Rhiannon

by Vicki Grove

  And, too, where was Jim by now? She’d had no sight of him since returning from her sojourn with Maddy. Keeping track of their four-some was like herding chickens!

  Suddenly, a commotion started up ahead and traveled quickly back to where Rhia stood. She perked her ears and leaned sideways, trying to see forward. The line was losing its orderly shape and widening out loose as folks edged up quick into a crowd.

  Rhia, stretching on tiptoe, perceived that the vicar and the bailiff had stepped together from the pavilion, but this glimpse was all she had before the crush of shoulders before and behind her closed like a wave.

  “What’s happened, then?” demanded a burly man, speaking to no one in particular as he shoved roughly past. He hefted his small son to his shoulders. “Has the foul murderer been discovered?”

  It was the question propelling everyone closer, as all wanted a sight of whatever had occurred to bring the vicar and bailiff out into the open. But all Rhia wanted was to go against the stream and get free! She always felt sick in close quarters, but never had she been entrapped as thoroughly as in this sudden surge of bodies. She worried she’d swoon clean away and be trampled underfoot, so before that could happen she took a good gulp of air, closed tight her eyes, and used her slenderness and flexibility to edge and slide her way along, desperately struggling toward the open air.

  Presently, she was spat from the mob like a beached fish—though she found herself not back near the ale-tasters’ booth, as she’d wanted to be, but just the opposite, arrived mere paces from the gaudy pavilion! She’d gotten turned completely in her panic! She could actually see the swarming flies that coated the inside of the grim tent’s newly thrown opened flap door like some dark, furred lining.

  The lord’s chief law officer, their bailiff, Guy Dryer, was a broad-faced man, large and quiet. In fact, he spoke so seldom, some in town wondered if he could speak. Today, as usual, he showed no emotion, though the morning’s ordeal inside that wretched tent had surely taken its toll. His jaws worked as he clamped his teeth tight, and his face was sheened with sweat. His long, lank hair, entangled with flies, clumped along the soggy neck and shoulders of his shirt.

  A step ahead of him, as befit the holiness of his office, stood Vicar Pecksley.

  Vicar Pecksley always looked a bit unwell to Rhiannon, so gray-faced and waxy-skinned was he, but now he looked more thin-lipped than usual as he took a step forward and held up the crucifix he usually wore atop his vestments.

  The crowd went instantly silent at that gesture, meant to remind all present that God Himself was behind this gory business.

  “The Lord will not suffer the wicked to triumph, but by their own hands they will indeed be revealed,” the vicar intoned. “The pavilion shall now be opened wide so that all here may confirm what the bailiff and I have just witnessed in private.”

  A couple of young boys that crouched near hoping for the chance at just such a job scrambled to roll up the front wall of the pavilion. Some in the crowd groaned and looked away at first sight of the corpse, who lay there bluish and naked on the butcher’s table except for a cloth covering his private parts.

  The vicar turned and held the crucifix toward the pavilion, commanding in a solemn voice, “Come out that all may see ye, James Gatt, in the name of Our Lord!”

  A figure who’d been far in the nether corner of the tent began making his way slowly forward through the deep shadows. Those in the crowd whispered together and strained to see, but the concealed accused was in no hurry to present himself to their scrutiny.

  “Have patience and give me amblin’ time, friends, now would ye?” the foul murderer finally called out from within the tent. “I come slow, as my hurryin’ days was lost with my leg, but on t’other hand, there’s no chance a’tall I’ll be runnin’ for escape.”

  Some folks laughed at that, then looked shamed and stifled their laughter quick.

  Rhiannon felt turned to stone, and for the second time that strange afternoon, she thought sure she might swoon. Jim! It was their Jimmy in there, accused?

  She had the small presence of mind to step behind a nearby stout woman, hiding herself, knowing Jim might find it hard to see her gawking so close. How could this be happening? Where was Granna? She wanted her granna!

  Rhia turned to look for her, and her eyes arrested for a moment on the manor house in its walled seclusion. The lord still stood at that upper window, indistinct at this distance but there nonetheless. Surely, surely, he would not suffer this to happen to one of his villiens, especially one so wronged already by rough fate?

