He turned to Philippa for some sense. ‘I could maybe let them out, but where would they go? They’re vowed to obedience. Dear God! ’Tis heresy indeed that tha suggests.’
Philippa sighed. ‘’Tis their wishes that we need to understand. Instead of filching ale, can tha not search out Mother Veronica and offer her our help?’
He scratched his head, where stubble grew on the old tonsured patch. ‘I can try. Aye, I can do that.’
‘If they wish it,’ said Marian, ‘we shall help them build some shelter in the forest. There are more of us . . . friends that we may call to aid us.’
He scrambled to his feet, clicking his fingers to Snap, who leapt at once to his command.
‘Mother Veronica always did things her own way. I shall do what you ask, young woman. No need to look so fierce at me. Tha may take tha knife back from Snap. I shall meet thee here tomorrow at dusk.’
‘Aye, we’ve other errands.’ Philippa was restless to be off to Langden.
Marian took her knife back, still frowning, but as they walked away, she turned to see Brother James filling the flagon with water from the stream. She could not help but smile as he poured it over his head, snorting and shuddering, while the great black shadow beside him danced and barked.
Emma and Marian approached the blacksmith’s cottage by the forge, leaving Philippa hidden in the gorse scrub at the edge of the woods. It was a quiet midmorning, most of the village folk busy at their chores. The blacksmith recognised Marian, and welcomed them inside. As they stood by the warm fire’s glow and looked around the small neat home, they could see that all was well. The children were strong, and all had good warm clothes and clean faces.
‘Tha’s been looking after them well,’ said Marian, impressed and pleased for Philippa’s sake.
‘Aye, but I’ve had help,’ her husband told them, though there was something of a puzzle in his face.
‘From thy neighbours?’
‘My neighbours have been grand, that’s true. But we have had better help than they could have given.’
‘What then?’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Presents. Presents of good food and clothing, brought in secret in the night.’
‘And you do not know who sends them?’ Marian’s eyes were wide with interest.
The blacksmith shook his head. ‘No one in Langden could give such presents. No one but the lord.’
He laughed, though there was no joy in the sound.
‘We can be sure it is not him. The only one we can think of is his wife, the Lady Matilda, but she is a poor sick woman, rarely seen. Some say that William beats her.’
‘Why should he do that?’ Marian demanded.
‘She’s given him but one daughter. William wants a son as his heir. There are many who would say that that is reason enough.’
Marian shook her head at the injustice of it all.
‘She’s a kindly woman though,’ the blacksmith spoke softly, ‘and I swear these presents come from her.’
The children were wild with excitement at the thought of seeing their mother, and yet they fell obediently quiet when they were told. Used to living in fear, thought Marian.
Emma took three of the children straight off with her to see their mother, each carrying log baskets, as though they were going to search out firewood. Marian waited until they returned and then gathered up the others, insisting that there must be no fuss or commotion.
‘Will tha come too and bring the bairn?’ she asked the blacksmith.
He hesitated and turned towards the forge. ‘I have much work in hand . . . ’ His voice trailed off, and Marian frowned.
‘I daresay Philippa will wish to see you too.’
The man sighed, then turned back to her.
‘Aye, surely I shall come, and bring the bairn, but I fear it will not please Philippa.’
The man took the smallest boy from the crib where he slept, and wrapped him well in a warm, soft woven blanket, one of the mysterious gifts. Then he set off with Marian and the two other children.
Philippa rushed forward to hug her children, but then she moved slowly towards her husband and suddenly slapped his face sharply. Marian flinched and backed away from them; the blacksmith had been right.
‘That is for this scar.’ Philippa touched the long red weal that still showed on her cheek, flaming livid with her anger. Then suddenly her face changed. She flung her arms around the man and child, hugging them both and planting a kiss upon her husband’s mouth.
‘That is for keeping my little ’uns so well. Now give me that bairn.’
She gathered the baby into her arms and settled back against a tree stump, rocking the child, her cheek against his head.
‘Rowlie, my little Rowland,’ she crooned.
Marian smiled with relief, but saw that the man still looked troubled.
