The Forest Wife

by Theresa Tomlinson

  ‘Nay,’ she answered him shortly. But she lied, for as they moved towards the safety of Barnsdale, and the worst fears faded, Marian found herself in the grip of a shaking fit that she could not control. Her skin turned icy cold, and her legs trembled so that it was all she could do to put one foot before the other.

  Darkness began to lift as they reached the outskirts of Barnsdale Forest. Robert, who’d fallen into halting conversation with the nuns and Brother James, walked ahead. He suddenly stopped, and turned to John.

  ‘I dare say they may be safe enough here.’

  John halted, unsure.

  ‘Aye,’ Marian said. ‘We’re glad of thy help, but we can manage now.’

  John turned to look at Emma who lay shivering, half asleep on the sled, her arms cradling the still, white shape of Tom.

  ‘I’m for seeing them safe back, Rob. Maybe we shall have ourselves a leg of roasted venison.’

  Robert laughed, and agreed.

  Marian wondered if they’d laugh when they saw how many the deer must feed.

  15

  A Feast of Venison

  THE SUN WAS high in the sky as they drew close to the Magdalen Assart. Mist rose from the frosted tips of dark piles of bracken. Sharp pointers of sunlight cut down through the trees to touch them. They walked between tall columns of magical twirling mist that curled upwards from the ground, then vanished high above them in the branches of the trees. Emma sat back on the sled, wide awake now, stroking Tom’s hair, and watching John’s plodding back with an expression of bewilderment.

  Marian’s spirits soared with the curls of mist. Despite her misery at Tom’s plight, they carried back fresh hopes of life for him and for the hungry ones. And Robert . . . ? She looked ahead to where he smiled and nodded at Mother Veronica. Since they’d hastened from Sherwood, and struggled to free Tom, and walked through the night, there’d been no more sneering, no more calling her fool. He was almost . . . almost courteous. Of course she did not care what he thought of her, but . . . it was more pleasant to have him courteous.

  As they clambered down the hill above the convent clearing, they were met by hoards of quiet children, who gathered around them, staring wide-eyed at Tom, and whimpering with joy as the deer was revealed. Robert and John were baffled by the throng. Then as they came in sight of the camp of shelters, and understood, they fell silent.

  John lifted the yoke of the sled from his shoulders and turned to Robert.

  ‘This deer must feed them all?’

  Robert shrugged his shoulders, and Mother Veronica answered for him.

  ‘It must feed them all and more. We shall butcher the beast and send half to your mother, the Forestwife. Just as many poor souls shelter by her cottage.’

  ‘This beast cannot make good roast meat to feed all of these.’

  ‘Nay,’ the nun smiled sadly. ‘We must be careful. These folk could not eat roast meat, ’twould sicken them. We must make first a thin gruel, and hold back the meat for a day or two. Then we may try a richer venison stew, and hope to strengthen them.’

  ‘What then?’ John asked.

  Mother Veronica shook her head.

  Tom was awake, though his face was ashen. They lifted him gently from the sled, and carried him inside. While he groaned through gritted teeth, Marian and Mother Veronica examined him carefully.

  ‘’Tis a sickening wound,’ the old nun said. ‘But I do not believe the bone is snapped. I thank the Lord for Brother James’s staff.’

  ‘What can we do to help him mend?’ Marian begged.

  Mother Veronica shook her head. ‘That wound needs searing, and the sooner it’s done, the better.’

  Marian nodded, though she hated the thought of it.

  Mother Veronica heated up one of the knives, while Marian patiently fed the last drops of the nuns’ elderberry wine to Tom, hoping that it would help with the pain.

  Brother James came to help Marian hold the lad still, while Mother Veronica pressed the burning flat of the knife to the wound. Marian gritted her teeth against the smell of burning flesh, and the fierce cries that she dreaded to hear. But Tom was as brave as he’d always been, and though he gave one deep angry growl of pain, he quickly fell into a merciful faint again.

  Out in the clearing, Sister Catherine sharpened her knives and quickly set to work on the carcass of the deer. John offered to help, frowning as guts and innards spattered onto the old nun’s homespun apron.

