by April Hill
Perhaps because of her exhaustion, or, more likely because of a desperate need for human closeness, Alice saw no coincidence in, nor connection to, her ongoing ordeal when she was introduced to a handsome visitor – a French pilgrim staying at the Abbey of St. Mary’s on what was described as a lengthy spiritual retreat. She could only express her undying gratitude to old Father Edward for his support, and her bewildered thanks to the Abbess. To Alice’s astonishment, the Abbess permitted – and even encouraged – her to take long walks with the handsome visitor in the Abbey’s walled gardens. There, in the quiet stillness, they talked for hours at a time. Soon, they had become fast friends. And before long, the two friends realized that they had fallen in love with one another.
On the day he left the Abbey to return to his home in France, the pious French pilgrim made a solemn vow to free her from her prison – someday and somehow. And only a week later, the letter arrived that would change the Abbey’s life. Geoffrey, the Second Baron Reynaud of Gascony, had completed a plan to rescue her.
Within days, it was arranged that the rear portal of the Abbey, where tradesmen delivered the weekly provisions, would be left unguarded and unlocked after vespers. As Alice slipped through the gate that night, she found her uncle’s trusted young servant, Arthur, waiting with two swift horses. Arthur had been her only contact with Uncle Henry since she came to the abbey, and often carried clandestine correspondence and small gifts between uncle and niece. Now, Geoffrey had engaged the willing and devoted boy to take her in absolute secrecy to the inn at Hockworth, some seventy–five miles to the south. There, Geoffrey would be anxiously waiting, to whisk the woman he loved away to London, and from there to France – and freedom.
Geoffrey had sworn her to absolute secrecy, of course. Alice’s Uncle Henry could not yet know her benefactor’s name, nor even of his existence. Isobel’s spies were everywhere, Geoffrey explained, and Burden was already suspected by the Sheriff of being in league with the notorious outlaw, Robin Hood. For his own safety, as well as Alice’s, her uncle must know nothing of the plans until she was safe in France. Even Arthur had been warned to say nothing to Henry Burden of his niece’s approaching escape, lest the plot be discovered.
The escape from the Abbey had gone smoothly. Alice and Arthur had made their way across the frozen meadows undetected and with no difficulty – until they reached the river. The winter rain had turned to unexpected sleet, and as they attempted to cross the rapids in total darkness, Arthur’s mount slipped and fell, throwing the boy into the briskly swirling, freezing water. Alice leapt from her horse and ran along the bank, extending a broken branch to Arthur as he tumbled helplessly downstream in the foaming rapids. When she was finally close enough to wade in and pull him out, he emerged safe, but half–frozen. And then, they found to their dismay that his horse had been lamed in the fall.
Only seconds later, they discovered that the fat purse Geoffrey had provided to cover their expenses had been lost in the flood, as well. In the darkness, they searched the river–bank until their hands and knees were stiff with cold, and for a time, the escape plan seemed doomed. The two drenched fugitives stood shivering and hopeless, thinking desperately what could be done. Even if Arthur didn’t become ill, if they neither ate nor drank, and slept each night in the woods, their chances seemed dim. Riding together on one horse would slow their progress, and possibly draw unwanted attention in their half–drowned, bedraggled state. Arthur wanted to go to Henry Burden, but Alice refused. Geoffrey’s warnings were still echoing in her mind, and Uncle Henry was no doubt being watched. Desperate, and with no other options available to them, Arthur suggested they seek the help of his friend Robin Hood, in nearby Sherwood Forest.
Chapter the Sixth
In Robin Hood’s Camp, On The First Day of April, in The Year of Our Lord 1193. God Save Our True King
That evening as Will Fletcher had promised, they started out on the twenty–mile trek to her uncle’s home at Burden Manor. As they packed what they needed onto the backs of two horses, Robin was still attempting to convince Fletcher to take along more men.
