Nine Men Dancing

Seven

Jacquetta was looking puzzled, as well she might by this sudden change of direction in my questioning.

She asked again, ‘What has this to do with the disappearance of Eris Lilywhite?’ but got no further before a woman I recognized as Petronelle Rawbone entered the room.

‘Ned and Nathaniel have returned,’ she said. ‘Tom and the boys are with them.’

The words were hardly out of her mouth, when the front door was flung wide on screeching hinges and the Rawbone men surged into the hall on a great tide of energy, all talking at once. A strong smell of ale hung in the air, and it was no surprise to learn that they had all met up with one another in the Roman Sandal. (Presumably, as far as William Bush was concerned, business was business and resentment on his daughter’s behalf did not extend to turning away so much custom.) They were all heatedly debating the truth, or otherwise, of a rumour concerning a murrain of cattle in neighbouring Wales, and the possibility of it spreading across the Severn into Gloucestershire. Jacquetta and Petronelle were inevitably drawn into the conversation, firing off worried questions at their menfolk until Nathaniel roared for quiet.

‘You’re behaving like a lot of hysterical women, the pack of you!’ he shouted. ‘It ain’t likely a disease’ll cross water, but if it does, we’ll deal with it when it happens. And you can be sure that I’m not killing off my sheep for anybody.’

No one was taking any notice of me, so I decided it was time to be on my way. I picked up my pack and tiptoed out into the passage, closing the hall door softly behind me. As I crossed the flagstones to enter the other passage opposite, I glanced to my left. The trapdoor of the cellar was still standing upright, and, with a few strides, I was beside it, crouched on my haunches, staring into the void. A narrow stone staircase disappeared into what would have been pitch darkness had the housekeeper not forgotten to douse the wall cresset she had lit earlier. On a sudden impulse, I dropped my pack and, after a quick look around to make sure that no one was watching, descended the well-worn treads.

As cellars go, it was not large; long and low-ceilinged, but very narrow. I soon realized that this was because the farmhouse had been built into the side of a hill and its foundations in the front were lower than those at the back. The ground floor had been levelled, leaving this oddly shaped space beneath it; a space that had been utilized as an undercroft, except that, in this case, there was no access to it from the outside. Logs and smaller pieces of firewood were stacked against the outer wall; some leather bottles, containing, I supposed, more wine, were ranged against the inner; while anything that seemed to be in need of a stitch or a nail by way of repair, had been bundled down there out of sight (and presumably out of mind), a fact that said little for the housewifery and economy of either Petronelle or Jacquetta or Elvina Merryman.

But however much this fact would have been deplored by my wife and former mother-in-law, Margaret Walker, it was not what interested me. I paced the length of the cellar, my eyes fixed on the ground, searching for traces of any disturbance to the beaten-earth floor that might indicate a recently dug grave. But there was too much clutter for me to arrive at any firm conclusion; and I was suddenly aware of voices overhead calling for the housekeeper to bring ale. Hurriedly, I retraced my steps and clambered up out of the cellar just in time to see Elvina disappearing into the hall, demanding irritably, ‘What’s all the noise about? What do you want? Can’t one of you come to find me in a decent, civilized fashion, instead of bawling yourselves hoarse like this?’

I grabbed my pack, stole down the corridor, turned into the other at right angles to it, then headed for a door halfway along and entered the kitchen. Ruth Hodges was still there, putting a pie into a wall-oven and cursing as she burned her fingers, while Hercules, who had been lying resignedly by the hearth, came hurtling towards me, jumping up and barking loudly. I hushed him, found my cudgel and cloak, said my farewells and made my escape from the house before Jacquetta realized my absence, and decided she wanted me back to answer a few of her questions.

The afternoon was now some way advanced and the weather had worsened. The distant trees were tossing and billowing, and above them, huge clouds rode like galleons in the storm-tossed sky. Below me, I could see the Lilywhite holding and a woman I thought was Theresa crossing the back yard, battling against the wind, to feed the geese. Below that again, in the valley, the village lay snugly tucked behind its belt of trees, its inhabitants no doubt busy about their work, but eagerly anticipating the evening’s entertainment and the game of Nine Men’s Morris to be played at the alehouse. I must remember that I was expected, or I should once again be in Rosamund Bush’s black books.

