The Forest (12 page)

She was still arranging her hair, though, when another thought occurred to Adela. What if Walter and the lady should leave before they got there? She had better make sure they didn’t. Walter could hardly go if she told him the widow was on her way.

‘I’ll meet you by the royal palace entrance,’ she cried and hurried back through the street, praying she was not already too late.

All was well, however. The porter assured her they were
still inside. She waited by the doorway, but then, as it was cold and she felt a little foolish, she asked the porter if she might step inside. Having seen her do so before, he made no objection, and agreed to send the widow in the moment she arrived.

‘She is an old friend of my cousin Tyrrell’s,’ Adela explained, feeling much happier now.

Between the outer door and the great hall there was a smaller hall or vestibule. Here Adela waited. She had carefully prepared herself. If they suddenly left the great hall and came upon her she would smile easily and say that she had only returned because the widow was on her way. She was sure she could carry it off. She rehearsed it repeatedly. But they did not come. She began to grow restless. Was it possible that they could have gone out some other way? She listened at the heavy door to the hall but heard nothing. She paced, listened again, hesitated. And cautiously began to open the door.

They were standing together. Both were already wrapped in their cloaks and Walter had on his feathered cap – evidently they were on the point of leaving. But they had paused in front of a wall hanging depicting a hunting scene.

Walter was just behind her shoulder, leaning over her, pointing to something in the scene. His cheek was near to hers, but that was not so strange. He drew away from her, just a little and she leaned towards him. There was something teasing and familiar in the gesture. His hand lowered, she half turned. And, there could be no possible mistaking it, his hand rested, just for a moment or two, holding her breast. The Lady Maud smiled. Then she saw Adela.

They sprang apart. The lady, turning away to pull her cloak more tightly around herself, took a step or two towards the wall hanging. Walter, looking straight at Adela, glowered as though he fully expected her to be swallowed up by the ground.

What did it mean? Were they lovers or was this just the sort of flirtation which, she knew, happened all the time in courtly circles? What did this imply about the lady’s feelings for her husband? It was this thought, suddenly arising in her mind, that caused her to remain there motionless, staring at them stupidly.

‘What the devil are you doing in the king’s hall?’ Walter was far too clever to show anything but anger. Even in her dazed confusion she noticed how quickly he had managed to make her the criminal – a trespasser on the king’s property.

She blurted out that the widow wanted to see him, that they had come together. Somehow it sounded foolish, especially when Walter asked ‘Well, where is she?’ and she wasn’t there.

‘The Lady Maud is leaving now,’ he said curtly. Whether he even believed the widow was coming Adela could not tell.

The Lady Maud, repossessed of her dignity, walked straight towards the door as though Adela did not exist. But suddenly, struck by a thought, she stopped and looked at Adela. ‘The whole county knows you’re looking for a husband,’ she said sweetly. ‘But I don’t think you’ll have much luck. I wonder why.’

It was too much. First their contemptuous treatment of her, then the little scene of infidelity, and now this brazen insult. Well, let them discover she could hit back. ‘If I do marry,’ she replied with a calm tone she was proud of, ‘I’m sure I shall honour my husband. And give him a child.’ It was a devastating counter-blow. She knew it and she didn’t care. She watched the other woman’s face for a reaction.

But to her surprise the Lady Maud only drew her two red lips into a bow and glanced at Walter with a small look of triumph. ‘I’m afraid you will soon get a reputation for having a vicious tongue,’ she remarked. ‘An untruthful one, too,’ she added carefully. Then she continued on her way to the door, which Walter held open for her. Adela expected
him to turn his back and leave at this point, but instead he remained there, holding the door open for her too and indicating that she should walk out with him. Slightly dazed, a few moments later, she found herself walking after the Lady Maud, with Walter following, into the cold air outside. The lady was helped into the wagon and Walter prepared to mount his horse.