“You cannot spare anyone, Robin, as you well know, and besides, I believe two riders will draw far less attention,” Fletcher replied. “We’ll keep off the roads as much as possible, and dressed shabbily as we are, I anticipate no interference with a simple yeoman and his wife, traveling to market.”
Robin shook his head doubtfully.
“It is your decision, my friend, but I would be more at ease with three or four good men with you,” he advised. “Burden is sure to be watched and the word is that the Bishop is still combing the villages for his flown partridge.” He winked a blue eye at Alice. “It appears,” he whispered in a conspiratorial tone, “That the pretty bird may have taken with her more than just the Bishop’s heart when she left the nest in such haste.”
Will Fletcher threw Alice a curious look, which she pretended not to notice, and began to carefully retighten the strings on her saddlebags.
Robin studied his nails for a moment while he continued, and buffed his own small ring on his vest. “The Bishop is rumored to be missing a fair portion of his ill–gotten ecclesiastic jewelry, among which is a ring of office presented to him by Prince John. It’s said that the ring in question bears a ruby of great worth. Well, it is only a rumor, of course, but cunning thieves do abound these days, as we are all aware.”
“Thieves are almost always caught – in time,” Will replied, watching Alice’s face as he spoke. “Even the most cunning thieves end up being punished – severely punished.”
Robin laughed heartily. “Great God, Will, you forget yourself! Watch your tongue, if you please. He took Alice’s hand and kissed it. “But do be careful, Mistress. The wood is full of traps and snares. Pay careful heed to Will’s advice, and do as he asks. I would trust him with my life and have profited from that trust more than once. And you, Will, go with God, my friend and keep yourself well.” He clasped Will’s hand in his. “Give my messages to Burden and my best wishes. We will expect you back quickly, with your neck unstretched and all of your limbs accounted for.”
The weather had turned somewhat warmer with the arrival of spring, but now a cold steady rain pelted Alice and Fletcher as they prepared to leave Robin’s camp. The relentless rain grew worse, drenching them to the skin. More than once on that first night, they were forced to retreat to the shelter of a large oak and wait for the downpour to lessen.
“I know an inn ahead where we will be safe,” he relented finally, when Alice’s horse slipped in the mud for the third time. “We will wait out the storm there and continue tomorrow.”
“But it will be light, then. Will that not be more dangerous?”
“Perhaps, but with this foul weather, most travelers will stay off the roads, close to their fires and warm beds. We look like drowned rats. I doubt that even the Sheriff’s men will take us as anything but poor peasants. As unpleasant as this rain is, it may serve us well, if we can manage not to sicken and die from it.”
They came to the sagging wooden inn a half an hour later and found it locked and dark. Will pounded on the front door until a candle appeared at a cracked upper window and a minute later, the gnarled and surly face of the inn–keeper opened the door a crack and growled at them.
“Can ye not see we’ve closed?” he snarled.
“Forgive us, sir. We’ve lost our way in the storm and need shelter. Have you a room we can have for the night?”
“Not for the likes of ye!” the old man said. “Go elsewhere and drip mud on another’s clean floor!”
“We’ve come a long distance,” Will said softly. “From Sherwood.”
The man stared at them for a long moment and opened the door a bit wider.
“From Sherwood, is it?” He squinted and watched Will’s eyes.
“Aye, where some wear Lincoln green and await the return of the Lionheart.”
There was a slight pause, while the man looked them over again.
&n
bsp; “God keep good King Richard,” the old man said at last, smiling broadly as he threw the door wide. “Enter my friends and get yer ’selves warm and dry. I’ll care for yer animals and then find ye somethin’ to eat and drink. Tell me, if ye will, how fares our good Robin?”
Will smiled and took the mug of ale the innkeeper thrust upon him. “He’s well, friend, very well.”
“He saved my oldest boy from the Sheriff’s men just last year,” the old man confided, shaking his graying head sorrowfully. “Stopped the bloody murderers on the road and snatched the lad back from their evil clutches afore they could throw ’im in prison! He’s gone away to the north now, where it’s safer, but praise God, he lives! God bless Robin of Sherwood!”
