The Forest (17 page)

‘Yes. In a good few quarters. And never more than at present.’ He paused. ‘And so if Rufus were to have an accident in the Forest, those people, whoever they are, would think it convenient.’

‘An accident to the king?’

‘You forget. The royal family are rather prone to accidents in the Forest.’

It was true. Years ago a fourth son of the Conqueror, Richard, had been killed as a young man by riding into a tree in the New Forest. And one of Rufus’s nephews, a bastard son of his brother Robert, had been killed by a stray arrow in the Forest even more recently.

Even so. A king! Edgar was thunderstruck. ‘You mean Rufus is to have an accident?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘When?’

‘Perhaps this afternoon.’

‘And you know?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘And if you know, you must have some part in it.’

‘I did not say that.’

‘You could not refuse? To know, I mean.’

‘These are powerful people, Edgar. Very powerful. Our position – mine, one day yours – is difficult.’

‘But you know who is behind it?’

‘No. I’m not sure that I do. Powerful people have spoken to me. But things are not always what they seem.’

‘It’s to happen today?’

‘Perhaps. But perhaps not. Remember, Rufus was to be killed in a wood once before, but one of the Clares changed his mind at the last moment. Nothing is ever certain. It may happen. It may not.’

‘But Father …’ Edgar was gazing at him with concern now. ‘I won’t ask you what your part in this may be, but are you sure that, whatever happens, they won’t blame you? You’re only a Saxon huntsman.’

‘True. But I don’t think so. I know too much and’ – he smiled – ‘through your brother in London I’ve taken certain precautions. I think I’ll be safe.’

‘Won’t they need someone to blame, then?’

‘Good. I see you’ve got a head on your shoulders. They will. He’s already been chosen, as a matter of fact. That I know. And they’ve chosen very well. A clever fool, who thinks he’s part of the charmed circle, but who actually knows very little.’

‘Who’s that?’

‘Walter Tyrrell.’

‘Tyrrell?’ Edgar gave a tiny whistle. ‘You mean his own family, the Clares, would sacrifice him?’

‘Did I say the Clares were involved?’

‘No, Father.’ He smiled. ‘You said nothing.’

Tyrrell. Adela felt herself go cold. Her cousin Walter was being set up, just like a target. God knows what danger he was in. Her throat went dry at the thought that she, too, was witness to such a terrible secret. Trembling, afraid that the sound of her own thumping heartbeat might give her away, she stole back.

What should she do? Her mind was in a whirl. But in the cool grey darkness her duties began to loom like ghosts before her. They were planning to kill the king. It was a crime before God. There was none more terrible. Yet was he her king? She did not think so. Her loyalty was actually to Robert until such time as she married a vassal of the English king. But Walter was her kinsman. She might not
like him; he might not be very loyal to her. But he was her kinsman and she had to save him.

Very quietly she began to get dressed. After a little while, through her open window, she saw Cola ride out alone in the half-darkness. He had a bow and a quiver on his back.

She waited until he was out of sight. The house was quiet. Cautiously, she climbed out of her window and let herself down to the ground.

She had not realized, in her nervousness, that as she went to the window Martell’s letter had fallen to the floor.

Dawn was just breaking when Puckle set off with his cart. Cola had told him to go to the lodge at Brockenhurst where there would be further instructions, and to be prepared to carry any deer killed to wherever he was directed.

His wife saw him off. As they parted she remarked: ‘You won’t be back tonight.’

‘I won’t?’

‘No.’

He gave her a curious look, then went upon his way.

Adela had been careful. Saddling her horse in the darkness, she had not mounted but led him carefully out, keeping on the grassy verge beside the path to minimize the sound until she was well away from Cola’s manor. Then she rode slowly across the valley and up into the Forest.

