12 - Nine Men Dancing Read Free Page A

‘Let him stay, Father. What harm can he do? He’s lost, and it’s going to be a stormy night. The wind’s rising. I can hear it.’
    There was a general nodding of heads; but the final decision was taken out of Master Bush’s hands by the appearance of his wife, who arrived in the ale-room, presumably from the upper storey and by way of the outside staircase I had noticed as I entered. She was a pretty, plump woman and, as I had guessed, an older version of her daughter. Her eyes were the same soft blue, and doubtless the hair, decorously concealed beneath a linen cap, was the same pale straw colour as the younger woman’s.
    She had evidently overheard a part of the conversation, and was able to fill in the rest for herself.
    ‘Let the man stay, William,’ she said briskly. ‘He’s welcome to sleep by the fire if he wants to. We can lend him a blanket to wrap himself in. Goodness me!’ she went on in a scolding tone. ‘It’s not often we get a visitor in Lower Brockhurst at this dead time of year. And a chapman at that! The women won’t thank you for letting him go until they’ve inspected the contents of his pack. Go and sit down by the fire, Master, and Rosie here will give you some soup from the pot.’ Her gaze homed in on the same young man who had been picked on by her daughter, but her voice, when she addressed him, held a vindictive note. ‘Shift yourself, Jocelyn Rawbone, and let Master Chapman have your seat!’
    As I rescued Hercules from Rosamund Bush’s fond embrace, the youth – I judged him to be about twelve, maybe thirteen years of age – rose sulkily from his stool, slouched past his fellow drinkers, past me, managing to knock into me as he did so, and vanished into the darkness outside.
    ‘Good riddance to bad rubbish,’ Rosamund said, with a hostility that now rivalled her mother’s.
    To my surprise, the seemingly mild-mannered landlord nodded in agreement.
    ‘Like uncle, like nephew,’ he muttered, adding, almost under his breath, ‘Like the whole damned Rawbone family.’
    I doubt if anyone other than his wife and daughter and myself heard what he said, as the noise had increased, louder even than when I came in. But the expression of anger on his face was apparent to anyone looking in his direction, and I saw one or two people glance significantly at each other, while several more dug one another knowingly in the ribs. A local feud, doubtless, and none of my business. I recollected Adela’s parting injunction to me, to keep my nose out of strangers’ affairs. But, of course, I was agog with curiosity. Nosiness was my chief failing as my mother, both my wives and former mother-in-law had always made plain.
    I was determined, however, to amend my ways. I would be home before the Feast of Saint Patrick and prove to Adela what a good husband I was. I made my way to the vacated stool by the fire and stretched my feet to the blaze. Hercules lay down beside me with a sigh of contentment, while Rosamund Bush appeared with a bowl into which she ladled a rich-smelling stew from the pot suspended over the flames.
    ‘When you’ve finished,’ she smiled, handing me the bowl and a spoon, ‘fill it again for your dog. Now, he does look as though he could do with some flesh on his scrawny little frame.’

Two
    For the next quarter of an hour I was too busy filling my stomach to join in any of the conversations going on around me. I persuaded the fair Rosamund to bring a separate bowl for Hercules, so we could eat together; but although our mouths were stopped, our eyes and ears were not. The piper and fiddler had paused in their labours for refreshment, so I was easily able to overhear an animated discussion being carried on behind me, by three or four men seated at the long table, at the end nearest to the fire. The topic being hotly debated was the varying merits of different manures.
    ‘I don’t reck’n much to pig dung. Does more harm than good. My old father—’
    ‘Horse dung,