Nine Men Dancing

Three

The musicians had started up for a third time, but my ears were now so attuned to their playing that I failed to notice. It was first brought to my attention when Lambert Miller rose from his seat and came across to Rosamund, trying to look modest and unconcerned about the effect his large, handsome face, and even larger, well-muscled frame was having on the women in the ale-room. And failing dismally.

‘Mistress Rose,’ he said, bowing fulsomely over her hand, which he clasped possessively in one of his own great paws, ‘I know I speak for everyone present when I beg you to honour us with another song.’

His big, bland smile intimated he had no doubts that she would oblige him. So she did, but it was obvious to me, if not to him, that she was doing so only to please herself. As she rose to her feet, she said tartly, ‘I’ve asked you before, Lambert, please don’t call me Rose.’

The great oaf looked bewildered. ‘But it’s your name,’ he protested.

‘My name is Rosamund,’ she explained impatiently. ‘No one wants to be called Rose Bush, Lambert. It sounds ridiculous!’

‘Oh … Oh, yes! I see.’ He gave an over-hearty laugh. ‘You are a wit, Rose – er – Rosamund.’

She gave him an enigmatic glance, but allowed him to lead her forward to stand beside the fiddler, then tapped his cheek affectionately – which caused Lambert’s chest to swell to even more manly proportions than it aspired to already. But I couldn’t help wondering what deep game young Mistress Bush was playing. I could have sworn that she despised her rugged admirer, but she plainly had no intention of alienating such a catch. And who could blame her? She must have been humiliated in front of the whole village by Tom Rawbone’s rejection of her in favour of the missing Eris Lilywhite. She would have been less than human had she not wanted to demonstrate to him, and to everyone else, that she was desired by probably the handsomest and most sought after man for miles around.

The group behind me, wisely ignoring the music, had progressed from the rival merits of manures to reach a general agreement on the superiority of Stockholm tar over the old-fashioned remedy of broom water for the removal of ticks from sheep. But when the one called Rob noticed me looking at them, he interrupted the conversation.

‘You wanted to know about the well at Brockhurst Hall, chapman.’

‘I was impressed by the excellent lid on it,’ I said, ‘and by the fact that it hadn’t been left as an open snare for children and animals.’

‘Ah,’ one of the other men explained, ‘some year back, a young chap from the village climbed down the shaft, slipped and broke his leg-’

‘And ’is arm,’ put in somebody else.

‘Ay, and his arm. Weren’t found fer nigh on two days. After that, village elders they instructed John Carpenter to make a cover fer the dratted thing. A good solid ’un, they said. Which he did, as you’ve seen fer yerself.’

‘Wouldn’t it have been easier just to fill the well in?’ I suggested. ‘I imagine it’s been dried up for a good long time.’

‘Ar, reck’n you’re right,’ the one called Rob agreed. Then, suddenly losing interest, they all reverted to the far more exciting subject of sheep.

A hand fell on my shoulder. Swivelling round on my stool, I saw Theresa Lilywhite, who must have returned to the alehouse without my noticing. She bent down to speak in my ear as most of the customers had now joined in the rollicking refrain of a highly improper song, which I had first heard sung by the sailors along the Bristol Backs. No doubt this was a cleaner version, in deference to the ladies present. I very much hoped so.

‘I’ve spoken to my daughter-in-law,’ she said, ‘and if you don’t fancy sleeping on the floor here, we can offer you accommodation for the night. Or for as long as you want to stay in Lower Brockhurst. There’s only the two of us since Eris disappeared. You can have her bed.’

‘There’s the dog, as well,’ I said, pointing to Hercules, snoring happily at my feet.

She nodded. ‘You’re welcome to bring him. Just keep him out of the way of our dogs, that’s all. They’ll think he’s a rat. But they’re tied up outside at nights, anyway.’

It was a more inviting prospect than sleeping on the straw-covered flagstones of the ale-room, particularly if I intended remaining in Brockhurst for longer than a single night. Besides which, I should be right at the heart of a mystery that was beginning to intrigue me. Surely I was bound to learn more about the missing girl from her mother and grandmother than from anyone else.

‘Thank you. I accept,’ I said. ‘Do you want me to come with you at once?’

‘If you would. We keep early hours. What else is there for two women on their own to do on long winter nights besides sleep?’

