Child of the May (5 page)

“Christ have mercy!” shrieked a woman who landed almost on top of Magda, leaping into the ditch just as the soldiers passed. “They’ve crushed my toe!” she yelled.

Magda rolled over and turned to her with concern. “Let me see.” She was used to treating crushed toes and feet.

The woman ignored the young person trying to help her and continued to yell after the gang of soldiers fast disappearing into the distance in a cloud of dust. She screamed and held up two fingers. “Hell and damnation take them!” she cried. “The Witch of Barnsdale curse them!”

“Witch of Barnsdale?” said Magda, puzzled, carefully taking the woman’s foot into her hands to massage the toes.

“Aye,” said the woman, turning to her at last. “You must have heard of her, lad – the evil Witch of Barnsdale? The one they call the Forestwife? They say she’s enchanted the Hooded One and keeps him from the gallows with her spells!”

“Why, of course!” said Philippa hastily. “Of course he’s heard such tales, but I dare say they’re all rubbish.”

“Oh . . . yes!” said Magda quickly.

Now the woman was staring down at her foot as Magda worked her fingers gently up and down. “Why, that feels better lad!,” she cried, soldiers and witches all forgotten. “Good as new! I thought they’d crippled me. Thank you – tha’s an angel sent from heaven. Where did tha learn to do that?”

Philippa took hold of Magda by the arm, hurrying her away to where John and Tom waited anxiously. “He’s a grand lad,” she called back, “but we must be getting on or we’ll be late.”

The woman stared after them. “Bless you both!” she cried.

“Walk on, walk fast!” Philippa muttered. “Try not to cause a stir.”

Magda obeyed, but as soon as they were on their way, she had to satisfy her curiosity. “Wicked Witch of Barnsdale?” she spluttered. “And who were those men? The ones they called the wolfpack?”

“The King’s special guard,” John told her through gritted teeth. “Mercenaries every one; more feared than any. They’re no dutiful feudal gathering, but trained fighters who kill for money. They’ll do any filthy deed the King wishes so long as he pays enough.”

Magda shivered and moved closer to her father.

It was after noon when they passed over the deep ditch and in through the northern gate of Nottingham Town. They walked past the Butter Cross and through the market place. The market was in full swing, rowdy with the shouts of pedlars and stallholders, but above all the bustle loomed the great stone towers of the castle, built upon a high rock.

Magda was distracted by the market sights and sounds, her head muddled with the clamour and her nose twitching at the strange mixture of smells.

“Spices from Araby! Cinnamon and ginger!” A woman wafted a pinch of sharp-smelling brown powder beneath her nose.

“Fresh pies,” another shouted.

“Sweet honey cakes!”

“Fine roast pork! Fill your belly! Salted crackling!”

Philippa grabbed Magda’s arm and led her boldly on towards the castle. “Not here,” she insisted. “Look out for a potter’s stall.”

Magda wondered what on earth they could want with pots when Lady Matilda and Isabel were in danger, but she was so amazed by what she saw that she didn’t argue. John and Tom followed as she and Philippa went on through the stone-built gateway and into the castle’s outer bailey.

Here there were more stalls and bustle, but Philippa took a quick look around and marched on over the next bridge and into the middle bailey.

“There,” Tom spoke quietly. “I see him.”

John swore under his breath. “Damn the man. Can he get no closer? Must he sit under the Sheriff’s nose? If he got any closer he’d be in the Sheriff’s kitchens.”

Philippa shrugged her shoulders. “Best place to see what’s going on.”

The middle bailey was alive with soldiers and horses and kitchen maids buying produce from stalls and pedlars. Magda looked about for Robert, but she could see no sign of him. There were just two pottery stalls and a loud-mouthed fellow in a straw hat, grabbing all the customers with his shouting of wares and low prices. Then all at once she saw Brother James, handing out benedictions to the castle guards, and collecting pennies in a bowl, a saintly look upon his face. John went to him and knelt down.

Brother James made the sign of the cross and whispered in his ear. John answered and Brother James looked piously up to heaven and spoke again as though chanting.

“A long blessing this is going to be!” Philippa folded her arms and tapped her foot.

When at last John returned, they clustered about him.

“Well?”

“What’s up?”

John sighed and wouldn’t be rushed. “Robert’s worried about Isabel. King John has told Matilda that she must pay him four hundred pounds or marry her daughter to some murderous soldier captain. Robert and James want us to find a horse and have it ready up by the northern gate. They’ve seen that the wolfpack has arrived. Brother James has his eye on their steeds – trust him.”

“Nay!” Philippa swore quietly. “Does he think we’re tired of living?”

“Just one,” said John. “One good fast horse to hitch to the wagon. Lady Matilda cannot ride.”

“We could maybe manage to steal just one of their mounts,” said Tom. “There’s plenty of us to distract them while it’s taken.”

