Nine Men Dancing

Five

I’m afraid I paid scant attention to the service, moving through the ritual like a sleepwalker, with my mind on earthly instead of spiritual things. I have only the vaguest recollection of the shabby and faded statue of the saint being processed around the church. And even Father Anselm’s short address on Walburga’s life made no impression on me; I knew the story too well. I did realize that he had made no mention of the saint’s later, and undeserved, association with witchcraft, but other than that, the Mass had ended before I was hardly aware that it had begun.

I had spent much of the time thinking about Eris Lilywhite’s disappearance. Even from the little I had heard of her, I agreed with her grandmother: Eris did not sound to me like the sort of girl to vanish tamely just because life had grown too difficult, especially as the difficulties had been of her own making. She had obviously aimed to become a member of the wealthiest family in the district. Having snared the younger son, and having persuaded him to break his promise to marry Rosamund Bush, Eris had not scrupled to throw him over when a bigger prize was offered. The discovery that Nathaniel Rawbone had been smitten by her charms, and was also intent on proposing marriage, must have seemed like an opportunity that a girl as ambitious as she was could not possibly refuse. And she must have been prepared for Tom’s reaction once he learned the truth, as well as for opposition from the rest of the family, all of whom could only have seen the union as a threat to them and theirs.

The first and most important consideration for the Rawbones had to have been that Eris was a young and nubile woman of childbearing age, while Nathaniel, at fifty-nine, was not yet too old to father children (one of the many unfair advantages that Nature has given men over women, who lose their fertility so much earlier in life). Any son born to the couple would not, of course, displace Ned as his father’s heir, but off-spring of either sex would mean more mouths to feed, bodies to clothe, dowries to find, both before and after Nathaniel’s death.

Ned must already have suffered one such blow when Tom was born so many years after himself. He was therefore unlikely to take kindly to a second. And then there were his sons, almost on the brink of manhood, and whichever of them was the elder twin stood in direct line to inherit Dragonswick Farm in his turn. The more dependants to be provided for, the less for him and his heirs. Petronelle, too, would be alive to this danger to her sons’ patrimony, and only the most unnatural of mothers is indifferent to her children’s interests.

And what of Nathaniel’s sister? She could well have had a good deal to fear from a young woman suddenly put in authority over the household, the darling of a besotted elderly husband, ready to pander to her every whim. Eris could have made Jacquetta’s life a misery if, as seemed more than possible, the two women had no liking for one another.

Finally, there was the housekeeper, Dame Elvina, who, if Theresa Lilywhite was to be believed, had been Nathaniel’s mistress for many years and who, again according to Theresa, was one day hoping to marry him herself. Eris had been a girl brought in to help her in the house. To have that girl suddenly elevated so far above her, to have to take orders from her instead of the other way about, surely any woman would have found such a situation intolerable.

So it seemed to me that a girl as calculating as Eris Lilywhite appeared to have been must have guessed in advance that her marriage to Nathaniel Rawbone would provoke opposition not just from his family, but from almost everyone. Why, therefore, if she were ready for this eventuality, would she have run away? No; it was far more likely that someone had murdered her, removing her once and for all from the scene. But who? (Not that there was a dearth of candidates, but then, that was part of the trouble.) And when? And what had happened to her body?

Yet another question distracting my attention from the Mass had been how to worm my way into Dragonswick Farm. But on this score, I need not have worried. As the Rawbone family followed Nathaniel out of church, Dame Jacquetta stopped in front of the Lilywhites and, raising her stick, poked me in the chest.

‘Are you this chapman I’ve been hearing about?’ she asked in a clear, ringing voice that possessed none of the feebleness of age, and which resounded throughout the tiny building, causing curious faces to turn our way. I muttered that I was and she poked me again. ‘Come up to the farm after dinner with your pack. There are certain things I’m short of that you might have. Buttons, laces, pins. Can you oblige?’

I mentally reviewed my depleted store of goods, then nodded. I still had some buttons, I was sure of that, and would have lied outright just to get my foot in the door of the Rawbones’ farmhouse.

‘Stop loitering and come along, Jacquetta!’ her brother ordered irritably from the church doorway. ‘What are you doing back there?’

‘Don’t forget! As soon as you can after dinner,’ the old lady instructed, poking me for a third time.

