The Forest (50 page)

Nature is cruel, yet also merciful. The canker that was eating away the life of Puckle’s wife caused other changes in
her body. She became pale, her blood changed its composition; she began to be drowsy, thus ensuring that, before the canker grew into its final monstrous life and racked her body with pain, she would instead slip sleepily towards an earlier closing.

She and Puckle had three children. She loved the woodsman. She knew very well that, after her passing, life must go on. And so it was, in secret, that she made her prayers and did what she thought best.

And now it was the year’s midnight, when scarcely seven hours of sunlight is seen and all the world seems to withdraw into the deep blackness under the ground.

Two weeks later, just after Christmas, Clement Albion rode by.

The hard frost had broken just before the sacred festival. Although the ground was still crisp underfoot, he saw a clique of birds fighting over a worm in the ground leaves. A squirrel, a blur of red, dashed across into a cover of hawthorn bushes.

But it was the oak he had come to see.

In the wood beside it the soaring grey and silver branches were bare, save for encrustations, here and there, of dark ivy or lichen, white as death. The oaks that dotted the glade were all bare too.

But the oak that stood apart was a stranger sight entirely. It had shed its icicles. Its tiny, tight-wrapped buds had broken out into sprigs of leaves. The midwinter tree was green. Albion stared in silence. Nothing stirred.

Why did this New Forest tree, which is well recorded, behave in this way? Possibly some accident had occurred during its growth – a lightning strike, for instance – which had somehow reset the internal clock, whose operation is not fully understood, by which a tree regulates its flowering. Perhaps more likely was some genetic peculiarity. One such trait, in which there is a failure in the autumnal sealing-off
process, causes certain oaks to retain their leaves right through winter into spring. The Christmas leafing might have been another such genetic condition and the recorded existence of three such oaks in the same area further suggests that it could be so. But nobody knows.

Albion sighed. Was it a miracle, as his mother insisted? Was the tree speaking to him, reminding him of his duty and his religion? Was this marvellous tree a living emblem, like one of those haunting signs on the road to the Holy Grail in the tales of knightly romance?

He hoped not. Since the autumn there had been no whisper from the council to suggest he was further suspected. He had encountered Gorges twice, and each time his friend had been warm and natural towards him. The truth was that he just wanted a quiet life. Was that so wrong? Didn’t most people? A tree that flowers at midwinter: the promise of life in death. Three flowering trees, three crosses: the crucifixion upon Calvary. Whichever way you looked at it, if the green trees were a sign from God they suggested death and sacrifice.

If only the Spanish invasion did not come. His mother could leave him her fortune believing that he would have joined the invaders; Gorges, the council, the queen herself would have nothing with which to reproach him. He heartily prayed that he would not be put to the test.

He had not heard from his mother for some time. He should have gone to see her at the Christmas season but had found an excuse not to. He wondered for how long he could avoid her.

A second later he saw her.

She was in the green tree, high in the branches. She was all in black, as usual, but the entire lining of her cloak was bright red. She was flapping it and flying from branch to branch like a huge, angry bird. She turned her head to look at him. Dear heaven, she seemed about to take wing towards him.

He shook his head and told himself not to be so foolish. He glanced at the tree again and it was normal. But his hands were trembling. Not a little shaken by this maternal hallucination, he turned his horse’s head and made away for Lyndhurst.

Young Nick Pride bided his time all through winter. Early April saw drenching rains but then a gentle warmth spread through the Forest. The world became green again; blossoms broke out. He knew that the time had now come, that Jane was waiting for him to declare himself; but he, too, had his part to play.

All through April he came courting. Sometimes they might not see each other for a day or two, but if they did not find some other reason, they were sure to meet at Minstead church on Sunday. Nor were there any lovers’ quarrels; they had, it seemed, no need for that. She was sensible Jane Furzey and he was handsome young Nick Pride, and that was all there was to it.

All the same, Nick Pride thought as the time approached, perhaps it was better if she were not quite sure of him – just for a day or two; so she didn’t take him for granted. He planned it very carefully.

