The clouds were clearing from the sky to reveal, against the blue, the silver crescent of a waxing moon. There was a hint of spring warmth in the air. Adela was glad to be back in the Forest, even if she was a little afraid of what she was doing.
They had taken the track westwards from the central section of the Forest, up across the heathland of Wilverley, and were now about four miles west of Brockenhurst. Ahead of them lay a stretch of oak wood. To continue straight would lead down into the large dell where the dark little village of Burley lay. Instead, therefore, they cut right, through some woods and down a slope known as Burley Rocks. Crossing a big empty area of marshy lawn, they took a little track that led along the edge of some moorland. ‘That’s Burley moor on our right,’ Pride told her. ‘White Moor lies ahead. And that’ – he indicated a tummock on top of which a single tree seemed to be waving its arms distractedly – ‘is Black Hill.’ The track suddenly turned left, leading down to a stream, running swiftly as it made a sharp turn, like a crook in a man’s arm. ‘Narrow Water,’ he said. On the right, along the stream was a boggy area infested with stunted oaks, holly, birch and a tangled mass of saplings and bushes. And just past this, quite alone, stood an untidy collection of huts and a mud cabin with a roof made of branches, twigs and moss through which wisps of smoke were seeping.
They had come to Puckle’s place.
Pride had not wanted to take her, but she had insisted. ‘I don’t know where he lives and I don’t want to ask. People mustn’t know I went there. I think’, she added, looking at him hard, ‘that you owe me a favour.’ The deer. He couldn’t deny it. ‘Besides,’ she continued with a smile, ‘if you ask her, she’s more likely to agree to talk to me.’
And there was the rub, the real reason why he had been unwilling to take her. For it was not Puckle she wanted to see, but his wife. The witch.
Adela waited by the stream while Pride rode up to the cabin and went in. After a while she saw Puckle and various children and grandchildren emerge and busy themselves outside.
Then Pride appeared and made his way over to her. ‘She’s waiting for you,’ he said briefly. ‘You’d best go in.’ A few moments later Adela found herself stooping her head as she went through the small doorway into the witch’s little house.
It was rather shadowy inside. The cabin consisted of a single room, such light as there was coming from a window whose shutters were only partly open. In the centre of the floor a circle of stones served as a hearth in which a small turf fire was glowing. On the other side of the fire sat a figure in a low wooden chair. By her feet, warming itself, was a grey cat. There was a three-legged stool, also by the fire, to which the other woman motioned.
‘Sit down, my dear.’
Although Adela had not formed any precise image in her mind, Puckle’s wife was not what she had expected. Before her, as she got used to the light, she saw a comfortable middle-aged woman with a broad face, a rather snub nose and grey eyes spaced wide apart.
She was observing Adela with mild curiosity. ‘A fine young lady,’ she now continued quietly. ‘And you’ve come all the way from Winchester?’
‘Yes.’
‘Fancy that. And what can I do for you?’
‘I understand’, Adela said bluntly, ‘that you’re a witch.’
‘Oh?’
‘They say you are.’
‘They do, do they?’ The older woman seemed to receive this information with quiet amusement. Not that the accusation was so shocking: although witchcraft was certainly frowned upon by the Church, systematic persecution was rare in Norman England, especially in the depths of the country where ancient folk magic had always persisted. ‘And what if I were?’ she went on. ‘What would a fine young lady like you be looking for? A cure for a sickness? A love potion perhaps?’
‘No.’
‘You want your future told. A lot of young girls want to know the future.’
‘Not exactly.’
‘What is it then, my dear?’
‘I need to kill someone,’ said Adela.
It was a moment or two before the other woman spoke after that. ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you,’ she replied.
‘Have you ever?’
‘No.’
‘Could you?’
‘I wouldn’t even try.’ She shook her head. ‘These things only happen if they’re meant to be.’ She looked at Adela severely. ‘You should be careful. Wish someone good or wish someone evil, it will return to you three times.’
