12 - Nine Men Dancing (28 page)

Someone I couldn’t see, but who I presumed was the other captain, was saying, ‘It’s your turn, Roger. Come along! You know what you have to do. Line up three of your “morrells” in a straight line, and those three will lead you to Eris. Get on with it, now! You’ve asked for my help, so do as I tell you. And when you’ve discovered the answer, you can go home to Adela. You might even be there by the Feast of Saint Patrick. Come along, Roger! Come along …’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Theresa breathed deeply, registering her disapproval.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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