Later Marian lay awake beneath their blanket, her arms wrapped tightly about him. She was filled with sadness. There would never be another night like this, alone together in the woods.
They wandered a little from their pathway, and went to the west of Howden.
‘I shall take thee to Barnsdale first,’ said Robert. ‘Then ride back to Howden.’
With relief they entered the rough shelter and safety of the great wastes of Barnsdale. They were close to the Forestwife’s clearing when Tom spied them from the branch of a tree.
Marian waved and called to him, but he dropped down to the ground, and hobbled away towards the cottage.
Robert slowed the horse to a walk and turned to Marian with a puzzled frown. ‘Something is wrong,’ she whispered.
Then John came striding towards them from the clearing. The grim set of his face did nothing to calm their fears.
Robert climbed down from the horse and waited till his friend came close.
‘What is it, John?’
The big man shook his head. ‘I don’t know how to tell. ’Twas a se’enight since. I was making ready to travel north to find thee both.’
Marian sat still upon the horse, her stomach heavy as lead.
‘Is it Emma?’ she asked.
John shook his head. ‘Nay. ’Tis Agnes.’
‘What?’ They both cried out at once.
‘She is dead.’
Marian bowed her head, and covered her face with her hands.
Robert stood stiff and pale, blinking at John.
‘’Twas William of Langden.’
‘How?’ demanded Robert.
John sighed. ‘’Twill take a bit of telling. Philippa’s oldest lad came with an urgent message from Langden, but I fear we had gone to the Magdalen Assart to help them build more shelter for the sick. Only Tom and Agnes were here.’
‘What message?’ Marian knew the answer.
‘The one we’d all dreaded,’ said John. ‘William of Langden had discovered old Sarah when she wandered from the shelter of her cottage into the spring sunlight. He had her set in the ducking stool, demanding that she tell him where the wicked nuns and the outlaw Philippa were hiding. The villagers were terrified at what he’d do so they sent the lad to find us.’
The big man paused, and dropped his head into his hands, close to tears.
‘We were not there.’
‘What happened?’ Robert demanded, his voice quiet and cold.
‘Tom set off to the Magdalen Assart to find us, as fast as he could, but Agnes . . . Agnes broke her rule. She left the clearing and went straight to Langden with Philippa’s boy.’
Marian’s lips moved slowly. ‘She . . . left the forest?’
‘Aye. The villagers say that poor Sarah would tell him naught, though he ducked her again and again. It was too much for her, I fear she’s dead too. But they say her mind was clear enough at the end. She swore that William would be cursed by the Forestwife. That made him more furious than ever. He had Philippa’s husband thrown into the lock-up, and her children dragged from their home. He had them roped together on the village green, threatening to duck them next if nobody would tell him where to find the wild women of the woods. The villagers were horrified, but then came Agnes, all alone. She marched straight up to William of Langden, and she did curse him. They say that he turned white with fear and rage, and had his men throw Agnes into the pond.’
‘He drowned my mother?’ Robert spoke low, his hands shaking.
‘He tried to.’
‘Did none go to her aid?’
‘Yes, someone did. The villagers were astonished. Lady Matilda came all weak and shivering from her sick bed, led by her daughter. She faced up to her husband and quietly demanded that he cease his cruelty and let the women and children go free. They say that lady Matilda’s daughter took a knife from her belt and calmly cut the children’s bonds. Then the villagers grew bold with the lady’s presence, and pulled Agnes from the pond, but I fear ’twas too late.’
Robert’s fist clenched around his bow. ‘I shall kill that man.’
‘No need, he’s dead. As soon as Tom found us, I set off for Langden, with Philippa and Brother James. We ran as fast as we could, and Brother James set Snap to go racing ahead. Snap reached the village before us. He flew at his old master and tore his throat. Most of his men-at-arms stood by, unwilling to go to his aid. The others fled. I think that even they had little stomach for their work. The villagers carried Agnes up to the Manor, and set her in Lady Matilda’s bed. She lived for two days, and Mother Veronica went to nurse her, but she had taken a lung fever and she died.’