I rubbed my sore chest and began to move with the rest of the congregation, filing out into the cold winter air, where the inhabitants of Lower Brockhurst, like people everywhere, paused for a gossip before making their way home to dinner. Excusing myself to Maud and Theresa, I edged towards Rosamund Bush, where she stood, a little apart from her parents, who were deep in conversation with another couple of their own age. I reached her just ahead of Lambert Miller.

‘Mistress Rosamund,’ I said, giving her my best smile, which elicited no response, ‘are you still wanting me to play in your team this evening? If you’ve made other arrangements I shall quite understand.’

‘No, I haven’t made other arrangements,’ she answered crossly. ‘I’m still expecting you. If that’s all right on your part,’ she added on a more conciliatory note.

‘Of course.’ I tried another smile and was rewarded by a slight tilt at the corners of her mouth. And when Lambert would have interrupted the conversation, laying a possessive hand on her arm, the Fair Rosamund decided it was time to teach him a lesson. Her smile deepened until it was positively glowing.

‘You were very naughty to run away like that last night, without even saying goodbye,’ she pouted.

I took hold of one of her little hands and kissed it. ‘It was very wrong of me,’ I whispered, ‘but Mistress Lilywhite wanted to leave at once and I was afraid to keep her waiting. She terrifies me.’

Rosamund giggled. ‘Don’t be silly,’ she said, nipping my fingers and ignoring the expression of outrage on her would-be swain’s face. ‘Theresa’s harmless enough. Besides, a great fellow like you isn’t afraid of anyone, let alone a woman.’

‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that,’ I grinned, releasing her hand. ‘I’m a married man. Master Miller!’ I went on, as if I had only just noticed him. ‘As a member of Mistress Rosamund’s side, I hope to have the pleasure of seeing you again this evening. You are her challenger, I believe, in this game of Nine Men’s Morris?’

He glowered at me. ‘I am. But if you have other things to do, pedlar, I’m sure I can find her another player.’

‘Nonsense, Lambert! Master Chapman has agreed to be my man and I’m holding him to his promise.’ Rosamund swept me a curtsey as William and Winifred Bush signalled that they were now ready to depart. ‘I shall see you tonight then – Roger!’ She peeped at me coyly from beneath her lashes before turning to follow her parents. But she remembered to kiss her fingertips to Lambert. She had no intention of antagonizing him too much.

I returned to the Lilywhites, who were waiting patiently for me, and offered the older lady my arm. Theresa accepted it gratefully, finding the climb back up to their homestead more arduous than the descent to the village. The weather had improved still further while we had been in church and a thin, watery sunlight now warmed the whole of the pasture. Only the surrounding woodland stood as though carved from thunderclouds, black and menacing.

The dogs and geese set up their inevitable cacophony as we entered the enclosure, the former yet again being silenced by a word from Theresa. Not so Hercules, who came bounding towards me as soon as the door into the house was opened, barking like a fiend out of Hell and ignoring all my efforts to hush him. He had evidently become worried at being left so long on his own and was showing his disapproval in no uncertain manner. Eventually, however, I managed to convince him that I had not totally abandoned him, and was able to turn my attention to a matter that was troubling my conscience. This was prompted by the savoury smell of the rabbit and herb broth that was bubbling in a pot over the fire.

‘Mistress Lilywhite,’ I said, addressing Maud, ‘if I am to stay here for any length of time, I must pay you for my food and lodging. I can well afford to.’

Both Maud and her mother-in-law were at first reluctant to agree. Quite apart from the hospitality that people living in remote places are expected to extend to strangers, I had also promised to do them a favour by trying to discover what had become of Eris. But after a little persuasion, we agreed on a sum for my and Hercules’s continued bed and board.

‘The dog and I have healthy appetites,’ I warned them.

Theresa said she was happy to hear it: she liked a hearty eater, be it man or beast. But Maud’s smile was perfunctory, and she continued to convey the impression that she would prefer me not to meddle.

‘So!’ said Theresa as we sat round the table to eat our broth. ‘You have been invited to Dragonswick Farm after dinner, chapman. It will give you the chance to make some enquiries. You’ll probably find Jacquetta Rawbone eager enough to talk. She didn’t care for my granddaughter at the best of times, and hasn’t had a good word to say for Eris since the night of her disappearance – the night she discovered that Nathaniel was planning to marry the girl.’

