Kate Sedley - Nine Men Dancing

The musicians had started up for a third time, but my ears were now so attuned to their playing that I failed to notice. It was first brought to my attention when Lambert Miller rose from his seat and came across to Rosamund, trying to look modest and unconcerned about the effect his large, handsome face, and even larger, well-muscled frame was having on the women in the ale-room. And failing dismally.

‘Mistress Rose,’ he said, bowing fulsomely over her hand, which he clasped possessively in one of his own great paws, ‘I know I speak for everyone present when I beg you to honour us with another song.’

His big, bland smile intimated he had no doubts that she would oblige him. So she did, but it was obvious to me, if not to him, that she was doing so only to please herself. As she rose to her feet, she said tartly, ‘I’ve asked you before, Lambert, please don’t call me Rose.’

The great oaf looked bewildered. ‘But it’s your name,’ he protested.

‘My name is Rosamund,’ she explained impatiently. ‘No one wants to be called Rose Bush, Lambert. It sounds ridiculous!’

‘Oh … Oh, yes! I see.’ He gave an over-hearty laugh. ‘You are a wit, Rose – er – Rosamund.’

She gave him an enigmatic glance, but allowed him to lead her forward to stand beside the fiddler, then tapped his cheek affectionately – which caused Lambert’s chest to swell to even more manly proportions than it aspired to already. But I couldn’t help wondering what deep game young Mistress Bush was playing. I could have sworn that she despised her rugged admirer, but she plainly had no intention of alienating such a catch. And who could blame her? She must have been humiliated in front of the whole village by Tom Rawbone’s rejection of her in favour of the missing Eris Lilywhite. She would have been less than human had she not wanted to demonstrate to him, and to everyone else, that she was desired by probably the handsomest and most sought after man for miles around.

The group behind me, wisely ignoring the music, had progressed from the rival merits of manures to reach a general agreement on the superiority of Stockholm tar over the old-fashioned remedy of broom water for the removal of ticks from sheep. But when the one called Rob noticed me looking at them, he interrupted the conversation.

‘You wanted to know about the well at Brockhurst Hall, chapman.’

‘I was impressed by the excellent lid on it,’ I said, ‘and by the fact that it hadn’t been left as an open snare for children and animals.’

‘Ah,’ one of the other men explained, ‘some year back, a young chap from the village climbed down the shaft, slipped and broke his leg-’

‘And ’is arm,’ put in somebody else.

‘Ay, and his arm. Weren’t found fer nigh on two days. After that, village elders they instructed John Carpenter to make a cover fer the dratted thing. A good solid ’un, they said. Which he did, as you’ve seen fer yerself.’

‘Wouldn’t it have been easier just to fill the well in?’ I suggested. ‘I imagine it’s been dried up for a good long time.’

‘Ar, reck’n you’re right,’ the one called Rob agreed. Then, suddenly losing interest, they all reverted to the far more exciting subject of sheep.

A hand fell on my shoulder. Swivelling round on my stool, I saw Theresa Lilywhite, who must have returned to the alehouse without my noticing. She bent down to speak in my ear as most of the customers had now joined in the rollicking refrain of a highly improper song, which I had first heard sung by the sailors along the Bristol Backs. No doubt this was a cleaner version, in deference to the ladies present. I very much hoped so.

‘I’ve spoken to my daughter-in-law,’ she said, ‘and if you don’t fancy sleeping on the floor here, we can offer you accommodation for the night. Or for as long as you want to stay in Lower Brockhurst. There’s only the two of us since Eris disappeared. You can have her bed.’

‘There’s the dog, as well,’ I said, pointing to Hercules, snoring happily at my feet.

She nodded. ‘You’re welcome to bring him. Just keep him out of the way of our dogs, that’s all. They’ll think he’s a rat. But they’re tied up outside at nights, anyway.’

It was a more inviting prospect than sleeping on the straw-covered flagstones of the ale-room, particularly if I intended remaining in Brockhurst for longer than a single night. Besides which, I should be right at the heart of a mystery that was beginning to intrigue me. Surely I was bound to learn more about the missing girl from her mother and grandmother than from anyone else.

‘Thank you. I accept,’ I said. ‘Do you want me to come with you at once?’

‘If you would. We keep early hours. What else is there for two women on their own to do on long winter nights besides sleep?’

I hoped that on this particular evening I might tempt her and her daughter-in-law into conversation, but I didn’t say so. I simply begged a few moments’ grace to explain matters to William Bush and say goodbye.

The landlord, although patently relieved to be rid of me, nevertheless deplored my choice of alternative lodging. The Lilywhites obviously ranked alongside the Rawbones as people who had inflicted unhappiness on his daughter, and were not to be easily forgiven. They had spawned the siren who had stolen the affections of Rosamund’s betrothed.

‘Watch yourself then, chapman,’ William advised, failing in his half-hearted attempt to persuade me to stay.

I had a suspicion that his daughter might try harder if she knew of my intention to leave, so, while she was still flirting with Lambert Miller, I gathered up my pack, my cudgel and an indignant Hercules and followed Theresa Lilywhite outside.

It was quite dark now, the storm clouds no longer great bastions in the sky, but torn to witches’ hair by a rising wind. It was the dead time of year, cold and tempestuous, as late February so often is just before the earth begins to stir and put forth new shoots. The dank smell of sodden grassland teased my nostrils, and a few thin trees waved arthritic branches overhead as we crossed the wooden footbridge and left the village behind us. My cloak whipped around my legs, and Hercules cowered in the shelter of my arm, growling his disapproval.

‘What’s the stream called?’ I asked Theresa Lilywhite as we started climbing the slope towards the homestead, halfway between the village and the farm that I had noted earlier in the evening.

She laughed, the sound streeling away like a banshee’s cry on the cold night air.

‘Nothing. It’s just known as “the stream”. It’s probably got a name somewhere along its length, but not in Lower Brockhurst.’ She raised her voice against the increasing violence of the wind. ‘But the rill that flows down from the ridge, that’s known as the Draco. Don’t ask me why.’

‘Maybe from drakon , the Greek word for a serpent. Or from the Latin for a dragon.’ I remembered the snake-like meanderings of the little brook, although, as we trudged diagonally uphill across the sheep-bitten grass, it was lost to view in the darkness.

‘What sort of pedlar are you?’ panted my companion, as she pushed open a gate in a picket fence and led the way into a small enclosure.

Our entrance was greeted by the furious barking of two great hounds, each tethered by a long chain to a stake driven into the ground; while, somewhere on the far side of the one-storey building that stood in the middle of the compound, geese began to cackle loud enough to have awakened the whole of ancient Rome. Theresa Lilywhite yelled at the dogs, who, recognizing the voice of authority, slunk back to their posts and lay down. The geese cackled on.