Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Map
Epigraph
1. Ecclesall Woods
2. St Quentin’s Well
3. The Forestwife
4. In the Coal-digger’s Hut
5. The Charcoal-burner’s Daughter
6. The Blacksmith’s Wife
7. The Green Man
8. Muchlyn and John
9. The Heretics
10. The Sisters of St Mary
11. Bunches of Rosemary
12. The Magdalen Assart
13. The Storyteller
14. Those Who Break the Forest Law
15. A Feast of Venison
16. To Honour the Deer
17. Can This be the Sea?
18. The Green Lady
19. The Lone Wolf
20. The Lost Child
Epilogue
Afterword
About the Author
Copyright
About the Book
Who will champion the poor against injustice and cruelty?
Set during the reign of Richard the Lionheart, this story traces the life of Mary who runs away from her cruel uncle when he tries to force her into marriage for money. Mary eventually finds herself at the cottage of the Forestwife – a haven of peace, mystery and shelter. Mary learns the forest arts of healing, herbalism as well as experiencing true friendship and even love.
THE
FORESTWIFE
Theresa Tomlinson
To my sister, Clare
‘She waited and waited, leaning against a tree, and as she stood there it seemed to her that the tree became soft and yielding, and lowered its branches. Suddenly the branches twined around her, and they were two arms. When she turned to look, the tree was a handsome young man, who held her in his arms.’
from ‘The Old Woman in the Forest’, Grimms’ Tales for Young and Old, translated by Ralph Manheim (Victor Gollancz Ltd, 1979)
1
Ecclesall Woods
MARY STOOD BEFORE her uncle’s chair on the raised dais at the end of the great hall. Her hands shook as she twisted the heavy garnet ring that she wore on her forefinger. It had belonged to her poor disgraced mother, Eleanor de Holt. It was all that Mary had left of her, and she wore it constantly, even though it was too big to stay in place on any of her other fingers. She worked it round and round frantically until she saw that her uncle was watching, irritated by the nervous, childish action.
The lord of Holt Manor tapped his fingers on the carved wooden armrests.
‘Heaven knows, child, I have done my best by thee. I pray you’ll not disgrace me.’
‘But Uncle . . . ’ she whispered her protest.
‘What? Speak up, child. Speak clear.’
Her uncle bent forward, frowning with the impatience that he clearly felt.
‘Uncle, he is so . . . old.’
‘No good fussing and fretting about that. ’Tis what a girl child’s reared for, marriage and breeding. Gerard de Broat is a grand match for a fatherless wench like thee. For my poor dead sister’s sake tha must curb thy temper and accept my decision. I’ve more to worry about than maiden’s fears, what with King Richard demanding high taxes for his crusade, and now Count John is wanting men and horses to strengthen his garrison at Tickhill Castle. I swear he’s arming it against his brother’s return, and here am I expected to deal out money to both these warring Plantagenets.’
Mary clenched her fists and her cheeks grew red with the helpless rage that rose in her.
Owen de Holt’s patience was at an end. ‘You are fifteen years old, girl. Many a maid is married at twelve. Go speak to thy aunt. ’Tis her job to calm thy fears, not mine.’
He rose from his chair, and strode out of the hall, calling for his groom.
It was early in the afternoon when Mary let herself out through the back porchway into the kitchen gardens. She carried her warmest cloak, though the month was June and the sun was hot on her head and cheeks. She pressed her elbow against her side to check that the loaf of bread was still there, covered by the cloak.
Despite the desperation that she felt, there came a twinge of excitement. She was doing her best to think clearly and act wisely. She had the fur-lined cloak for sleeping and bread so she’d not starve. Her stomach churned with fear, but she made herself walk slowly through the garden. She must give the appearance of a sad but resigned young woman, taking a stroll in the fresh air. There must be no outward sign of the rage that tightened her throat, threatening to choke her. She reached the end of the rows of beans and peas, close to the small lychgate, that led to wooded pasture land beyond.