But there were some hours yet to nightfall, so I considered what to do in the meantime. Hercules was capering around me, telling me as plainly as he could that he needed exercise, and the evil way in which he was eyeing up the placidly grazing sheep made me anxious to comply with his wishes. So I took the liberty of stowing my pack inside the Rawbones’ cowshed and strode off uphill, across the pasture, to the woods foaming along its crest.

I decided to follow the course of the Draco, and after walking for about half an hour – slow going over rough, thickly wooded terrain, even though the land had levelled out somewhat – I came to the dried-up watercourse, mentioned by Dame Jacquetta, where the stream had once diverted through Upper Brockhurst. Now it flowed downhill in a more or less straight line from somewhere ahead of me, swollen by the recent rains until it had almost breached its banks. The original channel, still vaguely discernible, had filled, over the years, with a mixture of earth and a mulch of dead leaves until it had become very nearly a part of the woodland floor, supporting an ever-increasing growth of scrub and young trees. Whistling to Hercules, I set out to follow its path as best I could.

After walking for another quarter of an hour, I was unsurprised to find myself moving in a gentle curve, in a landscape reminiscent of the previous day, when I had penetrated the remains of Upper Brockhurst Hall. Here and there, I could plainly see the jagged teeth of ruined buildings pushing between the encroaching foliage, giving me notice that men had once lived here, where now only badgers and other woodland creatures were in occupation. In a long-gone village street, that had echoed to the sound of people laughing, talking, singing, there was now nothing but a dry, rustling noise, so faint that it made me starkly aware of the dead weight of silence all around me.

Hercules, tail erect, nose quivering, was searching for any rabbit foolish enough to leave its comfortable burrow for the cold and wet of a miserable, late February day. He had just found a promising hole and was snuffling at it in eager anticipation, when he suddenly stopped and raised his head, ears pricked, his little body tense and troubled.

I stood stock still. ‘What is it, boy?’ I hissed, whispering although I had heard nothing. Then a twig cracked somewhere, as if it had been snapped underfoot, and Hercules let out a whine. Unbidden, a vivid picture, clear and fully-formed, sprang into my mind of two men walking through these self-same woods, pleased with a job well done, the prompt payment they had received for their work jingling in the purses hung from their belts. They were going home after – how long? A month? Six weeks? More? I had no idea of the time needed to sink a well. But whatever length of time it had taken, the wellers, father and son, must have made friends in Upper Brockhurst during the period of their stay. And if the Martin brothers had really been as parsimonious as Maud Lilywhite had described them, they were unlikely to have offered the two men bed and board of an acceptable quality. So the wellers had probably lodged with the villagers, who would have welcomed strangers from the larger community of Tetbury in their midst. (Both the Brockhursts, Upper and Lower, were off the beaten track and news of the outside world would therefore have been slow to reach them.) What proved to be the last weeks of the unsuspecting villagers’ lives were no doubt enhanced by the pair’s presence.

And so father and son had finally set out for home, looking forward to seeing their womenfolk again; happy, relaxed, not thinking of danger until unexpectedly, brutally, it had descended on them from out of the surrounding trees and they were battered to death before they could defend themselves. Had they known why? Had they recognized their attackers? Or had they simply thought – for the short interval of time that they could think – that they had been set upon by footpads? But nothing, according to tradition, had been stolen from them. They had been left to welter in their blood, their money undisturbed in their purses.

It would seem to have been the handiwork of a madman or madmen; in which case, where had the person or persons come from? The village they had just left perhaps? Or from Lower Brockhurst? And if the latter, were the murderers’ descendants still living there, tainted with the same strain of insanity? I found, to my annoyance, that I was shivering, standing in the silent wood, listening now to nothing more sinister than the steady drip-drip of the trees. Hercules had returned to blowing down the rabbit hole, evidently satisfied that the interruption had been a false alarm and intent on digging his way down to visit Master Coney, if Master Coney didn’t have the good manners to come up to visit him.

‘All right!’ I said disgustedly. ‘I understand. You didn’t really hear anything. You were just making a fool of me.’

My nervousness had had the inevitable effect on my bladder, so I was forced to struggle with my laces and relieve myself in the long grasses that now rioted all over what had once been Upper Brockhurst’s main street (although a few patches of cobbles were still visible in places). Then I prised a furious Hercules away from his excavation, tucked his squirming body under my cloak and proceeded to follow the line of the old watercourse until I was back beside the Draco, maybe half a mile further on from where I had left it some fifteen minutes earlier.

