The Forest (27 page)

‘What about your children, though?’

‘At my brother’s. I’ll collect them this evening.’

Brother Adam said nothing. There was a stretch of flat open heath in front of them, beyond that, about a half a mile away, a screen of trees, which hid the vaccary of Pilley beyond. There was not a soul to be seen, only a few cattle and ponies.

He felt hot, and observed that little beads of sweat had formed at the nape of Mary’s neck and the back of her shoulders, which had become exposed under her kirtle. He could smell her salty skin – it seemed to him like wheat with a faint tang of warm leather from her soft shoes. He noticed the way her dark hair grew from the paler skin of her neck. Her breasts, not large but full, were only just above his wrists, almost touching. Her legs, strong peasant’s legs, but nicely shaped, had become exposed from the knees down as they rode.

And suddenly it came to him, with a rush, a vivid urgency that he had never experienced before: that foolish peasant Furzey could hold this woman, become intimate with this body, any time that he wished. In his head he had always known it, of course. It was obvious. But now, suddenly, for the first time in his life, the simple physical reality hit him like a wave. Dear God, he almost cried out, this is the daily life, the world of such simple fellows. And I have never known it. Had he missed life – had he missed it all? Was there another voice in the universe, warm, blinding like the sun, echoing, racing in his veins, that he had never heard in those star-filled silences in his cloister? And, taking him utterly by surprise, he felt a sudden sense of jealousy against Furzey and the whole world. All the world has known it, he thought, but not I.

They still did not speak as they entered the screen of trees that reached out like a curving arm on to the heath. The woods were empty, the dappled light falling softly through the summer leaves. It was quiet as a church.

Once or twice he caught a glimpse, across the fields, of one of the thatched roofs of the hamlet cottages, golden in the sun. Then, as the wood curved southwards, the track went deeper into the trees, along the crest of the little gulf that led down to the river. They had gone some way, making an arc round the hamlet, when she pointed to the left and he turned the big horse off the path and rode through the trees.

After a short while she nodded. ‘Here.’

He saw now that they were only twenty paces from where the trees gave way to some gorse bushes and a small paddock. Dismounting, he reached up and lifted her gently to the ground.

She turned. ‘You must be hot,’ she said simply. ‘I will give you water.’

He hesitated, took a moment to reply. ‘Thank you.’ He tethered his horse to a tree and rejoined her. He was curious, he supposed, to see more closely the farmstead where she passed her days.

They could not be seen from the next cottage as they crossed the paddock. The gate in the paddock fence gave on to the small yard. The cottage was on the left, the barn on the right. By the barn was a rick of cut bracken, like a miniature haystack. She disappeared into the cottage for a moment, then came out with a wooden cup and a pitcher of water. She poured the water into the cup, placed the pitcher on the ground and then, without a word, went back into the cottage.

He drank. Then refilled the cup. The water was delightfully cool. The hamlet’s water, like that from many of the forest streams, had a fresh, sharp taste, like fern. She did not reappear at once, but he decided it would be impolite to leave without thanking her; so he waited.

When she returned he saw that she had bathed her face. The cold water had already lessened the redness of the mark on her cheek. Her hair had been brushed; her kirtle somewhat pulled down so that the tops of her breasts were slightly exposed – from the act of washing he imagined.

‘I hope you feel better.’

‘Yes.’ Her dark-blue eyes surveyed him thoughtfully, it seemed to Adam. Then she gave a faint smile. ‘You must see my animals,’ she said. ‘I’m very proud of them.’

So he followed her, attentive as a knight upon a lady, as she led him round her domain.

She took her time. She fed the chickens and told him their names. They inspected the pigs. The cat had just had kittens; they duly admired them.

But most of all he admired the woman who was leading him. It was remarkable to him how well she had recovered her equanimity. Her face was calm; she looked refreshed. When she told him the chickens’ names she had a faintly ironic smile. They seemed so apposite – one or two were rather witty – that he asked her if she had thought of them all.

‘Yes.’ She gave him a wry look. ‘My husband goes to the fields. I name the chickens.’ She gave a little shrug and he thought of the scene in the field that he had witnessed. ‘That’s my life,’ she said.

