King of the Wood

by Valerie Anand

  ‘You can’t.’

  ‘Tell me!

  He listened, not in surprise (he had heard something of this mentioned in the Wood at Beltane, he recalled, thinking of the exchange between the Stag King and the worshipper with the high-pitched voice), but with increasing anger and distaste. This cult should be destroyed, he thought. It had given him a night’s magical adventure but it was no more than devil worship, intrinsically evil and extremely dangerous. Sybil, still weeping although more quietly now, said: ‘Oswin, the man who made Gervase’s cradle, he says it’s all stupid, that the Tun is only one small place and it’s the whole world that’s in danger. The priest at Minstead says the horsemen of the Apocalypse are being let loose and that hunger and disease are here already, with war and death, all our deaths, just behind. It’ll be the same everywhere. So what use will it be just to kill Ralph? How can he stand for the whole world? Oswin says he’s just one ordinary man and all he represents is the Tun. But…’

  ‘Your Oswin’s right. It would take a god or a full-scale king at the least, to save the whole world.’

  ‘But the others don’t understand. They can’t… they don’t know there is any world outside. Most of them haven’t been further than Lyndhurst. If that far, even.’ He stayed for some time, telling her that wild talk was mostly just wild talk, that a few warm months in the summer would put a stop to it all. He added firmly: ‘But if by any chance, for any reason, you ever do find yourself alone, I’ll take responsibility for you and Gervase. I’ll see his future is provided for and yours as well. I’ll find you another husband if necessary. A better-off one. Tell me something. Does Ralph know Gervase isn’t his?’

  ‘Yes. But we rarely speak of the parentage of the Children of the Wood, even if we know it. It’s hard for the men sometimes. We don’t make it harder. I shall never speak of you to anyone. I’ll never tell anyone you’re one of Herne’s people. That’s what you are thinking about, isn’t it?’ He nodded and she added shrewdly: ‘It would be your word against mine, wouldn’t it, and how much would mine weigh in that balance?’

  Henry laughed. ‘So be it. But remember my offer of help if ever you need it. I shall keep track of the Tun, indeed. You can rely on that.’

  Taking his leave, he kissed her, but circumspectly, because he knew she did not wish for anything more. Sybil watched him ride away, feeling shaken in a new fashion. Before, she had been simply afraid for Ralph and afraid of a future trapped in the Tun without him, unable ever to go home to Fallowdene for she would never be welcome here now except as a brief visitor.

  Henry, unwittingly, had opened up a new horizon of read, a future in which there was no Ralph and she was not forced to stay in the Tun, no, not that, but handed instead like a helpless package into the power of some unknown man, to face an unknown future in which, somehow, Fallowdene seemed to be further away than ever, a lovely dream from which she had been roughly wakened, and which would never come again.

  Henry knew nothing of this and as he rode back to Winchester was not in fact thinking of either Sybil or Gervase.

  Like St. John, Henry had become the recipient of a revelation.

  ‘The sun’s out. The lavender walk is sheltered from the wind,’ said the Infirmarian to Ralph. ‘There are benches. You could sit there for a while.’

  It was March and the lavender wouldn’t be out but the prospect of the open air was welcome. He had inhaled so much herbal steam and swallowed so much horehound cordial that aromatic vapours seemed to fill his head. He went out, shocked to find how weak his illness had made him. He was glad to sit on the bench and enjoy the sun on his face. He was still sitting there half an hour later when the Infirmarian appeared, bringing company, and said: ‘Sir Ralph, you have a visitor.’

  ‘Count Henry!’ said Ralph, coming to his feet.

  ‘Sit down. I’ll sit with you. How are you?’ enquired Henry, waving the Infirmarian away.

  ‘Nearly well, thank you, my lord. I shall go home in a day or two. But…’

  ‘To Chenna’s Tun?’