‘Is that what the witches say?’
‘Yes.’ After waiting for that to sink in, the older woman continued more kindly, ‘I can see you are troubled, though. Would you like to tell me about it?’
So Adela did. She explained about Martell and the Lady Maud. She told the woman all she had seen, the lady’s terrible faults of character, her unfaithfulness, the way Hugh de Martell was being misled.
‘And you think you’d make him a much better wife?’
‘Oh, yes. So you see, if his wife, who’s very sick anyway, were to die, it would really only be for the best.’
‘So you say, my dear. I see you’ve thought about it.’
‘I’m sure I’m right, you see,’ she said.
Puckle’s wife sighed, but she made no comment. Instead, she rocked to and fro in her chair while her cat raised its head enough to give Adela a long stare before apparently going to sleep again. ‘I think’, she said at last, ‘I can help you.’
‘You could make something happen? You could foretell?’
‘Perhaps.’ She paused. ‘But it may not be what you want.’
‘I’ve nothing to lose,’ Adela said simply.
After nodding her head thoughtfully, Puckle’s wife rose and went outside. She was gone for a few moments, then returned, although not to sit down. ‘Witchcraft, as you call it,’ she said quietly, ‘is not about casting spells. It’s not just that. So’ – she nodded to the chair where she had been sitting – ‘you go and sit down in that chair and relax.’ With that, she went over to a chest in one corner of the little room and busied herself with certain articles inside it, humming to herself as she did so. Her cat, meanwhile, moved away from its former position, settling down near the chest where, after one more meaningful look at Adela, it went back to sleep.
After a while, Puckle’s wife began to place some objects on the floor near the chair. Adela noticed a little chalice, a tiny bowl of salt, another of water, a dish containing, by the look of it, some oatcakes, a wand, a small dagger and one or two other items she did not recognize. While she was doing this, Puckle appeared in the doorway for a moment and handed her a sprig from an oak tree, which she took with a nod and placed beside the other articles. When all was ready she came and sat quietly on the stool for a time, apparently thinking to herself. The room became very quiet.
Reaching forward, she picked up the dish of oatcakes and offered them to Adela. ‘Take one.’
‘Are they special? Is there a magic ingredient in them?’ Adela asked with a smile.
‘Ergot,’ the witch replied simply. ‘It comes from grain. Some use an extract from mushrooms, or from toads. They all make the same sort of potion. But ergot is the best.’
Adela ate the little cake, which tasted of nothing very special. She felt both nervous and rather excited.
‘Now my dear,’ Puckle’s wife said at last, ‘I want you to sit quite still and rest your feet flat on the floor. Put your hands in your lap, push your back straight against the back of the chair.’ Adela did so. ‘Now,’ the witch continued gently, ‘I want you to take three breaths, very slowly, and when you let them out, taking your time, I want you to relax as completely as you can. Will you do that for me?’
Adela did so. The feeling of relaxation, coupled with her nervousness made her give a little laugh. ‘Are you going to take me away to a magic kingdom – another world?’ she asked.
The witch only looked down quietly at the floor. ‘As above, so below,’ she said quietly. ‘The magic
al kingdom is the world between the worlds.’ Looking up again she continued: ‘Now I want you to imagine you’re like a tree. There are roots growing down from your feet into the earth. Can you imagine that?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘Good.’ She paused a moment. ‘Now there’s a root growing down from your spine, right through the chair and down into the ground. Deep into the ground.’
‘Yes. I can feel it.’
The witch nodded slowly. It seemed to Adela that she was indeed rooted like a tree, in that space. At first it felt strange, then immensely relaxing. Only then did the witch get up and slowly begin to move about.
First she picked up the little dagger and, pointing it, she made a circle in the air that seemed to contain them both and all the articles on the ground. The cat remained outside the circle.
Then she touched the water in the bowl with the tip of the dagger, murmuring something; next she did the same to the salt. After this she transferred three tips of salt on the dagger point into the bowl of water and stirred, still murmuring softly.
