Magda frowned, unsure that she liked the sound of it. She herself had never known this distant Derbyshire village. She’d been born in the Forestwife’s clearing, and that had been the centre of all her life.
‘What did they talk about?’ she asked.
‘People, places, names they both knew. Wild adventures of their youth! The old ones who’d died, and some young ones too.’ Tom sighed. ‘It brought John great pleasure,’ he said. ‘But I think it brought him sadness too.’
‘And so this man, this old friend of my father’s returned to Hathersage?’
Tom shook his head. ‘That is the greatest sadness of it all. He was caught like Robert by one of the great stone-throwing machines. He was not as lucky as Robert was, for he died. So you see, there was no returning to Hathersage, not for him. Now,’ Tom asked gently. ‘Do you understand John’s restlessness a bit better?’
Magda heaved a great sigh. ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘I understand it very well, though I do not much like the answer that comes into my mind.’
‘No,’ Tom shook his head sadly. ‘No, I thought you would not. That is why I never spoke of it before.’
Magda smiled at him, and patted her stomach that was beginning to swell quite noticeably. ‘Ah well,’ she said determinedly. ‘I have got my wish. Father shall have his wish too, whether he thinks he should or not. Would you travel with him to see him safely there?’
Tom smiled at her. ‘Of course I will.’
She went out into the woods, following the path her father had taken. Two days later, John set out for Hathersage, riding behind Tom on Rambler’s strong back. John was reluctant to leave his daughter, but the quiet joy in his eyes at the thought of returning to his childhood home was there for all to see.
‘You go with my blessing,’ Magda told him, sounding stronger than she felt. ‘All I ask is that you come back to us at Christmas, for my child should be born soon after that.’
No sooner had John and Tom set out for Derbyshire than Philippa’s blacksmith husband returned to Langden with Rowan her son. Philippa walked through the woodland paths to pass their news on to the Forestwife and her friends. She gently touched Brigit’s head as she passed the child, sitting out in the autumn sunshine, steadily pounding dandelion roots.
‘Are they inside?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ Brigit sighed. ‘They do nothing but talk of the barons and the King.’
Philippa went inside and joined them by the fireside. She told of her husband’s return. ‘I feared he’d never get paid for all his work, and if the barons had had their way, he never would.’
‘Who has paid him?’ Robert asked.
Philippa smiled. ‘Your friend, the Bishop of Hereford.’
Robert looked up, interested. ‘I knew that man was different. The other bishops went running to side with the King as soon as they heard the pope had denounced the charter. Not Giles de Braose, even though we distrust them, the Bishop of Hereford still stands by the rebel barons.’
‘Ah well,’ Philippa cleared her throat. ‘I’m not so sure. The King has tried to buy the man’s loyalty back again. He’s offered him the de Braose property fully restored, and all his dead brother’s land, but the Bishop must swear fealty once more.’
‘And what does the man reply?’ Robert leant forward.
Philippa shrugged her shoulders. ‘We don’t know yet, and I have sadder news,’ she sighed. ‘News that will bring great sorrow to that little lass out there, who pounds roots as though her life depends on it.’
‘Oh no,’ Magda cried. ‘Not Brigit’s father!’
Philippa nodded. ‘The man is dead. The King sent his wolfpack to take back the Tower of London. The barons had given way and agreed that it should be held in the Archbishop of Canterbury’s name, but some of those who’d been defending it resisted. Brigit’s father was one of them.’
Magda got up, her face all creased with pity. ‘I’ll tell her,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to, but I will.’
Brigit took the news of her father’s death quietly, but during the next few days she wandered aimlessly about the clearing as though she’d lost all purpose in life. Marian praised her herb skills and begged her help with the potions and simples, but the young girl refused politely. Magda followed her at a distance, feeling useless and somehow responsible. ‘I wished for a bairn, Brig,’ she murmured. And you sent Brigit that very night. Now she has nobody else but me.’
Concern for Brigit’s sadness reached as far as Langden and one afternoon towards the end of September, Isabel arrived from Langden driving a small grain cart, with Philippa seated in the back.
