The Forest Wife

by Theresa Tomlinson

  Over the next few days, those who’d pledged themselves to help were thrown into a wild fury of work and preparation.

  Marian rushed about shouting and begging and worrying. She was all in a spin with excitement and fear at what they were daring to do. Philippa’s skills and strong arms were much in demand. She strode through the clearing with her little lad strapped to her chest. Whenever she had a dangerous job to do, Emma stood by with willing arms, ready to cuddle and fuss him. Despite the hard work that surrounded him, the child was clearly thriving. Tom insisted that they change his name from Rowland to Rowan, for the fine red cheeks that he’d gained.

  The frame of a small building was raised with strong beechwood planks and Philippa’s good nails. Everyone was needed to slap wet mud onto the wattle panels, woven about with moss and twigs. There were no thatching materials close by, so great bundles of rushes and heather were dragged through the forest tracks. The clearing that they’d created soon became known as the Magdalen Assart. Even the smallest children worked till the wintery sun sank behind the hill.

  12

  The Magdalen Assart

  ALL TOO SOON, the appointed evening came when Brother James would free the Sisters. Marian, Alice, Philippa and Emma crept up to the hill above the convent. Brother James was waiting there with Tom and Snap.

  ‘Is the potion ready?’ he asked. He was sweating and anxious, his fat cheeks shook with concern.

  ‘Aye.’ Marian took a small phial from her belt. ‘’Twas not easy to persuade her though. Agnes swears that they will sleep till midday, though the taste may be bitter.’

  ‘I shall see it goes in the richest dark red wine.’

  Brother James held Marian’s hand for just a moment.

  ‘I pray we do right, my bold lady.’

  Then he set off through the thickening twilight, faithful Snap limping at his heels.

  The four women and Tom settled down to wait. There’d been others willing to come, but they feared large numbers might draw attention and spoil the plan. In the end it came back to just the four.

  All was quiet in the convent buildings beneath the hill. They waited, tense and strained, barely whispering.

  The chapel bell rang for the end of vespers, and the monks filed out. There were quickening footsteps below them as the Brothers moved in line to the refectory. Candles flickered through the small windows, and the faint chink of cups and platters could be heard. The meal began.

  Up on the hillside Marian and her friends grew hungry and anxious. The darkness gathered around them.

  ‘What now?’ whispered Emma. ‘How will we know?’

  ‘We must listen for the compline bell,’ said Marian. ‘If it rings, we have failed to drug them, and must wait till they go to their beds.’

  ‘But how will we know when compline time comes?’

  Marian frowned. ‘Brother James will give us some sign.’

  Never had time dragged so. A bright moon drifted from the clouds and lit the woodland hillside so that they shrank into the bushes, worried that they’d be seen.

  The lights still glimmered in the refectory, but it seemed the distant sounds of chatter had ceased. Still there was no bell.

  ‘The time for their praying must be past,’ said Emma.

  ‘I doubt they take their prayers so seriously,’ said Philippa. ‘They break what other rules they wish.’

  Marian stood up. ‘I think we should go down, but quiet and careful, mind.’

  ‘Aye.’ They all agreed. They’d waited long enough.

  All stealthily and slow, they crept down the bank towards the convent. Still there was no sound nor sign of movement from inside. Then as they gathered at the bottom of the hill a man’s voice suddenly rose, chanting the prayers of the night.

  They all stood frozen together, listening and scared.

  The singing did not come from the chapel. All at once the lone voice was answered by a chorus of female voices, some deep and sweet, some childlike in their tones. The nuns were singing compline with Brother James.

  Relief spread from Marian to the others. They smiled at each other, though they stood with itching feet beside the door, wishing to be on their way.

  At last the singing stopped, and suddenly there was wild bustle and chaos. The door was flung open and six nuns poured out, each loaded with bags and sacks so that they could scarcely move.

  ‘Do the brothers sleep?’ Marian asked.

  ‘They snore like pigs, my darling,’ said a fat nun, her arms wrapped tightly around two frightened little girls.

