Forest of secrets, p.6
Forest of Secrets, page 6
‘Oh, Roger, please!’ implored Dale.
Such flights of fancy didn’t appeal to me either. ‘Well, there are people making a living here,’ I said. ‘Come on.’
As we rode in, we passed a well and then we saw the minuscule church that Sir Henry had told us about. There was a two-storey tiled house next to it, presumably the vicar’s residence. The little church had a small churchyard and an arched gateway very close to the south door. After that came the cottages, only about two dozen of them, but they were strung out, for they all had wide gardens round them. They were mostly small, with thatch sweeping nearly to the ground, and I saw a few dormer windows poking out. The main and apparently the only street in Chenston was a quarter of a mile long at least.
As in Minstead, there were a few women spinning or sewing in their doorways, to make use of the daylight. The women all looked alike, I thought; the same round faces, the same round blue eyes and the same tow-coloured hair drifting out of the white coifs. The round eyes stared but whereas in Minstead, the women had called greetings, here in Chenston, they were silent. My spine prickled. The only men we could see were distant figures at work on the holdings.
At the far end, on our right, there were two larger dwellings, side by side. These too were thatched but they had proper upper storeys and their dormer windows jutted from the thatch above. The track here widened to accommodate a second well, and on the left was an alehouse, which must be the inn whose keeper Etheldreda had mentioned. Its sign was a weathered picture of a man with a crown on his head and an arrow in his chest.
The two large houses had long holdings behind them, with vegetables and fruit trees, and they also had adjacent paddocks. A bay cob was grazing in one of them, and in the other, we could see Etheldreda’s mule. We knew it was her mule because the sorrel foal with the white splashes was there as well. Between the houses was a gate that gave access to both paddocks.
‘That last house must be Mistress Hope’s,’ said Brockley. ‘If the field the mule and foal are in belongs to her and I think it does. I suppose the other paddock belongs to that Nick White she’s told you about. I don’t think either of them are home. There’s no smoke coming from their chimneys and’ – he stood up in his stirrups to peer better – ‘I can’t even see anyone out on their holdings. There are some sheds. They could be in there.’ He turned towards the inn. ‘What do they call that place, I wonder?’
‘Etheldreda told me it’s called the William Rufus,’ I said.
I was looking about me. Brockley was right. The lack of chimney smoke did suggest that no one was at home in either of those big houses and there weren’t any signs of Etheldreda or anyone who might be Nick White out on the land. I didn’t want to go prowling about on their property and peering into their sheds. Dale said what I was thinking. ‘Ma’am, where do we go to now?’
Where indeed, and what, actually, were we here for? To enquire into the matter of mysterious rites in the forest, to see if they concealed any plots on behalf of Mary Stuart and also to find out if the village housed any such conspirators. We couldn’t do much about either unless we could first find Etheldreda and talk to her seriously about possible suspects or any other indications; nor could we just stand about, looking noticeable.
But we were beside an inn and who needs an excuse to call at an inn? Also, the landlords of even the most modest alehouses heard every kind of gossip. Besides, this one actually was a suspect, since the villagers thought he was the leader of whatever it was that was going on in the forest. Here was a starting point, and the day was growing warm. The door of the inn was invitingly open and there was a fence where we could tether the horses.
‘Let’s buy something to drink,’ I said.
There was also a trough. We watered the horses, eased their girths and ran their stirrups up, secured them to the fence and stepped through the doorway of the inn.
The place was empty, though there was fresh sawdust on the cobbled floor and the benches and wooden tables were damp, as though they had just been swabbed. There was a smell of baking bread. Then a streak of light and a rumbling noise led us to a side entrance and outside we found ourselves in a fenced yard where a big dark man with his sleeves rolled up and his shirt wide open to reveal astonishingly hairy forearms and an equally hairy chest was rolling barrels into a chute that presumably led into a cellar.
Another man, just as brawny but flaxen-haired and more discreetly clad, was sliding barrels off a low cart with its shafts in the air. The hefty horse which had presumably pulled the cart was tethered to the door of a stable, while an equally hefty woman, with fat flaxen braids flying free of an untidy coif, was washing its fetlocks.