Marian went to greet them, smiling; this visit was not entirely unexpected. Brigit looked up listlessly from the new doorsill. Magda marched over and mercilessly hauled the young girl to her feet. ‘You have to come and see what Isabel has brought,’ she ordered.
‘Why?’ Brigit cried, surprised and hurt by her friend’s rough treatment.
‘Come and see,’ Magda insisted, pulling her round to the back of the cart.
‘But I . . . oh!’ Brigit’s mouth dropped open in surprise. For there in Philippa’s lap rolled a plump, well-fed, baby boy, dressed in a soft lamb’s wool smock. His thatch of curly hair was the same golden brown as Brigit’s, his cheeks pink as a wild rose.
‘Is . . . is he?’
‘Yes,’ Isabel told her. ‘He is your brother Peterkin, that you named for your father. His foster mother has fed and cared for him well, but now he’s weaned from the breast and drinking goats’ milk. He’s a lively lad and his foster mother has her own children to see to.’
‘Do you mean? Should I . . .?’
‘We thought that Peterkin might like to be with his sister,’ said Isabel.
‘But . . .’ said Brigit, hesitating. ‘But, I am very busy here. I don’t know whether I can look after him, and still fetch the wood and pick the herbs and crush the roots.’
The women laughed and Magda put her arms around Brigit. ‘If you want him here, then I should like to help look after him. We might share the job but only if you want that.’
Brigit took a step towards the cart and the wriggling baby. Philippa scooped him up and handed him to his sister. The girl put his chin gently to rest against her shoulder. She sniffed his soft hair and rubbed her cheek against it. Warm dribble tickled her neck, making her giggle. ‘Oh yes,’ she said, patting him gently on the back. ‘Yes. Please let Peterkin stay.’
10
The Pannage Month
Through October and November the weather turned damp and chilly. Everyone wrapped up well and worked on, building up their stocks of nuts and meat for the very cold weather still to come. Sherwood and the surrounding wastes and woodlands were full of pigs, allowed to wander and forage freely for a short period of time in the pannage month so that they could gorge themselves on acorns and beech mast, fattening themselves up for the coming harsh months. Tom returned from Hathersage with news of the warm welcome that John had received.
‘He is famous there!’ Tom told them. ‘They all know John of Hathersage who walks with the Hooded One. They treat him like a king and regale him with the stories of his doings. Some are true, but half of them are rubbish. John laughs and puts them straight but still they tell the tales. I shall go back to Derbyshire and fetch him home for you in time for Christmas,’ he promised Magda.
‘Will he be safe there?’ Robert asked with unusual concern.
‘I believe that they’d defend him with their lives,’ Tom told him.
Now that Tom was back, more hunting trips were made to Sherwood and Marian salted and smoked the meat that they brought. The woodlanders always gathered and picked feverishly at this time of year, for the result meant the difference between eating or starving, life or death, but this year Marian worked more tirelessly than ever.
‘Even acorns,’ she insisted. ‘What’s good for pigs is good for us! However bitter they may taste, ground-up acorns can keep body and soul together, and we must fetch
nettles to dry and crumble and blackthorn berries and juniper too.’
‘Haven’t we got enough?’ Magda complained. ‘You’ll wear yourself away to nothing if you don’t stop. You’ll have us gathering up the dust beneath our feet and storing it away for the snows.’
Marian hesitated, her brow creased. ‘It’s just that I have a terrible sense of urgency come upon me. Almost like . . . like my mother, Eleanor. You remember how she knew when things were going to go wrong.’
‘Aye?’ Magda was suddenly attentive.
‘And somehow I know that we must gather and gather, and not let one precious grain go to waste. I have other fears too; last week I thought I saw Robert’s mother, Agnes, down by the spring washing clothes.’
‘You saw her spirit?’ Magda gasped.
‘I believe I did, but it wasn’t fearful. I could never fear Agnes for she loved me well, but as she scrubbed and washed I thought the water swam with blood. Then I blinked and she had vanished.’