  ‘Yes. My lord, it was kind of you to come but I didn’t expect… can I serve you in some way?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Henry. ‘I hope you really are feeling better, by the way. I have a shock for you.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Henry smiled. It was an uncomfortable smile; the mouth curved humorously but there was a hard gleam in the brown eyes. Conan of Rouen and Abbess Christina would both have recognised it. ‘Your… antics, shall we say? ... in the forest on May Eve and, presumably Lammas – that’s another traditional date, I think? – have been witnessed,’ said Henry, and waited with interest for Ralph’s reply.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Ralph politely. Not a muscle twitched in his olive-skinned face. But Henry, watching keenly, saw that the sallowness of ill-health had nevertheless deepened.

  ‘You, and others presumably of the Tun and its neighbours, are worshippers of Herne, a cult in which the devotees mask themselves as goats and stags and celebrate life’s simpler pleasures in delightfully down-to-earth ways. You deny it?’

  ‘I have not the remotest idea what you’re talking about, my lord,’ said Ralph briefly.

  ‘Excellent. A man who can keep his own counsel can probably keep mine, too. Very well. But you must answer one question frankly. Have you heard that the end of the world is supposed to be at hand?’ enquired Henry. He would have used the same tone to ask whether Ralph had heard the latest lovesong.

  ‘Of course. Has anyone not heard it?’ said Ralph. ‘Every parish priest in the land seems to be preaching about the day of wrath to come.’

  ‘And do you believe it, yourself?’

  Ralph was silent a moment. Then he said: ‘Do you know, I wonder sometimes. When year after year the crops fail first from one cause then from another. When people and animals fall ill and die and the skies pour water on our heads summer and winter alike.’ He gave Henry a shrewd look. ‘But I doubt if you believe it, my lord.’

  ‘No. I don’t. But plenty do. The Christian priests have been recommending repentance and crusading as means of averting catastrophe but I gather that priests of a – shall, we say, a pagan persuasion? – have advised a different approach. Sacrifices of propitiation, in fact. Sacrifices of, well, stags. Am I right?’

  Ralph did not answer. The two of them stared steadily into each other’s eyes, each intent on reading the other’s thoughts while concealing his own. Silently conceding that the wordless duel was a draw with no points scored on either side, Henry said: ‘The stags in question are of purely local fame which is very foolish. Simple people tend to imagine that their own village or hamlet is the centre of the world but of course it isn’t. The threat, if there is one, involves all the world. What effect can even a large number of insignificant deaths have on the power that decides the fate of all the lands and people that there are? Mighty crises need mighty solutions, don’t you agree?’

  ‘It would be uncivil of me, my lord, to say that you are talking as though you had gone out of your mind but…’

  ‘Do I sound like that?’ asked Henry pleasantly. ‘Never mind. Just let me talk a little more. Your man Cild. I have no power to order his release, as things stand. The Sheriff of Hampshire has the discretion to free him but he won’t use it unless the king commands him and the king won’t.’

  ‘May I ask where all this is leading?’

  ‘We’re nearly there. It’s quite simple. I’m making you an offer, Sir Ralph. Cild’s freedom, whole and sound, is part of it. Together with that, I also offer you the safety of your woodland cult. You may dance and copulate in a damp forest clearing to your heart’s content as far as I’m concerned though I’m sure it can’t be good for this bronchial tendency the Infirmarian here says you have. But your local priest won’t approve if the details are laid officially before him and nor would the Bishop of Winchester, who will know very well how to go about stamping such practices out. On top of that, I’m prepared to give your manor, which I gather is in desp
erate straits, financial help until harvests improve. All in return for just one service, which you may perform yourself or through others – it’s all the same to me.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘The danger may be real,’ said Henry, ‘and perhaps a propitiary sacrifice is the best hope of averting it. Who can say? But it needs to be a sacrifice of sufficient value. For a whole world nothing less than an anointed king is adequate, or so it seems to me. Cild’s freedom, the safety of your cult, my silver, they’re all yours if when my brother Curthose sets foot again in Normandy, King Rufus is already under the earth and his crown is on my head. I’d suggest a hunting accident,’ said Henry thoughtfully. ‘One of my brothers died that way; these things do happen. And it would be in keeping with the nature of Herne, would it not?’ He observed, mildly, that Ralph was gaping at him. ‘I do have some sort of right to that crown,’ said the man who had thrust Conan from the walls of Rouen Castle, who had long ago crossed the chasm which separated most men from the act of cold murder. ‘I am the only one of my father’s sons who was born in England, the only one born after Father became a king. Think about it,’ said Henry, getting up, preparing to leave. ‘I’d suggest next Beltane,’ he added casually over his shoulder. ‘There’s a fourth item for you in my bargain, after all, isn’t there? It’s worth it to you to hurry it along. Your own life’s at stake as well. You don’t really want to die as a Beltane sacrifice yourself, do you?’

