Nine Men Dancing

Eleven

I stayed another hour with the priest, both of us talking desultorily of this and that, but with our own secret thoughts running like undercurrents in the stream of idle chatter. I can’t, of course, vouch for what was going through Sir Anselm’s mind, but I recall that he seemed a little abstracted, asking questions at random and barely listening to the answers. For my part, I was concerned with how much he might know and how much danger such knowledge might put him in. On the other hand, I had no proof that he knew anything at all. I had convinced myself purely on instinct that he did.

‘You and your instinct!’ Adela would often mock me, at the same time entwining her arms lovingly around my neck in order to rob her words of their sting. ‘It’s just another name for drawing your bow at a venture.’

Perhaps she was right. In this case I was afraid that she might well be.

As I downed a further draft of ale, trying unsuccessfully to banish the after-taste of Sir Anselm’s fish stew, I was forced to admit that, so far, I had no firm idea as to what had happened to Eris Lilywhite, except for an unshakeable belief that she had not run away. Yet there again, there was no evidence to support this conviction apart from the general agreement concerning her character, and an equally general belief that she would never have abandoned her plan to become mistress of Dragonswick Farm. Most of the people I had spoken to were persuaded, either openly or covertly, that she had been killed. And that Tom Rawbone was her murderer.

But there were others who had been out and about that night who had had similarly compelling reasons for wanting Eris dead. It was high time, therefore, that I questioned members of the Rawbone family besides Dame Jacquetta.

I fancy the priest was relieved when I decided it was time to take my leave, even if Hercules was not. (He had made a warm and cosy bed in the rushes beneath the table and was indignant at being disturbed.) Sir Anselm cheerfully waved us off, before returning inside and closing his door.

It was nearly noon, judging by the position of the weak and watery sun high above the rooftops. A keen wind, that had arisen while I was in the priest’s house, was blowing along the village street in a whirlpool of dust and scraps of food and household rubbish. Some shreds of rag wrapped themselves around my boots and had to be disentangled before I could proceed.

But proceed where? I could hardly call at Dragonswick Farm and demand to question its occupants, even presuming any of the men were at home. The women would be there, of course. Dame Jacquetta, Petronelle and Elvina Merryman were unlikely to be abroad in the cold of a February afternoon, but I had no excuse to return. Neither Ned’s wife nor the housekeeper had evinced any interest in buying from my pack, and the oldest of the three had already done so. Moreover, Jacquetta had told me all she knew – or, rather, all that she intended to tell me. (And a night’s reflection could well have convinced her that she had confided far too much in a stranger.)

A glance in the direction of the mill informed me that the water-wheel was turning, and even from where I was standing, I could hear the clatter of the millstones. Lambert Miller was evidently hard at work and therefore not pursuing his courtship of the Fair Rosamund. So I turned my feet towards the Roman Sandal.

There were very few villagers in the alehouse at that time of day, but neither was there any sign of my quarry, only her father, who was busy broaching a new cask of ale. All traces of the previous night’s game of Nine Men’s Morris had vanished, the floor being strewn with fresh rushes and the table and benches back in their accustomed places in the centre of the room.

I recognized one of the two men sitting at the end of the trestle furthest from the fire as Ned Rawbone, deep in conversation with the second man, whose more fashionably cut clothes suggested a city dweller. And indeed, as I passed them I heard Ned say, ‘Fourteen marks the sack, not a penny less. That’s the market price for best Cotswold wool. You won’t get it cheaper anywhere. That’s two weys or three hundred and sixty-four pounds to a sack. Standard weight.’

A buyer, I guessed, from either Gloucester or Bristol, checking up on what he would have to pay for wool come June and the sheep-shearing season. I didn’t doubt that Ned Rawbone would drive a hard bargain. I saw the man called Rob Pomphrey downing a lonely cup of ale in one corner, but there was no one else among the scatter of early afternoon drinkers whom I knew.

I approached William Bush, tapping him on the shoulder as he stooped over the cask and making him jump.

‘Oh, it’s you, chapman.’ He did not sound best pleased. ‘What do you want?’

‘I was hoping to have a word or two with Mistress Rosamund,’ I said.

‘She’s gone out.’ He bent once more to his task. ‘Someone came with a message for her while we were having our dinner. And it’s no good asking me where she’s gone.’ His tone grew peevish. ‘My womenfolk never tell me anything.’

