The Forest (31 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I’m afraid’, he explained, ‘it’s Tom Furzey.’ He gave Grockleton a precise account of what had taken place in the field and the prior nodded thoughtfully.

‘You did quite right not to send the man home at that moment,’ Grockleton said. ‘He would probably have struck his poor wife again.’

‘He must go now, though,’ Adam pointed out. ‘We can’t have indiscipline.’ He knew the prior would heartily agree with that.

Yet instead, Grockleton paused. He eyed Adam thoughtfully. ‘I wonder,’ he said, pushing himself gently back in his chair with his claw, ‘if that is right.’

‘Surely, if a hired worker insults the monk in charge …’

‘Reprehensible, of course.’ Grockleton pursed his lips. ‘Yet perhaps, Brother Adam, we need to take a larger view.’

‘A larger view?’ This was indeed a new departure for the prior.

‘Perhaps it is better if this man and his wife are apart. He
will miss her. Let us hope he will repent. In time one of us may speak to him, quietly.’

‘Doesn’t that leave me in an awkward position, Prior? He will feel – all the men may think – that they can speak to me rudely with impunity.’

‘Really? Do you think so?’ Grockleton looked down at the table where his claw was now very comfortably resting. ‘Yet sometimes, Brother Adam, we must work hard not to consider our own feelings, but the greater good of others. I have no doubt, if we leave Furzey where he is, that the work will still be done and well done. You will see to that. Perhaps you may imagine you look foolish – even feel humiliated. But we must all learn to live with that. It is part of our vocation. Don’t you agree?’ He smiled quite sweetly.

‘So Furzey must stay? Even if he is rude to me again?’

‘Yes.’

Brother Adam nodded. He’s paid me out nicely for humiliating him at the river, he thought, although that was really his fault and not mine. But it was not so much his public humiliation that he was thinking of, as he now bowed his head before the happy prior.

By sending Furzey away, he would have ensured that he returned home to his wife. That would make any further relations with her on his own part almost impossible. But now she would be alone. He wondered what would happen.

How little you know, John of Grockleton, he thought, what you may just have done.

Luke crept forward in the darkness. There was only a sliver left of the silver moon, but he could see well enough by the starlight. The horse was tethered to a tree about a hundred yards off. This was the third time he had seen it there.

He lay down at the edge of the tree line. He could see the little barn from there, the barn where he had spent so many winter nights. Behind him, in the woods that rose up from
the small river valley by Boldre, an owl hooted. He waited patiently.

It was still some time before dawn when he saw the figure slip out from the barn and make its way silently along the edge of the paddock to the trees. It passed fifty yards away from him, but he had no doubt about the stranger’s identity. It was only a few moments before he heard the horse moving through the trees behind him.

Luke waited a little, then started to make his way towards the barn.

The abbot had still not returned when the news came that the Forest court would meet again just before Michaelmas and John of Grockleton thought for two days before deciding to take his own initiative. Before announcing it, however, he sent for Brother Adam.

There was no doubt, he thought, as the monk stood before him, that Adam looked uncommonly well. The weeks out in the fields had left him rather suntanned. He looked fitter, even taller. Since he knew that Adam would rather have been in the cloister, and as this almost muscular bearing was not really appropriate for a choir monk, Grockleton did not begrudge him his well-being. He only wanted to know one thing anyway. ‘Has any of the hired men heard anything of that runaway, Brother Luke?’

‘If they have,’ Adam answered with perfect truth, ‘they’ve said nothing to me.’

‘Do you think anyone knows where he is?’

Brother Adam paused. Mary had twice spoken to him of Luke. She had told him Luke’s version of events and, although he had never asked her directly, he assumed she knew that her brother was in the Forest somewhere. ‘I believe most of our hired hands think he’s left the Forest.’

‘The court is going to meet again. If he’s in the Forest, I want him found,’ said Grockleton. ‘What do you advise?’

Adam shrugged. ‘You know,’ he replied carefully, ‘there
is a feeling that he may have been trying to prevent an affray. The justice himself did indicate that such a view could be taken. I wonder if it wouldn’t be better to let sleeping dogs lie.’

‘The court may take any view it likes,’ Grockleton snapped. ‘I’m supposed to produce him and I intend to. So I’m going to offer a reward. A price on his head.’

‘I see.’

‘Two pounds to anyone who can bring him in. I think that should concentrate the Forest people’s minds, don’t you?’

‘Two pounds?’ It was a small fortune to men like Pride and Furzey. His face fell as he thought of Mary and how worried she would be.

‘Something wrong?’ Grockleton was eyeing him sharply.

‘No. Not really, Prior.’ He recovered himself quickly. ‘It seems a lot.’