He felt a tenderness as well as admiration. He felt protective; he hovered beside her, watching all that she did. How gracefully she moved. He had not realized before. Although quite sturdily built, she was light on her feet and she walked with a delightful swinging motion. Once or twice, as she knelt down to tend her animals, he observed the firm line of her thighs and the lovely curves of her body. When she reached up, almost on tiptoe, to pull down an apple from the tree and the sunlight caught her, he saw her breasts in perfect silhouette.

The afternoon sun was warm upon him. As well as the faint smells of the yard, he detected honeysuckle. It was strange: in her presence, now, everything – the animals, the apple tree, even the blue sky above – suddenly seemed more real, more actual than they usually did.

‘Come,’ she said. ‘I have one more creature to visit. It’s in the barn.’ And she led the way past the rick, which scented the air with bracken.

He followed her, but at the door of the barn, instead of entering, she paused and glanced up at him. ‘I’m afraid this must be boring for you.’

‘No.’ He was taken aback. ‘I’m not bored at all.’

‘Well.’ She smiled. ‘A farm can’t be very interesting to you.’

‘When I was a child,’ he said simply, ‘I lived on a farm. Some of the time.’ It was quite true. His father had been a merchant, but his uncle had possessed a farm and he had spent part of his childhood there.

‘Well, well.’ She seemed amused. ‘A farm boy. Once upon a time.’ She gave a soft laugh. ‘A very long time ago.’

Then she reached up and gently touched his cheek. ‘Come,’ she said.

When had the idea taken shape in her mind? Mary was not quite certain herself. Was it out on the heath, when the handsome monk had rescued her, like a knight rescuing a damsel in distress? Was it the soothing motion of the horse, the feel of his strong arms around her?

Yes. Perhaps then. Or if not then exactly … It was probably when they had taken the track through the woods and she had thought: we are unseen. The village, her sister-in-law, even her brother – all unaware that she was passing close by with this stranger. Oh, yes, her heart had been pounding then.

And even if she had not been certain what she wanted before she arrived back, then surely she had known it when she washed her face. The tingling cold of the water on her brow and on her cheeks; she had pulled her kirtle down and some drops had fallen on her breasts; she had gasped and given a tiny shudder. And there, through the half-open door, she had seen him, waiting for her.

They entered the barn together. The creature to which Mary had referred was not part of the farmstead’s livestock. Instead, going into one corner and kneeling down, she showed him a small, straw-filled box. ‘I found him two days ago,’ she said.

It was just a blackbird, which had broken its wing. Mary had rescued it and made a tiny splint for the wing, and she was keeping it in the barn for safety until it was healed. ‘The cat can’t get at it here,’ she explained.

He knelt down beside her and, as she gently stroked the bird, he did the same, so that their hands lightly touched. Then he leaned back, watching her, while she continued to bend over the bird on its bed of straw.

She did not look at the monk. She was aware only of his presence.

It was strange: until today he had been just that for her – a presence, almost a spirit. Someone unobtainable, above her, forbidden, protected by his vows and reserved from the touch of all women. And yet, now she knew, he was also like other men.

And obtainable. She knew it was so. Her instinct told her. Although her husband might choose to humiliate her it was in her power to attract, to have this man, so infinitely superior to poor Tom Furzey.

Suddenly she was overcome by desire. She, modest Mary on her farmstead, had the power – here, now – to turn this innocent into a man. It was a thrilling, heady sensation.

‘See.’ She lifted the bird’s wing so that he would lean forward to touch it. As he did so, she half turned, so that her breasts brushed lightly against his chest. She slowly rose and stepped past him. Her leg touched his arm. Then she moved to the door of the barn, which was ajar, and stood gazing out at the bright sunlight. Her heart was beating faster.

For a moment she thought of her husband. But only for a moment. Tom Furzey did not value her. She owed him nothing more. She closed him out of her mind.

She was conscious of the sunlight upon her, of the tingling in her breasts and of a fluttering sensation that seemed to be spreading like a blush down her whole body. She closed the door of the barn and turned round. ‘I don’t want the cat to get in.’ She smiled.

