‘All my wives’, he told her kindly, ‘have been very amiable, very docile. I’ve been very fortunate. The second’, he added by way of encouragement, ‘looked like you.’

‘You mean to marry again, Sir Fulk?’

‘Yes.’

‘You are not looking for an heiress?’

‘Not at all,’ he assured her. ‘I’m all right as I am. Not ambitious. And you know’ – he said this with a sincerity which was obviously meant to touch her – ‘the trouble with these heiresses is that they often have rather a high idea of the importance of their own opinions.’

‘They should be guided.’

‘Quite.’

When they left the feast, her hostess was briefly delayed, but as soon as she joined Adela she told her: ‘You have made a conquest.’

‘Sir Fulk?’

‘He says he has received encouragement.’

‘He’s the most plodding man I ever met in my life.’

‘Perhaps, but he’s sound. He’ll give you no trouble.’

‘But I’ll give him trouble,’ Adela cried.

‘You mustn’t. Control yourself. At least get safely married first.’

‘But’, Adela said in exasperation, ‘he looks just like Walter!’

Her companion took a little breath and gave her a tiny glance, which Adela failed to see. ‘Your cousin is not so bad looking.’

‘He is to me.’

‘You mean to refuse Sir Fulk if he asks for your hand? Your family could insist. Walter, that is.’

‘Oh, just tell him my true nature and he’ll go away at once.’

‘I’m afraid you’re being foolish.’

‘You don’t sympathize?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘You think I have to make a sacrifice of myself?’ She looked accusingly at the older woman. ‘Did you make a sacrifice when you married?’

For a moment her companion paused. ‘Well, I’ll tell you this,’ she said quietly. ‘If I did, my dear late husband never knew it.’

Adela digested this in silence, then nodded ruefully. ‘Am I clever enough to be married?’

‘No,’ the older woman replied. ‘But very few girls are.’

The proposal came the next day. Adela rejected it. Walter Tyrrell arrived a week later, and went straight to see the widow.

‘She has refused Sir Fulk?’

‘He may not be the right one,’ the widow suggested kindly.

‘Without my permission? What’s wrong with him? He has two good estates.’

‘Perhaps it was something else.’

‘He’s a very handsome man.’

‘No doubt.’

‘I take this rejection personally. It’s an outrage.’

‘She’s young, Walter. I like her.’

‘You speak to her, then. I won’t. But tell her this,’ continued the infuriated knight. ‘If she refuses one more good man I’ll take her to Romsey Abbey and she can live the rest of her life as a nun. You tell her that.’ And with only a perfunctory kiss of his old friend’s hand he left.

‘So you see,’ the widow told Adela an hour later, ‘he’s threatening you with Romsey Abbey.’

Adela had to admit that she was shaken. ‘What sort of place is it? Do you know anyone there?’ she asked in alarm.

‘It’s rather grand. Mostly noblewomen. And yes, I do know a nun there. She’s a Saxon princess called Edith – one of the last of our old royal house. I knew her mother very well. Edith’s about your age.’

‘Does she like it?’

‘When the abbess isn’t looking, she takes off her habit and jumps on it.’

‘Oh.’

‘I shouldn’t go there unless you want to be a nun.’

‘I don’t.’

‘I think you’d better make sure you do marry, but we can take a little time. Just be careful not to encourage any more Sir Fulks.’ Then, taking pity on her, the widow added: ‘I think, actually, that Walter isn’t very likely to carry out that particular threat.’

‘Why?’

‘Because, Romsey Abbey being what it is, to get you in there he’d probably have to pay.’

However, the autumn season had brought few visitors to Winchester after that. November came, the leaves had all fallen, the sky was grey and the wind that blew over the bare downs was often bitter cold. There were no suitors now. She thought of the Forest sometimes and could almost wish herself back in Christchurch, riding out with Edgar. She thought, many times, of Hugh de Martell. But she never mentioned this, even to her kindly hostess. December arrived. Soon, they said, there would be snow.

She could hardly have been more surprised, coming out of the cathedral one cold December day, to see her cousin Walter, wearing a jaunty hunting cap with a feather in it, standing beside a handsome covered wagon from which, taking his outstretched hand, a lady wrapped in a cloak with a fur trim was carefully alighting.

It was the Lady Maud.

She hurried forward and called out to them. They both turned.

Walter looked slightly annoyed. She supposed he thought she was interrupting the Lady Maud. He had sent no word that he would be in Winchester, but that was not so surprising. He surely could not have been meaning to pass through the place without coming to see her? The nod he gave her seemed to indicate that she might join them and so she went in with them as they entered the royal residence where the porter and servants evidently knew her cousin.

Lady Maud, she thought, might have been more friendly or showed more recognition, but Adela supposed she must be tired from her journey. While the Lady Maud left them for a short while, Walter explained that they were only breaking the journey. Lady Maud was to visit a cousin of hers who lived beyond Winchester and Hugh de Martell, with whom Walter had just been staying, had asked him to accompany her there. ‘Then I return to Normandy,’ Walter said. He was pacing moodily, which did not make conversation easy.

It was only a short while before the Lady Maud rejoined them, apparently in better humour. As usual, she looked slightly wan, but her manner was civil even if it contained the hint of caution that Adela had experienced before. When Adela asked if she was well, she acknowledged that she was.

‘Your husband is also well, I trust,’ she forced herself to say. She hoped it sounded polite but unconcerned.

‘Yes.’

‘You are travelling to one of your relations, Walter said.’

‘Yes.’ She seemed to consider for a moment. ‘Richard Fitzwilliam. Perhaps you have seen him.’

‘No. I have heard of him, of course.’ She had heard often. Thirty years old with one of the finest estates in the county, he lived not five miles away. He was unmarried. ‘I understand he is very handsome,’ she added politely.

‘Yes.’

‘I did not know he was your kinsman.’

‘My cousin. We’re very close.’

No word of this connection, Adela was well aware, had been made during her stay with the lady in the summer. She wondered if Lady Maud would suggest that they might meet now.

She didn’t. Walter said nothing.

There was a pause.

‘Perhaps you’d like to rest a little before we go on,’ Walter suggested.

‘Yes.’

He turned to Adela and gave her a little nod. A courtier’s sign that it was time for her to retire.

She could take the hint, but it would have been nice if Walter had come with her to the door. ‘Shall I see you again before long, Walter?’ she asked as she turned.

He nodded, but in a way to indicate that her retiring was more important; and before she could even collect her thoughts she found herself outside in the cold streets of Winchester.

She did not want to go back to her lodgings. She walked about. After a little, she went out of the gateway and stared across the open countryside. The sky was grey. The bare brown woods on the ridge opposite seemed to mock her. I am scorned, she thought; she might be poor, but why should her own cousin treat her like that, dismissing her like a lackey? She felt a hot surge of anger. Damn him. Damn them both.

She paced up and down in front of the gate. Would they come out that way? Could she say something to them? No. What a fool she’d look standing impotently by the roadside. She felt crushed.

And yet something in her still rebelled. I’m better than that, she decided. I won’t let them put me down. She needed to see them again, put them in a position where they would be forced to be polite. But how? What excuse could there be for going back?

Then it suddenly occurred to her. Of course: her hostess and Walter were friends. What could be more natural than for her to return with the older woman who might wish to greet him as he was passing through. The widow was a noblewoman. Lady Maud would have to recognize her. And if by chance she were to tell them that Adela was a great favourite with everybody there and a credit to her cousin … The beauty of the idea was no sooner growing in her mind than she turned and ran back as fast as she could to her lodgings.

Her friend was there. Without dwelling on the more humiliating features of the interview, it was only the work of a few moments to explain the situation and the widow readily agreed to come, so long as Adela gave her a brief space to prepare herself, which she did with all speed.

She was still arranging her hair, though, when another thought occurred to Adela. What if Walter and the lady should leave before they got there? She had better make sure they didn’t. Walter could hardly go if she told him the widow was on her way.

‘I’ll meet you by the royal palace entrance,’ she cried and hurried back through the street, praying she was not already too late.

All was well, however. The porter assured her they were still inside. She waited by the doorway, but then, as it was cold and she felt a little foolish, she asked the porter if she might step inside. Having seen her do so before, he made no objection, and agreed to send the widow in the moment she arrived.

‘She is an old friend of my cousin Tyrrell’s,’ Adela explained, feeling much happier now.

Between the outer door and the great hall there was a smaller hall or vestibule. Here Adela waited. She had carefully prepared herself. If they suddenly left the great hall and came upon her she would smile easily and say that she had only returned because the widow was on her way. She was sure she could carry it off. She rehearsed it repeatedly. But they did not come. She began to grow restless. Was it possible that they could have gone out some other way? She listened at the heavy door to the hall but heard nothing. She paced, listened again, hesitated. And cautiously began to open the door.

They were standing together. Both were already wrapped in their cloaks and Walter had on his feathered cap – evidently they were on the point of leaving. But they had paused in front of a wall hanging depicting a hunting scene.

Walter was just behind her shoulder, leaning over her, pointing to something in the scene. His cheek was near to hers, but that was not so strange. He drew away from her, just a little and she leaned towards him. There was something teasing and familiar in the gesture. His hand lowered, she half turned. And, there could be no possible mistaking it, his hand rested, just for a moment or two, holding her breast. The Lady Maud smiled. Then she saw Adela.

They sprang apart. The lady, turning away to pull her cloak more tightly around herself, took a step or two towards the wall hanging. Walter, looking straight at Adela, glowered as though he fully expected her to be swallowed up by the ground.

What did it mean? Were they lovers or was this just the sort of flirtation which, she knew, happened all the time in courtly circles? What did this imply about the lady’s feelings for her husband? It was this thought, suddenly arising in her mind, that caused her to remain there motionless, staring at them stupidly.

‘What the devil are you doing in the king’s hall?’ Walter was far too clever to show anything but anger. Even in her dazed confusion she noticed how quickly he had managed to make her the criminal – a trespasser on the king’s property.

She blurted out that the widow wanted to see him, that they had come together. Somehow it sounded foolish, especially when Walter asked ‘Well, where is she?’ and she wasn’t there.

‘The Lady Maud is leaving now,’ he said curtly. Whether he even believed the widow was coming Adela could not tell.

The Lady Maud, repossessed of her dignity, walked straight towards the door as though Adela did not exist. But suddenly, struck by a thought, she stopped and looked at Adela. ‘The whole county knows you’re looking for a husband,’ she said sweetly. ‘But I don’t think you’ll have much luck. I wonder why.’