I hoped that on this particular evening I might tempt her and her daughter-in-law into conversation, but I didn’t say so. I simply begged a few moments’ grace to explain matters to William Bush and say goodbye.

The landlord, although patently relieved to be rid of me, nevertheless deplored my choice of alternative lodging. The Lilywhites obviously ranked alongside the Rawbones as people who had inflicted unhappiness on his daughter, and were not to be easily forgiven. They had spawned the siren who had stolen the affections of Rosamund’s betrothed.

‘Watch yourself then, chapman,’ William advised, failing in his half-hearted attempt to persuade me to stay.

I had a suspicion that his daughter might try harder if she knew of my intention to leave, so, while she was still flirting with Lambert Miller, I gathered up my pack, my cudgel and an indignant Hercules and followed Theresa Lilywhite outside.

It was quite dark now, the storm clouds no longer great bastions in the sky, but torn to witches’ hair by a rising wind. It was the dead time of year, cold and tempestuous, as late February so often is just before the earth begins to stir and put forth new shoots. The dank smell of sodden grassland teased my nostrils, and a few thin trees waved arthritic branches overhead as we crossed the wooden footbridge and left the village behind us. My cloak whipped around my legs, and Hercules cowered in the shelter of my arm, growling his disapproval.

‘What’s the stream called?’ I asked Theresa Lilywhite as we started climbing the slope towards the homestead, halfway between the village and the farm that I had noted earlier in the evening.

She laughed, the sound streeling away like a banshee’s cry on the cold night air.

‘Nothing. It’s just known as “the stream”. It’s probably got a name somewhere along its length, but not in Lower Brockhurst.’ She raised her voice against the increasing violence of the wind. ‘But the rill that flows down from the ridge, that’s known as the Draco. Don’t ask me why.’

‘Maybe from drakon, the Greek word for a serpent. Or from the Latin for a dragon.’ I remembered the snake-like meanderings of the little brook, although, as we trudged diagonally uphill across the sheep-bitten grass, it was lost to view in the darkness.

‘What sort of pedlar are you?’ panted my companion, as she pushed open a gate in a picket fence and led the way into a small enclosure.

Our entrance was greeted by the furious barking of two great hounds, each tethered by a long chain to a stake driven into the ground; while, somewhere on the far side of the one-storey building that stood in the middle of the compound, geese began to cackle loud enough to have awakened the whole of ancient Rome. Theresa Lilywhite yelled at the dogs, who, recognizing the voice of authority, slunk back to their posts and lay down. The geese cackled on.

‘Sorry,’ she apologized, ‘but there’s nothing I can do about those hideous birds. We’ll just have to wait for them to settle.’

‘The Romans found them better sentinels than dogs,’ I pointed out, and once again, she laughed.

‘I’ll have your story out of you before we go to sleep tonight,’ she promised. ‘So be warned. I have a long nose.’

‘So have I,’ I admitted cheerfully.

She gave me a curious glance and ushered me inside the cottage, but said nothing more for the present.

The long, narrow room in which I found myself served as living room and sleeping quarters all in one, a heavy curtain of unbleached linen dividing the latter from the former. I had been in many such places during my travels and had lived in smaller. Beneath a hole in the roof was a central hearth on which logs were burning, gnarled and hoary and covered with grey-green lichen. They blazed fitfully, spitting out showers of sparks and bearded with fringes of woodash that trembled into feathery, fan-shaped patterns. Near enough to benefit from their warmth, but not sufficiently close to be scorched by their heat, sat a woman, staring into the flames. She had been spinning, judging by the wheel and basket of wool beside her, but had now abandoned this occupation. She looked up as we entered.

‘Maud,’ Theresa Lilywhite said, ‘here’s the chapman I told you about. He’s happy to accept our offer of a bed, rather than spend an uncomfortable night on the alehouse floor. Chapman, this is my daughter-in-law.’

I gave a slight bow. ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mistress.’

Maud Lilywhite, who I judged to be somewhere in her late thirties, rose from her stool, a slight woman in a dress of drab homespun, whose tired, careworn features still showed traces of the beauty she must have passed on to her daughter. (In a place the size of Lower Brockhurst, it would have taken a girl of exceptional looks to eclipse the pink-and-white prettiness of Rosamund Bush.) Her dark, liquid brown eyes retained something of the lustre that must once have set pulses racing, and which, long ago, had ensnared a young man from the big city of Gloucester.

