MARIAN WAS SURPRISED, for Philippa hesitated when she asked her to go looking for Brother James.
‘I never thought tha’d have a doubt. Not for a moment. I cannot bear to leave them there so miserable and imprisoned.’
Agnes pushed her down onto the stool, and set a bowl of steaming porridge in her lap.
‘Calm theesen. Tha’s fair done in, tramping through the forest all night, and me worrying and wondering what tha’s up to. We cannot go rushing into this, there’s much to think about. The Sisters chose to make their vows. That’s no light matter, and disobedience in the Church may be called heresy.’
Emma caught her breath. ‘You mean, they could –’
‘Aye,’ Agnes was stern. ‘They could burn, by right of the Church’s law, should they disobey the Abbot.’
Philippa sighed. ‘Agnes is right. ’Tis not the law of the manor, or even the law of the King. This is a matter for the Church and maybe even for the Pope. More powerful than the King, he is. I will not turn my back on it, Marian. I owe the Sisters much, and I will come with thee, but we must tread carefully.
‘And there is something else, that I . . . ’ Philippa’s voice trailed off, so unlike her usual firm way of speaking.
They all looked up at her.
‘It is this. That we must go close by Langden, and I . . . well, I have been thinking lately that I must go back. Not to stay. I know that cannot be, but . . . it comes into my mind that William of Langden may treat my little ones ill, to punish me. So you see . . . ’
There was quiet for a moment, then Emma spoke.
‘I’ll go with thee to Langden. Tha must be certain that the little ’uns are safe.’
‘Let us all three go,’ said Marian, ‘and we may meet the drunken monk upon our way.’
The three women set off, well wrapped and Marian with her meat knife in her belt. Tom ran at their heels like a hound, he would not be left at home, and they were soon glad of him, for none of them knew the woods as well as he.
Brother James was not difficult to find, for they saw his great dog resting, but still alert, beside an ivy-covered fallen tree. The monk snored loudly, in a pile of beech leaves, sheltered in the bowl of earth that the torn-up roots had left. Beside him was a pile of chicken bones, a fallen stoneware flagon by his feet.
The dog leapt up, growling at their approach, but the monk snored on.
They moved forward warily.
‘Brother James, Brother James . . . shift theesen,’ Marian called, pulling her knife from her belt.
The dog crouched, preparing to spring.
‘Wake up, tha great fat fool,’ Philippa bellowed.
‘What? What?’ Brother James, snorted and jumped to his feet. The dog snarled and leapt at Marian, a flying shadow of black fur. She screamed with fright and staggered backwards, angry and shocked.
‘Pax, Snap!’ the monk shouted.
Though Marian was shaken, she realised that she was unharmed. The knife had gone from her hand; it glinted from the corner of the dog’s mouth, as he dropped down onto his haunches, obedient and watchful now.
Brother James blinked round at them, fuddled and muzzy in the morning sun.
The dog growled again, and dropped the knife. His master stared and rubbed his eyes, puzzled by what he saw. Three women, steadfastly placing themselves to surround him. There was the crack of a twig behind, and he turned to see a young lad.
Two of the women were only girls, one frightened but determined, the other red-faced and angry at the loss of her knife. The third, who stood before him, was big and strong, and he knew her well, just as he knew the lad.
‘Peace, Snap,’ he soothed the dog again.
He staggered forward, holding out his hand to Philippa.
‘What the devil . . . ? Haul me out of this hole.’
He laughed as she heaved him up.
‘Tha’s not lost thy strong arm nor thine impudence, since tha became a wicked outlaw woman. I wondered what had become of thee.’
‘From what we’ve been hearing, tha’s become a bit of an outlaw theesen.’ Philippa grinned. ‘But ’tis Mother Veronica and the Sisters that we’re fearful for.’
