The Enchanter's Forest

Chapter 2

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.’

‘Nobody? No pilgrims at all?’ He was amazed that the rival attraction should have had such a devastating effect so soon.

‘Not a one. Here we all sit, ready and eager to fulfil our purpose in life by giving aid to all who come seeking it, yet nobody comes. And oh, Sir Josse, I am so afraid that when word gets round that the people now go elsewhere for succour, as no doubt it already has, then all those who support us so generously will think again.’ Lowering her voice to a whisper, as if she could not bear the thought of anyone else hearing the humiliating words, she said, ‘We need the funds, you see. We cannot charge for the care that we give; that would be unthinkable, for we do the Lord’s work. Yet we must have money to survive and one of our main sources of income is the gifts that the wealthy bestow in exchange for Hawkenlye’s prayers and its beneficial, healing presence within the wider community. If our benefactors choose to support a rival foundation, then with a huge and unfillable hole in our income and, far more crucially, without the needy, the lost, the sick and the desperate to care for, we shall no longer have a reason to exist and we are lost.’ She looked down at her hands, folded in her lap, and her coif cut off his view of her face. Leaning forward, he saw that she had her eyes tightly shut, as if trying to blot out the dismal prospect before her.

‘What shall we do?’ he said. ‘What can we do?’

She turned to him, a smile spreading over her face. ‘Dear Josse. Thank you for the we.’

He waved away her gratitude, embarrassed, as he always was, when she accredited him with altruistic motives when what he was really doing was to ensure that, for the foreseeable future anyway, he would be near- No. He made himself arrest that thought. ‘I know the name of the man behind this tawdry scheme,’ he said gruffly.

‘Do you?’ She seemed amazed. ‘Sir Josse, you are well-informed — I have asked whomsoever I can for details of this dreadful business but they appear to be scant. Who is he?’

‘He’s a young man named Florian of Southfrith.’

‘Southfrith. He is a local man, then, for the Southfrith lands are close by. Yet he made his discovery on the far side of the forest, where the woodland peters out and the heathland begins.’

‘So I’m told. Giant bones, apparently, and this Florian seems to have sufficient evidence to prove that they belong to Merlin. My lady,’ he turned to her with a frown, ‘what puzzles me is how it is that all the people who now divert like brainless sheep after the bellwether to this new shrine know the name of Merlin!’

She looked surprised. ‘But Sir Josse, everyone has heard of Merlin. I would warrant a small wager that if we assembled my nuns and monks and asked for a show of hands, all but those with their heads permanently in the clouds — and I own that we do have a few of those — would raise their arms and say, Merlin? Oh, yes, I know of Merlin. He was King Arthur’s magician.’

Greatly taken aback — was he in truth the only person in England not to be fascinated by this Arthur and his companions? — Josse shook his head wonderingly. ‘I see.’ His voice sounded dejected, even to himself. Then: ‘My lady, I do not believe for one moment that these vast bones belong to Merlin. Do you?’

She hesitated. ‘I would like to be as sure as you, Sir Josse, but I do not think that I can. For one thing, it seems that miracles have already been reported and attributed directly to Merlin’s intervention.’

‘But-’ He had been on the point of saying that miracles always happened at shrines; in his own view, he had a vague and barely formed notion that when people genuinely believed they were going to become well again, quite often they did. The healing water, or the saint’s finger bone, or the splinter of the True Cross, or the phial of the Blessed Virgin’s milk, might be the impetus that brought about that belief, but the cure itself was merely the body doing what it was best at.

However, recognising that his own ideas were quite irrational and probably blasphemous as well, Josse firmly closed his mouth on his objection.

‘But?’ the Abbess prompted.

He shook his head. ‘Nothing, my lady.’

After a while, she spoke again. ‘Brother Firmin said something comforting,’ she said slowly.

‘Aye? And what was that?’

‘He is remarkably sanguine about the whole thing. I was relieved — I had thought that he would be deeply distressed at this apparent shunning of the precious Holy Water that has become almost his life’s blood. And he is still weak, you know, after the sickness last year.’

‘Aye.’ Privately Josse was amazed that the old monk was still alive.

‘I asked him why he seemed so unconcerned,’ the Abbess went on, ‘and he replied that as soon as the pilgrims realise that the new shrine doesn’t work, they’ll be back.