Magda shivered and pressed her hands to her swelling stomach. ‘Your mother did have the sight,’ she agreed seriously ‘And she always saw true.’
Marian quickly understood the younger woman’s anxiety and went to place her own hand on Magda’s stomach. ‘’Tis not for this growing child that I see trouble. I think Agnes was giving warning for myself or maybe Robert.’
‘Aye,’ Magda spoke with some relief. ‘Robert would be the one.’
‘Yes,’ said Marian. ‘But do not speak of it to him, and certainly do not fear for this little one; I see nothing but happiness there.’
Magda was soothed a little. ‘Don’t you worry about Robert either,’ she said. ‘He’s safer here than anywhere and he doesn’t seem at all inclined to go off to join either Robert de Ros or another northern Lord.’
‘Aye,’ Marian agreed. ‘As they grow older they seem less ready for the fight, and I for one am very glad of it.’
‘My Tom’s not old,’ Magda insisted.
‘No he is not,’ Marian agreed. ‘But then your Tom has never been one for rushing into the attack; he has more sense. But still, he’s no coward; when there’s something desperately needs doing, he’s the one that’s always there, quietly risking himself.’
‘I know it,’ Magda murmured.
‘It’s strange,’ Marian sighed. ‘I do not want Robert to go away adventuring,’ she whispered, her eyes suddenly swimming with tears, ‘but I cannot see him staying close by my side forever. How can I keep a wild wolf-man such as he, tamed like a tabby cat to sit by my fireside?’
Various, well-armed expeditions were made by the sheriff and his men to the outskirts of the woods. These fruitless searches gave much amusement to those who lived outside the law and wild new rumours spread.
‘Can you believe it?’ Gerta told Marian and Philippa as they sifted through the crackling leaves beneath a chestnut tree. ‘It’s whispered that the Sheriff has this strange idea that the Hooded One might be a woman!’
Gerta continued digging her foot into the ground to drag aside the mushy green skins, leaving shining brown nuts exposed.
‘No!’ Marian looked up smiling, her hands full of the prickly fruit.
‘Oh yes! Any woman caught running wild through the woods is to be searched for weapons! Though it seems his soldiers do not often venture very far into the woods, for they fear the Forestwife’s curse on them!’
Marian clapped her hand to her mouth, choking with laughter.
Philippa hugged her, snorting at the joke. ‘I can’t think why the Sheriff could think such a thing! What could poor women such as us do? Pelt his men with sweet chestnuts?’
‘No!’ Marian howled, slapping Philippa’s large backside. ‘Now why should the silly man think that the Hooded One could be a woman?’
Gerta smiled, understanding their mirth, but still her expression was troubled. ‘Even nuns are to be stopped and searched,’ she said. ‘For the Sheriff declares that no respectable nun should be out walking through the woods either alone or with her sisters.’
Marian turned solemn when she heard that and she looked at Philippa with concern. ‘Have we put the Sisters of the Magdalen in danger?’
The taller woman shrugged her shoulders. ‘We did what we thought best. We have always done that.’
Marian’s fears that Robert might turn into a tabby cat were soon put to flight for one morning in mid November Brother James and Philippa came riding fast through the woods from Langden with frightening news.
‘You must get up off your backside,’ the plump monk told his friend as he burst into the cottage, his face all red and shaking. ‘They’ve got Will and taken him off to Clipston. The Sheriff is there and arranging a hanging!’
Robert was on his feet in a moment. ‘How have they got Will? And why hang him?’
‘Did they ever need a good reason? A gang of the Sheriff’s men turned up at Langden. Isabel got a little warning for some of the coal-diggers saw the gang of mercenaries heading towards the manor.’
‘Why Langden?’ Marian asked.
‘It seems the Lady of Langden has been recognised and reported as one of the women who helped to rescue Gerta’s grandsons.’
‘I feared something like that!’ Marian said quietly.
‘Will insisted that Isabel took to the woods,’ Philippa told them hurriedly. ‘But then he stayed to see all the servants safely away and out of the hall. He did not manage to escape in time himself.’
‘What do they want with Will?’ Robert asked.
