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Authors: Theresa Tomlinson
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knew that man was different. The other bishops went running to side with the King as soon as they heard the pope had denounced the charter. Not Giles de Braose, even though we distrust them, the Bishop of Hereford still stands by the rebel barons.’
‘Ah well,’ Philippa cleared her throat. ‘I’m not so sure. The King has tried to buy the man’s loyalty back again. He’s offered him the de Braose property fully restored, and all his dead brother’s land, but the Bishop must swear fealty once more.’
‘And what does the man reply?’ Robert leant forward.
Philippa shrugged her shoulders. ‘We don’t know yet, and I have sadder news,’ she sighed. ‘News that will bring great sorrow to that little lass out there, who pounds roots as though her life depends on it.’
‘Oh no,’ Magda cried. ‘Not Brigit’s father!’
Philippa nodded. ‘The man is dead. The King sent his wolfpack to take back the Tower of London. The barons had given way and agreed that it should be held in the Archbishop of Canterbury’s name, but some of those who’d been defending it resisted. Brigit’s father was one of them.’
Magda got up, her face all creased with pity. ‘I’ll tell her,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to, but I will.’
Brigit took the news of her father’s death quietly, but during the next few days she wandered aimlessly about the clearing as though she’d lost all purpose in life. Marian praised her herb skills and begged her help with the potions and simples, but the young girl refused politely. Magda followed her at a distance, feeling useless and somehow responsible. ‘I wished for a bairn, Brig,’ she murmured. And you sent Brigit that very night. Now she has nobody else but me.’
Concern for Brigit’s sadness reached as far as Langden and one afternoon towards the end of September, Isabel arrived from Langden driving a small grain cart, with Philippa seated in the back.
Marian went to greet them, smiling; this visit was not entirely unexpected. Brigit looked up listlessly from the new doorsill. Magda marched over and mercilessly hauledthe young girl to her feet. ‘You have to come and see what Isabel has brought,’ she ordered.
‘Why?’ Brigit cried, surprised and hurt by her friend’s rough treatment.
‘Come and see,’ Magda insisted, pulling her round to the back of the cart.
‘But I . . . oh!’ Brigit’s mouth dropped open in surprise. For there in Philippa’s lap rolled a plump, well-fed, baby boy, dressed in a soft lamb’s wool smock. His thatch of curly hair was the same golden brown as Brigit’s, his cheeks pink as a wild rose.
‘Is . . . is he?’
‘Yes,’ Isabel told her. ‘He is your brother Peterkin, that you named for your father. His foster mother has fed and cared for him well, but now he’s weaned from the breast and drinking goats’ milk. He’s a lively lad and his foster mother has her own children to see to.’
‘Do you mean? Should I . . .?’
‘We thought that Peterkin might like to be with his sister,’ said Isabel.
‘But . . .’ said Brigit, hesitating. ‘But, I am very busy here. I don’t know whether I can look after him, and still fetch the wood and pick the herbs and crush the roots.’
The women laughed and Magda put her arms around Brigit. ‘If you want him here, then I should like to help look after him. We might share the job but only if you want that.’
Brigit took a step towards the cart and the wriggling baby. Philippa scooped him up and handed him to his sister. The girl put his chin gently to rest against hershoulder. She sniffed his soft hair and rubbed her cheek against it. Warm dribble tickled her neck, making her giggle. ‘Oh yes,’ she said, patting him gently on the back. ‘Yes. Please let Peterkin stay.’
10
The Pannage Month
Through October and November the weather turned damp and chilly. Everyone wrapped up well and worked on, building up their stocks of nuts and meat for the very cold weather still to
‘Ah well,’ Philippa cleared her throat. ‘I’m not so sure. The King has tried to buy the man’s loyalty back again. He’s offered him the de Braose property fully restored, and all his dead brother’s land, but the Bishop must swear fealty once more.’
‘And what does the man reply?’ Robert leant forward.
Philippa shrugged her shoulders. ‘We don’t know yet, and I have sadder news,’ she sighed. ‘News that will bring great sorrow to that little lass out there, who pounds roots as though her life depends on it.’
‘Oh no,’ Magda cried. ‘Not Brigit’s father!’
Philippa nodded. ‘The man is dead. The King sent his wolfpack to take back the Tower of London. The barons had given way and agreed that it should be held in the Archbishop of Canterbury’s name, but some of those who’d been defending it resisted. Brigit’s father was one of them.’
Magda got up, her face all creased with pity. ‘I’ll tell her,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to, but I will.’
Brigit took the news of her father’s death quietly, but during the next few days she wandered aimlessly about the clearing as though she’d lost all purpose in life. Marian praised her herb skills and begged her help with the potions and simples, but the young girl refused politely. Magda followed her at a distance, feeling useless and somehow responsible. ‘I wished for a bairn, Brig,’ she murmured. And you sent Brigit that very night. Now she has nobody else but me.’
Concern for Brigit’s sadness reached as far as Langden and one afternoon towards the end of September, Isabel arrived from Langden driving a small grain cart, with Philippa seated in the back.
Marian went to greet them, smiling; this visit was not entirely unexpected. Brigit looked up listlessly from the new doorsill. Magda marched over and mercilessly hauledthe young girl to her feet. ‘You have to come and see what Isabel has brought,’ she ordered.
‘Why?’ Brigit cried, surprised and hurt by her friend’s rough treatment.
‘Come and see,’ Magda insisted, pulling her round to the back of the cart.
‘But I . . . oh!’ Brigit’s mouth dropped open in surprise. For there in Philippa’s lap rolled a plump, well-fed, baby boy, dressed in a soft lamb’s wool smock. His thatch of curly hair was the same golden brown as Brigit’s, his cheeks pink as a wild rose.
‘Is . . . is he?’
‘Yes,’ Isabel told her. ‘He is your brother Peterkin, that you named for your father. His foster mother has fed and cared for him well, but now he’s weaned from the breast and drinking goats’ milk. He’s a lively lad and his foster mother has her own children to see to.’
‘Do you mean? Should I . . .?’
‘We thought that Peterkin might like to be with his sister,’ said Isabel.
‘But . . .’ said Brigit, hesitating. ‘But, I am very busy here. I don’t know whether I can look after him, and still fetch the wood and pick the herbs and crush the roots.’
The women laughed and Magda put her arms around Brigit. ‘If you want him here, then I should like to help look after him. We might share the job but only if you want that.’
Brigit took a step towards the cart and the wriggling baby. Philippa scooped him up and handed him to his sister. The girl put his chin gently to rest against hershoulder. She sniffed his soft hair and rubbed her cheek against it. Warm dribble tickled her neck, making her giggle. ‘Oh yes,’ she said, patting him gently on the back. ‘Yes. Please let Peterkin stay.’
10
The Pannage Month
Through October and November the weather turned damp and chilly. Everyone wrapped up well and worked on, building up their stocks of nuts and meat for the very cold weather still to
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