‘Have you had food, Master Chapman?’ she asked.

‘Hercules and I ate more than well at the alehouse, I thank you, Mistress.’ I set my shivering animal down on the floor, where he immediately made himself at home, stretching out luxuriously in front of the fire.

‘Then you’ll take some mulled ale,’ the older woman suggested, coming forward and indicating the small iron pot that hung from a tripod over the flames.

I agreed very willingly; and while Theresa Lilywhite drew up two more stools to the fire, showed me where to put my pack and cudgel and hung my wet cloak on a nail behind the door, Maud Lilywhite fetched beakers from a shelf above the wall-oven and poured out three generous measures of the warm, sweet, cinnamon-flavoured drink.

‘Your own brew, Mistress?’ I asked, when I had slaked my thirst.

The younger woman shook her head. ‘My mother-in-law’s.’

There was a certain reservation in her tone that made me suspect she did not really like Theresa. I recalled the conversation in the Roman Sandal – ‘… Just come fer the funeral and stayed’ … ‘Reckon they didn’t want ’er there, but couldn’t get rid of ’er …’ – and decided that my guess was probably correct.

‘Have you come far?’ Maud enquired politely, just as Theresa demanded more robustly, ‘Well, and what’s your story, then, chapman? A pedlar who knows Greek and Latin isn’t an everyday occurrence, you must admit.’

‘A little Latin and less Greek,’ I amended, laughing. ‘All right. I’ll tell you my history in exchange for some local gossip. What do you say?’

I saw Maud Lilywhite shift uneasily on her stool, but the older woman cried, ‘Done! It’ll be a pleasanter way to spend a stormy winter’s evening than staring at these four walls, or watching my daughter-in-law’s interminable spinning.’

So, for the next hour or so, I told them my story and a few of my adventures, adding, as a bonus for their hospitality, various insights into the life of the royal family – some a little exaggerated, I have to confess – and was rewarded by their undivided attention and awestruck silence. But I could see that whereas the younger woman was most impressed by the people I had met, the dukes and princes I had talked to, Theresa Lilywhite was far more interested in the mysteries I had solved. I could guess the way her mind was working, so did nothing to minimize my successes. In fact, quite the opposite: I was positively boastful. And if, on occasions, I saw in my mind’s eye Adela’s face with its mocking expression, I managed to ignore it.

When, at last, I had finished speaking, both women drew a long, deep, satisfied breath.

‘Well, that tale’s worth your bed and board for at least a week, chapman,’ Theresa finally remarked. ‘Don’t you agree, Maud?’

Her daughter-in-law nodded. ‘And you really have met the King and His Grace of Gloucester and that poor gentleman, the late Duke of Clarence?’ she asked wonderingly.

‘I have. And I swear to you, in the name of my mother and the Virgin, that all that I’ve told you is true.’ My mother could take responsibility for the bits that were almost, but not quite, true. Our Lady could sponsor the rest.

‘So,’ Theresa Lilywhite said, getting up to pour three more cups of ale and then settling down again on her stool, ‘what do you want to ask us?’ The younger woman made a little movement of protest, but was rebuked by her mother-in-law. ‘Fair’s fair, Maud. He’s kept his part of the bargain, and handsomely, too. Now we must keep ours. We’re waiting, chapman.’

I could tell by the guarded look on both their faces that they were expecting me to ask about Eris, but I nosed my way into their confidence gently.

‘When we were talking earlier this evening,’ I said, turning to Theresa, ‘I mentioned the well I’d stumbled across, and you said it must have been the well at Brockhurst Hall. You also said there was a strange story attached to it and recommended that I ask one of the villagers to tell me about it. Only, for one reason and another, I never got around to doing so. Perhaps you’d be kind enough to enlighten me now.’

‘Go on, Maud!’ The older woman looked across at the younger. ‘You’re a local girl, born and bred in Lower Brockhurst. You know all the stories concerning these parts. Tell the chapman what he wants to know. I’ve already told him that the population of Upper Brockhurst and the Hall were wiped out in the Black Death. Those turnip-heads in the alehouse would have had him think that it all happened “some year back”!’ The contempt in her voice was almost tangible.

