Path of the She Wolf (14 page)

‘His serfs and peasants will suffer whichever way,’ Marian said bitterly.

The men stayed in the clearing, licking their wounds, resting and feeding, though Marian’s hard won stocks of food were beginning to dwindle. In the dark evenings they sat about the fires talking and fretting and making plans. Marian clung to Robert in the long nights, knowing this momentary peace could not last for long. A terrible quiet and sense of misery seemed to settle about the place, even though the deaths grew fewer. It was only the happy
return of Magda and Tom towards the end of the month that broke through the gloom. Everyone was amazed and cheered that she should come back with not one child, but seven. John’s leg still troubled him and Marian did her best, but even she could not remove the arrowhead.

Magda insisted that little Eleanor must have a naming feast and no sooner was she back than she sent the men off to make a swift raid on Sherwood. They returned with a cart piled high with deer carcasses.

‘The wardens run in all directions,’ Tom told them. ‘Starvation makes the most law abiding reckless. The deer vanish from beneath their very noses.’

‘Aye,’ said Robert, smiling grimly. ‘But we hear that the Sheriff has sent messengers to the King, begging him send a gang of his best trained men to put a stop to it.’

‘And do you think the King will do it?’ Magda asked.

Robert shrugged his shoulders. ‘The Sheriff is no rebel baron, that’s for sure. He’s supported the King throughout. He’ll find out soon if the King is loyal to him or not!’

‘And we hope not!’ chuckled John.

‘Brig’s Night can be my little Eleanor’s name feast’ Magda told them. And Peterkin is one year old, he must have his birthday celebration. Brig more than answered my prayers for a child, and we’ve had no Christmas, no mumming, no dancing. We must not let Brig’s Night pass in silence.’

Marian hesitated. ‘Well, we have plenty of venison to roast, but little ale to drink.’

Magda was in full spate and there was no stopping her.
‘We don’t need drink to make ourselves a feast. There’s plenty of wood stacked and charcoal. We can celebrate with fire and dancing. Father can play his pipe and James can make a new drum from deer hide.’

Marian could not help but smile. ‘What do you think, John? Is this giddy daughter of yours right? She’s got it all worked out!’

Suddenly everyone was roused and laughing and fetching wood to build a big bonfire. They built it in the open space before the great oak: the trysting tree.

So Magda got her Brig’s Night celebration, and they had a fine bonfire and ate and danced and sang until they were all warm and cheerful. Brigit sat quietly on the doorsill of the new hut watching them with little Peterkin wriggling in her lap.

Tom saw the sadness in her and remembered that Brig’s Night had brought her mother’s death as well as Peterkin’s birth. ‘Will you not dance with me?’ he begged, sitting down beside her. ‘Magda will look after Peterkin for a while.’

Brigit smiled sadly, but shook her head.

‘Your mother would not want to see you sad on your brother’s birthday. Now tell me? Would she want that?’

Brigit gave a great sigh and shook her head again.

‘Magda!’ Tom called. ‘Come take the birthday boy while I dance with his sister.’

‘I’ve been making something for him,’ Magda cried, as she came over to them, little Eleanor tucked into one arm. ‘We’ve nowt to give but love and kisses and . . .’ she brought out from behind her back, a little wreath of
mistletoe. She crowned his curly head with it. ‘Come on, all of you,’ she cried. ‘All the brothers and sisters. We’ll do a special birthday dance for Peterkin.’

Then the cave children followed her, snatching up each other’s hands, while Magda took the birthday boy up into her other arm and jogged gently around the fire, her arms full of babies, singing:

‘
Mistletoe for happiness
,

Mistletoe for luck
,

Mistletoe for a fine little man
,

The sweetest little duck!
’

Peterkin laughed and chortled, his cheeks rosy in the fire-glow. His sister danced happily with Tom, keeping a watchful eye on her brother in case he tired.

Marian danced with James and then John, though she was saddened to see him limping awkwardly. It was only later when the fire was beginning to burn down that she went to Robert. The brief happiness that was all around was so bittersweet, once she’d wrapped her arms around Robert’s neck she wanted desperately to keep him locked there, chained to her forever.

At last, as their feet slowed, and they began to wander exhausted to their beds, a strange distant honking started up in the woodland nearby. For a moment the revellers grew quiet and fearful but then Gerta roused herself from dozing by the Forestwife’s doorsill, crying out, ‘I know that sound! I know it well!’

She struggled to her feet crying ‘Chuck! chuck! chuck!’
and clapping her hands. To everyone’s delight her old grey gander came waddling out from the bushes, still flapping and honking, a neat procession of geese following meekly behind. Everyone cheered and that made him flap and honk more than ever.

Marian went to hug Magda as they returned to their huts. ‘This was all your doing,’ she said. ‘It’s done us more good than the most precious medicine money could buy. You’ll make a fine Forestwife, Magda. You have a very special gift; the gift of making people happy.’

‘It’s been a fine night indeed,’ Robert agreed quietly. ‘But tomorrow we return to shooting practice and sharpening our knives.’

