The Strange Tale of Ambrose Fudge

 

The third epistolary novel published under the legalities of Chancery Standard by the National  Narrative of the Worshipful Company of Foolscap Stippler’s. With desirous offices in Pall Mall, Bath Spa and all printed using the Caxton undercroft process at Droop, Dorset.

 

The Strange Tale of

Ambrose Fudge

Or

A demi-monde of a mid-winter journey

As Narrated in Lieu of Window Tax

To

Sir Gideon Sydney Stafford Smythe

Baron of His Majesty’s Court, Wig Adventurer and Investigator of the Mysterious Flax Weaver Riots of  Hampton Bumpstead.

 

Copied in long-hand from the original death bed testimony, following a surfeit of burbot, of one Master Daniel Dench, former keeper of the King's Head, Saffron Walden.

Published by permission of the Court of Midwifery.

1779

Price sixpence

 

The Storm : 1770

It was a most early season blizzard.

Struggling towards the crossroads, billowing snowflakes greatly obscured his view. Onward travel became confusing, landmarks once familiar were obliterated, he longed for safe deliverance from this tempestuous storm and into the warmth of the homestead hearth complete with a blazing faggot. That longing seemed further out of reach than ever. He could walk no further.

Gaining what breath he could Ambrose Fudge leant against a low wall, where looking up he noticed two large black birds in the tree close by, watching him.

As his mind, starved of rest, began to play tricks he began to wonder. ‘Now that my own youth is behind me I am weak,  destined to perish in this devilish place in rural Essex well before my own autumn time is reached. How foolish was I to set out on foot this night having lost a month’s income playing cribbage with the vicar at that Quendon gin-salon.’

He could feel the light dimming from within his eyes, the warmth from his body diminishing with every breath as he struggled to breathe in the tempest. Ambrose stood there, neither upright nor bent, only his watchstrap caught in a low briar was preventing his immediate collapse onto the lane.  The wind seemed to intensify as what daylight there had been to illuminate his footfall finally slipped beyond the horizon. Night was coming and with it the hand of intensified cold.

“This is it, is this was where my life will end ? “

As he thought this, the sound of hooves filtered through the swirling snow. A single horse perhaps? No, wait, two horses, though only the one being ridden. Ambrose stirred himself as the sound of  these snow-muffled feet pushed towards him. Yes, there, a lantern light swaying with their movement, a faint light, but growing ever nearer.

“Hail Good friend, are you a fellow traveller? “ Ambrose’s voice was weak and rasping as his cold breath tumbled reluctantly into the air.

“Who’s there?”  came a voice dismembered from the dark. All sound stopped and in the silence the light swung no more.

 “Name your business on a night like this sir?”

“I’ve lost my way” Ambrose replied.  “I’m a-feared of this storm and that it will do for me, could I prevail on you to assist me in finding nearby shelter?”

Jangling from the horses’ harness indicated fresh movement, which after what seemed like a lifetime to Ambrose revealed a rider clad entirely in black. He wore a coachman’s Garrick, sat astride a black horse, his face obscured by a black kerchief and a beaver hat. Yet both horse and rider were dusted with white from the now raging snowflakes whipping around the lane like banshees. Upon seeing the deathly pallor of Ambrose half lying in the snow, the lead horse whinnied and reared like a tormented stallion.

“Steady Raven, steady, it is only a gentleman lost in the storm. Where are you bound sir and on such a perilous night as this?”

“Thank you sir, my name is Ambrose Fudge, I’ve a large holding over at Rickling Green. I’ve been in Stump Cross these last two days on business but having sold my horse I was unable to procure a new mount in time for my desirous return home. Thinking I could walk to my farm along these once most familiar roads, I now find myself lost and uncertain where to go while this tempest rages. Where are you bound sir?”

Ambrose’s question remained unanswered while silently and nimbly alighting from Raven the mysterious dark rider walked towards him, before speaking.

