I judged, from the sudden levelling out of the ground, that Hercules and I were now crossing the ridge that overlooked the valley. Abruptly abandoning the Draco, I turned to my right and went in search of the remains of Upper Brockhurst Hall. They were more difficult to find a second time amongst all that dense foliage, but eventually I repeated my fall of yesterday when I again stumbled over the lid of the well in what had once been the Hall’s outer courtyard. Hercules came bounding through the undergrowth, a silly, doggy grin on his face that looked up into mine, where I knelt on the soft, damp grass, cursing my luck.
‘It’s all very well for you,’ I complained bitterly. ‘You have four feet, and that’s what’s needed to keep your balance on this sort of ground.’ Hercules curled his lip, making it plain that he thought it a poor excuse for my clumsiness, and began to forge ahead through the overgrown grasses until I called him back. ‘Not so fast,’ I said. ‘Now we’re here, I’d like to take a look at the well.’
Hercules watched with interest, head cocked to one side, as I shed my cloak and cudgel and removed the heavy lid; but he was less enthusiastic when I began to climb down the iron ladder fixed to the wall.
‘It’s all right,’ I assured him as he whimpered and began running around the rim of the well. ‘It’s quite safe.’
But a moment or two later, I was not so sure. After a hundred and thirty years, the iron was badly corroded. I could feel the jagged flakes of rust beneath my fingers, and some rungs were missing altogether, causing me almost to lose my footing the first time that I encountered such a gap. Afterwards, I proceeded more cautiously, groping around with one foot before lowering myself another step. In at least two places, three or four rungs had rotted away together, and it was only my long legs that enabled me to find the next one safely. And here and there, the ladder was coming loose from the brickwork that lined the shaft, making the whole thing shake.
I had no idea how far off the bottom I was, and I called to Hercules, whose face I could just make out, still peering over the rim of the well. His answering bark sounded anxious and a long way off. The daylight filtering through the canopy of trees above him was dim and diffused, and I wondered if I dared descend any further without risking life and limb. Then my left boot squelched into an inch or so of soft mud, and I knew I must have reached the bottom of the ladder. My eyes had by now grown accustomed to the gloom and I was able to look around me.
The walls of the shaft were running with damp, ferns and mosses sprouting in abundance between the bricks. The floor, as I have said, was thickly coated with mud, but Dame Jacquetta was right: there was no longer any water in it. I did notice a slight seepage where the base of the shaft had been roughly patched with stones and mortar; but the diversion of the Draco, a century or more ago, had doomed the well to dry up and become a hazard to the children of the district; until, that is, the Elders of Lower Brockhurst had had a lid made to cover it. I sighed. Eris Lilywhite was most certainly not buried here. Perhaps, after all, she wasn’t yet buried anywhere. Perhaps she was still alive, although I didn’t really believe so.
Ten minutes later, I emerged from the well-shaft, dirtier and decidedly smellier than before I went down. The fetid air at the bottom seemed to have permeated all my clothes. Even Hercules, not known for his particularity, backed away from me with a reproachful look. My hands were filthy and covered with flakes of rust.
‘All right, boy,’ I said, heaving the wooden lid once more into place. ‘I know I stink. I’m hoping the breeze will blow some of it away. I’ve a clean shirt and hose in my pack, and if I have a good wash under Mistress Lilywhite’s pump, I might just be fit company for the Fair Rosamund by this evening.’
‘Ah!’ exclaimed a voice behind me, nearly making me leap out of my skin. ‘You must be the pedlar who’s lodging with the Mistress Lilywhites, or so I hear. I think I saw you at our Patronal Mass this morning.’
I turned to see the priest, his arms full of kindling, standing a yard or so away from me, smiling benevolently. My heart was still beating unpleasantly fast; but at least his presence in the woods explained the cracking twig I had heard earlier.
‘Sir Anselm,’ I said, filled with an inexplicable relief. I really was becoming far too jumpy, but the whole atmosphere of death and decay – the ruined Hall and village, the dried-up well, the tale of violent murder – was beginning to make me nervous.
The priest smiled. ‘You prefer the old-fashioned form of address, do you? My flock are more up-to-date.’
I returned his smile. ‘I’ll call you Father, if you prefer it. In Bristol, where I live, both modes of address seem to be acceptable nowadays.’
