Child of the May

by Theresa Tomlinson

  Marian woke with a start. “How long have I slept?” she demanded. “What has happened? What have they done?”

  “Hush!” Philippa told her. “They have ventured up the staircase and I believe they’ve set a guard out there, but naught else. Why should they do more? They’ve got us where they want us, haven’t they? They do not know we’ve friends. They think they may sit tight and let us die without raising a weapon.”

  “Do you think that’s what’s happened to Matilda de Braose?” Magda asked.

  Philippa and Marian looked grimly at each other and nodded their heads.

  “And her son too?”

  Marian sighed. “I fear so.”

  “If my father knew that I was here, he’d come raging through the gates at them,” said Madga. “He’d get himself killed.”

  Marian smiled and nodded. “But Robert is a wicked crafty fellow,” she said. “He’ll have other plans, and he and James will hold John back.”

  “And what of Tom?”

  “Who knows,” said Marian.

  Three days passed and they took turns at keeping watch at the window. Lady Matilda gained strength from the careful feeding, but Magda was hungry. The bread and cheese and milk had gone; their kindling turned to ashes. Now they must crush the grain and mix the meal with a trickle of water to make a cold sticky porridge that did not satisfy.

  “We must keep ourselves strong,” Marian insisted. “We must be ready to run or fight.”

  She made them bend and stretch in the confined space and practise drawing bows, though they did not let their arrows fly. Even poor weak Matilda had to stretch her fingers and toes and allow the others to rub her stiff shoulders and spine. Isabel was greatly cheered by their company and the hope they brought.

  It was on the third day that the sound of horses arriving brought them to the window. Magda recognised the Sheriff at the head of a band of men, just as heavily armed as the wolfpack. FitzRanulf went out to meet him, and it was clear from the way they looked up towards the solar windows that the woman’s fate was being discussed, though they could not hear what was said.

  Magda shivered at the sight of them crowding into the courtyard. “So many men and weapons,” she murmured.

  Marian put an arm around her shoulders and hugged her tight. “But remember, love, we do not only fight with weapons. We have different ways of doing things.”

  They watched as the men pitched camp; some inside the house, others outside. Some of the kitchen servants lit a fire and set up a cooking pot out in the courtyard.

  “It’s a lot of men to be fed,” Magda said resentfully. “And whatever they get to eat they’ll be better fed than me.”

  Marian smiled. “Maybe not,” she whispered. “I doubt the kitchen servants will relish this extra work. See who stirs broth for them?”

  Magda glanced down, her mouth watering at the good smell that rose from the pot. “Why, it’s Margery.”

  “Aye,” Marian nodded. “Do you trust the lass?” she asked Isabel.

  “Yes.” Isabel was definite. “She’s a bold lass, and I’d trust her with my life.”

  Late that evening, when the soldiers had eaten and drunk, Magda was surprised to hear the sounds of quiet laughter. It was Marian, chuckling, as she stood at her watchplace by the window.

  “What is it?” Magda asked, going to her side.

  “Brave Margery!” she said with relish. “Listen!”

  “It sounds like someone being sick,” said Magda, puzzled.

  “It’s lots of people being sick,” Marian told her. “You see, honey, they did not get better food than we.”

  Magda understood. “The forbidden herbs!”

  The sounds of choking and retching came from the ditch at the side of the manor house. They could see the pale shapes of running men, dropping their breeches to the ground as they ran outside to squat, wherever they might.

  Magda and her friends crowded at the window, stifling their laughter.

  Philippa put her hand over Veronica’s eyes. “This is not a sight any nun should see,” she chuckled.

  Mother Veronica laughed till the tears rolled down her cheeks. “God bless Margery,” she said. “Can you tell which herbs she used?”

  “Oh yes,” said Marian. “She’s done very well.”

  “Will the fellows die?”

  Marian shook her head. “No. They’ll be weak and weary for a few days, but they’ll not die from a good clear out. Still, Margery has other herbs than these in her care.”

  One of the soldiers looked up at their narrow window and shook his fist. “Barnsdale’s Witch,” he shouted. “We’re cursed!”