They spent a dry but restless night at the inn, with Alice sleeping fitfully in a dirty room upstairs, and Will watching for unexpected visitors from a downstairs window. By daylight, the rain had stopped and after a simple meal of pottage, warm ale and brown bread, they thanked the innkeeper and started out again for Burden Manor. As Will had predicted, there were few other travelers on the road and by twilight of the second day, they were in the woods just three hundred yards from Henry Burden’s great house.
“When it’s dark,” Fletcher told her quietly, “you will stay here out of sight, while I go to the front gate. If there is no one about and your uncle signals that it’s safe, I’ll return for you.”
“There’s a small back gate,” Alice remembered suddenly, “where one can enter the house unseen.” She pointed to a small break in the rear wall. “My brother and I often stayed with my uncle when we were children and we sometimes slipped out at night when we were forbidden to go into the woods alone. Of course, that was before Father died. After that, we were never allowed to come here again. My dear brother and I built a secret place in a large oak tree, just beyond the wall. It was there that we kept our treasures and planned our daring adventures.” She smiled sadly at the memory.
“Ah,” Fletcher chuckled. “So, even as a child you were a disobedient brat.”
Alice laughed. “Nonsense! I was an adventuress.”
“And were you ever caught in these misadventures?” he asked.
“Quite often, I’m afraid. And yes, Mr. Fletcher, soundly spanked by Mrs. Farnum, a large woman not unlike our own Fanny, and with as relentless and firm a hand, as I recall. She was my uncle’s trusted housekeeper, then.”
While they waited for the safety of darkness, Alice thought back fondly to her childhood and to the long, pleasant summer days she had spent at Burden Manor – not all of them as pleasant as others, of course. She recalled with great clarity her first meeting with Mrs. Farnum.
As a child, Alice was rarely chastised. Her father was a prosperous and practical country squire and a firm advocate of the Biblical caution regarding sparing the rod and spoiling the child. His farm and real estate holdings were large, however, and the running of his businesses consumed much of his time. The raising of his children was left almost entirely to the children’s mother, who valued spirit and imagination far more highly than she did good manners and obedience.
Edgar Johnstone had married into the nobility, a love match between himself and Ellen, the beautiful and determined sister of Lord Henry Burden. Ellen was some years younger than Edgar, and Burden had only consented to his sister’s marriage after she threatened to enter a nunnery and die of grief if she wasn’t permitted to wed the man she loved. When children came, Edgar’s busy schedule and his young wife’s loneliness resulted in both children being spoiled shamelessly by an adoring mother with nothing better to do than try to make them happy.
After Ellen’s death, Edgar had given their new governess full authority to provide what discipline was needed to correct a multitude of bad behaviors. Alas, his frequent absences resulted in a poor grasp of the extent of his children’s often insufferable behavior – Alice’s in particular. When confronted with the harried governess’s versions of events and Alice’s version, her loving father almost always sided with the daughter he worshipped. And very soon, to Alice’s delight, the lady governess was dismissed – for incompetence and for lying.
The governess’s error had been in trying to do the job she had been hired for. She had attempted to spank the Mistress Alice, the governess reported, when the child set fire to the dining room. An obvious lie, claimed a weeping Alice, adding brutality to the poor woman’s list of crimes. As usual, her devoted father believed her.
All was well for some months, until her father left for several weeks to attend to a business matter in London. It was on this fateful trip that he was introduced to Isobel Henchley, the draper’s widow who was to become Alice’s stepmother. During his time away, Alice and her brother were sent to stay at the home of their mother’s brother, Henry Burden. Unfortunately for Alice, Uncle Henry was a lawyer, no less a believer in sparing the rod, and not at all susceptible to his only niece’s charming lies.
Thus, when an exasperated workman named Morton dragged the screaming Alice before her uncle, seeking justice, ten–year–old Alice learned for the first time that charm was not always sufficient to win her case in Uncle Henry’s court.