  Another party was heard from then, a shrill speaker from deep in the mob.

  “Well, and couldn’t I have easily predicted such an end to Jim if he once ventured off Clodaghcombe Bluff down to grand Woethersly? But tell us, Vicar. How d’ye imagine he did this murder, all one-legged as he be? Mayhaps he rolled clear down to the River Woether, knocked the victim to the ground with his rolling, then held the knife between his teeth for the stabbing, is that what ye suppose?”

  The mob shifted with a gasp, searching to see who’d the outrageous nerve to speak so boldly. Many tittered with guilty laughter as well at the scene the speaker had just painted with her storyteller’s words, though Rhiannon could only feel despair.

  The vicar’s face went tight as a skull, as meanwhile folk parted, giving Granna ample pathway to charge forward with Daisy by the hand. Rhia could scarce bear to look as the two of them reached the front and stepped right jauntily into direct confrontation with the bailiff, who himself had stepped in front of Vicar Pecksley.

  Granna was dwarfed by the bailiff, her nose direct even with the middle of his shirt.

  “That’s right, Guy, protect the vicar from those two ruffians!” called some wag in the crowd, to laughter.

  Several things happened at once, then, so that Rhia only got them straight in her head later. Almund Clap came shouldering through the mob and took Granna’s arm and Daisy’s shoulder, easing them sure and quick away. The vicar gave a nod and two of the bailiff’s assistants came forward, took Jim by the arms, and pulled him up close to the butcher’s table, handling him roughly so that his stick fell to the ground. Jim looked once over his shoulder, and his face seemed white beneath the red of his stubbly beard.

  And then, darkness ate at the edges of the bright day, and all sound and movement seemed to Rhia to go magically spinning away into nothingness.

  And in that eerily becalmed moment, the bailiff’s men took Jim’s two hands and extended them forward, onto the stomach of the corpse.

  “Witness, good people, what the bailiff and I have observed in private,” Vicar Pecksley intoned. “See how the wounds open their mouths and bleed afresh! Thou Who perceivest hidden things hath made Your truth manifest to us, Your servants. Your name be praised and Your will be done, O Lord, forever and ever, amen.”

  Dark blood trailed down the side of the dead man, black against white skin, against white day, against white everything as daylight flared bright before Rhia’s eyes, then went out like the flame of a snuffed candle.

  For a third time that day Rhia’d felt she might swoon, and this time, she had.

  When she came back to herself, she was in a cool and quiet place, with whispery voices swirling above her head. Her surroundings were dim and shadowy, churchlike, though she knew, most from the sweet smell of fermented grain, that this was no church. Indeed, it was the under-croft of the ale-tasters’ booth. Long-handled spoons and iron brewing pots, not water fonts and carved saints, crowded the space beneath every high arch that supported the timber building above.

  She was stretched on a low stone table with a sack of barley for pillow. And above her head hovered, gentle as heavenly host, several of Granna’s white-wimpled and crisply aproned friends, as well as Granna herself. The women’s long white fingers were folded beneath their ample bosoms in what looked like concern. For her? Had she, then, somehow died and been laid out on this stony bier for viewing?

  We
ll, she’d worry about it later, as it was too much to think about just now with her head aching so. The lavender cloth laid upon her brow felt so soothing. She closed her eyes and slipped again into a place where she was but a tiny child, really still a babe, sleeping on a pallet near the hives as her mother gathered wax and hummed a sadly beautiful tune to the listening bees . . .

  “Rhia!” Granna’s voice was a jolt, and moreso was the sharp slap she’d given Rhia’s cheeks, one and then the other. “Don’t ye go drifting away from us again, ye hear, girl?”

  Something hard hit her right in the chest then, and she sat up, gasping for breath.

  “I’ve decided to give you Queen Matilda till you grow well, Rhia,” Daisy pronounced, all solemnly. “She’ll make you feel better, you’ll see.”

  Rhia shook the last fuzzy cobwebs from her head. Queen Tildy—who’d been affrighted herself when she’d been thrust so rudely into Rhia’s rib cage, then tumbled all akilter to Rhia’s lap—shook her own hide-covered head as though to regain her own wits.