Next she took the bowl of water and performed sprinklings, three times each, in four places round the imaginary circle, which Adela realized must be the four points of the compass. She took a tiny glowing shard from the fire, whispered something and snuffed it out, watching wisps of smoke drift upwards. Then once again she went round the four points, making curious signs at each.
‘Do you always move round the same way, from north to east to south?’ Adela ventured to ask.
‘Yes,’ came the reply. ‘If you go the other way we call it moving widdershins. Don’t talk.’
Now, a third time, she was going to the compass points around the circle, holding the dagger, and at each one she made a curious casting in the air. At the first Adela thought it was a random sign, but she realized that the second was identical. At the third she understood: the witch was drawing a pentagram, the five-pointed star whose structural lines have no break or ending, in the air. And though the fourth casting took place behind her head, she had no doubt it was the same. Finally the witch made a pentagram at the centre of the circle. ‘Air, Fire, Water, Earth,’ she said quietly. ‘The circle is made.’
Picking up the wand, she went round once more, repeating the pentagrams. Then, satisfied, she stood in the centre of the circle, not looking at Adela but apparently at the points on the circle’s edge, speaking softly to each before at last sitting down on the stool and quietly waiting, like a householder expecting visitors.
Adela, too, sat quietly waiting – she was not sure for how long. Not long, she thought.
At first, when Puckle’s wife had told her to imagine herself a tree, she had experienced a vague downward pressure on her body. After a little, to her surprise, she found she could not only imagine herself in this transformed state, she could actually feel the roots extending out of the soles of her feet and then from her spine, seeking their way down into the dark earth. She could feel the earth, as though she had acquired several new sets of hands and fingers: it was cool and damp, musty but nourishing. This downward sense continued. If she wanted to move, she realized, the roots would hold her down, keeping her in this single place. At first this seemed a little irksome. I’m not a free animal any more, she thought, I’m a tree, I’m trapped, a prisoner of the earth.
But gradually she began to get used to it. Although her body might be rooted in the earth, her mind seemed to have gained a new freedom. It was a peaceful, pleasant feeling. She felt as if she were floating.
Some time passed. She was aware of the shadowy room, the gentle glow of the fire, the witch’s quietness. But then one or two strange things happened. The grey cat began to grow. It roughly doubled its size and then started to change into a pig. Adela thought this rather funny and laughed. Then the pig floated out of the window, which seemed sensible enough, since a pig obviously belonged outside.
A little later she realized something else. It had grown dark outside, but she could see the sky and the stars through the cabin roof. This was remarkable. The branches, the twigs and moss were still there, but she found she could see straight through them. Better yet, it seemed that she herself, being a tree, was growing up through the roof now, opening out her canopy of leaves to the night.
And now she was flying. It was so simple. She was flying in the night sky under the crescent moon. Her clothes were no longer on her, nor did she want them. She could feel the cool air with a hint of dew on her skin. She was high over the Forest and the stars in the sky were clustering round her, tapping on her skin like diamonds. For a short, wonderful time she flew around over the woodlands, which rippled gently like waves. Finally, seeing an oak, larger than the others, she flew towards it and reached its branches, vaguely realizing as she did so that this tree was herself.
She floated down, comfortably, to the mossy ground. Once there, she could see numerous pathways leading away under the arching oak trees; but one in particular caught her attention because it was like a long, almost endless tunnel that glowed with a greenish light. In the distance down this tunnel she also became aware of something, some swift creature, coming in her direction. It seemed very far away, but in no time at all it drew much closer. Indeed, it was bounding towards her.
It was a stag, a magnificent red stag with branching antlers. Closer and closer it came. It was coming for her. She was frightened. She was glad.
Silence. Blankness. Maybe she had dozed for a short while. She was in the little room again. The grey cat was in the corner. Puckle’s wife was making the sign of the pentagram, although her hand was moving in the opposite direction from the way she had done it before. After finishing, the older woman looked at her and remarked quietly: ‘It’s completed.’