Owen de Holt and his groom suddenly clattered out on horseback from the stable yard, and Mary froze. She bent down to the soil, as though examining the swelling pods with sudden interest. But she needn’t have worried, her uncle glanced in her direction, shrugged his shoulders and trotted out through the main gateway, heading towards Sheffield Town.
Mary breathed her relief. She was close to the gate now. All she had to do was go through it. She lifted the iron sneck that held it, hesitating. The garden was quiet, her aunt, Dame Marjorie, would be dozing in her solar.
Still she paused. What of Agnes? How could she go without Agnes? Without even saying goodbye! She’d been in such a state that she hadn’t stopped to think.
Agnes had come to Holt Manor to nurse Mary as a baby. Eleanor de Holt had died, far away in a convent, giving birth to her daughter. Owen de Holt told Mary how he had buried his sister with many a tear of shame, then brought her tiny child back to Holt Manor, to rear her as his own. He’d called for a wet nurse for the babe, and it was Agnes who’d come asking for the job. She’d been like a mother to Mary ever since.
A door opened and a chorus of joyful gruntings greeted the kitchen maid as she scraped the vegetable peelings into the pig sty. If Mary went back now to speak to Agnes, this quiet moment would be gone. There might never be another chance so good. If she told Agnes she was running away, she’d only fret and grumble, and she’d probably insist on coming too. How would Agnes fare with her rheumaticky joints? Her nurse was not so very old, but lately she’d grown vague and forgetful. She’d even taken to wandering off for hours at a time, returning late and seeming puzzled at the darkness. No, taking Agnes could only bring them both to grief, and it would be kinder and safer not to tell her at all. If she knew nothing, she could say nothing.
Mary lifted the sneck of the gate and looked out through the orchard, and down the sloping wooded hillside that gave Holt Manor its name. The main track ran beside the river Sheaf, up past the cornmill, and on towards Beauchief Abbey. She daren’t go that way, the track was always busy with pack horses and travellers; some who’d likely know her as Owen de Holt’s niece.
Maud and Harry who worked the mill had known her since she was a baby. They’d help her now, she knew that, but her uncle would see them turned out of the mill should they be found to give her aid. It wouldn’t be fair to go to them.
She’d have to go the other way, and take the small path that led to the wooded land to the south, belonging to Ecclesall Manor. There was more hope of passing unseen in amongst the trees than on the open pathway.
Mary reminded herself of the reason for her flight and shuddered – marriage to an elderly widower, who had rotten black stumps of teeth, and smelt of sour ale and saddle grease.
She slipped through the gate and ran.
Once she had started, she dared not stop. She dared not even look back over her shoulder, but hurtled down the smooth-trodden pathway, keeping to the trees and bushes wherever it was possible. Her soft leather slippers made no sound on the warm sprin
gy earth. There was an open patch of land just before the opening in the palings, the dividing line that marked the edge of her uncle’s demesne. Mary crossed it with growing speed and panic, her cloak flapping heavily and awkwardly at her side.
Her footsteps slowed once she’d reached the shelter of the trees. This was Ralph de Ecclesall’s land, and she was by no means safe on it. She’d have done better not to run down the hillside, a dignified walk would have been much less suspicious, but she’d done it now and no help could come from regrets. She made herself hurry along the path that they took when she came buying charcoal with Agnes.
Ecclesall woods were not frightening like the thick, dark forests and wild wastes. They were networked with paths, and peopled with workers. Charcoal-burners lived in hovels that they raised in the clearings, close to where they fired their bell-shaped wood stacks. Families of coal-diggers, their skin grey with the dust, worked in small groups wherever the coal seams touched the surface. The, clang and clatter of iron-workers rang through the trees. They made their bloom hearths close to the streams that they dammed and used as cooling ponds.
