The Forest Wife

by Theresa Tomlinson

  Mary knew the voices. They were her uncle’s grooms. She did not stay to see how they fared with the canons, but turned and stumbled on through the surrounding woodland.

  She ran wildly now, not thinking of the way, but going where the trees grew thickest. She did not stop, even though her legs banged against tree stumps and scraped on rocks. Fast uphill she went, borne onwards by the energy of fear. It was only as the trees grew taller and more spaced that she slowed her steps. She must stop at last, for her legs were growing numb. She staggered on, stiff-limbed, her head drooping in despair. What had she done? She could not go back, but dare she go on? She was heading towards the place she’d feared most to go. The wilderness of Barnsdale, beyond the reaches of the law.

  There were others who’d been this way, that was well known. They took refuge here, those who’d killed, or robbed, or maimed. Why, even Agnes’s nephew was one of them. Perhaps he hid here still.

  Mary’s knees gave way and she fell to the ground. Huge great sobs shook her body. She howled like a baby in the quiet woods, careless of the sounds, or of who might hear. At last, calm came from sheer exhaustion. As her sobs grew hushed and stillness returned, she began to hear other sounds . . . delicate sounds. The rustling of small bodies in the ferns, the screech of an owl, a faint trickle of water. Agnes had told her of St Quentin’s Well and promised to take her there. Fresh, clean water that bubbled from the rocks. Folk made special journeys there. It promised a safer place in this fearful wilderness.

  Mary pulled herself to her feet, and followed the gurgle and murmur of the stream. A bright moon came out from behind the thick clouds, and the chill wind dropped. She found the spring, sparkling and gleaming as it ran from the rocks. It was cold and reviving as she cupped her hands to drink. There in the moonlight was a fairyland of glittering water and fern. Her spirits rose. Perhaps there was still hope for her. She crawled beneath the thick drooping branches of a yew tree close to the water’s source and fell asleep.

  The familiar warbling sound of a low-pitched voice humming and singing woke Mary from her sleep. She smiled for a moment, thinking that she must have had a strange dream, but then her eyes flew open and she flinched, blinded by the beams of bright sunlight that picked their way through the branches of the yew tree.

  Dark green patterns and sharp mottled light bobbed above her, and a soft, bitty mass of dried yew needles covered the palms of her hands. It was no dream – she lay beneath a tall tree, but still there was the singing. Agnes’s deep croaky voice had woken her every morning since she was a child and now here it was, beside St Quentin’s Well.

  Mary sat up, scraping her head on the lowest sheltering branches. She rubbed her eyes to see clearer, for she could scarcely believe what she saw, and what she smelled made her dribble with hunger.

  Agnes crouched before a fire of smoking beechwood, cooking big flat mushrooms threaded carefully onto sticks.

  ‘Agnes!’

  Mary crawled towards her bleary-eyed, her braided hair knotted up in tufts and spiked with yew needles and pink yew flowers.

  ‘What!’ cried Agnes. ‘Is this a forest fairy, or a fierce wicked sprite?’

  Mary smiled, and burst into tears.

  ‘What a greeting,’ said Agnes, pretending to grumble, ‘and here’s me tramping up hill and down dale to find thee, with a great bag of food and victuals on my back.’

  Then, suddenly, the joy that had burst on Mary was gone in a flash of doubt. ‘I’ll not go back, whatever you say. I’d rather die.’

  Agnes pulled a sour face and wagged her finger. ‘Whatever art thou thinking, lass? Don’t you know your old nurse better than that? I’d rather die than take thee back. Do you think I fed thee as a babe, and taught thee all I know, to provide a breeding sow for a rich old hog?’

  Mary gasped. ‘You think I’ve done right then?’

  Agnes sighed, and flexed her stiff fingers.

  ‘I was making my own plans. Perhaps I should have told thee. I never guessed tha’d go galloping off like a furious colt at the first sign of a bridle. Well now, let us eat these fine mushrooms that I’ve discovered. I shall be cursing thee if tha sits there arguing and lets them burn.’

  Mary watched hungrily as Agnes drew a fresh-baked loaf from a great linen bundle and offered her golden singed mushrooms and a hunk of bread. She ate as though she’d never seen food before. It was only when she’d finished the last mushroom and drunk from St Quentin’s Well that she could manage to get out more of the questions that she needed to ask.

