Path of the She Wolf

by Theresa Tomlinson

  John and Brother James butchered the deer, fixed up a spit and got fires going for roasting. A trestle table was set close to the fire as the evening turned chill. They worked fast together, for Robert was in the habit of bringing unexpected visitors to dine. Though never before had he brought anyone as rich and powerful as the Bishop of Hereford; Robert usually had quite a different way of dealing with bishops!

  Magda took no part in the preparations but sat in the small shelter with Brigit, trying to give what little comfort she could, talking and soothing until the child at last fell exhausted to sleep. Marian busied herself with washing and wrapping the new babe, and then with food preparations, ignoring Robert and the bishop. Indeed the two men were soon so deep in conversation that no courteous words of ceremony or welcome seemed needed. They spoke together in low urgent voices and Marian recognised the note of quiet excitement in Robert. She knew it only too well.

  ‘What does this mean?’ she asked herself. ‘What wild scheme are we in for now?’

  *

  It was only when the meat was cooked and served with trenchers of fresh baked bread that Marian sat down and spoke to their guest.

  ‘Humble food, Your Grace,’ she said. ‘But fresh and wholesome.’

  The Bishop shook his head dismissing her worries. ‘I eat very little,’ he said.

  Marian could believe that; the man was thin as a willow wand. At least he was no pampered overfed lover of luxury as so many of the bishops seemed to be.

  ‘Marian,’ Robert stood up formally and bowed to the Bishop. ‘Let me present to you His Grace the Bishop of Hereford, Giles de Braose.’

  Marian gasped and stared at the Bishop with new interest. ‘De Braose? Did you say de Braose?

  Brother James laughed at her surprise. ‘We thought that would interest you.’

  ‘Are you . . .?’ Marian faltered. ‘Are you?’

  An expression of pain touched the Bishop’s face, and he nodded. ‘I am the brother of William who died an exile in France. Matilda de Braose was my very dear sister-in-law, and well—’ the Bishop clenched his jaw. ‘You know what happened to her, and my poor nephew.’

  There was a moment of quiet. All the forest folk knew only too well how the King had persecuted the de Braose family. He’d taken Matilda prisoner along with her son and it was whispered fearfully throughout the country that he’d starved them to death.

  ‘Did the King’s quarrel touch you . . . er, Your Grace?’ Philippa asked, curiosity getting the better of courtesy.

  Giles de Braose swallowed hard, looking round at all their serious faces. He seemed touched by their concern but Marian got the impression of a man who rarely let his feelings show.

  ‘Me? I fled to France, but the king has invited me back and reinstated me. The fool thinks that I have forgiven him.’ A wry smile touched the corners of his mouth. ‘Now I travel the Great North Road from Helmsley Castle, where Robert de Ros gathers together an army of northerners. The gold I carry will buy weapons and fighting men for those who support us in the South. We shall bring out our charter, the one that is true to the laws King Henry made, and demand that the King reinstate his father’s rule, and begin to deal justly with this country. If he will not, then believe me, his days are numbered, and at last my family shall be revenged.’

  Marian nodded her head. Now it all became clear. There had been many whispers from those who passed through Barnsdale that even the most powerful northern barons were tired of King John’s constant demands. He invented new fines and taxes every day, funding battles on foreign soil that were meaningless to all but him. So now, at last, rebellion was truly in the air.

  The Bishop’s men ate heartily of the King’s deer, but the Bishop took little food. The outlaws ate quietly, with restraint, thoughtful at the Bishop’s news.

  Robert was fired with excitement. ‘We could muster a hundred archers,’ he suggested. ‘Poor men, ill-fed and ragged, but greatly skilled with the bow and they are full of bitter resentment and hungry for change.’

  The Bishop looked stunned for a moment but then he accepted this offer of support, though it came from so strange a quarter. ‘Such men would be of value. I shall send word to you,’ he promised. ‘As soon as we are ready to move.’

  ‘We’ll come at once,’ Robert assured him. ‘We’ll march to join you, travelling day and night.’

  Marian looked from the Bishop to the outlaw, uneasy at this willingness for battle. Though so different in their stations in life, yet still they were two of a kind. The same fanatical gleam was there in the eyes.

