12 - Nine Men Dancing (34 page)

I recollected two things simultaneously: the first was the patching of the wall at the bottom of the well, and the second was that not only Theresa, but also Sir Anselm had mentioned the fact of Ned stumbling around in water the first time he went down to ‘search’ for Eris’s body.

‘Could you please explain exactly what you’re talking about?’ I begged Maud.

‘Wells are dug,’ she said, ‘on the recommendation of a dowser, who tells the weller that water can be found at a certain depth. But if the weller doesn’t immediately strike water at that depth, then he has to dig a “drive” – a horizontal shaft – until he reaches the source of the water and the well begins to fill up. This must have been the case at Upper Brockhurst Hall …’

‘Of course,’ I breathed. ‘It comes back to me, now. You told me that your grandmother had been told by
her
grandmother that the Martin brothers had to have their well
deepened
; that whoever sunk it originally, hadn’t dug down far enough – or, as now seems possible, not close enough to the underground source of water. The two wellers from Tetbury must have cut this horizontal shaft, and that must have been when they found the silver bowls, near the original sacred spring of the Romans. And you think that Master Rawbone, here …?’ I paused, unable to continue.

Maud took a deep breath. ‘Yes. I think – I’m almost sure – that Ned must have carried Eris’s body up to the ridge, thrown it down the well and then …’ Her voice, too, became suspended.

All three of us stared questioningly at Ned until, at last, he raised his head.

‘All right,’ he said in the toneless voice of a man who concedes defeat; who has come to the bitter realization that he has lost control of the situation. ‘You’re right, Maud. I knew about the “drive” at the bottom of the well. I’d seen it as a boy and found out from Gilbert what it was. He explained that when the course of the Draco had been altered by the men of Lower Brockhurst, after the great plague, it had dried up, except for a very small trickle of water that occasionally found its way through the “drive”. Hence the foot or so of water always present at the bottom of the well. So, when I was wondering how to … to dispose of Eris’s body … I remembered it.’

‘But why didn’t you just bury her in the woods?’ I asked.

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know! I was in a panic, I suppose. I wasn’t thinking properly. It just seemed safer at the time to conceal her body in the shaft. Apart from myself and Gilbert, I didn’t think anyone knew about it, and Gilbert was dead. Stupidly, it didn’t occur to me that he might have shared his knowledge with Maud.’

‘So what did you do, the night that Eris died?’ I asked as Maud seemed unable, or unwilling, to do so.

Ned seemed equally reluctant to dwell upon that night’s events.

‘I – er–’ He glanced sideways at Maud before continuing, ‘I dropped Eris’s body down the well, then returned to the farm for a lamp and some tools.’ (I recalled the lean-to shack where the picks and other implements were stored.) ‘After that … After that …’ He stopped, folding his lips together, refusing to say any more.

I didn’t press him. We all had enough imagination to picture subsequent events. Ned must have descended the ladder, pushed the girl’s body – his daughter’s body – into the ‘drive’, then climbed up again in order to search for stones with which to plug the mouth of the horizontal shaft. There were plenty of those lying about in the grass of the old Hall courtyard, and he had spent the rest of the night completing his grisly task. It was small wonder, then, that Christopher had described his father’s appearance the following morning as ‘soaking wet and absolutely filthy, plastered with mud and muck … exhausted’.

Maud said accusingly, ‘You’ve been advocating lately that the well should be filled in. I suppose, now, we all know why.’ She gave a laugh that turned into a sob.

Ned was beside her immediately, pulling her up from her stool and into his arms, rocking her to and fro and caressing her hair.

‘Sweetheart, sweetheart, don’t. I’m so sorry. It was all my fault. You wanted to admit the truth, but I wouldn’t let you. I was the one who persuaded you that it would be better if Eris just “disappeared”. I was afraid of the consequences if my father ever discovered what a fool he’d made of himself, wanting to marry his own granddaughter.’

Maud clung to him for a moment while she fought to hold her tears at bay, then she gently pushed him from her. He would have reached for her again, but she drew herself up, straight-backed and at her most dignified, fending him off with her outstretched hand.

‘No, Ned. We agreed long ago, when you married Petronelle and I married Gilbert, that we would never again allow our feelings for each other to get the better of us. We would be friends, but no more: that was the bargain. And you mustn’t shoulder all the blame. The initial fault was mine. I should never have let Eris go to work for you at the farm. I knew it was playing with fire … And now, I’d like you to go. I think it’s time you told your family the truth. But I should be deeply grateful if you would come to see the elders with me in the morning.’

Ned nodded, his hands falling back to his sides. He gave me a slanting look, as though in half a mind to offer an apology, but then, wisely, thought better of it. There’s nothing adequate you can say to a man you’ve just tried to kill. He bade Theresa a brief ‘Goodnight!’, opened the door of the cottage and was gone, the dusk of late afternoon soon shrouding him from view.

Maud looked for a moment as though she might faint, but she was a strong woman, in mind as well as body. She had had to be to keep her secret for so many years, and for the past five months to live with the knowledge that, however unwittingly, she had caused the death of her child.

Theresa would have spoken, but Maud said tersely, ‘No more, Mother-in-law. We’re all of us tired and our guest has a day’s walk ahead of him tomorrow. Supper, I think. And then bed.’

It was only just daylight when, with Hercules, I crossed the bridge into Lower Brockhurst village the following morning and turned to walk the length of the street. This way, according to both Maud and Theresa, would lead me eventually to the main Gloucester-to-Bristol track.

