Nine Men Dancing

Fourteen

Nathaniel’s voice carried clearly, even to those on the perimeter of the crowd. There was a momentary faltering, a decrease in sound that died away to almost nothing – only to rise again in frustrated fury as the farmer’s words sank in.

Elder Hemnall lifted a hand, while his companion, Elder Sewter, took a warning step in the direction of the villagers, who showed every tendency to surge forward and storm the house.

‘’E’s lying!’ someone shouted. ‘I’ll wager Tom’s in there somewhere. Friends, don’t let yourselves be hoodwinked!’

There was an angry murmur like a swarm of bees, and a concerted, threatening movement towards the Rawbones, where they stood, cudgels at the ready. But Elder Sewter remained firmly in the path of the ringleaders – Rob Pomphrey and his fellow shepherds – forcing them to halt.

‘Master Hemnall and I will search the farmhouse in an orderly fashion,’ he decreed. ‘The chapman and Landlord Bush, here, will accompany us and bear witness to our efforts. If it proves true that Tom Rawbone is not within, then, and only then, will a posse be formed to go after him.’ He turned to me, lowering his voice and shrugging. ‘Although how we’re to know which direction he’s ridden in, the Virgin alone can tell us. For the Rawbones most certainly won’t.’ He gave me a quirky, but friendly smile.

I warmed to Colin Sewter. On closer acquaintance, he was less austere than he appeared at first sight. He beckoned to William Bush, who was still in some distress after struggling uphill with three stout cudgels, two of which he had handed to the elders. The third he had kept for himself, but he looked uncomfortable and was plainly reluctant to use it. I decided that the landlord was essentially a man of peace, dedicated to rubbing along with all his neighbours. And I was suddenly seized by the conviction that he was not Eris Lilywhite’s killer, however upset he might have been on behalf of his daughter. I felt sure that I could safely eliminate him from my roll of suspects.

The Rawbone women were in the great hall, bunched together in an an angry and frightened little group. They greeted Nathaniel’s reappearance with cries of, ‘What’s happening?’ ‘What’s going on?’

Jacquetta was the first to notice Master Bush, the two elders and myself. ‘What are they doing here?’ she demanded.

‘They’re looking for Tom,’ Ned informed her wearily. ‘We’ve explained that he’s gone, but Elder Hemnall and Elder Sewter insist on searching for themselves. The landlord and the chapman have been brought along to see fair play.’

‘Fair play, my arse!’ Nathaniel roared, causing his daughter-in-law to wince. ‘Tom had nothing to do with this attack on Lambert Miller. He gave me his word.’

‘Then why,’ asked Elder Hemnall reasonably, ‘has he run away?’

‘And how did he know about it?’ Elder Sewter added.

At this last question, I saw Ned glance warningly at his father. He obviously wished to keep Maud Lilywhite’s name out of the matter if he could.

‘Know of it? Know of it? How does anyone know of anything in this benighted place?’ Nathaniel blustered. ‘Gossip travels on the wind … Billy Tyrrell probably brought the news. As for why my son ran away, what do you expect, with the whole village taking the miller’s part and baying for Tom’s blood?’

‘It wasn’t so much Lambert Miller’s beating that incensed them,’ I cut in. ‘It was the attack on the priest.’

‘Sir Anselm?’ Ned looked startled and hushed his father with a wave of his hand. ‘Are you saying that Sir Anselm has also been attacked?’

‘Beaten unconscious,’ Elder Hemnall confirmed grimly. ‘And for all we know at present, likely to die from his injuries.’

There was a horrified silence while the Rawbones, men and women, looked uneasily at one another. Petronelle drew a deep, shuddering breath and slipped a hand into one of her husband’s. Dame Jacquetta sat down suddenly in her chair as though her legs would no longer support her. Elvina Merryman put her fingers to her mouth like a child. Only Nathaniel and the twins seemed unaffected by the information.

‘It still has nothing to do with Tom!’ the old man exclaimed defiantly. ‘Creeping around in the middle of the night, breaking into people’s homes, attacking defenceless men, that’s not Tom’s way of doing things, and you all know it. If he’s a bone to pick with someone, he’ll challenge ’em face to face and fight it out like a man, not behave like some chicken-livered coward.’

From the little I had seen of his younger son, I was inclined to agree with him, but felt it was hardly my place to say so. Nor, I guessed, would Nathaniel appreciate my championing him. I therefore maintained a diplomatic silence.