It was too much. First their contemptuous treatment of her, then the little scene of infidelity, and now this brazen insult. Well, let them discover she could hit back. ‘If I do marry,’ she replied with a calm tone she was proud of, ‘I’m sure I shall honour my husband. And give him a child.’ It was a devastating counter-blow. She knew it and she didn’t care. She watched the other woman’s face for a reaction.

But to her surprise the Lady Maud only drew her two red lips into a bow and glanced at Walter with a small look of triumph. ‘I’m afraid you will soon get a reputation for having a vicious tongue,’ she remarked. ‘An untruthful one, too,’ she added carefully. Then she continued on her way to the door, which Walter held open for her. Adela expected him to turn his back and leave at this point, but instead he remained there, holding the door open for her too and indicating that she should walk out with him. Slightly dazed, a few moments later, she found herself walking after the Lady Maud, with Walter following, into the cold air outside. The lady was helped into the wagon and Walter prepared to mount his horse.

But before he did so, he gestured that Adela should draw close to him. ‘I think you should know’, he said in a low voice, ‘that when I arrived at Hugh de Martell’s the other day, he told me some good news. The Lady Maud has recently discovered she is expecting a child.’ He looked her bleakly in the eye. ‘You’ve just made two more enemies – her and her husband. For you can be sure she’ll speak to him against you. I should take care if I were you.’ He swung up into the saddle and they moved off.

They had passed out through the gate when the widow appeared, hurrying towards her, too late.

There was a frost that night. Adela did not sleep well. She had made a fool of herself again. She had secured the undying hatred of the Lady Maud and probably the enmity of Hugh de Martell as well. Walter must finally be sick of her. She was alone in the world without any friend. But even all these troubles might at last have faded as she passed into unconsciousness, had it not been for one stark fact, which arose, again and again, driving away the clouds of sleep before it. His wife was going to give Martell a child.

In the morning a wind from the north came down from the ridges and dusted the city with snow; and it seemed to Adela that the world had grown very cold.

Edgar usually enjoyed the winter months. They were hard of course. The grasses shrank down to tiny, pale tussocks. Frost came, and snow. The deer fed mostly on holly and ivy, and heather. In the worst conditions they would even gnaw tree bark for nutrients. The sturdy wild ponies, who would munch almost anything, would feed on the spiky gorse. By the end of January many of the animals were becoming gaunt; the ponies moved about less, conserving energy. It was nature’s testing time and some animals would not survive.

Yet many did. Even when the birds skimmed low and in vain over the bleak, snowy heath and the solitary owl flapped on his quest through the bare trees and saw no prey, still it seemed to Edgar that the peaty earth below retained its warmth. The frosts covering its surface were broken by the slotting footfalls of the delicate deer. The larks and warblers somehow found food, and foxes stole from farms. Squirrels, jays, magpies all had their own stores; the smallholders fed their cattle. And at various places in the Forest the foresters, when necessary, put out food for the deer to ensure their survival.

Once, riding across the Forest, he had seen the pale doe feeding and this had reminded him once again of Adela.

He had wanted to go and see her in Winchester. It was his father who had always stopped him. ‘Leave her alone. She wants a Norman,’ he had advised. Then Cola had told him she already had an offer of marriage. In November he had informed his son that Adela had almost no dowry and in December he had told him rather brutally: ‘No point in marrying a woman who will always look down on you because you’re only a Saxon huntsman.’ But even these arguments might not have kept Edgar away, if it had not been for one other consideration.

Edgar had never fathomed exactly how his father came by his information. Was it the friends he had made on the royal hunts who kept him informed? Strange people with messages would appear from time to time. Or was it his monthly visits to an old friend up at the castle of Sarum? Or other sources encountered on his occasional unexplained absences? Who knew? ‘Maybe it’s the forest owls talking to him,’ Edgar’s brother had once suggested. Whatever it was, the old man heard things and during that winter Edgar could see that he was becoming worried. In November he had sent his older son to London to attend to a matter of business, which was to keep him there some months. To Edgar the old man had grunted: ‘You stay here. I need you with me.’

When Edgar had ventured, once or twice, to ask his father what was on his mind, Cola had been evasive, but when he had frankly asked ‘You fear another plot against the king?’ his father had not denied it. ‘Dangerous times, Edgar,’ he had muttered and refused to be drawn any further.

The possibilities for intrigue were so many that Edgar could hardly guess from which quarter the danger might be coming now. There were the supporters of Robert, of course; and one of these held the lands on the forest’s southern coast. But further behind might be the King of France, fearful of an attack on his own territory if aggressive Rufus became his neighbour in Normandy. Or it could be something less obvious. Only four years before there had been a plot to assassinate Rufus and put his sister’s husband, the French Count of Blois on the throne. Tyrrell’s relations, the powerful family of Clare, had been involved in that before they suddenly changed sides and warned Rufus of his danger. And as they had already been involved in other plots in the past it seemed clear to Edgar that the Clares, including their henchmen like Tyrrell, were not to be trusted. The Church, with no reason to love Rufus, would hardly be sorry to see him fall either.

But why should these great affairs worry his father so much? Whoever the next king was, he would probably be glad of the services of the expert forester and Cola had always been good at staying out of trouble. Why, then, should he be so concerned? Was he implicated? It remained a puzzle.

Edgar was a dutiful son. He did not go to Winchester. He stayed at his father’s side, patrolled the Forest and made sure that most of the deer came safely through the winter.

Towards the end of the season another rumour reached England. Robert of Normandy, on his way back from crusade – where he had fought rather well – had stopped in southern Italy. Not only was he given a crusading hero’s welcome there, but it seemed he had found a bride who would bring him a fabulous dowry. ‘Enough to pay off the loan and get back Normandy,’ Cola remarked. For some reason the Italians were also calling Robert the King of England. ‘God knows what that means,’ Cola continued, ‘but even if he pays off the loan, Rufus isn’t going to let him back into Normandy. He’ll use force. And then Robert’s friends will be after Rufus’s blood.’

‘I still don’t see why this need affect us in the Forest,’ Edgar commented. But his father only shook his head and refused to say more.

Another month passed and there was no more news from any quarter. Except, of course, the worrying news from Hugh de Martell.

When Adela saw Hugh de Martell standing at the door of her lodgings, for a moment she could not hardly believe it.

There had been a shower, which had cleared, leaving the streets glistening in the watery sun. A sharp, early spring breeze had given her cheeks a flush and made them slightly numb, as she went for a quick walk round the cathedral precincts and the market.

She gave a little involuntary gasp. His tall, handsome form was so exactly as she always saw him in her mind’s eye. She thought she would have known him even if he were halfway across the Forest. Yet he also looked different and as he turned towards her she was even more struck by the change.

‘They told me you would be back soon.’ He seemed almost relieved to see her.

What could this mean? Why had he come? Walter had assured her that the Lady Maud would turn Martell against her; but it did not seem so.

He smiled, but it was clear that there was strain on his face. ‘May we walk?’

‘Certainly.’ She indicated the way towards St Swithuns and he fell into step beside her. ‘Are you in Winchester for long?’

‘Only an hour or two, I think.’ He glanced down at her. ‘You have not heard. But of course, why should you? My wife is ill.’ He shook his head. ‘Very ill.’

‘Oh. I’m sorry.’

‘Perhaps it is because she is with child, I do not know. No one knows.’ He made a gesture of helplessness.

‘And so you are here …?’

‘There is a doctor. A skilful Jew. He has attended the king. They told me he was to be found here in Winchester.’

She had heard of this personage, even seen him once – a rather magnificent, black-bearded man who had been staying for the last week as a guest of the keeper at the royal treasury.

‘He is out riding with some of his king’s men,’ Martell continued. ‘But they are expected back in an hour or two. I hope you did not mind my coming to your lodgings. I know no one in Winchester.’

‘No.’ She was not sure what to say. He was pacing beside her, his long strides, so full of nervous energy, carefully kept slow so that she should not need to hurry. ‘I am glad to see you.’

Why had he come to her? Glancing up at his face, so full of worry and concern, she suddenly realized. Of course, this strong man was also an ordinary man, with feelings like any other. He was in anguish. He was lonely. He had come to her to be comforted. A wave of tenderness passed through her. ‘They say the Jewish doctors have great skill,’ she suggested. The Normans had a high regard for the learning of the Jews, which went back to classical times. It had been the Conqueror who established the Jewish community in England and his son Rufus particularly favoured them at his court. ‘I’m sure he will cure her.’

‘Yes.’ He stared ahead absently. ‘Let us hope so.’ They walked on together in silence for a short distance. The cathedral loomed ahead. ‘Winchester is a fine city,’ he remarked, in a brave effort to make conversation. ‘Do you like it?’

She told him she did. She talked about recent small events in the city, of people who had passed through – anything that might distract his mind from his worries for a while. And she could see that he was grateful. But she also saw, after a time, that he wanted to return to his thoughts and so she said no more and they continued in silence together round St Swithuns.

‘The child is due at the start of summer,’ he said suddenly. ‘We have waited so long.’

‘Yes.’

‘My wife is a wonderful woman,’ he added. ‘Brave, gentle, kind.’ Adela nodded quietly to this also. What could she say? That she knew his wife to be timid, small-minded and vicious? ‘She is devoted. She is loyal.’

The memory of the lady standing close to Tyrrell, the sight of his hand moving to her breast and remaining there, came into Adela’s mind with terrible vividness. ‘Of course.’ How good he was. A thousand times too good for the Lady Maud, she thought. Yet here she was, because she must, quietly acquiescing in his self-deception.

They said little more as they made their way back towards her lodgings and were getting near the city gate when they saw a party of horsemen ride in among whom, unmistakably, was the impressive figure of the Jew.

Martell started forward, checked himself and turned. ‘My dear Lady Adela.’ He took her two hands in his. ‘Thank you for keeping me company at such a time.’ He looked into her eyes with real tenderness. ‘Your kindness means so much to me.’

‘It was nothing.’

‘Well …’ He hesitated. ‘I know you only a little, but I feel that I can talk to you.’

Talk to her – as she looked up into his manly, troubled face, how she wished she could respond truthfully. How she wished she could say: ‘You are grieving over a woman completely unworthy of you.’ Dear heaven, she thought, if I were in the Lady Maud’s place I should love you, I should honour you. She could have screamed it. ‘I should always be glad to be of help to you at any time,’ she said simply.

