Child of the May (2 page)

The Order of Saint Lazarus was also a real order linked to the Knights Templars. In later days they ran many leper hospitals; however the preceptory of Bitterwood is imaginary, as are Langden Manor and Matilda and Isabel of Langden.

It was autumn. The paths were slushy with mud and falling leaves. Two young men travelled steadily through the russet and golden woodland of Barnsdale, their faces grim.

The smaller man walked beside the horse. His scarred face was pale with the silent anger that burnt within, yet he led his friend’s steed with great care. The taller lad, a giant of a man, hunched forward in the saddle as though he suffered from a deep hurt. In his arms he cradled a baby girl.

They slowed their horses almost to stopping as they approached the clearing of the Forestwife.

A young woman in a green kirtle chopped wood vigorously in front of a spreading thatched cottage. Though her clothes were worn and patched, about her waist she wore a beautiful woven girdle fastened with a strong metal clasp. Goats and chickens ignored the regular thumping of her axe in their hunt for food, while three cats dozed in patches of sharp sunlight. A tall boy stacked the wood carefully into a bell shape, ready for the slow burning that would turn it into charcoal. He was strongly built, but since the day he’d been caught in a mantrap he dragged his left leg awkwardly. Suddenly the woman threw down the heavy axe and stretched her back.

“That’s enough, Tom,” she cried. “I’m fair worn out.”

“Aye,” he was quick to agree. “Shall I fetch ale?”

But before she could answer, the woman looked up and saw the silent horseman and his companion. They’d entered the clearing without a sound. She snatched up her axe again, gripping it tightly with both hands, ready to defend herself. The visitors stood beneath the great oak, still as statues. Then suddenly her face softened.

“Robert?” she cried. “And John!”

She threw down the axe and ran to them, but slowed her steps as she saw their solemn grey faces and the small struggling burden that they bore.

“What has happened? Where is Emma? What of Bishop Hugh?”

Robert stepped forwards and took hold of her by the shoulders. His voice was harsh and his head drooped with weariness. “I’m sorry, Marian. The fighting bishop is dead. Poisoned, we swear.”

“But where is Emma? John . . . where is she?”

The big man still sat astride his horse, clutching the child. He looked away shamefaced, then put his head down and wept quietly into the baby’s soft brown thatch of hair.

“The King’s mercenaries marched into Howden Manor,” said Robert. “They were there the moment the old man died. They took his house, they took his servants, they took his horses and his fighting men. We were surrounded in the great hall while we sat at our meal. We were named as
WOLVESHEADS
and ordered into the dungeon. Emma could not bear it. She ran to us, the baby in her arms. A vicious fellow, one of their captains, aimed his crossbow and shot her. Shot her in the back, there in the great hall.”

“No!” Marian cried.

“Aye,” he nodded. “There was outrage in the place even amongst the mercenaries, and our friends rushed to our aid. We got out and found horses, hoping that we’d reach you in time, but . . .” He shook his head.

“She’s dead?” Marian whispered.

Robert nodded.

“Where is she?”

“Much and Stoutley follow. They carry her in a litter, but what can we do? We bring you the child!”

Marian stepped back. “I told you not to go,” she shouted. “I told you, all of you! How could you be such stupid fools to think there could be pardons!”

“You were right,” Robert spoke with quiet anger. “Does it give you pleasure?”

Marian shook her head, dumb with misery.

“The child?” Robert spoke more gently. “We cannot care for her. The frosts will be on us soon.”

“Take her away!” Marian cried. “I do not want the child. I want Emma.”

They stood beside the fresh-piled earth of Emma’s grave as the sun sank and darkness fell. Still they stood there, though the evening grew cold and the stars began to show. Then the baby whimpered in the arms of her father. John seemed to start as though waking from a dream. He turned towards the cottage but Marian followed him and reached up to touch his shoulder. He turned to her, surprised.

“For me,” she said, holding out her arms. “The baby is for me. You said that I should have her.”

John dropped a kiss on the small head and gave her the child without a word.

“Magda, little Magdalen,” she whispered. “Let us find thee some nice warm milk.”

“Help them! Help them! They shall burn!”

