Ursula stared at the blacksmith in astonishment. “Bad? Whatever do you mean? I came that way and everything was perfectly all right. Well, except for Miss Muffet playing up, of course.”
“I don’t rightly know what I mean, Miss Hursula, and mayhap this ‘ere mare knows more’n you think. There’s whispers about the woods. Rufus Almore saw sommat there last full moon, and ‘e’ve been in a state ever since. ‘E won’t say what ‘appened, just that it weren’t no place to go no more.”
“But Rufus is the most hardened poacher Elcester ever produced. He’s almost an institution, and my father’s keepers have given up trying to catch him. I can’t imagine him ever being afraid in the woods at night.”
Daniel nodded. “Which just goes to show ‘ow bad ‘e’ve tekken this whatever-it-were. He’s turned no better’n sommat stupid stuck on a stick, and won’t go near the woods now, Miss Hursula, so you’m to promise me as you’ll go back to the manor by the top road.”
“But that’s the long way,” she protested.
“I know, but nevertheless—
“Oh, very well, you have my word.”
“Good. I don’t know what the world is comin’ to, Miss Hursula. What with that there chalice goin’ missing, and the spoilin’ of that beautiful old yew.” He nodded toward the tree, which overhung the lych-gate and the street, casting a dark shadow over his forge. His words were such an echo of Mrs. Arrowsmith’s that Ursula almost smiled, until he added, “And now there’s a plague of darned squirrels too!”
“A what?” She thought of the walnut tree.
“Squirrels! Ent you seen ‘em, Miss Hursula? Why, they’m overrunnin’ the place good an’ proper.”
“Oh, surely not.”
“Well, ‘appen I’m exaggeratin’ a mite, but there’s too many on ‘em, all the same. And on top of all that there’s now sommat queer down in the woods.” He shook his head sadly.
“I’m sure it isn’t quite Armageddon, Daniel,” Ursula said with a smile.
“Mayhap not, ‘ceptin’ at the vicarage, where ‘tis always Harmageddon.” He grinned wryly, for the entire village found Mrs. Arrowsmith a trial. “Not that it meks a great deal of difference to me what goes on there,” he continued, “on account of I’m not a churchgoer anyway.”
“The Pedlars never have been, as I recall,” Ursula observed.
“That’s right, and a few other families in the neighborhood as well. The old ways suit us best, so the seasons and the land are what we look to, not what the fancy Bishop of Gloucester might decide. We marry by the yew, not the altar.”
“What do you mean?” Ursula asked curiously.
He pulled himself up. “Oh, don’t mind me, Miss Hursula, I’m inclined to chunter now and then.”
Chunter was one thing Daniel Pedlar did not do, Ursula thought. ‘Marry by the yew’ was a very strange phrase, and conjured vivid scenes in her mind. She could imagine Robin Hood would have married Maid Marian by the yew, and not in the confines of a church. Silence hung for a moment, and then she changed the subject. “I’ve been wanting to ask you, Daniel. How is Vera these days?” His daughter Vera—actually, Severa, but no one called her that—was the cause of a great deal of scandalous chatter at the moment, and Ursula only felt able to inquire because the blacksmith knew he could count upon her discretion.
His face changed. “I believe ‘er’s well enough, Miss Hursula.”
“So she hasn’t come home yet?”
“Nope, ‘er’ve just upped and thrown ‘er good character out of the window by goin’ to live at the Green Man with that devil Taynton. The world knows as ‘e only wants ‘er on account of ‘er being the finest cook ‘twixt ‘ere and Land’s End. ‘Er’s a foolish little trot as can’t see ‘e’ve no intention of mekkin an honest woman of ‘er! What ‘er poor dear mother would have said, I ‘ardly dare think. ‘Twere bad enough that she married beneath ‘erself with me, then ‘ad to go to all that trouble to mek sure our Vera spoke as proper as she ‘erself did, but to ‘ave seen the foolish girl toss it all away on sommat low like Taynton ... ” Further words failed the blacksmith.
