THE CLEARING SEEMED strangely quiet after Robert and his friends had gone, though Marian had little time to notice it. The autumn gathering was in full swing, and Agnes fretted about her stocks more than ever.
Marian and Emma tramped the woods with Tom, seeking out blackberries and crab apples for pasties and pies, elderberries for wine, and hips and haws for Agnes’s remedies. Then for the winter stocks they must gather and store chestnuts, hazelnuts, beech mast and acorns.
Marian and Tom stood beneath the yew tree in the dusk, though they were weary from their hard day’s work.
‘I can’t hear it,’ said Tom. ‘Anyways . . . it don’t come every night.’
Marian put her finger to her lips to silence him. She was determined that once and for all she would hear the weeping in the woods.
They stood there still and listening, though there was nothing but an owl hooting, and the distant rustling that always came from the wind in the trees and the running of small animals.
Tom sighed. ‘We could stand here till dawn and still not hear it.’
‘You go then,’ Marian snapped. ‘I’ll see to it myself.’
Tom shrugged his shoulders and turned towards the cottage as though he might well take her at her word, but as he bent down to pick up their heavy baskets . . . it came. Just a faint eerie sound, so indistinct that it could have been imagined. Tom stopped and turned to Marian.
‘You heard it too?’ she whispered.
He nodded. ‘I think I did.’
They both stood in silence, until once more the faint cry reached them.
‘Wolves?’
Tom shook his head. ‘I’ve heard wolves afore.’
Marian nodded. ‘There . . . it comes from beyond the stream, that way. Will you come with me, Tom?’
‘Aye.’
It was hard to follow at first, for the cries came in faltering, fitful bursts. Sometimes they’d miss them for the crack of a twig, or mistake them for a wild cat’s howl.
At last, as the glooms of evening thickened around them, the cries became louder and more distinct.
Tom stopped and scratched his head. ‘We go towards Langden village. I swear this is the way.’
The cry came again, and Tom turned his head. ‘No . . . not Langden. Over there, towards . . . ’
‘Where?’ cried Marian. ‘What is it?’
Tom suddenly ran ahead in the direction of the sounds. Marian chased after him, and caught him by the arm. He stopped and turned to her, frowning.
‘This is close to where the Sisters live.’
‘You mean . . . the convent? The Sisters who have vanished from the woods?’
‘Aye.’
Once he’d got the convent in his mind, Tom went fast, Marian striding along beside him. There was no doubt about it, the crying came from that direction. The night grew darker and the miserable wailing loud and fearful. Tom reached the top of a grassy bank and stopped. They looked down the hillside to where the trees had been cleared for the small convent buildings and kitchen gardens. A strongly built wooden fence protected it all. A low light showed at one end of the building. To Marian it all looked peaceful and organised. The gentle clucking of fowls and the grunt of pigs rose from the sheds.
‘What is it, Tom? It seems to me that all is well.’
Tom shook his head. ‘The Sisters never built that great stockade. ’Twas open for all to come and go.’
Suddenly the sobbing came again, not from the convent, but from further up the ravine, where the sloping hillside was wooded. Cries of such despair that they flooded the valley with sadness. A shiver ran down Marian’s spine, lifting the hairs on her neck.
Tom clutched her hand and trembled, pointing up the valley.
‘’Tis the Seeress,’ he whispered.
As Marian turned off towards the source of such misery, hoofbeats rang out below. A rider was fast heading in the same direction. Marian grabbed Tom’s hand and pulled him after her. They stumbled down the hillside as quickly as they could in the dark.
Then came the harsh shouting of a man’s voice, and loud banging.
Marian ran fast, but she could not see clearly what was ahead. It looked to her almost as if the man on horseback attacked a tiny chicken hut. There was the clatter of wood on wood, and angry bellowing, then the clang of metal, and more shouting. The wailing ceased and the horseman whirled around, his horse braying loud in protest. He headed back towards the convent at a good speed. Marian crouched with Tom behind the gorse scrub, as he galloped past.
The crying had ceased, but in its place there came a small pathetic whimpering that Marian found even more distressing. It seemed to come from the chicken hut.