I nodded sympathetically. I knew what he meant. I was familiar with the sudden silence that descended whenever I entered a room where my wife and former mother-in-law were talking, heads conspiratorially together, either planning my future for me or ‘protecting’ me from things they considered it would be better for me not to know. And I could imagine only too well what it would be like when my daughter was also of an age to deceive me – entirely for my own good, of course! (Fears, I may say, that over the years have proved depressingly well founded.)

‘You don’t know where she’s gone, then?’ I asked unnecessarily.

The landlord straightened up again with a painful jerk and pressed a hand to the small of his back.

‘I’ve just told you …’ he was beginning fretfully, but was interrupted by his wife, who had come into the alehouse without either of us noticing.

‘She’s gone to meet Tom Rawbone,’ Mistress Bush announced with a worried frown. ‘I had my suspicions when she refused to say who’d sent the message, so after dinner I made it my business to seek out young Billy Tyrrell, who brought it. Fortunately, the message was by word of mouth, so he knew what it said, as well as the name of the sender.’

‘And what did it say?’ William Bush and I demanded almost in unison.

Mistress Bush’s imposing bosom swelled to even ampler proportions.

‘Tom Rawbone asked Rosamund to meet him in Upper Brockhurst woods, by the Brothers’ Well as soon as she could. He would wait for her there until she came. He begged her not to fail him.’

‘And are you telling me she went?’ William Bush was incredulous. ‘But why? She hates him.’

Mistress Bush looked witheringly at her husband, or as witheringly as her fear and distress allowed.

‘Of course, she doesn’t hate him! She’s still madly in love with him, as anyone with two eyes can see. Well, any woman,’ she amended scornfully. ‘I sometimes think men can’t see what’s in front of their noses.’

‘But … But after the way he treated her?’ The landlord, poor, simple soul, was still struggling to make sense of it all. He shook his head sadly, uttering the time-worn cry, ‘I’ll never understand women!’

For the second time, my heart went out to him. Fellow feeling made me pat his shoulder.

‘Never mind that!’ Mistress Bush exclaimed impatiently. ‘You must go after her, William! I don’t know how long she’s been gone, but if you hurry you may be able to find her before any harm befalls her.’ She added furiously, as her husband stared stupidly at her, ‘For goodness’ sake, man! Tom Rawbone is most probably a murderer!’

There was the thump of feet as Ned got up and strode the length of the table, his handsome face suffused with blood. Nevertheless, when he spoke it was with restraint, something I guessed to be habitual with him.

‘I should prefer it, hostess, if you wouldn’t accuse my brother of a crime that we don’t even know has been committed. Mistress Rosamund will come to no harm with Tom. Forgive me, but I couldn’t avoid overhearing your conversation.’

Mistress Bush ignored him. ‘William!’ she cried, and there was now an edge of hysteria to her tone. ‘Go after Rosamund! Now! At once! She mustn’t be left alone with that man!’

‘Let me go,’ I offered. ‘My legs are longer than Master Bush’s. I don’t doubt,’ I added, turning placatingly towards Ned, ‘that Mistress Rosamund is perfectly safe with your brother, but in the circumstances, it might be as well to make certain.’

‘Yes, yes! You go ahead, chapman!’ William Bush urged. ‘I’ll follow. But you’ll go faster than I can.’

Ned Rawbone looked displeased. ‘I think you’re making a mistake. I suspect your daughter won’t thank you for your interference.’

I had little doubt that Ned was right. If this meeting proved to be nothing more sinister than a lovers’ tryst, the Fair Rosamund would react furiously to any interruption. But with the suspicion of murder still clinging like an invisible cloak about her former lover, I, for one, was not prepared to take any chances.

As I strode uphill with Hercules, now fully awake and ready for any adventure, trotting happily at my heels, I tried to calculate how long Rosamund had already been gone. William Bush had said that she received the message while they were at dinner. It was now past noon, so that would have been nearly two hours ago. However, the landlord had given no indication that his daughter had rushed away immediately, so I presumed Rosamund must have finished her meal first. Had she then given the message some thought before making up her mind to meet Tom, as he had requested? But even if that were so, she must still have been gone an hour at the very least. Probably longer. Why hadn’t I thought to quiz Winifred Bush more closely? Sometimes I acted too impulsively, was too lax with my enquiries. It’s a fault I’ve mentioned before, and one that’s dogged me all my life (even now when I’m old).