“Sir are you able to  stand? I have a spare horse here which may assist and I can help you get up onto her.”

“Thank you sir” said Ambrose but as he rose from the wall fatigue now robbed him of all use of his legs, he stumbled and almost fell.

“Here sir, grab hold of Jackdaw’s mane, she’s not as big as my own horse Raven but her warmth will restore you somewhat.”

Ambrose, no longer having the strength to protest, did exactly what he was told by the stranger. The will to ask any more questions of his saviour was no longer in him. He slowly stood up and felt for the horse. Jackdaw’s neck was indeed warm, resting his head on her skin awhile he could feel her heartbeat, a steady rhythm which reawakened his own fight for life.

The stranger, seeing how weak Ambrose was, continued.

“I’ll lead her over to the wall, you can climb onto her from there although I’m afraid she only has a bridle, and no saddle.”

With effort, using the low wall to steady himself, Ambrose  managed to scramble onto Jackdaw’s back, wrapping his arms around her neck in his nervousness of falling off without a saddle beneath him.

“She’s a good horse, I’ll lead you, we’re only a few miles out from the King’s Head. I know the landlord well, by the name of Dench”.

“Thank you, I am indebted to you sir, may I know who I am obliged to if you please? “

The stranger once more did not answer and with a light tap of his boots both horses moved off with a slow walking rhythm, a rhythm which caused Ambrose to immediately fall asleep while still holding tightly onto the mane and neck of Jackdaw.

 

 

The King’s Head : A Coaching Inn

It was the sudden jolt as Jackdaw halted which awakened Ambrose from his sleep. The snowfall had abated somewhat as they had entered the town of Saffron Walden.  How long they had travelled Ambrose did not know but now they were outside a commanding ancient coaching inn dominating the busy crossroad. Frenetic activity by the boots and ostlers was taking place in the square with the arrival of the Royal Mail coach from Cambridge.

Wiping the sleep from his eyes he could see the ‘gallows’ inn sign projecting right across the street. A dark shape was swaying in the breeze accompanied by an eerie sound as if of a rattling  gibbet rope just as the hangman got to work. Yet it was only the Inn sign, the King’s Head, swaying on its chains.

“Can you walk sir?”

A boots from the Inn had come to him and offered Ambrose  assistance off Jackdaw.

“I believe so” Ambrose said as he slid off the warm back of the horse.

Taking Ambrose by the arm the boots led him away from the bustling street and into the private coffee room of the King's Head.

As he entered, the warmth of the open fire caught Ambrose off guard and he began to feel lightheaded, though not before registering this was a light and spacious panelled apartment, with an atmosphere of comfort and a place to repose.

“Brandy for the gentleman if you please, be quick now.”

Finding himself now seated by the bay window Ambrose sipped the brandy  slowly, observing silently the talkative handful of fellow travellers within on this most inclement of nights. Three gentlemen stood aside the fire in deep conversation, a lady sat beside them her hand resting on the head of a dalmatian, and at some distance behind her sat presumably her maid in quiet repose. Otherwise the room was empty, though out there in the busy passage other travellers, Inn staff and heavily cloaked coach drivers moved back and forth with efficient purpose.

One of the gentleman from the fire walked over to Ambrose.

“Sir you seem a little recovered now?” he enquired in a quiet but commanding way.

“I believe so, thank you. Am I at liberty to enquire if it was you who ordered this brandy?”

“My wife sir, the lady you can see sitting over there.”

Ambrose attempted to stand to acknowledge this lady, but upon moving his legs once more they began to shake and he was forced to fall back into his seat.

“Remain sir” the gentleman said resting his hand onto Ambrose’s shoulder. “We saw you being brought in by the boots and it is obvious you need to rest a while. Have you come far? Have you eaten? Of course not what am I thinking? Girl, girl, bring some meat, bread and ale quickly if you please”.

