Alys Clare - The Enchanter's Forest

‘You have it,’ Brice agreed. ‘It is said that scarcely anyone visits the Hawkenlye shrine any more, so eager are they to see the new discovery for themselves and share in its power.’

‘But that’s terrible!’ Josse said furiously. ‘These poor fools must be protected from their own folly, for the dubious claims made for a pile of bones out in the forest can hardly be compared to the skill and care freely on offer at Hawkenlye! As well as the holy water down in the shrine that they give so freely, there are kindly monks and lay brothers to feed and care for those in need, as well as an infirmary full of nursing nuns whose reputation for herbal remedies and healing is well known throughout the land!’ It was an exaggeration, but he did not care. ‘The very purpose of that magnificent Abbey and its hard-working, selfless people to be cast into the shade by an upstart with a false claim? It is not to be borne!’

He heard the echoes of his furious words die away. He felt ashamed for having shouted; all of this was no fault of Brice’s or Isabella’s, who had merely relayed the news. He could not in fairness be angry with either of them, for if they chose to believe in something which he himself viewed with the greatest suspicion, then that was their choice. And, from what they had told him, it would seem that their view was the popular one; to have such a discovery made virtually on the doorstep would, for the local populace, be the sort of awesome and exotic event that they could only dream about. Word would spread like fire in a hay barn and soon the whole country would be beating a path to see the new wonder.

He, it appeared, would be in a minority of one.

No.

His would not be the sole voice that spoke out against the new attraction, for he could think of another who would be shoulder to shoulder with him. And she most certainly did not stand alone.

Abruptly he stood up, experiencing a brief wave of dizziness; he had been sitting in the heat for too long. For all that the bench was in the shade, the summer afternoon was hot. And two large, empty jugs testified to the amount of ale that he and Brice had downed.

‘I must be on my way,’ he announced. ‘Thank you, Isabella, for your hospitality; thank you both for your entertaining conversation.’ He bowed, first to Isabella, then to Brice.

Both of whom, he noticed, were hiding smiles.

‘You will be on the road again early tomorrow, I’ll warrant,’ Brice said.

‘Eh? Well — er — I-’

‘Don’t tease, Brice,’ Isabella admonished. ‘Dear Josse, your affection for the Hawkenlye community is well known and we merely surmise that you would wish to support them in their time of trouble.’

Josse turned worried eyes to her. ‘That is so, my lady. Any help that I can offer is hers — is theirs to command.’

‘The new shrine may be but a passing attraction,’ Isabella said.

‘Especially if the supply of miracles starts to run out,’ Brice added cynically.

Isabella frowned at him. ‘If the discovery is true, such will not be the case.’

Her remark recalled to Josse something that had been worrying him and he spoke it aloud. ‘Tell me one thing: just how can these bones be those of Arthur when we are told that Arthur and Guinevere are buried at Glastonbury?’

Again, the exchange of glances between Brice and Isabella. Then, at a faint nod from his wife, Brice took Josse’s arm. ‘Florian is not claiming to have found Arthur’s bones,’ he murmured.

Despite the heat, a shiver seemed to run through Josse. Fearing that he already knew the answer, he whispered, ‘Whose, then?’

Brice’s eyes were oddly sympathetic. Softly he replied, ‘It is said that they belong to Merlin.’

Josse rode in through the gates of Hawkenlye Abbey in the middle of the morning of the next day, having covered the familiar road from New Winnowlands in what was probably record time. He had been awake early, anxious to speak to the Abbess. He had dreamt of her; she had been floating on a moonlit expanse of lake and she had held up a hand to him, pleading for his help. Reaching down, he had found her surprisingly strong and had been helpless to save himself as she pulled him down into the bright water. He had woken shaken and sweating and offered a brief, panicky prayer that the dream was not an omen.

Now the hot June sunshine had dispelled night fears and as he handed Horace’s reins to Sister Ursel, the Abbey porteress, he was more than ready to exchange the usual mildly flirtatious remarks with the stout old nun. She, however, was not; he could tell from her very demeanour that something was wrong.

‘What’s the matter, Sister?’ As if he did not know. He put a hand out to touch hers.

But she shook her head. ‘Better talk to the Abbess, Sir Josse. She’ll tell you.’ And before he could ask again, she had clicked her tongue to Horace and was leading the big horse off in the direction of Sister Martha’s stables.

Leaving Josse to wonder where the Abbess was and how quickly he could find her.

He spotted her quite soon. She was coming out of the Abbey church and what looked like the entire contingent of Vale monks followed behind her. As he watched, she turned to exchange a few words with them, giving them all what from long experience he recognised as her best, bracing, chins-up smile. The monks bowed to their superior and headed off for the rear gate and the path that led down to the Vale.

The Abbess turned, saw Josse and, her face now beaming in a genuinely happy smile, hurried to greet him.

‘What luck that you should arrive, just when I have been praying for your company!’ she said, reaching out to take both his hands in hers. ‘Sir Josse, rarely have you been more welcome!’

Flattered that she should have been praying he would turn up, nevertheless he thought it only right to explain that, as far as he knew, it was not divine intervention that had brought him. Hastily he said, ‘My lady Abbess, right pleased I am to see you, too, but I know what it is that troubles you and that makes you glad of my presence.’

Her face fell. ‘You do?’

‘Aye. I was with Brice and Isabella — she’s expecting another child, by the way — and they told me.’

‘I am so happy for Isabella, and for Brice.’ Even in her anxiety, the Abbess appeared genuinely delighted at that part of his news. Josse, recalling that she too was aware of the couple’s history, felt sure she would include Isabella in her prayers until a healthy baby was safely delivered. ‘But, oh, what are we to do about Merlin’s Tomb?’

They had begun to walk away from the gate and off in the direction of the Abbess’s private room at the far end of the cloister. But, before they reached it, she took hold of his sleeve and indicated a bench, half in sunlight and half in shade, that ran along the wall. ‘Let us settle here,’ she suggested. ‘The morning is too lovely to waste it sitting inside.’

They sat down side by side on the bench. Then he said, ‘You notice an effect already, then?’

‘Oh, yes!’ She turned to face him, distress evident in her expression. ‘From towards the end of last month, we began to see a diminution in our visitors. Brother Firmin mentioned it to me — he prepares the Holy Water, as you know, and he was wondering why he did not seem to be as busy as usual. Then Brothers Saul and Augustus began to check on the daily tally of pilgrims and they brought me the results. Usually our numbers are anything from half a dozen to as many as twenty a day — it’s the season, Sir Josse; people save their travelling up for fine summer weather and long hours of daylight whenever they can. But now, well, the average was at first closer to three per day. Then two, then, last week, only four people for the entire week. This week’ — she gave a pathetic little shrug — ‘so far, nobody.’