The Forest

by Edward Rutherfurd

  ‘Clement.’

  ‘Thomas.’

  ‘Welcome.’

  Thomas Gorges was of ancient lineage and, Albion thought, it showed. He had friends at court. But above all, Cecil and the council trusted him. For that reason he had been chosen to escort Mary Queen of Scots to her final imprisonment. He had also been knighted. And for some years he had been captain at Hurst Castle where, with the threat of invasion imminent, he had been spending a good deal of time. ‘These are your men?’ he enquired. Albion nodded. ‘Good. My master gunner will show them round.’ Apart from Gorges himself and his deputy, there was a considerable garrison at Hurst, headed by the master gunner. ‘I always think’, Gorges went on quietly, ‘that the more you show the men how things are done, the better you fire their loyalty. Come, Clement,’ he continued pleasantly, ‘let us talk.’

  As he glanced around him, Albion considered, it would be hard not to be impressed. Two tiers of cannon protruded from embrasures in the bastions and the walls on the seaward sides. There were cannon in the central tower as well. No ship entering the Solent could escape this battery and, as for its defences, not only were the walls thick, but they had been built slightly convex to deflect cannonballs. Even under heavy bombardment, Hurst Castle would be a tough nut to crack.

  Gorges grinned. ‘I hope you find everything in good order, Clement.’ There was no question that Gorges had been an excellent custodian. He had added more cannon, had the central tower rebuilt and greatly strengthened, trained the garrison admirably. He was so highly regarded by the council now that, although the lord-lieutenant of the country was nominally in charge of the county’s musters, if Gorges wanted anything – arms, materials or men, he got them at once. ‘So tell me, Woodward,’ he enquired genially, ‘when am I getting my elms?’

  It was a curious thing, Albion reflected, that although you built ships of oak, if you used it in a place like Hurst, open to the salty sea breeze, oak timber soon rotted. When Gorges needed new mountings for the cannon, therefore, he had advised him to use elm, which lasted better. ‘I marked the trees last week. They’ll be cut and timber delivered in ten days.’

  ‘Thank you. Now tell me about these men you’ve brought.’

  ‘I’m putting Pride in charge. He’s young but trustworthy. Intelligent. Pleased with the responsibility and anxious to prove himself. He’ll be on his mettle. The other two are good fellows. They’ll be all right.’

  ‘How wise you are. I shall speak with them at once. By the way,’ he added casually, ‘did I tell you that Helena is here?’ Helena: his wife. Albion felt a glow of pleasure. He was fond of Helena. ‘She’s been waiting for you. Why don’t you talk to her while I see the men?’

  Albion paused. The suggestion was so charmingly made that he might not have given it a second thought. Instead, he frowned. He had never been quite sure why it was necessary to bring these men down here at all when he could perfectly well have told them their duties up at Minstead. ‘Surely, Thomas, if you are seeing my men, you wish me to be present?’

  A slight blush. A look of embarrassment, quickly covered, but not quite quickly enough. What did it mean? ‘Look, here she comes. Do walk with her a little, Clement. She has been so anxious to see you.’ And before Albion could argue, his friend had gone, leaving him alone.

  Nick Pride felt pretty pleased with himself. They were standing in the master gunner’s chamber, which had a fine view over the Solent, when Thomas Gorges came in. The aristocrat had spoken to them very civilly for a few minutes, explaining the importance of their duties and Nick had observed him with interest.

  He was impressed. If Albion was a gentleman, he sensed that this man was something more. He came from another world, even if Nick did not quite know what that world might be. Putting the two men side by side in his mind, he decided that Albion needed Gorges, but Gorges didn’t need Albion. I reckon that’s what it is, he thought.

  ‘So, Nicholas Pride,’ Gorges now said. ‘I hear you are the guardian of the beacon.’

  ‘Yes, Sir,’ he cried, swelling out his chest. ‘I am.’

  The idea of planting beacons of fire on hilltops to alert the countryside of an enemy approaching went back to classical times; but it was the Tudors who had developed them into a regular system in England. A beacon lit at the south-western tip of England could start a chain reaction of coastal fires that would warn London within a couple of hours. At the same time as the message was passed along the coast, however, a network of secondary beacons, radiating inland, picked up the message and alerted the musters in the local settlements to assemble and go to their muster places to defend the coast.