He nodded. ‘Either will do, my son. I’m not choosy. Are you returning to the Lilywhites’ now? If so, perhaps you’ll be so kind as to give me your company. But I’m afraid I must hurry you, otherwise I shall be late for Vespers, although my long-suffering flock are used to my tardiness. Tonight, however, there is to be an alefeast and a game of Nine Men’s Morris to celebrate Saint Walburga’s Day. They won’t be happy if either is delayed.’
‘I know. I’m a member of Mistress Rosamund’s team,’ I said. ‘She enlisted my services yesterday evening.’
The priest regarded me with amusement. ‘Did she? I can see why, of course. You’re a very good-looking young man.’
‘I’m married with three children,’ I answered shortly before he could start adding two and two together and making five. I put on my cloak, picked up my cudgel and whistled to Hercules. ‘Come on, boy! We’re going home.’ (Hercules wasn’t fussy. Home to him was anywhere there was warmth and food. Before he had attached himself to me, he had run wild on the hills above Bristol.)
I followed Father Anselm, who, happily, appeared to know exactly where he was going, and within a very short space of time, we were clear of the woods and descending the pasture towards the Rawbone farm. I explained that I had to retrieve my pack from their cowshed, where I had left it, a fact my companion seemed to find in no way peculiar. Nor did he ask me what I had been doing down the well shaft, although he must have seen me climb out. At last, I mentioned it myself.
‘Why was that well never filled in?’ I demanded. ‘It would have been more sensible, surely, than fitting it with a lid.’ (My sore shins could testify to that.)
The priest wrinkled his nose. ‘You sound like Ned Rawbone,’ he complained. ‘He was saying the same thing to me only a week or so ago. Of course, he has a particular reason to hate that well. He fell down it when he was a boy and wasn’t discovered for several days. Broke quite a few of his bones, poor lad. He still walks with a bit of a limp.’
‘Oh, it was Ned Rawbone, was it?’ I said. ‘Someone told me that story in the alehouse last night, but mentioned no name. Master Rawbone’s been down the well shaft again recently, so I believe, looking for Eris Lilywhite.’
‘A complete waste of time,’ Father Anselm snorted. ‘You only had to look down the shaft to see that there was nothing there except a foot or so of water.’
‘You were present when he went down to search?’ I asked.
The priest nodded. ‘Me and most of the rest of the village. The alarm had been raised that Eris was missing, but I wasn’t at all surprised at that, not after what I’d been told about events that had taken place in the alehouse the previous evening.’ He sounded disapproving.
‘You didn’t like Eris Lilywhite,’ I suggested.
‘My son, it is not for a priest to like or dislike members of his flock.’ He smiled wryly. ‘Let us just say that he is fonder of some than of others.’
‘That’s a sophistry,’ I complained.
He didn’t deny it. We were now abreast of the Lilywhites’ smallholding and it was with regret that I told him we should have to part company. I had barely begun to pick his brains.
‘I need to wash and change my clothes. I stink of the mud at the bottom of that well.’
‘I can’t offer you a change of clothing,’ he answered, ‘but the priest house has its own pump. You’ll undoubtedly find it easier to strip off without two women on the prowl, hoping to catch a glimpse of your manly equipment.’
I burst out laughing. ‘I’m sure neither Maud nor Theresa Lilywhite has any such ambition,’ I protested. ‘But it so happens that my clean hose and shirt are in my pack, so I accept your offer. There are a number of things I’d like to ask you.’ We continued walking downhill. ‘You still haven’t answered my first question. Why has that well never been filled in?’
Father Anselm turned a slightly shocked face towards me. ‘Wells, once dug, are like springs, my son. They are sacred to the gods and nymphs and hamadryads of the woods. Rumour has it that there was once a spring in these parts, dedicated to one of the Roman gods.’
We were within a few paces of the conjunction of the Draco and the stream that bounded Lower Brockhurst. I caught at Father Anselm’s arm, forcing him to a halt.
‘
You’re a priest of God!
’ I expostulated. ‘What do you care for the spirits of the old religion? What do your congregation care? This is a Christian community. Isn’t it?’
‘Of course! Of course!’ He raised guarded eyes to mine.
‘But …’
‘But?’ I prompted.
‘But … have you never felt … yourself … that there may be more ways in which to worship than one?’
I nodded. ‘Often. But I’m not a priest. We’re talking heresy, Sir Anselm, and you know it as well as I do. Do many of your flock still worship the spirits of the trees? The gods of their Saxon forefathers?’
