from his unexpected encounter, which in itself had been interesting if not a little confusing, it seemed to Winterburne that the evening was turning out to be somewhat of an anticlimax as he and Cromwell made their way back to the Watch House. At the back of his mind sat some nugget of information that had passed before him during the course of the evening and had been filed away in his mind. For some reason, it chose this moment to force its way to the front of his thoughts.
'I didn't know that you were engaged, Milo,' he said. In truth, he could not recall having heard the man mention a fiancée before.
Cromwell looked across at Winterburne. 'Well, I might not be for much longer if I keep missing our dates, Sir.'
The two men laughed, and Winterburne patted him on his back. He appreciated that despite the interruption to his routine, the man could still joke. 'When did you get time to have a private life?'
'It's what you might call a whirlwind romance.' Cromwell looked back at him and smirked. 'We do still get lunch breaks, Sir.'
Winterburne laughed. 'You know,' he said, 'I don’t feel like going back, just yet. Why don't we drop into the Shippe for a tankard.'
'Might as well, Sir,' Cromwell said. 'I’m already late so a bit longer won’t make any difference.'
'Good man.'
The moon had passed from behind the clouds, and it was rising higher in the night sky, providing sufficient light for the two men to see up the road ahead. The pair turned left and onto the main thoroughfare which passed through the Northern District. On either side of the street the same timber framed houses loomed tall and imposing in the darkness. Winterburne could see that something was bothering Cromwell.
'What's the matter?' he asked.
'Sir, I was thinking, don't you think that we should get some men to continue searching the streets for the man we saw back there?'
Winterburne thought quickly. God forbid that Cromwell should actually find the Emperor in the same way he had just done. Still, it might have been amusing to see his face when he realised who it was.
'Not much point now,' he said, 'he’ll be long gone.' He shot a glance across to Cromwell, who always seemed to accept his words at face value. 'I'll make sure it's on the job sheet for the men, tomorrow. Lets forget about that for now, it's been a tough week so a couple of drinks can't be a bad thing, and anyway, I'm buying.'
The two men walked on towards the end of the street, turning left in a southwards direction towards the docks. The Shippe Inne was a favourite haunt of many of Highport’s characters and there was usually a lively atmosphere with plenty of entertainment. Winterburne considered it so entertaining, in fact, that he had been required to transfer the floor show to the Watch House cells on more than one occasion with many of the performers spending the night in the lock-up until the ale cleared out their system the next morning.
A few minutes later and they could see the light from the tavern visible as it streamed through the windows out onto the cobbles. A wooden beam jutted out from the wall, above the door, from which a frame had been hung and over which had been stretched a poorly painted image of a ship in full sail. Appropriately, behind the tavern lay the backdrop of the harbour, dark and silent.
Winterburne took the lead, making his way through the door just as a burst of raucous laughter met his ear. He looked back at Cromwell. 'Sounds like a good night,' he said.
Opposite the door stood the long wooden bar and the barkeep had taken his place behind it. He wore his trademark leather apron and was wiping mugs, lifting them up to hang on hooks above his head. Timber beams formed a natural frame to the bar but the ceiling was low enough that anyone approaching needed to stoop or risk bumping their head. The barkeep fired a smile across at Winterburne and had already placed out two pewter tankards as the men approached. Another loud burst of laughter came from an area to Winterburne’s right. The barkeep looked across at the source with a concerned look on his face.
'What would you like?' the man's voice boomed through the thick bush of his beard and moustache. He still had half an eye on the patrons in the corner.
'Two tankards of ale,' Winterburne said, slapping some coins onto the counter top.
The man behind the bar looked at him sternly.
'Please,' Winterburne added. He looked around the bar. 'Sounds like some people are in high spirits, tonight?'
'Aye,' the barkeep said, nodding towards the corner of the room. 'It's them sailors over there. They came from that Commonwealth ship in the harbour and they’re not making friends out of the locals neither.'
'We'll keep an eye,' Winterburne said, as he and Cromwell took their ale and looked around for any nearby tables and stools that were unoccupied. They headed for a table over to their right and he motioned to Cromwell to go on ahead. Two or three other parties of men were also sitting in the tavern drinking and he could see that they too were all keeping a close watch on the sailors.
Another round of raucous laughter rang out from the corner of the room. A small group of five men sat on benches near the fire, their mugs of ale resting on the table top before them. They had obviously supped plenty and one of them tossed his head back in the exaggerated laughter of the inebriated. As he did so, he lost control of his tankard and the ale spilled across the table, washing off the far edge and all over the legs of one of his shipmates. The other three men joined him in roaring in appreciation, thumping their fists on the table as the man's face pulled a look of surprise.
'Girl!' the first sailor shouted. 'More drinks! Over here!'
A cheer went up from the other four and they raised their mugs in salute to the man who had spilled his ale.
A small serving girl, thin framed, and no match for the burly sailors, looked over at them with trepidation as she walked to the bar. The barkeep had already begun to fill tankards from the barrels that lined the wall behind him and Winterburne saw her say something to the barkeep. He responded with a frown and Winterburne supposed that the man had told her to get on with her job as she loaded her tray with the tankards, which once full, she carried over to the table. Another cheer rang out from the men as she placed down the tray.
