The Enchanter's Forest

by Alys Clare

  Gus picked up the emphasis and grinned. ‘Aye, that’s likely true. All the same . . .’

  She got to her feet. ‘No use in regrets, Gus,’ she said briskly. ‘The two of you have done well and I am most grateful to you. Now, off you go. Return to your duties and leave me to torment my brains wondering what to do next.’

  They bowed and backed out through the door. As they left, she added, ‘If you do come up with any bright ideas, please don’t hesitate to share them with me.’

  And, with murmurs of assent, they were gone.

  She sat quite still, staring into space, not seeing any of the familiar objects, few in number, that furnished her simple little room. Her mind was racing as she tried to think what she ought to do next.

  She could not control the insistent thought that kept saying, Merlin’s Tomb is to close and Hawkenlye is safe! Soon they will begin to come back!

  That is not all there is to this business, she reprimanded herself sternly. Florian of Southfrith has been robbed and murdered. Is his death to be written off with a shrug as the work of some vicious itinerant felon who has long fled the district?

  She recalled her unspoken objection to Saul’s suggestion that the guard in the leather jerkin might have been involved in the crime: that, if he had been, he’d have fled the district long since. Surely the same applied to whoever it was who had really done the deed? There was that fast bay horse of Florian’s to keep in mind, after all. Why would the murderer stay when he had the means to escape?

  Suddenly she thought, but I am forgetting that Gervase de Gifford will soon be home! As relief flooded her, she wondered if it would be wrong of her to hand the whole sorry matter of the murder in the forest over to him.

  I shall not abandon the business entirely, she decided. I shall carry out the action upon which I had already decided; in a day or so, I shall send for one of my nursing nuns and go to visit that poor young woman, Primevère. She will be calmer by then and more prepared to speak to someone other than her mother.

  Having thus made up her mind on what she should do next, with considerable relief she went back to her work.

  Two days later she had returned to her room after Nones and was wondering if now would be a good time to fetch either Sister Euphemia or Sister Caliste and ride over to Hadfeld when there was an abrupt knock on her door. It opened in response to her ‘Come in!’ and Josse stood before her.

  He looked terrible. His face was lined and haggard and there were dark circles beneath his eyes. He carried his right arm awkwardly and she could see a linen bandage on his forearm.

  There was not the slightest sign of his usual smile of greeting.

  Her first reaction was a painfully forceful stab of guilt: I have sent him on a mission that has returned him to a state of intimacy with the woman he loves and now he has had to lose her all over again.

  And it was all for nothing.

  Before he could speak she had hurried around her table and, taking both his hands, she said, ‘Josse, Florian of Southfrith is dead and Merlin’s Tomb is closed. Forgive me, for the journey on which I sent you was unnecessary. Had we but waited, you need never have gone.’

  He studied her for a few moments. His face was tanned from days spent riding out in the sun and his tunic, open at the neck, showed that the brown skin continued down across his chest; he’s been riding out in the sun with few clothes, she thought before she could stop herself.

  But his eyes were full of pain.

  His hands, which had been limp in hers, suddenly squeezed. He said, with a curious formality that was never usually in his tone when he spoke to her, ‘My lady Abbess, you have no scrying glass with which to predict the future. You asked me to do what at the time seemed the only possible thing that could be done to close the fraudulent tomb and willingly I accepted.’ There was a brief pause, then, looking down, he muttered, ‘Be consoled that, however I may be feeling now, I would not have missed the past couple of weeks for all the gold in the world.’

  She felt tears in her eyes. She whispered, ‘Oh, Josse,’ then, before the emotion could make her add something she might later regret, she dropped his hands and, returning to the other side of her table, sat down heavily in her chair.

  The best thing, she knew, would be to get going straight away on discussing what each of them had to report. The trouble was that neither she nor Josse seemed to know how to start.

  Eventually it was he who broke the awkward silence. ‘Florian of Southfrith is dead, you say?’

