Two months had passed and still no word from Walter.
If she had not felt confident after all these excursions into the Forest, Adela might not have gone so far by herself that midsummer day. Having ridden into the central section of the Forest, she had let her mind wander and for some time her horse had taken his own course along the woodland tracks, at a gentle walk. Then she had dismounted and rested for a little while in a tiny glade while the animal cropped the grass. The sound of a herd of deer suddenly crashing through the undergrowth somewhere ahead had woken her from her reverie. Curious, she had quickly mounted and trotted forward to see what had disturbed them. Coming out abruptly on to open ground, and seeing a figure she thought she recognized ahead, she cantered towards him, hardly thinking what she was doing. He turned. She saw. And it was already too late.
‘Good day, Godwin Pride,’ she said.
Pride stared. Just for once, he lost his usual composure. His mouth sagged open. He couldn’t believe it: how could he have failed to hear her coming? It had only taken him a few moments to run across the open ground and a few more to hoist the fallen doe on to his shoulders. Obviously it had been long enough. The bad luck of the thing was past belief.
And, of all people, this girl. A Norman. Worse still, all the Forest knew she had been riding out with Edgar.
Worst of all, he was caught, as the forest law termed it, ‘red-handed’: the deer and its blood on his hands. There was no escape. He was for it. Mutilation: they’d cut off one of his limbs. They might even hang him. You couldn’t be sure.
He glanced about. They were alone. Just for a moment he wondered if he should kill her. But he put the thought out of his mind. The doe slipped from his back as he stood up straight, brave as a lion before her. If he was frightened at facing death he wasn’t going to show it.
And then he thought of his family. What were they going to do if he swung? Suddenly they came before his mind’s eye: the four children, his daughter only three, his wife, and the bitter words she would say. She’d be right. How could he explain it to his children? He could hear his own voice. ‘I did a foolish thing.’ Without even realizing he was doing it, he gave a short gasp.
But what could he do? Plead with this Norman girl? Why should she help him? She’d be bound to tell Edgar.
‘A fine day, isn’t it?’
He blinked. What was she saying?
‘I rode out early this morning,’ she went on calmly. ‘I hadn’t meant to come so far, but the weather was so good. I suppose if I go that way’ – she pointed – ‘I should get to Brockenhurst.’
He nodded, slightly bemused. She was talking on, as though there were nothing the matter in the world. What the devil was she at?
And then he got the message. She had not looked at the deer.
She was looking straight at his face. Dear God, she was asking after his children. He tried to mumble some reply. She had not seen the deer. Now he comprehended: she was chattering quietly on so that he would understand clearly. There was to be no complicity, no shared guilt, no embarrassment, no favours owed – she was too clever for that. She was better than that. The deer did not exist.
She went on a little more, asked him the best route by which she should return and, still without a single glance at the deer on the ground in front of her, she announced: ‘Well, Godwin Pride, I must be on my way.’ Then she turned the horse’s head and with a wave of her hand she was gone.
Pride took a deep breath.
Now that, he considered, was style.
Moments later, the deer was safely hidden and he was ready to go home. As he started off one further thought occurred to him and he smiled a little grimly.
Just as well, he mused, it wasn’t the pale doe he had shot.
Adela was surprised, returning in the evening to Christchurch, to find Walter Tyrrell crossly awaiting her.
‘If you hadn’t come back so late, we could have left today,’ he rebuked her. The fact that she had no idea he was arriving did not seem to matter. ‘Tomorrow morning, first thing. Be ready,’ he ordered.
‘But where are we going?’ she asked.
‘To Winchester,’ he informed her, as though it were obvious.
Winchester. At last – a place of real importance. There would be royal officials there, knights, people of consequence.
‘Except’, he added as an afterthought, ‘we’re to stay a few days, first, at a manor west of here. Down in Dorset.’
‘Whose manor?’
‘Hugh de Martell’s.’
There was a change in the weather the next morning. As they rode westwards into the sweeping ridges of Dorset, a great, grey cloud had risen up from the horizon, blocking the sun, its shining edges imparting a dull, luminous glow to objects in the landscape below.