  ‘You were listening!’ said Edith furiously to her aunt. She shut her mouth hard after the last word. In arguments with Aunt Christina, the words one actually said resembled the island tops of submerged mountains. She wondered if her aunt sensed the unsaid ones, most of which were epithets. ‘Jealous old bat!’ was the unspoken rider to the accusation of eavesdropping which Edith had just levelled at the Abbess of Romsey. Even with Henry’s protection, she couldn’t risk saying it aloud.

  ‘It is my duty to watch over you,’ said Christina coldly. ‘The woman Saehild will never enter here again. I was remiss in allowing her to come three times before I discovered her purpose. You have been forbidden to communicate with Count Henry and I shall see that in future the order is obeyed. You are to stay in Romsey and put thoughts of lust and worldliness out of your head. You may as well accept it, Edith. You will never see Count Henry again. Your future lies in the life of religion.’

  ‘It does not,’ said Edith recklessly. ‘It was just as well for you that I had no violence to report to Saehild. If I had, Henry would have found a way to deal with you. Touch me and I’ll see he hears of it somehow. Then you’ll wish you hadn’t. I will never take the veil and you can’t make me!’

  ‘Count Henry is an obstinate, unbridled, immoral young man and no good influence on you.’

  ‘You’re terrified of him,’ said Edith proudly. ‘And you know as well as I do that he’d come if I needed him.

  He’ll wade through blood to get his way. He’ll come one day and take me away to marry him.’

  Her mother, the saintly Margaret, would have been horrified. But as several people had already recognised, Edith was Malcolm of Scotland’s daughter too, and very little had horrified Malcolm.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Holy Executioner

  May 1100

  At dawn on the first of May, 1100, before he prepared for the May Day hunt, Ralph des Aix had himself shriven. He did it out of habit, as though before a battle, although he had come straight to Winchester from the Beltane gathering. His confession, to say the least of it, omitted several important things, and was made in the presence of an intention which would have had the priest, had he known, considering exorcism instead of absolution.

  He went out of the chapel of the Winchester palace into a mist hazed morning which promised to be fine. They might have a better harvest this year and then he would see more flesh on Sybil… and at that he halted his thoughts, so roughly that if his thinking had been a horse, he would have jagged its mouth. It was so very easy to forget ...

  The Keeper of the Walk and his beaters were already at the kennels and the hounds, leaping and baying at their enclosure fence, had sensed sport to come.

  ‘The deer we marked yesterday are in the cover south of the Long Glade,’ Ralph said to the Keeper. ‘We want them driven into the glade for a standing shoot. The wind’s westerly so place yourselves to the east. No one is to interfere with the Twelve Acre Wood to the west. There are hinds there. They’ll be in calf.’

  When the Keeper and his men had gone, Ralph fetched a bucket of well water and went back to the poky quarters he shared with three others. There, he washed all over including his hair, and shaved meticulously.

  He would have liked privacy but although most people were now in hall or stable, one of his room-mates came in. This one witness to Ralph’s extreme and chilly ablutions, however, was only Sir Brian of Little Dene, who was in Winchester on knight service with de Warenne. He had ecognised Ralph, of course, and knew that Ralph had married Sybil. But he merely thought that Ralph had taken on a girl of bad reputation for the sake of a pretty face and probably a dowry, and was therefore either a wantwit or a cunning bargainer, and in neither case did Sir Brian consider the matter his business. He had offered, civilly, to carry news of Sybil home with him when he went, but he had little interest in her or Ralph. He glanced at the bucket but all he actually said was: ‘I’m trying out a new crossbow today. Want to see it?’

  Ralph, thankful that there were no probing questions, was happy to discuss crossbows. He could hardly tell Brian that today he must go scoured from head to foot with no trace of impurity about him, to provide a human sacrifice for Heme.