But before he did so, he gestured that Adela should draw close to him. ‘I think you should know’, he said in a low voice, ‘that when I arrived at Hugh de Martell’s the other day, he told me some good news. The Lady Maud has recently discovered she is expecting a child.’ He looked her bleakly in the eye. ‘You’ve just made two more enemies – her and her husband. For you can be sure she’ll speak to him against you. I should take care if I were you.’ He swung up into the saddle and they moved off.

They had passed out through the gate when the widow appeared, hurrying towards her, too late.

There was a frost that night. Adela did not sleep well. She had made a fool of herself again. She had secured the undying hatred of the Lady Maud and probably the enmity of Hugh de Martell as well. Walter must finally be sick of her. She was alone in the world without any friend. But even all these troubles might at last have faded as she passed into unconsciousness, had it not been for one stark fact, which arose, again and again, driving away the clouds of sleep before it. His wife was going to give Martell a child.

In the morning a wind from the north came down from the ridges and dusted the city with snow; and it seemed to Adela that the world had grown very cold.

Edgar usually enjoyed the winter months. They were hard of course. The grasses shrank down to tiny, pale tussocks. Frost came, and snow. The deer fed mostly on holly and ivy, and heather. In the worst conditions they would even gnaw tree bark for nutrients. The sturdy wild ponies, who
would munch almost anything, would feed on the spiky gorse. By the end of January many of the animals were becoming gaunt; the ponies moved about less, conserving energy. It was nature’s testing time and some animals would not survive.

Yet many did. Even when the birds skimmed low and in vain over the bleak, snowy heath and the solitary owl flapped on his quest through the bare trees and saw no prey, still it seemed to Edgar that the peaty earth below retained its warmth. The frosts covering its surface were broken by the slotting footfalls of the delicate deer. The larks and warblers somehow found food, and foxes stole from farms. Squirrels, jays, magpies all had their own stores; the smallholders fed their cattle. And at various places in the Forest the foresters, when necessary, put out food for the deer to ensure their survival.

Once, riding across the Forest, he had seen the pale doe feeding and this had reminded him once again of Adela.

He had wanted to go and see her in Winchester. It was his father who had always stopped him. ‘Leave her alone. She wants a Norman,’ he had advised. Then Cola had told him she already had an offer of marriage. In November he had informed his son that Adela had almost no dowry and in December he had told him rather brutally: ‘No point in marrying a woman who will always look down on you because you’re only a Saxon huntsman.’ But even these arguments might not have kept Edgar away, if it had not been for one other consideration.

Edgar had never fathomed exactly how his father came by his information. Was it the friends he had made on the royal hunts who kept him informed? Strange people with messages would appear from time to time. Or was it his monthly visits to an old friend up at the castle of Sarum? Or other sources encountered on his occasional unexplained absences? Who knew? ‘Maybe it’s the forest owls talking to him,’ Edgar’s brother had once suggested. Whatever it was,
the old man heard things and during that winter Edgar could see that he was becoming worried. In November he had sent his older son to London to attend to a matter of business, which was to keep him there some months. To Edgar the old man had grunted: ‘You stay here. I need you with me.’

When Edgar had ventured, once or twice, to ask his father what was on his mind, Cola had been evasive, but when he had frankly asked ‘You fear another plot against the king?’ his father had not denied it. ‘Dangerous times, Edgar,’ he had muttered and refused to be drawn any further.

The possibilities for intrigue were so many that Edgar could hardly guess from which quarter the danger might be coming now. There were the supporters of Robert, of course; and one of these held the lands on the forest’s southern coast. But further behind might be the King of France, fearful of an attack on his own territory if aggressive Rufus became his neighbour in Normandy. Or it could be something less obvious. Only four years before there had been a plot to assassinate Rufus and put his sister’s husband, the French Count of Blois on the throne. Tyrrell’s relations, the powerful family of Clare, had been involved in that before they suddenly changed sides and warned Rufus of his danger. And as they had already been involved in other plots in the past it seemed clear to Edgar that the Clares, including their henchmen like Tyrrell, were not to be trusted. The Church, with no reason to love Rufus, would hardly be sorry to see him fall either.

