“Less than a day’s journey.”
“And tonight?”
“We must sleep in the woods.”
Hugo did not light a fire as it might attract unwelcome attention. He chose a rocky outcrop that afforded some shelter, tethered the horses amongst the trees and suggested my lady wrap herself in her cloak and try to sleep beneath the slight overhang of stone.
“And you, sir, will you not rest?”
“Presently.” He sat in front of her, looking out over the hill, so that she could see only his broad back.
“Sir, what—what would have become of me, if you had not come to my aid?”
“They would have used you for their pleasure, then sold you in the slave market.”
She shuddered. “You say it so coldly.”
“It is the truth.”
He felt a small hand clutching his sleeve.
“Then pray do not leave me. If we are attacked again, I would rather end my life on your sword than be a slave.”
He put his own hand over hers. “Pray God it will not come to that. I will remain with you, madam, until I can deliver you to your husband.”
Chapter Fifteen
“Right, eleven robes and headdresses for the Philistines, seventeen assorted angel costumes for Jacob’s Ladder, we still need a pair of sandals for David—and Goliath has shot up another four inches and needs his costume altered!” Miss Babbacombe was going through her list of costumes.
Anne grinned at Deborah. “I’ll let down Goliath’s trousers if you want to start unpicking the sleeves.”
Deborah nodded. “Okay.”
“Good. Thanks, ladies. I’ll go and have a word with the Mothers’ Union. I still don’t know if they’ve dressed Moses.” Miss Babbacombe wandered off, frowning over her notepad, leaving Anne and Deborah to their sewing.
“Did you enjoy the dance on Friday, Debs?”
“Mmm. It was better than I expected. How about you, did you have to spend all your time in the kitchen?”
“No, no, I was only helping out for a while.” Anne gave a little smile. “I enjoyed it.”
“Who was the guy who came looking for you, fair hair and glasses?”
“Professor Duggan. He’s the don from the university who wants me to retract all the stuff in the paper about St. John’s being a Templar church.”
“And will you?”
“Not on your life! I just wish I could find a bit more evidence. There’s no records, you see, no written evidence. But I’m sure it’s there, I’m just missing something.”
She looked up as Miss Babbacombe returned, still pondering her lists.
“We’ve forgotten Samson.”
“Oh? I would have thought that would be easy, just a loincloth.” Anne’s eyes twinkled.
“No, no. Loose breeches and perhaps a tunic if the weather is inclement.”
“Oh. What a waste of a lovely body.”
“Sorry, Anne, what did you say?”
Anne grinned, but shook her head.
“Nothing, Clara. But surely we can’t have forgotten him. I remember we made a list of costumes right at the beginning, and ticked them off as we went.”
“Yes. That’s the trouble. We did make a costume, but it was for Eric Monkwater—I measured him up before he went off on that disastrous ballooning trip.”
“Oh, dear. And he’s a lot shorter than Josh, isn’t he? Well, we’re getting very short of time now.” She tapped her teeth pensively, then shot a glance at Deborah. “I don’t suppose you’d go up to the Towers tomorrow morning? You could get Josh’s measurements and drop them in to me? I can have the costume cut and sewn by Friday’s rehearsal.”
“Excellent idea, Anne,” Miss Babbacombe agreed. “If you could do that for us, Deborah my dear, that’s one more job I can cross off my list.”
In the face of such gratitude Deborah couldn’t refuse, and the next morning saw her cycling along the Oxford Road, notepad and tape measure in her pocket.
The Towers Hotel was situated on the western edge of the village. It had been built over a century earlier as a gentleman’s country residence, and the Victorian Gothic turrets and gables were just visible over the tops of the surrounding trees. As a child Deborah had not been able to decide whether it was the home of a wicked giant or a fairy princess. Certainly as she cycled up the tree-lined drive in the warm morning sun, the house seemed to welcome her.
The receptionist greeted her with a bright, professional smile. After their last meeting, Deborah wondered if Josh would be as happy to see her. “Josh? He won’t have started work yet. You might find him in the garret—his flat in the old stables at the back of the house.”
The garret was easy to find. A flight of wooden steps led up the side of the stable block to a green-painted porch. Deborah hesitated and glanced at her watch. Ten-fifteen. What if he was asleep? What if he was in bed with Demelza?
“Oh, don’t be so stupid,” she told herself crossly. “You’ve a job to do. And what is it to you, anyway?”
She knocked gingerly and was about to retreat when she heard movement behind the door; it opened and Josh appeared, wearing only his jeans, his black hair tousled.
“Oh.” She felt herself blushing. “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get you out of bed. M-Miss Babbacombe forgot to get your measurements, for the pageant…”
He yawned. “Oh, yeah. Come in.”
She following him inside but stopped by the porch door and didn’t close it. “Just here will do. I have a tape measure.”
He obediently stood while she measured his arm, then from the nape of his neck to the waist and from his waist to the floor.
“I, um—need a chest measurement.”
He raised his arms obligingly. “Good job I’m not wearing a shirt then.” His dark eyes glinted at her as she reached around him, their faces just inches apart. “Much more accurate in the flesh, so to speak.”
