Path of the She Wolf

by Theresa Tomlinson

  As the weather grew warmer, small scraps of news from the rebels reached the Forestwife’s clearing and they were grateful for the messages brought by Isabel, whose Manor of Langden, lay closer to the Great North Road. Within weeks they heard that the rebels had attacked the King’s stronghold at Northampton, while the King stayed near to Oxford, gathering his wolfpack about him. Then the northeners marched on to London, climbing the walls and opening the city gates on a Sunday while the good townsfolk were at mass. They set about besieging the Tower of London.

  ‘Sounds like Robert,’ said Magda. ‘If it’s not his idea, he’ll certainly be enjoying himself.’

  ‘Aye,’ Marian agreed with a sigh.

  ‘There’s some still loyal to the crown,’ Isabel told them. ‘Nichola la Haye holds Lincoln Castle for the King.’

  Marian’s mouth dropped open in surprise. ‘Nichola . . . the constable’s wife. Isn’t she a frail old woman? What of her husband?’

  Isabel laughed. ‘She’s old, but I doubt you’d call her frail! Her husband was from home when rebels surrounded Lincoln. They thought they’d take it with ease, but they were wrong. It seems Nichola set about defending the place like a veteran warrior, and they’ve not moved her.’

  ‘I can’t help thinking, good for her!’ cried Magda. ‘But she’s on the wrong side!’

  ‘Yes,’ Isabel agreed. ‘We should have such a woman organising our men!’

  Marian shook her head. ‘I fear for our men,’ she said. ‘I don’t trust these bishops and barons; I’m sure they’re after their own gains. There are no clear sides to this struggle.’

  As the weather grew warm and the June buds burst filling the woodland with lush green leaves they heard the most wonderful news. The King was asking for peace and agreeing to meet the rebels at Runnymede, promising he’d give them their charter. While the barons and bishops swore fealty once more to King John, the rebel army feasted.

  A smaller celebration took place deep in Barnsdale Woods. The nuns brought bread and ale, Isabel ordered some of her geese slaughtered, and Marian cut down the haunch of venison that had been smoking above her cooking fire for weeks. Magda took young Brigit out into the woods and taught her how to snare rabbits.

  The meal they produced was magnificent by their standards. The woodland folk sang, danced and drank, toasting the hoped-for lifting of the Forest Laws. Some of the young boys got a little too bold with drink and staggered off in the direction of Sherwood, swearing that they’d tear the fences down, and let out the deer.

  Their mothers were fearful at the idea, but Magda was scornful. ‘They’ll be in no fit state to tear anything down. They’ll end up snoring in a ditch.’

  The Forestwife and her friends slept late the next morning. As they rose and began to set everything to rights, some of the lads came stumbling back through the clearing, weak-legged, sick and dazed. Marian made them drink a mug of steaming herb tea, sweetened with honey, while Magda gave them a good telling off.

  ‘Serves you right,’ she snapped. ‘Puking up like little pigs! What a waste of good barley ale! I hope you have thudding heads all day!’

  ‘We all have to learn,’ Marian told them, smiling. ‘I seem to remember a little lass that performed a wild dance one May Day feast. Then fell over and had to be carried sick and weeping to her pallet.’

  ‘Hmm!’ Magda, frowned. ‘It was the dancing that made me sick not the drink!’

  Brigit swept up dutifully around their feet, saying nothing, but listening and watching, taking everything in.

  When the sun was high in the sky, the lads were sent home to stop their mothers from worrying. ‘Fresh air and a good fast walk through the woods!’ Magda told them. ‘That’s what you lot need!’

  Dusk was falling when Gerta came back into the clearing, her face all creased with worry.

  ‘What is it Gerta?’ Magda asked. ‘Have those grandsons of yours still got thick heads?’

  ‘Thick heads or not, I don’t know. I’ve not seen them all day,’ said Gerta angrily. ‘Our Jack swore he’d mend the fencing on our close, for my grey gander keeps escaping. When those lads get back I’ll wring their necks. I wondered if you’d seen them?’

  Magda shook her head. ‘No, I’ve not seen your lads, but I shouldn’t fret,’ she soothed. ‘They’ll be sleeping it off under some hedge. We’ve had some of their barley-brained comrades here. Marian dosed them for their pains, but we’ve not seen your three.’