Mary hurried on, but whenever she heard voices or the clank and thud of folk at work she turned away and went in the opposite direction. Soon she’d strayed far from the main pathway. These folk who gleaned their living from the woods owed tithes and labour to the Ecclesall Manor. Yet they had a reputation for being awkward and independent. Mary could not know if they would betray her, should they glimpse her flight. They lived on the edge of starvation, she knew that well enough, and no doubt they’d earn themselves a rich gift from Owen de Holt for the return of his ungrateful niece. She managed to avoid meeting anyone face to face, but the feeling grew in her, that maybe she was being followed . . . the rustle of leaves, the crack of a twig.
Once she jumped and trembled at a sudden shaking of the undergrowth, but it was only one of the small pigs that roamed free in the woods. It ran away squealing and snorting in the grass, to root for acorns and beechmast. They were tough scrawny things, those pigs, not like the fine fattened swine of Holt Manor, and they were harmless enough.
The going became more difficult, her feet ached, and her fine-stitched slippers did nothing to protect her from the fallen holly leaves or the sharp stones that rutted the paths. She was hot and tired and worried that she was stumbling around in circles, when she came upon the pool.
A stream tumbled white foaming water into a deep pool, surrounded by ferns, mosses and long grass. This was no iron-workers’ dam, but clean fresh water. Just the sight of it made her realise how thirsty she was, and she threw herself down at the edge, cupping her hands to drink.
Her thirst satisfied, she spread her cloak and sat down, bathing her aching feet in the cool water. A slow feeling of contentment took the place of fear. The sun found its way through green willow branches, and warmed her head and hands. She tore at the loaf of bread and ate with relish. The long meals at her uncle’s board had never tasted as good as this. Here she was, alone in the woods, but safe and warm, and dabbling her feet in a pool surrounded by plants, as pretty as any lady’s bower.
What if she was lost? Didn’t she want to be lost, lost from her uncle and the strict protection of Holt Manor? Though he and Dame Marjorie had never had children, Mary doubted that she’d really been raised as their own. She’d not been beaten, and she’d lived a comfortable life with good and dainty food, and fine clothes. Yet always there’d been the burden of disgrace. Her uncle never failed to remind her: she was baseborn. She must live in gratefulness and shame.
Mary sighed happily, and smiled. She was free of that for ever. She would protect herself now. She would be the lady of the woods.
Agnes had told her many stories when she was small. Her favourite story had been the tale of the green lady, the beautiful spirit of the woods, who walked through the forest, blessing the trees with fruitfulness, hand in hand with the green man.
Mary realised with a jolt that the sun had dropped to the horizon. She had no idea how long she’d been sitting dreaming and dabbling her feet in the pool. How could she have sat there so, letting her mind drift away with woodsprites and fairies? Her uncle or aunt might be discovering just now that their niece had vanished. Before long the light would fade. She must travel much further, and find somewhere safe to pass the night.
She pulled her feet up quickly, spraying water over her cloak. As she shifted, she caught a similar movement from the corner of her eye. Mary turned sharply towards the quivering branches. A face stared back at her, half-hidden by a leafy bush.
Mary jumped to her feet, snatching up her cloak.
‘Who is it? Who is it that spies on me so?’
A young girl withdrew from the bush, pulling herself awkwardly to her feet. She couldn’t have been older than Mary herself, and she looked terrified.
‘I’m sorry, er . . . m’lady. I never meant you no harm.’
Mary hesitated. It was true that the girl looked harmless enough, but there’d be nothing to stop her telling what she’d seen. The girl backed away, frightened by Mary’s fierce frown.
‘Stop!’ Mary bellowed. Then more gently, ‘Stop for a moment, and let me think clear.’
The girl’s cheeks were smeared with red strawberry juice, and she clutched a wicker basket, half-filled with the tiny woodland fruits. She was thin and pale, but Mary caught her breath as she saw and understood . . . the worn gown was pulled tight across the girl’s stomach.
‘With child?’ she murmured.