‘But it does work,’ Josse protested. ‘You have just been telling me of the recent miracles.’

‘Brother Firmin maintains that they are false. He was very apologetic about what he saw as wishing disappointment on those who think they’ve been cured, but he says that what appear to be miracles are just the excitement of the new attraction.’

‘Does he, now?’ Good for Firmin, Josse thought, quite surprised that the old boy should demonstrate such clear-eyed objectivity. ‘Well, my lady, that is an encouraging thought. But since we can have no idea of how long it will be before people discover their mistake, and since the Abbey which you and I both love is suffering in the meantime-’

‘And people are being seduced away from the true source of help,’ she put in. ‘If it is true that these are the bones of Merlin, then I am a little surprised that they should have brought about healing, for Merlin was a sage and a magician but not specifically a man who was renowned for the working of miracle cures. Whereas our Holy Water spring was discovered via the direct intercession of the Blessed Virgin herself who, as you will recall, Sir Josse, appeared to a party of French merchants dying of fever and told them that the water would cure them, as indeed it did.’

‘Aye, I remember, and indeed there’s that too. . Where was I? Oh, yes. We can’t just sit back and wait. We must do something.’

‘Yes,’ she cried, as fervent as he. Then: ‘What?’

He thought for a moment. Then he said slowly, ‘My lady, you keep in your mind room for doubt, I think; you will not say definitely that these bones are not what they are claimed to be.’

‘No-o,’ she agreed tentatively.

‘I am less charitable and I am all but certain that this is nothing but a scheme cooked up by a clever man to rob the credulous of their money.’

‘But you can’t be sure!’ she protested. ‘What if the bones are genuine and are really capable of doing good and helping those in need?’

Thinking that he’d eat his cap if they were, Josse said, ‘I will try to keep an open mind, my lady. What I propose to do is to present myself at Merlin’s Tomb as a pilgrim. That way I shall experience exactly what the ordinary man or woman experiences. I shall listen when I am spoken to, kneel before whatever sort of display has been set up, express my awe at being in the presence of such a wonder and proclaim myself cured of whatever I have stated ails me.’

‘What good will that do?’ she demanded. From her faintly aggrieved tone, he guessed she was reluctant to dismiss Merlin’s bones as a total sham. He made a mental note to bear this attitude of hers in mind; he did not want to risk hurting her feelings by speaking too bluntly.

Yet.

‘Well, for one thing I’m not in fact suffering from any ailment, God be thanked’ — the exclamation was in response to the swift glance she shot him, as if warning him against taking his sound health for granted and not giving credit where it was due — ‘and so I will not have the sense of desperation that may blind other visitors to what is really going on.’

‘Many will be there purely because they are curious,’ she said. ‘They may not be desperate either.’

‘Aye, you’re right, but I’ll warrant I’m probably the only man there who is out to prove the whole thing is false.’

She studied him intently. ‘You have no faith at all in these being the bones of Merlin, have you?’ she murmured.

He tried to decide between tact and honesty. Honesty won. ‘No.’

He thought she was about to reprimand him for his cynicism. But then she began to laugh. ‘Dear Josse. What would I do without you?’

Full of confusion, he felt the hot blood flush his face. ‘My lady, I-’

She waved a hand. ‘Sir Josse, no need for explanations. We must agree to differ, but I must admit in fairness that I am more than grateful for your disbelief. You are the very person to do what you propose and pay a visit to the tomb.’

‘Thank you. I-’

But she was not in the mood for small talk and polite remarks. Interrupting him, she demanded, ‘How soon can you set off?’

They decided that Josse’s pretence of being a simple pilgrim with a bad back would be made to look more credible if he rode the Abbey’s old cob instead of the magnificent Horace and exchanged his fine tunic for something less distinguished. The monks in the Vale and the nuns in the infirmary were conscientious in their vow of poverty and did not waste anything: whenever someone died in their care they would, in the absence of any other claimant, remove the clothing and inspect it carefully. If the garments were capable of salvage — often people died in rags — the nuns would launder, darn and mend until the clothes were once more fit for wear. Then they would be folded away in a large chest in which small linen bags of lavender were scattered as a deterrent to moths. Accordingly, Josse’s present need was easily met by a visit to Sister Emanuel, who ran the retirement home for aged nuns and monks and who, among her other duties, was in charge of the clothing chest.