  ‘Sister Catherine is henwife,’ said Brother James. ‘Go with her and catch the fowls.’

  ‘I have bags for them,’ said Emma, rushing off after the flustered nun.

  ‘I’m pigwife,’ said a tall young nun. ‘Sister Rosamund. Who’ll help me with the swine?’

  ‘You go, Tom,’ said Brother James, ‘and Snap. Go fetch the pigs!’

  Marian reeled amongst the turmoil, wondering where to help next. A nervous young nun clutched the arm of one who was old and stooped.

  ‘Sister Christina, she cannot walk well,’ she cried.

  ‘We’ll make a chair with our arms and carry her,’ said Marian, snatching up the young nun’s hands, and bending down to pick the old woman bodily from the ground.

  Then all at once they were off, in a noisy, bustling gang. Pushing and shoving and tripping over each other’s feet, they went off into the chilly forest night. Soon the pushing stopped and turned to puffing, as women and animals set themselves to climb the hill.

  ‘Ooh dear, you should leave me, such a nuisance I am!’ Sister Christina trembled and cried.

  ‘Hush now,’ said Marian. ‘You’re no weight at all.’ And that was true enough, for the old nun was frail and light.

  Mother Veronica went ahead with the two little girls, talking calmly to them all the while.

  ‘What an adventure, my darlings.’

  As they reached the top of the hill, Sister Christina continued to whittle and whine so that Marian was tempted to take her at her word and leave her there, but she caught the eye of the young nun who helped her with the carrying, and they both giggled instead. Sister Christina looked suspiciously from one to the other and fell silent.

  Once they had gained the top of the hill they felt that they could slow down a little, and make some sort of order. Emma and the henwife were the last to reach the top. They set the others smiling, for they both carried angry squawking hens in bags, and more tucked beneath each arm. The cockerel rode precariously upon the old nun’s head, flapping his clipped wings and crowing frantically.

  They moved on through the forest, vowing their thanks to Agnes’s potion, for they made enough noise to wake the dead. It was slow progress, for one way and another they had to keep stopping. The hens squawked and complained, and fluttered away whenever they got the chance. The pigs were puzzled that they could not root and snuffle wherever fine acorns could be found. Snap earned his keep, and more, by chasing runaways and fetching them back with gentle nips. Sister Christina began her whimpering once again, till Mother Veronica said she wished they’d left her behind, making the two pale children giggle.

  With all the fuss and stopping, it was almost dawn as they neared the Magdalen clearing. They were joined and greeted along the way by forest folk, for the nuns were widely known for their kindness. By the time they reached the assart, faint gleams of morning light came through the stark branches of the beech trees. The carrying was shared about, and all the nuns walked free of their burdens.

  ‘Why, child,’ Sister Catherine put up a wrinkled hand to touch Marian’s cheek, ‘I feel I know thee, now I see thy face clear in the light.’

  Marian shook her head and smiled at the old nun’s vagueness. She looked around for Tom, but could not see him. She wondered where he was, but could not go hunting for him. He knew the woods better than any, she told herself. As they reached the top of the wooded slope and looked down upon the clearing, a quietness fell.
Marian lowered Sister Christina gently to her feet. There was a moment of anxiety amongst the forest folk. The hut they’d raised was rough and small compared to the sturdy convent buildings.

  ‘Someone has made us a fire,’ said Mother Veronica.

  Smoke trickled out of a hole in the roof. Agnes appeared at the open doorway with mugs of ale on a long wooden platter. Little Rowan staggered out behind her, clutching at her skirt. Two black-and-white kittens jumped at his wobbling ankles – they’d been brought to keep the building clear of mice.

  The two novices left Mother Veronica’s side and crept towards the kittens, laughing with delight and clicking their fingers.

  Mother Veronica took hold of Brother James’s hand. She turned to Marian, smiling. ‘This is a blessed spot you’ve brought us to. I thank you with all my heart.’

  It was late next evening when Tom came running up to the newly-built convent hut.

  ‘They rage,’ he cried, laughing and excited. ‘They rage and curse and run round in circles. Never have you heard such oaths.’

