The Fugitive

Living in dangerous times, he was indebted to her forever and not just for saving his life...

The Rose and Crown Inn, Westonon-the-Green, Oxfordshire, November 5th 1645

The inn was full that evening.

There were no guests. Few people ventured far in these barbarous times of Civil War but the taproom heaved with villagers keen to discuss the latest news of the war and to celebrate Gunpowder Treason Day with a pintor ten- of Alice's finest ale before they tramped over to the field to light the bonfire. As she served the food and drink, wiped tables, and exchanged a few words here and there with her customers, Alice kept a wary eye on the mood of the crowd. Her customers were in good spirits; burning the guy always seemed to cheer people.

The door swung open with a deep groan. Alice looked up with a frown. She would have to grease hinges. She did every task herself as far as she could to prove she was worthy to have inherited the inn from her father when other men had wanted to buy her out.

Then she snapped to attention. The new arrivals were soldiers. Royalist ones, of course, for no parliamentarians would venture so close to Oxford so openly. They were young men, alert, urgent, with no time for ale or banter.

The captain, barely more than a boy, gave the room one swift, appraising glance and seeing no immediate threat, came forward to address her.

"May I offer you gentlemen something to eat or drink?" Alice forestalled him. She could ill afford to give away her livelihood for the inn made little profit in these hard times, but with soldiers she had found it was always better to give freely than to have something taken against her will.

A number of the troop looked eager at the offer of refreshment, then comically downcast as the captain shook his head.

"No, I thank you, mistress. We have no time." He spoke grimly. "We're seeking a fugitive," he said. "A Royalist deserter. He's armed and dangerous.

Have you seen anyone?"