‘Thank you.’ He smiled, bowed his head respectfully and turned away, striding purposefully towards the horsemen.

She did not see him again in the days that followed. The Jewish doctor departed with him and returned a week later due to stay at Winchester, she learned, until Easter when the king was expected there. She made enquiries and learned that though the Lady Maud was still alive and, miraculously, had not lost the child so far, the Jew could not answer for whether she would survive or not.

More days passed. It grew a little warmer. Adela reflected. She pondered.

Then, early one morning, leaving only a message for her hostess, she rode out of Winchester alone. In the message, which was deliberately vague, she begged her friend to say nothing and promised to return by nightfall the following day. She did not say where she was going.

Godwin Pride, it was plain to see, felt rather pleased with himself. He was standing outside his cottage holding a rope. At the other end of the rope was a brown cow. His wife and three of his children were looking at it. A robin on the fence was also watching with interest.

Godwin Pride had come through the winter well enough. At the end of the autumn he had killed most of the pigs he had turned out on the acorn mast and salted them. He had eggs from his chickens, milk from his few cows; there were preserves from his apple trees and dried vegetables. As a commoner of the Forest he also had his right of Turbary, which gave him turf fuel. He had stayed snug in his cottage, kept his small stock alive and emerged into the Forest’s spring in good humour.

He had also bought a new cow. ‘It was a bargain,’ he declared. He had walked with it from Brockenhurst.

‘Oh? What did you pay?’ asked his wife.

‘Never you mind. It was a bargain.’

‘We don’t need another cow.’

‘She’s a good milker.’

‘And I’m the one who’ll have to look after her. Where did you get the money, anyway?’

‘Never you mind about that.’

She looked suspicious. The children watched silently. The robin on the fence looked a bit quizzical too.

‘And where are we going to put her?’ By which she meant, in winter. Was he going to build another cow stall? There really wasn’t space for one more beast in the little cattle pen. Surely he wasn’t intending to try to enlarge that again after being caught out last year. ‘You can’t enlarge the pen,’ she said.

‘Don’t you worry. I’ve got something else in mind. It’s all planned, that is. All planned.’ And, although he refused to be drawn, he looked more pleased with himself than ever. Even the robin seemed impressed.

And the fact that he had bought the cow on impulse, that there was no plan, that he hadn’t the faintest idea how he was going to accommodate it next winter, did not unduly trouble him. There was the whole long Forest spring and summer to think about that. Sometimes, as his wife knew so well, he could be like a little boy. But if she was thinking of arguing any more she never got the chance.

For it was at this moment that Adela appeared, walking her horse towards them.

‘Now what the devil can she want?’ Godwin Pride exclaimed.

It was late afternoon when the two figures came down from the plateau of Wilverley Plain – a huge level heath almost two miles in extent where the Forest ponies grazed with nothing around them but the open sky. Adela was walking her horse; just ahead of her, on a sturdy pony, Godwin Pride led the way. He did so very unwillingly.

The clouds were clearing from the sky to reveal, against the blue, the silver crescent of a waxing moon. There was a hint of spring warmth in the air. Adela was glad to be back in the Forest, even if she was a little afraid of what she was doing.

They had taken the track westwards from the central section of the Forest, up across the heathland of Wilverley, and were now about four miles west of Brockenhurst. Ahead of them lay a stretch of oak wood. To continue straight would lead down into the large dell where the dark little village of Burley lay. Instead, therefore, they cut right, through some woods and down a slope known as Burley Rocks. Crossing a big empty area of marshy lawn, they took a little track that led along the edge of some moorland. ‘That’s Burley moor on our right,’ Pride told her. ‘White Moor lies ahead. And that’ – he indicated a tummock on top of which a single tree seemed to be waving its arms distractedly – ‘is Black Hill.’ The track suddenly turned left, leading down to a stream, running swiftly as it made a sharp turn, like a crook in a man’s arm. ‘Narrow Water,’ he said. On the right, along the stream was a boggy area infested with stunted oaks, holly, birch and a tangled mass of saplings and bushes. And just past this, quite alone, stood an untidy collection of huts and a mud cabin with a roof made of branches, twigs and moss through which wisps of smoke were seeping.

They had come to Puckle’s place.

Pride had not wanted to take her, but she had insisted. ‘I don’t know where he lives and I don’t want to ask. People mustn’t know I went there. I think’, she added, looking at him hard, ‘that you owe me a favour.’ The deer. He couldn’t deny it. ‘Besides,’ she continued with a smile, ‘if you ask her, she’s more likely to agree to talk to me.’

And there was the rub, the real reason why he had been unwilling to take her. For it was not Puckle she wanted to see, but his wife. The witch.

Adela waited by the stream while Pride rode up to the cabin and went in. After a while she saw Puckle and various children and grandchildren emerge and busy themselves outside.

Then Pride appeared and made his way over to her. ‘She’s waiting for you,’ he said briefly. ‘You’d best go in.’ A few moments later Adela found herself stooping her head as she went through the small doorway into the witch’s little house.

It was rather shadowy inside. The cabin consisted of a single room, such light as there was coming from a window whose shutters were only partly open. In the centre of the floor a circle of stones served as a hearth in which a small turf fire was glowing. On the other side of the fire sat a figure in a low wooden chair. By her feet, warming itself, was a grey cat. There was a three-legged stool, also by the fire, to which the other woman motioned.

‘Sit down, my dear.’

Although Adela had not formed any precise image in her mind, Puckle’s wife was not what she had expected. Before her, as she got used to the light, she saw a comfortable middle-aged woman with a broad face, a rather snub nose and grey eyes spaced wide apart.

She was observing Adela with mild curiosity. ‘A fine young lady,’ she now continued quietly. ‘And you’ve come all the way from Winchester?’

‘Yes.’

‘Fancy that. And what can I do for you?’

‘I understand’, Adela said bluntly, ‘that you’re a witch.’

‘Oh?’

‘They say you are.’

‘They do, do they?’ The older woman seemed to receive this information with quiet amusement. Not that the accusation was so shocking: although witchcraft was certainly frowned upon by the Church, systematic persecution was rare in Norman England, especially in the depths of the country where ancient folk magic had always persisted. ‘And what if I were?’ she went on. ‘What would a fine young lady like you be looking for? A cure for a sickness? A love potion perhaps?’

‘No.’

‘You want your future told. A lot of young girls want to know the future.’

‘Not exactly.’

‘What is it then, my dear?’

‘I need to kill someone,’ said Adela.

It was a moment or two before the other woman spoke after that. ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you,’ she replied.

‘Have you ever?’

‘No.’

‘Could you?’

‘I wouldn’t even try.’ She shook her head. ‘These things only happen if they’re meant to be.’ She looked at Adela severely. ‘You should be careful. Wish someone good or wish someone evil, it will return to you three times.’

‘Is that what the witches say?’

‘Yes.’ After waiting for that to sink in, the older woman continued more kindly, ‘I can see you are troubled, though. Would you like to tell me about it?’

So Adela did. She explained about Martell and the Lady Maud. She told the woman all she had seen, the lady’s terrible faults of character, her unfaithfulness, the way Hugh de Martell was being misled.

‘And you think you’d make him a much better wife?’

‘Oh, yes. So you see, if his wife, who’s very sick anyway, were to die, it would really only be for the best.’

‘So you say, my dear. I see you’ve thought about it.’

‘I’m sure I’m right, you see,’ she said.

Puckle’s wife sighed, but she made no comment. Instead, she rocked to and fro in her chair while her cat raised its head enough to give Adela a long stare before apparently going to sleep again. ‘I think’, she said at last, ‘I can help you.’

‘You could make something happen? You could foretell?’

‘Perhaps.’ She paused. ‘But it may not be what you want.’

‘I’ve nothing to lose,’ Adela said simply.

After nodding her head thoughtfully, Puckle’s wife rose and went outside. She was gone for a few moments, then returned, although not to sit down. ‘Witchcraft, as you call it,’ she said quietly, ‘is not about casting spells. It’s not just that. So’ – she nodded to the chair where she had been sitting – ‘you go and sit down in that chair and relax.’ With that, she went over to a chest in one corner of the little room and busied herself with certain articles inside it, humming to herself as she did so. Her cat, meanwhile, moved away from its former position, settling down near the chest where, after one more meaningful look at Adela, it went back to sleep.

After a while, Puckle’s wife began to place some objects on the floor near the chair. Adela noticed a little chalice, a tiny bowl of salt, another of water, a dish containing, by the look of it, some oatcakes, a wand, a small dagger and one or two other items she did not recognize. While she was doing this, Puckle appeared in the doorway for a moment and handed her a sprig from an oak tree, which she took with a nod and placed beside the other articles. When all was ready she came and sat quietly on the stool for a time, apparently thinking to herself. The room became very quiet.

Reaching forward, she picked up the dish of oatcakes and offered them to Adela. ‘Take one.’

‘Are they special? Is there a magic ingredient in them?’ Adela asked with a smile.

‘Ergot,’ the witch replied simply. ‘It comes from grain. Some use an extract from mushrooms, or from toads. They all make the same sort of potion. But ergot is the best.’

Adela ate the little cake, which tasted of nothing very special. She felt both nervous and rather excited.

‘Now my dear,’ Puckle’s wife said at last, ‘I want you to sit quite still and rest your feet flat on the floor. Put your hands in your lap, push your back straight against the back of the chair.’ Adela did so. ‘Now,’ the witch continued gently, ‘I want you to take three breaths, very slowly, and when you let them out, taking your time, I want you to relax as completely as you can. Will you do that for me?’

Adela did so. The feeling of relaxation, coupled with her nervousness made her give a little laugh. ‘Are you going to take me away to a magic kingdom – another world?’ she asked.

The witch only looked down quietly at the floor. ‘As above, so below,’ she said quietly. ‘The magical kingdom is the world between the worlds.’ Looking up again she continued: ‘Now I want you to imagine you’re like a tree. There are roots growing down from your feet into the earth. Can you imagine that?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘Good.’ She paused a moment. ‘Now there’s a root growing down from your spine, right through the chair and down into the ground. Deep into the ground.’

‘Yes. I can feel it.’

The witch nodded slowly. It seemed to Adela that she was indeed rooted like a tree, in that space. At first it felt strange, then immensely relaxing. Only then did the witch get up and slowly begin to move about.

