The Seventeenth and Eighteenth Century Turnpikes and the Posting Inns
are scattered all across the County; many tales... where to begin?
Perhaps, to paint a picture of the countryside, to show just why
so many Blackguards, Highwaymen and Footpads there, in wait, did lie.
Compassing round Gloucester Vale, the Cotswold Scarp that reaches steep
up to the High Wolds would confound the Mails... their schedules to keep;
and as the horses struggled up the hills; at length, the Wolds to see...
The Highwaymen would fall on them, to pillage with impunity.
There were five major Mail Coach routes across the County in those days.
The Bristol-Oxford-London route was favourite, in many ways;
the long climb out, up Dowdeswell Hill... three miles of twisting, shadowy lane;
then on to Shipton Bank... yet two more miles of sweating, tiring strain.
On into Compton Parish where, God speed... soon into sight, would come...
Puesdown; for a change of horses, and a rest for everyone.
The Puesdown Inn... a lonely refuge on the road to London Town;
crouching four-square on the High Wolds... sturdy built, of honeyed stone.
The Mail Coach had departed Bristol early, in the morning light,
but, by the time that they accomplished Puesdown... slowly crept the night
upon them... whilst the Postern loaded Blunderbuss decisively,
the travellers watched in trepidation, wondering what their fate would be.
Next morn, they need cross Compton Bottom... on up then, to Hangman's Stone
where stood the Parish Gibbet... and this Gibbet never stood alone
Always, someone neck-roped there; soft tinkling in the wind... their chains;
perhaps, some plough-boy blinded by the promise of ill-gotten gains.
Perhaps, some Highwayman whose luck ran out... as luck is bound to do.
Perhaps, some Footpad who slit one too many throats... for shillings, few.
Perhaps, some Blackguard who, not waiting for consent... despoiled some maid;
But, not as yet...The Duke; the Highwayman of whom, all were afraid.
The Duke... he prowled the Oxford road from Shipton Bank to Windrush Pike;
he gave no quarter to his prey... much like an Adder swiftly strikes.
The merest hint of least resistance, and his pistols... they would speak,
cutting down those who would dare gainsay the plunder he did seek.
Until, one night, he overplayed his hand whilst holding up The Mail.
A storm-swept, snow-blown wintering night... the night his pistol primings failed.
Calling them "Stand and Deliver"... firing, as they swift retired;
both pistols flashing in the pan... loads not discharging... both misfired!
Swift-wheeling round his mount to flee... the Postern did discharge a ball;
clatteringly, The Duke sped down the icy road... he did not fall.
Had they hit him? No-one knew; at Puesdown, though... they knew the score;
The Duke, swift bleeding from the chest, leaned, beating on the Taproom door.
But, they would not bid him enter... casements locked... doors barred, all sound.
Without the Inn... an hour or more, they say he dragged himself around,
dripping blood; beseeching mercy...a thing, his victims he denied.
They found him in the yard, next morn. Alone out there, he froze... and died.
The Parish Constables then bundled him off, up to Hangman's Stone,
and hoisted him upon the Gibbet... fettered, chained, to swing alone.
A grim, and awful warning to dissuade those culls, who thought to stray
into a life of easy pickings... robbing on the King's Highway.
The Road to Oxford long-since changed; a bypass now skirts Northleach Town.
The Puesdown Inn still stands four-square... still sturdy built, of honeyed stone.
The old road now has little use... odd courting couples... local folk;
but in the Hamlets there are stories; whispers... words not often spoke,
about strange things out on that ancient Coaching road near Hangman's Stone.
They say it's not a place to linger in the night... 'nor be alone.
They say The Duke still prowls this place, still seeking vengeance for his fate;
They say that if you hear the clattering hooves... then, for you... it's too late.
And, at The Puesdown Inn, they say, some guests hear bangings on the door
of what was once, the Taproom... perhaps, just the wind? No-one is sure.
They say you may hear footsteps dragging round, and round those Honeyed walls...
and rattlings on the casements... and soft groaning... but, what then, the cause?
For Puesdown is an Ancient Inn; its timbered beams all tired and worn;
they creak and groan as they cool in the night... was thus, a legend born?
Is it just wind out in the trees; soft whimpering on the Wolds, so high?
Or... is it, indeed, The Duke... still seeking somewhere warm to die?
Another Narrative, based on a Gloucestershire Legend and Folk-tale.