Deborah tried to concentrate on her task, writing the figures in her notebook. When she finished, she closed the book and took a deep breath, screwing up her courage.
“Josh, I’m sorry—what I said the other night—”
“Forget it.”
“I was angry, but you went off before I could—”
“Yeah, well your fella was there. I take it that’s who he was, the guy waiting for you at the restaurant?”
“Bernard? Yes. That is, he’s not—” Deborah broke off, not knowing how to explain about Bernard. “Anyway, that’s not important. I just wanted you to know that I didn’t mean what I said.” She risked looking at him. “Are—are we still friends?”
He lifted his hand and stroked her cheek. “Of course we are.” His fingers moved round to the back of her neck, she felt a gentle pressure as he drew her towards him. Her courage vanished. Panicking, she pulled away and stepped to one side, trying to sound businesslike.
“Right. Good. That’s it, then. I’ll be off.”
Josh grinned. “Haven’t you missed one measurement?”
“Pardon?”
“What about my inside leg?”
The twinkle in his eye belied his innocent tone. Deborah pushed the tape firmly into her pocket. “We don’t need that. The leggings are very baggy.”
“Well, now you’ve woken me up, won’t you at least stop for a coffee?”
“What about Demelza?”
“Oh, she’s still asleep. Why don’t you come and meet her?”
That was too much for Deborah. With a strangled “Goodbye,” she hurried out the door and down the steps.
What a wimp you are, Deborah Kemerton! She peddled furiously down the drive. This wasn’t the Middle Ages; she shouldn’t feel shy at entering a man’s home and catching him half-dressed. Kylie Tring would not have turned and run. She would have joked with him, probably stopped for that coffee.
She slowed to negotiate the turn onto the main road. She was twenty-three, had lived in London and yet she felt so much less worldly-wise than a girl several years her junior w
ho had never left Moreton.
“What you need,” she told herself grimly, “is a good dose of confidence.”
Unfortunately, Deborah knew that was not something one could pick up at the local chemist.
Anne leaned back on the sun-lounger and stretched luxuriously. Her first free Sunday for weeks. She’d forgotten how hard it was to work full-time, and she was relishing the thought of a few hours in the garden. Her peace was short-lived—with a sigh she went indoors to answer the insistent summons of the telephone.
“Mrs. Lindsay? Toby Duggan…from the university.”
“Oh—hello.”
“I—er—I wanted to apologise for Friday—for interrupting your evening.”
“You already did that, Professor.”
“Did I? Oh. Well…I was studying a few more papers today, concerning the history of Moreton-by-Fleetwater.”
She smiled to herself. “I thought this was merely a sideline of yours. You seem to be putting in an awful lot of work on it.”
“My concern is to prevent you from making a grave error, Mrs. Lindsay.”
“Okay. You are right, of course. So tell me what you’ve dug up now.”
“Well, there’s mention of the area in the 1166 records, when the whole of Moreton was owned by…Look, this would be a lot easier to discuss face-to-face…”
Anne pulled into the car park of the Plough Inn at exactly eight o’clock. She wondered why she’d allowed herself to be persuaded to meet Toby Duggan when she’d intended to spend the evening tidying her garden until dusk and getting an early night. She hadn’t changed out of her jeans, but had pulled on a soft cream sweater over her T-shirt, now that the day was losing its heat.
Her face was hot, still glowing from the sun, as she entered the inn. It wasn’t crowded, since most of the Sunday evening customers preferred to be outside, making the most of the fine weather. The professor was sitting alone at a small table. She was unaccountably warmed by his welcoming smile as he rose and joined her at the bar. She noted the blue jeans, the dark sweatshirt. He looked more sportsman than scholar.
“What are you having?”
“No—it’s all right, I’ll get it—”
“But I insist.”
“Oh, just a large fruit juice, then, thanks.”
He handed her the drink and led the way back to the table, where his own pint glass was waiting beside a large notepad. He hesitated as he was about to sit down. “Have you eaten?”
“Yes.”
“Oh. Right, well then.” He grinned. “Sorry, not really used to this sort of social meeting.”
She hid her smile, determined not to make it any easier for him. She said pointedly, “But this is not a social meeting, Professor.”
“No, no. Well then, let’s get down to business. First of all, let’s establish what you already know about Moreton.”
Anne put down her glass. “The present-day village can be traced back to the fifteenth century and is built within a loop of the Fleetwater. There was some sort of manor house to the south of the river, with a small settlement and its own church—there’s an ancient yew tree growing there and we think that’s the site of the old church.”
“Well, we know that yew trees are often associated with churches.”
“Exactly.” Anne nodded. “The whole area was abandoned during the Black Death, and a lot of the stone was used for later buildings. St. John’s stands on a natural rise just west of the present village, across the river. Its first mention in the parish records is in 1311. Earlier information is a bit sketchy, but it may have been in existence long before that.”
“This is what I’ve turned up.” Professor Duggan opened the notepad, frowning over the densely packed lines of black writing. “In 1166 Henry the Second ordered an account of all knights’ fees, and there’s a mention of a John of Moreton owning much of the land in this area, including the manor house at Moreton. He was succeeded by his son, Andrew. Now, in 1185, we have a survey of all Templar land in the country. Moreton-by-Fleetwater is not mentioned.”
