Child of the May (12 page)

Magda sighed at the thought of the journey she’d just made, but she nodded. “Is the lady saved?” she asked.

Robert’s bitter voice answered her. “She is not!”

Magda ran back faster than ever and brought the nuns and their supplies. Isabel had been visiting Sister Rosamund and she insisted that she came along with the nuns to help. They worked hard through the rest of the day and at last by nightfall the men were all fed and made as comfortable as possible, their wounds cleaned and bandaged and wrapped in warm rags.

“It’s a good thing we’re not caught like this in freezing winter weather,” Eleanor said, building up her fire.

Robert sat hunched and gloomy by the hearthside, refusing to lie down and rest though he’d a long sword cut on his good cheek and painful smashed ribs.

“What’s this mut?” he asked, pointing at Fetcher, who’d crept quietly into the shadows and was watching the activity with new fear.

Brother James turned to look into the darkness at the edges of the hut.

“That’s my dog Fetcher.” Joanna spoke out fearlessly. “Who are you?”

Robert answered through gritted jaws. “I am . . . I was the Hooded One.”

Slowly, bit by bit the story was told. The men had made camp by the Great North Road and set a lookout for the closed wagon that would carry Matilda de Braose and her son. They’d just begun to run out of food when three closed wagons, escorted by the wolfpack, were spied. They’d hesitated, but only for a moment. Though the King’s mercenaries were heavily armed, Robert’s lads were fired up and they guessed they could outnumber them.

Robert led a fierce attack, but while the first wagon was hurried on, the second two proved to be packed with armed footsoldiers who leapt out onto the outlaws. They had made a bitter fight of it, but the rebels had not had a chance against so many. FitzRanulf had ridden away fast with the leading wagon. John had found himself in the middle of thick fighting, unable to leave his friends to pursue his own quarrel. Fifteen lads had been killed outright and every one of the others carried some hurt. Though the women worked hard to save them, five more died in the night. One of them was Muchlyn.

John sat by the fire with Robert, growling out his anger.

“The blasted coward! Could not stay and fight but runs off, leaving his men to do his dirty work.”

Robert’s face was grey, only his scar standing out livid, and streaked with fresh cuts. Somehow John knew that his friend needed comfort more than he.

“We made ourselves felt!” he said. “Much would be proud to go in such a fight. We cut that gang of mercenaries down to half!”

Robert would not answer or allow himself to be tended.

Marian walked back and forth with a face like stone. She worked all day and most of the night, feeding, cleaning, making up simples and poultices. Magda and Joanna did all they could to help; the miserable plight of the men gave them the energy to carry on with little food or sleep. Magda did not even complain at the hated job of digging latrines; it was better than digging graves!

Three more died, though at least their pain was soothed by Marian’s sleeping draughts. At last, when six days had passed, those who could walk began to leave the clearing and Eleanor insisted that Marian sleep. When she woke Robert was gone, his place by the hearth taken by Fetcher. Magda and Joanna sat beside him gloomily, pulling at his ears.

“Now
he’s
gone . . . she’ll be miserable for days,” Magda whispered, nodding her head in Marian’s direction.

“Shall I follow and track him down?” John asked.

But Marian shook her head. “It will take time for us all to struggle through this disaster.”

James came and settled himself beside the two girls. “Now the lads are mending, let’s have a look at this dog of yours.”

He gently pressed his fingers into Fetcher’s mutilated paw while Joanna watched anxiously.

“It’s healing well,” he murmured.

“Will he walk again, do you think?”

“Oh aye, he’ll walk. He’ll do more than that, with the right training. He’ll make as fine a bodyguard as any lass could want.”

“Would you help me, sir?” Joanna begged.

James smiled. “Certainly I will. We’ll have him lolloping about in no time.”

In the weeks that followed, James set to training Fetcher as though his life depended on it. Each day he went out into the woods with the two girls, tempting the dog on to his feet with meat scraps, till at last Fetcher could run from one to the other with a strange lopsided gait. His muscles grew hard and strong, his coat glossy, and they progressed to slinging bones and straw-stuffed sacks for him to fetch.

John stayed in the clearing and Magda was pleased to have her father by her side.

On a hot afternoon towards the end of August they were lazily sitting in the sun outside the hut when they heard the sound of hooves. As always they sprang to their feet and melted into the lower branches of the yew trees.