Brother James sat down amongst them, rubbing at his dirty stubbly chin and pulling his mud-stained habit straight. What he told them proved the Seeress true. He swore that he’d been threatened with expulsion from the Church. The monks had turned him out of the convent, into the woods, as punishment for neglecting his work and allowing the nuns the freedom they’d enjoyed. He’d had it in mind to go off to the Abbot and plead for them, but not much faith in the reception that he’d get. He couldn’t quite bring himself to desert the Sisters with whom he’d lived so comfortably. Since then, he’d hung around the stockade, stealing ale and food whenever he got the chance.
He wept as he spoke, and heaved great sighs. Emma listened with sympathy, but Marian and Philippa fidgeted and shook their heads.
‘So tha can get inside the convent, when tha wants?’ Philippa demanded.
He grinned then. ‘I know that building better than those prating monks. I creep inside while they chant their offices. They don’t even know I’ve been or what I’ve taken. I carried a sup of ale to the Seeress, but she’ll do naught but whine and wail.’
‘’Tis her cries that have told us that there’s trouble,’ Marian snapped, exasperated by him. ‘You could have let the Sisters out. You must know where to find the keys. You could have done something for them!’
He stared up at her, puzzled at her rage. Who was this furious young girl in a good green cloak?
He turned to Philippa for some sense. ‘I could maybe let them out, but where would they go? They’re vowed to obedience. Dear God! ’Tis heresy indeed that tha suggests.’
Philippa sighed. ‘’Tis their wishes that we need to understand. Instead of filching ale, can tha not search out Mother Veronica and offer her our help?’
He scratched his head, where stubble grew on the old tonsured patch. ‘I can try. Aye, I can do that.’
‘If they wish it,’ said Marian, ‘we shall help them build some shelter in the forest. There are more of us . . . friends that we may call to aid us.’
He scrambled to his feet, clicking his fingers to Snap, who leapt at once to his command.
‘Mother Veronica always did things her own way. I shall do what you ask, young woman. No need to look so fierce at me. Tha may take tha knife back from Snap. I shall meet thee here tomorrow at dusk.’
‘Aye, we’ve other errands.’ Philippa was restless to be off to Langden.
Marian took her knife back, still frowning, but as they walked away, she turned to see Brother James filling the flagon with water from the stream. She could not help but smile as he poured it over his head, snorting and shuddering, while the great black shadow beside him danced and barked.
Emma and Marian approached the blacksmith’s cottage by the forge, leaving Philippa hidden in the gorse scrub at the edge of the woods. It was a quiet midmorning, most of the village folk busy at their chores. The blacksmith recognised Marian, and welcomed them inside. As they stood by the warm fire’s glow and looked around the small neat home, they could see that all was well. The children were strong, and all had good warm clothes and clean faces.
‘Tha’s been looking after them well,’ said Marian, impressed and pleased for Philippa’s sake.
‘Aye, but I’ve had help,’ her husband told them, though there was something of a puzzle in his face.
‘From thy neighbours?’
‘My neighbours have been grand, that’s true. But we have had better help than they could have given.’
‘What then?’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Presents. Presents of good food and clothing, brought in secret in the night.’
‘And you do not know who sends them?’ Marian’s eyes were wide with interest.
The blacksmith shook his head. ‘No one in Langden could give such presents. No one but the lord.’
He laughed, though there was no joy in the sound.
‘We can be sure it is not him. The only one we can think of is his wife, the Lady Matilda, but she is a poor sick woman, rarely seen. Some say that William beats her.’
‘Why should he do that?’ Marian demanded.
‘She’s given him but one daughter. William wants a son as his heir. There are many who would say that that is reason enough.’
Marian shook her head at the injustice of it all.
‘She’s a kindly woman though,’ the blacksmith spoke softly, ‘and I swear these presents come from her.’
The children were wild with excitement at the thought of seeing their mother, and yet they fell obediently quiet when they were told. Used to living in fear, thought Marian.
Emma took three of the children straight off with her to see their mother, each carrying log baskets, as though they were going to search out firewood. Marian waited until they returned and then gathered up the others, insisting that there must be no fuss or commotion.
