Child of the May Page 4

  Magda gasped, but Robert pressed her arm. “Hush,” he whispered. “Not our Matilda, surely.”

  “FitzRanulf!” the King screamed. “Leave thy food, man! Get your fellows up to the Scottish border. I have her at last – my Lady de Braose.”

  “See,” Robert soothed. “Not our lady. It’s Matilda de Braose, wife to William. Powerful Marcher Lord, he is . . . or was.”

  “Brave woman,” growled Brother James. “I sorrow to hear her captured. His wolves have chased her through half the kingdom!”

  There was no time for Magda to ask more; the great hall was in uproar. The wolfpack rose quickly from their seats at the King’s command. Wine spilled, kitchen lads and lasses were shoved aside, bread and sweetmeats rolled to the floor.

  “Look sharp,” hissed Robert, “this may be our moment. Make for Isabel.”

  Caught in the chaos, Isabel looked wildly about her, sure that she’d had a glimpse of Brother James. “Thank God,” she cried at the sight of him battling sturdily through the crowd towards her, two familiar figures behind him.

  “Come, dear lady,” James cried, gently lifting Matilda of Langden into his arms. “We think it time to go.”

  Robert took Isabel’s arm and steered her towards the kitchens. “Let’s leave,” he whispered. “None shall think of you at this moment.”

  Magda followed them as best she could, but Robert had been wrong. The Sheriff’s wife stood just inside the kitchen, marshalling her servants to save what food they could.

  “I want no waste!” she shrieked, her face red and sweaty. “And where do you go, my Lady of Langden?” she demanded.

  For just one terrible moment Robert seemed to hesitate, Magda shivered, despite the heat and fuss that surrounded them.

  “Why, to their home, fair lady.” Robert was quickly silken-tongued and confident again. “The potter of Mansfield shall see them safely to Langden.”

  “Oh would you indeed, Sir Potter?” The Sheriff’s wife twitched with surprise at such boldness. “But you would pass through Sherwood and Barnsdale! How can you and your young lad protect these ladies from murderous thieves?”

  “Ah, we can outwit the Hooded One,” Robert winked. “We potters have our own safe and secret byways. Besides, ’twill save you the expense of keeping these ladies here.”

  The woman still doubted. “Isabel?” she said. “Would you go off with these men? You were told to marry or pay the fine.”

  “I cannot think of marriage when my mother is sick,” Isabel anwered firmly. “She craves the comfort of her own hearth. I know this man and I trust him.”

  The Sheriff’s wife folded her arms and pursed her lips. Robert delved into the money bag that hung at his belt. He brought out his day’s takings at the pottery stall and more. “There’s forty pounds here,” he said. “Take this as surety. We shall send the rest of the money as the King demands.”

  The Sheriff’s wife gaped open-mouthed at the cheek of this man, but as she looked at the worn ashen face of Lady Matilda, a touch of pity turned her flushed face kind. Jewelled fingers closed around the money that Robert held out. “Go Isabel. Take your mother home,” she said quietly. “No more money will be required.”

  Brother James quickly carried the old woman through the noisy kitchens, Isabel pushing at his side. Robert snatched up the plump hand of the Sheriff’s lady and kissed it. “This kindness shall be remembered,” he whispered.

  In spite of the noise and confusion that surrounded her, the Sheriff’s wife stared, puzzled, after the retreating backs of the potter and his lad.

  They ran down Houndsgate and past the Butter Cross until a series of familiar whistles and the bellow of a snorting horse led them to Muchlyn, John and the others with the potter’s cart, now hidden in a blacksmith’s forge close to the northern gate.

  “About time!” John cried. “Can’t keep this damned animal still.”

  Philippa ran to take Lady Matilda into her care. “Whatever have they done to thee?” she cried, concerned at the old lady’s frailty.

  Brother James swore quietly when he saw the stamping, powerful beast that they’d taken from the castle stables. “When John steals a horse, he don’t muck about,” he said. “We’d best be away before this beast wakes the whole of Nottingham.”

  “But if we go now, we’ll meet the wolfpack on the road!” cried Magda. “Isn’t that right? They’re heading north?”

