“Doris, the girl who told him to shut up, said something about a story man.”
“A story man,” Will said slowly. “Maybe he’s the local raconteur or spinner,” he suggested.
“They didn’t say. She said, ‘Remember what the story man said.’ Then Simon yelled at her and told her to shut up.”
Will sat down, thinking about what she had told him. He glanced up and saw Maddie’s anxious face.
“But there’s no such thing as a river wight, is there? Not really?” she said.
“No. I’ve never heard of one and I’ve been around a lot of rivers in my time. It’s just a story,” he said reassuringly. As he said the word “story’, he wondered about this story man character. He decided he’d ask in the tavern later, and see if there was a local storyteller—or spinner, short for yarn spinner, as such men were often known. Villages like this often had such people. They helped keep the oral history of the village and its people alive.
“It’s your turn to check on the horses,” he said. They had taken it in turns to slip out of the village after dark and make sure the horses were all right. Maddie looked out of the unglazed stable window. The sun was setting and the shadows were lengthening across the village. To reach the clearing where Tug and Bumper were hidden, she’d have to walk part of the way beside the river.
She twisted her hands together nervously at the thought of it—and the thought of dark creatures that might be lurking beneath the surface. Simon had been lying. She was sure of that. But even so, there could be such a thing as a river wight, even if it hadn’t been one that took Carrie Clover. After all, Will had simply said he’d never heard of such a creature. He hadn’t said definitively that they didn’t exist.
“Will you come with me?” she asked in a small voice.
Will turned to her in surprise. He was used to Maddie being confident and self-assured. Obviously, this talk of evil river creatures had got to her. He was about to laugh at her fears, then realised that she was young, and it was getting dark and imagination could be a terrible thing, no matter what logic might tell you. He sighed. He’d had a hard day and he’d been looking forward to a quick nap in the straw before heading into the tavern for supper.
Wearily, he rose to his feet, brushing loose strands of straw off his clothes.
“Of course I will,” he said.
The horses, as ever, were delighted to see them. They were even more delighted to find the apples that their owners had secreted in their pockets.
There was plenty of grass for them to graze on, but Will had brought a small sack of oats as well. He assumed that grass on its own would be a boring diet. He’d certainly find it so, he thought. The horses seemed to agree as they munched happily on the oats. He patted Tug’s muscular neck as the little horse put his head down to the oats.
“We’ll be heading off tomorrow, so eat up,” he said. Maddie overheard him.
“We’re leaving?” she said. She had been smoothing Bumper’s coat with a stiff brush. She knew her horse enjoyed the attention.
“There’s no more work, so there’s no reason to stay. I’ll see what I can find out about this story man tonight. But unless there’s something important comes up, we’ll move on to the next village.”
Maddie nodded. She cocked her head. In the near distance, she could hear the rush and gurgle of the river. When they had first arrived, it had seemed so cheerful and friendly, she thought. Now, she wasn’t so sure.
“I won’t be sorry to go,” she said.
Later that night, nursing a tankard of small ale, on the pretext of having a nightcap before going to sleep, Will broached the subject with Danvers.
“Do you have a spinner living in the village?” he asked, trying to sound casual.
Danvers shook his head. “Village isn’t big enough to support one,” he said. “From time to time we get itinerants passing through. As a—” He was about to add something but, at that moment, a rowdy group of ploughmen called loudly for more ale. He shrugged apologetically and moved away. He was caught up serving for some time and Will finally finished his drink. He had no further reason to stay in the bar, so he quietly left, heading for bed.
He wondered briefly what the innkeeper had been about to say, but decided it was probably unimportant. The important question had been answered. There was no local storyteller.
Thirty-four
Esseldon wasn’t quite as big as Danvers Crossing. It wasn’t situated on a river, so there was no flour mill, and none of the associated buildings and services, such as storage silos and sack makers. Nor, of course, was there a ferry service.
But it was a pleasant little village, built along the usual lines, with one main street, and houses and businesses ranged along either side. At the far end of the village, at the crest of a small hill, stood the ever-present inn. No matter how small a settlement might be, there was always a place where the locals could gather to relax and to eat and drink. And accommodation where travellers could spend the night.
As before, Will asked for, and obtained, permission to sleep in the inn’s stable. He had been well paid by Rob Danvers, and with the money he’d earned, he could have afforded a room at the inn. But he was maintaining the character of a wandering labourer. Such a man wouldn’t waste valuable coins on fancy accommodation. A roof over the head and clean straw to bed down on were enough for such people.
When it came to work, however, the news wasn’t good. Jerome, the innkeeper, shook his head dubiously when Will raised the subject.
“No farm work,” he said. “The harvests are over so there’s no work in the fields now for a few months. And if there’s any repair work to be done, most farmers do it themselves. As do I. You can ask around, of course, but don’t expect too much.”
Will nodded glumly. “Thought as much,” he said. “Well, I’ll spend maybe a day or two and see what’s on offer. Best get our things into the stable.”
He seized the handles of the handcart and put his weight to it, wheeling it into the stableyard, then into the small stable itself. He looked around, pointing to a pile of fresh straw in a bin.
“Let’s get some of that spread out so we can sleep on it,” he said.
Maddie found a wooden pitchfork and began to heave bundles of straw onto a dry portion of the hard earth floor, working so enthusiastically that a cloud of fine straw particles rose in the air, visible in the beams of sunlight that made their way through gaps in the stable wall. Aside from one elderly draught horse, the stable was unoccupied. After she had moved a suitable amount of straw, and sneezed several times in the process, Will took the pitchfork from her hand. It was midafternoon. By now, if Esseldon was like most villages, the local children would have been released from their chores and be relaxing in the few hours of spare time they’d have before their evening tasks had to be done.
Of course, in a village as small as this, there was no school. If the children had any formal instruction, it came from their parents. In most cases, that meant they had little formal learning. The ability to read and write was rare.
“Why don’t you head out and get to know the local kids?” he suggested.
She dusted herself off, went to sneeze, then suppressed the urge with a forefinger pressed up under her nose.
“Should I ask about Maurice Spoker?” she asked. Maurice Spoker was the Esseldon boy mentioned in Liam’s notes. Will considered this for a few seconds, then shook his head.
“Not right away. You can always do that tomorrow. Use the same story—that I’d heard about his disappearance in the tavern and warned you to be careful. For the moment, see if there’s been any sign of a storyteller here in Esseldon.”