“One horse,” whispered John, “though a big ’un, I’d guess. Seems to stamp four times, then stops.” Suddenly John was laughing. “Tom! That’s his signal, though I’ve never heard it done on horseback.”

They came out from their hiding places wondering how Tom had got himself a horse. There was only a moment to wait before he came trotting into the clearing astride a fine grey stallion.

“I have the oil,” he shouted. “I have the oil and more besides.”

“Well!” John laughed. “At least one of us has done summat right.”

Everyone cheered and gathered round, patting the horse and touching its good halter and bridle with amazement.

“Good quality gear, is this,” said James. “The best.”

“You’ve taken so long,” Magda cried. “I thought you were dead in some ditch.”

“Not me.” Tom laughed, sliding down from the saddle and kissing her. “Walter of Stainthorpe was not with the Templars at Newhouse. I had to travel on to the wastes of Bitterwood.”

“Where’s this marvellous oil?” Marian asked.

Tom patted a strong leather pouch fastened to his waist.

He ate and drank with them, and was saddened to hear of Much. But despite this, he was also eager to be off to the Magdalen convent with his precious oil. “I’ve much to tell Mother Veronica,” he said. “I’ve done myself a lot of good, but I’ve sorry news for her.”

“Oh dear,” said James. “Shall I come with you? Is her man dead?”

“No,” said Tom. “Not dead, but maybe he wishes he was. He’s taken the leprosy himself. He grows aged and weak and his face is fearfully marked. He came back from Outremer with the seeds of sickness in him. That’s why he was not at the Temple Newhouse. He’s gone to live in a wild and lonely place with five other fighting monks, all suffering like himself.”

“Now then,” Brother James sighed. “I believe I
have
heard of some such men. Do they call themselves the Knights of Saint Lazarus?”

“That’s it,” said Tom. “They still endeavour to live by the Templars’ strict rules. They pray and keep their fighting skills sharp, but they live in the wilderness as outcast as we.

“As hard a life as ours, and worse,” John agreed.

“But Walter of Stainthorpe has given me this fine grey stallion,” cried Tom. “He’s grown too old and weak to manage such a spirited steed, and their rule states that they must give away all they cannot use. The knight has found himself a quieter mount and Rambler is mine!”

They all admired the powerful beast.

“Can you manage him?” asked John with a touch of envy.

“Certainly I can. He’s trained to obey every small command. Didn’t you hear? I can get him to stamp out my signal!”

John laughed and slapped the horse’s rump. Tom galloped off to visit the convent, returning in the morning, still pleased with himself.

Weeks went by and there was still no word from Robert. As autumn approached, Marian made them all set about the yearly gathering. Everything possible must be garnered from the woods and stored before the first frosts.

Nuts, berries, mushrooms, ladies’ bedstraw and meadow-sweet all had their uses; dried poppy heads, hard-skinned sloes and sour-tasting juniper berries were carefully collected and carried back to the clearing. The work was a little less arduous this year as John, Tom and James all stayed to help. No message or sign came from Robert.

Fetcher’s training went better than ever and though he still limped, James taught him a few good tricks. He could snatch away a weapon with one fast snap of his jaws, disarming a man before he knew what came at him. And catching flying arrows in his mouth was Fetcher’s favourite sport.

October was the pannage month, when pigs were herded into the woods to search for acorns. One afternoon early in the month, Marian stirred dark red elderberries in a tub of dye, while Tom and Fetcher brought sticks for Joanna and Magda’s charcoal stack.

John and James sat by the doorsill in the sharp autumn sun.

Marian turned to them. “That lass and her dog should be returned home,” she said. “Somehow we’ve forgotten, what with all the trouble and hurts. 1 dare say she thinks she belongs here, but she should be back with her parents before winter comes.”

John nodded and scratched his beard. “Shall we take her home?” he asked James.

The monk nodded. “We grow too safe and fat sitting here,” he agreed. “A little outing to Clipstone would do us fine.”

“Take her now, while the pannage lasts,” said Marian.

“Travelling will be at its safest, with the woods full of pigs and children.”

Though Magda cried when they left, Marian insisted. “Her parents will have given up hope,” she said and Joanna agreed that she could not leave them in distress. She hugged Magda fiercely.

“One day I’ll come back,” she said.