Path of the She Wolf

by Theresa Tomlinson

  At last, as their feet slowed, and they began to wander exhausted to their beds, a strange distant honking started up in the woodland nearby. For a moment the revellers grew quiet and fearful but then Gerta roused herself from dozing by the Forestwife’s doorsill, crying out, ‘I know that sound! I know it well!’

  She struggled to her feet crying ‘Chuck! chuck! chuck!’ and clapping her hands. To everyone’s delight her old grey gander came waddling out from the bushes, still flapping and honking, a neat procession of geese following meekly behind. Everyone cheered and that made him flap and honk more than ever.

  Marian went to hug Magda as they returned to their huts. ‘This was all your doing,’ she said. ‘It’s done us more good than the most precious medicine money could buy. You’ll make a fine Forestwife, Magda. You have a very special gift; the gift of making people happy.’

  ‘It’s been a fine night indeed,’ Robert agreed quietly. ‘But tomorrow we return to shooting practice and sharpening our knives.’

  15

  The King Rides South

  In the third week of February the news they’d dreaded, arrived. Will Stoutley galloped through the woods from Langden with Isabel and Philippa following, driving a cart. It was crammed full of the very youngest and oldest Langden folk and two mothers with tiny babes in their arms.

  ‘They’re coming back again,’ Will told them. ‘The King rides south from Scarborough, but his men swarm all over the north in murderous gangs. Can you take care of those who cannot fight?’

  ‘Yes,’ Marian agreed. ‘They’ll have to camp out in the cold but at least they should be safe here.’

  ‘I must hurry back,’ Isabel insisted. ‘We mean to be ready for them this time. Philippa’s man has worked like a slave to produce arrow heads and knives.’

  ‘Aye, and you’ll not be alone,’ Robert vowed. At once he was a bundle of energy, striding about the clearing, barking out orders and gathering weapons together.

  The men left for Langden in twos and threes, as soon as they were ready. At dusk Marian looked up from settling the newcomers and making them as comfortable as she could. ‘Where are the men?’ she asked Magda, looking about the clearing.

  ‘Gone to Langden! Did you not know?’

  ‘Has Robert gone?’ she asked.

  Magda nodded.

  ‘He never said goodbye!’ Marian whispered, suddenly weepy.

  ‘It is only to Langden that they’ve gone,’ said Magda, surprised at her distress.

  ‘Aye,’ Marian frowned, pulling herself together and laughing. ‘Only to Langden, and anyway when did he ever say goodbye?’

  The numbers of those who took refuge in the Forestwife’s clearing grew over the next few days, and once again the women had to treat burns and wounds and dig more graves beyond the yew tree grove. Just as mercilessly as before, the wolfpack harried the villages and hamlets of Barnsdale, leaving death and ruin in their path. Sister Rosamund and the younger nuns took to the road again, giving what comfort they could, but this time Mother Veronica stayed behind with two of the other oldest nuns who were just too sick to leave their beds.

  Marian’s days were so frantically full of bandaging, poulticing, cauterising wounds and mixing herbs that she scarce knew what day it was and fell exhausted to sleep for a few hours each night. She was up at dawn one morning, wrapped in one of the nun’s warm cloaks, taking round drinks and checking who had survived the cold night when she heard the familiar stamping rhythm of Rambler’s hooves.

  ‘I love to hear that sound!’ she murmured, remembering how Tom had first come to her as a desperate, fearful child. And here he was now, husband to Magda and a brave and resourceful man that they all depended on.

  Marian went out to meet him, smiling and hoping for better news but Tom’s face was grim.

  ‘What now?’ she whispered.

  ‘You must come with me!’ Tom gasped.

  ‘Why?’ she cried.

  ‘Get your bundles and herbs. Robert’s wounded.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘At the convent,’ Tom was impatient with her questions and she saw that his eyes were wet with tears. ‘John and I carried him there. We’ve had a great fight for Langden and chased the wolfpack off towards Nottingham. But Robert’s got a sword slash, and we’ve taken him to the convent.’

  ‘Why there?’

  ‘We dare not stay at Langden. Though the wolfpack may be puzzled, the Sheriff will surely guess who the Hooded Man is who’s defended Langden so fiercely.’

