Robert led a fierce attack, but while the first wagon was hurried on, the second two proved to be packed with armed footsoldiers who leapt out onto the outlaws. They had made a bitter fight of it, but the rebels had not had a chance against so many. FitzRanulf had ridden away fast with the leading wagon. John had found himself in the middle of thick fighting, unable to leave his friends to pursue his own quarrel. Fifteen lads had been killed outright and every one of the others carried some hurt. Though the women worked hard to save them, five more died in the night. One of them was Muchlyn.
John sat by the fire with Robert, growling out his anger.
“The blasted coward! Could not stay and fight but runs off, leaving his men to do his dirty work.”
Robert’s face was grey, only his scar standing out livid, and streaked with fresh cuts. Somehow John knew that his friend needed comfort more than he.
“We made ourselves felt!” he said. “Much would be proud to go in such a fight. We cut that gang of mercenaries down to half!”
Robert would not answer or allow himself to be tended.
Marian walked back and forth with a face like stone. She worked all day and most of the night, feeding, cleaning, making up simples and poultices. Magda and Joanna did all they could to help; the miserable plight of the men gave them the energy to carry on with little food or sleep. Magda did not even complain at the hated job of digging latrines; it was better than digging graves!
Three more died, though at least their pain was soothed by Marian’s sleeping draughts. At last, when six days had passed, those who could walk began to leave the clearing and Eleanor insisted that Marian sleep. When she woke Robert was gone, his place by the hearth taken by Fetcher. Magda and Joanna sat beside him gloomily, pulling at his ears.
“Now he’s gone . . . she’ll be miserable for days,” Magda whispered, nodding her head in Marian’s direction.
“Shall I follow and track him down?” John asked.
But Marian shook her head. “It will take time for us all to struggle through this disaster.”
James came and settled himself beside the two girls. “Now the lads are mending, let’s have a look at this dog of yours.”
He gently pressed his fingers into Fetcher’s mutilated paw while Joanna watched anxiously.
“It’s healing well,” he murmured.
“Will he walk again, do you think?”
“Oh aye, he’ll walk. He’ll do more than that, with the right training. He’ll make as fine a bodyguard as any lass could want.”
“Would you help me, sir?” Joanna begged.
James smiled. “Certainly I will. We’ll have him lolloping about in no time.”
In the weeks that followed, James set to training Fetcher as though his life depended on it. Each day he went out into the woods with the two girls, tempting the dog on to his feet with meat scraps, till at last Fetcher could run from one to the other with a strange lopsided gait. His muscles grew hard and strong, his coat glossy, and they progressed to slinging bones and straw-stuffed sacks for him to fetch.
John stayed in the clearing and Magda was pleased to have her father by her side.
On a hot afternoon towards the end of August they were lazily sitting in the sun outside the hut when they heard the sound of hooves. As always they sprang to their feet and melted into the lower branches of the yew trees.
“One horse,” whispered John, “though a big ’un, I’d guess. Seems to stamp four times, then stops.” Suddenly John was laughing. “Tom! That’s his signal, though I’ve never heard it done on horseback.”
They came out from their hiding places wondering how Tom had got himself a horse. There was only a moment to wait before he came trotting into the clearing astride a fine grey stallion.
“I have the oil,” he shouted. “I have the oil and more besides.”
“Well!” John laughed. “At least one of us has done summat right.”
Everyone cheered and gathered round, patting the horse and touching its good halter and bridle with amazement.
“Good quality gear, is this,” said James. “The best.”
“You’ve taken so long,” Magda cried. “I thought you were dead in some ditch.”
“Not me.” Tom laughed, sliding down from the saddle and kissing her. “Walter of Stainthorpe was not with the Templars at Newhouse. I had to travel on to the wastes of Bitterwood.”
“Where’s this marvellous oil?” Marian asked.
Tom patted a strong leather pouch fastened to his waist.
He ate and drank with them, and was saddened to hear of Much. But despite this, he was also eager to be off to the Magdalen convent with his precious oil. “I’ve much to tell Mother Veronica,” he said. “I’ve done myself a lot of good, but I’ve sorry news for her.”
“Oh dear,” said James. “Shall I come with you? Is her man dead?”
“No,” said Tom. “Not dead, but maybe he wishes he was. He’s taken the leprosy himself. He grows aged and weak and his face is fearfully marked. He came back from Outremer with the seeds of sickness in him. That’s why he was not at the Temple Newhouse. He’s gone to live in a wild and lonely place with five other fighting monks, all suffering like himself.”
“Now then,” Brother James sighed. “I believe I have heard of some such men. Do they call themselves the Knights of Saint Lazarus?”
“That’s it,” said Tom. “They still endeavour to live by the Templars’ strict rules. They pray and keep their fighting skills sharp, but they live in the wilderness as outcast as we.
“As hard a life as ours, and worse,” John agreed.
“But Walter of Stainthorpe has given me this fine grey stallion,” cried Tom. “He’s grown too old and weak to manage such a spirited steed, and their rule states that they must give away all they cannot use. The knight has found himself a quieter mount and Rambler is mine!”
They all admired the powerful beast.
