Child of the May (11 page)

Over the next few days, the clearing was filled with activity. Much, James and Will Stoutley went off with messages to hamlets and villages where they knew they had friends. Robert and John marched back and forth through the woods to Langden, carrying weapons and new-made arrow tips from Philippa’s blacksmith husband.

“There shall be many to feed,” the old one said, and she worked hard producing oatcakes and stews of peas and beans, spiced with garlic and a little venison.

Slowly a great company gathered. Dusty skinned coal diggers left their shallow bell pits and soot blackened charcoal burners set their stacks aside. Shepherds and swineherds left their flocks with their children, and strong built woodlanders left their coppicing, for they’d many grievances against the King and the defiance of the de Braose family was admired.

“What is it that this woman has done?” Magda asked as she pounded grain with Marian and Eleanor.

“William de Braose was the King’s friend,” Eleanor told her. “So close a friend, it seems he knows too much. He owed the King money so, as usual, King John demanded the family send their sons to him as hostages. Well, Matilda de Braose refused.”

“She did more than that,” said Marian. “She declared to all who’d listen that she’d not let her sons suffer the same fate as Arthur of Brittany!”

“Arthur?” said Magda. “Do you mean King John’s nephew?”

“That’s the one,” Marian agreed. “You know what happened to him?”

Magda was puzzled. “Did he die?”

Marian shook her head sadly. “Rumour has it that the King strangled the boy with his own hands.”

Magda stopped her pounding. “Do you think that true?”

“If anyone knows the truth it is Matilda de Braose. Her husband was there in the castle in France when Arthur disappeared.”

“But isn’t William de Braose a powerful lord?”

“He
was
,” said Eleanor. “He’s a fugitive now – as much as any of these lads here in the wastes.”

“Do you think they
can
rescue the lady? Can you see what will be, old one?”

Eleanor shook her head and smiled. “I can’t see that, honey. But whether they succeed or not, at least they are strong and defiant while they try.”

Magda begged her father to take her with them, but John would not hear of it. “This is the most dangerous task we’ve taken upon ourselves,” he said. “And I am going to get FitzRanulf! I cannot be worrying about my child.”

“But Philippa and Mother Veronica go with you!”

“Aye, for we must have someone the lady will trust.”

The afternoon that they went, they packed up bundles of smoked venison and dried oatcakes, for they’d need their strength. The company left at dusk so that they could move through the woodlands under the protection of darkness. Then they’d set up camp within view of the Great North Road.

Tom, back from the convent, packed his food, then told Robert that he would not be going with them.

Robert looked surprised but listened carefully to what Tom had to say.

“Mother Veronica believes there may be a source of that rare oil Alan needs.”

“Where?” Magda asked.

“Up beyond Doncaster, not far from Wakefield, there is a place called Temple Newhouse.”

“Do you mean the preceptory?”

Tom nodded. “That’s the place.”

“The Templar Knights? You’d go calling on them?”

Marian frowned. “I begin to see,” she said. “If anyone has brought back medicines from those distant lands, it would be the strange fighting monks.”

Robert drew in his breath sharply. “Be careful, Tom. Those men are fierce fighters and a law unto themselves; even the King cannot control them.”

“Sounds just like us,” said John.

“Don’t go,” cried Magda. “Why risk yourself?”

“Everything we do is a risk.” Tom shrugged his shoulders.

“Robert goes chasing off to risk himself for a brave lady. I go for Alan. Besides . . .” he smiled, “Mother Veronica has given me a letter that she swears will keep me safe. Walter of Stainthorpe is a powerful Templar Knight, and he is the man she was once to marry.”

“Ah!” Marian understood.

“They may not have the oil,” Tom insisted, “but I must try.”

“Fair enough,” said Robert. “I wish you well.”

When they had gone, the clearing seemed quiet and dreary. Though the usual procession of sick people and animals came and went, Magda was restless and dull. She went about her chores, fetching wood, picking berries and herbs, cutting rushes and digging latrines.

One afternoon, as she set out laden with baskets and sacks, she caught a glimpse of a small figure dashing behind a tree. Magda dropped her bags and ran lightly towards the place. Behind a thick elder bush she found a young girl with mud smudged cheeks and a blood stained skirt. She clutched a dead-looking grey dog in her arms.

Magda sighed. This was a common sight in the clearing. She bent down and lightly touched the dog’s dangling right paw that was wrapped in a dirty rag.

“Regarders caught our Fetcher . . . chasing deer,” the girl whispered. “They came and lamed him.” She shook so much that she could hardly be heard.

“What?” said Magda. “Speak up!”

“The Forestwife. I seek the wise woman’s help.”

“Too late.” Magda spoke without mercy. “I think your Fetcher’s dead.”

She pushed her fingers into the rough fur of the dog’s neck and felt a faint pulse beat.

“Oh well,” she said. “You’d best come with me. Where have you come from?”

“Clipstone, within the bounds of Sherwood.” The girl struggled to her feet and Magda took the dog from her.

“He’s a weight, all right,” she said more kindly. “How have you managed him? How old are you?”

“Twelve last birthday.”

