It was a road-side inn, old as the bridge itself—perhaps ancient as the Crusades, from which its cognomen had come. It was the inn at which Scarthe and his cuirassiers had made their night halt, when proceeding to Bulstrode Park; the same afterwards known—as it is to the present day—by the appellation of Queen’s Head. The altered lettering on its sign-board was not the act of the honest Saxon Boniface, who held it in the time of the first Charles; but of a plush-clad proprietor, who succeeded him during the servile days of the Restoration.
While in Master Jarvis’s occupancy it might have borne a title equally as appropriate, and perhaps more significant than either—the King’s Head: since under its roof, this phrase was frequently whispered—sometimes loudly pronounced—with a peculiar significance—one very different from the idea usually attached to it. It may be, that words spoken, and thoughts exchanged, within the walls of the old hostelry led to a king’s losing his head; or, at all events, precipitated that just and proper event.
On the same night that Henry Holtspur was riding down Red Hill—with the Saracen’s Head as the declared goal of his journey—and about the same hour—a number of pedestrians, not all going together, but in scattered groups of two, three, and four, might have been seen crossing the Colne river at Uxbridge; who, after clearing the causeway of the bridge, continued on up the road, in the direction of the inn.
On reaching it—one group after the other—they were seen to enter; after giving a preliminary challenge or greeting to its host, who received them by the door as they came up.
This reception continued; until at least fifty men had glided inside the ivy-grown portico of the Saracen’s Head.
They were all men—nothing in woman’s shape, or apparel, appearing amongst them.
They were men in the humbler walks of life, though not the very humblest. Their dresses betokened them to be artisans; and of different callings,—as proclaimed by the various costumes: for in those days the costume told the trade.
Nor did they appear to be habited for any particular occasion. The butcher was in his tall leathern boots, redolent of suet; the miller, in white cap, hoary with the “stoor” of the mill; the blacksmith, with wide hose hidden under an apron of singed sheepskin; and the tailor’s jour, with his bowed legs encased in a covering of cotton velveteen.
In some of the groups there were individuals of a more pretentious appearance: men who wore beaver hats and doublets of superior quality, with sound russet boots, white linen cuffs, and collars. Still was there about their garments a certain commonness of cut, that proclaimed the wearers to be of the class of small shopkeepers—in modern days miscalled tradesmen.
On any evening—especially if the weather chanced to be fine—a few such individuals might have been seen seeking the hospitality of the Saracen’s Head: for its tap was one of the most popular, and attracted customers even from Uxbridge. On the night in question, however, the great number of guests—as well as the lateness of the hour at which they were seeking the noted rendezvous—told of some purpose more important than merely to imbibe Master Jarvis’s celebrated brewage.