MARY DID NOT hesitate for long at the crossing. There would be no help at Ecclesall Manor and beyond the village of Totley lay the dangerous edges of Barnsdale Wastes, that vast and frightening wilderness that stretched for miles and miles. She took the path that led to Beauchief Abbey with the idea in her mind that a church might offer sanctuary.
The light was fading fast as the great soaring walls of the newly built abbey came into sight. Mary pulled up the fur-lined hood and gathered her cloak tightly around her. The summer evening had turned chill and she felt urgent need of a safe, warm place to sleep.
She crossed the wooden bridge over the river Sheaf and climbed the gentle slope towards the abbey, keeping close to the trees. The nearer she got, the more her doubts grew. How would they receive her, those austere white canons? She’d heard of folk accused of crime claiming the right to sanctuary, but they’d been men. Would the same apply to her?
Something at the back of her mind nagged away, increasing her distrust. Solemn chanting drifted in waves of sound across the fish ponds and fields. Of course . . . she remembered, the monks had come from France, they chanted in Latin and spoke the Norman tongue.
Mary moved along the edges of the wooded land, gratefully eating the tiny, sweet strawberries, watching the cloister doors. The candle glow in the stained-glass windows promised warmth and safety. There’d be guest rooms, a warm fire and good plain food. Her stomach told her that a handful of strawberries was not enough.
A fine carved statue stood in a niche beside the door. A Virgin and child, another Mary, one hand raised in blessing. Surely there was safety here. She took a step towards it, then she stopped, trembling. The carved stone face was blank. No blessing there at all – the hand was raised in warning. Stop! Go back! Run away!
With a fresh sense of fright, Mary gathered up her skirts and shrank backwards amongst the trees. Before she’d had a chance to move far into the shadows, the clattering of two horsemen made her turn in alarm. They rode at great speed, spurring their horses and shouting to each other, but drew to a sharp halt before the abbey door.
‘Open up! Open up! A message from Owen de Holt.’
Mary knew the voices. They were her uncle’s grooms. She did not stay to see how they fared with the canons, but turned and stumbled on through the surrounding woodland.
She ran wildly now, not thinking of the way, but going where the trees grew thickest. She did not stop, even though her legs banged against tree stumps and scraped on rocks. Fast uphill she went, borne onwards by the energy of fear. It was only as the trees grew taller and more spaced that she slowed her steps. She must stop at last, for her legs were growing numb. She staggered on, stiff-limbed, her head drooping in despair. What had she done? She could not go back, but dare she go on? She was heading towards the place she’d feared most to go. The wilderness of Barnsdale, beyond the reaches of the law.
There were others who’d been this way, that was well known. They took refuge here, those who’d killed, or robbed, or maimed. Why, even Agnes’s nephew was one of them. Perhaps he hid here still.
Mary’s knees gave way and she fell to the ground. Huge great sobs shook her body. She howled like a baby in the quiet woods, careless of the sounds, or of who might hear. At last, calm came from sheer exhaustion. As her sobs grew hushed and stillness returned, she began to hear other sounds . . . delicate sounds. The rustling of small bodies in the ferns, the screech of an owl, a faint trickle of water. Agnes had told her of St Quentin’s Well and promised to take her there. Fresh, clean water that bubbled from the rocks. Folk made special journeys there. It promised a safer place in this fearful wilderness.
Mary pulled herself to her feet, and followed the gurgle and murmur of the stream. A bright moon came out from behind the thick clouds, and the chill wind dropped. She found the spring, sparkling and gleaming as it ran from the rocks. It was cold and reviving as she cupped her hands to drink. There in the moonlight was a fairyland of glittering water and fern. Her spirits rose. Perhaps there was still hope for her. She crawled beneath the thick drooping branches of a yew tree close to the water’s source and fell asleep.
The familiar warbling sound of a low-pitched voice humming and singing woke Mary from her sleep. She smiled for a moment, thinking that she must have had a strange dream, but then her eyes flew open and she flinched, blinded by the beams of bright sunlight that picked their way through the branches of the yew tree.
Dark green patterns and sharp mottled light bobbed above her, and a soft, bitty mass of dried yew needles covered the palms of her hands. It was no dream – she lay beneath a tall tree, but still there was the singing. Agnes’s deep croaky voice had woken her every morning since she was a child and now here it was, beside St Quentin’s Well.
Mary sat up, scraping her head on the lowest sheltering branches. She rubbed her eyes to see clearer, for she could scarcely believe what she saw, and what she smelled made her dribble with hunger.
Agnes crouched before a fire of smoking beechwood, cooking big flat mushrooms threaded carefully onto sticks.
‘Agnes!’
Mary crawled towards her bleary-eyed, her braided hair knotted up in tufts and spiked with yew needles and pink yew flowers.
‘What!’ cried Agnes. ‘Is this a forest fairy, or a fierce wicked sprite?’
Mary smiled, and burst into tears.
‘What a greeting,’ said Agnes, pretending to grumble, ‘and here’s me tramping up hill and down dale to find thee, with a great bag of food and victuals on my back.’
Then, suddenly, the joy that had burst on Mary was gone in a flash of doubt. ‘I’ll not go back, whatever you say. I’d rather die.’
Agnes pulled a sour face and wagged her finger. ‘Whatever art thou thinking, lass? Don’t you know your old nurse better than that? I’d rather die than take thee back. Do you think I fed thee as a babe, and taught thee all I know, to provide a breeding sow for a rich old hog?’
Mary gasped. ‘You think I’ve done right then?’
Agnes sighed, and flexed her stiff fingers.
