Nine Men Dancing

Seventeen

I awoke next morning with a headache, and possessed of the feeling that I had only just dropped off to sleep.

At some time during the night, Hercules had left the shelter of my pallet and was now lying beside the hearth, on which a recently laid, and newly lit, fire was burning. Someone had been busy while I slept. That someone was now shaking my naked shoulder.

‘Wake up, chapman!’ Theresa’s voice sounded close to my ear. ‘What’s the matter with you and Maud this morning? You’re both as dozy as if you’d been up all night.’ She gave a sudden guffaw. ‘Not an illicit assignation, I trust!’

‘Don’t be vulgar, Mother-in-law!’ Maud begged curtly from behind the linen curtain.

‘God save you, girl, I didn’t mean it!’ Theresa gave another hearty laugh. ‘Don’t you know a joke when you hear one? What’s up with you? Didn’t you sleep well?’ She turned back to me. ‘I’ll give you ten minutes, Master Chapman, to make yourself decent enough for the company of a couple of respectable women. After that, you must take your chance. And so must we!’ She vanished behind the curtain, chuckling suggestively and leaving me to reflect how often it was, in my experience, that older women had a coarser sense of humour than their juniors.

I heaved myself off the pallet, struggled into shirt and breeches, tussled with recalcitrant laces whose points refused to thread through their corresponding eyes with any degree of accuracy, tugged on my boots and made for the yard.

While I doused my head under the pump, the dogs and geese started their usual cacophony, forcibly putting me in mind of the previous night. Before going back into the cottage, therefore, I checked on the animals to make certain that my adventure had not just been another, earlier part of my dream. But the bones, now picked clean, were still there on the ground beside the dogs, and the geese, pausing in their cackling, pecked at the few remaining grains scattered across the earth inside their pen.

Indoors, breakfast was almost ready, the oatmeal bubbling in a pot of water suspended over the fire, while the dried, salted herrings sizzled in a skillet placed among the embers. I groaned inwardly. I longed for a collop of pork or bacon such as we had had on an earlier morning. Breakfast in the Lilywhite household was fast becoming monotonous.

I donned my jerkin and pulled a stool up to the table. Maud placed a bowl of porridge in front of me just as I sneezed violently. I wiped my nose on the back of my hand.

‘You’re rheumy this morning,’ Theresa remarked. ‘Here, drink this. It’ll warm you.’ And she passed me half a beaker of ale to which she had added hot water and a spoonful of cinnamon.

I thanked her politely, although I would rather have had a drink made up entirely of ale. Then I sneezed again.

‘You got thoroughly chilled, I expect,’ Maud said, ‘clambering about on Upper Brockhurst ridge yesterday afternoon. The woods are always dank this time of year.’

I grunted, but fatigue was taking its toll. Her remark failed to register properly with me until Theresa asked, ‘Is that why you didn’t return until late, then, chapman? And what were you doing up on the ridge? I thought you’d already explored it.’

But I was staring at Maud, who, in a sudden flurry of activity, was busying herself with the skillet of dried herring, bent over the fire as though her life depended on seeing that the fish was hot enough to serve. How could she possibly have known that I’d been on the ridge yesterday afternoon when I hadn’t mentioned the fact the previous evening? There was only one answer, of course. The person who had seen me, who had set light to the cage, had been the same person who had called on Maud during the night. Whatever the main reason for his visit, his sighting of me had also been mentioned. But why?

Theresa was pressing me for a reply to her question in the hope, I realized, that I might have discovered something new in connection with her granddaughter’s disappearance. Sadly, I had to disillusion her. But at least I was able to regale her, as we ate our herrings, with the story of the Roman bowls and my interpretation of what had really happened, nearly a century and a half ago, to the two wellers from Tetbury.

Her amazement at my deductive powers was gratifying; although I have to admit she was more concerned with the fact that, since coming to live in Lower Brockhurst, she had been drinking the Blood of Christ from a pagan vessel, than she was with the probable solution to a 130-year-old mystery, which had never interested her much in the first place.

‘Did you know about these bowls?’ she demanded of her daughter-in-law in outraged tones.

Maud shook her head. ‘But I know the stories about Light-fingered Lightfoot,’ she said. ‘As does everyone else in the village.’

‘So what do you intend to do about it?’ Theresa enquired. ‘Don’t you think the village elders should be informed?’

