Norman Invasions Read Online Free Page A

again. The mark was not absolutely clear, because of the rain, as it had softened the earth, but what I saw, at least if casually observed, might have easily been taken as the print of a small, delicate, well-formed foot; there was the print of the heel, and of the sole, and of the toes; it seemed, clearly, the print of girl’s foot, of a small, delicate, feminine, naked foot.
    Some village girl must have left it, I thought. Perhaps one of those who helps Mrs. Fraser with her cleaning. But this seemed absurd, given the time of year.
    I would not return to London on the morrow.
    I returned to the room and sat up for a time, bent over, my head in my hands. Then, as it was still quite early, I went back to bed. Happily I slept. When I awakened my first thought was that my trip to the yard, of last night, might have been in a dream, as well, but the mud of my boots, and the dampness, and disarray, of my clothing, thrown to a chair, convinced me that I had, indeed, left the room that night. After breakfast I reconnoitered the yard again, returning to the place under the window. I saw nothing, then, that was clearly a print. It had rained again, in the early morning, while I had slept. If the print had been there, it must have been washed away.
    The most rational interpretation of the night’s business was that I had walked in my sleep, as some do, and dreamed, in so walking, of strange things. This was the most rational interpretation, so it was the one I accepted.
    I returned then to some research pertinent to the article, utilizing some of the relevant books and journals I had brought with me, in a small, wooden crate, to the village.
    What occurred three nights later I could not dismiss so easily.
    February 5th.
Back late. Another visit to the pub. More conversation with Gavin. Prints not on beach now. Duncan apprehensive, strangely quiet. Cronies subdued. New ale. Things return to normal. Or nearly so. Foolish to have been disturbed. Fear is like contagion, transmitted from one person to another. Some sort of animal communication probably, on some atavistic level. Must resist. Am now above such things. Article going well.
    I was not really back so late that night, as I remember it now. The behavior of the cat was surprising. She fled from me. I read a little, until after midnight, and then retired. I did leave the door ajar so that she might return, if so inclined.
    The villagers are good fellows, but some of them are becoming a bit irritating. Wherever I go in the village, one or another seems to be about, and not just about, but about watching, pretending not to be watching. If I did not know better, I would suppose they were spying. I find this oppressive, and intrusive. Perhaps I am merely becoming excessively sensitive, or even paranoid. Perhaps I should speak to some of them about it. But that might cause unpleasantness. It is not my fault if I do not share their archaic attitudes, nor choose to sympathetically credit their superstitions. That they have no right to expect. And surely Gavin, one of their own, does not, either. I saw old Duncan today at the end of the village, near the road leading to the highway, talking to a constable. When he saw me, he walked away. I would really resent it if he, or others, were spreading rumors, or making irresponsible allegations, particularly to the law. Perhaps about the prints. But they are gone now. Hopefully that business is over and done with. I trust that the constable, who bikes down now and then to the village, has at least a modicum of common sense. I have met him once or twice, and he seems to be a decent, sensible fellow. If old Duncan’s conversation had anything to do with me, I trust the constable bore his remarks in good humor. But enough of this. I have work to do.
    That night the dream was different.
    She seemed to see me for the first time, that prim, exquisite, coveted thing, and seemed know herself, perhaps for the first time in her life, this