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Authors: Edward Rutherfurd
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Burley.
“There’s something strange about this place,” she had remarked.
“They say there’s witchcraft in the area,” he observed. “But then people always say that about a forest.”
“Why, do you know any witches?” she had asked with a laugh.
“They say Puckle’s wife is a witch of some kind,” he replied. She glanced at him to see if he was joking, but he didn’t seem to be. Then he grinned. “A very good rule in the Forest is: if in doubt, don’t ask.” And he had nudged his horse into a trot.
Often on these rides he would question her about herself, whether she meant to stay in England, what sort of man she expected Walter to find for her. She was guarded in her replies. Her position, after all, was a difficult one. But once she did allow herself, with a trace of condescension, to confess: “My main attraction for a Norman knight, you see, is that I am a Norman too.” She was sorry if he looked a little crestfallen, but she wanted to maintain her status.
Two months had passed and still no word from Walter.
If she had not felt confident after all these excursions into the Forest, Adela might not have gone so far by herself that midsummer day. Having ridden into the central section of the Forest, she had let her mind wander and for some time her horse had taken his own course along the woodland tracks, at a gentle walk. Then she had dismounted and rested for a little while in a tiny glade while the animal cropped the grass. The sound of a herd of deer suddenly crashing through the undergrowth somewhere ahead had woken her from her reverie. Curious, she had quickly mounted and trotted forward to see what had disturbed them. Coming out abruptly on to open ground, and seeing a figure she thought she recognised ahead, she cantered towards him, hardly thinking what she was doing. He turned. She saw. And it was already too late.
“Good day, Godwin Pride,” she said.
Pride stared. Just for once, he lost his usual composure. His mouth sagged open. He couldn’t believe it: how could he have failed to hear her coming? It had only taken him a few moments to run across the open ground and a few more to hoistthe fallen doe on to his shoulders. Obviously it had been long enough. The bad luck of the thing was past belief.
And, of all people, this girl. A Norman. Worse still, all the Forest knew she had been riding out with Edgar.
Worst of all, he was caught, as the forest law termed it, “red-handed:” the deer and its blood on his hands. There was no escape. He was for it. Mutilation: they’d cut off one of his limbs. They might even hang him. You couldn’t be sure.
He glanced about. They were alone. Just for a moment he wondered if he should kill her. But he put the thought out of his mind. The doe slipped from his back as he stood up straight, brave as a lion before her. If he was frightened at facing death he wasn’t going to show it.
And then he thought of his family. What were they going to do if he swung? Suddenly they came before his mind’s eye: the four children, his daughter only three, his wife, and the bitter words she would say. She’d be right. How could he explain it to his children? He could hear his own voice. “I did a foolish thing.” Without even realising he was doing it, he gave a short gasp.
But what could he do? Plead with this Norman girl? Why should she help him? She’d be bound to tell Edgar.
“A fine day, isn’t it?”
He blinked. What was she saying?
“I rode out early this morning,” she went on calmly. “I hadn’t meant to come so far, but the weather was so good. I suppose if I go that way” – she pointed – “I should get to Brockenhurst.”
He nodded, slightly bemused. She was talking on, as though there were nothing the matter in the world. What the devil was she at?
And then he got the message.
She had not looked at the deer
.
She was looking straight at his face. Dear God, she was asking after his children. He tried to mumble some
“There’s something strange about this place,” she had remarked.
“They say there’s witchcraft in the area,” he observed. “But then people always say that about a forest.”
“Why, do you know any witches?” she had asked with a laugh.
“They say Puckle’s wife is a witch of some kind,” he replied. She glanced at him to see if he was joking, but he didn’t seem to be. Then he grinned. “A very good rule in the Forest is: if in doubt, don’t ask.” And he had nudged his horse into a trot.
Often on these rides he would question her about herself, whether she meant to stay in England, what sort of man she expected Walter to find for her. She was guarded in her replies. Her position, after all, was a difficult one. But once she did allow herself, with a trace of condescension, to confess: “My main attraction for a Norman knight, you see, is that I am a Norman too.” She was sorry if he looked a little crestfallen, but she wanted to maintain her status.
Two months had passed and still no word from Walter.
If she had not felt confident after all these excursions into the Forest, Adela might not have gone so far by herself that midsummer day. Having ridden into the central section of the Forest, she had let her mind wander and for some time her horse had taken his own course along the woodland tracks, at a gentle walk. Then she had dismounted and rested for a little while in a tiny glade while the animal cropped the grass. The sound of a herd of deer suddenly crashing through the undergrowth somewhere ahead had woken her from her reverie. Curious, she had quickly mounted and trotted forward to see what had disturbed them. Coming out abruptly on to open ground, and seeing a figure she thought she recognised ahead, she cantered towards him, hardly thinking what she was doing. He turned. She saw. And it was already too late.
“Good day, Godwin Pride,” she said.
Pride stared. Just for once, he lost his usual composure. His mouth sagged open. He couldn’t believe it: how could he have failed to hear her coming? It had only taken him a few moments to run across the open ground and a few more to hoistthe fallen doe on to his shoulders. Obviously it had been long enough. The bad luck of the thing was past belief.
And, of all people, this girl. A Norman. Worse still, all the Forest knew she had been riding out with Edgar.
Worst of all, he was caught, as the forest law termed it, “red-handed:” the deer and its blood on his hands. There was no escape. He was for it. Mutilation: they’d cut off one of his limbs. They might even hang him. You couldn’t be sure.
He glanced about. They were alone. Just for a moment he wondered if he should kill her. But he put the thought out of his mind. The doe slipped from his back as he stood up straight, brave as a lion before her. If he was frightened at facing death he wasn’t going to show it.
And then he thought of his family. What were they going to do if he swung? Suddenly they came before his mind’s eye: the four children, his daughter only three, his wife, and the bitter words she would say. She’d be right. How could he explain it to his children? He could hear his own voice. “I did a foolish thing.” Without even realising he was doing it, he gave a short gasp.
But what could he do? Plead with this Norman girl? Why should she help him? She’d be bound to tell Edgar.
“A fine day, isn’t it?”
He blinked. What was she saying?
“I rode out early this morning,” she went on calmly. “I hadn’t meant to come so far, but the weather was so good. I suppose if I go that way” – she pointed – “I should get to Brockenhurst.”
He nodded, slightly bemused. She was talking on, as though there were nothing the matter in the world. What the devil was she at?
And then he got the message.
She had not looked at the deer
.
She was looking straight at his face. Dear God, she was asking after his children. He tried to mumble some
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