‘Let the elders get on and search the house, Father,’ Ned advised. ‘The sooner they satisfy themselves that Tom’s not here, the sooner they’ll leave. And the quicker we’ll be rid of that mob outside.’

I could see that it was on the tip of the old man’s tongue to argue the point, but in the end, common sense prevailed.

‘All right,’ he conceded grudgingly, but shook a warning fist in our direction. ‘Just don’t go poking your noses into anything that ain’t your business. Are you listening? You’re looking for Tom, nothing and no one else. You won’t find him, of course, ’cos he ain’t here. However, if you want to waste your time, that’s your affair and don’t make any difference to me.’

William Bush and I – the former very reluctantly – followed the two elders from the hall and spent the next hour subjecting the farmhouse to a thorough scrutiny. We opened chests, peered into cupboards, searched under beds, went up and down stairs until our legs ached and, finally, provoked Ruth’s fury when we descended in a body on the kitchen and interrupted her pastry-making. But we found no sign of Tom Rawbone. Speaking for myself, I had not expected to. Nor, I think, had the others.

As we left the kitchen, I suddenly realized that we had forgotten the existence of the cellar: the building’s original undercroft that some previous Rawbone had had walled in. I hesitated, wondering if I should mention our oversight, then decided against it. I was tired of this fool’s errand we were on, all to satisfy a parcel of village hotheads who were simply looking for an excuse to indulge their baser instincts and ransack the house. I was convinced Tom wasn’t there.

We re-entered the great hall, a somewhat shamefaced little band, hot, dusty and dishevelled. Elder Hemnall, at his most urbane, admitted that we had failed to discover Tom or, indeed, anything at all to connect him to the crime.

‘So, at the moment, it remains Lambert Miller’s word against your son’s, Nathaniel,’ Elder Sewter added. ‘Mind you, it will also depend on what Sir Anselm has to say when he recovers consciousness. If he does, that is.’

‘Right!’ Ned exclaimed, rubbing his hands, relief, if only temporary, making him expansive. ‘You’ll have a beaker of wine with us then, friends, before you leave? I’ll fetch up another bottle from the cellar.’

He’d done it! He’d said the word! I cursed him silently, but the damage was done.

‘Cellar! Colin, we forgot the cellar!’ Elder Hemnall clapped one hand to his forehead while, with the other, he seized Elder Sewter’s arm. ‘Come along! You, too, William. And you Master Chapman. Let’s get this over with before we have that wine.’

Ned’s expression told me that he wished he’d bitten out his tongue before uttering that unfortunate remark. If only he’d realized that we had forgotten about the cellar …! Nevertheless, he did not appear unduly worried, just angry with himself that he’d given us the opportunity to poke about still further among the family belongings. He knew we wouldn’t find his brother.

‘I’ll come with you,’ he said, ‘and fetch up the wine at the same time. The trapdoor is difficult to lift.’

Ned moved ahead of us, out of the hall and along the corridor, before either of the elders could object to his presence. He lifted the flagstone with practised ease, descended a few steps, paused to strike flint on tinder and lit a candle. Holding its flame high, he directed us where best to place our feet on the worn treads, expressing his concern lest one of the three older men should slip and fall. He evidently considered that I was able to take care of myself.

I could see by the flickering candlelight that my companions were somewhat daunted by the cellar’s clutter, but it was unlikely that anyone was hiding there: there was insufficient cover. The piles of logs, the abandoned household goods and furniture were not stacked high enough, and were too scattered, to conceal a much smaller person than Tom Rawbone.

‘Well, sirs, my brother’s not here, as you can see for yourselves,’ Ned said after a few minutes’ half-hearted poking around on our part. As he selected a bottle of wine from the line standing against the inner wall, he was quietly triumphant. ‘Shall we go?’

But even as we turned to climb the steps again, Elder Hemnall made a sudden pounce on something that had become entangled on the toe of Ned’s boot. When he straightened up, a hand pressed to the small of his back, he displayed his trophy.

It took us all a moment or two to recognize what he had found, but once we had done so, it was unmistakable. It was a grey woollen hood with shoulder-cape and liripipe; a perfectly ordinary hood – except that two slits had been cut in the back of it just about where a person’s eyes would be if, for some perverse reason, it was worn back to front.

Nathaniel resolutely refused to accept the discovery as a token of Tom’s guilt.

‘You brought that hood with you,’ he accused the two elders, ‘and dropped it on Ned’s foot when you were in the cellar.’

Elder Hemnall was affronted by this slur on his probity.