Philippa’s smile faded. Slowly the rocking stopped; she looked down at her child, then up at her husband.
‘How long have I been gone from Langden?’
He sighed and sat down beside her, putting out his strong, work-marked hand to touch the baby’s head. ‘’Tis all but six weeks, my love.’
Philippa’s voice shook. ‘And this bairn has not grown a jot.’ She unwrapped the small body. ‘His little arms and legs are like sticks.’
The blacksmith shook his head. ‘I swear that I have done my best, and others have tried too, but we cannot get him to feed. He should be trying his feet by now, but he frets and will not take milk or sops.’
Philippa’s face crumpled. ‘Mother’s milk is what he needs, and I have none for him.’
Marian sat down beside them, understanding their concern now. The two older children stood still and quiet, watching.
‘We have good fresh goats’ milk in the clearing,’ Marian spoke gently. ‘And the Forestwife to give advice. Best of all, we have his mam.’
‘Aye,’ Philippa picked up the idea and smiled. ‘I shall take him back with me.’
‘I think it’s maybe best,’ her husband agreed.
‘Will William of Langden see that he’s gone?’ Marian asked.
The blacksmith laughed. ‘Do you think he knows or cares how many children we have? And no one else will point it out to him.’
‘Does he treat you ill because of me?’ Philippa asked.
He shook his head. ‘He needs his horses shod, and his guards well armed.’
Once the decision was made, Philippa was keen to be on her way, and get the baby back to Agnes. One of the other children was sent to tell Emma, and to fetch the good wrappings and baby clothes that had appeared with the other gifts.
Goodbyes were said, and soon Philippa was striding smiling through the forest with her little lad strapped to her front. Marian and Emma struggled to keep up with her. Emma had gone very quiet.
They were close to the clearing when Philippa slowed her pace at last. She had begun to see and understand Emma’s silent pain. She stopped by the pointer stone and caught hold of her hand.
‘I never thought,’ she said. ‘Seeing me with this little ’un must hurt thee sore.’
Emma’s eyes filled with tears, but she lifted her hand and gently stroked the fine hair on Rowland’s head.
‘Your Rowlie is a sweet child,’ she whispered.
‘He is that, and I must try my best to save him. I’ll never do it on my own. I’ll need a deal of help.’
‘Aye,’ said Emma shyly. ‘I’d be glad to do what I can.’
‘Might tha take him in for me, while I sort out these wrappings?’
‘May I?’ Emma held out her arms, her chin trembling.
Agnes came to greet them, surprised to see Marian and Tom carrying rugs and blankets, Philippa grinning and satisfied, and Emma with a baby in her arms.
11
Bunches of Rosemary
AGNES EXAMINED THE small child carefully, pressing gently on his legs and arms, and at last lifting him up to try his feet. Philippa and Emma both watched anxiously. At
first the two poor, thin legs trailed, and the child stared blankly into Agnes’s face, but then he drew up his knees and kicked his feet down weakly.
‘Boo!’ Agnes shouted suddenly.
The child jumped in her arms, and then, slowly, a delightful one-toothed smile brightened his face.
‘There’s naught wrong with this little chap,’ Agnes turned to Philippa. ‘Naught wrong that good goats’ milk, fresh air and mother’s love won’t cure.’
Philippa snatched up her child, laughing with relief, and Emma went to fetch a cup of milk, still warm from the beast.
All the next day Philippa fussed and fretted over little Rowland, and Emma ran round in circles, fetching and carrying for the child.
Late in the afternoon Marian brought out her cloak, and fastened on her boots. Philippa stared at her, puzzled, for a moment, then suddenly got to her feet, the child crying out at the sharp movement.
‘Brother James! I forgot.’
Marian laughed.
‘Settle theesen down again. I shall take Tom with me. I do not need thee, nor Emma. There’s nothing to fear from him, I know that now.’
Brother James was waiting as he’d promised, leaning against a sturdy oak, Snap sitting quietly beside him. The monk lumbered to his feet at their approach.
‘Well?’ Marian demanded at once. ‘What of the Sisters? Has tha spoken with them?’
