The Forest Wife Read online

  May Day came and they set a tall pole in front of the giant oak that they’d come to call the trysting tree. Philippa skipped happily with little Rowan, who was growing strong now and walked sturdily. Emma was sad, for there was no sign of John or Robert. Marian was simply annoyed.

  ‘He said he’d be here for May Day.’

  ‘Who?’ Emma asked.

  ‘That Robert,’ she snapped.

  ‘Ah,’ Emma sighed, and nodded her head.

  The dancing was well under way when John came alone down the track. He hugged Emma, and told them his news. They had nearly taken Tickhill Castle for the Bishop, but then ruling had come from the great council that the castle was to stay with John, in return for him handing over Windsor. Bishop Hugh had been furious, but he could not disobey. Disappointed though they were, John and Robert had set themselves to help to raise King Richard’s ransom, though they did it in their own wicked way.

  ‘We hide out down by Wentbridge, near the great road,’ John laughed, ‘inviting travellers to dine with us. Then . . . we make ’em pay.’

  ‘What if the poor folk cannot pay?’ demanded Emma.

  ‘Why, then we wish them well and send them on their way.’

  ‘Does Robert not come for May Day?’ asked Marian.

  John shook his head. ‘He’s mad for his King’s return. Naught else will move him.’

  Late that night, Marian lay restless on her pallet, though all about her snored. She rolled over, stretching out her arm to Emma. Suddenly she opened her eyes and sat up. Where Emma should have been sleeping beside her there was nothing but a cold space.

  ‘The silly wench,’ she muttered. ‘I hope she knows what she does.’

  John had gone when morning dawned. Emma came creeping into the hut with grass stuck in her hair. Marian pretended to be asleep.

  The summer months were kinder to the forest folk. Though there were still the sick to tend, at least the forest was blessed with fruitfulness and teemed with rabbits and pheasants and hares. Bellies were filled, and it was warm enough to sleep beneath the stars.

  It was early in August when Tom’s mother, Alice, brought the message that old Sarah had wandered off as she always did, but this time she’d not returned.

  ‘I fear I lose my patience with her,’ Alice’s voice shook with weariness.

  ‘So do we all,’ Marian answered her.

  Agnes looked worried when she heard the news. They searched the woods close to the coal-digger’s hut, calling out her name, but there was no sign of the old woman.

  Three days passed and still Sarah did not return. ‘We’ll gather a gang of lads and lasses to hunt for her,’ said Marian. ‘And we’ll send to the Magdalen Assart, so that the Sisters may seek her too.’

  Agnes shook her head. ‘I fear they’ll not discover her.’

  ‘What troubles thee so?’ Marian asked. ‘I swear we’ll find her wandering as usual.’

  ‘Aye. ’Tis naught but a foolish fear.’

  ‘Don’t fret,’ Marian told her. ‘I’ll get Emma, and we’ll go seeking the old nuisance once more.’

  Marian found Emma pale and watery-eyed, still curled on her pallet, though the sun was high in the sky.

  ‘Why, Emma . . . are you sick?’

  ‘Nay,’ Emma smiled weakly, ‘I feel sick, but I am not really sick.’

  ‘What then?’

  Emma smiled. ‘I am with child.’

  Marian’s mouth dropped open with horror. ‘Are you sure?’

  But Emma would not let her be angry or fearful.

  ‘Aye . . . you forget, I know how it feels. Do not look like that, for I am glad. I have chosen to have this child. I have chosen the man. I pray that it lives.’

  Marian shook her head, exasperated. ‘I fear we’re in for a bout of trouble. You with child and Sarah lost. Agnes wishes us to search for her, but you cannot go now.’

  ‘Here, pull me up,’ Emma insisted, holding out her hand. ‘A good walk through the forest shall suit me well. Come on, we shall find the old woman and bring her back.’

  But though they searched for three more days and nights Sarah could not be found. Brother James came with messages from the Magdalen Assart. The nuns could find no sign of her. The Seeress was greatly distressed at the old woman’s disappearance and she swore that sorrow would come of it.

  At last Agnes admitted her fears.

  ‘I think we should send a message to Philippa’s husband at Langden.’

  Marian stared at her, realising only dimly what that might mean.

