I had little doubt that Ned was right. If this meeting proved to be nothing more sinister than a lovers’ tryst, the Fair Rosamund would react furiously to any interruption. But with the suspicion of murder still clinging like an invisible cloak about her former lover, I, for one, was not prepared to take any chances.
As I strode uphill with Hercules, now fully awake and ready for any adventure, trotting happily at my heels, I tried to calculate how long Rosamund had already been gone. William Bush had said that she received the message while they were at dinner. It was now past noon, so that would have been nearly two hours ago. However, the landlord had given no indication that his daughter had rushed away immediately, so I presumed Rosamund must have finished her meal first. Had she then given the message some thought before making up her mind to meet Tom, as he had requested? But even if that were so, she must still have been gone an hour at the very least. Probably longer. Why hadn’t I thought to quiz Winifred Bush more closely? Sometimes I acted too impulsively, was too lax with my enquiries. It’s a fault I’ve mentioned before, and one that’s dogged me all my life (even now when I’m old).
Not that the length of time Rosamund had been absent was really important. Injury and death can strike a person down in seconds, with help almost at hand. I could only pray that if any danger did threaten her, I should not be too late to prevent it.
I followed the course of the Draco, to the woods cresting the Upper Brockhurst ridge. I saw both Theresa and Maud in the distance, as I passed the Lilywhite smallholding, and, further up the slope, I could just make out Billy Tyrrell, minding his flock. But there was no other sign of life at Dragonswick Farm. To my right, the stream glinted silver in the winter sunshine, then disappeared from sight as I plunged beneath the grey, overhanging canopy of the trees. The desolate woodland had a certain fugitive loveliness all of its own, but I was too preoccupied with Rosamund’s fate to stop and appreciate it.
Just before turning towards the now familiar path leading to the remains of Upper Brockhurst Hall, I glanced back over my shoulder into the valley below. A frieze of goblin figures, heads down, bodies hunched against the driving wind, was immediately recognizable. Just beginning to ascend the pasture from the village were three men, the first of whom, striding purposefully ahead of the others, was undoubtedly Lambert Miller. The two behind, in dogged pursuit, had to be Ned Rawbone and William Bush.
I cursed. What, in God’s name, had possessed the landlord to enlist the help of the miller? He must be aware of Lambert’s feelings for his daughter and of the latter’s reaction to any attempt by Tom Rawbone to worm his way back into Rosamund’s affection. And if this were, indeed, the purpose of this meeting, then Tom stood a fair chance of receiving yet another beating at the hands of his pugnacious rival.
I called loudly and insistently, ‘Mistress Rosamund! Master Rawbone!’
There was no answering cry, only the echo of my voice among the trees and the dismal cawing of rooks.
They were not at the Brothers’ Well, the meeting place named in Tom’s message. But that meant nothing, I told myself. It was a cold day and they had probably decided to take a walk as a means of keeping warm. But in which direction had they gone? I stared around, while Hercules, sensing my uneasiness, ceased hunting for rabbits and came to sit at my feet, staring up at me with a puzzled look on his doggy features.
I shouted again. ‘Tom Rawbone! Mistress Rosamund!’ But still there was no reply.
Think, I ordered myself. They were hardly likely, in that weather, to have wandered into the long grasses and undergrowth that shrouded the ruins of Upper Brockhurst Halclass="underline" not unless, whispered that inexorable voice of doom at the back of my mind, Tom’s intentions had been malign. But I decided to ignore this suspicion: I must assume Tom’s innocence until it was proven otherwise. Therefore, the only way they were likely to have gone was along the overgrown track leading to the old, ruined village, the track I had accidentally stumbled across when I had lost my way the day before yesterday (a time that already seemed remote, so much had happened between then and now).
I moved forward along the path, and almost immediately found myself, yet again, thinking of those two men, dead for a hundred and thirty years, homeward bound in happy anticipation of seeing wives and children after a prolonged absence, only to meet Death, with his empty eye sockets and leering grin, barring their way. They haunted me, that pair, and I didn’t know why; except that, for some obscure reason, I felt them to have a connection with the disappearance of Eris Lilywhite. I accepted that the feeling was unfounded, but I was unable to shake it off. And in the eerie silence all around me, I was suddenly disorientated, seemingly transported back to another place and time, unsure of where or who I was …
‘Chapman! Fancy meeting you here!’
I was back in the present, as if pulled by an invisible thread, and saw Rosamund, walking towards me, picking her dainty way along the muddy and overgrown path. Behind her was Tom Rawbone. I breathed a sigh of relief.
‘Mistress!’ I said, but making no attempt to move aside as she approached. ‘Master Rawbone.’
Rosamund stopped in front of me. Her pretty face, framed by the hood of her grey woollen cloak, glowed from the bite of the wind and the coldness of the air – and possibly from some other reason, too. I couldn’t be certain, and there was nothing to be gleaned from Tom Rawbone’s expression; but to me, he didn’t have the hangdog look of a man who had been repulsed too severely.
‘Are you going to let us pass?’ Rosamund asked sweetly, but with just a touch of acerbity in her tone.
‘In a moment,’ I answered. ‘But you’d do well to listen to what I have to say, first.’
Her swain – if that’s indeed what he was – took a step forward to stand beside her.
‘Move aside, chapman. This is no concern of yours.’
I ignored him and addressed myself to Rosamund.
‘Mistress, your father and Lambert Miller are not far behind me. Your brother, also, Master Rawbone.’
‘How … How did they know where to find us?’ Rosamund stammered. ‘And who invited Lambert to poke his nose in?’
I explained the circumstances as briefly as possible (although without being able to account for the miller’s presence), aware that it could not be much longer before the three men caught up with us. I finished by looking pointedly at Tom’s bruised and battered face. ‘If you don’t want yet another beating, Master, you’ll take my advice and make a run for it while you can. Do you know of any other way down from this ridge?’
Just for a second, I saw his eyes flicker shiftily from side to side. But, to his credit, Tom wasn’t prepared to act the coward in front of his lady, in spite of Rosamund adding her entreaties to mine.
‘For mercy’s sake, go!’ she exclaimed, giving him a little push. ‘Go on! Before they get here! You’ve suffered enough in the last two days. You’ll be nothing but a jelly if Lambert sets about you again.’
It was, of course, the worst argument she could have used. Perhaps she knew that. Perhaps she was testing him. You can never tell with women.
‘I’m not afraid of Lambert Miller!’ Tom said with, I suspected, more bravado than truth. Nevertheless, he was determined to stand his ground, declining to budge when Rosamund gave him another exasperated shove. ‘If you’ll let us pass, chapman, we’ll be on our way.’
I could see it was useless to argue with him further and stepped aside into the long grass that bordered the track. Now it was Rosamund who refused to move, her body shielding Tom’s, but he simply stepped around her, skilfully avoiding her detaining hands, and walked rapidly and determinedly ahead. Rosamund ran after him, almost tripping over the hem of her cloak in her agitation. I followed with Hercules nipping in and out of all our legs and threatening to bring at least one of us down.
We reached the clearing that had been the courtyard of Upper Brockhurst Hall, and there, beside the well, Tom slowed to a halt.