“The child knocked down two of the hives, milord. ’T was from sheer spite it was, and three of the workers was badly stung on account of it!”
Uncle Henry looked up from his papers and turned a very stern gaze upon Alice, tapping a stout ruler on the desk thoughtfully. “Is this true, Alice?”
Alice crossed her small arms and spoke her piece, unwilling to be intimidated even by so tall and austere a figure as her uncle.
“One of the little beasts stung me,” she replied, thrusting her finger out with great drama for his inspection. “On this very finger, as you can plainly see!”
It seemed to Alice that all of the evidence was in her favor. Besides which, she was very much prettier than Morton.
Her uncle looked at the barely visible pinpoint of redness on her fingertip and nodded. At this point, apparently afraid that the slight injury might color his employer’s judgment, Morton quickly added Alice’s other most recent offenses to his testimony.
“And when I but tried to stop her, sire, the little…the child sunk her teeth into me. A painful bite it was, sir, on my best working arm.” Morton extended his own skinny right arm, with its considerably worse bite wound. As she looked at Morton’s bruised and swollen forearm, Alice felt the mood of the court turning against her.
Her uncle frowned again, or scowled, might be a better word.
Sensing victory, the vengeful Morton began to list several other infractions. Alice had had, all in all, a very busy morning.
“This very morning, sire, she tore down Mrs. Farnum’s wash, so as to put the rope to some other foolish purpose!” he crowed, “and then called that poor lady as vile a word as ye’ve ever heard from a young mouth.”
“I had no swing,” Alice explained, quite reasonably. “And that fat hag spoke rudely to me, as though I were a common scullery servant.”
Henry Burden sighed rather wearily. “All right, then. Remove the girl to the kitchen, Morton, and instruct Mrs. Farnum to thrash her soundly.”
Alice, who could hardly believe what she was hearing, was quick to protest.
“But, Uncle!” she cried, “I am never whipped! Surely, Father has….”
Burden interrupted her with a great thump of his fist on the desktop. “My beloved sister, your own dear mother, was a damned ninny, and her husband a fool!” he exclaimed. “’T is no wonder that both their offspring are growing up as thieving, thundering heathens! Off with you, miss, and be glad I don’t take a riding crop to your misbegotten rump myself. You may tell Mrs. Farnum to make the event a memorable one, Morton, lest the young lady fail to take the lesson to heart.”
When Morton took a firm grasp on Alice’s elbow and turned her toward the door, Alice raised her small foot and gave his right shin as hard a kick as she could manage.
“Take your hand from me, you filthy clod!”
she shouted, kicking his left shin for good measure.
“You will apologize to Morton, Alice,” Burden ordered.
Alice glared at him defiantly. “And I say I will not! The clod put his hands on me!”
Alice caught what appeared be a small suppressed smile on her uncle’s lips.
“Off to the kitchen, now, Morton, and should she give you trouble between here and there, you have my leave to apply this ruler to the young lady’s bottom – as forcefully as you deem necessary.” He handed the wooden ruler to Morton, with a wink. “And were I in your shoes, Morton, I would contrive to find the longest possible route to the kitchen.”
Morton grinned. “Aye, m’lord, I’ll do that very thing. Move your legs, Mistress!”
As Alice was yanked rudely from the room, she was dismayed to hear her uncle chuckling to himself. Morton pulled her along the hallway toward the kitchen, pausing every few steps to add another swat across the back of Alice’s plump legs with the slender wooden ruler, while punctuating the whacking with rude insults. As Uncle Henry had suggested, they took a circuitous route to the kitchen, with Morton swatting steadily, so that by the time they arrived at their destination, poor Alice’s calves and thighs were already sore and tingling beneath her skirts. And to make matters worse, she realized forlornly that the sound thrashing to which Uncle Henry had sentenced her, was still to come.
Mrs. Farnum was in the midst of rolling out a piecrust when the two barged into the kitchen, with the child’s dress in disarray and her small mouth set in angry determination that this rough brute, Morton, not see her cry.