First she picked up the little dagger and, pointing it, she made a circle in the air that seemed to contain them both and all the articles on the ground. The cat remained outside the circle.

Then she touched the water in the bowl with the tip of the dagger, murmuring something; next she did the same to the salt. After this she transferred three tips of salt on the dagger point into the bowl of water and stirred, still murmuring softly.

Next she took the bowl of water and performed sprinklings, three times each, in four places round the imaginary circle, which Adela realized must be the four points of the compass. She took a tiny glowing shard from the fire, whispered something and snuffed it out, watching wisps of smoke drift upwards. Then once again she went round the four points, making curious signs at each.

‘Do you always move round the same way, from north to east to south?’ Adela ventured to ask.

‘Yes,’ came the reply. ‘If you go the other way we call it moving widdershins. Don’t talk.’

Now, a third time, she was going to the compass points around the circle, holding the dagger, and at each one she made a curious casting in the air. At the first Adela thought it was a random sign, but she realized that the second was identical. At the third she understood: the witch was drawing a pentagram, the five-pointed star whose structural lines have no break or ending, in the air. And though the fourth casting took place behind her head, she had no doubt it was the same. Finally the witch made a pentagram at the centre of the circle. ‘Air, Fire, Water, Earth,’ she said quietly. ‘The circle is made.’

Picking up the wand, she went round once more, repeating the pentagrams. Then, satisfied, she stood in the centre of the circle, not looking at Adela but apparently at the points on the circle’s edge, speaking softly to each before at last sitting down on the stool and quietly waiting, like a householder expecting visitors.

Adela, too, sat quietly waiting – she was not sure for how long. Not long, she thought.

At first, when Puckle’s wife had told her to imagine herself a tree, she had experienced a vague downward pressure on her body. After a little, to her surprise, she found she could not only imagine herself in this transformed state, she could actually feel the roots extending out of the soles of her feet and then from her spine, seeking their way down into the dark earth. She could feel the earth, as though she had acquired several new sets of hands and fingers: it was cool and damp, musty but nourishing. This downward sense continued. If she wanted to move, she realized, the roots would hold her down, keeping her in this single place. At first this seemed a little irksome. I’m not a free animal any more, she thought, I’m a tree, I’m trapped, a prisoner of the earth.

But gradually she began to get used to it. Although her body might be rooted in the earth, her mind seemed to have gained a new freedom. It was a peaceful, pleasant feeling. She felt as if she were floating.

Some time passed. She was aware of the shadowy room, the gentle glow of the fire, the witch’s quietness. But then one or two strange things happened. The grey cat began to grow. It roughly doubled its size and then started to change into a pig. Adela thought this rather funny and laughed. Then the pig floated out of the window, which seemed sensible enough, since a pig obviously belonged outside.

A little later she realized something else. It had grown dark outside, but she could see the sky and the stars through the cabin roof. This was remarkable. The branches, the twigs and moss were still there, but she found she could see straight through them. Better yet, it seemed that she herself, being a tree, was growing up through the roof now, opening out her canopy of leaves to the night.

And now she was flying. It was so simple. She was flying in the night sky under the crescent moon. Her clothes were no longer on her, nor did she want them. She could feel the cool air with a hint of dew on her skin. She was high over the Forest and the stars in the sky were clustering round her, tapping on her skin like diamonds. For a short, wonderful time she flew around over the woodlands, which rippled gently like waves. Finally, seeing an oak, larger than the others, she flew towards it and reached its branches, vaguely realizing as she did so that this tree was herself.

She floated down, comfortably, to the mossy ground. Once there, she could see numerous pathways leading away under the arching oak trees; but one in particular caught her attention because it was like a long, almost endless tunnel that glowed with a greenish light. In the distance down this tunnel she also became aware of something, some swift creature, coming in her direction. It seemed very far away, but in no time at all it drew much closer. Indeed, it was bounding towards her.

It was a stag, a magnificent red stag with branching antlers. Closer and closer it came. It was coming for her. She was frightened. She was glad.

Silence. Blankness. Maybe she had dozed for a short while. She was in the little room again. The grey cat was in the corner. Puckle’s wife was making the sign of the pentagram, although her hand was moving in the opposite direction from the way she had done it before. After finishing, the older woman looked at her and remarked quietly: ‘It’s completed.’

Adela remained still for a moment or two, then moved her hands and feet. She felt rather light. ‘Did something happen?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘What?’

Puckle’s wife did not answer. The faint glow of the turf fire threw a soft light around the room.

Glancing at the window, Adela saw that there was now only a faint hint of light outside. She wondered vaguely how long she had been there. An hour or more if it was already dusk. She had planned spending the night with the Prides at their cottage; she supposed Pride could still take her back there after dusk. ‘I must go. It will be night soon,’ she said.

‘Night?’ Puckle’s wife smiled. ‘You’ve been here all night. That’s dawn you see out there.’

‘Oh.’ How extraordinary. Adela tried to collect her thoughts. ‘You said something happened. Can you tell me? Will the Lady Maud …?’

‘I saw a little of your future.’

‘And?’

‘I saw a death, which will bring you peace. Happiness too.’

‘So. It is going to happen, then.’

‘Don’t you be sure. It may not be what you think.’

‘But a death …’ Adela looked at her but the other woman would not say more. Instead, she went to the door and summoned Pride.

Adela rose. Obviously Puckle’s wife expected her to leave now. She went to the doorway. She wasn’t sure if she should give her money or just thank her for the visit. She felt in a pouch in her belt and brought out two pennies. Puckle’s wife took them with a quiet nod. Evidently she felt this was her due. The figure of Pride, leading her horse, came looming out of the pale darkness.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Perhaps we shall meet again.’

‘Perhaps.’ Puckle’s wife looked at her thoughtfully, not unkindly. ‘Remember,’ she admonished, ‘things are not always what they seem in the Forest.’ Then she went back inside.

Dawn was breaking as they rode out onto the huge lawn below Burley Rocks. The moon had departed. The stars were fading gently in the clear sky and a golden light shimmered along the eastern horizon.

A skylark started singing, high above – a starburst of sound against the withdrawing night. Did he, also, know she was going to marry Martell?

Adela felt pleased with herself as she rode into Winchester that afternoon. She and Pride had travelled at a leisurely pace across the Forest, passing north of Lyndhurst, and he had refused to leave her until, just short of Romsey, they had encountered a respectable merchant who was going her way.

She had wondered whether, upon her return, she should tell her friend the widow where she had really been and concluded that she should not. Instead, she had concocted a story about a Forest friend being in trouble and asking for help, and even persuaded a reluctant Pride to back it up if necessary. Altogether she thought she had handled things quite well.

So she was surprised, upon her return, as she began her tale, when the widow raised her hand to stop her. ‘I’m sorry, Adela, but I don’t want to hear.’ Her face was calm, but cold. ‘I am only relieved that you are not harmed. I would have sent people out to look for you but you gave me no idea which way you had gone.’

‘There was no need. I said I’d be back.’

‘I am responsible for you, Adela. Your going off like that was unforgivable. Anyway,’ she continued, ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to go. I can’t have you here any more. I’m sorry, because it’s nearly Easter.’ At Easter the king and his court would be there. The perfect opportunity to find a husband. ‘But I won’t take responsibility for you. You’ll have to go back to your cousin Walter.’

‘But he’s in Normandy.’

‘The keeper of the treasury has a messenger crossing to Normandy in a few days. He will accompany you. It’s all arranged.’

‘But I can’t go to Normandy,’ Adela cried. ‘Not now.’

‘Oh?’ The widow looked at her sharply, then shrugged. ‘Who will take you in? Have you other arrangements in mind?’

Adela was silent, thinking furiously. ‘Perhaps,’ she said hesitantly. ‘I may have.’

Edgar would often ride out past Burley, where the forester was a friend of his. He had ridden over to the dark dell where the village lay, that spring morning, and finding him out had continued eastwards across the great lawn and into the woods when he caught sight of his friend standing in a clearing, talking to Puckle. Seeing Edgar, the forester waved and signalled him to dismount. Edgar did so and walked over.

‘What is it?’

The forester looked excited. It was evident that Puckle must have brought him some piece of news as the two men were obviously about to go off together. In answer, his friend just put his finger to his lips and motioned Edgar to accompany them. ‘You’ll see.’

Together the three men went quietly through the trees, saying nothing and taking care not to step on any twigs that might crack. Once the forester licked his finger and held it up to check the direction of the breeze. They went on in this manner for nearly half a mile. Then, Puckle and the forester began to move slowly, crouching and using the bushes for cover. Edgar did the same. They edged forward another hundred yards or so. Then Puckle nodded and pointed to a place not far ahead in the trees.

It was a small clearing, only twenty paces across, with an ancient tree stump and a small holly bush in the middle. If it had not been for a dark ring of tracks in the fallen leaves, not even Puckle would have given the place a second glance. But today it was occupied.

There were five of them, all bucks, ready to rut the next season, if they had not the last. They all still had their antlers. They looked very handsome. And they were dancing in a ring.

There really was no other way to describe it. Round they processed, kicking their heels in the air. Every so often one, then another, would stand up on their hind legs, turn and spar with each other just like boxers. It was not in earnest, though, but in play. This was one of the rarest and most lovely of the Forest’s many ceremonies. Edgar smiled with pleasure. It was ten years since he had seen a dancing of the deer in a play ring.

And why should the bucks dance in a circle? Why did humans do the same? The three men watched for a long time, experiencing the joy and reverence that is special to the Forest people, before creeping silently away.

Edgar’s heart was singing as he rode down into the Avon valley. He was looking forward to telling his father all about it.

On his arrival home, however, he found his father had other things on his mind. The old man looked grim. ‘We’ve received a messenger,’ Cola told his son as he led him into the hall. Edgar noticed a young fellow waiting with his horse by the barn. ‘From Winchester.’

‘Oh?’ This meant nothing to Edgar, although he realized that his father was watching him carefully.

‘That girl. Tyrrell’s kinswoman. She wants to come here. Some problem in Winchester. She doesn’t say what.’

‘I see.’

‘You know nothing about this?’

‘No, Father.’ He didn’t. But his mind was working fast.

‘I don’t like it.’ Cola paused, glanced at Edgar again.

‘She has powerful kin.’

‘Hmm … I’m not sure they care about her. But you’re right. I wouldn’t want to offend Tyrrell. And the Clares …’ He became silent, thoughtful. As so often happened, Edgar had the feeling that his father knew more than he was saying. ‘I think this girl’s trouble,’ he said finally. ‘I’m sure that’s why she’s leaving Winchester. She’s got into mischief of some sort. And I don’t need that here. Also …’ He looked glumly at Edgar.