It was terrible to her that she should miss Martell, yet what could she do? She could not send word to him. Neither could she abandon Walter to his fate. When she reached the castle at Burley she waited as long as she dared, until the sun was well over the horizon, in the hope that he might come early. But he did not. Then it occurred to her to ask Puckle or one of his family to wait there with a message and she rode down to the narrow stream in the hope of finding them. But, unaccountably, none of them was there, and she did not dare go into Burley and start
gossip by asking some stranger from the dark village to deliver her message.

So she gave up. Perhaps, she prayed, if she could find Walter quickly, she might even be able to return to Castle Hill while Martell was still there. She rode on quickly, therefore, anxious not to be late.

As it happened, she need not have hurried.

The movements of King William II, known as Rufus, at the start of August in the Year of Our Lord 1100, are tolerably well known. On the first of the month he issued a charter, from the lodge at Brockenhurst. He ate with his friends and later went to bed.

But then he slept badly. As a result, instead of leaving at dawn, the sun was well over the horizon and glistening on the treetops by Brockenhurst before he finally stirred to join his waiting courtiers.

They were a small, select company. There was Robert FitzHamon, an old friend; William, the keeper of the treasury of Winchester; two other Norman barons. There were three of the powerful family of Clare, who had once nearly betrayed him. And there was his younger brother Henry – dark-haired, energetic, yet self-contained. Ruthless, some said, like his father. And lastly there was Walter Tyrrell.

As the red-headed king sat down on a bench and started to pull on his boots, an armourer appeared with half a dozen newly forged arrows to present to the king.

Rufus took them, inspected them and smiled. ‘Beautifully made. Perfect weight. Supple shaft. Well done,’ he congratulated the armourer. Then, looking over to Tyrrell, he remarked: ‘You take two of them, Walter. You’re the best marksman.’ And as Tyrrell accepted them, beaming, he added with his harsh laugh: ‘You’d better not miss!’

There followed some of the usual courtly banter, to keep
the king amused. Then a monk appeared. This did not particularly please Rufus, who barely tolerated churchmen, at best. But since the lugubrious fellow insisted on delivering an urgent letter from his abbot, the king shrugged and took it.

After he had read it he laughed. ‘Now, Walter, don’t you forget what I told you. You’d better not miss with my arrows,’ he remarked to Tyrrell; then, turning to the general company: ‘Can you believe what this Gloucestershire abbot writes. One of his monks has had a dream. He saw an apparition. Of me, if you please. Suffering hellfire, no doubt.’ He grinned. ‘I should think half the monks in England dream of me in torment.’ He waved the letter. ‘So he sits down and writes a letter to let me know and sends it halfway across England to warn me to be careful. And this man, God help us, is an abbot! You’d have thought he’d have more sense.’

‘Let’s go hunting, Sire,’ somebody said.

It was well into the morning before Hugh de Martell set off from his manor. For some reason his wife had chosen that morning, of all mornings, to delay him with one small matter after another so that finally he had been forced to leave her quite abruptly. It had made him feel guilty and bad-tempered. He pushed his horse along at a canter down the long lane that led over the chalk ridge.

He was not unduly worried, though. He felt sure Adela would wait.

Edgar was quite astonished when one of the servants said that Adela’s horse was missing. It was mid-morning and he had kept himself busy; he had not noticed Adela but had assumed that she was somewhere about the place. It seemed odd that he had not seen her go out for a ride. When someone else assured him that her horse had gone before dawn, he went straight to her chamber. There he found Martell’s message.

He did not need to read Norman French to understand it. He could make out the letters: ‘Burley Castle’ and ‘Hugh’. Minutes later he was riding out.

She had disobeyed his father and he was supposed to look after her. That was the first thing. But then there was the matter of Martell. For that was what the letter and her absence must mean. She had gone out to meet him.