Maud Lilywhite flushed resentfully, but attempted no defence of her fellow villagers. Perhaps, over the years, she had grown tired of doing so. Or perhaps she felt as much contempt for her mother-in-law as an outsider as Theresa felt for people she regarded as ignorant country yokels. Instead, she turned towards me.

‘Very well, then.’ She gave a faint smile and I smiled back encouragingly. ‘You know, of course, Master Chapman, that some communities were wiped out completely during the great plague of the last century, while others, only half a mile or so distant, survived intact. And that, it seems, is what happened here. Every single inhabitant of Upper Brockhurst died – nobody escaped – while in our village only three people were struck down, and even they recovered.’

She paused to take a sip of ale before continuing. ‘Brockhurst Hall stood a little apart from the village of Upper Brockhurst and, as far as I can gather, occupied most of the ridge that overlooks this valley. According to my grandmother, who had been told the facts by her grandmother, the Hall had been in the possession of a family called Martin for as long as anyone could remember. It’s said that the first Martin, who built the place, came to this country with William the Conqueror-’

‘William the Bastard,’ Theresa Lilywhite corrected her with quiet venom.

Maud repeated, ‘William the Bastard,’ with a look of scarcely veiled derision. For my benefit, she explained, ‘My mother-in-law’s family are of Saxon descent, or so they say-’

‘There’s no “say” about it,’ Theresa interrupted angrily. ‘My great-great-great-grand-father’s great-great-great-great-grandfather was horsekeeper to Earl Godwin himself, at Berkeley.’

My brain was too tired to work out whether this was a feasible claim or not, and in any case, Maud had resumed her story.

‘As I was telling you, chapman, whatever the truth about the first Martin, it’s certain the family had lived at the Hall for a very long time. But by the middle of the last century, only two brothers, Tobias and Humphrey, remained. Both men were bachelors and seemed likely to stay that way. Even before the plague claimed their lives, it seemed that they would be the last of their line.

‘Like many elderly, unmarried people they grew more and more reclusive as the years went by, so much so that they went less and less beyond the confines of the Hall. But there was a problem. The chief water supply for the area was the Draco, that little stream that flows downhill to join with the larger one at the bottom. It ran straight through Upper Brockhurst’s main street, where it was deepest and widest. There was, of course, a well in the Hall’s stableyard, but whoever sank it originally hadn’t dug down far enough, and, in summer, the water level became extremely low. This had never worried earlier generations of Martins, who simply fetched extra supplies from the Draco, like the rest of their neighbours.’

‘But that didn’t suit Humphrey and Tobias?’ I suggested, leaning down to pat Hercules, who had suddenly woken up with a snort and an urgent desire to hunt for fleas.

Maud shook her head. ‘No. It seems that as well as becoming recluses, the brothers had also grown miserly in their old age. They’d turned off their last servant some years before, and looked after themselves. But they had to have water, and if, in times of drought, they weren’t prepared to walk into the village and fill buckets from the Draco, then they had to have their own well deepened. My grandmother – or, rather, her grandmother – couldn’t remember the details, but it seems that a couple of wellers, a father and son from Tetbury way, were persuaded to come to Brockhurst Hall and carry out the necessary work. This they duly did, but-’ and here Maud lowered her voice impressively, indicating that she was approaching the climax of her story – ‘two days after they’d finished, and said goodbye to the friends they’d made during their stay in the village, they were found murdered in woodland about a mile or so from the Hall. The backs of their heads had been battered in with two great tree branches that were left beside the bodies, covered in blood. But before the hue and cry could be raised, or a message sent to the Sheriff’s Officers at Gloucester, the first case of plague arrived in Upper Brockhurst. Maybe the wellers had brought it, who knows? But within weeks, the entire population, including Humphrey and Tobias Martin, was wiped out. And in the meantime, of course, no one from outside the village would go anywhere near them. Lower Brockhurst sealed itself off from the outside world – nobody was allowed in or out of the village for more than three months – and consequently everyone survived.’

‘So,’ I said, straightening up on my stool as Hercules settled down to sleep again, ‘no one has ever discovered why the two wellers were murdered, or by whom. But couldn’t it simply have been footpads? Or outlaws? After all, the Martins must have paid them for their work before they left the Hall. They would have had money on them.’

Maud Lilywhite added another log to the fire, stretching her feet towards the flames.

