‘Got his part in Othello. He’s playing Cassius, who in the play is described as “having a daily beauty in his life”. I hope Paris doesn’t, and I’m the only one.’
The weeping willows in the churchyard were all bare. Nearby yews retained a few of their gold leaves in their dark branches like loose change.
‘Sit, Cadbury,’ said Dora as they went into the church. ‘That’s where Pocock and his pals ring their bells,’ Dora pointed left to the tower, ‘and that font blazing with colour is Direct Debbie’s handiwork.’
Near the chancel steps lay a stone knight wearing chainmail.
‘Nice,’ Dora stroked the little whippet lying against his crossed feet, ‘that they had dogs in bed with them even in those days. The knight is Sir Francis Framlingham the first, Ione Travis-Lock’s umpteenth great-grandfather. He went on a crusade and beat the hell out of Saladin.
‘But in that window,’ Dora indicated a handsome man with a pointed beard and long dark hair astride a knowing-looking white-faced horse, ‘is the eighth or ninth Sir Francis and that’s his beautiful grey charger, Beau Regard, who was home-bred. Beau Regard and Sir Francis had never been parted and were almost more devoted than Sir Francis was to his lovely young golden-haired wife, Gwendolyn, who was expecting their first baby.
‘Now it really gets romantic. Sir Francis wrote sonnets to Gwendolyn – actually my boyfriend Paris writes me sonnets too – and in her honour planted a wood of weeping willows all round the churchyard, because their cascading yellow leaves and darker yellow stems in winter reminded him of her flowing hair before she pinned it up.
‘Well,’ Dora sat down in a pew, picking up a hassock on which a weeping willow was embroidered, ‘the Civil War was raging round here at the time, and there are lots of priest’s holes in Willowwood Hall where the King’s men sought asylum.
‘Sir Francis, who was a very good friend of General Fairfax and a leading light of the Cavaliers, went off to fight for the King. Like Napoleon’s horse Marengo, Beau Regard was pure grey, so Sir Francis’s men could recognize their leader in battle. Alas, it made him a Roundhead target. Wounded at the battle of Naseby, Sir Francis crawled into the bushes and managed to fasten a letter he’d been writing to Gwendolyn, telling her how much he loved her, to Beau Regard’s bridle, before setting him loose. Beau Regard refused to leave his master, but when he was fired on by the enemy he took off so fast, no one could catch him.
‘Gwendolyn was about to give birth when Beau Regard staggered up to the gate, neighing imperiously. He’d found his way home – a hundred miles – with a bullet in his side, his grey coat drenched in blood. When one of the grooms removed his bridle they found the letter for Gwendolyn, who managed to read it before she died giving birth to a son, little Francis.
‘Poor Beau Regard was distraught his master wasn’t there.’ Dora rolled her eyes in horror and dropped her voice. ‘Even when the bullet was dug out, he pined away and died a few days later. Meanwhile, poor Sir Francis escaped and stole home after dark (even though the house was being watched by Cromwell’s men) and was absolutely gutted to find both his wife and his beloved horse had died. So he buried them side by side in the churchyard.
‘Now I’ll show you their grave.’ Dora ushered Etta out into the churchyard, where a west wind was sending hundreds of gold willow leaves across the yellowing grass. They were greeted by an ecstatic Cadbury.
‘Here it is.’ Dora pointed to a flat moss-covered slab surrounded by a rusty iron fence entwined with brambles.
‘Rather unorthodox,’ mused Etta, peering at the almost in-decipherable lettering, ‘burying them together.’
‘Sir Francis owned the church. He could do what he liked,’ said Dora. ‘I expect they’ve got separate coffins, although a shaggy horse to hug on cold winter nights might be a comfort. And the willow saplings Sir Francis had planted were watered by his tears,’ she went on dramatically. ‘The big round pond on the edge of Marius’s land below your bungalow is rumoured to be salt water from the same tears. Whenever it overflows, little streams cascade down the hill to the River Fleet.’
‘That is so exciting,’ cried Etta. ‘Thank you, Dora.’
‘You can read all about it in a little booklet they sell in the village shop.’