Adela remained still for a moment or two, then moved her hands and feet. She felt rather light. ‘Did something happen?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘What?’
Puckle’s wife did not answer. The faint glow of the turf fire threw a soft light around the room.
Glancing at the window, Adela saw that there was now only a faint hint of light outside. She wondered vaguely how long she had been there. An hour or more if it was already dusk. She had planned spending the night with the Prides at their cottage; she supposed Pride could still take her back there after dusk. ‘I must go. It will be night soon,’ she said.
‘Night?’ Puckle’s wife smiled. ‘You’ve been here all night. That’s dawn you see out there.’
‘Oh.’ How extraordinary. Adela tried to collect her thoughts. ‘You said something happened. Can you tell me? Will the Lady Maud …?’
‘I saw a little of your future.’
‘And?’
‘I saw a death, which will bring you peace. Happiness too.’
‘So. It is going to happen, then.’
‘Don’t you be sure. It may not be what you think.’
‘But a death …’ Adela looked at her but the other woman would not say more. Instead, she went to the door and summoned Pride.
Adela rose. Obviously Puckle’s wife expected her to leave now. She went to the doorway. She wasn’t sure if she should give her money or just thank her for the visit. She felt in a pouch in her belt and brought out two pennies. Puckle’s wife took them with a quiet nod. Evidently she felt this was her due. The figure of Pride, leading her horse, came looming out of the pale darkness.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Perhaps we shall meet again.’
‘Perhaps.’ Puckle’s wife looked at her thoughtfully, not unkindly. ‘Remember,’ she admonished, ‘things are not always what they seem in the Forest.’ Then she went back inside.
Dawn was breaking as they rode out onto the huge lawn below Burley Rocks. The moon had departed. The stars were fading gently in the clear sky and a golden light shimmered along the eastern horizon.
A skylark started singing, high above – a starburst of sound against the withdrawing night. Did he, also, know she was going to marry Martell?
; Adela felt pleased with herself as she rode into Winchester that afternoon. She and Pride had travelled at a leisurely pace across the Forest, passing north of Lyndhurst, and he had refused to leave her until, just short of Romsey, they had encountered a respectable merchant who was going her way.
She had wondered whether, upon her return, she should tell her friend the widow where she had really been and concluded that she should not. Instead, she had concocted a story about a Forest friend being in trouble and asking for help, and even persuaded a reluctant Pride to back it up if necessary. Altogether she thought she had handled things quite well.
So she was surprised, upon her return, as she began her tale, when the widow raised her hand to stop her. ‘I’m sorry, Adela, but I don’t want to hear.’ Her face was calm, but cold. ‘I am only relieved that you are not harmed. I would have sent people out to look for you but you gave me no idea which way you had gone.’
‘There was no need. I said I’d be back.’
‘I am responsible for you, Adela. Your going off like that was unforgivable. Anyway,’ she continued, ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to go. I can’t have you here any more. I’m sorry, because it’s nearly Easter.’ At Easter the king and his court would be there. The perfect opportunity to find a husband. ‘But I won’t take responsibility for you. You’ll have to go back to your cousin Walter.’
‘But he’s in Normandy.’
‘The keeper of the treasury has a messenger crossing to Normandy in a few days. He will accompany you. It’s all arranged.’
‘But I can’t go to Normandy,’ Adela cried. ‘Not now.’
‘Oh?’ The widow looked at her sharply, then shrugged. ‘Who will take you in? Have you other arrangements in mind?’
Adela was silent, thinking furiously. ‘Perhaps,’ she said hesitantly. ‘I may have.’
Edgar would often ride out past Burley, where the forester was a friend of his. He had ridden over to the dark dell where the village lay, that spring morning, and finding him out had continued eastwards across the great lawn and into the woods when he caught sight of his friend standing in a clearing, talking to Puckle. Seeing Edgar, the forester waved and signalled him to dismount. Edgar did so and walked over.
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