  ‘Yes.’ Briefly she told him the little that she could about the murder, adding that she had visited the young man’s wife and spoken to his mother-in-law. ‘It was she – her name’s Melusine, she’s a rich widow and a bit of a dragon – who came here and identified the body.’ She went on to summarise what she had learned of Florian’s background and circumstances.

  Josse absorbed it all in silence, nodding occasionally. When she had finished, he said, ‘I’ve met the mother-in-law. Well, I saw her, at any rate, that time I went to look for Florian at his house. So the young fool exaggerated his wealth in order to win his bride. Overspent, in debt and with an expensive wife, he must have been quite desperate for money.’ He paused, wincing, and altered his position so that he was supporting his right arm in his left hand. She was about to make some comment – You’re hurt! May we help? – but he did not give her the chance. ‘So, when he found some old bones which by their very size looked strange and mystical, the idea of making some much-needed cash out of them must have come to him like a blessing from above. He created the tomb on the edge of the forest, not caring who he upset, and then all he had to do was stand there by the gate and take the coins pressed into his greedy hands by gullible pilgrims.’

  ‘He’s dead, Sir Josse,’ she reminded him gently. ‘Whatever he did wrong, he did not deserve to die out there in the forest.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  Josse, she thought, did not seem entirely convinced.

  Something he had said returned to her. ‘You appear to be in no doubt that the Merlin’s Tomb near Hadfeld is a fake,’ she said, trying to keep the sudden flare of hope out of her voice; how much simpler for the closure of the tomb to be universally accepted if it could be shown up to be nothing but a clever pretence! ‘Does this mean that you have seen the magician’s real burial place?’

  He sighed. ‘I have seen a place of great power which is known by the local people as Merlin’s Tomb, aye. There is a great oak in the middle of a clearing in a forest and a vast granite slab from beneath which issues a healing spring. In those parts they tell how it was there that Merlin revealed the secrets of his magic powers to the woman that he loved and that she used the knowledge to pen him up and bind him to her for ever. He lies under a hawthorn tree, they say, and one such tree does indeed stand there close by the oak and the fountain.’

  She felt an atavistic shiver run down her back. ‘You saw where Merlin lies?’ she whispered.

  He smiled faintly. ‘I saw where some say he lies,’ he amended.

  ‘But do you believe them?’ she persisted; it seemed very important.

  He shrugged. ‘If I believed that Merlin was a real person then aye, I could accept that he was buried in that place, for I did in truth sense a great power there.’

  ‘Then—’ she began.

  ‘But, my lady, remember that I also felt some force emanating from the great bones at Florian’s site,’ he said gently. Then, with another sigh: ‘Perhaps I’m just gullible.’

  ‘You’re not gullible!’ she protested.

  Now his smile seemed to spring from genuine amusement. ‘Thank you for that. But I think you may be being overgenerous.’

  She decided not to pursue that; she was quite sure he was speaking of something other than merely the matter of the two tombs. Oh, but he has endured so much! she thought, pity for him making her emotions churn. But it would be no kindness to do as she longed to do and express her deep sympathy and risk undermining him; she must, she well kne
w, stick to the practicalities.

  She cleared her throat a couple of times and said, ‘So, you made up your mind to return to us here at Hawkenlye and report that you had seen the true Merlin’s Tomb over in the Breton forest, which meant that the place near Hadfeld must be nothing but a pretence?’

  He hesitated. Then: ‘Aye. Pretty much. I can’t be entirely certain, my lady, but then who could? I spoke long with Joanna’s people over there – they’re good people, speakers of the truth – and they refused to say unequivocally that their forest held the enchanter’s bones. They’ – his brow creased as he tried to find the words – ‘they more or less said to me that this is what some people believe, and why that belief came to be, and then they left it to me to make up my own mind.’

  ‘Nothing was definite, then?’

  ‘No. But then, in matters of belief, is that not always so? We believe that Jesus is the son of God, came to earth, died and was resurrected, but there’s no proof and so we can’t say that it’s definite.’

