Forest of secrets, p.17
Forest of Secrets, page 17
‘I hope not! He’s too good a rider. Well, Eddie knows where Brockley’s gone; he saddled Firefly. I saw him doing it when I went to say goodnight to Jaunty. He’ll be in a terrible fuss if the horse has come back on its own. Yes, let’s go down.’
It was still very early, though I could smell bread baking and when we reached the passage at the foot of the back stairs, we saw one of the maids opening windows. She wished us good morning but showed no curiosity. We went out through the side door and made for the stables. Sir Henry’s grooms were always abroad early, getting the horses fed and their stalls cleaned, and there was Eddie, busy with Blue Gentle, but looking anxious all the same and relieved to see us.
‘Madam, there’s no sign of Master Brockley. Oughtn’t he to be here by now?’
‘We’re worried too,’ I said. ‘But we don’t want to speak to Sir Henry yet. I think … yes.’ I made up my mind in that instant. ‘Eddie, saddle Jaunty for me, and a horse for yourself and Blue Gentle as well. Let us all go part of the way to Chenston and see if we meet Brockley.’
‘Oh, ma’am, what if we find him and he’s hurt?’ Dale sounded petrified. ‘What if we find him lying somewhere?’
‘I hope not!’ I said bracingly. I was thinking the same thing.
I had been hoping with all my heart that Brockley would suddenly ride in through the gateway but he did not. We mounted and started out, making haste, and were very soon at the ruined hamlet, where Brockley should have left Firefly tethered. Firefly wasn’t there. Nor was Brockley. They had surely been there recently, for we found horse droppings. But where were either of them now?
‘What now?’ Dale quavered.
‘We go on,’ I said. ‘Only …’
I considered taking the path to the clearing. It was too narrow and heavily overhung to be a good track for horses and I hesitated, wondering if we shouldn’t try the broad main track to Chenston instead. I looked at it. I couldn’t see far, as there was a bend just ahead.
‘Listen!’ said Eddie suddenly.
Somewhere on the main track, there were hoofbeats. We were all alert, and then we drooped with disappointment. ‘That’s not Roger,’ said Dale miserably. ‘Something’s creaking and there’s people talking. And chickens clucking and something’s snorting.’
‘But perhaps whoever it is may have news,’ I said hopefully and we all sat still, waiting. Then they rounded the bend and there they were: Brockley on Firefly and behind him, in a little cart drawn by her mule, was Etheldreda Hope with a pile of hampers, a snorting and irritated pig and several coops containing protesting chickens, and tied to the back of the cart, a chestnut and white filly, rolling her eyes as though frightened, and straining against her halter. There were leaves in her golden mane.
‘What in the world?’ I gasped. Dale said: ‘Oh, Roger, you’re safe!’ Eddie exclaimed: ‘Thank dear heaven!’
The strange little party reached us and stopped. Etheldreda said: ‘I’m sorry. I’m right sorry for all this. But Master Brockley said I’d got to come and it might not be safe to leave my chickens and pig behind; maybe they’d be sacrificed next.’
Brockley said: ‘I’ve quite a tale to tell, though not until after I’ve dressed that wound on Windfall’s haunch. I have the right salves with me, but the wound is deep – in fact, it’s two wounds, in the same place. Poor little thing, she’s in pain and scared half to death. It was all I could think of as a way to save her life, but it’ll be a while before she stops being frightened. After I’ve tended her, I’ll give you my tale.’
And it is, indeed, Brockley’s tale. This part of the narrative is his. I must report it as he told it to me.
Everything began well. Brockley set off in good time and, just as Eddie and I had done, tethered Firefly where he could graze in what had originally been the main street of the lost village, and hid the saddlery under some partly fallen masonry.
He was cautious on the way to the clearing, pushing overhanging branches aside with the least possible noise. He reached the clearing without incident. The bonfire had been built and the stack of firewood was there at one side but nobody was present as yet. He found the oak with the wide hollow and sat down to wait inside it.