He shook off my hand and preceded me across the little bridge. ‘This is neither the time nor the place for such a discussion,’ he said petulantly, as he led the way through the sheltering belt of trees.
We emerged almost directly opposite the church, flanked on one side by the alehouse and on the other by the house of the priest. Beyond this latter, right on the northern edge of the village, was a sheep pound, which, Father Anselm informed me, was for lost or stray beasts, or for those that were awaiting transportation to Gloucester or Tetbury market.
‘Some come down from the farms on the opposite side of the valley.’ And he waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the rising hills to the west. ‘Stupid animals, sheep!’ We crossed the street. ‘Come into the church with me first. I must set a taper to the Alms Light.’
This, as in most churches, was a simple taper in a bowl standing before the High Cross, and was lit during service time to commemorate the souls of the dead. (Some priests, indeed, prefer to call it the Dead or All Souls Light, but Alms Light is the more common name.) While Father Anselm was busy about his chores, I examined the rest of the church, Hercules snuffling at my heels. The statue of Saint Walburga had been restored to its niche above the high altar, and the Virgin, unmistakable in her blue robes – the colour of spiritual and marital fidelity – graced one of the other two. But it was the figure on the second side altar that interested me. Crudely carved and painted, it depicted the figure of Our Lord, naked, lacerated, bleeding, with a halo made up of carpenter’s tools – hammer, mallet, axe, knife, wheel, horn and pincers – around its head. It was the Christ of the Trades that had first made its appearance some hundred years earlier, just before the great revolt of the common people during the reign of the second Richard.
‘Right!’ exclaimed the priest, bustling up. ‘Follow me, and I’ll show you where you can wash and change while I ring the bell for Vespers. There will be food in the alehouse afterwards, if you’re hungry, before Mistress Rosamund and Lambert Miller begin their game.’
The priest’s house was bigger than it looked from the outside, boasting, in addition to a parlour, hall and kitchen, a buttery, larder and a handsome staircase leading to no fewer than three bedchambers (so Sir Anselm told me proudly) on the upper floor. Out of doors there was a pigsty, a stable (unoccupied), a garden plot for herbs and vegetables, a small barn and a pump. The late afternoon had turned extremely cold, with a bitter wind blowing through the valley and a hint of yet more rain to come in the air. Nevertheless, to the sound of the Vespers bell, I stripped naked and, shivering violently, washed away the stink of my excursion down the well shaft, which clung so persistently to my skin. Then I ran back into the warmth of the kitchen, where the priest was waiting for me with an old linen sheet which I used to towel myself dry. I pulled on my clean hose and shirt, and although there was nothing I could do with my still smelly jerkin, I felt sufficiently restored to face the coming evening with equanimity.
My only preoccupation now was my empty stomach. I begged a bowl of scraps and some water for Hercules, but knew that I should have to wait for my own sustenance at least until after Vespers. I accompanied Father Anselm into the church, where the congregation was already assembling, hoping desperately that my rumbling gut would not disgrace me in the fragrant presence of the younger Mistress Bush.
When Vespers finished, I went back to the priest’s house to collect Hercules, my cudgel and my pack (into which I stuffed my dirty clothes) before taking myself off to the Roman Sandal for the alefeast. But before bidding Father Anselm farewell, I returned to the church to ask if we might continue our conversation the following day.
‘There are still so many questions to which I need answers,’ I said.
‘Concerning?’ He raised a ragged eyebrow, in which black and grey hairs were inextricably mixed.
‘The disappearance of Eris Lilywhite, amongst other things.’
He regarded me thoughtfully. ‘Has Maud Lilywhite put you up to this?’
I decided to be honest with him, as I had not been with Jacquetta Rawbone.
‘Not Maud. The older Mistress Lilywhite. She’s naturally anxious to discover what’s happened to her granddaughter. But it’s partly to satisfy my own curiosity, as well.’
He nodded, turning to unlock a cupboard fixed to the wall beside the Virgin’s altar.
‘Maud wouldn’t be so anxious to know the truth, of course. That’s understandable.’
He picked up the heavy silver chalice, beautifully chased around the bowl, used at Vespers, and placed it on a shelf in the cupboard, beside its twin. On other shelves, I noted a pair of silver candlesticks, the silver-gilt pyx that contained the Eucharist and an elaborate ivory and gold crucifix. There were also one or two other pieces I didn’t have time to see in any detail.