Maud shrugged. ‘You can tell them if you wish, Mother-in-law. The chances are that they know about it already. But if Sir Anselm has consecrated the bowls to the Glory of God, as he apparently assured the chapman that he has, then no one will worry. However they were come by originally, they belong to Saint Walburga’s and the village now. We’re not a wealthy community. We can’t replace a pair of silver bowls except at great cost to ourselves. I’ll have a word with Ned next time I see him, if you like. But I doubt he’ll deem it necessary to do anything about it.’

Theresa breathed deeply, registering her disapproval.

‘This is a heathen place, chapman,’ she confided, lowering her voice to a whisper, ‘as you’ve no doubt discovered for yourself by now. The old magic is still practised hereabouts, in the forest and in isolated villages like this one. It’s so close to the Welsh marches that the ancient customs have spilled across the border and taken root for some miles this side of the Severn. Heresy goes hand in hand here with orthodoxy. And the priests, who should be the guardian of men’s souls, become tainted by it, themselves, in the end. The Papal Commissioners don’t venture into the wilds very often, and when they do, sand is thrown in their eyes. Everyone bands together to protect the village and its secrets, and the Commissioners go away satisfied that all is well.’ She shivered. ‘You must have seen in the woods, as I have, the clooties and the dolls. Offerings to the old Celtic gods.’

‘I … I have noticed them,’ I admitted.

‘Of course, you have. How could you not? And the children are every bit as bad as the adults. They grow up with it.’

‘That’s enough, Mother-in-law,’ Maud said sharply. She rose from the table and began gathering together the dirty dishes, adding unkindly, ‘If you wish to return to a more civilized life in Gloucester, I shan’t prevent you. Now, we must hurry or we shall be late for Mass.’

Theresa flushed painfully at Maud’s words and I felt a sudden rush of sympathy for her, even though I realized how much her domineering ways must irk the younger woman. I tried to distract her by begging some scraps for Hercules from the meal she was preparing for their own two dogs. But when she would have left the cottage, she was intercepted.

‘I’ll take the food out to the animals,’ her daughter-in-law said abruptly, seizing the bowls and picking up a small sack of grain for the geese.

As the door closed behind Maud, Theresa grimaced. ‘She’s in a bad humour this morning. I’d steer clear of her, if I were you.’ And she set about washing the dirty dishes.

But I had already guessed the reason for Maud’s insistence on feeding the dogs herself. It gave her a chance to remove and throw away the bones brought by the midnight visitor. If Theresa had noticed them, she might well have insisted on knowing how they got there and where they came from.

We walked to church in an oppressive silence, Maud and I each busy with our own thoughts, Theresa carefully trying to avoid upsetting the other woman any further.

The stormy night had given way to a brighter morning, which once again prompted thoughts of the coming spring. The hills, rising up on the other side of Lower Brockhurst, were clearly visible, while the clouds, rolling past in the upper air, caught the last red gleam of a sunrise that turned their underbellies to fire. Away to our left, the glimmering surface of the Draco reflected the early morning light, and the sudden tolling of Saint Walburga’s bell shattered the country silence.

As we crossed the bridge over the stream and made our way through the belt of trees opposite the priest’s house, it seemed as though the entire population of the village was determined to attend the service. Everyone I knew, plus many more that I did not, appeared to be converging upon the church. Even Lambert Miller was present, still wrapped in bandages and extremely pale, but hobbling along manfully, supported by his mother on one side and Rosamund Bush on the other and plainly enjoying every second of the attention he was attracting. Most people stopped to speak to him and to enquire after the state of his health, making him the centre of interest. I doubted if he had ever been so happy, in spite of his injuries.

Once inside Saint Walburga’s, however, it was a different matter. Both attention and interest had to be shared with Sir Anselm, who, as good as his word, had forced himself out of bed to conduct the service of Tierce as usual. He, too, still sported bandages, his crumpled face not so much pale as parchment white. And he tended to sway a little on his feet, to the great consternation of his congregation. But he lifted a hand in order to restrain those who would have rushed forward to assist him, then knelt in prayer before the altar while awaiting the arrival of the Rawbones, who were later than ever this particular morning. Not altogether surprisingly, I thought. Even they, with all their pride and confidence, must be a little worried as to the nature of their reception. And one of them, I was convinced, had been up and about in the middle of the night. But which one that was, I was still uncertain.