It was a long wait, but night fell at last. Like me, he heard the sounds of wild things in the wood: the calls of owls, rustlings among the leaves. Just before darkness had quite fallen, a fox ran across the clearing. Not long after that, the first voices and lanterns came, and two cloaked and hooded figures emerged from the path on the opposite side. Soon, the bonfire sprang into life and lit the whole scene.
Presently, a new figure arrived, went into the hut and came out with the antlered mask in place, as I had described. This antlered being sat down in the chair on the platform, and by then, many lanterns were bobbing into the clearing from the village path. Brockley watched a stream of shadowy shapes going to the hut and coming out again, nearly all of them with goat masks on, and he saw them gather in front of the dais. Then the Antlered One spoke.
Seated there with the stag’s head mask where his head should have been, the Antlered One was curiously frightening. Brockley felt it. He was far from being a timid man but he put a hand on the edge of the hollow to feel the rough wood, reassuring and normal, under his palm, and then placed his hand on his sword hilt. That too was reassuring.
The business began as I had related. The Antlered One spoke in his harsh voice and Brockley inched out from his hiding place so as to hear better. The gathering was welcomed, and the Antlered One spoke of the Horned God whose title was Herne, God of the Greenwood, and Venus, the lady of love and fertility.
He didn’t this time have anything to say concerning flooded fields and spoilt crops, but begged his followers, or congregation (at this moment, Brockley tried to find a suitable description for the audience but failed), to consider the terrible plight of a beleaguered queen, whose evil enemy might at this moment be moving against her, to the anger of the gods. His voice at this point became full of anger too and it gained an extra resonance, dominating the crowd, who answered it with an outcry that made the hair rise on the back of Brockley’s neck.
‘It was so … so animal,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t like the noise even of the mob that had attacked Etheldreda. It wasn’t human. It was horrible. As though the crowd had become all one being.’
‘I know,’ I said.
‘I was afraid,’ Brockley told me. ‘And yet I was in no danger and could hardly believe that even if I were caught, I would come to serious harm, yet still I was afraid.’
So had I been afraid, and so had Eddie.
The next thing to happen, however, was not alarming. When the noise of the crowd had quietened, the Antlered One quietened too and then the wine was served. Watching this made Brockley thirsty. All three of us were in his and Dale’s chamber to hear his narrative and we were all sipping wine. At this point, Dale refilled his glass.
The toast to Herne and Venus was drunk as before. And then the business diverged from what I had witnessed and Brockley crept back to the hollow and stood straining his ears and gripping the edge of his refuge to keep himself from trembling. For the Antlered One had once more begun to speak. His voice suddenly acquired a new resonance and Brockley could make out most of the words.
‘Soon,’ said that grating, powerful voice, ‘the evil queen must be disposed of and if she is not, then stronger measures must be taken. We have tried, at every meeting, to invoke the powers of the gods to do it for us, but we have not tried hard enough. Our next meeting will be on the Eve of All Hallows, and if the gods have not answered our appeal by then, we must make it stronger. If by Halloween, the evil queen still lives, then the Great Sacrifice must be held. For tonight, all may proceed as usual except that this time, the sacrifice is not a goat. The village has for too long tolerated the presence in its midst of a witch and her familiar. Sir Henry Compton has reviled us for our fears and our good vicar has counselled calm and told us we are foolish to be afraid, but we have had enough. Tonight, we pray for the death not only of the evil queen but of the witch as well, and her familiar shall be the sacrifice.’
As he spoke, someone came out of the forest, passing so close to Brockley that Brockley feared his pounding heart and anxious breathing would be heard. But they were not, and then it was apparent that whoever had just passed him was leading an animal and having some trouble with it; Brockley heard the sound of stamping hooves and muttered cursing.
Then, as they emerged into the firelight, Brockley saw that what the figure, goat-masked like all the others, had brought with him was Windfall, Etheldreda’s filly. The firelight was good enough to show him the chestnut coat and the white splashes. The little filly, who after all was still little more than a foal, was nervous, not liking the goat mask, trying to sidle away from it, pulling at her halter. The light flickered on her white-encircled eyes and her laid-back ears. The figure holding her suddenly declared: ‘She’ll break away if someone don’t give me a hand here,’ and someone came out of the crowd to help. Between them they made the filly stand still, though she was trembling. She had sensed danger.