‘But according to my great-great-grand-mother,’ she said quietly, ‘neither man had been robbed. Their money was still in the pouches attached to their belts. So it couldn’t possibly have been footpads or outlaws.’

‘An intriguing story, eh, chapman?’ Theresa asked, offering me yet another cup of ale, which I declined, feeling I had already consumed enough for one evening. ‘And one to which we shall, I’m afraid, never know the answer.’

‘After well over a hundred years, I’m sure that’s only too true,’ I agreed regretfully, and she laughed.

‘You don’t like unsolved mysteries, I can tell.’

‘No, I don’t.’

I saw her glance narrowly at her daughter-in-law before saying forcefully, ‘Well then, here’s one recent enough for you to be able to unravel. Perhaps you can discover what’s happened to my granddaughter, Eris, who went missing over six months ago on the night of the great storm.’

‘Mother-in-law, leave it! Please!’

‘Nonsense!’ was the robust answer to this heartfelt appeal. ‘Someone’s got to find out what’s become of the girl. If she’s been murdered-’ Theresa’s voice cracked a little on the word – ‘or if she has simply run away. Although, knowing your daughter, Maud, I hardly think that’s likely. She was too much your child in that respect. She knew a good catch when she hooked one. She wasn’t going to throw old Nathaniel Rawbone back into the sea. Not with the fortune he has salted away.’

‘Nathaniel Rawbone?’ I asked. ‘Excuse me, but you must understand that I’ve already heard something of the story-’

‘From Rosamund Bush, I’ll be bound!’ the older woman exclaimed. ‘That one’s going to play the part of the Wronged Woman for the rest of her life. What has she told you?’

‘That she and Tom Rawbone – a member of the same family, I take it – were betrothed, but that he jilted her in favour of your granddaughter. It came out quite naturally in conversation. She didn’t go out of her way to tell me.’ I found myself springing to the Fair Rosamund’s defence.

Theresa Lilywhite snorted disbelievingly, but made no comment.

‘It’s quite true,’ her daughter-in-law put in, evidently deciding that, as I knew so much, I might as well know the rest. ‘A year ago this month, Eris went to work at Dragonswick Farm – that’s the building you can see higher up the hill – for the Rawbone family. They needed extra help in the house, there being seven of them in all, and their housekeeper, Elvina Merryman having recently been sick.’ She added, looking defiantly at Theresa, ‘It wasn’t Eris’s fault if Tom Rawbone fell in love with her and out of love with Rosamund Bush.’

‘Maybe not,’ Theresa retorted grimly, ‘but having stolen another woman’s betrothed, Eris should have been content with having done sufficient mischief. She should never have permitted the attentions of a man old enough to be her grandfather, and also the father of the man she had promised to marry. But, of course, she was never in love with Tom. He was just a way of worming herself into the Rawbone family.’ Theresa sniffed disparagingly. ‘She’d not long turned sixteen, and as crafty as the serpent in Eden. Well, I’ll tell you this, chapman! She didn’t get her mercenary, philandering ways from my side of the family. I wasn’t born a Lilywhite, but my husband’s folk were as honest and God-fearing as any you’ll find in England. There wasn’t a woman in Gloucester who would have turned down an offer of marriage from my Gilbert.’

I said hurriedly, not wishing to be drawn into any quarrel between mother- and daughter-in-law, ‘Are you telling me that Eris – that your granddaughter – jilted Tom Rawbone in her turn, and for the young man’s father?’

It was Maud who answered, refusing to rise to Theresa’s bait.

‘Yes, I’m afraid so. No one knew how long the pair of them had been secretly carrying on a courtship. Nathaniel, for all he’s nearly sixty, still has an eye for the women. We all know that. He’s been a womanizer all his life. But no one expected him to look at a girl of Eris’s youth. Nor did anyone know that Tom Rawbone was courting her as well, and secretly plotting to break his betrothal to Rosamund Bush. How in the Virgin’s Name,’ Maud finished on an anguished note, ‘Eris managed to keep everything a secret in this village, whose very walls have ears, I shall never understand. Even I had no inkling of what was going on.’

‘What Eris wanted, Eris was going to get, come Hell or high water,’ her grandmother declared uncompromisingly. Theresa lowered her voice almost to a whisper and her face was suddenly grey with fear. ‘Sometimes, I think Eris might have been a witch.’