Kate Sedley - Nine Men Dancing

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.’