  ‘But why did you not bring him here?’

  Tom shook his head with sorrow. ‘I doubt he’d have made it. There’s no time to waste. Mother Veronica does her best, but says you must come at once and bring your herbs . . . she says bring all your herbs!’

  Marian dropped the jug that she carried, her stomach lurched, then turned to the heaviness of lead as the picture came into her mind of Agnes scrubbing washing at the blood red spring.

  ‘All the herbs! All the herbs!’ she muttered as she turned and ran back to the cottage, Tom following close behind. She snatched up her bundles and medicines, hesitating only for a moment before reaching up to the high shelf to take down the forbidden herbs. Tom spoke quickly to Magda, blowing her and the babe a kiss, then, without further ado, he pulled Marian up behind him onto Rambler’s wide saddle and turned to leave. As he urged his horse to a canter Marian twisted around seeing Magda’s white worried face in the misty morning. She stood by the doorsill with Eleanor in her arms and Brigit clinging to her side; little Peterkin pulling himself up onto wobbly legs.

  ‘I should have given her the girdle,’ she muttered pulling the stolen nun’s cloak that she still wore tightly about her.

  John was looking out anxiously for them as they galloped up to the quiet woodland convent. Marian leapt down from the horse and ran to him.

  ‘How is he?’

  John shook his head and looked away. Another wave of sickness swam through Marian’s belly at the misery she saw in his eyes. But John himself was bleeding once again for the old wound in his thigh had opened up. Through force of habit she put her fingers gently down to touch the place.

  John pushed her gently away. ‘Nay! Go to him!’ he insisted. ‘Tom and I stand guard!’

  Robert had been put to rest in the Prioress’s own bed. The old nun was kneeling beside him, stoop-backed, her lips moving in silent prayer.

  ‘Robert!’ Marian marched in full of a sudden, senseless, bitter anger. ‘You went off to Langden, and you never said goodbye.’

  The wounded man stirred slightly and Mother Veronica pulled herself upright, reaching to kiss Marian’s cheek. ‘I’m sorry Marian, so sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I fear that now is truly your time to say goodbye.’

  ‘No! I have brought my herbs and all my medicines!’ Marian cried.

  Mother Veronica bent down slowly and pulled back the blood soaked covering, revealing a deep and gaping wound in Robert’s chest. ‘Your herbs cannot mend that, honey,’ she said gently. ‘No Forestwife, however skilled, however devoted, could mend that dreadful hurt.’

  ‘I must, I must mend him,’ Marian cried, dropping down on her knees beside him.

  Robert stirred again and groaned. His face was grey and his mouth tightened into a terrible grimace.

  ‘Not this time, sweetheart,’ he hissed. ‘Not this time. Just hold me tight?’

  Tears would not come, though Marian wished that they would. She could feel them there inside her, filling up a deep, tight well of burning anger in her chest. She took hold of Robert’s hand and held it for a moment, then put her face down onto the pillow beside him so that she could stroke his scarred cheek.

  ‘I can ease the pain,’ she whispered.

  Robert nodded. Marian got up and started sorting through her bundles. Mother Veronica brought a cup and poured water from a jug, so that Marian could mix a sleeping potion. As she started to feed it carefully to Robert there came thuds and the sounds of shouting outside. Then all at once
came the thunder of a horse, galloping fast away.

  ‘You stay here with him,’ the old nun told Marian. She hobbled through the passage and Marian could hear her speaking fast and low with John. She returned grim faced and breathless.

  ‘What?’ Marian asked.

  ‘The blasted Sheriff,’ she told them, crossing herself as she swore. ‘The Sheriff and a gang of King John’s men. They’ve surrounded our convent and Tom has dashed away on Rambler to try to bring us help from Langden.’

  ‘Do they attack?’ Marian asked.

  Mother Veronica laughed bitterly. ‘They seem to be hesitating. I believe they’re afraid to rush fully armed into a holy place. They’re more afraid for their souls than of the Sheriff’s wrath, but they will not leave us in peace not if they think they’ve got the Hooded One in their sights! John takes aim at them through the window and he’s killed two men who moved towards the door. His stock of arrows is small but he has shown that he will not miss his target.’

