Kate Sedley - Nine Men Dancing

‘Sorry,’ she apologized, ‘but there’s nothing I can do about those hideous birds. We’ll just have to wait for them to settle.’

‘The Romans found them better sentinels than dogs,’ I pointed out, and once again, she laughed.

‘I’ll have your story out of you before we go to sleep tonight,’ she promised. ‘So be warned. I have a long nose.’

‘So have I,’ I admitted cheerfully.

She gave me a curious glance and ushered me inside the cottage, but said nothing more for the present.

The long, narrow room in which I found myself served as living room and sleeping quarters all in one, a heavy curtain of unbleached linen dividing the latter from the former. I had been in many such places during my travels and had lived in smaller. Beneath a hole in the roof was a central hearth on which logs were burning, gnarled and hoary and covered with grey-green lichen. They blazed fitfully, spitting out showers of sparks and bearded with fringes of woodash that trembled into feathery, fan-shaped patterns. Near enough to benefit from their warmth, but not sufficiently close to be scorched by their heat, sat a woman, staring into the flames. She had been spinning, judging by the wheel and basket of wool beside her, but had now abandoned this occupation. She looked up as we entered.

‘Maud,’ Theresa Lilywhite said, ‘here’s the chapman I told you about. He’s happy to accept our offer of a bed, rather than spend an uncomfortable night on the alehouse floor. Chapman, this is my daughter-in-law.’

I gave a slight bow. ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mistress.’

Maud Lilywhite, who I judged to be somewhere in her late thirties, rose from her stool, a slight woman in a dress of drab homespun, whose tired, careworn features still showed traces of the beauty she must have passed on to her daughter. (In a place the size of Lower Brockhurst, it would have taken a girl of exceptional looks to eclipse the pink-and-white prettiness of Rosamund Bush.) Her dark, liquid brown eyes retained something of the lustre that must once have set pulses racing, and which, long ago, had ensnared a young man from the big city of Gloucester.

‘Have you had food, Master Chapman?’ she asked.

‘Hercules and I ate more than well at the alehouse, I thank you, Mistress.’ I set my shivering animal down on the floor, where he immediately made himself at home, stretching out luxuriously in front of the fire.

‘Then you’ll take some mulled ale,’ the older woman suggested, coming forward and indicating the small iron pot that hung from a tripod over the flames.

I agreed very willingly; and while Theresa Lilywhite drew up two more stools to the fire, showed me where to put my pack and cudgel and hung my wet cloak on a nail behind the door, Maud Lilywhite fetched beakers from a shelf above the wall-oven and poured out three generous measures of the warm, sweet, cinnamon-flavoured drink.

‘Your own brew, Mistress?’ I asked, when I had slaked my thirst.

The younger woman shook her head. ‘My mother-in-law’s.’

There was a certain reservation in her tone that made me suspect she did not really like Theresa. I recalled the conversation in the Roman Sandal – ‘… Just come fer the funeral and stayed’ … ‘Reckon they didn’t want ’er there, but couldn’t get rid of ’er …’ – and decided that my guess was probably correct.

‘Have you come far?’ Maud enquired politely, just as Theresa demanded more robustly, ‘Well, and what’s your story, then, chapman? A pedlar who knows Greek and Latin isn’t an everyday occurrence, you must admit.’

‘A little Latin and less Greek,’ I amended, laughing. ‘All right. I’ll tell you my history in exchange for some local gossip. What do you say?’

I saw Maud Lilywhite shift uneasily on her stool, but the older woman cried, ‘Done! It’ll be a pleasanter way to spend a stormy winter’s evening than staring at these four walls, or watching my daughter-in-law’s interminable spinning.’

So, for the next hour or so, I told them my story and a few of my adventures, adding, as a bonus for their hospitality, various insights into the life of the royal family – some a little exaggerated, I have to confess – and was rewarded by their undivided attention and awestruck silence. But I could see that whereas the younger woman was most impressed by the people I had met, the dukes and princes I had talked to, Theresa Lilywhite was far more interested in the mysteries I had solved. I could guess the way her mind was working, so did nothing to minimize my successes. In fact, quite the opposite: I was positively boastful. And if, on occasions, I saw in my mind’s eye Adela’s face with its mocking expression, I managed to ignore it.

When, at last, I had finished speaking, both women drew a long, deep, satisfied breath.

‘Well, that tale’s worth your bed and board for at least a week, chapman,’ Theresa finally remarked. ‘Don’t you agree, Maud?’

Her daughter-in-law nodded. ‘And you really have met the King and His Grace of Gloucester and that poor gentleman, the late Duke of Clarence?’ she asked wonderingly.

‘I have. And I swear to you, in the name of my mother and the Virgin, that all that I’ve told you is true.’ My mother could take responsibility for the bits that were almost, but not quite, true. Our Lady could sponsor the rest.

‘So,’ Theresa Lilywhite said, getting up to pour three more cups of ale and then settling down again on her stool, ‘what do you want to ask us?’ The younger woman made a little movement of protest, but was rebuked by her mother-in-law. ‘Fair’s fair, Maud. He’s kept his part of the bargain, and handsomely, too. Now we must keep ours. We’re waiting, chapman.’

I could tell by the guarded look on both their faces that they were expecting me to ask about Eris, but I nosed my way into their confidence gently.

‘When we were talking earlier this evening,’ I said, turning to Theresa, ‘I mentioned the well I’d stumbled across, and you said it must have been the well at Brockhurst Hall. You also said there was a strange story attached to it and recommended that I ask one of the villagers to tell me about it. Only, for one reason and another, I never got around to doing so. Perhaps you’d be kind enough to enlighten me now.’

‘Go on, Maud!’ The older woman looked across at the younger. ‘You’re a local girl, born and bred in Lower Brockhurst. You know all the stories concerning these parts. Tell the chapman what he wants to know. I’ve already told him that the population of Upper Brockhurst and the Hall were wiped out in the Black Death. Those turnip-heads in the alehouse would have had him think that it all happened “some year back”!’ The contempt in her voice was almost tangible.

Maud Lilywhite flushed resentfully, but attempted no defence of her fellow villagers. Perhaps, over the years, she had grown tired of doing so. Or perhaps she felt as much contempt for her mother-in-law as an outsider as Theresa felt for people she regarded as ignorant country yokels. Instead, she turned towards me.

‘Very well, then.’ She gave a faint smile and I smiled back encouragingly. ‘You know, of course, Master Chapman, that some communities were wiped out completely during the great plague of the last century, while others, only half a mile or so distant, survived intact. And that, it seems, is what happened here. Every single inhabitant of Upper Brockhurst died – nobody escaped – while in our village only three people were struck down, and even they recovered.’

She paused to take a sip of ale before continuing. ‘Brockhurst Hall stood a little apart from the village of Upper Brockhurst and, as far as I can gather, occupied most of the ridge that overlooks this valley. According to my grandmother, who had been told the facts by her grandmother, the Hall had been in the possession of a family called Martin for as long as anyone could remember. It’s said that the first Martin, who built the place, came to this country with William the Conqueror-’