  ‘Nay,’ she waved him away. ‘I have hacked up more beasts than ever tha’s seen, lad.’

  Philippa hovered at her shoulder. ‘Will tha keep the antlers and the skull, Sister? For we must dance for the deer when spring comes.’

  Sister Catherine wagged a bloody knife. ‘Brother James and Veronica do not hold with that. Heathen rites they call it.’

  Philippa nodded. ‘Aye, ’tis called heathen, I know. But Sister, when I saw that great herd, drinking from the river, I swore to myself that at least we should dance for them, come spring. They are such beautiful beasts.’

  The nun paused in her work, and smiled. ‘Beautiful indeed. I shall keep the antlers and the skull. I know how to cut the hide just so. I was once a butcher’s wife.’

  Robert and John went on with Marian and her friends who carried the wounded boy and half of the deer’s carcass to Agnes. This time they were prepared for the hunger that they’d find, but Marian was saddened to see more humps of freshly-dug earth beside Selina’s mound.

  Agnes was glad to have her son safe and well, though she could not help but chide him. ‘Where has tha been, lad? I hoped thee safe at the board of Bishop Hugh.’

  ‘Aye. And so we were. We feasted well at Christmastide, but then we thought it best to disappear.’

  ‘Why so?’ Marian asked.

  ‘A man arrived at Howden. One we’d seen before. He came from Nottingham.’

  ‘Ah,’ Agnes began to understand, but she frowned. ‘The Sheriff’s man, at Howden? I thought the Bishop had quarrelled with Count John and his Nottingham friends.’

  Robert’s laugh held no joy. ‘This man bears loyalty to none. He may be in the Sheriff’s pay for now, but he works for himself. They call him wolf-hunter, but ’tis human wolves he stalks. He kills for money, serving whoever will pay the most. They say he is relentless in his pursuit, and we know that the Sheriff has put a price upon our heads.’

  Marian shivered. ‘Who is he, this man-hunter?’

  ‘His name is Gisburn.’

  ‘So that is why you left the Bishop?’

  Robert shrugged his shoulders. ‘We thought it best not to wait and see if we were the wolves that he sought. We shall return to Howden in the spring. When the Bishop moves on Tickhill Castle, we shall be sure to go to fight with him. The Bishop needs every man that’s loyal to Richard.’

  Agnes did not like it. ‘Look, Rob . . . see the state of these forest folk. Why does not tha wonderful Richard come back and see justice done for them?’

  Robert shook his head, stubbornly hunching his shoulders. ‘You do not see it right, Mother. ’Tis Count John and all the warring priests and barons, not Richard, that’s to blame for this suffering.’

  Agnes muttered angrily. ‘None of them care.’

  Tom was put into Agnes’s own bed and his mother was sent for. His wound was cleansed and wrapped around with a plaster of pounded bayberry bark and oatmeal, to draw off the poisons. Marian and Emma sat on either side of him, feeding him strengthening wood sage tea, and the thin venison broth.

  Robert and John stayed only to make a small meal.

  ‘Will you go so soon?’ Agnes’s voice was full of regret.

  The two lads laughed. ‘Last time we came,’ said Robert, ‘you could not wait to see us gone.’

  ‘Aye, tha were a nuisance then, but now tha’s been a help.’

  Robert looked around the clearing, at the misery there. He spoke softly and awkwardly.

  ‘We can be more help to thee in Sherwood, Mother. We shall be back within a se’enight w
ith more venison.’

  They kept their word and when six days had passed they marched into the clearing, dragging a sled with a fresh-killed deer and a wild boar. They’d carried a pair of deer to the Magdalen Assart first and brought Brother James along with them, and better news from the nuns. Muchlyn came too, and another lad, named Will Stoutley. They were welcomed with wild rejoicing, and a feast was called for. Agnes agreed to it, for the first thin venison stews had done much to revive the sick, and there’d been no more deaths. Tom was recovering faster than any of them could have hoped, and it was all that Alice and Marian could do to keep him from leaving his pallet to try his leg.

  At last Marian persuaded him to rest by fetching John and Robert to sit by his side. They told him tales of their escapes from the foresters and wardens as they whittled the new bow staves that they’d cut from the great yew.