Theresa glanced at her daughter-in-law for confirmation of her words, but Maud refused to comment. Her face was still closed, its expression almost surly. She did not want me to prove that Eris was dead.

It was getting on towards midday by the time I finally finished my dinner – I had disgraced myself by having three helpings of broth – and was able to rebuckle my belt over my woefully distended stomach. At home, Adela would have curbed my appetite by warning me of the perils of overeating – ‘You’re developing a paunch, Roger! You’ll get fat and look old before your time!’ – but without her watchful eye upon me, I had behaved like a little boy let loose in a cook shop. I knew I ought to have felt thoroughly ashamed of myself. Unfortunately, I didn’t.

I walked up the hill, Hercules trotting at my heels, both of us a little somnolent in spite of the cold. I paused some distance from the Rawbone holding in order to survey it, ignoring the dog’s impatient bark (he wanted to go rabbiting). The farmhouse was a substantial two-storey building of grey Cotswold stone, slate-roofed, much bigger than it appeared from further down the slope. A number of sheep were grazing the winter pasture, and I saw that each animal’s fleece was marked with a red saltire cross, evidently the mark of the Rawbone family, and giving strangers notice that the sheep belonged to them. (I later learned that the pigment used was red raddle, the same as is employed for murals in our churches.) I recognized the shepherd boy who was keeping a watchful eye on the flock, his stick in his hand, his dog circling round him, as Billy Tyrrell, the lad who had been in the alehouse the previous evening. I called to him and he came to greet me, glad of anything to relieve his boredom.

‘Hello, chapman! What are you doing here?’

‘Dame Jacquetta wants to buy some of my goods. Where shall I find her?’

‘Follow me,’ he said importantly, and, instructing his dog to keep watch over the sheep, and requesting me to keep Hercules under control, he led the way towards the farm.

At the back of the house I could see the sheds where they rolled the fleeces and weighed the wool after the summer shearing. The pigsty and cow-byre were both much smaller, suggesting to me that these animals were kept solely for domestic purposes. Sheep, and sheep alone, were the Rawbones’ source of wealth, as they were of most farmers in the Cotswolds. Billy Tyrrell led me to the rear of the house, where he opened a door, then bade me a cheery goodbye before returning to his charges.

The fierce, strong-smelling heat of the kitchen almost overpowered me as I entered. The stone floor beneath my feet sweated with damp and the lime-washed walls, darkened by age and smoke, were here and there encrusted with lichen. There was one small window with its shutters half closed and, peering through the dreary half-light, I could just make out the bins of corn and meal, and the pendulous shapes of hams and other joints of meat hanging heavily from the ceiling. When my eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom, I could see that there was a young girl busily making pastry at a central table.

Without glancing up from her work, she demanded, ‘And what do you want?’

‘Mistress Rawbone asked me to call,’ I answered mildly. ‘I’m a chapman.’ I indicated the pack on my back. ‘She’s in need of buttons.’

The girl did look up at that, her thin, plain face sharpening with interest. But all she said was, ‘Which Mistress Rawbone? The older or the younger? Jacquetta or Petronelle?’

‘The older. Dame Jacquetta.’

‘Right. Come with me.’ She wiped her floury hands down the sides of her skirt, but hesitated before leading the way to the inner door. She nodded at Hercules, tucked under my arm. ‘You’d better leave that thing here. I’ll look after him for you. She ain’t keen on strange animals.’

Much as I resented Hercules being called a thing, I took the girl’s advice and put him on the floor near the kitchen fire with instructions to stay there until I returned. He gave me a malevolent stare, but he was getting used to my disappearances and settled down, head on paws, with nothing more than a disgruntled sigh. I nodded to my guide and followed her through the door into the passageway beyond where there were still more doors, presumably opening into still room and larder, buttery and pantry. One was half-open and as I passed, I caught the glitter of polished surfaces and a glimpse of milk jugs and great, curving bowls for the making of cream. The Rawbones lived well, off the fat of the land.

