Child of the May (8 page)

Robert grabbed Magda by the arm and pulled her back. “Tom!” he cried. “Keep away! A leper!”

Magda’s heart thudded with fear at his words. Was that the meaning of the harsh clapper? She’d never come across the disease, not in all her years with the Forestwife, though she’d heard enough about it to dread it.

“Get back, Tom,” she yelled.

But Tom did not retreat again. He bent down towards the bundled rags. “’Tis but a child,” he cried.

“Do not touch! Do not touch!” Magda screamed it frantically at him. She went slowly to see for herself, then caught her breath. She looked down though the faint dawning light on the pinched face of the Nottingham potter’s boy, a dark bruise showing on his chin where she had hit him.

Magda remembered the strange red patches on the boy’s throat and his frantic search for herbs.

“Look!” she told Robert. “See who it is! His father sold pots on the next stall.”

Robert scratched his head. “The lad you sent flying? Aye, so it is. What are you doing here, boy?” he asked.

The boy sat mute and still as a statue, staring blankly; he would not look at them. When Tom held out his hand, he quickly snatched up the clapper and set it snapping its harsh rhythm through the quiet trees.

“Stop it!” Magda cried, covering her ears with her hands. “I hate it.”

There was silence again until Tom spoke. “But you are no leper,” he said. “Surely?”

Then in a small shaky whisper, the boy answered. “Father says I am.”

“Why?” Magda cried. “Why should he think it so?”

“My mother was stricken soon after my birth,” the boy whispered.

Magda shivered.

“Where is your mother? Does she live?” Tom asked.

“Stoned.” The lad spoke without emotion. “The villagers stoned her. Father says it is best that I go, seek out my own kind. Better than suffer my mother’s fate.”

“Your father!” Robert almost spat it out. “Was that he?” he asked, pointing after the cart.

The boy nodded.

“I cannot believe it,” Tom cried. “You are no leper! Magda, tell him so!”

But Magda could not forget the sight of the patched red skin. She shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “His skin is marked.”

Tom stood up. “We must give him food and let him have the horse,” he said.

“That was for me.” Madga heard her own voice sounding pettish.

Robert shook his head, uncertain for once. “Give him the horse, but he’d best keep his distance from us. I’m sorry for the lad, but we’ve troubles enough of our own. We must eat and find ourselves water and be on our way.” Suddenly his expression was lighter. With a flourish he brought out a loaf of fine white bread from his potter’s sack. “A gift from our Sheriff’s lady.”

“It cheers you to think you’ve cheated anyone,” Magda cried.

“Only rich fools,” Robert laughed.

They divided up the loaf and Tom carried a good hunk over to the potter’s boy. His hands closed about the soft white bread that was such a treat, but he seemed unable to eat. Tom crouched down, full of comforting words, but Magda was quickly on her feet and shouting furiously again. “Do not touch him!”

When at last they were ready to go, Tom held the bridle and soothed the horse, while the lad obediently struggled to mount. He accepted the reins without thanks. Tom slapped the bony flank and the horse set off north towards Barnsdale, the boy sitting stiffly astride like a straw-stuffed doll.

Tom watched him go, a troubled expression on his face.

“There’s nowt we can do,” Robert told him, shaking his head.

“He says his name is Alan, same as my grandfather,” Tom said.

When at last the potter’s son was out of sight, Robert made them walk north-west, along one of his secret paths, heading for Bestwood Dell.

There was no sign of the wagon at the Dell, just Brother James settled on a rock and John striding back and forth, crushing a pathway of thick green bracken beneath his feet, his face like thunder.

As soon as the big man heard their approach, he leapt across the small clearing, whipping his meat knife from his belt. “You crafty whippet, you lying hound,” he growled, grabbing a fistful of jerkin and thrusting the knife at Robert’s throat. Brother James hurriedly got up from his rock.

For a moment Magda was frightened, but Robert’s silence was reassuring. He stood there white-faced, blinking up at his friend, but he would not give ground.

“You kept the bastard from me,” John spat at him. “You took my daughter in there! You sat my child down before her mother’s murderer!”

Magda kept still and quiet, but remembered with resentment. Aye, and he let him hit me about the head, she thought.

Even though John prodded at his neck with the sharp point of his knife till a trickle of blood ran, Robert did not speak. “I could have killed the man!” John spat furiously. “I could have torn him apart!”

Still Robert said nothing, but Tom went slowly to stand at his side and face John. “We don’t doubt that you would have killed him,” he said. “But then what? I think Robert did right to keep you in ignorance.”

Magda lurched towards her father, but she daren’t grab his arm. Though she knew he loved her dearly, he was still a huge and very angry man.

“Robert has promised –” she said, swallowing hard to stop her voice shaking, “Robert has promised me this FitzRanulf shall be punished. Look at me, Father! Did you want to lose me too?”

John turned to her and his face crumpled. He swung round and threw down the knife with so much force that it buried itself up to the hilt in the grassy earth. He crouched down amongst the bracken, covering his face with his hands. Magda went to him and wrapped her arms about his shoulders.

The others watched solemnly.

“Leave them,” said Brother James. “Let them grieve. Old wounds bleed afresh.”

“Come here! I’ve something to show you.”

James waved Robert and Tom over to the rock that he’d been sitting on.

“Where’s the wagon?” Robert asked. “And Lady Matilda?”

“Philippa insisted on taking Isabel and Matilda straight home,” James told him. “Muchlyn and Stoutly went with them. Matilda looks poorly. A frail old woman should not be dragged away from her hearthside like that. Our King would steal the gold from a dying man if he thought he could get but a pennyworth. The thought of Isabel wed to that wolfhound of his makes me shiver.”

“Yes,” said Robert thoughtfully. “We’ve bought the girl a bit of time, but we shall have to think long and hard about it. Even if we can manage to raise the money he demands, the man never keeps to his word. Once John has dealt with my Lady de Braose, he’ll remember this other Matilda and he’s in such a rage, God knows what he’ll do.”

The fat face of Brother James lit up with excitement.

“Matilda . . . de . . . Braose.” He said the words slowly and with pleasure. “I have a wild idea that might teach the King what true rage is!”

Robert was instantly excited and smiling hugely. “Why, damn it, James!” he cried. “Is this one of your crazy plans? I need something mad and risky to cheer me.”

“What’s this?” Tom frowned down at a muddle of scratched lines and marks upon the rock.

“It’s a map,” James told them. “Though only clever learned folk like me can read it.”

Robert threw a mock punch at his face. “All right, all right! Explain it to us poor fools.”

James pointed with a dirty finger. “Now see this line here, the Great North Road, and this patch here, Barnsdale Waste, and here that dip in the land where the River Went runs.”

“Our favourite spot for bishop-baiting,” cried Tom.

John and Magda came slowly to join them, calmed a little and intrigued by Brother James’s excitement.

“What’s this you’re plotting now?” John asked.

“A rescue.” Brother James spoke so fast that tiny beads of spit flew from his lips. “A rescue that will stagger the King.”

“Steady on,” said Tom, wiping his eye. “You’ll have drowned us all before we’re done.”

Brother James ignored him, waving his hands wildly. “Don’t you see? We have a bit of time to make a plan, for it will take those foul wolfhounds a se’nnight to reach the Scottish borders and then start back again.”

“What?” Robert cried. “He’d have us set about the Wolfpack?”