“Can you manage him?” asked John with a touch of envy.
“Certainly I can. He’s trained to obey every small command. Didn’t you hear? I can get him to stamp out my signal!”
John laughed and slapped the horse’s rump. Tom galloped off to visit the convent, returning in the morning, still pleased with himself.
Weeks went by and there was still no word from Robert. As autumn approached, Marian made them all set about the yearly gathering. Everything possible must be garnered from the woods and stored before the first frosts.
Nuts, berries, mushrooms, ladies’ bedstraw and meadow-sweet all had their uses; dried poppy heads, hard-skinned sloes and sour-tasting juniper berries were carefully collected and carried back to the clearing. The work was a little less arduous this year as John, Tom and James all stayed to help. No message or sign came from Robert.
Fetcher’s training went better than ever and though he still limped, James taught him a few good tricks. He could snatch away a weapon with one fast snap of his jaws, disarming a man before he knew what came at him. And catching flying arrows in his mouth was Fetcher’s favourite sport.
October was the pannage month, when pigs were herded into the woods to search for acorns. One afternoon early in the month, Marian stirred dark red elderberries in a tub of dye, while Tom and Fetcher brought sticks for Joanna and Magda’s charcoal stack.
John and James sat by the doorsill in the sharp autumn sun.
Marian turned to them. “That lass and her dog should be returned home,” she said. “Somehow we’ve forgotten, what with all the trouble and hurts. 1 dare say she thinks she belongs here, but she should be back with her parents before winter comes.”
John nodded and scratched his beard. “Shall we take her home?” he asked James.
The monk nodded. “We grow too safe and fat sitting here,” he agreed. “A little outing to Clipstone would do us fine.”
“Take her now, while the pannage lasts,” said Marian.
“Travelling will be at its safest, with the woods full of pigs and children.
”
Though Magda cried when they left, Marian insisted. “Her parents will have given up hope,” she said and Joanna agreed that she could not leave them in distress. She hugged Magda fiercely.
“One day I’ll come back,” she said.
16
Bad News Travels Fast
The men were gone for four days, but then they came hurrying back into the clearing with glum faces and the dog still at their heels.
“Why have you brought Fetcher back?” Magda cried.
“He would not leave James’ side,” John told her hurriedly. “But we have more to bother us than Fetcher, sweetheart.”
Marian put down the pot she pounded roots in. “What is it now?” she demanded.
“The King has been at Clipstone hunting lodge with the Sheriff.”
“What of that? He hunts while the weather’s warm.”
John shook his head. “He’s gone on to Nottingham now, but he’s left the Sheriff and that damned FitzRanulf at Clipstone. There’s the remains of the wolfpack and, with them, a great gang of new hired mercenaries.”
A shiver crept up Magda’s back when she heard her father’s words.
“We don’t like the look of it.” James’ face was grim. “That’s no jolly hunting party gathering there – they’ve got three blacksmiths hard at work fettling up their weapons. We did not hang around to be recognised. We came at close quarters to some of them, up at Wentbridge.”
Marian frowned and looked round at her mother. “Is this it?” she asked. “Is this the great fear that haunts tha dreams?”
Eleanor had gone very white. “I think so,” she whispered.
Magda dug her fingers deep into Fetcher’s warm rough coat for comfort.
“What do they plan? Can you tell us, old one?” James begged, but Eleanor shook her head.
“Fire and sword,” she said. “Fire, sword and hunger in the forest . . . nay, in Langden. I cannot see more.”
“Damn it! I wish that Robert was here,” John said. “Should I go off hunting for him?”
“Aye, maybe the time is right that you should,” Marian agreed.
The following morning John set out to track his friend down. Tom and James went snaring hares for the pot and those left in the clearing went about their tasks with an air of foreboding. Their fears were heightened when Philippa arrived, breathless and angry, just before midday.
“What is it?” Marian cried, running to her friend. “Bad news?”
“Aye,” Philippa gasped. “Bad news for Langden. It’s the wolfpack, all the lot of them. They’ve marched in and taken over the manor house. They’re bristling with weapons and foul mouthed as sin.”
“What of Isabel and Matilda? Have they been turned out?”
“Nay. Not so bad if they had. At least we could give them shelter then. No one has seen them – the wolfpack will let nobody in or out.”
“What does it mean?” Marian demanded.
Magda’s heart thumped fast as she watched the two women striding up and down the clearing. They were unaware of the goats, chickens and cats who scattered in their path, so deep was their concern. Magda’s safe existence in Barnsdale seemed badly threatened. The old one watched anxiously from the doorsill.
When Tom and James returned with a pair of hares, they all sat down and talked again.
“What can we do against so many?”
“There’s no way that we can raise more men, not after our last defeat!”
Brother James shook his head despairingly. Then suddenly he got up. “One thing I do know – I’d rather die than cower here in the woods.”
“Me too,” cried Marian. “But what shall we do?”
James shrugged his shoulders. “Bow practice,” he said. “Come on, every one of us. Don’t sit here worrying, let’s fettle our bows and be ready to make our move when we may.”
