Path of the She Wolf (16 page)

It was at dusk that a small procession set out from the convent. John, James, Tom and Philippa carefully carried the bodies of their friends, lying together in a new-made litter. Isabel walked ahead with Will, carrying flaming torches to light the way. Mother Veronica and the nuns followed behind. They set off walking slowly through the woods, heading for the Forestwife’s clearing in the gathering gloom. As they passed the coal-diggers’ huts close to the convent, some of the ragged, dusty children stood silently by a glowing wood fire, watching out for them. There came the sounds of their soft voices whispering, hushed and reverent.

‘They come, mother, they come.’

‘The Hooded One is here and the Forestwife.’

Then out from the crumbling hovels came the coal-diggers and their wives with babies strapped to their backs. Old men and women hobbled out on sticks and each of
them, both young and old, carried a rush-light that they lit at their fire.

John was moved to tears once more and stopped, his huge frame trembling.

‘It is too much,’ he cried. ‘Too much to bear.’

Philippa took his hand in hers. ‘We are not alone,’ she told him. ‘You see, they tell us that we are not alone. It is not just us who have lost our dearest friends.’

John’s wounded thigh bled slowly.

‘You do not need to help us carry them,’ Tom whispered. ‘There are plenty of us to do the work.’

John shook his head and moved forwards again. ‘Nay, I must do it,’ he insisted. ‘This night shall never come again.’

The procession moved on, and the coal-diggers quietly followed behind. As they passed beneath the trees shadows lengthened and the woodlands grew darker with every step they took. But though the night sky turned to black above them, a new, flickering source of light began to grow and spread all about.

Out from the charcoal burners’ huts came more ragged workers. Mothers with children in their arms and on their backs; strong men with scarred, disfigured faces, missing fingers, maimed hands; hooded lepers stumbling behind, keeping their distance; each and everyone of them carrying a starlike rush-light. Their numbers grew and grew.

The word had gone ahead and by the time they reached the Forestwife’s clearing, the darkest night was lit by thousands of rush-lights. The circling yew tree grove thronged
with silent crowds that moved respectfully back as the procession arrived and went towards the burial ground.

Philippa and Tom set about digging the grave at once, for they feared angry retribution when the remainder of the wolfpack returned to the King. Such retribution could be terrible and desecration of an outlaw’s body might serve as dire warning to those who thought they might rebel too.

Clouds cleared and a bright moon at last lit the clearing. There were many to help with the work. They made John sit with Magda, who refused to stay inside, insisting on sitting out there, beside the grave, her child wrapped in her arms. So father and daughter sat close together, tears coursing down their cheeks. They watched as they saw a deep pit grow that was wide enough for two.

‘Agnes gave warning,’ Magda sobbed. ‘Agnes gave warning and I feared for myself, not them.’

‘Nothing we could have done would have prevented it,’ John told her.

Then suddenly Magda was anxious that all should be done well and properly. ‘Primroses,’ she cried. ‘Fetch leaves to put beneath them,’ she sobbed. ‘And primroses to sprinkle on top.’

The distant sound of howling wolves could be heard as Gerta and Brigit organised a gang of young folk who rushed to obey Magda’s wish. A great hunt took place in the moonlight and children emerged from the shadowy foliage with bundles of fresh picked primroses in their hands.

At last they prepared to gently lay Robert and Marian side by side to rest.

‘Wait,’ said John. ‘There is something we must do.’

He bent with trembling hands to loosen the beautiful woven girdle from Marian’s waist: the symbol of the Forestwife. He wept afresh for as he lifted it the girdle fell apart where the arrows had cut through the intricately woven bands.

Tears poured down his face. ‘All is wrong!’ he cried. ‘This was meant for you daughter.’

Magda stared. She put out her hand, still cradling baby Eleanor, and took hold of the three separate strands. She looked puzzled for a moment, but then she smiled through her tears. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I understand. I think I understand. This is right. Marian knew it should be like this. There is not to be one Forestwife, but three.’

The people all around them gasped when they heard her, but Magda went on, growing in conviction. She turned to Brigit, who stood at her side, calm and helpful as ever, Peterkin sleeping on her back. ‘One is for you,’ she said and quickly fastened the still beautiful loose strand about the girl’s slim waist.