  Daisy leaned her elbows sadly and familiarly on Rhia’s leg and let her head droop, needing comfort. “I love Jim,” she said simply.

  Rhia grabbed her in a fierce hug. And then she found herself sobbing along with the child, as some watergate inside her had been breached by Daisy’s innocent and heartfelt sentiments. Why, she loved Jim, too.

  “This is an awful day!” the child suddenly exclaimed in her simple way. And then, she began to shiver so violently that Rhiannon was alarmed and clasped her all the harder, fearing she was fevered.

  “The Gwent-Traed-y-Meirw has hold of her for sure.” Granna bent to murmur near Rhia’s ear. “See yon white dog in the doorway? If we need more proof, there it be.”

  Granna held that a white dog appeared when death had just come calling, and sure enough—a large, light-furred mongrel now stood in the doorway looking straight at them, his jaws aslobber. Granna also said that a cold gale blew over a new corpse and was immediately felt by closest family members, no matter if they were miles away. The Gwent-Traed-y-Meirw, that deathwind was called.

  If Mam were here, she would have instantly berated Granna’s belief in such ancient Welsh omens, but Rhia wouldn’t. She believed Granna was perfectly right and that Daisy was shaking with the wind of death. She herself was somehow sure that Primrose and Ona had just then given their souls to God. Yes, she was sure of it.

  She took Daisy’s small face in her hands.

  “It is a bad day indeed. But you and I are true sisters now, Daisy. You’ll bear no sadness alone, not ever! I will always be there beside you.”

  Daisy, pale as milk, nodded fiercely.

  “Rhiannon, try your legs,” someone ordered, and Rhia saw Almund Clap elbowing closer through the hovering women. “Your grandmother’s been too worried about you to worry about herself, but outspoken as she’s been on the green today, we’d best take her right quick away from Woethersly. I’ll travel as escort, and the moment you are able, we should make fast tracks up the bluff.”

  Rhia stood, then crouched to place Queen Matilda gently back into the sling still suspended over Daisy’s shoulder. She felt great relief that Almund Clap would be escorting them, but then new anguish over the great change in their returning party.

  “Jim won’t be going back with us, will he?” she whispered. “He’s arrested, and will be held in the gaol until they surely . . .”

  She stopped herself from finishing, because of Daisy. Though Jim would surely hang, out on Gallux Hump! She’d been in charge of their group today—this was her fault! Why’d she let Jim come along, especially after Granna’s strong misgivings? And why’d she left the lot of them to consort with silly and feckless Maddy?

  “We’ll talk of it later,” the reeve said quickly and quietly. “As for now, let’s away. I meant exactly what I said—this is no safe place for your group with Moira’s insult still ringing in the ears of the local worthies. We’ll take the nether way out of town, back through the newly burned lot beside the churchyard. I’ll lead, with Moira. Rhia, you and Daisy follow close, and Thad’s agreed to bring up the rear and keep watch behind.”

  “Thad?” Rhia asked in a small voice, unheard by most in the room as Granna’s friends had gathered close around her and were giving last bits of strident advice.

  Someone detached himself from the shadows beneath an arch. He came a few steps closer but stayed on the edge of the crowd, bowing his head slightly to Rhia.

  “Thad, Rhia!” Daisy, recovering her energy, pointed at him. “Thaddeus! You stared at him down on the beach this morning, remember? He was behind you at the green and caught you when you fell. He carried you here, and got word of it to us, as well.”

  Rhia’s face burned as though it were afire. “I wasn’t staring,” she protested, gulping.

  “Yes, you were so!” the child piped, all innocence. “You nigh stepped right off’n the bluff from staring at Brother Thaddeus so hard, don’t you remember? You did!”

  Chapter 8

  As they followed Almund’s lead and slipped out of town the back way, then trudged along the nether side of the common barley field, then forded the River Woether, Rhiannon couldn’t bring herself to so much as glance over her shoulder at the young monk who served as rear guard to their party. He surely regretted saying he’d serve as escort for a group containing such a shameless fool as she! Twice fool she must appear to him, one time fool because he’d witnessed her rage at his fellow clergy this morning at the churchyard, and a second time fool because he’d heard Daisy’s childish insistence that Rhia’d been staring at him this morning from the trail! She almost hoped he had slipped away from their party in stealth, that he had run away and would keep on running clear back to Glastonbury Abbey, thereby freeing her of the need, required by the laws of courtesy, to turn and thank him for his service to her on the green this afternoon.

