Nine Men Dancing

Nineteen

It had stopped raining altogether by the time I reached the Upper Brockhurst ridge. Trees were outlined in bold, bare shapes against a sky clearing slowly from the west, and a misty sunlight, soft as a blanket, was already cloaking the hills on the opposite side of the valley. As I turned and looked over my shoulder, they quivered, like a mirage that might disappear at any second.

Once I had entered the belt of trees, however, it was a different story. Water still dripped dismally from the interlacing branches overhead, and my boots squelched noisily among the matted bracken and long stretches of sodden, slippery grasses. Wine-dark shadows assumed the forms of hobgoblins and the sprites of the woods, lying in wait for the unwary traveller, while drifts of last year’s leaves made blood-red pools among the roots of the scrub. I felt suddenly as if I were suffocating in a cloud of silence and obscurity …

I pulled myself up short, both literally and figuratively. Such imaginings were ridiculous in a man of twenty-six, lord and master of an adoring wife and three equally adoring small children, hero to a dog of rare intelligence. (Well, a man could dream, couldn’t he? There was no law against it that I knew of.) I paused to look around me, sternly identifying things for what they really were, then drew myself up to my more than six feet in height, squared shoulders that have been described by my admirers as broad, and by my detractors as hefty, renewed my grip on my cudgel and moved forward again with a determined, no-nonsense stride.

But there was no denying that my solitude had become oppressive by the time I reached the clearing where Upper Brockhurst Hall had once stood; and it was with an overwhelming sense of relief that I stepped into the open space of the courtyard, the trees giving place to knee-high grass, studded with thickets of whin and stunted alder. Unable to shake off the feeling that I had passed safely through some sort of extreme danger, I sank down heavily on the ivy-covered stump of an ancient oak.

After a moment or two, my mind reverted to Rob Pomphrey’s words – or rather to the reported words of Gilbert Lilywhite – concerning Maud. ‘Whatever else she is or isn’t, Maud’s a good cook.’ So what wasn’t she? Or, rather, what hadn’t she been in those far-off days when she was Gilbert’s wife? And hard on the heels of that recollection came another; a remark made by William Bush while we were eating our dinner the previous day. ‘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.’ And as I mulled this over, something else, said by Alice Tucker, also came back to me. Alice had been speaking, if I remembered correctly, about Ned Rawbone. ‘Oh, Master Edward’s settled down right enough since his marriage. He never was as wild as Tom or the old man, but he sowed his wild oats in his youth.’

Other snippets of information, that I had gleaned haphazardly over the past few days, began floating to the top of my mind, in the same way as all sorts of debris rises to the surface when you stir up mud at the bottom of a pond. For instance, Dame Jacquetta had told me that when Tom announced his betrothal to Eris in front of his horrified family, Petronelle had shouted, ‘You can’t do that, Thomas!’ An odd remark, now I came to think about it. I would have expected a barrage of protests, cries of dismay, but not the stark reprimand, ‘You can’t do that.’ Why couldn’t he? And the twins, as well as their great-aunt, had reported the fact that Petronelle had screamed at Eris to go home, not just once, but many times. ‘Go home and tell your mother!’ had been one phrase quoted by Jacquetta. And Ruth, the Rawbones’ little kitchen maid, had claimed that from the window of Dame Jacquetta’s chamber, where she had her truckle bed, she had seen Eris leave the house, running downhill, in the direction of the Lilywhites’ cottage. Doing as she had been advised. Going home.

There were other things, too. Now that, at last, I had done what I had been intending to do for the past twenty-four hours, namely marshalled my thoughts into some sort of order, memories came flooding back. I recalled Theresa saying that, when the children were young, Maud had discouraged the friendship between Eris and the Rawbone twins; a friendship so close that, as Christopher had told me, strangers to the village had thought them all to be siblings. And despite her inimical feelings towards Tom and his family in general, Maud had never let them influence her fondness for Ned.

An idea was taking shape at the back of my mind, which, to begin with, was nothing more than a glimmer of light at the end of a long and winding tunnel, but which grew brighter by the minute the more I considered it. I might have reached a final, firm conclusion then and there, perched on that tree stump, but I was suddenly jerked out of my reverie by the scurrying of some small animal in the undergrowth, nearby.