‘Also?’

‘I seem to remember you took an interest in her.’

‘I remember.’

‘Could that happen again?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘That’s what worries me.’ The old man shook his head. ‘She’d be no help to you, you know,’ he growled. ‘Or me,’ he added in a mutter.

‘Do you think she’s bad?’

‘No. Not exactly. But …’ Cola shrugged. ‘She’s not what we need.’

Edgar nodded. He understood. They needed someone rich. Someone who would give no offence. But whether it was the sight of the dancing deer, the spring air, or the memory of his rides with her, he felt impelled to say: ‘We ought to give her shelter, Father.’

Cola nodded. ‘I was afraid you’d say that.’ He sighed. ‘Well, she can stay here until I can get word to Tyrrell. I’ll ask him what he wants me to do with her. I just hope to God that as soon as he knows she’s here, he takes her away.’

She was nearer to Martell. It was fated to happen. Her position, admittedly, might have been awkward, but luckily the widow in Winchester had at least relented enough to give her a cover story. Adela was being harassed, Cola was told, by an unwanted suitor and she needed to escape from Winchester for a time. She was not sure the old man believed it, but it was the best she could do. She thanked him for his kindness, murmured how grateful Tyrrell and her Norman relations would be, kept her head held high and did her best to make herself agreeable.

It was clear to her after a day or two that Edgar, although he treated her with a polite caution, was still attracted to her; and since she liked the handsome young Saxon this made her life easier.

When he asked her if she would like to ride out with him, she gladly accepted. She did not lead him on. She was sure she didn’t. But it was nice to be admired.

And it was easy to get news of the Lady Maud. She told Cola how she met Martell in Winchester. It seemed natural that she should be concerned about the health of a lady with whom she had stayed. The huntsman heard about Martell from time to time and so it was that Adela knew that the Lady Maud continued to be very sickly and that some said she would never survive the birth. Adela therefore waited patiently.

Tyrrell’s response did not come for nearly a month. When it did, it was a minor masterpiece.

It arrived in the form of a letter, written in Norman French. Cola took it to one of the old monks at Christchurch to make sure he had the sense correctly. It ran:

Walter Tyrrell, lord of Poix, sends greetings to Cola the Huntsman.

I thank you, my friend, and so would her family, for your kindness to the Lady Adela. Your care for even such a distant kinswoman of mine will not be forgotten.

I come into England again in the late summer and will collect her from you at that time, and settle any expenses you may have incurred.

‘The cunning devil,’ Cola grunted. ‘He makes sure I have to keep her for three months. And if she gives trouble, she’s only a “distant kinswoman”. He can’t be held responsible.’

Meanwhile he watched Adela and his son with growing concern. It was not as if he hadn’t got other things on his mind to worry about.

 

When King William II, called Rufus, had spent Easter in Winchester his mood had been notably good. As the weeks followed, it had only grown better.

The conduct of his brother Robert had been everything that he could wish. Having married his heiress in Italy, the obvious move for the Duke of Normandy would have been to hasten back with his bride and her cash, and pay off the mortgage on Normandy. Not a bit of it. After a rather heroic spell on crusade, he was reverting to his usual lackadaisical form. The duke and his bride proceeded at a leisurely pace, stopping everywhere, spending freely as they went. They were not likely to reach Normandy until the end of summer.

‘Give him time,’ Rufus laughed to his court. ‘He’ll spend the whole dowry. You’ll see.’ Meanwhile he himself not only held Normandy, but never ceased his plans to steal any other bits of neighbouring France that he could.

At the start of the summer, however, came an even more agreeable development. Inspired by the sight of so many other Christian rulers winning glory on crusade, the Duke of Aquitaine, the huge, sunlit, wine-growing region southwest of Normandy, decided that he must be a holy crusader too. And what should he do but ask Rufus for a massive loan, just as Robert of Normandy had done, to finance the campaign?

‘He’s offering to mortgage the whole of Aquitaine,’ his emissaries announced. Rufus, who probably held no religious beliefs at all, only laughed: ‘It’s enough to restore one’s faith in God!’ he commented.

And soon the rumour was running round Europe: ‘Rufus means to have not only Normandy but Aquitaine as well.’ To those who disliked or feared him, it was not welcome news.

Edgar loved to show her the Forest. It was, after all, the thing he knew best. And with his brother still in London, he had her all to himself.

He showed her how to read the spoor of the fallow deer. ‘You see, the deer has a cleft foot. When the deer walk, the two cleaves of the foot are together and so the track looks like a little hoof print on the ground. When they trot, the foot opens out and you see a cleft. When they gallop, the foot opens right out and you see a V in the ground.’ He smiled happily. ‘Here’s something else. See these tracks, with the feet turned outwards? That’s the male deer. The footprints of a female deer point straight ahead.’

On another occasion, after they had ridden right across from Burley to Lyndhurst in some of the deepest woods, he asked her: ‘Do you know how you can tell what direction you are headed in the Forest?’

‘By the sun?’

‘What if it’s cloudy?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Find an exposed, upright tree,’ he told her. ‘The lichen, you see, always grows on the damp side of the tree. That’s where the prevailing wind carries the moisture to them from the sea. In this part of England it is from the southwest. Look for the lichen and that’s south-west.’ He grinned. ‘So if you get lost, the trees will be telling you where I live.’

She knew he was falling in love with her and by June her conscience was beginning to trouble her. She was aware that she should hold herself a little distant from him, but this was difficult when she found him such pleasant company. They rode, they laughed, they walked together.

Some days she would refuse to go out. She had begun a large and handsome piece of needlework as a present for his father. It seemed the least that she could do. It was like the hunting scene she had seen in the king’s hall at Winchester, but she hoped it would be even better. It depicted the forest trees, the deer, hounds, birds and hunters. One of the hunters was clearly Cola himself. She had wanted to place the handsome, golden-haired form of Edgar in one corner also, but had thought better of it. This great work was a good excuse for avoiding Edgar’s company some days, without giving offence. And quite often, on these occasions, Cola himself would come in and watch her at work with apparent approval. As the weeks went by, although his quiet manner never changed, it seemed to her that despite himself the old man was getting to like her too.

It was on just such a day, in the second week of June, as she was busy at her needlework in the slanting light under the open window of the hall, that Cola came in to her, smiling. ‘I have news that will please you.’

‘Oh?’

‘Hugh de Martell has a son. A healthy boy. He was born yesterday.’

She felt her heart beat wildly. ‘And the Lady Maud?’ She held her needle, watching it gleam in the falling sunlight.

‘She survived. Remarkably, it seems she is rather well.’

There was another birth in the Forest that day.

For some time now the pale doe, heavy with her fawn, had been searching the Forest alone. It is the habit of the fallow deer to give birth in solitude, almost always to a single fawn. She had searched with care, finally deciding on a small space in a thicket, screened from view by holly bushes. Here she made a bed in the long grass.

It was necessary to be careful. In the first days of its life her fawn would be completely defenceless. If a dog or fox found it alone, the fawn would surely die. This was the handicap that nature, in her bleak wisdom, had placed upon the deer. The foxes tended to live at the edge of the Forest, however, near the farms. She sniffled about carefully but could detect no scent that would tell her a fox had passed that way.

And there, in deep green shadow, in the great warm silence of June, she gave birth to her fawn – a little, sticky, bony mass in the grass – and licked it clean and lay beside it. The fawn was a male; it would be coloured like its father. They lay together and the pale doe hoped that the huge Forest would be kind to them.

Towards the end of June two developments took place. Neither was unexpected.

Cola announced the first. ‘Rufus is going to invade Normandy.’

His brother Robert was now expected to reach his duchy in September. Rufus intended to be waiting for him.

‘Will it be a big invasion?’ Edgar asked.

‘Yes. Huge.’ Edgar’s brother had sent word from London of the preparations there. Large sums were being raised to pay mercenaries. Cartloads of bullion were being withdrawn from the treasury at Winchester. Knights were being summoned from all over the country. ‘And he’s demanding transport vessels from most of the harbours along the southern coasts,’ Cola explained. ‘Robert will arrive to pay off his mortgage and find himself locked out of his house. Rufus has all the resources. If Robert gives battle he’ll lose. It’s a bad business.’

‘But didn’t everyone expect it?’ Adela asked.

‘Yes. I think they did. But it’s one thing to foresee an event, to say it’s likely, and another when it actually starts to happen.’ He sighed. ‘In a way, of course, Rufus is right. Robert really isn’t fit to govern. But to act like this …’

‘I don’t think the Normans will all welcome this,’ said Adela.

‘No, my dear lady, they won’t. Robert’s friends, in particular, are …’ He paused before choosing the word, ‘perturbed’. The old man shook his head. ‘And if he does this to his own brother in Normandy, what do you imagine he’ll do to Aquitaine? It will be just the same. The Duke of Aquitaine goes on crusade. Rufus lends him the money and waves him God speed. Then steals his lands while he’s gone. How do you think people feel about that? How do you suppose the Church feels about it? I can tell you,’ he growled, ‘the tension in Christendom is rising.’

‘Thank heaven these things don’t affect us down in the Forest,’ Edgar remarked.

His father only stared at him grimly. ‘This is a royal forest,’ he muttered. ‘Everything affects us.’ Then he left them.

A week after this a man dressed in black, whom Adela had never seen before rode up and spent some time alone with Cola. After he had gone, the old man looked furious. She had never seen him like this before. Nor, in the days that followed, did he look any less angry. She could see that Edgar was concerned about him too, but when she asked him if he knew what the matter was he only shook his head.

‘He won’t say.’

The second development came a few days later while they were out riding. Edgar asked her if she would marry him.

On the western edge of the dark dell of Burley the ground rises to a substantial wooded ridge, which achieves its highest point about a mile northwards of the village on a promontory known as Castle Hill. Not that there was any Norman castle there, but only the outline, under the scattered ash and holly trees, and the clusters of bracken, of a modest earthwork inclosure – although whether these low earth walls and ditches were the remains of a stock pen, a lookout post or a small fort, and whether the folk who had used it were distant ancestors of the Forest people or some other dwellers from unrecorded time, nobody could say. But whatever spirits might be resting there, it was a pleasant, peaceful place from which, looking westwards, one was granted a panorama that began with the brownish heather sweep down the Forest’s edge to the Avon valley and, over that, to the blue-green ridges of Dorset in the distance.

