But I had already guessed the reason for Maud’s insistence on feeding the dogs herself. It gave her a chance to remove and throw away the bones brought by the midnight visitor. If Theresa had noticed them, she might well have insisted on knowing how they got there and where they came from.
We walked to church in an oppressive silence, Maud and I each busy with our own thoughts, Theresa carefully trying to avoid upsetting the other woman any further.
The stormy night had given way to a brighter morning, which once again prompted thoughts of the coming spring. The hills, rising up on the other side of Lower Brockhurst, were clearly visible, while the clouds, rolling past in the upper air, caught the last red gleam of a sunrise that turned their underbellies to fire. Away to our left, the glimmering surface of the Draco reflected the early morning light, and the sudden tolling of Saint Walburga’s bell shattered the country silence.
As we crossed the bridge over the stream and made our way through the belt of trees opposite the priest’s house, it seemed as though the entire population of the village was determined to attend the service. Everyone I knew, plus many more that I did not, appeared to be converging upon the church. Even Lambert Miller was present, still wrapped in bandages and extremely pale, but hobbling along manfully, supported by his mother on one side and Rosamund Bush on the other and plainly enjoying every second of the attention he was attracting. Most people stopped to speak to him and to enquire after the state of his health, making him the centre of interest. I doubted if he had ever been so happy, in spite of his injuries.
Once inside Saint Walburga’s, however, it was a different matter. Both attention and interest had to be shared with Sir Anselm, who, as good as his word, had forced himself out of bed to conduct the service of Tierce as usual. He, too, still sported bandages, his crumpled face not so much pale as parchment white. And he tended to sway a little on his feet, to the great consternation of his congregation. But he lifted a hand in order to restrain those who would have rushed forward to assist him, then knelt in prayer before the altar while awaiting the arrival of the Rawbones, who were later than ever this particular morning. Not altogether surprisingly, I thought. Even they, with all their pride and confidence, must be a little worried as to the nature of their reception. And one of them, I was convinced, had been up and about in the middle of the night. But which one that was, I was still uncertain.
They came at last, all of them except Tom, heads held high, not deigning to glance either to right or left, and stood in their customary place at the front of the assembled villagers. Sir Anselm, continuing to refuse all offers of help, even from Mistress Bush, tottered to his feet, lifted his hands in blessing and the service began.
As the priest rolled out the familiar Latin phrases in a much stronger voice than I think anyone present had expected of him, my attention began to wander as, I regret to say, it invariably does in church. I twisted my neck slightly, in order to get a further glimpse of Lambert Miller, then turned back to look once more at Sir Anselm. It dawned on me that neither man had suffered as severe a beating as had at first been thought. Whoever their attacker had been, he had avoided extreme punishment and the danger of mortal injury. He had been careful to inflict damage but not death; and a man so in control of his emotions was, in my estimation at least, neither vindictive nor out for revenge.
What was he, then? In Lambert’s case, I guessed him to be someone whose sole purpose was to lay the blame for the attacks on Tom Rawbone in the hope – and, as it turned out, the justified hope – that Tom would flee the village for fear of retribution. As far as the priest was concerned, I still thought the assault might be a warning of some kind to Sir Anselm to keep his mouth shut; a warning not to talk to …? Not to talk to whom? The answer came like a clap of thunder. To me, of course! To me!
I suddenly remembered the open door of the priest’s house, when I had dined with Sir Anselm on Friday morning, and cursed myself that I had not seen its implications sooner. After the meal we had found the main door into the hallway standing ajar. Sir Anselm had explained it by telling me that the latch was faulty, and that Ned Rawbone must have failed to close it properly when he left. But suppose that were not the case. Suppose someone, learning of my presence, had crept into the house with the intention of eavesdropping on myself and the priest, just to make sure that the nosy stranger was not being made a party to secrets he had no business knowing.
I thought back, desperately trying to recollect what Sir Anselm and I had discussed. Eris’s disappearance for one thing. Eris herself … What more? The marriage of Maud and Gilbert Lilywhite and the fact that Ned had hoped to marry her, but been thwarted by his father and her love for another man. But there was something else, nagging at the back of my mind. While my lips framed the correct responses by rote, my eyes wandered from the side altars – from the Christ of the Trades and the Virgin – to the high altar and Saint Walburga, then back again to the Virgin in her blue dress and golden crown. The eternal Mother … children … the begetting of children … Yes, that was it! Sir Anselm had voiced a suspicion, later echoed by William Bush, that Maud might already have been with child when she married Gilbert Lilywhite. Eris, the first of the three children she bore him, had been born in just under nine months.
Yet, why should that fact be of any significance? No one with whom I had spoken had ever stigmatized Eris as a bastard. She had been born within the bonds of wedlock as had her two feeble young brothers, who had died in infancy. No, there was nothing in that. I must look for some other reason why my conversation with Sir Anselm might have provoked an eavesdropper to feel uneasy.
The Mass progressed, but my errant thoughts could come up with no other recollections of what had been said between the priest and myself on Friday morning. I moved and responded like a man in a trance, receiving the wafer, the Body of Christ, on my tongue with an indifference that, later, filled me with shame. It was only when I was offered the silver bowl containing the wine that I returned to the present, conscious of Dame Theresa kneeling beside me, and of her hesitation when it was her turn to drink. She forced herself to overcome her reluctance, however, and the slight frown of puzzlement that was creasing Sir Anselm’s brow was smoothed away.
As soon as the service came to an end, the Rawbones left the church in a solid phalanx, Nathaniel walking with his sister, closely followed by Ned and Petronelle with the twins hard on their heels. Once again, they seemed unaware of the muttering among their neighbours and of the inimical looks they were receiving. Elvina Merryman, bringing up the rear of the column, was the only one who appeared at all flurried, tripping over a broken flagstone, one of several such hazards in the church. Being the well brought up and gallant young lad that I was, and being close at hand, I went to her assistance, gripping one of her elbows in a steadying clasp. Had I not done so, I might have missed the sudden turn of Ned Rawbone’s head as he glanced in Maud Lilywhite’s direction. It was a glance so fleeting, apparently so insignificant that I doubt if anyone noticed it but myself. Once alerted, however, I also saw the almost imperceptible nod Maud gave in return. Some sort of signal had passed between them, and I was suddenly convinced that Ned had been the nocturnal visitor of the previous night.
No one else seemed in a hurry to leave the church precincts, and as soon as the Rawbones had vanished across the footbridge on their homeward climb to Dragonswick farm, a deafening babel of conversation broke out, everyone talking at once. Lambert was surrounded yet again by well-wishers, as was Sir Anselm; while Elder Sewter and Elder Hemnall, together with several other grave and grey-haired men, who I guessed to be fellow members of the Village Council, were besieged by demands to know what was being done to apprehend Tom Rawbone. I had no chance to hear their reply as, at that moment, I was claimed not only by the Mistress Lilywhites, anxious to get home to their dinner, but also accosted by Rosamund Bush, who left Lambert’s side for mine, pushing through the intervening crowd with her usual determination.