Brockley cleared his throat and the man with the hirsute chest shoved a barrel down the chute and turned to us. ‘Hah! Customers. You’re early. Go you inside and I’ll come directly. Friends of Etheldreda’s, b’ain’t you? She said you’d be coming. She described you.’ He straightened up, brushing his palms together and looked at me. ‘You’d be Mistress Stannard? Etheldreda told me your name.’
‘Etheldreda! What sort of a name is that?’ enquired the flaxen one.
‘Oh, shut your mouth, Hal,’ said the hirsute one. To us, he said: ‘He’s my cousin, I’m paying him for the moment to fetch supplies from Winchester way because the fellow that used to do our brewing has just died. My wife’s taking that over but she ain’t got into her stride yet. Hal don’t know Chenston well. We use a lot of old names, Hal, from the days afore the Conker.’
‘Conqueror, Felix,’ said his cousin, grinning, and quite unimpressed by the rebuke.
‘Does it matter?’
‘Maybe not. Are you still holding your Goings On in the Wood? Who’ll be the lucky lass this Midsummer?’
‘Will you hold your tongue, damn you!’ shouted Armer. Then, more quietly, he remarked: ‘Story goes that after the Conker killed so many good English men at that battle, Hastings, wasn’t it, there were a whole lot of widows left, all called Etheldreda or Edith or Winfrith or the like and the Conker made them marry his Norman men, and like enough, them Normans wanted their wenches called Matilda or Cecile. But there’s places, pockets, remote like this, where any Normans that took over, well, we tamed ’un, and kept on calling wenches Etheldreda or whatever if we felt like it. This here’s a place like that. My wife there, washing Hefty’s feet, is called Winfred. Chenston’s a world of its own.’ He turned to us. ‘You coming inside? I got ale and cider, well chilled. Cellar’s cold as winter. One of our wenches’ll be there to serve and we’ll be in directly; we’ve only four more barrels to manage.’
We went inside and found that a tow-headed girl had appeared and was setting tankards out on a counter. She asked us what we wished to drink and after ordering, we settled ourselves on benches. The wench brought our drinks, pulled tables towards us to put them on and went off into some inner room. We then wondered what to do next.
‘We’re supposed to be reconnoitring,’ I said. ‘It sounds as if Etheldreda has told the innkeeper something about us, but if so, what? Has she said that we’re here to nose into whatever happens at Midsummer and all the rest of it? And is this man, the landlord here, the master of the Midsummer ceremonies or not? And how do we start him talking?’
We didn’t have to. At that moment, he came in, alone, and came straight over to us. Uninvited, he sat down, folded big hairy forearms on the table and without any preamble, said: ‘I’m Felix Armer. Etheldreda’s brought you here to find out what goes on in the forest at certain dates because people in high places are wondering what’s meant by an evil queen.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘How do you know?’ Was it really going to be as easy as this?
No, it wasn’t.
‘Etheldreda went off because she was scared of the way folk were getting upset about her mule breeding and saying she’d bewitched it. Just afore she went off, she had a squabble with a couple of women at the well out there. They made the sign of the evil eye when she came past. She told ’em she knew about the talk of evil queens and maybe she’d get someone to come and find out what that meant. That made ’em back off but they didn’t look happy. Then she goes away and now she’s come back and what happens next? You come riding in. Everyone’ll be thinking that you’re who she fetched.’
So much for our clever pretence about being chance-met fellow travellers on the way here.
‘If you’re what she meant by that and I reckon the village will think so, well, I’ll tell you now,’ said Armer, ‘there’s some say that I should know who’s meant by the words evil queen, that mine is the voice that intones prayers to whatever gods may rule the forest and the sky above, asking them to remove this evil queen. Perhaps it is. Or perhaps it isn’t. But if it is,’ he said, taking on a low-pitched and significant tone, ‘the secret’s not for sharing.’ He grinned, but his dark gaze had no humour in it as it moved from one face to another, studying all four of us. Then altering his tone all in a moment, to something light or perhaps sardonic, he said: ‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’
I sipped my cider and thought. Then the obvious answer came to me and I said: ‘I don’t think you can help us at present, Master Armer. However, we mean to call on the vicar while we’re here. His name is Atbrigge, I believe.’