  20

  The Best Right of All

  The following day there was an outbreak of spots and rashes amongst the mercenaries. The women watched from the windows as men scratched themselves against walls and fences, some rolling on the ground. Despite their own hunger, the sights below brought hope.

  But again the soldiers gathered in groups in the courtyard, pointing up to the window and making signs against the evil eye.

  “Barnsdale’s Witch! Barnsdale’s Witch!” they chanted. “She should burn!”

  “I don’t like it,” Magda whispered.

  “Better they think it’s my curse than Margery’s stewpot,” said Marian.

  They sat huddled together that evening, watching their last scrap of candle burn.

  “It must soon be All Hallows Eve,” Magda sighed. “Oh, how I long for soul cake and guisers and crackling bonfires.”

  “Why yes,” Veronica agreed. “It must be soon. Can we have missed it?”

  “You’ve not missed it,” Marian told them. “It’s All Hallows Eve tonight.”

  “Oh no,” Veronica cried. “I’ve been so muddled, I’ve lost track.” She bowed her head and started to murmur the special prayers for the dead.

  Marian took Magda’s hand. “Don’t worry,” she said. “This little candle is our Samhain fire. We’ll wish upon it, and whisper all our hopes for the coming year.”

  Next day their hopes looked bleak, for the Sheriff and FitzRanulf marched out into the courtyard when the sun was high in the sky.

  “Now!” they growled. “Bring the slut out here, so her friends may see!”

  “Oh no!” whispered Isabel. The women crowded at the windows.

  Two men dragged Margery between them.

  “How do they know?” Magda cried. “What will they do?”

  They watched in helpless silence as the men tied Margery to a post. The wolfpack gathered, pale and wretched after a sleepless night. Some clutched their stomachs, others still scratched; all were very angry.

  “Poisoner!” they shouted. “Stone her! Stone her!”

  Marian quickly picked up her bow and took aim from the window.

  Magda watched with horror. “How can we save her, amongst so many?”

  Marian shook her head desperately. “We can’t, but we can see she does not die alone.”

  “Aye,” Magda agreed and snatched up her own bow.

  The wolfpack set about collecting stones and dung from the yard, filling the air with foul threats.

  “Look . . . look!” Marian cried, sudden hope in her voice.

  From their viewpoint high above the courtyard they could see that a lone rider had emerged from behind Langden Church, cantering slowly towards the manor. The man wore fine chain mail and the white tunic of a Templar Knight. His shield was emblazoned with the red cross, but his face hidden by a huge white linen hood.

  FitzRanulf stared open-mouthed as the knight in full battledress reached the manor, dipping his head to enter through the outer gate.

  “Who the hell . . .?” the Sheriff shouted.

  “Saint Lazare,” FitzRanulf muttered, backing away. “Leper knight – beware!”

  The knight of Saint Lazarus brought his horse to a standstill behind Margery. His face was bandaged inside the hood, so that only his eyes could be seen. He raised his hand and spoke in a cracked and muffled v
oice, though he could be heard well enough in the shocked silence.

  “Let the women go!”

  The Sheriff and FitzRanulf looked at each other.

  “What interest has the Temple in old women and witches?” the Sheriff asked. “Here, help us burn the lot of them!”

  The Templar drew his sword. “Let them go!” he repeated.

  Magda turned to Mother Veronica. “Is it your man?” she whispered.

  Silent tears poured down Veronica’s cheeks. “Aye, I believe it is he.”

  “But what can he do, one man alone?” Magda asked.

  Marian touched her shoulder and pointed. “Not alone – not alone at all.”

  Magda looked where she was bidden, out towards Langden village, and there she saw another Saint Lazarus knight riding out from behind the huts. His tunic was black with a red cross on the chest and a black hood shaded his face.

  “See there,” hissed Philippa.

  Yet another hooded knight in black came from behind the forge; a broad-built fellow, this one. Beside his horse bounded a limping dog.

