Breaking the Rules (10 page)

“Good evening, sirs.”

“Good evening,” Theo replied, bridling in readiness for more awkwardness.

“May I inquire which of you gentlemen owns the wolfhound?”

“I do,” said Theo.

“May I know your name, sir?”

“You may. I am the Honorable Theodore Greatorex, and my uncle is Lord Carmartin of Carmartin Park,” Theo supplied impressively. Throwing in his uncle’s name always added clout.

Taynton gazed at him without a flicker. “Welcome to the Green Man, Mr. Greatorex.”

“I trust my wolfhound is welcome too?”

“Oh, yes, indeed, sir,” Taynton replied, although Bran had begun to growl deep in his throat, and Theo was obliged to put a warning hand on his collar. The wolfhound clearly did not like the landlord at all.

Conan had been surprised to discover that the landlord of such a hostelry was slightly younger than himself, for it was more usual for older men to take on such ventures. There was also something disturbingly familiar about him, although Conan was sure they hadn’t met before. Still, that was of no consequence; it was accommodation and food that mattered now. “I trust you have rooms for us for the night?”

“We do indeed, sir. Only the very best.”

“And dinner?”

“Naturally.”

“Good. Our carriage is in the yard. If you could accommodate our coachman as well, I’d be much obliged.” Conan gave him a bland smile.

Taynton turned and snapped his fingers at Vera. “The two best rooms at the back for these gentlemen,” he ordered.

“But, sir, I have dinner orders for the
Arrow
to attend to.”

“Do as your master tells you!”

“Yes, sir.” She flinched, and hurried out.

Conan was a little surprised at the antiquated terminology. Master? The fellow sounded positively medieval!

Conan was struck anew by the feeling they’d met somewhere before. ‘Are we acquainted, sir?” he asked.

“I think not, sir. If I could perhaps know your name ...  ?”

“Sir Conan Merrydown, and my friend here is Theodore Greatorex.”

Taynton went suddenly very pale. “No! You can’t have come here! Not at this eleventh hour!” he gasped.

Conan looked askance at him. “I beg your pardon?”

The innkeeper stared at them both, so shaken by something that for a moment he seemed almost faint. Then he collected himself. “On reflection, sir, I think maybe the accommodation here may not be to the standard you require.”

Conan looked at him in astonishment. Why the change of heart? “I’m sure it will do very well,” he replied.

“Possibly, sir, but—

Conan interrupted by speaking to Theo. “I rather get the impression Mr. Taynton disapproves of us, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Theo replied. Bran growled again, baring his teeth at the landlord, whose eyes slid to Theo, then to Bran, then back to Conan.

“This is far too modest a house for you, sirs,” he said then.

“Modest? It’s very prosperous and comfortable, and my friend and I are of a mind to stay. Now, you have rooms, and you have already informed us that dinner will not be a problem, so let us leave it at that, hmm? Before I get a little annoyed,”

Taynton backed down. “As you wish, sir,” he murmured, and walked away, his face still quite ashen.

Theo gaped after him. “What in heaven’s name is the matter with them all here? Have we sprouted tails and cloven hooves? I hope not all the inhabitants of Elcester are like this, otherwise saints preserve me from Ursula Elcester!”

Five minutes later, Vera came to take their order for the meal—a choice of boiled round of beef, roast loin of Gloucester Old Spot pig, boiled hand of ham, and roast goose. They chose the roast pork, which she promised had excellent crisp crackling. With it there would be spring greens and boiled potatoes, and afterward they would have Double Gloucester cheese and savory biscuits. It would all be washed down with a jug of the inn’s own mead, which Vera vowed was very cold, dry, and sparkling.

Conan smiled up at her. “You must bring three meals, of course.”

“Three?”

He indicated Bran. “He eats as much as we do, but never fear he’ll be up at the table alongside us, for he’s content with the floor.”

She managed a smile. “Very well, sir.”

Conan noticed she kept well away from the wolfhound. She was not nervous of dogs, just of this particular dog. “What is your name?” he asked her.

“Vera Pedlar, sir.”

“Tell me, Vera, does the landlord always behave in such a tyrannical way?”

“Tyrannical, sir?”

“Does he always remind you that he is your master?”

“Oh, yes, sir. Because that is what he is.”

