Randalls Round (2 page)

“The origin of this dance,” he read, “is almost certainly sacrificial. Near Randalls is one of those ’banks’ or mounds, surrounded by a thicket, which the villagers refuse to approach. These mounds are not uncommon in the Cotswolds, though few seem to be regarded with quite as much awe as Randalls Bank, which the country people avoid scrupulously. The bank is oval in shape, and is almost certainly formed by a long barrow of the Paleolithic age. This theory is borne out by the fact that at one time the curious Randalls Round was danced about the mound, the ’victim’ being led into the fringe of the thicket that surrounds it.” (A footnote added, “Whether this is still the case I cannot be certain.”) “Permission to open the tumulus has always been most firmly refused.”

“That’s amusing,” thought Heyling, as he laid down the book and felt for a match. “Jove, what a lark it would be to get into that barrow!” he went on, drawing at his pipe. “Wonder if I could get leave? The villagers seem to have changed their ways a bit – they do their show in the village now. They mayn’t be so set on their blessed mound as they used to be. Where exactly is the place?”

He drew out an ordnance map, and soon found it – a field about a mile and a half north–west of the village, with the word “Tumulus“ in Gothic characters.

“I’ll have a look at that tomorrow,” Heyling told himself, folding up the map. “I must find out who owns the field, and get leave to investigate a bit. The landlord would know who the owner is, I expect.”

Unfortunately for Heyling’s plans, the next day dawned wet, although occasional gleams gave hope that the weather would clear later. His interest had not faded during the night, and he determined that as soon as the weather was a little better he would cycle out to Randalls Bank and have a look at it. Meanwhile, it might not be a bad plan to see whether the Guildhall held any records that might throw a light on his search as Mortlake had suggested. He accordingly hunted out a worthy who was, among many other offices, Town Clerk, and was led by him to the fifteenth century building he had noticed on his way to the Flaming Hand.

It was very cool and dark inside the old Guildhall. The atmosphere of the place pleased Heyling; he liked the simple groining of the roof and the worn stone stair that led up to the Record Room. This was a low, pleasant place, with deep windows and a singularly beautiful ceiling; Heyling noticed that it also served the purpose of a small reference library.

While the Town Clerk pottered with keys in the locks of chests and presses, Heyling idly examined the titles of the books ranged decorously on the shelves about the room. His eye was caught by the title, “Prehistoric Remains in the Cotswolds.” He took the volume down. There was an opening chapter dealing with prehistoric remains in general, and, glancing through it, he saw mentions of long and round barrows. He kept the book in his hand for closer inspection. He really knew precious little about barrows, and it would be just as well to find out a little before beginning his exploration. In fact, when the Town Clerk left him alone in the Record Room, that book was the first thing he studied.

It was a mere text–book, after all, but to Heyling’s ignorance it revealed a few facts of interest. Long barrows, he gathered, were older than round, and more uncommon, and were often objects of superstitious awe among the country folk of the district, who generally opposed any effort to explore them; but the whole chapter was very brief and skimpy, and Heyling had soon exhausted its interest.

The town records, however, were more amusing, for he very soon found references to his particular field. There was a lawsuit in the early seventeenth century which concerned it, and the interest to Heyling was redoubled by the vagueness of certain evidence. A certain Beale brought charges of witchcraft against “diuers Persouns of y
^s
Towne.” He had reason for alarm, for apparently his son, “a yong and comely Lad of 20ann.”, had completely disappeared: “wherefore ye sd. Jno. Beale didd openlie declare and state y
^t
ye sd. Son Frauncis hadd been led away by Warlockes in y
^e
Daunce (for y
^t
his Ringe, ye wh. he hadd long worne, was found in ye Fielde wh. ye wot of) and hadd by y
^m
beene done to Deathe in y
^r
Abhominable Practicinges.” The case seemed to have been hushed up, although several people cited by “ye sd. Jno. Beale” admitted having been in the company of the missing youth on the night of his disappearance – which, Heyling was interested to notice, was that very day, 31
^st
October.

Another document, of a later date, recorded the attempted sale of the “field wh. ye wot of” – (no name was ever given to the place) – and the refusal of the purchaser to fulfil his contract owing to “ye ill repute of the place, the wh. was unknowen to Himm when he didd entre into his Bargayn.”