In the third week of February the news they’d dreaded, arrived. Will Stoutley galloped through the woods from Langden with Isabel and Philippa following, driving a cart. It was crammed full of the very youngest and oldest Langden folk and two mothers with tiny babes in their arms.

‘They’re coming back again,’ Will told them. ‘The King rides south from Scarborough, but his men swarm all over the north in murderous gangs. Can you take care of those who cannot fight?’

‘Yes,’ Marian agreed. ‘They’ll have to camp out in the cold but at least they should be safe here.’

‘I must hurry back,’ Isabel insisted. ‘We mean to be ready for them this time. Philippa’s man has worked like a slave to produce arrow heads and knives.’

‘Aye, and you’ll not be alone,’ Robert vowed. At once he was a bundle of energy, striding about the clearing, barking out orders and gathering weapons together.

The men left for Langden in twos and threes, as soon
as they were ready. At dusk Marian looked up from settling the newcomers and making them as comfortable as she could. ‘Where are the men?’ she asked Magda, looking about the clearing.

‘Gone to Langden! Did you not know?’

‘Has Robert gone?’ she asked.

Magda nodded.

‘He never said goodbye!’ Marian whispered, suddenly weepy.

‘It is only to Langden that they’ve gone,’ said Magda, surprised at her distress.

‘Aye,’ Marian frowned, pulling herself together and laughing. ‘Only to Langden, and anyway when did he ever say goodbye?’

The numbers of those who took refuge in the Forestwife’s clearing grew over the next few days, and once again the women had to treat burns and wounds and dig more graves beyond the yew tree grove. Just as mercilessly as before, the wolfpack harried the villages and hamlets of Barnsdale, leaving death and ruin in their path. Sister Rosamund and the younger nuns took to the road again, giving what comfort they could, but this time Mother Veronica stayed behind with two of the other oldest nuns who were just too sick to leave their beds.

Marian’s days were so frantically full of bandaging, poulticing, cauterising wounds and mixing herbs that she scarce knew what day it was and fell exhausted to sleep for a few hours each night. She was up at dawn one morning, wrapped in one of the nun’s warm cloaks, taking round drinks and checking who had survived the cold
night when she heard the familiar stamping rhythm of Rambler’s hooves.

‘I love to hear that sound!’ she murmured, remembering how Tom had first come to her as a desperate, fearful child. And here he was now, husband to Magda and a brave and resourceful man that they all depended on.

Marian went out to meet him, smiling and hoping for better news but Tom’s face was grim.

‘What now?’ she whispered.

‘You must come with me!’ Tom gasped.

‘Why?’ she cried.

‘Get your bundles and herbs. Robert’s wounded.’

‘Where is he?’

‘At the convent,’ Tom was impatient with her questions and she saw that his eyes were wet with tears. ‘John and I carried him there. We’ve had a great fight for Langden and chased the wolfpack off towards Nottingham. But Robert’s got a sword slash, and we’ve taken him to the convent.’

‘Why there?’

‘We dare not stay at Langden. Though the wolfpack may be puzzled, the Sheriff will surely guess who the Hooded Man is who’s defended Langden so fiercely.’

‘But why did you not bring him here?’

Tom shook his head with sorrow. ‘I doubt he’d have made it. There’s no time to waste. Mother Veronica does her best, but says you must come at once and bring your herbs . . . she says bring all your herbs!’

Marian dropped the jug that she carried, her stomach lurched, then turned to the heaviness of lead as the picture
came into her mind of Agnes scrubbing washing at the blood red spring.

‘All the herbs! All the herbs!’ she muttered as she turned and ran back to the cottage, Tom following close behind. She snatched up her bundles and medicines, hesitating only for a moment before reaching up to the high shelf to take down the forbidden herbs. Tom spoke quickly to Magda, blowing her and the babe a kiss, then, without further ado, he pulled Marian up behind him onto Rambler’s wide saddle and turned to leave. As he urged his horse to a canter Marian twisted around seeing Magda’s white worried face in the misty morning. She stood by the doorsill with Eleanor in her arms and Brigit clinging to her side; little Peterkin pulling himself up onto wobbly legs.

‘I should have given her the girdle,’ she muttered pulling the stolen nun’s cloak that she still wore tightly about her.

John was looking out anxiously for them as they galloped up to the quiet woodland convent. Marian leapt down from the horse and ran to him.

‘How is he?’

John shook his head and looked away. Another wave of sickness swam through Marian’s belly at the misery she saw in his eyes. But John himself was bleeding once again for the old wound in his thigh had opened up. Through force of habit she put her fingers gently down to touch the place.

John pushed her gently away. ‘Nay! Go to him!’ he insisted. ‘Tom and I stand guard!’

Robert had been put to rest in the Prioress’s own bed. The old nun was kneeling beside him, stoop-backed, her lips moving in silent prayer.

‘Robert!’ Marian marched in full of a sudden, senseless, bitter anger. ‘You went off to Langden, and you never said goodbye.’

The wounded man stirred slightly and Mother Veronica pulled herself upright, reaching to kiss Marian’s cheek. ‘I’m sorry Marian, so sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I fear that now is truly your time to say goodbye.’

‘No! I have brought my herbs and all my medicines!’ Marian cried.