  “Fetcher!” Magda cried with delight. “And see that horse behind . . . I know it. It’s Rambler! But where is Tom? Who are these knights?”

  “They are the guisers you wished for!” Marian’s face was full of joy.

  They watched then as more appeared, until a company of ten leper knights came cantering slowly and silently towards the manor house.

  The Sheriff was pop-eyed with astonishment. Slowly a huge multitude gathered behind the Templars. They came flooding out from the quiet huts of Langden; villagers carrying forks and sickles, coal diggers with spades and charcoal burners with great quarterstaffs.

  The women laughed out loud as the numbers grew.

  “Where have so many come from?” Isabel cried. “They are not all our people!”

  Veronica stood beside her frowning, then she suddenly snorted with laughter. “That’s no villager,” she cried. “That’s Sister Rosamund in lad’s breeches!”

  FitzRanulf swung round frantically as the ten leper knights headed steadily towards the low stockade. He turned to his men in panic. “Fools!” he shouted. “To your weapons!”

  All hell was let loose as the men dropped their stones and snatched up swords and lances. FitzRanulf pulled a blazing brand from the cooking fire and threw it into the open doorway of the house.

  “At least the witch shall burn!” he cried.

  Then Magda watched appalled as FitzRanulf raised his sword – not to one of the advancing fighting men, but to poor helpless Margery. Without stopping to think she bent her bow and aimed between his shoulders. Her arrow sang through the air and buried itself deep into his back. FitzRanulf staggered, then turned back towards the house, a ridiculous expression of surprise written clear on his face. His sword clattered uselessly on to the ground at Margery’s feet, then he crumpled and fell, disappearing amongst the dust and fighting that now surrounded him.

  Utter chaos reigned. Some of the mercenaries made a good fight of it but most ran off into the woods, still sick and fearful, clutching their stomachs. The leper knights fought bitterly and Marian rained down arrows from the window, taking careful aim and making sure she hit the right targets. Magda could not stop trembling; tears poured down her face.

  “I have killed a man,” she whispered to Mother Veronica.

  The old woman gently took away the bow and hugged her tightly. “You have saved Margery,” she said.

  The Knights of Saint Lazarus, supported by the villagers, soon found themselves in charge of the courtyard. One black-hooded knight bent quickly to untie Margery. She wrapped her arms about his neck and clung to him. The man flung back his hood and the women cheered to see Robert’s scarred, excited face. The big man beside him ripped back his hood and Magda saw that it was her father. Behind him came James and beside him on Rambler was Tom. But the bandaged knight with the husky voice did not remove his hood, nor did six more who gathered beside him.

  There was no time for rejoicing, for thick black smoke began to puther out from the hall. The men saw the danger and looked about desperately for help.

  “No water!” Robert bellowed. “Can’t save the house!”

  “Just get them out,” John roared.

  Robert leapt from his horse and ran to Isabel’s low wooden stockade.

  “John! John!” he cried, starting to tear up the wooden fencing. John understood and went to help. Soon all the villagers were tearing up the low fence of palings. They carried it to the manor house and propped it up beneath the window. One by one, the women climbed out precariously on to the rough wooden fencing. They slithered down it, picking up grazes and splinters, but they did not feel them much or even care.

  Getting Lady Matilda out was more awkward, but the villagers brought ropes and, as the flames of her home crackled behind her, the old lady was safely lowered to the ground.

  Robert snatched up Marian into his arms and swung her round until she shouted at him to stop. Magda flung her arms around Tom. Mother Veronica walked boldly towards the seven leper knights. Walter of Stainthorpe held up his gloved hand to halt her. She stopped obediently by his horse’s head. Tears filled her eyes as she bent to kiss his stirrup.

  Magda saw her father stamping out flames on the wooden fencing. She ran to him, but stumbled and fell over FitzRanulf’s body. John bent at once to help his daughter to her feet, glaring down at the remains of his enemy. FitzRanulf’s white, dead face still carried that surprised expression.

  “Evil man!” John spat. “1 should have been the one to kill him, not Marian.”