  Late in the evening, after they’d eaten, and sat around contented and chattering, wondering if they had the strength for a song, Robert picked his way through the gathering until he stood before Marian.

  ‘Will tha stand up?’ he asked.

  Marian was puzzled, but she could see no reason to disagree. She got to her feet, and frowned as he set a strong yew stave beside her. Then he notched it where it reached her shoulder.

  ‘If tha must go a-hunting, I’d best teach thee to shoot,’ he said. Then he walked away.

  Early next morning he came looking for her. He’d strung the bow, and carried a quiver full of arrows.

  ‘Does tha wish to shoot?’ he asked.

  She stared at him, still surprised, but she answered, ‘Aye. I do wish it.’

  He turned and walked out of the clearing; she followed him. They didn’t go far before he stopped.

  ‘This’ll do . . . space enough. Now see, I shall set up a willow wand.’

  Marian did as he told her, trying to follow his instructions. He showed her how to take her stance and how to hold the bow. She was awkward and clumsy, with half a mind to tell him not to waste his time. But he was patient enough, and cut a broader wand, moving it closer.

  He stood by her shoulder, pointing out the flaws in her aim without the hint of a sneer.

  ‘That’s it, pull back till tha thumb touches thine ear. Then close one eye, and so . . . let it go.’

  They worked together until the sun stood high in the sky. Though the wand was brought closer and closer . . . still she could not hit it. At last she threw down her bow in frustration. ‘I cannot do it,’ she shouted. ‘Surely ’tis something that must be learned as a bairn. ’Tis too late for me.’

  Then Robert laughed. ‘Too late? Was I wrong then? I felt sure ’twould be the right thing for thee. When I saw thee kill that deer with a meat knife, I thought . . . ’

  ‘You thought me a fool. That’s what you called me.’

  ‘Aye, and tha were a fool, to let the blood spill so. But then I thought different. I thought, a lass like that, so fierce and stubborn . . . well, she should learn to shoot.’

  She stared back at him for a moment, her mouth dropping open. Was he sneering again? Or was it perhaps as close to a compliment as he could manage?

  Silently she raised the bow once more and took aim. He touched her hand where she gripped the bow, raising it, just the slightest hint. Then she let the arrow fly, and nicked the willow wand.

  When Marian and Robert returned to the clearing they found Emma and John sitting happily together weaving osier strips into baskets. John was clumsy, his big fingers would not bend to the delicate work, but they laughed together, and Emma reached over to set his work to rights.

  Marian and Robert watched them uneasily, both unsure whether they liked what they saw.

  ‘We’d best be off to Sherwood, John,’ Robert spoke sharply.

  John looked up at Robert, surprised. Then he glanced at Marian.

  ‘Aye, we’ll soon be off,’ he agreed unhurriedly. ‘Tha’d been gone so long, I thought perhaps . . . ’

  ‘We’ll be off at dawn,’ Robert insisted. He turned to Marian. ‘We shall fetch thee more venison.’

  16

  To Honour the Deer

  THE YOUNG MEN returned to the clearing twice more before spring came. Each time they dragged a good supply of fresh game with them. John’s friendship with Emma grew, and the brawny, quietly spoken lad spent many an evening sitting beneath the great oak with the charcoal-burner’s daughter at his side. Marian teased them both by calling it the trysting tree.

  Tom’s wounds healed steadily with Agnes’s firm care, and warnings that it would turn bad if he tried it too soon. Though the angry blue-red scars would never fade, by the end of March he was hobbling about the clearing propped on stout crutches that his father and Philippa had made.

  One warm spring afternoon, the sound of a hunting horn sent Emma running outside, pink-cheeked and flustered, to find a bigger gang of lads than ever marching into the clearing. She flung herself up into the arms of the tallest one.

  Philippa insisted that there should be dancing, not yet to celebrate the summer, but to honour the deer. Agnes agreed, and messages were sent to the Magdalen Assart, though they wondered if the nuns would come for such ancient and pagan rites.

  ‘Will tha stay to celebrate with us?’ Agnes begged Robert.

  John looked pleased, though Robert frowned.

  ‘We were but passing by, on our way to join Bishop Hugh. There’s rumours that the King is captured, and prisoner in a foreign land.’

