The Forest Wife

by Theresa Tomlinson

  Much pulled two more candles from the pile by the hearthstone. Marian snatched one from his hand and lit it. She bent down to Robert holding up the candle to see his face. It was grey and bruised, but the skin seemed unbroken. He shivered and muttered nonsense, rolling his eyes but seeing nothing.

  Marian put out her hand to touch his forehead. She found it cold and clammy, and he jumped away from her touch, turning his head towards the wall. Then she saw it; a great jagged, festering gash that cut into his skull from his cheekbone to the back of his ear. It stank, and oozed thick pus stained with dark blood. Marian clapped her hand to her mouth. She ran outside to vomit by the snorting horse.

  18

  The Green Lady

  MARIAN STRAIGHTENED HERSELF, and wiped her mouth, putting up one hand to steady herself against the steaming flanks of the horse. She closed her eyes and took great gulps of salty air into her lungs. The gentle swish and lap of the sea below the cliffs soothed the throbbing of her head.

  ‘I must think dear,’ she told herself. ‘Warm poultices and a good fire.’

  She turned and went into the hut.

  ‘Build up the fire for me, Much.’

  ‘But, lady,’ Much hesitated, ‘’tis hard to make a good fire. It is a strange place. They give us all we want of eggs and milk and fish, but they burn this powdery coal upon their fires. It glows slow and steady. ’Twill not burn fierce.’

  Marian stared at him, close to panic.

  ‘I must have a blazing fire of wood,’ she barked. ‘John, you heard what Agnes said.’

  ‘True enough,’ John soothed her. ‘We shall find wood.’

  ‘And water,’ she demanded.

  ‘Here! ’Tis good and fresh from the stream.’ Much brought a bucket from the cottage doorstep.

  ‘Bring wood then, quick!’ Marian gave her orders.

  She swallowed hard to quell her lurching stomach and set to cleaning Robert’s wound. It was difficult to see clearly in the flickering candlelight and it took a long time to boil water on the fire, but at last she had a comfrey poultice mashed and ready. Robert groaned and shouted when she tried to put it to the wound. Marian clenched her teeth, and tears welled up into her eyes.

  ‘Forgive me, love,’ she whispered, and pressed it firmly into place, despite the way he thrashed and growled.

  John came rushing in, with his arms full of wood.

  ‘What ails thee?’ he cried, seeing her tears.

  ‘Naught,’ said Marian. ‘Can tha please build up the fire?’

  They’d found dry wood down on the beach, above the level of the tide, and soon they had a roaring fire.

  Marian set Much to hold the poultice steady, while she washed the sick man, wincing at the stink of him. Then she spoon-fed him with Agnes’s sleeping draught, and wrapped him in the rugs.

  John and Much snatched a little sleep, but though Marian’s head twitched with weariness, she sat up all night, changing the comfrey dressings, keeping them warm and fresh. At last Robert sweated, as Agnes had said he must.

  In the morning, Much brought eggs and milk from the village, but none of them could eat. John paced about, until at last he spoke.

  ‘I do not like to leave thee, but . . . ’

  Marian nodded her head. ‘You must go, John. Emma has need of thee, and whether tha goes or stays will make no difference here. I am doing all that Agnes told me, and I cannot do more.’

  John nodded. ‘Much will do anything you want.’

  ‘I know he will.’

  John rode away.

  Despite her words, and Muchlyn’s willingness, Marian was afraid.

  All through the next day they kept the fire blazing, and Marian settled to a short sleep in the afternoon while Much sat by Robert, holding the poultice in place. Marian kept watch beside him through the night.

  Though Robert’s skin ran with sweat and his body shrank to skin and bones, still the fever raged. Sometimes for a moment she thought he stared at her with recognition, but then he’d shout out for his mother . . . or sometimes for his King.

  ‘Is he any better, do you think?’ she’d ask of Much.

  He’d frown, and scratch his head and say, ‘He is no worse, lady.’

  As the light began to fade on her third evening in that place, Marian went outside for air. Much had said she should rest, but she could not sleep.

  ‘A breath of fresh sea air will help me more,’ she told him.