  ‘It’s in the Bible!’ She heard the shock in her voice.

  He smiled but did not speak.

  And after a moment she thought, but he is right. Faith has nothing to do with reading things, or being told them. Faith is in the heart, not the head.

  There was silence in her little room. Then, as the whirl of her thoughts finally dropped her gently back in the here and now, she realised that he was tired, dirty, perhaps in pain, probably hungry and thirsty and undoubtedly grieving. She said, ‘I apologise, Sir Josse, for keeping you here talking for so long. Please, go and refresh yourself down with the monks in the Vale and, if necessary, ask Sister Euphemia or one of her nuns to look at that wound on your arm. When you are rested, come back and eat with us. Then I prescribe a good night’s sleep.’ Watching his sad eyes, she added hopefully, ‘Things often look better in the morning.’

  ‘Thank you, my lady,’ he said courteously. ‘I will do as you suggest.’

  He turned to go but, at the door, stopped and looked back at her. ‘What ought we to do next? About young Florian, I mean?’

  ‘Sir Josse, you need do nothing, for you have done more than enough already to help me in my concerns. Anyway’ – she tried to speak lightly – ‘you have earned a good rest!’

  ‘I don’t want a rest,’ he snapped back. Then, quietly, ‘Forgive me, my lady. You meant well, I know. But I would rather keep busy, if you don’t mind.’

  Her heart ached for him. Trying to sound brisk – for surely now he really would break down if she offered him kindness and sympathy – she said, ‘Well, I plan to make another visit to Florian’s widow, Primevère. She is grieving, of course, and in addition there seems to be some suggestion that she might be unwell. I thought to take either Sister Euphemia or Sister Caliste with me, then, if the young woman would agree to being examined, help might be offered to heal whatever ails her.’

  He nodded. ‘I see.’

  ‘In addition, I feel that somehow it is important to discover, if we can, just who is in charge of the Merlin’s Tomb site now that Florian is dead. Who, for example, gave the order to close it? Who posted the guard at the entrance to turn would-be visitors away?’

  ‘Quite,’ he said neutrally.

  ‘I had been thinking of going this afternoon,’ she went on, ‘but it can just as well be tomorrow. Then, well rested after a night’s sleep, if you really want to you might accompany us?’

  ‘Aye, I’ll do that,’ he said. Then, with a nod, he was gone.

  She waited but he did not return. Presently Brother Micah tapped at her door, bringing Sir Josse’s apologies but he was going to eat with the brethren down in the Vale, being too weary to be very good company. He would present himself tomorrow morning, Brother Micah went on, for the trip down to Hadfeld.

  He doesn’t want to take the risk that I might question him about Joanna, she thought. Poor Josse; I would not have spoken of her until and unless he raised the subject, but he was not necessarily to know that.

  A part of her felt terribly sad that he did not know her better than to realise it.

  ‘Thank you, Brother Micah,’ she said with a calmness she did not feel. ‘Please send Sir Josse my best wishes and say I shall expect him early in the morning.’

  Micah bowed his way out of her room.

  Leaving Helewise – heart-sore and anxious for her old friend, deeply hurt that he chose not to be with her but to suffer alone – right back in the claustrophobic circle of her own thoughts.

  Chapter 17

  Down in the Vale, Josse retired early to his usual place in the corner of the shelter but sleep was a long time coming.

  He missed Joanna badly. He had spent so many nights with her curled up by his side and on most of them had slept the profoundly heavy and peaceful sleep that follows lovemaking. But it was not just her physical presence that he missed, important though that was; he also missed her lively mind, her sense of fun and, perhaps most of all, her mystery and her strong sense of power.

  What a woman . . .

  They had got into New Shoreham in good time the previous day, early enough to travel a fair distance before stopping to make camp for the night on the north face of the South Downs, in a shallow depression just below the summit of a line of hills overlooking the vale between the Downs and the ridges where the Great Forest began.