Marian got up to approach it, but Tom held her back.
‘No,’ he whispered, more scared than ever. ‘’Tis her. ’Tis the Seeress.’
‘But who is she? Have they locked her in there?’
‘No,’ Tom shook his head frantically. ‘Don’t you understand? She has locked herself in there. She is not like the other nuns. She never comes out.’
‘Ah,’ said Marian. ‘An anchorite. I have heard of such women, but never –’
‘I have not seen her,’ Tom interrupted, ‘but I know all about her. She is strange and frightening, some say she is mad – more of a witch than the . . . the . . . ’
Marian smiled. ‘More of a witch than the Forestwife?’
She could not see his face clearly, but she knew that Tom smiled back at her.
‘Aye. But then the Forestwife is just . . . Agnes.’
‘Yes, said Marian. ‘This Seeress is but a woman too. And though I cannot see why, someone is treating her very ill.’
Tom followed her then, though he was still fearful. They crept down towards the dark hump of the hut, half buried in earth. A stale smell of decay seemed to emanate from the tiny dwelling, and hover in the damp shrouding mists that surrounded it. There came again the sound of low whimpering, and the rustle of long robes.
There was silence, and then a shaky, frightened voice.
‘Who is’t?’
‘I am Marian. I live with the Forestwife and help her.’
There was silence for a moment and then another shuffle. A patch of white moved, indistinct in the darkness of a small window, barred from the outside and covered with a fine metal mesh. The quavering voice came again.
‘Then I saw true. Selina’s dead.’
‘Aye, I fear she is, but I have come to see what ails thee. Why does tha weep and wail so? We have heard thee from afar.’
‘I weep because I must. I give utterance to their misery. They weep in silence, so I must cry out for them.’
The voice rose in a wild passion. Tom clutched tight to Marian’s sleeve.
‘Men of God they call themselves, but ’tis no god of mine that starves little children of the sun. And so you see, I must weep. I weep for myself and them.’
Marian sighed. It was hard to understand what it all meant, and the thought came that maybe Tom had been right when he spoke of madness.
But it was Tom himself who answered now.
‘She is the Seeress.’ He spoke with conviction. ‘What she sees is the truth.’
Marian shook her head. ‘But . . . ’
‘You never knew ’em,’ he insisted, nodding back over his shoulder towards the convent. ‘Something is wrong down there. The Sisters lived there, quiet-like and good, but they were busy as bees in a hive, digging their gardens, scrubbing and cleaning and tending the beasts. They came to our village twice a week with food and medicines. They brewed a good ale. And – and Mother Veronica, she was fat, and she laughed, and she brought the two little lasses with her. Naught but bairns they were, carrying their own small baskets.’
Marian frowned, but the Seeress spoke calmly. ‘The lad speaks truth. He understands.’
‘Who was that man,’ Marian asked, ‘and has he hurt thee?’
‘Nay.’ The Seeress answered now with quiet strength. ‘He bangs on this grille and shouts to shut me up. But I shall not be silenced. He is one of the white monks, Cistercians from the great abbey. You see, we are Cistercian nuns, and by right they may rule us, but though we’ve been here fifteen years, they have never interested themselves in us. Then three months since, six of them came, and with them the Lay Brothers.’
Marian and Tom listened as she told them in quiet, sensible tones, how the Lay Brothers had built a stockade around the convent. Then the monks insisted that the nuns be locked up in their cells, even the two children. There they were to spend their time in prayer, and contemplate their wickedness. Dreadful rumours of heresy had reached the Abbot. Nuns had no business to go wandering about all over the countryside, as they had done, meddling in things that did not concern them. Worst of all, they’d allowed their lazy chaplain, Brother James, to roam the forest with his dog, while they – the nuns – took their own services, preached their own sermons, held their chapters and meetings without the advice of a priest.
Tom listened wide-eyed and open-mouthed.
‘Why, ’tis true enough, they did all that, but they brought comfort to our village, and life has been hard since they’ve gone.’
The Seeress went on speaking, clear and firm.