  As the evening air turned cold Marian got up and taking a flaming brand from the fire she went to the newly built hut. Magda was sitting shivering on the floor with her arms wrapped about Brigit. The girl’s face was puffy and tearstained, but she slept.

  ‘I think we should bring her out to the fire now,’ Marian told her. ‘Even though it means waking her, we must warm you both and make her eat and drink.’

  Magda moved gently so that the child began to wake. ‘Come, wake up now, sleepy one,’ she spoke softly. Then her tone changed and she asked angrily, nodding at the Bishop. ‘What is he doing here?’

  Marian sighed. ‘He is Giles de Braose, brother-in-law to the great Matilda that the King starved to death.’

  Magda’s eyes opened very wide. ‘The one who was locked up with her son and neither of them seen again?’

  Marian nodded. ‘This man fled to France, but now he’s back and, believe me, he is bent on vengeance. Now do you understand?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Magda. ‘Yes, I do.’ Then she turned to Brigit, who was stirring, and starting to shiver. ‘Come on, poor lass,’ she whispered. ‘Time to warm you up and fill your belly.’

  At last the girl woke properly. ‘My mother?’ she murmured.

  ‘I fear that is true sweetheart. Your mother has gone, but now you must eat and drink and warm yourself, for you must go on living.’ Magda pulled her to her feet and led her firmly towards the fire.

  Brigit was made to eat. She was too tired and miserable to argue and sat quietly nibbling at the food and warming her hands. Magda left her in Marian’s care and went to sit between her father and Tom. He rubbed her back and shoulders. ‘You’re freezing Magda,’ he said.

  The Bishop watched Marian as she fed the young girl who shivered and wept, but obediently accepted the food. ‘This child,’ he asked. ‘She is the daughter of the poor woman who died and sister to that new-born child?’

  Marian nodded.

  ‘Has she no father?’ he asked.

  ‘Aye, she has, but . . .’ Marian explained the man’s plight. ‘There is no money to pay his fine, and like so many he rots in Nottingham Jail.’

  ‘That is one thing that the barons will demand of the King,’ the Bishop said. ‘We shall put this wicked ruler into a state of fear and demand removal of the Forest Laws.’

  Marian looked across at Robert, and stopped feeding Brigit for a moment, spoon in hand. Everyone turned quiet at the sound of the Bishop’s words. An expression of hope was there, just for an instant, on every face gathered about the flickering firelight.

  ‘Now that,’ said Marian quietly, ‘would really mean something to us. That would truly be something worth fighting for.’

  The Bishop waved one of his men forward and whispered in his ear. The man at once took a purse from his belt and gave it to his master. ‘The barons can spare a little of their gold to pay one man’s fine,’ he said. ‘Who will take this purse to Nottingham and fetch the child her father back?’

  Everyone smiled and some clapped. ‘I will take it Your Grace,’ said Tom willingly.

  Brigit looked up puzzled as the purse was passed from hand to hand.

  ‘What are they doing?’ she asked.

  Marian took her hand. ‘I believe they are going to get your father back for you,’ she said.

  3

  A Good Place

  The Bishop and his men rode out of the clearing early next morning with Rober
t, and James to set them on their way. Tom went along with them on Rambler, travelling as far as Nottingham, the Bishop’s purse hidden in his jerkin.

  Magda was soon at her most hated job, digging a rubbish pit, for the Bishop’s overnight stay had left the clearing littered with chewed bones and soiled rushes. She insisted that Brigit should help her. ‘It’ll take her mind off the waiting,’ she said.

  Marian agreed, but towards noon she came to take Brigit to one side. ‘How old are you, honey?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m twelve,’ Brigit told her solemnly.

  Marian sighed. ‘Old enough for sorrow,’ she said. ‘Old enough to know your mind. Come with me.’

  She led Brigit towards the cottage, but when the girl understood where they were going she pulled back, knowing that her mother’s body still lay inside. Marian put her arm around the girl’s shoulders. ‘You do not have to go in,’ she said. ‘You do not have to look at her, but you may feel better if you do. There is naught that is fearful to see.’

  Brigit trembled and could not speak.

  ‘Do you wish to see your mother, child?’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered.

  ‘Come then.’ Marian took her by the hand and led her inside.