‘Don’t talk such bloody nonsense, Nat! If that were the case, we’d have “found” it an hour ago, when we first began searching the house, and saved ourselves a deal of trouble. Now! Be sensible and tell us where Tom’s gone. Which direction has he ridden in?’

‘He didn’t tell us, and we didn’t ask,’ Ned answered shortly. ‘If he’s any sense, he’ll have headed for the Welsh border. But that’s not to say he’s done so.’

I decided it was time for me to add my mite to the discussion.

‘Finding the hood,’ I pointed out, ‘doesn’t necessarily mean that Tom was the wearer. It could have been worn by any other member of this household.’ I glanced at Nathaniel and the twins and then at Ned.

‘It’s Uncle Tom’s hood,’ Jocelyn Rawbone declared flatly. ‘I’ve seen it on him many times. Only yesterday, in fact.’

‘Hold your tongue, Josh!’ Ned barked at him. ‘And that goes for you, too, chapman, if you know what’s good for you. I agree with my father. The hood proves nothing. It could be anyone’s.’

Petronelle rounded angrily on her husband and father-in-law.

‘Stop trying to protect Tom, both of you. He’s not worth it. He’s brought this trouble on himself. That’s his hood and you know it. There’s the rip in the cape where he caught it on some brambles when he was rescuing one of the sheep last month.’ Nathaniel would have interrupted her, but she shouted at him, ‘I won’t have Ned or the twins made scapegoats for Tom. I don’t know why you bother. You and he have never liked one another.’

‘That may be so,’ Nathaniel hissed, ‘but we Rawbones stand together in times like these, so be quiet, woman! If you were my wife, I’d give you a damn good thrashing!’

‘You old lecher!’ Petronelle screamed at him, making claws of her hands and looking as though she might gouge out his eyes at any moment. ‘This is all your fault! You’re worse than Tom! Lusting after a girl young enough to be your granddaughter!’

She collapsed on to a stool, sobbing. The housekeeper hurried over, throwing her arms around Petronelle and rocking her gently.

‘Hush, my dear! Hush! No need to upset yourself.’ She added viciously, ‘That nasty little trollop has gone now and she won’t be coming back.’

Elvina spoke with an assurance that made me glance sharply in her direction; but she was too busy glaring at Nathaniel to be aware of my interest. Ned noticed it, however, and lost his temper, bringing his fist down on the table top with a thump that made everybody start and which must have badly bruised his hand.

‘Shut up, the lot of you,’ he roared. ‘Can’t you see that you’re making a spectacle of this family in front of strangers?’

His fury was plainly so uncharacteristic of him that they all, without exception, subsided into silence. Even Nathaniel seemed to think better of exerting his authority, although judging by the expression on his face it needed all his self-control not to do so.

Ned Rawbone drew himself up and addressed the two elders.

‘Will you please leave now? We have nothing more to say to you. We have no idea where Tom might be. As I said before, he didn’t think to tell us where he was heading. Nor did we ask him, naturally.’

‘Naturally,’ Elder Sewter agreed drily.

‘We shall have to search the outbuildings,’ Elder Hemnall said, preparing to retreat in good order.

Ned shrugged. ‘I don’t care what you do,’ he answered wearily, ‘as long as you persuade that mob out there to go away.’

Colin Sewter nodded. ‘You have our word on that. Nor do we hold any of you responsible for Tom’s actions. You will be free to come and go in the village as you please. You may encounter a little hostility, but no one will molest you.’

‘They’d better not try,’ Nathaniel snorted. ‘Rawbone men know how to defend themselves.’

‘Be sensible, Nathaniel,’ his friend urged him. ‘Don’t go looking for trouble.’

Ned said quietly, his anger having apparently burned itself out, ‘You’ll let us know what Sir Anselm has to say when he recovers consciousness?’

‘Of course.’ Elder Sewter laid a warning hand on his arm. ‘But you do realize that if the priest dies, it can no longer remain a village matter? We shall have to send to Gloucester, to the Sheriff.’

Sir Anselm did not die, however.

By the time that the elders had organized a search of the farm outbuildings by Rob Pomphrey and his friends, persuaded the rest of the villagers to disperse and we had all tramped back to Lower Brockhurst together, a visit to the priest’s house established that he was able to sit up and take some nourishment.

Propped up in bed, looking frail and badly shaken, the livid bruises staining his parchment-white skin like blackberry juice on linen, he was being fed bread and milk by Winifred Bush while the village wise woman packed her medicaments back into her basket.

The latter nodded to the two elders and William Bush, but treated me to a suspicious stare as though she thought I might be up to no good, especially after I had treated her to my most winning smile.