  They had made a fire, eaten supper and then settled Meggie to sleep. Then, neither of them feeling ready for sleep themselves, Joanna had fuelled up the fire and they had sat there beside it, hand in hand, gazing out into the warm night.

  ‘We are close to the Caburn,’ Joanna said eventually, breaking a long silence.

  ‘The Caburn . . .’ He was sure he had heard the name but, preoccupied as he was, could not remember in what context he had heard it.

  ‘Men built a fort there a long time ago,’ she said dreamily. ‘But it was used by humankind long before that. It’s a place of power.’

  ‘A place of power,’ he repeated. ‘Your people’s sort of power?’

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t know, but it all stems from the same source, and that is the Earth herself.’ She leaned closer to him. ‘In fact it’s more your people,’ she added.

  He considered that for a moment and then, wonder dawning, began to think he might know what she was referring to.

  It had been over a year ago, the previous February, when the Abbey had been stricken with the pestilence. Josse had been persuaded to use the Eye of Jerusalem, his late father’s precious heirloom, and, reluctant to credit that there was any magical power in his bloodline, had been gently corrected by Joanna. There had been a woman, a forebear of his mother’s, she had told him, who was recognised by her people as one of their Great Ones. He had not known exactly what that meant – still did not know now – but it sounded impressive.

  ‘You refer, I believe, to this magical grand-dam of mine,’ he said lightly.

  ‘I do, and she was considerably further back in your ancestry than that.’ There was no levity in Joanna’s tone, he noted.

  ‘Tell me?’ he asked.

  ‘Not much to tell,’ she admitted. ‘I only know that she was an ancestress on your mother’s side, a native Briton, and that she lived close to here and tended the sacred fires on Mount Caburn.’

  Josse tried to think what that might mean and failed. ‘She was – she was pagan?’

  ‘Of course. Six generations back, the new religion was by no means universally accepted in Britain.’

  The new religion. She must mean Christianity. So she was telling him that, not all that long ago, a woman of his blood had stood on the summit of a hill, very close to where he now sat, chanting incantations and feeding the sacred flame in the service of her gods.

  For a moment an image appeared before him out of the darkness and the low flames of their own small fire suddenly seemed to grow immensely, searing up into the night sky in vivid hues of violet, purple and gold, while a tall woman in a pale robe, a circlet of silver around he
r head, cried aloud in a voice that sounded like singing.

  He blinked and both woman and fire were gone.

  Beside him Joanna laughed softly. ‘If I’m right and you saw it too,’ she murmured, ‘then we just witnessed your grandmother’s great-great-grandmother going about her holy work.’

  Slowly he shook his head, but more in wonder than in denial. Once, not so very long ago, he might have shied away from thinking about Joanna’s strange power in his daughter’s blood, never mind some equivalent force that came from his own forebears. But that was before he had spent this precious time in her company and grown to understand a little – just a little – of what she and her people truly were.

  Now, far from being ashamed to think that his own blood contained elements of the same power, he was proud. Staring out in the darkness, silently he called out to that woman from so long ago, sending her his recognition, his blessings and his love. As if a warm arm had been slipped around him, he felt all three sentiments returned.

  Soon after that they had made love – she, he was sure, also trying not to think that it might be for the last time – and settled down to sleep.

  In the morning they had ridden back to Hawkenlye. She had slipped off the golden mare’s back and silently handed the reins to him, for there was no place for a fine animal such as Honey in Joanna’s forest life and the mare was better off being useful at Hawkenlye. They had made their farewells brief – for Meggie’s sake, they solemnly told each other – and he had watched as, with Meggie holding her mother’s hand and twisting round so as to go on waving to him till the last possible moment, Joanna had set off along the track that led into the forest.

  Then, his mind gone numb, he had returned to the Abbey.

  Where now, with the sounds of the monks settling for the night all around him, he lay seeking respite in sleep from the grief of his loss.

  Eventually he must have drifted off, only to wake with the dawn to the sound of Brother Saul muttering in his sleep.