Walter had maintained his usual grumpy silence for most of the way, but as they came over the last, long ridge he remarked to her gloomily: ‘I didn’t want to bring you here, but I thought I might as well before you go to Winchester. Give you a day or two to smarten up your manners. In particular,’ he went on, ‘you should observe Martell’s wife, the Lady Maud. She knows how to behave. Try to copy her.’
The village lay in a long valley. It was very different country from the Forest. On each side huge fields of wheat and barley, neatly divided into strips, swept up the slopes until they rolled over the valley’s crests. At the near end a small stone Saxon church rested on a green by a pond. The cottages were neatly fenced, more ordered than most such places. Even the village street looked tidy, as though swept by some unseen controlling hand. And finally the long lane led to the gatehouse to the manor itself. The house was set some distance back. Perhaps it was a trick of the light but as they rode through the entrance the close-cropped grass lawns, which lay on each side of them, seemed to Adela to be a darker green than the grass they had passed before. Ahead to the left was a large, square range of farm buildings, timber frame over stone, and to the right, set apart behind a large, well-swept open courtyard, stood the handsome hall with its accompanying buildings, all in knapped flintstone and topped with high, thatched roofs with not a straw out of place. This was no ordinary squire’s house. It was the base of a large territorial holding. Its calm, rather dark order said quietly, but just as clearly as any castle: ‘This land is the feudal lord’s. Bow down.’
A groom and his boy came out to take their horses. The door of the hall opened, and Hugh de Martell stepped out alone and came swiftly towards them.
She had not seen him smile before. It was warmer than she had expected. It made him more handsome than ever. He extended his long arm and held out his hand to help her down. She took it, noticing for a moment the dark hairs on his wrist, and stepped down beside him.
He quietly moved back and, before Walter could say anything remarked: ‘Just as well you came today, Walter. I was called away to Tarrant all day yesterday.’ Then he led the way, with an easy stride, towards the hall, holding the door for her as she went in.
The hall was large, as high as a barn with great oak-beamed rafters and woven rush matting on the floor. Two large oak tables, both gleaming, flanked the big open hearth in the centre. The wooden shutters were pulled back; the high windows let in a pleasant, airy light. She looked around for her hostess and almost at once, from a smaller doorway at the far end, that lady came in and went straight to Tyrrell.
‘You are welcome, Walter,’ she said softly, as he took her hand. ‘We are glad you could come.’ After only a short pause, she turned to Adela also. ‘You too, of course.’ She smiled, although with just a trace of doubt, as if faintly uncertain as to the younger woman’s social status.
‘My kinswoman, Adela de la Roche,’ said Walter without enthusiasm.
But it was not the cool reception that claimed Adela’s attention. What really struck her was the other woman’s appearance.
What had she expected Hugh de Martell’s wife to look like? More like him, she supposed – tall, handsome, nearer his age, perhaps. Yet t
his woman was only a little older than herself. She was short. And she wasn’t handsome at all. Her face, it seemed to Adela, was not exactly bad-looking but it was irregular; certainly her lips, which were small, weren’t straight – as if they had been slightly pulled up on one side. Her gown, although good, was too pale a shade of green and made her look even more pasty-faced than she was. A poor choice. She looked meagre, insignificant. That, Adela decided, was what she thought.
She had no chance to observe more just then. The manor house boasted two chambers where guests might sleep, one for men, another for women, and after her hostess had shown her the women’s chamber she left Adela to her own devices. But a little later, returning to the hall and finding Walter alone there, she quietly asked him: ‘When did Martell marry?’
‘Just three years ago.’ He glanced round and went on in a low voice: ‘He lost his first wife, you know.’ She had no idea. ‘Lost her and their only child. Heartbroken. Didn’t marry again for a long time, then thought he’d better try once more, I suppose. Needs an heir.’
‘But why the Lady Maud?’