Towards the end of April Albion assembled a muster at Minstead. Nick Pride was called, of course; so were Jane’s brother and two other men from Brook. They were going to stage a small parade and John knew that Jane and her family would be coming down to watch. He chose the evening two days in advance of the muster, therefore, to make his opening move.

The village of Minstead lay on the slope of a high rise that ran westwards across the central section of the Forest. The Minstead cottages mostly straggled along the lower half of the lane that climbed up to the crest of the rise, at the top of which the lane passed round a curious feature.

Castle Malwood, they called it, although there was never
any castle there. It was just another of the small earthwork rings, like those at Burley and Lymington, which demonstrated that iron-age folk had used the Forest once, before the Romans came. Occupying the ridge’s highest local point, however, it had obviously been chosen because it offered commanding views of the area and, since Albion had ordered a thinning of the trees that had grown up below its modest banks, the site’s ancient pre-eminence had been partly re-established. From the top of its earth wall, now, one could see clean across the southern half of the Forest to the Isle of Wight: which was why it had been chosen as the perfect place to build the inland beacon, of which Nick was the guardian.

He was feeling quite proud of himself, therefore, as he led Jane, with her little dog Jack, up on to the grassy rampart of Malwood that evening and pointed out the view. ‘That’s where the big beacon will be.’ He pointed to the Isle of Wight. ‘And here’ – he indicated – ‘the very spot you’re standing on, Jane, is where we’ll be putting up our beacon next week.’

He was pleased to see that she looked suitably impressed.

‘What do you think will happen, Nick, if the Spanish come?’ She was looking at him with a trace of concern.

‘I’ll light my beacon and we’ll all muster, and then we’ll go down and fight them. That’s what’ll happen.’ He watched her and saw the thoughtful look on her face. ‘Afraid something might happen to me, are you?’ he asked, secretly delighted.

‘I? No,’ she lied and shrugged. ‘I was thinking of my brother.’

‘Ah.’ He smiled to himself. ‘You shouldn’t fear,’ he said handsomely. ‘When the Spanish see the whole muster I doubt they’ll dare to land.’

They talked, after this, of smaller matters. The sun slowly sank towards the horizon. The Forest before them was bathed in a golden haze, while the Isle of Wight in the
distance began to turn blue-grey. It was very quiet. She gave a small shiver; he put his arm round her and then they gazed together towards the south in silence.

‘I love to look over the Forest,’ she said after a while.

‘So do I.’ He let some more time pass.

‘Well, Nick.’ She smiled up into his face now. ‘If the Spaniards have not killed us, I suppose there will be rejoicings at summer’s end.’ Then she stared out towards the island again.

It was his cue and he knew it. But he said nothing. Long moments passed.

‘I’d best get home,’ she said at last.

He heard her disappointment and let some more time pass. Then he nodded. ‘I’ll walk with you,’ he answered quietly. Then, briskly, ‘There’s much to think of this summer, isn’t there?’ And, secretly chuckling at his cleverness, he walked her back to Brook.

Let her wait. Let her be uncertain, he thought, just for a day.

A fine day it was, when it came.

Minstead was a curious place. Technically it was a feudal liberty: which was to say that, although lying completely surrounded by the royal forest, it had its own private lord with his own manor court. In practice this did not make a huge difference to anybody. The lord rented out some fields and received some modest feudal dues. Neither the manor peasants nor the lord could break the forest law of the territory all around the manor’s few hundred acres. Both the lord and his peasants, however, derived benefit from the manor’s common rights of fuel and pasture on the Forest, and this was quite valuable. Since time out of mind, the manor had belonged to the same feudal family as Bisterne in the Avon valley, which had now passed, by marriage, from the male line of Berkeley the dragon-slayer to the equally mighty family of Compton. But the lord of the manor had
no house at Minstead. His steward came and took the rents, held court, gave what management was needed. The feudal liberty of Minstead was just a quiet village in the Forest.