Brigit opened her mouth to protest but then closed it as Magda solemnly kissed her brow. Then Magda turned to Gerta who stood there on her other side.

‘What?’ the old woman protested. ‘For me? You want to give it to me?’

‘Yes,’ said Magda. ‘Your kindness and wisdom has helped us through so much and now we stand in greater need of it than ever. Will you stay here with us in the
clearing, and comfort all those who are full of sorrow as you have been doing?’

A ripple of approval ran through the watching crowd as the old woman fastened the strand about her waist with shaking fingers.

‘Now it’s your turn,’ Gerta said. ‘Come help me, Brigit, and together we three shall try to be as good a Forestwife as she who we have lost this day.’

So they tied the third strand around Magda’s still slightly thickened waist and little Eleanor’s foot somehow got tied up in it too. There were smiles and whispers went flying through the crowd as they released her.

‘That little one shall be Forestwife too, some day’

Then more murmurs of approval came. ‘Look at them. It must be right.’

‘The Old One, the Mother and the Maid.’

‘It is meant to be!’

Then John stooped once more and took from Robert’s lifeless body, the worn and faded hood that he had always worn. He held it up, like a crown, so that everyone could see.

‘We called him the Green Man,’ he said. ‘He was young and strong and fearless when he danced at our Mayday Feast. But then, when bitter trouble came to us, he led our fight and we called him the Hooded One. His spirit and his fight for justice must not be allowed to die.’

He swung round and held out the hood to Tom.

‘But you . . . you should take his place, if any
can
,’ Tom protested.

John shook his head. ‘I am old and sick and weary of
it all. You are the one. This wound of mine troubles me sore. It is too late for me.’

‘No!’ Magda cried out. ‘We will nurse you and make you strong again. Brigit shall mix up potions and I shall make you live for my child.’

‘Dearest daughter,’ he said, taking her into his arms. ‘There is naught that you can do to heal this slow and aching wound. I am so happy to have seen this strong child of yours, but you must let me go now. I wish to return to the mist-filled valley of Hathersage, the place where I was born.’

Magda thought she could not bear so much sorrow all at once, but Gerta spoke softly to her. ‘You must be strong and let him go. You must let a bird fly free,’ she said. ‘That is the only way that it can be happy.’

Magda sighed and gritted her teeth. She looked up from her father to Tom. ‘Yes. You must take Robert’s hood, my husband,’ she told him. ‘You must now be the Hooded One.’

‘Yes, yes,’ agreement came from all around.

Tom kissed Magda, then bowed his head and allowed John to fasten the hood around his neck.

The children came forwards and threw their flowers into the grave, covering the two who lay there together. Magda clung to John, while Tom and Philippa took up their spades and filled the primrose-scented space with earth, and piled it high.

As the first light fingers of dawn touched the dark woods, a lithe shape emerged from the undergrowth. A male wolf stretched and yawned, then shook himself so that small droplets of dew sprayed the grey stones and bracken all about him. He turned, giving a deep-throated cry. It was answered by a sharp, yipping sound, and out from the shadows of the undergrowth came a she-wolf.

The rays of the sun grew in strength, reaching in amongst the bushes and branches. The purple greys of night lifted, patterning dull clumps of grass with bright green and yellow streaks. Wood pigeons started their gentle cooing, greeting each other and greeting the morning. The she-wolf nuzzled at the roots, snuffing the earth and the damp air, her ears twitching as she picked up the faint gurgling sounds of water. She turned to her companion and licked his face, then gave him a playful nip, leaping high over his shoulders and past him, leading the way towards the plashing of a fast-running stream.

Water rushed over the rocks and poured down between two stones, making a waterfall that filled a sparkling, mossy-edged pool. The two wolves ran fast towards it, splashing into its swirling waters, drinking deeply.

As they drank, the light lifted further, turning the budding primroses that grew all around the pool to gleaming gold, and when they’d drunk their fill they climbed out of the water and shook themselves again sniffing the faintly flower-scented air. Then yapping joyfully, they raced ahead, leaping over dew-laden grass and foliage, following their own path through the awakening spring woods.