It was early afternoon, and the clouded sun directly above our heads as we walked. We walked fast, keeping up as good a pace as was possible under the slosh and pelt. We didn’t leave all together. Vespasian had gone ahead with Hugh and Stephen. I walked with Richard and Walter. Osbert and Gerald would be the last to leave and padlock the house. Jack Saddler already had the key.
We lived not far from the river and it took no more than a few minutes to dodge through the back streets, avoiding scavenging dogs and the piss pots emptied from upstairs windows, keeping tight to the walls and away from the central gullies and their dirt and slime splashed into sloppy puddles by the rain.
We crossed the Bridge above where Isabel had been slain. Wide, solid and proud, now it held a menace I’d never felt before. Straddling the surging river in pale stone, London’s only bridge sat on twenty squat supporting pillars disappearing down into the surging water, with two wide gates above, a chapel, a central tower and poles for the heads of those recently executed for treason. This day no stinking, grinning faces watched our passing from empty eye sockets, and the gibbet beyond the far end also hung empty, jangling in the rain. I pattered behind the boys, head bent, my cloak drenched, clutching my sack of baggage over my shoulder, avoiding the push and shove coming from the opposite direction. There was always a crush during the day, the main thoroughfare leading into the city from the squash of Southwark and the countryside beyond. A group of tinkers was dancing and singing in the rain, quickly elbowed aside by three soldiers slouching past, knotted fists to their sword hilts, swearing into their beards, glaring at all of us. I stood back quickly to let them through. Behind was a flurry of sheep and the farmer with his crook hurrying them on, waggle tailed and bedraggled, wool as sodden as that of my cloak.
Narrow shops leaned both sides and hid the river from view, shop keepers sitting in their doorways, shouting for business, the clank of hammers, the smell of leather and wax. Then before passing the great chapel, the wind whistled through and the dark water was visible. Richard didn’t look down but I did. The Thames was turgid, high tide and churning. The place where I had found the body was now under water. It had been horribly close to the place where I had slept in London. I shook my head and hurried after Richard and Walter.
The far bank led first past the stink and steam of the blacksmiths and the taverns on either side, then through darker streets, sudden angles and turns, and finally straggled up into neat open gardens with their little rows of peas, parsley and turnips. Far beyond the gentle meadows, the forest crept in to shadow the muddy roadway and suddenly we were under the trees. At first there were cottages, goats and oxen grazing and chimney-holes in roofs puffing wood smoke. But soon the trees closed us into sunless damp with the steady rain intermittent and stifled by branch, needles and leaf. It smelled sweet to me after the sour sweat of London’s rank tumble, but I was getting cold and the thick squelch of loamy leaf mould underfoot was leaking up into my stockings.
Walter knew where to go though I did not. I only recognised the first few green paths into the wood. We passed a moss crowned stone where Tilda had sat many times, to think, to be on her own and to watch the river sparkle below. It was where she had been sitting to ease bleeding feet as she first arrived; ten years old and following great Watling Street to the city from her mother’s serfdom and West Country croft. It was when she had seen me in a sudden ghostly vision, and been afraid.
It was many hours that we walked, hurrying now, until twilight slunk into first dark. A slivered slice of moon was behind the bare tree branches. I heard Vespasian’s soft call.
We had arrived. It had stopped raining.
They had built a fire and though it spluttered and sparked with wet wood, it was wonderfully welcome and the smoke puffed out like little greenish grey waves on a blustery day, deliciously hot and bright in the dark closure of the night. All Hugh’s nerves and resentment had passed and he was chuckling and prancing like a child, throwing dead wood he’d collected into the flames. Stephen and Vespasian were chopping the bigger logs and stacking them under a leaning shelter.
But what I had least expected, and what I now gazed at with delight, stretched behind the clearing and its dancing bonfire, was the long, low house with its wide thatched roof and its little row of shuttered windows. I had not expected a house.
Chapter Ten
Tilda stood in wonder. “It’s Vespasian’s own house,” said Stephen proudly. “None of us knew. Isn’t it beautiful?” The rain had stopped though a silver drizzle hung like a halo in the dusk washed air and I felt damp spangles on my face. The narrow moon was peering from the rich navy blue above us.