‘I fear they may think they’ve got you,’ Brother James cried. ‘They bellowed and shouted that they’d got the Hooded One, and Will killed two of their men, before they could get hold of him.’
‘Aye,’ Philippa added. ‘It’s either that, or the Sheriff tries his hand at a different, more crafty way of getting at thee! But we must not stand here asking why! We must do something and fast. Tom has gone riding off after them on Rambler, but what can Tom do on his own? Rowan and Isabel are gathering together the servants, but they are just a tiny handful and they are farmers, none of them are fighting men!’
‘Damnation,’ Robert growled. ‘Where can we get help from quickly? All those who fought with us for the charter have returned to their homes. It would take days to get them together.’
‘I know,’ cried Magda. ‘The answer’s there right in front of our noses. The woods are crowded out with pig-herders. The pannage finishes tomorrow, but they’re still there today, getting every last scrap they can for their beasts.’
Robert stared at her, puzzled. ‘But they are children and old folk!’
Marian quickly picked up the way that Magda was thinking. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But there are so many of them. If we start marching towards Clipston, and beg the pig-herders to join us, we shall pass hundreds of them.’
Robert hesitated. ‘But . . . will they be willing?’
‘Yes,’ Marian spoke with confidence. ‘They’ll be very angry and willing once they know that it is Isabel’s new husband that is at risk! How many of them received gifts of grain from Langden in the harshest days last winter? How many of them wear a warm cloak, woven with wool from Isabel’s sheep? The news of Isabel’s marriage has spread far and wide and brought much happiness with it!’
Suddenly Robert laughed, and kissed Magda on the nose. ‘You are a clever lass! It is mad, but it just might save the man!’
So though he felt a little unsure that they’d got the strength for this fight, Robert threw himself into action, gathering together all the bows and weapons that they could. They left the clearing soon after noon. Marian marched with them, insisting that Magda stay behind with Gerta and Brigit, the Forestwife’s girdle fastened carefully around her stomach.
11
Peasant, Fool or Rebel Lord
Though Clipston was small compared to the great castle of Nottingham, the walls were solid and sturdy, built of strong, sandy-coloured local stone. The place was a hunting lodge, built to house the King comfortably when he c
hose to go chasing the fine Sherwood deer.
Sheriff de Rue went out to meet the gang of returning soldiers. They were delighted with the prisoner that they’d found, though still uncertain exactly who he was. Will rode amongst them in silence, with his head held high, even though they’d bound his arms behind his back and fastened his legs to the saddle.
‘Who is this?’ the Sheriff demanded. ‘Haven’t you got the woman?’
The men shook their heads and shuffled their feet. ‘No sign of her,’ they said. ‘Just this fellow, defending the place alone. We think we’ve maybe got the Hooded One for you.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘The fellow killed two of our men before we managed to get him.’
The Sheriff looked at Will with uncertainty. ‘Who are you?’ he asked quietly.
Will smiled proudly, ‘’Tis as they say,’ he agreed. ‘I be the Hooded One.’
The Sheriff was puzzled. The man bore himself with great dignity and wore a fine scarlet mantle but spoke like a peasant. ‘Who the devil is this Hooded One?’ he muttered to himself. ‘Is he peasant, fool, or rebel lord?’
‘Put him in the lock-up,’ at last he snarled. ‘Whoever he is, he’ll hang before the sun goes down.’
Will did not flinch or tremble as they led him away.
A gibbet was fast erected outside the walls of Clipston and a short while before the sun began to set, the great wooden gates opened and Will Stoutley was escorted outside, his hands still tied. The Sheriff came down from the ornate stateroom that he used himself while the king was not in residence. De Rue was still uncertain exactly who this prisoner was; but the man had killed two guards and that were a grievous enough offence to hang him without hesitation.
As Will was led out towards the gibbet, a fair-haired man emerged from the sheltering trees, and dismounted quietly from his horse. He moved slowly towards the raised platform, limping slightly and gripping the handle of a dagger that was stuck into his belt. His other hand, apparently, rested carelessly on the hilt of his sword.
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