  He was thankful too that Richard was not here. Normally, Richard would have been on duty along with Brian, but this time, according to Brian, Richard had bought himself out in order to attend to business at home. Richard would certainly have asked questions.

  He put on clean clothes and went to the hall for some food. He could not afterwards remember what he ate. He was outside, waiting by his saddled horse, when the principals came out.

  Henry was not with them. Henry had arranged to be elsewhere this morning, although Ralph did not suppose elsewhere was actually very far off. Rufus however came striding from the hall side by side with the chief members of the visiting Aquitainian embassy, and talking over his shoulder to Richie and to Walter Tirel, who had lately arrived from France. Perhaps to fill as best he might the void which Helias had left, Ralph thought. Tirel’s brother-in-law Gilbert Clare followed, slight and fairhaired still. Many fairhaired men darkened with time but Clare would fade from pale gold to silver. All were combed and glossy, dressed for a May Day outing, and fight of heart as boys.

  He bowed formally as Rufus approached and Rufus, amiable enough as long as Ralph stayed correctly within the character of Knight Huntsman, said: ‘Well, des Aix, have you some sturdy pricket buck for us today?’

  ‘We shall manage a kill, I trust, my lord,’ said Ralph.

  ***

  It was still early as they rode out of Winchester into a forest fresh with dew and birdsong. Ralph rode close to Rufus and Tirel, who were discussing the Aquitainians. A valuable treaty had apparently been offered. Rufus talked easily, without stammering, a man who was sure he would see tomorrow.

  It was hard for Ralph to keep his mind on his duties. Richie, spurring up alongside him, spoke twice before he realised that the boy was addressing him. ‘Can I go with the houndsmen this morning instead of shooting? Stagbane hasn’t seen sport in weeks.’

  The big hound was running beside Richie’s horse, nose hopefully questing along the ground, stern up and waving. ‘We’d like to help rouse the game instead,’ said Richie.

  Stagbane’s manners hadn’t noticeably improved with time and an animal so undisciplined would not have been kept in the regular pack. But the boy had at least had the courtesy to ask, making up for his hound. Some youths in Richie’s place would have ignored Ralph’s authority. ‘Yes, you can, but keep him in
order. He ran amok last time and had half the pack off chasing a hare instead of a deer.’ Ralph drew rein. ‘We dismount here.’

  Horses trampling through the wood might disturb the quarry too soon. They were left tethered, in the care of grooms, and Ralph led the way to the shooting stand on foot. They emerged in single file into a long grass-grown glade, fringed with bushes and shadowed by the massive trees beyond them. Using signs and very low-pitched speech, Ralph positioned the hunters. He put Rufus and Tirel in the best places and because of their acquaintanceship, gave Brian of Little Dene quite a good place too, not far from Tirel. The shaftbearers stood be- mind their masters, ready to hand arrows or, in case of crossbow enthusiasts, to prepare a second bow while the other was in use.

  Brian’s squire was his son. He was slow getting into place and Tirel and Rufus, who considered crossbows cumbersome, made silent fun of Brian, Tirel’s pointing finger tracing the path of an imaginary speeding deer while Rufus strove fumblingly to load an invisible crossbow and then gazed blankly about him in search of a quarry which had gone. Then young Brian came hastening up with the spare crossbow, and Brian jabbed a thumb at him and laughed. Differences of rank did not vanish in the hunting field but they were lessened; there was a levelling camaraderie. Rufus and Tirel grinned back.

  Ralph, carrying his own quiver as he always did, had placed himself where he could see the Keeper at the end of the glade. He raised a hand and saw the Keeper repeat the signal for the beaters, out of sight beyond the thicket. Shouts and crashes began in the distance and hounds spoke. A jay sent up with a raucous cry of warning.

  He stared in front of him, across the new grass to where the wall of bushes, just coming into leaf, was veiled in green. The first deer, as always, was not there at all one moment and bounding through the glade the next. Arrows sprang and the deer fell, kicking, a shaft standing up from its body. A second deer raced down the glade. No one was watching Ralph. He lowered his bow and stepped back, into the concealment of the undergrowth.