  There were two big coastal beacons for the Solent area, one at each end of the Isle of Wight. The hinterland of the New Forest was mainly served by three inland beacons: one up on Burley Beacon, a second on a hill towards the Forest’s centre and a third, to summon the northern hamlets, upon an old earthwork at the top of the hill above Minstead village.

  ‘Come and stand by me now, Nicholas Pride,’ the captain commanded and he drew apart from the others. ‘Now then,’ he said softly, so that only he and the young man could hear each other, ‘recite to me the duties of your watch.’

  Nick Pride reckoned he did all right. Albion had coached him thoroughly. There was a precise sequence of signals the Isle of Wight beacon would send, culminating in the one that told him to light his own. He recited them all correctly. He gave the details of how it was to be manned, who would keep watch and when, how it was set up and lit. Gorges questioned him, quietly but thoroughly, and seemed to be satisfied. To Nick’s surprise, though, when this was over, the officer did not immediately end their conversation. He seemed to want to know more about him; asked about his family, his brothers and sisters, their smallholding. He even talked about his own family and made Nick laugh. Nick felt surprisingly relaxed. Gorges asked Nick what he thought of the Spaniards and Nick told him they were cursed foreigners. Gorges told him that their King Philip was nonetheless said to be very pious and Nick said that might be so but he was a foreigner anyway and any good Englishman should be glad to cut off his head. ‘Francis Drake singed his beard for him at Cadiz, Sir, didn’t he? With those fire ships. That taught him a lesson I should think.’ Gorges said he hoped it had.

  The aristocrat had been listening and watching him carefully and now knew him better than he knew himself, but young Nick Pride was entirely unaware of it. ‘I see, Nicholas Pride, that I may trust you,’ he said at last. ‘And if the queen herself asks me – and she may – who keeps the watch at our inland beacon, I shall remember your name and tell her you are her loyal man.’

  ‘Indeed, Sir, you can,’ cried Pride, more delighted with himself than ever.

  Jane was sitting on a sandy bank, gazing across the Solent when the strange couple came along.

  It was warm; there was a hint of haze across the waters so that the Isle of Wight was a sleepy blue. Sandpipers and waders skimmed over the mudflats in front of her and around the fort the fork-tailed swallows darted and sped, although soon they would be leaving for warmer climes.

  The man and woman were driving a large wagon with high-boarded sides. It was carrying charcoal.

  Jane had already noticed that just below the fort on the Solent side there was a small lime kiln. It had been there, in fact, for some time, a solid business – not on the scale of the nearby salt pans, of course, but profitable – the lime being shipped mostly across the English Channel to the island of Guernsey near the French coast. The charcoal would be needed as fuel for the kiln’s furnace.

  The wagon turned off the track just before reaching the fort and went down to the kiln. Moments later she saw the man, aided by two others from the kiln, start to unload the sacks from the back of the wagon. She watched him with interest.

  He was somewhat shorter than the other men, but he looked very muscular. His hair was thick and black, but his beard was short and neatly trimmed. His eyes were set wide apart and watchful – hunter’s eyes, s
he thought. She felt sure he had already taken her in as he unloaded the sacks of charcoal. So why did he seem strange? She wasn’t sure. She had lived with the Forest folk all her life; but this man looked different from the Prides and Furzeys, as if he belonged to some other, more ancient race, inhabitants of a deeper woodland than they knew. Was it her imagination or had his face been burnished by the charcoal fires to a darker hue? Was there something oaken, almost tree-like about him?

  It was not hard to guess his family. She had seen several men like him before, at local fairs or at the court at Lyndhurst.

  ‘That’s Perkin Puckle,’ her father would point out. Or: ‘I think that’s Dan Puckle, but it may be John.’ And always the litany continued: ‘The Puckles live over Burley way.’ No one had anything to say against them. ‘They’re good friends, long as you keep on the right side of them,’ her father had told her. But, even if nobody said so, Jane had understood that there was something vaguely mysterious about the family. ‘They’re old,’ her mother had once remarked, ‘like the trees.’ Jane watched the man curiously.