‘I know,’ said Grockleton, with a smile.

Sometimes, when Adam lay with Mary, he was overcome by a sense of wonder that such a thing should have happened at all.

They did not use any light. They did not dare. She would come out to the small barn late at night when the children were asleep – thank God they took so much exercise that they always slept soundly – and he, watching from the trees, would sneak across to meet her. He was getting good at that.

Once, the third time they had met, she had stood in a shaft of moonlight that came through a crack in the door and silently undressed before him. He had watched, entranced, as she took off her rough gown and stood, barefoot, in only her linen kirtle. With a little shake of her head she had let her dark hair fall loose over her shoulders. Then she had pulled down the kirtle, slowly exposing her full, pale breasts and, letting it drop to the floor, stepped out, turning her naked body towards him while he gasped.

It was all a revelation: the touch, the smell of her flesh as he explored her body without shame. When they were apart in the first days, her presence would come into his mind like a spirit, but soon he found his imagination dwelling on her body. He would tense with desire and lust as he thought of some new way to approach and possess her.

But it was more than that: her whole physical presence, her life, the way she thought; now that he had entered this new world, he wanted to know it all. Dear heaven, he thought, I had known God’s universe, yet missed His whole creation. Nor did he really feel guilty: that was the strangest thing. He was far too honest a man to deceive himself about it. He was proud of himself. Even the danger of the business only added to his pride and excitement. God knows, he considered, I have never done anything dangerous before.

And the threat to his immortal soul? Sometimes, when he was within her, in the full power of his passion, it seemed to him as though he had entered another landscape, as simple, as full of God’s echoing presence as the ancient desert was, before these ideas of celibacy were born. And at such times, whatever vows he had taken, it felt to Brother Adam as if his innermost soul had not been lost but found.

How long could it go on? He did not know. Furzey had made only brief visits to his home. He didn’t seem to want to spend time there, so it was easy enough to ensure he was kept busy at the granges. Adam had already thought of tasks to keep the peasant busy until late September. As for his own absences, they were easy to explain. Many nights he was at the abbey; but if he muttered one evening that he was leaving one grange to visit another, no one even thought twice about it. As for the prior, he was only too glad to think of Adam being forced to spend a night out. So all this could last into the autumn. After that he did not know.

He and Mary were lying together drowsily, late in the night, when he told her about the prior’s plan to put a price on the head of her brother. As he had imagined it possible
that she might know Luke’s whereabouts, in common kindness, he had thought of warning her. But even so, he had not quite expected the reaction he got when he gave her the news.

She sat bolt upright in the straw. ‘Oh, God. Two pounds?’ She seemed to be staring straight ahead. ‘Puckle won’t give him away. Not even for that.’ She paused, then turned towards him. ‘So.’ She sighed. ‘Now you know.’

‘He’s with Puckle, the charcoal burner?’

‘Yes. Over Burley way.’

‘Well, I’m not going to tell anyone.’

‘You’d better not.’

‘Actually.’ He chuckled to himself. ‘That’s rather funny.’

‘Why?’

‘I think I must have seen him.’

‘Oh.’ She was silent for a moment. ‘There’s something else you may as well know. He came here the other morning. Early.’

‘And?’

‘He knows about us. He saw you.’

‘Oh.’ This opened up new vistas for the monk. The runaway lay brother had information on him now – a new kind of danger. ‘What did he say about it?’

‘Nothing much.’

‘I should think’, Adam reflected, ‘he’s as safe with Puckle as anywhere. But if I hear anything I’ll tell you.’

They passed another three hours together and the first light of dawn was already spreading when Adam slipped out, after agreeing to return in two nights’ time. As usual, he made his way cautiously out to the trees and then rode quietly through the woods towards the ford.

This time, however, his departure from the barn had been seen by a watchful pair of eyes. And they did not belong to Luke.

The news of John of Grockleton’s two pound reward was
known the next day. By evening it had reached Burley. Puckle himself was at home that evening, having left Luke out watching a new charcoal fire in the woods. His extended family was gathered round in front of the cottage.

‘It’s two pounds,’ said his son.

‘Two pounds of nothing,’ said Puckle.

‘Still, two pounds …’ echoed one of his nephews.

Puckle looked round them all. He looked also at his wife, who wisely kept silent.

He was roasting a hare on a spit over a small fire he had built outside. Its skin lay on the ground by his feet. He did not speak for a little while, then he pointed. ‘Ever seen me skin a hare?’ he asked quietly. They all nodded. Then he gestured to the hare roasting on the spit. ‘If any one of you opens his mouth about Luke.’ He looked quite calmly both at his son and his nephew, then allowed his eyes to move round the rest of the circle. ‘That’s what I’ll do to him.’