Lambert was swearing profusely and rubbing his afflicted limb. Fortunately, he was wearing a thick tunic made of that mixture of flax and wool we used to call byrrhus, and which had saved him from the worst effects of a mauling by Hercules’s teeth. Not that he could expect any congratulations from me on this account.
‘What was that for?’ I demanded hoarsely, taking a threatening step towards him (perhaps tottering step would be a fairer description – I was still feeling extremely groggy).
The miller glowered at me, rolling up his right sleeve to inspect his wounds.
‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered. ‘I thought you were Tom Rawbone. I’d come outside for a breath of air and saw you vanishing into the trees. I didn’t notice the dog. I thought you and he were still in the alehouse. Look, chapman, you must believe me! I’ve no grudge against you. But I’ll not tolerate that lecher making Rosamund’s life a misery, now he’s decided he wants her back. She’s a wonderful girl. She deserves better than him.’
I wondered if young Mistress Bush would agree with her would-be swain, but I didn’t say so. That was for Lambert to discover. I nodded, accepting his explanation, and dropped down to sit on the ground, propping my back against a neighbouring tree trunk and lowering my head between my knees. After a moment or two, when I began to feel a little better, I raised it again and looked at him.
‘Just make sure, will you, that next time you have one of these murderous urges, you have the right man? And for heaven’s sake, make certain that you don’t actually kill anyone. Another minute and I’d have been dead meat, and you’d have been lucky to have escaped the gallows.’
It was his turn to nod as he sat down beside me.
‘I just saw red,’ he excused himself. ‘A good job it was you. If it hadn’t been for the dog …’ He broke off, shuddering, suddenly aware that my narrow squeak had also been his.
The night lay dark and tranquil all about us. Somewhere, I could hear a small, nocturnal animal rummaging in the long grasses. Hercules laid his head on my thigh and I caressed his ears. Echoes of laughter and singing reached us from the Roman Sandal.
Lambert asked abruptly, ‘Do you know where he is? Tom Rawbone, I mean.’
‘No,’ I lied. In the circumstances I felt it was justified; a small sin to prevent a possibly greater one. ‘Do you often make this sort of vicious attack on people?’
‘Of course not!’ His indignant rebuttal rang a little hollow. ‘But you saw what happened in the alehouse this evening.’
‘I saw a man trying to rectify a mistake that he now knows has cost him the best chance of happiness in this life.’
The miller scrambled to his feet, giving vent to another explosion of anger.
‘Rectify a mistake! What sort of mealy-mouthed nonsense is that? If that Jezebel hadn’t thrown Tom Rawbone over in favour of his father, he’d have married her! He cast Rosamund off like … like some old shoe! He humiliated her in front of half the village. I know. I was there. I was a witness to everything. I saw the state she was in when he’d gone. That lovely, innocent creature! I tell you, chapman, if I could have laid hands on Eris Lilywhite or Tom Rawbone at that moment, there would have been murder done!’
I, too, struggled to my feet, suddenly realizing how cold I was, sitting on the damp February ground. I also realized, to my dismay, that I was shaking, a palsy that had nothing to do with the dank night air, but seemed to be a kind of delayed reaction to my recent fright (a phenomenon I had experienced once or twice before). I drew my cloak tightly around me.
‘Murder was done,’ I pointed out. ‘Or, at least, there’s a strong probability that it was.’
‘Well, we all know the name of the killer, then, don’t we?’ my companion sneered. ‘Eris Lilywhite’s disappearance can only be laid at one person’s door.’ Lambert thought about this for a moment. ‘One family’s door,’ he amended.
‘You think another of the Rawbones could have murdered her?’ I asked. My throat still hurt, making conversation difficult, but I might not find the miller in such a talkative mood again. Guilt was making him expansive.
‘Well, apart from Nathaniel, I can’t think of any member of that family, including the housekeeper, Elvina Merryman, who’d have wanted Eris lording it over them as the mistress of Dragonswick. I wouldn’t even rule out the twins, for all they’re only fourteen years of age. Strong as oxen, the pair of them.’
‘But the body, if there is one, has never been found.’ Now I was arguing against myself.
I could just make out that Lambert was wagging his head in agreement. It was getting very dark as the moon had vanished behind yet another bank of clouds.
‘Not for want of looking, though,’ he told me. ‘The remains of the old village, the ruins of the Hall and its well were all searched, but to no avail. But you can’t look everywhere, it stands to reason. A grave dug deep in the woods will never be found, except for some freak accident, maybe years in the future. And, of course, the girl might not be dead. She might just have run away, as the Rawbones keep insisting.’
‘Do you believe that?’
The miller laughed. ‘No one believes it. No one who knew Eris Lilywhite, at any rate. What? Forgo the chance to be mistress of Dragonswick? She couldn’t do it, even if it meant being tied to a man old enough to be her father for the next ten years and more.’ He shivered as violently as I was doing inside my cloak. ‘Holy Mother! Why are we standing around here in this cold? Come into the alehouse, chapman, and I’ll buy you a stoup of ale.’
I declined. ‘I must get back to the Mistress Lilywhites’,’ I said. ‘They’ll be wondering where I am.’ I scooped up Hercules, who had been sitting patiently and protectively at my feet. ‘But, like I said, next time, miller, just make sure you have the right person before you try to throttle him to death.’
I slept soundly, after being fussed over by Maud and Theresa, and woke to a quieter, sunnier morning.
My long absence of the day before, which I was sure the younger woman had barely registered – except, perhaps, to hope that I had changed my plans and quit the district – was more than forgiven when I had been able to recount, at first hand, the evening’s events at the alehouse. This, together with details of my visit to Dragonswick Farm and my conversation with Jacquetta Rawbone, had kept them entertained until it was time for bed. My torn lip and bloody nose were bathed with a sicklewort lotion; very good for cuts and bruises, so my mother had always told me; and my hoarse voice, the reason for which I didn’t divulge, was treated with a linseed poultice. The result was that, by the next day, I was feeling much better than I could ever have anticipated.
The women and I followed the same procedure as on the previous morning, with the result that we were all three able to wash and dress in comparative privacy. While I shaved, I reflected that, come evening, there were only forty-eight hours left before it was March, and then just over a fortnight before the feast of Saint Patrick. By which time, I had faithfully promised Adela I would be home.
‘You’re very quiet, chapman,’ Theresa commented while we were eating breakfast. ‘Are you any nearer to finding out what has become of my granddaughter?’
I was forced to admit that I wasn’t. ‘But you must give me time,’ I protested. ‘There are other people I have to talk to. This morning I’m visiting Father Anselm, who has kindly invited me to share his dinner with him.’
Theresa was dismissive. ‘You won’t discover anything by talking to that old fool.’ I suspected that the priest was younger than she was. ‘He knows nothing of what goes on in this parish. Nothing of importance, anyway. Lives in a little world of his own. Sometimes I wonder if he’s quite … well … you know!’ She tapped her forehead.
Maud was up in arms immediately. ‘You know nothing of Sir Anselm, Mother! He’s been living here, in this village, for many more years than you have. He’s a good friend to all his parishioners. A man who can be trusted.’ I reflected that this was the first time I had seen Maud Lilywhite display anything akin to real emotion. Not even when discussing Eris’s disappearance and the possibility of her murder had she been roused to such a pitch of animation. She went on, ‘I should prefer it if you refrained from criticizing him in my hearing.’