‘Will tha come too and bring the bairn?’ she asked the blacksmith.
He hesitated and turned towards the forge. ‘I have much work in hand . . . ’ His voice trailed off, and Marian frowned.
‘I daresay Philippa will wish to see you too.’
The man sighed, then turned back to her.
‘Aye, surely I shall come, and bring the bairn, but I fear it will not please Philippa.’
The man took the smallest boy from the crib where he slept, and wrapped him well in a warm, soft woven blanket, one of the mysterious gifts. Then he set off with Marian and the two other children.
Philippa rushed forward to hug her children, but then she moved slowly towards her husband and suddenly slapped his face sharply. Marian flinched and backed away from them; the blacksmith had been right.
‘That is for this scar.’ Philippa touched the long red weal that still showed on her cheek, flaming livid with her anger. Then suddenly her face changed. She flung her arms around the man and child, hugging them both and planting a kiss upon her husband’s mouth.
‘That is for keeping my little ’uns so well. Now give me that bairn.’
She gathered the baby into her arms and settled back against a tree stump, rocking the child, her cheek against his head.
‘Rowlie, my little Rowland,’ she crooned.
Marian smiled with relief, but saw that the man still looked troubled.
Philippa’s smile faded. Slowly the rocking stopped; she looked down at her child, then up at her husband.
‘How long have I been gone from Langden?’
He sighed and sat down beside her, putting out his strong, work-marked hand to touch the baby’s head. ‘’Tis all but six weeks, my love.’
Philippa’s voice shook. ‘And this bairn has not grown a jot.’ She unwrapped the small body. ‘His little arms and legs are like sticks.’
The blacksmith shook his head. ‘I swear that I have done my best, and others have tried too, but we cannot get him to feed. He should be trying his feet by now, but he frets and will not take milk or sops.’
Philippa’s face crumpled. ‘Mother’s milk is what he needs, and I have none for him.’
Marian sat down beside them, understanding their concern now. The two older children stood still and quiet, watching.
‘We have good fresh goats’ milk in the clearing,’ Marian spoke gently. ‘And the Forestwife to give advice. Best of all, we have his mam.’
‘Aye,’ Philippa picked up the idea and smiled. ‘I shall take him back with me.’
‘I think it’s maybe best,’ her husband agreed.
‘Will William of Langden see that he’s gone?’ Marian asked.
The blacksmith laughed. ‘Do you think he knows or cares how many children we have? And no one else will point it out to him.’
‘Does he treat you ill because of me?’ Philippa asked.
He shook his head. ‘He needs his horses shod, and his guards well armed.’
Once the decision was made, Philippa was keen to be on her way, and get the baby back to Agnes. One of the other children was sent to tell Emma, and to fetch the good wrappings and baby clothes that had appeared with the other gifts.
Goodbyes were said, and soon Philippa was striding smiling through the forest with her little lad strapped to her front. Marian and Emma struggled to keep up with her. Emma had gone very quiet.
They were close to the clearing when Philippa slowed her pace at last. She had begun to see and understand Emma’s silent pain. She stopped by the pointer stone and caught hold of her hand.
‘I never thought,’ she said. ‘Seeing me with this little ’un must hurt thee sore.’
Emma’s eyes filled with tears, but she lifted her hand and gently stroked the fine hair on Rowland’s head.
‘Your Rowlie is a sweet child,’ she whispered.
‘He is that, and I must try my best to save him. I’ll never do it on my own. I’ll need a deal of help.’
‘Aye,’ said Emma shyly. ‘I’d be glad to do what I can.’
‘Might tha take him in for me, while I sort out these wrappings?’
‘May I?’ Emma held out her arms, her chin trembling.
Agnes came to greet them, surprised to see Marian and Tom carrying rugs and blankets, Philippa grinning and satisfied, and Emma with a baby in her arms.