  16

  The Last Arrow

  It was clear that Robert could hear and understand for he groaned, making as though to get up but Marian pushed him down. ‘Keep still!’ she hissed, none too gently. Her mind was racing and her heart pounding like a hunted rabbit. Sharp cracks came as the Sheriff’s men kicked down the low wooden close that kept the sisters’ poultry safe.

  ‘Sweetheart,’ Robert muttered, groping for her hand. ‘Give me your special herbs . . . the forbidden ones.’

  Marian shook her head. ‘No,’ she cried, her voice hoarse and choked.

  ‘Yes,’ he insisted, struggling to make his words clear. ‘It’s time. The time has come. Don’t let them take me! Death . . . it does not frighten me . . . not half as much, as to be made their prisoner.’

  Marian looked despairingly up at the old nun. Mother Veronica turned away, her face full of pity, tears rolling steadily down her wrinkled cheeks. ‘There is naught else that you can do for him, honey,’ she shook her head.

  With trembling hands Marian fumbled through her bundles, until the she found the one that she sought; deadly nightshade, all carefully tied in purple cloth. With trembling resolution she untied the bundle and tipped the dark powder into the cup, swirling it about.

  ‘It might taste bitter, sweetheart,’ she spoke through gritted teeth, supporting Robert’s head and lifting the cup to his lips.

  Though he shuddered at the taste, he drank deeply, then lay back. ‘Hold me,’ he whispered.

  Mother Veronica turned away and left them alone, she went stumbling down the passage towards John. Marian climbed up onto the bed beside Robert, and wrapped her arms about him gently stroking his head.

  ‘I hear the sweetest sound,’ he murmured. ‘I hear the rush and lap of the sea.’

  Marian tried to smile, but a deep sigh came instead that turned into a sob. ‘Do you remember Baytown, sweetheart?’ she whispered, her eyes spilling over with tears at last. ‘Do you remember how we lived together on the cliff tops there, high above the sea.’

  ‘How could I forget it?’ Robert answered, his face relaxed and smiling now. ‘For it was there by the sea that the beautiful Green Lady first came to sleep with me.’

  ‘We were happy in that strange, storm-battered place.’ Marian made her mouth work, though her lips were stiff and unwilling. ‘We should have stayed there and lived quietly together.’

  ‘I would not have had it different, my love,’ he whispered. ‘I am happy now. All pain has gone. It is only the bitterness of leaving you that makes me sad.’

  Suddenly Marian was sitting up and reaching for the cup. ‘It will not be goodbye,’ she said. ‘We shall not be parted.’

  She gripped the wooden cup that was still half full of the deadly powdered berries and raised it to her lips, but Robert saw and understood. He lurched upright and smashed it out of her grasp. ‘No!’ he shouted, then slumped back onto the bed, as dark liquid splashed over her kirtle and down onto the floor.

  Mother Veronica came hurrying back at the shout and quickly understanding what had happened, bent to take Marian into her arms. ‘No!’ she told her firmly. ‘Not you too! He has gone and you cannot help him anymore. You’ve got to save yourself!’

  But Marian pushed her away and struggled to her feet. She looked down at the motionless figure on the bed and saw that the old nun was right. Robert had gone, all breathing ceased, his face grey-blue and still contorted from the angry shout.

  A thunderclap of furious rage exploded in Marian’s head and she stared wildly around her at the sparsely furnished convent room with its crucifix and bare scrubbed floor. There at the bottom of the bed was Robert’s bow and an almost empty quiver thrown carelessly down beside it, just one arrow left.

  ‘No,’ Mother Veronica cried. Seeing where she looked and fearing the madness in her eyes.

  ‘Oh yes!’ Marian snarled. ‘Oh yes!’ She swooped down upon the weapon and snatched up the arrow.

  She strode down the passageway and before John could understand or do anything to stop her she was out in the bright sunlight of the woodland. She marched, arrow notched, bow drawn, out into the middle of the broken close.

  The men were hidden amongst the trees, for fear of John’s sharp aim, but they were shocked at the sight of the furious tear-stained woman wrapped in a nun’s cloak, her clothes marked with blood and a weapon in her hands.

