Path of the She Wolf Page 10

  Out from the charcoal burners’ huts came more ragged workers. Mothers with children in their arms and on their backs; strong men with scarred, disfigured faces, missing fingers, maimed hands; hooded lepers stumbling behind, keeping their distance; each and everyone of them carrying a starlike rush-light. Their numbers grew and grew.

  The word had gone ahead and by the time they reached the Forestwife’s clearing, the darkest night was lit by thousands of rush-lights. The circling yew tree grove thronged with silent crowds that moved respectfully back as the procession arrived and went towards the burial ground.

  Philippa and Tom set about digging the grave at once, for they feared angry retribution when the remainder of the wolfpack returned to the King. Such retribution could be terrible and desecration of an outlaw’s body might serve as dire warning to those who thought they might rebel too.

  Clouds cleared and a bright moon at last lit the clearing. There were many to help with the work. They made John sit with Magda, who refused to stay inside, insisting on sitting out there, beside the grave, her child wrapped in her arms. So father and daughter sat close together, tears coursing down their cheeks. They watched as they saw a deep pit grow that was wide enough for two.

  ‘Agnes gave warning,’ Magda sobbed. ‘Agnes gave warning and I feared for myself, not them.’

  ‘Nothing we could have done would have prevented it,’ John told her.

  Then suddenly Magda was anxious that all should be done well and properly. ‘Primroses,’ she cried. ‘Fetch leaves to put beneath them,’ she sobbed. ‘And primroses to sprinkle on top.’

  The distant sound of howling wolves could be heard as Gerta and Brigit organised a gang of young folk who rushed to obey Magda’s wish. A great hunt took place in the moonlight and children emerged from the shadowy foliage with bundles of fresh picked primroses in their hands.

  At last they prepared to gently lay Robert and Marian side by side to rest.

  ‘Wait,’ said John. ‘There is something we must do.’

  He bent with trembling hands to loosen the beautiful woven girdle from Marian’s waist: the symbol of the Forestwife. He wept afresh for as he lifted it the girdle fell apart where the arrows had cut through the intricately woven bands.

  Tears poured down his face. ‘All is wrong!’ he cried. ‘This was meant for you daughter.’

  Magda stared. She put out her hand, still cradling baby Eleanor, and took hold of the three separate strands. She looked puzzled for a moment, but then she smiled through her tears. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I understand. I think I understand. This is right. Marian knew it should be like this. There is not to be one Forestwife, but three.’

  The people all around them gasped when they heard her, but Magda went on, growing in conviction. She turned to Brigit, who stood at her side, calm and helpful as ever, Peterkin sleeping on her back. ‘One is for you,’ she said and quickly fastened the still beautiful loose strand about the girl’s slim waist.

  Brigit opened her mouth to protest but then closed it as Magda solemnly kissed her brow. Then Magda turned to Gerta who stood there on her other side.

  ‘What?’ the old woman protested. ‘For me? You want to give it to me?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Magda. ‘Your kindness and wisdom has helped us through so much and now we stand in greater need of it than ever. Will you stay here with us in the clearing, and comfort all those who are full of sorrow as you have been doing?’

  A ripple of approval ran through the watching crowd as the old woman fastened the strand about her waist with shaking fingers.

  ‘Now it’s your turn,’ Gerta said. ‘Come help me, Brigit, and together we three shall try to be as good a Forestwife as she who we have lost this day.’

  So they tied the third strand around Magda’s still slightly thickened waist and little Eleanor’s foot somehow got tied up in it too. There were smiles and whispers went flying through the crowd as they released her.

  ‘That little one shall be Forestwife too, some day’

  Then more murmurs of approval came. ‘Look at them. It must be right.’

  ‘The Old One, the Mother and the Maid.’

  ‘It is meant to be!’

  Then John stooped once more and took from Robert’s lifeless body, the worn and faded hood that he had always worn. He held it up, like a crown, so that everyone could see.

  ‘We called him the Green Man,’ he said. ‘He was young and strong and fearless when he danced at our Mayday Feast. But then, when bitter trouble came to us, he led our fight and we called him the Hooded One. His spirit and his fight for justice must not be allowed to die.’

  He swung round and held out the hood to Tom.

  ‘But you . . . you should take his place, if any can,’ Tom protested.

  John shook his head. ‘I am old and sick and weary of it all. You are the one. This wound of mine troubles me sore. It is too late for me.’

  ‘No!’ Magda cried out. ‘We will nurse you and make you strong again. Brigit shall mix up potions and I shall make you live for my child.’

  ‘Dearest daughter,’ he said, taking her into his arms. ‘There is naught that you can do to heal this slow and aching wound. I am so happy to have seen this strong child of yours, but you must let me go now. I wish to return to the mist-filled valley of Hathersage, the place where I was born.’

  Magda thought she could not bear so much sorrow all at once, but Gerta spoke softly to her. ‘You must be strong and let him go. You must let a bird fly free,’ she said. ‘That is the only way that it can be happy.’

  Magda sighed and gritted her teeth. She looked up from her father to Tom. ‘Yes. You must take Robert’s hood, my husband,’ she told him. ‘You must now be the Hooded One.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ agreement came from all around.