  Philippa, who was usually so brave, turned pale. ‘You think she might have wandered back to her old home? Aye, such a thing can happen with one like Sarah, whose memories come and go.’

  ‘What if she did?’ asked Marian. ‘What would William of Langden do? Could she betray us, do you think?’

  Agnes shook her head. ‘How can we know?’

  ‘I shall take Snap, and go to Langden,’ said Brother James. ‘For none of us are safe until we know.’

  17

  Can This be the Sea?

  BROTHER JAMES RETURNED the next day. Marian and Philippa were up to their elbows in the dye tub, though they left it at once when they saw the monk stride into the clearing.

  ‘Have you news?’ Marian cried.

  ‘Aye. ’Tis not good . . . though it could be worse.’

  Agnes and Emma came running to hear what was said.

  Brother James had hidden in the thicket close to Langden village, for he’d found that Snap would not stop growling once he’d scented Langden land.

  He’d stayed hidden until at last he spied one of Philippa’s sons. The lad had told him all he needed to know. Sarah had indeed returned to Langden. She had marched up to her own old cottage and demanded of the new tenants what right they had to be in her home. Fortunately, the young wife remembered Sarah well and the harsh way she’d been treated. She made no fuss, but took poor Sarah in and settled her by the hearth, and there she’d been ever since. The villagers were all doing their best to help. So far, they’d kept the old woman quiet and safe, but no one could tell what William of Langden might do if he saw her.

  ‘Any attempt to persuade her to leave her old fireside sends her into a screaming fit of rage,’ Brother James told them. ‘But there is more that the lad told me, Philippa.’

  ‘What?’ Philippa looked fearful.

  ‘William of Langden has had angry taunting messages from Nottingham’s Sheriff. It seems that foresters found bloodied cloth upon a mantrap, and small footprints in the mud around. They say the cloth was torn from the habit of a nun. The Sheriff believes that the wicked heretic nuns have organised a gang of ruffian children to steal the King’s deer from Sherwood.’

  ‘Ah . . . ’twould almost be laughable,’ said Philippa, ‘though I’m fearful of what they’ll do.’

  ‘Aye. The Sheriff says that the nuns came from Langden land. He says ’tis William’s job to catch them, and he jeers and makes great ridicule – William of Langden bested by a pack of children and chanting women!’

  Marian’s eyes were wide with fear. ‘And old Sarah could give us away to him, any day.’

  Brother James shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.

  The dye had dried bright green on Marian’s arms while they were talking. Once they’d heard the news they could not settle back to their work again. They made Brother James sit down to eat with them, while they went over the problem once more. It was while they were still eating that they heard the sound of hooves.

  Marian jumped to her feet. ‘William of Langden?’ she cried.

  ‘Nay ’tis but one horse,’ said Philippa. ‘He would only come with all his guards.’

  Emma suddenly let out a cry of joy and ran forwards, for a stallion trotted into the clearing with John in the saddle.

  He flung himself down, and hugged her, though it was clear his face was drawn with worry.

  ‘Something’s wrong?’ Marian cried.

  ‘Aye. Something wron
g indeed,’ said John.

  He looked to where Agnes stood behind Marian. He walked slowly towards her, pulling Emma gently along with him.

  ‘Bad news of tha son, I fear.’

  ‘Is he dead?’ Agnes asked, her voice calm.

  ‘No . . . but I fear he may be wounded unto death.’

  ‘How then?’ Agnes stumbled forward and they made her sit down upon the doorstep.

  John crouched at her side. ‘That foul man-hunter we told thee of . . . Gisburn. He came upon us down Wentbridge way; he and a gang of Nottingham’s best armed fighters. We split up and ran our different ways, as we had always planned we should. Much and Stoutley followed Robert. I wish I’d gone with them, but I went flying off towards Wakefield. ’Twas just three days ago that Stoutley found me and told what happened. Robert headed north towards the River Humber, and . . . ’ The big man paused, sighing.

  ‘And what?’ Marian asked. ‘Did Gisburn follow him?’