  A horse moved forwards, its rider so amazed and stunned that he forgot to control his beast. ‘Can it be true?’ he murmured. ‘The Hooded One a woman?’

  Marian caught the glint of sunlight on his golden chain and laughed. She knew that gold chain, it bore the badge of office of the Sheriff of Nottingham. Though her hands still shook Marian took aim.

  ‘One last arrow for the Sheriff,’ she cried and let it fly.

  ‘No!’ John shouted.

  ‘Yes!’ Marian howled with delight, as the arrow sank deep into the Sheriff’s chest. The man lurched forwards, the surprised look on his face turning to horror.

  Then Marian dropped the bow and staggered backwards. She neither saw nor cared where the answering arrows came from but John leapt up with a bellow of despair as six arrows thudded into her body. She sank quietly down to the ground.

  Though arrows rained all around him, John burst out from the convent doorway like an angry bear his face white with rage and wet with tears. He did not hear the distant sound of galloping horses but whisked arrows out fast from his quiver and sent them flying like bolts of lightning. At each movement of a branch, at each glint of a weapon, at each gasp of fright, he sent an arrow whistling in that direction.

  ‘Come on, come on,’ he cried. ‘Take me as well! You have taken my best and dearest friends. You can have me too!’

  The sound of hooves grew louder and the air was filled with shouts. Still John moved steadily on towards the spot where Marian lay until at last he threw his weapon down and bent to gather her body up into his arms.

  He expected arrows to thud into his own great frame but they did not come. At last he looked up and saw that the mercenaries had fled, leaving the Sheriff’s body lying beneath the trampling feet of his frightened horse. Out from the bushes came Tom leading Rambler, followed by Isabel, Will, Philippa, James and Sister Rosamund. They stood there grim and silent as John wept.

  Philippa moved forwards and sank down onto her knees beside her friend’s body.

  ‘Agnes was right,’ she murmured. ‘Agnes was always right!’

  Bending over Marian, she reached out and carefully broke off the arrow shafts.

  Mother Veronica came slowly from the convent, clinging for support to the frame of the door. ‘Bring her inside,’ she said quietly. ‘Put her down beside Robert; that is where she wanted to be.’

  They buried the Sheriff in an unmarked grave, in the convent’s sacred ground. Though John complained, Mother Veronica insisted that it was done. ‘I doubt that it will bring us trouble,’ she said. ‘Those with him will go running back to their pay master, the King, unders
tanding naught of what has happened here. We nuns are Christians,’ she said. ‘And we are decent folk! We are not like them!’

  17

  Those Who Light Up

  the Dark Woods

  It was at dusk that a small procession set out from the convent. John, James, Tom and Philippa carefully carried the bodies of their friends, lying together in a new-made litter. Isabel walked ahead with Will, carrying flaming torches to light the way. Mother Veronica and the nuns followed behind. They set off walking slowly through the woods, heading for the Forestwife’s clearing in the gathering gloom. As they passed the coal-diggers’ huts close to the convent, some of the ragged, dusty children stood silently by a glowing wood fire, watching out for them. There came the sounds of their soft voices whispering, hushed and reverent.

  ‘They come, mother, they come.’

  ‘The Hooded One is here and the Forestwife.’

  Then out from the crumbling hovels came the coal-diggers and their wives with babies strapped to their backs. Old men and women hobbled out on sticks and each of them, both young and old, carried a rush-light that they lit at their fire.

  John was moved to tears once more and stopped, his huge frame trembling.

  ‘It is too much,’ he cried. ‘Too much to bear.’

  Philippa took his hand in hers. ‘We are not alone,’ she told him. ‘You see, they tell us that we are not alone. It is not just us who have lost our dearest friends.’

  John’s wounded thigh bled slowly.

  ‘You do not need to help us carry them,’ Tom whispered. ‘There are plenty of us to do the work.’

  John shook his head and moved forwards again. ‘Nay, I must do it,’ he insisted. ‘This night shall never come again.’

  The procession moved on, and the coal-diggers quietly followed behind. As they passed beneath the trees shadows lengthened and the woodlands grew darker with every step they took. But though the night sky turned to black above them, a new, flickering source of light began to grow and spread all about.