  ‘Do you mean the monks?’ Marian asked.

  ‘Aye. I crept back to the convent, and I sat with the Seeress till morning. Then I hid amongst the bushes, high up on the hill.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Agnes’s potion worked true. There was no sight nor sound of them till the sun was high. Then they came stumbling from the great hall, angry and white-faced and bleary-eyed, rubbing their heads and groaning.’

  ‘Have they harmed the Seeress?’

  ‘Nay. I think they’ve forgotten her in their anger. They blunder around the building, still searching for hidden nuns and food. All they can find is a sack of oatmeal and plenty of drink. The last I saw they set to broaching a cask to quench their fury. I guess they’ll sleep again.’

  The next few days were spent helping the Sisters to settle into their new home. Although the oldest nun was frail, Marian saw that the others were strong and capable, and used to working together. Sister Catherine was old but spry, she soon had a gang of willing workers building winter shelter for her hens.

  Sister Rosamund had been the cellaress, but she’d declined to bring away the stocks of wine and ale. Instead she’d brought sacks of grain, beans and peas. Good stocks for the coming winter, Marian pointed out to Agnes. It was Sister Rosamund who’d calmly served the monks their pitcher of drugged red wine, for they unlocked her cell each evening to cook and wait on them.

  Mother Veronica was delighted with all the help they received. Though there were tears and worries and adjustments to be made, she kept things calm and good-natured throughout. Her greatest pleasure was in watching the two girls, Margaret and Anna, exploring their new world.

  ‘See them run!’ Mother Veronica caught Marian’s arm. ‘That is how children should be.’

  Margaret, the oldest, was lithe and slim; she ran and jumped around the clearing like the young hare that her misshapen lip was named for. Anna was a year younger, and she loped after Margaret, determined to follow wherever she went, and not be left behind.

  ‘Sisters is the right name for them,’ said Mother Veronica. ‘They have shared their lives, and are inseparable.’

  Marian smiled. ‘And Mother is the right name for you,’ she said.

  Though the nuns welcomed him, Brother James would not stay in the building.

  ‘Twould not be right,’ he said, ‘now that you all sleep in one room. Besides, Snap and I have got used to the woods. We shall never be far away.’

  Mother Veronica fretted that he might get sick, or chilled. ‘And who shall take our services?’ she begged.

  Brother James smiled. ‘We are true heretics now, so take your own services. You were always better than me . . . ready to mouth the words, when I forgot the chant. Take care.’ He hugged her. ‘I go to see the Seeress, and carry her a good meal.’

  Agnes and Marian watched him take his leave and go.

  ‘I wondered,’ said Marian, speaking softly. ‘I wondered about those two. I thought perhaps they were more like . . . well, husband and wife.’

  Agnes smiled and shook her head. ‘There are many ways of loving,’ she said.

  As the days grew short and cold, the Sisters withdrew into a hard-working routine. A period of heavy rain turned the forest tracks to thick mud. There was less coming and going between the Magdalen Assart and the Forestwife’s clearing, each group of women turning inward to their homes, their energy spent on the hard work of providing food, keeping themselves and their animals alive through the grim winter months.

  Brother James and Snap were the only ones who travelled back and forth through the woods, whatever the weather. He carried news and gossip and food to the Seeress. Two weeks before Christmas he arrived at the Forestwife’s hut with news that pleased them all. The monks had left the old convent. They’d finished all the ale and wine, and gone. They’d boarded up the doors with planks of wood and notices of excommunication from the Bishop.

  ‘Could the Sisters return?’ Marian asked.

  He shook his head. ‘We must wait. A change of abbot or bishop might see them safe. We must wait awhile and see how the wind blows.’

  ‘Is the Seeress safe?’

  ‘Aye, safe and glad for the Sisters. They have not harmed her but, as we thought, the monks would have left her to starve. Still, Snap and I see her well fed, and she has another visitor,’ he smiled.

  Marian frowned.

