The Forest Wife

by Theresa Tomlinson

  ‘Branded? Do you mean they’ll burn her?’ Marian demanded.

  ‘Aye. Burn her with the outlaw’s mark. ‘Twill be there on her forehead for all to see.’

  ‘What of the other villagers? What of her husband?’

  ‘They say he sits and weeps in his forge. If he complains, he’ll lose his living. Who shall feed their children then?’

  They stood together in silence, their faces pale and tight. Only Marian could not keep still; she paced up and down clenching her fists.

  ‘Come settle down, my lovey,’ Agnes begged. ‘’Tis a harsh thing indeed to treat this poor woman so. But we must know when there is naught to be done.’

  Suddenly Marian stopped her pacing.

  ‘Nay, Agnes, there is something we may try. We cannot stop her being outlawed, but she shall not be branded. We must get her away from Langden tonight.’

  Marian, Emma, Tom and his mother set out for the village as soon as dusk fell.

  Agnes walked with them just to the edge of the clearing, Alice’s baby in her arms, for the Forestwife must stay behind. She caught at Marian’s arm, her face drawn with worry.

  ‘Must tha do this, lovey? We can be safe here in the heart of Barnsdale. Must tha go looking for trouble?’

  For a moment they all hesitated, frightened of what they planned.

  ‘I cannot leave Philippa to be burned and shamed,’ said Alice. ‘She was ever my good friend, but you owe her naught.’

  ‘’Tis not for your Philippa, that I go,’ said Marian. ‘’Tis for thee and thy man, and young Tom here. ’Tis for all the ills this lord of Langden did thee.’

  ‘Bless you,’ whispered Alice.

  Agnes sighed, but she reached up to kiss Marian.

  ‘Tha’s a fierce rash little lass, but maybe I begin to see what part tha plays.’

  Marian hugged her. ‘We’ll be back before tha knows.’

  They moved off quietly, into the forest night.

  Tom and Alice knew the way so well that the journey was not difficult. They moved stealthily, their cloaks wrapped close for warmth and disguise. Marian’s fingers kept fastening around the handle of the sharp meat knife that she’d stuck into her belt; checking and touching, and wondering if she could use it should the need arise.

  At last they came in sight of the stocks, set on the village common. The surrounding huts were quiet.

  The blacksmith’s wife stood tall and upright, her shape a dark shadow in the moonlight. She was unguarded, for who in that place would dare to rescue her? Marian looked up at that still figure. The heavy metal bridle stuck out around her head, ugly and humiliating. How could she stand so straight up there, alone and cold, yet refusing to sit or droop? A strong woman indeed. She began to understand why Alice cared so.

  A bubble of hot anger burst over Marian, her doubts and fears fled. ‘Look at that foul bridle,’ she hissed to Emma. ‘How can we get it off her?’

  Emma shook her head hopelessly. ‘Only they will have the key.’

  ‘There is but one man who can cut it off,’ said Alice. ‘That man is her husband.’

  ‘Will he risk it?’ asked Emma.

  ‘He’d better,’ said Marian.

  Tom was sent to the forge to warn the blacksmith and make sure that all was ready.

  ‘Right,’ said Marian gripping tightly onto the handle of her knife. ‘Let us get her now.’

  Once they had made their move they went fast, creeping swiftly towards the stocks.

  ‘Hush Phil, ’tis Alice.’ Tom’s mother murmured low, so that Philippa would not be afraid, and know she was with friends.

  Marian quickly cut through the rope that fastened the woman to the stocks, then, supporting her on either side, they made their Way to the forge.

  The blacksmith had candles lit, ready to set to work with his smallest knives and files.

  It was clear the job could not be done instantly. Alice made Philippa sit. She stroked her hands and spoke soothing words. The blacksmith was smaller than his wife, but his muscles braided his arms like corded rope. He worked hard and fast, choking and weeping all the time. Emma kept a look-out by the outer door.

  Marian lifted a curtain at the back of the forge. Six children slept soundly in pallets round a glowing fire. Philippa had much to leave.

  ‘There’s a barking dog, and light up on the common,’ Emma cried out, before the work was done.

  ‘No time left,’ said Marian.