  She wandered from the cottage, over the sloping clifftop, and down a winding pathway to the beach. She sat down on a rock, and hugged her knees. Despair and panic had been growing in her through the day. The comfrey that Agnes had sent was almost used and done. The fever should have broken, if it was ever going to. She stared out at the heaving sea, her eyes stinging with bitter tears.

  An old woman came wandering along the beach, picking up driftwood and filling a small sack with the black powdered coal that was washed up on the sand. As she came close by, Marian wiped her eyes and stared down at the ground, not wishing to be disturbed. The old woman looked at her, and paused, then she came towards her. Marian gave an angry cluck, but the woman ignored her rudeness, and sat down beside her. The smell of fish was strong upon her hands and clothes.

  ‘I heard tell that a strange lady in green had come to nurse a poor wounded man.’

  Marian made no answer, but gave a sniff.

  ‘I heard tell that this poor man’s wound has turned foul and festering,’ the woman continued. ‘And that maybe he is close to death.’

  At last Marian managed a reluctant response.

  ‘I fear ’tis true. The wound is foul, and will not mend.’

  The woman got up, and Marian thought she was going away, but she walked only a few paces, and pulled up from the sand a mass of dark tumbled weeds. She came back to Marian, dragging it beside her. Then she sat down again.

  ‘Hereabouts,’ she said, ‘we cure our wounds with seaweed.’ She pulled out a handful of the faintly shining strands.

  ‘This? It looks foul and slimy,’ Marian touched it. ‘Oh . . . surely it would poison a wound even worse.’

  The old woman laughed.

  ‘Now . . . if it were my son, all sick and wounded, this is what I’d do. I’d wash this seaweed clean, then chop it fine, and shape it to a plaster.’

  ‘You’d set it to the wound?’ Marian asked, hope suddenly flickering in her mind. Dare she put her trust in this woman?

  ‘That’s what I’d do, my honey,’ she answered, putting Marian sharply in mind of Agnes.

  She did not stop to thank the old woman, but snatched up the seaweed and ran.

  That night Marian sat up late, holding the seaweed poultice in place. Robert still shook and shivered, but he was quieter. At least it seemed there was no poison in the weed. She thought the wound looked cleaner.

  The night was bitterly cold. A strong wind blew from the sea, lashing the waves so that they crashed and roared like devouring beasts. The fire blazed fiercely. She could not make the sick man any warmer . . . could she?

  She crouched beside him, though her arm ached and her head dropped from weariness. She glanced at Much, who slept soundly in the far corner on a pile of straw, then looked back with pity at Robert’s thin face.

  Marian carefully pulled back the covering rugs, and crept in to lie beside him. She lifted his head so that he rested on her arm, and she could hold the poultice in place. She wrapped her legs around his twitching body, and closed her eyes.

  When Much awoke next morning he could not see Marian for a moment, and he got up, puzzled, from his pile of straw. Then he saw her, fast asleep beside Robert. He shrugged his shoulders and grinned.

  ‘A fine way to heal a man,’ he chuckled. Then as he bent close above them, his face turned solemn with relief. Robert slept calmly. His cheeks were pale and gaunt, but he had ceased all muttering and shivering.

  The small man scratched his head, and smiled, ‘It seems it’s worked,’ he whispered.

  Much went out f
or eggs and milk, and when he returned Marian was up and mixing soothing herbs for a drink.

  ‘Have you seen him?’ she cried. ‘He has not spoken, but he sleeps peaceful. If we can build up his strength now, I am sure he’ll live.’

  Much nodded, but he hesitated.

  ‘Thanks to thee, lady, tha’s saved him for sure. I am that glad he’s better, but I hate myself for running from the fight. What will he say to me? I turned sick with fear, and hid from that beast of a man. Leaving Robert to face him . . . alone.’

  Marian went to Much and hugged him. ‘How can you say that? If you’d not hidden, you’d both be dead. You were there to pick him up, and carry him here. You saved him just as much as me.’

  Later in the day, when Much was out collecting wood, Robert stirred and opened his eyes. Marian was standing by the window with her back to him.