The passage ran at right angles to another, but the kitchen maid stepped straight across this second one and knocked on a door immediately opposite the opening to the first. While she was waiting for an answer, I took a swift glance around. To my left, a flight of stairs rose steeply upwards to the second floor; to my right, the second passage, shorter than the one behind me, was faintly illumined by a window of oiled parchment at the further end. There was sufficient light, however, to show me where one of the flagstones had been raised by means of a large iron ring, and as I watched, a plump woman came panting up from the cellar, holding in her arms two very dusty leather bottles which she set down on the floor before heaving herself up after them.

‘That’s the last time I’m doing that,’ she announced breathlessly to no one in particular. ‘If he wants wine in future, he’ll just have to wait until one of the men can go down to fetch it.’ She saw me and her eyebrows shot up. ‘Who are you? Ruth! Who is this stranger?’

Before I could reply, Ruth had knocked on the door for a second time and a voice had called, ‘Come in.’ My guide pushed it wide and said, ‘The chapman, Mistress,’ jerking her head to indicate that I should enter and flattening herself against the door jamb. I smiled my thanks and went in.

I was in the main hall of the house, a room that the family used for eating, judging by the long oaken table in the centre and by the benches shoved back against the walls on either side. Three large bronze candlesticks, supporting three fat candles, stood in the middle of the board – they had already been lit because of the overcast morning. A fire blazed in the vast fireplace set in one wall, an armchair drawn up beside it. There were a couple of wooden chests, whose flat tops meant that they could be used as extra seats as well as for storage, and some scarlet cushions scattered on the broad ledge of a window that, by my reckoning, looked out over the approach to the farmhouse. I was unable to verify this as the shutters were half closed, diminishing the daylight still further. Finally, there was a second door in the wall to the left of me which I guessed led into a smaller, snugger parlour.

Jacquetta Rawbone heaved herself out of the chair, seized her stick, which had been resting against one of its arms, and limped towards me.

‘You’re late,’ she snapped. ‘I was expecting you half an hour ago at least. I suppose those Lilywhite women detained you with their chatter.’

‘No,’ I said, unstrapping my pack and beginning to spread the contents over the table. ‘In fact, I find the younger Mistress Lilywhite rather quiet.’

Jacquetta snorted, but didn’t contradict me. ‘Not so her mother-in-law, though, I’ll be bound. As nosy as they’re made, that creature. A trouble-maker!’ She started to examine my store of buttons, picking them up and putting them down again with her elegant, bony fingers.

‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ I answered. ‘I haven’t known her long enough to form an opinion.’

My companion shot me a shrewd look from her deep-set eyes.

‘Do you seriously mean to tell me that you’ve spent a whole evening and morning in Theresa’s company and not heard all about the unhappy connection between our two families? Don’t bother denying it. I’m not that gullible, chapman.’

‘I wasn’t going to deny it,’ I retorted, directing her attention to a set of very pretty ivory buttons that I had bought from a ship moored at the Gloucester wharves, whose captain and crew had just returned from a long voyage to the east. ‘And a very interesting story I found it. To be honest, I was going to mention it if you hadn’t done so first. I’d be interested to know your version of events.’

Jacquetta pushed the buttons to one side, signifying that she would buy them, and turned to the pile of laces, testing their strength by jerking them hard between her hands and carefully inspecting their metal tags.

‘Those boys, the twins,’ she grumbled, ‘they’re always breaking their laces, with the result that their breeches are either falling down round their ankles or their shirts are riding halfway up their backs. And their mother does nothing about it.’ The old lady spat into the rushes that covered the stone-flagged floor. ‘Well, if Petronelle doesn’t mind them going about the countryside looking like a couple of scarecrows, I do! I’ll take all the laces you’ve got left. And two dozen pins. That’s all then. What do I owe you?’ And she loosened the strings of a velvet purse attached to her girdle.

When we had completed our transaction, she watched me stow away the rest of my unsold goods in my pack, then said abruptly, ‘Stay awhile if you wish.’ She motioned me towards the fire and waved a hand at the benches ranged against the wall on each side of the fireplace. ‘I’m lonely, young man. My sight isn’t as good as it was and I can’t read as well as I used to. My brother and nephew, Ned, have gone down to the village to get some flour from the mill, Petronelle’s upstairs somewhere and I don’t ask what my younger nephew and the twins get up to all day. That’s their business, and I’m content to leave it that way.’

