Alys Clare - The Enchanter's Forest

He had followed the same path that he had taken the previous day for the first part of his ride then, when he emerged on to the open, heathery country on the far side of the forest, branched off to the south-east. The going was easy and he let Horace amble along at a steady, unhurried pace. While he remained close to the dense woodland behind him, withies, hazel and rowan grew alongside the track, giving him some shade, but as he progressed further into the open countryside, the trees finally gave out and he felt the full strength of the morning sun beating down on him. Now it was the gorse that held sway: the gentle slopes over which he rode were glowing with the dense yellow of the flowers, so that the air was redolent with the sweet, heavy, intoxicating scent. Horace’s big hooves brushed the wild thyme, which contributed its own clean smell. Josse could hear the delicate twittering of linnets and he spotted a pair of wheatears — white arses, as they were commonly known — flying low over the heather.

It was, he decided, a perfect day for riding and he wished that he had no fixed purpose but could saunter on until fatigue and hunger finally drove him home. But he did have a purpose, and an urgent one at that. Clucking to Horace, he increased his pace to a smart canter and set himself to the task of finding Hadfeld.

Presently he noticed that the landscape was changing. Encroachments had been made into the heathland and there were increasing numbers of assarts, where the untamed countryside had been claimed and converted into farm land. Sheep grazed the wiry heathland plants and there were large areas of bracken, fenced off like a crop, and Josse guessed the plant was being grown for fuel. Nothing ate bracken; he recalled Sister Tiphaine once telling him that it caused sickness in most animals but that, in small doses, it was useful as a contraceptive. He smiled to himself; whatever could they have been talking about to have prompted her to tell him that interesting little fact?

He came to a hamlet of four or five low, huddled little dwellings, outside one of which a couple of women sat over a huge basket of nettles. Observing as he approached, Josse noticed they were tearing the tops from each stem and throwing them into a cooking pot, setting the remaining stems and leaves aside in another basket. One of the women looked up and gave him a grin; she was a round-faced woman in perhaps her mid-twenties, pleasant looking except that she was missing all but three of her teeth.

‘You have a good harvest there,’ he remarked, returning her smile.

‘Aye, and the blisters to prove it,’ she said with a bubbling laugh. ‘But nettles is free, sir knight, and ours for the picking, and the tender young shoots make a tasty meal. The rest of our haul will go for nettle beer.’ She winked at him as if anticipating the pleasures of an evening of mild intoxication.

‘I wish you joy of it,’ he said. ‘Am I on the right road for Hadfeld?’

‘Aye, more or less. Keep on till you reach the stone cross and then turn left, then right. That’ll take you to Hadfeld.’

‘Who are you after?’ the other woman asked. She was older but had the same features; an elder sister? ‘I’ll wager it’s young Florian.’

‘Aye, it is,’ Josse agreed.

‘Thought as much.’ The woman nodded sagely.

‘Do many folk come seeking him just now?’

‘Aye, but most of them in truth are seeking Merlin’s Tomb, which is nowhere near Hadfeld but lies just within the forest, some-’

‘Thank you; I know where the tomb is,’ Josse interrupted.

‘Been there already?’ the first woman asked.

‘I. .’ Josse hesitated, reluctant to discuss his business with two inquisitive strangers.

‘He’ll be after our young Florian to demand his money back,’ the woman said to her companion in a whisper deliberately pitched loud enough for Josse to overhear. Glancing up at him, she added, ‘The cure lasted but a day and then back came the troubles, double fold.’

Despite himself, Josse laughed. ‘I am not sick, thank the good Lord, and it was not to seek for help that I visited Merlin’s Tomb.’

‘Then you’re the lucky one,’ the older woman said, all levity suddenly absent from her voice and her face, ‘for there’s more ’n one family hereabouts lighter in the pocket and still tormented by worry over whatever it was drove them to the forest tomb in the first place. People ain’t best pleased with young Florian,’ she added darkly. ‘If you’re a friend of his, sir knight’ — the look she cast at Josse suggested she would think the less of him if he were — ‘then maybe you should warn him to watch his step and his back.’

He met her gaze levelly. ‘I am no friend of his,’ he said quietly. ‘Now’ — he deliberately changed the subject — ‘Florian’s dwelling is indeed at Hadfeld, as you imply?’

‘Aye, it is,’ the first woman confirmed. ‘You’ll likely find him away from home, since he spends each and every day down at his tomb. But his wife will be there. You could wager that fine horse of yours on that, and your hat.’ Both women chuckled.

‘Thank you, both of you,’ Josse said. With a courteous nod of the head, he kicked Horace and went on his way.

The reason why the women had been so sure that Florian’s wife would be at home became evident as soon as Josse rode up to the house. Building work was under way and a woman stood on a mounting block very near to where the workmen were toiling, closely watching every move they made.

Josse dismounted and tethered Horace to a ring set into the wall beside the open gates. The house was not large but it was well-built and compact, with a pleasing symmetry to its dimensions. Flower beds had been placed either side of the door, beneath small windows set high above them in the smooth stone. There were lilies and gillyflowers in bloom, sweet-smelling and sending out a strong perfume. Outbuildings on the far side of the house appeared to have been carefully repaired. Money had been spent — recently, by the look of it — and must, judging by the buzz of activity and the gang of workmen, still be pouring out.

Walking across the courtyard, Josse approached the woman on the mounting block. He swept off his hat and said, ‘Madam? Have I the honour of addressing the wife of Florian of Southfrith?’

Without so much as glancing round, the woman said, ‘He is not here and is unlikely to return until the light fails. You’ll find him at Merlin’s Tomb.’ The bored resignation in her tone suggested that this was not the first time she had made the remark that morning. In addition, the woman spoke of her husband so scathingly that Josse thought he detected dislike.

‘Aye, so I have been informed,’ Josse said, maintaining a polite tone; he did not find it easy when the woman had not the manners to turn and address him face to face. Recalling the reason he had thought up for visiting Florian’s home, he went on, ‘They told me your husband is having a solar built’ — it had been a good guess, as had just been proved — ‘and I wanted to ask him if he’s satisfied with the builders he has engaged and, if so, what the name of the master builder is.’

‘He’s over there’ — she pointed, with a long, fine hand bearing a large garnet set in a gold ring, towards a thin, dark, nervous-looking man standing on top of a partly built wall with a plumb line in his hand — ‘and he’s called Josiah.’ She spoke with an accent and Josse guessed that her native tongue was French. ‘As to satisfaction, it is not possible to say until the work is complete.’ At last she turned to look down at Josse and he saw a pale face, the smooth skin very slightly olive in complexion, the black eyes almond-shaped under fine, dark brows. She was unsmiling and she stared at him as if he were something smelly on the sole of her narrow calfskin slipper. Lifting her delicately pointed chin in a gesture of pure arrogance, she said, ‘And just who are you ?’