Child of the May (4 page)

Magda groaned and pushed her warm rug away, swinging her long legs to the side. “What are you doing?” she asked. “It’s not even sun-up! You look as though you’ve been awake all night.”

“I have,” said Marian.

Magda frowned. “Can’t you let decent folk sleep?”

The older woman pulled out a worn pair of breeches that had once belonged to Tom. “These will do,” she cried. “And a cloak and hood. That’s what’s needed.”

Magda got up and stretched. She stood there, hands on hips, watching with irritation. Suddenly Marian swung round and held the breeches up in front of Magda, as though measuring them against her.

“What are you doing? I’m not wearing them!”

“You are,” said Marian. “You’ll wear these breeches if you’re going to Nottingham with the men. And keep that sullen look upon thy face – sharp as arrowheads, that look is. It will protect thee well!”

Magda’s mouth dropped open, her hands fell to her sides.

“Don’t stand and gawp!” Marian snapped. “John and I’ve agreed. You can go if you dress as a lad and if you stay close to him or Philippa.”

Magda was amazed. “Or Robert,” she said.

“He’ll get you into trouble worse than any,” Marian replied sharply. Then she sighed. “Or Robert,” she agreed.

“I’m going to Nottingham! I’m going to Nottingham!” Magda cried.

All at once the snappiness drained from Marian’s voice. “Truth is,” she said, “you are not growing up much like Emma. Last night you put me more in mind of someone else. Someone I remembered from long ago.”

Magda frowned, puzzled by her words. “What do you mean?”

Marian shook her head. Then she laughed, though the sound she made was harsh. “Myself,” she said. “You put me in mind of the girl that I once was. I fear it’s more like me that you grow, not your gentle mother. Believe me, Magda, there are times when I wish myself far away from this place. I may not go, but you can. It seems the time has come.”

Magda blinked hard. Her eyes brimmed with tears and her heart filled up with a sudden fierce love. She flung her arms around Marian. “I am happy if I grow like you,” she said.

“Aye, well,” said Marian, smiling and pushing her gently away. “Let’s hope tha’s learnt enough to keep thee safe. Now there’s no time for worrying, we must sort things out. There’s much to do.”

“Must I really wear Tom’s old breeches?” Magda sniffed at them suspiciously.

Marian nodded firmly. She pulled out the sharp meat knife that she always carried tucked into her girdle.

“You must wear breeches, cloak and hood, and that shiny chestnut mane must go. A tall, handsome lass like you with all that lovely hair will cause a stir. Your father has trouble enough keeping himself from being noticed.”

“Aye,” Magda agreed. “Not like Robert.”

Marian smiled wryly. Robert came and went mysteriously like a flying shadow. He robbed rich bishops in Yorkshire one day and fooled the Sheriff’s guard in Nottingham the next. The Hooded One was what they called him and ridiculous stories of his doings had spread throughout the north of England. Rich rewards had been offered for his capture, alive or dead. Certainly he had become the most wanted man in the north.

“Aye,” said Marian sadly. “He keeps his secrets, does Robert.”

The sharp blade swished and Magda clenched her knuckles tightly till they turned white. Dark chestnut locks fell all about her feet like autumn leaves. She watched through a watery mist, her eyes still blurry with tears.

At last Marian stood back. “It’s done,” she said.

Magda brushed the itchy coating of cut hairs from around her neck and tossed her head from side to side.

“Feels funny,” she muttered.

“Does it feel bad?”

“Nay,” said Magda, flicking her hands through the short strands that now swung neatly just beneath her ears. “Nay, it feels fine. It feels free.”

“Good,” said Marian, smiling with relief. “Now take up these oatcakes and carry them round to thy father. See if he knows thee!”

When the girl had gone, Marian’s smile faded. Wearily she gathered up the dark locks of hair, stuffing them into a basket. But when the job was done and the basket set aside, she turned impulsively back to it and snatched up a small handful of the soft curls. She went to the salt crock and took up a pinch of the precious stuff, then sprinkled hair and salt together in a circle above the fire. The hair and salt flared with a swift blue flame. Marian spat into the fire and as it hissed she murmured,

“Water, earth, air and fire bright,

Keep my girl safe, both day and night.”

They left soon after sunrise. Magda strode ahead, delighting in the new freedom that Tom’s breeches brought. She was filled with excitement and energy for the journey ahead. John and Tom followed more slowly, with many a backward glance at the small figure of Marian. She stood by the ancient turning stone that marked the entrance to the Forestwife’s clearing, watching till they had vanished from sight.

They went to the south and reached Langden village when the sun was high in the sky. The manor house stood proud on a mound with a deep ditch all around. It was well cared for and surrounded by orchards, pigs and good-sized vegetable strips all fenced in with low palings. At times the villagers complained that the manor had no defences, but Isabel insisted that she was a farmer, not a fighter. She ignored the villagers’ fears and fed them well.

The small cots that surrounded the manor were built close to the main cart track; Magda thought that Langden seemed unusually quiet. Philippa was waiting by the forge in her best gown and cloak, with her husband the blacksmith. She kissed Tom and tugged at his beard.

“Tha’s more of a man than ever,” she said. “When are you coming back to Langden? We miss you here – this was once your home!”

Tom shook his head. “I can’t come back,” he said. “Not since Mam died.”