“I see. Another thing, to whom does the white squirrel belong?”

“Belong, sir?”

“Yes.”

Vera gave him a reluctant look. “The master brought it here with him when he took over at Iamb— I mean, at the beginning of February.” Vera corrected herself awkwardly.

“He has only been here that short a time?”

She smiled. “He has indeed, sir, and a poor place it was before then. He has made it into the best inn in all Gloucestershire.”

“In two months or so?” Conan raised a doubting eyebrow.

“The master can do anything he wishes, sir.” Vera bobbed a curtsy, and hastened away to the kitchens.

Conan pursed his lips. “Well, Theo, my friend, I think this is a very odd, extremely fascinating place, I believe I could sit here with a good bottle of wine and observe for hours.”

“Each to his own.”

“For instance, there is a woman hiding behind that curtain at the far end of the tapped barrels.”

“Eh?”

Conan nodded toward the curtain. “I can just see the hem of her cloak. Clearly she is not a lady of fashion, for it’s quite a drab old garment. She’s been lurking there ever since we arrived.”

Theo stretched his neck to see. “A thief, do you think?”

“Maybe. I reserve judgment.”

Their dinner was brought, and they all three ate it with relish, especially Bran, whose floor-manners were not of a high standard. Theo was just reaching for his pewter tankard when he heard a whisper in his ear.
“Eleanor.”
He paused and glanced at Conan, who continued eating without seeming to have heard anything. Theo sipped the mead, trying to control the trembling of his hand.
“Eleanor.”
He put the tankard down with a bang.

Conan looked curiously at him. “Is something wrong?”

“Er, no. I’m just tired, that’s all.” Theo dabbed his lips with his napkin. He felt he must be going mad. What other explanation was there?

“We’ll sleep well, I fancy.”

“Yes.” Theo’s appetite had dwindled to nothing. He was definitely hearing voices. But then, no doubt the inmates of Bedlam thought the same thing!

Bran gulped the last of his food, licked the platter and then sat meekly by Theo’s chair, his eyes fixed upon the unfinished meals on the table. Maybe some more would come his way? His tongue passed around his mouth and he shuffled closer. Theo took no notice. The wolfhound glanced slyly around, and then stretched over to gobble what was left. Theo didn’t care, and Conan was still intent upon the lurking lady behind the curtain.

In a moment Theo’s plate was empty, and when this sin brought no retribution, Bran’s glance slid pensively around the rest of the room. There were other unfinished meals, admittedly some of them still being consumed, but nevertheless— What was a healthy hound supposed to do? Leave it to waste? Of course not. Getting up, he sauntered to the next table and blatantly stole a slice of ham. The owner of the meal, a fat wine merchant out of Bristol who was about to spear the very same morsel with his fork, was incensed and began to make a great noise. Taynton came running, and in a moment Theo was being respectfully but firmly requested to remove Bran the Blessed, Son of Llyr, to the stables.

This time Theo knew Bran did indeed warrant banishment, so without a protest he got up from the table. As he did so, he caught a coat button, which was wrenched off unnoticed. Taynton noticed, however, and swiftly retrieved it. He did not return it to Theo, but slipped it into his own pocket. Bran’s tail had drooped as he sensed he wasn’t everyone’s favorite hound. He couldn’t understand what he’d done wrong, but made no murmur at all as Theo led him out into the yard.

Left alone at the table, Conan was still more interested in the figure behind the curtain. He had now glimpsed the woman’s face, for she had been so bold as to peep around. She did not seem like a thief or pickpocket, but who could tell these days? Her attention was on the squirrel’s cage, and in a flash Conan realized she wished to steal the creature, or at least set it free. Well, he approved of
that!
But Taynton was standing close by, and if she made a single move, he would see her.

“Very well, let’s make sure he’s otherwise engaged,” Conan muttered, and got up to take the now empty jug of mead to the landlord to be refilled. “Some more, if you please,” he requested, and placed the jug down in front of Taynton.

“I trust your meal was to your satisfaction, sir?” Taynton inquired of Conan as he filled the jug.

“Oh, indeed it was. I, er, understand you haven’t been here long ... .” Conan proceeded to engage the man in idle conversation.