It was a charming spot to choose, on a sparkling summer morning. The sun was catching his golden hair. He asked her quietly, yet almost gaily and he looked so noble. What woman could have wanted to refuse? She wished she could have been transformed into someone else.

And indeed, why should she refuse? Did it make any sense? It was not as if the conquering Normans never married members of the defeated Saxon noble class. They still did. She would lose a little face, but not too much. He was delightful. She was charmed.

But in front of her, out in that western distance, lay the manor of Hugh de Martell. It was down in one of the valleys between the ridges over which she was looking. And behind her, only a mile or so away, she realized, was the narrow stream where Puckle’s wife had seen what was to come.

She would marry Martell. She still believed it. After the shock of hearing that the Lady Maud had safely given birth she had wondered for a while what it could mean. But the witch’s cautious words had come back to her: ‘Things are not always what they seem.’ She had been promised happiness and she had faith. Something would happen. She knew it would. It seemed clear to her that in some unforeseen way the Lady Maud would depart.

If so, she would be a mother to his son. An excellent one. That would be her good deed, her justification for what must happen.

So what should she say to Edgar? She certainly did not want to be unkind. ‘I am grateful,’ she said slowly. ‘I think I could be happy as your wife. But I am not sure. I cannot say yes at present.’

‘I shall ask you again at the end of summer,’ he said with a smile. ‘Shall we ride on?’

Hugh de Martell gazed at his wife and child. They were in the sunny solar chamber. His son was sleeping peacefully in a wicker cradle on the floor. With his wisp of dark hair, everyone said he looked like his father already. Martell looked at the baby with satisfaction. Then he transferred his eyes to the Lady Maud.

She was propped up, almost in sitting position, on a small bed they had set up for her. She liked to sit in there with her baby, which she did for hours each day. She was rather pale but now she managed a small wan smile for her husband. ‘How is the proud father today?’

‘Well, I think,’ he replied.

The pause turned into a little silence in the sunlit room.

‘I think I shall be better soon.’

‘I’m sure you will.’

‘I’m sorry. It must be difficult for you that I have been sick so long. I’m not much of a wife for you.’

‘Nonsense. We must get you well again. That’s the main thing.’

‘I want to be a good wife to you.’

He smiled rather automatically, then looked away to the open window, staring out thoughtfully.

He no longer loved her. He did not altogether blame himself. No one could reproach him for his behaviour during the months of her sickness. He had been solicitous, loving, nursed her himself. He had been with her, held her hand, given all the comfort a husband can, on the two occasions when she thought she was dying. In all this, his conscience was clear.

But he did not love her any more. He did not desire her intimacy. It was not even her fault, he thought. He knew her too well. The mouth he had kissed, which had even breathed words of passion, was still, in repose, small and mean. He could not share the petty confines of her affections, the neatly tidied chamber of her imagination. She was so timid. Yet she was not weak. Had she been so, the need to protect her, however irksome, might have held him. But she was astonishingly strong. She might be sick, but if she lived, her will would remain unchanged, as constant as ever. Sometimes her will seemed to him like a little thread that ran through the innermost recesses of her soul – thin enough to pass through the eye of a needle, yet as strong as steel and quite unbreakable.

In what did her love for him consist? Necessity, pure and simple. Understandable, of course. She had determined how her life was to be, and had the means to make it so. The modest fortress of her proprieties was complete. And for this she needed him. Could marriage be any other way?

It was hardly surprising, therefore, that his thoughts at such a time should have turned to Adela.

They had done so quite often in the last year. The lone girl, the free spirit: she had intrigued him from the first. More than that. Why else should he have sought her out in Winchester? And since then, quite often, almost as though some influence was working on his mind, she had made her appearance or seemed invisibly to be beside him in his thoughts. He had met Cola a little while ago, and the huntsman had told him where she was and that she had asked after him and his family. At the last full moon he had experienced a sudden yearning for her. Three nights ago she had come to him in his dreams.

He gazed for some time, now, out of the window, then abruptly announced: ‘I’m going for a ride.’

It was early afternoon when he arrived at Cola’s manor. The old man was out, but his son Edgar was there. So was Adela.

He left his horse with Edgar, and he and Adela walked down the lane towards the Avon where the swans glided and the long, green river weeds waved gently in the current. They talked – they scarcely knew of what – and after a time he suggested that, if he sent word, they should meet again, in private.

She assented.

On their return to Edgar he was careful to thank her, rather formally, for her interest in his family during their time of trouble and then, with a courteous nod to the young man, he rode away.

As he did so he felt a tingling excitement he had not known for a long time. He had no doubt that he would be successful in this romantic adventure. It was not as if he had never done such a thing before.

The letter from Walter arrived one week later. It was brief and to the point. He was on his way to England. He was to meet some of his wife’s family, then join the king. By early August he expected to be free to come and collect her. The letter ended with one other item of information:

By the way, I have found you a husband.

Three weeks had passed. No message had come from Martell. Although she tried to conceal her agitation, Adela was pale and tense. What did it mean?

Why had he not come? Had the Lady Maud fallen ill again? She tried to find out. The only report she could obtain said that the lady was getting stronger every day.

She was not sure what would come of it when she and Martell met. Would she give herself to him? She did not know, she hardly cared. She wanted, only, to see him. She longed to ride over to his manor, but knew she could not. She wanted to write, but did not dare.

The news from Walter made the situation even more urgent. He would take her away and marry her off. Could she refuse to go with him? Could she turn down another suitor? Nothing seemed to make sense.

Meanwhile, the king had arrived in Winchester. The army and fleet would soon be ready. More money, it was said, was coming into the Winchester treasury. Rufus was so occupied that he had not even had time to hunt.

Whether Walter had reached Winchester yet she did not know. Nor had she any wish to communicate with him if he had.

In the last week of July she went to see Puckle’s wife. She found her in her little cabin, just as she had been before; but when she asked for help and advice the witch refused to give it.

‘Couldn’t we cast a spell again?’ she asked.

The woman only shook her head calmly. ‘Wait. Be patient. What will be, will be,’ she answered.

So Adela went back, discouraged.

The atmosphere at Cola’s manor was not made easier by the fact that Edgar seemed moody. No further word had been spoken about his proposal – and she could not imagine that he had any inkling of her secret feelings for Martell – but the news that Walter was coming to take her away could hardly have pleased him. Superficially their relationship continued the same, but there was distress in his eyes.

Cola, too, continued to be darkly silent. She did not know whether Edgar had told his father of his proposal or not. If he did know, did he approve or disapprove? She had no wish to ask, or bring up the subject at all. But she wondered if his sombre mood was connected with this, or with the dangerous events of the outside world.

In the closing days of July the tension in the household seemed to grow. Walter’s visit could not be far away. Cola looked black and Edgar was becoming visibly agitated. Once or twice he seemed on the point of raising the subject of their marriage again, but he held back. The tension, Adela sensed, could not continue much longer.

Matters were finally brought to a head on the last day of July when Cola called them together. ‘I’ve received word that the king and a party of companions are arriving at Brockenhurst tomorrow,’ he announced. ‘He wishes to hunt in the Forest the following day. I am to attend on him.’ He glanced at Adela. ‘Your cousin Walter is one of the party. So no doubt we shall see him here soon.’ Then he went out to see to some business, leaving her alone with Edgar.

The silence did not last long.

‘You will be leaving with Tyrrell,’ Edgar said quietly.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Oh? Does that mean that I may hope?’

‘I don’t know.’ It was a stupid answer, but she was too flustered at that moment to make much sense.

‘Then what does it mean?’ he suddenly burst out. ‘Has Walter found a suitor? Have you accepted him?’

‘No. No, I haven’t.’

‘Then what? Is there someone else?’

‘Someone else? Whom do you mean?’

‘I don’t know.’ He seemed to hesitate. Then he said in a tone of exasperation: ‘The man in the moon, for all I know.’ Turning on his heel furiously, he strode away. And Adela, knowing she was treating him badly, could only comfort herself that her own exasperation and suffering were probably worse than even his. She avoided him for the rest of the day.

The following morning she was left to herself. Cola was busy making arrangements. He went to see Puckle for some reason; there were spare horses to be ready at Brockenhurst where the local forester was preparing to receive the king. Edgar was sent on several errands and she was glad he was not there.

In the afternoon, having nothing better to do, she went for a walk down the lane by the river. She had just turned back towards the manor when a fellow dressed like a servant stepped out in front of her and held out something in his hand. ‘You are the Lady Adela? I am to give you this.’ She felt something slipped into her hand, but before she could say another word to him, he had run off.

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.

His nerves strung taut, his pulse beating fast, he rode about, asking in Burley if they had been seen and looking out over various nearby high points. There was nothing. He returned slowly to the valley, thinking to check back at his home. Perhaps, he told himself, he had been mistaken. But if not he would come back to the Forest and try again.

Adela had been cautious as she approached Brockenhurst. On the one hand she had to find Walter, but on the other she must avoid Cola. She certainly could not tell the old man why she had disobeyed his orders and he would probably send her home before she could accomplish her mission.

As she came close to the royal hunting lodge, however, she had what seemed to be a piece of luck. She saw Puckle, standing alone by his cart. When she asked him where the king’s party were, he looked thoughtful, then said that they had gone northwards, somewhere above Lyndhurst.

This was good news indeed. The area was wooded. Perhaps she could intercept Walter without being spotted. Asking Puckle to say nothing of having seen her she set off, with a lighter heart, towards the north.

Not until some time after her husband had left did the Lady Maud stir from her usual position of resting in the solar. But when she did she astonished the entire household by demanding not only her outdoor clothes but that her horse should be saddled as well.

‘You do not mean to ride, My Lady?’ her maidservant enquired anxiously.

‘Yes. I do.’

‘But My Lady, you are so weak.’

It was true that, after so much inactivity, the Lady Maud was hardly steady on her feet. But despite all the woman’s remonstrances she insisted: ‘I shall ride.’ There was nothing they could do about it. One brave servant ventured to say that the master would not like it, but was cut with such a mean little look that he shrivelled back against the wall.

‘That is between me and him, not you,’ she said coldly and told them to bring the horse round to the door.

Moments later, while the groom held the bridle, they were helping her to mount.

‘Please, My Lady, you could fall,’ the groom now begged. ‘Let me at least accompany you.’