‘Him? Dan Atbrigge? He won’t help you much. He gave us a sermon one Sunday, all about what he called three wise monkeys. We should hear no evil, speak no evil, see no evil. You won’t find much help there, I’m thinking.’
‘Thank you,’ I said politely and Brockley enquired: ‘Do you offer any food? We might be hungry, come midday.’
‘This here’s an inn. Acourse we offer food. Some of the men come here for their noon piece. Our two wenches are making the bread now. There’s cheese, a ham only cut yesterday, mutton ready for the spit or stew out of the stockpot; got bacon in and onions and cabbage.
‘We shall be back,’ I said, smiling.
SIX
The Vicar of Chenston
We rode slowly back through the village towards the church and vicarage. There was still no sign of life as far as Etheldreda Hope or her neighbour Nick White were concerned. The women working in their doorways were still there, taking the same silent interest in us. I tried calling a greeting or two but received no reply. Yet I knew, uneasily, that the round, unsmiling eyes were staring after our retreating backs.
‘What’s wrong with these people?’ said Mildred. ‘Oh, I suppose it’s because Etheldreda told those two women she was going to bring someone to poke into things. They’ve decided that it’s us, so they stare but they don’t smile or call good day.’
‘I think we’ve been labelled Friends of the Witch,’ observed Brockley.
‘Then let’s turn ourselves into Friends of the Vicar,’ I said briskly.
The vicarage was a sizeable half-timbered house, bigger than Etheldreda’s, its walls partly covered with ivy. We tethered our horses to the fence and went into the front garden. It was laid out as a knot garden, full of bright patterns made of pansies, pinks, cornflowers and marigolds, edged with lavender. Daniel Atbrigge evidently had an eye for design. He must have seen us approach, because he opened the door before we reached it and stood in the doorway as we made our way towards him. He spoke first.
‘You will be Mrs Hope’s friends.’ He used the modern custom of calling married women by the shortened form of Mistress. ‘I have been expecting you. Do please come inside.’
He led the way into a miniature great hall, panelled, with doors on either side and a staircase going up at the far end. The hall, if one could really call it that, seemed clean but unused and had no decorations on its walls. However, our host led us on through another door, half hidden under the slope of the stairs, and then into a parlour. This was a much brighter room, panelled in a lighter wood than the hall, and with diamond-paned windows lit by the sun.
Here, there was a fair amount of comfort, a padded window seat, some wooden chairs with arms and cushions, a settle, two small tables. Though there were still no wall hangings and no cushions on the settle. Our host invited us all to be seated and took one of the wooden chairs for himself. Mildred and I took the window seat while the Brockleys took the settle. ‘I am Dr Daniel Atbrigge, at your service,’ the vicar said. ‘Though I like to be addressed as just Mr Atbrigge. Now, may I know your names?’
I performed the necessary introductions and told him that we were staying with Sir Henry Compton. As I did so, I was taking a good look at Atbrigge. He was slightly built, of medium height and I estimated in the mid-thirties. His thick brown hair, which he wore long and tied at the nape of his neck, had no trace yet of grey. He wore a long black gown, as a man of the cloth usually would. The most striking thing about him was his face. He wasn’t exactly handsome but his features were arresting and not without attraction.
His was a thin face, with prominent cheekbones and skin that seemed to be stretched tightly between them and his small, inexpressive mouth. His eyes caught one’s attention at once. They were dark grey, deep set, bright and round, with a keen gaze that I found almost disconcerting. It wasn’t a comfortable face, I thought – and then, just as I was explaining who Mildred was, he smiled, and his face was transformed on the instant as though the sun had come out from behind a cloud. He exuded goodwill.