Not that the length of time Rosamund had been absent was really important. Injury and death can strike a person down in seconds, with help almost at hand. I could only pray that if any danger did threaten her, I should not be too late to prevent it.

I followed the course of the Draco, to the woods cresting the Upper Brockhurst ridge. I saw both Theresa and Maud in the distance, as I passed the Lilywhite smallholding, and, further up the slope, I could just make out Billy Tyrrell, minding his flock. But there was no other sign of life at Dragonswick Farm. To my right, the stream glinted silver in the winter sunshine, then disappeared from sight as I plunged beneath the grey, overhanging canopy of the trees. The desolate woodland had a certain fugitive loveliness all of its own, but I was too preoccupied with Rosamund’s fate to stop and appreciate it.

Just before turning towards the now familiar path leading to the remains of Upper Brockhurst Hall, I glanced back over my shoulder into the valley below. A frieze of goblin figures, heads down, bodies hunched against the driving wind, was immediately recognizable. Just beginning to ascend the pasture from the village were three men, the first of whom, striding purposefully ahead of the others, was undoubtedly Lambert Miller. The two behind, in dogged pursuit, had to be Ned Rawbone and William Bush.

I cursed. What, in God’s name, had possessed the landlord to enlist the help of the miller? He must be aware of Lambert’s feelings for his daughter and of the latter’s reaction to any attempt by Tom Rawbone to worm his way back into Rosamund’s affection. And if this were, indeed, the purpose of this meeting, then Tom stood a fair chance of receiving yet another beating at the hands of his pugnacious rival.

I called loudly and insistently, ‘Mistress Rosamund! Master Rawbone!’

There was no answering cry, only the echo of my voice among the trees and the dismal cawing of rooks.

They were not at the Brothers’ Well, the meeting place named in Tom’s message. But that meant nothing, I told myself. It was a cold day and they had probably decided to take a walk as a means of keeping warm. But in which direction had they gone? I stared around, while Hercules, sensing my uneasiness, ceased hunting for rabbits and came to sit at my feet, staring up at me with a puzzled look on his doggy features.

I shouted again. ‘Tom Rawbone! Mistress Rosamund!’ But still there was no reply.

Think, I ordered myself. They were hardly likely, in that weather, to have wandered into the long grasses and undergrowth that shrouded the ruins of Upper Brockhurst Hall: not unless, whispered that inexorable voice of doom at the back of my mind, Tom’s intentions had been malign. But I decided to ignore this suspicion: I must assume Tom’s innocence until it was proven otherwise. Therefore, the only way they were likely to have gone was along the overgrown track leading to the old, ruined village, the track I had accidentally stumbled across when I had lost my way the day before yesterday (a time that already seemed remote, so much had happened between then and now).

I moved forward along the path, and almost immediately found myself, yet again, thinking of those two men, dead for a hundred and thirty years, homeward bound in happy anticipation of seeing wives and children after a prolonged absence, only to meet Death, with his empty eye sockets and leering grin, barring their way. They haunted me, that pair, and I didn’t know why; except that, for some obscure reason, I felt them to have a connection with the disappearance of Eris Lilywhite. I accepted that the feeling was unfounded, but I was unable to shake it off. And in the eerie silence all around me, I was suddenly disorientated, seemingly transported back to another place and time, unsure of where or who I was …

‘Chapman! Fancy meeting you here!’

I was back in the present, as if pulled by an invisible thread, and saw Rosamund, walking towards me, picking her dainty way along the muddy and overgrown path. Behind her was Tom Rawbone. I breathed a sigh of relief.

‘Mistress!’ I said, but making no attempt to move aside as she approached. ‘Master Rawbone.’

Rosamund stopped in front of me. Her pretty face, framed by the hood of her grey woollen cloak, glowed from the bite of the wind and the coldness of the air – and possibly from some other reason, too. I couldn’t be certain, and there was nothing to be gleaned from Tom Rawbone’s expression; but to me, he didn’t have the hangdog look of a man who had been repulsed too severely.

‘Are you going to let us pass?’ Rosamund asked sweetly, but with just a touch of acerbity in her tone.

‘In a moment,’ I answered. ‘But you’d do well to listen to what I have to say, first.’

Her swain – if that’s indeed what he was – took a step forward to stand beside her.