Bellamy Taynton was the new landlord of the former Fleece Inn, which he’d insisted on renaming the Green Man. He was an unusually young man to own an inn, handsome, genial, and generally well liked. Vera had always been a quiet girl, obedient, dutiful, gentle, but no sooner had Taynton arrived than she left home to go to him. It had been the talk of Elcester for weeks now.
Taynton had brought about a great deal of change in Elcester. He’d moved into the old inn the very day the previous landlord left, and had quickly proved that he could run a far better establishment. Elcester’s situation on a crossroad meant that its inn should always have made the most of passing custom, but the old innkeeper, Jem Cartwright, hadn’t bothered much, it was enough for him that he served the locals.
As the Green Man, the inn had swiftly become a prosperous posting house, with excellent stables that were filled with fine horses for the various stagecoaches and by-mails that now used the inn. Carriages, chariots, coach and saddle horses could be hired there, and numerous grooms and ostlers were always to be seen going about their work.
The hostelry had the best ale and mead, and the most potent Severn Vale perry, or sparkling pear juice, for miles around, and—thanks to Vera Pedlar’s renowned culinary skills—its table was simply superb. So all in all Taynton had proved a welcome new resident, and was forgiven his insistence upon the inn’s peculiar new name. Most people—except Mr. Pedlar, of course— had also forgiven him for Vera.
Neither Ursula nor her father had yet met the new landlord, but for Vera’s father’s sake she was predisposed to dislike him. Mr. Pedlar was right, why didn’t the man marry Vera? Why make certain of ruining her reputation by taking her as his mistress?
The blacksmith lowered his eyes. “I tell you, Miss Hursula, that if I ever meets Taynton on a dark night, I won’t be responsible for my actions. ‘E’s so full of ‘isself, so ‘ail-fellow-well-met all the time, but I can see through ‘im. Villainy’s ‘is middle name, you mark my words.”
“Well, perhaps all will be well yet,” Ursula said sympathetically. Oh, how she hoped so, for she had always liked the Pedlars.
“Nothing will be right while Taynton’s in Elcester,” he said quietly. Then he cleared his throat and summoned another smile. “Enough of that, Miss Hursula, for I’ve been told there’s a change comin’ for you as well.”
“Oh?” She could guess what was coming.
“That you might be about to tek your marriage vows. Oh, don’t fear that the world and ‘is wife knows, Miss Hursula, for I can keep my trap shut well enough. I only know it from your father ‘isself. We shares a companionable jug of perry from time to time.”
Ursula looked away. Oh, how she shrank from this proposed match! It wasn’t that she loathed her prospective bridegroom—she hadn’t even met him—it was just that she wanted to stay exactly as she was. A sliver of guilt passed through her, for her opposition was entirely selfish. Six months ago her dearly loved father, hitherto always so doting and indulgent where she was concerned, had suffered a grave financial setback—on November 1st, 1817, to be precise.
On that day a certain Mr. Samuel Haine had baited a very skillful hook, to wit, a South American emerald mine that only needed a little financial investment to become wildly successful. Thomas Elcester had bitten like an obliging fish from the depths of Hazel Pool. Now, in order for Elcester, its manor and weaving industry to remain secure, she was faced with a marriage contract she simply could not decline. This was because, quite out of the blue, Lord Carmartin had offered a very handsome financial settlement if she would marry his recently discovered nephew and heir, the Honorable Theodore Maximilian Greatorex. The settlement would secure Elcester, manor and village in her father’s possession until he died, when it would become her husband’s property. A stay of execution maybe, but far better than the immediate alternative. Lord Carmartin’s well-known ambition was to own or control a swathe of Gloucestershire from Cheltenham in the north to the Duke of Beaufort’s land at Badminton in the south. He was a ruthless man, and his family and the Elcesters had been foes for two centuries, so if he found out about the parlous state of the manor coffers, there was no doubt the handsome financial settlement at present on offer would be substantially reduced.
The blacksmith watched the expressions flitting over her face. “I knows you don’t want a ‘usband, Miss Hursula, but ‘twill be a good thing for the village if that darned feud atween the Elcesters and Carmartins is finished with. And all over fishin’ rights in ‘Azel Pool. ‘Ang me if the bream and tench from there can ever ‘ave been up to much.”