  “Yes,” said Robert, with a sharp crack of laughter. “But at least they’re one horse short! That’ll slow them up a bit. John, you must go at once with James and Philippa. Take the ladies in the cart, and make a dash for Sherwood. Hide in Bestwood Dell till they’ve passed. We’ll catch you up.”

  “Aye,” said John, helping to lift Matilda into the wagon. “Come ladies. We’ve cloaks and straw. I hope the journey won’t be too rough.”

  “Never mind comfort,” Isabel told him, leaping up after her mother. “Just get us out of here!”

  “Magda?” said John. “She should come too!”

  “Nay,” Robert replied, “you’ve got a wagonful. She’ll be just as safe following with me and Tom. She can ride the potter’s old nag.”

  John looked as though he wanted to argue, but Isabel was clearly desperate to be out of Nottingham Town.

  “You take good care of my lass,” said John as he snatched the reins of the wolfpack’s steed and steered the wagon towards the northern gate.

  8

  A Bundle of Rags

  Robert and Magda emerged from the narrow close near the forge. Tom followed them, leading the potter’s worn old horse, but the sound of shouting in the distance and the faint clatter of hooves made them shrink back into the darkest shadows.

  Robert’s arm pressed Magda against the lumpy stone walls of the blacksmith’s home as the pounding of hooves and snorting of powerful horses came close. Suddenly the wolfpack was upon them . . . and passing. The streets were filled with the sound of angry voices swearing and the clink and scrape of weaponry. The wolfpack headed out of the city gate and into the night, the clamour fading until only the grumbling of the gatemen was left.

  Robert relaxed. “Our turn,” he said. “Get up and ride!”

  “Who’s this?” the guard called.

  “Potter o’ Mansfield and his ’prentices,” Robert told him, leading the bony grey mare with Magda astride.

  “Where’s your wagon, then?”

  “Stolen! Some great oaf! Giant of a fellow!”

  The man grinned and scratched his head. “It’s a bad night, right enough. Half o’ Nottingham’s setting out for Sherwood. I saw a wagon go tearing past a while back, pulled by some devil horse. I thought to myself that’s no potter’s nag! But then the King’s wolfhounds followed fast. Tha wants no trouble with them!” The man hurriedly crossed himself.

  “I’ll get the thieving swine,” Robert spat.

  “Mind the Hooded One!” the man called out, laughing. “Watch out, or he’ll be getting thee.”

  By the time they reached the first sheltering trees, Magda was bitterly cold and weary of the jolting. The old mare stumbled through thick darkness.

  “Why could I not go ahead in the wagon?” she moaned.

  Robert ignored her bleating, walking in silence ahead.

  Tom who led the horse, turned to her patiently. “He has his reasons for not sending you ahead. Good reasons, I believe.”

  “My father wanted me to go in the wagon.” Magda could hear the whine in her voice and hated it, but she was too cold and tired to stop it.

  “Shall I tell her?” Tom called out to Robert.

  “If you wish.” Robert’s uninterested voice floated back to them from the darkness ahead.

  “Tell me what?” demanded Magda, suddenly warmed a little, curiosity arousing her.

  “Well,” said Tom. “We had to get John out of Nottingham fast, before he saw the wolfpack’s leader.”

  “That FitzRanulf man? The one who hit me? Why should my father not see him?”


  Tom went on in silence for a moment, and Robert spoke again. “She’ll find out soon, anyway . . . best tell her.”

  With a nasty lurch of her stomach, Magda knew that she would not like what she was about to hear. “Tell me,” she hissed, the jolting of the horse forgotten.

  “That man, Hugh FitzRanulf,” said Tom plainly. “It was he who killed your mother. We could not let John know he was there.”

  The shock of hearing it numbed her; she rode on in silence, suddenly shivering, though the night was not cold.

  “Magda?” Tom was anxious. “Are you all right? Did you hear me?”

  “Aye.” She spoke with quiet certainty. “I heard, and you were right. My father would have gone for him with his bare hands. He’d have killed him.”

  “Yes,” Tom agreed. “Then his wolfhounds would have killed John. And if we had made a move, we’d all have been taken.”

  Again Robert’s voice came back to them out of the darkness, oddly gentle this time. “Do you remember what I promised you, little one? There in the hall?”