  Gerta folded her arms and shook her head. She looked exhausted. ‘I’ve asked all their friends,’ she insisted. ‘I’ve been walking round the woods since noon. All they can tell me is that my lads did go off towards Sherwood with axes stuck in their belts.’

  Magda began to feel uneasy. Gerta was much loved in Barnsdale, for despite being old and poor, she’d taken her three young grandsons to live with her when their parents both died of the fever. She’d struggled to raise them on her pitiful earnings in her small hut close to Langden. Gerta loved the three boys fiercely and, though she was getting bent and thin with age, she usually kept them well disciplined with the sheer force of her temper.

  ‘Axes in their belts?’ Magda muttered. The picture that came into her mind of the three lads marching towards Sherwood brought a chilling touch of anxiety. ‘I’ll fetch Marian and see what she thinks,’ she said.

  Marian came out from the cottage followed by Brigit; she was immediately concerned. ‘Towards Sherwood?’ she confirmed. ‘With axes?’

  They made Gerta sit down and without being told, Brigit brought out a warm drink for the old woman. Marian bent and sniffed the brew. ‘Camomile,’ she said. ‘Well chosen, lass.’

  ‘Soothes anxiety,’ the girl told her solemnly. ‘So mother always said.’

  They stood quietly, watching the old woman sip the brew. Marian did not want to make Gerta more fearful, but she was filled with foreboding. The sound of a horse clopping through the darkening woods made them even more worried, but it was Isabel who rode into the clearing. She swung down from her sturdy grey mare and they saw from her face that she had something bad to tell them.

  ‘What now?’ whispered Marian.

  Isabel would not speak straight out. She sat down beside Gerta and took hold of her hand, then began speaking gently, hating the news that she brought. ‘There’s three young lads been caught chopping down palings on the edge of Sherwood.’

  ‘No!’ Gerta cried.

  Isabel nodded. ‘I fear so. Hundreds of deer are loosed, and the verderers furious. The new Sheriff de Rue, has sent word, they’re to be hanged.’

  ‘Ah no!’ Gerta cried again.

  Magda gasped. Brigit’s hands shook as she took the cup back from Gerta; only Marian was stony-faced.

  ‘Not my lads?’ Gerta whispered. The old woman started rocking backwards and forwards while Magda sat down on her other side and tried to comfort her.

  Isabel’s face twisted with pity. ‘There’s more, but I don’t know whether to say it!’

  Gerta stopped rocking at once. ‘Tell me!’ she demanded. ‘I have to know!’

  ‘The three will not give their names, but the oldest is a tall dark haired lad and the youngest fair and nowt but a child.’

  ‘My Davy! They cannot hang my Davy. He’s only eleven years old!’

  ‘If my father and Robert were here,’ Magda growled. ‘If only Tom were here.’

  ‘Well, they are not,’ said Marian angrily. ‘They have gone off on a wild goose chase. What fools we’ve all been! How could we think the King would end the Forest Laws just like that?’ She snapped her fingers hard. Then she took a deep breath and sighed. ‘Well, our men are not here, so we must take action ourselves.’

  ‘Aye,’ Isabel agreed. ‘We must do something, but what? We must think hard and fast. The lads are due to hang tomorrow at noon at Ollerton Crossroads. The Sheriff himself will ride there to see it done.’

  Marian frowned, tapping her head, racking her brains for an idea. Then she suddenly looked up. ‘I’m askin
g myself, what would Robert do if he were here? And, I think I know.’

  ‘Huh!’ Magda snorted. ‘He’d disguise himself in filthy rags. He’d dress himself as a potter, or a priest, or a tinker, and he’d go marching right up to the gibbet!’

  ‘Exactly!’ Marian agreed. ‘And that is what we will do! We’ll disguise ourselves and we shall go marching right up to the gibbet. But, I do not fancy filthy rags; I have a much more respectable idea. The boys live close to Langden, do they not? The Sisters of the Magdalen are Langden’s nuns. Couldn’t they insist on seeing them; to pray for their souls? Surely any man who refused such a request would fear his own soul damned!’

