But even as we turned to climb the steps again, Elder Hemnall made a sudden pounce on something that had become entangled on the toe of Ned’s boot. When he straightened up, a hand pressed to the small of his back, he displayed his trophy.
It took us all a moment or two to recognize what he had found, but once we had done so, it was unmistakable. It was a grey woollen hood with shoulder-cape and liripipe; a perfectly ordinary hood – except that two slits had been cut in the back of it just about where a person’s eyes would be if, for some perverse reason, it was worn back to front.
Nathaniel resolutely refused to accept the discovery as a token of Tom’s guilt.
‘You brought that hood with you,’ he accused the two elders, ‘and dropped it on Ned’s foot when you were in the cellar.’
Elder Hemnall was affronted by this slur on his probity.
‘Don’t talk such bloody nonsense, Nat! If that were the case, we’d have “found” it an hour ago, when we first began searching the house, and saved ourselves a deal of trouble. Now! Be sensible and tell us where Tom’s gone. Which direction has he ridden in?’
‘He didn’t tell us, and we didn’t ask,’ Ned answered shortly. ‘If he’s any sense, he’ll have headed for the Welsh border. But that’s not to say he’s done so.’
I decided it was time for me to add my mite to the discussion.
‘Finding the hood,’ I pointed out, ‘doesn’t necessarily mean that Tom was the wearer. It could have been worn by any other member of this household.’ I glanced at Nathaniel and the twins and then at Ned.
‘It’s Uncle Tom’s hood,’ Jocelyn Rawbone declared flatly. ‘I’ve seen it on him many times. Only yesterday, in fact.’
‘Hold your tongue, Josh!’ Ned barked at him. ‘And that goes for you, too, chapman, if you know what’s good for you. I agree with my father. The hood proves nothing. It could be anyone’s.’
Petronelle rounded angrily on her husband and father-in-law.
‘Stop trying to protect Tom, both of you. He’s not worth it. He’s brought this trouble on himself. That’s his hood and you know it. There’s the rip in the cape where he caught it on some brambles when he was rescuing one of the sheep last month.’ Nathaniel would have interrupted her, but she shouted at him, ‘I won’t have Ned or the twins made scapegoats for Tom. I don’t know why you bother. You and he have never liked one another.’
‘That may be so,’ Nathaniel hissed, ‘but we Rawbones stand together in times like these, so be quiet, woman! If you were my wife, I’d give you a damn good thrashing!’
‘You old lecher!’ Petronelle screamed at him, making claws of her hands and looking as though she might gouge out his eyes at any moment. ‘This is all your fault! You’re worse than Tom! Lusting after a girl young enough to be your granddaughter!’
She collapsed on to a stool, sobbing. The housekeeper hurried over, throwing her arms around Petronelle and rocking her gently.
‘Hush, my dear! Hush! No need to upset yourself.’ She added viciously, ‘That nasty little trollop has gone now and she won’t be coming back.’
Elvina spoke with an assurance that made me glance sharply in her direction; but she was too busy glaring at Nathaniel to be aware of my interest. Ned noticed it, however, and lost his temper, bringing his fist down on the table top with a thump that made everybody start and which must have badly bruised his hand.
‘Shut up, the lot of you,’ he roared. ‘Can’t you see that you’re making a spectacle of this family in front of strangers?’
His fury was plainly so uncharacteristic of him that they all, without exception, subsided into silence. Even Nathaniel seemed to think better of exerting his authority, although judging by the expression on his face it needed all his self-control not to do so.
Ned Rawbone drew himself up and addressed the two elders.
‘Will you please leave now? We have nothing more to say to you. We have no idea where Tom might be. As I said before, he didn’t think to tell us where he was heading. Nor did we ask him, naturally.’
‘Naturally,’ Elder Sewter agreed drily.
‘We shall have to search the outbuildings,’ Elder Hemnall said, preparing to retreat in good order.
Ned shrugged. ‘I don’t care what you do,’ he answered wearily, ‘as long as you persuade that mob out there to go away.’
Colin Sewter nodded. ‘You have our word on that. Nor do we hold any of you responsible for Tom’s actions. You will be free to come and go in the village as you please. You may encounter a little hostility, but no one will molest you.’
‘They’d better not try,’ Nathaniel snorted. ‘Rawbone men know how to defend themselves.’
‘Be sensible, Nathaniel,’ his friend urged him. ‘Don’t go looking for trouble.’
Ned said quietly, his anger having apparently burned itself out, ‘You’ll let us know what Sir Anselm has to say when he recovers consciousness?’
‘Of course.’ Elder Sewter laid a warning hand on his arm. ‘But you do realize that if the priest dies, it can no longer remain a village matter? We shall have to send to Gloucester, to the Sheriff.’
Sir Anselm did not die, however.
By the time that the elders had organized a search of the farm outbuildings by Rob Pomphrey and his friends, persuaded the rest of the villagers to disperse and we had all tramped back to Lower Brockhurst together, a visit to the priest’s house established that he was able to sit up and take some nourishment.
Propped up in bed, looking frail and badly shaken, the livid bruises staining his parchment-white skin like blackberry juice on linen, he was being fed bread and milk by Winifred Bush while the village wise woman packed her medicaments back into her basket.
The latter nodded to the two elders and William Bush, but treated me to a suspicious stare as though she thought I might be up to no good, especially after I had treated her to my most winning smile.
‘I’ve put a honey, rue and borage poultice on his swollen knee,’ she informed the room at large, ‘and powder of puff balls, mixed with spiders’ webs to staunch the blood of a nasty cut to his upper arm. And there are some lettuce juice pellets to help him sleep when he’s finished eating. Father Anselm,’ she continued, turning to her patient, ‘I leave you in Mistress Bush’s most capable hands.’ She gave another nod, nearly tripped over Hercules, who had been skulking around after me all morning, and went on her way with the parting admonition, ‘Send for me if I’m needed.’
When the bedchamber door had closed behind the wise woman, Sir Anselm forestalled our questions by announcing querulously, ‘It’s no use asking me who did this. I didn’t see anything.’
‘You must have seen something, Father,’ Elder Hemnall objected. ‘The attack must have wakened you.’
‘I tell you, I didn’t.’ The priest sounded as though he might burst into tears at any moment. ‘It was the middle of the night. It was dark. I woke up to find someone was beating me black and blue. I remember crying out and putting up an arm to defend myself, but then I must have lost consciousness. I can’t tell you anything more. It’ll serve no purpose badgering me. Besides, I’m tired. I want to sleep.’
‘Lambert Miller was attacked in just the same way,’ Elder Hemnall told him. ‘He insists that Tom Rawbone was his assailant, even though the fellow was wearing his hood back to front. Sir Anselm, do you think it was Tom Rawbone who assaulted you?’
‘I keep telling you, I didn’t see anything,’ was the peevish (and frightened?) response. ‘Can’t you understand English?’
‘Tom Rawbone has run away.’ William Bush proffered the fact as though he hoped that it might reassure Sir Anselm. But the hope was doomed.
‘I didn’t see anything or anyone,’ the priest repeated in a fading voice, leaning back against his pillows and closing his eyes. ‘Now, will you please go, and allow me to rest?’
Mistress Bush took charge, shooing us from the bedchamber with sweeping motions of her hands.
‘Off you go, and let the poor man get some sleep,’ she scolded.