  Marian turned as she heard his words. “I did not fire that shot from my bow,” she said.

  “Who then?” John cried.

  “The one who had the best right of us all,” she told him, gently touching Magda’s shoulder.

  John turned to his daughter. “You?

  Magda nodded. He hugged her tight. “Child of the May, my Child of the May,” he whispered.

  21

  The Fires of Samhain

  The villagers watched helplessly as Langden Manor burned. But Isabel did not fret. “We’ll build another,” she said. “It was damp and cold. Not all our memories are happy ones.”

  Marian took her arm. “Let’s turn this misery to good,” she said.

  Isabel smiled at her, puzzled.

  “Did we not wish for guisers and Samhain fires?”

  “Aye,” Isabel began to understand. “We can turn our fire to celebration.”

  And suddenly she was rushing about, ordering fowls to be slaughtered and food prepared.

  “Is there grain left for soul cakes?” she asked.

  “There certainly is,” Margery told her. “I dragged three grain sacks from the kitchen and hid them in my mother’s hut. There’s honey too. I wasn’t going to feed them honey!”

  Isabel flung her arms about the girl.

  James and Tom came pushing through the crowd to find Robert. “You’ll like this!” they told him. They could not stop laughing and slapping each other.

  “Whatever can you find so funny?” Philippa asked.

  “The Sheriff,” cried James. “The villagers have got him bound and gagged in one of their huts. They wish to hang him.”

  “No!” Philippa chuckled. “Hanging’s too good. We should roast him alive!”

  As darkness fell, the villagers fetched out trestles and stools and set them up around the still-burning ruins of the manor house. They brought trenchers of fresh-baked bread, piled high with nuts and fruit and little honey-sweetened soul cakes. Small cooking fires were lit around the main blaze and children set to turn the spits. Soon Langden was full of delicious smells as roasting fowls were slowly cooked. Jugs of good barley ale were brought from the cottages and Isabel gathered her friends for a strange feast.

  The Knights of Saint Lazarus were given the seats of honour. They accepted politely but remained in their own small group, keeping a distance from the crowd.

 
Tom, with Alan at his side, went hesitantly towards the quiet, hooded fighting men. Walter of Stainthorpe turned and saw their approach. He held up his hand to stop them.

  “Show tha clapper,” Tom told Alan.

  The boy snatched up the clapper that swung at his belt and sent it clacking. There was sudden quiet as all turned to see what was happening. The leper knights looked at each other for a moment, but then Walter of Stainthorpe pulled up a stool and beckoned the boy to sit with them.

  Robert sat with Marian, deep in thought, his face mottled in the flickering light and shadows. He was silent despite the celebration all about him.

  “What is it?” Marian took his hand. “Why are you so miserable, when we are celebrating? Never have guisers been so welcome at a feast. You saved us!”

  “Aye, but for how long, sweetheart?” he asked.

  Marian frowned too then, and sighed. She could see that he was right. How long would it be before the Sheriff’s men came hunting them, their numbers swelled and weapons sharp.

  “But just a moment!” said Robert. “I think I have an idea.” A slow smile touched the corner of his mouth.

  “What is it now?” Marian demanded.

  Robert cracked out laughing. “I have it!” he said. “John, bring the Sheriff here!”

  John looked a little surprised but did as his friend asked and dragged the terrified man from the hut towards the fire.

  “Aye,” said Philippa. “I said we should roast him!”

  The Sheriff buckled at the knees with fright and Philippa burst out laughing.

  “Untie his hands!” said Robert. There were gasps of surprise from all around, but Tom quickly cut the Sheriff’s bonds.

  “Where’s Magda?” Robert cried. “Come here, honey! Do you remember our feast in Nottingham Castle?”

  “Aye,” she cried.

  “Now we shall return the compliment. The Sheriff’s lady made us guests and showed us a little kindness too.”

  “Yes,” Isabel agreed. “The Sheriff’s lady let me bring my mother safe home.”

  Robert picked up a stool and courteously invited the Sheriff to sit and eat. The man was white-faced and petrified, but sat as he was bidden.