And she was right. They had taken her to the stone floor with the stains that Brockley so disliked. The Antlered One was on his feet, descending from the dais, and a knife was in his hand. He was announcing something to do with strengthening the earth and pleasing the gods with a sacrifice of blood, and her handlers were trying to make the filly raise her head, to expose her throat.
‘I didn’t even think about it,’ Brockley said to me. ‘I just did it. I groped for the sack with the toy bow and quiver inside it, got them out, put a shaft on the string and loosed.’
He was aiming for the filly’s haunch, and Brockley, who had been taught archery as a boy and had a soldier’s trained eye as well, hit his target. Windfall reared and plunged. Brockley shot again and with that, squealing, swinging from side to side and then rearing again, she broke free and bolted, halter ropes flying, into the forest. One lunging forehoof caught one of the men trying to hold her on the thigh and sent him reeling, and her shoulder knocked the other man off his feet, leaving him on his back on the stone floor, right in front of the Antlered One.
‘Who was standing there with his knife. I thought for one mad moment that as the filly had run away, that … that antlered thing would cut the man’s throat instead,’ Brockley told us. His voice shook.
But someone in the crowd was shouting: ‘Let’s get after her!’ and for a moment, Brockley said, it looked as if the whole lot of them were going to pursue the fleeing filly. ‘I was so glad that she was fleeing. I hated to hurt her, but it was all I could think of, to make her fight them, to make her break free. I thank God that it worked. I don’t think anyone realized that there was a bowman among the trees; in the firelight no one saw the arrows.’
It was the Antlered One who stopped the pursuit. His voice rang out.
‘Halt! Be still! The gods have refused the sacrifice. So be it. But the rite must be completed! I understand now why the gods have refused our offering. For it was created from devilry, from the unnatural birth of a foal to a mule. I see now that sacrifice must be innocent, as animals are innocent. Well, we keep goats at hand, do we not? Let one be found and let the rite proceed. We will deal with the witch ourselves. We need no gods for that. Tomorrow she shall hang. Meanwhile fetch a goat! And while we wait let another serving of wine be made.’
Brockley stood rigid. The wine was duly served and there was time for it to be drunk as it was quite a long time before the replacement sacrifice was found; presumably there wasn’t one anywhere at hand. But a goat was brought eventually and slain and the Antlered One emptied a cup full of blood into the earth before he announced what he called the Happy Sacrifice, by which he meant the loss of some girl’s maidenhood, and from the front row of the crowd, a hooded and – so Brockley said – shrinking figure was led forward.
But when invited to refuse, she didn’t take the opportunity. The Antlered One took her hand and led her to the hut, and meanwhile, the goat was being butchered and made ready for the spit and other meats were already on it.
It was then, while the meats were cooking and the gathering had started to dance round the fire and in the hut, the Antlered One was presumably bedding the girl, that Brockley called to mind the words We will deal with the witch ourselves. We need no gods for that.
Then, horrified by his own remissness, he muttered a prayer that the firelight would not catch him out, and crept away, making for the path that would bring him to the ruined hamlet, and his horse. He had heard no word of any plots and could not linger in the hope of hearing any. He had got to warn Etheldreda. And fetch her away to safety.
SEVENTEEN
Royal Terrors
The reply that Eddie had brought from Walsingham was brief but instructive. Walsingham was very pleased indeed with the snippet about the piecemeal portrait. Sir Anthony Babington was already known to be scheming on behalf of Mary Stuart, but so far there had been no progress on identifying his co-conspirators. I gathered that Walsingham was grimly pleased to learn that Babington and his foolish friends apparently wished to immortalize themselves in paint to commemorate their usefulness to Mary Stuart.
If they are commemorating a conspiracy, then they are somewhat premature. Are they quite blind to their danger? However, turning to your own task, if you learned nothing at Lammas, do not trespass longer on Sir Henry Compton’s hospitality, but be prepared to return for Halloween if necessary. I do not concern myself with what happens in the forest unless it involves conspiracies to aid enemies of the realm. But if it does, I wish to be informed …
After that, came polite enquiries after the wellbeing of us all, and a courteous signing off. ‘Well,’ I said. ‘We now know what to do.’