  ‘But how did you find me, Agnes?’

  ‘Huh. Tha’s left a trail like a thousand snails. No, don’t go alarming. Not a trail that Owen de Holt could follow, but clear enough to me and those that have eyes to see.’

  ‘But . . . who else?’

  ‘Oh . . . while your uncle went a-banging and a-bellowing round the manor, and a-calling out his grooms and horses, the kitchen maid set me on thy track. They think you’re a silly spoilt brat – oh ’tis true, they do. No need to pull that face – but they’ve no love for their master and they wish you no harm. Then the charcoal-burner gave me the nod, though I had terrible trouble with that daft daughter of his. Not a word could I get from her.’

  ‘Ah, that girl.’

  ‘She’d tell me naught, though I could see she knew. So I puzzled a bit where the paths all meet, but I know my girl and I remembered how you wished to visit St Quentin’s Well. So here we both are, but we cannot stay. We must be on our way.’

  ‘Where?’ begged Mary. ‘’Tis all very well to say go, but who will give us help and shelter? Everyone fears my uncle.’

  ‘Aye, here they do, sure enough, but I know where to go, my lovey. Just trust me and follow me, and though we’ve a long way to go, we shall be safe by nightfall. Now, tha might help to share my burden, for I didn’t leave in such a rush and thought well what might be needed.’

  Mary opened her mouth to tell how she’d been careful to bring her cloak, but she closed it again and said nothing. Agnes rooted in the bundle and pulled out a strong pair of riding boots.

  ‘I took these from the youngest groom. I guessed they’d fit thee well enough. He went tearing round in circles in his bare feet, cursing and swearing when the master ordered him out to search.’

  Mary looked down at her slippers, they were in shreds. Torn ribbons of the soft leather trailed from her feet. She took the boots gladly and pulled them on. She’d never worn anything so heavy on her feet before and they felt strange and clumsy, but her toes grew warm.

  A dark red kerchief, the colour of fallen leaves, came next from the bundle.

  ‘Tie this around your head, like me. Aye, do it yourself . . . you must learn, for I’ve more to do now than act as lady’s maid.’

  Mary flinched at the sharpness, but she did as she was told with a flush of shame. None of these things had entered her head.

  ‘Kilt up thy gown, aye, that’s right, like the maid that carries the slops. Now tha’s more fit to go striding through the woods. Pack away that fine purple cloak, we shall have to change that. I’ve another good wool cloak in here to make up a bundle for thee. See what I’ve thought to bring. Two sharp knives, a bundle of the strongest twine, needles, best tallow candles and a tinderbox and flint.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ Mary gathered the goods into her bundle. ‘Tha’s wonderful, Agnes,’ she said, a touch sour. ‘I’d be lost without thee.’

  They filled two flagons with the cool clear water from St Quentin’s Well, and set off down the hillside.

  The morning was bright and sunny. The woodland tracks were smooth and dry underfoot and edged with thigh-high grasses and ferns. Streams of running water criss-crossed the woods. Mary’s spirits soared. The presence of Agnes brought a powerful feeling of safety and hope. The trees themselves seemed to echo her mood, for the far hillside made a gorgeous, abundant patchwork of lush green leaves at their fullest strength, with jewelled shades of emerald, olive and beryl. She’d never realised before
how stale and dank was the air in Holt Manor from the rarely-changed rushes strewn on the floors. Here in the wilderness the air was clean and smelt of sap.

  Agnes went before her, a dark-green felt hat pulled firmly down over her kerchief, her skirt kilted high, easing the great strides that she took. From behind, you could not tell whether Agnes was man or woman. Mary smiled at the thought. Perhaps that was just as well.

  They passed through the woods of Chancet, and headed east towards Leeshall and Buck wood, still keeping to the woodland paths. A few folk passed them with a brief nod, uninterested in the two women carrying rough bundles, too weary and harassed with their own concerns.

  An old man approached with a mule piled high with coppiced wood. Agnes touched her hat to him and he nodded, but as he passed Mary he suddenly gave a growl, and snatched up her wrist. It was the silver and garnet ring on her forefinger that had caught his eye. Mary yanked hard.