‘No.’ Abruptly she turned her horse’s head away and started off at a walk. So she proceeded, wobbling once or twice, pale-faced, looking straight ahead, all the way down the long village street, while the cottagers came out to watch her pass. She started up the track that her husband had taken. She swayed, seemed about to fall, but pressed on.

She was following him. Her journey was instinctive. Did she know that she had lost his love? She sensed it. Did she know he had gone to another woman? She guessed it. And something in her, an animal knowledge, told her she must get well, and ride and take him back. So that August day she rode out in front of them all, kept in the saddle by her will alone. At the top of the rise she urged her horse into a canter, and those who saw it below gasped and muttered: ‘Dear God, she will be killed.’

The king’s hunting party had set out gaily from Brockenhurst, accompanied by Cola.

‘My faithful huntsman. I can always trust you to do everything perfectly.’ Rufus was in a good humour. His sharp eyes bored into the old huntsman; then he laughed. ‘I don’t want to drive the deer into your great trap today, my friend. I want to hunt the woods.’

Hounds had been produced. There were two kinds: the tufters, agile scenting hounds, whose job was to sniff out the deer and spring them from the dense covert; and the running hounds which, today, would only be used to bring down any deer who having been wounded, escaped into the open.

They proceeded first into the woods below Brockenhurst; but after hunting there a while the king insisted on going eastwards, across a huge expanse of open heath, despite the fact that Cola warned him: ‘You’ll find some red deer, Sire, but few fallow.’

At noon the king decided to stop and rest, and demanded some refreshment. Then, some way into the afternoon, he agreed to let Cola lead them to a better hunting ground, although even now he seemed to be in no hurry. ‘Come on, Tyrrell,’ he cried. ‘We shall all be watching you.’

The pale deer started. She trembled for a moment, then listened.

The huge silence of the August afternoon seemed to lie like an endless covering over the warm blue sky. By her side, her little fawn could walk a few steps now. Gangling, delicate, feeding from her, precious to her, he had survived the first dangerous days of life. But was he old enough to run, if the hounds came?

She turned her head. She was sure she could hear them now. She looked at her fawn, her heart full of fear. Were the hunters coming this way?

Hugh de Martell had waited long enough. He was not used to being kept waiting. He knew from the messenger that Adela had received his letter. Could something have prevented her coming? Perhaps. But he doubted it. Had she arrived and waited for him and then left? Possibly. But his message had only said that they should meet in the morning and it had not been noon when he arrived. She would have stayed, he was sure of it. And now he had been kept waiting. Two hours, he guessed.

No. She had changed her mind and thought better of it. He was sorry. He had liked her.

He wondered what to do. Should he go down to Cola’s manor? He thought not. Too risky. Should he turn back and go home? It irked him to do so because it seemed an admission of failure. Anyway, it was a fine day. He might as well enjoy it. Leaving Castle Hill, he skirted Burley and idly walked his horse up on to the high heath. After a mile or two there would be a magnificent view eastwards and down to the sea. He had once had a girl, the daughter of a fisherman, down on the coast there. He had soon grown tired of her, but today the memory seemed a pleasant one.

His temper improved by the time he reached this high place. It could be that Adela had been prevented from coming after all. He would make enquiries. She might be his yet.

Godwin Pride had finished his new fence just after dawn that morning and he was proud of it. Not that the area enclosed was so much larger. He had actually extended it less than one yard. But – here was the cleverness of it – he had done so on two sides instead of one. As a result, the proportions of the pen were exactly as they had been before. Unless a person inspected the ground, he would never notice that there had been any alteration.

‘But what’s the point?’ his wife had asked. ‘There still isn’t enough space for that extra cow.’

‘Never you mind about that,’ he had replied. It was the principle of the thing. And he had been surveying his work for perhaps the fifth time that afternoon when he had looked up and seen a curious sight.

It was Adela. But he had never seen her like this before. She seemed exhausted, almost crushed. Her horse was on his last legs, his mouth foaming, his flanks drenched. She gave Pride a look of desperation. ‘Have you seen them? The king’s party?’ He hadn’t. ‘I’ve got to find them.’ She didn’t say why. It was lucky that he was close enough to catch her as she swayed and fell from her horse.

She had spent hours searching around Lyndhurst before finally concluding that the royal party had gone some other way. Retracing her steps down to Brockenhurst she had been told by a servant which way they had gone and so she had searched the woods to the south. Casting about this way and that, riding down tracks, through glades, listening for some faint echo in the endlessly receding trees, she had encountered nothing except a huge silence broken occasionally by the flapping of a bird in the leaves.

She had searched in a state of near panic, lost heart, almost despaired. Yet she could not give up. She had asked in the few hamlets but nobody knew where they were. By now she knew that her horse was giving out and that brought her to a kind of nervous hopelessness too. Then finally she had thought of Pride.

It took a while to revive her. When they had, she was determined to go on. ‘Not on that horse, you won’t,’ Pride had to tell her.

‘I’ll walk if I have to,’ she said.

He led her outside with a smile. ‘Do you think’, he asked, ‘you could ride one of these?’

Adela could feel the warmth of the late afternoon sun on her back as its golden rays fell, in great slanting shafts, over the forest wastes.

The sturdy little New Forest pony she rode was surprisingly fast. She had not realized how sure-footed these animals were, compared with her high-bred gelding. Born to the heather, he seemed to dance through it.

Pride was riding beside her. At first they had intended to try the woods near Brockenhurst again; but they had met a peasant who told them he had seen horsemen out on the heath to the east. And so it was, in the late afternoon, that Adela found herself passing on to the one huge tract of the Forest where she had never been before.

It was open country – a broad, low, gently undulating coastal plain. To the south, not seven miles away, the long, looming, blue-green hills of the Isle of Wight told her that she was near the Solent water, with its promise of the open sea. In front of her the heath, violet and purple in August, with fewer gorse brakes than on the western side of the Forest, stretched from Pride’s hamlet all the way down to the belt of wooded marsh and meadowland that masked the line of the coast. Ytene, as they had anciently called it: the land where the Jutes from the Isle of Wight had come to farm.

She was glad to have Pride with her. She could not tell him what they were doing, of course, but his calm presence gave her heart again. After all, she reminded herself, if the king’s party were still out hunting then nothing had happened yet. Walter was probably still safe. Perhaps the whole thing had been called off. As long as there was light, though, she must try to find him and deliver her message; and there were still hours to go before the sun would sink over the Forest.

Perhaps it was because she was tired, perhaps it was the heat, but as they went over the heath the great silence of the August afternoon seemed to take on an air of unreality. The occasional birds hovering overhead seemed to lose their substance as if at any moment they might recede upwards into the endless blue heavens, or dissolve down into the purple heather sea, becoming nothingness.

But where were the hunters? She and Pride travelled a mile, then another, crossed some marshy ground, rose up again on to dry heath, saw clumps of holly trees and oaks in the distance, but no riders. Only the same blue sky and purple heather.

‘There are two places they could be,’ Pride said at last. ‘They could be over there.’ He pointed eastwards to where she could see a line of woodland. ‘Or they might be down in the marshes.’ His arm made a sweeping gesture towards the south. ‘It’s your choice.’

Adela considered. She hardly cared, now, whether she encountered Cola, or even the king himself; but if she was going to deliver her message that day it would need to be done soon. ‘We’d better split up,’ she said.

Since the tracks in the coastal oak woods were treacherous, they quickly agreed that Pride would go down there while she went east.

‘And what am I to say if I find your cousin?’ he asked.

‘Tell him …’ She paused. What could the forester say? If she saw Walter herself, little though he respected her, she thought she could draw him to one side and tell him enough, at least, of what she knew to make him realize his danger. But what message could she possibly send by Pride that might make him take notice? She searched her mind. And then she had an inspiration. ‘Tell him’, she said, ‘that you come from the Lady Maud. Tell him she will explain all, but that, on any excuse he can think of, he must flee at once for his life.’ That, she thought, should do it. Moments later they went their separate ways. As they parted she called after him: ‘What’s the name of the place you’re going to?’

‘There’s a farm down there,’ he called back, ‘known as Througham.’ Then he trotted away.

For nearly another hour she wandered all along the line of the eastern woods but found no sign of them. Time and again she glanced back across the heath and saw nothing. She finally concluded that, if they were still in this part of the Forest at all, they must be somewhere in the woods where Pride was riding and had started back across the heath in that direction, when suddenly in the distance she caught sight of the strangest vision.

An animal was moving, with extraordinary speed, across the heath towards the woods at Througham. The sun in the west was shining, fiery gold, in her eyes and she raised her hand to shield them. But even in that reddening glare it seemed to her she could make out the creature well enough; and she realized with a start that she recognized it.

The pale doe. The pale doe was racing like a darting speck of light across the purple glow of the heather. There were two horsemen, hunters, behind her. Two hounds as well, she was almost sure. The deer was quite alone. Were there other deer nearby, a fawn perhaps, trembling by a thicket, watching its mother being chased by the hunters? The pale doe was going faster than they, running, almost flying for her life towards the shelter of the woods and marshes.

Hardly thinking what she was doing, almost forgetting Walter, she found herself urging her pony forward, following the deer. She waved at the hunters, but they did not seem to see her. The pale deer was already near the trees. The two hunters were at a gallop now. Try as she might, she could not cut them off and she was still half a mile behind them when they followed the pale doe into the woods.

Nor did she even see them again. When she reached the trees herself she encountered nothing but silence. The pale doe, the riders, the hounds might have been so many phantoms. All she found as she rode down one track after another, was a succession of oak woods, open glades and marshy meadows.

She had just tried a track through the woods that led south when, to her left, she heard hoof-beats rapidly approaching her. She stopped. Was it Pride? One of the hunting party? A moment later the horseman came into sight. She gave a little cry of relief. But it died in her.

For it was Walter as she had never seen him before. He was gasping, his eyes were wild and he was pale, almost green as though he were about to vomit. Seeing her, he scarcely even had the emotion left, it appeared, to register surprise. But as he came up, he cried out hoarsely: ‘Flee. Flee for your life.’

‘You got my message, then?’ she cried back. ‘About the king?’

‘Message? I had no message. The king is dead.’

*

Hugh de Martell awoke. Foolishly, perhaps, after enjoying the view over the Forest, he had returned to Castle Hill and stayed up there. He must have fallen asleep in the sun. He blinked. It was late afternoon. And perhaps he might even have stayed there a little longer if he had not noticed, just then, coming over the ridge from the northerly Ringwood direction, a single horseman whom he recognized to be Edgar.