“Not Magda,” said John. “I’ll not have my lass at risk. This is what I feared.”

“Leave her with Robert,” said Philippa. “He’s only watching, isn’t he?”

John looked anxious. “When did he ever just watch?”

Magda stared about her, puzzled. “Robert? He’s not even here.”

Her friends laughed quietly and John relented. He put his arm round his daughter’s shoulder and gently turned her towards the noisy potter’s stall. “Our Robert is here all right, my darling. Go up to yon fellow with the plates. Stand behind the trestle as though you were the potter’s lad and do not move from the man’s side.”

Magda took a few hesitant steps towards the busy stall and then stopped. There, chalked at the top of the wooden frame for all to see was a circle, with one white shape in the middle.

“Ahh!” She caught her breath. “Robert’s sign!” She turned quickly then to look at the man who stood shouting and bawling in the centre of the crowd. His face was turned away from her and she could not see him clearly as the crowds pressed so close.

“Best Mansfield earthenware!” he sang out. “Goodwives, you’ll never find better! Plates and bowls, fine enough for the Sheriff’s own table!”

Magda stared at the back of the potter’s neck. How could it be him? This was not Robert’s quiet, angry way of speaking. The hat he wore was covered with fine spatters of dried clay. Magda moved closer. Even the hair at the back of his neck was clay-streaked. Then he turned and she saw at once the ugly scar that marred his cheek. It
was
Robert. Ever since she’d been tiny she’d shuddered at the sight of that scar. But where had all these pots come from? All at once she understood; she remembered the angry face of the man who sheltered in Langden forge. An unwilling guest from Mansfield, Philippa had said.

Suddenly Magda’s stomach lurched, for Robert had seen her. He looked directly at her through the shoving crowd. Would he know her, looking like this? Just for one brief moment he frowned and hesitated, but then quickly he shouted at her.

“So there you are, you rascal! Where have you been? Pass me those platters! I can’t keep pace, they’re so greedy for pots in Nottingham today!”

Magda blinked and swallowed hard, then dived behind the stall to do as he asked. As soon as she had time to pause, she glanced back at her father. Tom and Philippa strode off towards the castle stables. John followed them slowly.

The potter of Mansfield and his lad worked hard. Never at any time did Robert speak to her as anything other than his apprentice, but at one point when she turned to pick up a fine set of platters from the back of the trestle, he told her to let them be.

“Not those,” he hissed. “I’m hoping that I’ll get a special customer for those, what with the wolfpack arriving unexpectedly and the castle full of guests.”

Magda did not understand what he meant, but she was distracted by the loud complaints that came from the man on the next stall.

“No profit at those prices,” he grumbled to his boy. “Might as well pack up – the light is fading fast. Set about it and don’t tha drop aught this time.”

The other potter’s lad looked utterly miserable. Magda could not help but feel a touch sorry and bent close to whisper in his ear. “We’ll not be here next week.”

The boy glowered and showed her his fist and Magda remembered that he must suppose her to be a lad. She had a job not to giggle, but stood back and tried again in a deep gruff voice.

“My master may be selling plates like hot cakes today,” she said, “but he’ll be off to another town next week. Then your master shall have his custom back.”

The boy pulled a face. “Mind your own business,” he said, again making fists of both his hands and throwing a punch close to Magda’s face.

“Watch out!” he warned her. “I’m training to be a squire.” He pulled a cheaply-made dagger from his belt and swung it close to her cheek.

Magda was not John’s daughter for nothing. She closed her right fist hard and hit him smartly on the chin. The lad went down, sprawling at her feet, the dagger clattering on the cobbles. His jerkin slipped open revealing a strange red patch beneath his collarbone.

Magda stared and the lad covered himself quickly.

“Does that pain thee?” Magda asked.

“Nay.” The boy spoke sharply. “Not at all.”

Magda took the boy’s hand and pulled him to his feet. “You’re hot,” she said. “Feverish?”

“No,” he insisted, sticking the dagger back into his belt.

So many years spent in the Forestwife’s clearing brought Marian’s wisdom flooding into Magda’s head. “Has tha tried a lavender brew?”

“To drink?” The boy’s eyes showed reluctant interest.

“Nay. Brew it up, then let it cool and dab it on those sore patches.”

All at once, the boy’s hands were shaking. He pulled two pennies from his pouch and without another word was off, running between the stalls to where the herbwives sold their wares.

Magda turned back to the Mansfield potter’s stall, a little shaken. Truth was she’d never seen sores quite like those strange patches.

“Shall we pack up?” she asked Robert. “You’ve nothing left to sell, only your special pots. Everyone else is going.”

“Hush!” Robert smiled, as a sudden flurry of noise and movement started up in the entrance to the castle kitchens. “I believe my special customer arrives.”