He had been suspicious when Martell had called to see her, but to say anything would have been insulting. That Martell had an eye for women, that he had indulged in love affairs on the Forest borders from time to time, was something Cola had told him long ago. It had not shocked him. The lords of the feudal world were as used to getting their way as the powerful are in any generation. He had supposed that with the dangerous condition of his wife, Martell would desist for a bit. Seeing Adela at a loose end, he supposed the rich landlord was unable to let such a chance slip. The fact that he, Edgar, wanted to marry her, if he knew it, would certainly not deter him. Probably spur him on, Edgar thought, to prove his superiority.

But what did he mean to do? He hardly knew. Observe them first, he thought. Try to discover what was going on. Confront them? Fight? He was not sure.

It was not long before he had left the valley. He only had to make a small detour of about a mile to pass unseen to the north of their meeting place and then approach it quietly from behind, through the trees. Feeling like a spy, he tethered his horse to a tree when he got near and advanced on foot.

There was no trace of them. Their horses were not there. He looked out, scanning the heath below and saw no sign of any movement. Were they somewhere nearby, hidden from view in the bracken or the long grass? He searched about, but found nothing.

They had been and gone. They had ridden off together. And then? He knew he must not imagine too much, but it
was impossible. With a sick feeling in his stomach, it seemed to him that he knew it. They were together.

His nerves strung taut, his pulse beating fast, he rode about, asking in Burley if they had been seen and looking out over various nearby high points. There was nothing. He returned slowly to the valley, thinking to check back at his home. Perhaps, he told himself, he had been mistaken. But if not he would come back to the Forest and try again.

Adela had been cautious as she approached Brockenhurst. On the one hand she had to find Walter, but on the other she must avoid Cola. She certainly could not tell the old man why she had disobeyed his orders and he would probably send her home before she could accomplish her mission.

As she came close to the royal hunting lodge, however, she had what seemed to be a piece of luck. She saw Puckle, standing alone by his cart. When she asked him where the king’s party were, he looked thoughtful, then said that they had gone northwards, somewhere above Lyndhurst.

This was good news indeed. The area was wooded. Perhaps she could intercept Walter without being spotted. Asking Puckle to say nothing of having seen her she set off, with a lighter heart, towards the north.

Not until some time after her husband had left did the Lady Maud stir from her usual position of resting in the solar. But when she did she astonished the entire household by demanding not only her outdoor clothes but that her horse should be saddled as well.

‘You do not mean to ride, My Lady?’ her maidservant enquired anxiously.

‘Yes. I do.’

‘But My Lady, you are so weak.’

It was true that, after so much inactivity, the Lady Maud was hardly steady on her feet. But despite all the woman’s remonstrances she insisted: ‘I shall ride.’ There was nothing
they could do about it. One brave servant ventured to say that the master would not like it, but was cut with such a mean little look that he shrivelled back against the wall.

‘That is between me and him, not you,’ she said coldly and told them to bring the horse round to the door.

Moments later, while the groom held the bridle, they were helping her to mount.

‘Please, My Lady, you could fall,’ the groom now begged. ‘Let me at least accompany you.’

‘No.’ Abruptly she turned her horse’s head away and started off at a walk. So she proceeded, wobbling once or twice, pale-faced, looking straight ahead, all the way down the long village street, while the cottagers came out to watch her pass. She started up the track that her husband had taken. She swayed, seemed about to fall, but pressed on.

She was following him. Her journey was instinctive. Did she know that she had lost his love? She sensed it. Did she know he had gone to another woman? She guessed it. And something in her, an animal knowledge, told her she must get well, and ride and take him back. So that August day she rode out in front of them all, kept in the saddle by her will alone. At the top of the rise she urged her horse into a canter, and those who saw it below gasped and muttered: ‘Dear God, she will be killed.’

The king’s hunting party had set out gaily from Brockenhurst, accompanied by Cola.

‘My faithful huntsman. I can always trust you to do everything perfectly.’ Rufus was in a good humour. His sharp eyes bored into the old huntsman; then he laughed. ‘I don’t want to drive the deer into your great trap today, my friend. I want to hunt the woods.’