Path of the She Wolf (7 page)

‘As soon as I let them in, Philippa started tearing off her clothes,’ Gerta told them. ‘I thought she’d gone mad, but then I came to understand and I helped her. I couldn’t think what else to do. We stripped off Robert’s clothes and exchanged them with Philippa’s, so that he looked like this, and Philippa, she’s so tall and upright, she looked like the Hooded One.’

‘She’s mad!’ Magda gasped, starting to understand.

‘Trust her,’ Marian agreed. ‘She’s put herself in terrible danger.’

‘She told me to bring him to you,’ Gerta cried. ‘She swore the men would ignore two old women, if they thought they’d got the Hooded One holed up. And she was right. They took no notice, letting us pass. All they did was to creep a little closer to my hut.’

‘We’ve got to go,’ Marian cried.

‘Aye,’ John leapt to his feet, lifting down the bows from the nail that they hung on.

Magda stuck her head out of the door and shouted for Tom and James, who were still unaware of this latest trouble.

‘You stay!’ John told Marian. ‘Leave it to us!’

‘But Philippa?’ she cried, torn between concern for her sick lover and her dearest friend. ‘I can’t stay here by the fire, when she’s in such danger.’

‘I can look after the man,’ a small voice spoke up. They turned to Brigit uncertainly.

‘And I can stay with the lass,’ Gerta told them. ‘We played Forestwife together yesterday, now we can do it again. You get off as fast as you can and see that brave and crazy woman safe.’

They did not argue anymore, but turned and ran, Tom leaping onto Rambler and leading the way.

Though they went fast through the woodland paths they slowed as they neared Gerta’s hut, knowing that it wouldn’t do to charge straight in. Tom got down from his horse and led Rambler quietly towards the small hut. Though at first all seemed quiet, the faint snorting and champing of bits and restless brush of hooves in the undergrowth told them what they needed to know.

There were six of the Sheriff’s men creeping slowly towards Gerta’s doorway, swords drawn. Two crouched down beneath Gerta’s small window hole, though it was scarcely big enough for a child to escape through. The band of men were small in number, but well armed and
excited at the prize they thought within their grasp. The reward offered for Robert the Wolveshead, also known as the Hooded One, went up at every court-leet. The new Sheriff would be grateful indeed, to any man who brought him back to Nottingham, dead or alive.

Marian and her friends had no sooner taken stock of the situation than they heard a low cough, followed by a sharp bang that sent clouds of rooks shooting from their nests. Then came the thumping sounds of a struggle and angry shouts. As Marian moved forwards she saw that they’d ripped aside the woven curtain and kicked over the low wattle hurdles that formed a close to keep in Gerta’s geese. Now they hauled out a tall struggling figure dressed in Robert’s forest-dyed hood and short kirtle. Their impulse was to rush forwards and snatch Philippa, but experience held them back, telling them that acting at the right moment was imperative. Meanwhile Gerta’s grey gander made a good job of flying at the men’s eyes, while his companions honked and flapped in panic.

‘We’ve got him!’ the men crowed, warding off the beating wings. Philippa continued to fight.

‘Ah! Damned fellow’s kicked my shins.’

‘Dead or alive?’ another shouted. ‘Hang him! Run him through! Less trouble dead.’

‘Aye, but will Sheriff pay more if he’s alive?’

‘Aye, maybe. Get him on a horse, and get him trussed.’

Philippa was bundled onto the nearest waiting horse.

‘Now,’ John whispered. ‘Before they get moving.’

Without further discussion, Marian and her friends took up their bows, each notching an arrow. They crept
silently forwards, forming a half-circle about the Sheriff’s men. Tom quietly mounted Rambler and urged him slowly on behind them. So quietly did they move and so close in colour to their surroundings were the woodland dyes of their clothing that they had their targets well lined up before one of the men noticed them. The man was so shocked that he couldn’t speak, only croak and point his sword.

‘Give us back our friend,’ John’s voice rang out. ‘Give us our friend and you shall keep your lives.’

‘Give up the Hooded One?’ one of the men growled. ‘You must be mad!’

‘Fools!’ It was Philippa who spoke, her voice full of mocking laughter. ‘Who is it that you think you’ve caught?’ Suddenly she pulled up Robert’s short kirtle, exposing a pair of very female breasts.

The men gaped; their mouths open, eyes wide with astonishment. Marian and Magda could not suppress small snorts of laughter, but Philippa did not waste her moment. She was down from the horse and racing towards her friends in an instant. Tom hauled her up onto Rambler, then turned to gallop fast away, leaving the others to deal with the sheriff’s men.

It was hard to aim carefully whilst holding back laughter, but they somehow managed to send a hail of arrows flying towards the still stunned soldiers. The four who’d pulled Philippa from the hut were killed outright, while the two by the window shot off in the direction of their horses. Magda and John moved to follow them, but could not keep up once the men were mounted and away.

‘Don’t worry,’ Marian called. ‘They’ll not return here in a hurry.’ She chuckled for a moment, then suddenly her laughter fled. She snatched the nearest deserted horse by the reins. ‘I must get back to Robert,’ she cried.

