The Standard Bearer
A fine looking ring, you say? Aye, innkeeper–and truly, there is a gruesome tale attached to it.
I must be on my way… but maybe another drop of sack, and I’ll tell you the tale?
For two and twenty years has this ring been in my possession. I was one of Cromwell’s men, you see, and our leader was a Godless fellow called Geoffrey Mompesson.
It were just after a battle, and we had captured the King’s standard bearer, Sir Henry Holbourn, as stubborn a man as you could ever hope to meet.
He wore this ring, and Geoffrey took a shine to it. “I’ll be taking the standard, and that fine-looking ring you have,” says he.
Well, Sir Henry took off the ring and threw it at Geoffrey’s feet.
“Take the ring, but the standard belongs to my King. Thou shalt not have it.”
Need I say that Geoffrey was enraged?
“Behead the fellow,” says he, and Sir Henry was executed on the spot.
Geoffrey picked up the ring and placed it on his own hand, declaring it the most exquisite jewel he had ever seen.
“Now you may take the fellow’s standard.”
But Sir Henry held it in a fierce death-grip, and none could prise it from his fingers. Geoffrey laughed, and then took up his sword and cut off Sir Henry’s hand.
“Display it outside my cottage; it will make for a most excellent, and gruesome trophy.”
This we did, and then he ordered several barrels of wine to be brought up from the cellar and opened in celebration.
“Let’s drink to my Lord, Oliver Cromwell,” said he, and by midnight not a man was standing. It had been a wonderful day.
When I awoke the next morning my head was pounding, but it was a chill dawn and I started to revive.
The standard was still outside the cottage, but the severed hand no longer gripped its shaft. Strange, thought I, but didn’t ponder it.
There was an orchard behind the cottage, so I set off to pick a couple of apples for my breakfast. Geoffrey wouldn’t approve, of course, but he’d supped more than most and I knew he’d not be emerging for a while.
Well time passed, and there was still no sign of him; mayhap he had taken ill, someone should check up on him, thought we, but we were afeared to invade his chamber, and so we drew straws.
Need I say that I drew the short one?
You’ll understand I was reluctant, but I honoured my part and knocked on the door, calling out his name. Three times did I knock, but there came no answer and so I stepped into the room.
First I saw his bed, and then his legs upon the floor, and thinking that he had tumbled to the ground, I walked over to him.
’Tis a sight I shall never forget, innkeeper, for Geoffrey Mompesson was dead–the severed hand that had throttled him still gripping his throat, his face bearing a look of such terror, you’d swear that Satan Himself had visited that room. I’m not proud to admit, sir, that I fled, although no-one blamed me for that!
Another drop of sack?
I could use one, for this story gets no easier for the telling.
Well, we had a discussion and decided that burning the cottage down and destroying everything in it was the wisest course of action. So I took a torch into the room, and… well, as you see, I didn’t leave empty-handed.
Anyway, sire, I must be going. I have enjoyed my visit to your inn, so my very best to you.
After the man had gone, the innkeeper turned to ask the only other customer in the tavern if he wanted a drink.
But the seat by the fireplace was empty.
Surely he had seen a one-handed man sitting there just a moment ago?