How long I had been sitting, lost in thought, I had no idea, but judging by the stiffness of my joints, it had been for some considerable length of time. I found that I was shivering in spite of being wrapped in my cloak, and realized that if I were to avoid being laid up with an unwelcome and unwanted rheum, action was called for. I stamped my feet and clapped my arms around my body until I began to feel warmer, then decided it was time to make my second exploration of the well.

What I hoped to achieve by this, I had no clear idea. I had been down the shaft once and knew that there was nothing to be seen but an inch or so of mud at the bottom. Nevertheless, I could not shake myself free either of the notion that I might have missed something on that first occasion, or of the persistent fancy that in the well I was very close to the missing girl. There was no good reason why I should feel that way, so I reached the conclusion that maybe God was prompting me.

‘I just hope you’re not having a joke at my expense, Lord,’ I grumbled peevishly as I unwrapped myself from my cloak and flung it across the tree stump. I dropped my cudgel in the grass alongside and cursed roundly as I tripped over one of the many loose stones lying about.

By the time I had struggled to lift the heavy lid of the well clear of the rim, I had stopped shivering and was sweating profusely. The iron ladder nailed to the wall of the shaft looked even rustier than I had remembered it. Indeed, it appeared positively dangerous, but I had negotiated it safely once before and presumably could do so again. I was thankful that I had decided to leave Hercules behind, with the Lilywhites: his large anxious eyes and reproachful expression would only have worried me further.

I swung both legs over the top of the well and cautiously began to descend. Once again, jagged flakes of rust adhered to the palms of my hands, and, as on the earlier occasion, I had to grope around in order to find a footing. The missing rungs, the diminution of the light as I climbed further down the shaft and the perilous swaying of the ladder as it worked loose from the brickwork, all told me that what I was doing was extremely foolhardy. And what should I discover when I reached the bottom? Exactly what I had discovered before. Nothing. Or, at least, nothing that gave me any clue to Eris’s whereabouts.

And so it proved. There were the same ferns and mosses sprouting between the bricks and the same inch or so of mud and water still seeping through the rough patch of stones and mortar that had been used to shore up the well close to its base. I might have saved myself the time, the trouble and the possible danger to life and limb for all the good this second exploration had done me. Eris wasn’t there, and never had been there as far as I could tell. I swore. My instincts were wrong. My sense of her presence, my conviction that she was close at hand, was not God-given intuition, but a trick of my own imagination.

Deflated, angry with myself for being such a fool, angry with God for what I saw as His cat-and-mouse games, I leaned against the wall of the shaft and stared up at the distant circle of sky, overlaid with its tracery of interwoven branches. In a minute or two, when I had calmed down and got my second wind, I would ascend the ladder, make my way back to the Lilywhites’ cottage and, tomorrow morning, begin my homeward journey to Bristol. Failure was a bitter pill to swallow, but I made myself face up to the unpalatable truth that I would probably never now discover what had happened to Eris …

Someone was looking down at me, head and shoulders outlined against the backdrop of sky and trees, elbows bent, hands resting on the rim of the well. Man or woman? It was impossible to say at that distance.

‘Hello! I’m coming up!’ I shouted, and waved my arms before grabbing at both sides of the ladder and beginning an ascent that was more precipitous than prudent. Unsure if my presence had been noted, I didn’t want whoever was up there thinking that the well had been carelessly left open, and replacing the lid.

In some ways, it was easier climbing up than down because I could see where the gaps in the rungs were. Even so, it required all of my concentration, and I didn’t look skywards again until I was about three-quarters of the way up the ladder. Pausing to catch my breath, safe in the knowledge that I was now easily visible to the person above me, I raised my head, ready with some self-deprecating jibe about fools who possessed more curiosity than sense. But the words died on my lips as I realized, with a sickening jolt to the pit of my stomach, that the face I was staring at was no face, only a hood worn back to front – blue this time instead of grey – two slits cut for the almost invisible eyes, the liripipe hanging down like some obscenely elongated nose.

Fear held me paralysed – only for a minute, but it was a minute too long. The masked figure disappeared. I heard the grunt and thud as of someone moving a heavy object and knew at once it was the lid of the well. I began to climb faster, spurred on by the panic that was now driving hard at my heels. My whole body was jarred as I failed to spot another missing rung and my foot slipped back to the one below. I was breathing heavily and my hands were slippery with sweat, but I was nearing the top. A few more feet and I was there …

Something hit me squarely in the chest. In the few desperate seconds while I struggled to save my balance, I recognized it as the end of a good, stout cudgel – my own cudgel, in fact, which I had left lying beside my cloak. I could feel myself tottering and grabbed wildly at the ladder just before everything went black as the lid of the well was finally hauled, with a muffled curse, into place.