  She froze, not daring to turn as she heard his voice. It was faint and croaky. ‘Mother . . . I had a dream,’ he murmured. ‘I dreamed that a great stretch of wild water roared below me. A wonderful dream . . . for the green lady slept beside me.’

  Marian turned from the window, and went to kneel by his bed. The light fell on her from the window, making Robert gasp. ‘Marian,’ he whispered.

  That night he ate a little coddled egg, spoon-fed by Marian as though he were a child. He was very weak and could do no more than lie there, watching them as they stoked the fire and prepared him tempting food. Marian slept on her own small pile of straw.

  Muchlyn brought fresh cod from the village. Marian had never seen anything but salted or fresh-water fish and didn’t know what to do with it. She snatched it up and ran over the clifftops, until she could see the beach. The old woman was there, just as before. It seemed she spent her whole life gathering wood and coal. Marian ran down the pathway, waving and calling to her.

  ‘The seaweed poultice worked,’ she told her.

  ‘Well, I said it would.’

  Marian clutched one silver-skinned fish to her chest. ‘Shall I give him this to eat?’

  ‘Aye. That should strengthen him.’

  ‘What shall I do with it?’

  The woman laughed. ‘Give me that sharp knife from tha belt. See . . . like this. Cut off its head, then slit along its belly to clean the innards. Now poach it in a bit of milk. ’Twill be the best thing in the world for him.’

  So Robert was fed on eggs and poached cod and he grew slowly stronger every day.

  There was much to tell him and he lay there happily listening, though she thought he looked a little uncertain when he heard that Emma was with child.

  Marian had such faith in seaweed now that she continued to treat the wound with it, and gradually the flesh knit itself together. The side of his face would be scarred, no helping that, and he’d a fine slit ear.

  Though he could hear it in his waking and his dreams, Robert had not yet set eyes upon the sea, and he was curious. One sunny afternoon in late October Marian allowed him to get up from his pallet. She supported him to the doorway, where he stood, breathing in the salty air.

  Winter approached and the wind grew colder. As the days passed, Robert grew stronger, to Marian’s delight, and he begged her to walk with him over the cliffs to glimpse the sea. She agreed at last, insisting that he wrapped a rug about his shoulders. Then she took his arm, and led him outside, turning anxiously to see him blinking in the daylight by the doorway. It hurt her so to see the pallor of his cheeks, and his scar stood out red and livid in the sharp glare of the sun.

  ‘Wait,’ she told him, darting back inside, leaving him clinging weakly to the door post.

  She took up her green cloak and pulled the knife from her belt. Carefully she cut the strong woven hood free of the mantle, then came back to him triumphantly. Gently she fastened the green hood around his head.

  ‘There, that shall protect thee.’

  He smiled, and winced at the pain that came.

  ‘You should not have done that,’ he said.

  ‘I can stitch up my cloak, and make a fine mantle of it. Now, lean on me.’

  He did as he was told, and they walked towards the sea.

  Robert stared, just as Marian and John had done when they first saw it.

  ‘It fills me with terror,’ he whispered.

  She nodded her understanding. ‘I thought so too. But I have grown used to it, and now I love its roaring voice. ’Twas seaweed that brought healing to your wound, and I do believe the fresh salt air brings strength with it.’

  They paced along the clifftops, with Much watching them anxiously from the cottage door. Marian moved ahead and Robert hesitated.

  ‘Are you weary then?’ she asked.

  ‘Nay,’ Robert rubbed his stomach. ‘I am hungry.’

  They both laughed and turned back to the cottage, walking close together.

  ‘That night . . . ’ said Robert. ‘That night I dreamed the green lady slept beside me . . . ’

  Marian stopped, her cheeks flamed suddenly red.

  Robert pulled her to him. ‘Well, it is just that I have often wished she’d creep into my bed again.’

  That night Marian fell asleep wrapped in Robert’s arms. In the morning Much went off for eggs, as usual, but when he came back, he led a sturdy black-and-white pony.

  They both looked up at him in surprise.

  ‘One of Bishop Hugh’s men has lent him to me. I may ride him to Howden, and stable him there. Winter comes on fast, and I should go to seek out John.’