‘Aye,’ she flinched as she answered.
Mary clicked her tongue, exasperated by the situation. Why did she have to be caught out by this pathetic creature? The sight of the swollen belly on the childlike frame brought echoes of her own fears. She stared down at the half loaf that had fallen to the grass when she got to her feet. She picked it up and handed it to the girl.
‘Thanks,’ she muttered, and fell to tearing at the bread with her teeth. Mary sighed, and wrapped her cloak around her shoulders.
The girl suddenly paused in her eating, looking down at the small basket of wild strawberries. She held them out, offering them to Mary.
‘For thee. Aye . . . for thee.’
Mary tried to keep back the condescending smile that touched her lips. As if she, Mary de Holt, should have need of such a thing. Still, the gesture was kindly meant, and the quiet dignity with which the girl presented her gift hinted at friendship between equals, even loyalty. Mary remembered that she had great need of both those things. She took the basket and smiled her thanks.
‘Do you know who I am?’
‘Aye. I think I do.’
‘Should Owen de Holt come looking for me, I pray you’ll not tell.’
The girl’s eyes opened wide.
‘I will swear that I have never seen thee.’
‘Will you show me where this pathway leads?’
The girl didn’t answer straight away, but continued to stare, then she walked slowly towards the earth-trodden track and Mary followed. At last she pointed ahead, and spoke.
‘If thee follows this path, ’twill lead thee to a place where four ways meet. The uphill path will take thee to Ecclesall Manor. Straight on will lead to the bridge on the Totley brook. The downhill slope shall take thee towards the Abbey of Beauchief.’
Mary thanked her with growing respect. She wished she possessed such knowledge of the land.
‘I go back to my home now,’ said the girl. ‘I shall never know which way tha went.’
She set off back along the path towards Holt Manor without ever glancing back.
Mary stared after her for a moment, then turned and hurried on to the meeting of the paths.
2
St Quentin’s Well
MARY DID NOT hesitate for long at the crossing. There would be no help at Ecclesall Manor and beyond the village of Totley lay the dangerous edges of Barnsdale Wastes, that vast and frightening wilderness that stretched for miles and miles. She took the path that led to Be
auchief Abbey with the idea in her mind that a church might offer sanctuary.
The light was fading fast as the great soaring walls of the newly built abbey came into sight. Mary pulled up the fur-lined hood and gathered her cloak tightly around her. The summer evening had turned chill and she felt urgent need of a safe, warm place to sleep.
She crossed the wooden bridge over the river Sheaf and climbed the gentle slope towards the abbey, keeping close to the trees. The nearer she got, the more her doubts grew. How would they receive her, those austere white canons? She’d heard of folk accused of crime claiming the right to sanctuary, but they’d been men. Would the same apply to her?
Something at the back of her mind nagged away, increasing her distrust. Solemn chanting drifted in waves of sound across the fish ponds and fields. Of course . . . she remembered, the monks had come from France, they chanted in Latin and spoke the Norman tongue.
Mary moved along the edges of the wooded land, gratefully eating the tiny, sweet strawberries, watching the cloister doors. The candle glow in the stained-glass windows promised warmth and safety. There’d be guest rooms, a warm fire and good plain food. Her stomach told her that a handful of strawberries was not enough.
A fine carved statue stood in a niche beside the door. A Virgin and child, another Mary, one hand raised in blessing. Surely there was safety here. She took a step towards it, then she stopped, trembling. The carved stone face was blank. No blessing there at all – the hand was raised in warning. Stop! Go back! Run away!
With a fresh sense of fright, Mary gathered up her skirts and shrank backwards amongst the trees. Before she’d had a chance to move far into the shadows, the clattering of two horsemen made her turn in alarm. They rode at great speed, spurring their horses and shouting to each other, but drew to a sharp halt before the abbey door.
‘Open up! Open up! A message from Owen de Holt.’
The Forest Wife Page 1