I have never understood, not even to this day when I am old and grey-haired, how I stopped myself from pitching head first to the bottom of that well, as I was undoubtedly meant to do. Perhaps it was nothing but sheer good fortune or the Hand of God beneath my elbow. Or maybe it was the determination born of rage at having been attacked with my own weapon that saved me. Whatever the reason, somehow or another I managed to regain my balance just as I began to wobble backwards off the ladder. Luckily, the masked man had been in so much of a hurry to seal me into my tomb that he didn’t wait to make sure that he had done the job properly. (I was now convinced that my assailant was a man. No woman, I felt sure, was strong enough to lift the lid of the well single-handedly. Furthermore, the arms wielding my cudgel had displayed the sort of strength not possessed, in my experience, by females.)

I don’t know for how long I clung to the ladder, not daring to move, still not entirely certain that I wasn’t really lying at the bottom of the well shaft, seriously injured. My face was pressed so hard against the rung above the one I was clutching, that the flaking iron scratched my cheek; and I was shaking so violently that the whole ladder vibrated with my fear. Slowly, however, I managed to get my emotions under control, although my legs felt like lead when I started once again on my upward climb.

By this time, my eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness, and I could see enough to make out the curve of the walls and the shape of the ladder. I also discovered an added bonus in the light that filtered between the planks of which the lid had been made. It was not a solid circle of wood as I had at first imagined, but several separate pieces nailed together.

My nerves began to steady a little. I was now a mere foot or so from the lid and was able to reach up and push at it with my hands. I strained as hard as I dared but it didn’t budge. I don’t know what I had expected. Common sense should have warned me that it would be almost impossible to lift from beneath. It was too heavy and fitted too snugly around the rim. And while I was pushing and heaving, I had to maintain a precarious foothold or I could yet fall backwards into the depths. I lowered my hands and hung on to the top rung of the ladder while I regained my breath and assessed my situation.

I was trapped. How long would it be before someone else visited the ridge? People did go up there, I knew, to gather firewood – Sir Anselm, for example – but it might be days; days without water, food or warmth. Then it occurred to me that when I didn’t return to the cottage by nightfall, the Mistress Lilywhites would raise the alarm – they knew where I had been headed – and relief washed through me. How stupid not to have remembered that at once.

Presumably, my attacker (of whose identity I was now almost certain) assumed that I was lying lifeless at the bottom of the well; although he, of all people, should have known that it was possible to survive such a fall. But why had he decided to make this attempt on my life now, when I had announced my intention of leaving the following day? Panic was the only answer, for he must know that there was nothing in the well to indicate what had happened to Eris; and without being able to prove that she was dead, whatever suspicions I entertained were useless as far as any hope of justice was concerned. And I wasn’t even sure that justice was appropriate in this case. The longer I thought about it, the more I felt convinced that Eris’s death had most likely been an accident …

I swayed and nearly lost my grip on the ladder. The darkness was having a disorientating effect upon me, and the stench that I had noticed on my first visit to the well now rose up and threatened to overpower my senses. If I wasn’t careful, I really would slip off the ladder, and if I pitched head first to the bottom, my assailant’s prayers could be answered. Somehow or other I must try not to lose consciousness before help arrived. But how long might that help be? It would be hours before Maud and her mother-in-law began to get worried.

I forced myself to go over what facts I possessed again and again in my head, fighting off increasing nausea and dizziness. Three morrells … Three morrells in a row, that was what I needed. Petronelle Rawbone was the first. Go home, she had kept screaming at Eris. Go home! Tell everything to your mother. Tell her that you’re going to marry Nathaniel Rawbone. But why? What could Maud do to prevent her headstrong daughter from doing exactly as she pleased? I believed I had the answer, and lined up Maud as my second morrell. Which left the person who had just tried to murder me as the third. Ned Rawbone – who had adopted the same disguise for this attempt on my life as he had done when he attacked Sir Anselm and Lambert Miller.