Marian keeled forward in the saddle, and John caught her. Robert stared blankly at them both.
Reluctantly they entered the clearing. They went . . . not to the cottage, but to stand by the newly-turned earth beside Selina’s mound that was Agnes’s grave.
Emma came slowly to them from the house, her stomach swollen with the child. Philippa followed, and then came Tom, pale and hesitating. Marian turned to her friends, wishing to hurl herself into their arms, but there was something solemn in the formal way that they approached her. Then she saw that Emma carried the girdle of the Forestwife. She held it out towards Marian, offering it.
Marian shuddered and stepped back.
‘No,’ she cried. ‘’Tis not for me.’
John put his arm about Emma’s shoulders. ‘Marian . . . it is for thee. Agnes spoke to us, before she died.’
Marian shook her head, she could not bear to hear.
‘What?’ said Robert. ‘What was it that she said?’
Philippa answered him. ‘She said that she understood it all at last. That we must not grieve, for ’tis all come about as fate would have it. Marian was ever meant to be the Forestwife.’
Marian stared white-faced at Philippa. ‘I cannot. Philippa, it should be you.’
But Philippa shook her head. ‘I have waited for your return, but I must go back to Langden and all my little ones now that William is dead.’
Emma offered the girdle again. ‘Do not be afraid. I will always be here to help you,’ she promised.
Marian lifted the beautiful thing from Emma’s hands. She could not look at Robert. Tears poured down her cheeks as she fastened it around her waist. Emma and Philippa wrapped their arms around her on either side, and led her to the cottage door.
Later, they all sat talking quietly. There was a great deal more to tell. The Langden reeve and bailiff had sworn loyalty to Lady Matilda and her daughter, and though the woman was not strong, she’d already made great changes on the Manor. She’d invited the nuns back and begged their help and advice. Mother Veronica had taken courage from the protection that Lady Matilda offered them and gone back to their convent. They’d left two Sisters at the Magdalen Assart, opening it up to any who needed a home.
‘They know they may hide in the woods again at the first sign of trouble,’ said John. ‘Miserable though we are, it seems there’s something good come out of this. But Brother James feared for Snap, and he’s taken his dog and gone off with Muchlyn and Stoutley to see if they may serve Bishop Hugh.’
Marian stared about her in distress. How could she be the Forestwife? She felt the loss of Agnes bitterly. How could she manage without her? Who would tell her what to do?
‘What of the Seeress?’ she asked.
‘She is safe in her cell,’ Emma told her.
‘I must go to see her,’ Marian said.
20
The Lost Child
MARIAN THREW HERSELF into the work of the Forestwife. It stopped her thinking. It blotted out her sorrow for a while, as she wracked her brains to think what Agnes would have done for every little hurt and pain that the forest folk brought to her. While she worked, she could not feel the bleak and empty space that Agnes left.
Robert stayed there in the clearing, awkward and quiet and ill at ease. Though they clung together through the nights, they had little to say. It seemed they co
uld not share their misery.
When Emma went into labour, Marian was filled with dread, and a desolate yearning for Agnes’s presence. She need not have feared, for as the birth progressed, it was almost as though Agnes whispered in her ear, calmly telling her what to do, step by step.
A girl was born, big and strong and kicking. Marian sat back, satisfied with her work. Emma leaned on John, weak with the effort. They both smiled down with pleasure at their child. Even Robert came in to share a little of their joy.
‘You two should get wed,’ said Marian.
They both laughed. ‘We were wed last Michaelmas,’ John told her. ‘As soon as I returned from Baytown.’
‘Who wed thee? Brother James?’
‘Nay.’ Emma grinned. ‘We were wed in a circle of nuns. Brother James said he’d forgotten how, and that six nuns were much better.’
‘Six nuns? Is that truly wed then?’
‘True enough for us,’ said John.
At sunset Robert sought her out.
‘Shall you and I be wed?’ he asked. ‘Shall we stand together in a circle of nuns.’
