Napper”!
“Well you have deduced my name lads. What would yours be”? Napper asked with an unmoved calm.
“Appleby, you should remember it. Idlewood. Ten years back”
“You killed our aunty”, barked one of the younger brothers.
“Not to mention three cousins”, spat the other.
“Tortured them, beat them, burned them”! Bellowed the oldest, raising his dagger “You filthy fucking Witchfinder! Like to kill innocent women do ya! Your one of Parliament’s bloody thugs whose going to get his comeuppance”.
“I wouldn’t be so hasty Mr. Appleby”, Napper glared at his assailant as he spoke “Unless you wish to lose a brother as well”
The three looked to each other puzzled, before the sound of a hammer being cocked brought them collectively to glance down at Napper’s waist, where his free hand held a flintlock pistol, aimed squarely at their guts. There was a long pause. By now the entire Inn was watching in silence, waiting for someone to make the first move. Then suddenly from behind the four men, there came the sound of another gun cocking. Napper looked over to the bar to see the publican standing with a short musket raised towards their group.
“Now gentlemen”, called the barkeeper “I don’t give a damn why you’re feuding but I pipped a charging horseman at Marston Moor at 50 yards, so I’d have no problem blowing off the head of the first bastard who tries to shed blood in my establishment! You understand”!
Before anyone could act, the door burst open, as a squad of armed Roundheads stomped in, bringing with them a gust of howling wind causing many of the candles lighting the alehouse to blow and flutter wildly. The landlord lowered his firearm, while the Appleby brothers backed away as the soldiers swaggered over to Napper’s table, glancing around the Inn as they did. The officer leading them raised the visor on his ‘lobster-tail’ helmet.
“Constable Ezekiel Napper”?
“Aye”
“Captain Jameson, my company and I are awaiting your orders”
“Took your time”, answered Napper, lowering his pistol.