Free Tale of Raw Head and Bloody Bones (9781101614631) by Jack Wolf

silken Purse tied with a golden Thread. He threw it casually to the serving Wench—who was not Margaret—whose Surprize was such that she fumbled the Catch and almost droppt it.
    “Drink and be merry!” Nathaniel cried. “Tomorrow we may all be dead. And all I shall ask in Return is that if someone should ask: ‘What of Nathaniel Ravenscroft?’ you will speak well of me.”
    The young Betty stared at the silk Purse within her Hand, and with clumsy Fingers began to pick apart the golden Knot. I watched her Expression, as Greed succeeded unto Amazement. She looked up at Nathaniel, smiling, like a Kitten got among the Cream, and a low Chear rumbled round the Tavern.
    I steppt up beside Nathaniel and looked at him in Disbelief. “What in Hell’s Name are you doing, Nat?”
    “Settling my Debts. Now there is none to whom I owe a thing.”
    The Hubbub had started up again, as with much Jollity, the Wench had fetched her small brown Jug, and was busily refilling the Tankards of all who asked her. Nathaniel took my Elbow again, and we presst thro’ the friendly Mob towards the Door that led to the Kitchen, and the Stairs. “That Tosspot, over there,” Nathaniel said, opening the Door, “believes that I impregnated his Daughter, whom I have never met. I know not who got the Wench with Pup but ’twas not me. Ha! There’s an Irony! This Bully, hard by the Pillar, holds me responsible for the Deaths of several of his finest Cattle. That other Pissmaker with him insists that I can summon Thunderstorms.”
    “You jest,” I said.
    “I do not, Tris. The Mind of the English Peasant is a curious Thing.”
    “They are happy enough to quaff the Ale you buy them.”
    “As I said, curious. And not always very clever.”
    “What do they say about me?” I asked him.
    We mounted the Stairs.
    *   *   *
    The upper Chamber at the Bull was not often used for anything but the Sessions of the local Assize Court. The Inn was too distant from our local Towns to host publick Assemblys, and the Stile of the Room was almost as rustick as the lower. The Walls were white with lime Plaster, but that was the only substantial Difference. When Nathaniel opened this final Door, however, I was at once bathed, not in tallow-Light, but in the clean Brilliance of many waxen Tapers. The Scents of Hyacinthus and Daffodil melded with the sweet Perfume of apple Smoake and some other, sharper Fragrance I could not recognise. The narrow cup Boards alongthree Sides of the low Room had come alive with Flowers. Crimson Tulips, yellow Daffodills and golden Irises billowed from blue porcelain Planters, which sate at each End of an intertwining Banner of Blackthorn, Apple, and budding May that arched over the Table, where rested the Punchbowl and the Glasses. There were more Petals, too, blooming about the Chimney-piece and the Hearth, where a large apple Log was blazing. Above the whole carried the clear Voice of a Girl, her Singing pure and wistful as a mistle Thrush.
    I steppt forwards in Wonderment, looking around the Room.
    “Don’t ask,” Nathaniel said.
    The Room’s Benches were already crowded with Nathaniel’s Friends. Many of these were utter Strangers to me – Nathaniel had as many Acquaintances as there were Coneys on the Downs. I noticed, without Surprize, that not one Person here seemed to be above the Age of five-and-twenty. Nat’s Admirers, I thought. Every young Man of our Station wanted to be Nathaniel Ravenscroft. When he changed the Colour of his Coat, so did the Neighbourhood. The Women, or at least the ones I recognised, were the young Wives and Sisters of these Wags; some of them unmarried, and some out, I was sure, without Permission or an appropriate Chaperone. I could never have commanded such a Crowd.
    Next to the Fireplace stood a small Group of Musicians, and I quickly realised that the Girl whose Singing I could hear was the Foremost of these. They were not Locals, nor were they from Faringdon or anywhere I would have