‘She’s an heiress, you know.’ He gave her a quick, hard look. ‘He had two manors, this one and Tarrant. She brought him three more, same county. One of them marches with his land at Tarrant. Consolidates the holdings. Martell knows what he’s doing.’
She understood the bleak reminder of her own lack of manors. ‘And has he got an heir now?’
‘No children yet.’
Shortly after this the Lady Maud appeared and conducted her to the solar, a pleasant room up a flight of steps at one end of the hall. Here she found an old nurse, who greeted her courteously, and she sat and made polite conversation while the two women worked on their needlepoint.
Their talk was friendly enough. Dutifully following Walter’s earlier advice, she paid close attention to all that her hostess said and did. Certainly the lady of the manor seemed quite easy company in this setting. She clearly had a complete grasp of everything relating to the household. The kitchen where the beef was already on the spit, the larder where she was making preserves, her herb garden, her needlework, of which both she and the old nurse were quite rightly proud – all these things she spoke about with a quiet warmth that was pleasing. But if Adela asked her about anything outside these boundaries – about the estate or the politics of the county – she would only give a slightly twisted smile and answer: ‘Oh, I leave all that to my husband. That’s for the men, don’t you think?’
Yet at the same time she obviously knew all the landholders of the area well and Adela found it hard to believe that she did not have some idea of their affairs. Evidently, however, she did not believe it was her role to admit to such knowledge. She has decided what she wants to be and what she ought to think, Adela realized. She does so because she believes it’s to her advantage. No doubt, behind her mincing little smile, she thinks me a fool if I don’t play the same game. She also noticed that as she quietly stitched, the Lady Maud asked her almost nothing about herself – although whether it was because she was not interested or because she did not wish to embarrass Walter’s obviously poor relation, it was impossible to tell.
In the afternoon they all went for a ride round the estate. With its huge fields, its neatly kept orchards, its well-stocked fish ponds, it was the perfect model of what such a manor should be. There could be no doubt that Hugh de Martell knew his business well. When they came to a long slope that led up to the crest of the ridge, the two men cantered up it and Adela would have liked to follow at the same pace.
But the Lady Maud was firm: ‘I think we should walk the horses. Let the men canter.’ So Adela was obliged to keep her company and they only got halfway up the ridge before the return of the men caused them to turn round again.
‘Fine view,’ Walter remarked as they did so.
On their return from the ride they found that the servants had set out trestle tables in the hall, spread them with cloths and soon afterwards they were seated for a meal. Since they had not eaten yet that day a full dinner was now served. Everything was quietly but handsomely done. A small procession brought bread and broth, salmon and trout, three meats. Hugh de Martell carved himself; the Lady Maud served Walter from her own plate. The wine – this was rare indeed – was clear and good, lightly spiced. Fresh fruits, cheeses and nuts rounded off their meal. Tyrrell politely complimented the Lady Maud upon each course and Martell took the trouble to amuse Adela by telling her a funny story about a merchant from Normandy who spoke no English. And perhaps she drank just a little too much.
Yet how could she possibly have known she was making a mistake when she mentioned the Forest? Since, in Walter’s eyes, she had made such a fool of herself there, he might have assumed she would not bring up the subject of the deer drift. It was hard to know. All she did at first, in any case, was to ask her hostess if she ever ventured into the New Forest.
‘The New Forest?’ The Lady Maud looked faintly startled. ‘I don’t think I’d want to go there.’ She gave Walter one of her little smiles, as if Adela had said something socially inappropriate. ‘The people who live there are very strange. Have you been there, Walter?’
‘Only once or twice. With the royal hunt.’
‘Ah. Well that’s rather different.’
Adela saw that Walter had just given her a disapproving frown. Obviously he wanted her to change the subject. But it also irritated her. Why should she be treated like an idiot all the time? He was going to despise her anyway. ‘I ride in the Forest alone,’ she said blithely. ‘I’ve even hunted there.’ She paused to let that sink in. ‘With your husband.’ And she gave Walter a smile of cheerful defiance.
But whatever reaction she might have expected, it was not the one she got.