Josse, in common with just about everybody else in the Hawkenlye community — including its Abbess — was a little in awe of Sister Emanuel. She was highly intelligent, educated and reserved; the pale skin of her face had a strangely smooth and unlined quality, as if the woman had seldom been affected by the sort of emotions that make normal people frown in anger, screw up their eyes in distress or crease every part of their faces in hearty laughter. As he entered the retirement home, Josse noticed that she was instantly alert to his presence; she got up from where she had been seated at the bedside of a very old and incredibly tiny woman and, her step steady and unhurried, glided over to the door to greet him.

‘Good morning, Sir Josse.’ Her voice was low-pitched but clearly audible; she would, Josse thought, be used to dealing with the deafness of the very old. ‘How may I help you?’

‘Good morning, Sister Emanuel,’ he returned. He explained his request and she gave a brief nod, turning on her heel and, beckoning to him, stepping over to the left of the door where, in a recess, stood a large wooden chest.

Opening it, she knelt and carefully checked through the folded garments. A sweet scent of lavender rose to Josse’s nostrils and he breathed in deeply, reflecting in passing that such an impulse was not one you would normally wish to indulge in an old people’s home. But Sister Emanuel, he knew, would not permit the stench of urine and unwashed flesh in her domain; what luck, he reflected, to be cared for by one such as her at the end of a long life.

She stood up, a bundle of soft, moss-green woollen cloth in her arms. Shaking it out, she held the garment against Josse: it was a tunic, generously cut if a little short. ‘I think this will do,’ she said, bending down to see just where the hem fell. ‘It was once a fine garment, but has been worn for rather too long.’ She pointed to several neat darns.

‘It is just what I want,’ Josse assured her. ‘A decent fellow fallen on hard times, that’s me.’

She risked a very small smile. Delving back into the chest, she extracted a leather cap. ‘And what about this to cover your head?’

He tried it on. It fitted perfectly. ‘Thank you, Sister. I am grateful.’

She bowed. Then, as if eager to return to her charges, she courteously showed him to the door.

Josse and the Abbey cob were old friends. Being in no great hurry, for his destination was probably only eight or ten miles distant, Josse did not press the aged animal but was content to jog along at a pace that was mostly an ambling trot. His path curved round to the east and then turned southwards, then south-westwards, following the outer perimeter of the Great Forest. It would have been more direct to ride straight through the thick woodland but Josse, like everyone else in the area, avoided going into the forest unless he really had to.

Sister Basilia in the refectory kitchens had packed up some food for him and after an hour or so he stopped in the deep shade of an oak tree and, leaning against its trunk while the cob grazed nearby, ate his bread and cheese and drank the flagon of small beer.

He had been given only vague directions to the new shrine but he was reasonably confident of finding it. He rode along slowly now, the path following a slight rise in the heathland to the south, watching the densely growing trees and undergrowth to his right and looking out for a break that would give access to the interior. As it turned out, he could not have missed the spot even without such careful attention: a steady stream of people was tramping along the track, making for the shrine, and all he had to do was follow the herd.

The trees on the edge of the forest had been thinned to allow clear access. About a dozen large trees had been hacked down, their raw, wide trunks testimony to the size and age of the amputated trees. Across the space that they had left was a path, clearly marked by stones set at regular intervals along each side.

Into Josse’s head flew the thought: the forest people will not like this.

He pictured Joanna, who lived away on the other side of the forest but who nevertheless, he knew without a doubt, would be well aware of this violation. Then he thought of the strange, otherworldly woman known only as the Domina, and a shudder of fear went through him. The Domina had power and the Great Forest was her land. What would she do in response to this abomination?

For abomination was what it was. Dismounting and leading the cob — there were many people on the path, young and old, and Josse did not want to push through on horseback and make them leap out of the way — he saw with horrified eyes just what Florian of Southfrith had done.