Marian clenched her hands with sorrow, till the nails bit into her knuckles. She wished very much that they might belong together like Emma and John. It was clear enough that he had feared to be tied to a woman . . . and yet now he begged it of her. She answered him as she must, but gently.
‘I can be no man’s wife. I am the Forestwife. For me that must suffice.’
He sat beside her in silent misery.
Marian pulled out the length of twine that fastened her mother’s garnet ring about her neck. She clasped the ring in her hand, wanting to give it to him, wishing to find some way of comforting. And yet she could not quite bring herself to part with it. She let it drop back into place. They sat there side by side until the sun had gone.
Next morning he took the horse, and left for Howden.
Philippa went back to Langden with Tom and Alice’s family. John and Emma were besotted with their child. Marian thought she’d die from loneliness. There was but one person who would always listen, who would weep with her, as she spilled her sadness out into the blossoming spring woods. She took her cloak and set off through the forest for the tiny cell.
The Seeress had little comfort to offer, but her presence and concern always helped. When Marian returned through the forest, she’d gathered strength, enough to go on.
News of King Richard came in March. He’d landed in the south and made his way to London, then headed north to Nottingham. John went marching off to join Robert, besieging Tickhill Castle once again. Emma was sad, but accepting.
They heard that Tickhill Castle had at last been taken, to Bishop Hugh’s great delight, with a great army of fighting men who’d come down from the north. Then, later, they heard that the King had marched with a gathering army to Nottingham Castle, where Count John’s garrison still held out against him.
Marian came more and more to rely upon the Seeress. Emma was always kind, but wrapped up in her lovely child. Marian remembered the first birth, and did not begrudge her such happiness. The Seeress would listen endlessly, always with sympathy, but also with firm good sense. Marian made many journeys through the wood.
Often she begged the Seeress to leave her cell.
‘We could build a new small hut for thee, close to my clearing. I have such need of thee, for there are so many folk who want naught but someone to listen to them.’
But the Seeress would not have it.
‘’Tis a lovely picture you hold out to me, and I long for such a life. But . . . you do not understand. ’Tis for my sin, for my penance that I must stay here.’
Frustrated and despairing, Marian went to visit Mother Veronica, safely settled once more in her old convent home. They sat in the stone-flagged kitchen by a good fire.
‘At least we may see the Seeress well comforted and fed, now that we’re back,’ Veronica tried to soothe Marian’s worries. ‘Here, sit thee down and take a cup of ale, for we worry about thee. ’Twas clear to us all that you were the chosen one, but you are young indeed, dear Marian, to take up the burden of the Forestwife.’
Marian sighed and sat down to her cup of ale. Sister Catherine brought in a tiny piglet runt, wrapped in a cloth. She set about warming it some milk. Marian smiled at the pink snuffling creature, but still her thoughts were pulled back to the Seeress. She turned to Mother Veronica.
‘I have begged the Seeress to come to live near me. Do you think it wrong of me? I swear she would be happy, and I need her so, now that Agnes is gone. You would not think it wrong, would you?’
Mother Veronica laughed. ‘I would not. I have long since given up judging others.’
‘All she will say is that ’tis her great sin that prevents it. What terrible thing could she have done?’
‘I’ve never known,’ Mother Veronica shook her head. ‘The Seeress was here before we came, enclosed in her little hut – by her brother, it was said. The Bishop sent us here to guard her, and to take the name of Mary Magdalen’s nuns. I believe the Seeress chose the name.’ The fat nun shrugged her shoulders. ‘That’s all I know. She does not wish to tell us more, and I have respected that.’
Marian sat in silence, watching the piglet snuffing up milk from the old nun’s fingers, though her mind was still on the strange lonely woman in her cell.
‘Though I have never seen her face, I swear she is not an old woman,’ she spoke her thoughts out loud.
‘No,’ said Sister Catherine, who’d been quietly listening to them both while she fed her tiny charge. ‘She is not an old woman. And I have seen her face.’
Marian and Mother Veronica both looked sharply across at her.
Sister Catherine blushed. ‘I have seen and heard what I should not.’ She laughed and gently scratched the piglet’s head, ‘But then I am a wicked nun.’
