Path of the She Wolf

by Theresa Tomlinson

  The scarlet-coated figure of Will strode up the new-made steps. He glanced at the small crowd of foresters and soldiers and saw the face of a friend down there below him. No sign of recognition crossed his face; instead he turned to speak to the Sheriff. ‘Let me die an honourable death,’ he cried. ‘Let me die as befits the Hooded One with a sword in my hand.’

  A sneer touched the Sheriff’s thin lips. He laughed: then spat into Will’s face. ‘Hang the fool,’ he cried. ‘Get on with it! Shut his stupid mouth up! Shut it forever!’

  As the hangman moved to lift the noose, suddenly Tom was swinging himself up onto the platform with agility, despite his damaged leg, sword and dagger in his hands. He sliced through Will’s bonds in a moment.

  Will laughed, delighted.

  ‘Here’s your sword,’ Tom cried. ‘Don’t die with honour; fight instead! Help shall come – I’m sure of it!’

  Then the two men swung about back to back as they’d so often done in their practising. Will with a sword and Tom with his dagger were both ready to fight to the death any and all of the Sheriff’s men.

  The Sheriff howled with anger. ‘Kill them! Kill them both!’ he screamed.

  But the guards hesitated to charge at them, for the gleam that was there in the outlaws’ eyes told them that they would not die without taking others with them.

  Then all at once an arrow went whistling over the heads of the soldiers, just grazing the Sheriff’s cheek. The Sheriff swung round in fury as more arrows flew out from the edge of the woodland bringing down two more soldiers.

  Then there started up strange distant thudding sounds that grew and grew, at last becoming thunderously loud.

  ‘Look out! Look out!’ one of the soldiers cried, pointing towards the woods. Everybody turned to see that the bushes and branches on the edge of the forest were trembling and shaking. Even tall trees twisted and turned, waving wildly about. All at once hundreds of squealing, grunting pigs came bursting out from the shadows of the trees, charging at speed towards the platform and the crowd of fighting men. There was sudden wild panic, every man shouting at his companions, nobody able to hear or make sense.

  ‘Ya! Ya!’ came the cries of the herders as they still drove the pigs on. The gibbet was surrounded by fat, heaving, snorting bodies. More arrows whistled overhead and the Sheriff was grazed again in the elbow. He did not wait to see what next might come flying out from the forest, but fought his way through the charging beasts, slicing his sword in all directions, heading for the gates of Clipston. At last he reached the safety of the courtyard, his men streaming after him.

  ‘Get back and fight them,’ he cried, ‘I order you back!’

  The Sheriff tried to close the gates and make his men stay and fight, but they’d had enough of nasty surprises for one day and only when the last guard was eventually safe inside did they swing the gates closed.

  There was just a moment of laughter and rejoicing, then the outlaws took action once again knowing that they must not hang about. Isabel rode straight at the collapsing gibbet and hauled Will up behind her onto her strong grey mare. Tom whistled for Rambler and in a moment the horse was by his side. There were a few more shouts and sharp bursts of laughter as the pigs were quickly rounded up and driven back into the woods. When the Sheriff dared to open the gates once more there was nothing left but a smashed gibbet and a great expanse of trampled ground and pig-muck.

  ‘Get into the woods,’ the Sheriff cried. ‘Kill every pig-herder you can find. Kill every pig!’

  But as the night grew darker, the pigs and their owners left the woodlands, slipping away to their homes along the secret paths that they knew well. A thin mist rose from the sodden mossy grass, growing thicker in patches, sending the soldiers stumbling about, lost and weary. They fell into bogs and streams, cursing the pigs and their herders, cursing each other but cursing the Sheriff most of all.

  There was much joy as Will and his rescuers returned to Langden, but Marian marched ahead of the others towards the Forestwife’s clearing, her face grim.

  ‘Do not look so anxious,’ Robert begged, running after her. ‘It was a mad idea, that you and Magda thought up, but it worked!’

  ‘Aye. It worked,’ she agreed. ‘But the Sheriff will not forget Langden now! This will not be the end of it. We have made a fool of him, but this man’s no buffoon like the last Sheriff was! He will not forgive or forget this night’s work.’