He had desecrated a venerable and beautiful area of ancient forest for what Josse firmly believed was entirely his own gain. If it was true that he had come across something of genuinely grave importance, if they really were Merlin’s bones lying there in the tomb, then surely there was a better way of sharing the discovery. Florian ought to have first reported his find to Hawkenlye, Josse thought angrily, possibly also involving the secular authorities, and someone should have brought the forest people in on the discussions. That way, arrangements could have been made for the people to visit the tomb in a controlled manner and there would have been no need for this violence against the forest. As it was, one selfish man thinking only of his own pocket had forged ahead with such ruthless speed that it had left the rest of them breathless.

Horrified, furious, he walked on.

The felled trees at the forest edge were only the start of it. At the place where the path terminated, some twenty or thirty paces within the woodland, many more trees had been roughly cut down and a great swath of undergrowth had been swept away, the leaf mould of hundreds — thousands — of years untidy with heaps of sawdust, bits of broken branch, leaves and twigs. Despite the fact that a considerable sum of money must have been spent on the place, everywhere there was a depressingly rough, uncaring look, markedly in contrast with the mature and dignified nature of the native forest.

A raw-looking fence had been erected, split chestnut rails nailed to uneven uprights. It had all the hallmarks of something done in haste and not very well. Where the path met the fence there was a stout gate, now standing open. The heavy chain hanging from it suggested that it could be firmly locked when necessary; nobody, it seemed, was going to visit Merlin’s Tomb unless Florian of Southfrith said they could.

A thick-set man in a leather jerkin stood by the gate. As each visitor approached, he was demanding something. .

Just as I expected, Josse thought.

Florian had gone one step further than merely to make money from the refreshments and accommodation he was offering. He actually had the nerve to demand an admission fee.

Josse reached into his pouch and prepared some coins. When he was face to face with the mean-looking man on the gate, he offered a couple of clipped silver half-pennies, hoping that one of them would suffice. Both were quietly taken from his open palm. The man gave him a quick grin that was no more than a stretching of his lips and curtly nodded him through.

Within the enclosure another man came to take the cob; he, too, was heavily built and he bore the facial scars and flattened nose that suggested a life of fighting. Reckoning that it was no doubt the large amounts of money being made that necessitated so many guards — for that was surely what they were; there were three more of them loitering just inside the fence — Josse handed over the horse’s reins.

He edged along the path behind an old woman supporting an even older man. Turning, she gave him the time of day. Her expression was tense, her sunken blue eyes bright with excitement.

‘What’s up with you, then?’ she asked.

‘My back.’ Josse adopted a crouch and put a hand to the small of his back.

‘Ah-ha!’ She grimaced understandingly, as if she knew all about bad backs. ‘My old man here’ — she gave the man beside her a nudge in his skinny ribs — ‘he’s all but blind.’ The old man turned to peer at Josse through cloudy eyes and gave him a nod. ‘But that’ll soon change!’ the woman added happily.

Josse felt a stab of pity for her hopeless optimism. ‘You expect a miracle?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said confidently. ‘It’s Merlin, isn’t it? He’s magic, he is, and he’s one of us.’ Lowering her voice, she added in a whisper, ‘He and his magic were here long before the other lot came. They may have their fine abbeys and their holy springs but they can’t stamp out the old ways, now, can they? And now here’s our Merlin returned to us and back in his rightful place!’ She smiled her satisfaction. ‘Now we’ll see some wonders!’

Not entirely sure what she meant by the other lot — it sounded disturbingly as if she was referring to the Christian church and perhaps Hawkenlye in particular — Josse murmured a meaningless acknowledgement. Just then the line moved on several paces and he said, ‘I wish you luck!’

‘You too!’ the old woman called.

He shuffled slowly on, one hand on his back, face screwed up in pretend pain, letting a gap develop between himself and the elderly couple. He wanted to take his time in studying the whole area. The path led on to a second, higher, fence, also gated; this second fence was solidly built with hazel hurdles and underbrush and Josse could see neither over nor through it. By the open gate stood a man.

He was younger and far less heavily built than the toughs on the outer fence. He was also much better dressed, in a tunic of bright scarlet velvet trimmed with heavy gold braid. His boots were of soft leather, fitted him like a second skin and looked brand-new. His hair — bright chestnut and gleaming with cleanliness — was neatly cut and his light grey eyes shone with health. He was clean-shaven and extremely handsome. He was, undoubtedly, Florian of Southfrith.