  Tom kissed Magda, then bowed his head and allowed John to fasten the hood around his neck.

  The children came forwards and threw their flowers into the grave, covering the two who lay there together. Magda clung to John, while Tom and Philippa took up their spades and filled the primrose-scented space with earth, and piled it high.

  Epilogue

  As the first light fingers of dawn touched the dark woods, a lithe shape emerged from the undergrowth. A male wolf stretched and yawned, then shook himself so that small droplets of dew sprayed the grey stones and bracken all about him. He turned, giving a deep-throated cry. It was answered by a sharp, yipping sound, and out from the shadows of the undergrowth came a she-wolf.

  The rays of the sun grew in strength, reaching in amongst the bushes and branches. The purple greys of night lifted, patterning dull clumps of grass with bright green and yellow streaks. Wood pigeons started their gentle cooing, greeting each other and greeting the morning. The she-wolf nuzzled at the roots, snuffing the earth and the damp air, her ears twitching as she picked up the faint gurgling sounds of water. She turned to her companion and licked his face, then gave him a playful nip, leaping high over his shoulders and past him, leading the way towards the plashing of a fast-running stream.

  Water rushed over the rocks and poured down between two stones, making a waterfall that filled a sparkling, mossy-edged pool. The two wolves ran fast towards it, splashing into its swirling waters, drinking deeply.

  As they drank, the light lifted further, turning the budding primroses that grew all around the pool to gleaming gold, and when they’d drunk their fill they climbed out of the water and shook themselves again sniffing the faintly flower-scented air. Then yapping joyfully, they raced ahead, leaping over dew-laden grass and foliage, following their own path through the awakening spring woods.

  Author’s Note

  As with my previous books The Forestwife and Child of the May, this story contains a mixture of ideas from the earliest Robin Hood stories, life at the time of King John, and my own interest in women’s history.

  The charter that King John agreed and then revoked in 1215 later became known as Magna Carta. It was not until 1225, that King
John’s eighteen-year-old son, Henry the Third, granted the Forest Charter. This charter contained the much longed for words ‘No man from henceforth shall loose neither Life nor Member for Killing our Deer.’

  In the year 1216, where my story ends, King John struggled on for a few months, travelling around the country with his mercenaries, desperately trying to hang on to power. He lost many of his possessions, money and jewels in an accident in the Wash, then died at Newark in October of that year. As soon as he was dead, his household servants robbed him of his personal goods.

  Disguise is one of the most powerful and repetitive elements of the early Robin Hood legends. The story of an old woman changing clothes with Robin Hood in order to save him from capture is taken from this tradition. The rescue of the widow’s sons from a hanging at the crossroads is another old story which involves disguise, although in the original version it was of course Robin Hood that did the rescuing.

  In many of the stories Robin Hood seems to have a rather unusual relationship with the Bishop of Hereford. Robin invites him to dine and teases him, makes him dance and takes money from him, but always lets him go on his way. While studying the period of King John’s reign, I became interested in the many troubles of the de Braose family, whose members were persistently persecuted by King John. I was fascinated to find that Giles de Braose, brother to William, was indeed the Bishop of Hereford, and was also one of King John’s most bitter opponents throughout the baron’s rebellion. I could not resist bringing him into the story.

  My version of the Sheriff of Nottingham is drawn from the legends and not based upon the real Sheriff of Nottingham, at the time of Magna Carta.

  Close to where I live is the Derbyshire village of Hathersage. A large gravestone in the churchyard is marked as the grave of Little John, friend and lieutenant to Robin Hood. The local tradition is that Little John was born in Hathersage and returned there as an old man, after Robin Hood’s death, at the hands of a nun, the Prioress of Kirklees Abbey.

  About the Author

  Theresa Tomlinson was born in Sussex. The daughter of a vicar, she spent her early childhood in various places in the north of England. As a child she had no interest in writing, but she loved reading. Her main interest was drawing and painting. She attended Hull College of Art, and later trained as a teacher at Hull College of Education. She taught as an infant teacher for five years

  Theresa and her husband live in Whitby, North Yorkshire, where Theresa spent her childhood. Over the years she has acquired an outstanding reputation for her historical novels, particularly those, like Wolf Girl, set on the north-east coast of England. Shortlisted twice for the Carnegie Medal and for the Sheffield Children’s Book Award, Theresa takes a keen interest in the area where she lives.

  Recent visits to Turkey have fuelled her enthusiasm for the ancient mythology of that part of the world. Her scrupulous research has resulted in two epic stories, The Moon Riders and Voyage of the Snake Lady.

  Also by Theresa Tomlinson

  Little Stowaway

  (Picture book with Jane Browne)

  The Cellar Lad

  The Herring Girls

  Dancing through the Shadows

  The Forestwife

  Child of the May

  THE PATH OF THE SHE-WOLF

  AN RHCP DIGITAL EBOOK 978 1 446 47976 6

  Published in Great Britain by RHCP Digital,

  an imprint of Random House Children’s Publishers UK

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  This ebook edition published 2011

  Copyright © Theresa Tomlinson, 2011

  First Published in Great Britain

  Red Fox 9780099402657 2011

  The right of Theresa Tomlinson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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