  Robert frowned and nodded but still his smile returned and he took hold of her hand. ‘You are right as ever, but I tell you this. I would not have missed the look on de Rue’s face when all the pigs charged out from the trees . . . I would not have missed it for the world! And I do not think this Sheriff will return to Langden in a hurry!’

  ‘No, maybe not,’ Marian relented and smiled at last. She moved closer to Robert and they marched along together, arms about each other’s waists, their pace matching perfectly, step for step.

  Though the soldiers spent a few more days scouring Sherwood for pigs and herders, there were none to be found. The pannage month was over and they’d all gone back to their villages. Robert once more took up his quiet fireside job of whittling arrow shafts and gathering goose feathers to make the flights.

  12

  King John’s Revenge

  In early December Tom set off for Hathersage, while Isabel and Philippa brought news that they’d picked up from travellers passing through Langden. King John had destroyed Rochester Castle by tunnelling beneath the ground and blowing up one of the towers with a huge explosion of fire and pig fat. He’d then marched on to Winchester and was said to be gathering together more arms and even more mercenaries.

  ‘He’s setting out from St Albans now, heading for Northampton,’ Isabel told them.

  Robert exchanged uneasy glances with James. ‘I don’t like the sound of him marching north. The farther he is from us the better,’ he muttered.

  ‘There’s sad news of the rebellious Bishop of Hereford,’ Isabel added. ‘He agreed at last to swear fealty again, but the deed was never done. The man has died.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Robert growled. ‘Then he never forgave the King. I cannot say I’m sorry! Let’s hope this brings an end to that family’s suffering.’

  Everyone murmured agreement to that.

  ‘There’s a stranger story going about,’ said Isabel. ‘I can’t believe it’s true, but they say that the rebel barons have sent envoys to the King of France, begging him to send his son Prince Louis at the head of an army.’

  ‘Why should the French come to England’s aid?’ Robert asked.

  ‘They promise that if he support the rebel barons in their fight and help them get rid of King John, then in return they shall make Prince Louis our king.’

  There were gasps from them all.

  ‘What? It doesn’t make sense,’ Robert insisted. ‘What good would it do to have another foreign king brought here? What does Prince Louis know of us?’

  ‘Huh! It doesn’t surprise me,’ Marian told them. ‘The barons simply seek another way to snatch power for themselves.’

  ‘You best tell them about Robert de Ros,’ Philippa prompted.

  ‘Yes,’ Isabel agreed. ‘The great northerner lord returned to his castle at Helmsley, as soon as he heard that the King’s army travels north. He’s setting about building up his defences as though he expects a siege.’

  ‘Aye,’ Philippa added. ‘And he is not the only baron who does that. They all seem to expect the worst and where does it leave us?’

  ‘Defenceless! And right in the middle of it all, as usual!’ Marian spoke with anger.

  ‘We are not defenceless,’ Magda cried. ‘We must do what we’ve always done. We’ll fight!’

  ‘Aye Magda,’ Philippa smiled. ‘But you will not be doing the fighting this time. You’ll leave that to us.’

  Marian expected Robert to agree angrily and speak of rallying men to defend them, but he stayed silent, staring moodily into the fire.

  With
a still growing sense of foreboding, Marian ordered the digging of deep keeping-pits to hide away their stocks of grain, oats, nuts and beans. Though Christmas came they did not organise the usual festivities, and the feast day itself was marred by the news that King John had arrived to spend Christmas with the Sheriff of Nottingham. Magda grew rounder and more restless every day and still Tom did not return from Derbyshire with her father. They heard that every pallet in Nottingham, every scrap of floor space in the city was taken up with a vast army of foreign soldiers who’d arrived armed to the teeth.

  Marian grew tense watching and waiting for Robert’s anger to explode, but instead he grew silent and grim, sitting hunched by the fireside, whittling knife handles until late at night. It was not the first time that he’d been like this. Marian knew the signs and worried herself to a shadow. When Robert had been in such a mood as this before, it had often ended with him going off without telling anyone and not reappearing for months. She wished very much that John and Tom would return; even Brother James who was so patient and good humoured could not lift the gloom.