They came at last, all of them except Tom, heads held high, not deigning to glance either to right or left, and stood in their customary place at the front of the assembled villagers. Sir Anselm, continuing to refuse all offers of help, even from Mistress Bush, tottered to his feet, lifted his hands in blessing and the service began.

As the priest rolled out the familiar Latin phrases in a much stronger voice than I think anyone present had expected of him, my attention began to wander as, I regret to say, it invariably does in church. I twisted my neck slightly, in order to get a further glimpse of Lambert Miller, then turned back to look once more at Sir Anselm. It dawned on me that neither man had suffered as severe a beating as had at first been thought. Whoever their attacker had been, he had avoided extreme punishment and the danger of mortal injury. He had been careful to inflict damage but not death; and a man so in control of his emotions was, in my estimation at least, neither vindictive nor out for revenge.

What was he, then? In Lambert’s case, I guessed him to be someone whose sole purpose was to lay the blame for the attacks on Tom Rawbone in the hope – and, as it turned out, the justified hope – that Tom would flee the village for fear of retribution. As far as the priest was concerned, I still thought the assault might be a warning of some kind to Sir Anselm to keep his mouth shut; a warning not to talk to …? Not to talk to whom? The answer came like a clap of thunder. To me, of course! To me!

I suddenly remembered the open door of the priest’s house, when I had dined with Sir Anselm on Friday morning, and cursed myself that I had not seen its implications sooner. After the meal we had found the main door into the hallway standing ajar. Sir Anselm had explained it by telling me that the latch was faulty, and that Ned Rawbone must have failed to close it properly when he left. But suppose that were not the case. Suppose someone, learning of my presence, had crept into the house with the intention of eavesdropping on myself and the priest, just to make sure that the nosy stranger was not being made a party to secrets he had no business knowing.

I thought back, desperately trying to recollect what Sir Anselm and I had discussed. Eris’s disappearance for one thing. Eris herself … What more? The marriage of Maud and Gilbert Lilywhite and the fact that Ned had hoped to marry her, but been thwarted by his father and her love for another man. But there was something else, nagging at the back of my mind. While my lips framed the correct responses by rote, my eyes wandered from the side altars – from the Christ of the Trades and the Virgin – to the high altar and Saint Walburga, then back again to the Virgin in her blue dress and golden crown. The eternal Mother … children … the begetting of children … Yes, that was it! Sir Anselm had voiced a suspicion, later echoed by William Bush, that Maud might already have been with child when she married Gilbert Lilywhite. Eris, the first of the three children she bore him, had been born in just under nine months.

Yet, why should that fact be of any significance? No one with whom I had spoken had ever stigmatized Eris as a bastard. She had been born within the bonds of wedlock as had her two feeble young brothers, who had died in infancy. No, there was nothing in that. I must look for some other reason why my conversation with Sir Anselm might have provoked an eavesdropper to feel uneasy.

The Mass progressed, but my errant thoughts could come up with no other recollections of what had been said between the priest and myself on Friday morning. I moved and responded like a man in a trance, receiving the wafer, the Body of Christ, on my tongue with an indifference that, later, filled me with shame. It was only when I was offered the silver bowl containing the wine that I returned to the present, conscious of Dame Theresa kneeling beside me, and of her hesitation when it was her turn to drink. She forced herself to overcome her reluctance, however, and the slight frown of puzzlement that was creasing Sir Anselm’s brow was smoothed away.

As soon as the service came to an end, the Rawbones left the church in a solid phalanx, Nathaniel walking with his sister, closely followed by Ned and Petronelle with the twins hard on their heels. Once again, they seemed unaware of the muttering among their neighbours and of the inimical looks they were receiving. Elvina Merryman, bringing up the rear of the column, was the only one who appeared at all flurried, tripping over a broken flagstone, one of several such hazards in the church. Being the well brought up and gallant young lad that I was, and being close at hand, I went to her assistance, gripping one of her elbows in a steadying clasp. Had I not done so, I might have missed the sudden turn of Ned Rawbone’s head as he glanced in Maud Lilywhite’s direction. It was a glance so fleeting, apparently so insignificant that I doubt if anyone noticed it but myself. Once alerted, however, I also saw the almost imperceptible nod Maud gave in return. Some sort of signal had passed between them, and I was suddenly convinced that Ned had been the nocturnal visitor of the previous night.

