Breaking the Rules (3 page)

Ursula was greeted warmly by everyone as she rode through the village, for there wasn’t a soul in the neighborhood who did not like her. They didn’t
understand
her, but they liked her immensely. As far as they were concerned, she could read every book in the realm if she wanted to.

The roads were peaceful for a while, with only a few carts and a farmer’s pony and trap to be seen. Packhorses drank from a stone trough on the green while their handler sat on the grass, enjoying bread and cider from his leather satchel. Near the village store there was a wagon laden with yarn from Mr. Elcester’s mills in the Stroud valleys, where the rivers and streams ran with blue dye. A shepherd and his dogs were going out to the fields, and women were gossiping on doorsteps. A number of cottage windows were open, and Ursula could hear the clack of looms and the voices of the two-person weaving teams as they produced the superfine blue woolen broadcloth for which the area was justly famous.

It all seemed so timeless, yet this way of life was endangered. Increasingly the weaving was being done at the mills, as well as the fulling and spinning, putting people like the villagers out of work. Her father was one of the few clothiers who had adhered to the old ways, but how long he would be able to continue and still stay in business had been very much in question even before the advent of tricky Mr. Samuel Haine.

Ursula urged Miss Muffet on, taking the Stroud road, which led northwest out of the village. The last building it passed on the right-hand side was the Green Man, which now possessed a rather fearsome new inn sign depicting the face of a horned man peering out of thick green leaves. The inn itself, which like all the other buildings in the village was built of Cotswold stone, was not unlike the vicarage, with three stories, gables, a stone-tiled roof, and ivy on the walls. It faced directly onto the road, with an archway that led through into the cobbled yard at the rear.

Just beyond it was the gate into the field, where a well-trodden path led down into the hidden valley and the woods through which Ursula usually rode to and from the village. But Daniel Pedlar’s warning still rang in her ears. She would tell her father about it, for if there was something or someone in the woods, he, as the landowner, should be kept informed.

She would have ridden past the inn, except that a glance through the arch revealed her father’s chestnut hunter, Lysander, tethered to the rail by the back doorway. Her father had been to the town of Dursley on business, and she guessed he was making his overdue courtesy call upon the new landlord. Perhaps it would be as good a time as any for her to do the same, she thought, and turned Miss Muffet into the yard as well.

A stagecoach had not long departed, and the next was not expected for another ten minutes, so there wasn’t any bustle at all as she maneuvered the mare next to Lysander. Almost immediately she heard her father’s clear tones emanating from the open window of the taproom. “So you mean to stay on now, eh, Taynton?”

“That I do, sir.”

“Excellent. It’s clear you’ve already made the old place exceedingly profitable.”

“Not quite sufficiently, sir. Come May Day it will be accomplished.” The landlord was oddly well spoken, Ursula noted in surprise. Certainly he sounded like an educated man. She dismounted, keeping out of sight of the window, for she meant to eavesdrop awhile to see if she could gain the measure of the man who had lured Vera Pedlar from the straight and narrow.

Her father was replying, “May Day, eh? A time of celebration, but doubly so for an innkeeper.”

“Indeed it is, sir. The most important day of our year.”

“How do you mean to celebrate?”

“Well, there will not be any stagecoach races actually starting or ending here in Elcester, but several will pass through, which is always an exciting spectacle. The Green Man will have decorations, music, dancing, and the prettiest serving girls I can find to serve free drinks and food. I shall commence from the very stroke of twelve the previous night.”

“Ah, Beltane.”

“Indeed, so, sir, but to me it’s just the start of the best time of all.”

Mr. Elcester laughed. “What with the Green Man’s considerable contribution, the annual fair, the maypole, and all the usual local festivities, I vow this will be a May Day to remember.”

“It will indeed, sir, it will indeed,” murmured the innkeeper.

“How long have you been here in Elcester now?”

“Since Imbolc, sir.”

Mr. Elcester was startled. “Imbolc?” he repeated.

“February the first, sir.”

“Ah, yes.”

The innkeeper smiled. “I’m, er, told you are interested in the Roman period, Mr. Elcester,” the innkeeper said then.

“Er, yes, I am very interested indeed. Why do you mention it?”