  ‘Aye,’ whispered Gerta, faintly hopeful. ‘My hut’s within the bounds of Langden Parish. The sisters would have the right to beg such a favour! But even if you managed to get them away, then the sisters would be followed and punished. We’d all be punished!’

  ‘Yes,’ said Isabel. ‘But if we disguised ourselves as nuns and called ourselves by another name, not the Sisters of the Magdalen, then perhaps it could just work! It seems your brave lads will not admit they are from Langden, so the Sheriff doesn’t know where they really come from. I think they mean to save us from trouble by keeping quiet. It might be just that courage that brings us the means to save them!’

  ‘You could call yourselves St Bridget’s Nuns,’ Brigit suggested, her voice shrill with sudden excitement. ‘There were St Bridget’s nuns, who lived near Goldwell when I was a babe. Mother named me after them. But the last old nun died three years ago and now the convent stands a ruin in the woods.’

  Marian hugged her. ‘Clever lass!’ she cried. ‘It would sound real and even familiar, but if the Sheriff should send his men to hunt St Bridget’s nuns, they’d find nothing, but a deserted convent.’

  5

  Ollerton Crossroads

  Magda laughed. ‘It seems we have our plan.’

  ‘Yes, but we must speak with Mother Veronica,’ said Isabel. ‘I know she’ll help

  ‘I’ll take my bow and arrow,’ Magda cried. ‘Though I never thought to see myself as a nun.’

  ‘Yes,’ Marian agreed, her cheeks flushed and eyes bright with anger. ‘And I must go to Ollerton too. I do not like to leave the clearing without a Forestwife, but my shooting skills will be needed.’

  ‘Shall I come with you?’ Brigit whispered.

  Magda shook her head smiling, touched by the offer. This quiet child was certainly no coward. ‘She really is as brave as a wolf,’ she murmured.

  The hopes raised by their plan made Gerta calm and strong once more. ‘No honey,’ she told Brigit. ‘You and I, little lass, we shall be Forestwife while Marian is away. I dare say we can manage well enough together, just for a while.’

  Marian nodded. ‘That is a good plan Gerta.’ She unfastened the beautiful woven girdle that she wore, the girdle of the Forestwife, retying it carefully around the old woman’s thin waist. ‘Take care of it,’ she said. ‘And any who come seeking help.’ She kissed them both, then reached to take down her bow from the nail above the small window.

  ‘Get mine too,’ Magda was eager to be off. ‘I shall fetch the new made arrows from the lean-to.’

  ‘No,’ Marian told her. ‘There is something important for you to do first. Ride with Isabel and fetch Mother Veronica and Sister Rosamund? We need some real nuns, if we are to be convincing and ask if we may borrow extra veils and habits. Oh, and Isabel, I think we are going to need more horses. Can you find us some?’

  Magda and Isabel rode through the woods, obedient to Marian’s orders. ‘I love her when she is like this,’ Magda cried. ‘Suddenly she throws aside all her carefulness and hurls herself into a wild adventure, all fired up.’

  ‘Yes!’ Isabel agreed, her face drawn with anxiety. ‘But what we plan is fraught with danger. Magda?’ she said, touching the young woman’s arm. ‘I do not forget how you came with Marian to rescue me when the wolfpack walled me up, leaving my mother and me to die. You risked your lives to save us then, and now we all risk our lives again for Gerta’s lads. This is just as desperate and fearful a thing to attempt!’

  Three new-made gibbets stood on the old platform outside the lock-up at Ollerton Crossroads. The Sheriff of Nottingham’s men were busy stringing up nooses. The news that there was to be a hanging had caused quite a stir so that the worn grass around the lock-up thronged with people. Some cheerfully elbowed their way through the crowd to get a good view of the spectacle, but many were moved to pity.

  A skinny washerwoman pushing a handcart piled with dirty linen and small children spoke with sorrow. ‘So young I hear. Nobbut bairns!’

  ‘Does not this new charter change the law?’ asked a stooped and aged alewife who carried her wares in buckets, fixed onto a wooden yoke across her shoulders. ‘A hanging’s good for business, but I thought the laws were to be changed.’

  ‘Who knows what it does? Can laws change over night like that?’

  ‘They say the Sheriff is making an example of them, won’t let it go unpunished. He fears to have every young ruffian in the wastes ripping down palings if he shows mercy’

  ‘That man hasn’t got a drop of mercy in his veins,’ came the reply.