Without acknowledgement Ambrose slowly ate the victuals brought to him and with each mouthful, and with the warmth of the room beginning to restore him, he felt his strength returning. Seeing Ambrose now gaining composure the gentleman spoke again.”

“Colonel Montague Talbot of the 11th Hussars at your service sir.”

“I am indebted Colonel, if I may be permitted my name is Ambrose Fudge, I am a Yeoman farmer from not ten miles distant.”

“That food has restored you I think ?” Colonel Talbot said.

“You had us in a quandary when you arrived. Death could not have made you paler, and travelling in this weather without a carriage too?”

“Indeed Colonel, my travelling was thoughtless and most inopportune come to think of it.  I’ve been in Stump Cross these last two days on business but having sold my horse and being unable to purchase a replacement I foolishly thought I could walk back to Rickling Green where my farm is.”

“Bless my soul, that’s what, maybe ten miles along the turnpike, sir that is a devil of a distance to attempt on foot during mid-winter.”

“I am now mortified of the trouble I’ve given not only you and your wife Colonel but my companion, a stranger who rescued me from the storm. Have you seen where he went after our arrival ? “

The Colonel looked puzzled. “Stranger sir?” and after a moment’s considered thought added,

“We saw no companion with you, you arrived on a black horse with no saddle, half dead covered in snow clinging to its neck. Other than the Cambridge Mail no other travellers were abroad when you arrived.”

The Colonel then addressed his companions, and after deliberation they too confirmed that Ambrose had indeed arrived at the Inn unaccompanied, on a single horse.

“This I find most perplexing Colonel” Ambrose said. “As I faltered and fell by the wayside a few miles away I found help via a passing fellow traveller who stopped for me and loaned me the use of  his horse, though I do not know his name sadly”.

“Come by the fire sir” the Colonel said and then asked his wife’s maid to go and check on the Inn landlord as to where this other fellow traveller was to be found. It was not long before Betsy the maid returned and confirmed there was only one horse arrived at the Inn lately, a black mare with no saddle, the very horse to which Ambrose had been clinging to, half dead. That horse was now in the stages stabling along with the other stage horses but no other.

The Colonel and his other companions along with Ambrose fell into conversation in an attempt to ascertain what had recently passed but hard as they tried there was no rational explanation as to who this rider was and more importantly where he could be found to be thanked for saving Ambrose’s life.

Presently the landlord entered the coffee lounge where he first enquired after Ambrose’s health and then the needs of the fellow companions. Ambrose noted how unusually dressed the landlord was, clothed entirely in black with a black kerchief loosely tied around his neck. Soon they all fell into conversation about recent events, although Ambrose noticed the landlord’s face turn ashen as they recounted the mysterious Samaritan with no name on the snowbound road.

 

The Story : A Northern Encounter

As they talked Ambrose, who had remained seated quietly listening to the conversation, turned his attention to the coffee room fire. Staring intently at the flames his eyes registered nothing of interest but he listened to the conversation, before rousing himself to speak.

“Landlord, I believe I have the honour to know your name sir. If I am not mistaken it is Daniel Dench, do I indeed have the honour sir?”

The landlord looked somewhat startled but confirmed that he was indeed Daniel Dench and that he’d had the honour to be the landlord of the King’s Head these eight years. While he spoke the colour which during the earlier conversation had drained from the landlord’s face had begun to return.

Ambrose continued before Daniel Dench could speak further:

“Sir, I believe this is not the first time we have met, did we not meet up north-country many years ago on a wild hillside on the last day of the year? Is that not so or have I the wrong person?”

The Colonel and his companions in the room turned to Daniel and looked most puzzled, before returning their attention back to Ambrose who himself now turned in his seat, while his eyes remained focussed on the landlord.

“Sir” Ambrose said “were you not a horseman piper up north country, near the village of Holystone in Northumberland?  Did we not meet on that strange dark night when you were abroad on horseback, with a companion, near to my cottage. It must be ten or more years ago?”