Philippa nodded her understanding. “But who’s this young lad?” she asked, glancing at Magda and winking at John.

“A lad I’d rather see safe at home,” John told her. “But he’s promised to stay close by us, has this lad.”

“Right enough,” Philippa agreed. “The time comes for each young vixen to creep from her den.”

“Aye,” said John. “She may creep from her den, but can she hunt?”

Philippa hugged her husband and Rowan, her youngest son, a fair-haired lad, two years older than Magda.

“I think I should be going with you,” said Rowan teasingly. “If Magda’s going, so should I.”

Philippa gave him a playful punch on the cheek. “You’ve to stay here and take care of our guest from Mansfield,” she told him, glancing back to where a man stood half-hidden in the dark thatched entrance to the forge.

Magda looked at him and gasped. Just for one moment she thought that it was Robert. Was that not Robert’s cloak and hood? She knew it well. Then he moved forward into the light and she saw that his face was strange to her. The man glared angrily at them, then turned back to the warm fire inside the forge.

“Who is he?” Magda asked.

Philippa snorted with raucous laughter and took Magda by the arm. “He’s a guest,” she said. “Unwilling, but still a guest. Come, let’s get on our way, for we must reach Sherwood before nightfall. At once. For Langden shall see no peace or thriving until Matilda and Isabel have returned.”

The wastes and woodlands were lush with springing grass and yellow-green bursting buds; the undergrowth, alive with young hares and waddling partridges. The scent of sap and blossom hung in the air.

“Maytime! Maytime! Best time of all the year,” Magda cried.

“Not bad,” Philippa admitted. “A good dry time for taking to the road. At least we shan’t be shivering in a ditch tonight.”

“I wish your Rowan could have come,” Magda sighed, seeing again his handsome face and teasing smile.

“Eh lass! Isn’t one strong lad enough company for you?” Philippa lowered her voice, nodding behind them at Tom.

“Huh! Tom’s fine and I love him,” said Magda. “But he does drag his leg so. Besides, he’s more of a brother to me.”

“You weren’t there when Tom near snapped that leg in a mantrap,” said Philippa darkly. “I was. I tell you this for nothing: though Rowan is the apple of my eye, you’ll never find a braver lad than Tom – not in the whole of Yorkshire.”

“Well,” said Magda cheekily, “aren’t we in Nottinghamshire now?”

She ducked fast as Philippa’s hand swung close to her cheek.

They reached the edge of Sherwood as the sun began to sink. Tom led them through secret paths to a small cave mouth.

“They were here,” he said, dropping to his knees to sniff at a light patch of wood ash that lay within a darkened circle of burnt earth. “Yes, Robert and Muchlyn. Two days ahead.”

Magda stared at him. “Daft lad,” she muttered.

“If Tom tells thee so, tha’d best believe it,” John told her.

“How?” Magda still doubted.

“A faint smell of burning.” Tom held a pinch of ash to her nose. “That will be gone by sunrise, and see how it’s raked out in a circle with one stone dropped into the centre here – that’s Robert. And the small white pebble – that’s Much. The circle is broken here; they’ve travelled on to the south.”

“Huh,” said Magda. “And I suppose you’ll be telling me what they ate for their supper?”

“Venison,” said Tom. “Smoked venison.”

“How can you tell that?”

Tom gave a wicked laugh. “Because I smoked the meat for him myself and wrapped it up in burdock leaves. Anyway, it’s what the Hooded One always eats when he’s journeying and there’s no time to make a fresh kill.”

They quickly got a fire kindled and settled to eat Marian’s bread and goat’s cheese.

“I thought you’d snare us a hare or shoot a fat partridge,” said Magda, disappointed.

“Nay,” said John. “We must leave them to raise their young in spring, then we shall eat well of them when winter comes. Besides, who’d want burnt meat when they can have fresh bread?”

They slept in the sheltering cave wrapped in their cloaks with sweet-smelling rushes piled beneath them. In the morning they woke with the sun and ate the rest of their food. They were on the road to Nottingham by the time the sun was high in the sky.

As the great city rose in the distance before them, the road became thronged with rumbling carts, packhorses and dust-stained travellers heading for the main northern gate.

Magda grabbed Philippa by the arm. “Look there!” she yelled, her cheeks pink with the excitement of it all. “See the towers that soar high into the sky? Is that Nottingham Castle? How does it float up there above us? But look . . . in that fine wagon. A lady dressed in scarlet with gold on her head! Is she the Queen? She must be the Queen!”

Philippa could only laugh. She turned to John. “Look at this lad of yours. His eyes are fair popping at the sights.”

John could not smile. He put his hand on Magda’s shoulder. “Look and stare as much as you wish but stay close, I beg.”

“Don’t fret so.” Magda waggled her shoulders impatiently, moving away from his protective touch.

A horn sounded three times behind them. “Wolfpack! Wolfpack!” The cry rose all about.

There came the sound of galloping hooves and panic spread as folk dragged their wagons and mules to the side of the road. Philippa grabbed Magda and pulled her through the scrambling crowd. The horses were moving fast. Stragglers threw themselves into the ditches as a large party of armed soldiers galloped by on huge snorting horses. They sped along the road, regardless of people still struggling to get out of their way. There were cries and screams and everyone was spattered with mud and filth.