Which posed another question: why was Ned busy trying to incriminate his brother? Tom’s quarrel with the miller had obviously given him the idea of a night assault on Lambert; and it would have been he, no doubt, who persuaded the younger man to escape the villagers’ wrath by running away. ‘I believe in your innocence,’ he would have said, ‘but who else will? Save your skin while you can.’

But why did Ned want Tom out of the way? Because Tom’s increasingly aggressive and erratic behaviour was drawing attention to the Rawbone family once again? Because Ned was afraid that that attention would one day lead to a discovery of the truth? And to make matters even worse, I was being encouraged by Theresa Lilywhite to ask questions concerning her granddaughter’s disappearance; questions that were starting to rekindle interest in a mystery that had begun to fade from the public consciousness. Since my arrival in Lower Brockhurst last Wednesday, Ned must have seen me as nothing but trouble.

I now felt certain that it had been he, and no one else, who had overheard my conversation with Sir Anselm on Friday morning. He had never left the priest’s house, but stayed listening outside the kitchen door. Sir Anselm had said nothing that could point the finger of suspicion at anyone, but, like so many people burdened with other people’s secrets, he had been unable to prevent himself from arousing my curiosity. Ned must have realized this; so while he was attacking Lambert in order to throw suspicion on his brother, he had also administered a beating by way of a warning to the priest …

Three morrells all in a row: Petronelle, Maud and Ned … And suddenly there they were, all smiling at me out of the darkness. Maud was saying, ‘Strangers could see the likeness. Brothers and sister … Brothers and sister … Gilbert’s children died young. Weaklings like him. But Eris was strong … Strong, strong, strong …’

Petronelle started floating around me, shaking her disembodied head. ‘Go home, I said. Go home and tell your mother … I knew the truth, you see. I’d always known …’

Ned said nothing, but reached out slowly, but deliberately, towards me, hands extended, fingers splayed …

I came to my senses just in time to save myself from falling off the ladder. Fear gripped me as I realized that I had almost lost consciousness and that I was gasping for air in the stultifying darkness. I had to keep awake somehow, but lack of air was playing havoc with my senses. It was slowly dawning on me that I should be lucky to get out of the well alive …

‘It serves you right,’ Adela was scolding me. ‘You can never keep your nose out of anyone else’s business. I’ve warned you, time and again, Roger! The feast of Saint Patrick, you said. You won’t be here, though, will you …?’

Another woman joined her scolding to Adela’s. ‘Oh, dear God, what have you done?’ she was screaming at me. ‘You fool! What have you done?’

What had I done? Who was this harpy? Then my mind cleared as if by magic, and I recognized Maud Lilywhite’s voice. It was real, not a part of my dream. Summoning up my remaining strength, I raised one hand, balled it into a fist and hammered as hard as I could on the lid of the well.

‘Let me out, for pity’s sake!’ I yelled.

I could hear more shouting, voices raised in altercation. A fierce argument seemed to be raging. I yelled and hammered again. A moment later, the lid of the well was lifted and heaved aside. Maud Lilywhite, sobbing with relief at finding me still alive, reached down to help me climb out, watched by a sullen Ned Rawbone.

I only had time to gasp my grateful thanks before collapsing in an ungainly heap on the grass.

An hour later, after a walk I remember very little about except that Maud supported me with her arm around my waist, I found myself sitting in the Lilywhites’ cottage before a blazing fire, swaddled in a blanket and drinking a cup of mulled ale. Maud, ashenfaced, was attending to my every need, while her mother-in-law stared morosely at Ned Rawbone, who was seated on a stool, elbows on knees, head clasped between his hands.

‘Perhaps,’ Theresa suggested grimly, when the silence at last grew too oppressive, ‘one of you would care to tell me just what has been going on. I gather from the little that’s been said already, that Ned has tried to kill Master Chapman by throwing him down the well, or some such lunacy. What I want to know is why. What has the pedlar done to upset him?’

When neither of the others answered, I volunteered, ‘Master Rawbone’s afraid that I know – or think I know – what happened to your … To Eris.’

‘And do you?’ The older woman whipped round to face me. ‘Have you found proof that Tom Rawbone murdered her?’

I glanced from Maud to Ned, who both avoided my eyes. But they made no attempt to stop me speaking.

‘Have you?’ Theresa repeated fiercely.

‘I feel pretty sure that Tom didn’t kill Eris,’ I told her, ‘although his brother might like you to think so. In fact, I don’t believe she was murdered at all. Oh, I’m certain she’s dead, but I suspect that her death was an accident.’