The colour drained from the landlord’s face in a heartbeat.

“Sir I was, but how…how….”

Ambrose held up his hand to curtail the landlord’s reply, before he then motioned everyone standing in the room to pray sit beside the fire. As they did so, Ambrose gathered his thoughts, thoughts he had not recalled for years, thoughts he’d prefer not to recall again, but something drove him to convey to his new friends the story of this earlier meeting.

When all were seated Ambrose continued.

“Friends, we may be snowbound in Essex tonight, but I’d like you all to imagine being to the north, in the county of Northumberland not far from the Abbey town of Hexham. There for a good number of years I worked as a shepherd for the great estate of Drakestone. ”

Ambrose continued,

“If you will permit me to recount this story, may I humbly request that you please do not interrupt me as I try and remember the events of that night, otherwise l will only lose my train of thought if questions are asked”

The group nodded their approval and Ambrose began, while deep within the Inn a clock struck eleven.

“I was younger back then and fastened to a landowner as an annual hireling shepherd. On the night in question, which happened to be the last night of December, I had walked over from Carterside Hall where I’d been for the day, a familiar walk which took me across the hills towards the only light for miles around coming from firelight within my isolated cottage overlooking the valley of Biddlestone. It was a fearsome night, though without snow, the wind blowing from the sea many miles away tugged at my heavy oiled cotton jacket and the coat of Meg my wire-coated terrier fizzled and skittered like grey fronds of bracken. At times those gusts pummelled both of us like the devil, momentarily checking our movements and making already slow progress awkward as the dusk intensified. To the west the last of the day was turning a deep azure over the woodlands of Bickerton Knowe.

In those days I was strong, with my entire life ahead of me. I had no cause to stop to think much about what was about to happen or what change lie ahead. I was simply walking home after a long day and longing to be by my fire which was always lit.

On we walked in almost pure darkness, a darkness which up in the Northumberland hills is deep and impenetrable. It envelopes the observer in both a disquieting and comforting way, the light from those billions of stars providing a traveller’s only guide to the world below, but looking ahead the traveller’s eyes register nothing but darkness. Those stars in such darkness are not white, they twinkle in a glorious range of colours, reds, orange, green, blue even.”

Taking a moment to recall these long forgotten events, Ambrose continued.

“At last I reached my cottage, my hand grasped the latch, it gave a familiar clunk as the door opened and I moved inside to rekindle the dampened fire. As the flames rose higher, the  firelight shone out over the fields from the doorway as I’d left the door ajar momentarily as Meg remained outside. My eyes were still adjusting from the dark but a soft whistle brought Meg scuttling indoors, tail wagging, heading for her usual place by the fire.

Closing the door and removing my outdoor clothes I poured a drink. Remarkably it  was not cold outside even though it was the last day in December. Unusual for up there. No Snow had been seen all winter.

Raking the fire once more, plumes of red cinders roared up the chimney like starlight and out into the night sky. I watched them scurry across the sky and away to the east, but in doing so I thought I saw a dark shape outlined in their way. A momentary image, an unrecognisable shape.  I quickly ignored what I’d seen and stretched my legs out, with Meg now lying with her muzzle over my feet watching me, her grey coat now tinged orange from the firelight.

I was devoted to that dog. Additional company was never craved, though true, if company found me at this remote cottage in the hills it was welcomed but we were content in our own company.

I gazed into the embers, my eyes registered nothing of interest, I saw nothing yet the notion came to me that in that fire, history was visible. And then I heard it. But what had I heard?

Meg’s eyes were alerted to the sound and though unmoved her eyes stared from the window and then back at me. There it was again, low, almost inaudible but most definitely it was music though where it came from and why I didn’t know, although it was moving closer.

Recognition of the tune made  the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. Then the wind abated suddenly. No more howling around the house, no more roaring through the trees, everything was silent, reminiscent of that silence achieved by moving into the lee of a house during a storm. Silent except the tune.

