Wheel of Fate

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I have heard it said that when you are first apprised of some great, earth-shaking event, ever afterwards you can remember exactly where you were and what you were doing at the time. And I suppose it says something about the general bathos of my life that when I received the first intimations of the death of King Edward IV, I was coming out of the public latrine on Bristol Bridge.

I had spent the previous weeks happily peddling my goods among the villages and hamlets of north Somerset, revelling in the periods of solitude, enjoying the gossip of cottage and hall and the exchange of views with fellow travellers whom I met on the road. I had seen sunsets and sunrises, meadows knee-high in early morning mist, felt the rain on my face, the sun on my back, and watched the gradual greening of trees and hedgerows as March slid into April. And, above all, especially after the restrictions and restraints imposed on me during the previous year, I had known the bliss of being my own man again and the unfettered pleasures of perfect freedom. Now, I was on my way home, refreshed in mind and body, to Adela and the children. I imagined how their faces would light up at the sight of me, and could hear their welcoming, ecstatic cries of ‘What have you brought us?’.

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