He bowed deeply, chuckling and ignoring her questions. ‘Greetings to you, my wild lady of the woods.’
Marian sighed with impatience and Tom grinned at the monk. Then Brother James’s face grew solemn. ‘Indeed, I’ve news for you. Mother Veronica and the Sisters are longing for the freedom of the woods. I can let them out. Can you build shelter for them?’
Marian’s face lit up. ‘We shall do our very best.’
‘We’ll do that all right,’ Tom agreed.
‘Can they really burn for this?’ Marian asked, suddenly frightened by the plan.
The fat monk’s cheeks trembled. ‘By right and by the Church’s law they could. But then they would have to be hunted and discovered, and carried off for judgement. These bishops are too busy fighting amongst themselves. I hear that Geoffrey of York has excommunicated Hugh of Durham yet again, and even sent his men to smash Hugh’s altars. Still the old man laughs in his face, and gathers his army about him. In truth, I cannot see even the most vindictive churchman paying men to search these vast and desolate wastes for six poor old women and two dowerless girls.
‘’Tis the two lasses, Anna and Margaret, that are the greatest worry for Veronica. They were given into her care as babes. Unmarriageable daughters! Young Margaret’s face is scarred by the hare lip, and Anna born with a crooked back. How can Veronica set such children outside the Church’s law?’
‘But should they then spend their lives like prisoners, locked away in cells?’ Marian insisted.
‘Nay,’ he shook his head. ‘And that is why she will bring them with her. You know these Sisters set themselves up as working nuns. They never claimed to lead the solitary life of contemplation . . . only the Seeress aspires to that. Oh no, Veronica and the Sisters never wished to be saints, just decent women leading safe and useful lives. That’s why they were so happy with their special saint.’
‘What? The Blessed Virgin?’
‘Nay!’ He laughed. ‘They are the Sisters of St Mary Magdalen.’
As Marian turned to go, Tom caught her arm.
‘Will the Sisters bring their beasts?’
Marian looked surprised.
‘Oh yes, they must bring their beasts.’ Brother James agreed. ‘How should they get through the winter without them?’
Brother James paused and sighed. ‘There’s one who’ll not come. The Seeress will never leave her cell. I spoke with her last night, and though I talked till dawn, I could not win her over. All she cares is that the nuns go free. She will not break her vow.’
Marian remembered the childlike hand in hers. ‘We’ll see. I’ll speak to her.’
Brother James shrugged his shoulders. He touched her head. ‘A heretic’s blessing,’ he whispered.
Marian stood quietly with Tom, watching him stride purposefully away through the crackling leaves, Snap bounding after with his awkward gait.
It took many days and a great deal of help searching through miles of forest, wild wastes and marshes, before a site for the new forest convent was found. It had to be far from Langden Manor and the old convent, but it had to have a good supply of strong straight timber for building and, most important of all, clean running water that would not fail.
At last such a site was found, far south towards Sherwood, yet still within the thickest tangle of Barnsdale. A marsh lay to the north-eastern side. Dangerous marshland would offer protection. They chose a patch of level ground, sheltered by a sloping bank of beech and holly trees.
Philippa sent Tom to Langden to beg axes and saws from her husband. Tom’s father, his damaged hand healing well, went around the chosen clearing, marking the trees to be felled.
Tom returned with a great sack of tools, but the blacksmith regretted that he was short of nails, and could not spare the few he’d got.
‘Of course he’s short, for ’twas me that made his nails,’ said Philippa. ‘If only I had iron to melt down, I could make all the nails we need and more for him.’
Tom looked at her and bit his lip. ‘I know where there’s iron,’ he said. ‘But I fear tha might not like it, Philippa.’
‘What can tha mean?’
Tom ran to the side of the clearing and dived into one of the smaller yews, where thick green branches swept the ground. There was a clanking sound, then he emerged, his forehead wrinkled with worry, dragging the rusting scold’s bridle by the chain.
Philippa’s face fell. The busy work and chatter around them ceased.