I released Hercules and directed my footsteps downhill once more, walking beside the stream as it purled over its stony bed, cutting deeper and ever deeper into the new channel that the men of Lower Brockhurst had dug for it a hundred years ago. No doubt, while they were about it, those men had also knocked down and removed much of the masonry from the upper village, a free source of building material for the lower. (There was always gain to be made out of other people’s misfortune, as I had reason to know only too well. I should not now be the owner of a house in Bristol’s Small Street had it not been for the unlawful death of an innocent and lovely young woman.)

I passed again the spot where the Draco had originally curved out from Upper Brockhurst village, and which marked the end of the new watercourse. The stream plunged onwards now between a strip of scrub and some stunted trees, whose top-most branches made a pattern like the hands of skeletons arched against the gloomy afternoon sky. An easterly wind was rising that drained the landscape of what little colour it had, turning everything to a uniform greenish-grey, and the dank smell of decaying leaves and rotting wood hung in my nostrils. It was as if the year were dying around me instead of being almost within sight of spring.

I judged, from the sudden levelling out of the ground, that Hercules and I were now crossing the ridge that overlooked the valley. Abruptly abandoning the Draco, I turned to my right and went in search of the remains of Upper Brockhurst Hall. They were more difficult to find a second time amongst all that dense foliage, but eventually I repeated my fall of yesterday when I again stumbled over the lid of the well in what had once been the Hall’s outer courtyard. Hercules came bounding through the undergrowth, a silly, doggy grin on his face that looked up into mine, where I knelt on the soft, damp grass, cursing my luck.

‘It’s all very well for you,’ I complained bitterly. ‘You have four feet, and that’s what’s needed to keep your balance on this sort of ground.’ Hercules curled his lip, making it plain that he thought it a poor excuse for my clumsiness, and began to forge ahead through the overgrown grasses until I called him back. ‘Not so fast,’ I said. ‘Now we’re here, I’d like to take a look at the well.’

Hercules watched with interest, head cocked to one side, as I shed my cloak and cudgel and removed the heavy lid; but he was less enthusiastic when I began to climb down the iron ladder fixed to the wall.

‘It’s all right,’ I assured him as he whimpered and began running around the rim of the well. ‘It’s quite safe.’

But a moment or two later, I was not so sure. After a hundred and thirty years, the iron was badly corroded. I could feel the jagged flakes of rust beneath my fingers, and some rungs were missing altogether, causing me almost to lose my footing the first time that I encountered such a gap. Afterwards, I proceeded more cautiously, groping around with one foot before lowering myself another step. In at least two places, three or four rungs had rotted away together, and it was only my long legs that enabled me to find the next one safely. And here and there, the ladder was coming loose from the brickwork that lined the shaft, making the whole thing shake.

I had no idea how far off the bottom I was, and I called to Hercules, whose face I could just make out, still peering over the rim of the well. His answering bark sounded anxious and a long way off. The daylight filtering through the canopy of trees above him was dim and diffused, and I wondered if I dared descend any further without risking life and limb. Then my left boot squelched into an inch or so of soft mud, and I knew I must have reached the bottom of the ladder. My eyes had by now grown accustomed to the gloom and I was able to look around me.

The walls of the shaft were running with damp, ferns and mosses sprouting in abundance between the bricks. The floor, as I have said, was thickly coated with mud, but Dame Jacquetta was right: there was no longer any water in it. I did notice a slight seepage where the base of the shaft had been roughly patched with stones and mortar; but the diversion of the Draco, a century or more ago, had doomed the well to dry up and become a hazard to the children of the district; until, that is, the Elders of Lower Brockhurst had had a lid made to cover it. I sighed. Eris Lilywhite was most certainly not buried here. Perhaps, after all, she wasn’t yet buried anywhere. Perhaps she was still alive, although I didn’t really believe so.

Ten minutes later, I emerged from the well-shaft, dirtier and decidedly smellier than before I went down. The fetid air at the bottom seemed to have permeated all my clothes. Even Hercules, not known for his particularity, backed away from me with a reproachful look. My hands were filthy and covered with flakes of rust.