  ‘No-o-o . . . ’ she screamed.

  He hung on tight, his face grown suddenly sly. He reached up, letting his mule go loose, and thrust back her kerchief, revealing her carefully braided hair.

  Suddenly a flash of silver-grey gleamed between them. Agnes held her sharp meat knife to his throat.

  The man laughed, but the laugh died in his throat as he saw the look on Agnes’s face.

  ‘Leave her be!’ She spat it out.

  Her face and her voice told him she’d use that knife. He threw off Mary’s arm.

  ‘Get on thy way,’ Agnes snarled.

  ‘I go . . . I go.’

  His mule had set off without him, ambling along the path in search of freedom. Agnes kept the knife in her hand while she watched him go running after his beast.

  ‘That damned ring of yours,’ she muttered. ‘Better to have thrown it into the stream.’

  Mary pulled it from her shaking fingers. ‘’Tis my mother’s ring, and I’ll not be parted from it.’

  ‘At least fasten it round tha neck with twine then.’

  Mary, all flustered and upset, pulled out the twine, and fixed the ring around her neck beneath her gown.

  When at last they’d seen the man disappear into the far distance, Agnes sheathed her knife.

  ‘Now we must go still faster. Get a move on, tha silly wench.’

  3

  The Forestwife

  MARY TRIED WALKING faster to keep up with Agnes, but she found it hardgoing. Her legs ached, and the soft skin on her feet was blistered with the rubbing of the boots. Still, she knew she’d never have got this far without them, for she was not used to walking beyond her uncle’s demesne.

  Agnes was angry with her, that was clear; the anger seethed in every stride she took and she’d give nothing but short replies. Mary followed her with growing uncertainty. Agnes’s quick action with the meat knife had saved them from being robbed, no doubt of it, but the speed and fierceness with which she’d moved had shocked Mary. This was a strange, alarming woman, unlike her fussy old nurse, and she followed her warily.

  Agnes had always been different from the other servants, something of a law unto herself. She’d insisted on tramping to Loxley valley every few months to visit her brother and nephew. Somehow Owen de Holt and Dame Marjorie had accepted it, though any other servant would have been whipped. Of course they’d needed Agnes at Holt Manor, for she was also a fine herbswoman and Dame Marjorie had little skill in that way. It was well known that Agnes had saved the reeve’s life, when he was set upon and beaten about the head by robbers, and it was Agnes’s special salves and potions that eased the aches and pains of all at the Manor House. For the first time it occurred to Mary that Agnes might be missed at Holt just as much, if not more, than her.

  She broke away from her thoughts and saw with dismay that they seemed to be heading towards the thickest tangle of the wilderness. The grasses were tall and entwined with gnarled bushes and trees, and in the distance clumps of luxuriant green rushes showed the presence of marshland, and yet the path that they followed seemed firm and well trodden.

  The midday sun was high in the sky when Mary saw ahead of them an ancient stone well. Agnes, who was a good way ahead, stooped to drink the water, then brought out the last of the bread from her baggage. She broke it in two, and held half of it out to Mary, who hobbled sore-footed towards the stopping place.

  ‘And what well is this?’ Mary asked, dreading the answer.

  ‘Why, this is the Old Wife’s Well, what else?’

  Mary crumpled down beside the ancient carved stone trough, her baggage falling at her feet. ‘Why have you brought me to this place? They say that those who pass this well are following the secret path. They go to seek the Forestwife deep in Barnsdale Forest.’

  ‘Aye, they do say that, don’t they.’

  Mary rose to her feet again, angry now.

  ‘How dare you bring me here? This is a place of evil. All decent folk who dwell in Sheaf Valley live in fear of the Forestwife. She’s a witch of the worst kind. She blights the crops with curses and spells, and nobody is safe from her.’

  Agnes chewed her bread, unperturbed.

  ‘’Tis true enough that they speak of her with fear, though I believe there’s only one at Holt Manor who’s ever set eyes on her. Look, my girl, Barnsdale Forest is the last place they’d wish to come looking for us, and so . . . ’tis straight to the Forestwife that we must go.’

