For the Good of the State

Tom turned towards the policeman. Perhaps it was just as well that he had a policeman in attendance, he decided. So the important thing now was to keep the man in attendance, to protect him from physical assault.

Price, Anthony - For the Good of the State The crashing became louder, and the words—good old Anglo-Saxon words, echoing the sentiments of the original ditch-diggers

—became clearer.

‘Eh?’ He encouraged the policeman to repeat the question.

‘Have-you-seen—’ The policeman took him in with a despairing glance ‘—a-gentleman—a - gentleman— round-here?’

‘No,’ said Tom truthfully. ‘Why?’

The direct question, following the direct answer, was just the right one for the situation, Tom decided. Because it detained the policeman for another moment; and, if Willy didn’t arrive in a moment after that, he could always try the next question—a good late Medieval question, which had been John Ball’s question—

When Adam delved, and Eve span, Who was then the gentleman?

‘You haven’t seen anyone?’ Now the poor devil was caught between the suspicion that he had an awkward customer on his hands and the final arresting vision of Willy’s emergence backwards from the thorn-and-blackberry tangle; and the adjective was strictly accurate rather than Freudian, because Willy’s designer-jeans-encased backside was without doubt a vision sufficient to divert any man from his proper duty, thought Tom.

‘Only her,’ he answered again truthfully, but this time more doubtfully, as he observed the condition of the jeans.

Price, Anthony - For the Good of the State

‘ Seventy-six—’ She still held the measuring pole in her hand as she broke free from the tunnel ‘— seventy-seven—’

But that wasn’t the whole circumference of the castle mound, thought Tom quickly. He had taken the longer line of the bailey ditch in all innocence, not knowing about the tangle on the far side of the mound which she must have had to fight her way through, which had left him time to measure that part of the mound’s circumference which fitted into the bailey. So that meant 77 plus 25, multiplied by six. Which meant that Ranulf’s castle was slightly bigger than Topcliffe, but not significantly so; which might mean that Ranulf had been building under the pressure of hot civil war, where William’s man in Yorkshire eighty years earlier would have been throwing up his defences against the sullen pressure of a largely unconquered but disorganized and leaderless Anglo-Saxon population. So that evened things up. But… but, at the same time, it firmed up his theory that this couldn’t actually be Ranulf’s headquarters in Sussex. Or… if it was his HQ, then that might mean

—

‘You bastard! ’ exclaimed Willy, sitting on her heels in the mud.

‘Look what you’ve done to me!’ She surveyed herself. ‘Christ!’

The designer-jeans were certainly not what they had been before he had sent her out to measure the castle ditch. And her hair had come down at the back—and at the front, too.

‘Christ!’ She let go of the measuring pole with one hand, in order to examine the other hand. ‘I’m goddam hurt!’

That would be the dead blackberry suckers from last year—or maybe the thorn-bushes in the tunnel. It was much too early in the Price, Anthony - For the Good of the State year for stinging nettles, certainly. Because there had been no stinging nettles at Sulhampstead last week, nor within the old Roman walls at Pevensey, the week before.

Willy was busy sucking her finger—

Stinging nettles were interesting, thought Tom. They were always to be found in association with agricultural activity, rather than military or monastic work—was that true or false? There had been sheep at Sulhampstead, and cows at Pevensey. Or had it been the other way round? But, either way, there might be room for some intriguing research there—

‘ Tom!’

Tom experienced momentary irritation—he had never really thought about the incidence of stinging nettles before—but then he realized too late that what was expected of him was regret and guilt, and tried to contort his features appropriately. ‘Willy-love, I am sorry — ’

‘ Bastard! ’ Her voice fell from self-pity to cold anger: she might well be remembering her experiences at Sulhampstead.

‘I said I was sorry—’

‘I’ll give you “sorry”!’ She picked up the measuring pole with both hands and jabbed it at him like a spear. ‘I’ll make you sorry—’

‘Now, Willy—don’t be like that.’ Tom skipped sideways as she jabbed at him again. He was just out of range, but she had risen to one knee and was aiming dangerously low, towards parts of him which he would undoubtedly be sorry to have injured. ‘ Willy! ’

‘Don’t you “Willy” me—’ Just as she was rising from the other Price, Anthony - For the Good of the State mud- caked knee, pivoting on it at the same time to reach his new location, she saw the policeman on the edge of the ditch above and behind him.

The policeman cleared his throat nervously, otherwise evidently struck dumb by the intended act of Grievous Bodily Harm he had been witnessing. Or it might be just the sight of Willy herself, thought Tom with proprietorial admiration.

‘Gee!’ In the instant of recognition the wide snarl had turned to jaw-dropped surprise, but in the next instant she had rearranged her expression so that now it merely registered interest. ‘Well, hi there, officer!’

Tom’s admiration increased, and he felt that same curious twinge of an emotion he had experienced several times just recently, but hadn’t taken the trouble to explore. Or maybe didn’t want to risk exploring—was that it? he wondered, shying away from the traffic light in his mind which shone red and green at the same time.

‘Good morning…madam.’ For a moment the policeman seemed undecided as to how to address her. But that