He felt convinced that Mistress Ivy’s reconstruction was correct — as far as it went. The farmer had been poisoned, though not by osiers. But by what? And what had been the part played by Pugwalker, alias Endymion Leer? It was, of course, gratifying to his vanity that his instinctive identification of the two had been correct. But how tantalizing it would be if this dead man’s tale was to remain but a vague whisper, too low to be heard by the ear of the Law!
On his table was the slipper that Master Ambrose had facetiously suggested might be of use to him. He picked it up, and stared at it absently. Ambrose had said the sight of it had made Endymion Leer jump out of his skin, and that the reason was obvious. And yet those purple strawberries did not look like fairy fruit. Master Nathaniel had recently become but too familiar with the aspect of that fruit not to recognize it instantly, whatever its variety. Though he had never seen berries exactly like these, he was certain that they did not grow in Fairyland.
He walked across to his bookcase and took out a big volume bound in vellum. It was a very ancient illustrated herbal of the plants of Dorimare.
At first he turned its pages somewhat listlessly, as if he did not really expect to find anything of interest. Then suddenly he came on an illustration, underneath which was written THE BERRIES OF MERCIFUL DEATH. He gave a low whistle, and fetching the slipper laid it beside the picture. The painted berries and the embroidered ones were identical.
On the opposite page the berries were described in a style that a literary expert would have recognized as belonging to the Duke Aubrey period. The passage ran thus: —
THE BERRIES OF MERCIFUL DEATH
These berries are wine-colored, and crawl along the ground, and have the leaves of wild strawberries. They ripen during the first quarter of the harvest moon, and are only to be found in certain valleys of the West, and even there they grow but sparsely; and, for the sake of birds and children and other indiscreet lovers of fruit, it is well that such is the case, for they are a deadly and insidious poison, though very tardy in their action, often lying dormant in the blood for many days. Then the poison begins to speak in itchings of the skin, while the tongue, as though in punishment for the lies it may have told, becomes covered with black spots, so that it has the appearance of the shards of a ladybird, and this is the only warning to the victim that his end is approaching. For, if evil things ever partake of the blessed virtues, then we may say that this malign berry is mercifully cruel, in that it spares its victims belchings and retchings and fiery humors and racking colics. And, shortly before his end, he is overtaken by a pleasant drowsiness, yielding to which he falls into a peaceful sleep, which is his last. And now I will give you a receipt, which, if you have no sin upon your conscience, and are at peace with the living and the dead, and have never killed a robin, nor robbed an orphan, nor destroyed the nest of a dream, it may be will prove an antidote to that poison — and may be it will not. This, then, is the receipt: Take one pint of salad oil and put it into a vial glass, but first wash it with rose-water, and marigold flower water, the flowers being gathered towards the West. Wash it till the oil comes white; then put it into the glass, and then put thereto the buds of Peonies, the flowers of Marigold and the flowers and tops of Shepherd’s Thyme. The Thyme must be gathered near the side of a hill where the Fairies are said to dance.
Master Nathaniel laid down the book, and his eyes were more frightened than triumphant. There was something sinister in the silent language in which dead men told their tales — with sly malice embroidering them on old maids’ canvas work, hiding them away in ancient books, written long before they were born; and why were his ears so attuned to this dumb speech?
For him the old herbalist had been describing a murderer, subtle, sinister, mitigating dark deeds with mercy — a murderer, the touch of whose bloody hands was balm to the sick in body, and whose voice could rock haunted minds to sleep. And, as well, in the light of what he already knew, the old herbalist had told a story. A violent, cruel, reckless woman had wished to rid herself of her enemy by the first means that came to her hand — osiers, the sap of which produced an agonizing, cruel death. But her discreet though murderous lover took the osiers from her, and gave her instead the berries of merciful death.
The herbalist had proved beyond the shadow of a doubt that the villain of the story was Endymion Leer.
Yes, but how should he make the dead tell their tale loud enough to reach the ear of the Law?
In any case, he must leave Lud, and that quickly.
Why should he not visit the scene of this old drama, the widow Gibberty’s farm? Perhaps he might there find witnesses who spoke a language understood by all.