‘I’ve put a honey, rue and borage poultice on his swollen knee,’ she informed the room at large, ‘and powder of puff balls, mixed with spiders’ webs to staunch the blood of a nasty cut to his upper arm. And there are some lettuce juice pellets to help him sleep when he’s finished eating. Father Anselm,’ she continued, turning to her patient, ‘I leave you in Mistress Bush’s most capable hands.’ She gave another nod, nearly tripped over Hercules, who had been skulking around after me all morning, and went on her way with the parting admonition, ‘Send for me if I’m needed.’

When the bedchamber door had closed behind the wise woman, Sir Anselm forestalled our questions by announcing querulously, ‘It’s no use asking me who did this. I didn’t see anything.’

‘You must have seen something, Father,’ Elder Hemnall objected. ‘The attack must have wakened you.’

‘I tell you, I didn’t.’ The priest sounded as though he might burst into tears at any moment. ‘It was the middle of the night. It was dark. I woke up to find someone was beating me black and blue. I remember crying out and putting up an arm to defend myself, but then I must have lost consciousness. I can’t tell you anything more. It’ll serve no purpose badgering me. Besides, I’m tired. I want to sleep.’

‘Lambert Miller was attacked in just the same way,’ Elder Hemnall told him. ‘He insists that Tom Rawbone was his assailant, even though the fellow was wearing his hood back to front. Sir Anselm, do you think it was Tom Rawbone who assaulted you?’

‘I keep telling you, I didn’t see anything,’ was the peevish (and frightened?) response. ‘Can’t you understand English?’

‘Tom Rawbone has run away.’ William Bush proffered the fact as though he hoped that it might reassure Sir Anselm. But the hope was doomed.

‘I didn’t see anything or anyone,’ the priest repeated in a fading voice, leaning back against his pillows and closing his eyes. ‘Now, will you please go, and allow me to rest?’

Mistress Bush took charge, shooing us from the bedchamber with sweeping motions of her hands.

‘Off you go, and let the poor man get some sleep,’ she scolded.

I was only too willing. My stomach was beginning to rumble, giving me notice that it was well past my dinnertime. I was debating whether or not to return to the Lilywhites’ cottage when William Bush tapped me on the shoulder.

‘I can hear you’re hungry, Master Chapman. Come and eat with me. Eel pie and a draught of good ale, how does that sound? My wife bakes excellent eel pies. I can recommend them.’

He didn’t have to ask me twice. We took our leave of the two elders, who had expressed their intention of paying another visit to Lambert Miller – I presumed that Rosamund had also returned to her suitor’s sickbed, and wondered what she would make of the news of Tom Rawbone’s flight – while we proceeded to the alehouse. This was, for the present, still locked, so the landlord led me up the outside staircase to the living quarters above.

The first room we entered was the kitchen-parlour with, presumably, two bedchambers somewhere beyond. My host sat me down at the table and from a cupboard produced a couple of wooden platters on which reposed two of the largest eel pies I have ever seen. I was famished. I took my knife from my belt and fell to with a will. Master Bush did the same.

It was several minutes before we were able to speak, and then only in grunts to signify the offering and acceptance of ale. But after a while, when both hunger and thirst had been assuaged, the landlord cleared his mouth and asked, ‘Well? What do you think, chapman? Is Sir Anselm telling the truth? Or is he bent on protecting Tom Rawbone?’

‘Or somebody else,’ I suggested.

William looked up, startled. ‘You think someone other than Tom might have been responsible for the attacks, then?’

‘Why not? Lambert didn’t see the man’s face, after all. And he assumes it was Tom because of their quarrel yesterday. He thinks, naturally enough, that Tom was getting his own back.’

‘Of course! Who else could it have been? No one else that I know of bears the miller that sort of grudge. And it was Tom’s hood we found.’

‘Maybe. But why would Tom attack the priest? Come to that, why would anybody attack Sir Anselm?’

But I could make a guess at the answer to that question. Someone who either knew or suspected that the priest had information about the disappearance of Eris Lilywhite. I was not, however, prepared to share that thought at present. Besides, it failed to solve the problem of who, apart from Tom Rawbone, had a reason to attack Lambert Miller.

