Child of the May (10 page)

Magda did not sleep well and crept out of the hut at the first touch of dawn. She stumbled round to the spring behind the cottage as darkness slowly lifted from the sheltering yew trees, but someone was there at the spring before her.

“Tom?” she called.

“Aye.” He dipped a wooden bowl into the the clean warm spring water that bubbled up from the rocks at the heart of the Forestwife’s clearing.

Magda crouched beside him and splashed water into her face, then as Tom stepped back towards the shelter with a full bowl she remembered Alan.

Her stomach tightened with fear. “Don’t you let him touch this water!” she cried. “He might foul it all up with his disease.”

Tom nodded. “That’s why I carry water to him.”

Magda watched as he carefully carried water into the lean-to and listened as he woke the boy, speaking gently to him. Then she heard a faint and husky reply.

Magda sighed and returned to the hut. Marian was awake and looking for her.

“Will tha run to Mother Veronica and fetch her to look at that poor lad?”

Magda pulled a face. “Can’t Tom go?”

“I think it best Tom stay by Alan’s side until we hear what Veronica has to say. Besides,” said Marian, touching Magda’s cheek, “there’s none that can run as fast through the secret tracks as you, and the sooner we know how to care for the boy the better, don’t you think?”

Magda had to agree. The sooner they were rid of him the happier she would be, so she pulled on Tom’s breeches again and laced on her strong leather boots. “I think I like men’s clothes,” she said more cheerfully. “Better for running in.”

The sun gave sharp light and good warmth as Magda went through the woods. Her spirits soared as she ran like a hare through dew-laden grass, past branches of trembling hazel catkins. As she neared the forest convent of the Magdalen, she found that a fine carpet of bluebells covered the ground. She drew in deep lungfuls of scented air. The rich sights and smells of Nottingham Town had nothing to equal this.

Magda arrived at the convent breathless and hungry. Sister Rosamund took one look at her and quickly served up warm fresh bread and goat’s milk cheese with a mug of the nuns’ thin ale.

Mother Veronica sat at the table and listened as Magda gasped out the story of Alan.

The old nun shook her head. “Poor boy, poor boy!” she said.

“But he’ll make us all sick like him!” Magda cried. “Even the law says it . . . lepers must live apart from healthy folk.”

Mother Veronica shook her head. “Aye, but there’s much within the law that is unjust. Believe me, child,” she said, taking Magda’s hand, “there is no need for all this fear. I spent seven years living with lepers and caring for them. I did not catch the disease, nor any who worked alongside of me. We must be careful not to touch leprous sores or share food and eat from their bowls, but that is all.”

“I hit him with my fist,” Magda cried, clenching her fist again.

“Poor boy,” repeated Veronica.

“But will I get leprosy?”

The nun smiled and shook her head.

Magda had a sudden picture of Tom carrying the bowl of water to Alan. “Eat from their bowls? Drink from their bowls? But what if Tom –?”

“Stop it,” said Veronica firmly. “We will go straight to see this fellow, then I can tell you more.”

Alan meekly allowed Veronica to examine his face and limbs. All the company waited anxiously outside the lean-to shelter.

“Fetch me a needle!” Veronica demanded.

Marian brought a rusty iron needle from the hut. Veronica cleaned the point and lightly pricked the red patches of skin. The boy did not flinch.

“Ah,” said Veronica. “Yes. I fear it is leprosy, but the disease is young. There is no contagion as yet from these patches of skin. Tom, you are quite safe.”

“Thank goodness,” said Marian.

But Magda was not so easily satisfied. “Did you eat or drink from his bowl?” she cried.

Tom shook his head.

Magda’s eyes suddenly filled with tears of relief; she dashed them hurriedly away.

Veronica took off her cloak and wrapped it around Alan’s shoulders. “With good feeding and care we may hold the sickness back and keep him strong. There is an oil – a precious oil that we used in the lands of Outremer. It came from far away to the east, beyond Jerusalem, but we cannot get it here.”

“Does it cure?” asked Marian, interested as ever in healing skills.

Veronica shook her head. “No, but it seemed to help. If he’ll come, I shall take the child back with me to the sisters. We will do all we can for him.”