The girl removed the mugs, one at a time, placing one in front of each sailor then grabbing the empty ones, putting them onto the tray. As she turned to leave, the man seated on the end of the bench reached out to grab her and pulled her down onto his lap. The other four cheered as they watched her struggle. The girl tried to push herself off the man but he had at least three times her strength and she could not get up. He wrapped his arms around her and tried to kiss her, but she pushed against him.
One of the local men who had been drinking on a nearby table rose and stomped across. He was accompanied by another, who took up a position behind the first. They queued up to have a shot at the sailor.
'Put 'er down, you scum!' the first man said, in a thick Westmoreland accent.
The sailor released the girl and she ran back to the relative safety of the bar area, now away from the man's clutches.
'Now, now,' the sailor replied, 'that’s not a nice thing to say...friend.'
The words hung on his lips as he spoke them and as he spat the final word he made it quite clear that he did not consider this man to be one. He seemed to have sobered up rather quickly and rose to meet the local. They were of similar height and Winterburne looked at Cromwell who, he thought, had also made up his mind on what might be the most likely course of events over the next few minutes.
With little warning, the Westmoreland pulled back his fist and threw it at the Commonwealth sailor, planting it firmly on his cheek. The sailor recoiled as the impact hit home, falling back over the two of his colleagues that shared the same bench. One of the other sailors on the opposite bench stood and dived on the Westmoreland, knocking him off his feet. They wrestled each other on the ground in an alcoholic battle, neither man landing any effective punches.
'So much for a quiet evening,' Winterburne said. 'Come on, I think they're playing our tune.'
T
he second local, who had been standing back up until this point, picked up his stool and threw it directly at the four remaining Commonwealth sailors. It caught one of them full square on the temple and the man sank back down into his seat, out cold.
'Enough!' Winterburne shouted as he stood and made his way across to the men, closely followed by Cromwell. Most of them had stopped at the sound of the command, but the two men on the floor continued to wrestle. Winterburne reached down and pulled them apart.
As the Commonwealth sailor stood, he swung his fist and it travelled slowly not stopping until it had met Cromwell full in the face. Cromwell fell backwards, stunned, sitting on the floor of the tavern.
'That’s enough!' Winterburne shouted, again. 'Any more of that and you'll find yourselves in the lock-up. That goes for all of you!'
Cromwell picked himself up and put his hand to his mouth. His lip was split and it was oozing blood.
'You two!' Winterburne shouted, pointing at the Westmorelands. 'Be off with you! Now!'
The two men grudgingly made their way along the bar and out of the door, their eyes still on the group of sailors who returned the cold stare. Eventually, the door swung closed behind them.
'Right,' Winterburne said, after the two local men had gone. 'Since the men around here like to bear grudges, we will escort you back to your ship.'
'Tha's not ne'ssary, ossifer,' the first sailor said. 'We could see ourselfs back.'
'I think not,' Winterburne replied. 'If I were to let you do that then you'd more than likely find yourselves floating home, face down in the harbour.' Winterburne looked down at the man who was still unconscious where he had fallen. 'Someone get me a bucket of water so I can wake this one up!'
The first sailor looked across the bar at the serving girl that had experienced the brunt of his high spirits. 'I's sorry, missy,' he said, 'it was jus' a bit o' fun.' His gaze returned to Winterburne. 'All’s fair in love and ale, eh, cunstable?' He offered his hand out to Winterburne to shake, but he ignored the offer. 'We ne'er meant no trouble, your honour, hones'.'
'Get moving,' Winterburne said. 'You've all outstayed your welcome already. And, I would suggest that it might be prudent if you offered the barkeep something extra, to contribute to the clearing up.'
As the sailors passed the bar, they stopped in turn and pulled some coins out of their pockets, putting them down onto the bar.
'Sorry,' each one said in turn as they passed the man.
The sailor who had been unconscious on the floor was now up on his feet, although the contents of the bucket provided by the serving girl ensured that he looked like a pathetic sight as the water dripped from his soaked clothing. Cromwell waited at the door and ushered them outside, into the chill of the evening.
Winterburne looked over at the barkeeper. 'We’ll get them out of your way,' he said, as the man nodded back his thanks.
By the time Winterburne joined Cromwell outside the men had already been lined up. He looked across the street to where the two Westmorelands were waiting to resume their discussion with the sailors.
'Go home!' Winterburne called across to the men. 'There is nothing more for you to do here!'
The two looked somewhat disappointed that the entertainment had been prevented from spilling over into the street, but nonetheless they skulked off into the dark. Winterburne suspected that they hadn't gone far, most likely hanging around just out of sight in the shadows and despite the size of the Commonwealth brutes lined up before him, they would be no match for two relatively sober hooligans with knives in their hands.
Winterburne looked over at Cromwell. 'How are you doing, Lieutenant?'
'I don’t think I've lost any teeth, Sir.' Cromwell grimaced and rubbed his fingers along