It did, however, have one building of significance. Beside the lane, near the bottom, was the small village green. On one side, in a shallow dell, lay the nearest thing to a manor house the village possessed, which was the vicar’s rectory with its four acres of glebe. On the other, set upon a little knoll only two hundred yards from the green, was the parish church – significant because it was the only one in this part of the Forest. Not that the structure itself was large; although its walls were stone, the thatched roof made it seem more like a big cottage. Inside, the nave was not thirty feet wide and had a homely gallery you could reach up and touch. But it was a parish church. Even the chapel used by kings and queens at Lyndhurst came under its aegis. And it was Minstead church where the men of Minstead and Brook were meeting for their muster.

As Nick Pride looked around he felt delighted. The afternoon sky was a fresh light-blue; white puffs of cloud sailed over the church on its knoll. The muster consisted of the chosen men of the parish together with its outlying hamlets, known as tithings. There were a dozen men, including the three from Brook and a fellow from Lyndhurst, and it seemed to Nick that they were quite an impressive fighting force.

Of the twelve men, eight had bows and, thanks to Albion’s strict command, every one of these now possessed a full dozen arrows. Six of the men had long bills in their hands, sharpened and gleaming. God help the Spaniard, he thought, who came within reach of these terrifying spears. Three of the men had short-brimmed metal helmets. And he, from his father, had a breastplate of armour, a sword and metal splints to protect his forearm. One of the men had complained that since Nick was minding the beacon he had no need of these arms and should give them to someone
else. But he had protested: ‘Once the beacon’s lit, I’ll be fighting too.’ And Albion had ruled that he should keep everything. Nobody had an arquebus, but that was not surprising: few English villagers had guns.

The orders for the day were straightforward: they would train for an hour or two up by the church; then they would march down to the green to give a demonstration of their fighting skills to the village; after which they would break up and there would be refreshments. And then, he thought cheerfully, he would carry out his plan. He looked at the weapons glinting in the sun and smiled to himself.

Clement Albion looked at them too. He had done his best. Indeed, he was actually rather a good commander. His men were probably as well armed as they could be. He had put heart into them, and taught them how to stand firm and thrust with their long bills. Trained bowmen they would never be, but at least four of them were accomplished poachers and could probably shoot better than most.

And how long would these good fellows last against four fully trained, fully armed Spaniards? He didn’t know; a few moments, perhaps. Then they would all be dead; shot and hacked to pieces every one. Thank God they didn’t know it. So it would be, he knew very well, for every parish muster in the county.

In the spring of 1588 the defending forces in the all-important central section of England’s southern coast were in a state of complete shambles.

The musters of raw village recruits with their ancient bills and hunting bows were all but useless. Often the bowmen only had three or four arrows. Many of the men had no weapons at all. When the county knights and squires had come to a big review at Winchester, it was found that only one in four was fit for any kind of service. Worst of all, the business was in the hands not of one, but two great noblemen, who constantly quarrelled with each other and not even the commissioners sent down by the council had
been able to bring order to the business. Neither Winchester, the all-important port of Southampton, nor the harbour of Portsmouth, a little further along the coast, where old King Harry had started to build up a naval dockyard, was properly defended with troops. Three thousand men, the best of what there was, were being stationed on the Isle of Wight, but the mainland was, for all practical purposes, undefended. This was England’s state of readiness as it awaited the great invasion of the most highly trained army in Christendom. In the words of one of the reports back to Queen Elizabeth’s council: ‘All thinges here is unperfect.’

All this, although he kept it from his men, Clement Albion knew very well. He had visited Southampton and the naval yards at Portsmouth. He had attended meetings at Winchester. Not only was there no effective army to oppose the Spaniards, but the council was even afraid that some of the peasantry who longed for a return to the old religion might help the invaders. And while he personally rather doubted this, as Clement gazed at his poor, doomed little troop of men, he found himself wondering: was his mother right, after all? Would it be wiser, if the Spanish came, to join them? As a loyal son of the true Church, connected through his sister to the grandees of Spain, they’d be sure to welcome him. But if so, when? As the ships approached? After the troops landed? Could he, should he, really attempt something at Hurst Castle?