The tune floated like a whisper into the room, I now recognised it, Wild Hills O’Wannie, an old tune played on the small-pipes. It was familiar but it wasn't being played in a style I recognised. It was most puzzling to understand why up here on this remote hill I was hearing this tune. I stirred myself and rising from the chair walked to the door and as I opened it the tune faded away ushering in silence, but there on the hill stood the figure of a horseman. I looked closer and despite the distance what light coming from my fire was enough to see that only his eyes were visible, behind a black kerchief.”

Pausing once again Ambrose took some time to reflect and looked about the warm inviting coffee room of the Inn. Colonel Talbot and his company and the Inn keeper were listening intently while also transfixed on the flames in the fire of the room. Without raising his eyes from the fire, the Inn landlord pressed Ambrose to pray continue with the story.

“ As this was a lonely place, the arrival of a stranger on horseback was if nothing else unusual. However as I looked on, something motioned me to venture outside to meet this horseman on the hill. I gathered my coat and calling to Meg we set off up the hill. Within a few minutes I found myself close enough to speak”.

“Hail good friend, are you a traveller? “ I said.

At first there was no answer. I only saw his dark figure astride a black horse,  before realising next to him stood a strange man, a grey man, a tired man with dull eyes, eyes which spoke nothing.

Suddenly the dark figure spoke. “We are indeed on a journey, of sorts sir”.   

“I came upon this traveller a few miles back who is a-feared of this tempestuous gale,  could I prevail on you to assist me in finding nearby shelter for him? I don’t crave shelter for myself but my companion would benefit from some warmth and victuals.”

“To be sure, please, my cottage is but across the hill yonder, you can see the light from here and gladly would I offer you and your companion shelter.”

“I thank thee sir” the dark rider said and bending low to his companion gestured to a smaller horse which I had not seen in the darkness.

“Climb upon her now,  I’m sorry there is no saddle but we’ll be okay if you hold onto her neck until we can rest a while in this good man’s cottage.”

The pair moved off on horseback and soon they disappeared from sight as the darkness of the night enveloped them. I made as if to follow on behind but something checked me. 

Suddenly I felt alone in the world, alone, isolated and cold in a landscape I knew so well. Why above all did I feel so alone in this familiar landscape?

Try as I might my legs seemed rooted to the hill. Unable to move forward, myself and Meg were being buffeted by the wind but I felt isolated from the weather swirling around us. And then I felt pain,  pain like I’d never felt before. Not from anger, not from injury, but from a longing to know where I was and who this dark figure was with his strange companion.  I was becoming cold too, colder than I’d ever been, despite in the distance there seemed to be a gathering glow of a fire beginning to banish the darkness.

Something told me all was not well. With a tremendous effort I began to walk up the hill and back in the direction of my cottage. And then I heard the tune once more, faint but discernible in broken phrases as the wind moved the tune around the landscape. Somehow, hearing that tune again made me feel at ease, of course, surely the dark rider and his companion being on horseback had reached the cottage and were now relaxing as the rider played on his set of pipes.

I then heard a voice.

“Run man run …. Run…”

“Without question, like the wind I ran, my coat billowing behind me.  Like a fox my mind was sharp, my senses heightened as I crested the hill and could see down below my cottage, except it was no longer my cottage, but an inferno of flames casting shadow dancers over the night sky.

But the dark rider was quick, and he was onto me as I ran at speed towards him down the hill. Turning in his saddle the dark figure looked back towards me without moving, a perfect silhouette against the fire beyond. But there was no sign of the other man.  I kept on running, my lungs bursting with the effort of running in the darkness, but I was nearly home.

And then black. Black like no other I had ever experienced, inky black, enveloping and comforting. Where there had once been a fire, where my cottage stood, now there was nothing but darkness. Some way off a voice howled into the wind, howled out of that inky blackness, accompanied by the now familiar piper’s lament as it drifted towards me from some distance over the valley. I turned to listen in the direction the tune came from, as I did that haunting melody now began to fade away on its way to the sea.

