The two elders were muttering to one another, their expressions serious. Once again, I heard the repetition of Tom Rawbone’s name: it was obvious they were considering no other suspect.
‘We must go up to Dragonswick Farm,’ the taller and greyer of the pair decided. ‘We shall confront Tom with his crime and see what he has to say. If he admits it, it will be up to the Council to decide his punishment. I see no need, at present, for this matter to go beyond the village boundaries. And Lambert!’ He fixed the invalid with a gimlet eye. ‘We bind you over to keep the peace until we have completed our enquiries. It would seem that you have not been entirely blameless in this quarrel.’
The miller let rip with an obscenity that shocked the men but which appeared to have no effect whatsoever on the ladies present. Indeed, Rosamund and his mother hushed and crooned to him in a manner that was guaranteed to turn the average stomach, and certainly caused mine to churn.
The second elder now spoke up. ‘We should be obliged, Master Chapman, and you, too, Landlord Bush, if, in view of your evidence, you would both accompany us to Dragonswick Farm. Thomas Rawbone needs to know we are in possession of all the facts.’
I thought that if Tom had sunk to being Thomas, he was already adjudged guilty in the elders’ eyes. But they looked like a couple of fair-minded men, and with Ned Rawbone’s additional testimony of the provocation suffered by his brother the preceding day, Tom’s punishment – in all probability a fine, which Nathaniel would no doubt pay – should be light. Perhaps it was as well, for his sake, that I had not acted on my intention of quitting the village after breakfast.
I glanced at Rosamund Bush with what I liked to think of as my quizzical look, but she pointedly ignored me, giving a little toss of her head and once more bending solicitously over her patient. I wondered how fairweather a friend to Tom Rawbone she might turn out to be; but simple justice reminded me that the initial wrong had been his. She owed him no debt of loyalty.
I stood aside to allow the two village elders and William Bush to precede me out of the room. (I was a well brought up young lad: first my mother, then the monks at Glastonbury had taught me good manners with fist and rod. I still bear the scars of some of their lessons.) Before they could take advantage of my politeness, however, we were all arrested by the sound of someone running up the stairs, an urgent clatter that boded ill news. A moment later, Lambert’s bedchamber door was thrust open and the man called Rob Pomphrey burst into the room.
He addressed the two elders.
‘Best come right away to the priest’s house, Master Sewter, Master Hemnall! Miller, here, ain’t the only one who’s been set upon. Sir Anselm, he’s in a bad way.’
This was more serious. This was an attack unmitigated by provocation. If the priest died, or was already dead, this would mean the full panoply of the law and a noose for the culprit at the end of it.
As I followed the elders and William Bush downstairs, and was myself followed by Rosamund and her mother – whose curiosity, I noted, outweighed their concern for Lambert Miller’s health – I recalled uneasily my conviction that Sir Anselm knew more about Eris’s disappearance than was good for him. For there seemed no other reason for an assault upon his person.
He was lying unconscious on the floor of his kitchen, half frozen to death, the door to the back yard having been left swinging on its hinges. The parishioner who had discovered him and then run screaming into the street had not thought to close it, nor had the gaping fools who had subsequently crowded into the house to see the priest for themselves. The senior of the two elders – Master Sewter, as I now knew him to be – immediately cleared the room of its uninvited occupants and requested Rosamund to run for the village wise woman.
‘Tell her to bring all her pills and potions,’ he instructed. ‘And, my child, shut that door as you leave.’
Winifred Bush volunteered to find blankets, but Master Sewter decreed that Sir Anselm should be carried upstairs to bed.
‘It will be too painful for him once he recovers his senses. Master Chapman, you’re a big, strong lad. I feel sure you could do it single-handed and without any difficulty whatsoever.’
Sir Anselm may have appeared a featherweight, but, believe me, he was nowhere near as light as he looked. By the time I had negotiated the stairs to the second storey – with a confused Hercules circling round my feet and twice nearly tripping me up – and deposited the priest on his bed, I was beginning to have serious doubts about my future ability to father any more children. But once my task was successfully accomplished and the two village elders, Landlord and Mistress Bush together with myself were able to take a good look at him, it became very obvious that whoever had attacked Lambert Miller had also carried out the assault on the priest. The injuries were almost identicaclass="underline" a severe beating inflicted with a good, stout cudgel which, in Sir Anselm’s case, had resulted in unconsciousness.
The village wise woman arrived carrying a large basket containing what must have been her entire store of salves and ointments, healing draughts and potions, tut-tutting in horror at the sight of her patient. Even Rosamund’s description had not prepared her for Sir Anselm’s condition. He was still breathing, but only just.
Master Sewter and Master Hemnall, having conferred together in whispers, decided that there was no likelihood of the priest regaining his senses yet awhile and that we were wasting our time at his bedside.
‘We must go to Dragonswick Farm and apprehend Thomas Rawbone,’ Master Hemnall said. ‘William, you and the chapman will accompany us as planned.’
The wise woman – a much younger woman than I had expected, with a round, pleasant face and a pair of workmanlike hands – looked up from her ministrations.
‘You’d better hurry,’ she advised, ‘if you want him in one piece. There was a mob setting out for the farm as I came along the street.’
The two elders exchanged glances and Master Hemnall pulled down one corner of his mouth.
‘We shall need weapons, I think, Master Chapman, I see you have a cudgel, not to mention that pesky little dog, who seems willing to bite anyone and everyone, including yourself.’ He turned to the landlord. ‘William, you live next door. Can you find Colin and me a couple of clubs? Strong ones. We’ll set out now. Catch us up as fast as you can.’
The landlord nodded and parted from us at the church. The village elders and myself crossed the bridge over the stream and began the ascent to Dragonswick Farm, but long before we got there, we could see the angry mob surrounding the house, baying mindlessly for Tom Rawbone’s blood. By the time we had forced a path through the crowd to where Nathaniel, Ned and the twins stood, snarling defiance and brandishing bigger and stouter cudgels than William Bush had been able to provide, the general atmosphere had turned uglier than ever.
‘Nathaniel!’ Master Sewter had to shout to make himself heard. ‘Where’s Tom? It’s no good trying to shelter him. Tell him to come out and face us like a man. Philip Hemnall and I will guarantee his safety until he’s safely under lock and key.’
Nathaniel raised his voice in reply.
‘Don’t make me laugh! You two old women couldn’t guarantee his safety from this pack of vultures however hard you tried. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Tom’s gone! Left an hour and more ago. Took one of the horses. You won’t catch up with him now.’
Fourteen
Nathaniel’s voice carried clearly, even to those on the perimeter of the crowd. There was a momentary faltering, a decrease in sound that died away to almost nothing – only to rise again in frustrated fury as the farmer’s words sank in.
Elder Hemnall lifted a hand, while his companion, Elder Sewter, took a warning step in the direction of the villagers, who showed every tendency to surge forward and storm the house.
‘’E’s lying!’ someone shouted. ‘I’ll wager Tom’s in there somewhere. Friends, don’t let yourselves be hoodwinked!’