I sat down on the end of one of the benches nearest the fire, while Jacquetta again settled herself in the armchair. I was amazed at how easy it had been to get my hostess to talk to me: I hadn’t counted on the midwinter boredom of people, especially women, in remote villages who, until I came along, perhaps hadn’t seen a stranger since the previous autumn. I looked expectantly at Jacquetta.

She laughed and wagged a witch-like finger. ‘Oh, you’re getting nothing from me, my lad, until I hear something of what’s been going on in the world. Is it true the Queen’s been brought to bed of another child?’

‘So I’ve heard. At the beginning of this month. Another daughter. But don’t ask me what they’re going to call her. We have an Elizabeth, a Mary, a Cicely and an Anne already. They’ll soon be running out of names.’

My companion laughed self-consciously. ‘I was baptized Joan,’ she said, ‘but it was too ordinary a name for me. When I was nineteen, I rechristened myself after the present Queen’s mother. She that was Jacquetta of Luxembourg and became Duchess of Bedford when she married one of the fifth Henry’s brothers. Later on, after Bedford’s death, she married his squire, Richard Woodville. What a scandal that caused, but she didn’t care. That must have been a real love match, judging by the number of children she bore him.’

We chatted for a while longer about this and that; of Clarence’s execution, a year ago now, and of the strange rumours that had surrounded it; of the odd fact that the Bishop of Bath and Wells, Robert Stillington, had been imprisoned about the same time, but later pardoned; of the rift it had caused between the King and his one remaining brother, Richard of Gloucester; of the Duke’s retirement to his Yorkshire estates with his wife and son; and of his reported hatred for the Queen and all her kindred, holding them responsible, as he did, for the condemnation and death of George of Clarence.

‘Well, there’s one good thing,’ Jacquetta concluded, leaning back in her chair and extending her feet to the fire, ‘the King and Queen have those two dear boys. The succession is assured for the House of York. That’s something to be thankful for.’ (How ironic that sounds now, looking back on events from my old age and knowing what actually happened.) ‘So, chapman, what do you want to know from me? And why?’

I shrugged. ‘I’m just naturally nosy,’ I said, unwilling to go into details of my past as I had done with the Lilywhites. ‘The disappearance of this girl, Eris, sounds like an intriguing mystery to me. What do you think happened to her?’

‘She ran away!’ Jacquetta exclaimed scornfully. ‘She suddenly realized what she’d done; that every man’s hand was going to be against her. And every woman’s, too. Especially the women’s. She’d made too many enemies with her devious, underhand dealings. She got frightened and went.’

‘On a stormy night of rain and wind?’ I cavilled. ‘And without going home first to tell her mother what she planned to do and at least to find a cloak? Forgive me, Mistress Rawbone, but it makes no sense.’

‘It makes no sense to betroth yourself to one man and secretly plot to marry his father,’ Jacquetta spat. ‘I think it suddenly came home to her what havoc she was causing, not just for us, here at Dragonswick, but for Rosamund Bush and her family as well. Perhaps – and here I give her the benefit of the doubt – a shred of decency stirred in Eris Lilywhite and she decided to leave before she did more harm. Besides, she had a cloak, a good thick one. She was wearing it when she arrived here earlier in the day.’

I leaned foward. ‘Dame Jacquetta,’ I said gently, ‘you don’t truly believe, do you, that Eris left Brockhurst of her own accord? People like her don’t have a conscience.’

The old woman eyed me sharply. ‘What are you suggesting?’ she demanded. ‘That someone killed her?’

‘It seems more probable, you must agree.’

I could see by the expression on her face that she did agree, but was reluctant to admit it.

‘That family,’ she snorted, ‘the Haycombes, they’ve always been trouble. Maud Lilywhite,’ she explained, noting my puzzled frown, ‘was a Haycombe before she married that young man from Gloucester. Her father, Ralph Haycombe – she inherited that smallholding from him – was a wild lad in his youth. No girl was safe from his attentions, as I know only too well. Like father, like daughter,’ she added spitefully. ‘And like granddaughter, if it comes to that.’

The passage door opened and the woman I had seen coming up from the cellar entered the hall just in time to overhear Jacquetta’s last remarks. She laughed nastily.

‘I seem to have heard,’ she taunted, ‘that you were rather sweet on Ralph Haycombe, my dear. If my mother was to be believed, at one time you were even hoping to marry him. Unfortunately for you, he preferred her, but she was already spoken for by my father.’