No one else seemed in a hurry to leave the church precincts, and as soon as the Rawbones had vanished across the footbridge on their homeward climb to Dragonswick farm, a deafening babel of conversation broke out, everyone talking at once. Lambert was surrounded yet again by well-wishers, as was Sir Anselm; while Elder Sewter and Elder Hemnall, together with several other grave and grey-haired men, who I guessed to be fellow members of the Village Council, were besieged by demands to know what was being done to apprehend Tom Rawbone. I had no chance to hear their reply as, at that moment, I was claimed not only by the Mistress Lilywhites, anxious to get home to their dinner, but also accosted by Rosamund Bush, who left Lambert’s side for mine, pushing through the intervening crowd with her usual determination.

‘Roger!’ She gave me both her hands and her most attractive smile. ‘Lambert has challenged me to another game of Nine Men’s Morris, tomorrow night, in the alehouse. I want you to be one of my players again. You will say yes, won’t you?’

She lowered long lashes over those beautiful blue eyes, then flashed them open again with practised artifice. At the same time, an involuntary dimple peeped at the corner of her rosebud mouth, as though mocking her own contrivance. Part of her great charm was the mix of contradictions in her nature.

I hesitated, but before I had a chance even to put my thoughts in order, Maud Lilywhite said firmly, ‘You’re out of luck, I’m afraid, Rosamund. Master Chapman will have to be on his way tomorrow if he’s to reach Bristol by the feast of Saint Patrick. He’s promised his wife and children to be home by then and he won’t want to disappoint them. I’m sure,’ she went on acidly, ‘that there are any number of other young men in the village who will be only too anxious to oblige you.’

‘There are not that many young men in the village, Mistress,’ Rosamund retorted sharply. ‘And I think Roger is man enough to answer for himself.’ She turned back to me, laying a slender hand on my sleeve. ‘Roger?’ she queried. ‘What do you say?’

I glanced at Maud. Her lips were set in a thin, determined line, although Theresa was looking bewildered.

‘When did you make up your mind to leave us, Master Chapman?’ she reproached me. ‘You said nothing about it at breakfast.’

‘I … I’ve only just decided,’ I stammered.

‘Then how does Maud know of your intentions?’ the older woman rapped back at me. She rounded on her daughter-in-law. ‘You’re forcing his hand, aren’t you? You’re throwing him out!’

Maud avoided my gaze.

‘No such thing,’ she protested uneasily. ‘Master Chapman has been saying for days that he must go home to his wife and family.’

I could see by the expression on her face that she had suddenly determined to be rid of me. She had been a grudging hostess from the beginning, and now she had had enough. She was telling me as politely as she could that I was no longer welcome in her house. Had it not been Sunday, I suspected that she would have suggested I leave at once. As it was, she would expect me and Hercules to set off immediately after breakfast tomorrow. Theresa was right: I was being thrown out.

I knew that I had no choice but to comply with Maud’s wishes. It was her cottage. I could not stay where I was no longer welcome. The laws of hospitality must not be breached. Besides which, at the back of my mind was the nagging thought that tomorrow was probably the last day on which I could set out with any realistic hope of reaching Bristol by the middle of March. Perhaps God was giving me a sign that there was, after all, nothing further for me to do in Lower Brockhurst; that maybe there had been nothing for me to discover in the first place.

So I said gently to Rosamund, ‘You’ll have to hold me excused from your game tomorrow evening, Mistress. Dame Maud is right. I must go home. It’s true; I’m bound by a promise I made to my wife.’

The glow of that flower-like face dimmed. The blue eyes lost much of their sparkle and became dull, like pebbles; the rosebud mouth grew petulant. Women such as Rosamund Bush do not expect to have their requests refused; it is a negation of their beauty and of that beauty’s power to subdue and hold sway over men. I could see that her rejection and humiliation by Tom Rawbone must have led to a nightmare of the soul. She withdrew her hand abruptly from my sleeve, as though I had suddenly been struck by the plague.

‘Oh, very well, then,’ she said, with a toss of her head. ‘If you must go home, you must. Never let me be accused of coming between husband and wife.’

