something cruel or boastful. He spoke sparingly, yet Adela noticed that, with his younger children, he seemed to have a quiet, even playful sense of humour. There were seven or eight of these. Adela supposed that it must be dull to be married to such a man, but his busy wife seemed to be perfectly contented. Either way, the Totton family were hardly relevant to her.
There was no one to talk to and nothing to do. The site where the new priory church was to be built, beautifully set by the river, was a mess. The old church had been pulled down and soon dozens of masons would be hard at work there, she was told. But at present it was deserted. One day she rode around to the headland, which protected the harbour. It was very peaceful. Swans glided on the waters; wild horses grazed in the marshes beyond. On the other side of the headland a huge bay swept round to the west, while to the east the low gravel cliffs of the New Forest shore extended for miles until they receded up the Solent channel from which there interposed the high chalk cliffs of the Isle of Wight. It was a lovely sight but it did not please her. On other days she walked about, or sat by the river. There was nothing to do. Nothing. A week passed.
Then Edgar came. She was surprised he had known she was there.
‘Walter told my father you were staying here,’ he said. He did not tell her that already, all the way up the Avon valleyas far as Fordingbridge, people were calling her ‘the deserted lady’.
Things got better after that. He would come to see her at least once a week and they would ride out together. The first time they rode up the Avon valley a couple of miles to where a modest gravel ridge known as St Catherine’s Hill gave a splendid view over the valley and the southern part of the Forest.
‘They nearly built the new priory up here,’ he told her. ‘Next time I come,’ he pointed to one area of the Forest, ‘I’ll take you there. And the time after that, over there.’
He was as good as his word. Sometimes they rode up the Avon valley; or they might wander along the Forest’s coastline with its numerous tiny inlets, as far as the village of Hordle, where there were salt beds. Wherever they went he would tell her things: stopping by some tiny dark stream, hardly more than a trickle: ‘The sea-trout come to spawn up here. You’d never think it, would you, but they do. Right into the Forest.’
On their third trip she had met him near Ringwood and he had conducted her across the heath to a dark little hamlet in a woodland dell called 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 herreplies. 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
There was no one to talk to and nothing to do. The site where the new priory church was to be built, beautifully set by the river, was a mess. The old church had been pulled down and soon dozens of masons would be hard at work there, she was told. But at present it was deserted. One day she rode around to the headland, which protected the harbour. It was very peaceful. Swans glided on the waters; wild horses grazed in the marshes beyond. On the other side of the headland a huge bay swept round to the west, while to the east the low gravel cliffs of the New Forest shore extended for miles until they receded up the Solent channel from which there interposed the high chalk cliffs of the Isle of Wight. It was a lovely sight but it did not please her. On other days she walked about, or sat by the river. There was nothing to do. Nothing. A week passed.
Then Edgar came. She was surprised he had known she was there.
‘Walter told my father you were staying here,’ he said. He did not tell her that already, all the way up the Avon valleyas far as Fordingbridge, people were calling her ‘the deserted lady’.
Things got better after that. He would come to see her at least once a week and they would ride out together. The first time they rode up the Avon valley a couple of miles to where a modest gravel ridge known as St Catherine’s Hill gave a splendid view over the valley and the southern part of the Forest.
‘They nearly built the new priory up here,’ he told her. ‘Next time I come,’ he pointed to one area of the Forest, ‘I’ll take you there. And the time after that, over there.’
He was as good as his word. Sometimes they rode up the Avon valley; or they might wander along the Forest’s coastline with its numerous tiny inlets, as far as the village of Hordle, where there were salt beds. Wherever they went he would tell her things: stopping by some tiny dark stream, hardly more than a trickle: ‘The sea-trout come to spawn up here. You’d never think it, would you, but they do. Right into the Forest.’
On their third trip she had met him near Ringwood and he had conducted her across the heath to a dark little hamlet in a woodland dell called 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 herreplies. 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
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