The next morning he ordered a horse to be saddled, packed a few necessaries in a knapsack, and then he told Dame Marigold that, for the present, he could not stay in Lud. “As for you,” he said, “you had better move to Polydore’s. For the moment I’m the most unpopular man in town, and it would be just as well that they should think of you as Vigil’s sister rather than as Chanticleer’s wife.”
Dame Marigold’s face was very pale that morning and her eyes were very bright. “Nothing would induce me,” she said in a low voice, “ever again to cross the threshold of Polydore’s house. I shall never forgive him for the way he has treated you. No, I shall stay here — in your house. And,” she added, with a little scornful laugh, “you needn’t be anxious about me. I’ve never yet met a member of the lower classes that was a match for one of ourselves — they fall to heel as readily as a dog. I’m not a bit afraid of the mob, or anything they could do to me.”
Master Nathaniel chuckled. “By the Sun, Moon and Stars!” he cried proudly, “you’re a chip off the old block, Marigold!”
“Well, don’t stay too long away, Nat,” she said, “or else when you come back you’ll find that I’ve gone mad like everybody else, and am dancing as wildly as Mother Tibbs, and singing songs about Duke Aubrey!” and she smiled her charming crooked smile.
Then he went up to say good-bye to old Hempie.
“Well, Hempie,” he cried gaily. “Lud’s getting too hot for me. So I’m off with a knapsack on my back to seek my fortune, like the youngest son in your old stories. Will you wish me luck?”
There were tears in the old woman’s eyes as she looked at him, and then she smiled.
“Why, Master Nat,” she cried, “I don’t believe you’ve felt so light-hearted since you were a boy! But these are strange times when a Chanticleer is chased out of Lud-in-the-Mist! And wouldn’t I just like to give those Vigils and the rest of them a bit of my mind!” and her old eyes flashed. “But don’t you ever get downhearted, Master Nat, and don’t ever forget that there have always been Chanticleers in Lud-in-the-Mist, and that there always will be! But it beats me how you’re to manage with only three pairs of stockings, and no one to mend them.”
“Well, Hempie,” he laughed, “they say the Fairies are wonderfully neat-fingered, and, who knows, perhaps in my wanderings I may fall in with a fairy housewife who will darn my stockings for me,” and he brought out the forbidden word as lightly and easily as if it had been one in daily use.
About an hour after Master Nathaniel had ridden away Luke Hempen arrived at the house, wild-eyed, disheveled, and with very startling news. But it was impossible to communicate it to Master Nathaniel, as he had left without telling anyone his destination.
Chapter XX
Watching the Cows
In the interval between his two letters — the one to Hempie, and the one to Master Nathaniel — Luke decided that his suspicions had been groundless, for the days at the farm were buzzing by with a soothing hum like that of summer insects, and Ranulph was growing gay and sunburned.
Then towards autumn Ranulph had begun to wilt, and finally Luke overheard the strange conversation he had reported in his letter to Master Nathaniel, and once again the farm grew hateful to him, and he followed Ranulph as if he were his shadow and counted the hours for the order to come from Master Nathani
el bidding them return to Lud.
Perhaps you may remember that on his first evening at the farm Ranulph had wanted to join the children who watched the widow’s cows at night, but it had evidently been nothing but a passing whim, for he did not express the wish again.
And then at the end of June — as a matter of fact it was Midsummer day — the widow had asked him if he would not like that night to join the little herdsmen. But towards evening had come a steady downfall of rain, and the plan had fallen through.
It was not alluded to again till the end of October, three or four days before Master Nathaniel left Lud-in-the-Mist. It had been a very mild autumn in the West and the nights were fresh rather than cold, and when, that evening, the little boys came knocking at the door for their bread and cheese, the widow began to jeer at Ranulph, in a hearty jovial way, for being town-bred and never having spent a night under the sky.
“Why don’t you go tonight with the little herdsmen? You wanted to when you first came here, and the Doctor said it would do you no harm.”
Now Luke was feeling particularly downcast that night; no answer had come from Master Nathaniel to his letter, though it was well over a week since he had written. He felt forlorn and abandoned, with a weight of responsibility too heavy for his shoulders, and he was certainly not going to add to that weight by allowing Ranulph to run the risk of catching a bad chill. And as well, any suggestion that came from the widow was greeted by him with suspicion.