  ‘You must be mad.’

  Agnes laughed, and struggled to her feet, picking up her bundle. ‘Well, that is where I go. Thee must please theesen.’

  ‘No . . . wait. Agnes! Come back!’

  But Agnes strode away, following the narrower path that headed straight into the deepest darks of the dreaded forest that stretched for many miles at the heart of the wilderness.

  Even though the great Roman road cut through Barnsdale Forest, everyone feared these woods and the wild bands of cut-throats who swooped out from its evil shade to prey on helpless travellers. Mary’s uncle would not pass through that part of the country unless his journey was absolutely necessary, and only then if his guards were trebled and armed to the teeth.

  After a moment or two of sheer, dithering panic, Mary picked up her bundle and followed Agnes, trembling with rage and fear. What else could she do? She could never find her way back by herself and Agnes, marching ahead without a backward glance, knew it.

  Mary dared not let Agnes out of her sight, though she held back, refusing to walk companionably alongside her nurse. The afternoon light began to fade. Mary had passed so many trees that they merged into a scratchy green blur. Her shoulders were sore where the bundle rubbed, and her arms ached with the carrying. Every drop of that morning’s joy of the woods had drained away. The forest was a cold, damp, frightening place. The tall thick trees blocked out the sun and made the barren ground beneath them smell of mould and death. Agnes, her saviour, had turned bitter and sharp.

  Yes . . . she’d grown sharp. Mary brought herself to a sudden stop at the thought. Where had the vague, forgetful Agnes gone?

  She forced herself to move onwards while she tried to puzzle it out. If she lost sight of Agnes now, she’d be lost indeed.

  Agnes had not been her old busy efficient self for a while. Well, not at the manor anyway. Mary frowned, trying to remember.

  It must have been a year since the terrible news was brought to Holt from Loxley. Agnes’s brother had been found dead, out in the fields next to his plough. Robert had vanished, and he’d been named as his father’s murderer. No wonder it was more than Agnes could bear.

  She started to lose things and forget what she was doing. Sometimes she’d stop in the middle of speaking, as though her mind was on something else. She’d even go wandering off for a whole day at a time and come back saying nothing, not even seeming to know that she’d been gone.

  Like so many odd things about Agnes, her wanderings had been tolerated. The servants whispered that the tragedy had turned her mind. No aunt could have been fonder of her nephew, that was clear for all to
see, but then no sister could have been fonder of her brother, either.

  Mary looked ahead through the leafy gloom, towards the small figure with its burden. Was it that same vicious Robert that she searched for now? Agnes had always claimed that Robert was innocent, but then, she would.

  Now the older woman stopped where two paths met. She hesitated for a moment, but then turned decisively to the right. It was almost, Mary thought . . . almost as if she knew the paths. As if she’d been this way before.

  At last Mary’s anger gave way to cold and worry. She could not stop her shoulders from shivering and her teeth from chattering. They had covered miles of forest land, and there was no possible way back. She gritted her teeth against the rubbing of her feet and strode ahead to catch up. A bad-tempered friend who led you to murderers and witches still seemed better than no friend at all in this dark and frightening place. Soon she walked just behind Agnes as before.

  They were still moving as it grew dark; such a thick, black, moonless darkness as Mary had never known. She walked into branches and rocks and groaned with pain and exhaustion. At last Agnes stopped and took her arm. She spoke kindly again.

  ‘Not far now, my honey. Not far. ’Tis a hard long way to walk, I know, but I promise thee we shall be safe.’

  ‘By nightfall you promised.’

  ‘I know, my lovey. I misremembered how far.’

  They stumbled on, though the path was invisible. But now they walked close, arms linked, each depending on the other not to fall. At last the trees grew thin and moonlight struggled through the branches. They came to a great oak tree that stood at the entrance to a clearing edged with yew trees. The moon showed just enough for them to see a small hut. There was no light within, but a tremendous din. Chickens clucking, goats bleating, and a great squawking and fluttering of wings.

  Agnes hurried forward.

  ‘What’s to do? Where is she?’

  Before the oak tree stood an ancient carved stone. A smaller, wedge-shaped stone was set into the curved top. It pointed towards the cottage door. Agnes touched the stone.