Magda was dragged from her peaceful dream. She rubbed her eyes and shuddered as she heard the cries. Eleanor, the old one, was having one of her terrible dreams again.

Magda clapped her hands over her ears, trying to shut out the fearful sounds.

“Hunger . . . bitter hunger!” The old woman’s voice rose. “They bring hunger, fire and sword to the forest.”

Magda rolled over on her straw pallet and sat up. A dark shape moved across the small sleeping space, cutting out the fire’s glow for a moment. Then she heard Marian’s tired voice, speaking with patience.

“Wake, Mother. ’Tis but a dream. Come, Mother, wake up and take a sip of ale.”

The terror subsided to gentle sobs. Magda heaved a great sigh and settled herself down once more, pity turning to irritation as Marian’s murmuring voice continued low and soothing. Why couldn’t they let her get to sleep, she’d worked hard all day. They’d made her dig up the last of the grain from the keeping pit, then pound the stuff into flour. Her arms still ached from it.

Magda had lived in this small thatched cottage deep in Barnsdale Forest for fifteen years. Why should she stay longer with these two strange women neither of whom were her mother? It was hard dreary work living with the Forestwife, for the poor and the sick came from all around, begging help and healing. The clearing was rarely free from suffering and didn’t they give her the vilest jobs to do, just because she was tall and strong like her father. She was sick of digging deep latrine pits, even worse, the terrible stinking job of filling them in. The cottage leaked so that heavy rain would flood them out and each spring they must struggle to patch the the wattle-framed walls with mud. Magda longed to leave the wilderness of Barnsdale and see the world beyond.

Still, she thought with a faint smile, tomorrow there’d be fresh bread and best ale and May Day dancing. They’d raised a maypole by the trysting tree and her father and Robert would come. Maybe they’d bring Tom with them. That thought cheered her. The Forestwife’s clearing would be spinning with folk, bent on welcoming the summer and having a wild time while they were about it.

She snuggled down beneath her rug. Yes, she’d stay for the May Day dancing, but then persuade her father to take her off adventuring with him. She’d leave the forest – but a small wisp of doubt seemed to drift through her mind. What if Eleanor’s dream should have special meaning? What had she cried out?
Hunger, fire
and
sword
. Many believed that what the old one saw and dreamed was the truth.

Magda could not settle properly to sleep again.

All three were up early and on the move. Eleanor seemed her usual calm self once more. Even before the sun was up they heard shouts and giggles from outside, then came a knocking on the door.

“Where’s the lady?”

“Is she ready?”

“Where’s our May Day Queen?”

Though she was pale and tired, Marian laughed. “They must have been up all night!” she cried. She took up her faded green cloak. “I’m getting far too old for this.”

“Nay.” Eleanor shook her head. “You are not too old my daughter, but I must warn you! Maybe . . . the Green Man shall miss his May Day dancing.”

“What do you mean?” asked Marian.

Eleanor shook her head again. “I cannot see clear.”

“Are you ready?” Magda asked. “I cannot hold them back much longer. It’ll soon be sun-up.”

Marian nodded and Magda threw open the door.

At once the small hut swarmed with skinny excited children, dressed in rags but with flowers in their hair. They bore thin starlike rush lights and a beautiful wreath of hawthorn with its creamy pink-tipped may blossom.

“Crown the Queen! Crown the Queen!” they chanted. Marian bowed her head to be crowned.

The clearing was lit with flickering candles and lanterns. Marian went to stand before the maypole, while the children rushed off into the forest. The gathering turned quiet, waiting in tense silence. Magda stood beside Marian, her heart beating fast. This was the moment that she’d always loved, ever since she was a tiny child. Her hand crept into Marian’s and squeezed it hard. Then they heard it, gentle at first, faint sounds of chanting.

“Summer is a-coming in! Summer is a-coming in!”

It grew steadily louder, until streams of children broke from the cover of the trees, dragging ropes of plaited ivy. They hauled on their ropes as the sun came up, dragging a dark figure from the depth of the forest. It was hard to see him clearly at first, for like the very trees he was covered in leaves and blossom.

Marian turned to the old one. “He comes, after all thy fears.”