  ‘Aye. Nottingham’s men dropped back and gave up the chase . . . but not Gisburn, he clung to their trail like a rabid dog. That man! Still, he’s dead now. Gisburn is dead at last, killed by Robert. He’ll hunt no more, but they made a bitter fight of it. Stoutley had gone to Howden for help. He fetched three brave fellows with him, friends we’d made at Tickhill, from amongst the Bishop’s men. They were too late.’

  ‘So Robert was alone when Gisburn came upon him?’ Marian clenched her hands.

  ‘He and Much. Poor Muchlyn hid in fright. I’m glad he did or he’d be dead for certain.’

  ‘Where is my son now?’ Agnes asked.

  ‘In the north, safe in a cottage close by the sea. They’d travelled far with Gisburn on their tails, up through the Forest of Galtres. ’Twas close to Pickering Castle that Robert turned and fought. Bishop Hugh’s men carried him across the heather moors, to Baytown, not far from Whitby Abbey. They’ve friends there who’ll protect him. Much is with him, and does his best to nurse him, but Rob has fallen into a sleeping sickness from his wounds.’

  John caught Agnes by the hand. ‘I have this fine horse from the Bishop’s stable, ’twill carry thee and me. We might be there tomorrow if we rode through the night.’

  Agnes shook her head.

  ‘I should take good care of thee,’ John begged.

  Agnes smiled sadly. ‘I do not fear to ride with thee, John. ’Tis simply that I am the Forestwife; I stay here.’

  John looked to the other women for help, but they shook their heads. There would be no moving Agnes, they knew that. Then Agnes looked up abruptly, biting at her lips.

  ‘Another could go in my place. Both Emma and Marian know enough of healing.’

  The two girls looked at each other.

  ‘Will tha come with me, Emma?’ John smiled.

  Emma suddenly flooded with tears. Marian threw her arm around her shoulders. ‘Emma must not go. It shall be me. I’ll come with thee, John.’

  John looked puzzled and hurt, but he nodded. ‘I think there is no time to lose.’

  Marian got to her feet, and pulled Agnes up. ‘Tell me what herbs to take, and what to do. John, tha must find the time to talk to Emma before we go.’

  The women rushed madly about, helping Marian to make herself ready for the journey, William of Langden forgotten for more urgent fears. John and Emma wandered hand in hand towards Selina’s mound. When they came back, Marian was ready, wrapped in her cloak and loaded with bundles of herbs, cordials, and two warm rugs.

  John kissed Emma, and hugged her. ‘I shall come straight back to thee,’ he promised.

  Marian climbed up behind John, and Agnes fussed and fretted.

  ‘Take care of theesen, my honey. Make a hot poultice of comfrey. It must be kept hot and freely changed. Has tha heard me right? And you must keep his body warm, though he sweats and sweats. ’Tis the sweating that brings the fever out.’

  Marian nodded and smiled, her stomach tight with excitement.

  ‘What of old Sarah?’ she said.

  Agnes shook her head. ‘There’s naught we can do. Just wait and hope she comes quietly back to us.’

  ‘Tell the Seeress where I’ve gone,’ Marian begged them.

  John blew a last kiss to Emma, then he turned the stallion and they were off, cantering through the woods.

  There was plenty of room for two in the saddle. It had been shaped for a knight in chain mail with room to carry weapons. Marian soon grew used to the rocking motion of the horse’s stride. The best memories she had of Holt Manor were of riding pillion behind one of her uncle’s grooms.

  ‘Does the Bishop send his horse willingly?’ Marian asked.

  John laughed. ‘The Bishop does not know he’s harboured outlaws. ’Twould seem discourteous to let him know. So, better not to ask. The Bishop shall have his stallion back, and he’ll not complain, so long as we answer his call to arms.’

  ‘Aye!’ Marian sighed. Nothing had changed.

  They headed north towards Pontefract, close to where the great road ran. They dared not travel on the road in daylight, but kept to the forest tracks that ran close by. At dusk they stopped to eat the bread and goats’ cheese that Agnes had packed for them. Marian’s back ached, and she staggered around stiff-legged.

  Revived by the food and fresh water from a stream, they returned to their journey. As darkness fell, they clattered out onto the wide Roman road. The horse made better progress then, and soon they passed York in the far distance. They left the road, heading east through the Forest of Galtres in the dawn light.

  They stopped to eat again, sitting up on a high wooded hillside above an abbey. Below them the bell rang for prime, and an orderly line of nuns filed into the church.