Etheldreda was safe for the time being. It seemed that in the past she had met and made friends with Mistress Robyns, the wife of the Minstead vicar, and now she took shelter with the Robyns family. Sir Henry was presumably aware that Brockley had been to the Lammas meeting, but he had asked no questions. He might well come to hear that Etheldreda was in Minstead, having once more fled from an accusation of witchcraft, and that might make him angry, but he wouldn’t be unduly surprised.
Dale couldn’t understand why we didn’t just tell him everything. ‘He can call on the sheriff of the county, can’t he? They could just go into Chenston and question everyone till they find out who was there last night and what all this talk of evil queens means. Or wait for Halloween and then descend on them and charge them all with blasphemy because blasphemy is what it was, from what Roger says. Why not? If there’s a conspiracy, that would smash it. It sounds disgraceful!’ Dale was seething. ‘A young girl being violated, too!’
‘She appeared to consent,’ I said. ‘She was invited to say no. Anyway, we now have our orders. Home for the moment, back for Halloween if we are told to. Walsingham doesn’t care what is done in the forest, unless it’s actually a cloak for a plot to help Mary Stuart. If there has been blasphemy, he thinks the vicar should deal with it. I’m not sure that there has.’
‘What?’ gasped Dale.
‘There were no Popish practices, and no direct insult to any Christian beliefs. I don’t know where invocations to pagan gods stand, legally. Do any of that crowd really believe in them? I can’t credit it – not after they get home and take their cloaks off and commonplace daylight is pouring through their windows. Walsingham wanted me to find out quietly – he seemed to think that I had more chance of finding out than a whole squad of soldiers.’
Dale sniffed. ‘From all I’ve heard, that Richard Topcliffe in the Tower could get the truth out of anyone.’
‘Truth – or lies just to stop the pain?’ Brockley said. ‘And he could hardly hale the whole village into the Tower.’
‘He could hale that vicar!’ snapped Dale. ‘I can’t abide that man and that’s the truth.’
‘Poor Mistress Mildred,’ said Brockley. ‘It would come hard on her if Atbrigge were dragged off to the Tower! I fear that a good many innocent men may have died because Topcliffe’s rack made them confess to things they hadn’t done.’
‘For the moment,’ I said, ‘we are to go home and I think we had better take Etheldreda with us. She won’t be safe in Chenston and the Robyns won’t want her as a guest for ever. Certainly not with all that livestock. Since I’m leaving Chenston for now, I may well be called to attend on the queen after all. Meanwhile, Sir Henry will be relieved of our presence for a while.’
‘But the blasphemy!’ Dale protested obstinately.
‘That’s for Daniel Atbrigge to deal with,’ I said patiently. ‘It’s a matter of religion. I must ride over to say goodbye to Mistress Mildred, and then we can start for home tomorrow. Brockley, you had better catch up on your sleep today.’ I added: ‘We are all so glad to see you safely back.’
If that mob of pagan worshippers had caught him trying to get Etheldreda away …
It was as well we didn’t delay in leaving Minstead. We took four days to get to Hawkswood, for travelling with a carriage and a young foal really is very different from riding hard and changing horses, and a summons to join the queen for six weeks arrived the morning after we did.
‘I will set off for court tomorrow,’ I said to Wilder. ‘Please look after Mistress Hope and see her pig is looked after too. And keep her chickens separate from ours.’
The queen was now at Hampton Court, an easy journey. Being at court also gave me the chance to see Walsingham, who in turn wished to see me. He saw me arrive, along with the Brockleys and I had hardly been there for an hour before he sent for me.
‘The queen will want me soon,’ I said doubtfully to the page who came to fetch me from my rooms on the eastern side of the first floor, where the Ladies of the Bedchamber slept.
‘Her majesty knows Sir Francis is anxious to see you, Mistress Stannard,’ said the page. ‘You are to go to her as soon as you have spoken with him.’