  “Yes,” she whispered between gritted teeth. “You said that death should not be good enough for FitzRanulf.”

  They travelled on through the darkness, for Robert insisted that they were not safe on the outskirts of the forest.

  Magda rode in thoughtful silence for a while, but weariness caught up with her. “We’re miles from Nottingham now,” she complained. “How does Robert know where we’re safe and where we are not?”

  “He knows,” said Tom. “Eyes like a fox, he has, and ears too.”

  At last Robert turned about. “This’ll do. Sleep now,” he said. “We’ll wake at dawn and go to find John.”

  “Can we make a fire?” Magda asked.

  “No,” Robert told her. “We’re not far enough from town for that.”

  “But I’m cold,” she whispered.

  “Here’s a fine patch of dry springy moss,” said Robert, kicking around in the undergrowth. “Come wrap that cloak around and snuggle down between the two of us. Not every little lass has two fine fellows like us to keep her warm! ’Eh Tom?”

  “Aye.” She could hear the answering laughter in Tom’s voice.

  “I’m not a little lass,” she said, wishing Robert would go away and leave her there beside Tom. But she did as she was told, making sure that she settled down on Robert’s left side.

  “There. Warm and safe?” Robert asked.

  “Yes,” she answered, grudgingly comforted by the warmth of two strong male bodies and the familiar woodland sounds.

  It was not the morning light that wakened them but the faint creak and rumble of a cart. Robert and Tom were at once alert and ready to jump. A low bellow in the distance was answered by a whicker from the potter’s horse, then came a small thud.

  “What is it?” Magda whispered.

  “Hush!” Robert hissed. “Be still. An oxen and cart, I think . . . but it’s moving away.”

  They crouched in silence, peering through dim light that showed them the muzzy shapes of trees, but nothing moved.

  “You sleep again,” Robert told them. “I’ll watch.”

  “I can’t,” said Magda. “I’m wide awake now.”

  “They dropped something,” Tom insisted. “I want to know what.”

  Magda watched him tread soundlessly through the grass and then crouch to peer close at a bush. Suddenly sharp clattering arose, sending rooks screeching from the trees. Tom leapt backwards. Robert and Magda were both ready to run, but Tom quickly recovered and called to them.

  “Nowt to fear. Come here!”

  Magda went cautiously towards him but all she could see through the gloom was a bundle of rags, dumped beneath the bush. As she stepped closer, the bundle moved and a thin white hand wagged a noisy wooden clapper in the air, making her cry out in alarm.

  Robert grabbed Magda by the arm and pulled her back. “Tom!” he cried. “Keep away! A leper!”

  Magda’s heart thudded with fear at his words. Was that the meaning of the harsh clapper? She’d never come across the disease, not in all her years with the Forestwife, though she’d heard enough about it to dread it.

  “Get back, Tom,” she yelled.

  But Tom did not retreat again. He bent down towards the bundled rags. “’Tis but a child,” he cried.

  “Do not touch! Do not touch!” Magda screamed it frantically at him. She went slowly to see for herself, then caught her breath. She looked down though the faint dawning light on the pinched face of the Nottingham potter’s boy, a dark bruise showing on his chin where she had hit him.

  9

  Bestwood Dell

  Magda remembered the strange red patches on the boy’s throat and his frantic search for herbs.

  “Look!” she told Robert. “See who it is! His father sold pots on the next stall.”

  Robert scratched his head. “The lad you sent flying? Aye, so it is. What are you doing here, boy?” he asked.

  The boy sat mute and still as a statue, staring blankly; he would not look at them. When Tom held out his hand, he quickly snatched up the clapper and set it snapping its harsh rhythm through the quiet trees.

  “Stop it!” Magda cried, covering her ears with her hands. “I hate it.”

  There was silence again until Tom spoke. “But you are no leper,” he said. “Surely?”

  Then in a small shaky whisper, the boy answered. “Father says I am.”

  “Why?” Magda cried. “Why should he think it so?”

  “My mother was stricken soon after my birth,” the boy whispered.

  Magda shivered.

  “Where is your mother? Does she live?” Tom asked.