  She did not at first realize that she was being watched herself. She had not noticed the woman leave the wagon; but there she was, sitting not far off by a tuft of marsh grass, gazing at Jane thoughtfully. Not wishing to seem unfriendly, Jane nodded to her. Unexpectedly, the woman moved across and sat down only a few feet away from her. For several moments they both watched the men at their work.

  ‘That’s my husband.’ The woman turned to look at her.

  She was small and dark-haired – cat-like, Jane thought. She supposed the woman might be about thirty-five, like her husband. Her eyes were dark, almond-shaped; her face looked pale.

  ‘Is he one of the Puckles, from Burley?’ Jane ventured.

  ‘That’s right.’ It seemed to her that the woman’s eyes were measuring her in some way. ‘You married?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Considering it?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Your man: he’s here?’

  ‘In there.’ Jane indicated the fort.

  Puckle’s dark-haired wife did not say anything for a little while. She seemed to be staring across the water. Only when she spoke again did she transfer her gaze to her husband. ‘He’s a good man, John Puckle,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘Good worker.’

  ‘He looks it.’

  ‘Lusty. Keep any woman happy.’

  ‘Oh.’ Jane was not sure what to say.

  ‘Your man. He good? He knows how to halleck?’ A coarse word.

  Jane blushed. ‘I expect so. But we are not yet married.’

  The woman’s silence conveyed that she was not impressed with this information. ‘He made himself a bed.’ She nodded towards her husband. ‘All oak. Carved it, too. At the four corners. I never saw such carving.’ She smiled. ‘Carved his bed so he might lie in it. Once you lie in his oak bed with John Puckle, you’ll not want any other bed, nor other man.’

  Jane stared. She had heard the village women talk at Minstead, but although they would joke quite crudely about the men sometimes, there was a directness about this strange person that both repelled yet fascinated her.

  ‘You like my husband?’

  ‘I …? I do not know him.’

  ‘You like to halleck with him?’

  What did this mean? Was it some kind of trap? She had no idea but the woman was making her nervous. She rose. ‘He is your husband, not mine,’ she said and began to move away. But when, from a safe distance, she stole a glance back, her companion was still sitting quietly, apparently quite unperturbed, and gazing thoughtfully out towards the island.

  Helena had suggested they walk along the beach together. Beside them lay the broad open waters of the English Channel. The thrift and sea-campion were no longer in flower but their green shoots extended like a haze all along the strand. Their words as they conversed were accompanied by the quiet hiss and the deep-drawing rattle of sea on shingle, and the cries of the white gulls rising from the foam.

  Clement Albion was very fond of Helena Gorges, even if she sometimes made him smile. She was Swedish by birth, very fair, beautiful. ‘You are as kind as you are beautiful,’ he would tell her with perfect truth. Although he could have added: ‘And not a little vain.’

  It is a universal law that no woman, once she has acquired a title, is ever willing to give it up. Or so it seemed to Albion. When Helena the Swedish beauty had been brought to Queen Elizabeth’s English court it had not been long before she had been snapped up as a bride by no less a person than the Marquis of Northampton. She had also become a great favourite of the queen. Sadly, her noble husband had died after only a year, leaving her glamorous, lonely, but a marchioness.

  There were very few peerages in Queen Elizabeth’s England. The Wars of the Roses had killed off many of the great titles and the Tudors had no wish to make more feudal lords. But one title they had brought into use in England was that of marquis. There were scarcely a handful of them. They ranked only below the haughty dukes. In the order of precedence, therefore, the young Marchioness of Northampton walked through the door before even countesses, let alone ladies and gentlewomen.

  So when she had met and fallen in love with aristocratic Thomas Gorges, who was then not even a humble knight, she had married him, but still insisted on calling herself the Marchioness of Northampton.

  ‘And she’s still doing it,’ Albion would say to his wife with a laugh. ‘Thank God Thomas just thinks it’s funny.’

