Path of the She Wolf (12 page)

Marian grew tense watching and waiting for Robert’s anger to explode, but instead he grew silent and grim, sitting hunched by the fireside, whittling knife handles until late at night. It was not the first time that he’d been like this. Marian knew the signs and worried herself to a shadow. When Robert had been in such a mood as this before, it had often ended with him going off without telling anyone and not reappearing for months. She wished very much that John and Tom would return; even Brother James who was so patient and good humoured could not lift the gloom.

‘I don’t know what bothers me most,’ she confided
to Philippa. ‘This terrible silence or his wild reckless courage.’

‘Oh, I’d say he’s much better charging madly about than only half alive like this,’ came Philippa’s quick reply.

‘Yes, you are right,’ Marian agreed with certainty.

The first day of January dawned, with heavy rain. As the wintry sun rose, the rain ceased and a damp cold mist drifted up from the earth. It was then that the real trouble broke. The first sign of it came as Gerta staggered into the clearing, her kirtle ripped and torn, young Davy in her arms, his head streaming with blood. Magda saw them from the doorway of her new home and ran to help, Brigit following close behind. The old woman panted and gasped unable to get her breath.

‘What is it?’ Magda asked, trying to take the young boy into her own arms.

‘Terrible . . . terrible things!’ Gerta struggled to speak. ‘The King . . . he rides north, with his new found wolfpack.’

‘They’ve done this?’ Magda cried.

‘Aye. It’s punishment! My hut’s a smoking heap, my geese scattered in the wastes. Everyone who rebelled . . . everyone whose manor lord rebelled, anyone who gets in their way!’

‘What? What are they doing to them?’

‘Killing them!’ the old woman sobbed. ‘Killing, burning. Burning the crops! Setting fire to stores of grain! My big lads have fled to warn Langden, for that is where they’re heading. And my lad . . . my little Davy . . .’

‘He’s gone white,’ Brigit pointed out.

‘Get him inside!’ Magda spoke with urgency, frightened by his sudden pallor.

Between them they carried Davy into the cottage and gently put him down on the pallet by the fire. Marian at once snatched up her water pot and a compress of clean lamb’s wool. She set about staunching the terrible wound, but the child’s face stayed deathly white, and her actions slowed. She stopped. The blood had ceased to flow, and the child who’d been so desperately rescued from the gallows died quietly there by the hearth.

‘He’s gone,’ she whispered.

‘No,’ Brigit cried out, ‘Not Davy!’ She stumbled backwards outside into the clearing.

Gerta didn’t make a sound but went to crouch beside her grandson’s body. She wrapped her arms about his small shoulders, rocking him gently back and forth as though he were a sleeping babe. Robert looked on, his own face very pale. ‘Who has done this?’ he asked through gritted teeth.

‘It’s King John’s punishment,’ Magda told him. ‘Punishment for rebelling, for supporting the charter.’

Robert moved swiftly to his feet his cheeks still ashen.

‘They are heading for Langden now,’ Magda cried.

Robert snatched his bow from the nail and strode from the hut. ‘James!’ he shouted. ‘Fetch every weapon you can lay hands on! Bring the horses! We ride for Langden . . . at once!’

Marian looked up at Magda, a grim smile on her face. ‘Whatever comes to us now,’ she whispered, ‘at least it will not be cowardice or shame.’

Magda went to lift down her own bow from its nail by the hearthstone, but Marian glanced out into the clearing and stopped her. ‘No, not this time,’ she said, her face determined. ‘There is other work for us to do. See Brigit is at it already.’

‘What?’ Magda demanded.

‘Come and look,’ she spoke solemnly.

Magda went to stand beside her. The sight she saw was terrible, beyond belief. Though they had seen great sickness and sorrow there before in their clearing, nothing had ever been quite as fearful as the stream of poor folk who now wandered towards them dazed and desperate. Mothers carried wounded children, young folk supported the old, strong men wept helplessly. Everywhere she looked, they stumbled through the mud and wet grass with burnt hair, burnt hands and faces, all of them bruised and bleeding and as they watched the numbers grew.

Robert strode about, listening to their stories stony-faced. Young Brigit, despite her grief for Davy, already moved amongst them, giving help and comfort. James brought the horses round from the lean-to, stacked with every weapon that they had. ‘Who will come with us to defend Langden?’ Robert cried.

There was a great surge towards him and everyone who was able snatched bows and sticks and knives. Men, women, young and old shouting agreement till their throats were sore.

Robert went to Marian and kissed her. ‘Whatever comes!’ he said.

‘Aye,’ she agreed. ‘Whatever comes!’

Then they streamed out of the clearing behind Robert and James, ill-prepared and ragged but filled with bitterness, a great swarm of angry woodlanders.

Suddenly the clearing was quieter, but now the gentler whimpering of those who were badly hurt, could be heard. ‘Right,’ said Marian rolling up her sleeves. ‘Get that pot boiling, Magda, and Brigit, can you fetch buckets from the spring? We shall have to work as we’ve never worked before.’

