Of course, I knew the game Nine Men’s Morris. Played on a board with little wooden balls as counters, it was, and still is, called Morrells (or sometimes Merrills, depending whereabouts you come from). But in my young days, there was another version of it, in which the ‘board’ was drawn on a beaten earth floor, or, in summer, out of doors on any grassless piece of ground, and in which the counters were real people. The twenty-four holes on the board, into which the wooden morrells are slotted, were, in the larger game, indicated by markers. The ‘counters’, nine for each of the two players involved, wore distinguishing scarves or sashes (just as morrells are painted in two different colours).
For anyone who has never played the game, the object is for each protagonist to try to place three morrells, or human counters, in a straight line, either horizontally or diagonally, while preventing the other player from doing the same. Every time a player achieves this, he can remove one of his opponent’s pieces from the board. The winner is the person who first manages to capture seven of his adversary’s nine counters. When the game is played with people, the resulting moves are reminiscent of a morris dance, hence its name.
‘And when is this game?’ I asked.
‘Tomorrow night, here in the Roman Sandal, after supper.’ Rosamund gave me yet another winning smile. ‘The tables will be pushed back against the wall and the board positions drawn on the floor. Everyone’s promised to come. Everyone I’ve invited, that is.’
I assumed that the Rawbone family, however many of them there were, had been excluded from this invitation; but with nine human counters apiece to find for herself and Lambert Miller, I guessed that most of the other villagers had been pressed into attending. Rosamund even seemed to be in need of my services.
I hesitated for a second or two, knowing that I really should be on my way in the morning if I were to abide strictly by the terms of my promise to Adela. But I can’t truthfully say that there was ever a moment’s real doubt in my mind that I would stay. The mention of the word murder, and the whiff of mystery that surrounded the disappearance of this girl, Eris Lilywhite, had already cast their magic spell. I had to find out more.
But, having agreed to remain in Brockhurst for another day at least, and to act as one of her ‘counters’ in the following evening’s game, the next question I put to the fair Rosamund had nothing to do with the puzzle that was uppermost in my thoughts.
‘Why is this alehouse called the Roman Sandal?’ I enquired.
Someone must once have told her that she looked pretty when she pouted, because Rosamund did it again, pulling down the corners of her rosebud mouth in an exaggerated moue of protestation at my lack of continuing interest in her and her affairs. But I soon realized that she was neither as flighty nor as empty-headed as she would have people think her, and after a word or two of explanation, she even warmed to her theme.
‘It wasn’t called so originally. It was just known as “the alehouse”. Well, in a village this size, that’s what you’d expect. There’s not another inn for miles around. However, some time ago-’ she paused and her lovely eyes glinted wickedly as they encouraged me to join in the joke – ‘some year back, as my parents and everyone else in these parts would say, Father found an ancient Roman sandal under a loose flagstone in the cellar. It was falling apart, of course. The leather straps were crumbling and the buckles had turned green, but you could see what it was. Father Anselm – he’s the priest at Saint Walburga’s church – says the Romans were all over this part of the country in centuries gone by. Cirencester was one of their most important towns.’
I nodded. ‘Corinium Dobunnorum.’ She stared at me doubtfully. ‘The Latin name for Cirencester,’ I explained. ‘They called Gloucester Glevum.’
‘Oh.’ I could see her storing the information away in her memory for future use. The fair Rosa Mundi was most certainly more intelligent than she liked to be thought. She repeated her habit of cocking her pretty head to one side. (Something else someone had told her was an endearing trait?) ‘You know a lot for a chapman.’
It was an accusation I was used to, having encountered it regularly for the past seven or eight years of my life.
‘I was educated by the monks at Glastonbury. My mother intended me for the monastic life. But it wasn’t what I wanted, so when she died before I’d taken my vows, I quit – with my abbot’s blessing, I might add. I fancied the freedom of the open road, being my own master, sleeping under the stars in summer and in warm haylofts in winter, no responsibilities, going to sleep and getting up when I chose-’
She interrupted me with a laugh. ‘So now you’re married with three children!’
I sighed. ‘Life eventually catches up with us all. Fortunately, I have a very understanding and long-suffering wife. She allows me to escape now and then.’
‘I wouldn’t let you escape if you were mine,’ Rosamund said fiercely. ‘I wouldn’t willingly let any man I’d set my heart on escape me. And if he did, I’d make him pay!’ The delicate mouth thinned to a hard, unlovely line, the blue eyes took on the harsh glint of sapphires.
‘And how did you make Tom Rawbone pay?’
She was plainly taken aback by my question. She had forgotten telling me of her betrothal to him. She gave a nervous laugh, which she managed to turn into an unconvincing giggle as she dug me in the ribs.
‘You mustn’t take what I say so seriously. You saw for yourself that I’ve done nothing to harm him.’
She was right: the young man was whole and fit and well. But what about the girl he had jilted her for? What about the missing Eris Lilywhite? What had happened to her?
Three
The musicians had started up for a third time, but my ears were now so attuned to their playing that I failed to notice. It was first brought to my attention when Lambert Miller rose from his seat and came across to Rosamund, trying to look modest and unconcerned about the effect his large, handsome face, and even larger, well-muscled frame was having on the women in the ale-room. And failing dismally.
‘Mistress Rose,’ he said, bowing fulsomely over her hand, which he clasped possessively in one of his own great paws, ‘I know I speak for everyone present when I beg you to honour us with another song.’
His big, bland smile intimated he had no doubts that she would oblige him. So she did, but it was obvious to me, if not to him, that she was doing so only to please herself. As she rose to her feet, she said tartly, ‘I’ve asked you before, Lambert, please don’t call me Rose.’
The great oaf looked bewildered. ‘But it’s your name,’ he protested.
‘My name is Rosamund,’ she explained impatiently. ‘No one wants to be called Rose Bush, Lambert. It sounds ridiculous!’
‘Oh … Oh, yes! I see.’ He gave an over-hearty laugh. ‘You are a wit, Rose – er – Rosamund.’
She gave him an enigmatic glance, but allowed him to lead her forward to stand beside the fiddler, then tapped his cheek affectionately – which caused Lambert’s chest to swell to even more manly proportions than it aspired to already. But I couldn’t help wondering what deep game young Mistress Bush was playing. I could have sworn that she despised her rugged admirer, but she plainly had no intention of alienating such a catch. And who could blame her? She must have been humiliated in front of the whole village by Tom Rawbone’s rejection of her in favour of the missing Eris Lilywhite. She would have been less than human had she not wanted to demonstrate to him, and to everyone else, that she was desired by probably the handsomest and most sought after man for miles around.
The group behind me, wisely ignoring the music, had progressed from the rival merits of manures to reach a general agreement on the superiority of Stockholm tar over the old-fashioned remedy of broom water for the removal of ticks from sheep. But when the one called Rob noticed me looking at them, he interrupted the conversation.