‘Move aside, chapman. This is no concern of yours.’

I ignored him and addressed myself to Rosamund.

‘Mistress, your father and Lambert Miller are not far behind me. Your brother, also, Master Rawbone.’

‘How … How did they know where to find us?’ Rosamund stammered. ‘And who invited Lambert to poke his nose in?’

I explained the circumstances as briefly as possible (although without being able to account for the miller’s presence), aware that it could not be much longer before the three men caught up with us. I finished by looking pointedly at Tom’s bruised and battered face. ‘If you don’t want yet another beating, Master, you’ll take my advice and make a run for it while you can. Do you know of any other way down from this ridge?’

Just for a second, I saw his eyes flicker shiftily from side to side. But, to his credit, Tom wasn’t prepared to act the coward in front of his lady, in spite of Rosamund adding her entreaties to mine.

‘For mercy’s sake, go!’ she exclaimed, giving him a little push. ‘Go on! Before they get here! You’ve suffered enough in the last two days. You’ll be nothing but a jelly if Lambert sets about you again.’

It was, of course, the worst argument she could have used. Perhaps she knew that. Perhaps she was testing him. You can never tell with women.

‘I’m not afraid of Lambert Miller!’ Tom said with, I suspected, more bravado than truth. Nevertheless, he was determined to stand his ground, declining to budge when Rosamund gave him another exasperated shove. ‘If you’ll let us pass, chapman, we’ll be on our way.’

I could see it was useless to argue with him further and stepped aside into the long grass that bordered the track. Now it was Rosamund who refused to move, her body shielding Tom’s, but he simply stepped around her, skilfully avoiding her detaining hands, and walked rapidly and determinedly ahead. Rosamund ran after him, almost tripping over the hem of her cloak in her agitation. I followed with Hercules nipping in and out of all our legs and threatening to bring at least one of us down.

We reached the clearing that had been the courtyard of Upper Brockhurst Hall, and there, beside the well, Tom slowed to a halt.

‘I’ll wait for them here,’ he said.

‘For pity’s sake, get in amongst the trees,’ I urged him. ‘A man can’t swing either a stick or his fists effectively when he’s hampered by trunks and branches.’ I offered him my own cudgel. ‘Take this! I’m assuming you know how to use it.’

‘Of course, I know to use it!’ He was indignant. ‘But I don’t want it. I’ve done nothing wrong, as Rosamund will testify.’ She gave him an odd look, grim and white-faced. Tom went on violently, ‘I’m sick and tired of defending myself against accusations that aren’t true. The only thing I’ve been guilty of is the crass stupidity of ever believing myself in love with Eris Lilywhite. But that’s nobody’s concern except mine and Rosamund’s. It has nothing to do with Lambert Miller!’

‘What has nothing to do with me?’ Lambert demanded, bursting into the clearing, panting heavily and red in the face from the exertion of running uphill. He paused for a moment to get his second wind, then lifted his stick and took a swipe at Tom Rawbone, which the latter dodged easily. It would be a minute or two before the miller recovered himself sufficiently to pose any real threat.

‘Stop it, Lambert! Stop it at once!’ Rosamund, hands clenched, stepped between her warring swains. ‘I agreed to meet Tom to listen to what he had to say. This has nothing to do with you!’

I doubt if the miller even heard her. He simply reached out and pushed her to one side as easily as if she had been a feather, before raising his cudgel again. This time, his aim was truer, but not by much, and he caught his rival a glancing blow on his left arm. Enraged by this lack of success, Lambert seized the stick with both hands and swung it straight at Tom’s head. Had I not moved almost instinctively to parry the stroke, it might well have cracked his opponent’s skull wide open.

With a furious roar, the miller turned on me, playing dirty and lowering his stick to strike me a wicked blow across both legs; a blow which knocked me off my feet and left me rubbing my shins in agony. He now had Tom at his mercy, but that was the last thing he intended to show. He dealt him a buffet that felled Tom, then started belabouring him about the head and body just as, by God’s good grace, Ned Rawbone and William Bush arrived on the scene. They took in the situation at a glance and threw themselves at the miller – the landlord, with a bravery and agility I wouldn’t have expected of him, jumping on Lambert’s back, while Ned stooped and grasped his brother’s assailant around the knees, tripping him up. The fact that Lambert and William Bush then toppled, with a sickening thud, on top of Tom Rawbone, in no wise detracted from Ned’s resourcefulness; not, at least, in my opinion. It was the lesser of two evils.