‘I was making my own plans. Perhaps I should have told thee. I never guessed tha’d go galloping off like a furious colt at the first sign of a bridle. Well now, let us eat these fine mushrooms that I’ve discovered. I shall be cursing thee if tha sits there arguing and lets them burn.’
Mary watched hungrily as Agnes drew a fresh-baked loaf from a great linen bundle and offered her golden singed mushrooms and a hunk of bread. She ate as though she’d never seen food before. It was only when she’d finished the last mushroom and drunk from St Quentin’s Well that she could manage to get out more of the questions that she needed to ask.
‘But how did you find me, Agnes?’
‘Huh. Tha’s left a trail like a thousand snails. No, don’t go alarming. Not a trail that Owen de Holt could follow, but clear enough to me and those that have eyes to see.’
‘But . . . who else?’
‘Oh . . . while your uncle went a-banging and a-bellowing round the manor, and a-calling out his grooms and horses, the kitchen maid set me on thy track. They think you’re a silly spoilt brat – oh ’tis true, they do. No need to pull that face – but they’ve no love for their master and they wish you no harm. Then the charcoal-burner gave me the nod, though I had terrible trouble with that daft daughter of his. Not a word could I get from her.’
‘Ah, that girl.’
‘She’d tell me naught, though I could see she knew. So I puzzled a bit where the paths all meet, but I know my girl and I remembered how you wished to visit St Quentin’s Well. So here we both are, but we cannot stay. We must be on our way.’
‘Where?’ begged Mary. ‘’Tis all very well to say go, but who will give us help and shelter? Everyone fears my uncle.’
‘Aye, here they do, sure enough, but I know where to go, my lovey. Just trust me and follow me, and though we’ve a long way to go, we shall be safe by nightfall. Now, tha might help to share my burden, for I didn’t leave in such a rush and thought well what might be needed.’
Mary opened her mouth to tell how she’d been careful to bring her cloak, but she closed it again and said nothing. Agnes rooted in the bundle and pulled out a strong pair of riding boots.
‘I took these from the youngest groom. I guessed they’d fit thee well enough. He went tearing round in circles in his bare feet, cursing and swearing when the master ordered him out to search.’
Mary looked down at her slippers, they were in shreds. Torn ribbons of the soft leather trailed from her feet. She took the boots gladly and pulled them on. She’d never worn anything so heavy on her feet before and they felt strange and clumsy, but her toes grew warm.
A dark red kerchief, the colour of fallen leaves, came next from the bundle.
‘Tie this around your head, like me. Aye, do it yourself . . . you must learn, for I’ve more to do now than act as lady’s maid.’
Mary flinched at the sharpness, but she did as she was told with a flush of shame. None of these things had entered her head.
‘Kilt up thy gown, aye, that’s right, like the maid that carries the slops. Now tha’s more fit to go striding through the woods. Pack away that fine purple cloak, we shall have to change that. I’ve another good wool cloak in here to make up a bundle for thee. See what I’ve thought to bring. Two sharp knives, a bundle of the strongest twine, needles, best tallow candles and a tinderbox and flint.’
‘All right, all right,’ Mary gathered the goods into her bundle. ‘Tha’s wonderful, Agnes,’ she said, a touch sour. ‘I’d be lost without thee.’
They filled two flagons with the cool clear water from St Quentin’s Well, and set off down the hillside.
The morning was bright and sunny. The woodland tracks were smooth and dry underfoot and edged with thigh-high grasses and ferns. Streams of running water criss-crossed the woods. Mary’s spirits soared. The presence of Agnes brought a powerful feeling of safety and hope. The trees themselves seemed to echo her mood, for the far hillside made a gorgeous, abundant patchwork of lush green leaves at their fullest strength, with jewelled shades of emerald, olive and beryl. She’d never realised before how stale and dank was the air in Holt Manor from the rarely-changed rushes strewn on the floors. Here in the wilderness the air was clean and smelt of sap.
Agnes went before her, a dark-green felt hat pulled firmly down over her kerchief, her skirt kilted high, easing the great strides that she took. From behind, you could not tell whether Agnes was man or woman. Mary smiled at the thought. Perhaps that was just as well.
They passed through the woods of Chancet, and headed east towards Leeshall and Buck wood, still keeping to the woodland paths. A few folk passed them with a brief nod, uninterested in the two women carrying rough bundles, too weary and harassed with their own concerns.
An old man approached with a mule piled high with coppiced wood. Agnes touched her hat to him and he nodded, but as he passed Mary he suddenly gave a growl, and snatched up her wrist. It was the silver and garnet ring on her forefinger that had caught his eye. Mary yanked hard.
‘No-o-o . . . ’ she screamed.
He hung on tight, his face grown suddenly sly. He reached up, letting his mule go loose, and thrust back her kerchief, revealing her carefully braided hair.
Suddenly a flash of silver-grey gleamed between them. Agnes held her sharp meat knife to his throat.
The man laughed, but the laugh died in his throat as he saw the look on Agnes’s face.
‘Leave her be!’ She spat it out.
Her face and her voice told him she’d use that knife. He threw off Mary’s arm.
‘Get on thy way,’ Agnes snarled.
‘I go . . . I go.’
His mule had set off without him, ambling along the path in search of freedom. Agnes kept the knife in her hand while she watched him go running after his beast.
‘That damned ring of yours,’ she muttered. ‘Better to have thrown it into the stream.’
Mary pulled it from her shaking fingers. ‘’Tis my mother’s ring, and I’ll not be parted from it.’
‘At least fasten it round tha neck with twine then.’
Mary, all flustered and upset, pulled out the twine, and fixed the ring around her neck beneath her gown.
When at last they’d seen the man disappear into the far distance, Agnes sheathed her knife.
‘Now we must go still faster. Get a move on, tha silly wench.’