  With only a small grunt for preface, Granna suddenly stopped hiking and sank down upon the lush grasses past the river to rest a bit before the steep trail. Almund Clap bent to show Daisy some little silvery fish, and Rhia, heart beating within her chest like a caged bird, finally took a deep breath and turned to face Thaddeus.

  “I thank you for your service to me today when I became unwell,” she said in a rush before her nerve could desert her. Her neck felt afire. “How fortunate for me that you happened to be nearby. But what do I call you, sir? Brother Thaddeus?”

  He smiled. “Call me only Thaddeus, as I’m a novice and have not yet taken final vows. And if I may, I’ll take the liberty of calling you Rhiannon. And, well, I’d better confess that I didn’t just happen to be there when you fainted. I was waiting behind you, hoping to have a word when you had leisure.”

  When she looked puzzled, he quickly added, “Not that I’d go tailing you about! I assure you, Rhiannon, I meant no harm. I’m no vile stalker.”

  She laughed, put at ease by that unlikely image. “I would hardly take someone like you for anything like that.”

  “I’ll consider it a compliment,” he murmured, laughing a bit at himself.

  He pushed back his wide woolen sleeves and crossed his arms. The nails of his long, blunt fingers were stained with several colors, primarily black and beetroot, also a deep yellow and some woad. The bones in his wrists seemed large, and the muscles above them were strong and knotted. Rhia caught herself and dropped her eyes as Thaddeus took a step forward to speak more confidentially.

  “When Reeve Clap told me this afternoon that your family is settled atop this high crag, I could scarcely believe it,” he murmured, shaking his head. “It is an extraordinary place at all times, I’m sure. But I looked for you at the village green to ask . . .”

  He stopped, frowning, looking beyond her, over her head, letting his eyes travel the vast expanse of steep wooded slope that was Clodaghcombe Bluff.

  “To ask . . . what?” she prodded.

  “To ask about a group of folk I came upon last night as I walked the beach. They has
tened into the forest at my approach, and though I came out to look for them again this dawn, they’d not come back. Reeve Clap says you and your mother and grandmother know Clodaghcombe Forest better than anyone else, so I looked for you to ask if you had recently come upon some folk living wild amongst the trees?”

  Rhia narrowed her eyes. “Well, there did seem to be something amiss at one place along the trail, though in these deep woods the wind and the light can oft hoodwink the senses.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Tell me of these people. Were they standing with very little movement, some of them bent?”

  Thaddeus nodded eagerly. “You did see them, then. My concern is that they are ill and not provisioned. I’ve seen their kind before, and know somewhat of their plight.”

  Rhiannon sighed. “I saw them not today, but on the beach yesterday, as you yourself did. They’re not from around here, but mayhaps they live the hike of a day or two away and were come for a spring diversion, as so many others did. This is for sure—no one can overnight in this steep forest of Clodaghcombe. There are wild boars and wolves, and pitfalls along the ground, which is very rocky and rough at best.”

  Not to mention the ancient enchantments, such as the Devil Dogs of Clodagh, said to be held in a cave somewhere within the woods by a wizard’s entrapment spell.

  Thaddeus looked troubled, but didn’t answer. A fog was coming in as evening approached. It hovered like a fist over the sea and extended white fingers ashore, which began to slowly grope through the trees and up the bluff as if looking for something lost.

  “Come then, slackards!” Granna called, and they both jumped a bit, rapt as they’d been. The rest of their party had started up again and they’d not even noticed.

  As Rhia’d feared, it was slow and treacherous climbing with the fog so thick that evening, concealing both woods to the left and the drop to the water on the right and seldom allowing a peek farther ahead than a pace or two. All sound was muted as well, except for the howls of the wolves, equally chilling and lonely-sounding in all weathers.