Tom stopped, dismayed. ‘I feared tha’d not like it. I carried it that night, and I knew how tha must sicken at the sight of it, so I hid it. Shall I drag it away and you’ll see it no more?’
Philippa stared white-faced at him. For a moment she seemed unable to answer, but then she spoke up, her voice stern.
‘Nay. Bring it to me.’
He dragged it on, till it rolled clattering before her feet. She suddenly laughed, and bent to kiss him.
‘Tha’s a good lad. ’Twill make a thousand nails, and I shall beat it and hammer it and thrust it into the fire.’
She fetched the stout sweeping brush that stood at the cottage door, and whacked the hated thing across the grass. Everyone clapped and cheered to see her treat it so.
Later that afternoon, Marian set off alone, laden with freshly-picked bunches of rosemary. As darkness came, a bright moon sailed above the leaflorn branches of the trees. She clambered down the bank near the convent of St Mary, heading for the lonely cell of the Seeress.
The woodlands were quiet and still, though the air was damp and chilly. Moonshine threw graceful waving shadows across the ground, creating constantly changing patterns of dark and light. Marian moved slowly towards the hump of earth that covered the small cell, with a growing sense of intrusion. A low clicking came from the hut, and, as she moved closer, Marian realised that the sounds came from the Seeress. She stood still for a moment, recalling those desperate cries that had brought her here before. These sounds, strange though they were, held no misery.
Marian saw a startling and lovely sight. A young dog fox sat by the Seeress’s grille, twitching his ears and making small growling yaps in response to the eerie clicking song. Marian froze, mouth open, scarcely breathing. The magic held only for a moment. Some other sense told of her presence. The creature turned towards her, and in that instant she glimpsed the deep yellow fire that burned in his eyes. Then he was off, leaping into the undergrowth, leaving only the rank smell of fox to tell of his presence there.
The Seeress caught her breath, and Marian hastily stepped forward to explain.
‘’Tis I, Marian, the Forestwife’s girl.’
The Seeress’s voice was calm. ‘I knew ’twas not one of the monks. They have left me much alone of late. I weep no longer, now that Brother James has told me of thy plans.’
‘Aye. We make a hiding place in the forest. I swear we shall do all we can to keep the Sisters safe. But you must come too. The Brothers are bound to be angry. They may harm you, or even leave you to starve.’
‘I stay here,’ she insisted. There was no waver in her voice.
‘But why?’ Marian was almost angry.
‘I made my vow, and I keep it. I am not like the others. Mother Veronica and Catherine were always decent, religious women. I am here for my sin.’
Marian sighed. ‘What sin? Whatever could you be guilty of that demands this of you?’
The white face shimmered behind the grille and vanished.
‘Do not go!’ Marian pleaded.
Once more the indistinct, white, moonlike oval moved towards the grille, and the childlike hand came creeping through the space beneath. Marian caught it up, frightened by its coldness, rubbing it between her own warm palms.
‘It was a great sin,’ the Seeress’s voice shook. ‘Nobody knows . . . only my brother, and one other. ’Twas my brother built this place for me, and sent me here. I must bear this life with patience, and hope for salvation through my suffering.’
Marian let go the hand. She raked her fingers through her hair in frustration. What could she say? What could she do to shake this blind belief?
Then the Seeress spoke again, her voice warm and loving.
‘I am not unhappy. I have great faith in you. I cannot always see, as they think I can, and I cannot see clear what lies ahead, but this I know . . . in your presence, I feel that there is hope for us all. There is even hope for me.’
Marian sighed. ‘I almost forgot. I have brought thee a good supply of the cleansing herb, rosemary. At least you may keep your cell all clean and sweet.’
‘You see,’ the Seeress’s voice was deep with pleasure, ‘tha knows full well what I desire most. Brother James brings me ale, but he would never think of rosemary.’
Marian did not stay till dawn as Brother James had done. She returned to the Forestwife’s cottage before the candles had guttered for the night. There was no hope of changing the Seeress’s mind. Marian was sure of it, and must content herself with promises that she should be watched and cared for, even when the other nuns were gone.
The Forest Wife Page 8