  Robert struggled to his feet. ‘I shall come too.’

  Much grinned at him as he tottered and fell foolishly back upon the pile of bedding.

  ‘I think not, dear Rob. You must both winter here. You shall be safe and well fed with fish; the villagers shall see to that. But . . . ’twill be a harsh winter in the forest.’

  They nodded, remembering the deer hunts.

  ‘Agnes says ’twill be even worse this time,’ Marian agreed. ‘She swears the poorest folk shall pay the ransom in the end.’

  ‘I’m angry that I cannot come with thee, Much.’ Robert put his head in his hands.

  Muchlyn squeezed Robert’s arm. ‘I vow that we shall keep the Forestwife in venison.’

  Robert rose again, carefully, and they went to set Muchlyn on his way.

  19

  The Lone Wolf

  MARIAN AND ROBERT lived together in peace and safety through the winter months. The little sea-battered town stayed free from frost and snow, though the wind was bitterly cold. They made good friends amongst the folk who lived in that isolated place and celebrated Christmas at Whitby Abbey. Marian learned much of seashore plants and healing lore from her new wood-gathering friend.

  It was the end of February when news came to them that King Richard’s ransom was paid. Count John had fled to France, fearing his brother’s return.

  Robert was strong and well, though scarred like a fighting dog. Marian watched him sadly from the clifftops as he paced along the beach with his bow, sending arrows whizzing over the rocks. Since they’d heard of Richard’s hoped-for return, Robert had done nothing but practise his shooting to strengthen his drawing arm.

  She sighed. ‘He’s like a restless wolf,’ she muttered to herself. ‘Who could hope to tame such a one?’

  She could not hold him there much longer, that was clear enough, and at the same time a picture of Agnes and the Forestwife’s clearing came into her mind, and then followed a picture of the Seeress’s lonely cell. A strong surge of longing made her smile to herself.

  ‘And I must go too, for I know now where I belong.’

  She turned back to the cottage with a sigh, and began to pack their small possessions into bundles.

  ‘What do you do?’ he asked, when he returned.

  ‘’Tis time to go,’ she told him.

  He did not deny it, but stood in silence watching her. Then at last he caught hold of her and hugged her.

  ‘I have been happy here,’ he whispered. ‘Happier than ever before.
But my King has need of me.’

  Robert begged a good strong horse that would carry them both, with the same agreement that Muchlyn had made. They’d leave it safe in the Bishop’s stable at Howden.

  Marian took charge of their directions, for Robert had no memory of how he’d reached Baytown. They turned reluctantly away from the sea at Whitby, and crossed another heather sea – the moors – still rich with amber and purple hues. Then they travelled on to the Forest of Galtres, and there they made their camp.

  They built a good fire, and sat beside it late into the night. A lone wolf howled out in the shadows and Robert leapt to his feet, an arrow gleaming in his bow. He took aim and bent his bow. The grey wolf could be seen clearly, its yellow eyes glinting in the firelight. Marian braced herself to hear its death cry, but it did not come. Robert lowered the bow. The wolf sat down in the distance, still watching them.

  ‘Why?’ she asked.

  Robert sat down beside her. He shook his head, miserably scratching at the ground with the arrow. ‘I shall watch him, as he watches me. I doubt he’ll come closer. I know . . . what it is to be hunted. I have more in common with yon grey beast than I do with most of my own kind.’

  His words made Marian shiver. She stared across the fire at him. He’d taken to wearing her hood almost all the time. His face was still lean, his eyes glittered hard and clear in the reflected firelight.

  ‘And now,’ he whispered, ‘I know what it is to take a man’s life.’

  Marian stared at him. ‘Gisburn?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Was he the first?’

  He smiled bitterly at her. ‘Did you think I killed my uncle, then?’

  She hung her head.

  He reached across and took up her hand. ‘Believe me, Gisburn was the first, and I would wish him the last.’

  Marian clung tightly to his fingers. ‘You had no choice. ’Twas kill or be killed.’

  He nodded. ‘No choice indeed.’

  ‘Can you not give up this fighting, then? Must you still fight with Bishop Hugh?’

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘’Tis all that I can do.’