The only other documents of interest to Heyling were some of the seventeenth century, wherein the authorities of the Commonwealth inveighed against “ye Lewd Games and Dauncyng, ye wh. are Seruice to Sathanas and a moste strong Abhominatioun to ye Lorde.” These spoke openly of devil worship and “loathlie Ceremonie at ye Banke in ye Fielde.” It seemed that more than one person had stood trial for conducting these ceremonies, and against one case (dated 7th November, 1659) was written,
“Conuicti et combusti.”

“Good Lord – burnt!” exclaimed Heyling aloud. “What an appalling business! I suppose the poor beggars were only doing much the same thing as those chaps I saw yesterday.”

He sat lost in thought for some time. He thought how that odd tune and dance had gone on in this remote village for centuries; had there been more to it once, he wondered? Did that queer business with the hide mean – well, some real devilry? Pictures floated into his mind – odd, squat little men, broad of shoulder and long of arm, naked and hairy, dancing in solemn, ghastly worship, dim ages ago… This business was getting a stronger hold of him than he would have thought possible.

“Strikes me that if there is anything of the old devilry left, it’ll be in that field,” he concluded at last. “The dance they do now is all open and above board; but if they still avoid the field, as that book of Mortlake’s seems to think, that might be a clue. I’ll find out.”

He rose and went down to inform the Town Clerk that his researches were over, and then went back to the inn in a comfortable frame of mind. Certainly his weekend was bringing him distraction from his work: no thought of it had entered his head since he first heard the children singing outside the inn.

The landlord of the Flaming Hand was a solid man who gave the impression of honesty and sense. Heyling felt that he could depend upon him for a reasonable account of “the fielde which ye wot of.“ He accordingly tackled him after lunch, and was at once amused, surprised and annoyed to find that the man hedged as soon as he was questioned on the subject. He quite definitely opposed any idea of exploration.

“I’m not like some on ’em, sir,” he said. “I wouldn’t go for to say that it’d do any ’arm for you to take a turn in the field while it was light, like. But it ain’t ’ealthy after dark, sir, that field aren’t. Nor it ain’t no sense to go a–diggin’ and a–delvin’ in that there bank. I’ve lived in this ’ere place a matter of forty year, man and boy, and I know what I’m a–sayin’ of.”

“But why isn’t it healthy? Is it marshy?”

“No, sir, it ain’t not to say marshy.”

“Don’t the farmers ever cultivate it?“

“ Well, sir, all I can say is I been in this place forty year, man and boy, and it ain’t never been dug nor ploughed nor sown nor reaped in my mem’ry. Nor yet in my father’s, nor in my grandfather’s. Crops wouldn’ do, sir, not in that field.”

“Well, I want to go and examine the mound. Who’s the owner? – I ought to get his leave, I suppose.”

“You won’t do that, sir.”

“Why not?”

“’Cause I’m the owner, sir, and I won’t ’ave anyone, not the King ’isself nor yet the King’s son, a–diggin’ in that bank. Not for a waggon–load of gold, I won’t.”

Heyling saw it was useless.

“Oh, all right! If you feel like that about it!” he said carelessly.

The stubborn, half–frightened look left the host’s eyes.

“Thank you, sir,” he said, quite gratefully.

But he had not really gained the victory. Heyling was as obstinate as he, and he had determined that before he left Randalls he would have investigated that barrow. If he could not get permission, he would go without. He decided that as soon as darkness fell he would go out on the quiet and explore in earnest. He would borrow a spade from the open cart–shed of the inn – a spade and a pick, if he could find one. He began to feel some of the enthusiasm of the explorer.

He decided that he would spend part of the afternoon in examining the outside of the mound. It was not more than a ten minutes’ ride to the field, which lay on the road. It was, as the landlord had said, uncultivated. Almost in the middle of it rose a mass of stunted trees and bushes – a thick mass of intertwining boughs that would certainly take some strength to penetrate. Was it really a tomb, Heyling wondered? And he thought with some awe of the strange prehistoric being who might lie there, his rude jewels and arms about him.

