The Forest (15 page)

His delivery was a small piece of parchment, folded over and sealed. Breaking the seal, she saw a short message, neatly written in French.

I shall be at Burley Castle in the morning.
Hugh.

Her heart leaped. For a moment the world, even the flowing river, seemed to have stopped. Then, clasping the parchment tightly in her hand, she walked back to Cola’s manor.

Taken up though she was with her own affairs, she was intrigued to notice on her return that the huntsman had received a visitor that day. This was hardly unusual and she would scarcely have bothered to think about it, except that she recognized him as the black-cloaked stranger she had seen once before, after whose visit the old man had become so distressed. The man was deep in conversation with Cola when she arrived, but not long afterwards she saw him depart. From that time until they gathered for their evening meal she did not see Cola.

But when she did the change was extraordinary. It was terrible to see. If he had looked angry before, now he looked like thunder. But even that, she quickly perceived, was a mask for something else. For the first time since she had known him it seemed to her that the old man might be afraid.

As she served him the venison stew that had been prepared, he only nodded to her absently. When he poured her a goblet of wine she noticed that his hand shook. What in the world could the messenger have said to him to produce so unusual an effect? Edgar, too, whatever else he had on his mind, was looking at his father with alarm.

At the end of their brief meal, Cola spoke: ‘You are both to remain here at the manor tomorrow. Nobody is to leave.’

‘But Father …’ Edgar looked startled. ‘Surely I am to accompany you on the king’s hunt?’

‘No. You’ll remain here. You are not to leave Adela.’

They both stared in horror. Whether Edgar wanted her company at present Adela did not know. She certainly knew what it meant for a young man in his position to hunt with the king. As for herself, the last thing she needed was to be confined there with him tomorrow. ‘May he not accompany you?’ she ventured. ‘He would see the king.’

But if she hoped to help matters, she only provoked a storm. ‘He will do no such thing, Madam,’ the old man roared. ‘He will obey his father. And you will do as you are told, too!’ He banged his hand on the table and rose to his feet. ‘Those are my orders and you, Sir’ – he glared at Edgar with blazing blue eyes – ‘will obey them.’

He stood there, bristling, a magnificent old man who could still be frightening and the two young people wisely remained silent.

As she retired, later that evening, Adela could only wonder how she was going to get away in the morning. For disobey him she must.

The noise that woke her, a little before dawn, was of human voices. They were not loud, though it seemed to her that in her dreams she might have heard the sound of quarrelling.

Softly she got up and stole towards them. She came to the doorway of the hall. She looked in.

Cola and Edgar were sitting at the table upon which a taper gave just enough light to see their faces. The old man was already fully dressed to go hunting; Edgar was wearing only a long undershirt. It was evident that they had been in conversation for some time and at this moment Edgar was looking questioningly at his father who in turn was staring down at the table. He looked tired.

Finally, without looking up, the old man spoke: ‘Don’t you think that if I tell you not to come into the Forest, I might have a reason?’

‘Yes, but I think you should tell me what it is.’

‘It might be safer, don’t you see, if you didn’t know.’

‘I think you should trust me.’

The old man was thoughtful for a while. ‘If anything happens to me,’ he said slowly, ‘I suppose it might be better if you understood a little more. The world is a dangerous place and perhaps I shouldn’t shelter you. You’re a grown man.’

‘I think so.’

‘Tell me, have you ever thought how many people would like to see Rufus disappear?’

‘Many.’

‘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.