‘Whatever do you mean, Catherine?’ Mother Veronica demanded. ‘Most would say that we are all wicked nuns.’
‘Yes,’ said Sister Catherine, ‘but I was wicked long before you. Do you remember that the Seeress was sick? It must be three years since?’
‘Yes . . . ’ Mother Veronica and Marian turned to her, listening intently.
‘Well,’ Sister Catherine went on, ‘I took her food and drink as was my job to do. But the Seeress was so sick that she couldn’t even open her hatch.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I broke all the rules. I opened it myself and I climbed inside – ’tis easy enough to do. The Seeress was shouting out in her sleep. It did not all make sense, but it was clear she sorrowed and cried for a lost child.’
‘Ah,’ Mother Veronica nodded. ‘A child, you say?’
The old nun nodded. ‘A child called Mary,’ she said, shooting a quick nervous glance across at Marian.
Marian went very quiet.
‘What happened then?’ Mother Veronica asked.
‘I woke her, and I fed her. She was distressed and we talked. ’Twas all against the rules, I know.’
‘Drat the rules,’ said Mother Veronica. ‘’Twas a good and Christian thing to do.’
‘Well,’ the old nun continued, ‘she was sad and sick, and just for a while all her iron resolution had faded. She told me all about herself. How she’d given birth to a child, a daughter. The father was a sweet-faced minstrel, who’d come to sing to the ladies in her home. The Seeress’s brother was beside himself with rage when he discovered their love. He’d planned to marry his sister to a powerful and wealthy man. The minstrel was found poisoned in a ditch. Once she’d given birth to a bastard child, her brother’s ambitions to marry her well were over. He’d persuaded her that she must be dead to the world, and lock herself inside that cell to pay for her sin.’
Marian stood up suddenly, sending her stool clattering to the floor.
‘What was his name?’
Sister Catherine stared up at her, frightened by the anger in her voice.
‘What was his name? Her brother?’
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‘It was something like a name of a woodland, or a wood.’
‘Holt,’ thundered Marian. ‘Was it Holt?’
‘Yes,’ the old nun said, dropping the squealing piglet to the floor. ‘Yes, that was it, for sure . . . De Holt. The Seeress’s name is Eleanor.’
‘What can it mean?’ Mother Veronica was white with worry.
Marian shook from head to toe. ‘It means . . . it means that . . . she is my mother. I am Mary. I am that child.’
Marian ran out of the convent building, heading straight for the Seeress’s little wood.
‘Can this be true?’ Mother Veronica cried.
‘Yes,’ said Sister Catherine, wiping her eyes. The old nun was pale and shaken, but she spoke with determination. ‘Remember, I have seen her face.’
‘Did you know?’
‘I did not know, but I guessed. They are so alike. I pray that I have done right to speak up.’
Marian ran up to the Seeress’s cell. ‘I know your sin,’ she shouted as she ran. ‘I know your sin.’
There was silence from the hut.
Marian pressed her hands against the window grille. ‘It is no sin at all,’ she whispered.
‘Marian?’ The Seeress spoke low. ‘Is it you?’
‘Yes . . . I am Marian. I am the Forestwife . . . but I am Mary, too. I am your daughter.’
There was silence once more. A thick heavy silence and then a small, heartrending cry.
Marian suddenly snatched at her own throat, snapping the silver ring from the thong around her neck. She held the garnet in her hand. The Seeress’s fingers came snaking through the gap, and took the ring. She held it cupped in both of her trembling palms.
‘Yes,’ she breathed, her voice faint and shocked, ‘you are my child.’
‘Then will you not come out of this damned hole and see me?’ Marian cried.
‘I cannot! I have sinned against . . . you!’ she broke down, sobbing.
‘You have not,’ cried Marian. ‘You gave me life! I am strong and free!’ Then her voice dropped, suddenly soft with longing. ‘But you know more than any. The one who mothered me is gone and the man I love thinks more of his King than me. I need my mother now.’
The Forest Wife Page 14