Over the next few days they struggled tirelessly to give aid. Philippa came from Langden and told them that King John’s wolfpack had set the barns and haystacks alight, but then moved on north with Robert and his gang hard on their heels. Isabel and Will had valiantly organised their people to beat out the fires and save whatever grain and food they could. In that, the damp weather was on their side. The Sisters of the Magdalen had taken all they possessed in food and medicine and left their convent, following in the wake of the trail of destruction. Now they tramped from village to village giving what help they could.

Magda was for once excused her hated task of grave digging as Philippa insisted on staying and making that hard job her own. Gerta buried little Davy, then resolutely set about comforting others who had lost family and friends. At last, on the third day, the flood of suffering newcomers ceased and some of those who had survived started to return to what was left of their homes.

‘Today is calmer,’ Magda said, stretching and rubbing
her aching back. ‘But this strange quiet that they’ve left behind bothers me.’

‘Aye,’ Marian agreed. ‘We might have a few days respite but then I fear the worst will come. They may live for a few days on rotting turnips but that will not last them long.’

Magda sank down on the doorsill, hugging her stomach. ‘You knew,’ she said. ‘All that gathering and pit-digging, all that gleaning and fuss. I thought you’d gone mad, but you were right. You knew.’

Marian sighed. ‘I could not see clear, as my mother used to say, but yes, now I understand why. I doubt we can feed them all, but we have good stocks hidden away and at least we may save some of them.’

Magda spoke bitterly, her eyes full of angry tears. ‘They mete out the fast death first, then the slow death follows. Those who are left must starve.’

Brigit and Gerta who’d worked so tirelessly together came wandering over to the cottage leading a young girl who clutched a small rough-woven bag in her hands.

‘Mother says have you a bit of grain to spare, or oats or turnips, or anything? For all our food is burnt and gone and father is hurt and cannot hunt.’

Magda smiled at Marian and struggled to her feet. ‘Aye. Come on in. We shall find you something to eat.’

Even though Marian knew that they would come she could not have imagined how many there would be. The clearing was soon strewn with homemade shelters and smoking fires, for the weather turned against them once again bringing sleet and snow. Now they must struggle, not just to feed the wretched people who came to them, but somehow to clothe and keep them warm. Each day Philippa spent hours shifting snow and mud and digging up bucketfuls of grain from Marian’s secret keeping-pits. Other women set up pots over cooking fires and produced huge quantities of wholesome bubbling stew, made tasty with nettles and garlic leaves, and carefully cut slivers of smoked venison and boar.

News came from Langden that the wolfpack had done their worst in Barnsdale, but not lingered to enjoy their spoils. Now they headed further north.

‘They did not stay here for long,’ Isabel told them, ‘for wherever they set about destruction, they found themselves hounded by a strange Hooded Man and his gang of fierce wild wolves.’

Magda and Marian smiled. ‘I’m proud of them,’ said Magda.

‘Yes,’ Marian agreed. ‘Though the members of this new wolfpack may be mystified, the woodlanders know that Hooded Man well enough.’

One cold January morning, Magda wandered around the clearing very early, for the wriggling of her babe inside her stomach would not let her sleep. Her ears picked up the clopping sound of a horse. She looked up with joy as the hooves beat out the familiar rhythm of Rambler’s signal. She strode towards the entrance to the secret pathways, her happiness a little diminished as she greeted her new husband but no sign of her father.

‘He’s taken refuge in a cave near Creswell village,’ Tom told her. ‘It was hard to get him away from Derbyshire, for the people were setting about building up the defences of Peveril Castle, determined to withstand the King’s revenge. They begged John’s help and he could not be stopped from joining in and so I thought I’d best help too.’

Magda sighed, but smiled folding her arms. ‘Aye,’ she said. ‘I can see it all.’

‘Then the wolfpack came and went, and John is wounded,’ Tom spoke with concern. ‘Not fearfully I think, but he has an arrowhead in his thigh that I can’t get out, and a sudden fever has come upon him. We travelled to Creswell, but I left him there, wrapped well and hidden
away in the big cave that Robert often makes his refuge. He could not go further and I thought perhaps Marian would come to him.’

‘I shall come,’ Magda told him.

‘No, not you.’ Tom looked anxious. ‘You should stay close to home at this time.’

‘Oh yes, I shall come,’ she spoke determinedly. ‘It is not far to go, and Rambler can carry me as smooth and steady as a boat. Marian has too much to do here, as you will see. John is my father and I will go to him.’

Magda would not have any arguments about it and when Tom entered the clearing and saw the desperate people who filled it with their shelters and their misery, he understood that Marian was indeed needed there. So with many instructions and warnings from the Forestwife, they set off just before noon, Magda perched sideways on Rambler’s back, supported all about with rugs, food, medicine and ointment pots.

Tom insisted that he lead Rambler at a steady walking pace through the secret paths. The sheltering caves of Creswell, that had often saved the outlaws from freezing overnight, were not far to the west so that they reached the place by dusk.

The cave was one of many, set into the steep rugged valley sides known as Creswell Crags. A dark shadow slipped away from the cave mouth and into the surrounding bushes as they arrived.