They all jumped up at his suggestion. Anything was better than sitting there in gloom. They worked all afternoon, fitting new shafts for their arrows. They were grimly letting their arrows fly at a swaying willow wand when Sister Rosamund came tramping through the woods with worse news.
“It’s Mother Veronica,” she told them. “She went visiting the Langden ladies yesterday and she’s not returned. I’ve been to the manor to ask after her, but there’s soldiers at every door and they won’t let me in. The little windows up in Matilda’s solar are boarded up, though I thought I could hear a scraping sound from within. I fear they’ve all been taken prisoner.”
“This gets worse and worse,” Marian cried.
“I must go to Langden,” James insisted.
Tom looked thoughtful. “No, wait a while,” he said. “They may have made a great mistake when they imprisoned Veronica. Walter of Stainthorpe may be old and sick, but he still leads a band of fierce fighting men.”
James looked suddenly interested. “You mean the leper knights? They’re not exactly an army, but you are right, Tom; they’re trained as sharp as any fighting men and fiercely disciplined. I’ve heard it said that once they move to fight they will never turn back, even though they face certain death.”
“But would such men give us aid?” asked Marian.
“I believe so,” said Tom. “Though both devoted their lives to God, Walter of Stainthorpe is still Veronica’s man and would do anything for her.”
Philippa was puzzled by mention of the leper knights, but Marian was eager now. “What have we to lose?”
Tom led out Rambler, the stallion, from the lean-to where they’d stabled him and climbed into the saddle.
“Come on, fellow,” he murmured. “I bet you never thought to see your old master so soon.”
Magda could not stop herself from running to Tom and grabbing his leg. “Take care!” she cried. “Please come safe back! We are all depending on you!”
Tom looked surprised but pleased and stooped from the saddle to kiss her. “I’ll be back as fast as you can blink,” he cried.
The ones that were left sat whispering together round the fire that night, then slept badly once they had settled to rest. Two more days days passed in constant fear and anxiety. Plans were made, only to be discarded as hopeless and ridiculous. Then early one morning they were surprised by the sound of voices calling out their names.
Magda lifted up the skins and stepped over the doorsill, thinking that she recognised the voice. And she was right. Joanna stood before her with an older man and a lad.
Magda went to hug her, filled with surprise. “What’s brought you back so soon?”
“We’ve walked all through the night, me and Father and Jamie, for Jamie has heard some terrible things that we think you should know.”
Marian came up behind Magda, also amazed to see Joanna back again. “What is it?” she asked.
“Our Jamie is apprenticed to Clipstone’s blacksmith,” Joanna told them. “And while he was stoking the fires he heard two soldiers from the wolfpack boasting of what they did. He didn’t like the sound of it. You tell them, Jamie!”
Everyone gathered around the doorway, looking expectantly at the young lad.
“They said,” he muttered nervously, “they said that Matilda and Isabel of Langden were to get the same as the great Matilda.”
“You know who they mean,” Joanna cried. “That brave lady, the one you tried to rescue.”
“Yes,” Marian agreed. “We do fear greatly that the wolfpack have imprisoned Langden’s ladies in their own home, along with Veronica. And that is what we suppose has happened to the great Matilda de Braose.”
“’Tis worse than that,” Joanna cried. “Go on, Jamie! Tell them what else you heard.”
“Well,” said Jamie hesitantly, “I can’t be certain that I understood their meaning right, but they said that the great Matilda and her son have gone without their dinner and Langden’s ladies shall do the same!”
They all frowned at that, unsure what it might mean.
Then Jamie spoke up again. “They began laughing in the most horrible w
ay and . . . I’m not sure, but I fear that it may mean . . .”
The whole company stood horrified as his thought sank in.
“Can it really mean . . . they would starve them?” Philippa cried. “Imprison them and starve them to death?”
Suddenly the old one was shaking; her eyes ran with tears. “Yes, they would,” she whispered. “This is it! This is my dream. I have no doubt. Sword and fire and hunger!”
17
Stealth Instead of Strength
A dreadful silence followed, so that the bleating of goats and soft clucking of fowls was all that could be heard. Then Marian whispered, “No. No, surely. They have Mother Veronica there too. They would not dare to starve a nun!”
James laughed bitterly at that. “Would they not? Since the King still quarrels with the pope, the church gets no protection at all. I heard just last month that a party of nuns were stoned outside Nottingham. The Sheriff’s men stood by giving encouragement. Indeed, King John would probably pay his mercenaries double for ridding him of a troublesome nun as well as two defiant women.”
“The wolfpack would do anything,” said Philippa with certainty. “You cannot believe the foulness of their mood. I fear they do not forget the outlaws’ attack at Wentbridge.”
“But they don’t know that Matilda and Isabel have anything to do with us.” said Magda. “Do they?”
James shrugged his shoulders. “They’d pay well for such information and if the King is in a temper, anyone can come off the worse. There is no fairness or sense about it.”
There was another moment of quiet while they thought, then Marian’s hand went slowly to the meat knife that she always carried tucked into her belt.
“We must do something,” she said. “Anything. We cannot wait for Tom or John or Robert, or leper knights who may never come.”
Child of the May Page 7