‘All right, boy,’ I said, heaving the wooden lid once more into place. ‘I know I stink. I’m hoping the breeze will blow some of it away. I’ve a clean shirt and hose in my pack, and if I have a good wash under Mistress Lilywhite’s pump, I might just be fit company for the Fair Rosamund by this evening.’

‘Ah!’ exclaimed a voice behind me, nearly making me leap out of my skin. ‘You must be the pedlar who’s lodging with the Mistress Lilywhites, or so I hear. I think I saw you at our Patronal Mass this morning.’

I turned to see the priest, his arms full of kindling, standing a yard or so away from me, smiling benevolently. My heart was still beating unpleasantly fast; but at least his presence in the woods explained the cracking twig I had heard earlier.

‘Sir Anselm,’ I said, filled with an inexplicable relief. I really was becoming far too jumpy, but the whole atmosphere of death and decay – the ruined Hall and village, the dried-up well, the tale of violent murder – was beginning to make me nervous.

The priest smiled. ‘You prefer the old-fashioned form of address, do you? My flock are more up-to-date.’

I returned his smile. ‘I’ll call you Father, if you prefer it. In Bristol, where I live, both modes of address seem to be acceptable nowadays.’

He nodded. ‘Either will do, my son. I’m not choosy. Are you returning to the Lilywhites’ now? If so, perhaps you’ll be so kind as to give me your company. But I’m afraid I must hurry you, otherwise I shall be late for Vespers, although my long-suffering flock are used to my tardiness. Tonight, however, there is to be an alefeast and a game of Nine Men’s Morris to celebrate Saint Walburga’s Day. They won’t be happy if either is delayed.’

‘I know. I’m a member of Mistress Rosamund’s team,’ I said. ‘She enlisted my services yesterday evening.’

The priest regarded me with amusement. ‘Did she? I can see why, of course. You’re a very good-looking young man.’

‘I’m married with three children,’ I answered shortly before he could start adding two and two together and making five. I put on my cloak, picked up my cudgel and whistled to Hercules. ‘Come on, boy! We’re going home.’ (Hercules wasn’t fussy. Home to him was anywhere there was warmth and food. Before he had attached himself to me, he had run wild on the hills above Bristol.)

I followed Father Anselm, who, happily, appeared to know exactly where he was going, and within a very short space of time, we were clear of the woods and descending the pasture towards the Rawbone farm. I explained that I had to retrieve my pack from their cowshed, where I had left it, a fact my companion seemed to find in no way peculiar. Nor did he ask me what I had been doing down the well shaft, although he must have seen me climb out. At last, I mentioned it myself.

‘Why was that well never filled in?’ I demanded. ‘It would have been more sensible, surely, than fitting it with a lid.’ (My sore shins could testify to that.)

The priest wrinkled his nose. ‘You sound like Ned Rawbone,’ he complained. ‘He was saying the same thing to me only a week or so ago. Of course, he has a particular reason to hate that well. He fell down it when he was a boy and wasn’t discovered for several days. Broke quite a few of his bones, poor lad. He still walks with a bit of a limp.’

‘Oh, it was Ned Rawbone, was it?’ I said. ‘Someone told me that story in the alehouse last night, but mentioned no name. Master Rawbone’s been down the well shaft again recently, so I believe, looking for Eris Lilywhite.’

‘A complete waste of time,’ Father Anselm snorted. ‘You only had to look down the shaft to see that there was nothing there except a foot or so of water.’

‘You were present when he went down to search?’ I asked.

The priest nodded. ‘Me and most of the rest of the village. The alarm had been raised that Eris was missing, but I wasn’t at all surprised at that, not after what I’d been told about events that had taken place in the alehouse the previous evening.’ He sounded disapproving.

‘You didn’t like Eris Lilywhite,’ I suggested.

‘My son, it is not for a priest to like or dislike members of his flock.’ He smiled wryly. ‘Let us just say that he is fonder of some than of others.’

‘That’s a sophistry,’ I complained.

He didn’t deny it. We were now abreast of the Lilywhites’ smallholding and it was with regret that I told him we should have to part company. I had barely begun to pick his brains.

‘I need to wash and change my clothes. I stink of the mud at the bottom of that well.’

‘I can’t offer you a change of clothing,’ he answered, ‘but the priest house has its own pump. You’ll undoubtedly find it easier to strip off without two women on the prowl, hoping to catch a glimpse of your manly equipment.’