‘The Lay Brothers have returned to the abbey, but the white monks stay. That one you saw, he brings a little bread and water each day. I see no other but Brother James. He wanders about the woods with his dog in a miserable drunken state, but he is still my friend. The Sisters and even the little girls, they weep within their cells.’
‘But how . . . ?’
Tom’s pressure on her arm answered. ‘Ah yes. The Seeress knows.’
‘I chose this life,’ she went on. ‘It was a hard life, but not miserable. The Sisters consulted me, they brought me their worries and their joys. Sister Catherine looked after me well. These monks,’ she shuddered, ‘they will not even bring me water to . . . cleanse myself.’ Her voice shook.
Marian could bear no more.
‘I can bring thee water. I could fetch it from the stream, if I had something to carry it in.’
The Seeress was eager. ‘I have a wooden bucket, and I would be glad of help.’
There came the squeak of a rusting bolt, and then a sudden clap of wood on wood. A small hatch flopped open beside the window grille. A pair of startlingly white hands held out a bucket. Marian wrinkled her nose at the smell that issued through the opening.
‘Do not look at me,’ the Seeress cried. ‘I am banished from the world. None may see my face.’
Though Marian wished very much to peer inside, she kept her glance down. She could not bear to be the cause of more distress.
She filled the bucket from the stream, and handed it carefully back.
‘We will come again,’ she promised, ‘and though I cannot think how, I swear that you shall have help. We have friends who once lived at Langden. They will stand by you, and the Sisters.’
‘Aye, that we will,’ said Tom.
Marian stood up to go, but through the darkness she saw the faint, thin shape of a hand come stretching and beseeching through a small space at the bottom of the grille. Marian clasped it in her own, though it was damp from the water, and carried with it a sour smell. She could have wept to feel the frail bones beneath the cold white skin.
The Seeress clung to her for a moment, then she whispered, ‘My heart leaps up to find such a friend. You shall bring us all joy, I see that clear enough.’
They set off back through the forest. Both Tom and Marian were quiet and shaken by what they’d found. It was when they reached the top of the hill above the convent that Tom almost fell over a dark shape, curled up in a dip. A growl and flash of white teeth warned them to step backwards fast. Then a man’s deep voice fell to cursing, and there came the strong smell of ale.
‘Watch out. ’Tis him.’ Tom pulled Marian away. ‘All right, all right, boy,’ he soothed. ‘No harm, no harm.’
‘What was that?’ Marian whispered, once they seemed far enough away. She’d been glad enough to do as Tom had told her.
‘That were the one she spoke of. That were Brother James. He’s a big fat fellow and he likes his ale, though he’s kind enough when sober. That hound of his never leaves his side. Once it belonged to the lord of Langden. ’Twas his best hunting dog, but it was found in Sherwood by the regarders and they lamed it.’
‘Poor thing, no wonder it growls and snarls.’
‘Well, that is their right. But they hadn’t realised who it belonged to. There was trouble, and William of Langden went into one of his rages. He swore he’d cut the beast’s throat now that it was useless for hunting.’
‘I don’t like the sound of that man,’ said Marian. ‘The more I hear of him, the more I dread him. Well, how did that drunken monk get the dog?’
‘He marched into the great hall at Langden Manor, red-faced and full of ale, and asked for it. First the lord said no, but the monk lifted up his great staff and said he’d fight any man William chose, to get the dog.’
‘So did he fight?’
‘Nay. Brother James is a big strong feller. William of Langden kicked the dog, and said he might have the useless cur, if he was so bothered about it. Though he’s nasty and mean, he wouldn’t want to lose one of his best fighting men, not for a dog.’
‘So Brother James took it?’
‘Aye. And though it’s not much of a hunter, it defends its new master as you saw, and it’s learnt a trick or two that might surprise its old master.’
Marian walked on deep in thought, then she turned again to Tom.
‘You say he’s kind enough when sober, this Brother James. Did he care for the nuns do you think?’
Tom laughed. ‘Aye, he cared for them. Specially Mother Veronica.’
‘I shall have to go seek him, in the daylight. Though I think I might take Philippa along.’
