Spectred Isle (Green Men #1)(25)
“You’re in a cheery mood today, Lazenby. God’s in his heaven, all’s well with the world, eh? In the merry, merry month of May.”
“You seem quite cheerful yourself, sir. Good news?” It wasn’t much of a guess; the Major had punctuated his remarks by waving a letter in the air.
“Yes indeed. How do you feel about a jaunt to the country? Fresh air, exercise, and perhaps the answer to some questions?”
“It sounds delightful. Where do you have in mind?”
“Cambridgeshire. The Fens.”
“Geoffrey de Mandeville?” Saul suggested, this not requiring a great intuitive leap, and was rewarded with a beaming smile.
“Indeed! My correspondent is a Mr. Abchurch who lives outside Burwell, where as you know Geoffrey met his end. He is something of an antiquarian with an interest in de Mandeville and has most generously invited us to stay at his home and look over his collection. Perhaps you will arrange the railway tickets for us both?”
*
They left for the Fens two days later. Saul had hastily purchased new shoes and some decent clothes in which to dine—probably an unnecessary expense, but he felt awkward enough imposing himself on a stranger who didn’t know his history without appearing shabby too.
The train took them to Cambridge, where Mr. Abchurch’s motor-car awaited them. Saul didn’t know this part of the country, and looked around with a certain dismay as they drove through an endless expanse of flatland. This had all been marsh once, long drained for agriculture; it looked like the paintings he had seen of Holland. Endless fields, spiked by the occasional tree, separated by long straight dykes and channels. The wind whipped over them directly from the North Sea, and behind them the great towers and spires of the university were visible for far too long. You could see for miles, because there was damn all to see. The skies were huge.
Their destination, Roestock House, stood outside the village of Burwell. It was a little sort of place, houses and cottages huddled low against the scything wind, held down by a huge grey stone church, fifteenth century or so, with an octagonal tower. They reached the house, a big red-brick Georgian construction a couple of miles outside the village, as twilight was setting in, streaking the great grey sky with yellow-gold.
Mr. Abchurch himself opened the door as Saul and the Major emerged from the motor-car, and greeted them both warmly. “Major Peabody? And Mr. Lazenby? I am delighted to meet you both, and thrilled that my little hobby of Geoffrey de Mandeville has attracted so much attention. That old villain, eh? It’s a great pleasure to meet fellow enthusiasts. Do please come in, and Hetty will show you your rooms. My wife. Henrietta, my dear, Major Peabody and Mr. Lazenby.”
Mrs. Abchurch was as short and round as her husband was tall and thin, and every bit as friendly. She and the maid bustled round to relieve the visitors of coats and hats, then she led the way upstairs. “We don’t have much company so far out of the way of things, so you must take us as we are, I fear. I hope you aren’t too tired by your journey? We will be quite alone this evening so James can talk old Geoffrey with you to his heart’s content, but I’ve invited a few neighbours to join us for dinner tomorrow. We like to make the most of company when we have it.”
Saul made polite noises, grateful he’d thought to equip himself with dining clothes. The room made ready for him was warm, with a coal fire blazing and a thick quilt on a comfortable bed. Mrs. Abchurch seemed charming; her husband was evidently something of a monomaniac but a pleasant one, and would doubtless enjoy Major Peabody’s avid interest. This felt like a holiday, and he determined to enjoy it.
Dinner began with chitchat. The Abchurches were older and childless and this was farmland, so the War hadn’t loomed as large here as it might have, and nobody brought the subject up. Instead they discussed local history, and folklore, and how the two intertwined in the topic Saul and the Major had come here to study.
“They called him the Devil in Human Form,” Mr. Abchurch said. He sipped a glass of wine, wiped a stray drop of red from his lips. “The story as I have heard it becomes a mix of truth and legend, de Mandeville a monster of the Fens, a Grendel. If you would like to hear it—”
Major Peabody indicated he would, very much. Saul added his voice. The wind had risen outside, and it was a fine night for a story.
“The Anarchy, then, when King Stephen and Empress Matilda battled for supremacy. The old men who tell the tale place it in ‘days gone by’, or ‘the Dark Ages’. They will all tell you that this was ‘when God and his angels slept’; that phrase has become as much part of the language of this tale as Once upon a time. But it might be the first century, or the fifth, or the fifteenth for all they know. They speak only of a King and a Queen fighting over England’s crown; and some say that the battle was between King Arthur and his sorceress sister Morgan le Fay.”
“Do they? Do they indeed? I must tell you—but please, go on.” If Major Peabody failed to shanghai a conversation, he was rapt indeed. Saul couldn’t help a smile.
“Now.” Mr. Abchurch leaned forward. “During the wars of the King and Queen, when God and his angels slept, there lived a baron named Geoffrey Man-Devil, for he was the devil in human form. He turned his coat from King to Queen and Queen to King again as the fortunes of war ebbed and flowed between them, and at each turning, the treacherous baron was rewarded. Geoffrey became lord of three counties, and even Master of London.