But why should these great affairs worry his father so much? Whoever the next king was, he would probably be glad of the services of the expert forester and Cola had always been good at staying out of trouble. Why, then, should he be so concerned? Was he implicated? It remained a puzzle.

Edgar was a dutiful son. He did not go to Winchester. He
stayed at his father’s side, patrolled the Forest and made sure that most of the deer came safely through the winter.

Towards the end of the season another rumour reached England. Robert of Normandy, on his way back from crusade – where he had fought rather well – had stopped in southern Italy. Not only was he given a crusading hero’s welcome there, but it seemed he had found a bride who would bring him a fabulous dowry. ‘Enough to pay off the loan and get back Normandy,’ Cola remarked. For some reason the Italians were also calling Robert the King of England. ‘God knows what that means,’ Cola continued, ‘but even if he pays off the loan, Rufus isn’t going to let him back into Normandy. He’ll use force. And then Robert’s friends will be after Rufus’s blood.’

‘I still don’t see why this need affect us in the Forest,’ Edgar commented. But his father only shook his head and refused to say more.

Another month passed and there was no more news from any quarter. Except, of course, the worrying news from Hugh de Martell.

When Adela saw Hugh de Martell standing at the door of her lodgings, for a moment she could not hardly believe it.

There had been a shower, which had cleared, leaving the streets glistening in the watery sun. A sharp, early spring breeze had given her cheeks a flush and made them slightly numb, as she went for a quick walk round the cathedral precincts and the market.

She gave a little involuntary gasp. His tall, handsome form was so exactly as she always saw him in her mind’s eye. She thought she would have known him even if he were halfway across the Forest. Yet he also looked different and as he turned towards her she was even more struck by the change.

‘They told me you would be back soon.’ He seemed almost relieved to see her.

What could this mean? Why had he come? Walter had assured her that the Lady Maud would turn Martell against her; but it did not seem so.

He smiled, but it was clear that there was strain on his face. ‘May we walk?’

‘Certainly.’ She indicated the way towards St Swithuns and he fell into step beside her. ‘Are you in Winchester for long?’

‘Only an hour or two, I think.’ He glanced down at her. ‘You have not heard. But of course, why should you? My wife is ill.’ He shook his head. ‘Very ill.’

‘Oh. I’m sorry.’

‘Perhaps it is because she is with child, I do not know. No one knows.’ He made a gesture of helplessness.

‘And so you are here …?’

‘There is a doctor. A skilful Jew. He has attended the king. They told me he was to be found here in Winchester.’

She had heard of this personage, even seen him once – a rather magnificent, black-bearded man who had been staying for the last week as a guest of the keeper at the royal treasury.

‘He is out riding with some of his king’s men,’ Martell continued. ‘But they are expected back in an hour or two. I hope you did not mind my coming to your lodgings. I know no one in Winchester.’

‘No.’ She was not sure what to say. He was pacing beside her, his long strides, so full of nervous energy, carefully kept slow so that she should not need to hurry. ‘I am glad to see you.’

Why had he come to her? Glancing up at his face, so full of worry and concern, she suddenly realized. Of course, this strong man was also an ordinary man, with feelings like any other. He was in anguish. He was lonely. He had come to her to be comforted. A wave of tenderness passed through her. ‘They say the Jewish doctors have great skill,’ she suggested. The Normans had a high regard for the learning
of the Jews, which went back to classical times. It had been the Conqueror who established the Jewish community in England and his son Rufus particularly favoured them at his court. ‘I’m sure he will cure her.’

‘Yes.’ He stared ahead absently. ‘Let us hope so.’ They walked on together in silence for a short distance. The cathedral loomed ahead. ‘Winchester is a fine city,’ he remarked, in a brave effort to make conversation. ‘Do you like it?’