I looked on for a minute or two from a distance, and was coming to the conclusion that it was time for someone to intervene, unless the village was to have another murder on its hands – and not just a suspected one, either – when I felt an urgent tug at my sleeve.
‘For goodness’ sake, stop them, Roger!’ pleaded Rosamund’s frantic voice. ‘They’ll kill him!’
I looked down at her. ‘Would that worry you?’
‘Of course it would!’ she cried passionately. She swallowed hard and rallied a little. ‘I don’t want anyone here hanged on account of Tom Rawbone. He isn’t worth it!’
I grabbed my cudgel from its resting place against the wall and laid about me, pulling, pushing, hitting out where necessary, using both stick and fists to haul the avengers off the bleeding, groaning figure lying on the floor. I met, inevitably, with a good deal of resistance, and earned myself a cut lip and a bloody nose before, finally, common sense prevailed. William Bush backed my efforts with a plea for calm and order, pointing out, once he could make himself heard, the dire consequences for all of them if Tom Rawbone were to die at their hands. One by one the would-be assassins slowly rose from their knees and drew back to stand in a menacing circle around their victim. The sudden silence, however, was as ominous as the preceding uproar had been.
To my great surprise, before I could offer him a helping hand, Tom staggered painfully to his feet and confronted his persecutors with as much of a sneer as his bruised and bleeding lips would permit.
‘Fucking scum!’ he spat. Or, at least, I think that’s what he said. It wasn’t that easy to tell.
There was a low growl and several of the men made a half-movement towards him.
‘Go!’ Rosamund told him sharply, laying a gentle hand on his arm. (I wondered if I were the only one, apart from Tom himself, to notice her anxiety not to hurt him further, and decided that I probably was.)
‘Can you walk on your own?’ I asked, prepared to offer him assistance.
His only answer was a contemptuous grunt as he shoved his way towards the door and, for the second evening running, left the Roman Sandal with the imprecations of the villagers ringing in his ears.
His departure was the signal for a babel of talk, a mixture of regret that he had not been taught a severer lesson, and relief that matters had not been carried further than they had. Lambert Miller rushed across to Rosamund to envelop her in a protective embrace, while vilifying her former betrothed in terms that were hardly fit for a young girl’s delicate ears. Not that Rosamund seemed offended by them, merely unresponsive. But once again, I doubted if Lambert noticed her reaction: he was too busy being the knight in shining armour, sans peur et sans reproche.
It was obvious that the second game of Nine Men’s Morris would now be abandoned, and the rest of the evening devoted to discussing Tom Rawbone’s outrageous behaviour, renewing the debate as to whether or not he had murdered Eris Lilywhite. I decided, therefore, that it was time to leave. Maud and Theresa might be wondering where I had got to, as neither had come to the alefeast, although I doubted that they would be worried. I was, after all, a big lad able to take care of himself. I found Hercules, ruthlessly interrupting his amorous advances to a large, shaggy-haired bitch, and, along with my cudgel, pack and cloak, removed him and myself without anyone noticing our going (I was becoming quite adept at this). Hercules vented his spleen by trying to bite my ankles.
‘Don’t be a fool, boy!’ I admonished him. ‘She’d have eaten you for breakfast.’
The evening air was cold and clammy against my skin, refreshing after the overwhelming heat of the alehouse. The rain had ceased, and a ragged sliver of moon showed now and then between the storm-tossed clouds that shouldered their way across the valley. The village street clove a deep shadow between the darker shapes of the houses, behind which rose the infinitely ancient hills, home of the elf-people, waiting for the blast of the fairy horn that would wake them at last from their enchanted slumber …
I shivered and reined in my imagination. Opposite me was the mill, and between it and the neighbouring cottage, I glimpsed the silvery glint of the stream as the moon reappeared and drowned its reflection in the swiftly flowing water. Something moved. Someone was sitting there, on the bank, and guessing who it might be, I crossed the street towards him. Tom Rawbone was wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, having, by the smell of things, just been violently sick.
I laid a hand on his back and he bucked like a startled horse.
‘Let me give you my arm as far as Dragonswick,’ I offered.
He shook his head and muttered indistinctly, ‘Not goin’ home. No’ … No’ like this.’
‘Where, then?’ I asked. ‘You can’t stay out all night in this condition.’
He gestured in the direction of the far end of the street, where it curved away into blackness, and said something that sounded like ‘Alice’s’.
‘Alice’s?’ I queried, unconvinced that I had heard aright.
Surely there wasn’t yet another woman in his life! He couldn’t be that foolhardy! Everyday existence was complicated enough, as he must be only too well aware, without clogging its wheels with a third emotional entanglement.
But when, with my arm about his waist to support his tottering footsteps, he had directed me along the village street to a cottage that stood by itself, some two or three hundred yards distant from its closest neighbour, the mystery was solved. Alice, a large, buxom woman somewhere, I guessed, between thirty-five and forty, with sleepy brown eyes, painted cheeks and a loose mop of coarse, carroty coloured hair, introduced herself as the village whore.
‘Alice Tucker, that’s me, dear. All the young lads come to me when they’re in trouble. I give ’em a shoulder to cry on.’ And judging by her ample bosom, more than just a shoulder. ‘Who’ve we got here, then? Oh, it’s you again, Tom! What have you been up to, this time?’
It was a tiny, one-roomed cottage with a large bed that took up most of the floor space.
‘Tools of the trade, dear,’ Alice said, as she helped me lower Tom on to it. ‘So, what’s the story?’
I told her, and she sighed, raising her eyes to the smoke-blackened ceiling.
‘What’s the matter with the young idiot? Doesn’t he realize that you can’t treat a girl the way he treated Rosamund Bush and then, when other things go wrong, just raise your finger and get her back again? I suppose not. He’s a Rawbone, isn’t he? Conceited, arrogant, lecherous. They’re all the same. Although, perhaps it’s fair to say that the old man’s worse than his sons.’
As Tom had lapsed into semi-consciousness, I helped her strip off his clothes, so that we could see the extent of his injuries. Alice ran practised hands over his ribs.
‘Nothing seems to be broken,’ she said. ‘It’s mostly bruising.’
She fetched a small pot from a shelf opposite the bed and began to rub its contents over the bluish welts beginning to mar Tom Rawbone’s skin.
‘Primrose salve,’ she explained, noticing my curious stare. ‘I’ll put some on that cut lip of yours after I’ve finished with him.’
‘It’s nothing,’ I protested, wiping away a thin trickle of blood with the back of my hand. I went on, ‘You were talking about the Rawbone family. Conceited, arrogant, lecherous were your words. But the elder son, Ned, seems a quiet-mannered, harmless enough fellow from what I’ve seen of him.’
‘Oh, Master Edward’s settled down right enough since his marriage. He was never as wild as Tom or the old man, but he sowed his wild oats in his youth. That Petronelle, though, she keeps him under her thumb.’ Alice sniffed disparagingly. ‘Don’t get me wrong. She ain’t a dragon like Dame Jacquetta. She’s the sort who whines and snivels and sulks and makes a man’s life a misery if she doesn’t get her own way. But that’s just as bad … Hey! Get that dog off my bed, if he’s yours. Or is he some stray that’s come in with you?’
‘No, I’m afraid he’s mine,’ I admitted, retrieving Hercules, who had been about to settle down for the night, curled up against Tom’s legs. I set him on the floor, then leaned my back against the cottage wall. My legs were beginning to ache, no doubt as a result of my exploration of the well shaft that afternoon. I ventured, ‘Don’t you like the younger Mistress Rawbone?’