Free 12 - Nine Men Dancing by Kate Sedley Page B

granddaughter at the best of times, and hasn’t had a good word to say for Eris since the night of her disappearance – the night she discovered that Nathaniel was planning to marry the girl.’
    Theresa glanced at her daughter-in-law for confirmation of her words, but Maud refused to comment. Her face was still closed, its expression almost surly. She did not want me to prove that Eris was dead.
    It was getting on towards midday by the time I finally finished my dinner – I had disgraced myself by having three helpings of broth – and was able to rebuckle my belt over my woefully distended stomach. At home, Adela would have curbed my appetite by warning me of the perils of overeating – ‘You’re developing a paunch, Roger! You’ll get fat and look old before your time!’ – but without her watchful eye upon me, I had behaved like a little boy let loose in a cook shop. I knew I ought to have felt thoroughly ashamed of myself. Unfortunately, I didn’t.
    I walked up the hill, Hercules trotting at my heels, both of us a little somnolent in spite of the cold. I paused some distance from the Rawbone holding in order to survey it, ignoring the dog’s impatient bark (he wanted to go rabbiting). The farmhouse was a substantial two-storey building of grey Cotswold stone, slate-roofed, much bigger than it appeared from further down the slope. A number of sheep were grazing the winter pasture, and I saw that each animal’s fleece was marked with a red saltire cross, evidently the mark of the Rawbone family, and giving strangers notice that the sheep belonged to them. (I later learned that the pigment used was red raddle, the same as is employed for murals in our churches.) I recognized the shepherd boy who was keeping a watchful eye on the flock, his stick in his hand, his dog circling round him, as Billy Tyrrell, the lad who had been in the alehouse the previous evening. I called to him and he came to greet me, glad of anything to relieve his boredom.
    ‘Hello, chapman! What are you doing here?’
    ‘Dame Jacquetta wants to buy some of my goods. Where shall I find her?’
    ‘Follow me,’ he said importantly, and, instructing his dog to keep watch over the sheep, and requesting me to keep Hercules under control, he led the way towards the farm.
    At the back of the house I could see the sheds where they rolled the fleeces and weighed the wool after the summer shearing. The pigsty and cow-byre were both much smaller, suggesting to me that these animals were kept solely for domestic purposes. Sheep, and sheep alone, were the Rawbones’ source of wealth, as they were of most farmers in the Cotswolds. Billy Tyrrell led me to the rear of the house, where he opened a door, then bade me a cheery goodbye before returning to his charges.
    The fierce, strong-smelling heat of the kitchen almost overpowered me as I entered. The stone floor beneath my feet sweated with damp and the lime-washed walls, darkened by age and smoke, were here and there encrusted with lichen. There was one small window with its shutters half closed and, peering through the dreary half-light, I could just make out the bins of corn and meal, and the pendulous shapes of hams and other joints of meat hanging heavily from the ceiling. When my eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom, I could see that there was a young girl busily making pastry at a central table.
    Without glancing up from her work, she demanded, ‘And what do you want?’
    ‘Mistress Rawbone asked me to call,’ I answered mildly. ‘I’m a chapman.’ I indicated the pack on my back. ‘She’s in need of buttons.’
    The girl did look up at that, her thin, plain face sharpening with interest. But all she said was, ‘Which Mistress Rawbone? The older or the younger? Jacquetta or Petronelle?’
    ‘The older. Dame Jacquetta.’
    ‘Right. Come with me.’ She wiped her floury hands down the sides of her skirt, but hesitated before leading the way to the inner door. She nodded at Hercules,