“You’ve come a long way and he’s lost a lot of blood. I don’t know that we can save him. What’s your name?”

“Joanna.”

“Are you hungry?”

The girl nodded, but suddenly stopped.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m feared. Feared of the Forestwife and the man, the Hooded One.”

Magda could not help but smile, remembering what she’d heard in Nottingham of the fearful Witch of Barnsdale.

“Come with me and don’t be feared. The Forestwife is my mother . . . well, she’s all the mother I’ve got. She lives here with Eleanor, the old one. And as for the Hooded One, he’s away from here just now.”

A touch of curiosity showed on Joanna’s face and she allowed herself to be led into the clearing. She stared quietly up at the tall woman in the worn homespun gown with the beautiful woven girdle, while Magda told her story. Marian made them put Fetcher by the hearthstone, and sent them to bring water from the spring to wash his wound.

“He’s very weak,” she said, “but some scraps of meat and our good spring water can sometimes work wonders.”

Joanna would not leave Fetcher’s side; she brought him water and fed him scraps of meat by hand. It was slow work, but the big rough dog did not die in the night as they’d feared. On the third day he looked much better and though he still could not get to his feet, he whimpered and licked Joanna’s hand.

“Take the little lass out for a walk,” Eleanor told Magda. “She’s sat by that beast too long.”

“Yes,” said Marian. “Take her and go to visit the sisters. Ask if they’ve heard aught of Robert’s gang.”

It took a bit of persuading, but once the two girls were out in the sunshine, striding through the bluebells, Joanna began to look happier.

“Won’t be long now,” said Magda. “Then you can take him home.”

“I’m not sure I can find the way again,” Joanna said. “Maybe I can stay here with you?”

“But what of your parents?” asked Magda. “Are they kind to you?”

“Mother shouts and Father sends me out in the cold for firewood,” said Joanna.

“Huh!” cried Magda. “That’s what Marian does to me! Will they be worried?”

The girl looked thoughtful. “Aye, they will. Mother will cry and Father will be looking and looking for me.”

“Then I think you should go back,” said Magda. “My father will take you. He’ll take you as soon as he comes back.”

Sister Rosamund welcomed them to the convent kitchen and brought them bread and small ale. She shook her head and looked worried when they asked for news of Robert. “Veronica should never have gone,” she said. “She’s getting too old to go rushing around the countryside with a great gang of outcast fellows.”

“I suppose you think you should have gone instead,” said Magda cheekily.

Sister Rosamund laughed and nodded her head.

As they left, Magda noticed a small hut set a little apart from the main convent building, new-thatched and panelled, surrounded by bluebells.

“What have you made there?” Magda asked.

Sister Rosamund sighed. “Alan,” she said. “The poor leper lad. We’ve set him up there amongst the bluebells to cheer him, but he waits like a little lost dog for Tom’s return.”

Joanna shuddered at the mention of the disease.

Magda sighed. “Come on,” she said. “I suppose we’d better go and see him.” She grabbed Joanna’s arm and walked over to the hut.

Alan was staring into the distance, his thin arms folded still and statue like in his lap. At last he looked up at his visitors and suddenly recognition showed in his face.

“I thought you were a lad,” he said to Magda.

“Aye,” said Magda. “I can fight you!”

Alan stroked his chin. All bruising had gone. “Yes, you can,” he agreed. “’S’pose I’ll never be a squire now.”

Magda sat down in front of the hut. “No,” she said. “But if it’s possible to get this special oil, Tom will find it for you.”

The two girls walked back through the woods, both quiet and deep in thought, but as they neared the Forestwife’s clearing something made Magda uneasy. She stopped and grabbed Joanna’s hand.

“What is it?” she whispered.

Magda shook her head. “Too still, too quiet,” she said. “No birds, no squirrels, and look at the path.”

Though the earth was dry there were footprints and scuff marks on it as though an army had passed that way.

Joanna picked up a piece of brown blood-soaked rag.

“Was that from your Fetcher?” Magda asked.

Joanna shook her head, then they heard the sound of men’s voices and the clink of weapons.

“Careful,” Magda warned. “Get off the path!”

The two girls crept away from the open space and hid for a moment in the undergrowth. Nobody came along the path, but they could clearly hear the sounds of voices.

“They’re in the clearing,” said Magda. She put her finger to her lips.

Joanna followed her along a deep and secret path that brought them up beside the sweeping branches of the great yews. It was mens voices that they’d heard, but pitifully groaning and whimpering. Then Magda heard Marian calling for food and water.

They pushed the branches aside and saw the most dreadful sight. The soft green turf was littered with wounded men. Marian and Eleanor strode back and forth amongst them with water, clean rags and ointments. Veronica was there, her habit dirty and torn. She saw the two girls and beckoned them through.

“What is it?” Magda asked, her voice shaking with fear. “Is my father . . .?”

“He’s got a clout and a wounded leg,” Veronica told her quickly. “But he’ll be fine. Now come, we need your help! They’ve struggled back without food or water. Can you run to the convent and get the sisters to come? Ask Sister Rosamund to bring her bundles and potions. We need food and ale and clean rags!”