  ‘I don’t know what bothers me most,’ she confided to Philippa. ‘This terrible silence or his wild reckless courage.’

  ‘Oh, I’d say he’s much better charging madly about than only half alive like this,’ came Philippa’s quick reply.

  ‘Yes, you are right,’ Marian agreed with certainty.

  The first day of January dawned, with heavy rain. As the wintry sun rose, the rain ceased and a damp cold mist drifted up from the earth. It was then that the real trouble broke. The first sign of it came as Gerta staggered into the clearing, her kirtle ripped and torn, young Davy in her arms, his head streaming with blood. Magda saw them from the doorway of her new home and ran to help, Brigit following close behind. The old woman panted and gasped unable to get her breath.

  ‘What is it?’ Magda asked, trying to take the young boy into her own arms.

  ‘Terrible . . . terrible things!’ Gerta struggled to speak. ‘The King . . . he rides north, with his new found wolfpack.’

  ‘They’ve done this?’ Magda cried.

  ‘Aye. It’s punishment! My hut’s a smoking heap, my geese scattered in the wastes. Everyone who rebelled . . . everyone whose manor lord rebelled, anyone who gets in their way!’

  ‘What? What are they doing to them?’

  ‘Killing them!’ the old woman sobbed. ‘Killing, burning. Burning the crops! Setting fire to stores of grain! My big lads have fled to warn Langden, for that is where they’re heading. And my lad . . . my little Davy . . .’

  ‘He’s gone white,’ Brigit pointed out.

  ‘Get him inside!’ Magda spoke with urgency, frightened by his sudden pallor.

  Between them they carried Davy into the cottage and gently put him down on the pallet by the fire. Marian at once snatched up her water pot and a compress of clean lamb’s wool. She set about staunching the terrible wound, but the child’s face stayed deathly white, and her actions slowed. She stopped. The blood had ceased to flow, and the child who’d been so desperately rescued from the gallows died quietly there by the hearth.

  ‘He’s gone,’ she whispered.

  ‘No,’ Brigit cried out, ‘Not Davy!’ She stumbled backwards outside into the clearing.

  Gerta didn’t make a sound but went to crouch beside her grandson’s body. She wrapped her arms about his small shoulders, rocking him gently back and forth as though he were a sleeping babe. Robert looked on, his own face very pale. ‘Who has done this?’ he asked through gritted teeth.

  ‘It’s King John’s punishment,’ Magda told him. ‘Punishment for rebelling, for supporting the charter.’

  Robert moved swiftly to his feet his cheeks still ashen.

  ‘They are heading for Langden now,’ Magda cried.

  Robert snatched his bow from the nail and strode from the hut. ‘James!’ he shouted. ‘Fetch every weapon you can lay hands on! Bring the horses! We ride for Langden . . . at once!’

  Marian looked up at Magda, a grim smile on her face. ‘Whatever comes to us now,’ she whispered, ‘at least it will not be cowardice or shame.’

  *

  Magda went to lift down her own bow from its nail by the hearthstone, but Marian glanced out into the clearing and stopped her. ‘No, not this time,’ she said, her face determined. ‘There is other work for us to do. See Brigit is at it already.’

  ‘What?’ Magda demanded.

  ‘Come and look,’ she spoke solemnly.

  Magda went to stand beside her. The sight she saw was terrible, beyond belief. Though they had seen great sickness and sorrow there before in their clearing, nothing had ever been quite as fearful as the stream of poor folk who now wandered towards them dazed and desperate. Mothers carried wounded children, young folk supported the old, strong men wept helplessly. Everywhere she looked, they stumbled through the mud and wet grass with burnt hair, burnt hands and faces, all of them bruised and bleeding and as they watched the numbers grew.

  Robert strode about, listening to their stories stony-faced. Young Brigit, despite her grief for Davy, already moved amongst them, giving help and comfort. James brought the horses round from the lean-to, stacked with every weapon that they had. ‘Who will come with us to defend Langden?’ Robert cried.