Maud stirred suddenly and reached for Ned’s hand, gripping it tightly. ‘Go on,’ she said, when I hesitated.

‘Very well.’ I regarded her straitly. ‘I think Eris did come home that night, after the quarrel at the farmhouse. She did what Petronelle Rawbone wanted her to do: she told you what had happened. She told you she was going to marry Nathaniel. She was going to be mistress of Dragonswick Farm.’

Maud nodded, ignoring her mother-in-law’s gasp of astonishment.

‘Yes, Eris came home. She was triumphant. She gave me all the details of how she had managed to seduce Tom into deserting Rosamund for her and into proposing marriage; of how she had then received a better offer from his father. I was appalled at her conduct and told her so. But, of course, it didn’t make any difference. She was determined to marry Nathaniel, a man old enough to be her grandfather. My disapproval meant nothing to her. She had been headstrong and wayward since babyhood. Like,’ Maud added bitterly, ‘all the rest of her father’s family.’

Theresa interrupted furiously, ‘That’s an evil lie. The Lilywhites were all quiet, gentle people, just like my Gilbert.’

Maud raised her head at that and stared at Theresa for several unblinking seconds. Then she lowered her eyes again, but she seemed disinclined to continue. I glanced at Ned, but he said nothing, either.

I turned to Theresa. ‘Your son wasn’t Eris’s father, Mistress.’ I looked back at Maud. ‘You said just now that Nathaniel was old enough to be Eris’s grandfather. But he was her grandfather, wasn’t he? You were pregnant with Ned’s child when you married your husband.’

Theresa gave a great cry, then demanded harshly, ‘Is this true, Maud?’

Maud took a deep, trembling breath. ‘Yes,’ she admitted at last. Her clasp on Ned’s hand tightened. ‘We loved one another. We always have. But Nathaniel threatened to disinherit Ned unless he married Petronelle, and I didn’t want that to happen to him. He didn’t deserve it. He had worked too hard to make Dragonswick prosperous. But I was pretty sure by then that I was carrying his child, so when Gilbert arrived in the village from Gloucester, to dig a well for the Hemnalls, I set out to win his affections. And I was successful. Oh, as Eris grew up, I could tell that he began to suspect she wasn’t his, especially as his children were puny creatures who died young. But he never said anything. He never openly accused me, but his attitude towards me became more distant and cold.’

‘What happened when you told Eris the truth?’ I asked.

Maud grimaced. ‘At first, of course, she refused to believe me. Said I was making it up to stop her marrying Nathaniel. But I convinced her in the end, and then she went mad. She seized a knife that I’d been slicing bread with and attacked me. She was like an avenging Fury. I was sure she was going to kill me. There was a pot of water boiling on the fire. I picked it up and threw it at her.’ Maud began to sob and it seemed for a moment as though she would be unable to continue. But, eventually, she managed to control her emotion and went on, ‘It missed Eris, but she slipped in the puddle of water. She fell awkwardly and hit her head on the hearth stones. I heard her skull crack.’ Maud shivered. ‘It was horrible. I prayed that she was only stunned, but she wasn’t. She was dead.’

I looked at Ned. ‘Then you arrived.’

He nodded, speaking for the first time since our return to the cottage. ‘Maud was hysterical, in a terrible state. But at last I managed to calm her down and then we had to decide what to do. I told Maud to wait an hour or so, then come up to the farm and say that Eris had still not come home. I would dress and return here and then …’ He broke off, reluctant to say what I had no compunction in saying for him.

‘You spent the remainder of the night burying Eris’s body.’

He didn’t answer at once, then he released his hand from Maud’s, rose slowly from his stool and stood, looking down on me for a few moments. Finally, he said, ‘You can’t prove anything. If asked, Maud and I will deny everything you’ve heard here this afternoon. There’s no proof. You have no idea where Eris is buried.’

‘You’re forgetting Dame Theresa,’ I pointed out.

Ned Rawbone laughed. ‘Oh, I doubt she’ll say anything. After all, what good would it do? I repeat, there’s no proof. But if there were, she won’t want to see Maud arrested and tried for Eris’s death, any more than she can want to reveal her son, her precious Gilbert, as a credulous cuckold. You just make sure that you’re on your way tomorrow, chapman, otherwise, next time, you cross my path, you might not be so lucky.’