While Marian rode back to the clearing on the stolen horse, Magda, John and James took Gerta’s digging tools and buried the four men secretly in the woods. They set about mending the smashed wattle hurdles, then caught the still squawking geese and returned them to the safety of their close once more. Then when all was neat and secure once more, they set off with three strong new horses for the Forestwife’s clearing.

Philippa and Tom were just ahead of her when Marian arrived back at the cottage. The two women jumped down from their mounts and hugged each other fiercely.

‘How could you?’ Marian cried. ‘Trust you to save yourself so rudely’

‘Well . . . it worked didn’t it?’ Philippa laughed shamelessly. ‘There was no need for you to go rushing out there. I could have sorted out those fools myself!’

‘I swear that’s true,’ said Tom, shaking his head and smiling. ‘Philippa and the grey gander might have managed very well! But now, what of Robert?’

The joy fell from both women’s faces, and they turned towards the cottage.

‘How long has he been like this?’ Marian asked.

‘Almost a se’n night,’ Philippa told her. ‘He seemed to be improving, then slipped back worse than ever. I thought it best to bring him home to you.’

Marian stopped, smiling sadly. ‘Aye, this is his home, though he never spends much time here. It is as much a home as he has ever known. Robert was born here in this clearing. Did you know?’

‘Aye,’ Philippa thrust her arm through her friend’s. ‘I remember his mother Agnes telling me. They have the blessing of the ancient yews, those born in the Forestwife’s clearing, and I have to agree that your Robert is a very remarkable fellow. Something or someone has certainly blessed him!’

As they entered the hut they breathed in the woody scent of fresh marjoram. A sense of calm filled the small room; Robert seemed to be resting quietly, propped up on the straw pallet. He looked a lot cleaner, his cheeks flushed slightly pink.

Marian crouched down at his side and put her hand on his forehead. ‘Much better,’ she sighed with relief. ‘So much better. What have you done?’

Brigit and Gerta sat by the fire, smiling and pleased with themselves. ‘It’s the little lass,’ Gerta insisted. ‘I helped and I did as she told me, but it was the lass’s idea, not mine. We dragged him round to the spring and bathed him – dunked him right in the water. It seemed to soothe him, so we let him have a right good soaking. Then we hauled him out and rubbed him down well with dried lavender and soft lamb’s wool.’

‘It seems you’ve done right.’ Philippa laughed. ‘He looks better than he has since that rock smashed down on his head.’

Marian sniffed at the drained wooden mug that stood on the rushes. ‘Marjoram tea?’ she asked.

Brigit nodded. ‘Mother always said it was good for the head and it was you that told me that the warm spring was magical!’

‘I don’t know that I’d have had the courage to just dunk him in,’ said Marian. ‘Your mother taught you well, Brigit. You are turning into a fine little herbwife.’

Robert slept soundly, all through the afternoon and the next night. He woke the following morning still weak, but recognising them. Marian made him rest and fed him well, full of joy and confidence in his recovery. Though she’d feared him lost beyond hope, her man had returned to her yet again.

As the last days of July came, the charcoal burners and coal-diggers set aside their spades and stacks and gathered at Langden, ready to help with the harvest work. Lammastide celebrated the start of the cutting of the wheat, oats and barley.

Magda loved this time of year, for the first job to be done was not the cutting of the crops, but the clearing out of all the stale stinking rushes that covered the floor of each cottage and hut. The gathering and bringing home of fresh rushes brought the sweet smells of woodland and strewing herbs into every dwelling.

‘We must have a feast now,’ she told Marian. ‘Asking for blessings on the harvest is important. You have always said so.’

‘You and your feasts,’ Marian laughed. But then a shadow of anxiety seemed to touch her face. ‘But, yes,’ she said solemnly. ‘You are right! We must ask blessings on our harvest, before we cut and then be sure to give thanks afterwards. The harvest is always precious, but this year it shall be most precious indeed. And the gleaning. The gleaning must be done so carefully. Not an ear of corn, not a flake of oat must be left behind.’

Magda was pleased to have her feast and she did not notice the anxiety that lay hidden behind Marian’s words. Lammastide brought a fine moonlit night and the clearing was filled with the smells of fresh rushes and roast venison, and they sang and danced until it was late.

Though the harvest made everyone work desperately hard, still a great joyfulness seemed to fill the clearing. So often the women had worked alone, but this year was different. Marian had expected Robert to proclaim himself fit, and go marching off to join some rebel baron, but this time even he spoke of staying to help with the work. If Robert was happy to stay, then so were Tom and James and many more.

As Robert’s strength returned he even busied himself about the clearing, cutting firewood, reeds and rushes, and mending the leaking thatch. He left the wild safety of Barnsdale Woods only to make the occasional foray into Sherwood, returning with welcome fresh meat, venison or sometimes wild boar. The only ones who seemed unsettled
were John and James. They spent much time together deep in conversation, and John, who had always loved the company of his friends, often wandered off without saying a word or telling anyone where he was going.

Marian had never been so happy. Since his bang on the head Robert seemed more gentle and loving than ever before. ‘I swear that flying stone did me a favour,’ she teased as they sat on the doorsill in the late afternoon sun. ‘I could have done with it giving you a good thump on the head twenty years ago.’