  ‘Never!’

  ‘Aye. ’Tis not clear yet, but it seems there’s talk of a ransom. Count John will think it his chance to take the throne for himself. We shall attack Tickhill, and hold it for Richard.’

  ‘Might we not stay for the feast?’ said John. ‘Then we shall go.’

  Robert agreed, though grudgingly.

  Only Sister Christina disapproved. The other nuns came walking through the woods and settled cheerfully to the feast. Mother Veronica and Brother James declared themselves happy enough, as heretics.

  ‘We still give praise to our God,’ they said. ‘But we shall give the deer their due. They got us through the winter.’

  They feasted in the early evening, so they might dance as darkness fell. It was Muchlyn who was chosen to fasten the antlers to his head, for Sister Catherine had preserved them well.

  As they lit the candles, the strange horned figure circled the clearing, the tanned deerhide floating down his back. Philippa took up a tabor that she’d made with deerskin stretched on a wooden frame. John put to his lips a pipe that he’d whittled from a branch of deer’s horn. It had but five notes, yet the simplicity of the tune he got matched well with the steady thud of the tabor.

  Though Muchlyn was small, they had chosen rightly, for he could leap and prance, copying faithfully the delicate movements of the deer.

  Little Margaret sat at the feet of Mother Veronica, holding up one hand to cover her hare lip. As Much began to dance, she watched him with wonder, and her hand fell from her face. She reached out to him, twisting and turning her fingers, following every move that he made. Much smiled at the delight in her eyes. He beckoned to her, inviting her to join him. She hesitated for a flustered moment, but Mother Veronica nodded her approval. The young girl rose to her feet and followed Much into the dance. She imitated his swift leaps and bounds with such grace and nimbleness that the whole company watched them spellbound. As the pure pipe music rose and fell, she lost all sense of bashfulness, seeing only the prancing figure of Much, and the magic of the deer’s dance.

  At last the music ceased. Margaret blinked, suddenly anxious as Much smiled down at her. Her hand flew up to cover her mouth.

  ‘Do not cover theesen,’ said Much, gently pulling her hand away. ‘Tha face puts me in mind of the beautiful deer that we dance for.’

  Mother Veronica watched it all with sudden anxiety, but Brother James put his arm around her. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘We make our own rules now.’

  Later in the evening they all
joined in the singing and dancing. John would not leave Emma’s side, and Much danced with little Margaret. Marian jigged and twirled in the middle of the throng, until she found herself face to face with Robert. He was laughing and merry from the ale. He wrapped his arms around her waist, and swung her round fast and furiously. She grinned back at him, though she could hardly catch her breath. When at last they were both worn out, and the dancing was coming to an end, he turned awkward again, dropping his hands to his sides.

  ‘You go at dawn,’ she said.

  ‘Aye. I must get some sleep.’ It was true that his face had gone suddenly white.

  ‘We shall dance again for May Day. Will you dance with me then?’

  ‘Aye.’ He nodded his head, then he turned and walked away.

  When they’d gone, there followed days of steady drizzling rain that turned the forest into a mire.

  ‘’Tis not the best weather for besieging,’ said Agnes. ‘Those inside fare dry and warm compared to those without.’

  Sparse news came to them from Tickhill, but the whole country was spinning with news of the King. It seemed that he was certainly captured by the Duke of Austria, and seventy thousand marks must be paid before he’d be released. Queen Eleanor had come to England to raise the money for her son, and harsh taxes and demands were made on landowners, manor lords, churches and abbeys.

  ‘Thank goodness ’tis not the serfs and villagers that must pay,’ said Marian.

  Agnes shrugged her shoulders. ‘’Tis them as shall pay in the end, you’ll see.’

  Life in the forest clearing went on at the usual busy pace. Agnes taught Marian and Emma much of her knowledge of herbs and healing, and there was the usual endless gathering to be done. As the weather grew warmer they had to search out watercress from the streams, pick tender green angelica stems, and comfrey for healing poultices.

  Agnes worked to build up the strength of her few fowls and goats. Soon the clearing ran with cheeping chicks and two wobbly-legged kids.