She moved quietly towards him. The barn was shadowy but here and there the slivers of bright sunlight came in through cracks in the wooden walls. And as she came towards him he slowly rose, so that in a moment they were standing face to face, she looking up, almost touching.

And Brother Adam, who loved the voice of God in the great panoply of the stars at night, knew only that his universe had been invaded by a warmer, larger brightness that had caused the stars to vanish.

She reached up her arm, curving it behind his neck.

The summer afternoon was quiet. Far away, on the Beaulieu grange, the reapers had resumed their work and the faint drone of the hedgerows had been joined by the rhythmic hiss of scythes upon the stalks of golden wheat. By the little farmstead all seemed quiet. Now and then a bird fluttered in the trees. On the grassy verges the forest ponies moved occasionally as they grazed upon their shades or drank from the tiny streams and rivulets that still flowed in the summer dryness. Across the wide open heath the sun, watched by the pale moon, bore down upon the purple glow of the heather and the bursting yellow flower of the spiky gorse. And to the south, in the Solent channel, the sea tide ran and its healing waters washed the New Forest shore.

The morning service. The unchanging forms. The eternal words.

Laudate Dominum … Et in terra pax …

Prayer.
Pater Noster, qui es in coelis …

Sixty monks, thirty each side of the aisle, each in his place, which only death can change. White habits, tonsured heads, voices all raised together in the nasal chanting of the unchanging psalms. The Cistercians had a precise, clipped form of Gregorian chant, which he had always found particularly satisfying.
Laudate Dominum:
Praise the Lord. Voices rising in strength, in joy, from the very fact that these psalms and prayers were the same five hundred years ago, and today, and for ever. The joy and comfort of the certain marriage, the knowledge that your fellowship is with the one order that has no end.

There they all were: the sacristan who was responsible for the church, the tall precentor leading the chant, the cellarer who looked after the brewery and the sub-cellarer who controlled all the fish. Dear Brother Matthew, now novice master, Brother James the almoner, Grockleton, his claw hooked round the end of his stall – grey-haired, fair-haired, tall or short, thin or fat, busy with their chant, yet watchful, the sixty or so monks of Beaulieu Abbey, joined by about thirty lay brothers down in the nave, were at their morning service all together and Brother Adam, too, was in his proper place among them.

There were no candles on the choir stalls this morning. The sacristan saw no need. The summer sun was already falling softly through the windows on to the gleaming oak stalls and forming little pools of light on the tiled floor.

Brother Adam looked around him. What was he singing? He’d forgotten. He tried to concentrate.

Then a terrible thought occurred to him. He was seized with a sense of panic. What if he had blurted something out? What if he had said her name? Or worse. Hadn’t his mind just been dwelling upon her body? The innermost recesses. The taste, the smell, the touch. Dear God, had he shouted something out? Was he doing so now, unaware of it?

They all sank down to pray. But Brother Adam did not murmur the words. He closed his mouth, clamped his tongue between his teeth just to make sure. He blushed with his sense of guilt and stole a look at the faces opposite. Had he said anything? Had they heard? Did they all know his secret?

It did not seem so. The tonsured heads were bowed in prayer. Was anyone stealing a furtive glance in his direction? Was Grockleton’s eye about to stare at him in terrible judgement?

It was not so much guilt that afflicted him; it was the terror that he might have blurted it out in that enclosed space. The morning service, instead of refreshing him, brought him only a nervous torture that day. He was relieved, when it ended, to get outside.

After breakfast, somewhat calmer, he went to see the prior.

The time of morning business in the prior’s office was normally given over to routine administration. But there were other matters that could come up. If, for the sake of the community’s well-being, it was necessary, as it was your duty to do, to make any personal reports – ‘I am afraid I saw Brother Benedict eating a double helping of herrings,’ or ‘Brother Mark went to sleep instead of doing his tasks yesterday’ – then that was when you did it.

Wondering whether anyone was going to report on him, he waited until the end before he went in. If he had been caught, he thought he’d sooner know now. When he finally joined Grockleton, however, the prior gave no sign of having such information.