Child of the May (14 page)

Marian folded her arms stubbornly. “I’ll not be left behind.”

“I can help,” said Eleanor, and she pointed to Marian’s beautiful woven girdle, the symbol of her work as Forestwife. “Take it off, daughter!” she said. “Give it to me. There shall be a Forestwife here for those in need, however long you are gone and whatever becomes of thee. I will use my small skills and do the best I can.”

Marian did not hesitate. “Thank you, Mother,” she said, unfastening the belt and giving it to the old one with a kiss.

“Now,” said James, “we must make our plans and act together. We need stealth instead of strength. In place of swords we’ll carry food and water flasks, as we fear starvation. In place of slingshot, we’ll carry wood and kindling and tinder, for they may need warmth.”

Most looked puzzled at that, but Marian picked up the way his mind worked. “Aye,” she said. “I like your way of thinking, James. Instead of lances and pikes, we shall need hammers, chisels and nails. For we must get inside with the prisoners and barricade ourselves in with them.”

James nodded. “I fear we must settle for a siege!”

“Ah, James,” Marian said, her eyes glittering. “I have a wicked idea. Use what strengths we’ve got, you said. I’ve been drying my special herbs for many years – now I know what I saved them for.”

She went into the hut and carefully reached up to the high shelf, bringing down an earthenware pot.

Magda caught her breath. “The forbidden herbs,” she whispered.

Marian’s smile made her shiver. “That’s right, child. A healer can turn poisoner, easy as that,” and she clicked her fingers. “What did Robert tell you? Death shall not be good enough for FitzRanulf. Now I begin to see how.”

Magda had never seen Marian so determined. She rushed about the clearing giving orders and instructions. Her furious energy raised their spirits and catapulted them into action. Though for Magda, the change in Marian brought a touch of fear. She could not believe this was the calm, steadfast woman who’d mothered her so long.

By dusk they’d made themselves ready and packed their weapons and bags. Magda was exhausted from running backwards and forwards through the forest tracks, carrying messages to the nuns and to Langden Forge.

They tried to settle to sleep, but it was difficult. Each time Magda opened her eyes, she saw the dark shape of Marian still moving about. Before dawn Marian woke them all and handed out rush lights.

“The time has come,” she whispered. They obeyed without a sound.

They reached the outskirts of Langden before dawn, their bows and quivers strapped to their backs along with sacks of grain and lentils. Magda looked anxiously up at the dark shape of Langden Manor on its low mound. The ditch that surrounded the thatched stone-built house, with its courtyard and barns, had only a trickle of water in it. The low stockade that surrounded the garden was just high enough to keep in pigs and fowl. Magda remembered the great stone turrets of Nottingham Castle, beside it Langden seemed so homely.

“What does FitzRanulf want with marrying Isabel?” she asked. “Langden’s nowt but barns and kitchen gardens.”

“He doesn’t really want Isabel,” Marian told her. “He wants the land. I dare say he has plans to tear down this old house and build a grand hunting lodge in its place.”

“How can he treat her so badly, if he hopes to marry her?”

Marian looked grim. “I fear this is punishment for refusal. He does not care whether Isabel lives or dies.”

They crept past the church and met Philippa’s husband, behind the forge.

“Why must we be stumbling about so early in the dark?” Magda asked.

“To catch them unawares,” Philippa told her. “They have their weaknesses. They are all drunken sots and will be snoring in their straw.”

It was not long before Magda turned and saw faint lights moving deep in the woods.

“Here they come,” she whispered to Marian.

As the lights came nearer they smelt the smoky scent of incense and saw a solemn chanting procession winding its way towards Langden. Each light was carried by one of the Magdalen nuns. Sister Rosamund was in front, Alan at her side.

“Time for me to join them,” said James. “I’ll go to rally help as soon as I know that you are inside.”

He kissed them solemnly and then went to head the procession with Sister Rosamund and Joanna’s family. The three women with their bows watched from behind the forge as Philippa’s husband strode from hut to hut, whispering low. The villagers came quietly from their hovels to swell the ranks of the strange procession. The singing grew louder and some of the wolfpack who’d been sleeping out in the courtyard leapt, puzzled, to their feet. They pulled out their swords and started shouting at each other. Brother James marched up to the open outer gate.

“We demand to see Lady Matilda!” he bellowed.

“We must speak with our prioress,” cried Sister Rosamund.

FitzRanulf himself came yawning from the hall with straw in his hair. He drew his sword and thrust it towards James’ throat.

“Who dares to ask?” he growled.

Magda caught her breath in fear, but Marian whispered: “Trust in James! Now’s our moment.”

Though her legs shook and her stomach heaved, Magda clutched her bow tightly and followed Marian and Philippa as they ran quietly round the stockade and in at the small back gate to the kitchen gardens. They jumped the ditch and crept past the grunting pigs, past Isabel’s neat rows of beans and onions, making for the kitchen door. They paused for a moment, not knowing what they would find on the other side.

“’Tis now or never,” Philippa hissed.