  There was a great surge towards him and everyone who was able snatched bows and sticks and knives. Men, women, young and old shouting agreement till their throats were sore.

  Robert went to Marian and kissed her. ‘Whatever comes!’ he said.

  ‘Aye,’ she agreed. ‘Whatever comes!’

  Then they streamed out of the clearing behind Robert and James, ill-prepared and ragged but filled with bitterness, a great swarm of angry woodlanders.

  Suddenly the clearing was quieter, but now the gentler whimpering of those who were badly hurt, could be heard. ‘Right,’ said Marian rolling up her sleeves. ‘Get that pot boiling, Magda, and Brigit, can you fetch buckets from the spring? We shall have to work as we’ve never worked before.’

  Over the next few days they struggled tirelessly to give aid. Philippa came from Langden and told them that King John’s wolfpack had set the barns and haystacks alight, but then moved on north with Robert and his gang hard on their heels. Isabel and Will had valiantly organised their people to beat out the fires and save whatever grain and food they could. In that, the damp weather was on their side. The Sisters of the Magdalen had taken all they possessed in food and medicine and left their convent, following in the wake of the trail of destruction. Now they tramped from village to village giving what help they could.

  Magda was for once excused her hated task of grave digging as Philippa insisted on staying and making that hard job her own. Gerta buried little Davy, then resolutely set about comforting others who had lost family and friends. At last, on the third day, the flood of suffering newcomers ceased and some of those who had survived started to return to what was left of their homes.

  ‘Today is calmer,’ Magda said, stretching and rubbing her aching back. ‘But this strange quiet that they’ve left behind bothers me.’

  ‘Aye,’ Marian agreed. ‘We might have a few days respite but then I fear the worst will come. They may live for a few days on rotting turnips but that will not last them long.’

  Magda sank down on the doorsill, hugging her stomach. ‘You knew,’ she said. ‘All that gathering and pit-digging, all that gleaning and fuss. I thought you’d gone mad, but you were right. You knew.’

  Marian sighed. ‘I could not see clear, as my mother used to say, but yes, now I understand why. I doubt we can feed them all, but we have good stocks hidden away and at least we may save some of them.’

  Magda spoke bitterly, her eyes full of angry tears. ‘They mete out the fast death first, then the slow death follows. Those who are left must starve.’

  Brigit and Gerta who’d worked so tirelessly together came wandering over to the cottage leading a young girl who clutched a small rough-woven bag in her hands.


  ‘Mother says have you a bit of grain to spare, or oats or turnips, or anything? For all our food is burnt and gone and father is hurt and cannot hunt.’

  Magda smiled at Marian and struggled to her feet. ‘Aye. Come on in. We shall find you something to eat.’

  13

  Creswell Caves

  Even though Marian knew that they would come she could not have imagined how many there would be. The clearing was soon strewn with homemade shelters and smoking fires, for the weather turned against them once again bringing sleet and snow. Now they must struggle, not just to feed the wretched people who came to them, but somehow to clothe and keep them warm. Each day Philippa spent hours shifting snow and mud and digging up bucketfuls of grain from Marian’s secret keeping-pits. Other women set up pots over cooking fires and produced huge quantities of wholesome bubbling stew, made tasty with nettles and garlic leaves, and carefully cut slivers of smoked venison and boar.

  News came from Langden that the wolfpack had done their worst in Barnsdale, but not lingered to enjoy their spoils. Now they headed further north.

  ‘They did not stay here for long,’ Isabel told them, ‘for wherever they set about destruction, they found themselves hounded by a strange Hooded Man and his gang of fierce wild wolves.’

  Magda and Marian smiled. ‘I’m proud of them,’ said Magda.

  ‘Yes,’ Marian agreed. ‘Though the members of this new wolfpack may be mystified, the woodlanders know that Hooded Man well enough.’

  One cold January morning, Magda wandered around the clearing very early, for the wriggling of her babe inside her stomach would not let her sleep. Her ears picked up the clopping sound of a horse. She looked up with joy as the hooves beat out the familiar rhythm of Rambler’s signal. She strode towards the entrance to the secret pathways, her happiness a little diminished as she greeted her new husband but no sign of her father.