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Authors: M.J. Pearson
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appointments this week, and getting nothing from you in return, all on the chance that I might be able to identify someone who might or might not have gone to Bath to woo your fiancée Is that so uncooperative, my lord?"
"Sorry," Dean muttered. "It's the temper that goes with this blasted hair. Let me make it up to you." He rapped on the roof of the coach and leaned out the window.
"Erich! The Royal Arms, schnell." "The Royal Arms?"
"If you're interested in history, you'll adore it. It's the oldest inn in Tewkesbury, dates back to—oh, Christ, whenever. But it's very old, and not far from the Abbey. We can get a decent meal there."
Rob looked hopeful. "The Abbey. I don't suppose...?"
Dean sighed. He owed the man, if only for his success at Stonehurst. "Yes, if you're quick about it. We've been making good time today."
"Thank you, my lord."
"Dean. Remember?"
The barman at the Royal Arms was proud of the inn's history. "Oh, aye, she's an ancient one. Older than the Bear, no matter what they say. These walls were old when Shakespeare and his men played here. Oldest inn in all of England."
Dean put down his mug of bitter and wiped foam from his lip, frowning. "I thought the oldest inn in England is the Man and Scythe over in—"
Not politic, perhaps, but no real reason for Rob to nudge his foot under the table.
Still, he shut up while his companion turned a considerable amount of charm on their host.
"Shakespeare performed here? How fascinating. Can you tell us anything else?"
The barman was only too pleased, drawing himself a pint and joining them at the table, regaling them with story after story. Some of them, to Dean's amusement, seemed borrowed from the inn's famous playwright guest.
"No one knew it, but Meg, the daughter of the Yorkist innkeeper, secretly pledged herself to a young Lancastrian lord. It would be death for both of them if they'd been discovered." The publican paused for effect.
"Nothing so sweet as forbidden fruit," Rob said encouragingly, aiming a wink at Dean.
Their host nodded. "Aye. They met right here one last time, just before the Battle.
He said when the Red Rose was triumphant, he would come back for Meg and make her his lady."
Dean suppressed a smile. "I'm guessing it didn't end well?"
The barman leaned forward. "And you'd be right. When Meg heard he'd been killed, she threw herself into the river and was drownded instantly. But you'll never guess what happened next."
"Try me," Dean muttered, and Rob nudged him again.
"The lad wasn't dead! He came back to steal her away into exile with him, and found them pulling her cold white corpse from the river. He snatched the dead girl away from her grieving father and
leapt with her into the water. And this time, they never recovered either body."
"Very romantic," Rob said with approval. "Which one is the ghost?"
"Oh, Meg, of course. It was here that she lived, and met her fine young lord in secret, and waited for news of the battle. About one guest out of five tells me they can still feel her waiting, but when she weeps we all hear that. I've heard her myself, and sober as a judge I was, too. Pathetic. Just pathetic." The barman shook his head mournfully.
"Too true," Dean said. "You know, if we're going to see the Abbey, we should—"
"Then there's Dick Turpin."
"The highwayman?" With a pointed glance at Rob, Dean settled back into his chair. "I have a soft spot for the breed. Don't tell me Turpin haunts you as well."
"Well, not that anyone's spoke of, no. But the Arms was his favorite pub, and many a night Black Bess was tied to that oak tree yonder while Dick wet his whistle.
Wouldn't be surprised, though, if he came back now and again for a pint of the finest bitter in England."
"Now that, I'll give you," Dean said, draining the last of his brew. Mild and slightly sweet, it was a perfect thirst-quencher for a warm August day. "But two's my limit, and I'm afraid we really must be going. Rob?"
Tewkesbury Abbey. Dean wasn't
"Sorry," Dean muttered. "It's the temper that goes with this blasted hair. Let me make it up to you." He rapped on the roof of the coach and leaned out the window.
"Erich! The Royal Arms, schnell." "The Royal Arms?"
"If you're interested in history, you'll adore it. It's the oldest inn in Tewkesbury, dates back to—oh, Christ, whenever. But it's very old, and not far from the Abbey. We can get a decent meal there."
Rob looked hopeful. "The Abbey. I don't suppose...?"
Dean sighed. He owed the man, if only for his success at Stonehurst. "Yes, if you're quick about it. We've been making good time today."
"Thank you, my lord."
"Dean. Remember?"
The barman at the Royal Arms was proud of the inn's history. "Oh, aye, she's an ancient one. Older than the Bear, no matter what they say. These walls were old when Shakespeare and his men played here. Oldest inn in all of England."
Dean put down his mug of bitter and wiped foam from his lip, frowning. "I thought the oldest inn in England is the Man and Scythe over in—"
Not politic, perhaps, but no real reason for Rob to nudge his foot under the table.
Still, he shut up while his companion turned a considerable amount of charm on their host.
"Shakespeare performed here? How fascinating. Can you tell us anything else?"
The barman was only too pleased, drawing himself a pint and joining them at the table, regaling them with story after story. Some of them, to Dean's amusement, seemed borrowed from the inn's famous playwright guest.
"No one knew it, but Meg, the daughter of the Yorkist innkeeper, secretly pledged herself to a young Lancastrian lord. It would be death for both of them if they'd been discovered." The publican paused for effect.
"Nothing so sweet as forbidden fruit," Rob said encouragingly, aiming a wink at Dean.
Their host nodded. "Aye. They met right here one last time, just before the Battle.
He said when the Red Rose was triumphant, he would come back for Meg and make her his lady."
Dean suppressed a smile. "I'm guessing it didn't end well?"
The barman leaned forward. "And you'd be right. When Meg heard he'd been killed, she threw herself into the river and was drownded instantly. But you'll never guess what happened next."
"Try me," Dean muttered, and Rob nudged him again.
"The lad wasn't dead! He came back to steal her away into exile with him, and found them pulling her cold white corpse from the river. He snatched the dead girl away from her grieving father and
leapt with her into the water. And this time, they never recovered either body."
"Very romantic," Rob said with approval. "Which one is the ghost?"
"Oh, Meg, of course. It was here that she lived, and met her fine young lord in secret, and waited for news of the battle. About one guest out of five tells me they can still feel her waiting, but when she weeps we all hear that. I've heard her myself, and sober as a judge I was, too. Pathetic. Just pathetic." The barman shook his head mournfully.
"Too true," Dean said. "You know, if we're going to see the Abbey, we should—"
"Then there's Dick Turpin."
"The highwayman?" With a pointed glance at Rob, Dean settled back into his chair. "I have a soft spot for the breed. Don't tell me Turpin haunts you as well."
"Well, not that anyone's spoke of, no. But the Arms was his favorite pub, and many a night Black Bess was tied to that oak tree yonder while Dick wet his whistle.
Wouldn't be surprised, though, if he came back now and again for a pint of the finest bitter in England."
"Now that, I'll give you," Dean said, draining the last of his brew. Mild and slightly sweet, it was a perfect thirst-quencher for a warm August day. "But two's my limit, and I'm afraid we really must be going. Rob?"
Tewkesbury Abbey. Dean wasn't
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