Tom, however, was disinclined to see it that way, and dragged himself to his feet, cursing his brother and the miller in equal measure. Lambert, too, was yelling and swearing as he tried vainly to free himself from the restraining clutches of William Bush. I had by now recovered sufficiently to assist by sitting firmly on the miller’s chest while Ned straddled his feet. As for Rosamund, she was standing a little apart, looking down her nose and surveying us all as if we were a bad smell that had just come to her attention. Then, in scathing accents, she uttered the one word ‘Men!’ before stomping off through the trees, obviously washing her hands of the lot of us. A very sensible young woman.

With her departure, we picked ourselves up and sorted ourselves out. William Bush hurried after his daughter, anxiously calling her name. The two protagonists, with no one to impress, contented themselves with glaring and snarling at one another.

‘Leave Mistress Rosamund alone in future,’ Lambert warned Tom between clenched teeth. ‘Or you’ll get more of the same.’

Tom rubbed at various batches of new bruises – I could guess at them, even if I couldn’t see them – and glared at his rival for a moment or two without responding. Then he said in a low tone, charged with menace, ‘You’ll be sorry for this, Miller. It’s the second time in as many days that you’ve attacked me. I’ll get my own back, just you see if I don’t!’

Lambert sneered. ‘Do you think I’m afraid of you and your threats? Just remember what I’ve told you. Leave Rosamund alone, if you value your hide. Next time, you might not have your bodyguard with you.’

He didn’t wait for Tom’s reply, but set off after Rosamund and her father, hoping, I supposed, to catch them up. But if he was expecting the lady’s thanks for rescuing her, I felt sure he was doomed to disappointment.

I whistled for Hercules, who had been cowering in the long grass during the recent pleasantries, and now came crawling warily out from his hiding place, sizing up the situation before running to greet me, wagging his stump of a tail. I picked him up and looked into his eyes.

‘Where were you when I needed you?’ I reproached him. ‘You could have sunk your teeth into the miller for me again.’ But he wasn’t a fool, that dog: he knew when the odds were stacked against him.

A sudden flurry of movement, seen out of the corner of one eye, made me turn, just in time to help Ned Rawbone catch his brother’s sagging form. Three beatings in three days had finally proved too much for Tom and, for a few seconds, he had almost lost consciousness.

He recovered a little, but it was plain that he would need assistance to get home. He was leaning heavily on Ned, who had one arm around his brother’s waist and the other supporting Tom’s left elbow. They were strong men, these Rawbones, and it never really occurred to me that Ned couldn’t manage on his own, even on the difficult downhill slope to Dragonswick Farm. But I saw an opportunity that I could not afford to miss. I put a steadying hand beneath Tom’s other elbow.

‘Let me help,’ I offered. ‘He may pass out again and he’s no light weight.’

Somewhat to my surprise, for I had anticipated opposition, the elder Rawbone nodded.

‘Very well,’ Ned agreed. I judged him to be a naturally taciturn man, and so was surprised, after we had gone a hundred yards or so along the path, when he burst into a low-voiced tirade against his brother. ‘The boy’s a bloody fool! He’s made an ass of himself once over Eris Lilywhite, now he’s making a bigger fool of himself trying to win back Rosamund Bush. And threatening Lambert Miller like that! In front of witnesses, too!’

‘Is he likely to do what he threatened?’ I asked, taking my cue from the elder Rawbone; ignoring the semi-conscious figure between us and talking over Tom’s head. ‘I should have thought he’d had enough punishment these past three days.’

‘Oh, he’s quite capable!’ Ned snorted disgustedly. ‘He’s been a hothead all his life. Father and I will just have to keep a close watch on him, that’s all.’

He lapsed into silence, which lasted until we finally arrived at the farm. As I released my share of the burden, I was afraid that that might be the end of it; that I would be dismissed with a curt nod of thanks. But perhaps something in the way I stooped to rub my bruised shins, where Lambert had hit me, and also in the way I shivered and huddled into my cloak, convinced Ned that I was in need of refreshment.

‘You’d better come inside,’ he said grudgingly. ‘You look as though you could do with a cup of ale or a mazer of wine.’

I didn’t wait for a second invitation.