  ‘Aye. Old Sarah spends much time with her. But now I have an invitation for you. Mother Veronica begs that you visit them for Christmas. The Sisters wish to make a feast for all who’ve given help.’

  There were smiles and excitement at that, for their hard-won supplies were going fast with the great numbers of hungry folk that came each day.

  ‘Tell them we’ll come with pleasure,’ Marian said.

  13

  The Storyteller

  CHRISTMAS WAS A glad time. The Sisters prepared a feast for all the hungry folk who found their way to the Magdalen Assart. There was singing and storytelling and much anxious wondering about King Richard, who had left the Holy Land to return to England. The other ships that sailed with him had come safely to harbour months ago. There was general consternation. What had happened? The King had not come back to England! Was he shipwrecked, drowned, or worse?

  Marian sat by Agnes under the strong hide shelters that the nuns had raised in their clearing. The Sisters had been busy providing rough-cut trestle tables to seat their guests.

  ‘Why so sad?’ she asked Agnes, who sat quietly amongst the singing and laughing. ‘Are we not having a fine celebration?’

  Agnes shrugged her shoulders. ‘A great feast indeed, but the worst is still to come, and I wonder about . . . ’

  ‘Ah! You wonder about that wicked lad of yours?’

  ‘Yes, I do. Does he dine in comfort at Howden with the fighting bishop, or does he shiver with hunger in some cave?’

  ‘Do you not think that he’d find his way to the Forestwife if he was in trouble?’

  Agnes smiled. ‘Aye. You are right.’

  Marian could not stop her own mind wandering to the strange woman in the woods, who chose to be alone. She had been to visit the Seeress twice since the Sisters had left, and found her well fed by Brother James. Marian had taken her one of Selina’s old cloaks to fight the winter cold.

  Marian smiled as a group of young girls snatched up the hands of the two young novices and pulled them into a twirling dance, but she rose from the table, and picked up her own warm cloak. Then she gathered a fine collection of wholesome pastries that the nuns had made, and packed them carefully into a clean cloth. It was bad enough to be alone all year, but much worse to be alone at Christmastide.

  ‘Brother James,’ she bent to touch his arm. He sat beside Mother Veronica looking contented and sleepy, with a mug of ale in one hand and a pastry in the other. ‘Brother James, may I take Snap? I go to see the Seeress, and take her Christmas fare.’

  ‘I should
go too,’ he struggled to his feet.

  ‘You shall not,’ Mother Veronica spoke firmly. ‘You’re in no fit state to stand.’

  Brother James wearily did as he was told, and called up Snap. ‘Guard Marian!’ he ordered.

  The old convent stood dark and deserted as Marian passed it by. Just as once before, she heard a voice as she approached the Seeress’s cell. She put out her hand to hold Snap back, thinking that the Seeress entertained her foxy friend. But as she drew closer, Marian realised the voice did not belong to the Seeress. It was older, yet somehow familiar. It rose and fell dramatically. A story was being told.

  ‘And Lancelot escorted Guinevere through the tracks and forests of Cornwall. It was springtime. The air was full of sweet smells and blossoms. Guinevere was so beautiful that he could not help but fall in love . . . ’

  Marian crept close, not wishing to interrupt the speaker. She’d rather wrap her cloak close and sit down to listen, but the heavy panting of Snap could not be silenced.

  The voice changed, it took on a frightened, querulous note. ‘The trees, the trees are listening . . . ’

  Marian knew it at once. It was old Sarah.

  The Seeress spoke soothingly. ‘It’s all right, Sarah. ’Tis only Marian. I knew she’d come.’

  The Seeress welcomed her special meal, but she begged Marian to take Sarah back with her.

  ‘Take her to the feast, for they should love to hear her tales.’

  Marian stared at the old woman, though she could not see her face clearly in the forest gloom. She could not believe that those beautiful words had come from the crazed old woman’s lips. How had they overlooked such a thing?

  ‘We never knew you had such fine tales as those locked up in your head,’ said Marian.

  Sarah did not answer, but poked vacantly at the spikes of a holly leaf.