Alan looked worried. “Will you come too?” he begged Tom.

“Of course,” Tom nodded.

Magda was relieved, though she wished Tom didn’t have to go off with them. Alan seemed to watch him like a faithful puppy dog. Marian agreed to the arrangement, for the Forestwife had misery and sickness enough to deal with in the secret clearing in Barnsdale Woods.

Magda stood with Marian by the turning stone, waving them off. “I hope Veronica is right,” she said. “I hope we are all safe from contagion!”

“Veronica is always right,” Marian told her sharply.

Magda looked surprised at such sharpness. “What are you angry about?” she asked. “We are saved from leprosy and I thought you’d be happy, now that he’s back.” She nodded towards the hut where she supposed Robert still slept.

“He?” Marian said. “Have you not noticed? He’s taken that horse and gone.”

“So soon? Where?”

Marian shrugged her shoulders. “Who knows? I have no time to worry over him. There’s herbs to brew for a woman with dropsy and a lad with a poisoned wound to clean. You should do your shooting practice. Who knows what may come next! Don’t let your visit to Nottingham make you grow slack!”

“Is my father . . .?”

“Aye, don’t fret. Your father cuts yew staves round by the shelter.”

Magda went gladly to help John with the task he’d set for himself.

“Just what I need,” said John. “A fine strapping lad to help me!”

She smiled at his teasing for, beneath his jokes, she knew that he was proud of her strength and skill with a knife.

“Marian insists on shooting practice,” Magda complained.

“She’s right,” John told her. “Shooting practice could save your life, honey. Come help me with these staves, then I’ll fetch my own bow and go along with you.”

“Why does Robert make Marian so miserable?” Magda asked. “I swear I would not take up with a man like him. He blows hot and cold all the time.”

John put his arm around his daughter’s shoulders and sighed. “It is not just Marian on whom he blows hot and cold. The man is that way and he cannot change himself. I think the bitterness of this world hangs very heavy on him. When we are out in the woods and wastes he will often slip into a foul mood and never speak to us for days. Then he’ll go off alone and believe me, we are glad to see the back of him.”

“Where does he go?”

John shook his head. “Derbyshire, Loxley, Sheaf Valley . . . who knows? Sometimes he comes back smelling of salt, with a sack full of seaweed for Marian.”

“I wondered how she kept her supplies so well stocked. But how does he find you again?”

John laughed. “We leave our secret signs: knots in branches, pebbles on the ground. He tracks us through the woods and catches up with us when it suits him. He’ll suddenly turn up, wild with plans for some reckless scheme and full of love for us.”

“He’s such an awkward man!” said Magda. “How can you be his friend?”

“When he is happy, he is the best fellow in the world,” said John. “There is nothing he will not attempt, nothing he will not dare. I love him like a brother.”

Magda sighed for she could not understand, but she worked on with her father until the sun was high in the sky. After they’d eaten they took their bows and enjoyed a shooting match that Magda won, though she suspected that John let her.

When they wandered back to the hut, they found Marian scraping fresh-cut herbs from a wooden bowl on to the hearthstone to dry, her knife rattling fast and angry.

“No sign of him, I suppose?”

John touched her shoulder. “You chose the wrong man if you wanted a tame house cat.”

“Aye,” said Marian, wiping her hands and her knife. “I chose the wrong man! I chose the wrong place! I chose the wrong life!”

The old one came into the hut, her arms full of elder flowers. She gasped as she heard her daughter’s words.

Marian dropped her knife and ran to hug her, crushing the flowers. “No, Mother! I am sorry. It is just that man! I would not change
you
for the world.”

“Good to see someone pleased with life!” said Robert, ducking his head and stepping in across the doorstep. He was rid of the clay-spattered clothes and wore his own faded cloak and close-fitting hood.

“Where have you been?” Marian demanded.

“To Langden, of course. I thought the potter deserved to get his horse back and I wanted to speak to Philippa’s husband. We shall need a good blacksmith if we are to rescue this poor Lady de Braose. We shall need swords, knives, arrowheads. And Philippa’s man’s the best I know!”

He grabbed Marian round the waist and kissed her cheek. “What do you think, sweetheart?”

“I wish you would tell me where you go,” she said.