“My father was an antiquarian with a similar interest, which I have inherited. And if you think me impertinent for saying so, sir,” Taynton continued, “I feel that you and my father would have formed a friendship, for he too was of gentle birth, although without fortune, I fear.”

“Ah.” Mr. Elcester’s sympathy was almost tangible. He cleared his throat. “As a fellow antiquarian he’d certainly have appreciated this part of the country, which is so rich in sites of archeological interest.”

“And treasures like the stolen chalice.”

“Eh?”

“The chalice, sir. I was able to examine it before it was taken, and I could see that it was much older than the Reverend Arrowsmith said.”

Mr. Elcester chuckled. “Oh, yes,
much
older, and much less holy than he believes as well!”

The innkeeper laughed. “That’s what I concluded too. Still, what the good reverend does not know cannot harm him.”

“Very true. Actually, I wasn’t referring to things like the chalice, but ancient landmarks in the neighborhood. There’s Uley Bury, an Iron Age promontory hill fort on the way to Dursley, and the chambered long barrow just off the Stroud road. Actually, when I rode past the latter this morning, I checked to see that all was well, and would you believe it? Some brainless scoundrels have ransacked it recently for no good reason. Oh, it grieves me greatly to think of it. What with that, the yew tree, and the stolen goblet, I fear Elcester has become a lawless place.”

Ursula pursed her lips, for her father was now the third person to say it in the last hour.

The landlord gave a sigh. “It is the times we live in, sir.”

“You are right, sir, you are right. However, to return to matters antiquarian. This area must have been of considerable strategic importance to the Romans, for its very name has the suffix ‘cester’, implies a fort or camp. I have always contended that the Roman occupation hereabouts commenced with a stronghold on the outlier of Carmartin Hill. Then when times were more settled, those of high rank built fine villas here in the nearby hills.”

“I’m sure you are correct, sir,” Taynton murmured.

Ursula was intrigued, for it was almost as if the innkeeper
knew
her father was right.

Mr. Elcester went on. “My theory would be given some weight if only I could discover some villa remains. I am certain there would have been one in our valley behind the inn. There is an ample spring line there, and the scenery is beautiful—two very good reasons for a noble Roman to choose the spot. Maybe even the
Dux Britanniarum
himself, who knows?”

Ursula smiled, for her father dearly wished the villa of the most important Roman in Britain could be found on his land.

“I mean to start the search again soon,” Mr. Elcester said. “Perhaps you would care to join me?”

“I would like that very much, sir,” the landlord replied.

“I’ll be sure to send you word. My, it will be most agreeable to have a fellow soul with me.” Mr. Elcester paused, before returning to a previous topic. “I can’t help thinking about what you said about being in handsome profit by May Day. Knowing what I do of old Cartwright’s business here, your success seems little short of miraculous to me.”

“Well, sir, Cartwright only had to seek the trade as I have done, but he didn’t bother. Turnover is excellent. I expect the Cheltenham
Flying Machine
stagecoach in a few minutes—it passes through both ways several times daily, as do the
Age
and the
Meteor.
The by-mails now frequent the inn as well, to say nothing of all the locals and market traffic. It’s lucrative, especially to a man who knows how to part people from their money.”

Mr. Elcester gave a bark of wry laughter. “Oh, I know all about being parted from money!”

By now Ursula had decided that Daniel Pedlar was right about Bellamy Taynton, who seemed to have an answer for everything, and was too smooth by far. It was time to meet him face-to-face. She turned to the inn entrance, which was like that of a church porch, and entered the low passageway beyond.

For a moment Ursula found it hard to see after the brilliant sunshine outside, but then her eyes grew accustomed to the shadows of the long, wainscotted hall. The floor of uneven stone flags was scattered with sawdust, and the dark oak walls were lined with coat hooks and smoke-stained sporting prints. An old long-case clock ticked slowly beside a narrow table, on which stood bowls of water, soap, and clean towels in readiness for the passengers of the Cheltenham
Flying Machine
stagecoach. There was a mixture of smells, ale and strong coffee, the dried herbs suspended from a beam, and the roast beef that was ready and waiting in the kitchens.