“Reckon there’s lots of old houses in these woods,” said Hugh, leaving the fire and coming over to us, arms crossed, puffing out his stomach and beaming like the lord of the manor. “Built before the king declared all this land royal forest of course. But Vespasian never told us about this, did he? What a secret! Look, it’s a whole load bigger than the London house, and what a great, grand place it must have been with candles and fires and people. The park all around has grown over, just weed and bracken now, not even a vegetable patch. But you can see how it was once.”
I could. Tended by servants and gardeners, bustle and service, glowing and gorgeous. Although neither castle nor huge country estate, this was once a large family home and still promised comfort. The walls stood strong though their wattle and daub was now all naked and the plaster crumbled away, moss threatened as everything leaned inwards. I stared through the dancing flames across to where Vespasian, shirt sleeves rolled up over those strong tanned arms, continued to chop and stack wood. I wondered why this man had left a house so beautiful and gone to live in a slum with a hoard of orphaned brats. Even once the king had claimed the area, the original owner would surely have had recourse to some compensation. I wondered what the hell had happened to this man in those years I knew nothing about.
“What’s it like inside?” I asked Hugh.
It was Stephen who answered, hopping on one foot, eyes bright with excitement, reflecting fire and moon. “Big and empty,” he said. “Full of mice and lots of squeaky bats and massive spiders with hundreds of legs. The back door’s all broken down, there’s trees growing through the stable roof, and bits of walls have collapsed. But we can fix it all up. Vespasian says so.”
“Oh yes,” I breathed. “We certainly can. It’s a palace.” I knew Tilda would never dare ask Vespasian what had happened here nor what had happened to him. It would remain a mystery. His destiny was not mine and touched me only by coincidence. My curiosity would have to smoulder until it tarnished and faded. But I had the joys of the present.
“Stephen and I went through it all when we got here,” said Hugh. “But Vespasian stayed outside and sort of stared. I reckon he doesn’t want to go inside.”
“Memories,” muttered Stephen, eyes shining.
Hugh said, “Go on. Explore. He never stopped us.” Richard was already scampering up the high doorstep. I followed him in a rush, as if afraid someone would disapprove. Walter grabbed at my arm and came behind.
We stood on the threshold like the band of scared kids we were and as if we had never seen any house before in our lives. Directly inside the hall was high beamed. A huge heavy legged table still stood central, scarred and covered in straw and leaves. The fire place, no central slab but a grand brick hearth built into the wall, was to the left, its ashes scattered across the years. Two rooms led off from a corridor either side but behind the hall, this once charming house was in ruins.
I dug under the accumulation of the encroaching forest and the damp cobwebbed corners. I found no secrets, but I was fascinated. Tilda had lived with Vespasian and the children in London for the past seven years. Others had been with him before her. Someone must know something. I turned to Walter. “Did you know he had a real house only a walk away? Did Vespasian ever mention to anyone why he came to live in London in the first place? What do you know about him?”
Walter stared. “What a pillicoot you are, Tilda. When did Vespasian ever explain himself to anybody? Certainly not to any of us.”
We pushed each other out of the way and scurried through the other doors. One led beyond a corridor and into what was obviously the kitchen block. The remains of the cooking fires were blackened brick alcoves along one wall, still set with pot hangers and fire irons, a great roasting spit and the cauldrons dumped amongst the cold sooty charcoal. Leading off was a pantry lined with shelves, what might have been a dairy, churns and vats now rusted and broken, and beyond that smaller rooms now in ruins. “This would have been big enough to cook for real gentry,” muttered Richard, awed. “Even royal hunting parties.” He was imagining feasts. Those used to permanent hunger pangs could dream of little better.
“Maybe Gerald knows something,” Walter said to me, shaking his head. “He was the first one Vespasian ever took in. As a baby I think. So Gerald has to know more than the rest of us. More than me anyway. Who’d have the courage to ask?”