She swung on her heel and returned to Lambert Miller, hanging affectionately on his arm and raising her eyes to his in worshipful adoration. The poor fool, already weak from his injuries, almost swooned at her feet. I suppressed a smile and saw that Theresa was doing likewise.

But not for long. Her good humour evaporated very quickly once we reached the smallholding and entered the cottage.

Maud, carefully looking at neither of us, went to kneel by the fire where a clay pot sat among the glowing sods of peat. Seizing a cloth, she lifted the lid an inch or two, letting the tantalizing aroma of roasting coney linger briefly on the air before closing it up again. She set a pan of water to boil and went across to the chopping board in order to prepare the leeks, onions and garlic that would accompany the rabbit.

Theresa maintained her silence on the subject of my departure until I returned from giving Hercules a run around the yard. As I stooped to pat him, she demanded fiercely, ‘You’ve given up hope then, have you, of finding out what happened to my granddaughter?’

I glanced at Maud’s rigid back, as she gathered the chopped vegetables into the skirt of her apron and carried them over to the pan of boiling water, tossing them in.

‘Mistress,’ I said, ‘I’ve been here the better part of five days and know little more regarding Eris’s true fate than when I arrived. That she was murdered, most likely by one of the Rawbones, I have small doubt, which seems to be the opinion of most other people I’ve talked to. But I have no proof of it. Nor any solid proof that Eris is dead. I very much doubt that all the Rawbones know the truth of the matter, either. One or two of them might. Perhaps even three,’ I added, remembering my illogical conviction that I needed three morrells in a row to complete the game of Nine Men’s Morris that I had been playing in my dream.

Theresa regarded me straitly. ‘But was it really your intention to leave tomorrow had not my daughter-in-law made it plain that you were no longer welcome here?’

Still Maud kept her back to us, fussing over the pot hanging from the trivet and poking at the vegetables with a long-handled spoon. The smell was delicious. My mouth began to water.

I had no desire to be the cause of more animosity than already existed between the two women, so I said, ‘I have little option, Mistress, but to set off for home very soon if-’

‘If you are to keep your promise to your wife,’ Theresa interrupted mockingly. ‘I know. Everyone knows. If that promise was ever made, of course.’

‘Mother-in-law!’ Maud was shocked into breaking her self-imposed silence.

‘And why should I lie about it?’ I asked Theresa angrily.

‘It’s better than admitting failure, isn’t it?’ she sneered. ‘The first night you were here, you told us – no, boasted to us – of the problems that you’ve solved for other people. So you made sure that if this one proved too difficult for you, you could sneak off on the excuse of a promise to your wife.’

‘That’s most unfair-’ I was beginning hotly, but broke off, suddenly aware of Theresa’s game.

She was trying to goad me into staying. Even if Maud had given me my marching orders, there must be other lodgings to be had somewhere in Lower Brockhurst, and Theresa would willingly help me find them. She was taunting me with failure; and the word ‘boasted’ had been unkindly and undeservedly used to flick me on the raw. Maud, too, realized what her mother-in-law was up to and swung round to face her, arms akimbo.

‘The chapman leaves tomorrow, and that’s the end of it. It’s my wish. It’s also his. Please don’t insult our guest with the suggestion that he’s been lying to us, Mother-in-law. We had no right to ask his help in the first place. Now, sit at the table, both of you. Dinner’s almost ready.’

Theresa took her place, looking suddenly old and defeated. I drew up a stool beside her, feeling that I had let her down. But my excuse was genuine, and she knew it. She did not really think me a liar.

All the same, her accusations and my own failure continued to haunt me throughout a largely silent meal. The roast coney and vegetables might have been sawdust for all the notice I took of their taste, in spite of the fact that I ate two helpings (although, to be fair to myself, I shared the second one with Hercules). Finally, as I pushed my plate aside and took a swig of ale, I put one of my hands over Theresa’s, where it lay, fidgeting restlessly with a knife, on the table. The brown blotched skin of advancing age was dry and rough to the touch.

‘I must start for home in the morning, Mistress. Dame Maud is in the right of it. But there’s still the rest of today. I’ll take one last look along Upper Brockhurst ridge, particularly at the well. I’ve no good reason to offer you for doing so, except a deep-rooted and completely unjustified feeling that it could hold the key to Eris’s disappearance.’