Josse approached him and gave him a low bow, as befitted an impoverished man with backache greeting a young and wealthy lord.

A long, pale hand was extended, resting on Josse’s shoulder in a brief touch. ‘Rise up,’ intoned an educated voice, in the tone of a priest bestowing a blessing, ‘for your suffering will soon be at an end.’ Josse straightened, looking the young man in the face. Florian appeared taken aback at such a bold stare; hastily Josse lowered his eyes.

‘Thank’ee, Master,’ he muttered.

‘When I tell you to do so, you may walk on to the sacred spot,’ the soft voice went on. ‘Make your appeal, leave whatever offering you have brought, and then make your way past. You will be shown where to go.’

‘Thank’ee,’ Josse said again. He very much wanted to have another look at young Florian, but he had learned by his earlier mistake. The poor, the humble and the afflicted did not habitually meet the eyes of their lord.

There was a short wait, and then Florian tapped Josse on the arm and said, ‘You may go on now.’

Josse walked forward along the path.

It turned abruptly left, and then right; whatever lay at its far end was designed to be out of sight until a visitor reached it.

Stepping out into the open, Josse was faced with a stunning sight.

The ground had been cleared and stamped down and the forest floor here was now bare earth. The trees and the undergrowth had been cut back for some four or five paces in each direction, so that the sun shone down into the glade. There was a trio of thorn trees standing on the perimeter; pieces of coloured rag and ribbon had been tied to the lower branches. The ground sloped gently, higher to the far side of the clearing, falling away to the near, southern side. Right in the middle of the open space was a long, deep scar.

Josse went closer.

Now he could see over the lip of the steep-sided hollow into its dark interior. The pit had been walled with stones and its base appeared to be one vast slab. Stretched out on the slab, arms by its sides and fingers gently curved over the wide palms, was the huge and intact skeleton of a man who must in life have been a veritable giant.

Whatever else might be a lie or a false claim, these bones looked real enough and, despite himself, Josse was awestruck. His eyes ran over the huge bones — large dome of the skull, with the brow ridges elegantly curved; long, heavy arms, deep ribs; wide pelvis, femurs and lower leg bones stretching endlessly. He glanced down at his own legs then back at the skeleton, calculating that the giant’s legs must have been at least an arm’s length longer than his own. Which would have meant that had Josse and the giant stood side by side, the giant would have towered over him by perhaps almost as much as a quarter of Josse’s own height.

He did not know what to make of it. Expecting a very obvious fraud — a pile of bones scavenged from some old, forgotten burial ground, perhaps, or even the cast-offs from a slaughter house — here he was faced with a real human skeleton, moreover an unusually large one. It was. . disturbing.

Josse realised as he stood there in silent, entranced contemplation that something was happening: there was a definite sense of power emanating from the skeleton and he could feel the hairs on his arms tickle his skin as they rose in response to his atavistic dread. It’s not Merlin! he shouted silently, fighting his sudden alarm. It can’t be; Merlin is nothing but a legend. Am I to be like some ignorant peasant, deluded by a clever man’s trickery? For trickery it is, he told himself, struggling to keep a clear head and a rational outlook. Whatever power these huge bones may possess, Florian of Southfrith is claiming it to be something it isn’t and in my view, Josse thought grimly, that amounts to deception.

But argue with himself as he might, still Josse’s body defied his brain as the fear and the awe flooded him.

He tore his enchanted eyes from the bones and caught sight of the faint gleam of some dull, dark metal on the far side of the tomb. Moving around the head end of the pit so as to have a closer look, he saw that it was a plaque, probably made of lead. It was roughly in the shape of an equal-armed cross, pitted and broken at the edges as if it had, in truth, spent six hundred years in the ground. The inscription was in Latin and read Here lies Merlin, magician to King Arthur. Look upon his power and fear him.

Trying desperately to shake himself free of the spell, Josse took a pace — two, three paces — away from the tomb. And abruptly the dread left him.

He stumbled on, following the path as it curved away, concealing the tomb once more. His breath came more easily now and he felt the sweat of fear drying on his back. By the time he reached the huddle of tables, benches and low, rudely fashioned huts where the pilgrims took their refreshments, he was breathing normally again.

Almost.