He muttered a curse. On the one hand the young fellow could probably tell him what had happened to Adela, but he was not sure he wanted to ask him. There was also the possibility, he supposed, that Cola and his family might have discovered about the assignation, might even have stopped Adela meeting him. Edgar could be coming to Castle Hill to look for him. Either way, he had no wish to encounter him.

There was a track from the bottom of the hill that led due west across open heath before entering a wood at a small promontory known as Crow Hill, from where it descended steeply into the Avon valley. It was less than a mile to the cover of Crow Hill. On his powerful horse he could be across it in no time. Moments later he was in the saddle.

He put his horse into a canter. The firm, peaty track was easy going. Ahead of him, in the west, the sun was starting to sink over the Avon valley, bathing the place in a pinkish, golden light. On each side the heather was like a shimmering purple lake. The moment was so magical that, despite himself, he almost laughed aloud at the sheer beauty of it.

He was a third of the way over when he realized to his irritation that Edgar had taken a path that led diagonally across the little heath. The tiresome young fellow meant to cut him off. He smiled to himself nonetheless. The Saxon might find that harder than he thought. His splendid stallion was bounding along. He measured the distance with his eye, bided his time.

Halfway across he went into a gallop. Glancing right, he saw that Edgar was doing the same. He chuckled to himself. The young Saxon hadn’t a chance. His stallion was thundering along, eating up the ground, making sparks when his shoes struck against the white gravel stones in the peaty turf.

But to his surprise he realized that Edgar was keeping pace. The fellow was going to meet him before he got to the wood. Ahead to his left, however, a little spur of wood came out, just in front of which, like a marker, was a solitary ash tree.

Suddenly, therefore, he veered left. His stallion plunged through the heather. Just ahead he noticed that some Forest fool had made piles of logs. He was almost level with the ash tree, which would screen him from the Saxon’s view, damn him. He urged his horse forward, forgetting that the surface of the Forest is not firm and true, like the sweeping chalk downs around his manor, but soft, shifting and treacherous to those who try to impose upon it. So he had no warning at all when his mighty beast’s leg plunged into a hidden pocket of boggy ground, throwing him head first towards the woodpile.

‘But what happened?’ She had never seen Walter at a loss before.

He gazed at her almost as if she were not there. ‘It was an accident.’

‘But who? How?’

‘An accident.’ He stared straight ahead.

She looked at him carefully. Was he just in a state of shock? Was he describing what he saw, or what someone had told him? They were trotting briskly, now, on to the heath.

‘Where are you going?’ she asked.

‘West. I have to go west. Away from Winchester. I have to find a boat. Further along the coast.’

‘A boat?’

‘Don’t you understand? I have to get away. Flee the realm. I wish to God I knew the way through this cursed forest.’

‘I do,’ she said. ‘I’ll guide you.’

It was astonishing how quickly the time seemed to pass. But then she was no longer searching and wandering; she was going straight for a point in the terrain whose position she knew: the little deserted ford north of Pride’s hamlet. The heath was empty. They saw no one. They did not speak. Avoiding the tiny hamlet, they found the long path that led down to the ford, crossed below Brockenhurst and came out on to the rolling heathland of the western Forest.

‘Do you want to try to get a boat at Christchurch?’ she asked.

‘No. It’s too near. I might have to wait a day or two and by then’ – he sighed – ‘they could arrest me. I have to go much further west.’

‘You’ll have to cross the River Avon. I know the Avon valley.’ Thank God for her rides with Edgar. ‘There’s a cattle ford about halfway between Christchurch and Ringwood. After that you cross the meadows and it’s open heathland for miles and miles.’

‘Good. I’ll go that way, then,’ Tyrrell said.

The sun was sinking in the west, a huge deep red; here and there a solitary tree stood out like a strange indigo flower against the red sky, casting a long shadow towards them like a cautionary finger. They had to walk their horses, but apart from the Forest ponies and the occasional cattle they had the place to themselves.

Tyrrell seemed to have recovered a bit now. ‘You said you were looking for me, that you sent a message,’ he said quietly. ‘What was that?’

She told him the whole story, the behaviour of Cola, what she had heard and how she had searched, with Pride’s help.

He listened carefully, then was silent for a few moments. ‘Did you realize that you might have been risking your life for me, my dear cousin?’ he said at last. He had never called her his dear cousin before.

‘I didn’t really think of it,’ she replied honestly.

‘This Pride – he knows nothing except the message you gave him, from the Lady Maud?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Let’s hope he is discreet, then.’ He stayed lost in thought for a while. Then, gazing ahead he said quietly: ‘You must forget everything you heard, everything you saw. If anyone asks, if Cola asks, you went for a ride in the Forest. Is there any reason why you should have done so?’

‘Actually,’ she confessed, ‘I had an assignation with Hugh de Martell. But I missed it.’

‘Aha!’ Despite everything, he laughed out loud. ‘He’s incorrigible, you know. Be warned. But it couldn’t be better. Stick to that if you must. Say you panicked and fled to find me if further pressed. But’, he became very serious, ‘if you value your life, Adela, forget everything else.’

‘What really happened?’ she asked.

He paused for some time before he spoke and, when he did, he chose his words carefully. ‘I don’t know. We’d split up. One of my Clare kinsmen came racing up to me and said there’d been an accident. “And as you were alone with the king,” he said, “you’ll take the blame.” I told him I hadn’t been with the king, but I got the message, if you see what I mean. He promised me they’d keep the hue and cry off my trail for a day or two if I made myself scarce and got across the sea. No point in arguing.’

‘Was it an accident?’

‘Who knows? Accidents happen.’

She wondered if he were telling the truth, and realized she could not know. She also realized that it was irrelevant. What mattered most – a hidden truth or a series of fleeting appearances? Or what men chose to say, or chose to believe?

‘I’m afraid, my poor little cousin, there’s nothing much I can do for you at present. I did have a possible suitor for you, but nobody will be wanting an alliance with a poor cousin of mine for a while. And you certainly can’t come with me to Normandy now. What’s to be done?’

‘I’ll go back to Cola’s first,’ she replied. ‘Then we’ll see. They tell me’ – she smiled – ‘that I’m going to be very happy.’

‘You are slightly mad,’ he replied, ‘but I begin to love you.’

Just then they came to the top of a low ridge. The sunset was in all its glory now, ahead of them, a vast red glow on the horizon over the Avon valley. And then Adela turned round to look back and saw all the purple heather of the heath suddenly transformed into a vast, magnificent, crimson fire, so that it seemed as if the whole Forest floor were molten, like the mouth of a secret volcano.

Then she and Tyrrell continued on their way, and when they could see the darkening river and the broad meadows by the cattle ford, she turned northwards and left him to take his flight towards the west.

A single arrow from a bow had killed Rufus. The red-headed monarch had died instantly. His companions had gathered and taken counsel quickly. It was his silent, thoughtful younger brother Henry who, after only moments of persuading, had announced: ‘We must go to Winchester at once.’ The treasury was there.

It was fortunate indeed that, no doubt thanks to the efficiency of Cola, Puckle and his cart should have been near at hand. They wrapped the body of the king, put it in Puckle’s cart and all set out for the ancient capital. All, that is, save Cola who, his work done, returned slowly home.

He reached his manor some time after dark, at just the same time as, in another, larger manor further west, they woke the Lady Maud, sleeping after her ride, to tell her that her husband, out riding in the Forest, had fallen from his horse, broken his neck on a pile of wood and was dead. She slept no more that night.

Another mother and child, deep in the Forest, did rest quietly that warm summer night: the pale doe and her fawn were at peace with the world, as they had been during most of the day. For, having briefly heard riders nearby and thought they were hunters, the pale deer had heard no more and settled down with her fawn once again. She lived in a part of the forest far distant from that in which King Rufus fatally hunted that day. So that whether Adela had seen another pale deer as she came across the heath, or whether the deer’s colour was only a trick of the light, or whether there was some other cause of her mistake, it was impossible to say.

Nor have men ever been able to say with certainty what really passed in the Forest that strange and magical day. The hunting companions of the king were known. Tyrrell, it was said, had taken aim at a stag, missed and struck the king. No one, or very few, asserted that he had done it deliberately, nor was there any clear reason why he should.

Who benefited from his death? Not his brother Robert, as it happened, nor the Clare family, as far as is known. But his younger brother – loyal, silent Henry with his fringe of black hair – took over the Winchester treasury by dawn and was crowned in London within two days. In time he took Normandy from Robert, just as Rufus had planned to do. But if he had any hand in the death of Rufus – and many have whispered that he must have done – not a trace of evidence remains.

Indeed, so completely did the Forest hold its secret, that even the place where it happened became forgotten until, centuries later, a stone was put up to mark the spot – in the wrong part of the Forest entirely.

 

There was, however, one other beneficiary of the mystery. A few days after it, Cola happened to come across Godwin Pride, who politely approached to have a private word with him. It seemed, he assured the surprised huntsman, that he had reason to believe that he had, in all honesty, a right to a large pen, far bigger than the one he had illegally made, next to his smallholding.

‘What possible proof have you, man?’ Cola enquired.

‘I think you could be satisfied,’ Pride replied carefully. ‘And if you’d be satisfied, I’d be satisfied.’

‘Meaning?’

‘I happened to be down Througham way the other day.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. Funny what you see sometimes.’

‘Funny?’ Cola was watchful now. Very. ‘Care to tell me what you saw?’

‘Shouldn’t care to tell anyone.’

‘Dangerous.’

‘Shouldn’t wonder.’

‘Well, I’ve no idea what you think you saw.’ Cola looked at him thoughtfully. ‘And I don’t think I want to know either.’

‘No. I shouldn’t say you did.’

‘Talk can be dangerous.’

‘See what I mean about that pen?’

‘See? I don’t suppose I see any better than you do, Godwin Pride.’

‘All right, then,’ said Pride cheerfully and walked off.

And when, the next summer, a splendid new pen, almost an extra acre, with a small bank and a ditch and a fence appeared by Pride’s homestead at the heath’s edge, neither Cola, nor his elder son, nor his younger son Edgar, nor Edgar’s wife Adela – who had received a nice little dowry upon her marriage from Tyrrell in Normandy – nor any of the royal foresters, ever seemed to see it or take any notice of it at all.

For in such ways life is arranged in the Forest.