‘Hugh?’ The Lady Maud frowned, then went a little pale. ‘Went hunting in the Forest?’ She looked at him questioningly. ‘Did you, my dear?’ she asked in a strangely small voice.
‘Yes, yes,’ he said quickly, with a frown. ‘With Walter here. And Cola. Back in the spring.’
‘I don’t think I knew that.’ She was looking at him with a silent reproach.
‘I’m sure you did,’ he said in a firm tone.
‘Oh. Well,’ she replied softly, ‘I do now.’ And she gave Adela her twisted smile before adding with a forced playfulness: ‘Men will go off hunting in the Forest.’
Walter was gazing down at his food. As for Martell, was there a hint of impatience in his manner? A slight shrug of the shoulder? Why would he not have told her? Was there some other reason for his visit to the Forest? Were there other absences, perhaps? Adela wondered. If he escaped from his wife from time to time, she was not sure she blamed him, whatever he got up to.
It was Walter who came to the rescue. ‘Speaking of things royal,’ he calmly remarked, as though nothing awkward had occurred, ‘have you heard …’ And a moment later he was relating one of the latest scandals from the royal court. As they so often did, this concerned the king’s shocking words to some monks. Impatient of religion himself, Rufus could seldom resist baiting churchmen. As usual also, the Norman king had contrived to be both rude and funny. Shocked though she felt she must be, the Lady Maud was soon laughing as much as her husband.
‘Where did you learn this?’ Martell enquired.
‘Why, from the Archbishop of Canterbury himself,’ Walter confessed, which made them laugh all the more. For it was a fact, quite amusing to Adela, that Tyrrell had somehow managed to ingratiate himself with the saintly Archbishop Anselm too.
And then, having got into his stride, Walter started to entertain them. First one, then another, the stories rolled out. Witty, amusing, mostly about the great figures of the day, frequently accompanied by the admonition ‘Don’t repeat this,’ Walter told his stories well. No one could have failed to be delighted, flattered, fascinated by such an amusing courtier. For Adela it was a revelation. She had never seen Walter being charming before. He certainly never is to me, she thought. But you had to ad
mit he had the skill. Despite herself she was impressed.
And it occurred to her too – if he was impatient with her, could she entirely blame him? This clever Walter Tyrrell, who had married into the mighty Clares, was a friend of the great – could she really complain if he was ashamed of her as she did one gauche thing after another?
When, some time later, the contented party broke up and prepared to retire early to bed, she went to his side and murmured: ‘I’m sorry. I keep doing the wrong thing, don’t I?’
To her surprise, in reply, he smiled at her quite kindly. ‘My fault too, Adela. I haven’t been very nice to you.’
‘True. But I can’t have been a burden you wanted much.’
‘Well, let’s see if we can do something for you in Winchester,’ he said. ‘Goodnight.’
She woke early the next morning feeling wonderfully refreshed. She opened the shutters. The day was beginning, the pink of dawn already fading from a clear blue sky. The damp cool air tingled on her face. Apart from the gentle twittering of the birds, everything was quiet. Some way off a cock crowed. She thought she detected the faint smell of barley in the air. No one was stirring yet in the house, but across the ridge she saw a single peasant making his way along a path. She took a breath.
She couldn’t wait in the chamber until the household started to appear. The day was too inviting. She felt too excited. Pulling on her chemise and a linen overshirt, tying her girdle, sweeping back her loose hair with both hands and with only slippers on her feet, she went quickly out of the house. If she looked a little wild, she thought, it didn’t matter. No one would see her.
Just beyond the house was a walled garden entered by a gate. She went in. It would be some time before the sun invaded that silent space. Herbs and honeysuckle grew there. Three apple trees occupied a patch of lawn, their half-ripened apples still hard, although they had put on their first blush of colour. Wild strawberries showed among the grass too, spangling the green with tiny specks of red. There were cobwebs in the corners of the wall. Everything was drenched in dew. Her mouth widened with delight. Why, she might have been in some castle or monastery garden in her native Normandy.
The Forest Page 6