Behind the curtain, Ursula was now becoming desperate to act. She had left Miss Muffet tethered secretly in the field behind the inn, and did not know how long she had been hiding like this, just that it was too long. There hadn’t been a real opportunity, for someone had always been close by. Unless a chance presented itself soon, the
Arrow
would depart again, and she would have lost her chance. Her hair was tied with a fresh length of the lilac ribbon, and over her riding habit she wore a shabby old cloak that always hung in the Elcester Manor stables. Its hood was raised to conceal her identity from the casual glance, for it wouldn’t do for anyone to recognize her.

She didn’t realize that Conan was observing her, because she had not really seen him. She had observed two gentlemen arrive with a white wolfhound, but had not taken all that much notice of them because she was too intent upon keeping a watchful eye upon the taproom in general, waiting for an opportune moment.

Ursula peeped warily out again. Taynton was occupied with one of the gentlemen who’d come in with the wolfhound. Still she did not look at Conan’s face. For the first time the significance of the wolfhound’s breed and color struck her. The Emperor Macsen had been hunting with a white wolfhound. No, it was just another of her foolish notions. She glanced around the room again. Vera was scurrying from table to table, as were two other maids. The travelers were all engrossed in their meals, except for the gentleman with Taynton, and
he
was too interested in what the landlord was saying to notice her. As for the landlord, his glance followed Vera’s shapely ankles. So Ursula knew the moment was there at last. She’d decided the cage itself was too awkward to move, and that all she would do was open it and then run, with the squirrel hopefully doing the same. Swallowing, she stepped into full view around the curtain.

Conan watched her from the corner of his eye. “Which rooms have Mr. Greatorex and I been provided with?” he inquired of Taynton.

“As I said, the two best rooms at the back of the house. The second floor, turn right at the top of the stairs, the second and third doors on the left. Your coachman gave us your overnight luggage, and everything is in readiness. Oh, here are your keys.” Taynton slid them across the trestle.

“How long have you been an innkeeper?” Conan went on, determined to keep the man talking for as long as he reasonably could.

As Taynton proceeded to tell him how he had become interested in the business, Ursula darted to the cage, but the handle wouldn’t work! She fumbled with it, and her hood fell back to reveal her silvery hair and large lilac eyes—and the length of ribbon in her hair.

Conan stared at her. The woman in the square! The same woman he’d dreamed of encountering in the woods, and whom his heart told him he loved!

Ursula’s glance suddenly flew to his face as she continued to struggle with the handle. Her eyes widened. The man in the carriage! The gentleman on the path in the woods! At last the cage door opened. The squirrel leapt down and fled beneath the curtain to freedom. Ursula fled too, not stopping for anything until she was in the field, fumbling again as she unlooped Miss Muffet’s reins. She hauled herself awkwardly up onto the saddle and urged the mare away.

Conan rushed from the inn in time to see her mount the white horse and gallop away. Angry to have been eluded, he glared at the field gate through which she had gone. “Damn you, gate, why couldn’t you have stayed closed?” he breathed. To his amazement, the gate swung on its hinges, and clanged shut.

Startled, Conan stared at it, but then shook his head. No, it had been an idle whim of the wind, nothing more, he decided, and went back inside.

* * * *

Things had taken another astonishing turn for Theo as well. He had taken Bran to the stables, where the head groom, who seemed very uneasy indeed about a white wolfhound, showed him an empty stall where Bran could be tied to an iron ring set in the stone wall. The stall was clean, with fresh straw on the floor, but Bran was not at all pleased. Humans confused him. Why was it all right to help one man with his dinner, but not another? He was merely tidying up. Why, when he’d finished, the plates did not even need washing! Yet he’d been banished out here in the cold and dark. He lay down on the straw with a very sorrowful expression, then heaved a huge sigh, and turned his head away from Theo.

Theo glanced around as he waited for the man to bring a bucket of water for Bran to drink. Like everything else at the Green Man, the stables were in tip-top condition, and so were the horses in nearby stalls. Several lanterns hanging from beams cast a good light over most of the stalls, and he could hear the murmur of men through the door that led into an adjacent coach house. There was no laugher or jocularity, just low, earnest conversation. He caught the word “wolfhound”. Just why were they all so concerned about a white hound? Perhaps Conan was right, and it was superstition, although such things seemed very out of place indeed in a thriving coaching inn through which the modern world passed constantly.