  The blacksmith gave a powerful great rasp with his file, Philippa groaned and the metal snapped open. She was white-faced and staring as they lifted the burden from her head, and pulled the metal thong gently from her mouth. Dark blood trickled from her lips and fresh blood ran down her cheek. The last sharp effort had gashed her face.

  Alice pulled her to her feet, and they were off, their cloaks whirling through the door.

  ‘Do not leave me with this,’ the blacksmith cried, picking up the hated bridle.

  ‘I’ll take it, sir,’ said Tom.

  ‘Phil . . . ippa!’ the blacksmith’s cry followed them out, into the cold dark night.

  There was running and shouting and blazing torches coming closer as they headed for the forest. Several of the villagers saw them go, but the captain and his armed guards were bravely pointed in the wrong direction. The village was finding its courage once again.

  They set off running through the forest, and at first all went well, but soon concern for Philippa slowed them down. She was a tall, well-built woman, but as they moved further from Langden and her ordeal, the stubborn pride that had kept her going began to drain away fast. She shivered and shook and made strange sounds.

  ‘’Tis all we can expect,’ Alice cried out, frantic for her friend. ‘Those wicked bridles mash the tongue. We must get her to the Forestwife.’

  The last mile was a hard struggle, and they almost carried Philippa between them, but at last they reached the clearing and the blacksmith’s wife was given into Agnes’s tender care.

  All through the next day Philippa was nursed and tended. She was carefully spoon-fed, but slept heavily and made no sound. Alice watched her anxiously, and whispered her fears to Marian.

  ‘I’ve known a scold’s bridle so hurt the tongue that they never speak clear again.’

  Marian had her own doubts. After the first wild pleasure in their success, she’d grown miserable at the sadness of Philippa’s situation. The sleeping children by the fireside kept creeping into her mind.

  Early that evening Philippa stirred and opened her eyes. She held her hand out to Alice, but stared with surprise at the tiny hut crowded with women. Tom squeezed in through the doorway, sensing that something was happening, followed by one of the goats and a clucking hen.

  ‘We’ve little to welcome thee with,’ said Marian. ‘We took thee from the stocks to save thee from branding. I fear we’ve scarred tha face instead.’

  Philippa put her fingertips to the cut, feeling gently and wincing, but then she pulled herself upwards until she sat. Much to their surprise, she would not rest with that, she pushed away Alice’s supporting hand, and struggled to her feet. Then she stood tall and straight, as they’d seen her by the stocks, but now her eyes burned bright with triumph.

  She moved her mouth awkwardly, as though chewing.

  They all held their breath.

  Then slowly but clearly she spoke. ‘We have defied the manor.’

  Tom raised both his arms and clapped and cheered. The goats and chickens squawked and bleated in reply, and the hut was filled with laughter and uproar.

  The blacksmith’s wife did not return to her bed, not that day nor any day. She took a quick look around the clearing and told Agnes that the Forestwife was in need of more shelter. Everyone was quick to agree, and the following days were full of cutting and sawing and hammering. Tom’s father came to give his advice, though he could not do much of the work. It was Philippa who did the heavy lifting and sawing, throwing herself into it with relish, speaking steadily and with
good humour, though slowly.

  Alice came through the woods every day, to give help and see her friend. She brought old Sarah with her, who wandered round the clearing happy as a child and got in everyone’s way. Once the alarm was raised when Alice noticed that the old woman was missing and work had to be stopped while they searched and brought her back.

  Marian blinked back tears when she saw Philippa quietly stroke the cheek of Alice’s baby, or stoop to pat little Nan’s head.

  Gradually a lean-to grew on the side of the hut, making twice as much room as before. It was sturdily built and smelt of fresh oak, so that those who slept beneath the Forestwife’s roof slept safe and warm and dry.

  7

  The Green Man

  IT WAS AN early evening in late September, with a cool wind blowing through the yew trees, when Marian heard the wailing once more.

  The clearing was quiet, for Philippa had gone to take Sarah back to the coal-digger’s hut, saying she’d stay with Alice for the night. They had found the old woman wandering, lost in the forest again. Poor Sarah had been quite distressed.