“Maybe because the likes of Rufus Almore poach them before they have a chance to grow,” Ursula pointed out with some accuracy. “Anyway, the quarrel was clearly serious back in sixteen-hundred-and-whatever.”
The calling of a truce would indeed be a good thing, but as far as she was concerned the price was very high indeed. The Honorable Theodore Maximilian Greatorex was the son of Lord Carmartin’s disinherited sister, who had scandalized her family by running off with a young Welsh gentleman of very modest means. His parents were now both dead, and he had spent most of his life abroad in various places, latterly Naples, where he learned by chance of his noble connection and had come to England to see his uncle. Ursula did not doubt he was as resentful of the match as she was, and that he would strongly disapprove of her bluestocking ways. A man who had a bride thrust upon him would wish her to be meek and malleable, and not to have a mind of her own!
Daniel gazed sympathetically at her as he patted Miss Muffet’s flawless white neck. “Well, arranged matches ‘ave always been the way of it where fancy folks are concerned, Miss Hursula,” he said gently.
“Maybe, but right now I’d like to hie me to a nunnery,” she replied with feeling.
He chuckled as he glanced at her silvery hair, lilac eyes, and lissom figure. “I can’t see you as a nun, Miss Hursula. No, by Jove, I can’t!”
She smiled. “Let’s change the subject to something more agreeable. How is the weathercock coming along?”
‘Oh, it’s doin’ nicely, Miss Hursula. I reckon ‘twill be one of the finest I’ve done. Mind, I could ‘ave done with a sensible drawing to work from.”
“I know, but it was the best I could do.”
“Well, I didn’t reckon as ‘ow a Roman eagle would ‘ave bandy legs and a crooked beak, so I’ve smartened ‘im up a bit. ‘Twill look proper ‘andsome on the manor roof.”
“I sincerely hope so.” She had ordered the weathercock for her father’s birthday in a week’s time. He was deeply interested in all things Roman, so she had sifted through his vast collection of books and papers for an illustration of one of the eagle standards carried by the legions. She had found only a second-rate engraving and copied it to the best of her ability—which wasn’t much when it came to drawing.
Daniel patted the mare’s neck. “Will you and Mr. Elcester be attendin’ the May Day junket on the village green, Miss Hursula?”
“Oh, I expect so. I hear the fair is to be especially lavish this year, and there’s the morris dancing, of course,” Ursula added, knowing that Daniel was one of the Elcester morris men. He dressed in a black hooded robe and pranced around with a long staff that was decorated with posies of flowers, fluttering ribbons, and little bells. The morris men of other villages had hobbyhorses or St. George; Elcester had a black monk. At least, in the absence of another identification it was presumed that the figure was a monk.
To her surprise, mentioning the morris dancing did not bring a smile. “Well, I don’t know as ‘ow I’ll be donnin’ my robe this year, Miss Hursula, on account of there bein’ a plan to sup at the Green Man before and after the dancin’. And on account of one or two of the others ‘ave become a mite too pally with Taynton for my likin’.”
“Oh, I am sorry, Daniel.”
“So am I, Miss Hursula, so am I. Well, I suppose I’d better get back to work. You ‘ave my word that the weathercock will be ready in time. Good day to you, Miss Hursula.” He touched his hat and stepped back.
“Good day to you, Daniel,” she replied, and rode away along the village street toward the crossroad.
The blacksmith gazed sadly after her. It was a shame she had to marry into the Carmartins, he thought. Lord Carmartin was a bitter man who had let life’s adversities rule him. He had closed his heart to his sister when she fell in love with a man of whom her family could only disapprove, and for years he had been sunk in anger and disappointment. Then he had become the guardian of a little girl, Eleanor Rhodes, who had brought him to life again. He had no children of his own, so he doted upon her, vowing to leave her everything he had, except the title, of course, for that he couldn’t do as it had to go down the male line of the family. At the beginning of August one year, when she was still a child, she vanished. Not a trace of her was ever discovered, and her disappearance still remained a mystery. Lord Carmartin was at first distraught, but then he hardened against the world again, and that was how he remained to this day.