I couldn’t imagine Vespasian looking after a baby. I certainly couldn’t imagine him changing nappies. Did medieval kids wear nappies? Well, they had to wear something, and they had to drink milk and that meant milking goats and filling bottles and burping the child afterwards, and rocking it and staying up nights. For a moment I was lost in absolute amazement. But there was too much to explore, too much scurrying, giggling and excitement, with no time for thinking. Tilda ran through the tumbledown rooms, imagining grand balls, fiddlers and troubadours, dancing, whispering and romantic liaisons. Her adoration for Vespasian banished suspicion. She had no need to know all his past. “I’ll sweep up the kitchen and shoo out the bats,” said Tilda. “Richard, get me switches for a broom.”
The house was low and one storied but right at the back three broken steps and the wobbling end of a balustrade meant there had been an upstairs originally, not over the hall perhaps since there the ceiling was high and the rafters were carved, but perhaps bedchambers had made a second storey at the rear. There were still sheds and outbuildings and big windows tucked under the thatch, now gazing out only to the trees. Where the roof had once been thick, now it hung in tatters and I could see bird’s nests by the rough chimney opening. A tree had fallen across the eastern wall, revealing its pretty chequered layer of straw stuffing and daub. From there, the back had all tumbled and now only a few heaped stones remained. Most of the window shutters at the front were lying loose, but I knew we could make it beautiful again. Even without renewing plaster, without replacing polished timbers or rebuilding walls, I could already breathe in the magic, the smell of fresh growth, of clean running water, the promise of an open sky and birdsong and delicious, sun-spun mystery.
Vespasian kept the bonfire sparking hot outside for we had no way to lock or even close off our sleeping quarters and there might be wild boar in the forest, even wolves. The wolves were all long dead, they said, but the fear of their memory remained. If nothing else, they made good stories to frighten naughty children.
We ate a quick supper of barley pottage and collected dry leaves for our pallet beds. It was the huge kitchen, first roughly swept and cleaned, that became our bedroom. But Vespasian did not come to sleep with us that night. I do not know where he went, though I saw him take a torch and go out into the forest. I did not hear him come back.
I dreamed of myself. It was one of the strangest dreams I have ever had. I was Tilda but I dreamed of Molly and she looked back at me from her wisteria hammock, sorry that she was trapped there and could not come with me into the past and the sun dappled sweetness. She was frightened of the woods and of what had happened there, but this was a different forest and her distant nightmares did not affect me. When I awoke, the dawn slanted its first shadows and light striped the flurried dust. Vespasian was sitting on the cold ground beside my makeshift bed. He looked down thoughtfully into my face. As always, the black depths of his eyes frightened me. I quickly wedged myself up on my elbow. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, blinking back sleep. “Have I done something wrong?” I knew I must be late in rising and felt guilty at once.
He frowned. “I’ve spoken very little to you since finding Isabel.”
I peered at him through the half light, scrabbling to sit up properly, scattering leaves around me. “Haven’t I thanked you for finding me?” In effect, he had rescued me. I had collapsed. Seeing Isabel lying butchered had been more than Tilda could stomach, and after the horrors of Wattle, it was more than I could bear too. I had no reason to think anything but kindness of him, but a lurch of doubt made me shiver. I had no idea why he had been there, exactly where Isabel’s body lay curled in its agony. He should not have been anywhere near.
So I avoided his gaze and looked meekly into my lap until he snapped me back. Vespasian always demanded focus. “That’s entirely unnecessary,” he said. “Don’t be so timid with me.” He kept looking into my eyes, as if he might read what I thought and knew that whatever I thought, I would not be likely to say it.
“You said it was dark magic.”
“And so it was.” He was still frowning but his voice was more gentle than I expected. “It must have been very hard for you, piccina, to find her like that.”
Suddenly, shoving aside the suspicions and plunging upwards from Tilda’s childlike self absorption, I remembered how horrible it must be for Vespasian. He had lain with Isabel night after night. He had seen the breasts he had caressed a hundred times now bared and thick with blood, her body split between them. He had seen the woman he knew most intimately turned into an awesome obscenity. I gulped with sudden sympathy. “Did you – love her?” I asked.
He paused. “Love? Good heavens, no.” I had amazed him.