I took a gulp of ale, trying to work out the equation. Firstly, Tom had every reason to avenge himself on Lambert in retaliation for the beating he had received the previous afternoon. Secondly, if I was right in my assumption that Sir Anselm knew something about Eris’s fate, then the person responsible might either want to kill him, or at least to administer a severe warning to him to hold his tongue. Therefore, if the two attacks were connected – and in the circumstances it seemed impossible that they were not – the same man stood indicted for both crimes …

It was the logical conclusion to make. And yet, somehow, I still wasn’t convinced that the perpetrator was Tom Rawbone, in spite of William of Ockham’s dictum that, in logic, assumptions should not be multiplied: the obvious answer is usually the right one. But in my experience, there were times when the solution to a problem was too obvious to be true.

I folded my arms on the table and asked, ‘Why would Tom Rawbone want to harm Sir Anselm? Can you think of a reason?’

William Bush shook his head. ‘I’ve been puzzling about that, myself. He and the priest always seemed to rub along together pretty well. He wasn’t involved in the church, like Ned, but he always attended every feast day and holy day and didn’t hold any of those heretical Lollard views that seem so fashionable nowadays. Leastways, not that I’ve ever heard of. Mind you, that’s all the good I will speak of him, after what he did to my Rosamund.’

‘Were you looking forward to having him as a son-in-law?’

The landlord shrugged. ‘It was a good match for Rosie, I have to admit. And she was mad to have him, so I couldn’t say no. I’ve never been able to deny her anything. But there was always something a bit wild about Tom that neither Mistress Bush nor I approved of. And it turned out, of course, that our fears were justified. Not that we saw it coming – his jilting Rosamund like that, I mean. And for Eris Lilywhite of all people!’

‘You didn’t like Eris?’ I enquired, although I had already guessed the answer.

‘No, I didn’t.’ The landlord emptied his beaker and set it down rather forcibly on the table. ‘To be truthful, I’ve never liked her mother much, either. I always thought Maud Haycombe a bit wild in her youth. Not as good as she should have been, if you know what I mean.’ He leaned across the table and said in a confidential whisper, ‘If you want my opinion, Eris’s arrival was much too prompt for her to have been conceived after Gilbert and Maud were married. It was barely nine months. More like eight, if my memory serves me rightly.’ He added defiantly, ‘And that’s always been Winifred’s opinion, too.’

I detected a touch of pique in Master Bush’s tone, and wondered if he might once have fancied Maud himself, but met with no encouragement. All the same, I saw no reason to doubt his memory concerning the date of Eris’s birth. If Maud had been as much in love with Gilbert Lilywhite as Theresa had implied, they might well have anticipated their marriage vows. They would most certainly not have been the first, nor the last, couple to do so.

‘What do you think happened to Eris the night she vanished?’ I asked. ‘Was she killed or did she simply run away?’

William returned the same response that I had received so many times in answer to that question.

‘Run away? That one? When she’d just got what she wanted, to be mistress of Dragonswick Farm? Of course, she didn’t run away! No, she was murdered, if you want my opinion.’

‘Then who was the murderer?’ I wanted to know.

The landlord poured us both more ale. ‘Tom Rawbone, I should guess. But it could have been Nathaniel or one of the twins. Or even one of the women. If Eris returned to the farmhouse for some reason – because of the weather or because she’d forgotten something – I wouldn’t it past the capabilities of any one of those three – Petronelle, Dame Jacquetta, Dame Merryman – to take a knife to her back.’

‘But no one’s mentioned that she returned after she’d left for home that night.’

‘Well, they wouldn’t, would they?’ William gave me a condescending smile. ‘Not if one of them had killed her.’

‘But would Nathaniel have covered up for them? He was supposed to be in love with the girl.’

‘Of course he would! You’re a stranger. You don’t know the Rawbones.’ The landlord’s condescension became even more marked. ‘Besides, I doubt if Nathaniel ever was in love with Eris. In lust, perhaps. And delighted at the prospect of serving Tom a backhanded turn. But he would never betray any member of his family into the clutches of the law. Whatever their internal strifes, the Rawbones always close ranks against outsiders.’

‘Would the family include Dame Merryman?’ I asked.

My companion nodded. ‘Oh yes! Elvina’s one of the family, all right. She was Nathaniel’s mistress for years. Probably still is. The fact is never referred to openly, of course, but most people in the village accept it as a fact. There used to be rumours that she paid regular visits to the village wise woman – not the one you met today; her mother – for infusions of pennyroyal in order to abort unwanted children. But it was only gossip, you understand. You wouldn’t repeat it?’

I hastened to reassure him, then decided it was time to take my leave. I wanted to look in on Sir Anselm again, in the unlikely hope of finding him awake and alone. After that, I needed to be by myself for a while. I needed to clear my mind; to separate fact from assumption; to set my thoughts and ideas in some sort of order.