  What the Forestwife had said was true. There was nothing to fear. Old Gerta had washed the mother’s body and combed her hair. She’d covered her with a clean soft woollen cloak and set a small, sweet scented posy of snowdrops in the work-roughened hands. The careworn face was smoothed into an expression of peaceful rest.

  Brigit knelt down and gently stroked her mother’s hair.

  Marian looked across at Gerta and tears filled both the women’s eyes to see the young girl’s touching gesture. Though they were constantly faced with pain and suffering, it never ceased to hurt. Marian dashed away the tears and forced herself to be practical. ‘We cannot leave your mother unburied. We do not know how many days it will be before Tom can bring your father back. We could carry her to the Sisters of the Magdalen. They would give her a Christian burial in their churchyard, or we may bury her here at the top of the clearing where past Forestwives sleep beneath the yew trees. You must tell us what you want.’

  Brigit shook her head. ‘I cannot think,’ she said.

  Gerta got up and put her arm about the girl’s shoulders. ‘Would you like Marian to show you the place?’

  ‘Aye,’ Brigit allowed herself to be led back outside.

  At the top of the clearing between two ancient yews there lay a row of unmarked graves, humps in the ground.

  ‘It’s very quiet here,’ the girl whispered.

  Marian nodded. ‘We believe this clearing to be an ancient place of healing, with its circle of yews and magical warm spring. We do not know how old it is, but for as long as any of us can remember there has been a Forestwife living here; someone who will give help to any who come seeking it and do her best to heal.’

  ‘We thought you a witch,’ Brigit said, shamed at their foolishness. ‘And we were fearful, but I am not feared of you now.’

  Marian smiled. ‘I am but a woman. I sometimes wish I were a witch, if such magic would give me better skills. I would have given anything to have saved your mother for you.’

  ‘I know that you tried,’ Brigit spoke with surprising maturity. ‘I know that you did your best. Are these the graves of the ancient Forestwives?’

  ‘Yes, but not only them. This one was Agnes, the old Forestwife and my dear nurse; she was also Robert’s mother. This was Emma, my sweetest friend and Magda’s mother. This one with still fresh earth is my own mother, Eleanor. The forest folk called her the Old One. It’s just two months since I came home to find she’d died.’

  ‘Did you feel all dull and tight inside you?’ Brigit touched her chest.

  ‘Aye,’ Marian said. ‘I did feel that, but it’s slowly getting better. That morning, before I knew she’d died, I saw a she-wolf out in the woods. When I got back and found my mother gone, I thought the she-wolf had been my mother’s spirit and I was so glad that I’d seen her going bravely on her way.’

  Brigit nodded. ‘This is a good place,’ she said. ‘My mother used to make herb medicines for the village folk – she’d like this place. Will you bury my mother here?’

  Robert and James returned, noisy and energetic with their plans. ‘We’ll send word to all our friends. We’ll muster every man we know.’ Robert told Marian. ‘Philippa’s blacksmith husband is willing, and Rowan, too. Philippa says she is going, for she’s determined not to lose her youngest son, and she says they’ll need someone sensible to keep an eye on them! Isabel agrees that Will may go though she says she doesn’t know how she’ll manage without him. What about you, sweetheart? We’ll be in desperate need of a healer. You were never far behind when it came to a fight!’

  But Marian shook her head. ‘I have bad feelings about it all,’ she said. ‘Though Giles de Braose seems to be an honourable man, I do not trust the other barons. Since when have they helped such as us? Besides, there must be a Forestwife here.’

  As soon as Magda finished filling in the rubbish pit, Marian asked her to start digging the grave.

  ‘Am I the only one around here who can wield a shovel?’ she complained. ‘Ask my father, he that is so big and strong. He’s getting fat, he needs the exercise!’

  John came to her laughing. They wrestled over the shovel. ‘Give it to me then daughter. I’ll show you how it’s done.’ Then suddenly their laughter died as they saw Brigit watching them.

  ‘I should like to dig my mother’s grave,’ she said solemnly.

  ‘Come little one,’ said John quietly taking her hand. ‘We’ll all help, and do the job together.’