“Master Ranulph,” he cried excitedly, “I can’t let you go. His Worship and my old auntie wouldn’t like it, what with the nights getting damp and all. No, Master Ranulph, be a good little chap and go to your bed as usual.”
As he was speaking he caught Hazel’s eye, and she gave him an almost imperceptible nod of approval.
But the widow cried, with a loud scornful laugh, in which Ranulph shrilly joined: “Too damp, indeed! When we haven’t had so much as a drop of rain these four weeks! Don’t let yourself be coddled, Master Ranulph. Young Hempen’s nothing but an old maid in breeches. He’s as bad as my Hazel. I’ve always said that if she doesn’t die an old maid, it isn’t that she wasn’t born one!”
Hazel said nothing, but she fixed her eyes beseechingly on Luke.
But Ranulph, I fear, was a very spoiled little boy, and, into the bargain, he dearly loved annoying Luke; so he jumped up and down, shouting, “Old maid Hempen! Old maid Hempen! I’m going — so there!”
“That’s right, little master!” laughed the widow. “You’ll be a man before I am.”
And the three little herdsmen, who had been watching this scene with shy amusement, grinned from ear to ear.
“Do as you like, then,” said Luke sullenly, “but I’m coming too. And, anyway, you must wrap up as warmly as you can.”
So they went upstairs to put on their boots and mufflers.
When they came down Hazel, with compressed lips and a little frown knitting her brows, gave them their rations of cheese and bread and honey, and then, with a furtive glance in the direction of the widow, who was standing with her back turned, talking to the little herdsmen, she slipped two sprigs of fennel into Luke’s buttonhole. “Try and get Master Ranulph to wear one of them,” she whispered.
This was not reassuring. But how is an undergardener, not yet turned eighteen, to curb the spoiled son of his master — especially when a strong-willed, elderly woman throws her weight into the other scale?
“Well, well,” said the widow, bustling up, “it’s high time you were off. You have a full three miles walk before you.”
“Yes, yes, let’s be off!” cried Ranulph excitedly; Luke felt it would be useless to protest further, so the little cavalcade dived into the moonlit night.
The world was looking very beautiful. At one end of the scale of darkness stood the pines, like rich black shadows; at the other end of the scale were the farm buildings, like white glimmering human masks. And in between these two extremes were all the various degrees of greyness — the shimmer of the Dapple that was more white than grey, and all the different trees — plane trees, liege-oaks, olives — and one could almost recognize their foliage by their lesser or greater degree of density.
On they trudged in silence, up the course of the Dapple — Luke too anxious and aggrieved to talk, Ranulph buried too deep in dreams, and the little herdsmen far too shy.
There were nothing but rough cattle paths in the valley — heavy enough going by day, and doubly so by night, and before they had yet gone half the way Ranulph’s feet began to lag.
“Would you like to rest a bit and then go back?” said Luke eagerly.
But Ranulph shook his head scornfully and mended his pace.
Nor did he allow himself to lag again till they reached their destination — a little oasis of rich pasturage, already on rising ground though still a mile or two away from the hills.
Once here — in their own kingdom, as it were — the little herdsmen became lively and natural; laughing and chatting with Ranulph, as they set about repairing such breaches as had been made in the huts by the rough and tumble of twelve odd hours. Then there was wood to be collected, and a fire to be lit — and into these tasks Ranulph threw himself with a gay, though rather feverish, vigor.
At last they settled down to their long watch — squatting round the fire, and laughing for sheer love of adventure as good campaigners should; for were there not marching towards them some eight dark hours equipped with who could say what curious weapons from the rich arsenal of night and day?
The cattle crouched round them in soft shadowy clumps, placidly munching, and dreaming with wide-open eyes. The narrow zone of color created by the firelight was like the planet Earth — a little freak of brightness in a universe of impenetrable shadows.
Suddenly Luke noticed that each of the three little herdsmen was, like himself, wearing a sprig of fennel.
“I say! why are all you little chaps wearing fennel?” he blurted out.
They stared at him in amazement.
“But you be wearing a bit yourself, Master Hempen,” said Toby, the eldest.
“I know” — and he could not resist adding in an offhand tone — “it was a present from a young lady. But do you always wear a bit in these parts?” he added.
