The Forest (11 page)

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?’

She told him she did. She talked about recent small events in the city, of people who had passed through – anything that might distract his mind from his worries for a while. And she could see that he was grateful. But she also saw, after a time, that he wanted to return to his thoughts and so she said no more and they continued in silence together round St Swithuns.

‘The child is due at the start of summer,’ he said suddenly. ‘We have waited so long.’

‘Yes.’

‘My wife is a wonderful woman,’ he added. ‘Brave, gentle, kind.’ Adela nodded quietly to this also. What could she say? That she knew his wife to be timid, small-minded and vicious? ‘She is devoted. She is loyal.’

The memory of the lady standing close to Tyrrell, the sight of his hand moving to her breast and remaining there, came into Adela’s mind with terrible vividness. ‘Of course.’ How good he was. A thousand times too good for the Lady Maud, she thought. Yet here she was, because she must, quietly acquiescing in his self-deception.

They said little more as they made their way back towards her lodgings and were getting near the city gate when they saw a party of horsemen ride in among whom, unmistakably, was the impressive figure of the Jew.

Martell started forward, checked himself and turned. ‘My dear Lady Adela.’ He took her two hands in his. ‘Thank you for keeping me company at such a time.’ He looked into her eyes with real tenderness. ‘Your kindness means so much to me.’

‘It was nothing.’

‘Well …’ He hesitated. ‘I know you only a little, but I feel that I can talk to you.’

Talk to her – as she looked up into his manly, troubled face, how she wished she could respond truthfully. How she wished she could say: ‘You are grieving over a woman completely unworthy of you.’ Dear heaven, she thought, if I were in the Lady Maud’s place I should love you, I should honour you. She could have screamed it. ‘I should always be glad to be of help to you at any time,’ she said simply.

‘Thank you.’ He smiled, bowed his head respectfully and turned away, striding purposefully towards the horsemen.

She did not see him again in the days that followed. The Jewish doctor departed with him and returned a week later due to stay at Winchester, she learned, until Easter when the king was expected there. She made enquiries and learned that though the Lady Maud was still alive and, miraculously, had not lost the child so far, the Jew could not answer for whether she would survive or not.

More days passed. It grew a little warmer. Adela reflected. She pondered.

Then, early one morning, leaving only a message for her hostess, she rode out of Winchester alone. In the message, which was deliberately vague, she begged her friend to say nothing and promised to return by nightfall the following day. She did not say where she was going.

Godwin Pride, it was plain to see, felt rather pleased with himself. He was standing outside his cottage holding a rope. At the other end of the rope was a brown cow. His wife and three of his children were looking at it. A robin on the fence was also watching with interest.

Godwin Pride had come through the winter well enough. At the end of the autumn he had killed most of the pigs he had turned out on the acorn mast and salted them. He had eggs from his chickens, milk from his few cows; there were preserves from his apple trees and dried vegetables. As a commoner of the Forest he also had his right of Turbary, which gave him turf fuel. He had stayed snug in his cottage, kept his small stock alive and emerged into the Forest’s spring in good humour.

He had also bought a new cow. ‘It was a bargain,’ he declared. He had walked with it from Brockenhurst.

‘Oh? What did you pay?’ asked his wife.

‘Never you mind. It was a bargain.’

‘We don’t need another cow.’

‘She’s a good milker.’

‘And I’m the one who’ll have to look after her. Where did you get the money, anyway?’

‘Never you mind about that.’

She looked suspicious. The children watched silently. The robin on the fence looked a bit quizzical too.

‘And where are we going to put her?’ By which she meant, in winter. Was he going to build another cow stall? There really wasn’t space for one more beast in the little cattle pen. Surely he wasn’t intending to try to enlarge that again after being caught out last year. ‘You can’t enlarge the pen,’ she said.

‘Don’t you worry. I’ve got something else in mind. It’s all planned, that is. All planned.’ And, although he refused to be drawn, he looked more pleased with himself than ever. Even the robin seemed impressed.

And the fact that he had bought the cow on impulse, that there was no plan, that he hadn’t the faintest idea how he was going to accommodate it next winter, did not unduly trouble him. There was the whole long Forest spring and summer to think about that. Sometimes, as his wife knew so well, he could be like a little boy. But if she was thinking of arguing any more she never got the chance.

For it was at this moment that Adela appeared, walking her horse towards them.

‘Now what the devil can she want?’ Godwin Pride exclaimed.

It was late afternoon when the two figures came down from the plateau of Wilverley Plain – a huge level heath almost two miles in extent where the Forest ponies grazed with nothing around them but the open sky. Adela was walking her horse; just ahead of her, on a sturdy pony, Godwin Pride led the way. He did so very unwillingly.

The clouds were clearing from the sky to reveal, against the blue, the silver crescent of a waxing moon. There was a hint of spring warmth in the air. Adela was glad to be back in the Forest, even if she was a little afraid of what she was doing.

They had taken the track westwards from the central section of the Forest, up across the heathland of Wilverley, and were now about four miles west of Brockenhurst. Ahead of them lay a stretch of oak wood. To continue straight would lead down into the large dell where the dark little village of Burley lay. Instead, therefore, they cut right, through some woods and down a slope known as Burley Rocks. Crossing a big empty area of marshy lawn, they took a little track that led along the edge of some moorland. ‘That’s Burley moor on our right,’ Pride told her. ‘White Moor lies ahead. And that’ – he indicated a tummock on top of which a single tree seemed to be waving its arms distractedly – ‘is Black Hill.’ The track suddenly turned left, leading down to a stream, running swiftly as it made a sharp turn, like a crook in a man’s arm. ‘Narrow Water,’ he said. On the right, along the stream was a boggy area infested with stunted oaks, holly, birch and a tangled mass of saplings and bushes. And just past this, quite alone, stood an untidy collection of huts and a mud cabin with a roof made of branches, twigs and moss through which wisps of smoke were seeping.