To the western end, by the second bridge, was a New Green, a parklike expanse of tall oaks that fronted another public house and inn, replete with stables and a budding row of new cottages around it-the upstart Red Swan Inn-it had only been there since Henry V's times, and in tiny Anglesgreen, one could ascertain a body's station in life by whether a person frequented the older, darker (and cheaper) old Ploughman, or rubbed elbows with the magistrate and squire's crowd at the Red Swan. Lewrie, knowing strangers were more welcome with the elite, headed for the Red Swan, and as they rode at a sedate walk up the High Street, villagers wagered, correctly, they'd not tie reins at the Ploughman.

Anglesgreen could be thoroughly boresome, Alan knew-he'd been there briefly once before in '84. But it was homey, a village so typically English with its stone buildings and fences, its hedgerows and garden plots, that anyone six months at sea would crave its peaceful boredom. The trees were tall, giving acres of shade. Ducks and swans swam the lazy stream in slow glides. Stocky fellows in homespun or a great house's castoffs fished from the bridges and banks, gamboled on the greens, strode about in boots and straw hats, or sat sipping their ales in front of the Ploughman, a solid and dependable yeomanry who paid their rents on time, worked their acres with diligence, both prayed and played with vigor, and formed the backbone of the nation.

There were smells of new thatch, of cooking and baking, of a load of wash being boiled, and the scorch of ironing and starch. Of new-brewed ale mellowing in barrels, and of cartloads of manure and animal fodder. Most especially, ale, Lewrie smiled to himself as he drew rein at last in front of the Red Swan.

There was a "daisy-kicker" there in a twinkling to take reins and lead the horses off for a drink and a rubdown, with the older ostler waiting hopefully by the stable doors to see if he might make money by putting them up for the night, or rent them a coach.