I burst out laughing. ‘I’m sure neither Maud nor Theresa Lilywhite has any such ambition,’ I protested. ‘But it so happens that my clean hose and shirt are in my pack, so I accept your offer. There are a number of things I’d like to ask you.’ We continued walking downhill. ‘You still haven’t answered my first question. Why has that well never been filled in?’

Father Anselm turned a slightly shocked face towards me. ‘Wells, once dug, are like springs, my son. They are sacred to the gods and nymphs and hamadryads of the woods. Rumour has it that there was once a spring in these parts, dedicated to one of the Roman gods.’

We were within a few paces of the conjunction of the Draco and the stream that bounded Lower Brockhurst. I caught at Father Anselm’s arm, forcing him to a halt.

‘You’re a priest of God!’ I expostulated. ‘What do you care for the spirits of the old religion? What do your congregation care? This is a Christian community. Isn’t it?’

‘Of course! Of course!’ He raised guarded eyes to mine.

‘But …’

‘But?’ I prompted.

‘But … have you never felt … yourself … that there may be more ways in which to worship than one?’

I nodded. ‘Often. But I’m not a priest. We’re talking heresy, Sir Anselm, and you know it as well as I do. Do many of your flock still worship the spirits of the trees? The gods of their Saxon forefathers?’

He shook off my hand and preceded me across the little bridge. ‘This is neither the time nor the place for such a discussion,’ he said petulantly, as he led the way through the sheltering belt of trees.

We emerged almost directly opposite the church, flanked on one side by the alehouse and on the other by the house of the priest. Beyond this latter, right on the northern edge of the village, was a sheep pound, which, Father Anselm informed me, was for lost or stray beasts, or for those that were awaiting transportation to Gloucester or Tetbury market.

‘Some come down from the farms on the opposite side of the valley.’ And he waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the rising hills to the west. ‘Stupid animals, sheep!’ We crossed the street. ‘Come into the church with me first. I must set a taper to the Alms Light.’

This, as in most churches, was a simple taper in a bowl standing before the High Cross, and was lit during service time to commemorate the souls of the dead. (Some priests, indeed, prefer to call it the Dead or All Souls Light, but Alms Light is the more common name.) While Father Anselm was busy about his chores, I examined the rest of the church, Hercules snuffling at my heels. The statue of Saint Walburga had been restored to its niche above the high altar, and the Virgin, unmistakable in her blue robes – the colour of spiritual and marital fidelity – graced one of the other two. But it was the figure on the second side altar that interested me. Crudely carved and painted, it depicted the figure of Our Lord, naked, lacerated, bleeding, with a halo made up of carpenter’s tools – hammer, mallet, axe, knife, wheel, horn and pincers – around its head. It was the Christ of the Trades that had first made its appearance some hundred years earlier, just before the great revolt of the common people during the reign of the second Richard.

‘Right!’ exclaimed the priest, bustling up. ‘Follow me, and I’ll show you where you can wash and change while I ring the bell for Vespers. There will be food in the alehouse afterwards, if you’re hungry, before Mistress Rosamund and Lambert Miller begin their game.’

The priest’s house was bigger than it looked from the outside, boasting, in addition to a parlour, hall and kitchen, a buttery, larder and a handsome staircase leading to no fewer than three bedchambers (so Sir Anselm told me proudly) on the upper floor. Out of doors there was a pigsty, a stable (unoccupied), a garden plot for herbs and vegetables, a small barn and a pump. The late afternoon had turned extremely cold, with a bitter wind blowing through the valley and a hint of yet more rain to come in the air. Nevertheless, to the sound of the Vespers bell, I stripped naked and, shivering violently, washed away the stink of my excursion down the well shaft, which clung so persistently to my skin. Then I ran back into the warmth of the kitchen, where the priest was waiting for me with an old linen sheet which I used to towel myself dry. I pulled on my clean hose and shirt, and although there was nothing I could do with my still smelly jerkin, I felt sufficiently restored to face the coming evening with equanimity.

My only preoccupation now was my empty stomach. I begged a bowl of scraps and some water for Hercules, but knew that I should have to wait for my own sustenance at least until after Vespers. I accompanied Father Anselm into the church, where the congregation was already assembling, hoping desperately that my rumbling gut would not disgrace me in the fragrant presence of the younger Mistress Bush.