“Always on this night of the year,” said the children. And as Luke looked puzzled, Toby cried in surprise, “Don’t you wear fennel in Lud on the last night of October?”
“No, we don’t,” answered Luke, a little crossly, “and why should we, I should like to know?”
“Why,” cried Toby in a shocked voice, “because this is the night when the Silent People — the dead, you know — come back to Dorimare.”
Ranulph looked up quickly. But Luke scowled; he was sick to death of western superstitions, and into the bargain he was feeling frightened. He removed the second sprig of fennel given him by Hazel from his buttonhole, and holding it out to Ranulph, said, “Here, Master Ranulph! Stick that in your hatband or somewhere.”
But Ranulph shook his head. “I don’t want any fennel, thank you, Luke,” he said. “I’m not frightened.”
The children gazed at him in half-shocked admiration, and Luke sighed gloomily.
“Not frightened of … the Silent People?” queried Toby.
“No,” answered Ranulph curtly. And then he added, “At least not tonight.”
“I’ll wager the widow Gibberty, at any rate, isn’t wearing any fennel,” said Luke, with a harsh laugh.
The children exchanged queer little glances and began to snigger. This aroused Luke’s curiosity: “Now then, out with it, youngsters! Why doesn’t the widow Gibberty wear fennel?”
But their only answer was to nudge each other, and snigger behind their fingers.
This put Luke on his mettle. “Look here, you bantams,” he cried, “don’t you forget that you’ve got the High Seneschal’s son here, and if you know anything about the widow that’s … well, that’s a bit fishy, it’s your duty to let me know. If you don
’t, you may find yourselves in gaol some day. So you just spit it out!” and he glared at them as fiercely as his kindly china-blue eyes would allow.
They began to look scared. “But the widow doesn’t know we’ve seen anything … and if she found out, and that we’d been blabbing, oh my! wouldn’t we catch it!” cried Toby, and his eyes grew round with terror at the mere thought.
“No, you won’t catch it. I’ll give you my word,” said Luke. “And if you’ve really anything worth telling, the Seneschal will be very grateful, and each of you may find yourselves with more money in your pockets than your three fathers put together have ever had in all their lives. And, anyhow, to begin with, if you’ll tell me what you know, you can toss up for this knife, and there’s not a finer one to be found in all Lud,” and he waved before their dazzled eyes his greatest treasure, a magnificent six-bladed knife, given him one Yule-tide by Master Nathaniel, with whom he had always been a favorite. At the sight of this marvel of cutlery, the little boys proved venal, and in voices scarcely above a whisper and with frequent frightened glances over their shoulders, as if the widow might be lurking in the shadows listening to them, they told their story.
One night, just before dawn, a cow called Cornflower, from the unusually blue color of her hide, who had recently been added to the herd, suddenly grew restless and began to moo, the strange moo of blue cows that was like the cooing of doves, and then rose to her feet and trotted away into the darkness. Now Cornflower was a very valuable cow and the widow had given them special injunctions to look after her, so Toby, leaving the other two to mind the rest of the herd, dashed after her into the thinning darkness and though she had got a good start of him was able to keep in her track by the tinkling of her bell. Finally he came on her standing at the brink of the Dapple and nozzling the water. He went close up to her and found that she had got her teeth into something beneath the surface of the stream and was tearing at it in intense excitement. Just then who should drive up in a cart but the widow and Doctor Endymion Leer. They appeared much annoyed at finding Toby, but they helped him get Cornflower away from the water. Bits of straw were hanging from her mouth and it was stained with juices of a color he had never seen before. The widow then told him to go back to his companions, and said she would herself take Cornflower back to the herd in the morning. And, to account for her sudden appearance on the scene, she said she had come with the doctor to try and catch a very rare fish that only rose to the surface an hour before sunrise. “But you see,” went on Toby, “my dad’s a great fisherman, and often takes me out with him, but he never told me about this fish in the Dapple that can only be caught before sunrise, and I thought I’d just like to have a peep at it. So instead of going back to the others right away, I hid, I did, behind some trees. And they took some nets, they did, out of the cart, but it wasn’t fish they drew up in them … no it wasn’t.” He was suddenly seized with embarrassment, and he and his two little friends again began to snigger.