The door to the main dining room, which was empty at present, opened to the left, and that of the taproom to the right. At the end of the hall was the staircase to the upper floors and cellars, and beside it the narrower passage leading to the kitchens, private accommodation, and other offices. The voices of her father and the innkeeper were suddenly much louder now she was inside. They still did not realize she was there, so she went softly to the door, and peeped inside. The two men were out of sight, but she could see much of the room.

It was used as much as the dining room for serving meals, so there were a number of round, white-clothed tables. A huge dresser laden with pewter and blue-and-white crockery stood against the wall next to the chintz-curtained window through which she had eavesdropped, and in a mirror she could see the cavernous, soot-darkened inglenook where a fire flickered.

Gleaming copper pots and pans reflected the leaping flames, and a large kettle sang softly on a trivet. There were settles and Windsor chairs, as well as benches and stools, and a long trestle on which stood bread, cold meats, jars of pickles, a pat of butter, and a Double Gloucester cheese. Behind the trestle was a row of tapped barrels containing the expected selection of beer, ale, mead, perry, and cider.

Vera Pedlar was laying out cutlery on one of the tables. She was as buxom and pretty as ever, her rounded figure neat in a beige linen dress and starched white apron. Her brown hair was pinned up beneath a neat mobcap, and her cheeks had that country bloom that always looked so healthy. Her soft brown eyes were downcast as she went about her work, and she looked the same as always, although Ursula had expected otherwise.

Then another movement caught Ursula’s attention, and to her dismay she saw a squirrel in a metal cage; not an ordinary red squirrel, but an  almost completely white one that gazed directly at her as it clung forlornly to the side of the cage. Only its head was the usual russet red, and even its eyes were unusual—they were a vivid green, almost like emeralds. She hated to see such a beautiful wild creature caged in such a way. Where had it come from? Was it one of the ‘plague of squirrels’? If Daniel Pedlar saw it, no doubt he would say it was a fairy squirrel, for he was convinced all white animals belonged to the little people.

Her father suddenly realized she was there. “Why, Ursula, m’dear, what a pleasant surprise to see you here. Why on earth are you lurking at the door? Come on in.”

Feeling a little embarrassed to have been perceived before she was quite ready to make her presence known, Ursula went in. “Hello, Father,” she said, but her gaze was upon his companion.

Bellamy Taynton was in his early thirties, tall and well made, with patrician features that might have seemed more appropriate at Almack’s than at a country inn. His eyes were a very pale blue, his flaxen hair was combed back from his face, and he wore a faded indigo coat, fawn breeches, and top boots. Such attire was plain enough, but in his neckcloth there was a gold pin such as any London lord would be pleased to wear, and on his lapel was pinned a handsome nosegay of woodland flowers, bluebells, wood anemones, and violets. There was a half-smile upon his lips, and his eyes bore a bland expression that made him a closed book. Everything about him made her want to shiver.

Mr. Elcester came to kiss his daughter’s cheek. He was unlike Taynton in almost every respect, shorter and broader, with hair that was now little more than a gray monastic tonsure. His pine green riding jacket had flat brass buttons and a velvet collar, and his cream corduroy breeches were of very fine quality. He wore a mustard-colored waistcoat, and his neckcloth also sported a gold pin, but it was more modest than the innkeeper’s. His bushy-browed face was amiable, but his tired hazel eyes showed the strain of the past months. “How is Mrs. Arrowsmith?” he inquired.

“Very well, and the babies are the bonniest I have ever seen.”

“With such saintly parents, they are most likely cherubs.” Mr. Elcester chuckled.

“Mrs. Arrowsmith thinks so.”

“No doubt.”

Ursula smiled across the room at Vera. “Hello, Vera.”

The young woman bobbed a quick curtsy. “Miss Ursula.” Her voice was low and clear, and because of her well-bred mother, far more well-spoken than her father’s.

Mr. Elcester hastened to do the honors between his daughter and the innkeeper. “M’dear, allow me to present Mr. Bellamy Taynton. Taynton, this is my daughter, Ursula.”

The innkeeper bowed courteously. “Miss Elcester.”

“Sir,” she replied bluntly, fixing him with a glare that was disapproving because of both Vera and the squirrel.