My two hostesses and I had said our muted farewells in the presence of Ned, who had arrived before daybreak, bringing with him his father, Tom, Petronelle and Dame Jacquetta. All of them were pale and heavy-eyed, as though they had slept badly the preceding night, and while Petronelle looked sulky and Tom dazed, Nathaniel’s expression was murderous. But no one uttered a word of reproach or blame, either to Ned or Maud. At least, not during the time that I was there. The Rawbones were showing their customary family solidarity against the outside world.

I was huddled into my cloak, my pack settled firmly on my back. Hercules trotted happily by my side, not even straining at the length of rope knotted to the other piece that encircled his neck. There was a sharp wind, but, to my relief, it wasn’t raining, and a glimmer of sunlight showed above the hills. A cock crowed somewhere in the distance, I heard the rattle of wooden patterns on the cobbles of a yard, somebody shouted. But, for the most part, the village was silent, not yet fully awake to the coming day.

I glanced at the priest’s house as I passed, wishing that I could have said my goodbyes to Father Anselm, but he was still unwell and it would be cruel to disturb him. I transferred my gaze, instead, to the alehouse, shuttered and quiet, and found myself wondering what would happen to Rosamund Bush …

‘Roger!’ She was descending the outside stairs of the Roman Sandal, a blanket covering her nightshift, her fair hair streaming about her shoulders, a pair of scarlet leather shoes on her dainty feet. ‘It’s true, then. You’re really going home?’

‘For Heaven’s sake!’ I remonstrated. ‘You’ll catch your death of cold. Your teeth are chattering.’

She came and stood close to me. ‘Put your arms around me,’ she invited. ‘Then I won’t feel the cold.’ I did as I was bidden and she smiled up into my face. ‘There! That’s better!’ She rested her head against my shoulder. ‘I didn’t think you’d go until you’d discovered what’s happened to Eris.’

In my vanity, I couldn’t bear her to think me a failure, so I told her all that had happened. I couldn’t see that I was betraying anyone’s confidence. The whole village would be in possession of the facts in a couple of hours’ time. (Maybe even sooner, knowing how gossip travels in any community.)

‘So, you see,’ I finished, ‘Tom’s name will be cleared. You’ll be able to marry him, after all, if that’s what you want.’

She made no comment on this for some minutes, being too busy exclaiming at what I had told her and getting me to repeat the salient facts several times over. But when, at last, she had accepted my story as the undoubted truth, and come to terms with it, she said quietly, ‘I shan’t marry Tom. I could never trust him again, and trust is important in a marriage, don’t you think?’ I kept silent. What else could I do, with her wrapped in my arms and conscious of every curve of her body pressed against mine? Fortunately, she didn’t wait for my reply. ‘I shall marry Lambert,’ she decided. ‘He’s a good, dependable man with a little money put by. His mother’s too doting, it’s true, but I daresay I can handle her.’ She spoke with the confidence of youth. My heart bled for her and the years of disillusionment that lay ahead.

‘I must be on my way,’ I said, gently releasing myself from her embrace.

She reached up and kissed my lips. ‘You’re sure you wouldn’t like to stay?’

‘I’ve told you—’ I began.

She sighed. ‘I know. You’re a married man with three children and you love your wife.’

‘I do,’ I said. But I couldn’t help reflecting that the heathens of this world arranged things better. They, so I had been told, could have more than one wife. But then common sense reasserted itself. More wives, more children. I imagined the combination of Elizabeth, Nicholas and Adam multiplied three or four times over. And shuddered.

Nevertheless, I bent my head and kissed Rosamund on her tender young mouth. It warmed me up. I felt ready to face my journey with all its hazards and fatigue. She clung to me for a moment, then gave what might have been a sob – or then again, knowing my luck, it could have been a giggle – and ran back up the stairs. At the top, she turned and waved before going indoors.

Adela was unrestrained in her joy at having me home.

‘And early, too,’ she marvelled, hugging me tightly. ‘Still three days wanting to the Feast of Saint Patrick. Oh, Roger, it is good to see you again.’

Her welcome made up for the children’s offhand greeting of, ‘What have you brought us?’ and their indifference to my return once they discovered that my pockets were empty.

‘I was lucky,’ I admitted, ‘in meeting up with several carters, who were willing to give me a ride in their carts in return for my company.’ I kissed her once more. ‘I love you,’ I said fiercely.

It was a mistake. I saw her expression grow wary and that mocking glint light the back of her eyes. But she said nothing, merely drew me to the table and plied me with food and drink. She asked no questions. She knew that I would tell her all there was to tell in my own good time. Meanwhile, I was home, in my own house. My house! A proper house with a number of different rooms; with an upstairs as well as a down. Even now, I found it difficult to believe.

Elizabeth came rushing in to show me her latest toy, a present from her grandmother. ‘It’s called morals,’ she announced importantly.

‘Morrells,’ Adela corrected her, smiling. ‘Apparently, you move these little balls around in the slots until you get three in a row. I don’t really understand it.’ She broke off, frowning. ‘Although I seem to remember, when I was a girl, that there was a version you could play using real people. Have you ever heard of that, Roger?’

‘Oh, yes, I’ve heard of it,’ I said. ‘I’ve even been in a game where I was one of the “counters”.’ And, for the last time, I thought of Rosamund Bush, then dismissed her from my mind once and for all. ‘That version of the game,’ I added, blowing my wife a kiss, ‘is called Nine Men’s Morris.’