  They assembled to bury the poor mother as dusk fell. The young wet-nurse came over from Langden to join them at the graveside, her own big babe on one hip and the tiny child cradled in her other arm. The older child wriggled about and the new-born babe began to cry. Both Magda and Marian moved to help, but then stood back as Brigit strode over to the woman and took her brother into her arms. She rocked the child gently and stuck her little finger into his mouth. The child was instantly soothed.

  Magda and Marian looked at each other. ‘How old is she?’ Magda whispered.

  ‘Older than her years,’ Marian quietly replied.

  ‘Sorrow can do that to young folk,’ Gerta agreed.

  Magda went to stand beside Brigit. ‘Your new brother should be named,’ she said. ‘You are his sister. You should be the one to name him.’

  Brigit looked uncertain for a moment but then smiled down at the baby’s soft patch of hair. ‘My father is called Peter,’ she said. ‘I shall call my brother Peterkin for him.’

  ‘Peterkin is a fine name,’ Magda touched the baby’s cheek.

  The days that followed were full of bustle, and the Forestwife’s clearing was filled with the smell of hot metal poured to make arrowheads. The scrape of knife on wood could be heard as they worked hard to finish new strong bows. Arrows went whistling towards their targets, for Robert had all who presented themselves willing at bow practice each day.

  Gerta’s three grandsons begged to join the older men but the old woman was adamant that they were far too young and she marched them away, back to their small home in the woods, so that they shouldn’t be tempted further by watching the preparations. Philippa and her husband were to go with Isabel’s blessing, for their skills as blacksmiths would be needed as much as those willing to fight.

  ‘Promise me you’ll stay out of the battle?’ Marian begged her friend.

  Philippa had sighed. ‘Oh aye,’ she said. ‘There’ll be plenty to do without fighting. I dare say they’ll have me hammering the dints from their swords and straightening crumpled arrowheads. They’ll want their wounds tending, and they’ll all need feeding. Trust me, I won’t be joining any battle.’

  ‘I don’t trust you, any more than I trust Robert,’ said Marian, hugging her tightly. ‘Just make sure you come back safely to us.’

&nb
sp; Magda was excited by all the plans and action that surrounded her home. She spoke of going with the men but John would not agree to it. A happy relief from the warlike plans came when Tom brought back Brigit’s father safe and well from Nottingham Jail. Brigit was overjoyed to see him but her happiness did not last long for the man was determined to join the rebels.

  ‘But father we need you, me and little Peterkin,’ she told him.

  ‘Do you feel safe here with the Forestwife?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed.

  ‘Please try to understand. I must go to fight against these wicked Forest Laws. They make our lives a misery.’

  Brigit just stared at him, deep sadness in her eyes.

  When Magda spoke again of going to fight, Tom silenced her by pointing to Brigit. ‘She needs you my love,’ he said. ‘More than ever now that her father insists on coming.’

  Soon after Easter one of the Bishop of Hereford’s men rode into the clearing with news that the barons were gathering at Northampton. Brigit’s father was amongst those that set off, prepared for battle, all following the Hooded One.

  4

  Gerta’s Grandsons

  Though the clearing felt quiet after the army of rebel northeners had gone, there was plenty to do as always. The May Day celebrations were meagre compared with the usual wild feast and dancing that went on, but they didn’t let the day go by in silence.

  ‘Who can be our Green Man this year?’ Magda wondered. ‘’Tis quite a problem, now that all our men are gone.’

  ‘’Twould be good to make young Brigit our May Queen,’ Marian, suggested. ‘The child is so solemn and forlorn.’

  ‘Ah yes!’ Magda agreed. ‘The honour would do her good and maybe cheer her and that gives me an idea; a very young Green Man would be just right to dance with Brigit.’

  She persuaded Davy, the youngest of Gerta’s grandson’s, to allow them to paint his cheeks with green woodland dyes and cover his hair and clothes in fresh green leaves. When the misty May morning arrived, Davy came dancing out from the woodland as the Green Man, bringing the summer in as the sun rose high in the sky. He enjoyed his part and delighted in crowning the surprised Brigit with a garland of sweet hawthorn blossom to make her his Green Lady, and the beautiful May Queen. The older women clapped and sang with determined cheerfulness as the children danced around the maypole by the trysting tree.