  ‘The trees are crying,’ she insisted. ‘They lose their leaves and they moan and weep.’

  The others had smiled kindly, but Marian had set to wondering, remembering the wailing that Tom and little Nan had heard.

  Agnes and Emma were busy in the new lean-to, crumbling dried herbs into pots to keep for winter use, when Marian thought that she could hear crying herself. She said nothing, but wandered out into the clearing, holding up her licked fingertip as Emma did. The wind could carry sounds a long way, she’d learnt that much.

  She wandered towards her favourite tree, the great yew. She stood for a moment beneath its sweeping branches, fingering the small pink fruit and breathing in the clean scent of resin.

  It was only as she turned to go, glancing down to where a bramble caught her foot, that she saw it. Her stomach leapt – a hand, sticking out from beneath the curling bracken. The skin was the same gingery brown as the dried bracken fronds, making it hard to see. Her heart thumped and her throat went tight as she bent down and carefully pulled away the leaves. Close by the yew, well hidden amongst the undergrowth, a man lay fast asleep.

  He was young and thin-cheeked, with a dark growth of beard. He was dressed in a grey hog-skin jerkin, worn silver in patches like the yew tree’s bark, and dark ginger leggings that blended with the colour of his hand and the drying bracken. His cloak was a deep foresty green, like her own. Marian stared down at him, then up into the branches of the yew, her mind drifting into a dream of the green lady and her forest lover. It seemed he was part of the woodland itself; grown from the trees, the bracken and the rich dark earth. He was a very beautiful young man.

  Suddenly he groaned in his sleep and muttered, twitching restlessly. She bent close, wrinkling her nose at the rank smell of sweat and sickness, and saw that his face was bruised. His cloak was good homespun, but ragged and torn. How stupid she’d been. This was no fairy lover. He was not asleep, but ill. The skin on his cheeks was white beneath smudged dirt and glistened with moisture. He was real enough – he stank – and he was somehow familiar. Yes . . . her hands shook at the thought. She knew him; she had seen him once before, though only from a distance, when he’d stayed with Maud and Harry at the mill. He was Agnes’s nephew, Robert, the fierce wolfshead, the wicked one.

  He cried out, a low, growling sound like a wounded boar.

  ‘Mother,’ he seemed to cry, then he rolled to the side. His hand and stomach were caked in dried blood.

  Marian turned and ran, shouting for Agnes.

  ‘Why, what is it, lass?’ Agnes came to the doorway, a bunch of lavender in her hand.

  ‘Agnes. He is here beneath the great tree. It is Robert. He is hurt, and he cries out for . . . his mother?’

  ‘Show me,’ Agnes dropped the flowers and ran.

  She bent down beneath the branches, then fell to her knees beside the lad. She touched his head, and caught hold of his hand.

  ‘Mother,’ the beastlike growl came again.

  Agnes looked up into Marian’s puzzled face. ‘He has found his mother,’ she said. ‘For Robert is not my nephew, he is my son.’

  Marian stared open-mouthed, but Robert groaned again and Agnes turned quickly back to him.

  ‘No time to stand there gaping, girl. Take up his legs, while I lift him round the shoulders. Ah, he’s no weight! What has the lad been doing these months?’

  They carried him carefully into the cottage and settled him on the bedding. Emma came forward to help, supposing him just another unfortunate lad who’d come seeking the Forestwife.

  There was dark dried blood on his hand and shirt. Agnes pulled open his jerkin, clicking her tongue at all the clotting blood. Then she turned his head to the side, tenderly feeling at the temples. He had a black eye and yellow and grey bruising above.

  Agnes clicked her tongue again.

  ‘Clout on the head, and a sword cut. Marian! Fetch water! Quick, lass!’

  Marian picked up the bucket and ran.

  She dipped the bucket into the clean warm water as quickly as she could, though her hands would not stop shaking. Then she set to frowning as Agnes’s words sank in.

  ‘What has he been doing, these months?’ As far as she knew, Agnes had not seen Robert for a year at least, and what had she called him? Her son?

  Marian shook her head, she could not understand at all, but there was not time to stop and think.

