12 - Nine Men Dancing Read Online Free PDF Page B

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.
    ‘You wanted to know about the well at Brockhurst Hall, chapman.’
    ‘I was impressed by the excellent lid on it,’ I said, ‘and by the fact that it hadn’t been left as an open snare for children and animals.’
    ‘Ah,’ one of the other men explained, ‘some year back, a young chap from the village climbed down the shaft, slipped and broke his leg—’
    ‘And ’is arm,’ put in somebody else.
    ‘Ay, and his arm. Weren’t found fer nigh on two days. After that, village elders they instructed John Carpenter to make a cover fer the dratted thing. A good solid ’un, they said. Which he did, as you’ve seen fer yerself.’
    ‘Wouldn’t it have been easier just to fill the well in?’ I suggested. ‘I imagine it’s been dried up for a good long time.’
    ‘Ar, reck’n you’re right,’ the one called Rob agreed. Then, suddenly losing interest, they all reverted to the far more exciting subject of sheep.
    A hand fell on my shoulder. Swivelling round on my stool, I saw Theresa Lilywhite, who must have returned to the alehouse without my noticing. She bent down to speak in my ear as most of the customers had now joined in the rollicking refrain of a highly improper song, which I had first heard sung by the sailors along the Bristol Backs. No doubt this was a cleaner version, in deference to the ladies present. I very much hoped so.
    ‘I’ve spoken to my daughter-in-law,’ she said, ‘and if you don’t fancy sleeping on the floor here, we can offer you accommodation for the night. Or for as long as you want to stay in Lower Brockhurst. There’s only the two of us since Eris disappeared. You can have her bed.’
    ‘There’s the dog, as well,’ I said, pointing to Hercules, snoring happily at my feet.
    She nodded. ‘You’re welcome to bring him. Just keep him out of the way of our dogs, that’s all. They’ll think he’s a rat. But