“I never said it was Templar land, only that the church was built by a Templar. What you’ve told me doesn’t conflict with our theory that Hugh of Moreton built the church, since the stone in the church says he died in 1325.”
“Excuse me—you said our theory?”
“The Pageant Committee. The Lady Chapel, which contains Hugh’s effigy and memorial stone, is the oldest part of the church. In the County Library there’s a copy of a document dating from the sixteenth century, stating that the church was built by Hugh of Moreton for private family worship and that he’s buried there.”
“And is there any information to say that Hugh of Moreton was a Templar?”
“No, but—”
“Then you still have no evidence.”
“What about the effigy itself? The feet are crossed, a sign of Templar burials.”
“One of the signs, but not decisive proof. And you seem to discount the fact that the Order was dissolved in 1312. From the end of the thirteenth century the knights were persecuted. Some were tortured, many were executed. That was mainly in France, I admit. In England most of the Templars just disappeared, but even so, hardly a good time to be building so visible a declaration of one’s loyalty.”
Anne bit her lip. How calmly he refuted her arguments. She noticed he was watching her and she gave a reluctant laugh.
“Okay. I admit I’m cross that I can’t convince you. But I haven’t finished yet.”
“No, I’m sure you haven’t. Perhaps I should come and have another look at your church, if I may?” Observing her sudden frown, he sighed. “My good woman, there’s no need to look so suspicious. It is a straightforward suggestion.”
“Do you know much about architecture?”
“A little.”
“Well, it’s not my church, so of course you may look at it, if you want to.” She was aware that she sounded ungracious.
“Actually I think it would be better if you showed me round, since you are so familiar with it now.” Behind the glasses the blue eyes were gazing at her quite innocently. He added, “Your carnival is less than two weeks away, so the sooner the better, really.”
“I’m working Tuesday and Thursday this week…”
“I could make it tomorrow.” His manner was brisk. “I’ve a meeting with the Dean at nine, but then I’m free for the rest of the morning. What if I meet you at the church at about ten-fifteen and we’ll have a look around together?”
“Well, if that’s what you want. I’ll get the key from the vicarage. They have to keep it locked now. Vandals, you see.”
“Of course.” He pointed to her empty glass. “Can I get you another drink?”
She rose. “I’ll get them.”
Anne had only intended to stay for a short time. She’d planned to listen to his new arguments, make a few notes, then come away to prepare a counterattack. Yet although neither of them mentioned Moreton or the carnival again, she made no attempt to leave. Over a few more drinks—mineral water and fruit juice, Anne was glad to observe, since they were both driving—their discussions ranged over politics, teaching, travel and many more subjects she could not even remember afterwards. She was startled to hear the landlord’s call for last orders interrupting their conversation.
“Good grief, is that the time? I’m sorry—I never meant to take up the whole evening, Professor.”
“It’s been a pleasure, truly.”
She picked up her bag. “I must get back. Hemingway will be starving by now!”
“Who?”
“Hemingway, my cat.”
“You live alone? He must be company for you.”
She looked at him, a challenge in her grey eyes. “Please don’t imagine you’re dealing with a lonely old lady who makes up history just to get attention.”
“My dear girl, I wouldn’t dream of it!”
The idea of his considering her old had rattled Anne, but being called a dear girl positively incens
ed her. A stinging retort rose to her lips but before she could utter it he’d moved off to take the empty glasses back to the bar.
Professor Duggan caught up with her at the pub door and walked with her to the car park. As they parted he held out his hand.
“Well, good night, Mrs. Lindsay. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He turned and walked to his own car—in the darkened car park she could just make out the sleek lines of a convertible. She heard the engine roar into life even before she’d started her own, but with old-fashioned gallantry he waited to follow her out on to the road, acknowledging their parting with a quick flash of headlights.
Chapter Sixteen
“You’re up early.”
Deborah started as the voice interrupted her daydream. Josh was sitting a few feet away, in the shade of the ancient yew tree. He grinned at her. “Not going for another swim, are you?”
She couldn’t stop herself from grinning back. “I heard the weather’s going to break this afternoon, so I thought I’d get out and enjoy the last of the sun—being careful not to walk too close to the river. What are you doing?”
He held up a sheet of paper. “Trying to learn my lines. Not my strongest point.” He squinted up at her. “Could you help me?”
“Me! How?”
“Just listen to me run through them. You know, give me a clue when I forget what comes next.”
“Okay.” She sat beside him and held out her hand. “Give me the script.”
He passed her the paper and she scanned it quickly.
“So was he here just for the weekend, then?” Josh asked.
“Who?”
“That guy. Ber-nerd.”
“Bernard. His name’s Bernard.”
“Whatever.”
Knowing he was watching her, she didn’t look up from the script, thankful that her hair was long enough now to fall forward, screening her face.
“Were you living together, in London?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Do you miss him—I mean, are you lonely without him?”
She hesitated for a moment, considering. Actually they hadn’t spent that much time together. She’d been out working three evenings a week, and often on her free nights Bernard was working late. Supposedly.
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