One last lamentable note and then there was silence. Silence within a deserted landscape devoid of life. I realised I now found myself alone in that landscape though Meg remained close as she always did. No fire, no horseman, no tune, not even any wind. The gale had abated, stars shone brightly overhead and as my eyes became accustomed to the night around me I realised the form of my cottage loomed large next to me, silently awaiting my return. I entered and noticed how cold the cottage had become,  the fire had been extinguished for the first time since I’d moved in here. I lit a reed, but before relighting the fire my attention was caught by a raven’s feather lain across my fireside chair. Picking it up it felt warm as if it had only now drifted down from the bird itself.

I recall looking around, aside from the fire being now cold the cottage was exactly as I’d left it moments before. I relit the fire and as the sparks roared up the chimney I whistled for Meg who had remained outdoors. I heard her barking and growling at the doorway, but try as I might, Meg refused to enter the cottage, not on that night nor for the remaining years she and I worked at Drakestone.”

 

The Awakening : Postscript

With his story ended, Ambrose gathered his thoughts and looked up from the fire. The room at the King’s Head remained well lit, but Daniel Dench had gone, so too had Colonel Talbot and his companions. The coffee room remained warm and inviting, but Ambrose now found himself completely alone, not only alone but as if he was isolated from these comfortable surroundings.

Rising from the fire, his legs stiff with inactivity, Ambrose went to the window of the room and opened it quietly, this ushered in the heady aroma of the sea and sweet fresh air, and yet outside the street, while cloaked in snow, was deserted, not even a footprint was visible.

Turning and looking back into the room he noticed next to where he had been sitting a dark bird’s feather lay on the hearth, he picked it up, still warm as if it had just been dropped by the bird itself.  Despite the warmth in the room, Ambrose shivered. The Inn was quiet, eerily quiet.  The Royal Mail coach had gone, the ostlers had gone, the square was empty. The only movement now was that of whirling snowflakes as the storm returned once more.

“Boots, boots” he called, but no-one came.

He ventured into the once bustling passageway. Silence, all was silence save the slow tick of an unseen clock. Ambrose now felt cold even though the Inn was still warm and  inviting.

Then he heard a voice.

“Run man run …. Run…”

Returning to the coffee room he quickly found his hat and coat and headed out into the night. Half blinded by the blizzard now raging in the inky darkness, he didn’t know where to go but he knew he must leave.

Silently, but with his eyes focussed on the way ahead, he pulled his coat tightly round him and strode purposefully across the now empty square, moving into the wind and letting the landscape envelop him.

“Can you ride sir?”

The sound of muffled hooves filtered through the swirling snow. A single horse perhaps, no, wait, two horses, but just the one being ridden. Ambrose turned back towards the Inn, and there by the gallows pole he noticed two black birds perched quietly watching him, and below them he now saw a horseman dressed in black, his face obscured by a kerchief and a beaver hat. The rider sat astride a large black horse with his hand outstretched holding the bridle of a smaller black horse close by his side.

There was no need for a lantern now, this now quite familiar rider was  silhouetted against the light coming from the Inn. As if in a dream, Ambrose turned and walked towards the rider, and without him registering, from deep within the Inn could be heard the rhythmic tick-tock of a clock before then striking eleven as he reached the horse.

Ambrose felt for the bridle and using a mounting post by the Inn climbed onto Jackdaw’s warm but saddle-less back. In doing so his leg accidentally brushed the dark rider’s saddle bag from which an object fell out onto the snow.

Quickly dismounting and without explanation the dark rider retrieved a set of small-pipes before expertly mounting his horse again. Once settled the dark rider at last spoke.

“I’d be lost without those  …

Before adding,

“Not far now sir,  we’re almost at your journey’s end, … let me guide you safely… to your destination”