Marian turned to Magda. “Brave lass,” she whispered. “Are you ready?”

“Aye,” Magda nodded.

Philippa tried the heavy wooden latch and gave a good push, almost falling in as the door swung open. A frightened kitchen maid turned to see them.

“Don’t fear, Margery,” Philippa whispered. “’Tis us, come to help. Where are Matilda and Isabel?”

Margery pointed up the narrow stairs to the solar and burst into tears.

“Are they locked in?” Marian asked.

“’Tis worse, far worse.” Margery swallowed hard and tears spilled down her cheeks.

Marian pulled her bundles of herbs from her pack and pushed them into Margery’s hand.

“Here – put this in their food or drink, this first and then the other. Only the wolfpack, mind – only them!”

Margery took the bundles with shaking hands as the three intruders dashed up the narrow wooden stairs.

Philippa pulled back the rich tapestry curtain that covered the doorway and stared at the solid blank stones that formed a new-made wall.

“Dear God!” she cried. “It’s true.”

The clatter of swords and heavy boots came from below, then men’s voices bellowing in a foreign tongue. Marian pulled her bow from her back and notched an arrow, covering the narrow way up the stairs. Philippa pulled hammer and chisel from her bag and set to work to loosen the stones.

“If we could shift just one,” she said, “then the others would come easy.”

Magda pulled the meat knife from Marian’s belt and began to work at the stone with her. A grumpy yawning soldier appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

“Stupid hags,” he snarled, lunging towards Marian with his sword. He soon fell back, cursing, as Marian’s arrow pierced his hand. His sword clattered to the floor and fast as a whip she notched another arrow. She let fly again, wounding a second fellow in the shoulder. Much cursing followed, then sudden quiet.

FitzRanulf appeared at the bottom of the stairs, furious that he’d been rushed back into the house when he was trying to deal with the strange deputation of nuns and villagers.

“Damned fools!” he bellowed at his men.

“There’s three ragged forest women up there!”

“The hell cats . . . they’ve split my thumb.”

“They’re raining down arrows like needles! We can’t reach up to spit them.”

“So what?” FitzRanulf gave a chilling laugh. “Where do you think they are going? Now we have six witches to starve instead of three. Just guard the stairs, damn you, and don’t let any of them down.”

Philippa sighed, then grunted with effort. “It gives!”

Marian turned to Magda. “Can you cover the stairs?”

“Aye.”

The two older women worked at the stone with their chisels and knives, and at last a definite grating movement rewarded them. Magda stood at the top of the stairs with arrow notched and bow bent. It was very uncomfortable; the sharp straw of the thatch came down low and stuck into her head. Her arms ached with the tension of the ready bow. One of the men looked up again through the narrow stairwell.

“I zee nozzink but a stupid chilt,” he sneered.

“But I can shoot,” Magda answered and loosed an arrow that landed with a thwack in the wooden beam just by his ear. The fellow withdrew fast, swearing furiously, though Magda could not understand the words he used. Her hands shook and she felt sick, but she whipped out another arrow.

“It’s sliding away,” Philippa hissed. “Push, push . . . someone is helping from the other side.”

Then with one great heave, the stone slithered away and landed with a thump.

“Help us! Oh, help us!” a faint voice cried.

Philippa opened her tinder box and struck the flint sharply while Marian held a rush light to pick up the tiny flames. As soon as it was burning steadily they thrust the small wand into the hole. It was snatched at by blood-stained fingers with ripped dirty nails. Then they saw the shadowy top of Isabel’s head, covered in dust.

“Water! Water, for the love of God!” Isabel choked out the words.

Marian pulled a small waterskin from her belt.

“Quick! Quick!” Isabel sobbed. “Veronica will not leave Mother’s side. I fear she is dying.”

“Hush, sweetheart,” soothed Marian. “We have good food and drink with us.”

Isabel’s poor torn hands came stretching through the gap. Greedy fingers closed about the waterskin and vanished.

“Listen, Isabel,” Marian put her mouth to the dusty hole. “You must give them just a small sip each, then wait a while, or they’ll die for sure with bloated stomachs.”

“Yes.” Her voice floated back to them. “I understand.”

“Are they strong enough to hold back, do you think?” Philippa asked anxiously.

“We are,” came a sharp reply.

“That was Veronica.” Philippa smiled to hear her voice so firm.

So they set about moving more stones with renewed energy. They worked steadily and soon Isabel came back to help from the other side.

“Bless you! Bless you!” she murmured. “Water has never tasted so sweet.”

They worked on and Isabel tore at the stones from her side. At last Marian spoke to Magda without turning. “Are you still taking aim, my brave lass?”

“Aye,” she answered through gritted teeth. “But I can’t keep it up much longer!”

“I think you can let up,” said Philippa. “This is wide enough for a little ’un and that’s you, my girl.”

“Come, Magda,” said Marian. “Climb through this hole and I shall take your place again!”

Magda lowered her aim and waggled her aching shoulders with relief. Marian snatched up the bow.

“I’ll heave,” said Philippa, bending to cup her hands like a stirrup.