  “Stoned.” The lad spoke without emotion. “The villagers stoned her. Father says it is best that I go, seek out my own kind. Better than suffer my mother’s fate.”

  “Your father!” Robert almost spat it out. “Was that he?” he asked, pointing after the cart.

  The boy nodded.

  “I cannot believe it,” Tom cried. “You are no leper! Magda, tell him so!”

  But Magda could not forget the sight of the patched red skin. She shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “His skin is marked.”

  Tom stood up. “We must give him food and let him have the horse,” he said.

  “That was for me.” Madga heard her own voice sounding pettish.

  Robert shook his head, uncertain for once. “Give him the horse, but he’d best keep his distance from us. I’m sorry for the lad, but we’ve troubles enough of our own. We must eat and find ourselves water and be on our way.” Suddenly his expression was lighter. With a flourish he brought out a loaf of fine white bread from his potter’s sack. “A gift from our Sheriff’s lady.”

  “It cheers you to think you’ve cheated anyone,” Magda cried.

  “Only rich fools,” Robert laughed.

  They divided up the loaf and Tom carried a good hunk over to the potter’s boy. His hands closed about the soft white bread that was such a treat, but he seemed unable to eat. Tom crouched down, full of comforting words, but Magda was quickly on her feet and shouting furiously again. “Do not touch him!”

  When at last they were ready to go, Tom held the bridle and soothed the horse, while the lad obediently struggled to mount. He accepted the reins without thanks. Tom slapped the bony flank and the horse set off north towards Barnsdale, the boy sitting stiffly astride like a straw-stuffed doll.

  Tom watched him go, a troubled expression on his face.

  “There’s nowt we can do,” Robert told him, shaking his head.

  “He says his name is Alan, same as my grandfather,” Tom said.

  When at last the potter’s son was out of sight, Robert made them walk north-west, along one of his secret paths, heading for Bestwood Dell.

  There was no sign of the wagon at the Dell, just Brother James settled on a rock and John striding back and forth, crushing a pathway of thick green bracken beneath his feet, his face like thunder.

 
As soon as the big man heard their approach, he leapt across the small clearing, whipping his meat knife from his belt. “You crafty whippet, you lying hound,” he growled, grabbing a fistful of jerkin and thrusting the knife at Robert’s throat. Brother James hurriedly got up from his rock.

  For a moment Magda was frightened, but Robert’s silence was reassuring. He stood there white-faced, blinking up at his friend, but he would not give ground.

  “You kept the bastard from me,” John spat at him. “You took my daughter in there! You sat my child down before her mother’s murderer!”

  Magda kept still and quiet, but remembered with resentment. Aye, and he let him hit me about the head, she thought.

  Even though John prodded at his neck with the sharp point of his knife till a trickle of blood ran, Robert did not speak. “I could have killed the man!” John spat furiously. “I could have torn him apart!”

  Still Robert said nothing, but Tom went slowly to stand at his side and face John. “We don’t doubt that you would have killed him,” he said. “But then what? I think Robert did right to keep you in ignorance.”

  Magda lurched towards her father, but she daren’t grab his arm. Though she knew he loved her dearly, he was still a huge and very angry man.

  “Robert has promised –” she said, swallowing hard to stop her voice shaking, “Robert has promised me this FitzRanulf shall be punished. Look at me, Father! Did you want to lose me too?”

  John turned to her and his face crumpled. He swung round and threw down the knife with so much force that it buried itself up to the hilt in the grassy earth. He crouched down amongst the bracken, covering his face with his hands. Magda went to him and wrapped her arms about his shoulders.

  The others watched solemnly.

  “Leave them,” said Brother James. “Let them grieve. Old wounds bleed afresh.”

  “Come here! I’ve something to show you.”

  James waved Robert and Tom over to the rock that he’d been sitting on.

  “Where’s the wagon?” Robert asked. “And Lady Matilda?”

  “Philippa insisted on taking Isabel and Matilda straight home,” James told him. “Muchlyn and Stoutly went with them. Matilda looks poorly. A frail old woman should not be dragged away from her hearthside like that. Our King would steal the gold from a dying man if he thought he could get but a pennyworth. The thought of Isabel wed to that wolfhound of his makes me shiver.”