  Others saw humour in the tragedy. ‘Good on the lads,’ an old man chuckled. ‘They don’t die for nowt. The King’s deer run wild through Barnsdale and there’s plenty with a full belly for once.’

  ‘Aye,’ the washerwoman laughed and dug him in the ribs. ‘The scent of stewed venison reeks from every hut.’

  Shortly before noon a plump, elderly nun came pushing through the crowd towards the lock-up, followed by six of her sisters.

  ‘Make way, make way! St Bridget’s nuns from Goldwell,’ Mother Veronica cried. ‘These children live close to Goldwell Priory. We have travelled all morning, coming as soon as we heard. We must pray with them.’

  The captain hesitated, uncertain as to whether he should allow this seemingly holy intrusion.

  ‘Let us see the young sinners,’ the Prioress begged. ‘We must be sure that they repent. Should you deny this, why man, you’d risk your own immortal soul.’

  The captain argued for a while, but his men shuffled anxiously and crossed themselves. At last he gave way and unlocked the door.

  ‘Only for a moment,’ he barked. ‘The Sheriff will be here at noon!’

  Mother Veronica marched into the darkness of the cramped room, her equally plump sisters crowding close behind her. There was a moment of confusion and hubbub, then the deep clear voice of Sister Rosamund could be heard chanting prayers for the dying.

  Mother Veronica appeared again. ‘Bless you for your mercy,’ she cried making the sign of the cross.

  The guards bowed their heads as nine nuns followed their prioress out, one of them very small and stumbling a little on the trailing skirt of the habit. In the pressing crowd it was difficult for the men to see that more nuns came out than had ever gone in. As the Captain turned to lock the heavy door, onlookers pressed close behind him trying to get a glimpse of the ill-fated lads.

  Once they were out and through the crowd, the nuns walked fast towards a group of horses sheltering beneath a great oak nearby. Isabel of Langden, already mounted on her own grey mare, held the reins.

  A sudden shout of anger was heard above the muttering crowd. ‘Empty! Get after them. Unholy bitches! They’ve got the prisoners! They’ve taken them!’

  The nuns picked up their skirts and ran towards Isabel. People milled about, arguing and pushing, unsure of what was happening, and uncertain as to whose side they should take. This unexpected turn of events was providing nearly as good a show for them as a hanging. The guards roared with fury, shoving folk aside, trying to follow their prisoners, swords drawn. The nuns leapt up onto their waiting horses with wonderful agility. Only aged Mother Veronica had to be hauled onto her mount. They set off galloping north, but two of the tallest nuns held their horses back, snatching up bows from their saddles. They pulled arrows from full
quivers hidden beneath their long skirted habits and sent a hail of them flying towards the guards.

  The men leapt back, too surprised to answer the attack with speed. Then Marian shouted as she wheeled her horse about. ‘Tell your Sheriff this – he shall not hang children! So says the Hooded One.’

  The whispered name of the Hooded One flew through the crowd and at once the soldiers found themselves impeded. Buckets of overturned ale made the ground slip beneath their feet, while old men on sticks and small children stumbled against the guards. They roared with anger, as they seemed to trip and tread in piles of soiled linen and clothing whichever way they turned.

  The rescuers and rescued got back to Barnsdale exhausted but elated with their success. The nuns returned quickly to their convent and their prayers, cleaning the mud stained habits thoroughly, so that no sign or evidence remained. Gerta’s grandsons clung to her as she hugged and berated them in turn.

  ‘This calls for another celebration,’ Magda suggested.

  ‘No,’ Marian told her dryly. ‘Twas too much celebration that brought them close to death. We’ll have no more for the moment.’

  The boys swore tearfully, they’d never drink again.

  Later that night, when everyone had gone to their homes, Marian and Magda sat by the fire, quiet and weary. Brigit pounded roots in a wooden bowl, talking excitedly for once. ‘I boiled up purslane for a sick baby who’d eaten green apples, and pennyroyal for Freda’s birth pains. Then after Gerta had cut the cord, I gave her a warm brew of century to sip. Did I do right?’

  Marian smiled. ‘I couldn’t have done better myself.’