  ‘Could that be Whitby Abbey?’ Marian asked.

  ‘I think not,’ John shook his head.

  ‘Where are we now?’

  John hesitated. ‘I’ve not travelled this way before.’

  ‘Do you mean we’re lost?’

  ‘Nay. Not lost, exactly. I know from the stars and the sun that we turned east, and must keep going east, until we reach the sea.’

  ‘I’ve never seen the sea,’ Marian was eager for it.

  John scratched his head. ‘Nor I.’

  Marian frowned. ‘How shall we know it then?’

  ‘I do not think we shall mistake it. They say it is like a great lake, that spreads and spreads.’

  Marian nodded. ‘We’d best get on.’

  They rode down the sloping hillside into the valley, and stopped a man with a mule to ask the way.

  ‘Why, this is Rosedale Abbey,’ he answered, surprised they should not know. ‘For Whitby, tha must head up the valley, then on to High Moor. Follow the beck through Glaisdale till it joins the river Esk. Tha’ll see Whitby town ahead, though the land juts out into the sea, so Whitby faces north.’

  ‘And shall we see the sea then?’

  ‘Oh aye,’ he grinned. ‘Tha’ll see the sea.’

  They journeyed onwards through banks and hills of bright-flowering purple heather that stretched as far as the eye could see. The sun was sinking behind them when the river widened, sharply dividing two steep cliffs on either side. Clusters of small dwellings clung precipitously to the crags.

  ‘Can they live safe up there?’ Marian asked.

  John whistled in amazement. ‘I swear this must be Whitby town.’

  He dismounted, leading Marian upon the horse, open-mouthed, and staring about her at great white birds that swooped and cried.

  ‘See,’ John pointed to the eastern side. ‘There is the Abbey.’ Marian craned her neck to see, but as they walked on she clutched suddenly at the horse’s mane. While she rode and John walked, she could see further ahead than he. The cliffs had fallen away, so that the river swelled to spread itself across the wide horizon. Swelled till it seemed to touch the sky. The sight of it made her giddy.

  ‘John,’ she whispered. ‘Can this be the sea?’

  ‘Aye, for sure it must be.’

  They moved sl
owly onwards, till the horse’s hooves sunk into softest silvery sand. Then they paused, staring at the wonder of it. Marian’s head turned this way and that.

  ‘I never guessed that it would move so. Like a great lapping beast it is. Do you hear its gentle roar?’

  ‘Aye,’ said John. ‘And how it taints the wind, with such a smell of fish and salt.’

  They stood for a long while, just watching the waves as they crept towards the shingle. At last John dragged his gaze away, to realise with a jolt that they were a growing cause of interest. A group of ragged children had slowly and quietly gathered about them. They stared at Marian with her green cloak and her bright green arms.

  ‘She’s the Green Lady,’ they whispered.

  Marian laughed. ‘Nay, just a girl like any other! ’Tis just that I’ve had my hands in the dye tub. ’Tis forest dyes that make this fine strong green.’

  ‘We travel on to Baytown,’ said John. ‘Can tha show us the way? We must try to reach it before the light has gone.’

  They were set well on their way, up the steep horse road that took them past the Abbey. Up onto the highest cliff tops, where Baytown could be seen in the distance.

  ‘There’s men round here who’re loyal to Bishop Hugh,’ John told her. ‘You shall be safe here.’

  As they rode towards the first straggling cottages of Baytown, a joyful shout rang out. Muchlyn came hurtling towards them through the falling gloom.

  ‘Thank God,’ he cried. ‘Thank God that you’ve come.’

  ‘Does he live?’ John asked.

  Much’s face fell. ‘He breathes, but he does little else. I cannot make him eat. I fear he’s going fast.’

  Marian struggled down from the horse. Much stared at her, puzzled that it was not Agnes who had come. He did not stop to question it, for he was anxious that they should see Robert. Marian followed him into a small thatched hut.

  A single candle sent flickering shadows jumping up the walls. A dark shape lay still upon a pile of straw beside a meagre fire that smoked and spluttered on the hearth. The hut was filled with the stench of sickness.

  ‘Light,’ said Marian urgently. ‘I must have light.’