  When she returned, Agnes and Emma knelt over Robert, their heads bent together, carefully cutting away the shreds of bloodsoaked homespun from his shirt that had dried around the wound. Emma glanced anxiously across at Agnes, then down at Robert. Something had been said between them . . . Emma knew.

  Without waiting to be told, Marian squeezed out a cloth in clean warm water and began the job of washing him. Robert still muttered and rolled his head, the words making no sense, his mind still far away. She bent over him, gently cleaning the dust and mud from his face. There was broken skin beneath his matted hair. She wrinkled her nostrils as she wiped dried vomit from his cheek. What a fool she had been! How ever could she have thought him so beautiful . . . the magical green man?

  Despite the offers of help that came, Agnes insisted on sitting up all night with the wounded lad, and in the morning her devotion was rewarded. Robert was calm and quiet, smiling up at his mother with recognition. Marian carried in a bowl of bread soaked in fresh warm goat’s milk. She knelt at his side. He smiled at her and whispered his thanks, then turned to his mother.

  ‘Where is the fancy m’lady then?’

  Marian froze, and Agnes pressed her lips tight together.

  Robert looked from one to the other, his mouth falling open.

  ‘She is not the one?’ He laughed low and winced. ‘My lady of Holt, with a freckled nose and dirty face?’

  ‘I would clout thee good and hard,’ said Agnes, ‘if someone had not already done it for me.’

  Marian’s hands started to shake, so that the milk looked like to spill. ‘I am Marian,’ she said. ‘I am Mary de Holt no longer.’

  Robert said nothing, he would not look at her, but smirked down at his feet. Marian was clearly beneath his contempt, though she could not see why.

  ‘Give me the bowl,’ said Agnes, taking it from her. ‘Take no notice, my lovey, he knows nowt, and believe me, when this head of his is mended he will think a different way.’

  She spoke sharply over Robert’s head, trying to catch Marian’s eye, and make her smile.

  But Marian could not. She knelt there for a moment, staring down at the trodden earth floor, her fists clenched, fighting to hold back tears. Then suddenly she leapt to her feet and ran outside into the cold clean air. She hated this sick man, with his sneering mouth, hated the very smell of him. And besides all this, was he not a murderer?

  She strode across the clearing, taking her usual path to the great yew, but as she lifted her hands to its soft, sweeping br
anches she stopped, remembering how she had found him there. She turned away, her anger stronger than ever. He had somehow defiled the beautiful tree. She could never turn to it again without thinking of him.

  Then, as she shifted, she caught another movement from the corner of her eye. She whipped her head round quickly, catching only the sense of a dark shadow slipping away, and the faint crackle of dry leaves. Branches of the further, smaller yew trembled, but when she caught hold of them, there was nothing there. They were thick, sturdy boughs, and the wind had dropped.

  Agnes came from the cottage, calling her name. Marian did not move. She thought of hiding, punishing her.

  Her old nurse saw her standing amongst the yews and called again. Marian still would not turn towards her, but she waited, her face turned away. She stood there while Agnes came to take her hand.

  ‘Tha must let me explain it all to thee, lovey. You owe me that. I left him with my brother when he were less than two years old. I left him when I went to be your nurse.’

  ‘Aye.’ Marian sighed. ‘I suppose I can but hear thee out.’

  Agnes led her back to the hut, but turned her away from the old room where Robert lay. They went and sat together in the new lean-to. Marian paused at the door, glancing quickly round the clearing.

  ‘I thought I saw someone just now out there, hiding amongst the trees. I thought I heard a voice.’

  Agnes joined her, but there was no sound or movement.

  ‘Maybe you did see something,’ she whispered. ‘There’s others, and they’ll come for him.’

  Agnes settled herself in the corner, by the pots of herbs. Instinctively she took up the work she’d dropped in haste the night before, crumbling dried comfrey leaves into pots. Marian picked a bunch of crisp, dark-golden tansy flowers, and joined her in the task.

  ‘His father,’ she began, nodding her head towards the old room, ‘his father, my husband, was Adam Fitzooth, a yeoman farmer and a freeman. We had a bit of land over Wakefield way, that we rented from the Lord of Oldcotes, for payment and fieldwork at ploughing and harvest.’