  Certainly she and Thomas were very happy together. She was a good wife. With her striking looks, her golden hair, her dazzling eyes, she would come on foot along the spit to the fort – she had a wonderful, elegant stride – and charm the garrison. If she was at court she never lost a chance to advance her husband’s career. At present, Albion knew, she had a particular project in hand and so, after they had asked the usual tender questions about each other’s families, he gently enquired: ‘And what of your house?’

  The fact was, he knew very well, that his friend Gorges for once in his life had overreached himself. He had recently acquired a fine estate just south of Sarum – indeed, Albion had looked over the land the day before, during the interview with his mother. On this estate, known as Longford, Gorges had intended to build a great house. But some time had passed and not a stone had been laid.

  ‘Oh, Clement.’ She had a charming way of taking your arm to share a confidence. ‘Do not tell Thomas I have told you, but we are’ – she made a little grimace – ‘in difficulty.’

  ‘Can you not build a smaller house?’

  ‘Very small, Clement.’ She smiled conspiratorially.

  ‘A cottage?’ He meant it as a jest, but she shook her head and looked serious.

  ‘A small cottage, Clement. Perhaps not even that.’

  Could things really be so bad? Thomas must have overspent more than he had guessed. ‘Thomas’s fortunes have always risen,’ he offered. He had no doubt his friend’s career would continue to be brilliant.

  ‘Let us hope they rise further, then, Clement.’ She smiled again, but ruefully this time. ‘No new dresses for me this year, I fear.’

  ‘Perhaps the queen …’

  ‘I’ve been at court.’ She shrugged. ‘The queen hasn’t a penny herself. This Spanish business’ – she waved towards the horizon – ‘has emptied the treasury.’

  Albion nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘Speaking of this Spanish business.’ He hesitated a moment, but decided to go on. ‘I brought some of my men down, as you know. Thomas wanted to see them.’ He gave her a sidelong glance. It was as he had suspected. He could see that she knew something. ‘Then Thomas insisted he see them alone, without me. Why did he do that, Helena?’

  They had both stopped.

  Helena was looking down at the shingle at her feet. A wave broke up the beach towards them, then ebbed away. When she answered, she did not look at him. ‘Thomas is only following his orders, C
lement,’ she said quietly. ‘That is all.’

  ‘It is thought that I …?’

  ‘There are many Catholics in the county, Clement. Everyone knows it. Why, even the Carews …’ Thomas Carew had been the previous captain of Hurst Castle. His family, good Catholics all of them, still lived at the village of Hordle at the Forest’s edge, only a few miles away.

  ‘One can be a Catholic without being a traitor, Helena.’

  ‘Of course. And you are still left in command of part of the muster, Clement, are you not? Consider that.’

  ‘But your husband nonetheless has to make sure that I and my men are loyal.’

  ‘The council is watching everyone, Clement. They have no choice.’

  ‘The council? Cecil? They distrust me?’

  ‘Your mother, Clement. Remember, even Cecil has heard of your mother.’

  ‘My mother.’ A wave of panic suddenly seized him. He thought of their interview the day before, and felt himself blushing. ‘What’ – he tried to sound unconcerned – ‘has my foolish mother been saying now?’

  ‘Who knows, Clement? I am not privy to all these things, but I told the queen …’

  ‘The queen? The queen knows of my mother? Dear God!’

  ‘I told her – forgive me, Clement – that she was a foolish woman. Her opinions are not yours.’

  ‘God forbid!’

  ‘So, dear Clement, you should not be alarmed. Concern yourself with my house instead. Find me a way to build more than a cowshed at Longford.’

  He laughed, relieved, and they turned to go back towards the fort. The sea was edging a little higher up the shingle. Ahead, across the water, the four chalk Needles of the Isle of Wight were gleaming. To Albion, at that moment, they seemed phantom-like, unreal. Some gulls rose, ghostly white, cried, then flew away, out to sea.

  ‘Clement.’ She had stopped. She was facing him. ‘You know we love you. You’re not a traitor, are you?’

  ‘I …?’

  Her eyes were searching his face. ‘Clement? Tell me?’

  ‘Dear God, no.’

  ‘Swear it.’