He returned to the inn, his interest keener than ever. He would most certainly get into that barrow as soon as it was dark enough to try. He felt restless now, as one always does when one is looking forward with some excitement to an event a few hours distant. He fidgeted about the room, one eye constantly on his watch.

He wanted to get to the field as soon as possible after dark, for his casual inspection of the afternoon had shown him that the task of pushing through the bushes, tangled and interwoven as they were, would be no light one; and then there was the opening of the tumulus to be done – that soil, untouched by spade or plough for centuries, to be broken by the pick until an entrance was forced into the chamber within. He ought to be off as soon as he could safely secure the tools he wanted to borrow.

But Fate was against him. There seemed to be a constant flow of visitors to the Flaming Hand that evening – not ordinary labourers dropping in for a drink, but private visitors to the landlord, who went through to his parlour behind the bar and left by the yard at the side of the inn. It really did seem like some silly mystery story, thought Heyling impatiently; the affair in the marketplace, the landlord’s odd manner over the question of the field, and now this hushed coming and going from the landlord’s room!

He went to his bedroom window and looked out into the yard. He wanted to make quite sure that the pick and spade were still in the open cart–shed. To his relief they were; but as he looked he got yet another shock. A man slipped out from the door of the inn kitchen and slipped across the yard into the lane that lay behind the inn. Another followed him, and a little later another; and all three had black faces. Their hands showed light, and their necks; but their faces were covered with soot, so that the features were quite indistinguishable.

“This is too mad!” exclaimed Heyling half aloud. “Jove, I didn’t expect to run into this sort of farce when I came here. Wonder if
all
old Cross’s mysterious visitors have had black faces? Anyway, I wish they’d buck up and clear out. I may not have another chance to go to that mound if I don’t get off soon.”

The queer happenings at the inn now appeared to him solely as obstacles to his own movements. If their import came into his mind at all, it was to make him wonder whether there were any play like a mummers’ show which the village kept up; or games, perhaps, like those played in Scotland at Hallowe’en… By Jove! That probably was the explanation. It
was
All Hallows’ Eve! Why couldn’t they buck up and get on with it, anyhow?

His patience was not to be tried much longer. Soon after nine the noises ceased; but to make doubly sure, Heyling did not leave his room till ten had struck from Randalls church.

He got cautiously out of his bedroom window and landed softly on the cobbles of the yard. The tools still leaned against the wall of the open shed – trusting man, Mr. Cross, of the Flaming Hand! The shed where his cycle stood was locked, though, and he swore softly at the loss of time this would mean in getting to the field. It would take him twenty–five minutes to walk.

As a matter of fact, it did not take him quite so long, for impatience gave him speed. The country looked very beautiful under the slow–rising hunter’s moon. The long bare lines of the fields swept up to the ridges, black against the dark serene blue of the night sky. The air was cool and clean, with the smell of frost in it. Heyling, hurrying along the rough white road, was dimly conscious of the purity and peace of the night.

At last the field came in sight, empty and still in the cold moonlight. Only the mound, black as a tomb, broke the flood of light. The gate was wide open, and even in his haste this struck Heyling as odd.

“I could have sworn I shut that gate,” he said to himself. “I remember thinking I must, in case anyone spotted I’d been in. It just shows that people don’t avoid the place as much as old Cross would like me to believe.”

He decided to attack the barrow on the side away from the road, lest any belated labourer should pass by. He walked round the mound, looking for a thin spot in its defence of thorn and hazel bushes; but there was none. The scrub formed a thick belt all round the barrow, and was so high that he could not see the top of the mound at all. The confounded stuff might grow half–way up the tumulus for all he could see.

He abandoned any idea of finding an easy spot to begin operations. It was obviously just a question of breaking through. Then, just as he was about to take this heroic course, he stopped short, listening. It sounded to him as if some creature were moving within the bushes – something heavy and bulky, breaking the smaller branches of the undergrowth.

“Must be a fox, I suppose,” he thought,“but he must be a monster. It sounds more like a cow, though of course it can’t be. Well, here goes.”

He turned his back to the belt of thick undergrowth, ducked his head forward, and was just about to force his backwards way through the bushes when again he stopped to listen. This time it was a very different sound that arrested him – it was the distant playing of a pipe. He recognised it – the plaintive melody of Randalls Round.