“Did you ever bring her to this house?” Tilda’s jealousy. My own curiosity.
Vespasian stood, still frowning. He said, “Why would you think that?” He turned away and walked to the half shuttered window.
I really had no idea. “I just wondered. It’s beautiful here.”
“I haven’t been back to this house in nearly twelve years.” The subdued sunlight seemed to halo the black sheen of his hair. “Legally it doesn’t belong to me anymore. It belongs to the crown. I have no right to bring anyone here, but since the house has been abandoned for so long, I don’t believe anyone will trouble us. At least, not yet.” He pulled down the remaining shutters, opening the room to the quick rustling breeze and the bright shimmering light. “No, I never brought Isabel here. It would never have occurred to me. I have brought no one here. Not since my wife died.”
I don’t know why he told me that. I don’t think he knew himself and perhaps immediately he regretted it. He turned sharply and left the room. Whatever words of comfort he was originally going to give me, were left unsaid and I was sorry. I crawled from the bed and stretched. The floor was worn flag stones and colder than I was used to. In London the upstairs floor boards had sucked up warmth from the cooking fire below, and the gaps between the timbers had acted as heating vents. Now all that lay below me was stone cut and set over the damp forest ground.
All the others were already outside, building up the fire, cooking breakfast, exploring the first tentative steps of forest. The birds were darting tree to tree, disturbed by intruders into their private paradise, and the sky was all drifting clouds. New green was gathering along the branches and sprigs of yellow flowers caught the sun. I wasn’t hungry. My mind danced with the words that Vespasian had left unsaid, as well as those he had spoken. I ignored the calls to come to the fire and eat and I wandered off into the first tall shadows.
Isabel’s echo remained with me. I wondered if her spirit roamed by my side, whether perhaps she had come into the forest with us after all. I knew nothing about her or where she had come from. I knew nothing about any of these people though now I was one of them. I thought about Wattle and how her death in another forest far from here had somehow mirrored Isabel’s murder. The surreal split of my existence, whether I could explai
n it or not, could not be unrelated. Magic had entered my life and some of it was deep and dark.
It was this life I chose. I feared to open my eyes once I had closed them, in case I might see the worried grey furrows of Bertie’s hesitancy, his pink nose and fluttering lower lip gazing down at me. I didn’t want the comfort of my own bed. I didn’t want electric heat or kettles, mundane modernity and winter barricading my frigid doorstep. I desperately wanted to stay with the springing sunbeams of old England.
Now March brought budding delight. There were herbs growing wild under the trees. I recognised many. Vespasian had taught us all a little herb lore, which he seemed to think significant. Winter’s remaining mushrooms still sat fat and brown, embedded in the woody earth. There was a scattering of acorns to be discovered, left over in their autumn leaf nests, now to roast. There were bundles of fresh nettles to boil into soup. Our hens, though waking up damp feathered in such new surroundings, seemed quite unconcerned and busily laid their little white eggs in the dust piled corners of the house. We didn’t dare let them outside yet in case we lost them. Richard and Gerald had slings for pebbles and they killed two black crows and a thrush. This gave little enough meat for all of us but in a soup with wild thyme and nettles, they made a good hot broth. Vespasian sat on the wide smooth stone of the high front step with his back against the open doorway, and watched us, legs stretched, half closed eyes, as if he was dreaming of things far away. Perhaps he was. He must have drifted back into the wealth of memory resting within this house. A wife. Perhaps children. I wanted to creep into his dreams.
Over the next few days he cut himself a bow and arrows, each straight as the wind and black fletched with three crow’s feathers for the flights. Gerald helped him. With no yew for the perfect bow, Vespasian used unseasoned wych-hazel and made a Welsh style nearly five foot long, then strung it from the horns with strands of hemp. He said it wouldn’t last well and would distort after use, but at first it had a perfect cast, though its resistance was too great for any but Vespasian to bend. He made another, just a little smaller, for Gerald. They sat together, Vespasian on a tree stump and Gerald at his feet, while Vespasian measured the correct distance for the centre of the string to the bow with his clenched fist. He spliced arrows, but could only point them in well sharpened wood, hardened in fire.
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