‘I have to say what a pleasure it is to be entertaining new guests. In this isolated place one sees so few strangers, and I rarely have the chance to welcome ladies of such charm.’ He looked about him as though searching for something he had mislaid. ‘I have a housekeeper, Joan, who comes in every day. I think she must be making a welcome tray ready for you; she saw you before I did. In fact, she called to me to open the door. But where she can have got to … ah!’
The door opened to admit a short, fat being with a round red face and small, fat hands, which were clasping, respectively, a jug that presumably contained something to drink, and a dish of pie slices. ‘This here’s all I can do at short notice. Vicar, you get out the cups. I’ll put this here jug of cider down on the table.’ As she spoke, she was pulling one of the tables near to the vicar, and using her elbow to push the other towards the window seat. ‘And this dish of pie can go here. It’s rabbit pie; all I had on hand; I’ve not got going with the day’s cooking yet, though there’s new bread if wanted. I brought that with me, same as usual. It’s barley bread, nice and filling, and there’s honey …’
‘That will do, Joan,’ said Dr Atbrigge, though he seemed to be repressing laughter and he had already left his seat and was stooping to get something out of the cupboard. He stood up again with his hands full of pewter tankards. ‘We’ll serve ourselves.’
Joan retreated, and Atbrigge put the tankards down and began to fill them with cider. ‘She’s a good soul,’ he said. ‘Married to Will Orchard, halfway along the street, on the opposite side. Got a family of youngsters to feed but Orchard just isn’t a good husbandman, or else he’s had bad luck. A fox got half his chickens one night last January and if you ask me, he’s slack about sowing his vegetables and his barley patch, so his crops don’t get to grow in their proper seasons. So he sends his wife to work for me, and his boys run wild. Very wild, I’m sorry to say.’
‘Mrs Hope mentioned them when she came to see me,’ I said, recalling it. ‘She implied that they were wild.’
‘They are. I am supposed to teach the children of Chenston, teach them their letters and figures, if not much more, but I never could get the Orchard boys to attend lessons. Joan and Will try to keep the lads occupied on their smallholding.’
‘Does Jacky Dunning attend your lessons?’ I asked, causing Mildred and the Brockleys to look at me in surprise. ‘You weren’t there when Mrs Hope talked about the Orchard boys and Jacky Dunning,’ I told them. ‘He threw stones at her filly.’
‘Yes, Jacky comes. His mother makes him. He’s still a horrid boy,’ said Dr Atbrigge dispassionately. ‘I’m always worried that my son, Benjamin, will get in with some of those lads. Though he’s got good sense and anyhow he’s only thirteen. The Orchards are older; twins nearly twenty, and one seventeen and one fifteen. The twins ought to get themselves married soon; there’s one empty cottage with a good-sized holding behind it, going spare. An old fellow died and left no one to inherit. They could have that and divide the cottage.’
Brockley said: ‘Perhaps there aren’t any girls of suitable age in the village.’
‘Oh, there are, but I’m trying to discourage the villagers from marrying each other. In the past they’ve intermarried so much that I reckon every single one of them is a cousin of some sort to all the rest. You look at them; they’re all alike. Flaxen hair, round faces, round blue eyes, same set of the shoulders. We have a simpleton or two, alas. Say what you like about the old religion, its priests did at least keep kin-books. But all that’s been swept away now and from all I’ve heard, the priests here never were very particular. Inbreeding’s a bad thing, in man or beast.’
‘Felix Armer isn’t flaxen with blue eyes,’ I said.
‘His mother married a man from Salisbury. He came to live with her here and Felix takes after his dad. His wenches are flaxen, though. Felix is no fool; he says he’s going to see that the girls wed away from the village.’ He smiled again. ‘But this is a pleasant place, really. When I needed a quiet living and was offered this one, I accepted and I’ve been glad. Although …’
His attitude suddenly changed. He sat up straighter and set down the slice of pie that he was eating. ‘To business. Are you by any chance the people that Etheldreda Hope angrily shouted she was going to fetch to look into what she called goings on? Or was that just a fit of temper and you’re simply court friends of Sir Henry Compton, here as his guests, and she met you on the road? That you have arrived just as Mrs Hope reappeared does suggest the former.’
